Jiyong was YG's golden child. He was everything that I wasn't.

     It was so overly apparent. Before I even knew his face, I had already heard the rumors. Hell, everyone was better than me. I was no comparison and it hurt. I had a constantly open wound, exposed to the polluted air, lacking oxygen. I ran, I sprinted, I climbed. There would always be a boundary between me and my hyungs.

     Limits, impossibilities, responsibilities, boundaries, lies. I was growing up, trying to make something of myself. Dad was a drunkard and a smoker for awhile and we were in debt. Mom worked in some vague, small shop somewhere that I was too embarrassed to visit or even acknowledge. Hanna was doing what all little sisters do and was getting on my nerves. I was mad and frustrated with myself and the world, just a teenager who probably would have rebelled if it weren't for dancing and entertaining.

     I became a YG trainee somehow after making a fool of myself countless times. I couldn't yet control my emotions, my way of speech, or even my very own limbs at times.

     Everything became a challenge. Burdens, stress. Mistakes, failures. A bitter stench of Dad's stale cigarettes and my own sweat. A blurry vision of nothing graspable, just a field of black as if my eyes were closed. And, of course, countless voices, hip hop tunes on repeat with its deafeningly heavy bass, and grunts of disapproval.

     I wouldn't say Jiyong was my savior. Our first meeting was rather uneventful, in fact. No butterflies and sunshine and rainbows, no miraculous heart-to-heart.

     He was just there, YG's golden child. And I was nothing.