I think the hardest part wasn't accepting that I'd never meet him.
It was realizing I couldn't even participate properly.
There's a certain type of fan the world notices.
The ones with albums lined up on shelves.
The ones who attend concerts.
The ones who post aesthetic pictures with light sticks and captions like, "Best night of my life."
And then there was me.
Watching everything through a cracked phone screen with low brightness to save battery.
I never owned official merchandise.
Not because I didn't want it.
But because every time I imagined asking for it, I could already hear the questions.
"How much does it cost?"
"For what?"
"Is it necessary?"
And the answer would always be the same.
No.
It wasn't necessary.
Groceries were necessary.
School fees were necessary.
Electricity bills were necessary.
A photocard of Seo Juhan smiling?
Not necessary.
I remember once seeing a limited-edition album online. It looked beautiful. The packaging was clean, elegant. Fans were unboxing it like it was treasure.
I checked the price.
Then I converted it in my head.
Then I imagined my mother holding that same amount of money and deciding whether to buy extra fruits that week.
The thought alone made me close the page.
It wasn't even guilt.
It was understanding.
Some people could afford to love loudly.
I loved quietly.
I didn't stream songs overnight.
Data was limited.
I didn't vote in online polls.
I didn't even know how those worked.
Sometimes I felt like I didn't deserve to call myself a fan.
Like there was a membership fee I hadn't paid.
But at the same time, when I watched a small clip of him smiling softly at the camera, my heart reacted the same way it always did.
Warm.
Calm.
Seen.
Did money decide that feeling?
No.
But the world made it seem like it did.
One day in school, a girl mentioned that her cousin had gone to a concert abroad.
She showed pictures.
The stadium lights. The stage. The crowd.
Everyone gathered around her phone.
I stood slightly behind them.
Looking.
Not touching.
For a second, I imagined myself in that crowd.
Then reality pulled me back gently.
Even if AURORA7 came to my country…
Even if tickets were somehow affordable…
Would I be allowed to go?
Would it be practical?
The answer hovered somewhere between "unlikely" and "impossible."
That's when something uncomfortable settled inside me.
Maybe I wasn't poor.
But I wasn't rich enough to chase dreams that lived on stages.
And that's when the distance between me and Seo Juhan stopped being romantic.
It became financial.
Practical.
Real.
Still, that night, I watched one short clip before sleeping.
Not because I was ignoring reality.
But because even if I couldn't stand in a stadium—
I could still stand in my room.
In the dark.
With my phone lighting up my face.
And for thirty seconds, that felt enough.
Even if I knew it wasn't the same.
Even if I knew it never would be.