Chapter 2: Haeun debuts

It was finally the day of Haeun's big debut. She had managed to secure me a ticket for the exclusive St6rlight fanmeeting, where they will perform their album for the very first time in front of their fans, before going on to music shows and live broadcasts. The ticket was meant for family, but her parents had refused to come, having disapproved of the scanty photos that she took for the album photobook.

"It's not proper for a young girl to show so much to the world," her father had said. "What will people say?"

I had no such qualms, eagerly accepting her offer. After all, it was the hottest debut in recent memory, and tickets had sold out within seconds of going online. I had arrived at the venue early, eager to secure a good seat as close to the stage as possible. I wore my best clothes, styling my hair carefully, and practiced my smile in the bathroom mirror until I was sure I looked perfect.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to find a photo from her. She was backstage, winking and giving a thumbs up, the camera angled down so I can see her outfit. Her top was low cut, showing off plenty of cleavage, and I found myself shielding the phone in fear of anyone else seeing my screen.

"Can't wait to see you! I'm gonna be near the front row cheering for you!" I typed back, though she did not respond. They must be starting soon, I thought, stowing my phone away in anticipation.

The lights dimmed, and the buzz of the crowd settled into a heavy silence, thick with anticipation. I shifted in my seat, clutching the glossy program in my hands, scanning it even though I’d already memorized every detail in it. My heart pounded in sync with the bassline that began to thrum through the speakers.

The stage exploded with light. Six figures emerged, silhouettes at first, then fully revealed as the music swelled. And there she was—Haeun, positioned front and center, in an outfit that sparkled under the stage lights like a constellation. Her short skirt swayed with every precise movement, her virtue hidden by the safety shorts underneath, and the delicate fabric of her corset top glittered, shiny and bright. She looked ethereal, untouchable, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe.

The opening notes of their title track filled the air, and the group moved in perfect synchronization. Haeun's voice broke through, clear and sweet, like a blade slicing through glass. Every note she sang felt personal, like it was meant for me alone, though she couldn't have spotted me in the dark audience. My chest tightened, and I realized I was holding back tears. How could one person hold so much beauty, talent, and grace? She didn’t just perform; she radiated.

Her movements were fluid yet sharp, every gesture purposeful. I could tell how much work had gone into this—the long nights, the relentless rehearsals—and it all paid off in this moment. She wasn’t just Haeun anymore; she was music personified, a star rising above a sea of fans who screamed her name.

And I felt it then, as I watched her smile so perfectly at the crowd, that now familiar mix of love and jealousy. Love, because I knew how hard she worked for this moment, and she deserved it. Jealousy, because she wasn’t mine anymore—not in the way I wanted her to be. She belonged to the world now, to these fans who adored her, who screamed for her, who didn’t even know her the way I did.

When the music ended, and the cheers from the crowd finally died down, the group addressed the crowd, thanking them for their support and sharing more about the album's creation. Haeun’s laughter rang out as she answered a fan’s question, her doe-like eyes sparkling under the lights. She was so genuine, so warm, that I felt my chest ache again.

I wanted her happiness more than anything else. But as I watched her stand on that stage, I realized something that had been eating away at me: Haeun wasn’t mine to keep. She never was. She was a star meant to shine for everyone, not just me. My love for her is destined to be a quiet devotion, something that could only live in the shadows while she dazzled in the light.

By the time the group bowed for the final time and exited the stage, I felt both elated and hollow. She had been magnificent, everything I knew she could be and more. But the distance between us felt infinite now, the bright lights of the stage having built a wall I could never scale.

I clapped along with the rest of the audience as they cheered for an encore, but my heart was heavy. How could I ask her to hold on to me when she belonged to something so much greater? But maybe love wasn’t about holding on. Maybe it was about letting the flower bloom, only being able to admire the beauty from afar but never getting to pluck it for myself.