Yumi's boss, now her former boss, grinned as he handed his phone to a nearby employee. "Not before my picture with you," he said cheerfully, posing beside Bernard as though nothing had happened. The rest of the restaurant was still buzzing with excitement, but Yumi had already made her exit, leaving behind her nametag and whatever dignity she had left.
Yumi ran down the street, her feet pounding against the pavement as she put as much distance as she could between herself and the restaurant. The evening air was thick and humid, making it harder to breathe as she sprinted away from the chaos. Finally, after several blocks, she found a quiet spot in a nearby park. The trees rustled gently in the breeze, the sounds of the city a distant hum.
She collapsed to her knees on the ground, tears stinging her eyes as she clenched her fists. Without thinking, she began punching the rock-hard ground beneath her, over and over. The pain shot through her knuckles, but she didn't stop. She punched harder, her anger and frustration pouring out with every blow. It wasn't until she had punched the ground nearly fifteen times that the pain became too much to ignore. Her fists throbbed, the skin raw and reddened. She finally stopped, gasping for breath as she stared down at her shaking hands.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
She looked around the empty park, the peacefulness of the surroundings mocking her. Everything felt so… pointless. Her life, her career, her dreams—they had all crumbled so easily, and she couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment it had happened. She had gone from being an idol, adored by fans, to a fast-food worker, ignored by everyone. And for what?
"I never asked for all that much in the first place…" Yumi muttered, her voice thick with emotion. "And yet… and yet…"
Her words trailed off, and she found herself sinking deeper into her own thoughts. She didn't know why she felt so lost, so disconnected from everything. It wasn't like she had ever had a perfect life, but she had always believed that if she worked hard enough, if she pushed herself far enough, things would eventually fall into place. But they hadn't. They had fallen apart.
As Yumi sat there, nursing her bruised hands, her mind began to drift back to a different time, a time long before all of this—before her idol days, before the fame and the disappointment. A time when she was just a little girl in South Korea, full of hope and promise.
She was five years old, sitting on the floor of her family's small apartment in Seoul. The warm light of the setting sun streamed through the window, casting a soft glow over the room. Yumi was a small, delicate girl with dark, straight hair that reached just past her shoulders. Her natural hair color was a deep, rich black, the kind that shimmered in the light with a healthy sheen. Her round face was framed by soft, wispy bangs that often fell into her wide, curious eyes—a dark brown so deep they almost seemed black.
She was dressed in a simple outfit, a light pink sweater with a cute bear embroidered on the front, paired with a matching pink skirt that fell just above her knees. Her socks were white with little ruffles at the top, and she wore small, Velcro shoes in a faded pastel blue that were easy for her to take on and off by herself.
Yumi's mother was sitting beside her, Yumi's mother had short, layered hair that framed her face in soft, natural waves. Her hair, a deep chestnut color with a few strands of gray starting to show, was neatly maintained, she wore a loose blouse paired with comfortable slacks. A thick book open on her lap as she helped Yumi with her reading.
"Try again, Yumi," her mother said patiently, pointing to a word on the page. "What does this say?"
Yumi furrowed her brow in concentration, carefully sounding out the unfamiliar word. "Ga… gang... gangjung," she said slowly, looking up at her mother for approval.
Her mother smiled and nodded. "Good. That's right. Gangjung. It's a kind of traditional Korean sweet. You'll like it when you try it."
Yumi beamed at the praise, her small heart swelling with pride. She loved learning new things, and her mother was always patient with her, guiding her through the more complex words and ideas. Even at such a young age, Yumi could sense how much her mother wanted her to succeed. She could feel it in the way her mother sat with her for hours, going over lessons, reading, teaching.
Every few weeks, her father would come home with a new food for Yumi to try—something he had discovered while working. He always seemed intrigued to see her reaction, eager to share a part of the world with her through flavors and tastes. Yumi loved those moments, the way her father's attention was captured when she said she liked something.
One evening, when her father had come home, Yumi's father stood tall, with broad shoulders and slightly weathered skin from years of working outdoors. His hair was black, and cut short. He often wore button-up shirts, usually plaid, tucked into his trousers, with a leather belt to complete the look, and he had brought her a box of hotteok—sweet, filled pancakes—he placed one on a plate for Yumi. "Try it, Yumi-ya," he said. "Tell me if you like it."
Yumi took a bite, her eyes widening at the sweetness. "I love it!" she exclaimed, her mouth still full.
Her father, patted her head. "I'll bring more next time."
But despite these moments of warmth, Yumi's parents were serious people—especially about her education. From a young age, Yumi had been taught that studying was the most important thing she could do. They always told her that education was the key to success, the way to a better life. And so, after she started elementary school, her routine was set.
Every day, when she came home from school, her parents would remind her to study. As soon as she stepped through the door, her mother would say, "You should go study." If she was in her room before they had a chance to say anything, her father would knock on the door and ask, "Are you studying in there?" And if she wasn't, she knew the next question would be, "Why aren't you studying yet?"
At first, it had been annoying, the constant reminders, the pressure to always be focused on her studies. There were days when Yumi didn't want to study, when she wanted to play or relax like other kids. But her parents never wavered. The expectations were always the same. Study hard. Do your best. Succeed.
And over time, Yumi had come to understand why. Her parents weren't just pushing her because they were strict—they were pushing her because they wanted her to have opportunities they hadn't had. They wanted her to excel in a way that would make her life easier, more successful.
By the time Yumi was in her first year of high school, she had developed a deep appreciation for what her parents had done for her. She knew that their constant reminders, their insistence on her studying, had kept her on a good path. She had seen classmates who didn't have that kind of structure at home, and many of them struggled in school. Yumi had come to realize that her parents had been doing what they thought was best for her, even if it had felt overwhelming at times.
One night, during her first year of high school, Yumi decided to express her gratitude. It wasn't something she had done often—her family wasn't one for emotional displays. But that evening, after a long day of studying, she felt the urge to say something, to let her mother know how much she appreciated everything.
She found her mother in the kitchen, washing dishes after dinner. She wore a light blue blouse with rolled-up sleeves, a worn but clean apron tied around her waist. Her face was free of makeup, her features sharp yet softened by age. Yumi stood in the doorway for a moment, gathering her courage, before finally speaking.
"Mom?" she said softly.
Her mother glanced over her shoulder, her hands still submerged in soapy water. "Yes, Yumi?"
Yumi took a deep breath. "I… I just wanted to say that I love you. And I'm grateful for everything you've done to raise me."
Her mother turned back to the sink, continuing to wash the dishes in silence. For a moment, Yumi waited, expecting some kind of response—a smile, a nod, maybe even a quiet "I love you too." But there was nothing. No acknowledgment. No reciprocation.
Yumi's heart sank as her mother dried her hands, turned off the tap, and without a word, walked past her on the way to bed. Yumi stood there in the empty kitchen, staring after her mother, feeling a cold emptiness settle in her chest.
It wasn't that her parents hated her. She knew that much. They had always provided for her, always made sure she had what she needed. But that moment—when her words had been met with silence—made Yumi wonder if they saw her as more of a chore than a child. Someone to be raised, to be pushed toward success, but not necessarily to be loved in the way she had hoped.
Yumi stood frozen in the kitchen after that night with her mother. She had spent years trying to be the perfect daughter—studying hard, following every rule, and excelling in school. And yet, it seemed like none of it mattered. Her parents provided for her, ensured she had a roof over her head and food on the table, but that was it. The love she craved—the affection, the validation—remained elusive. That moment with her mother confirmed a deep fear she had carried for years: she was nothing more than a responsibility, a task to be completed.
After that night, something inside Yumi shifted. She began to seek validation elsewhere. If she couldn't find love and attention at home, maybe she could find it at school. She began acting out—not in a way that affected her grades, but in small, desperate attempts to win over her classmates. She tried to become the class clown, making jokes during lessons and pulling lighthearted pranks, hoping her antics would make her more likable.
At first, she thought it was working. Students laughed at her jokes and smiled when she pulled off a particularly silly prank. For a few brief moments, Yumi felt like she belonged. But after a few months, the cracks started to show. One day, as Yumi was goofing around during break, one of her classmates—a girl who sat near the front of the class—approached her.
"Hey, Yumi," the girl said, her tone was serious. Yumi turned to her, hopeful that maybe this was the start of a friendship.
"What's up?" Yumi asked with a grin, trying to keep the mood light.
The girl hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully. "You know… no one's really laughing with you, right? They're laughing at you."
Yumi blinked, her smile faltering. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not trying to be mean," the girl quickly added. "I just… I thought you should know. You're trying so hard to be funny, but people aren't laughing because they like you. They're laughing because they think you're… well… kind of a joke."
Yumi's heart sank, but she tried to play it off with a nervous laugh. "Oh, come on. It's all in good fun, right? They're just… they're just playing along."
The girl shook her head, her expression softening. "I don't think so, Yumi. They're not being your friends. They're just… entertained by you."
For a moment, Yumi thought maybe this girl was different—maybe she actually cared about her. Maybe she could be the friend Yumi so desperately wanted. "Do you… do you want to hang out sometime?" Yumi asked, her voice filled with tentative hope.
The girl looked down, shifting awkwardly. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "But… I'd rather not be seen with someone who has embarrassed themselves so much at school. It might ruin my reputation."
With that, the girl walked away, leaving Yumi standing alone in the hallway. Her shoulders slumped, and the laughter of the other students suddenly felt much louder, much crueler. The girl's words rang in her mind, and Yumi realized with a sickening clarity that she had been fooling herself. The love and acceptance she had been chasing had never been real. She had only been the punchline to a joke she didn't even realize she was a part of.
Yumi carried that weight with her for years. Even when she decided to study abroad for college, moving to Singapore in search of a fresh start, that feeling of being unworthy, of being a joke, never quite left her. It lingered in the back of her mind, a constant reminder that maybe she wasn't enough.
It was during her first year at a university in Singapore that she met Haruka, a Japanese student who had also come to Singapore to study. Haruka was shy, and yet had more natural charisma than Yumi that seemed to draw people in despite not being too fond of attention being on her. Yumi was immediately drawn to her too. She also met another student who stood out—a tall, blonde girl from the UK named Emily. The three of them were assigned to the same dorm room, and though they didn't talk much at first, they exchanged pleasantries whenever they passed each other.
Over time, the brief exchanges turned into longer conversations. They found themselves talking more and more, bonding over shared interests and experiences. Haruka loved music, especially pop idols, and would often play her favorite songs in their dorm with headphones on. Emily, though quieter than Haruka, had a love for performance and a passion for singing. Yumi found herself enjoying their company, feeling a sense of camaraderie she hadn't experienced in a long time.
One night, after their first year at the university, the three of them were lounging in their dorm room, chatting about their favorite songs. Haruka's eyes lit up as she talked about her dream of becoming a pop idol.
"Hey, what if we started our own idol group?" Haruka suggested suddenly, her excitement palpable. "The three of us could do it! We've all got the passion for music, and I know we could make it work."
Yumi felt a spark of hope ignite in her chest. The idea of becoming an idol was intriguing—idols were adored by fans, showered with love and attention. For someone like Yumi, who had always felt like she was on the outside looking in, the thought of being loved by many was intoxicating.
"Yeah," Yumi said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. "That sounds amazing. I've always admired idols… If we could make it work, it'd be incredible."
Emily nodded in agreement, her soft-spoken nature hiding a deep passion for performing. "It would be a lot of hard work, but… I think we could really do something special."
The three of them began to plan, determined to build an audience in Singapore before expanding further. They practiced together every day, rehearsing their songs and choreography, honing their skills. Eventually, they found a manager who believed in their vision, and before they knew it, they were performing their first concert as a group.
The response was overwhelming. Fans lined up to see them, chanting their names and cheering for every performance. Yumi, who had always felt so invisible, suddenly found herself in the spotlight. For the first time in her life, she felt like she mattered. She felt loved. Every time a fan called out her name, every time she saw the adoration in their eyes, it filled a void in her heart that had been empty for so long.
But then, everything changed. The night Bernard crashed their concert, the group's momentum came to a screeching halt. What had been their big moment—their chance to shine—was overshadowed by chaos. Their group, once filled with promise, disbanded shortly after. Yumi's dreams of idol stardom crumbled before her eyes.
After the group disbanded, Yumi realized just how fleeting that love had been. The fans who had once chanted her name turned on her, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared. The adoration she had felt was conditional—it only existed as long as she was on stage, playing the role of the idol. Once that role was gone, so was the love. She had been replaced, just another cog in the entertainment machine, easily discarded for the next big thing.
The only one of the three idols to maintain any semblance of fame after their group disbanded was Haruka. Yumi had seen her on the news, announcing plans to sue Bernard for slander, blaming him for the collapse of her career. Haruka had managed to hold onto her fans, even after everything that had happened. But Yumi couldn't help but wonder why she hadn't been able to do the same. Why had the love that Haruka received persisted, while Yumi's had vanished into thin air?
That thought haunted her. If Haruka could keep her fans, why couldn't Yumi? What was wrong with her? Why wasn't she worth loving?
Those doubts gnawed at her, feeding the insecurity that had been festering inside her for years. Maybe she was the problem. Maybe she wasn't someone worth loving, no matter how hard she tried. And the bond she thought she had shared with Haruka and Emily—had that even been real? Or had it all been in her head, just another desperate attempt to find love where none existed?
Back in the present, Yumi stared down at her bruised hands, tears streaming down her face. Her body trembled as she whispered into the darkness, "And yet… my only wish still never came true."
Her voice cracked as the weight of everything crashed down on her. "It's not fair at all," she choked out, her sobs becoming louder. "All I ever asked for in life was to be genuinely loved for who I am… in some capacity."
Her chest tightened, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. "What's wrong with me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible as she sobbed uncontrollably. She buried her face in her hands, her cries echoing in the empty park.