(Rewrite)Prologue : Two Different Worlds

You can be the most famous person in the room and still be lonely.

Jang Beom-seok knew this better than anyone. As Bomsok of BTSB, he spent his days being seen by millions and his nights wondering if anyone truly saw him.

At twenty-five, he was Bomsok: golden maknae, former child actor, professional fantasy. He knew how to cry on cue, how to hit his mark without looking, how to make fifty thousand people feel like he was singing only to them.

He also knew this: the more people see you, the less they know you.

The louder they scream your name,the quieter your own thoughts become.

So he developed a hobby: disappearing.

Not the first kind, he was too handsome for that, his posture too perfect, his bones too aware of where the cameras were. But a third way. A secret way.

He would put on a hoodie that made him itch. He would mess up hair that cost more to style than some people's rent. He would wear glasses that blurred the world and a mask that hid the face everyone wanted to see.

He would become someone else entirely.

A sickly medical student. Slouched shoulders, tired eyes, a textbook about nerves he couldn't pronounce. A practiced shuffle instead of his usual confident stride. It was a role, like any other he'd played : a high school heartthrob, a tortured chaebol heir, a detective with a tragic past. Only this time, the script called for him to be ordinary. Unremarkable. Unseen.

He would go to a manga café in Mapo-gu, sit in booth #7, and practice being nobody.

It never quite worked. His reflection kept checking itself in dark monitor screens. His shoulders kept squaring for imaginary spotlights. His fingers kept twitching toward choreography only he could hear.

It was a performance without an audience, a role without a script.

A lie he told the world so he could,for a few stolen moments, stop lying to himself.

Until the snowy December evening when his seatmate—a girl who didn't know an idol from an Instagram filter, who skipped his songs without looking, who called his stage name "Bomb Sock"—looked at him and saw something no fan ever had:

A boy. Just a boy. Trying to remember what it felt like to be real.

---

Seo Jin-ah had learned early that the world loves what's popular, and she was not that.

While girls in her class squealed over idols with perfect faces and stage names, she was busy tracing the lines of manga panels, whispering Kakashi Hatake's name like a prayer. While they memorized fanchants, she was learning hand signs. While they dreamed of concerts, she dreamed of a place like Ichiraku Ramen—where a bowl of noodles could feel like belonging.

She'd tried hiding once. Tucking her manga away, nodding along to conversations about music shows she'd never watch. It was exhausting. And pointless.

So she stopped pretending.

"Weirdo,"they called her.

"Anime freak."

"Loner."

Fine.

If being real meant being alone,then she'd be alone.

Then life took more than her pride. It took her mother. It took her education. It left her seventeen, orphaned, and wondering what the point of any of it was.

In the hollow weeks that followed, she rewatched Naruto. Not for escape, but for answers. And there it was—Teuchi, the ramen shop owner, handing a steaming bowl to a lonely, orange-haired boy. No questions. No judgment. Just food, and warmth, and a quiet kind of kindness that asked for nothing in return.

Right, she thought, tears blurring the screen. That's it.

Not fame. Not popularity. Not being seen by thousands.

But being there for one person.Filling one empty stomach. Offering one moment of peace in a loud, lonely world.

It was a small dream. An unfashionable one. But it was hers.

Now, at twenty-five, she worked at a small ramyeon shop in Mapo-gu. The pay wasn't great. The hours were long. But the steam fogged the windows, the broth warmed her hands, and every bowl she served felt like a quiet "thank you" to the mother she missed and the fictional mentor who taught her how to keep going.

On her days off, she'd read manga at her favorite café, Byeolhaneul Manga Cafè, with its private booths and cheap refills. She didn't look at the ads flashing on her phone. She didn't hear the songs blaring from passing earbuds. Her world was drawn in ink and seasoned with garlic, and she preferred it that way.

She had no idea that the boy slouched beside her in a too-big hoodie, pretending to study medical textbooks he clearly didn't understand, was running from the very spotlight she'd spent her life ignoring.

---

This is the story of what happened when the golden maknae stopped performing.

And the ramyeon girl who served him noodles without ever asking for an autograph.

Sometimes,the person who knows you least understands you best.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***