Twenty minutes later, I found myself hovering in the doorway of Hwan's room, watching him set up his phone on a small tripod. He'd changed into a soft cream sweater that made his copper hair look even warmer, and he'd done something tohis face — not quite makeup, but something that made his skin glow under the ring light he'd positioned on his desk.
"You can come in." He caught my reflection in his phone screen and smiled, the expression easy and inviting as he gestured toward the room with one hand. "I don't bite. Well, not during V-Lives anyway."
"Should I be worried about after?" I stepped inside, raising an eyebrow at him as I leaned against the doorframe.
"Terrified." He grinned at me, but it softened into something more genuine as he watched me take in his space, his eyes tracking my reaction. "This is me. Messy room and all."
The room was smaller than I expected — idol dorms weren't exactly spacious, even for successful groups — but distinctly his. Posters of dancers on the walls. A shelf crammed with trophies and albums. A well-worn stuffed dog on his bed that looked like it had been loved since childhood.
"Who's this?" I crossed to the bed and picked up the stuffed dog carefully, running my fingers over its worn fur, feeling the years of love embedded in its threadbare patches.
"That's Biscuit." Hwan's voice went soft, almost shy, and I watched him duck his head slightly as color crept into his cheeks. "I've had him since I was six. He's been through every audition, every competition, every debut stage." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "The others don't know I still sleep with him sometimes. So. You know. State secret."
"Your secret's safe with me." I set Biscuit back against the pillows gently, something tender aching in my chest at the image of Hwan — bright, confident Hwan — curling up with a childhood stuffed animal when the pressure got too heavy.
"Where should I...?" I gestured vaguely at the room, not sure where to position myself to stay out of the way during his broadcast.
"Anywhere out of frame." He pointed to a spot near his closet, his movements efficient and practiced from years of doing exactly this. "The camera only catches from here to here. You can watch, but they won't see you." He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his face as his hand dropped to his side. "Unless you'd rather go? I know this is weird, watching me perform for strangers while you're standing right there."
"No, I want to watch." The words came out before I could second-guess them, surprising us both with their certainty. "I want to see."
Something in his expression softened, the tension around his eyes easing just slightly as he nodded. "Okay. Just... don't judge me too hard. V-Lives are weird. I have to be... you know. On."
I settled into the spot he'd indicated, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. From this angle, I could see both Hwan and his phone screen, which meant I'd be able to watch him and the comments at the same time.
He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and tapped the screen.
The transformation was instantaneous.
One second he was Hwan — the real Hwan, the one who'd held me while we danced and confessed that being the sunshine was exhausting. The next second, his spine straightened, his smile widened, and his eyes lit up with that megawatt brightness I'd seen in every interview, every performance, every carefully curated social media post.
"My Soul! Hello!" His voice came out higher, more energetic, practically sparkling as he waved at the camera with both hands, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. I smiled hearing the name of what he calls the fanbase. Soul… it was something I always found cute. "It's Hwan! Did you miss me? I missed you!"
Comments flooded the screen in Korean and English and a dozen other languages I couldn't read. Hearts cascaded downthe side of the frame. The viewer count climbed rapidly — ten thousand, twenty thousand, fifty thousand.
Fifty thousand people, all watching him smile.
I studied his face as he chattered about his day (carefully edited to remove any mention of me), about the weather, about a new restaurant Min-jun had found. He laughed at comments, made exaggerated expressions, did a little dance when someone requested his favorite part of their latest choreography. He was good at this. Really good. If I hadn't spent the afternoon watching the mask slip, I never would have known it was a mask at all.
I had watched. And now I could see the seams. The way his smile sometimes flickered a millisecond too long. The slight tension in his shoulders that he hid with animated gestures. The careful way he chose his words, always bright, always positive, never anything that could be clipped and taken out of context.
No clouds allowed.
His own words echoed in my head as I watched him perform for fifty thousand strangers. This was what he meant. This was the weight he carried every single day — the pressure to be bright on command, to manufacture joy for consumption, to never let them see him tired or sad or anything less than sunshine personified.
"Ah, everyone's asking why I look so happy today!" Hwan was reading comments, his manufactured smile widening even further as he tilted his head with practiced charm, one finger tapping his chin playfully. "Do I look different? Really? Hmm, I wonder why..."
His eyes flicked to me for just a fraction of a second — so fast the camera wouldn't catch it, so fast anyone watching wouldn't notice — and something real flickered beneath the performance.
My heart stuttered.
The comments exploded with speculation. He's glowing! Did something good happen? Is it a girl? HWAN HAS A SECRET! The theories scrolled by faster than I could read them.
"A secret?" Hwan laughed, waving his hand dismissively with a gesture that was perfectly casual even as I caught the slight tension in his wrist. "No, no, no secret. I'm just happy because I get to talk to all of you! Isn't that enough?"
The chat seemed to accept this, mostly, though a few comments persisted. You look different. Softer. Something's changed.
I wondered if they could sense it somehow — that shift in his energy, that new thread of contentment running beneath the performance. Could fifty thousand strangers see what one afternoon with me had apparently done to him?
