Little Pink Starfish

Memories from the past surface suddenly.

It’s as if human memory has limited capacity and stays compressed most of the time, only to decompress when triggered.

The moment I arrived at the waiting room for MBN’s year-end music awards, memories of the For The Youth days came rushing back.

I’m not entirely sure, but I think the waiting room location was exactly the same.

Of course, while the room may be the same, everything else was vastly different.

Not just the difference between Sedalbaekil and For The Youth—the year itself had changed. It wasn’t 2017 anymore; it was 2020.

Or was it 2019? I remember activities being restricted after about a year and a half because of COVID.

Naturally, the achievements were very different.

Sedalbaekil was far superior.

Even back then, I was a regressor, but I wasn’t as complete as I am now.

I could sing decently but only played guitar and piano—and not even at top-tier level.

I was among the better domestic pop singers, but not more than that.

So I needed my teammates’ help back then.

I had proposed a performance at the year-end show to the For The Youth members—something similar to what we were doing today…

‘Why go that far?’

‘Yeah, it’s not like nailing today’s stage will boost music show rankings.’

‘It’s year-end. Let’s just enjoy it.’

I was rejected.

We weren’t even on bad terms at the time.

Having debuted and rocketed to success right away, we were too busy to argue.

Their refusal and reasons were genuine.

They simply didn’t have enough motivation to push themselves that far.

I think I was angry.

It felt absurd that people living their one and only life could say something like that.

If anyone didn’t need to stake everything on one stage, it was me.

Of course, now I understand how they felt.

Not everyone lives life at full throttle, nor is that the only right way to live.

But at least for my teammates, I want people who give it their all.

People who strive relentlessly to improve.

Like Sedalbaekil.

But how did it turn out like this?

“Goo Tae-hwan.”

“Yeah?”

“Wasn’t practice hard?”

“Of course.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Huh? Because we had to.”

“That’s what I mean. Why go this far? We could’ve settled for a decent stage.”

Goo Tae-hwan rolled his eyes.

A rare sight.

He’s usually sharp enough to anticipate most situations.

But to this simple question, he couldn’t answer right away. After some hesitation, he finally opened his mouth.

Even then, in the form of a question.

“Was it for a sense of accomplishment?”

Not satisfied, I asked the others similar questions and got similar answers.

It was Onsaemiro who led me to the answer.

“Why do you go that far?”

Her question felt like one I’d often been asked during For The Youth days.

Back then, my teammates would sometimes ask why I pushed so hard.

My answer was always simple.

“Just because.”

“What the heck. You’re the same as us.”

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Yeah, just because.

Because I can.

Maybe it’s not grand things like ambition or accomplishment that drive us.

Even before I was a regressor, I was the type to obsessively perfect a single song.

We just happened to gather a bunch of people like that.

Not because I, as a regressor, handpicked them—just by pure coincidence.

Come to think of it, the only idol groups I’ve ever been in were For The Youth and Sedalbaekil. And For The Youth was only my second life.

That’s surprising.

Usually, when I enter a new field, I spend at least five lives on it.

Except for things like classical music where the talent gap was overwhelming, or gospel where cultural and racial divides were too great.

So…

Maybe today’s stage is my answer to my former For The Youth members.

The answer to their question: “Why go that far?” and their refusal to do so.

And maybe that answer is quite fitting.

“One, two, three, four, click, one, two, three, four, bam.”

Watching the members nervously rehearse moves that are already second nature from endless practice, I feel confident.

---

2017 had been a strong year for Korea’s economy.

The festive year-end spirit was palpable in the streets—and the broadcast industry was no different.

Pilot shows and special year-end programs shoved onto schedules by networks performed quite well.

It may sound like a stretch, but TV ratings surprisingly correlate with real economic conditions.

Not because people have more time to watch TV, but because their peace of mind changes.

In this climate, MBN was first to kick off the year-end music award shows.

In the distant past, when major networks monopolized Korea’s content industry, all the year-end shows aired at the same time on different channels.

But not anymore.

Now, networks negotiate scheduling, driven by capitalist logic.

For example, other broadcasters would gauge their ad rates while monitoring MBN’s ratings.

But all of this was business. The viewers didn’t care.

They just wanted to cheer for their favorite singers or hear their favorite songs.

-Why are year-end music shows always such a mess? Even all three major networks.

-It’s like an unwritten rule. No idea why, it just is.

-Maybe because they don’t get enough rehearsal time?

-Still, it’s ridiculous.

-Weirdly enough, though, the sound system is excellent LOL crystal clear.

-Yup. You can easily tell the difference between AR and live vocals LOL

By the time the perfectly staged first half ended, viewers noticed that certain artists hadn’t performed yet—those who were award nominees.

From part two onward, the awarded artists would take the stage.

Actually, due to endless controversies, the major networks agreed in 2006 to abolish year-end awards.

But as the buzz and ratings declined, SBN revived them in 2012.

MBN followed suit in 2014, while KBN still hadn’t made a move.

Though revived, these awards now felt more like distributing honorary titles than ranking artists.

M SHOW, unlike the major networks, continued to award proper ranks.

So today, most viewers cared only about two awards: Rookie of the Year and Grand Prize.

It seemed like Sedalbaekil was a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year, but the Grand Prize was uncertain.

Few artists had ever won both at once.

But in a twist, MBN gave Rookie of the Year to FFBA, who debuted in January.

-FFBA really had the luckiest run among rookie idols LOL They dominated from January to June, then went off to China.

-Why?

-They avoided going head-to-head with Sedalbaekil.

-Oh LOL

-It’s wild how they blew up in China right after debut. More popular there than here.

-I thought Sedalbaekil would win Rookie of the Year…

-Probably saving them for Grand Prize.

-Nah, FFBA’s agency is super tight with MBN. Practically family.

-They’re good-looking though LOL

After FFBA’s stage, minor awards followed.

Then came the surprise.

Sedalbaekil was awarded “Trend of the Year” — a brand-new category never seen before.

-LOL what a way to showcase the struggles of an independent group.

-Sedalbaekil’s indie diary isn’t over LOL

-Is MBN out of its mind? Ignoring Apple’s endorsement?

-But Sedalbaekil barely appeared on MBN. Makes sense. It’s not like this is the Korean Music Awards.

-What are you talking about? MBN’s where Sedalbaekil did the most work on network TV.

-Huh? Where?

–Masked Singer.

-LOL

-Oh right, Onsaemiro was there four weeks straight.

-And even graduated with honors LOL

While casual viewers were surprised, hardcore fans had already seen this coming.

Even Titi wasn’t fazed.

Sure, private fan forums were blowing up, but outwardly, everyone remained composed.

Meanwhile, Han Si-on took the mic.

He hesitated as he started speaking, briefly looked up at the lights, then finally spoke again.

No one knew, but these words weren’t pre-planned.

They were spontaneous—triggered by a sudden memory.

[…Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve given an acceptance speech. Though, technically, it hasn’t been that long.]

The public thought nothing of it, but Titi tilted their heads.

As far as they knew, Han Si-on had never made an acceptance speech before.

Han Si-on was recalling his previous life’s final moment.

Receiving a main award at the 2028 Grammys, he had said:

“Thank you for everything. To all of you.”

“I’ll never forget. No matter how many lives I repeat, there’ll never be a band more perfect than this.”

After that speech, he had regressed—and started his new life in Korea.

Exactly one year ago.

For a regressor who lives endlessly long lives, one year should mean little, yet somehow it felt long.

[I’m always grateful. To my team, and to Titi.]

[No matter how many lives I repeat, there won’t be a more comfortable, perfect team than this.]

Sedalbaekil’s fandom was surprised he called them Titi rather than “time traveler.”

But the members were even more surprised by one word: “comfortable.”

To them, Han Si-on had always seemed self-destructive.

Especially when sinking into unexplained melancholy or obsessively chasing goals.

But no one was more shocked than Han Si-on himself.

Living inside a closed time loop, he rarely allowed himself to speak of conclusions.

Saying “there won’t be anything more perfect” was practically a death sentence for him.

Even after building a perfect band, failing to sell 200 million albums meant there was no reason to keep doing bands.

Originally, Han Si-on planned to attempt K-pop idols again after Sedalbaekil ended.

But…

Maybe this really will be my last idol group.

Even if I fail.

Though the public attached little weight to it, this speech mattered deeply to the insiders.

After the speech, the stage preparation began.

On site, it took time to set up, but for the broadcast, it was seamless.

Even though it was “live,” the footage wasn’t actually streaming in real time.

There was usually a 3 to 5-minute delay.

So viewers immediately saw the stage follow-up.

“Huh?”

I was a little surprised.

Only a single grand piano sat in the middle of the stage.