Becoming An Idol Wasn’T On My Plan [EN]: Chapter 312

The concert afterglow is like a well-preserved delicacy in the idol world: you anticipate it before it happens, devour it in the moment, savor it while it’s still fresh, and then revisit it about six months later for another taste.

Moreover, the release of backstage concert footage acts as fuel, reigniting the excitement just as it begins to fade.

Before long, the four-hour marathon concert fades from the forefront of Roommates’ [Name of fandom] minds, settling into a warm and intense collection of cherished memories.

[A Mad Fan’s Fan Art]

The time was after the Blossence concert. My legs were dead, but my heart was beating so intensely that I was having a silent freak-out on my bed.

With trembling fingers, I was browsing Bluebird [A stand-in name for Twitter] and Lower Bus (a cover name for WIX [Website platform]), and then I saw it.

(A watercolor painting of Ji Dong-hwa crying. Ji Dong-hwa is depicted as ethereal, with clear, vibrant colors, set against a dark and dense background. On his otherwise emotionless face, a stream of transparent water glistens in the light. He looked as sacred as a martyr submitting to their impending fate, an effect further emphasized by his white clothes stained with black paint.)

Quality aside, the important thing is that this painting was uploaded two hours after the concert ended.

No one had expected Ji Dong-hwa to cry until the concert; it was just something we wished for, like a distant star in the sky, so it couldn’t have been painted in advance.

As soon as I saw it, I cried for two hours straight, and then I realized:

This person, with a trembling body after the concert, went home and immediately drew fan art and finished digital correction within two hours—are they even alive?

I pray today that this talent will blossom and they will live a long and healthy life.

P.S.) I got permission to share the source. I checked on their well-being, so I can live today with a grateful heart.

Comments:

―lololol what’s with the dramatic tone

―There seem to be a lot of amazing people among Roommates. Roommates who want to feel a sense of delightful self-deprecation about their own talents while supporting Ji Dong-hwa.

└But… what about me…?

―Wow, I’m a fan of another group, but this fan art is so high quality. It looks like a piece from a professional portfolio ㅠㅠㅠ [Korean emoticon for crying]

―It’s like a religious painting. So awesome. It’s watercolor, but there are highlights with markers in some parts, so it really pops ㅅㅂ [Korean slang for ‘damn’]

└Ah, if Ji Dong-hwa worked as a church pastor or a cathedral priest, I would become a devout believer and go to morning prayer, lunchtime prayer, and evening prayer every day. I’m confident I could transcribe every word he says during worship with full concentration.

A well-known ‘gold-hand’ [Term for a highly skilled artist] among fans who was often mentioned.

Never posts any small talk, not even the usual fangirling posts.

A quiet page that doesn’t run a Q&A. Just uploads fan art once a week, regularly and methodically rotating through the members.

And that ‘gold-hand’ was currently holding chopsticks, repeatedly bringing stir-fried pork to their mouth in front of the school.

“Is this okay?”

“I told you it’s okay. So, was it good?”

“It was worth the money. The stage quality, first of all……”

As he spoke, seemingly lost in another world, his friend could only find it strange.

All fangirling is accompanied by a traffic accident [Idiom for unexpectedly falling deeply into something].

What kind of accident did he have to get interested in 3D humans [Slang for real people, as opposed to 2D anime characters]? As a hardcore anime fan, there were parts he couldn’t understand.

However, fangirling is fangirling, so there are some things that connect them.

“You should be really grateful to those *hyung*s [Korean term for older brothers/male seniors]. They keep making you want to draw.”

The friend smiled and neatly swallowed a bite of stir-fried pork wrapped in lettuce.

He could painfully empathize with the fact that drawing fan art was his way of expressing love for art.

“Yeah, they’re pretty much an inspiration warehouse when drawing gets boring as hell.”

When he doesn’t think a professor’s feedback is reasonable, when he especially craves freedom, he recharges his energy by drawing the group members.

He just chose the dry expression ‘inspiration warehouse’ because he didn’t want to use cheesy words like ‘muse,’ but the essence was the same.

So he sometimes feels a sense of wonder.

He sometimes can’t believe that there were days when he came up to Seoul alone, lived in a *goshiwon* [Small, inexpensive room], and mistook his narrow room for a coffin.

The phrase ‘I want to draw’ disappeared while attending art middle school. When he was in art high school, picking up a brush was just an obligatory task.

It felt like a dream that he was comforted by the story of a person constantly climbing a cliff while listening to the radio.

If he hadn’t recovered his fundamental desire to draw that day, he might have given up and put down his brush.

Those people probably don’t even know he exists, but he was so greatly influenced.

“I wonder if the *hyung*s know.”

That there is a very small person here.

That there is someone who can still love the smell of paint on their clothes thanks to them.

“What’s important is that you’re happy.”

The friend, who seemed to have finished eating, patted his stomach with satisfaction.

He said it as if he was stating an obvious fact, and a chuckle escaped.

“I guess so.”

Still, he must have lived well since he still has a friend who genuinely supports him for fangirling over male idols and helps him with ticketing after entering university.

This is also thanks to those *hyung*s.

Good heavens, they saved a person. The *hyung*s probably don’t know.

* * *

‘You must have really hated doing your homework.’

Reading the letter with the unique oil paint scent of oil painting, I searched my mind.

In-ho, right. The person I briefly met at the cafe, the person presumed to have drawn the fan art that Lee Hyun-jae often showed me.

Memories become blurry and abstract if you don’t actively revisit them.

It feels unsettling that a vivid memory for someone remains as a vague impression in my head. That’s one of the things I realized while living as an idol.

I opened the file where I keep fan art, next to where I keep letters.

Looking at the fan art, I traced the links of memory and recalled the face of a young man I saw at the first fan signing event.

Even the way he awkwardly received the autograph, saying, ‘I’m preparing for college entrance exams while listening to the *hyung*s’ songs.’

Looking at this letter, he says he’s living happily doing homework after going to university, but it seems he really hates doing homework.

I opened the letter and put it in the file to organize it.

Usually, I set aside a day to read all the letters, then go to the studio to compose songs and sort them.

But today is officially a day off, so I could leisurely sort through the previous files as well.

Next letter.

A letter in an old envelope.

When I took it out, there was another letter envelope stapled to it. Unlike the old envelope, the letter envelope seemed to be made of high-quality paper.

I should carefully take out the staple pins so that the paper doesn’t tear.

“Dong-hwa, I’m out of files, can you lend me one?”

Chae Ha-min, who was also reading a letter next to me, spoke.

Without a word, I handed him a file. He bowed his head as if he was grateful and accepted the file with both hands.

“Ah, how can this be. It’s full of pretty words.”

“I know.”

Every time I see handwriting that is clearly pressed down, I can sense the affection contained in that stroke.

“If we look back on this in about twenty years, we’ll think we lived well!”

With the sound of Chae Ha-min jumping on the bed as background music, I carefully removed the staple pins.

I was curious as to why the old envelope and the high-quality envelope were tied together. First, the old envelope.

As soon as I took out the letter and read the first sentence, I was taken aback.

‘Hello, teacher.’

…Teacher, what is this? Have I ever worked in the education industry? If I had to pick one, there was a record of me working at a welfare center for a few days.

Before reading the next content, what stands out is the handwriting.

I’ve seen it somewhere. The letters scribbled crookedly on the sheet music were worse than this letter, but there were similar parts here and there.

I lowered my gaze. There were only two words written on the next line without any other sentences.

‘Piano teacher!’

Oh my god. I straightened my posture, which had been sitting comfortably.

What the heck is this? I clearly gave them my email address, so why this analog.

‘I’m going to a piano academy these days, and it’s fun even if it’s not as good as when I played with you, teacher.’

However, as if not intending to answer such questions, Bong-ju chirped cutely.

‘I’m preparing to enter a competition with the academy teacher.’

In a letter written by someone who has thought a lot, you can see the things that are omitted between sentences.

‘You’re busy, so you probably can’t come to see me, but I really wanted to tell you that I’m still playing the piano like this.’

What can be seen between the sentences was anxiety.

What if the letter he is writing with so much thought is a memory that only he remembers? What if he is disappointed then?

Ah, Bong-ju, he hated the characteristics of email.

Email, which must arrive, arrive quickly, and even confirm whether it has been read or not.

‘I still watch the reruns sometimes. Because it was the moment when I liked the piano the most. Thank you for making me love something. I also watch your broadcasts, teacher. I haven’t been able to watch them recently because I’m preparing for the competition.’

Bong-ju is still the same. A child who has a hard time saying what he wants.

‘P.S.) And I sent the competition invitation as proof.’

Hmm, can I go?

The date will give me the answer. I’m on vacation for a while after the concert, but I’m going abroad right after it ends.

Even if I can go, should I go? What if I cause trouble?

The competition is a place where children should shine, but what if someone recognizes me… It might be an overestimation of myself, but I have no choice but to consider all the possibilities…….

All sorts of thoughts swirled in my head.

However, unlike my head, my hands were calmly opening the competition invitation.

I quickly took out the paper. The front was just words decorated with rhetoric, so I quickly unfolded the back.

‘…Tomorrow.’

Oh my god. Bong-ju probably didn’t know that letters are delivered all at once. If I had started reading the letter even a day later, I wouldn’t have even been able to think about it.

Let’s use my head.

“What’s wrong, Dong-hwa?”

“…Ha-min.”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t hang out with you tomorrow.”

“…Huh?”

Like a bolt from the blue. Chae Ha-min’s mouth slowly opened.

* * *

Here, there is a boy.

The slightly old children’s suit proves that there was no money to buy a new one because the lesson fees alone were tight, and the awkwardly styled hair proves that the boy’s father did his best with clumsy skill.

His palms are thicker and his fingers are longer than other children.

The former is a muscle trained through practice, and the latter is a gene that seems to tell him to play the piano.

The boy closed his eyes. There’s no reason to be disappointed. Too many variables were mixed in the letter. In the first place, there’s no reason for such a busy person to remember him.

“Bong-ju, are you nervous?”

The father’s face, though tired from work, had a gentle look. He looked proud of his son who came to the competition.

“No. I’m okay.”

As he said to the academy teacher who said it was his turn soon, Bong-ju said the same to his father.

Because he hadn’t forgotten the sound of the first key he played.

Even though it wasn’t a very good piano, he clearly remembered the solid octave.

“Bong-ju, let’s go. Just do as you practiced.”

This time, the academy teacher.

“Yes.”

His steps were confident for a timid child. The steps towards the piano cannot be discouraged.

Bong-ju didn’t have much thought of wanting to win the competition. It’s enough if he can play the piano longer and better.

Finally, Bong-ju arrived in front of the piano. A spotlight was shining under the darkness.

He bowed, sat in front of the piano, and took a breath.

Delicate hands were placed on the keyboard, and after a moment of silence.

Fast-moving hands and intense tones that spread out as if bursting forth. The left hand moved busily, excellently performing chord leaps.

Liszt’s ‘Tarantella’ echoing in the hall.

It was a song that Bong-ju decided he wanted to play as soon as he heard it, and the teacher’s naive belief that ‘with your talent, you might be able to play it……’ confirmed it.

And Ji Dong-hwa, who knew classical music to some extent thanks to his mother, quietly covered his mouth with his snapback pulled down low.

‘…When did I ever teach him something like that.’