Today, my mom died. In the span of a two-minute phone call, her life is gone, and my world shatters. I'm left alone, half-way across the world from my hometown in South Korea, with thousands of miles of ocean and obligations between us.

Suddenly, the pristine streets of London no longer hold my interest. The Thames is a muddy patch of misery, it's banks overflowing with thousands of tears.

All I want is home and the comfort of her arms around me. The familiar comforts of home: the sugar-sweet scent of her perfume, the spicy rice cakes she'd make whenever our days went poorly, even the sound of her reprimanding my siblings and me, are now forever missing from my life. I miss the way her brow crinkled when she was upset and smoothed out with her smile.

I no longer have a comforting place to hide whenever my tears are heavy.

My mom had been walking my dog, a short little thing called Bada, when she'd slipped, hitting her head before disappearing beneath the Yeongsan River. She'd drowned before anyone could save her.

And I, her only son, had been on a stage living a perfect dream, my band members bright stars beside me. We're on a world tour, celebrating our music with the thousands of fans who've brought us fame. This tour is a highlight of my career, but no longer of my life.

My family tried to call me, but it'd only went to voicemail. I'd made a habit of leaving my phone backstage, silenced, so it didn't distract anyone. Because of this, the staff hadn't seen it ring. There was no warning when I called back, only an unusual amount of calls when they knew I'd be busy.

Now, I walk the rainy streets of London, occasionally stopping to stare at the boy reflected back at me. Those dark eyes are haggard, drooping with every drop of rain; tears still well from them, dropping to the wet pavement below. My lips hold no smile, frowning at every passerby, wishing to express my despair with every downturn. I want to scream about the injustice my family's been dealt, but no words leave my mouth.

I kick a puddle, scattering my reflection. Waves ripple, doubling back on themselves whenever they hit an edge.

It's painful to look at my face, knowing the woman who created, nurtured, and cared for it is gone like a drop in this rippling puddle. This grief collects just like that rain, steadily growing larger. It's all-consuming, and I'm afraid I'll never find my way to the surface again.

However, I know I must. The world continues, and people rely on me and my music to make their lives more bearable. Who will sing their hopeful anthems if I can't even muster a smile?

As I move from puddle to puddle, my umbrella a dark shape above me, I try to drag my mood out from the depths it's fallen into. I have four more shows before I return home, with thousands of eyes watching my every move. I must find a semblance of the joyful exterior I always present onstage, or people will worry.

Too many questions can ripple across a peaceful image, tearing into my reputation. A soiled reputation is the last thing I need right now. My career is finally steady. I can't risk even the smallest issue.

Of course, the bit of me that cares about my stage presence is small and shrinking. I only want to grieve in peace like any other person. I need the comfort of my shattered family at the moment, not the questioning stares of my fans. More than anything, I want my mom.

I stop at a park bench, sitting before sinking my head into my hands. Beside me, my umbrella floats to the ground, letting the rain pour over me. I barely feel it.

In the peace and anonymity of a bustling city park, I let myself cry.

However, even if I remain anonymous to these Londoners, I'm not truly alone. I have security and a manager with me at all times. They let me cry, giving me a small bit of space to mourn. I'll take whatever I can get.

They focus on their job, keeping the cameras at bay while my tears come. I don't care what those flashing films capture.

My shaking shoulders and wet sobs only inquire a few cursory glances in the busy park. I sink into the pain with little care.

The rain falls in soft patters around me, a faint sound that would typically be soothing. Time passes with each small drop

It's only when my manager taps on my shoulder that I realize it's stopped raining. The sun is bright and burning in the sky, just past its highest point.

"We have to go, Mr. Seo. Everyone's waiting for you at rehearsal." His words are soft, his eyes even softer. He doesn't want to pull me from my grief, but I have a job to do, despite any personal tragedies that might befall me.

I send him a small, shaky smile, trying my best to stop the tears that threaten. The soft-eyed manager hands me a handkerchief and holds his umbrella above me. Water pours over him, but he doesn't seem to mind.

He's preoccupied, his mind wandering as his free hand worries a corner of his jacket. He releases it, that hand twitching towards me, hesitating, before returning to the worn fabric.

I stand up, using the handkerchief to wipe away my tears. I take a settling breath in before I face the world; my shoulders square.

Then I pick up my own umbrella, shaking the water from it. Though I'm already soaked, I hold it above me anyway. Pretenses are all I have now.

With him in the lead, we head back towards the rehearsal space. We walk in silence. My eyes are glued to the dirty puddles collecting along the street, unwilling to make even the slightest of conversations.

I've barely had time to comprehend my mom's death, but I know soon, I'll have to push it aside to focus on my job. I don't mind. It's better if I stay occupied, instead of dawdling on what can't be changed.

Just before we part ways, me joining my friends and him joining the staff, the man stops me. His fingers stop worrying the fabric of his coat. It's a crumpled mess now, but he pays it no mind.

He hesitates, his jaw clenching before finally reaching out to hug me. His grip is firm, reassuring.

I don't know who needed it more.

In the seven years we've worked together, though he has always been supportive, he's never hugged me. This first hug is a comfort. I welcome it.

"I'm so sorry, Jisung."

***

As rehearsal draws to an end, everyone's energy is high, despite it nearing the end of our tour. Excitement buzzes through the air, giving everyone a bright-eyed look. Ecstatic murmurs pass between people like high school drama.

Though exhaustion creeps over all of us, no one minds. We are too excited about the set tonight, as it's sure to be a great one.

During practice, I was continually forcing down tears and the urge to be sick. Every motion was a haze of muscle memory. My mind refused to focus on any of my lines or choreographies. I lacked focus. Somehow, I completed the routines successfully.

Now, I lack the enthusiasm to enjoy even a little of the buzz surrounding me. Even a forced smile refuses to grace my lips; they remain downturned in a little triangle.

This night needs to end, though it's hardly begun. My drive is gone. I love interacting and performing for our fans, but when loss descends, everything else washes away into dull grays. I find no joy in the things that normally excite me.

Final prepping is the only thing left before the show, leaving us a little bit of time to ourselves. We typically use this time to grab some food before a performance.

The last thing I want is food.

With little willpower to prepare myself for tonight, I sit on the edge of the stage, my chin settling in my palms. Tears leak over the tips of my fingers as a sob bursts past my lips. I let them fall, uncaring.

My foot anxiously bounces against the floor as if it's trying to calm me. It's the only sound around me as the mumbled chatter of others fade.

I have no desire to go anywhere before this concert, nothing I want to do but cry in peace. In this cavern of empty seats. The arena isn't dark, but I can feel the emptiness surrounding me.

My friends have already left to get dinner, so I think I'm alone to grief. Until someone clears their throat behind me.

"Jisung."

I turn, bringing my feet on to the stage beside me. I make no effort to hide my tears. The staff has seen all of us cry at one point in our six years of employment. The reasons are varied, but the pain is real. No one would judge me for hurting now. Not that I would care if they did, anyway.

Six men stand behind me, all my friends and co-workers. Concern splatters their faces, though they don't express pity. The group is the most serious I've seen them since our debut.

Six years might have passed since then, but the bonds we'd formed had only strengthened over time. We'd spend nearly every day together since then, living in the same dorm and working together. These boys know my moods as well as their own by now.

I should feel comforted that my friends are here, but I only feel worn thin. Exhausted.

I rest my head on my knees, my arms wrapping around my legs. I want to sleep. No condolences will make me feel better, even from my closest friends. I have no willpower to make friendly gestures or be polite.

My friends don't mind.

They settle down on the stage surrounding me, their smiles shy and bashful. One pink-haired boy has a bag with him and begins to pass out little red containers with spoons. In the center of our makeshift circle, he sets several larger containers. Steam rises from them.

He hands one to me, his eyes hopeful and sad at the same time. The corner of his mouth turns up, the bare beginnings of a smile. He says nothing, just nods towards the dish.

The sides of the bowl are warm against my fingers. The lid clicks off easily. Inside is simple, short-grained white rice. Everyone has their own serving, so they can mix in their food as they please.

Someone removes the lids off the larger bowls in the center, revealing a welcome, delicious smell. I lean forward, eager to find out what they brought, my stomach rumbling with hunger.

I'm startled to find that it's homemade bibimbap, a dish of rice, meat, and mixed vegetables. My favorite.

From the way the others stuff food into their mouths, I guess they didn't go eat without me after all. In fact, proud looks grace many of their faces as they eat.

I examine the dish again and realize it's the Tupperware from the hotel kitchen we've stayed in the last few nights.

My eyebrows jerk upward, shocked. We rarely ever cook, even less so when we're on tour. Did they take the time out of our busy schedule to make a meal for a hurting friend?

"Did you make these yourselves?"

My heart aches as I shovel a bit into my mouth. It's delicious.

The pink-haired boy who passed out the food answers with a nod, "Of course. I wanted to do something nice for you, Jisung. Even if it's only food."

"We helped too, Mingo-hyung!" A slim dark-haired boy interjects, an annoyed smile on his face, despite the honorific he pins onto the other boy's name. It's a show of respect, expected, but the way he nudges Mingo tells a different story. He rolls his eyes at the older boy before continuing to eat.

I find myself blushing from their kindness, tears once more finding their way into my eyes. I struggle for words but have nothing to say in return.

Mingo elbows the younger boy, an act of revenge, before gesturing at me. A huff leaves his lips. He stares at the other boy, curly pink hair hanging in his eyes. "Look what you did, Jae! You made him blush. Are you proud of yourself?" His words are snarky, but Jae is quick to retaliate.

"Why yes, yes, I am. We all know Jisung isn't easily embarrassed. I've accomplished something few have done!" A silly pride shines from Jae's slender face, and he even stands up to do a little dance. He winks at me, his spoon still in hand. The boy waves it about like its a great staff and not an eating utensil.

Mingo jumps up to join him, only to thump him across the back of his head. There is a soft thunk, and a grumbled "ouch" from Jae. The smaller boy tries to return the favor, despite Mingo being his senior.

A pale, even younger boy to their right, who is typically reserved, releases a deep, rumbling laugh. "Stop bickering, hyungs. We're here for Jisung-hyung, not your playful arguments."

A pout crosses the two boys' faces. Jae returns to his seat, his food once more in his lap. He picks at it with his spoon, though I don't see him take a bite. Mingo prods him into taking one, though they bicker quietly about it.

It reminds me to continue eating, as well. I pick up a spoonful of rice and meat, shoving it into my mouth.

Our conversations dwindle to nothing.

We continue eating in silence. The quiet munching is the only sound in the large arena. Despite this, I feel at ease, chewing away, grateful that I don't have to talk about my ordeal any longer. I'd rather not surround them with sad things.

Our leader, a broad-shouldered boy with intelligent eyes, is the first to speak up again. His mouth is still full of food, but his words breathe passion. His spoon sticks up from his rice, forgotten as his hands gesture along with his speech.

"Jisung, we know it's hard being here. None of us can imagine your pain." He pauses, struggling with his words. His eyes flicker to his food as he searches for what to say. A finger twirls around his spoon, as graceful as if it is playing the piano.

His dark irises connect back with mine before he continues. "Don't worry about tonight, okay? Be as sad as you want to be. Show the world your tears if you have too. Just don't pretend to be fine." He sighs, his finger still twisting around that spoon. "We'll hold you up when you need to fall, okay?"

My ears burn a bright red. I duck my head, mumbling an "I'm fine" in response. My eyes wander over the other members through my bangs, hoping I'll convince them of my lie. I want to be left alone to wallow in my pain; I don't need their condolences. They don't need to see more of my tears.

The pale boy raises his eyes to mine, his playfulness gone. No smile shines from those dark eyes now. They smolder and burn. "Don't bottle this pain up and hide it. You'll only make it worse, hyung."

When I don't answer, he rises, coming to sit right before me. Though he's built smaller than me, we still meet eye-to-eye. "I know what it's like to conceal pain, to pretend to be fine. It's destruction, and it doesn't make the pain any easier."

He's a few years younger than me, but his words are wiser than my own. His voice rattles around in my head, refusing to leave me alone. He's right, though I don't want to admit it.

There are far too many reasons for me to hide this pain. If I take his advice and don't hide this, then the entire world might as well see my tear-stained face. My serene, utterly optimistic image would shatter, leaving this despairing shell in its place. Never.

My destruction is a side-effect that I'll deal with. All the while, presenting a grateful smile and a sparkly-eyed look.

Jae joins the boy's side, his dark hair grazing his eyebrows as he tilts forward. His thin fingers rest across my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. They shake against me, but not from weakness. "Haneul's right. Don't try to push this aside."

My ears blush hotter, as does my face. They caught onto my lie so quickly. These boys know me too well for me to hide this sort of pain. Any mask I construct, my friends can easily see past. I can't hide my true feelings, no matter how much I conceal the truth.

I sigh, dropping my head into my hands again. My food sits in my lap, half-eaten and cooling. "But what about our fans? They deserve the best of me, not this." I mumble through my fingers, resigned as tears drip down my face, pooling in my palms. It's a half-hearted response, my last effort to get them to leave me alone.

"Who cares if our fans understand? You're human, and you're not always fine. You shouldn't have to pretend otherwise." It's our leader now, joining the two boys already in front of me. His broad shoulders nearly knock over the other two when he jolts into them, as clumsy as ever. None of them pay this any attention, though. They're too focused on me.

We stare at each other for a pause.

I don't know what to say to them. Tears streak my face now, leaving it a sticky mess. They watch me cry as silence descends again. They glance at each other, but none find any words. Dissatisfied, the three men return to their seats.

I hope this conversation is over, but when I glance around the group, Jae stares at me. His gaze is intense. As he watches me, his brows crinkle into a frown.

I raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to say something. My face feels odd and sticky, but my confidence is unshakeable.

My dare has the boy rising from his seat again, a mischievous, almost evil smile curling his lips. He crouches just enough that he can steady himself with a hand on my shoulder. Again.

His free hand comes up to my forehead.

He taps against my head, right between my furrowed brows. Merely tapping. There's not even a rhythm to his madness.

He stops. His index finger lightly rests on my brow, his smile fading. He gives me a curious, sad look, the corner of his lips curving down again.

Jae removes his finger, sitting back on his heels. "Don't worry about them, Jisung. Take care of yourself first, and when you're ready, we'll all be here for you."

He reaches up one last time before he leaves and taps my brow again. "Remember yourself comes first, always."

Jae turns to Mingo when he stands back up, brushing his hair from his face with one hand and checking his phone with the other.

"Look at the time, hyung! We gotta get ready." With a few words of protest, he drags the other boy to his feet. Together, they leave to find the staff and prepare for tonight.

The others mutter amongst themselves as well before disappearing.

I'm left alone with a dish of cold food and an aching heart.

I collect myself, blowing my nose into a spare napkin before leaving the stage.

As I'm searching for the others, I find Hanuel in the corridor, waiting for me. He slips a pale hand into mine, his fingers a comfortable weight around my own. His hand is slightly larger than mine, nearly consuming it.

It's so warm. My own seemed to stay permanently chilled compared to his hands, so our matched heat fits together like two halves.

We walk down the hall in silence. No words are needed between the two of us. He knows my heart as surely as the fingers clutched in mine. That's what being roommates for six years will do.

When we find the others in the changing room, he squeezes my fingers, a silent promise in his dark eyes. Though he let's go, he doesn't drift from my side.

He stays beside me, a silent, resilient shadow as the makeup artist descends on my face. Hanuel keeps checking his phone, probably scrolling through Twitter, but every so often, we'll make eye contact in the mirror.

The makeup artist conceals my tear streaks with clever strokes of the brush. As he works, I feel a semblance of calm descend as I'm put together.

Happiness doesn't return, but I'm not worried when it's time to take the stage. There are thousands of screaming fans who will notice my shift in mood, but none of that matters. I strut across the stage, knowing that I have time to heal, to find my happiness again, and to mourn.

I'll be fine with time.