Little Pink Starfish

Though he never showed it in front of the others, Choi Jaesung sometimes regretted choosing Sedalbaekil over Lion Entertainment.

Especially last week.

After performing in a string of indie gigs and not a single article came out about them.

When it felt like the world only cared about “Sedalbaekil from Coming Up Next” — not just Sedalbaekil.

Regret weighed heavily on him.

Choi Jaesung wanted to be famous.

He wanted to be loved. And more than anything, he wanted to show them—

That the person they once dismissed was now adored by the public.

That he had always been someone worthy of love.

That’s why, the moment he felt the pressure of Lion Entertainment’s influence, he became afraid.

Afraid he might never make it.

That maybe if he had stayed with Lion, he could’ve debuted in a year or two.

That maybe… he made the wrong choice choosing Sedalbaekil.

But a few days later…

While reviewing performance footage filmed by a part-timer Han Si-on hired, Choi Jaesung came to a realization.

He didn’t regret choosing Sedalbaekil.

He was just scared—and wanted to run.

What scared him so much… was falling behind.

He was terrified of becoming the one in Sedalbaekil who didn’t matter.

He had run from being useless—only to fear becoming useless again, even here.

Choi Jaesung didn’t think his fear was unfounded.

Just watching the performance footage made it clear.

Han Si-on, Goo Taehwan, Lee I-on, On Saemiro—they all stood out.

But not him.

And that terrified Choi Jaesung.

Han Si-on was, without question, a genius.

The most gifted musician Jaesung had ever seen in his life—not just as an idol, but as a musician.

Coming from a privileged background, Jaesung had met countless musicians, seen their talents firsthand.

But none surpassed Han Si-on.

Some might scoff at that—say it’s absurd.

That there’s no way Han Si-on had more skill than classical performers, traditional instrumentalists, pure music composers, or orchestral conductors.

But to Jaesung, he did.

Maybe not in technical knowledge—Si-on never flaunted what he knew.

But at the end of the day, music is the act of combining sounds to create something greater.

If you want perfection, you pursue pure music.

If you want beauty, you create classical.

If you want to connect with people, you make pop.

Han Si-on could do it all.

Sometimes he leaned toward accessibility, sometimes toward beauty.

Jaesung had never seen him pursue pure perfection—though during his production work with I-on, he came close.

So to Jaesung, Si-on wasn’t someone to compare himself to.

He was someone to admire.

The problem was… the rest of the members.

Goo Taehwan, On Saemiro, Lee I-on.

At the start of the program, their strengths and weaknesses were clear.

Taehwan had a strong opening presence but couldn’t carry a full song.

Saemiro struggled mentally.

I-on, aside from his looks, didn’t have an obvious edge.

So back then, Jaesung felt like he had the upper hand.

He didn’t have any major strengths, but he didn’t have any glaring weaknesses either.

He was stable—reliable.

But over time, that changed.

The others began eliminating their weaknesses and amplifying their strengths.

Taehwan worked to maintain rhythm throughout a song. Saemiro gained mental composure.

And I-on’s transformation was nothing short of dazzling.

He began studying how to use his voice like an instrument—becoming someone entirely new.

Si-on once said I-on still had tonal limitations—that it wasn’t something fixable.

But if I-on could hit perfect notes when it counted, the tone didn’t matter.

Tone, after all, was just a combination of vocal range, pitch intervals, and sound pressure—all things that could be controlled.

In short, they were all progressing.

Slowly but surely. In the right direction.

All except Choi Jaesung.

Sure, Han Si-on had told him he was necessary.

“You might be a liability as a solo artist, but in a group, someone needs to bring balance. That’s you.”

Si-on never said anything insincere about music, so Jaesung believed him.

But he still couldn’t feel at ease.

You don’t need to be the star every time—but shouldn’t you shine at least once?

Otherwise, are you really necessary?

“Someone who brings balance” didn’t have to be Choi Jaesung.

And that scared him.

Because Jaesung couldn’t stand the idea of being useless.

So he had to prove it to himself.

That he could be the star.

That he belonged on this team.

And so, Choi Jaesung stepped onto the stage.

---

Today, Sedalbaekil was the special guest at indie band Baekmanwon’s solo concert.

Until now, all the indie gigs they had joined were small-scale—usually under 300 people, sometimes even fewer than 20.

But today was different.

Baekmanwon was currently the hottest band in the indie scene.

Nearly 1,000 people had filled the venue.

That’s why Sedalbaekil opened the show—despite being stars from a variety show that broke 10% in ratings.

Because Baekmanwon knew—this was their stage.

And under the spotlight, the first to step onstage alone was Choi Jaesung.

“Choi Jaesung! It’s Choi Jaesung!”

“Holy—!”

Fans lucky enough to spot Sedalbaekil recognized him instantly.

But Baekmanwon’s fans didn’t.

“Who’s that?”

“No idea.”

They didn’t know Choi Jaesung, though some did know Sedalbaekil.

But let’s be real—when you think of Sedalbaekil, Han Si-on comes to mind first, then maybe Lee I-on.

Jaesung was probably fifth on that list.

So amidst a bit of curiosity and mostly indifference, the music began.

♬♪♪♪♪♪

No intro. No greeting.

Just a slow, mid-tempo R&B beat filling the stage.

Jaesung stood still, barely nodding along, before lifting the mic.

On the day you left—
The weather was just right
The breeze was cool

“Huh?”

As Jaesung began to sing, Baekmanwon’s fans perked up.

Familiar lyrics. Familiar melody.

It was “A Good Day”—the hit that made Baekmanwon the kings of the indie scene.

A Good Day had gained love for its bittersweet depiction of walking home after a breakup.

Jaesung had reworked it into a mid-tempo R&B piece.

This was his idea.

Han Si-on arranged the track, but the direction came from Jaesung.

So the rearranged version wasn’t wildly different.

The melody was the same. The chorus, untouched.

Just slower. Smoother. Thicker beats.

In a way, it was a textbook rearrangement.

But Jaesung liked that.

Sure, it was cool when Si-on completely rebuilt a song from scratch.

But wasn’t it also fun to take something familiar—and make it just a little unfamiliar?

The crowd responded well.

“Not bad.”

They actually focused on a cold-open set.

And then the real performance began.

At the end of the street
A nameless flower bloomed—

His voice flowed softly.

There are solo artists who sing better. Rappers who flow better. Dancers more skilled. Better-looking idols.

That’s why people often dismiss idols.

“If there are more talented people out there, why do you get all the attention?”

But that’s exactly why being an idol is brutal.

If talent alone were enough, we’d only see singers and dancers at the top.

If looks alone could carry a career, every debut lineup would be supermodels.

But everyone knows—that’s not how it works.

There’s more to it.

To Jaesung, that more was the stage.

Sunlight shining down—

At that moment, Jaesung extended his free arm.

Then started dancing—movements that matched the smooth R&B vibe.

There are many types of dance, but it all comes down to lines.

Do you move in straight lines? Curves?

Do your motions snap, or flow slowly?

Only when you can control these elements can you create choreography that fits a melody.

And Jaesung’s dance fit perfectly.

A Good Day originally suited bright guitar riffs.

But Jaesung layered it onto a sticky beat, built his base on a lean-back posture, and extended every motion in long, fluid arcs.

Listening alone, it might sound like a simple genre shift.

But with the choreography? It was something else.

The warmth and humidity
Of walking beside you—

You could feel it.

That desperate wish to spend this beautiful day together.

That ache of someone who still hasn’t let go.

Even though the original was about quiet resignation.

To Baekmanwon’s fans, it was a surprise.

Same lyrics. Same melody.

Completely different emotion.

And it didn’t feel cheesy or forced.

Soon, the chorus arrived.

A good day—
A good day—
Except for the one thing
That we broke up—

Even during the chorus’ soaring high notes, Jaesung’s dance didn’t lose clarity.

It only grew stronger.

He punctuated each wave with emphasis, stretching his curves even further.

Baekmanwon’s own members, watching from the wings, were surprised.

Si-on once joked about Jaesung’s absurd lung capacity—that he should’ve been a swimmer.

That endurance showed here.

Singing and dancing isn’t easy. But for Jaesung, it wasn’t hard.

He didn’t sing better than Saemiro.

Didn’t have better rhythm than Taehwan. Wasn’t more handsome than I-on.

But he never thought those were the only paths to success.

Because he’s an idol.

Waaaah!
WOOOOO!

The first cheers erupted.

And Jaesung earned every one.

As the chorus ended and the second verse began—

Three men appeared behind him and joined the choreography.

On Saemiro, Goo Taehwan, Lee I-on.

No sign of Han Si-on.

But no one needed to be told.

This was Sedalbaekil.

And finally, Baekmanwon’s fans realized—

The soloist who opened the show was Choi Jaesung.

Another wave of cheers.

This time, not just for Jaesung—but for the whole group.

Yet everyone watching could feel it—

That tonight, they weren’t watching “Sedalbaekil featuring Choi Jaesung.”

They were watching “Choi Jaesung’s Sedalbaekil.”