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Jungkook : I Was Attacked Last Night — Here’s What Happened! | YouTubeToText
YouTube Transcript: Jungkook : I Was Attacked Last Night — Here’s What Happened!
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Summary
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The content is a deeply personal reflection by Jungkook of BTS on an incident where he was physically accosted by a fan after declining a photo request. It explores the emotional and psychological impact of this encounter, leading to a profound examination of fame, boundaries, humanity, and the nature of love and support.
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Hey everyone, this is Junk Cookook.
Before we start, I want to know where
you're listening from. Drop your country
in the comments below. I was attacked
last night and even now sitting here,
I'm still trying to understand what it
meant, what it woke up inside me, and
why my heart hasn't settled since it
happened. Not because I'm hurt
physically. I'm okay. Really, the bruise
on my cheek isn't the thing that's been
keeping me awake. It's the feeling
behind it. The meaning, the sudden
reminder that no matter how much love
you give to the world, there will always
be moments that test you. Moments that
shake something deeper than muscle or
bone. It was late close to midnight. I
just finished practice. Not the kind of
practice everyone sees. Not the glamour
and lights. Just me in a quiet studio,
sweating, pushing, thinking, trying to
prepare for something bigger than
myself. Sometimes I forget how long I've
been doing this. How many nights like
that I've spent alone in a room chasing
improvement, chasing honesty, chasing
some dream. I still can't fully name.
And I was tired. The kind of tire that
feels heavy in your bones. The kind that
doesn't just sit in your muscles, but in
your heart. I remember thinking, I just
wanted a shower, a bowl of warm rice,
and sleep. Simple, human. I walked out
of the building, pulling my hoodie up,
trying to just be a person going home
after a long day. The air was cold. That
kind of quiet night. Soul has sometimes
where the city feels like it's breathing
slower, like the world finally paused
for a second. And then I heard it, Jung
Cook, Jung Cook. At first, I smiled a
little because I'm used to it. It's part
of my life. People recognize me, call my
name, want a moment, and most of the
time I give it. I really do. I know what
BTS means to people. I know what we've
built together. Me, the members, army,
the music, the journey, and I'm
grateful, truly. But last night, I
didn't have the space. My mind wasn't in
performance mode. My heart wasn't
prepared to be Junk Cookook of BTS. I
was just trying to be junkook, a guy who
wanted to go home after pouring
everything into another day of trying to
be better. So when this person came
rushing toward me, excitement all over
his face, phone already out like the
moment belonged to him, I stopped him
gently and said, "Hey, I'm sorry, not
tonight. I really need to go." And
everything changed. It was immediate,
like flipping a switch. His expression
shifted from excited to confused and
then to something darker, entitled,
angry, like I had taken something from
him. Like my time belonged to him by
default and saying no was stealing. Come
on, he said just one picture, two
seconds. You owe us that. That word O.
It hit me harder than anything physical
could because what does it mean to owe?
Where does that belief come from? I
smiled again. tired, soft. I really
can't. Please understand. And then it
happened so fast. His hand shoved
against my shoulder, his other hand
grazing my face and catching under my
eye. Not hard enough to injure badly,
but enough to sting, enough to shock me,
enough to make me stumble a little,
enough to hurt in a place much deeper
than skin. He yelled about how he'd
supported me for years, how buying
albums and streaming songs meant I
belong to him, how fame means you don't
get to say no. And for a moment, I
didn't even feel anger. I just felt sad
because in that instant, I wasn't a
person. I was a product, a thing, a
reward someone thought they earned by
consuming my art. There were people
nearby, a couple whispered. Someone
lifted their phone. Someone else asked
if I was okay. And this person kept
shouting as he walked off, accusing me
of forgetting real people. And all I
could feel was this heaviness. Not fear,
not pain, but something like grief, like
losing something invisible. I got in my
car and just sat there for a minute
breathing. And suddenly, I wasn't
thinking about the shove anymore. I was
thinking about boundaries, about
humanity, about how strange it is to be
loved so loudly by millions and still
have moments where someone makes you
feel like you owe your soul just to
exist. I drove home and the whole ride I
thought about my members um about how
they've seen every version of me. The
loud one, the competitive one, the
perfectionist kid who stayed up
practicing, the tired adult who
sometimes just wants peace. Tayong
always tells me, "Kookie, you don't
always have to be strong." Jimn reminds
me that I'm allowed to be selfish
sometimes. Nam Junyang talks to me about
identity and how complicated it is to be
known by the world. Jin Hyong with his
stubborn heart would probably tell me to
laugh it off but also remind me I'm more
than what people expect. Yungi Yong he
would just look at me quietly understand
and say something simple and true that
cuts deeper than any speech. Hobi would
hug me like it's the easiest solution in
the world. And I thought about my
family. My mom's voice telling me when I
was young, respect yourself first. My
dad telling me that no matter how big
your world gets, you still deserve your
own space inside it. My brother teasing
me, reminding me I'm still just Gian
Jungkook from Busousan in a lot of ways.
Then I thought about army. Not the idea,
but the people. The faces I've seen
crying at concerts. The letters I've
read late at night when I couldn't
sleep. The warmth that comes from
knowing you help someone live a little
more bravely. And I know most army would
never ever act like that person did. I
know for millions of you loving me
doesn't mean owning me. It means
supporting me as I am flawed, tired,
learning, growing. But it only takes one
moment, one voice, one shove to remind
you that fame doesn't always feel like
love. Sometimes it feels like a cage
made out of expectations. I sat at home
looking at that faint bruise in the
mirror and I didn't think I should have
taken the picture. I thought, why did I
feel guilty for saying no? Why did a
part of me instantly wonder if I was
selfish? Where does that instinct come
from? to apologize for protecting my
energy, to feel wrong for being human.
When did no stop being an answer? And
when did someone's support become a
currency they think can buy access to
your peace? I'm 27 and I've lived in
this spotlight since I was a kid. I've
seen love, devotion, gratitude, and I've
seen entitlement disguised as support.
I've learned that sometimes kindness
becomes a prison if you don't balance it
with self-respect. That sometimes people
love the version of you they created,
not the one who breathes and bleeds and
gets tired and wants a quiet night. As I
sat there, another thought hit me. One
day soon, my life will change again.
I'll grow. I'll have a family. I'll
protect something even more personal
than my dreams. And I wonder when that
day comes, will the world let me be
human enough to choose privacy? Will I
still be allowed to say no? I don't have
a dramatic moral to end this with. I
don't have a clean answer. I'm still
processing, still letting the feelings
settle, but I know this. Being grateful
doesn't mean being available to everyone
at every moment. Love is not ownership.
Support is not a contract. And saying no
does not make me ungrateful. It makes me
human. If you've ever felt guilty for
protecting your piece, trust me, I get
it. And maybe it's time we stop
apologizing for choosing ourselves
sometimes. Because at the end of the
day, before I am an artist, before I am
an idol, before I am Junk Cookook of
BTS, I am just a man learning, growing,
trying to love the world while also
learning to love myself. And sometimes
loving yourself means saying not
tonight. last night kept replaying in my
head. Even after I turned off the
lights, the house was silent, but my
thoughts weren't. Every few minutes, I
turn on my phone, scroll, and then put
it down again. Like I was waiting for
the silence to tell me something. I
thought sleep would help me forget, but
instead, it made the memory sharper. The
way his face twisted from excitement to
disappointment to anger, it wasn't the
first time I'd seen that shift. It
happens in smaller ways all the time. A
fan who waits outside a hotel and feels
ignored when I don't stop. A stranger
who calls my name across a crowded
airport and gets upset when I keep
walking. A friend who feels I've changed
because I don't text as often as I used
to. And every time I feel that tug
inside me, the guilt of disappointing
someone, I wonder if I should have tried
harder to make them feel seen even when
I'm invisible to myself. Maybe that's
what it means to grow up in this kind of
life. You spend years learning how to be
everything for everyone until one night
you realize you've forgotten how to be
enough for yourself. When I was younger,
I didn't question it. The stage lights,
the cameras, the screams, they felt like
proof that I mattered. I didn't know yet
that fame has an echo. It keeps
repeating your name even when you just
want silent. Back then, the attention
felt like love. But love, I've learned,
is quieter. It listens. It doesn't
demand. I remember calling Jim in that
morning. He answered half asleep, voice
rough, soft. What's wrong, Cook? He
asked. I hesitated because I didn't want
to make it a big thing. Nothing serious,
I said. Just something weird happened.
He listened as I told him. And when I
finished, there was a pause. Then he
said, "You didn't do anything wrong."
Just like that. Simple, firm, no
judgment, no advice, just reassurance.
That's who he is. He has a way of
grounding me when the world tilts.
Later, Tayong called after hearing from
Jim. You sure you're okay? He asked. I
told him I was. He laughed gently and
said, "You're too polite sometimes."
People mistake kindness for weakness.
Maybe he's right, but I I don't know how
to be any other way. Nam Jun came over
in the afternoon. He brought coffee and
that calm energy he always carries like
he's built out of patience. We sat on my
balcony watching the city move below us.
And he said something I've been thinking
about ever since. Boundaries don't make
you less kind. They make your kindness
real. I wrote that down later. Maybe
it's something I need to see every day
until I believe it. I texted Jin Hyong
too and he replied with a voice note. He
joked first. He always does something
about how even bruises look good on me.
Then his tone shifted. Remember, he
said, "You're allowed to protect your
peace. The world doesn't end because you
say no." Suga sent me a message that
just said, "Don't overthink. People
project their emptiness. It's not about
you." He's always like that few words,
but they stay with you. And Hobie Hyung,
he came to my place that night with
fried chicken and a smile big enough to
chase away any heaviness. He didn't even
bring up the incident until halfway
through the meal. Then he looked at me
and said, "Kookie, you know why people
love you? It's not because they think
you're perfect. It's because you make
them feel less alone. Don't let one
angry person make you forget that." I
think that's when I finally exhaled
because that's what this whole thing
did. It made me hold my breath for too
long. Later that night, I went for a
drive. No music, no destination, just me
and the sound of tires against the road.
I drove past familiar places. The
practice room, the park we used to walk
in after late rehearsals, the ramen shop
near the dorm where we'd laugh until
morning. I thought about how different
life looks now. How success feels both
like a blessing and the shadow.
Sometimes I miss the early days. The
exhaustion then felt cleaner, simpler.
We were just seven kids chasing a dream,
not seven men carrying a legacy. Back
then, a mistake was just a mistake, not
a headline. A no was just a word, not a
statement the world would dissect. As
the road stretched out ahead of me, I
realized how lonely fame can be. Not
because there aren't people around, but
because so many of them see the image,
not the person. They love the echo, not
the voice. I parked by the Han River and
got out. The air smelled of winter
coming. I sat by the water and finally
let myself feel everything. The fear,
the sadness, the confusion, the guilt. I
thought about my parents again. My mom
used to say, "Kindness without
boundaries turns into exhaustion." I
didn't understand it then, I do now. I
pulled out my phone and opened the notes
app. I started writing, not lyrics, just
thoughts. Lines like being known doesn't
mean being understood. And love is not a
transaction. And no is a sacred word. I
don't know how long I sat there. Maybe
an hour, maybe more. The sky started
turning pale. For a moment, the river
looked like glass.
I felt calm still and I realized I
wasn't angry anymore. I wasn't even sad.
I just understood something. That night
wasn't about an attack. It was about
awakening. Awakening to the truth that I
can't keep giving pieces of myself away
to meet other people's expectations.
That even gratitude needs a border. Or
it becomes guilt. That it's okay to
protect the parts of me that still
belong only to me. When I got home, I
found a message from my dad. He must
have seen something online about the
incident. It said, "Son, people's love
can be loud, but remember, real respect
is quiet." I think that might be one of
the most beautiful things he's ever
said. And maybe that's what I want to
tell anyone listening. You can love
loudly. You can support passionately,
but remember to leave room for silence
for the space where people can just be.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
to walk down a street without anyone
knowing me. To be anonymous again, just
a guy with headphones and dreams. Would
I miss the recognition? Probably. But I
think I'd also feel a kind of peace that
fame can't buy. Yet, despite everything,
I wouldn't change my life. Because every
bruise, every misunderstanding,
every headline, each one teaches me how
to stay human in a world that forgets
humans make the music. I think about
Army again. The millions who've lifted
me up more times than they know. The
ones who write, take care of yourself,
and mean it. The ones who cheer even
when I step away to rest. The ones who
know Junk Cookook, the artist, and still
care for Junk Cookook, the person.
That's the love I hold on to. That's the
love that makes the noise worth it.
Before I went to bed, I whispered a kind
of prayer, not a religious one, just a
wish. Let me stay soft because the world
tries to harden you. Every shove, every
angry voice, every unfair word, it tells
you to build walls. But I don't want to
live behind walls. I just want better
doors, ones I can open or close freely.
This morning, I woke up early, made
coffee, and stood by the window watching
the sunrise. And I realized something
small but powerful. Healing doesn't
always look like moving on. Sometimes it
looks like standing still and breathing.
Maybe that's why I'm talking to you now.
Not to dramatize what happened, but to
remind both of us that even in moments
of misunderstanding, there's space to
grow, to forgive, to understand. That
saying no isn't rejection. It's
protection. And to the person who pushed
me, if you ever see this, I hope you're
okay, too. I hope you understand now
that I wasn't rejecting you. I was just
choosing myself that night. And I hope
someday you learn that love doesn't need
proof on command. It just needs
patience. We all have a right to peace,
to rest, to boundaries. And sometimes
the most loving thing we can do for the
world is to protect the parts of
ourselves that keep us kind. So tonight
before you sleep, I hope you tell
yourself this. You are allowed to say no
without guilt. You are allowed to rest
without apology. You are allowed to be
human. That's what I'm trying to learn,
too. Every day in every small way. That
morning, light did something to me. It
was quiet, almost forgiving, like the
world was giving me permission to start
again. I stood there holding the cup
between my hands and thought about how
strange it is that pain and peace can
exist in the same moment. How sometimes
what hurts you also teaches you to
breathe differently. I looked at my
reflection in the window and saw the
faint shadow under my eye. It wasn't
dramatic, just a soft bruise, the kind
that will fade in a few days. But it
reminded me of something deeper. how
small wounds sometimes open bigger
questions. It wasn't about that man. It
was about everything that had led up to
it. The years of being seen and
misunderstood at the same time of
smiling through exhaustion because I
didn't know how to choose myself without
feeling guilty. I sat down and started
writing again. Not lyrics this time,
just thoughts. What does it mean to be
known? I wrote, "And what does it cost?"
My phone buzzed. It was Jim again. He
sent me a photo of the sunrise from his
place with a short message. The world is
still beautiful, Cook. That's him.
Simple words that somehow reset my
entire heart. I replied with a heart
emoji. But inside, I wanted to tell him,
"Thank you for reminding me that beauty
still exists even when kindness hurts."
Later that day, we all met at WBE for
rehearsal. It felt like any other day on
the surface, but the air between us
carried quiet concern. The members
didn't bring it up at first. They just
treated me like usual laughter, teasing,
warm chaos. I think they were giving me
space. Then during a break, RM looked at
me and said softly, "You okay?" I
nodded, but he didn't believe me. You
know, he continued, "People think
strength means not being affected, but
sometimes the strongest thing you can do
is admit when something shakes you." He
was right. It had shaken me not my
confidence, but something gentler. My
sense of safety in the world. When we
rehearsed, my body remembered every
step, but my mind was somewhere else.
Every light in the practice room
reflected like a thousand eyes watching.
I wondered how many people ever see us
without expectation. After practice,
Suga approached me quietly. Don't let it
change how you see people, he said. One
moment doesn't erase all the good ones.
He's good at cutting straight to the
truth. I smiled and said, "I know." But
later, driving home, I realized how much
I needed to hear that. because part of
me had started to retreat, to build a
wall, to think maybe kindness was
dangerous. That night, I went online. My
name was trending again. Headlines about
the attack, speculation, opinions from
people who weren't there. Some defending
me, others judging, a few turning it
into something it wasn't. Reading them
felt surreal, like watching strangers
rearrange your pain into entertainment.
I closed the apps, set my phone down,
and just sat there in the dark. I
thought about Army again, the millions
of hearts out there who would never hurt
me, who send letters saying, "Please
rest." Who apologize for fans who cross
lines even though they did nothing
wrong. I wish I could hug them all and
say, "I know you mean well. I feel your
love." My mind drifted to Tayong. He
called later that evening. "You saw the
news?" he asked, half laughing. They're
turning it into a movie. His humor
always makes heavy things lighter. Don't
worry, he said. Next time I'll be your
bodyguard. We laughed and for a moment
it felt like nothing bad had happened at
all. But after we hung up, I kept
thinking about what he said. How easily
the world turns real pain into story.
How sometimes even the people who love
you only know the edited version of your
truth. When you've lived under cameras
long enough, you start to curate
yourself. Even when you're alone, you
learn to filter your emotions, to speak
in ways that sound strong, graceful,
humble, whatever the moment demands. But
inside, you begin to wonder if anyone
truly knows the unedited you. I went to
my music room, turned on the mic, and
started recording. Not a song, just my
voice. Raw, unscripted. I said
everything I couldn't say online about
fear, about anger, about wanting to be
small again, unseen. I didn't plan to
release it. It was just for me, like
therapy. When I played it back, I
realized how quiet my voice sounded. Not
weak, just honest. Sometimes honesty
doesn't roar. Sometimes it whispers.
Later, Jin Hyung texted me, "Come over
tomorrow. Mom cooked too much again, so
I did. His house smelled like warmth,
soy sauce, garlic, comfort. We sat at
the table and he kept putting food in my
bowl. Eat, he said. It'll make you
forget, idiots. We laughed so hard I
almost choked. But after the laughter
faded, he looked at me and said
something I'll never forget. You can't
control how people see you, but you can
choose how you carry yourself afterward.
That night, driving back, I felt
lighter. Not healed completely, but
steadier. It made me realize something
important. Sometimes the antidote to one
stranger's cruelty is the quiet kindness
of the people who truly know you. I
thought about Army again. How they've
carried me through so many storms. the
letters, the fan projects, the way they
defend each other online, the way they
celebrate not just our music, but our
growth. I wish I could tell them how
much that means. How many nights their
words have pulled me back from
self-doubt. How often I've read, "We're
proud of you," and felt my heart
unclench. But maybe I don't have to say
it directly. Maybe they already know. I
started writing lyrics again that night.
Not about the attack, but about
boundaries and tenderness. About how
love should never feel like debt. About
how protecting your peace is a form of
gratitude. I think it might turn into a
song one day. As the words came, I felt
Jim's presence again, like his warmth
was echoing through my memory. I thought
about how he always notices when I'm
quiet. How he checks in without asking
questions. how sometimes his silence
says more than any comfort could. I
realized that the reason the shove hurt
wasn't just physical. It scraped against
years of wanting to be understood, of
craving a love that doesn't demand
performance. Maybe that's why I cried a
little that night. Not from pain, but
release. Because finally, I understood
what I had been searching for all along.
Not perfect admiration, but real
understanding. The next morning, I
called my mom. We didn't talk about the
news. She just asked if I'd eaten and if
I was sleeping enough. Then she said,
"Remember, you don't have to earn
kindness. The people who truly love you
already decided to." I think about that
a lot. How many of us spend our lives
trying to deserve love instead of just
receiving it? And maybe that's a quiet
lesson in all of this. Boundaries are
not walls. They're doors. They let love
in, but they also keep your soul from
being stolen by every demand. Tonight,
as I record this, the city outside my
window hums with life again. Somewhere,
someone's calling another idol's name,
hoping for a selfie. Somewhere else, a
fan is writing a letter that will never
reach the person they admire, but still
sends light into the world. And
somewhere inside me, there's peace.
small, fragile, but real. Because I
finally know that saying no doesn't
close my heart. It protects it so it can
keep loving longer. And that's all I
want to keep loving without losing
myself. I don't really know why I'm
turning the mic on tonight. Maybe
because silence feels heavier than
words. Maybe because if I don't let this
out, it'll stay inside and turn into
something colder. It's been a few days
since that night. The bruise is almost
gone now, but the memory hasn't faded.
Not in a painful way, just in a
reflective one. It's strange how
something so small, one sudden shove,
can open a thousand questions about
life, love, and who you've become. I've
spent the last few nights sitting by my
piano, not playing, just letting my
fingers rest on the keys. Sometimes I
hit a few notes without thinking. They
sound random at first, but then somehow
they start to make sense, like like my
heart is trying to talk through the
music. That's the only way I've ever
really understood my feelings. Last
night, I saw Jim again. We met for
dinner, just the two of us. It wasn't
planned. He just texted me, "You home?"
And 10 minutes later, he was knocking on
my door. When I opened it, he didn't say
anything. He just looked at me and
smiled, then pulled me into a hug.
That's the thing about Jimn. He doesn't
need words to say I'm here. He just is.
We ordered takeout, sat on the floor,
and talked about everything and nothing.
For a while, we joked around, but then
he asked me quietly. Do you regret
saying no that night? I thought about it
for a long moment. No, I said finally,
but I regret that I felt guilty for it.
He nodded like he already knew that's
what I'd say. He told me about a time
years ago when someone yelled at him
after he didn't stop for a photo. It
wasn't even anger that I felt. He said
it was shame like I'd done something
wrong for being tired. That's what
connects us. I think we understand the
invisible weight, the kind no one sees
because it's behind the smile. We talked
for hours about fame, about family,
about how growing up under lights can
make you forget how to live in the dark.
At one point he said, "You know what
hurts me the most sometimes? When people
think we owe them the version of us that
never breaks." That sentence stayed with
me long after he left. Because it's
true, we built a dream that people fell
in love with. But sometimes they forget
that dreams are carried by people and
people get tired. Later that night, I
couldn't sleep. I walked out to the
balcony and looked at the city. Lights
everywhere. Thousands of windows glowing
in the dark. I thought about all the
lives happening behind those lights.
Each one carrying its own weight, its
own small heartbreaks. Maybe that's what
connects us all. The invisible battles
we fight quietly. The next morning, I
went to the studio. Namjun was already
there writing. He looked up and smiled.
Couldn't sleep either, he asked. I shook
my head. Me neither, he said. We didn't
talk about the incident directly, but
the conversation somehow circled back to
it. You know, he said, "I used to think
being loved by millions was the ultimate
proof that I mattered. But sometimes the
louder the love, the lonelier it feels.
I knew what he meant. You start craving
the kind of love that doesn't need to be
performed. The kind that just lets you
be." He asked if I'd been writing. I
said, "A little." He smiled and said,
"Good. Don't let the noise take away
your voice." That line stuck with me,
too. After he left, I sat there for a
while. I closed my eyes and tried to
remember the first time I ever sang in
front of people. I was 15, scared,
trembling, but alive in a way I'd never
felt before. I wasn't thinking about
perfection or image or boundaries. I was
just a boy who loved to sing. Sometimes
I miss that boy. Fame changes you not
because it wants to, but because it has
to. It forces you to learn how to be
both open and guarded, loving and
cautious, generous and protective. It
teaches you that every gift has a price
and every light casts a shadow. In the
afternoon, I met Tayong at a cafe we
used to go to before debut. No cameras,
no makeup, just two friends who've grown
up too fast. He looked at me and said,
"You seem quieter lately." I smiled,
"Just thinking." He leaned back and
said, "Do you ever think about
quitting?" I laughed softly. "Sometimes,
but not because I hate this. Just
because I wonder what life feels like
without all the noise." He nodded. "Me,
too. Sometimes I think about running
away to Juju Island, opening a small
bar, singing jazz at night. We both
laughed at the image tayong in a fedora,
me on guitar. But deep down, I knew we
weren't just joking. We were imagining
peace. He looked serious for a moment
and said, "You know, I think people
forget that idols are supposed to grow.
They want the version of us they met
first, but we're not those kids
anymore." That hit me hard because he
was right. People love you for who you
were, not always for who you're
becoming. And that's one of the
loneliest truths of fame. That night
back home, I play one of the old BTS
DVDs. Our early concerts when we still
shared dorm rooms and dreams felt bigger
than fears. I watched us laugh, cry,
tease each other. I saw my younger self
screaming on stage full of hunger and
hope. And I whispered, "You did well." I
think healing sometimes means forgiving
the past version of you who didn't know
how to rest. The next morning, I went to
visit my parents. My mom made seaweed
soup even though it wasn't my birthday.
You look thinner, she said immediately.
I smiled. You always say that. But I ate
everything anyway because she poured
love into every bite. My dad asked
gently about the incident. I told him
the truth that it wasn't about anger,
just realization. He nodded slowly. "You
can't control how people act," he said,
"but you can decide what kind of person
you'll be after." I hugged them before
leaving, tighter than usual. On the
drive home, I thought about how lucky I
am to have people who see me as a son
before an idol. It reminded me that no
matter how wide the world gets, your
foundation stays small. Family,
brothers, friends, love. That night, I
posted a short message on Weavers. Thank
you for caring. I'm okay. Let's all
remember to be kind to others and to
ourselves. I didn't explain. I didn't
need to. The responses came in waves
thousands of hearts. Messages like, "We
love you. We're proud. Rest well." And
one comment that said, "You don't owe us
anything, Cook." That one made me tear
up because that's the kind of love I
believe in. Love without demand. Later
that night, I went live for a few
minutes. I didn't plan it. I just turned
on the camera, sat with my guitar, and
said, "I just wanted to check in." The
comments flooded in, hearts flying
across the screen. I sang quietly,
nothing polished, just raw. When I
finished, I said, "Thank you for
listening. Thank you for letting me be
human tonight." After I ended the live,
I sat there in the dark again. But this
time, it didn't feel heavy. It felt
peaceful, like something had shifted. I
realized something simple. We can't
control how others see us, but we can
choose how honestly we see ourselves.
And in that honesty, there's freedom.
Tomorrow I'll go back to rehearsal, back
to the studio, back to the noise, but
I'll carry this lesson with me that I
can't give everything all the time. And
that doesn't make me ungrateful. It just
makes me real. If you're listening right
now, wherever you are, I hope you know
that, too. You don't have to earn rest.
You don't have to explain your
boundaries. You don't have to feel
guilty for protecting your peace. We all
have the right to be more than what
people expect of us. To say no, to take
a break, to disappear for a while and
come back with a softer heart. Maybe
that's what love really is. Not constant
availability, but quiet understanding.
And uh maybe that's what I'm learning to
give and to receive. Because at the end
of the day, I I don't I don't want to be
remembered as someone who gave
everything until nothing was left. I
want to be remembered as someone who
stayed human even when the world tried
to turn me into something else. I'm
recording this a few nights later and I
don't really have a script or a plan. I
just turned on the mic because my heart
felt too full to keep quiet. The truth
is healing doesn't come in one wave. It
comes in fragments. Moments that feel
like peace, followed by moments that
reopen the same wound you thought you
closed. And lately, I've been living
inside that cycle. A few nights ago, I
was back in the practice room, just me
in the mirror. It's funny how that room
has witnessed almost every version of
me. The boy who cried after his first
mistake. The young man who screamed in
frustration when the choreography
wouldn't stick. The artist who stayed
past midnight chasing a perfect note
that probably didn't even exist. The
mirror never judges. It just reflects
quietly honestly. And sometimes that's
harder to face than the crowd. As I was
dancing, I caught my reflection and saw
the same look I had the night of the
attack. Tired guarded. I stopped the
music and sat down. I realized that for
years I've been performing strength even
when I wasn't strong. because people
expect it because I expected of myself.
And suddenly I thought of army again.
All those faces in the crowd holding up
banners, crying, screaming, smiling. I
remember uh one girl in particular from
a concert in 2019. She was in the front
row crying so hard that security tried
to move her, but I stopped them. I
reached down and held her hand for a
second. She said through tears, "You
saved me." And I smiled, but inside I
felt something twist because I wanted to
tell her, "You saved me, too." But I
didn't know how to say that without
breaking on stage. That's the truth,
though. Army has saved me more times
than I can count. When I was 17 and
doubting myself, their love gave me
purpose. When I was 22 and lost, their
words pulled me back. But sometimes I
worry that people think love is supposed
to be endless giving. It's not. It's
balance. It's rhythm. It's taking turns,
breathing. Later that night, I texted
Jim and I said, "You know what's weird?
I think I'm learning to forgive the
person who pushed me." He replied almost
immediately, "That's not weird. That's
gross." He came over the next day with
coffee. We sat on the couch, sunlight
spilling into the room. You really
forgave him?" he asked softly. I nodded.
"Yeah, I mean, I don't justify what he
did, but I understand where it came
from. People project what they're
missing." He looked at me for a long
moment, then said, "You've changed." I
laughed. "Good or bad?" "Both," he said,
smiling. "You're softer now, but
stronger, too." It made me think of
something Namjun once said. Kindness
without boundaries is self-destruction.
Maybe this is what he meant. You can't
pour love into the world if your own cup
is empty. That afternoon, we walk by the
river. No security, no cameras, just two
people trying to remember what normal
feels like. He told me he's been writing
to journaling more these days. Sometimes
I wonder what kind of people we'd be if
we weren't famous, he said. I thought
about that. Maybe still the same inside,
I said. just quieter. When we parted, he
hugged me tightly and said, "Don't let
this make you close your heart." And
that stuck with me because that's my
biggest fear that protecting myself
might make me colder. But maybe warmth
doesn't mean always being open. Maybe it
means knowing when to open and when to
rest. That night, I couldn't sleep
again. So, I started reading old letters
from fans. One said, "You make me feel
less alone." Another said, "Your songs
help me survive. I cried reading those
because that's all I've ever wanted to
give comfort." To remind people that
even idols have nights where we can't
breathe. But then I found a letter I'd
written to myself years ago hidden in an
old notebook. It said, "Don't lose the
boy who loved music more than applause.
I read it over and over until it felt
like prayer." The next day, I went to
see Hobi Hyong. He greeted me with that
sunshine smile of his and said, "So,
philosopher Jungkook is back." I
laughed, but he was right. I've been
thinking too much lately. We talked
about the tour, about the future, about
the meaning of art. You know what I
realized? He said, "Every time we
perform, we give a part of ourselves,
but we also receive something back. It's
like breathing. You inhale love, you
exhale gratitude. You just have to make
sure you don't forget to breathe. That
made me laugh, but it also hit me deeply
because breathing is exactly what I've
been learning again. To breathe without
guilt, to rest without explanation. That
night, I called Jin Hyung again. "You
sound lighter," he said. "Did you fall
in love?" I laughed so hard I almost
dropped my phone. No, Hung, I said, just
falling back in love with life. He
chuckled. That's even better. Later, I
met up with Tayong and Suga. We sat on
the rooftop of the company building
watching the city lights. Tayong played
some unreleased song on his phone.
Something jazzy and melancholic. You
know, Yi said quietly, "Pain doesn't
disappear, it transforms." He took a
drag of his cigarette and added, "If you
let it, it becomes something useful,
like art, like understanding." I nodded.
"Maybe that's what this is,
transformation." We sat in silence for a
while, each of us lost in our own
thoughts. Then Tay Young broke it with
his usual deep honesty. I think what
scares me most isn't being hated, it's
being misunderstood. And I said, "Same,
no." Because misunderstanding can feel
worse than hate. Hate is loud.
Misunderstanding is lonely. When I got
home, I took a shower, sat by the
window, and wrote this line in my
notebook. Being seen by millions means
being truly known by very few. And
that's okay, cuz maybe we're not meant
to be understood by everyone. Maybe the
few who do, that's enough. I thought
again about that man from the parking
lot. What if he was just having a bad
day? What if my no reminded him of all
the other times the world told him no?
It doesn't excuse what he did, but it
makes me see the bigger picture. People
carry pain they don't talk about. We all
do. That realization didn't make me
bitter. It made me gentler because
understanding doesn't mean accepting
harm. It means seeing the humanity
behind it and choosing peace anyway. The
next day, I went to the studio and wrote
a melody. It started sad but turned
hopeful. The lyrics that came out
surprised me. I'm not your perfect
story. Divided by I'm just someone
learning to stay kind divided by in a
world that asked for too much. When I
finished, I felt something release
inside me like I'd finally turn pain
into music. Later, I sent the demo to
Jim. He replied instantly, "It's
beautiful. It sounds like freedom." And
maybe that's what this whole journey has
been learning. That freedom isn't just
about doing what you want. It's about
having the courage to choose peace even
when the world demands performance.
Tonight, before recording this, I looked
at myself in the mirror again. The
bruise is gone now. My skin looks the
same as before, but I know I'm not. I
see someone who finally understands that
saying no doesn't make him ungrateful.
It makes him whole. So, if you're
listening right now and you've ever felt
drained from giving too much or guilty
for protecting your space, I hope my
story reminds you that love with no
boundaries will always lead to
exhaustion. Protecting your peace isn't
selfish, it's sacred. And to the people
who have stood beside me through
everything, my family, my members, army,
thank you for reminding me that even
when the world forgets I'm human, you
never do. This isn't the end of the
story. It's just another beginning. A
quieter one, a truer one. Because
tonight, I'm not speaking as the idol or
the performer or the image. I'm just
Junk Cookook, a man learning, forgiving,
and finding his way back to himself. And
if this voice reaches you, I hope it
tells you this. You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to heal. You are allowed
to be more than what the world demands.
Good night, everyone. I'll see you again
soon. It's strange how time can stretch
and shrink at the same moment. A week
has passed since I last spoke to you,
but inside it still feels like that
night is happening in slow motion
somewhere behind my ribs. I keep
revisiting it, not because I want to
feel the pain again, but because I want
to understand what it was trying to
teach me. This week has been quiet. Too
quiet, maybe. I haven't gone out much
except for rehearsals and short walks
when the air feels kind enough. I think
I needed silence to remember what my own
voice sounds like. Fame is loud. It
fills every corner of your life until
even your thoughts start performing.
Silence though, silence is honest. A few
nights ago, I had dinner with Nam Jun
Hyong. He'd been working all day, so we
ordered food to the studio. Simple
stuff, nothing fancy. I told him I'd
been thinking about how that night
changed something inside me. He listened
the way he always does, head slightly
tilted, eyes focused like he's reading
your soul. After a while, he said, "You
know, sometimes the universe sends a
shock not to hurt you, but to shake
something awake." That line hasn't left
my mind since. Maybe that's what the
attack was, a jolt that forced me to
stop living on autopilot. to stop being
the version of Junk Cookook that
everyone expects and remember the
version that simply is. We talked for
hours about music, about pressure, about
the strange loneliness of being
surrounded by love that sometimes
doesn't feel like it sees you. Nam Jun
said, "We've built something massive,
but it's okay if sometimes you want to
live small." I smiled because that's
exactly what I'd been feeling. This
craving for small moments, making coffee
in the morning, laughing with my
brother, hearing my mom's voice on the
phone. Later that night, when I got
home, I replayed our conversation in my
head. The line, "It's okay to live
small," echoed like a prayer. Maybe
that's the balance I've been chasing
without realizing it to be big and
purpose, but small in ego, to shine
without burning out. The next day, I met
Tay Young again. He said he'd been
watching some old footage of us from our
trainee days. He sent me a clip later.
Two kids in oversized clothes rapping
offbeat, laughing until our stomachs
hurt. Watching it made me laugh, too.
But it also made my chest ache a little
because back then life was pure motion.
We weren't thinking about image or
headlines or cameras. We were just
trying to survive and create something
that felt real. We walked by the river
again. the same place where I'd gone
after the attack. The water moves slow,
peaceful. "Do you ever think we've
become strangers to ourselves?" Tayong
asked. I took a deep breath before
answering. "Sometimes."
But maybe that's why we have each other
to remind ourselves who we are. He
nodded and smiled in that way he does
when he agrees with more than just your
words. That evening, Jimn joined us. We
sat at a small table outside a cafe,
hoodies up, caps low, blending into the
crowd for once. It felt good, almost
like being invisible. We didn't talk
about work. We talked about dreams. Not
the kind we chase for cameras, but the
quiet ones. Jimn said he wants to learn
painting. Tay Young said he wants to
study cooking seriously. And I said I
want to travel without anyone knowing
I'm there, just to walk through streets
where my name doesn't echo. We all
laughed, but under that laughter was
truth. We're all searching for that
balance between giving everything and
keeping something for ourselves. Later
that night, I was scrolling through my
phone and saw a clip of our last
concert. It was the moment we sang
Spring Day. I watched myself on that
screen, eyes closed, voice trembling a
little, and I remembered what that song
really meant to me. It's about longing,
but it's also about endurance. About
holding on through the cold until the
warmth returns. That realization brought
me to tears. Because maybe that's what
I've been doing all this time, enduring,
waiting for the kind of peace that
doesn't need permission. The next
morning, I got a call from Jingyong.
"Come fishing," he said, like it was the
most natural thing in the world. So, I
did. The ocean was calm that day, like
glass stretching to forever. Jyn handed
me a fishing rod and said, "You can't
rush the fish. You wait or you scare
them away." I laughed. "You sound like
Namjun." He grinned. Maybe wisdom
spreads. We didn't talk much. Just sat
in the sound of waves and wind. And for
once, I wasn't thinking about anything.
No music, no schedules, no pressure,
just breath. When we got back to shore,
Jyn looked at me and said, "See,
sometimes peace isn't something you
find, it's something you allow." That
hit me cuz I realized I've been chasing
peace, like it's a destination when
maybe it's been waiting for me to stop
running. That evening, I got a message
from my mom. She said she'd seen photos
online of me smiling again. "That's my
son," she wrote. the one who always
gives back up. And I smiled because
she's always believed in me, even when I
didn't. Later that night, I called Jimn
again. I told him I was thinking of
writing a letter, not to the person who
attacked me, but to my younger self.
What would you say? He asked. I paused
for a long moment, then said. I tell him
it's okay to rest. That being loved
doesn't mean being available all the
time. that it's okay to protect your
heart without feeling guilty. He was
quiet for a while before saying, "I
think he'd be proud of you." After we
hung up, I wrote the letter. It went
something like this. Dear younger me, I
know you think strength means saying yes
to everyone, giving everything, smiling
through pain. But real strength is
gentler. It's the courage to say no when
your soul whispers for rest. It's the
grace to forgive yourself when you can't
be everything to everyone. Keep your
heart soft even when the world hardens
around you. And remember, you are loved
for who you are, not for what you give.
I folded the paper and kept it in my
journal. Maybe one day I'll read it on
stage. Or maybe it's just for me. A few
days later, I visited Yi in his studio.
He was mixing something, headphones on,
lost in his own world. When he saw me,
he smiled and said, "You look calmer." I
told him I'd been writing again. "Good,"
he said. "Music is the best mirror." He
played me one of his tracks. It was
dark, beautiful, honest. I used to be
afraid of showing pain in my music, he
said. Now I think it's the only way to
stay real. That made me think about my
own songs. Maybe I've been too careful
sometimes. Maybe I've hidden behind
perfection because it felt safer than
vulnerability. But maybe it's time to
let my imperfections sing, too. On the
drive home, I thought about everything
that's happened. The attack, the
silence, the talks with the members, the
healing, and I realized something
simple. I'm not the same person I was
before that night. But that's okay.
Growth always leaves a mark. I stopped
by the river again, the same spot where
I'd once sat alone. This time, the city
felt softer, like it was finally
breathing with me instead of against me.
I whispered a quiet thank you to the
night, to the lessons, to the pain that
became clarity. And as I stood there, I
made a promise to myself that I'll keep
choosing honesty over perfection,
boundaries over guilt, peace over
performance. Because being Junk Cookook
of BTS is a gift, but being Junk Cookook
the person is a responsibility to
myself, to the people who love me
genuinely to the boy who started all of
this with nothing but a dream. If you're
listening right now, I hope you remember
this, too. You don't owe the world your
constant availability. You owe yourself
your truth. And that's what I'm learning
to give. Good night, everyone. Thank you
for listening. Thank you for
understanding. Thank you for letting me
be human. It's late right now. The kind
of late where the world feels half
asleep and everything is quiet except
the hum of the refrigerator and the
ticking of the clock on my wall. I don't
usually talk this much. But lately,
silence feels heavier than word. So, I
guess this is my way of breathing. I've
been thinking a lot about love. Not the
romantic kind, but the everyday kind.
the way people care, the way they give,
the way they expect, the way they
misunderstand. Maybe what happened to me
wasn't really about violent. Maybe it
was about love that got twisted by
expectation. A stranger who thought
loving me meant owning a piece of me.
And that made me think about all the
ways love shows up in my life. Like my
mom calling every morning just to ask,
"Did you eat?" or my brother sending me
memes that make no sense just because he
wants me to laugh. Or the members
checking in without asking questions,
just showing up being there. Or army
writing messages that say, "Take your
time. We'll wait." That's love, too. The
quiet kind. The one that doesn't demand
proof. But it took me years to see it
that way. When I was younger, I thought
love was noise. I thought it was the
loud cheering, the applause, the endless
messages. And don't get me wrong, I
still feel grateful for all of it. But
love isn't supposed to drown you. It's
supposed to hold you. A few nights ago,
I couldn't sleep, so I texted Jim. You
awake? He replied instantly. Always,
apparently. We ended up talking until
sunrise. I told him about a dream. I had
a stage with no lights, no sound, no
crowd, just me and the members sitting
in a circle laughing like we used to. He
said, "Maybe your heart's trying to go
home." Home. That word hit me because
sometimes I forget what that feels like.
Not a place, but a feeling. Safety, understanding,
understanding,
space, he asked. Do you still feel loved
when no one's looking? I paused because
that question was heavier than it
sounded. I'm learning to, I said. That's
the truth. For so long, I tied love to
being seen. Now, I'm learning to love
myself in the quiet, too. The next day,
I went to see Hobie Hung. His energy
always feels like sunlight. The moment I
walked in, he grinned and said, "You
look like you've been thinking again." I
laughed. "Is it that obvious?" He
nodded. "You get quiet when you're
growing." We went for a walk and he said
something I can't forget. The people who
love you right will never make you feel
guilty for resting. I think I needed to
hear that more than I realized because
sometimes even when you set boundaries,
guilt still follows like a shadow. You
start wondering if you disappointed
someone even though all you did was
choose peace. That night I sat by the
window and thought about army again. The
ones who love without asking, who defend
without anger, who understand without
explanation. I wanted to say thank you.
But I didn't know how. Words feel small
compared to what I feel for them. So I
did what I always do. I wrote. Not a
speech, not a statement, just a song. It
started with a simple line. Even the
stars need to rest before they shine
again. As I sang it softly into the mic,
I thought about how we all need that
rest. The world keeps asking us to shine
brighter, faster, longer. But even the
sun sets, even the ocean sleeps. Later
that week, I saw Yungi again. We talked
about music, about truth, about pain. He
said, "You can't protect yourself from
being misunderstood, but you can stay
true." He told me he used to be scared
of being judged for writing darker
songs, but then he realized honesty is
what people connect to most. And that's
when it hit me. People don't fall in
love with perfection. They fall in love
with honesty, with flaws, with cracks
that let light in. So maybe I don't need
to be the perfect version of Junk
Cookook anymore. Maybe it's enough to
just be real. I told him I wanted to
release something different, raw,
stripped down, imperfect. He smiled and
said, "Then do it. Don't wait for
permission." That night, I started
recording again. I left in the breath
sounds, the cracks in my voice, the
small mistakes, and it felt good. It
felt alive. Afterward, I called Nam Jun
Hyong to tell him about it. He said,
"That's the real art, Jungkook, the kind
that feels human." He paused for a
moment and added, "You know what
happened that night? It wasn't just
about a fan crossing a line. It was
about the world reminding you that
you're still human." And sometimes being
reminded hurts. I stayed quiet thinking
about that because maybe he was right.
Maybe that night didn't break me. Maybe
it stripped away everything that wasn't
real. A few days later, I met Tay Young
at his place. We sat on his rooftop
watching planes pass over the city. He
said, "You know what's funny? Everyone
sees us as these confident idols, but
half the time we're just trying to hold
ourselves together." I laugh softly.
Maybe that's why people connect with us
cuz they're doing the same. We sat in
silence for a while. The kind that feels
full instead of empty. Then he said,
"When you smiled on stage last night, I
knew you were okay again." And maybe I
was. Not perfectly okay, but better.
Healing doesn't mean the bruise is gone.
It means you can touch it without
flinching. The next morning, I woke up
before sunrise and went running. The
streets were empty, the sky still half
dark. And for the first time in a long
time, I felt free. No cameras, no noise,
no wait, just breath and motion. I think
that's the closest thing to prayer I've
ever known. When I got back home, I
called my mom again. She laughed when I
told her I was up early. Finally acting
like a grownup, she said. I smiled.
Maybe I'm just trying to feel alive, she
said. That's what life is, just moments
of feeling alive. Don't miss them by
trying to be perfect. That sentence,
don't miss them by trying to be perfect.
It's been echoing in my head all day.
Cuz perfection isn't life. It's
performance. And I think I'm done
performing when it comes to my heart.
That evening, I sat at the piano again
and I realized something small but
powerful. Forgiveness isn't about
excusing what happened. It's about
letting go of what keeps you stuck
there. I think I finally let it go. Now, when I walk outside and someone calls my
when I walk outside and someone calls my name, I don't flinch anymore. I smile
name, I don't flinch anymore. I smile because I know I can love my fans
because I know I can love my fans without losing myself. I can be grateful
without losing myself. I can be grateful and still have boundaries. I can say yes
and still have boundaries. I can say yes with joy and no with peace. And maybe
with joy and no with peace. And maybe that's what this whole journey was
that's what this whole journey was about, learning to love in balance. Love
about, learning to love in balance. Love that gives but also receives. Love that
that gives but also receives. Love that listens. Love that lets you breathe. So,
listens. Love that lets you breathe. So, uh, if you're hearing this right now,
uh, if you're hearing this right now, wherever you are, I hope you remember,
wherever you are, I hope you remember, you don't have to be loud to matter. You
you don't have to be loud to matter. You don't have to give everything to be
don't have to give everything to be worthy. And you don't have to be perfect
worthy. And you don't have to be perfect to be loved. You just have to be honest.
to be loved. You just have to be honest. Because at the end of the day, that's
Because at the end of the day, that's all any of us are trying to be honest
all any of us are trying to be honest souls. Learning how to love without
souls. Learning how to love without losing ourselves. And tonight, that's
losing ourselves. And tonight, that's enough. Good night. I'm back home in
enough. Good night. I'm back home in Busousan right now. The air here feels
Busousan right now. The air here feels different, slower, softer, like it
different, slower, softer, like it remembers who I was before the noise.
remembers who I was before the noise. Every time I come back, I feel like I'm
Every time I come back, I feel like I'm stepping into a photograph that never
stepping into a photograph that never changes. The same narrow streets, the
changes. The same narrow streets, the same ocean breeze, the same smell of tei
same ocean breeze, the same smell of tei from the stall near the pier. This is
from the stall near the pier. This is where everything began. And somehow it
where everything began. And somehow it feels like the only place where time
feels like the only place where time doesn't chase me. I came here without
doesn't chase me. I came here without telling anyone. No staff, no schedule,
telling anyone. No staff, no schedule, no cameras, just me. I needed to be
no cameras, just me. I needed to be around something that doesn't expect
around something that doesn't expect anything from me. This morning, I went
anything from me. This morning, I went to the hill behind my old school, the
to the hill behind my old school, the one where I used to sit with my friends
one where I used to sit with my friends watching the sunset and talking about
watching the sunset and talking about dreams we didn't understand yet. It's
dreams we didn't understand yet. It's smaller than I remember. Everything is,
smaller than I remember. Everything is, but the memories are still loud. the
but the memories are still loud. the laughter, the wind, the sound of
laughter, the wind, the sound of sneakers scraping against concrete. I
sneakers scraping against concrete. I used to sit there with my headphones on
used to sit there with my headphones on pretending I was already someone. And
pretending I was already someone. And now, standing there again, I realize
now, standing there again, I realize that the boy I was back then wouldn't
that the boy I was back then wouldn't even recognize the man I've become. I
even recognize the man I've become. I think about that a lot. How fame changes
think about that a lot. How fame changes you in ways you don't notice until you
you in ways you don't notice until you return to where you started. The people
return to where you started. The people here still call me our junk cookookie.
here still call me our junk cookookie. They smile like I'm still the same kid
They smile like I'm still the same kid who helped carry groceries for
who helped carry groceries for neighbors, who ran through rain with his
neighbors, who ran through rain with his friends. They don't talk about the
friends. They don't talk about the albums or the stadiums. They ask, "Are
albums or the stadiums. They ask, "Are you eating well? Are you sleeping
you eating well? Are you sleeping enough?" That's what love feels like
enough?" That's what love feels like when it's pure. It doesn't need to be
when it's pure. It doesn't need to be impressed. It just needs to know you're
impressed. It just needs to know you're okay. This afternoon, I went to visit my
okay. This afternoon, I went to visit my elementary school teacher. She looked
elementary school teacher. She looked older, but her eyes were exactly the
older, but her eyes were exactly the same, gentle and kind. She laughed when
same, gentle and kind. She laughed when she saw me and said, "You always sang
she saw me and said, "You always sang louder than everyone else." I told her I
louder than everyone else." I told her I still do. We talked about life, about
still do. We talked about life, about how simple things used to be. She said,
how simple things used to be. She said, "You know, Junk Cookook, being famous
"You know, Junk Cookook, being famous doesn't mean you stop being a student.
doesn't mean you stop being a student. Life keeps teaching you." That line
Life keeps teaching you." That line stuck with me. Life keeps teaching you.
stuck with me. Life keeps teaching you. Later, I walked by the ocean. The wind
Later, I walked by the ocean. The wind was cold, sharp enough to make my eyes
was cold, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I sat on the rocks and watched
water. I sat on the rocks and watched the waves crash and retreat over and
the waves crash and retreat over and over like a heartbeat. The ocean doesn't
over like a heartbeat. The ocean doesn't apologize for its noise. It just exists
apologize for its noise. It just exists loud, messy, endless. I think that's
loud, messy, endless. I think that's what being human is, too. You don't need
what being human is, too. You don't need to be still all the time. You just need
to be still all the time. You just need to keep moving, keep returning, keep
to keep moving, keep returning, keep beginning again. I closed my eyes and
beginning again. I closed my eyes and thought about my parents. My mom always
thought about my parents. My mom always said, "If the world gets too loud, come
said, "If the world gets too loud, come home to silence." And she was right.
home to silence." And she was right. Home isn't a building. It's the people
Home isn't a building. It's the people and the moments that remind you who you
and the moments that remind you who you are when no one's watching. When I got
are when no one's watching. When I got back to the house, my mom was cooking.
back to the house, my mom was cooking. The smell hit me before I even opened
The smell hit me before I even opened the door. She looked at me, smiled, and
the door. She looked at me, smiled, and said, "You look tired." I laugh. You
said, "You look tired." I laugh. You always say that. But she was right. I
always say that. But she was right. I think I've been tired for years without
think I've been tired for years without realizing it. We ate together quietly.
realizing it. We ate together quietly. She told me about the neighbors, about
She told me about the neighbors, about how the cat I used to feed still comes
how the cat I used to feed still comes around sometimes, about how the cherry
around sometimes, about how the cherry blossoms bloomed early this year. And
blossoms bloomed early this year. And for the first time in a while, I didn't
for the first time in a while, I didn't feel like Junk Cookook of BTS. I just
feel like Junk Cookook of BTS. I just felt like her son. After dinner, my dad
felt like her son. After dinner, my dad joined us. He asked how I was really
joined us. He asked how I was really doing and I told him the truth that I
doing and I told him the truth that I was better but still figuring things
was better but still figuring things out. He nodded slowly and said, "You
out. He nodded slowly and said, "You know, son, forgiveness isn't about
know, son, forgiveness isn't about saying what happened was okay. It's
saying what happened was okay. It's about refusing to let it harden your
about refusing to let it harden your heart." That's when I realized that
heart." That's when I realized that maybe forgiveness isn't something you do
maybe forgiveness isn't something you do once. It's something you practice over
once. It's something you practice over and over every time the memory tries to
and over every time the memory tries to take away your softness. That night, I
take away your softness. That night, I sat outside on the porch. The air
sat outside on the porch. The air smelled like the sea. I looked up at the
smelled like the sea. I looked up at the sky, the same one I used to dream under,
sky, the same one I used to dream under, and I started talking quietly, like I
and I started talking quietly, like I was talking to that younger version of
was talking to that younger version of myself again. You made it, I whispered.
myself again. You made it, I whispered. You did it. But don't lose yourself now
You did it. But don't lose yourself now that you're here. I think he heard me.
that you're here. I think he heard me. The next morning, I woke up early and
The next morning, I woke up early and went running along the coastline. The
went running along the coastline. The sun was rising and the waves glowed
sun was rising and the waves glowed gold. I saw a few fishermen, old men
gold. I saw a few fishermen, old men with faces carved by time. And one of
with faces carved by time. And one of them waved at me. I waved back, smiling.
them waved at me. I waved back, smiling. It reminded me that you don't need to
It reminded me that you don't need to know someone to connect with them.
know someone to connect with them. Sometimes just existing side by side in
Sometimes just existing side by side in the same moment is enough. After the
the same moment is enough. After the run, I sat on a bench and called Jim. He
run, I sat on a bench and called Jim. He answered sleepily. "You're in Busousan?"
answered sleepily. "You're in Busousan?" he mumbled. "Yeah," I said. "Just needed
he mumbled. "Yeah," I said. "Just needed air." He laughed softly. "The Busan boys
air." He laughed softly. "The Busan boys always go home to heal." I could hear
always go home to heal." I could hear the smile in his voice. We didn't talk
the smile in his voice. We didn't talk long, but it was
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