To many, words are just words—fleeting, intangible, harmless.
But the truth is, words can wound. And sometimes, those wounds don't heal. In the worst cases, they can even lead to death.
Especially in the 21st century, where the internet has given everyone a platform, the power of words has only grown—like a bedbug infestation, small at first, but deeply invasive and hard to contain.
Like any typical social media platform, it allows people to share their thoughts, express their creativity, or document their daily lives. But for some, it has become a weapon—a tool to lash out at a world they believe has wronged them.
What most people fail to realize is that every comment, every post, every cruel joke can cause a ripple in someone else's life.
The screen might make us feel distant, disconnected—but the person on the other side is real.
Their pain is real.
And yet, many don't care.
Some want chaos. Some thrive on misery—especially when it's someone else's.
Other people's suffering becomes a twisted form of entertainment. They say, "It's just a comment," or "She's a celebrity, she can handle it." But behind every public figure is a private human being—hoping, hurting, just like the rest of us.
Is it ever really worth it? To throw out a hurtful remark just for laughs, likes, or fleeting satisfaction?
Even the Bible offers a timeless warning: "Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned."
But how often do we remember that? Especially in a world that demands perfection, but offers no grace.
This isn't just a thought experiment—it's a reflection of what happened to a kind-hearted girl.
She wasn't seeking fame for fame's sake.
She just wanted to be seen, understood, appreciated.
She hoped that by sharing pieces of herself—on stage, on screen, even online—someone might understand what she was going through.
But instead of empathy, she was met with judgment. Online vitriol, whispers behind her back, headlines that twisted her truth into a spectacle.
People told her to "take a deep breath," to "toughen up," or dismissed her pain as attention-seeking.
A drama queen, they called her. A nuisance.
No one paused to truly listen.
They only saw what is on the surface—a beautiful face, a rising star—and forgot there was a young woman behind it, aching to simply exist without being dissected.
All she really wanted was to find her place in the world.
But by the time anyone noticed... it was already too late.
That young woman's name was Choi Sulli.
Sulli's childhood was a mix of quiet dreams and quiet pain.
Born into a broken family, she watched her mother struggle to make ends meet after the divorce, working day and night to support Sulli and her older brothers.
Yet, even amidst the hardship, a spark of light glowed in her—an early love for acting.
Her mother, recognizing that passion, enrolled her in an acting academy in Busan.
It was there, in that small studio, that Sulli first began polishing her gift. The break came when she was cast in the historical drama 'The Ballad of Seodong'.
Despite her young age, she impressed even the veteran director with her natural presence and quiet depth.
But as it often goes, good things carry a cost.
Behind the scenes, her mother was barely scraping by to support Sulli's dream.
And when SM Entertainment came knocking, drawn by her beauty and on-screen charm, it felt like fate offering a shortcut—a golden opportunity.
The company promised to make Sulli a star. They praised her image, saying she was perfect for the SM mold—bright-eyed, elegant, fresh.
But when she entered the progame, it wasn't acting they focused on.
It was training: singing, dancing, strict dieting, and relentless performance drills.
Sulli was barely a teenager when she moved into a dormitory in Seoul, far from home, far from anything familiar.
Seoul was overwhelming. She didn't know the city.
Her home in Busan was too far to visit regularly, and even though the company technically allowed trainees to go home on weekends, her financial situation made that nearly impossible.
Her world became practice rooms, evaluations, and pressure. No one asked how she felt. No one had the time.
In SM, her talent was nurtured—but her childhood was taken. Her smile was polished for the cameras, but no one noticed how tired her eyes had become.
It was both her chance at success—and the start of her slow undoing.
Now, Jihoon stood there, looking at the girl in front of him—young, sweet, and smiling.
Sulli had just introduced herself with such polite grace. But something about her smile was off.
Not fake, but... hollow. Her tone calm, yet detached.
Her bright expression didn't match the emptiness in her gaze. She radiated beauty, but it felt fractured—like shards of a broken mirror reflecting a version of herself she no longer recognized.
Jihoon felt something in his chest tighten. He didn't know her well—yet—but something told him that this girl was carrying more than she let on.
He didn't yet know what fate had in store. But what he did know—what he would remember all too clearly—was that in just twelve years, in the cold autumn of 2019, that smile would vanish forever. Sulli would be gone, just 25 years old.
And the world, so quick to judge her, would finally realize—too late—that what she needed wasn't fame, or validation, or applause.
But reflection was never in their nature. Her absence became a silent consequence of their cruelty, yet they carried on, brewing more chaos, inflicting more wounds.
Some might feel sorry.
But regret doesn't rewind time.
And no amount of sorrow could bring her back to that moment…
Back to the place where she could smile without pain.
Because all she ever needed was someone to listen.
To understand.
To remind her that she mattered.
Jihoon's eyes were heavy as he stood in the sleek lobby of SM Entertainment, watching her from just a few steps away.
She looked so young—innocent, even—like the child she still was.
But behind that small frame, Jihoon could almost see the invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders. Only God knew what burdens she carried already.
A child being made to play the part of an adult.
Forced to smile, speak, and perform like someone far older.
That pressure wasn't written in any contract—but it lived between the lines. And when she signed with SM, she had unknowingly draped that weight over herself like a costume far too big for her body.
Jihoon couldn't help but feel a quiet ache in his chest.
Not pity, exactly—no, that would've been condescending.
But understanding.
Because he, too, had carried a similar burden once. In another life, in a different skin.
As an orphan, he knew what it felt like to be young and alone, standing in the rain, silently hoping someone—anyone—might offer an umbrella. Even if just for a moment.
He looked at her deeply, taking in the subtle hollowness behind her bright eyes, and then gently reached out to ruffle her hair.
Not because she needed comfort.
But because she didn't ask for it.
Her eyes told him everything—guarded, quiet, stubborn. Just like his had once been.
So instead of pressing, he simply smiled.
"Sulli, right?" he said softly, with the warmth of an older brother. "I've seen your drama. You were really good."
Sulli blinked up at him, surprised by the familiarity in his tone, the unexpected tenderness in his touch. It felt strange—comforting, but strange.
She knew who Jihoon was, of course. Everyone did, especially someone like her who dreamed of becoming an actress.
The media had been buzzing about his leap to Hollywood, his breakout films 'Secret' and 'Your Name.' They were her favorites.
She loved the way his stories captured emotion—the soft, unspoken kind that lived between people.
Watching his films made her feel understood, especially during those days when she felt worn down and invisible.
But the Jihoon standing before her now wasn't what she expected.
He wasn't just the rising director from the news.
He felt… familiar. Like someone who saw her—not the performer, not the product—but the person.
Still, she replied as she'd been taught in countless etiquette drills.
"Thank you, sunbae. I'll work harder next time."
Jihoon smiled gently, still ruffling her hair like she was his little sister.
"You can just call me oppa," he said. "That's what Krystal calls me."
He didn't push the title. He knew better than to force closeness—especially with someone as guarded as she was. That kind of trust had to be offered, not taken.
Turning toward Krystal, who had been watching the whole exchange with quiet curiosity, Jihoon raised an eyebrow.
"So… what are you two doing in the lobby? If you said you've joined the trainee program. Shouldn't you be training right now or something?"
Krystal blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Ah—yeah. We were just thinking of grabbing something to eat before heading back to practice."
She glanced between Jihoon and Sulli again, clearly trying to read the moment.
"Well then," Jihoon said, grinning now. "Why don't you two come with me?"
"Why?" Krystal asked, tilting her head like a suspicious cat.
"I came to drop off some gifts—for you, your sister, and the rest of the girls," he said. "After that, I'm treating you all to some barbecue. Sound good?"
"Daebak! Really? Where's my gift?" Krystal lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, bouncing with excitement.
Jihoon laughed. "Slow down. You'll get it once we find your sister and the others."
He turned back to Sulli, his expression softening. "Sorry, Sulli. I didn't know you'd be here today… so I didn't bring anything for you."
"It's okay, sunbae. I'm fine," she replied with a smile—wide, bright, practiced.
But Jihoon could see through it.
That smile wasn't about the missing gift.
It was about everything else she was carrying.
The pressure.
The expectations.
The loneliness.
And in that moment, Jihoon made a quiet vow—not to save her, not to fix everything.
But to be the kind of person who offered an umbrella in the rain.
Even if she never asked for one.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Daoistadj and Daoist098135 for bestowing the power stone!]