As I walked past the door of Jihoon's studio, a small sliver of light caught my attention, casting an eerie glow through the narrow gap between the door and the floor. The faint, almost ghostly illumination reminded me of how hard Jihoon worked, how dedicated he was to perfecting every note, every chord. With a deep sigh, I shook my head in disappointment. Jihoon, ever the perfectionist, was undoubtedly still engrossed in his work, despite the late hour. It seemed like he was always in there, hidden away from the world, buried in his music.
Continuing my stroll through the dimly lit hallway, I eventually reached the dorm, only to be greeted by an unsettling silence. The quiet was almost deafening, amplifying the emptiness that seemed to fill every corner of the space. My throat tightened, and I felt a familiar sense of unease creeping in. This dorm, once bustling with laughter and conversation, now felt like a hollow shell, a shadow of what it used to be.
Kicking off my shoes and letting my jacket slide off my shoulder, I tried to ignore the growing tension in my throat. Why did I feel this way? I couldn't wrap my head around it. It couldn't be a cold; I wasn't sick. But the silence and the empty living room only seemed to make the tightening sensation worse. By now, I should have been used to the solitude, to the quiet that often greeted me.
Shuffling into my bedroom, I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow. For a long while, I stayed like that, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me. When I finally rolled onto my back, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting long, thin shadows on the walls.
I had been unkind to Woozi. Just because I couldn't handle him hogging all the attention for himself. Or was it because I was annoyed at his headspace? No, that wasn't it. Maybe I struggled to cope with the new changes and the stress of being an idol. Perhaps it was just that. The pressure, the expectations, the constant need to perform and be perfect—it all weighed heavily on me.
Around November 18, 2019, about two years ago, I had to take a break due to a diagnosis of anxiety. Concurrently, I began experiencing another odd feeling—a sense of fuzziness that made the world seem both bigger and scarier. It was as if I was floating, detached from reality, unable to fully grasp the world around me. I found myself yearning for attention and developing an unexpected interest in animations like Dora, Paw Patrol, and Adventure Time. These shows, meant for children, provided a strange comfort, a sense of simplicity and innocence that I craved.
Despite the challenges, I sometimes wished I couldn't feel my emotions, as they often brought pain. While Woozi seemed to have overcome his struggles, I found myself still hurting. The longing to be called nicknames like "baby," "boo," or "bud" remained unfulfilled, leaving an ache in my heart. These terms of endearment, so simple yet so meaningful, represented a warmth and affection that I desperately needed.
A year ago, just before Christmas, I discovered Woozi's box of little space equipment under his bed. Despite the intriguing items, I resisted the temptation to take anything and left them undisturbed. I respected his privacy, even though I was curious about his world. The box contained various objects—plush toys, pacifiers, coloring books—each item carefully chosen and cherished. It was a glimpse into a part of Woozi that he kept hidden, a part that made him feel safe and loved.
As I lay there, alone with my thoughts in the dark, my mind raced at a hundred miles an hour. You could call it reflecting on myself or whatever it was called. Memories, regrets, and doubts swirled around in my head, making it hard to find peace.
Recently, the room distribution had changed, leaving me alone. It was a new and unsettling experience. I used to share the room with Wonwoo and Jeonghan, but now I was forced to sleep alone. They expected me to be okay with it, but fear and a new sense of separation anxiety consumed me during the first week. Tears became my nightly companion, and no longer being able to cuddle with Jeonghan was, and still is, scary. The nights felt longer, the darkness more oppressive.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of my bandmates returning home. Their laughter and chatter echoed through the hallway, a stark contrast to the silence that had filled the dorm earlier. I heard Woozi giggling and talking. Although I sensed he had slipped, I wasn't willing to leave the warmth of my bed to be sure. I squeezed my eyes shut when my bedroom door opened, and I could hear small feet approaching. My bed dipped, and warmth enveloped me.
"Hyung, are you awake?" I swiftly recognized the voice as Woozi, our little. His voice was soft and tentative, as if he was unsure whether he should disturb me. I didn't answer verbally but wrapped my arms around him, smiling as he snuggled into me. His presence brought a sense of comfort and reassurance that I had been missing. Finally, my attention had come, I thought, smiling to myself as I drifted into dreamland.
It was the best slumber I had all week, free from nightmares. Everything might have changed after Woozi embraced his little side. Initially, I felt unworthy and experienced moments of loneliness and sadness. Now, at the end, I still couldn't definitively say if I was happy or not. The journey had been tumultuous, filled with highs and lows, but in that moment, I felt a semblance of peace.
Realizing I did have an ego, a big one, I acknowledged its hindrance in expressing my feelings and thoughts. As the leader with twelve children to care for, I understood that I shouldn't be the one seeking care. Yet, in that moment with Woozi, I found a fleeting but precious sense of contentment. The weight of my responsibilities seemed lighter, and for once, I allowed myself to be vulnerable.
