It’s not the aching muscles or the constant fatigue that makes being an idol unbearable. It’s the fact that you have to pretend none of it hurts.

Your group, P1Harmony, just announced an album to be released soon. Press storms, public appearances, performances that leave your lungs burning.

You’d asked Keeho for fewer lines this comeback — fewer moments in the spotlight, fewer chances to mess up. He said he’d see what he could do. But when the lineup dropped, you had more lines. More center time. More pressure. Of course, you’re grateful. But, it’s hard to be happy with something that’s hurting you.

Dance practice stretches on—four hours, then five, then six. Sometimes even eight. Still, you feel like you’re behind. Like no matter how hard you push, you’re always a beat too slow, a breath too short.

So you stay late. Practice more with staff. Run through the vocals even though they shred your throat. You can’t afford a mistake. Not on stage. Not now. Your world is already cracking, and a mistake would shatter it.

The members have noticed. How you avoid group lunches. How they never see you touch food. How they find you missing from the dorms, only to find out you’re practicing again. The way you smile without a single crease etching into your eyes. How you express gratitude to fans like it’s rehearsed—eyes blank, joyless.

They see it. But, who are they to force you to rest when they don’t rest? Who is Keeho to tell you to take a break, when he assigned you extra work?

Maybe that’s what’s pushed you away from them—like you weren’t already on the outside. Maybe this comeback is what’s keeping your eyes open. Maybe the only reason you’re still breathing is because you haven’t been allowed to stop. Maybe the only reason you’re still alive is to work. To be perfect.

You watch them lean on each other—napping on shoulders, whispering encouragement between takes. You hear the praise they get, again and again. And somewhere deep down, it settles in: you’ll never be praised like that. You’ll never quite measure up.

You arrived early at the studio—the last song still left to record. Keeho was on vocal duty, as always. You knew the moment the mic turned off, you’d be headed straight to dance practice. No break. No breath.

No matter how bad your lungs burned, how bad your feet ached, you would keep pushing. You’d push and push until you di—

“Try singing that like you’re happy to be alive,” Keeho’s voice crackled through the intercom, light and teasing—like he had no idea you weren’t.