Namjoon reads the prose repeatedly, making sure that there are no words amiss or there wasn’t anything that the fans could potentially spin to be incriminating against the company. Just don’t get us in trouble, Namjoon, is what they had said, but he feels it is more than that—they won’t just brush it off if he does make a mistake. He knows his musings aren’t new to the fans, so he hopes this one can just fly under the radar, too, undetected.

   “Again, post something that will show your…more humane side,” one of the coordinating staff responsible for their social media had said. “Just don’t get us in trouble, Namjoon.”

   The conversation plays over and over in his head as his palms begin to sweat profusely. What does it even mean—to be more humane? Namjoon questions the authenticity of the words he had written himself, doubting whether or not it was good enough to be considered “humane”. He finds himself questioning if anything is ever good enough these days, whether it was for him or for the company.

   One sentence stands out at him: “I think I understand how an actor feels when they’re in a drama.”

   He’d read a book recently, titled, “Presentation of Self in Everyday Life” and that’s where he got the actor statement from. The author suggest that human beings were like actors, whose actions changes depending on who they interact with in their everyday lives.

   Namjoon feels that way. As RM, as the leader of his company’s group, there are certain things he must and must not do, things that he can say openly, and things that he cannot. He knows he has a clear grasp on his mind of what he wants to convey when he’s performing RM, and a simple rehearsal always makes sure of that.

   But as Namjoon? He isn’t so sure.

   As Namjoon, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he has the urge to question if the eyes staring back at him from the reflection was his own. When was the last time he had the freedom of just standing in front of the mirror for hours to just ponder about existence, anyways?

   He doesn’t know either if the sincerity containing the letters actually reach across those he wants to send a message to; was anyone even paying attention anymore, or are they all caught up in mundane things so they completely miss the point? Does anyone still care that he writes these things out for the whole world to read? 

   What’s worse is that the days become a blur to him now, each event moulding into one whole incomprehensible memory. He remembers watching the movie that the company made and he almost laughs at himself for not recalling the events he watched.

   “Did this really happen?” he leaned over to Jimin, wondering if he knew about the scene playing out on the screen. Jimin merely shrugged in response.

   “I think so, but I don’t remember it being like this.”

   It’s odd, having little to no recognition of what is supposed to be the most memorable moment of his life. Namjoon is partially sure he does not have anyone in his family who has Alzheimer’s—even his own grandmother could still remember events from her youth as if they occurred just yesterday. This bothers Namjoon to an extent, but he figures it could just be fatigue. The members agree and the staff reiterates the fact that it was normal to be exhausted.

   “Would you rather be swamped with work or doing nothing at all, lounging in the dorm like an unemployed person?”

   Namjoon smiles ruefully at the memory. If he does remember something distinctly, it would be the fact that they were reprimanded a couple of years back—during their “Love Yourself: Her” promotion—for questioning the intentions of the company. Taehyung was the victim that time, though, because he just so happened to faint in front of the fans during one of their comeback stage specials. Being the leader, Namjoon approached the staff, full of concern about Taehyung physical well being. That was what the staff said in the middle of their altercation of words: be tired, but have comebacks and do promotions, or rest and do nothing on the dorm with no paycheques in sight? Taehyung would him later that night, nonetheless, for sticking up for him. Namjoon had merely ruffled the hair of his teary-eyed friend.

   “How exactly is this more humane?” Namjoon recalls hearing Yoongi whisper under his breath when the movie cuts to the part where Jungkook was agonizing over his lacerated ankle. Namjoon simply turns back and reminds him that they had mic’s on and were filming for a reaction video.

   That seems like a very recent occurrence for them—filming reactions of themselves to be re-sold on some form of “season’s greeting” DVD. He isn’t entirely sure. Namjoon finds it odd, too, watching something that you hardly remember happened.

   “It’s why I should start writing things like these here, right? Before I completely forget them all,” he reads the post aloud for the nth time. His words feel redundant but foreign at the same time, because he thinks he’s written this before somewhere on one of their several social media platforms a few months back. He is unsure. Though it didn’t matter, because he is here making a damned post again, anyways. It feels laborious to him, like anything is these days, but he hopes fans will appreciate it.

   Here goes nothing. Hopefully the company deems it clean enough to post. They did say to be more authentic.

   “I believe that we all have it in us—the ability to shine in our own way. Sleep tight!”

   He ends the post, hits send and goes to bed.

-::+::-

   His phone buzzes around three a.m. and he grapples around the bed to find it.

   “I’m just wondering if you’re ok,” the text reads. It’s from you, a friend he’d known since middle school. You kept in touch and texted occasionally—which means it was either a greeting of “Congratulations on the BBMAs” or “Congratulations on being artist of the year” a few times a year. The last time you truly saw each other in person was five years ago, shortly after their debut.

   Namjoon is perplexed at the text. He searches his name hurriedly on the web, trying to see if there is news of him that came out, even though he knows well enough that he hasn’t done something incriminating or scandalous. Just to make sure, he tells himself.

   Nothing comes up, of course.

   “Yeah I am, why do you ask? And at this hour?” he texts back.

   The reply is almost instant.

   “I saw your long post circulating on social media. It seemed like you were having troubles with life in general, so I’m just checking up on you.”

   “I’m ALWAYS having trouble with life in general,” Namjoon grins playfully at his reply, not caring if he was being bothered so late in the hours. It’s been awhile since he caught up with you and his other friends so he didn’t mind the current company.

   “Are you being sarcastic with me right now, Joon?”

   “No, just being realistic,” Namjoon says and you don’t reply for awhile, which makes him think that you had fallen back asleep.

   “You said on the post that you’re hardly remembering stuff from even just a year ago?” you text again.

   “Yeah.”

   “The same thing happens to my dad. But you see, he has two jobs, right? And so what happens is he ends up working everyday, Monday through Sunday, with only holidays as a day off. Sometimes that happens after months, so he’s constantly grinding with only sleep as his time off.”

   You pause before hitting send, your fingers somehow shaking as you do. But you continue nonetheless.

   “He tells me that he’s starting to confuse what events happened in which days because he’s so exhausted to the point where his body would breakdown sometimes at work, and I worry for him. I feel like…as his child I should be doing more to prevent him from overworking himself.”

   Tears are now welling up in the corner of your eyes as you tell him your story, but you know it didn’t matter because Namjoon couldn’t see you. And you’re thankful for that fact, otherwise you would’ve burst out crying like an overfilled dam.

   “So as your friend, I feel obliged to check up on you. Please tell me that you’re getting proper rest.”

   Namjoon did not know what to say. Looking at it from his friend’s perspective makes it seem like what he’s doing was exactly that: being overworked to the point of mental and physical fatigue. Days would blend into nights, and he feels terrible to the fans that he could not remember which concerts happened where, and when. He wants to say thank you to the company for filming the movie and reminding him of these things, but he recalls the disturbing scenes of them crying, Jungkook’s agonizing groans as he was being treated for his injury, and the fact that they were followed by the camera relentlessly, that he takes those thankful thoughts back.

   He realizes he would rather forget. For what use is the memory when most of them are painful reminders of how exhausted they all always are?

   “It’s worth it, for the satisfaction of fans,” their staff would always say, and they would all nod in agreement, almost robotically at times. Did Namjoon still believe that, truly, in his heart?

   “It’s all worth it though, for the fans,” Namjoon doesn’t answer his friend’s statement of getting rest and instead mimics the phrase he’s heard from the company a million times.

   You roll your eyes once you read the message.

   “I get that without the fans, you guys will not be where you are currently. But surely they understand that you are human beings too, right? If one member bows out of the group because they can no longer handle it, then who is to blame?”

   Namjoon blinks for a moment and doesn’t respond. The fans surely know they’re human beings, right?

   “That’s the point of connecting to them and posting things like that on social media and stuff; so they can feel the authenticity. The company shows that too by having clips of us crying and being vulnerable—according to them it enables fans to connect to us more as human beings.”

   Your mouth is agape at his statement, unable to process if what you’re reading is satire or if Namjoon is being truthful.

   “That’s great and all, it’s a good example to show that men can be, and are allowed to be vulnerable. But being filmed exhausted and having cameras on you all the time when you’re crying and in pain, then selling it to the masses is not healthy. There should be a boundary between personal space and what can be shown to your fans.”

   You shudder as you recall the movie your friends have forced you into going to the theatre to watch. Most of the viewers were young, impressionable teenagers who wept at the sight of their idols in distress and laughed at moments that seemingly was intended for humour; in essence, scenes that involved the guys attempting to speak a different language. It made you feel odd that the company did not cut explicit scenes of them having a hard time physically and emotionally. You get the part where touring is tough and that there are accidents that can occur due to the nature of the job, but you can see how the company is also incriminating themselves by showing on film that the members are being pushed to the brink of total collapse. You are by no means an athletic trainer but you know that they will advice against their athletes pushing themselves too far. There has to be a balance, and you hope the company is doing the same for Namjoon and the others.

   You did not know the extent of their exhaustion but you can feel it in Namjoon’s post; it’s the reason why you chose to message him so late to see if he is okay. He had always been overtly sentimental and a little too dramatic for his own good at times, but the post you saw seemed different. It alarmed you enough to text him at odd hours of the night, just to see if he was okay.

   “I mean no disrespect to your work and your fans. I’m just worried, Namjoon. I know you’re an adult capable of making your own decisions but sometimes it’s not bad to see things in a different perspective,” you hit send when he doesn’t reply to your previous text.

   It is at that point Namjoon realizes what exhaustion truly meant. After reading your last text his heart felt hollow, chest constricting in a way that makes him feel like the air is getting thinner, therefore harder to breathe. He tries to swallow the lump forming on his throat as he begins typing a response. His head throbs painfully and he winces, trying to suppress the awful sensation.

   “Honestly it’s hard, trying to keep up with everything. I see the pain in each of the members eyes every time they try to mask their exhaustion. I know it’s hard for them but as a leader it feels like I have no choice but to tell them to keep moving forward, keep looking at tomorrow, because looking back at the past is too painful.”

   Namjoon hits send and sighs, feeling slightly cathartic after venting to you even for only a little bit. He fights the urge to break down and cry, reprimanding himself for getting carried away.

   “There are times where I doubt if this is all worth it. Back then it used to be just about making music and—,” Namjoon pauses and re-reads the words he had just typed. His had hovers over the erase button before pressing it and deleting the message.

   The key is to be positive. All the time. Love yourself, right? That’s what BTS preaches. Namjoon thinks that if he doesn’t think positively like RM does, what is even the point of continuing? So he buries it; all the emotions he feels like he needs to let out—he suppresses them all.

   “I just have to simply keep moving forward. The members trust that I can guide them to a more promising tomorrow, and that’s what I have to do.”

   He waits for your response.

   “I think that’s the problem.” You reply to Namjoon without supplying much, and he is astonished to read what you have to say. What do you mean, which one’s the problem?

   But his question will soon be answered because he sees you typing.

   “You focus too much on tomorrow that you lose sight of the present. Now. What’s bothering you now, Namjoon?” You ask but don’t wait for his reply as you begin once again.

   “Also the fact that you’re focusing on getting through today in hopes for a better tomorrow means that your present currently feels suffocating and distressing. Are you truly okay?”

   He hates that you are right. He hates that you see right through him, despite only talking to him via messages. He hates that now he has to mull about things that have happened already, hoping to prove to you that you are wrong—that the present he once lived through and are now his past, are in fact not suffocating and distressing.

   “You are bothering me now, for making me think so much about these things at ungodly hours of the night,” he sends you, which is a weak attempt at humour. He hopes to steer you away from that conversation because he is afraid of the grim truth he might uncover. “For real though, I think I’ll be okay. We’re currently on vacation, you know.”

   “Did you have to film something to be released later?”

   “Yes,” is his guilty reply.

   “Then that’s not a real vacation.”

   “We can’t just stop working, the company needs us.”

   “AH! And there it is. I’m a sociology major so don’t fight me on this, Namjoon, but no matter how angelic your company’s visions were when debuting you, the fact is right now you’re top commodity. They can’t let you rest until they’ve maximized profit from you and the guys. Corporations will always care about profit over their worker’s right first and foremost.”

   He tries to be open and non-biased about what you are saying and despite him not liking your choice of words, he does have to agree. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the company currently profits the most out of them.

   “Okay you’re right. I must admit though, it’s not all bad. We get to go to places we’ve never gone to before, ate food I don’t think I’ll ever get to try otherwise, and met people that have changed my life.”

   Namjoon nods at himself, satisfied with his answer.

   “At the expense of your physical and mental health? Of your privacy? Your right to walk alone in the streets without being constantly mobbed?”

   Namjoon isn’t going to be a saint and say that he obviously doesn’t think about those things for the sake of the fans, but he does. Despite that, he knows contemplating about these things is useless because bringing these issues up with the company is the equivalent of spitting at an image of a deity at church—it’s taboo, and you could get kicked out for doing so. He loves music enough to keep himself and the guys in line, willing to do what the company tells them to. Deep in the crevices of his mind, he knows that an opportunity like this will never come twice in his life, and that’s what makes it so lucrative, so addicting.

   “A small price to pay.”

   He hits send. You don’t reply and he thinks you have either fallen asleep (for real this time) or you simply choose to ignore is stubborn answer. Either way, he will just have to find out if he wakes up the next morning.

   “Thank you for worrying about me, nonetheless. You’re a better therapist than our actual psychiatrist,” Namjoon chuckles as he delivers the final message before turning is phone off and sliding it underneath his pillow. Several thoughts swim his mind and he doubts whether he’ll be able to fall back asleep. 

   “A small price to pay,” he says out loud, as if trying to convince himself of the con he’s been told half of his life.

   A small price to pay, is what he hears from the CEO himself when they were all in his office during the time they re-signed their contract.

   A small price to pay, is what he lectures the members when the going gets tough.

   But is it just a small price to pay?

   Namjoon is unsure, deep down, and it terrifies him.