My own BTS part 3
2914 Words
Chapter Three
The Girl at the Roadside Stall
At five o'clock every morning, before the sun had properly decided whether it wanted to rise, Han Seo-yeon was already awake.
She never needed an alarm.
The smell of onions frying in oil was enough.
It drifted through the tiny room where she slept, slipped beneath the thin blanket, and pulled her gently out of whatever dream she had been having.
Sometimes she wished she could stay asleep.
Not because she hated waking up.
But because dreams were the only place where she had everything she didn't have in real life.
A warm house.
A refrigerator that was always full.
A mother who didn't have to count every coin before buying groceries.
A school uniform that wasn't beginning to fade at the elbows.
And, sometimes, a stage.
A real stage.
Bright lights.
A microphone in her hand.
Thousands of people listening.
She would stand there and sing until her chest hurt.
Then someone would call her name.
“Seo-yeon!”
She would turn.
And wake up.
Every morning, the dream disappeared.
Every morning, the smell of frying onions remained.
“Seo-yeon.”
Her mother's voice came from the kitchen.
“I'm awake.”
“You said that yesterday and slept another twenty minutes.”
Seo-yeon smiled beneath her blanket.
“I wasn't sleeping.”
“You were dreaming.”
Seo-yeon sat up.
“How do you know?”
“Because you were smiling.”
Seo-yeon froze.
Her mother laughed softly from the other room.
“You smile when you're dreaming.”
Seo-yeon looked down.
She didn't tell her mother what she had been dreaming about.
She never did.
Some dreams felt safer when they remained inside your head.
Their home was small.
Very small.
There was one bedroom, a narrow kitchen, a bathroom with an old door that didn't close properly, and a sitting area that became a sleeping space whenever someone came to visit.
The paint on the walls had begun to peel.
When it rained heavily, one corner of the ceiling leaked.
Her mother had placed a small plastic bucket underneath it.
Seo-yeon had once joked that the bucket was their third family member.
Her mother had laughed.
“Don't insult the bucket.”
“It doesn't pay rent.”
“Neither do you.”
Seo-yeon had burst out laughing.
Those were the moments she treasured.
Because even though they didn't have much...
they had each other.
And sometimes that felt like enough.
Sometimes.
Her mother, Han Mi-sook, had never had an easy life.
Seo-yeon knew that.
She had grown up watching her mother's hands.
They told stories her mother never spoke about.
The small cuts from knives.
The burns from hot oil.
The rough skin from washing dishes.
The swollen fingers from carrying heavy containers.
Her mother rarely complained.
Even when she was tired.
Especially when she was tired.
She would simply say:
“Tomorrow will be better.”
Seo-yeon had begun to wonder whether her mother actually believed that.
Or whether she simply said it because her daughter needed to hear it.
By six in the morning, they were outside.
Their food stall stood beside a busy road.
It wasn't much.
A small metal table.
A large pot.
A gas burner.
Plastic containers.
A few stools.
A faded umbrella that had survived more rainy seasons than anyone could remember.
But it was theirs.
Their little business.
Their little hope.
Their way of surviving.
Mi-sook prepared the food while Seo-yeon arranged the containers.
“Put the eggs there.”
“Okay.”
“And the rice?”
“Here.”
“The spoons?”
“Already there.”
Her mother looked at her.
“You're getting better.”
“At what?”
“Running the stall.”
Seo-yeon smiled.
“Maybe I'll take over one day.”
Her mother's hands stopped.
Just for a second.
Then she smiled.
“You'll do something much bigger than this.”
Seo-yeon looked at her.
“What if I don't?”
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I'm your mother.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
Her mother laughed.
“It answers everything.”
Seo-yeon smiled.
But somewhere inside her, a small voice whispered:
What if she's wrong?
The first customers arrived before seven.
Office workers.
Taxi drivers.
Construction workers.
Students.
People who didn't have time to cook breakfast.
“Two portions.”
“Three eggs.”
“Please make mine spicy.”
“Can I have more soup?”
Her mother moved quickly.
Seo-yeon moved beside her.
They worked like they had practiced the same dance for years.
Scoop.
Pour.
Wrap.
Collect money.
Give change.
Next customer.
Sometimes Seo-yeon barely had time to breathe.
And yet she liked those mornings.
There was something comforting about being useful.
About knowing that if she didn't show up, her mother would struggle.
She hated the poverty.
But she loved her mother.
Those two feelings existed together.
And neither one was stronger.
At eight o'clock, Seo-yeon left for school.
Her uniform was clean.
That was important to her.
It was old, but she washed it carefully every evening.
She had learned how to make old clothes look less old.
She kept her shoes polished.
She repaired loose buttons herself.
She never wanted anyone to look at her and immediately know how poor she was.
But children notice everything.
Especially children who have more than you.
“Seo-yeon.”
She turned.
A girl from her class was standing with two friends.
“Why do you always smell like food?”
They laughed.
Seo-yeon's face became hot.
“I don't.”
“You do.”
“Maybe she works at a restaurant.”
Another girl laughed.
“Maybe her mother owns one.”
Seo-yeon said nothing.
She walked past them.
She had learned that silence was sometimes the cheapest form of protection.
But words followed her.
“Roadside girl.”
She kept walking.
“Hey, Seo-yeon!”
She didn't turn around.
“Roadside girl!”
Her hands tightened around her schoolbag.
She wanted to cry.
She didn't.
She refused.
Not there.
Not in front of them.
In class, she sat near the window.
She liked the window.
It gave her somewhere to look whenever she didn't want to look at people.
Her teacher began explaining the lesson.
Seo-yeon listened.
She always listened.
She was a good student.
Not because school was easy.
Because she knew education was one of the few things nobody could take from her.
Her mother had once told her:
“Money can disappear.”
“People can leave.”
“Things can break.”
“But what you learn stays with you.”
Seo-yeon believed that.
So she studied.
Even when she was tired.
Even when she hadn't eaten enough.
Even when she had spent the morning working.
She studied.
Because somewhere inside her was a quiet determination.
She would not spend her entire life standing beside that roadside stall.
She loved her mother.
But she wanted more for both of them.
Seo-yeon had a notebook.
It was old.
The cover had been bent so many times that the corners were soft.
She kept it hidden beneath her mattress.
Nobody knew about it.
Not her classmates.
Not her teachers.
Not even her mother.
Inside were her dreams.
Not homework.
Not school notes.
Dreams.
She wrote songs.
Little pieces of stories.
Thoughts.
Words she was too afraid to say aloud.
Sometimes she wrote about being famous.
Sometimes she wrote about leaving the neighborhood.
Sometimes she wrote about taking her mother somewhere beautiful.
A place where her mother wouldn't have to stand beside a hot stove for twelve hours.
One page contained only one sentence.
One day, I'll give Mama a life where she doesn't have to choose between eating and paying the bills.
Seo-yeon stared at that sentence often.
It was the promise she had made to herself.
Another page said:
I want to sing.
Underneath it, she had written:
But wanting something doesn't mean you can have it.
She had scratched that sentence out.
Then written another.
Maybe I can.
Then scratched that out too.
She eventually wrote:
I don't know.
That was the truth.
She didn't know.
Seo-yeon's singing began with her mother.
When she was little, Mi-sook used to sing while cooking.
Nothing complicated.
Just old songs she remembered from her own childhood.
Seo-yeon would sit nearby and listen.
One day, she began singing along.
Her mother stopped.
“Again.”
Seo-yeon looked embarrassed.
“What?”
“Sing that again.”
Seo-yeon sang.
Her mother stared at her.
Then smiled.
“You have your father's voice.”
Seo-yeon didn't know much about her father.
He had left when she was young.
There were no dramatic stories.
No great explanation.
Just absence.
A space in their home that eventually became normal.
Seo-yeon rarely asked questions.
She had learned early that some answers hurt more than silence.
So she sang instead.
When she was happy.
When she was sad.
When she was angry.
When she couldn't sleep.
Singing became the one place where she didn't feel poor.
When she sang, she wasn't the girl with the old uniform.
She wasn't the girl people called “roadside girl.”
She wasn't the daughter of a struggling food seller.
She was simply Seo-yeon.
And that was enough.
There was one person at school who occasionally noticed her singing.
His name was Min-jae.
He sat two rows behind her.
He wasn't her boyfriend.
They weren't close.
He was simply one of the few people who didn't make fun of her.
One afternoon, he heard her singing quietly while she packed her books.
“You sing well.”
Seo-yeon froze.
“I wasn't singing.”
He smiled.
“You were.”
“No.”
“You definitely were.”
She put her books away quickly.
“Don't tell anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
He shrugged.
“Okay.”
She looked at him suspiciously.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Why?”
“Because you looked happy.”
That answer surprised her.
She looked down.
“I am happy.”
Min-jae smiled.
“Then you should sing more.”
She didn't answer.
Because she wanted to.
More than anything.
But wanting something and believing you deserved it were two different things.
One afternoon, Seo-yeon saw a poster.
It was pinned outside a music academy.
YOUNG TALENT AUDITIONS
She stopped walking.
Her eyes moved over the words.
Singers.
Dancers.
Performers.
Open auditions.
She stood there for almost ten minutes.
Then she looked at the fee.
Her heart sank.
There was a registration fee.
It wasn't enormous.
To someone else.
To Seo-yeon, it might as well have been a mountain.
She reached into her pocket.
She had enough for bus fare home.
Nothing more.
She looked at the poster again.
Then walked away.
She didn't cry.
She simply walked.
But that night, she opened her notebook.
She wrote:
Today I found a door.
Then:
I couldn't afford to open it.
She stared at the page.
A tear fell onto the ink.
She quickly wiped it away.
Then she closed the notebook.
A few weeks later, heavy rain came.
The kind that turned roads into rivers.
Customers stopped coming.
The umbrella above the stall shook violently in the wind.
“Pack up,” Seo-yeon told her mother.
“We still have food.”
“Nobody is coming.”
“We can't waste it.”
Her mother tried to keep working.
Seo-yeon watched her.
Her mother was soaked.
Her hair stuck to her face.
Her hands trembled from the cold.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Please.”
Her mother looked at her.
Seo-yeon took the pot.
“I'll carry it.”
“I can do it.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“But let me help.”
Together, they packed everything.
They carried the supplies home through the rain.
Halfway there, the bag tore.
Food spilled onto the road.
Seo-yeon froze.
Her mother closed her eyes.
For a few seconds, neither moved.
Then Mi-sook crouched down.
She began picking up what she could.
Seo-yeon joined her.
Rain poured over them.
“I'm sorry,” Seo-yeon whispered.
Her mother looked at her.
“Why are you sorry?”
“I don't know.”
Her mother reached out and touched her face.
“Don't apologize for things you cannot control.”
Seo-yeon's eyes filled with tears.
“I just want things to be easier for you.”
Her mother smiled sadly.
“Then become strong.”
“I am strong.”
“I know.”
Her mother squeezed her hand.
“But strength doesn't mean never crying.”
Seo-yeon looked away.
That sentence stayed with her.
That night, after her mother fell asleep, Seo-yeon opened her notebook.
She sat beside the window.
Rain tapped against the glass.
She wrote:
I want to become a singer.
She stared at the sentence.
Then she wrote:
I want to stand on a stage.
Then:
I want people to hear my voice.
Her hand stopped.
She looked toward her mother sleeping.
Then she wrote:
I want to make Mama proud.
She closed the notebook.
For the first time, she didn't cross anything out.
Months passed.
Seo-yeon continued working.
School.
Stall.
Home.
Homework.
Sleep.
Repeat.
But something inside her had changed.
She had stopped asking whether her dream was possible.
Instead, she began asking:
How?
How could she sing?
How could she learn?
How could she save money?
How could she get an opportunity?
She started watching free singing lessons whenever she could.
She practiced quietly.
She recorded herself using an old phone.
She listened.
Corrected herself.
Tried again.
Sometimes she hated the recordings.
Sometimes she loved them.
But she never stopped.
One night, she stood alone behind the food stall after closing.
The street was almost empty.
She looked at the sky.
Then she sang.
Her voice rose softly into the night.
Nobody clapped.
Nobody cheered.
Nobody told her she was good.
But she smiled anyway.
Because for those few minutes...
she wasn't waiting for permission.
She was simply singing.
Then came the night everything changed.
Her mother received another bill.
Another debt.
Another warning.
Seo-yeon watched her mother's face collapse.
“You borrowed money again?”
Her mother didn't answer.
“For the business?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you're my daughter.”
“I can help.”
“You're a child.”
“I can still help!”
Her mother's voice suddenly rose.
“Then stop dreaming!”
Silence.
Seo-yeon froze.
Her mother immediately regretted it.
“Seo-yeon...”
But it was too late.
The words had landed.
Stop dreaming.
Seo-yeon grabbed her jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't go out.”
“I need air.”
“Seo-yeon!”
She opened the door.
Her mother followed.
“Please.”
Seo-yeon stopped.
For a moment, she almost turned around.
Almost.
Then she whispered:
“I just need somewhere I can breathe.”
And she walked away.
She didn't know where she was going.
She only knew she couldn't stay.
She walked for an hour.
Then another.
Eventually, she found a quiet place behind an old building.
She sat down.
And cried.
The kind of crying that comes after holding everything inside for too long.
She cried for her mother.
For herself.
For the father who had left.
For the classmates who laughed.
For the audition she couldn't afford.
For the dreams she was afraid to say aloud.
Then she remembered her notebook.
She pulled it out.
Opened it.
And whispered:
“Maybe I'm stupid.”
Her voice broke.
“Maybe dreams are for people who have money.”
She wiped her face.
“Maybe people like me aren't supposed to want too much.”
She closed her eyes.
Then something inside her refused to believe that.
She took a breath.
And began to sing.
Not quietly.
Not carefully.
She sang like she was fighting for something.
Like every note carried a piece of her life.
Like if she stopped singing, all the things she had been holding inside would crush her.
Her voice travelled through the night.
Past the empty street.
Past the buildings.
Past the silence.
And then...
footsteps stopped.
Seo-yeon didn't know.
She couldn't see them.
But seven young men had just turned the corner.
Seven people whose lives had already been changed by music.
Seven people who knew what it meant to dream when nobody believed in you.
They stood silently.
Listening.
And one of them slowly lowered his phone.
Another stopped breathing for a moment.
Someone whispered:
“Who is she?”
But Jungkook didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because he knew that voice.
Not from a song.
Not from a recording.
From years ago.
From a girl who had once run away from them.
The girl with the notebook.
The girl whose voice had stayed in his memory.
Han Seo-yeon.
She was still singing.
She still didn't know they were there.
And this time...
Jungkook wasn't going to let her disappear.
Not again.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
His heart was beating faster.
He didn't know what he was going to say.
He didn't know what she would do when she saw him.
He only knew one thing.
The story he thought had ended years ago...
had just begun.
To be continued...
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