Sometimes the sadness has a trigger. Just like a migraine, there is a pop; except instead of my head, it was in my chest. In reality, it is nothing, and just my head playing tricks on me, but that pain that I imagine is so vivid I can scarely breathe. I have been this way for a long time, before being a trainee, before debuting, before everyone watched my every movement. The anxiety disorders never uttered outloud tear apart my head, but now I have to ache in silence. 

I am so busy I can hardly blink between schedules. We are busy, I should say, but the others seem to handle it find. The young ones smile and Yongguk works tirelessly. The vocalists sing and sing until I’m sure my voice would have given out. They dance, they sweat, they bleed for these dreams, and I’m left to wonder, “What did I do?” Truthfully, I don’t know why I am here beside these great men. Even Jongup and Junhong, boys and not quite men, have more drive and talent than I could ever even fake. 

The worst times are when the pop comes on stage. It’ll be something so miniscule, like a slip up from me, or a single disappointed face in the audience. The pop comes and I have to struggle to breathe, let alone spit out my lines. Jongup gravitates to me during those times. I’m not sure if he notices, or if he does it by accident, but he stands beside me and laughs and smiles. He has so much promise, and at these moments—when I desperately need his presence— I hate him. It’s an awful thing, and quickly shifts to hating myself, but I hate him so much when he looks at me like he’s a puppy in a boy’s body.

I can usually struggle through a few minutes and give strained smiles to the babies who so adore me, but after I’m a mess. “I gotta pee,” I always lie, running away  before we have group hugs and congratulate each other. I don’t deserve it like they do. I’m talentless. All I have is a face that looks nice, but beauty is such a fickle and fleeting thing I can’t find any comfort in it. I hide in the bathroom backstage and I try to cry. Sometimes I think, even if I were to get caught in the act, if I could just cry a lot of the problem would dissipate. I look at myself in the mirror, face pale, eyes sunken, but nothing betrays how I’m falling to pieces on the inside.

I want to cry, and there’s an enormous amount of pressure behind my two eyes. In my throat I can feel it creeping up like a slimey and disgusting secret. I wonder if any of them have caught on— Maybe Yongguk, he’s pretty sharp. Still, I’m here alone, choking on feelings I’m not sure how to face, and feelings I don’t understand. I imagine drowning feels a little like this. Except, drowning is probably nicer because at least you black out. I don't have a black out. Instead, I have a smiling group of friends waiting for me to finish the fictious pissing problem I've had since we met. I try and I try and I try to squeeze tears from my all too dry eyes between gasping breathes. It physically hurts all over. It's like sadness is something in my blood stream and my heart is eager to pump to every last crevice of my being. 

The door creeks, and I'm caught. I expect the manager, or Yongguk, or some other rookie who needs to take a leak-- but it's not of them. Instead, Jongup is here, watching me with timid eyes. I turn and I smile, pretending to dry my hands. "We're going out to eat," he says quietly. I shrug it off, wiping my hands on my pants. I'm a liar and an actor of the lowest creed. 

"I'm pretty tired, so I think I'll just head home. You guys go out-- You did well today," I tell him, giving his shoulder a firm pat. I linger there for a moment because he gives me this sad look. I push past the hesitation and continue on my way. He follows after me and I walk a bit more briskly. I can't stand to see him like this. The pang isn't gone, and the aching is seeping from my bones. I need to be alone for a while, but Jongup won't allow it. He trails after me like a lost dog that stupidly follows the lead of any human with food. I don't have anything to offer him and I'm sure he knows that, but he follows me still. 

A clammy hand siezes my wrist and I turn to face him. My chest is heaving, and I notice suddenly that I forgot to breathe. His thick brows are furrowed and I know I'm caught. "You're not okay, hyung," he tells me sternly. The quiet boy who never knows what to say tells me exactly what I've been too scared to admit outloud and my jaw falls open. We're in some obscure hallway of the MNet building without a single person around and there's no where for me to hide. I can't smile my way through this one, and I can't blame it on my bladder. There's a new pop in me, but this time behind my eyes. 

The tears come like a storm, rolling down my cheeks and dying on my lips. I'm so ashamed that I try to turn away but Jongup holds fast. He wraps his strong arms around me and stands on his tip toes to seem a bit taller. He's so dear, so sweet, and I'm scared to hold him back. I don't want to make him dirty like so many other things in the world. He's vivid and pure, just like a blossoming bloom and I'm only a weed, wilting under the weight of the world. "I'm sorry," I whisper, voice shaking. He rubs my back and kisses my forehead. Such innocent gestures, and he doesn't understand any of it. 

The problem with people like Jongup, even though they're beautiful in body and soul, their minds are terrible. He doesn't know that I'm the dirty old man who watches him just a little too closely. He doesn't care that I'm a burden in the group. He isn't phased by my short temper, and constant pops of sadness. He stays beside me anyway, in these times-- even when I hate him more than anything-- and encourages me to fall for him and his stupid innocent eyes. "It's okay to be sad," he says. I choke on my own breath, and try to open my blurry eyes.

"It's okay to cry, and it's okay to yell and stomp your feet. Just breathe. In deep, and out slowly."

He repeats his breathing mantra several times until I listen. Shakily I draw in a breath. He takes my hands in his and pats my pale fingers. "Good, again." 

I continue. He pats more. I'm not sure how much time passes or how long we're like that in some unknown hallway, but it doesn't matter. Slowly, the pangs lessen. I can breathe without pain, and the tears dry up and fade into hiccups and when I open my eyes, Jongup is still there. It hasn't been a dream, and it isn't a fantasy. He really's there, and he really cares. "Hyung, I'm upset with you," he states, an awkward expression on his face. My lip quivers and more tears threaten to spill at the very thought. He panics and waves his arms around in a crazy way to express the lack of a need to worry. 

"I'm upset because you always run off like this. Being sad all alone is really hard," he scolds me. I swallow a lump in my throat and allow him to continue. "I really hate it when you do that. I care for you hyung. Please let me help you."

"It's nothing," I still try to argue, even after he's witnessed a break down.

"When the air gets thin," he persists, "When your sadness swallows it all up, let me be your air. Let me keep you breathing."

I don't know why he's like this. I've done nothing of great kindness in this world. I close my eyes to the people starving and dying, and instead of helping others I sleep and worry about myself. I'm selfish, rude, and egotistical. Jongup's like an angel without wings,  unbelievably kind, undeniably selfless, and undisputably beautiful. With wet eyes, I nod to him. I'm not sure why he's chosen me for his kindness, but in my selfishly indulgent tendency, I accept it. I cling to him for dear life, and hoard his kindness to myself. 

I make him my anchor, my angel, and my air.