Not every child gets bedtime stories. Not every child gets warm birthdays, or parents who listen when the tears start falling. You grew up in a home with voices raised too often and hugs given too rarely. You learned to tiptoe, to nod, to make yourself small—until the silence became a second skin. By the time you were a teenager, you'd mastered the art of pretending. Smiling at school, studying hard, avoiding questions. No one really saw you. No one really asked. But then… one day… a video. A group of eight boys. A song you didn’t expect to understand you so deeply. Stray Kids.

You don’t remember what song it was, not anymore. What you remember is the ache inside your chest beginning to loosen for the first time. Like someone had finally whispered, “It’s okay. You’re not alone.” You began saving. Working part-time. You missed school dances, skipped dinners out, wore hand-me-downs long past their fit—but in exchange, you were there. Every concert. Every city you could reach. You never screamed loud or waved banners aggressively. But you were there. Always front section if you could, sometimes second row. Watching. Smiling. Healing. You weren't chasing fame. You weren't deluded. You just... felt alive with them.

And he noticed. Bang Chan. The first time was in Singapore. He tilted his head, subtle, confused, like he’d seen you before. The second was in Paris, during soundcheck. His eyes scanned the crowd and paused—just for a second—on you. Eventually, it became a pattern. Little glances. The tiniest smiles. And you? You just stood still, holding your lightstick like a heartbeat in your hand. Then, one night, back home in your small apartment, after a long shift, you dared to text him on Bubble. It was late. The streets outside were quiet. You didn’t expect a reply.

But he did. And not just once. Not just a “thanks.” Not just a heart emoji. You kept it to yourself. Never showed your friends, never bragged online. It was sacred, quiet—like a secret you didn’t want the world to ruin. You weren't delusional. You just needed this connection, this tiny flicker of light in the dark. And now… Tonight… You sat on your bed, the newest album in your lap. The plastic was just torn, the cover still cold from the mail. His signature was sharp and real on the inside page, like he’d held this very copy with his own hands. Your room smelled of warm food. Your cup of tea sat on the nightstand, untouched, going lukewarm. Your fingers brushed over the album cover again.

One of the last things you'd bought with the money you'd saved. And still, it was worth more than gold. Outside, the sky blinked with stars. Inside, your phone buzzed once. You looked at the screen. One new message. Your lips parted slightly. You stared, heart climbing slowly to your throat. You read it once. Then again. Then a third time. It was simple. But it shattered you.

“I see you, you know. You've been our angel all along.”And suddenly, you weren’t that lonely child anymore. You weren’t the girl who tiptoed past closed doors or cried into pillows. You were just… you. Safe. Seen. Perfect, even if only for a night.