The Weight of What’s Left Behind

Having finished dinner in an unexpectedly amicable atmosphere, it wasn’t particularly late when I arrived back at the dorms. It was roughly the time a child would fall asleep. Since the other members had been drinking, I presumed they would retire early.

I had thought that having aired all my grievances, I would feel a sense of relief, but stepping into my solitary room, it quickly became clear that wasn’t the case. My tumultuous heart refused to settle.

‘Perhaps I should have lingered around the barbecue restaurant for a bit longer. Or maybe gone up to the rooftop.’

Knowing that my own body was in the hospital and Kwon Yohan’s body was here, I understood that nothing more could happen there. Yet, an unbearable sensation persisted, as if I had left something vital behind.

“Is it truly, completely over, then…”

Unlike my disoriented heart, my mind was working calmly. After all, what was bound to end had merely taken on a slightly different form. Wasting time indulging in sentimentality was foolish.

“Kwon Yohan.”

I whispered softly to the owner of this frail body.

“At the very least, you’ll have to make sure your fans don’t make such expressions, won’t you? That would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

Why speak from beyond the door to someone I could easily converse with by simply stepping into the bathroom? It was likely because the words I’d just uttered were less a direct address to the boy and more a vow directed at myself.

For a while, I sat motionlessly on the bed before abruptly rising and heading to the bathroom. Though I had roughly wiped it off in the waiting room, I intended to thoroughly cleanse the persistent makeup from my face and wash my body clean. A melancholic mood, after all, was often washed away to some extent by warm water.

Lightly ignoring Kwon Yohan, who was craning his neck and trying to get my attention from the mirror, I stepped into the shower booth. As if trying to wash away the sights I had witnessed that day, I cleansed my body slowly and meticulously.

After a considerable amount of time, I emerged to find Kwon Yohan with his back to me, perhaps protesting at being ignored. ‘It’s nice and quiet,’ I thought. As I moved to pass him by, he turned back, a look of disbelief on his face. He must have thought I would initiate a conversation if he acted that way.

–Why are you ignoring me? That’s so unfair! Someone’s been stuck here all day, all alone!

“What’s so unfair about it? I didn’t trap you here.”

I answered dismissively, roughly towel-drying my hair. Kwon Yohan faltered, unable to retort, before finally managing to speak again.

–Do you even know what variety show we’re filming tomorrow? Are you just going to show up without knowing anything? Don’t you have anything to ask me?

I calmly responded to the ceaselessly chattering presence, one point at a time.

“I know what it is. It’s for Star Room, right? I’m not sure why they’re filming it now, usually it’s about a month before a comeback, but I know enough about it, so you don’t need to worry.”

–How can I not worry! Red Moon has never even been on Star Room!

“I haven’t been on it, but I’ve watched it plenty.”

–You don’t know anything about the members either.

“…Isn’t that the same for you?”

Kwon Yohan fell silent, his face downcast. It seemed I had hit a nerve.

–How do you know everything so well, senior? Is it because you’ve been active for so long?

“Hmm, not exactly. It’s just easy for *you* to know.”

Facing someone who wore such an incredulous expression made me feel a little complicated. He was so young and transparent, yet was it truly impossible to see what he hid deep within his heart? Perhaps, knowing he possessed such a fragile shell, he guarded his secrets even more fiercely. There was no way to know the truth.

“For a group with as much recognition as yours, there are some things the fans know better than the members themselves. Trivial habits, anecdotes mentioned somewhere. If I just look up and read about those kinds of things, I’ll probably be able to get by to some extent.”

–Aren’t you taking TV shows too lightly?

Not really… Aside from brief, fleeting appearances that were lucky not to be completely edited out, I had no proper broadcast experience. All thanks to the company’s policy of maintaining an aura of mystery. Even when we needed an aggressive push, they set various standards, cutting off small offers that a rookie group could have received.

The only member of Red Moon who frequently filmed for variety shows was the one who personally sought out and secured schedules, not those arranged by the company. While he painstakingly gathered recognition, like collecting dewdrops in a coarse basket, all I did was lock myself in the practice room, repeating my internal struggles.

However, I believed it. Anyone who had fiercely committed to one thing would somehow manage to succeed at other endeavors too.

“I’ve even performed on stage with complete strangers; you think I can’t handle a variety show?”

I offered a relaxed smile, laced with a hint of bravado. Kwon Yohan stared at me for a long moment, looking flustered, before pouting his lips and speaking sharply.

–Just don’t come back crying after you’ve tried it.

“Of course not.”

‘Should I show him when the broadcast airs later?’ When I asked a question I didn’t truly mean, Kwon Yohan completely sulked. Thanks to that, I could lie down on the bed without further delay.

Even though I was in a position where I had to swim through a sea of information for a while.

“Chief Rabbit.”

I nearly dropped my phone, chuckling at the descriptor for Yoon Jihyuk. Our Leader also had a nickname like that, I recall. Is it common for leaders? The Yoon Jihyuk I knew didn’t particularly strike me as a herbivore-like person.

“So, he had the longest trainee period.”

Yoon Jihyuk, who debuted after eight years of training, was twenty-four. I had assumed the leader, typically the oldest, would be somewhat older, but this was a larger number than I’d expected. In an era where debut ages had become much younger, he was barely clinging to the cutoff line. He was only three years older than me, despite my seven years of experience.

Uni-Q, HEX’s agency, debuted male and female idols alternately, with a roughly three-year gap between groups. This meant Yoon Jihyuk had likely failed to debut once around his second year of training and then fiercely endured six more years to seize his opportunity. It wasn’t enough to simply endure; he must have put in commensurate effort. Enough that no one, simply because they were younger or showed potential, could dare covet his position.

“He sings well too.”

His skills as a vocalist were quite remarkable, enough that the short clips from his pre-debut days felt tantalizingly insufficient. It was surprising to hear him, with his gentle appearance, deliver an aggressive, low-toned rap. Yet, his natural singing voice was soft and sweet. While he was considerably outmatched by Choi Seung-beom in terms of power, their overall skill was comparable. If Yoon Jihyuk had taken a vocal, rather than a rapper, position, HEX’s group color might have been very different from what it was now.

“His hobby is ‘clouds’? What’s ‘clouds’?”

‘Did it mean ‘rolling around’…?’ Tapping the annotation, I found it referred to clouds in the sky. Apparently, he just enjoyed gazing at them idly. The entry, which seemed like nonsense, looked almost like a deliberate flaw inserted to make him appear less than perfect. He was truly the epitome of a virtuous young man, so impeccably raised that there was nothing to fault. He’d even been student council president in high school. He couldn’t have attended school as diligently as other students, given his training.

About halfway through, I grew bored, as if reading a hagiography, and moved on to Choi Seung-beom. The praise for his main vocal abilities was excessively long, though he was indeed that good.

Choi Seung-beom was a kendo black belt and had two younger sisters. Nodding, I thought it suited him in many ways. Was that why he was so strong? The section on his personality showed an effort to portray his taciturn nature as somehow cute. He was brought in from another agency where he had been preparing to debut as a solo singer, so his idol trainee period was said to be the shortest after Kwon Yohan. Despite that, he didn’t seem to lack in dancing… Then again, he seemed the type to diligently practice whatever he was told, so it was only natural.

Next was Han Doyoung.

This guy had a separate category entirely for ‘eccentricities.’ An anecdote told of him impulsively offering to model for a coat he desperately wanted, receiving the coat instead of payment. Another recounted how, upon seeing a street vendor selling snacks, he thought he could do it too, and ended up selling fish cakes in front of his school until a teacher caught him. It wasn’t *incredibly* strange… but the problem seemed to be that he performed these actions, which made one wonder if he was trying to stand out, without even an iota of such intention. An apple hairstyle didn’t even count as eccentric for him. Seeing photos of him confidently strolling through the streets in a fiery red haircut and a matching gochujang-colored tracksuit almost inspired respect. He truly seemed indifferent to others’ opinions.

My thumb, scrolling down, stopped at the ‘Position’ entry.

Main Dancer.

Han Doyoung, whose original dream was to be a choreographer, was a highly skilled dancer, recognized even by professional dancers. Practice videos from his pre-debut days showed him teaching dance to other members. Was that why Kwon Yohan reacted so strongly to him missing practice?

‘If you can’t do it, keep trying until you can. If you can’t do that, leave.’

A quote attributed to him was written in bold, as if a famous saying. This single sentence conveyed it all: Han Doyoung possessed a strong perfectionist streak.

Normally, upon realizing a colleague was such a person, one would immediately think of how difficult it would be to get along, but I found my lips involuntarily curving upward. There was no way to stop the laughter from escaping.

I, too, had a strong obsession with perfection. In my early days, when I didn’t know how to draw a proper line, I had caused my members considerable distress because of it.

“How fortunate. That his members are all so exceptional, he doesn’t even need to learn compromise.”

It wasn’t that my team, my comrades and friends, weren’t precious to me, but there were times when our passion differed, making it difficult to align. A ‘flop’ idol group whose debt only grew with each activity, instead of income. A group so obscure that even the dedicated fans who didn’t support a specific group, merely flitting from one to another, barely knew of them. Even if one started with mountain-like passion, it was only natural that it would be difficult to hold onto it when the situation became so dire. To demand someone to give their best when they were reduced to a single, soon-to-fall leaf from what was once a majestic tree was excessively cruel.

Therefore, I had to learn how to compromise. Unlike Han Doyoung.

“Haaah…”

After a deep sigh, I turned off my phone screen.

A wave of fatigue washed over me, making it impossible to read through the remaining members’ profiles. It would be fine. If push came to shove, I could always finish reading them in the car tomorrow.

I was oblivious to the problems that this slight indulgence in laziness would soon cause.