In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

Inside the tent.

I swallowed hard as I looked at the trembling grubs.

“So....”

My mouth went bone dry.

“You spent two months making this?”

“...Yes.”

Viju’s reply was two seconds slower than usual.

That meant I had made a huge mistake.

“I’m hurt.”

Junghyun said.

“I don’t know if it’ll satisfy you, hyung, but Viju and I worked on this beat all night and tweaked it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Well, you might think it’s awful...”

“No. Not at all! I love it!”

I tried to sound cheerful, but Viju still lay listless.

The maknae spoke up.

“I was there too. Viju was so excited, squealing, ‘Uju hyung is gonna love this!’”

“...”

“And I helped on some parts—on the B section and the chorus.”

The more I heard, the worse I felt.

At a moment like this, Rihyeok should have chimed in with something like “Seriously?” Instead, the tiny grub lay down dejectedly.

“...Rihyeok?”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

His dispirited voice made me panic—then Junghyun spoke up.

“By share, Rihyeok is our second-largest contributor.”

“...”

“He stayed up all night writing lyrics that’d suit you, hyung.”

“...”

I felt like I’d plunged into a deeper mess with every word.

I took a deep breath and declared,

“I’m sorry, everyone. I’ve been garbage.”

Normally I’d have laughed and said “OK,” but the mood didn’t improve.

After all, if someone spent two months preparing a gift thinking “Mrs. Kim will love this,” and then the recipient brutally criticized it... I’d feel bad too.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d spend two months on this.”

“It’s OK—don’t worry. It wasn’t every day we worked on it.”

Rihyeok said.

“Honestly, we felt the quality was... a bit off when Viju mentioned it a few days ago.”

“It felt odd.”

“Yeah. It’s been two months appreciating how precious you are, hyung....”

They’d tried to improve it among themselves but made no progress.

Viju asked,

“But objectively, what do you think, hyung?”

“Objectively?”

“Really objectively.”

I thought it through. The sound lingering in my mind—first was the gayageum sound.

“I think you chose the sound very well. Every song has a fitting genre, and you nailed it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I was surprised by how great the concept was.”

It evoked the mood of a Joseon scholar singing leisurely in the moonlight—beautifully melancholic. The tasteful use of space was impressive, too.

“But I felt the song leans too much on performance.”

“Performance? We haven’t planned choreography yet.”

“Viju, your phone.”

Viju handed me the phone; I played the file and offered it for a listen.

“When you have choreography and a song, the song must come first. The song exists, then you visually express it. Without lyrics here, I’m guessing you’d sing some melody on the B section—right?”

“Yes, that kind of feel.”

“But feel the breathing here.” I tapped out an imaginary dance rhythm—“ta-dak, ta-dak”—and inhaled, exhaled.

It felt unnatural.

“Oh...!”

At my siblings’ sound of realization, I laughed and asked,

“The lyrics and choreography breath feel odd, right? It feels like you’re dancing then breathing, not singing then dancing.”

“So that’s it...”

“Maybe, Viju, you composed the song thinking of dance.”

“Oh...”

I smiled at them and said,

“If it were just dance, it wouldn’t matter, but we’re singers—we sing the song.”

“We get it, hyung.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. I recalled the song in my mind.

“If you slow it by one tempo, the problem’s solved.”

“Wouldn’t that be too slow?”

“No. The chorus is perfect; just ease up the section before. Like this.”

I hummed an example; they all exclaimed, “Ahhh...!”

The maknae said in wonder,

“Wow. That’s how you do it, hyung.”

The awkward expression made us laugh. The atmosphere relaxed.

So I skipped further critiques and shared my thoughts.

“Putting personal taste aside, I think it’s a great song.”

“Really? Could it be an album track?”

“If you revise it a bit—since it’s so fresh—it’s not just album-track level.”

I turned to the wriggling grubs with enthusiasm.

“I think it could be a title-track candidate.”

“Wowwww...!”

They made a ruckus that shook the tent. I heard Rihyeok groan under Junghyun’s pile, and Viju shout “I love it!” I waited until the chaos calmed.

The maknae reached out and rested a hand on his cheek.

“Amazing. We really made a great song. Can I be introduced as Composer Park Jiho?”

“See, pro stuff!”

“If this becomes the title track, we’ll interview like Uju hyung: ‘Made in one day!’”

Amid their playful chatter, Rihyeok interjected.

“Um.”

“Ha-ha!”

“Um, everyone.”

“Yes?”

“Didn’t you hear him? He said, ‘if it’s completed,’ it’ll be great.”

The grubs nodded.

“But?”

“The question is, do we have the ability to complete it?”

“Oh.”

My siblings, who had been flailing, dropped their hands and turned to me. I forced an awkward smile, and the maknae asked,

“Then, maybe you could polish it, hyung? In return, we’ll put your name first in the credits.”

“Well....”

I looked at their eager faces.

“I actually have my own song stuck, too. To be honest, this is... hard to revise.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s difficult.”

It reminded me of my own song’s problem. At first I didn’t notice, but as they said, it felt like a track they’d labored over. There were traces of dozens of tweaks.

It’s a funny dilemma: revising a song is like repairing a broken machine. You could end up with something great, but repeated fixes can make it more awkward. Worse, after many adjustments, it feels ‘complete,’ making further tweaks tricky. It’s like a broken machine running smoothly, yet you don’t know where to start repair. Reverting to earlier versions offers no clear solution.

“So it’s a similar problem.”

“Then should we ask Director Jo? Explain it’s the same issue as hyung’s song.”

“That could work, but...”

The PD had told me to try solving it myself. I’d been thinking about it all trip, but how to fix it?

My siblings offered suggestions.

“We listened to the USB you gave us and brainstormed. So we thought...”

“...Add more drums for a pop feel...”

“Uju hyung looks spaced out—brain’s elsewhere. Just as I thought—Uju hyung’s a genius... aaah!”

As Jiho play-slapped me, my mind buzzed. Their ideas weren’t the answer, nor were mine.

What if we just took the main theme and made a completely new song...?

“Huh?”

They stopped talking and looked at me. In that moment, everything cleared as if clouds parted in the night sky.

“We can make it new.”

“Yes?”

“We just need to extract the good parts and build from there!”

“...?”

“I mean.”

I snapped my fingers to get attention, but words failed. My thoughts raced ahead. Once the idea struck, the song’s framework sketched itself in my mind, and I began planning.

“Let’s combine them.”

“Yes?”

“We’ll take the main-theme from the chorus of my song, and the verse from yours.”

“...?”

“For sound, we’ll layer in gayageum or other traditional instruments. It’ll fit the theme perfectly.”

The maknae, staring blankly, asked excitedly,

“What? Then we’ll film the MV in a sageuk concept?”

“Sounds good to me.”

As they cheered, I envisioned the big picture. The album’s theme would be “farewell.” Under my plan, the song would perfectly match that mood.

“This isn’t the usual time,” I said, reaching for my phone.

“I’ll record it—won’t want to forget it by morning.”

“Wait. Let’s calm first.”

Rihyeok’s reminder made me nod—because we always did a ritual before important talks. I’d forgotten. With a zip, we unzipped the tent and poked our heads out.

Crickets chirped. Though there were lights set by the crew, no cameras or mics remained—only a security CCTV. They really wanted us to rest.

“Maknae.”

“Yes.”

Jiho scanned the tent. He’s so good at spotting cameras he could find a hidden lens instantly.

“There’s nothing. One hundred percent sure.”

Good. I immediately took the earbud from Viju and listened to the song, comparing it in my mind to what I’d made. I opened the recording app and began humming.

“...?”

After thirty seconds,

“...!”

Their faces lit up, so I’d hit the mark.

“Hyung, this...”

Viju nearly spoke but shut his mouth. They all felt it—this song was truly good.

Worried it hadn’t recorded right, I checked and backed it up several times. Then, flexing my tense fingers, I looked at “Untitled.”

“Viju.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your song called?”

“I haven’t named it properly yet. Something flower-related, I think. How about yours?”

“Ours was called Falling.”

Falling and flowers. Holding both options in mind, I said,

“How about combining them into Nak-hwa (落花) – Fallen Flower?”

A flower falling, or already fallen. Their immediate agreement made me smile.

On our last night in Jeju, under a clear sky, in a tent filled with cricket song, we hummed the song we’d just created together.

That night.

Ding-dong—

Jo Gyu-hwan, Lemon Ent.’s production director, finished showering and drying his hair when his phone chimed. An email arrived: an audio file titled “Work File—Nak-hwa” sent by Uju. He smiled.

“So he solved it.”

The message apologized for the late hour and asked for confirmation. A postscript read, “ps. I know a great tonkatsu place.”

He chuckled. Seated at his desk, he played the file. A pleasant humming flowed from the speakers. Not even a minute later...

“...?”

A curious frown gave way to a faint smile.

The next morning.

After packing, we left the lodging.

“You all look happy. Good news?”

“Yes!”

When we said we’d made a song late last night, the crew smiled.

“You must’ve been bored. Made a Jeju travel song or something?”

“No, not that.”

“If you have time, let us hear it later—it sounds fun.”

They likely pictured us strumming guitars, singing “NewBlack in Jeju~.” I decided not to explain—it’d take too long.

“All right! Today is our last day in Jeju!”

“Waaaaah!”

“Sad, right?”

“Yesssss—!”

“So for breakfast, we’re at the best abalone stew spot near Seongsan Ilchulbong!”

“Ooooh!”

We gave a thumbs-up to the audio director who recommended the place. The headphones-clad director wore a Buddha-like smile. After devouring two bowls of the tear-inducingly delicious abalone stew each, sadly we didn’t climb Seongsan. Besides Viju’s fear of heights and the steep stairs...

“Waaaaah!”

Chinese tourists spotted us and ran over. The tour guide shouted “NewBlack!” and pointed. Excited fans swarmed. They didn’t know exactly who we were, just that we were famous Koreans. They posed for photos, draped arms around our shoulders. For safety, we retreated to the vehicle.

“I guess we can’t climb Seongsan Ilchulbong after all.”

“Right.”

Perhaps because we’d mostly done minor routes, we didn’t realize how many Chinese tourists there are in Jeju. Instead, we toured around the base of the peak to wrap the schedule. In fact, the reality filming ended last night; now it was just capturing opening shots. After the final day’s shoot, we gathered in the courtyard, each holding a mini-flag that read “NewBlack’s Travel Diary.” It was time for our closing remarks to viewers and the crew.

“I really worry how this will come out.”

“Me too.”

“You told us in the pre-meeting not to worry about screen time, just be natural. We really let loose, but will it be interesting...?”

At our genuine concern, the entire staff shook their heads firmly.

“Ahem. Anyway, thank you all for your hard work these four days. PD-nim, directors, writers...”

“Thank you so much.”

“You’ve made us so happy, truly...”

The crew smiled as even the youngest members spoke up. They knew we sincerely appreciated them.

“From the horror special to the picnic and treasure hunt, this golden time was thanks to you, the reality-production team. Whenever we looked stressed, you changed things on the spot. We’ve never filmed in such a relaxed atmosphere.”

We learned they weren’t K-net staff but an outsourced company specializing in healing variety shows.

“If we have a chance, I’d love to film again with this team.”

“Can we get season two?”

“We really want to do this again.”

The crew waved a heartfelt “Oooo~” in agreement.

“I don’t know when we’ll do another travel reality show, but I hope we meet again then.”

I looked to my younger members.

“All right, let’s give a lively closing greeting.”

“For three nights and four days, you’ve all worked hard! So far—”

“This was NewBlack!”

We clapped and officially wrapped filming.

“Great job~”

“We had a tough time with all your cowardice.”

We shook hands and hugged staff, video-called the directors’ children, and signed autographs for families. For the final group picture for social media:

“NewBlack Mini 4th EP!”

“Wishing for a hit~!”

We shouted the slogan and cheered. Then we promised every crew member we’d treat them to Korean beef in Seoul, prompting even louder cheers.

“NewBlack! NewBlack!”

It truly was a raucous finale. After preparing to leave and finishing check-in at Jeju Airport, I boarded the plane and checked my phone—one unread email from Director Jo.

[Re: Confirmation needed for NewBlack Mini 4th EP title]

“I listened to the song you sent. It’s really good. Contact me when you get to Seoul. We’ll talk more then.”

His positive response made me think it went well. I showed the email to my siblings; they silently pumped fists in delight.

Then I noticed the P.S.

ps. By the way, whose voice is at the very beginning? It sounds like someone I’ve never heard before.

Viju, sitting next to me, asked,

“Whose voice? What do you mean?”

“Yeah.”

We shared an ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ earbud but heard nothing... until we did.

“Huh?”

“Hyung, there’s something at the start—about half a second.”

“It does.”

We cranked up the volume a few notches and looped the opening section. A chill ran down our arms.

“...”

A middle-aged man’s unfamiliar voice softly hummed, “Ah—.”