Page 142 of First Watch

The producer asked carefully, “Do you want that in the final cut?”

I looked at Griffin. He didn’t nod or rescue me.

He simply held my gaze, steady, like he always did when he refused to treat me like I was fragile.

“Yes,” I said, “I do.”

There was fallout. Some fans left. Loudly. Some sponsors hesitated, suddenly “reviewing brand alignment.”

Comment sections turned feral in places. There were days my stomach stayed tight from morning to night because I was bracing for the next hit.

And then, quietly and steadily, something else happened.

Letters showed up. Handwritten ones. Messages translated into ten languages by fans who wanted to make sure I understood.

I thought I was the only one.

Thank you for saying it out loud.

My brother watches you. He’s twelve. He cried.

I didn’t know I could be brave until you were.

At a show in Bangkok, I stood at the edge of the stage during the encore and looked out into a sea of faces. Light sticks. Phones. Tears. Smiles. A sign held up in Korean that read, in careful block letters:

YOON-JAE, STAY.

My throat closed, and I could barely breathe.

After the documentary aired, our numbers didn’t collapse. We lost some people who wanted a version of me that was never real, but we gained others who admired my truth. Our fan base expanded.

One night, after a show in Singapore, I sat on the floor of my dressing room with my back against the couch, still in sweat-damp stage clothes, and I laughed with Taemin. Not because anything in particular was funny. I did it because, finally, joy was bigger than fear.

Jinwoo crouched in front of me, studying my face. "Do you feel lighter?" he asked.

I swallowed hard. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

“Good,” he said. “Let's keep going.”

Back in the hotel room, Griffin finished his coffee and set the mug down with quiet care. He looked at me.

“You’re thinking again,” he said.

“I always think.”

“Not like this. You’re not spiraling. You’re building.”

I exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t know I could,” I admitted.

He scooted closer to me and offered his hand. I took it.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure. The contact grounded me the way it always did—tactile and real.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. The words weren’t dramatic or poetic. They were honest.

I looked down at our hands. “Do you ever think about how impossible this would’ve seemed?” I asked.

His thumb moved across my knuckles.

“Yes,” he said. “And then I stop.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re here.”

***