The news of his diagnosis didn't break the internet.
It barely made a ripple.
No trending hashtags.
No fan protests outside his former agency.
No candlelight vigils held in the name of the idol who once made stadiums tremble with a single note.
The world had already moved on from Joon-ha.
But the disease hadn't.
It found him.
It stayed.
It spread.
It stole.
As quietly as a thief that knew no one was going to chase it.
There was a time when his laugh had its own fan cams.
When his smile melted screens.
When the golden boy of K-pop didn't walk into rooms, he entered, like light pouring through a door.
Sold-out tour dates.
Hit after hit.
Billboards glowing with his face in Tokyo, Paris, New York.
People once called him inevitable.
But after the scandals, after Ji-woo's death, after the courtroom collapse, after Kang's downfall and the world's disappointment, his name shifted from iconic to inconvenient.
Brands withdrew.
The agency posted a cold, clean statement:
"Due to health concerns and personal circumstances, Joon-ha will retire from all entertainment activities."
No interview.
No goodbye stage.
No farewell concert with lights dimming slowly to silence.
Just a man disappearing from his own life and that's the harsh reality of the entertainment industry, one scandal, whether guilty or not, you will be canceled and gone.
And in the vacuum left behind, the world filled the space with someone younger, shinier, untouched by grief.
______________
It started small.
Fatigue from sleepless nights, he thought.
Weight loss from skipped meals.
His hands trembling when he held a pencil, stress, maybe.
Then came the nausea.
The pain, dull at first, then sharp, blooming like fire behind his ribs.
The doctor spoke gently, as if gentleness could soften the blow:
"We've confirmed it again. Pancreatic cancer. Stage IV."
The air left the room.
He didn't cry.
Didn't break.
Didn't scream.
He simply exhaled, a long, shaking breath.
As though his body had finally aligned with the grief he'd carried for years.
As though it were inevitable, like a punishment he'd always feared might arrive.
The doctor kept talking, soft words sharp with meaning:
"There's no cure. But… we can manage symptoms. We can make you comfortable."
Comfortable.
Such a cruel mercy.
Most people left.
Stylists.
Producers.
Colleagues who once called him "family" in front of cameras.
Even fans quietly migrated to newer stars.
But Min Joon stayed.
His manager.
His anchor.
His only constant.
He was there for every appointment, holding a bag of medication in one hand, a worn thermos of ginger tea in the other.
He sat beside him during chemo, their shared silence filled with a loyalty that didn't need words.
He was there when the pain made Joon-ha fold into himself.
When he could no longer hide the tremor in his fingers.
When the weight of his thinning body sank into the couch.
"Why are you still here?" Joon-ha whispered once, voice breaking like porcelain struck against stone.
Min Joon smiled, tired but unwavering.
"Because you're still Joon-ha.
Even now.
Especially now."
If there was a brotherhood born of fire, it was theirs.
They moved away from Seoul.
Away from the neon lights and the noise.
Away from gossip that still followed him in grocery stores.
Away from memories that clawed like ghosts.
They chose the coast, a quiet village where no one recognized him, where the sea erased footprints as quickly as they formed.
The apartment was small, but the light was kind.
Mornings were slow.
Waves tapping the shore like a heartbeat.
Salt in the air.
A warmth that didn't ask him to perform.
Some days, he'd hum unfinished melodies from his idol days, breath soft and cracked.
Some days, he'd sketch, crooked lines, trembling strokes, unfinished shapes.
He apologized for every shaky drawing.
Min Joon framed all of them.
"They're still yours," he said.
"Even if the lines tremble."
Sometimes, late at night, Joon-ha touched the frames and whispered:
"I'm sorry I'm fading."
Min Joon always answered:
"You're not fading.
You're changing shape."
___________________
The box appeared on the kitchen table one morning.
Not wrapped.
Not hidden.
Like a confession waiting patiently to be found.
Inside were things heavier than any weight he had lost:
A USB labeled "For the ones who stayed"
A hand-drawn portrait of Ji-woo, smiling, alive, warm
A sealed letter addressed to Areum
And a note written in the shaky handwriting he hated:
"Don't let them forget I tried."
It was the first time Min Joon cried in front of him.
Slow tears.
Silent ones.
The kind that tasted like helplessness.
"Why this?" he asked, voice trembling.
Joon-ha looked at the sea through the window, eyes tired but steady.
"Because the world only remembers the ones who shine.
But I want to be remembered for the ones I loved."
That night, the stars dusted the sky like scattered promises.
The sea was calm, too calm, like it was holding its breath with him.
Joon-ha sat by the window, wrapped in a blanket that swallowed his shrinking frame.
Min Joon sat beside him, a quiet guardian.
"Do you think they'll remember me?" he whispered, voice fragile, hopeful, scared.
Min Joon didn't hesitate.
"They already do.
Not the idol.
You."
Something in Joon-ha softened.
The line of his shoulders eased.
His breath steadied.
He closed his eyes, not in surrender, but in rest.
His fingers curled around the sketch of Ji-woo and the letter to Areum.
He whispered, almost too faint to catch:
"I'm not done yet."
And then he opened his eyes again.
He looked at Min Joon.
At the night sky.
At the long road he still had to walk.
The illness was real.
The pain was real.
But so was the stubborn ember inside him, the one that refused to go out.
He wasn't dying.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
He was still here.
Still fighting.
Still trying.
And somewhere in the dark, the world kept breathing, with him.
Note: My new novel "velvet devotion" is coming out on 17th November 2025
It's not the book 2 of this novel but it includes some characters from this novel which are, Kim Ara and Detective Choi.