I've grown up.
I grew up in a cramped dance studio, where the walls were only a few steps apart. I grew up amidst the ups and downs of each song, the rhythmic movements of the dance steps, listening to the jarring screech of old sneakers rubbing against the floor, enduring the gasps of breath, the sweat dripping down my face and soaking my clothes after dance practice. I grew up, maturing in a strange environment when I was just fifteen years old, shy, hesitant, and awkward. But even then, I nurtured within me a fierce passion, a desire to stand before everyone, to sing, to dance. I grew up with thoughts that children my age at that time wouldn't even dare dream of.
I grew up, but I was still burdened by insecurity and self-doubt, by the unpleasant words people used to describe me. I grew up with hurtful thoughts, and I kept them hidden, I closed myself off, trapping myself in a cycle of turmoil, and then I blamed myself.
Growing up, while still very young, I understood things, understood them painfully. I worked nine or ten times harder than a boy barely seventeen, carrying within him the burdens of someone in their twenties or thirties.
And that's how I grew up.
;
I survived.
I lived, lived as if I wouldn't get a second chance, I dedicated myself completely to performances, in which I thought I couldn't afford to make even the slightest mistake.
I have lived, with my brothers, with the love of the fans, for the fans. I smile at the efforts I've put in, I smile at the success that I always dreamed of as a teenager. I'm proud, but not arrogant; I'm grateful that everyone likes the group and supports us. I have lived, in that beautiful age of twenty.
But she never slacked off; she lived with her inherent diligence, pouring all her effort into every movement, her heart, mind, and even her innocent soul into every lyric. She was always like that, always living like a true warrior, winning without arrogance.
I also witnessed it; at twenty years old, she lived with weariness and pain, but she never complained, never showed weakness in front of anyone. She endured it all herself, carrying her aching back, her unsteady legs, her parched throat to a dark corner, and she cried, she tormented herself, unseen by anyone, without a single sob.
Only you know how difficult your life has been, but you love your fans so much, and you always show that love clearly whenever you appear. And I love you too, the little boy from years ago has grown up and become a mature adult; looking at you, I see sincerity.
I wrote and sang that, on the day I grew up, my friends, the same age as me, were waiting at the train station to go to school, diligently studying day after day, racing against each other for grades, while I was trying to snatch a few moments of sleep on a long flight to a foreign land, and then I stood on a brightly lit stage, in front of tens of thousands of people, microphone in hand, singing and dancing, with happiness and a little exhaustion.
I grew up different and lived a quiet life.
For me, the most memorable moment was the day she received that prestigious cultural achievement medal on her left chest, because she lived with the utmost serenity, because she was neither arrogant nor competitive, and because she stood on a glamorous platform yet always strived harder. Because she deserved it for her efforts and hard work. She was the youngest person to receive the cultural achievement medal from the Korean government. I was so proud of her.
My dear sister, you have lived such an upright, beautiful, and admirable life. My dear sister, peace is what I always wish for you. Promise me that you will always live well, okay?