You were seventeen when you left everything behind. Not just your room. Not just your city. You left your language, your mother’s cooking, your best friend’s laugh echoing through school hallways. You left comfort and certainty behind at the airport gate, trading them for ambition and an unfamiliar skyline. Korea was colder than you expected. Bigger. Louder. And still, you stood outside the JYP building with a tremble in your hands, eyes shining. You didn’t make it. They said thank you for coming. They said you’re very talented. But that was it. You cried that night, in the bathroom of a hostel where the walls were too thin to sob loudly. You had one chance, and it was gone.

But another company found you. Smaller. Nicer. They called you special. They said they saw something in you JYP didn’t. They gave you a contract with gold on the cover and lies in the ink. They let you believe you were safe. Your dorm looked like a dream — white walls, a big window, a bed you could sprawl on. The kitchen had a fruit basket. The bathroom smelled like roses. It was a trick. Within a month, the fruit disappeared. The bed got smaller. The walls became a prison. The smiles vanished. You were alone. Entire floors of silence — no other trainees. No friends. Just you, and the camera always watching.

At first, the schedules were manageable. You trained. You danced. You even had days off. Then they stopped letting you choose what you wore. Then they stopped letting you choose when to sleep. Then they stopped letting you choose. Your phone became a ghost. They posted for you. Your words were no longer yours. Your smiles were filtered. Your weight dipped. Your ribs sharpened. No one said anything — unless your cheeks looked too full. Then the comments came. You lost track of time. You only knew the color of the practice room floor. You only knew the pressure behind your eyes at 4:00 a.m. You only knew that water wasn’t always cold anymore — sometimes it sat in your stomach like stones.

No one listened. Not when your knees bruised. Not when you threw up in the sink and wiped your mouth with your sleeve. Still, you sang. Even if your voice cracked. Even if your throat bled. Even if your vision blurred. And now here you were. Collaboration practice. With Stray Kids. With Bang Chan. You didn’t even have the strength to be excited. The choreography started. You moved. Your body obeyed at first. It always did. One-two. Step-turn. Pivot. Arm up. Neck roll. You felt the blood drain from your hands. You felt your lungs forget how to breathe.

The lights blurred. The mirror split. You were still standing, but not for long. Your ankle gave out. No sound came from your lips. Only silence as your knees hit the ground. The world tilted. And then— Warmth. Arms caught you. Not rough. Not dragging you. Holding. You didn’t open your eyes right away. You were too tired. Your head rested against a chest that rose and fell with calmness you’d forgotten existed. Someone touched your forehead. Fingers traced your temple, your cheek. You flinched, but not from pain — from softness. You’d forgotten that too.

You blinked. Just barely. The face above you came into view, blurred by tears you hadn’t realized had slipped free. Bang Chan. His brow was furrowed. Not in anger. In something that made your throat tighten. The room was silent. No shouts. No staff rushing in. Just footsteps pausing. The quiet shiver of still air. No one spoke. Not him. Not the members. Not even you. You sat there, shivering in his arms, waiting for someone to tell you to get up. To keep going. But no one did. He just held you. For a long time. Until your breathing slowed. Until your hands stopped shaking. And then, finally, softly — as if the silence might break if he wasn’t gentle — he whispered.

"They don't treat you well, do they?.." he held you tighter, looking with at you with not an angry face, but it wasn't happy either.. he wasn't mad at you, but at the people that changed you.