Little Pink Starfish

How long I’ve lived isn’t even worth talking about anymore — I don’t know exactly myself.

During my antidepressant addiction or unconscious regressions, my sense of time was a mess.

Sometimes, what felt like a week would turn out to be months.

But one thing is certain — I’ve lived an amount of time beyond estimation.

And I’ve accumulated a network of connections equally beyond estimation.

There was a time I found meeting people from my past lives painful.

In those lives, we were close enough to comfort each other’s traumas. But in this life, only I remember those connections.

When I approach them with familiarity, they look at me with wary eyes.

So I came to understand.

Connections for a regressor aren’t about relationships between people.

With a single regression, all context is erased.

For me, connections are simply familiar behavioral patterns. “If I do this, that person reacts like that.”

In that sense, my GOTM friends are the most familiar connections I have.

I’ve spent nearly ten regressions with them (though the initial members have shifted), and I know what they like and dislike.

That’s why I know what Dave Logan means with his words.

“Edward’s talking nonsense, saying you’re the best guitarist.”

He isn’t doubting me or picking a fight.

He’s just expressing his desire to hear my guitar—indirectly.

How dishonest.

“The best is Eric Scott.”

“Not Slowhand?”

“That’s more of a personal preference, isn’t it?”

Slowhand is Eric Clapton’s nickname, earned through the beauty of his slow guitar playing.

Dave Logan worships Clapton, though ironically, he himself can’t play slowly.

Looking around at the GOTM members:

Drummer Andrew Gunn.

Guitarist Dave Logan.

Bassist John Sky.

Keyboardist Steve Lipgren.

And me—lead vocalist, second guitarist, second keyboardist, second bassist.

This team was…

‘The Grammy Award for Album of the Year goes to…!’

‘Gram Of The Minute!’

‘GOTM! Congratulations!’

GOTM.

At that moment, I felt something stirring inside me.

It was strange.

Meeting people from previous lives is so familiar to me—I shouldn’t be emotionally shaken.

Of course, regression depression strikes without warning.

I felt down even when releasing The First Day with Sedalbaekil.

But this? This feels different.

And honestly, I don’t think it’s sadness.

Some other emotion was swirling inside me, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Just then, the door opened and Eddie walked in with his manager, Alex.

They’d brought loads of pizza and fries.

“Introductions done?”

“Is a handshake really an introduction? Instruments are better for that.”

Dave Logan grumbled.

He was clearly sulking about not hearing my guitar yet.

He’ll hear it soon enough.

Ignoring Dave’s complaint, I shook hands with Alex.

“How’ve you been, Alex?”

“Good. I’ve been following your career closely. If I had offered a million dollars back then, would you have signed with us?”

When Alex came to Korea with Eddie, he offered me a hefty signing bonus.

He wanted to sign me personally to HR Corporation, separate from Sedalbaekil’s contract.

Naturally, I declined.

I intended to pursue my career in Korea.

Alex still seemed disappointed about that.

Honestly, even if it had been a million, I wouldn’t have accepted — but it’s polite to humor him.

“I might have, if it were a million.”

“Too late now?”

“Too late. Bring ten million next time.”

“At that price, I might as well sign Beyoncé.”

“Fair point.”

We laughed.

Then came the topic of distribution.

“Even if you don’t promote in the U.S., having a distribution deal isn’t bad. It was a shame there was no additional promotion when you charted on Billboard.”

HR wasn’t a company I’d worked with before.

It was a bastion of traditional white music industries — not ideal for someone like me, a person of color.

People supporting me might’ve been disappointed had I signed with HR back then.

But now that I’m mainly active in Korea, HR might actually be a good partner.

I left my answer open.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Come on, let’s save the boring talk for later. Let’s record first. We don’t have much time.”

At Eddie’s words, I shook my head.

GOTM were ambitious, driven people.

Even after earning ridiculous amounts of money, they’d rather invest in their next album than enjoy luxury.

That’s why I chose them, and why we worked together.

They wouldn’t trust Eddie’s words so easily.

“Let’s jam first.”

I called PD Kang Seokwoo over.

Though the cameras were set up, he asked to be notified whenever something noteworthy happened.

Soon, the Self Made filming crew flooded the HR studio.

The spacious studio now felt packed.

“What are we playing?”

“Not sure.”

I still wasn’t feeling right.

Not depressed—more like unsettled?

No, not even that.

One reason I love music is that it helps me identify emotions I can’t name.

I picked up my guitar and started playing.

The base framework was Players.

The song I wrote recalling GOTM after my regression—originally titled The Dreamers in Korean.

Eddie had re-arranged it. Initially, I didn’t like his version, but now I was satisfied with it.

As my guitar began to wail, Dave Logan’s expression changed.

The beauty of slowness.

He recognized echoes of Eric Clapton’s style.

But this was no mere imitation.

It was something honed through countless years of practice.

Drummer Andrew Gunn joined in first.

A strange guy who loves hi-hats yet knows how to unleash thunderous sounds.

As Andrew laid down the beat, the house was built.

The guitar filled the living room; the bass and keyboard filled the rooms.

But Logan still couldn’t join in.

Because I wouldn’t let him.

He could force his way in, but doing so would lower the quality of the current play—and he knew it.

Logan’s face turned red.

Even back in the Chicago rehab center, trembling from withdrawal, he said:

“My hands don’t have to be perfect. I’m still the best.”

He trusted his talent even when no one else did.

And truthfully, he was a real genius—one that needed time to fully bloom.

Now, he was facing a true wall for the first time.

Of course, I’m not saying I’m the world’s best guitarist.

In pure skill, there are a few better than me.

Maybe I could count them on ten fingers?

No, maybe just five.

But I know Logan’s potential better than anyone, and I could become his biggest wall.

As Logan struggled, the others grew excited.

They were enjoying playing with me.

Finally, Logan couldn’t hold back and jumped in.

He wasn’t trying to harmonize or outdo me.

He just wanted to show what his guitar could do.

And so began a rodeo.

As Logan’s guitar galloped wildly, I pulled it back.

There’s a difference between speed and recklessness.

If Logan learns this, he’ll become the best.

“…!”

It must’ve been frustrating.

Whenever he tried to burst forward, I blocked him melodically.

Ignoring me would result in dissonance — something he couldn’t tolerate.

Time passed like this.

“Damn it. You win. You’re a genius.”

The jam ended.

But I didn’t stop.

I picked up the bass next and repeated the same process.

John Sky isn’t as extreme as Logan.

In a way, he’s like Choi Jaesung in Sedalbaekil.

The one who balances everything.

That’s the essence of bass.

What John needed wasn’t technique — it was mindset.

Confidence that the bass could lead the sound.

Belief that he could be the protagonist.

Then I moved on to the keyboardist.

“Damn. This is insane.”

Their reactions were fiery.

Demonstrating various possibilities within the same song on different instruments, while considering each performer’s characteristics — not easy.

But I could do it.

And it amazed Eddie and Alex.

Their expressions were telling.

Eddie was ecstatic; Alex was regretful.

Regretful that he couldn’t sign me.

PD Kang Seokwoo was thrilled.

Partly because it would make great footage, but also because Korean men of his generation have a romantic nostalgia for band sounds.

Though he never said it, I knew he loved bands.

But the most shocked were the GOTM members.

Or rather, not GOTM anymore — they were still deciding on a new name.

At first, they resisted my controlling play, but soon their emotions took over.

Logic faded. Only feeling remained.

But the more I played, the calmer I became.

And finally, I identified the emotion I’d been struggling to name.

It wasn’t sadness or melancholy.

It was regret.

Not regret over becoming strangers with GOTM.

I’m used to that.

But watching the friends I spent decades with… I thought of Sedalbaekil.

Someday, they’ll become like this too.

When I challenge myself again in a future life, Sedalbaekil’s members will be scattered.

Maybe Coming Up Next won’t succeed and they won’t debut at all.

Or maybe all four, excluding me, will debut as Take Scene’s next group at Lion Entertainment.

Regardless, I’ll no longer be part of their lives.

Even if we somehow reunite, the time we shared will be lost forever.

Then I snapped back to my senses.

Lately, I think I’ve been happy.

Maybe even truly happy.

It’s hard to objectively define happiness, but I haven’t suffered regression depression in quite some time.

Even my nightmares have lessened.

But happiness solves nothing.

That’s why, before regret arrives, I must challenge myself.

Abandon the ordinary.

Turn my back on the expected.

“…!”

The thought made me spring up suddenly.

Startled by the abrupt stop, keyboardist Steve Lipgren panicked.

“W-Was my playing that bad?”

Such a timid guy.

I shook my head.

“Now you all know what to practice. Let’s meet again tomorrow.”

And I left the studio.

Returning to the hotel, I found the Sedalbaekil members deeply immersed in a board game.

“You’re back early.”

“Finished filming already?”

No cameras were rolling today, yet they were the same as ever.

I opened my mouth.

“I have a favor.”

“A favor?”

Lee Ion tilted his head.

“What is it?”

“The second album. I want to start working on it.”

“A full second album?”

“Yes.”

It might be selfish of me.

The members hadn’t fully enjoyed the success of the first album yet.

Even with such massive success, we hadn’t done much promotional activity.

But I chose to be selfish.

I wanted to be greedy.