Winter crept in slowly, settling over Seoul like a thick blanket. The sun disappeared earlier each day, leaving the streets bathed in blue shadows. The breath that left Kim Chong's mouth fogged the air—but inside, something warmer had started to take hold.
He had a routine now. A rhythm.
Early dance practices with Ha-eun at the community studio, where they laughed through exhaustion and cheered through stumbles. Vocal sessions every evening, until the janitor grumbled and turned off the lights. And in between it all, part-time shifts that paid just enough to cover the next few weeks of rice and subway rides.
His body ached constantly—but it was the kind of ache that proved he hadn't given up.
One evening, after a particularly long practice, Ha-eun handed him a water bottle, her breath visible in the cold air. "There's another audition coming up," she said, casually. Too casually.
Kim Chong raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Small company," she added. "But they've debuted a group recently. It's real. Not just promises and ghost emails."
He hesitated, heart stuttering. "I don't know if I'm ready."
She shrugged. "You'll never feel ready. That's not the point."
Her tone was light, but her eyes weren't.
"Look, you've gotten better," she said. "Way better. You work harder than anyone I've seen. Even if you fail again, at least you fail forward. That's still moving."
Kim stared down at the bottle in his hands. The plastic was cracked from too many reuses—just like him, maybe. A little beat-up. But still holding.
He nodded. "Okay. Let's do it."
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
The doubts came instead—familiar, persistent. Whispering that he'd fall again, that he'd choke, that he wasn't good enough. But this time, he didn't let them settle.
He got out of bed, pulled on his hoodie, and stood by the window.
Outside, Seoul was quiet. The occasional headlights cut across the road like shooting stars. Somewhere in the distance, a siren echoed faintly. He pressed his palm to the cold glass and sang—softly, tentatively—like a prayer to the city.
He imagined a stage. Bright lights. A real mic. A crowd that knew his name.
Someday, he told himself.
The next morning, he stood in line once again. Another audition. Another number stuck to his chest. His hands were cold, but they weren't shaking.
Inside, the room was quiet and gray. The judges barely looked up.
"Name. Age. Experience?"
He answered.
"Why do you want to be an idol?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Because I've fought for this dream every day," Kim Chong said. "And even if I fall again, I'll keep getting back up. This… this is who I am."
He sang with everything he had.
Then he danced—not perfectly, not flawlessly—but with fire. With urgency. Like it was his last chance. Like he belonged on that floor.
When he finished, silence hung in the air. One judge gave a slow nod. Another scribbled something down. They thanked him.
That was it.
No promises. No praise. No guarantees.
But as he stepped out into the sharp winter air, lungs burning and heart hammering, he didn't feel defeated.
He felt alive.
As he reached the bottom of the steps outside the audition building, he spotted her—leaning against the railing, oversized scarf wrapped twice around her neck, cheeks red from the cold.
Ha-eun.
"You waited?" he asked, surprised.
She shrugged. "You always take forever in there."
He chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "I think it went okay. I don't know."
She looked at him for a moment. Then said, "I do."
He blinked. "Huh?"
"You're glowing, dummy," she said, grinning. "Like some K-drama lead after a dramatic rooftop confession."
Kim groaned. "Please don't."
Ha-eun laughed. "Come on. You crushed it, didn't you?"
"I don't know," he repeated. "But… I didn't break."
She bumped her shoulder into his. "Good. Because next time, we go together."
He turned to her, surprised. "You're auditioning too?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, quieter: "Not yet. But soon. I've been scared. And watching you—not just survive, but fight—it reminded me why I started all this in the first place."
They stood there in the cold, two dreamers wrapped in winter and ambition.
Then Ha-eun pulled something from her coat pocket—a convenience store sandwich. "By the way, I brought you breakfast. But I sat on it by accident. It's kind of… pancaked."
Kim laughed, loud and real.
He took the squished sandwich anyway.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between them felt full—not empty.
They walked off together, side by side, as the wind picked up and the city slowly came alive behind them.