The blue glow of Kim Chong-kook's laptop lit up his dark room like a ghost. The only sound was the faint hum of the fan spinning overhead and his own shallow breathing.
The Suneung result portal blinked back at him, waiting.
He hesitated.
Four years. Four winters of waking before the sun, of falling asleep with a pen in hand, of measuring his worth by a number. This was the moment that would define him—again.
His fingers trembled as he typed in his student number.
Click.
He entered his birthdate.
Click.
He stared at the screen.
Loading...
Loading...
Then, like a knife, the result slashed across the screen.
Grade: 4
His heart stopped. Everything inside him turned cold.
Not again.
Not again.
He couldn't even blink. He just sat there, frozen, as the weight of failure crashed into him like a wave. The laptop screen blurred through tears he didn't know were falling.
It was over.
Four years gone. Four years of sacrifice, of forcing himself into someone else's dream, of pushing his body past exhaustion—all shattered in one cold line of text.
He slammed the laptop shut.
Silence returned. Except now, it screamed.
Kim clutched his face, breath shaking. The sob rose up before he could stop it. It ripped from his chest like it had been waiting for years.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. But no one was there to hear it.
Not his mother, who had collapsed from heart disease when he was thirteen and could no longer work.
Not his older brother, who dropped out of school that same year to take up backbreaking jobs just to put food on the table.
Not the version of himself that used to sing into a hairbrush, dreaming of lights and music and freedom.
He buried that boy a long time ago.
Because dreams didn't feed families.
He was only thirteen when his mother fell. One moment she was standing, calling him in for dinner, and the next she was clutching her chest, gasping for air. He remembered the hospital. The silence. The bills.
His brother didn't cry. He just walked into his school the next morning, handed in a form, and never returned. Instead, he started working. Construction. Night deliveries. Anything that paid.
"You study," he told Kim. "You get out of this life."
So Kim did. He studied like it was survival. He erased the boy who danced in secret, who sang to himself when no one was home. He locked away the voice inside him that once wanted to be heard.
But some dreams… don't die. They wait.
They waited in the mirror where he once practiced idol choreo with sore legs.
They waited in the grainy videos he recorded late at night, playing them back with headphones on so no one could hear.
They even waited in the angry banging on the wall from the granny next door.
"Yah! It's not a concert!"
He used to smile at that. Because at least someone was listening.
But not anymore.
Now, he sat in that same room, broken. Empty.
Then—a knock.
Soft. Hesitant.
His brother.
He walked in slowly, his uniform stained with sweat and paint. He glanced at the closed laptop, then at Kim's tear-streaked face. He said nothing. Just stepped forward and pulled Kim into his arms.
And Kim broke.
He cried like a child. Like the boy he never got to be. His brother held him through it all, silent, steady.
After a long moment, he pulled back and looked at Kim carefully.
"Tell me," he said gently. "Are you doing this for us… or for yourself?"
Kim blinked.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Years of silence caught in his throat.
Finally, his voice came—shaky, raw.
"I want to be an idol."
His brother didn't react.
"I want to dance," Kim continued, voice trembling. "I want to sing. I've wanted it since I was a kid. I practiced in secret. I recorded myself when no one was home. The neighbors complained, but I didn't care. I wanted it so bad, but…"
He lowered his gaze.
"I didn't want to disappoint you. Or Mom."
Seokjin let out a long, tired sigh.
And smiled.
A small, quiet, heartbreaking smile.
"You've been chasing a dream that doesn't belong to you," he said. "You never let yourself live. You only survived."
He placed a hand on Kim's shoulder—firm, reassuring.
"Maybe it's time you stop surviving, and start living."
A Conversation at Midnight
The house was quiet, save for the ticking clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Kim sat cross-legged on the floor of their shared room, his knees drawn to his chest. Seokjin sat across from him, nursing a cup of instant coffee, steam curling into the still air.
They hadn't spoken for a while after that breakdown. Words had hung between them, too fragile to touch.
But now, under the soft hum of the night, they began to unravel the silence.
Seokjin took a slow sip, his eyes thoughtful. "You know," he began, "I once wanted to be a writer."
Kim looked up, surprised. "You never told me that."
"I didn't have time," Seokjin said with a sad smile. "After Mom got sick, and money got tight... I put those dreams in a box and locked them away. I figured it was better to be useful than hopeful."
Kim stayed silent. That hit too close.
"I used to write poems on delivery receipts," Seokjin chuckled softly. "But I stopped. Got tired. Reality has a way of eating your dreams alive, you know?"
Kim nodded. "I do know."
His voice was barely a whisper. "Every time I failed the exam, it wasn't just about me. I felt like I was throwing away everything you and Mom gave up. That guilt... it suffocated me."
Seokjin leaned forward. "But you weren't living for yourself."
"I was afraid," Kim confessed. "Afraid you'd hate me for wasting your effort. That Mom would be disappointed if I told her I wanted to sing instead of wear a white coat."
Seokjin shook his head. "You think all we want is for you to be a doctor?" He leaned back, sighing. "I just wanted you to be happy. And safe."
Kim stared at the ground. "What if I try and fail again? Not just exams... but auditions, performances. What if I'm not good enough to make it?"
Seokjin gave him a long, firm look. "Then fail. But fail for your dream, not someone else's."
That made Kim's throat tighten.
The clock struck midnight. The room felt heavier... yet lighter too. Like a burden had been shared.
"You're scared, yeah," Seokjin said, setting his cup down. "But you've been brave for years. Studying something you hated, burying your real self. That takes courage too."
Kim smiled faintly. "You really think I have a chance?"
"I think," Seokjin said, "if you don't try, that voice inside you will never shut up."
They both laughed softly. It was the first time in weeks the laughter didn't feel forced.
Seokjin stood and ruffled Kim's hair, like he did when they were kids. "Tomorrow, start small. Record something. Research audition places. And keep training."
Kim's heart was still afraid.
But something inside him stirred—something warm and bright.
Hope.
For the first time in a long while, he felt like he had permission to dream out loud.