Chapter 4: Out Of Place
873 Words
Back to Sieun's POV
The practice room felt different today.
Yesterday, I had stood against the wall like a mistake no one knew how to erase. Today, I was expected to step forward. To move. To belong.
I didn't.
The girls were already inside when I arrived, stretching, talking quickly in English. Their voices blended together, sharp and confident, like they'd always done this together. When they noticed me, the conversation died instantly.
I bowed out of habit.
"안녕하세요," I said quietly.
Hello.
A few of them nodded. One smiled awkwardly.
The girl from yesterday—the one who looked Korean—stood near the mirror. Calm posture. Steady eyes. She looked collected, like nothing rattled her.
I didnt know anyone here. So why was i here?
The manager clapped her hands once. "Okay! Today, Sieun will try practicing with you."
I caught my name. Nothing else.
One of the girls frowned. "But he doesn't understand English."
They all looked at each other.
Then they looked at her.
The girl stiffened almost imperceptibly.
"Can you translate?" someone asked.
For half a second, she didn't respond. Then she nodded.
"Okay," she said evenly.
She turned to me and spoke in Korean.
"오늘은 같이 연습할 거예요," she said.
Today, we're going to practice together.
I blinked, then nodded.
"아... 알겠습니다," I replied.
Ah... okay.
Her voice was steady. Professional. If she was nervous, she didn't show it.
They began explaining the choreography—fast English, hands moving, feet demonstrating steps. I watched closely, memorizing shapes instead of words.
The girl turned back to me.
"여기 자리로 오세요," she said, pointing to the center.
Come stand here.
"With everyone?" I asked.
"네."
Yes.
I stepped into position.
The music started.
And immediately, I knew.
This wasn't made for me.
Their movements were controlled but fluid. Sharp, but soft. When they turned, their shoulders rolled naturally, their expressions gentle but powerful.
My body didn't do that.
The beat hit, and instinct took over.
I moved with force. Grounded. Heavy. My steps were wider, my shoulders squared. Where they softened, I hit harder. Where they flowed, I snapped.
Masculine.
Unapologetically so.
The music stopped.
Silence.
I looked around, confused.
They were staring.
One of them said something slowly. Another sighed. A third shook her head.
The girl beside me swallowed, then translated carefully.
"조금... 에너지가 너무 강하대요," she said.
They say your energy is a bit too strong.
I nodded. "아... 원래 이렇게 춰요."
Ah... this is how I usually dance.
She relayed that in English.
The music restarted.
I tried again.
I tried to soften my shoulders, loosen my steps, shrink my movements—but my body resisted. It felt wrong, like pretending to be someone else.
The song ended again.
This time, no one spoke.
One girl muttered something I didn't understand.
The translator hesitated, then said,
"이 안무는... 그런 스타일이 아니래요."
They said this choreography isn't made for that style.
I exhaled slowly.
"그럼... 내가 뭘 해야 돼요?"
Then... what am I supposed to do?
She met my eyes for a brief moment. Something flickered there—sympathy, maybe. Then she straightened.
"천천히 맞춰가면 돼요," she said gently.
We can adjust slowly.
They moved on to vocals.
That was worse.
The song played, and they sang—bright voices, layered harmonies, light and clean. It fit them perfectly.
Then they looked at me.
One of them asked something.
The girl hesitated before translating.
"랩... 해볼래요?"
Do you want to try rapping?
I let out a short breath of a laugh.
"이 노래에?"
In this song?
She nodded.
I stepped forward anyway.
The beat played.
I rapped.
My voice dropped low, rough and heavy. The sound didn't blend—it collided. Sat awkwardly on top of the track like it didn't belong there.
When it ended, the room was silent.
No translation needed.
I stepped back, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor.
As practice wrapped up, the distance between us felt wider than ever.
The girl spoke to the others in English, then turned back to me.
"오늘... 수고하셨어요," she said softly.
You worked hard today.
I nodded.
"도와줘서... 고마워요," I said.
Thank you for helping me.
For the first time, her composure slipped—just a little.
Then she smiled politely and looked away.
I left the practice room knowing one thing for certain.
I didn't belong here.
And somehow, that hurt more than any bad review ever had.
As I walked out, my phone stayed silent.
No trending tags. No messages. No chaos.
This wasn't public. Not yet.
Whatever this was... it was still a secret.
- Writer
