Idol | sunsun

4

<<I'm not crying 'cause you left me on my own / I'm not crying 'cause you left me with no warning /

I'm just crying 'cause I can't escape what could've been.>>

The mirrors in the practice room are fogged. Sunghoon has been here for hours now, for so long he's lost track of time because there are no windows or clocks inside. His phone is somewhere in his coat, abandoned in the other corner of the room.

He's barefoot. One of his knees is bleeding after he'd scratched it against the floor, but that doesn't stop him from spinning. Another turn, a hand creeping up his chest, dropping to his knees and rolling on the floor. His body carries the tale of the violin notes coming out from the speakers, and, despite how much he hates to admit it, a bit of his own story, too.

When he tries to stand, his ankle twists at an uncomfortable angle and Sunghoon collapses, catching himself with his hands. He hisses, palms stinging, and he lies on his back, chest heaving from exhaustion.

"Shit," he breathes. He squeezes his eyes close and grabs a fistful of his damp hair, pulling. "Fuck."

Rehearsing for his upcoming concerts has only placed an unbearable weight upon Sunghoon's shoulders. His perfectionism, along with the need to deliver a flawless performance to keep the momentum of his number one album, are stabbing him little by little, one cut at a time. Everyone is expecting something from Sunghoon, anything but a human reaction to the events in his life for the last seven months.

Sunghoon should be fierce. A heartbreaker, a leader. Mysterious, sensual, unapologetic. In the eyes of the public, of his fans, he's SUNGHOON , the nation's angel, pop perfection. In the eyes of his friends, he's Park Sunghoon— he prioritizes his well-being, doesn't apologize for protecting his heart. But in his own eyes... well. Sunghoon is nothing but a fraud.

Inside the lonely practice room, Sunghoon allows the first furious tears to spring out of his eyes. There's nobody here to see him crumple down like a sandcastle. There hasn't been someone to watch him cry in a long time, anyway. Loneliness should've become his best friend at this point, but Sunghoon has always had trouble letting people in, hasn't he?

He covers his face with his hands, muffling the pathetic sobs spilling from his mouth. He danced to this song every night for seven months straight, and now he can't seem to get the easiest of steps right. What is wrong with him? Has anger consumed him to the point he can't be delicate any longer?

Exist for love. Sunghoon used to tip-toe into the stage wrapped in pastel pink and white silk, and he'd turn his body into the purest declaration of love he'd ever mustered the courage to write. The bright spotlight would follow him as he rolled on the floor, the contemporary choreography letting him express what the words in the song lacked.

It's been almost two years since the first performance. Maybe that's Sunghoon's problem; now there's nothing left of that love he sang about, of that devotion he wrote about, of the lover he danced for. There are only ruins, broken pieces that Sunghoon has been trying to put together desperately only to find that they keep slipping through his fingers.

He sniffs, gathering every ounce of strength to get on his feet again. It doesn't matter how much he wants to do nothing but mourn the loss of who he was and who he had. He still needs to work and put on a perfect show. Sunghoon needs to get out there and lie, dance for four minutes like love hasn't stopped being the force that moves his body.

Jay had mentioned it when Sunghoon had shown him the first version of hate and regret, and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. How he went from one edge of the spectrum to the opposite one in just one album. How his previous long record celebrated love and made thirteen promises to the same person Sunghoon would tear down one year later.