second stage ;

that they weren’t built overnight. it’s easy to look at the visuals, the styling, the name change, and forget the years it took to get here.

every win they’ve had was earned the hard way. every stage, every song, every time they got back up after being counted out… that was them.

not luck. not packaging.

they’re stronger than they know, and softer than they let on. they hold each other up in quiet ways—an extra practice run, a hand on the shoulder, a snack they remembered you liked. none of it loud, all of it real.

emotionally? spiritually? not even close. financially… i haven’t left yet

not regrets exactly—just trade-offs i’ve had to make peace with. before i joined YDH, i worked in events. tours, brand launches, showcases… big things, fast timelines. i loved the chaos of it, but i was rarely home.

even now, with nymth, i’m proud of what we’ve built. but there are still birthdays i’ve missed, school events i’ve only seen in photos, late-night dinners that never happened. the kids are older now—almost grown, some of them—and incredibly understanding. but i do think about the time i won’t get back.

definitely. i used to think i was a patient person—then i managed an idol group during comeback season

i won’t lie to you—this job is not for the faint of heart. it’s a lot of long days, early mornings, late nights, and learning how to function on caffeine and crisis management. you don’t clock out just because your group did. you’re thinking ten steps ahead even when you’re running on three hours of sleep and someone just texted you about missing hair extensions. again. (happens more often than you think.)

but if you love the idea of helping someone else’s dream take shape, of watching them grow and knowing you helped steady the ground beneath them… it’s one of the most rewarding things in the world.

that said…burnout is real, and it doesn’t make you weak. i set boundaries where i can. i take breaks when i need them. and i remind myself that i can’t hold anyone else up if i’m running on empty.

any artist who responds to schedule updates within the hour automatically moves to the top of my list.

but realistically? song chaea is an industry legend—i’ve seen the kind of pressure she handles with grace, and managing someone with that level of polish (and unpredictability) would be… intense, but rewarding. saena’s focus is razor-sharp; she feels like the type to send follow-up emails before i even ask. and jung seungjae? let’s just say i’ve managed idols who think their charm is a calendar substitute—he seems like the deluxe version of that.

the building wasn’t empty yet, but the echoes had started to stretch longer between footsteps. most of the staff had gone home. even the lights on the practice floor had dimmed—automatic timers, set to remind people when they were supposed to be done.

eunhee knew better than to chase ghosts down empty halls. she also knew the schedule said suran should’ve been done twenty minutes ago.

she didn’t walk in with questions. just opened the door gently, enough for light to spill across the polished floor and her own silhouette to land quiet across it.

“you’re still here.” not accusing. just fact.

she let the door ease shut behind her, crossing to where someone had left two bottled drinks by the wall. one unopened. she picked it up, checked the label, then held it out.

“figured this was yours. or if it’s not, it is now.”

she didn’t say go home, didn’t ask why. she just lowered herself to sit against the wall, keeping a respectful distance but not pretending she had anywhere more urgent to be. “you know i don’t track how long you stay,” she added lightly. “but i do notice who forgets to leave.”

a beat passed.

there was a rhythm to the in-between hours. not quiet, not loud—just that low hum of things still happening behind closed doors. the kind of sound that only existed when the day wasn’t quite done but everyone was pretending it was.

eunhee found herself in the hallway outside the stylists’ prep area, where the light buzzed overhead and someone had abandoned a half-folded rack of stage jackets. she wasn’t avoiding anything, exactly—but she hadn’t wanted to be at her desk, either. her phone was in one hand, the lock screen lighting up every few minutes with a new email. her other hand was curled around a paper cup of coffee that had stopped being hot a long time ago.

beside her, resting on the bench, was a small pouch of dried fruit and a wrapped granola bar. not something she bought for herself. just something she picked up—because habits formed fast when you spent years watching people forget how to take care of themselves.

she didn’t look up right away when the footsteps came. not because she didn’t know who it was—she did. the pace was familiar. steady, quiet, carrying more weight than it should.

“you know,” she said, setting the snack down beside her on the bench, “you don’t always have to be the one holding everyone else up.”

the words weren’t sharp. just matter-of-fact. like she was stating something as obvious as the weather.

“it’s not a failing. taking a break.”

she leaned back slightly, careful not to crowd the space. her tone stayed even, calm. the kind of tone she saved for when someone didn’t want to talk—but maybe needed to know they were seen anyway.

“you can sit if you want. or don’t. i won’t ask for a rundown. just figured—if anyone needed five minutes where no one expected anything from them... it might be you.”

she finally glanced over. her expression didn’t ask for anything. it just said: i see you.

eunhee hadn’t hovered. that wasn’t her style.

but she’d been keeping tabs—from the corner of the studio, half-watching the monitor between schedule updates and message threads, taking note of which angles the photographer seemed to favor and how long cerise had been on her feet. she knew how these shoots went. sometimes you got a breeze; sometimes you got three hours of wardrobe changes and a stylist tugging your collar between every frame.

today looked like the latter.

when the final set wrapped, she let the staff buzz around for a moment—lights dimming, outfits disappearing back into garment bags, someone in the back requesting iced americanos for the ride home—and slipped out of the main area without a word.

she came back five minutes later with a bottle of water pulled from the good fridge (the one in the admin lounge) and a vending machine snack—nothing fancy, just something with protein. she didn’t interrupt or ask how the shoot had gone. cerise already knew if it went well. and if it didn’t, eunhee wasn’t about to pick at the thread.

instead, she stepped into the waiting area where cerise was seated and placed both the bottle and the snack beside her with a soft but definitive tap.

“hydrate,” she said simply. a beat. then, “eat something before the next thing.”

she settled a chair over, tablet still in hand, stylus resting between her fingers. she didn’t pretend to work. just sat quietly for a moment, letting the silence settle into something that wasn’t tense. it was a skill she’d learned years ago—how to sit near someone without crowding them.

“you handled today well,” she added eventually, voice even but slightly warmer around the edges. her praise never came exaggerated. just enough to land, to stick.

she glanced over, one brow raised like she might add something else. then— “they like you. don’t let it go to your head.”

she had fifteen minutes before she had to be somewhere else, and instead of sitting at her desk, instead of replying to that blinking notification on her tablet, eunhee was here—curled into the end of the stairwell hallway that didn’t get much foot traffic. just her, the echo of quiet footsteps from a floor below, and a cup of coffee that had been reheated twice.

she wasn’t hiding. she didn’t do that. but she also didn’t want to be found.

there had been four back-to-back meetings before lunch. one producer wanted a remix she knew wouldn’t suit anybody, another exec kept insisting nymth “try something trendy” like it was a personality trait. she could feel the tension climbing into her shoulders, lodging behind her eyes—not quite a headache, but close. her office, for all its neatly organized calm, had started to feel claustrophobic. too many screens. too many decisions waiting to be made. too many messages she didn’t want to read just yet.

so she came here.

the stairwell was cool, dim, quiet in that humming kind of way. you could still hear the building breathe, but it didn’t ask anything of you.

when she heard someone step around the corner—too fast to be lost, too quiet to be someone looking for drama—she didn’t flinch. just glanced up, calmly, and raised her cup like a half-hearted toast.

“if you’re looking for something official, this isn’t it,” she said, voice low and a little wry. “this is the in-between.”

she gestured vaguely at the space around her—bland tile, weak lighting, the hum of the service elevator down the hall.

“ten-minute buffer zone. no one’s allowed to ask for anything here. not even me.”

a pause. then, without looking, she nudged the extra drink beside her slightly forward.

“you can sit. or pace. or pretend you didn’t see me. i’m not going to report it.”

(aka why she’s a manager everyone either respects, fears, or secretly wishes they had)

her bag is basically a survival kit. if you need it, she probably has it. sewing kit? yes. extra battery packs? of course. painkillers, mints, electrolyte powders, safety pins, stain remover pens, a small notebook for last-minute crisis notes—everything is in there. people have joked she could single-handedly save a comeback stage with the contents of her purse. they’re not wrong. in fact, she’s done it at least twice. nymth members know to check with her before panicking.

she runs on exactly three things: coffee, strategy, and sheer force of will. if she’s sitting in a meeting without a coffee in hand, be concerned. not because she’s struggling—because she’s already three steps ahead and doesn’t need the extra boost. nymth knows the caffeine levels in her system dictate her reaction time. if she’s on her first coffee? you might get a thoughtful hum. second coffee? expect a sharply worded directive. third coffee? someone is about to get obliterated in a boardroom.

she will absolutely fix your outfit, but she will judge you for it. if she sees an idol walking around with the thread still attached to their blazer vents, she will fix it. no hesitation. but there will be a sigh, a slight shake of the head, and a muttered, “you’re lucky I like you.” nymth, at this point, just stands still when they see her reaching for a stray thread or adjusting a misaligned mic pack. they know better than to resist.

she has an uncanny ability to end conversations without being rude. people will be in the middle of a sentence and somehow, eunhee has already moved on. no one ever feels offended, just vaguely confused—like they had an important discussion, but suddenly, she’s gone, and they’re left with the realization that she got exactly what she needed and nothing more.

snagged leggings? broken button? she's got a pocket sewing kit. dead battery pack? don't worry, she carries a few universal batteries. feeling faint? electrolyte powders and snack bars on standby.

she’s not the type to hover, but if you need something, she’ll have it before you even ask. she runs on strong coffee, well-structured schedules, and the satisfaction of handling chaos before it starts. if you catch her off-duty (rare, but possible), you’ll probably find her with a neatly packed planner, a luxury pen, and an espresso that costs more than it should. but at work? she’s all business—sharp, polished, and making sure everything runs smoother than a press conference with pre-approved questions.