Prelude Story

It starts with silence. The announcement drops quietly, no buildup, no warning beyond what could be mistaken for routine corporate scheduling. But in reality, nothing about it was routine at all. It was almost too detached, too clinical. The announcement that hit harder than it should:

“We would like to inform you about the status of ITZY member Lia’s health and her future activities…”

“…we decided that Lia will not participate in scheduled activities starting from today and will take a break for the time being to focus on her treatment.”

It was a simple statement of facts “Lia is going on Hiatus until further notice” there was no drama in the wording. That made it worse. Because for everyone outside the group, it was news. But for ITZY, it was a rupture, for Yeji, Ryujin, Chaeryeong, and Yuna— they were as clueless as to Lia’s condition as MIDZY was.

Yeji reads it a second time, and then a third time. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand, but because she did. She is the leader, but the title suddenly feels meaningless when she realizes she had been kept in the dark too. Yet despite the feeling of betrayal running in her blood at that moment, there was only one question that kept running on repeat within the confines of her mind: “How long was Lia carrying this alone?”

It wasn’t even hours after the announcement and inside the dorm— the dynamic shifts immediately. No one said anything related to the topic out loud, the members were already affected by the sudden news, and everyone was already walking on eggshells.

Ryujin wasn’t loud or subtle about it. She started to withdraw emotionally, distant in ways that feel intentional.
Chaeryeong became more careful with her words, she was already fragile from her own internal conflicts and with becoming informed of Lia’s hiatus— as if the slightest mistake might shatter whatever fragile balance remained.
Yuna kept a façade. She talked more than usual, as if believing that overcompensating would make up for Lia’s absence or would bring her back sooner, but that only felt like a noise filling in empty space. Words that believe they were hiding a pain with loudness instead.
Yeji just stops sleeping, questioning herself as the leader her group deserves to have. Running back anything in her mind to what she could’ve missed that would have hinted to the pain Lia hid from everyone else.

The comeback cycle does not stop. The industry demands continuation even as if nothing has changed. The managers were hesitant on the day to announce to them about the upcoming comeback, and its name was bitterly ironic— BORN TO BE. As if the company was hinting that the group was about to be reborn as four. Every schedule felt heavier the passing day. Every rehearsal slightly longer. Evert crack within the members slightly more noticeable.

Every crack within the members became slightly more noticeable. Not all at once— that would have been easier to confront. It happened in smaller ways. A missed laugh here, a delayed response there. A water bottle left untouched after rehearsal because no one remembered who it belonged to anymore. The practice room became the first place where Lia’s absence stopped being an announcement and started becoming a shape. One empty space in the formation, adjusted by the choreographer with professional efficiency, as if rearranging bodies could make the loss feel smaller.

“Again, from the second verse,” the choreographer called.

No one complained. Ryujin wiped the sweat from her neck and returned to position without a word. Chaeryeong nodded too quickly, already apologizing under her breath before she had even made a mistake. Yuna smiled at the mirror, bright and practiced, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Yeji stood at the center.

“Music.” The track started again.
They moved like professionals because that was what they were— Sharp. Clean. Controlled. Four bodies forcing themselves to fill a space that used to belong to five. For the first few counts, it almost worked. Then Chaeryeong’s foot landed half a beat late. She caught herself immediately. “Sorry.” No one blamed her. That made her look even more ashamed. “It’s fine,” Yeji said quickly. Too quickly. “Again.” The choreographer glanced at the clock. “You’ve been at this for hours. Take five first.”

“I’m okay,” Yeji answered, she didn’t ask the others.

Ryujin looked at her through the mirror, expression unreadable. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something. Instead, she turned away and reached for her towel. Yuna clapped once, too loudly. “We’re almost there! It’s fine, right? We just need to clean it a little more.”

Her voice bounced against the walls and came back thinner. Chaeryeong only nodded.

The music played again. And again. And again. By the time the staff finally called the rehearsal over, the room smelled of sweat, floor cleaner, and exhaustion. The kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix because sleep was no longer the problem. One by one, they packed their things. Yuna was still talking as she zipped her bag, asking if anyone wanted convenience store snacks, if they should order food, if they should maybe watch something funny back at the dorm. She kept offering pieces of normal life like she was handing out bandages.

No one really answered. Chaeryeong smiled anyway, small and tired “Maybe later.” Ryujin slung her bag over one shoulder “I’m going ahead”. She didn’t wait for anyone to respond. The door closed behind her. For a moment, the room was quiet. Then Yeji walked back to the center of the floor. Chaeryeong noticed first “Unnie?” Yeji didn’t even look back to Chaeryeong “I’ll just run it once more". Yuna’s smile faltered. “But we’re done". Yeji faced the mirror “I know, just one more.” No one believed her. But no one stopped her either. That became the pattern, not because they didn’t care. Because everyone was too tired to know what caring was supposed to look like anymore.

The dorm was quieter now than it had ever been before, it wasn’t a peaceful silence either. The television stayed on most nights without anyone truly watching it. Variety shows played into empty space while half-finished drinks gathered on the table beside unopened delivery containers that had long gone cold. The members moved around each other carefully, like people afraid of making too much noise in a room already filled with tension. It became normal to hear footsteps at three in the morning. Sometimes it was Chaeryeong walking into the kitchen for water she barely drank before returning to her room. Sometimes it was Ryujin sitting alone on the couch in the dark with her phone face-down beside her, not scrolling, not sleeping either. Yuna filled silence whenever she could, but even she slowly started running out of things to say. And Yeji— she stopped pretending she slept at all.

At first, it was subtle enough to hide behind makeup and schedules. Dark circles covered by stylists who were paid to make exhaustion invisible. Energy drinks appearing more frequently beside practice notes. Longer moments staring blankly at mirrors before someone called her name and she snapped back into herself. But exhaustion always collects interest eventually.

One night after rehearsal, Yuna fell asleep sitting upright against the side of the couch, head tilted awkwardly with her phone still in her hand. The television cast pale blue light across the dorm while rain tapped quietly against the windows outside. Chaeryeong had already gone to bed. Ryujin emerged from the hallway with damp hair and an oversized shirt hanging loosely over her frame. She slowed when she saw Yuna asleep. Then she noticed Yeji who was still awake. Still sitting at the dining table, papers spread out in front of her. Schedule sheets, notes, performance breakdowns, handwritten reminders layered over company printouts until it all blurred together into meaningless clutter.

Ryujin leaned against the wall. “You’re still doing that?”

Yeji didn’t look up immediately. “Mm.”

RY: It’s two in the morning.

YJ: We have recording tomorrow.

RY: We always have something tomorrow.

Yeji finally glanced up, tired eyes meeting Ryujin’s for only a second before dropping back to the papers. “I know.” Ryujin observed her leader— that was becoming normal too. Not arguments. Not concern spoken aloud. Just observation. The kind people did when they noticed something getting worse but didn’t know where to place their hands without accidentally breaking it further.

“You missed dinner again,” Ryujin said eventually.
“I ate earlier" Yeji said unconvincingly. Ryujin socffed at her “You’re a terrible liar.” That almost earned a smile. Almost. Yeji rubbed her eyes instead. “Why are you awake?” Ryujin shrugged lightly. “Couldn’t sleep.” Neither of them acknowledged how often that answer had started appearing lately. Rain continued tapping softly against the glass. For a while, neither spoke. Then Ryujin walked closer to the table, gaze drifting across the papers scattered there.

“You reorganized the rehearsal schedule?”

“The spacing was off,” Yeji muttered.

Ryujin frowned slightly. “You know that’s the staff’s job, right?”

“If I can make things easier for everyone, then why not?”

The answer came too fast. Too automatic.

Ryujin’s eyes lingered on her longer this time. There it is, she thought. That isn't leadership anymore, it was compensation. Yeji was trying to carry everything now. The performances. The atmosphere. The morale. The silence. Lia’s absence. The pressure of making sure four people still looked complete under stage lights designed for five. And the frightening part was how naturally she was accepting it. Ryujin pulled out the chair beside her and sat down without asking. Yeji blinked. “What are you doing?” Ryujin just sat there looking at her phone.

“Keeping you company.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” Another silence settled between them.

A silience that showed tiredness no one wanted to say outloud. The kind built between people too exhausted to perform normality anymore.

Ryujin leaned back slightly, arms folded loosely across her chest. “You know none of us blame you, right?” Yeji’s hand stopped moving.

Only for a second— then she continued reorganizing papers that no longer needed reorganizing. “I know,” she said softly. But Ryujin could tell from the way her shoulders tightened that she didn’t believe it at all.