The Longest Week Without Her

The fan meeting was supposed to be electric. Loud cheers, flashing lights, hearts drawn on signs, screams that vibrated against the glass of the convention hall.

But all I heard was silence.

Not literal silence—just the kind that swallows everything from the inside out.

We were seated on a tall stage, each with our mic, smiles rehearsed, hearts somewhere else. Well—mine, at least, was 1,100 kilometers away in Shanghai.

And every time a fan asked, “Soo Yeon, are you okay?” with concern hidden beneath makeup and fan service, I smiled.

“I’m just tired,” I’d say.

But it wasn’t just tired.

It was hollow.

Like waiting at a door that wouldn’t open.

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Backstage was worse.

I sat alone with a water bottle I didn’t drink from, hands restless, leg bouncing.

Jemmy walked by, nudged my shoulder.

“You’re quieter than usual. That’s saying something,” he said.

“Yeah,” I muttered, staring at the floor.