Mother’s Concerns and a Familiar Gaze

[Mother: Yohan]

[Mother: Did you fight with your sister?]

It was the final broadcast of the first week, a grueling schedule that demanded a radio appearance immediately after their final stage performance. Consequently, I had plunged into a deep, almost combative, sleep the moment I arrived back at the dorm yesterday.

Though my physical condition was the best it had been since I first inhabited Kwon Yohan’s body, I found myself unable to snatch even a short nap, my eyes stubbornly wide awake despite having just returned from a pre-recording session.

Thus, I found myself in a predicament, unable to simply ignore the newly arrived message. The moment I registered ‘Oh, no,’ my finger had already reflexively moved, and the read receipt instantly appeared.

Tap, tap. My nail tapped lightly just above the keypad, and I fell into a brief contemplation. A quick glance through the chat history revealed that Kwon Yohan apparently spoke to his mother informally, almost like a friend. This felt deeply uncomfortable to me, as I had never once addressed my own mother in such a casual manner.

The prospect of speaking informally with an unfamiliar adult was, to put it mildly, an utterly mortifying experience.

[No, it’s not like that.]

[My sister keeps bothering me while I’m working.]

[Mother, tell her off for me.]

Yet, to my surprise, once I actually tried to mimic his style, the words flowed effortlessly.

[Mother: Alright, I’ll scold her.]

[Mother: Are you taking your medicine properly? Is your body alright?]

Kwon Yohan, it seemed, was particularly prone to terse, one-word replies when faced with such questions.

[Yes.]

It was as if he had no intention whatsoever of concealing his discomfort with these types of conversations.

Knowing that any further attempts at conversation would be futile, Kwon Yohan’s mother seemed to resign herself to dropping all her accumulated messages at once, trusting he would eventually read them.

[Mother: If it’s because of work, then today can’t be helped, but I’d really appreciate it if you could make it to family gatherings whenever possible. Mother misses you a lot, Yohan. Call me whenever you have some free time. Don’t push yourself too hard, and if it gets tough, take a break. I love you, my son ^^]

How on earth had he managed to live without ever replying to such heartfelt words?

“Haa…”

Han Doyoung, who had been sitting in an odd posture, half-slurping his cup of instant ramen, raised his gaze and cast a fleeting glance in my direction. Only after meticulously finishing every last drop of the broth did he finally speak.

“Your sister?”

“No, my mother.”

“Well, it’s hard to comment on *that* side.”

It sounded as if, had I mentioned my sister, he would have delivered a thorough scolding to the absent party. Perhaps it implied that while he might readily criticize another’s sibling, he’d draw the line at parents. Then again, it might simply be because Kwon Yohan’s mother had provided the dorm.

“There’s nothing to say. She said she’d scold my sister.”

“Scold…”

He, who had been muttering, suddenly choked and coughed as if he’d swallowed wrong.

“Ugh, damn it. Good thing I wasn’t listening while I was eating my ramen. Are you seven?”

“I’m twenty, though?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

To Han Doyoung, who was grumbling as he rummaged through his bag for his toothbrush set, I responded with a sweet, angelic smile, crinkling the corners of my eyes. He, in turn, squeezed his eyes shut with a look that clearly conveyed he’d seen something he wished he hadn’t.

“Still, thanks to that, you’ll be able to work comfortably today without your sister’s interference, so that’s a good thing, right?”

“You’re right.”

He nodded, then paused his actions for a moment. After a moment of deep thought, as if something was truly bothering him, a puzzled expression finally surfaced on his face as he voiced his question.

“They couldn’t have failed to anticipate this level of busyness when they let their child become an idol, so… your family seems a bit peculiar, doesn’t it?”

I found myself asking back, almost absently, as if discussing someone else’s affairs.

“Right…?”

After all, until recently, it had indeed been someone else’s business.

It’s perfectly normal to worry about a family member who is ill. While this is especially true for parents, Kwon Yohan’s family, however, exhibited a peculiar undertone in their words that suggested more than simple concern. Kwon Haeun, his sister, was one thing, but I even detected an unsettling quality in his mother, who otherwise seemed incapable of uttering a single harsh word to her precious youngest son.

Each time they contacted him, their messages invariably contained words of apprehension.

‘Take it easy.’

‘You can quit if it’s too hard.’

‘Don’t push yourself.’

Even though they were gentle words, their constant repetition suddenly sparked a thought within me.

It seemed Kwon Yohan’s family wished for him to quit being an idol, if given the chance.

…It’s only been three months; what kind of nonsense is this?

If they disliked it so much, they should have stopped him from the very beginning, preventing him from even starting. Why now, of all times? They must surely think that group activities are as easily abandoned as a child’s game of make-believe. A sudden surge of heat quickly enveloped my throat.

Being looked down upon was, in itself, something I was accustomed to. While it might appear different to the younger generation or those who actively enjoy this culture, there were always adults who regarded it with disdain. To those steeped in stereotypes and a sense of entitlement, it would undoubtedly appear even more trivial. It wasn’t something to dwell on.

Even knowing all this, the reason my heart was so profoundly agitated was likely because…

‘Since things have turned out this way, how about you just live as Kwon Yohan, Sunbae?’

I feared that for you, this entire endeavor was nothing more than a ridiculous pastime. I worried that you had always intended to quit easily, and that giving it away, as if bestowing charity upon a desperate soul, had meant nothing to you.

If I were you. If I had ascended to this position. I would have fought tooth and nail to return, even if it meant dying with lingering regret. Are you not the same?

If it truly was such an insignificant position, then wouldn’t my own struggle to endure this promotional period out of a misplaced sense of responsibility appear utterly foolish? Even when I was in peak condition in my own body, the work was exhausting; enduring it now in Kwon Yohan’s frail physique was proving exceptionally difficult.

If all this arduous effort held value only for me, then I would be better off rushing immediately to the hospital room where my own body lay dormant.

Suddenly, a sharp, jarring headache seized my mind, as if an invisible force were wrenching at my skull. As I closed my eyes, grimacing deeply, Han Doyoung, who had evidently finished brushing his teeth and returned, pressed his palm firmly against the furrowed space between my eyebrows. His hand, still faintly damp, felt cool against my skin.

“Don’t overthink.”

His jet-black eyes were unnervingly close. A small, unconscious laugh escaped me.

“Alright.”

As if his straightforwardness were contagious, my mind instantly felt considerably lighter.

****

For today’s title track performance, our stage outfits consisted of black trousers paired with white shirts made of a flowing, ethereal fabric. Ornamental details were deliberately excluded from the garments themselves, with thin chains strategically placed to add a subtle edge without appearing overly ornate. Given the abundance of well-built members, many of the shirts were unbuttoned quite low to enhance the overall aesthetic. Choi Seung-beom, seemingly bothered by the chain that ran across his bare chest, attached to a choker, fidgeted with it incessantly right up until the moment he stepped onto the stage.

I was the only one with a ruffled shirt. While my physique was far too meager to display as boldly as the others did, Han Doyoung remarked, “He truly looks like a young master,” repeating the phrase three times, leaving me unsure if it was meant as a compliment or an insult.

The choreography, now ingrained in my body after days of practice, and the lyrics, now familiar on my tongue, had diluted the anxiety I’d felt on the first day. I felt a surge of confidence. A certainty that I would, at the very least, avoid presenting an unsightly image on stage.

A conviction that I would deliver a performance satisfactory to any observer.

As I safely concluded the performance and began to descend from the stage, Yoon Jihyuk quietly called out to me, stopping me in my tracks.

“Yohan.”

My wrist was caught in the darkness. His voice, calm and low, resonated in my ear. I turned to face him, my face still flushed with the lingering heat of the performance.

“Is something wrong?”

It was a question delivered with a surprising degree of caution. When I echoed his question in a somewhat bewildered voice, he proceeded to explain the underlying meaning in his characteristic soft-spoken manner.

“This might sound a little strange, but throughout this entire promotional period… on stage or in front of the camera, you’ve always seemed as excited as a child who’s received an extravagant gift. But today, you looked as though you were utterly consumed by fierce determination.”

After a brief pause, Yoon Jihyuk spoke again.

“You seemed like the Yohan I used to know.”

Yoon Jihyuk’s grip tightened significantly. How was I supposed to react? Feeling a sudden surge of helplessness, I looked down at my slender wrist, still firmly clasped in his hand.

“So I was worried you might ruin the stage again today… It’s a relief you didn’t. Truly.”

“Just a moment, Hyung. Please let go of my wrist.”

Yoon Jihyuk casually disregarded my plea. His jet-black eyes gleamed with an unusual intensity.

“I hope you continue to be like this from now on. I don’t know how you feel about it, but this team is truly precious to me.”

Smiling shyly, like a child sharing a secret, Yoon Jihyuk finally released his grip. My hand, which had been tense and numb from lack of blood flow, tingled painfully. The red mark left behind would surely bruise. No, how on earth was I supposed to cover this up?

Yoon Jihyuk had already departed, his steps unhesitating. His retreating figure, devoid of lingering regret as if his purpose was fulfilled, was as straight and unwavering as ever.

Did he know something when he did that? There’s no way.

“Honestly. His personality is truly unique.”

One thing was certain: Yoon Jihyuk had never been entirely favorable towards Kwon Yohan.

And,

“Fierce determination, huh…”

Did that mean Kwon Yohan, too, had a period where he struggled desperately? I looked down at my pale, uncalloused fingers, at my thin arms devoid of any discernible muscle.

Perhaps there are efforts that leave no trace. The answer, it seemed, was remarkably close at hand.