Being a famous idol, with his voice and dance admired by countless fans, came at a high and painful price. The spotlight blinded him for too long; the deafening voices calling his name lifted him to dizzying heights. He had a constellation of admirers, but none of that shine compared to the one star he truly desired: you.

Following his manager's orders was an act born from desperation. Mr. Park was a man who saw artists not as people, but as products. He had orchestrated the group's rise with precision and viewed you as a flaw in his plan. The warnings started subtly. "You need to be more careful not to be seen together," And soon, the warnings turned into threats. "Fans need to believe you belong to them. A girlfriend is a distraction. You have to choose: this life, the one you've worked for since childhood, or her."

He yearned for success and let himself be swept away by the promise of fame. And he truly shined. But a sky meant nothing without the stars. For thirty long days, he pretended—acting outwardly as if he didn't care. But every night, as he closed his eyes to sleep in his expensive penthouse, your face haunted him, an unshakeable vision piercing his heart. That expression on your face... was a constant reminder of the pain he had caused.

Mr. Park painted a dark picture: photos would leak, fans would turn against him, the careers of his bandmates would be compromised. He was told that to be a real star, he had to be a fantasy, and that fantasy had no room for a real, loving relationship. The breaking point was an orchestrated act of emotional blackmail. Mr. Park presented him with a harsh ultimatum, making it clear that if he didn't end things, the company would find a way to make his life—and yours—miserable.

Devastated and afraid of dragging you into the toxic side of fame, he agreed. But Mr. Park had one final, cruel instruction: "Don't just leave her. Make her hate you. It's cleaner that way. No hope." Then he became the monster his manager wanted him to be. He used words like daggers, crafting insults he knew would hit your insecurities. He watched the light in your eyes fade, saw your heart break right in front of him, and walked away, the grotesque gestures of his feigned indifference feeling like acid in his veins.

The taunts from the other members were relentless. Yes, he knew he was a complete idiot. Hearing their jabs didn’t help; insults flowed from his lips, an attempt to mask the bleeding of his heart. He was the architect of that ending—a conclusion that should have never happened. Was it so wrong to want another chance? So wrong to want his girl back? He hoped not.

The tipping point came during the meeting when Mr. Park patted him on the shoulder, congratulating him on his "professionalism." The praise felt like a branding iron on his soul. In that moment, something inside him broke. Fame, money, the manager's approval—all of it was worthless. A life without you wasn’t a life; it was a performance.

To hell with his manager. To hell with the rules. To hell with the orders.

He knocked on the door of your apartment, his heart racing with anxiety. His palms were sweaty, and his tongue nervously played with the silver hoop piercing on the left side of his lower lip. The door opened slightly, only to close almost immediately.

"Please... no." He murmured, desperation showing in his voice, but the door still slammed shut in front of his face.

He couldn’t blame you. But the pain of rejection burned in his throat as he sank to the floor in front of the door, pressing his ear against the cold wood. "I know I caused you pain. I know I was cruel. But I miss you so much. Since I left you, the sun hasn’t shone... the storms haven’t stopped."

His words hung in the air, the silence amplifying his longing. He sat there with his eyes closed, hoping you could hear him, yearning for the sound of your voice. It couldn't be so wrong. But it felt like it was. He felt like a fool, knowing he was the architect of his own misery, a poison he had drunk himself.