Jung Yonghwa twirled the pen between his fingers as his lips were pursed in concentration. Or, in misery. He stared unseeingly at the blank music sheet lying on the glass table in front of him. The chilled studio didn’t stop the sweat to break through his skin. He had turned off the music hours ago, feeling irritated and anxious like hell. Hearing his old completed songs made him depressed. Hearing his incomplete songs made him even more depressed. The ticking of the clock sounded agonizingly loud in his ears. Deadline, deadline, deadline.

Writing and composing music had always been fun for Jung Yonghwa. In fact, he had yet to find something that was more fun and intriguing as that. He felt happy doing it, so he kept doing so. He did it to make himself happy. If other people felt happy, too, then thank God. And that was why the usual cheerful, free spirited Jung Yonghwa was staring morosely at the blank music sheet, because he had to write some songs. To make others happy.

He needed to stand within the boundaries set for him. Because if he didn’t, people won’t like it. His company won’t like it, the public won’t like it. He told himself he shouldn’t have to give a . But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It was within human nature to seek for acceptance. From whom? From those who matter.

Yonghwa was doing it for the public in his hometown country. He needed to do this right more than anything. Sometimes he wished he’d been born in Japan instead, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with this. Maybe he should feel guilty, but he didn’t, for one of his bandmates, Lee Jonghyun who was currently locking himself up somewhere, drowning in pressure just like Yonghwa was, had told him the same thing. I wished I could’ve stayed in Japan and didn’t go back home all those years ago, that was what he said.

This country was where he belonged. If he didn’t get acceptance here, he would feel ed up, he knew at least that much. It’s a very strange thing, Yonghwa mused, How the ones who matter the most to you are the ones who hurt you the most.

Yonghwa had heard stories. He had this friend who entered the Military School just to please his parents. There was also this friend who gave up enrolling in his dream college just to be with his girlfriend. It was also all over many books and movies; about a nobleman who abandoned the love of his life to fulfill his filial duty to his family, about Rose who didn’t get on the boat to be together with Jack, about Jack who gave away the wooden door for Rose and then he ended up dying in her stead. And what about Draco Malfoy who followed Voldemort and did dirty works just to impress his father?

Were those sacrifices? No, Yonghwa thought those people did those things just to get one thing: acceptance.

See, imagine if Jack used the wooden door for himself, what would Rose think of him? Rose meant a lot for Jack, and thus he would do anything so that Rose wouldn’t think any less of him.

Acceptance from the ones you love, or who were supposed to love you, were more important than anything for most people. For the first time in his life, Yonghwa hated the fact that he was one of ‘most people’.

Back to the task in hand. Yonghwa didn’t write music for money. He didn’t think less of those who did, but it wasn’t how he was. He couldn’t write songs by request. Of course sometimes he gave his songs for other singers but it was under his own will, and those singers didn’t demand for anything from him beforehand.

He never held himself back in Japan. He experimented and explored things as he saw fit. The crowd liked it. His songs attracted their own crowd, and he never had to bend himself to satisfy a certain crowd or two. Even if he failed, he still had a home to come back to. He had nothing to lose in there.

It was different in Korea, though. The general crowd wouldn’t like his music. He could’ve just said  off and performed in front of thecrowd whose taste and view resonated with his, but small crowd didn’t exactly speak money. And the company needed money. To get a lot of money, a lot more people had to buy the CDs, and a lot more people belonged in the general crowd. He couldn’t fail. If he did, he had nowhere else to call ‘home’.

It was the same like having a holiday overseas. If the natives scorned at him and cursed him under their breath, he would feel sad but he could’ve just shrugged it off. The natives didn’t understand him. They were different from him. It was understandable. Everything would be over once he came back home.

But what if the people in your own country hated you? The people who shared the same language and culinary taste, who studied the same history, and who fought the same enemy... heh, you must be THAT awful for them to hate you.

Yonghwa rubbed his temple, feeling an alarming headache. He had a lot of headaches when the band was still under an indie label. Wrecking his brain to get some money was exhausting, and he remembered back then he would do anything to get out of it. But now, he wished he could go back to those days. Earning money was always difficult, after all, no matter the situation. Even now, when his profit came in millions, it cost him something so dear to him.

Laying his head down on the glass table, Yonghwa closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. He would come up with a solution, somehow. Or maybe when he woke up, the years under the limelight were just a dream, and Jungshin would wake him up, with his bass case slung over his back, and Minhyuk was there packing up his drumkits, and Jonghyun was preparing the promotional flyers.

Yeah, maybe everything was just a dream, and tomorrow he would go back to the streets and dingy clubs, singing his hearts out with his brothers. So naive... so fearless...

So happy.

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