There's a groan that chases after each of his movements. It grows louder when his hands move, quieter during footwork, and in the few moments that his torso moves, it rises to an unnatural pitch. Of course, Minjun is probably the only one who hears it, and the only one who'd care. It seemed stuffy in the room with all of those egos on legs, each with their own passion and dreams. And there he was, simply trying to get through the dance--tomorrow was another day. Their tough expressions and precise movements, perhaps even violently perfect, seemed to invalidate his own goals and force him into a retreating position. Maybe his life had been moving in the wrong direction. Maybe, just maybe, there were people much more qualified than him.Â
But then, in the matter of seconds, his negativity wavers and realization replaces it swiftly. He sees, in the corner of his eye, a dash of red hair, a loose body that seems able to settle into any type of choreography, and in the mirror, he sees eyes that enchant him. Perhaps it's cheap to use it as inspiration, but he's reminded, thanks to his own admiration for his comrade's figure and movement, that one day his name would shine in big lights. People would look to him and be inspired, dazzled, maybe even swept off his feet. Stardom, he decides, is what his destiny was. It had to be. Confidence floods his limbs again, strengthening their movements into something more impressive. Dancing was his forte after all, even if he secretly preferred interpretive dance. They repeat the choreography once more before he's sent off to practice alone, wholeheartedly at that. His mind is then saturated with countless Instagram posts that promised inspiration but never seemed to inspire anything except irritation. In that moment, for a few seconds, they make sense, or he finally untangles their meaning from them. A smile settles on his lips although it becomes muffled by the effort he puts into dancing, although the joy internalized in the form of a numbing calm. He would let the future decide.