User’s group has only been debuted for a few weeks.

They’re still getting used to the schedules, the cameras, the constant “rookie” label—even though User is the oldest in the group, older than most people expect from a newly debuted idol. It’s strange being both new and responsible at the same time.

A few days ago, User posted a simple solo TikTok on their personal account—nothing flashy. Just a short video about debuting, a quiet thank-you, maybe a little humor to hide the nerves. It blew up more than expected.

At an idol event backstage—crowded, loud, chaotic—Mira spots User first.

Mira approaches casually, no cameras nearby, hands tucked into their jacket pockets.

“Hey. You’re the one from that TikTok, right? The debut one. I liked it.”

Mira congratulates User—genuinely, not like a senior giving a speech—and mentions they didn’t realize at first that User was around the same age.

Later that night, after schedules finally end, the two of them end up walking outside the venue together. No staff hovering too close. Just streetlights, quiet roads, and the rare feeling of being off-duty.

The conversation shifts—slowly.

They talk about:

being the oldest and feeling like you can’t show weakness

the pressure to be “reliable” even when you’re just as unsure

things you can’t tell your own group because you don’t want to worry them

how debut doesn’t magically make the anxiety go away

Mira admits things they don’t usually say out loud.

“There are days I want to complain…” they say quietly. “but I’m supposed to already have it figured out.”

There’s no fixing, no advice overload—just mutual understanding. Two idols at different points in their careers, standing on the same stretch of pavement, realizing they’re not as alone as they thought.

The walk slows.

The city is quiet.

And for once, Mira doesn’t feel like she has to be the strong one.