-2-

By the time I turned twelve, I knew everything about Stray Kids.

Middle school was loud, chaotic, and cruel in ways that felt sharper than elementary school. Everyone was changing, everyone was watching, and somehow I felt more invisible than ever. I walked through the halls with my shoulders tense, my heart constantly racing, pretending I wasn’t afraid of being noticed—but terrified of being misunderstood.

Stray Kids became my constant.

I learned their stories, their lyrics, their struggles. I watched interviews late at night with the volume low, memorizing their laughter like it was something sacred. They felt real in a way people around me didn’t. They didn’t pretend pain didn’t exist. They didn’t act like strength meant never breaking.

And that’s when I found Lee Know.

Or maybe… he found me.

There was something about him that felt painfully familiar. The way he kept his emotions locked tight. The way he joked instead of opening up. The way his care showed in actions, not words. He didn’t cry in front of everyone. He didn’t let weakness spill out where it could be used against him.

That was me.

I was scared to show emotion.

Scared to cry in front of people.

Scared that if I let myself break, no one would help—they’d just use it as proof that I was weak.

So I held everything in.

I smiled when I was supposed to.

I laughed when it was expected.

And when the tears came, they only came when I was alone—late at night, staring at the ceiling, music playing softly like a shield around my heart.

Lee Know made me feel less strange for that.

He reminded me that being quiet didn’t mean being empty. That caring deeply didn’t require being loud. That strength could look like endurance.

But even then, I couldn’t escape ridicule.

My friends found out I liked Stray Kids, and suddenly it became a joke.

“Why do you listen to that?”

“They don’t even speak English.”

“That’s so cringe.”

“Of course you like them.”

I laughed it off like it didn’t hurt. I always did.

But every comment sank deep. Liking Stray Kids wasn’t just a hobby—it was personal. It was the one thing that made me feel understood. And once again, something that mattered to me became something people used to tear me down.

So I learned—again—to hide.

I stopped talking about them.

Stopped sharing what I loved.

Kept that part of myself locked away like it was something shameful.

But no matter how quiet I became on the outside, Stray Kids stayed loud inside me.

Their music walked with me through hallways.

Their words held me together when my hands were shaking.

Lee Know reminded me that I wasn’t cold or broken—just careful.

I was still depressed.

Still anxious.

Still learning how to survive.

But at twelve years old, in a world that kept telling me I was too much or not enough, I had something solid to hold onto.