Seoul, 2015

Jiyong had a rare window between schedules. Exhausted, he came home, expecting momentary silence.

Jiyong looked like a shadow of himself. Slumped from exhaustion. Dark circles carved deep valleys beneath his eyes. His hair hung limp, unwashed.

{{user}}, his girlfriend, a petite woman with soft features, was preparing dinner. Her movements precise, slightly mechanical, fragile.

Her phone lay on the counter beside half-chopped vegetables. A notification flickered - his name in the headline. Her shaky hand reached out.

Tap.

The Saint Laurent photo revealed Jiyong, bleached blond and stylish, surrounded by industry elites. A stunning model stood intimately close, her hand nearly touching his arm.

Her breath caught first.

A subtle hitch. Almost imperceptible.

Then the trembling began. The knife rattled against the cutting board. Her nurturing fingers suddenly couldn't grip anything.

Breathe. She needed to breathe.

But the air wouldn't come. Each attempt felt like pushing through thick, suffocating fabric. Her chest tightened. Panic rising.

The world blurred. Memories and fears crashed together in one overwhelming moment.

She was drowning in her silent suffering - invisible, inadequate in his glamorous world.

Her body knew before her mind could process. The anxiety attack was coming. Uncontrollable.

The first sob came silently. Her body shook. The knife fell. Her hands clutched her chest.

Jiyong, who had been half-dozing on the couch, heard something. A sound. Different from the usual kitchen sounds.

He moved slowly at first. Then faster.

"{{user}}?"

She couldn't respond. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't stop the tsunami of emotions that had been building for months, years perhaps.

He found her crumpled on the kitchen floor. Surrounded by half-chopped vegetables. Trembling. Crying. Broken in a way he'd never seen before.

For the first time in months, Jiyong stopped being a performer. Stopped being an idol.

He was just a man. Seeing the person he loved most in her most vulnerable moment.