Music blared. Walls shook. Taemin looked at himself in the wall of mirrors in front of him. What did he see? Did he see himself, a talented dancer and handsome young man? No. He saw a low-life, no good piece of . His mom was right. He'd never succeed in anything. He stared at his frazzled, wispy, black hair. He stared at his skinny little arms. He stared at his thick protruding lips. He stared at his heavy, black eyes. What everyone else saw in him, he failed to see. What he saw was what he had been told to see his entire life. Nothing. Nothing good enough to contribute to anything in this world. Taemin closed his eyes and felt the bass pound through his body, starting at his feet and traveling up to his chest. This was the only thing that made him want to stay alive. He was afraid of never being able to feel this again. His foot began to lightly tap as his senses filled with the sound of the music. He rolled his neck slowly as his shoulders rolled back. Instinctively, he moved when the beat intensified. His feet seemed to float across the floor as he popped and locked his upper body, every step tailored to the flow of the music, every pop perfectly matching the beat. As the song came to an end he tucked his right foot behind his left and twisted his upper body into a spin before crashing down onto his knees. The room was now quiet. His hair stuck to his forehead and beads of sweat rolled down his body. Taemin stayed looking down as he tried to catch his breath. For 3-4 minutes, when dancing to a song, Taemin is happy. He doesnt think of his ugly past, his stupid mom who never understood what the word "mother" actually meant. He doesnt want to die. But every song has an end. Every minute is only 60 seconds. After those 3-4 minutes, Taemin comes back to reality. His memories rush back like a flash flood. He hoped this time might be different. Maybe the happiness wouldnt disappear when the song ended. But there he kneeled, head still lowered, remembering what a failure he was. 20 years old, dropped out of college, making a living doing street performances. He squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed onto his back, bringing his hands up to cover his face. It could all end right now. He could take the pocket knife out of his bag and bleed out on the floor, killing himself and taking all of his unfortunate, uneventful life with him. But one thing always stopped Taemin from carrying out this idea. He remembered what it was like to feel music. Because he didnt just listen to it. He felt it. He felt it in his veins, in his feet, in his brain, in his chest, and in his heart. He remembered the 3-4 minutes of happiness that overtook his whole body. For some reason, it was enough. The thought of never feeling that again, scared him. He stared at the white ceiling above him. The rumbles in his stomach were the only things that kept him from falling asleep right then and there on the dance studio floor. Taemin hoisted himself up to his feet, grabbed his bag, and dragged his legs through the door, only the need for food carrying him on.