It was never enough. With every single, with every album, Dongwook felt like he could do more.

He had just released his latest album and he was already halfway into planning his next one. Projects overlapped so often that Dongwook hardly had the time to rest.  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dongwook was not falling behind, that he was always topping his previous release. Only that way could he get better.

And when he didn’t think he had topped his previous release, well…

A few weeks of distress followed. Failing was motivating in a way. Dongwook knew that if he failed, he would have to work twice as hard on his next project to make up for it.

Even so, he found himself falling behind, releasing content in longer intervals than the other artists in the industry, some of whom he happened to be friends with.

Everyone else was thriving. Single after single, EP after EP, album after album, tour after tour. Awards, wins, praise and good ratings. Only Dongwook was struggling, constantly drowning in work only to come up with mediocrities. Because of this he had to spend so much time perfecting his work, because he didn’t want to fall behind. Why should other artists release perfect tracks and not him?

He knew he could do it, only if he worked a bit harder.

His phone’s ringtone woke him up. Dongwook’s entire body ached from the odd position he had fallen asleep in—it seemed that he had once again fallen asleep at his desk.

Slowly, he straightened up, cracked his neck and picked up the phone.

“Jiho…?” He muttered.

“Good morning! I hope I’m not waking you up.”

It was ten o’clock. Hardly an early morning. Dongwook’s sleep schedule had gotten just a tiny bit messed up, that was all.

“No, no, I was…” His gaze fell onto the desk before him and the scattered papers with scribbled words. He rubbed his cheek, wondering if any of the ink had transferred onto his skin while he was sleeping. “Working.”

“Busy bee,” Jiho said. “I can say the same for myself, which is why I haven’t called to congratulate you yet. Sorry…”

Dongwook pushed the chair away and stood up. He imagined this was how old people felt, with aching joints and sore muscles. He made a beeline for the kitchen and began making himself a coffee. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jiho paused. “Well, congratulations! I love the song, it’s truly something else. It amazes me, how you can’t seem to put out a bad song. Good job, really.”

Dongwook leaned against the counter and stared at the tails while he waited for the water to heat up. His fist was clenched, knuckles white.

It felt like mockery. It wasn’t Jiho’s fault, all praise did. The song was good, he wouldn’t have allowed it to be released if it wasn’t, but when he thought about how much he struggled to get it there… Every part of the process was an agony. He couldn’t imagine Jiho, Seunghyun, Hyoseob, Hyuk—any of his friends and fellow artists—struggling so much.

It felt like a lie. Dongwook wanted to say, No, you’re wrong. It’s not amazing or a good job, it’s the result of so many rewrites and input from so many people who hated the first draft. It’s sleepless nights, time I’ll never get back. Just for one ing song that no one but my frineds will even hear.

He knew it was irrational. He knew that all artists went through a certain process to perfect their work. But Dongwook still hated it. It felt ingenuine.

Wanting to avoid sounding like a whiny toddler, he only responded with a “thank you.”

Another pause. Why did Jiho sound so hesitant those days?

“I was wondering if you wanted to celebrate?”

Dongwook had to stop himself from sighing loudly. He wanted to. But he couldn’t. Unfinished lyrics awaited.

The kettle clicked. He turned around and continued making his coffee.

“I would, but—”

“But?”

Dongwook froze. “I’m busy,” he said, a strain in his voice.

“Thought so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s always a ‘but’ with you. Do you even go out of the house anymore?”

Dongwook thought he’d be nauseous. “That’s generous coming from you.”

“That’s—What the Dongwook?”

Jiho was patient. More patient than anyone else Dongwook knew. This, what he was hearing, couldn’t have been anger. It wasn’t. It was something else, it had to be.

“Is it wrong that I miss my best friend? I’m ing worried about you.”

So, it wasn’t anger. Dongwook was partially relieved and partially horrified, because he had never before heard this tone from Jiho. He was always so composed.

“I just have a lot of work on my hands, that’s all. You get it, right?” Hopefully.

“I get it. But I think you’re overdoing it.”

Dongwook wondered if he had it in himself to call Jiho a hypocrite so directly.

A minute passed in silence. And another.

“I don’t want to go out,” Dongwook said. “If we’re going to celebrate, let’s keep it small.”

“It can be just the two of us for all I care.”

“That sounds perfect.”

It was the same as last time, all down to Dongwook getting drunk and Jiho remaining sober to look after him.

The last time.

Dongwook didn’t want to think about it.

He didn’t want to remember the raw vulnerability that emerged, everything that was said. He didn’t want to repeat it.

So he stayed quiet. He stood on the balcony, leaning against the railing and staring down at the dark street. Blowing smoke into the air.

And there was Jiho, right beside him.

Too close.                                                       

“Dongwook—”

“Don’t.”

Silence.

“Dongwook,” Jiho tried again.

“Don’t speak.” After a beat, Dongwook added, “Please.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

The chilly wind seeped underneath Dongwook’s clothes, making him shudder. It ruffled his hair, pushing strands of hair into his eyes. It played with the smoke of his cigarette.

“I don’t want it to be like last time,” Dongwook said through his teeth.

It took Jiho a moment to even realize what “the last time” was referring to. He straightened up. “And so what if it ends up being like that? I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Dongwook snapped.

Jiho nodded a few times. “I get it… I get it. But I think it’s necessary. You need some release, man. The way you’re going right now isn’t good for you.”

Dongwook wanted to be angry. But quite frankly, he was much too exhausted.

“This is the only way I know,” he whispered. He inhaled nicotine. It made him pleasantly lightheaded. He threw the over the balcony. Another cigarette might make this conversation easier.

“I understand. You know I do, better than anyone. And that’s why I’m telling you that it’s not good.”

This time, Dongwook didn’t protest. He searched his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.

“Why do you push yourself so hard?”

Dongwook lit his next cigarette. He didn’t answer.

“It’s like you’re chasing something,” Jiho insisted.

Dongwook ran a hand through his hair in distress. “I just don’t want to fall behind, okay?”

“Behind who? Who are you competing with?”

Dongwook laughed bitterly. “Come on, Jiho. Don’t tell me you don’t see it. Compared to everyone else in the industry, I’m…”

“What? You’re what?” Jiho had clenched his fists, his shoulders were tense. Dongwook was avoiding his eyes because his gaze was uncharacteristically sharp and heavy. “I dare you, say something that makes sense.”

“I’m—just not doing as well!”

Jiho was quiet. For a second it seemed that he didn’t have anything to say, and Dongwook thought that he had won. But when he looked at Jiho, at his bracing breaths, Dongwook realized that the storm was only coming.

“First of all, that’s not true,” Jiho spat. “Second of all, so what? Let yourself progress at your own pace, for ’s sake, Dongwook, stop punishing yourself.”

Dongwook’s hand shook when he next took a drag. “I’m not—”

“You are.” Jiho paused. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Dongwook’s insides twisted. This was why he didn’t want to see him. All he seemed to do those days was upset his friends. And Jiho wasn’t easy to upset.

“You’re not competing with the industry,” Jiho said slowly. “That might be how it feels, or what you’re telling yourself. But what you’re truly competing with is your own expectations. You set them too high and punish yourself when you inevitably don’t reach them.”

Dongwook shook his head. “That’s not—”

“Don’t try to deny it. I know that’s what you’re doing, because—” Jiho placed his hand on his chest, “—I do the same damn thing!”

This was when Dongwook finally looked at his friend for longer than a second. Was… Was Jiho tearing up?

This time Dongwook saw it; Jiho reaching out and changing his mind at the last second. Dongwook stepped towards him involuntarily, as if trying to compensate for the touch that never occurred.

“We can do better,” Jiho said, now gripping the railing. Dongwook’s gaze was fixed on his hand.

“Let’s try. Will you try with me?”

Dongwook stepped forward again. When he looked up the lack of distance between the two of them startled him. “I’m scared that… if I don’t do enough, I won’t be able to breathe again.”

Jiho’s hand hesitantly reached out again, and this time Dongwook took him by the wrist so that he wouldn’t pull back.

Jiho swallowed. He cupped Dongwook’s cheek.

“You will be. You will be if you let yourself breathe.”

He was tired. He wanted to keep going, to keep fighting, but he was tired. He had nothing left to do but to surrender.

Dongwook nodded.

Arms wrapped around him and the world disappeared.