It wasn't that Jisoo didn't feel pain.
She just didn't know how to show it.
People around her always said the same things:
"She's the strongest in the group."
"She's the one who never breaks."
"She's always smiling."
They didn't know that strength was a mask — heavy, beautiful, and exhausting.
Even when the world fell apart, she smiled. When rehearsals went wrong, when fans bashed her online for being too "stiff," when she was told she didn't move like an idol should — she smiled.
She laughed, bowed, and said, "I'll do better next time."
She always said that.
And she always meant it.
But meaning it didn't make it easier.
⸻
The girls knew her patterns by heart now.
Lisa once said, "Unnie doesn't cry. She only leaks."
And it was true. The rare times they saw Jisoo tear up — maybe twice, maybe three times — her tears would barely fall before she swallowed them back with a shaky laugh.
Never sobbing.
Never breaking.
Even when their manager yelled, or when she bruised her knees during choreography practice, or when her throat ached from redoing lines for hours — she would smile, mutter "It's okay," and keep going.
That's who Kim Jisoo was.
A wall of quiet endurance wrapped in a gentle voice.
⸻
The comeback training week was brutal.
Choreographers from the US were flown in. Everyone was tense, nerves running high. Mistakes were punished with repetition, over and over until their bodies screamed.
But Jisoo? She pushed herself harder than anyone.
Every time she caught the reflection of herself in the mirror, she remembered the whispers.
"She's the visual, not the dancer."
"She's pretty, but she can't keep up."
"She's always one step behind."
Those words buried themselves deep, like shards she couldn't pull out.
So when the others went home after practice, Jisoo stayed back. She'd stretch until the lights dimmed, her breath ragged, her reflection blurring through sweat and tears she refused to let fall.
And when the janitors turned off the studio lights, she didn't go home.
She went to Blissoo — her private dance studio.
⸻
Blissoo was her sanctuary.
Her name, her dream, her escape.
There, she could be honest. No cameras, no staff, no members worrying about her.
Just her — and the sound of the music echoing through an empty room.
She trained until her legs trembled, until her vision flickered, until the world tilted sideways.
Sometimes she'd laugh through the pain. Sometimes she'd whisper to herself,
"Come on, Jisoo. Again. One more time."
It became her mantra.
⸻
One night, at 2:47 a.m., she slipped.
Her knee buckled mid-turn, and she hit the floor hard. The speakers still blasted the chorus, but she didn't move.
For a long time, she just lay there.
Breathing. Staring at the ceiling.
Then the tears came — hot, angry, silent.
Not because of the pain.
But because she was furious at herself.
Why can't I get this right?
Why can't I be enough?
