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The first rain of summer arrived without warning, hammering down on the roof until the whole house seem to hum with it. Little Yooyeon pressed her small palms against the window, her breath clouding the glass as she stared wide-eyed into the storm. After a moment, she bounced on her toes, excitement bubbling inside her, before she ran toward the door and slipped outside, giggling as the cool drops splattered her face.
The ground felt cool and soft under her bare feet. Puddles made little ripples as she stepped in them. She spun around in the yard, arms stretched wide. Her dress grew heavy with water, and her hair stuck to her cheeks. Her laughter mixed with the rain, making it seem like they were playing together. For a brief moment, she felt like the storm belonged to her or that she belonged to it.
“Yooyeon! Inside, now! You’ll catch a cold!” her mother called.
She stopped where she stood, breathless, rain streaking down her face. Her small mouth tightened in a pout. The rain felt like freedom, but her mother’s voice pulled her back to reality. Dragging her feet, she trudged toward the doorway and stamped once in protest before running inside.
That night, her body burned with fever. Cool cloths pressed against her forehead, she could faintly hear her mother’s quiet murmurs while the rain fell steadily outside her window. Even through the haze of sickness, she managed a weak smile. The rain had made her weak, but it had also made her feel alive. She didn’t know it yet, but storms would always greet her like this: giving and taking in a single breath.
When morning came, the storm had passed. The air smelled fresh and clean, full of wet earth. From her bed, Yooyeon traced a single droplet down the window, promising herself that she would one day return to the rain.
The rain fell gently that afternoon as Yooyeon walked home together with a classmate, the two of them tucked beneath a single umbrella. Their shoulders brushed with every step, and a sudden warmth bloomed in her chest, catchibg her off guard. Her friend laughed at something trivial, a sound soft and light, and even though Yooyeon hadn't caught the words, she found herself laughing along. All she knew was that she wanted the walk to last longer.
Later that night, Yooyeon sat by her window, watching the rain droplets race down the glass. Her friend’s smile played again and again in her mind, like a broken film she couldn't stop.
"Admiration", she murmured, trying to convince herself. That’s all it was. She had heard enough whispers in church and in hushed classrooms talks to know what was allowed and wasn't. Forbidden. Wrong. Sinful. Not normal. The rain falling in a quiet rhythm, a persistent reminder of everything she refused to admit.
Years carried her forward, and with them came heavier storms.
It was her second year of high school when a boy stopped her after class. The sky heavy and gray, thunder curling low at the horizon. His words tumbled out, his face flushed, and Yooyeon felt the weight of watching eyes on them of friends peeking from doorways, waiting for her answer. She gave a faint smile and said yes.
For a while, it felt right enough. She had someone to walk home with, to text late into the night, someone whose name she doodled hearts around in her notebook. Her friends teased herplayfully, and she told herself this was how tbings were supposed to be. But as weeks stretched into months, a quiet distance grew between them not from fights, but from absence. His touch began to feel unfamilliar. His presence felt heavy. She wore the relationship like an ill-fitting coat, keeping it on only because everyone else seemed to be wearing one too.
The day she ended it, the rain was relentless. They stood under a bus stop, the roar of water so loud it nearly swallowed their words. He cried; she didn’t. Relief washed over her just like the storm, but beneath it, guilt tangled in her chest. She told herself maybe she wasn’t cut out for relationships. Maybe she was broken. Still, deep down, her heart still clung to the memory of a girl’s smile in the drizzle.
By her final year, she was tired of pretending she didn't wonder. On rainy nights, when the drops tapped against her window, she searched the internet with trembling hands. What does it mean if I like girls? Is it normal? Am I wrong? Words appeared on the screen. Answers she’d never dared to hold before. Relief mixed with fear, but she kept reading, letting the rain outside mask the sound of her racing heart. Slowly, the storm inside her began to settle. She wasn’t broken. She wasn’t alone. Yet she told no one. The secret stayed buried deep in her chest, safe but heavy.
When graduation came, the rain had faded to gentle scattered showers. Yooyeon drifted from one possibility to the nexy. From waiting tables at a sushi restaurant, fumbling through a coding class, even briefly enrolling in a military weapons and strategy program. But each attempt slid off her like water on glass. Nothing felt right.
Until one evening, she found herself in a small venue where a girl group was performing. The lights flashed, voices soared, every movement shimmering with something larger than life. Yooyeon watched, her heart beating in a rhythm she hadn’t known in years. It wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t a mask. It was longing, sharp and clear, like the storm inside her had finally calmed.
When the show ended, she stepped into the cool night air. Rain sprinkled down, soft and forgiving. For the first time in years, she welcomed it. The road ahead was uncertain, but the storm no longer frightened her. She walked home beneath the drizzle, and it felt as if the rain was walking beside her.
The stage lights were harsh and unrelenting. Yooyeon stood beneath them, breath shallow, body stiff with nerves. She had no dance training, no voice lessons, nothing but a stubborn, trembling flame of determination. But it wasn’t enough. Early in the program, she faltered. Her steps wavered, her voice cracked, and whispers rippled through the trainees watching. The judges exchanged glances and the elimination notice was almost in her hands until one woman, sharp-eyed yet gentle, raised her palm.
“She has something,” the woman said. “Let her try again.”
That day, Yooyeon bowed so low her forehead nearly touched the floor. Those words became her talisman, carrying her through round after round on sheer determination alone. She improved, slowly but surely, though not enough to reach the final stage. When the debut lineup was announced, her name wasn’t called.
That night, rain battered the roof just like it did when she was little, the way it always did when life spun out of her control. Her parents were waiting.
“Yooyeon,” her father said gently, “being an idol isn’t just about talent. You need luck. Not everyone has it.”
Her mother’s voice followed softly, “Focus on your studies. That’s where your future lies.”
Their words settled heavy on her chest, but she didn’t argue. Dutifully, she turned toward the safer path, enrolling in science education as they wished. Still, every night, the storm whispered through her window. She laughed with classmates, took notes, played the part of a normal student but inside, she felt empty. The dream she’d once tasted still gnawed at her.
One afternoon, on her way home from class, a man stopped her. His suit was crisp, his smile practiced, and in his hand he held out a card.
“I remember you,” he said. “From the audition program. You were raw, but I saw your determination. I haven’t forgotten.”
She blinked, cautious, clutching her bag tighter.
“I’m starting a new company,” he continued, lowering his voice like a secret. “A girl group. Small, manageable. Just a few members. Space for you to shine. Think about it.”
It sounded too good to be true as if snake oil polished into promises. But his words sparked something she thought she had buried long ago. That night she turned the card over and over in her hands, rain tapping against her window as if urging her on.
For weeks she pressed him for details, refusing to be led blindly this time. When she was finally sure, she went to her parents.
“This is my last chance,” she said quietly. “I know I’m older than most trainees. I know it’s hard. But I can’t live the rest of my life wondering what if. Please… let me try again.”
Her parents studied her face. For the first time, they saw something unshakable in her eyes. Her father exhaled deeply and her mother reached for her hand.
“On one condition,” her mother said softly. “You continue your studies. No matter what happens.”
Yooyeon nodded, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
So she began again, training harder than she ever thought possible. The group grew bigger than the CEO had promised, and years later she would still side-eyed him for selling her a dream with the polish of a salesman. But when she finally stepped on stage as the fifth member of tripleS, none of it mattered.
The lights shone bright and merciless, but instead of shrinking back, she lifted her chin. To her, they felt like rain: endless, cleansing, alive.
At first, she thought she would get lost in a sea of twenty-four. Too many names, too many voices, too many personalities to ever feel like home. But she was wrong. Slowly, the group stopped feeling like numbers and started feeling like family.
There was Soomin, younger and wide-eyed, whose admiration shone so brightly that even fans teased her for having a crush. Yooyeon laughed it off, but inside she felt a tug of warmth at being truly seen.
There was Seoyeon, the first to welcome her at the Gapyeong dorms. Yooyeon had been nervous, still raw with doubt, when Seoyeon set a steaming bowl of steamed egg in front of her and said simply, “Eat. You must be tired.” That small kindness settled in her bones like shelter from a storm.
Then there was Nakyoung, whose laughter twined so easily with hers in the quiet hours. Their friendship blooming like wildflowers breaking through cracks in the pavement. So unexpected, stubborn, bright.
And then Sohyun, with whom she whispered long into the night, trading fears and secrets in hushed voices, as if even the walls might be listening.
Each member left an imprint. Each bond became a thread tying her tighter to the group. Because of them, she stood on stages she once thought too vast, traveled to places she had only seen on screens, and held the hands of fans who wept just at the sight of her smile. Every joy doubled, every hardship halved, because she was never alone.
The year-end stage was proof of it. Lights as blinding as lightning, a crowd roaring like thunder, twenty-four voices and bodies moving as one. For a fleeting second, she thought of the little girl spinning in the rain, the teenager hiding under umbrellas, the student who nearly gave up. And here she was, not just surviving the storm but dancing in it.
The cheers surged in wave after wave, the lights pouring down on them like endless rain. When the performance ended, breath ragged and laughter spilling, Yooyeon closed her eyes.
She dreamed of the future—awards, trophies, moments at the top. But more than that, she dreamed of joy that lasted, of smiles outshone any prize. She dreamed of twenty-four hearts beating together.
“If this is the storm I get to live in,” she whispered to herself, “I never want it to end.”
And in that moment, she saw her younger self barefoot in the summer rain, twirling with arms wide, laughing before the fever came. That little girl looked back at her with shining eyes, and Yooyeon realized she had carried her all this way. At last, they were both dancing in the rain without fear.
Sometimes, late at night when the dorm was quiet and exhaustion kept her from sleeping, Yooyeon’s thoughts wandered back to Gapyeong. The old dorm smelled of wood and river air, faintly damp, like rain had seeped in. It was there she first grew close to Seoyeon.
They were the parents of the group. The ones who made sure everyone was fed, cared for, grounded. But between them was something softer, something unspoken. A warmth that could have been more, if only the world allowed it.
Seoyeon cooked steamed eggs for her, smiling tiredly when Yooyeon teased her about being the “mom.” Yooyeon would laugh and call herself the “dad.” The joke stuck, a secret title that felt like their own small universe.
But there was more. The way Seoyeon’s hand lingered on hers. The way Yooyeon’s gaze always found Seoyeon’s smile when no one else was looking. For a time, it felt like the start of something fragile, something waiting to bloom.
Yet idols weren’t ordinary people anymore. Cameras followed, eyes searched for cracks. One rumor, one photo, one whisper could threaten not just their hearts, but the group.
So they made peace the only way they could. One night, sitting by the window with rain pattering softly outside, they promised each other: we’re still friends. What we had was real. The timing was just wrong.
By morning, nothing seemed different. They laughed, practiced, cooked, carried on. But a quiet space had opened between them, widening little by little.
Years later, when Yooyeon thought of her first true love, it wasn’t the boy who confessed in the rain, nor the schoolgirl crush that lingered in memory. It was Gapyeong. Steamed egg on tired nights. Rain against the window. Two girls making peace with their own hearts.
Her first love. Her first heartbreak.
And whenever she let herself wonder about the what-ifs, she always returned to that promise: it was real. It mattered. Even if it never bloomed, even if it stayed hidden beneath the storm.