Chapter 4
There were dozens of emails that basically said, “That song is amazing, we want it!”
I didn’t expect this many responses. I thought maybe four or five at most.
I checked where all this attention was coming from—my Music Cloud subscribers had jumped from 47,000 to 80,000, and in just five hours, the song had already surpassed 2 million views.
“…So it’s a hit.”
I reacted indifferently.
It had already been a hit before—this was just a refined version.
I deliberately didn’t check the comments.
Public reactions used to help me improve my music, but now they no longer motivated me.
As I skimmed through my inbox, I stopped at a familiar name.
[Subject: CEO Park Yang-joon – TEN Entertainment]
My former agency’s old CEO.
Memories of the unfair six-year contract flashed through my mind. Frowning, I opened the email.
[Content]
“This is Park Yang-joon, CEO of TEN Entertainment. We are interested in your song ‘Will You Only Look at Me.’
…We would like to purchase not only the song but also full copyright ownership. Since this includes copyright transfer, we can offer around 1 million won…”
“…Wow.”
They wanted full copyright for just one million won.
And the tone even sounded like they were being generous.
My already bad mood got worse.
Without hesitation, I deleted the email.
Scrolling further, I saw other familiar names—major entertainment companies, both past and present.
Since I needed money, I planned to sell the song to whoever offered the most.
If possible, becoming a contracted in-house composer wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
Just then, a new email arrived.
[Subject: I really enjoyed your song]
Unlike the others, this wasn’t from a company.
It was from a listener.
I froze, phone in hand.
They said they liked it… that’s good, right?
It wasn’t hate.
And even if it was, I wasn’t afraid of strangers’ criticism—I was afraid of people close to me turning on me.
Still…
What if it starts positive but turns into criticism?
I hesitated, then shut my eyes and opened the email.
My heart pounded.
“I just wanted to say I really enjoyed your song.”
“…Huh?”
My eyes widened.
“At first, it sounded like a typical love song you’d find anywhere. But the more I listened, it felt like a lonely voice crying out in a cold city, longing for love. It made me feel like I’d been struck in the head… so many emotions came at once.”
That part…
I had added that nuance when I revised the song.
And they caught it exactly.
I kept reading.
“The title ‘Will You Only Look at Me’ felt less like talking to a lover and more like saying, ‘Please look at me.’”
I felt strangely exposed.
I hadn’t expected anyone to understand it that deeply.
Honestly, I had put my own feelings into the song.
I had been abandoned by the world.
I hated it—but at the same time, I was unbearably lonely.
And yet, I couldn’t approach people.
I was stuck.
“It sounds like a love confession, but it feels like someone quietly confessing to a cold, indifferent world. I loved that. Sorry if this email bothers you—I know this is a work email. I really enjoyed your song. I’m looking forward to your next one. Would it be okay if I send feedback again?”
The sender’s nickname was [JUN].
I read the email over and over again.
It was full of genuine appreciation.
It reminded me of my idol days—concerts, fan meetings, messages filled with hearts.
And also—
The moment those same fans turned on me.
Realizing this person might’ve done the same back then strangely calmed me down.
Should I block them?
I hovered over the button… then stopped.
Part of me was curious how they’d interpret my next song.
And—
Maybe I just wanted that kind of affection again.
Idols live off love.
Without it, they starve.
Even knowing it could hurt me again…
I didn’t want to let go.
So, for the first time—
I replied.
[Reply: Yes, that’s fine.]
I even saved a screenshot of the email.
Then I spent the whole day reviewing offers, negotiating contracts, and checking terms.
Some companies tried to take advantage of me, assuming I was just a rookie with no experience.
Seeing that, I noted those companies down.
I would never work with them again.
In the end, I sold the song to the company offering the most money.
What happened to the song afterward didn’t matter much to me.
[“Can we discuss this over a call?”]
[Reply: I’d prefer email only.]
Talking to people directly still felt difficult.
Thankfully, they agreed.
Everything was going smoothly—
Until I hit one problem.
“…I’m a minor.”
I grabbed my head.
I needed parental consent to sign the contract.
“…Ha…”
I had avoided my mother as much as possible, but now—
I had no choice.
I stood in front of my door, hesitating.
Then—
Click.
I stepped outside.
My mother, sitting on the sofa, looked surprised.
“…!”
“Uh… Mom…”
“Yes, Seong-un. What is it? Are you hungry? Do you need money?”
I avoided her gaze, struggling to speak.
“I uploaded a song online… and it did well… and someone wants to buy it… so…”
My voice kept getting quieter.
“…I need your consent to sign the contract.”
I closed my eyes tightly.
What if she refused?
What if she hated it?
My heart pounded.
Then—
“So you just need my consent?”
“…You’ll… give it?”
“Of course. You said you wanted to do it. I told you I’ll always support you.”
“…Oh…”
I was stunned.
“But I should review the contract first.”
I nodded.
“That’s fine.”
“Instead—”
I tensed again.
She smiled and hugged me.
“Come out and eat with me once a day. I’m worried.”
“…Okay.”
My voice trembled.
For the first time in a long while—
It felt like I had come home.
* * *
My mother carefully reviewed the contract and confirmed it was fair.
Then she signed it.
My first official song was now sold.
It felt unreal.
I ate with her at the table—
And ended up with indigestion.
Still, I didn’t feel bad.
The company said they would give the song to a rookie singer.
It would be released in about a month.
I didn’t care much.
More importantly—
I focused on my next song.
Not creating it—
Just recreating what I already knew.
But my equipment was lacking, and the original had been rushed.
There were many things to fix.
Even so—
By current standards, it was still a strong song.
If released now, it would make an impact.
But that wasn’t enough.
Again, laziness and professionalism clashed—
And professionalism won.
Meanwhile, online communities were exploding:
- “The song blowing up on Music Cloud right now”
- “Playlist: Please look at me”
- “Must-listen song”
- “What’s this song called?”
“Why won’t you look at me… please… I can do better…”
- “That song got sold already? To rookie singer Yujin?”
- “The original is so good—don’t change it…”
While I was casually working on songs—
The internet was on fire.
