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The hotel room was quiet, sterile in a way that only temporary places could be. Curtains drawn, lights off, just a sliver of sunlight spilling in from the edge where the fabric didn't quite meet.
It was morning—probably. Or maybe noon. Time felt slow after long nights of performances, interviews, makeup, and smiles.
Hwang Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose from between them. His phone was tossed somewhere behind him, probably vibrating with messages from the staff or members or schedules or the world. He didn't look at it, he didn't want to.
Opposite the wall was a mirror.
At first, he tried not to look at it, he really did. But that seemed to make it worse. The not-looking turned into awareness so loud it echoed—he could feel it pulling at his vision, screaming, demanding to be acknowledged.
He glanced up. Just a flicker of his eyes, like he was scared of what he would witness.
Then he stared.
The reflection always betrayed him.
He could see the lean frame, the cut of his jawline, the fall of his bleached hair still tousled from sleep. People told him he was beautiful. Fans wrote it like gospel in comments, letters, and banners. Staff complimented his visuals with clinical precision—he was marketable. Photogenic. A visual center.
But none of that mattered here. Not in this silence. Not when he was alone with his thoughts.
To Hyunjin, the mirror was cruel.
His face looked wrong. Bloated. Uneven. Puffy under the eyes, skin dull, too sharp in some places and too soft on the others. His legs looked thick, his arms too undefined. His waist not as narrow as it should be. He pulled his shirt up slightly, examining the stretch of skin across his stomach. It wasn't flat enough. There was softness there.
A surge of heat flushed up his neck—shame. Like a slow burn under his skin. The kind that made him want to pull his hoodie tighter, even if the room was warm.
He didn't remember exactly when this started.
Maybe it has always been there, in small, quiet ways. The camera angles, the stylists' comments, the comparison to others—always smaller, leaner, sharper. Hyunjin had long trained himself to control his image, to hold his body in ways that photographed better. To smile without showing what he hated about his face. To tilt his head just so. To clench his jaw in photos to hide the fullness.
He worked out obsessively for a while—hard, long hours, sweat-soaked mornings before dance practice. It helped, but not for long. The mirror still whispered the same lies, or maybe truths, depending on the day.
And then came the food.
He used to eat with joy back when he was younger, when good was comfort, not calculation. Now, meals became numbers. Calories. Fat. Regret. He'd stare at the tray in front of him during group dinners, mind spiraling as the others laughed and ate without guilt.
He learned tricks. Push food around. Bite small. Pretend to be full. Say he ate earlier. Smile.
Sometimes he would eat. Because his body would beg for it, hunger clawing up his throat until he gave in. And then guild would hit. Like a punch in the gut. And he would disappear to the bathroom.
He didn't always make himself vomit. But sometimes, when the guilt became too much for him to handle, he did. Fingers down his throat, leaning over the sink, stomach twisting in resistance. With tears in his eyes, the sting of bile could be felt in his throat. Not because he wanted to—but because he needed to undo it.
Undo the mistake of eating.
Afterwards, he would rinse his mouth, stare into a mirror, and hate what he saw even more.
The door clicked open.
Hyunjin didn't move. It was probably one of the staff members, or maybe Chan. He kept his eyes in the mirror.
"Hyunjin-ah," a soft voice called. Then a pause. "We have to leave in thirty."
He mumbled something that sounded like "okay," though he wasn't sure the words actually made it past his lips. The door clicked shut again.
The pressure was always there.
Every comeback, every photoshoot, every fancam dissected online. His body was no longer just his. It belonged to the public. Every flaw could be magnified, screenshotted, criticized. He'd read the comments he shouldn't have. The ones that speculated on his weight, his skin, his appearance.
Some days, he could filter it out. Tell himself it didn't matter.
But on days like this, it was a roar in his head.
He pulled himself up from his bed, walked slowly towards the bathroom. His legs felt heavy. He turned on the tap, splashes cold water onto his face, trying to ground himself. The hotel mirror stared back.
His stomach churned.
He thought about skipping breakfast. It would be easy and no one would notice if he said he was nauseous, or too tired. It was the truth, in its own way. The nausea had become a normal part of his mornings.
Back in the bedroom, he changed into his outfit for the schedule. Black pants, tight-fitting. A cropped jacket.he looked in the mirror again, jaw clenched.
He sucked in his stomach, adjusted the waistband.
It was never enough.
But he smiled.
Not real, it rarely was anymore.
The van ride was silent, save for the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional tap of fingers on phone screens. Hyunjin leaned against the window, his forehead pressed on the cool glass. He watched the city pass—buildings blurring into shapes, people into shadows.
Across from him, the other members talked softly. Jisung was half asleep with earbuds in, Minho was scrolling through something on his phone. They all looked tired, but calm in it. Comfortable. Normal.
Hyunjin curled his hand into a loose fist in his lap. His stomach felt hollow, not in the way that hunger usually brought, but in a heavier, colder way. Like something had been scooped out and left behind.
He hadn't eaten.
He told the manager he wasn't feeling well. No one questioned it.
That was the thing about being quiet—you could disappear in plain sight if you did it well enough.
When they arrived at the studio, staff swarmed quickly—hair, makeup, wardrobe. Hyunjin smiled and noodles, bowed in greeting, did what was expected of him. He was good at that part. He'd learned how to play the part if the idol they needed him to be.
"You're a little pale today," the makeup artist said gently, brushing concealer under his eyes.
"Didn't sleep much," he lied.
She just hummed and kept working.
The camera lens was merciless.
It captured everything—every angle, every blink, every micro-expression. Hyunjin danced with his usual precision, his body moving the way it had been trained to, but every movement was underscored by a desperate awareness of how he looked.
He imagined the footage being played back.
Zoomed in.
Screenshotted.
He sucked in his stomach again.
During breaks, he sipped on iced americano. Black. No sugar. The bitterness grounded him more than anything else. Food was offered—bento boxes, snacks. He passed every time.
A staff member frowned. "You sure, Hyunjin? You've been going all morning."
"I'll eat later."
He wouldn't.
In the dressing room afterward, he sat alone in front of the mirror. The others had gone to change or chat with the staff. His makeup was slightly smudged, strands if hair stuck to his damp forehead.
He stared at himself.
The lights above cast harsh shadows over his face. His jaw looked soft again. His cheeks too round. His eyes too dull. He tilted his head slightly. Sucked in his cheekbones. Bit the inside if his lip to keep the nausea at bay.
He was so tired of this war. But he didn't know how to stop fighting
Back at the dorm, the smell of food hit him like a wall—something spicy, comforting, warm. Someone was cooking. He slipped quietly into his room, closed the door before anyone could pull him in.
His stomach growled violently. Painfully.
He laid down, curling on his side, pressing his palm against his middle as if to quiet it
The hunger twisted into guilt, then into something sharp and frantic. He couldn't think straight. His brain felt foggy, pulsing with the rhythm of a silent scream.
He needed to eat. His body begged for it
He got up. Quiet steps to the kitchen. The others were still laughing in the living room. He didn't look at them. Just grabbed a container, filled it with a small portion of rice and egg
Back in his room, he ate fast. Like he was a beggar on the street who stole it.
Halfway through, the guilt slammed against him.
"You're disgusting."
The thought came uninvited, sharp and cold. He froze. Then shoved the container away and rushed to the bathroom.
It was a ritual now.
Lights off, door locked, tap running.
He knelt beside the bed, breathing hard. His fingers hovered near his mouth.
He didn't want to do it. He "hated" doing it. The tears came before anything else. Just silent, hot drops trailing down his cheek.
But the guilt wouldn't just go
So he gave in.
After he sat on the floor, back against the cool tile wall, shaking. Not just from the act itself—but from what came after. The silence. The shame.
He wiped his mouth, washed his face, looked at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were red. His cheeks blotchy.
He looked.. broken.
But even through the haze if self-hatred, a tiny thought slipped in.
"Maybe now you're okay again. Maybe now you're clean."
It was a lie, but a comforting one.
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, bones aching from exhaustion, mind spinning. He thought about what it would be like to just disappear—not die, but dissolve. Fade into a place where mirrors don't exist. Where comments didn't sting. Where food wasn't war.
He missed being a person. Not an image. Not a commodity.
But even in this darkness, he knew tomorrow would come. Another camera, another outfit, another mirror.
And he would get up.
Because he always did.
Not because he was strong
But because he didn't know what else to do.
The next morning, he woke up dizzy.
His alarm had gone off three times already. He sat up too quickly and the room tilted, like his body was unsure of itself. There was a sharp pulse behind his eyes, and his limbs felt like they'd been soaked in concrete overnight.
He blinked through the haze, trying to recall what day it was. Schedule? Rehearsal?
His calendar was packed. They were preparing for another award show— staging, camera work, last-minute changes, outfits to test, photos to shoot. Always more. Always moving.
He showered quickly, ignoring the way his legs trembled beneath him. The steam clung to his skin like regret, and when he stepped out and saw his reflection in the fogged mirror, he wiped it clear with his palm—slow and cautious.
His ribs were more visible today.
He knew that should mean something. Progress, maybe. Victory.
But all he saw was someone fragile. And still not thin enough.
They rehearsed for hours that day.
The choreography was demanding—tight, sharp, precise. The kind that left no room for error, no moment to breathe. Hyunjin was known for his elegance on stage. His lines. His presence. He used to find a kind of power in it. Now it felt like wearing armor made of glass.
He danced anyway.
Because dancing was the only time he could forget.
When the music swallowed him whole, when the beat dictated every movement, there was no time to hate himself. His body became a tool, an extension of sound. Not something to be picked apartment
But after?
After was worse.
He nearly collapsed in the hallway.
It happened so fast—one moment he was fine, the next the edges of his vision went white, his knees buckled, and he had to catch himself against the wall with both hands.
The hallway spun.
He stood there, breathing hard, pretending to fix his shoelace.
Someone passed by and asked if he was okay. He smiled. "Yeah, just tired."
He always said he was tired. No one questioned that anymore. Tired was normal. Expected.
But this wasn't just tired.
This was his body screaming.
And still, he skipped the staff lunch. Said his stomach hurt. It wasn't even a lie anymore.
That night in the dorm, he stared at a photo of himself in a recent shoot.
The members had all gotten previews from the staff. Everyone was sending emojis, laughing, picking favorites. Hyunjin scrolled past the jokes and the complements and landed on his own image.
It was a good photo. Technically.
His hair fell just right, the lighting sculpted his cheekbones. His pose was graceful, and his expression—carefully composed. He looked like the version of himself he was supposed to be.
But all he could see was the width of his waist. The curve of his thighs. The softness under his jaw.
He zoomed in. Then out. Then in again.
And all at once, it became unbearable.
He turned the phone face-down on his desk and stood up too fast, knocking over a water bottle.
The mirror in the corner of his room waited like a punishment.
He couldn't stop looking.
He pulled off his hoodie. Then his shirt.
Ran his hands down his sides his ribs his stomach.
He pinched the skin at his hip. Hated the way it moved.
He turned sideways. Arched his back. Sucked in.
Still not enough.
He thought about not eating for the next three days. Maybe more. Just warm. Just air.
He didn't care if he passed out again. He just wanted to stop feeling like a mistake.
His throat hurt. Constantly.
He blamed it on over-singing, or dry studio air. But he knew it was from the vomiting. From the acid that burned every time he gave in to the guilt. He drank herbal tea with honey to hide it. Said it helped his voice.
Lying became easy.
That weekend, they had a magazine shoot.
Outdoors, early morning, thin coats that looked good but offered no warmth. Hyunjin smiled for the camera, leaned into poses, laughed when the photographer asked him to.
Every flash felt like judgement.
He couldn't stop thinking about how the coat made his body look bulky. How the angle would warp his legs. How the wind kept blowing his hair in the wrong direction, making his face look unbalanced.
He felt disgusting.
He wanted to disappear.
That night, back at the dorm, someone had ordered fried chicken. The smell invaded his room.
Hyunjin paced, stomach aching from emptiness. He could barely think, but the idea of eating felt like betrayal.
He sat on his bed, eyes unfocused, thought running like water down a drain.
Then he stood up, walked towards the kitchen.
Everyone else had already eaten. There were leftovers in the box. He hovered over it. Took one piece.
Just one.
He ate it slowly, then quickly, then desperately.
When it was gone, he stared at the empty paper in his hand, heart pounding like he'd just done something sinful.
The guilt rose fast.
He ran to the bathroom.
Later, alone in the dark, lying in bed with his hands over his chest like a shield, Hyunjin wondered if he was losing himself completely.
He thought about telling someone. A manager. A member. Anyone.
But what would he even say?
"I hate my body."
"I throw up after I eat."
"I can't stand to see myself in the mirror."
He pictured conversations, the confusion, the pity, the discomfort, the attempts to help.
He couldn't take it.
So he kept it quiet. Because if he couldn't love himself? At least he could control himself.
And that control was all he had left.
The dreams were getting worse.
Hyunjin had always dreamed vividly—fragments of memory, abstract colors, things that didn't quite make sense. But lately, the dreams had started to mirror his waking thoughts. Mirrors. Scales. A stage filled with silent judges, faceless but full of accusation. He stood in the center, wearing nothing but criticism.
In one, he was back on the music show stage. A sea of fans stretched in front of him, phones raised. But the cheers were muffled. He looked down at his body and saw it bloated, unfamiliar. His limbs were swollen, slow. When he tried to move, he couldn't.
The audience stared. Silent. Unblinking.
He woke up gasping.
Sweat soaked his shirt, and he rolled onto his side, clutching his abdomen as nausea set in—not from hunger this time, but from fear. Panic. The kind that dug in without asking permission.
The next day, they had a vocal recording.
Usually, he loved being in the booth. It was one of the few places where he felt control—his voice, his technique, his emotions, all focused. But that day, his voice kept cracking, his throat ached, raw and bruised from everything he wasn't admitting.
Chan peeked through the glass, gave him a thumbs up. Hyunjin smiled weakly and tried again. Every take felt thinner, less honest. He could hear it in the playback—an emptiness that even effects couldn't hide.
Afterwards, he sat in the corner of the studio, sipping hot tea and staring at his reflection in the black screen of a powered-down monitor.
He saw someone who looked like him, but wrong like a drawing that had been redrawn way too many times. Overcorrected. Hollowed out.
Later that evening, after dance practice, he felt his knees wobble. Just once. A quick stumble, barely noticeable. But it scared him. He was sweating through his shirt, more than usual. Breathing sharp, his vision frayed around the edges like static. He steadied himself on the barre, gripping it like a lifeline.
No one noticed.
Or if they did, they didn’t say anything.
He told himself he was fine.
But he wasn’t fine. He was falling apart in small, quiet pieces.
That night, as he lay curled in bed again, staring at the ceiling, a memory came without warning.
3 years ago
The practice room smelled of sweat and disinfectant. The mirrors lined every wall, too many angles, too many versions of himself staring back.
He was seventeen. His skin still held the softness of adolescence, but the industry expected him to sculpt himself into something sleek. Something perfect.
The trainer walked by, clapping hands. “Hyunjin, tighten your stomach. You’re arching your back too much.”
He nodded, biting his tongue.
Then came the comment that stuck—light, offhanded, almost kind.
“You’ve got a pretty face, but you need to lean out a little if you want to be the center.”
He laughed back then. Nodded again. Joked with the other trainees later about skipping dinner, like it was a shared punchline.
But that night, in his room, he stared at himself for an hour. Pinching, twisting. Finding flaws he didn’t even know were there until someone pointed toward them.
It wasn’t just one comment. It was a thousand.
The slow erosion of self-perception. The seed had been planted, and over the years, it had grown like a weed.
Back to the present.
Hyunjin sat up in bed, pushing his hair back with trembling fingers. His chest ached. Not with pain, but with pressure—like something inside was screaming to be let out, but couldn’t find the exit.
He reached for his phone, turned on the front camera, and stared at his face. His cheekbones were more visible now, his eyes looked bigger. He should’ve felt proud. Relieved.
But all he could think was: Still not enough.
He didn’t want to die.
But sometimes, he wondered how long his body could keep doing this. The human body wasn’t built to run on caffeine, anxiety, and regret.
And yet here he was—waking up every day, rehearsing, recording, performing. Smiling for people who adored him while silently erasing himself.
He felt like a ghost in his own skin.
He stopped joining the others for meals entirely.
Claimed he had a sensitive stomach. That the trainer had him on a new diet plan. That he preferred eating alone to avoid distractions.
People accepted it, because Hyunjin was quiet, polite, independent.
He was also dying inside.
One morning, his manager handed him a protein shake before a shoot. "You look a little under the weather," he said casually, almost playfully. "Eat something today, yeah?"
Hyunjin smiled, nodded, took the bottle. He left it unopened on the counter, then threw it away when no one was looking.
Not out of spite. But because something inside him said he didn’t deserve it.
He weighed himself twice that night. The numbers had dropped.
Finally.
Still, he stripped down to nothing and stood in front of the mirror again, twisting at the waist, examining his arms, the line of his shoulders.
In the dim light, he saw his bones more clearly, but he didn’t feel beautiful.
He felt brittle.
He collapsed during rehearsal.
No drama. No gasping fall. Just… folded.
One second he was mid-spin, body tracing through the final eight-count of the chorus. The next, his legs gave out beneath him. The room spun, then vanished.
When he came to, he was on the floor, cheek pressed to the smooth, cold wood of the practice studio. Someone was calling his name—once, then again, more urgently. A blur of faces hovered above him, shapes without detail. Voices sounded far away, underwater.
“Hyunjin… hey—hey, can you hear me?”
He blinked.
Nodded.
Someone brought water. Another helped him sit upright. His chest was heaving, though he wasn’t moving. His whole body was soaked in sweat, the kind that felt wrong—not from exertion, but from shutdown.
“Low blood sugar,” someone muttered. “He hasn’t eaten.”
He said nothing.
They gave him an energy bar. He held it in his hand like it was on fire. Eventually, he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. It sat like lead in his stomach.
A lie formed in his throat before anyone could ask questions. “Didn’t sleep well. I skipped breakfast.”
Everyone nodded. Some patted his back. Others offered gentle scolding.
No one asked why he skipped.
No one saw the whole truth.
Because Hyunjin was good at appearing okay.
That night, he didn’t go out with the others. They invited him, even lightly insisted. “Come on, just for a little—get some air, you need it.”
He said he needed to rest. They didn’t push.
When the door shut behind them, he finally exhaled. Silence wrapped around him again, as comforting as it was dangerous.
In his room, he sat on the floor with the lights off. He didn’t move for a long time.
Just sat there, breathing. Existing in the thinnest definition of the word.
His arms rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly. His body ached in places he couldn’t name. His mind was stuck in a strange limbo—not quiet, but numb. Like everything inside had frozen to preserve energy.
He couldn’t tell what emotion he was feeling. It wasn’t sadness, exactly. Not anger, either.
Just... emptiness.
Eventually, he moved, only because his back started to hurt from sitting still for too long. He stood up slowly, joints cracking, and shuffled to the mirror.
Of course.
Always the mirror.
It had become his confessional. His battlefield. His executioner.
He pulled his shirt off and stared at himself, this time in silence. No pinching. No twisting. No angles.
He looked at his reflection like it was someone else.
Like a stranger who had failed him.
He whispered something under his breath. A word—or maybe just a sound.
And then—unexpectedly—his face crumpled.
Tears.
The kind that came without warning. The kind that didn't start in the throat, but in the spine. Deep. Ancient.
He slid down to the floor, hands over his face, and cried as quietly as he could.
Not because of the mirror.
But because for the first time in weeks, something broke through.
The wall. The numbness. The perfect control.
And it terrified him.
Later, when he calmed down, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling again. A question echoed in the silence.
What am I doing to myself? He didn't have an answer.
At some point, his phone buzzed. A message from Chan.
"You okay?"
He stared at it.
The three blinking dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then reappeared.
"You scared us earlier. Take it easy, alright? We’re here if you need anything."
He typed out a reply.
Paused.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Finally sent:
''Thanks, hyung. Just tired."
That night, he ate a little.
Not much. A half-portion of plain rice, a few sips of soup.
He didn’t purge.
Not because the guilt wasn’t there—it was. It always was.
But because something had shifted.
Not healed. Not fixed—just shifted.
Like a crack in the surface tension.
He went to bed early, still hungry, still hollow. But somewhere deep down, something quiet and small had begun to stir.
Not hope.
Not yet.
But maybe a question. Maybe the beginning of a fight he hadn’t known he wanted to survive.
The next few days were strange.
There was no sudden shift—no clarity, no burst of motivation, no healing epiphany. Just... space. Space between the thoughts that usually hunted him. Space between the mirror and the punishment.
He ate small meals. Not regularly, and never comfortably, but more than before.
He didn’t throw up.
Not once.
Not because he stopped wanting to—but because he couldn’t forget the look on everyone’s face when he collapsed. The sound of his own breath echoing in his ears as he lay on that dance studio floor.
That moment stayed with him. Not in a traumatic way—just quiet. Lingering.
It had exposed him. Not in a loud, public way, but in a way that meant he couldn't fully hide anymore, even from himself.
So he tried.
Not to recover.
But to avoid falling again.
He told himself it was temporary. That he could eat a little now, gain a little strength, and then return to control later. Once he was strong enough.
He was bargaining with his illness.
Recovery wasn’t the goal—it was a strategic retreat.
A calculated compromise.
But something was changing underneath.
He noticed it in how food tasted again—how he paused after the first bite, waiting for guilt, but only feeling a flicker of it instead of a storm. He noticed it in how tired he wasn’t. His steps felt less heavy. His hands didn’t shake as often. He noticed it in how he didn’t count his ribs in the mirror that morning.
He looked.
But he didn’t analyze.
Not immediately.
And then, predictably, it came back.
That voice.
That cruel, cold whisper in the back of his head.
You’re slipping.
You’re softening.
You’re letting go of control again.
It started with lunch. A bowl of noodles, too much.
He ate it because they were on the move, because everyone else was eating, and because he didn’t want to draw attention again. But as soon as he swallowed the last bite, it hit.
The spiral, the shame, the heat in his face, the tightness in his throat.
You shouldn’t have.
You’ll see it tomorrow in photos. In the mirror.
He felt it crawling under his skin.
He went to the bathroom and stared at the sink.
It would be so easy.
He didn’t even need to do anything extreme—just fix it. Undo the mistake. Just once. Just this one time.
He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
Minutes passed.
He didn’t do it.
That night, the mirror felt cruel again. The guilt was back in full.
He stood in front of it with his shirt off, pinching his waist, clenching his jaw, cataloging flaws.
He hated himself for the meal. For being weak. For thinking he was improving. Because nothing looked better.
Nothing felt better.
He skipped dinner the next day, and the day after that.
He told himself this was safer. That it was balance.
One step forward, two back.
But that was fine.
It was better than collapsing again. Better than questions. Better than being seen.
He could manage it.
He could do both: survive enough to function and still hold onto his self-control.
But the truth was harder. He wasn’t recovering, he wasn’t getting worse, either.
He was suspended—stuck between sickness and healing. Caught in the loop of pretending to be better while secretly listening to the same brutal voice every time he looked in the mirror.
One night, after a long recording session, he found himself alone in the practice room.
Everyone else had gone home. The lights were dimmed, only the overhead spots glowing faintly. The silence was thick.
He stared at himself in the mirror across the room.
He walked toward it.
Each step felt heavier than it should have.
When he reached it, he didn’t examine. Didn’t pose. Didn’t shift for a better angle.
He just stood. Staring. Empty.
The mirror stared back.
His reflection looked tired.
Not ugly. Not bloated. Not anything dramatic. Just... tired.
He sat down, back against the mirror, and pulled his knees to his chest.
The room didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
For the first time, the quiet didn’t feel punishing. Just... honest.
The truth was, he didn’t know how to live without this war. He didn’t know what peace would look like. He didn’t know how to want recovery when the thing he hated most was himself.
But something was different, even if only slightly. Because this time, when he closed his eyes, he didn’t imagine disappearing. He just imagined resting.
They were getting fitted for new stage outfits.
Hyunjin stood in front of a long mirror in the stylist’s studio, arms stretched slightly as the tailor measured the width of his shoulders. The lights overhead were bright, clinical, and too unforgiving.
He hadn’t eaten that day.
On purpose.
There was something about these fittings that made him especially careful. The way they examined his body. Not sexually. Not even personally. Just… logistically.
He was a shape to be dressed—a silhouette to mold.
The stylist smiled politely. “You’ve lost a little since last time, huh?”
The tailor added, “Might have to take in the waist again.”
It was said gently. Neutrally.
But it echoed in Hyunjin’s head like a gunshot.
He nodded, smiled automatically, said something soft like “ah, maybe.”
But inside, everything cracked open again, because it wasn’t praise.
Not really.
It was a reminder.
That his body was being watched.
Measured, modified.
Still not perfect. Still in progress.
Still not enough.
That night, the voices returned like a storm.
They’re still adjusting your clothes. That means it’s still not right.
You’re still too soft.
You let yourself slip again.
You should’ve gone back to control sooner.
He didn’t cry this time.
Didn’t collapse.
Didn’t purge.
Instead, he lay in bed in the dark, one hand resting lightly on his stomach, the other draped across his eyes.
His throat was dry.
His body ached.
But his mind was… quiet.
Not numb. Not calm. Just tired.
A new kind of tired.
The kind that didn’t ask for punishment.
Just a pause.
He thought about the comment again.
"The waist needs to be taken in". How many times had he heard that before?
Since debut? Since training?
Was there ever a point where he wasn’t being adjusted?
He remembered one fitting during his rookie year—before a comeback. He was thinner than he’d ever been, barely functioning, running on nothing but coffee and spite.
The stylist had said, “You look sharp, Hyunjin. Just be careful, alright?”
Careful.
Like his body was a tightrope. A calculation.
He remembered thinking: Careful is a warning for things that can fall apart.
He hadn’t eaten the next day.
Now, years later, he was still here.
Still a shape. Still adjusting.
Still trying to make peace with a reflection that never agreed with him.
And yet—this time—he didn’t rush to correct.
Didn’t plan a restriction schedule.
Didn’t stand in front of the mirror for hours picking himself apart.
He just lay there.
Letting the voices come.
Letting them pass.
The next morning, he woke up and felt it before he even moved: the dull ache behind his ribs. The weariness in his legs. The subtle tremble in his fingers when he checked his messages.
But he also felt something else.
A thread.
Thin. Barely there.
But present.
Maybe not strength.
But clarity.
That this couldn’t go on forever.
That he was running out of space between collapse and performance.
That no one could survive in the middle ground for long.
He still skipped breakfast.
Still told the staff he’d eaten earlier.
Still picked at his lunch enough to look convincing.
But there was no plan anymore. No grand restriction, no ritual of control. Just a quiet sense that something had to give.
That night, he stood in front of the mirror again.
Same body, same lighting, same scars.
But the way he looked at himself—just for a moment—shifted.
No, he didn’t think he was beautiful, he didn’t feel strong.
But he didn’t hate what he saw either.
Not as deeply.
Not as violently.
He saw a person.
Exhausted. Unwell. But trying.
Still here, still fighting.
He touched the glass with his fingertips.
Not accusing. Not punishing. Just… present.
Then he turned off the light and went to sleep without weighing himself.
The studio was bright, white, and cold. Cameras clicked rhythmically, flashes bursting like distant thunder.
Hyunjin stood by the backdrop, the cool air brushing his bare shoulders. The makeup artist applied powder lightly, smoothing imperfections he didn’t want anyone to see. He smiled when the director said, “Perfect,” but inside, his body was rebelling.
His stomach was a hollow cave. His limbs felt weak. His heartbeat drummed too fast, yet his muscles trembled as if exhausted.
He had skipped lunch, again.
Not because he forgot.
Because the nausea was a stone lodged deep in his throat.
The session dragged on longer than usual. Each pose became harder, each smile felt more forced.
The mirror behind the camera caught his reflection, showing the tension in his jaw, the dullness in his eyes.
After a break, the stylist brought over a snack tray. “Try something,” she said gently, holding out a small plate with fruit and crackers.
Hyunjin shook his head without meeting her eyes. “I’m okay, thanks.”
She smiled softly. “Just a little? You don’t have to—”
He cut her off quietly, “I’m fine.”
She hesitated, then said, “Hyunjin, if you ever want to talk, I’m here, okay?”
Her voice was calm, steady. No judgment. No pity. And for a moment, he felt something unfamiliar—a flicker of warmth.
He blinked, looking away. The photographer called out, “Let’s take five.”
Hyunjin sank onto a stool, head in his hands.
The room spun, his breath hitched. He felt the old, crushing weight of failure.
The mirror’s voice screaming in his mind.
But this time, something was different.
He didn’t purge.
He didn’t run. He just stayed there.
Feeling raw, feeling.. seen.
Later, after everyone had left, the stylist approached him again.
“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” she said softly. He looked up, eyes wet but steady.
For once, he didn’t have a rehearsed answer, just silence.
Silence—not empty, not numb.
But full.
Full of things he wasn’t ready to say.
He left the studio that night feeling fragile.
But not broken.
Not yet.
The mirror waited.
But maybe, just maybe, he was learning to look away sometimes.
After the photoshoot, the days blurred.
Hyunjin moved through rehearsals and recordings with practiced precision, the kind that made people believe everything was fine. He smiled when required, laughed softly with the others, and stayed late after practice to perfect his moves.
But inside, the quiet war raged on.
He kept avoiding meals.
Not all, but enough to keep the scale moving.
The mirror remained his fiercest opponent.
He caught his reflection in windows, in phone screens, in the dark glossy surfaces of backstage equipment.
Always searching, always judging.
One evening, after a long day of filming, he sat alone in his room. The city lights outside twinkled, distant and unreachable.
He pressed his palm against the glass, eyes closed.
He felt empty.
And yet, somewhere beneath the emptiness, a fragile thread held tight.
A message from Jeongin appeared on his phone:
“Hyung, are you eating okay? We all miss you at dinner.”
He stared at the screen for a long time, the words felt like a lifeline.
He wanted to reply but the weight in his chest made it impossible. Instead, he opened his camera.
He took a picture of himself—not posed, not filtered.
Just real.
Raw.
The eyes were tired, the smile was faint.
But it was him.
He didn’t send the picture—but for the first time, he kept it.
Later, he laid down and let the silence fill the room.
Not empty, not punishing.
Just space.
Maybe that was the start.
The mirror in his room was cracked.
Not shattered, but marked by a thin line stretching from the corner to the center, like a silent scar. He had noticed it weeks ago but never fixed it.
It seemed fitting.
Because the reflection it cast was fractured, too.
Hyunjin stood before it after practice, muscles sore, stomach tight. His eyes traced the crack, then moved to the face staring back.
Tired. Hungry. Worn.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
He just stared.
And for the first time in a long time, he wondered if the cracks in the glass were less about the mirror and more about himself.
A meal sat untouched on the desk, he smelled it then stepped away.
Instead, he opened a drawer and pulled out a small notebook. Inside were scribbles—fragments of thoughts, lists, fears, reminders.
He flipped to a blank page.
And wrote.
I don’t know how to be kind to myself.
I don’t know how to stop.
But maybe I can try.
The pen hovered over the paper. Then moved again.
A little more.
A little more honest.
It wasn’t a breakthrough.
It wasn’t a promise.
Just a moment, a moment where the fight paused and the mirror didn’t win.
The room was dim except for the faint glow of a single desk lamp. Its soft light pooled over the small notebook in Hyunjin’s lap, casting long shadows across the scattered papers and empty water bottle. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, the quiet hum of the city drifting through the slightly open window.
Outside, the world was alive. Cars honked, voices echoed distantly, neon signs flickered.
But inside, there was only stillness.
His fingers trembled as he gripped the pen.
He stared at the blank page as if it were a challenge — a silent enemy daring him to face himself. The ink scratched softly as he began to write, the sound grounding him, slowing the racing thoughts in his head.
I don’t know how to be kind to myself.
The words felt heavy, each syllable sinking deep into his chest like stones.
He paused, took a shallow breath, tasting the stale air in his mouth.
His throat was tight, his hands clenched slightly.
I don’t know how to stop.
He wrote it slower this time, dragging out the letters as if trying to trap the fear before it could escape.
His eyes flicked to the cracked mirror across the room. He could see himself reflected faintly in the glass.
Fractured.
Splintered.
His breath hitched.
He remembered the nights when the mirror was a battlefield, when every reflection was a verdict, a sentence, when every glance was a judgment.
Now, he didn’t look away immediately, he held his gaze. His reflection was tired, eyes rimmed red, skin pale and stretched tight over bones. But there was something else, too.
A flicker. A trace of something not broken. His fingers hovered over the notebook again.
But maybe I can try.
The words were smaller this time, almost a whisper.
Almost a hope.
He closed the notebook gently and rested it beside him.
His shoulders sagged, the exhaustion in his body felt infinite. He laid back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The silence wasn’t empty, it was filled with everything he hadn’t said.
A soft, almost imperceptible tear traced down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
Because sometimes, the fight was about letting go.
Because sometimes, the hardest battle was simply to keep breathing.