Kang Ji-hoon learned how to smile before he learned how to cry.
His smile appeared the moment the camera light came on, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough, his eyes reflecting the warmth the person across from him wanted to see. It was so perfect that no one noticed how, the instant the director called cut, Ji-hoon was usually the first to turn away.
“Ji-hoon, hold that pose! Perfect!”
The photographer’s voice carried across the soundstage. Dozens of white lights poured down, hot enough to make the makeup on his face start to tighten. Ji-hoon tilted his chin, revealing the jawline the magazine wanted on its cover. Outside the frame, his assistant kept flipping through the schedule.
Nineteen minutes for the photo shoot. Twelve minutes to change clothes. Seven minutes for the interview. After that, a meeting with Aurora about his debut album.
Album.
The word sounded more like a product than a dream.
“Smile a little more, please.”
Ji-hoon obeyed. He smiled.
The flash burst like lightning trapped inside a sealed room. For a moment, he saw himself on the monitor: a beautiful, famous young man surrounded by fans and valuable contracts. Someone who seemed to lack nothing.
Except the eyes on the screen weren’t smiling at all.
“All right!”
When the cameras stopped, Ji-hoon immediately let his shoulders drop. His smile vanished so quickly that even the assistant standing nearby failed to notice.
“You have twenty minutes before the meeting.”
“Can I be alone?”
“But Manager Kang said—”
“Just twenty minutes.”
He said it gently, but it was enough to silence her. Ji-hoon lowered his head in thanks, then left the soundstage through the back hallway. There were no flashes there, no fans, and no one calling his name in an excited voice as if they had known him for years.
The fire escape stairwell door closed behind him.
The space immediately darkened.
Ji-hoon sat on the cold step and removed the heavy earring from his ear. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.
A message from an unsaved number.
“Don’t forget that tomorrow is your mother’s death anniversary.”
Just one short sentence.
Ji-hoon stared at it for a long time.
His mother died when he was twelve. Many years had passed, but whenever that day drew near, every sound in the city seemed to grow distant. He still remembered the small kitchen that smelled of seaweed soup, his mother’s hand resting on his forehead before bed, and her promise that she would wake him the next morning.
She never got the chance.
The adults said it had been an unexpected accident. His guardian said he should be grateful he still had somewhere to live. The agency said the story could become part of a touching public image if it was told at the right time.
No one asked Ji-hoon whether he wanted to tell it.
He turned off his phone screen.
In the darkness, the sound of his own laughter from earlier suddenly felt unfamiliar.
The stairwell door opened again.
“Sorry.”
A man’s voice rang out. Low and calm, without the hurried edge of someone racing from one schedule item to the next.
Ji-hoon opened his eyes.
The man stood in the doorway, holding it open with one hand. He wore a simple black shirt and carried a thick stack of sheet music. His hair was slightly tousled, as if the wind from the hallway had just blown through it. The light behind him left half his face in shadow.
“Is this Studio B?”
“No,” Ji-hoon replied. “Studio B is downstairs.”
“Thanks.”
The man nodded and started to close the door.
Ji-hoon didn’t know why he called out to stop him.
“Who are you?”
The man looked at him. There was none of the usual surprise that came with recognizing a famous face, nor the probing look people in the industry always gave him.
“Han Yoo-jin.”
“The new producer for my album?”
“Looks that way.”
The offhand answer made Ji-hoon let out a soft laugh. This time it wasn’t a smile for the camera, but Yoo-jin didn’t seem to pay attention to it either.
“You don’t know who I am?”
“I do.”
“And you still say ‘looks that way’?”
“I haven’t heard you sing.” Yoo-jin glanced at the sheet music in his hand. “Until I do, I can’t be sure whose producer I am.”
Ji-hoon fell silent.
It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like that.
Most people knew him through numbers: views, contract values, chart rankings, follower counts. But the man in front of him only wanted to hear his voice before deciding whether he wanted to work with him.
“Be in the recording studio at eight tomorrow,” Yoo-jin said. “Don’t be late.”
“Do you always talk to your artists like that?”
“No. With artists who are often late, I’m harsher.”
This time, Ji-hoon really laughed.
Yoo-jin looked at him for another second, then turned away. The door was about to close when Ji-hoon suddenly asked:
“Do you have a song about someone who can’t sleep?”
Yoo-jin’s hand stopped on the doorknob.
“I do.”
“Can I hear it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
Yoo-jin didn’t look back.
“Because you need to sleep tonight.”
The door closed.
Ji-hoon sat alone in the stairwell, listening as the man’s footsteps faded away. Outside, the soundstage was still blazing with light, the people at the agency were still calling his name, and tomorrow was still his mother’s death anniversary.
But for the first time in years, amid a day packed tightly with appointments, Ji-hoon had something to look forward to.
A composition about someone who couldn’t sleep.