How many people in the world share the same birthday as their favorite?

Kang Giyeon liked to remind himself every year that he had won odds of one in 365. If it weren’t for that favorite, he wouldn’t have known that the birthstone of December 29 was faustite, nor that faustite symbolized rebirth and vitality.

His birthday was also his parents’ fifth wedding anniversary. His father still told the story of how he’d wondered what kind of remarkable child would take so long to arrive—only for Giyeon, even as a newborn, to already have unusually sharp eyes.

Strange things always seemed to happen on Giyeon’s birthdays. At one year old, he grabbed a fistful of raw rice and tried to eat it. At two, he held a piece of sweet red bean rice cake in each hand and crushed them. At three, he dyed the wallpaper blue with baby crayons.

He faintly remembered the first time he said he wanted to dance. It was right after he entered elementary school. He didn’t remember what he had been copying, but his pants had been covered in dirt.

‘They say you need a lot of money to dance, so you have to ask permission.’

Little Kang Giyeon had gone into a dance academy by himself and even brought back a flyer. Looking back, the instructor must have been completely baffled.

What must his mother have thought when her son handed her a flyer for a place thirty minutes farther than his school? He had never asked, but he remembered that she had been surprised.

For several days after that, he and his father went around watching all kinds of dance. For performances he was too young to attend, they watched videos instead.

‘Which one did you like best?’

Kang Giyeon chose Korean traditional dance. The very first place he had visited had been a dance academy. Back then, he had liked the flowing, # Nоvеlight # delicate lines.

His parents, as always, made the choice that would give him the happiest memory.

‘If you want to do it, then you should.’

His mother, who had pursued athletics despite family opposition, fully supported his will. Thanks to that, Giyeon was able to dance without feeling burdened. Only later, after making friends in the dance world, did he realize how rare that was. At the academy, he had been the only one who had never heard, “We invested everything in you.”

Maybe that was why he often thought he had grown up loved. He wasn’t driven by pressure or expectations, but by a sense of responsibility. He wanted to repay the trust placed in him, and to give his best to something he had started because he loved it. For years, he devoted himself to dance.

If he had never met Choi Jeho, he would probably still be there.

‘You never know how life will turn out.’

Giyeon glared at the bedroom door where Choi Jeho was sleeping, thinking about the cause of his unexpected career change.

It started with a video someone had shown him. For Giyeon, who had only ever seen street dancing as a child, the short clip stirred both nostalgia and unfamiliarity.

‘Doesn’t that wreck your knees?’

‘Feels like you’d scrape your skin off on the floor.’

After scrolling a few times, the comment section filled the screen. The tone was completely different from the comments on his own competition videos.

≫ The future of Korean dance looks bright. Beautiful.

≫ Every time I see our traditions being preserved, I feel so proud~~ What a great performance~~

If those had been the kinds of comments he was used to seeing, then the comments under this shocking dance video were—

≫ This is insane

≫ He just stands around during others’ parts and only shows up for his own—so annoyingㅋㅋㅋㅋ

└ A king does not concern himself with the movements of trivial beings

└ ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ

≫ If a middle schooler has that kind of physique, it’s cheatingㅋㅋㅋ

≫ Handsome bastards shouldn’t be allowed to dance by law—please regulate this ecological disruption

...as intense as the dance in the video itself.

≫ What agency is he from?

└ Heard he’s a trainee

└ Why would he bury his own talent like that?

Giyeon shouldn’t have read those comments.

“Why are you staring like that?”

“Ah!”

Startled by the voice, he turned around to see Kim Iwol standing there.

“...You’re awake?”

It was still early enough that everyone else should’ve been asleep. Yet Kim Iwol was already up.

“I heard something outside the front door.”

He pointed toward the entrance.

“Sorry. It’s my delivery.”

“You got up early to sort packages?”

“Yes. It’s food....”

Saying he’d take care of it quickly, Giyeon headed for the door. Kim Iwol followed behind him.

“I’ll help.”

“It’s okay. It’s not much.”

Giyeon waved him off and opened the door. A towering stack of large iceboxes greeted him.

“Were you that hungry?”

Kim Iwol asked gently. Heat crept up Giyeon’s neck.

“No, this... my mom sent it.”

“Ah.”

Watching him hurry out, Kim Iwol said,

“She prepared it for your birthday.”

“How did you know?”

“Birthdays are important. Move aside—let’s bring the boxes in first.”

He rolled up his sleeves. Kim Iwol had a habit of never letting the younger members carry heavy things.

Despite Giyeon’s protests, he carried two boxes into the kitchen on his own. While he was gone, Giyeon picked up one, but got caught in the living room and had it taken away. In the end, he settled for opening the boxes and putting the side dishes into the fridge.

As they worked, they chatted lightly—whether his mother always prepared things like this, whether he should go out for a meal with his family.

“I have practice, and both my parents get off work late.”

“I see.”

“I texted them as soon as I woke up.”

“Good.”

If he earned enough money someday, maybe his parents could quit working and rest. He knew they had worked twice as hard as others to support a child in the arts, so Giyeon ran forward with that single goal in mind.

“When you contact them, do they like it?”

Kim Iwol asked as he opened the lids of the containers.

Giyeon hesitated. It crossed his mind that Kim Iwol had never once contacted his own family.

“It’s just a check-in. Pretty normal.”

He answered casually, glancing at Iwol’s expression. It looked the same as always.

“Still, you should send them a photo.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll set breakfast with what they sent. The seaweed soup... this just needs reheating.”

Kim Iwol pulled out a large container from the bottom of the box. It held seaweed soup, carefully double- and triple-wrapped to prevent leaks.

Behind Giyeon, the rice cooker chimed. The smell of freshly cooked rice filled the kitchen.

“So the part about waking up because of the delivery—was that a lie?”

“Half true. I started the rice and then lay down again.”

He had heard from Lee Cheonghyeon that sometimes Kim Iwol lay awake when everyone else was asleep. When spoken to, his replies always came a beat late—Cheonghyeon called it his “time to organize his thoughts.”

But the important thing was that he had already cooked rice. Giyeon rushed to the stove, where a large pot was already sitting.

“What time do you even wake up?”

“It depends on the schedule. Can you take out one more pot? It’s your birthday—you should eat the soup your mother made.”

Even though he had gotten up at dawn to cook, Kim Iwol didn’t show it at all. Giyeon snatched the soup container from his hands and scooped out just one serving into a small pot.

“Saving it?”

“I’m not that stingy.”

Kim Iwol watched silently as Giyeon took out seven soup bowls. He set utensils neatly on the table, then ladled the soup—six bowls with the soup Kim Iwol had made, and one with the soup from his mother. Two bowls were placed in front of Giyeon.

“We’ll just eat it all. Soup doesn’t even fill you up much.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I like seaweed soup.”

Giyeon said awkwardly. Instead of pressing further, Kim Iwol opened the rice cooker.

“The year’s almost over. How does it feel?”

“I’m not sure. I thought starting high school would be the biggest change, but with debut preparations, school just flew by.”

“When the new semester starts at an arts high school, do classes reshuffle completely?”

“Depends on the major size. For dance, it’s probably similar. It’s nice not to worry about changing environments.”

“That’s good.”

Even though he had graduated high school just this year, Kim Iwol carried a strange sense of experience, like he was reminiscing about something far older.

“Wasn’t it hard switching to being a trainee after a regular high school?”

Giyeon asked as casually as possible. He had only switched from one type of dance to another, but Kim Iwol had crossed a much bigger line.

“Sometimes life moves in ways that have nothing to do with your decisions.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I accepted it as fate.”

Kim Iwol smiled playfully. As he took out side dishes, it sounded like he muttered, “That’s right.”

“Why did you serve me so much rice?”

“So you can eat a lot and grow a lot.”

“...Seriously.”

Faced with such overflowing affection, Giyeon couldn’t help sighing. Kim Iwol chuckled, then suddenly bolted to his room and came back with a spare phone.

“Take a picture quickly. You should send it to your mom.”

“A picture?”

He had never sent photos of meals before. Even Jeong Seongbin usually just called to say he’d eaten well.

“Nothing’s more reassuring than seeing it.”

Kim Iwol handed him the phone with the camera open. While Giyeon took several pictures of the table filled with food, Kim Iwol went around waking the others.

Giyeon stared down at the photos. A large table covered in dishes, bowls filled to the brim, and two bowls of soup—it stirred something strange in him.

“Hyung, can I send the photo first before we eat?”

He called out toward the room. Kim Iwol told him to do as he pleased.

Giyeon had always thought he contacted his family often. So he assumed his parents wouldn’t be particularly moved by a single photo.

Mom

[You’re eating well]

[Seeing it like this puts me at ease. Haha]

Dad

[Even if you eat two bowls of seaweed soup, you don’t age two years~]

[Take your time growing older, son~]

[If you grow up too fast, your dad will get lonely]

But maybe he didn’t know them as well as he thought.

Giyeon sent a long message—thanking them for giving birth to him and raising him, telling them he’d eat well.

Five minutes later, he read his father’s reply, saying it took a while because the phone text was set too large.

And Giyeon admitted it.

At least for today, there probably wasn’t anyone in the world who had received as much love as he had.