Life has been going on as usual—from school to home and back again, days folding into each other like pages in a worn-out book.
When someone asked how I was, I'd flash a big smile, eyes shining just enough to hide the tiredness, and give an enthusiastic reply:
"Thriving."
As if saying it out loud could make it true.
But deep inside,
my mind would quietly ask me—
"Really?"
The layers of makeup I wore weren't for beauty, but for camouflage— to cover the gloom I didn't want the world to see.
And then, as always, I'd answer myself—
justifying it all with practiced ease:
"It's nothing… I'm just tired."
"It's fine… everyone has bad days."
Silly me.
Always trying to convince the mirror more than anyone else. It has been 8 months since his death.
My idols.....
Suicide.
That word still echoes in my mind like a question that never got a real answer. The case was closed quickly, declaring that he had been suffering from depression. Just like that—wrapped up in a file, as if that could explain everything, as if it could quiet the storm he left behind.
But later, the truth began to bleed through the silence. His dad, his bandmates—they came forward with quiet courage, sharing the truth: the cruelty, the pressure, the neglect they endured under the company's control.
He hadn't just lost a battle with his mind—
he had been failed, unheard, and unseen
by those who were supposed to protect him.
The false allegation, cruel and baseless were thrown at him like stones in the dark. Not even his parents knew. Not even we, his fans, the ones who followed every breath he took.
Under the weight of lies,constant pressure,
and a silence that grew louder each day,
he lost the battle… not just with the world,
but with life itself.
When he left, something in me cracked too.
For months, I drifted— numb, lost, aching in a way I couldn't explain to anyone.
But time, though unkind, keeps moving.
Eventually, I stood up—not because I healed, but because I had to.
I became a lecturer.Now my days pass in classrooms,teaching lessons from books
and, quietly, sharing lessons from life.
Sometimes, I even find myselfmotivating them—telling them to speak, to feel, to fight gently.Hoping, maybe, they'll never have to carry a grief that taught me more than any textbook ever could.
Now, in the deep silence of the night,
the only sound echoing through the house
is the soft clatter of me washing utensils.
Water running, sponge against steel,
and beneath it all—my voice, murmuring his songs like a lullaby to myself.
Each note pulls me back—to the days when he was alive,when his vlogs lit up my screen,
when his dances felt like poetry in motion,
and his laughter on variety shows
made the world seem a little warmer.
Later, when I stepped into my room,still wrapped in that quiet nostalgia, I reached for a piece of paper tucked carefully on my shelf
something I keep like a treasure.
A message.
A memory.
Maybe the last part of him I could ever call mine.
The VELYN diary—his official merch.
I had bought it after saving every last penny,
squeezing my pocket money tight,skipping snacks, skipping wants, just to hold a piece of him in my hands.
Inside, on the first page,his signature—Aeren—etched like stardust.
And beneath it, the message I had read a hundred times, and tonight, read again with trembling fingers:
To the heart that beats with mine from miles away—
Your love reached me without a sound.
Keep dreaming loud, shining quiet, and loving fearlessly.
Even if I never see your face, I'll always feel your light.
With all my sky,
Aeren
Tears welled up in Nyra's eyes, uninvited but familiar.
They blurred the ink, but not the memory.
And with that diary hugged to my chest,
a whisper of his song still in my ears I closed my eyes, and finally slept.