Another stage done.

He is about to drop dead on his feet with exhaustion, physical and mental, to say nothing of the emotional upheaval of each stage. At least his throat has decided to fully cooperate with him tonight; without an ounce of arrogance, he can say that he has never sung better throughout the entire course of the musical's run. This performance is near perfect; but then, perfection does not come cheap. 

He sees Kwon looking back at him in concern, and he gives him an imperceptible nod, too drained to do much else. He trudges up the ramp like the veritable yeonggam Kibam has affectionately nicknamed him, oblivious to all voices screaming his name over those of other cast members' fans and yet deafeningly aware of them all the same. He tries to block them out but never quite fully succeeds. 

He is eternally grateful to his fans, but maybe he is getting too old for all this, after all. Lately, he never quite feels beyond his years more keenly than after every performance. People have been lauding him for being a brilliant actor. He knows he is not; all he does is to relieve everything that he is too young to have experienced, and everything comes out naturally. Like blood through profoundly pierced skin. The process isn't any less painful.

He himself is surprised at how he still manages to give after emptying his self under that harsh spotlight. Every show wrings him dry, and he sometimes wants to tell everyone just to off and let him live out the rest of his service in peace. 

Remorse immediately follows this selfish thought. He thinks of how everyone, from the dancers to the choir to each of the minor and major players to every member of the orchestra, has worked hard to give life to the vision of the director. He thinks of the brilliance of the composer of the music that is begging for the world to be heard. Most of all, he thinks of how the story needs to be told, fictionalized or romanticized though it may be, for the sake of those who are still searching for those who may never be found. With these running in his mind, he grits his teeth and heaves through another rehearsal, another stage, and another day. 

The driver nods toward him as he drags his heavy body up the bus and onto his designated seat. He noiselessly sighs in relief as the door closes gradually, muffling the raucous screaming voices, however encouraging or praising though they may be. 

He leans his head against the glass, momentarily closing his eyes and then opening them. His glance lands on a solitary figure a bit removed from the rest of the busily clicking fansites and furiously waving fans. 

He unfolds slightly from his slouch, curiously eyeing the person. She is standing still in the cold, not doing anything, just staring at his general direction with this gentle smile gracing her rather plain, makeup-less face. 

Ah. Keyland. A Shawol, after all. His eyes wanders back to her face, and her smile is unwavering. 

The woman bows slightly in his direction. How she is able to uncannily pinpoint exactly where he is, he cannot fathom. But there is something in that smile that sends a rush of gratitude flowing through him. 

He bows his head toward her, sight unseen by the woman through the heavily tinted glass of the bus window. His seatmate, who catches the gesture, looks at him in askance. 

He shakes his head with a slight smile that nevertheless crinkles the corners of his eyes. "It's nothing. Just my fan," he says with quiet pride. 

***