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When I watched “Hello” for the first time on my roommate’s laptop, I had no idea what was in store for me. The song was by SHINee, a K-pop group that had been popular for a while. I became an instant fan. Their individual voices had distinct flavours, but together they created a mesmerizing harmony. SHINee helped me find some common ground with my friends and accompanied me throughout my eventful college life. We discovered a treasure of SHINee-related videos on the internet, from interviews to reality shows. We adored the bond they shared and the way they pulled each other's legs.
Kim Jonghyun, the main vocalist of the group, soon became my favourite. The young man had kind eyes, a gentle smile and was blessed with a voice that cascaded like silk. He could hit high notes with astounding perfection. His voice had a magnetic pull that would make one stop in their tracks and listen. I couldn't understand the lyrics but it was obvious that he sang with passion.
I remember watching a show where the members of SHINee had the task of raising a child. Jonghyun had a tough time getting close to him. The affection that he showered on the kid was not reciprocated in the same measure. I could relate to him, being someone who often struggled to build a connection with children.
After graduation, my roommates and I followed different paths but were connected by our love for SHINee. I was thrilled each time they dropped an album and would text my friends like an excited teenager. I took my love for SHINee to Oman when I joined my husband there.
Then came 18th December 2017. A day which I never expected to turn into one of mourning. “Jonghyun died by suicide.” I blinked a few times at the message from my friend. It was such a small sentence, but it took me a while to make sense of it. I felt like I was trapped in a dark, silent bubble that separated me from the rest of the world. I read the text again and again, each time hoping the words would change. But they stayed the same, tormenting me.
My first instinct was to go teary-eyed to my husband, who did his best to console me. Our WhatsApp group chat buzzed, with the members exclaiming that they couldn't believe the news. The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. Could I have prevented this disaster if I had known him personally? I don't know. He must have felt so lonely. I could only hope he was not in too much pain in his final moments.
I came across a video he had streamed for his fans on Instagram a few months ago. He was still smiling, but it did not quite reach his eyes. Certain things that he said broke my heart.
“I've been feeling weak lately.”
“I'm trying to find a way to restore my condition again.”
“Is there a way to change this feeling?”
My vision became blurry as tears tried to roll down again.
He was only 27.
27.
I read that he had been fighting depression for a long time, compounded by the pressures of being a KPop idol. In his final letter, he wrote that maybe he wasn't supposed to be known to the world. His fame had made his life difficult. He was frustrated that his doctor blamed his personality for not overcoming his depression.
So many questions swirled in my brain. How long had he been in a world of pain? Why didn't he feel like he was enough? His success was phenomenal, both as a band member and a solo artist. Jonghyun’s death opened my eyes to the reality of Kpop idols' lives. I used to envy their ethereal good looks, popularity, and talent. I was unaware that a huge weight was placed on their shoulders by their agencies and expectations of fans. Like many of my peers, I had naively assumed that success equals happiness. It never crossed my mind that some celebrities carried their fame like a burden.
His funeral took place three days later. I was not ready to say goodbye. But at the same time, I wanted to pay my respects as a long-time fan. I watched a short video of his funeral. It was torture to see the anguished faces of his family, friends and fans. He was so beloved. There were several comments from devoted fans who confessed that his music had kept them afloat during difficult times. Listening to his songs was an immediate mood booster. They often helped me smile even when I didn't want to. Would SHINee ever be the same again? I couldn't bring myself to watch their songs for a while. It was a painful reminder that their main vocalist was no more. I would never be able to see him perform live, singing his heart out. I had lost the chance to get his autograph at a fan meeting.
I longed for the company of my roommates – someone who felt the way I did and shared the same sense of loss. I recalled how we had made a pact to watch SHINee's performance at least once in our lifetime. I had envisioned us chanting with the crowd, singing along to our favourite songs. We had assumed that we had enough time to make our dream come true. We never imagined that our Jonghyun would leave before that.
Since Jonghyun’s death, I have tried to be mindful of the things I say to those around me. I have become aware of the sheer power that words carry. A harsh comment or a cruel joke can push someone over the edge. But a kind word could be the lifeline that helps someone see the light at the end of the tunnel.
As the years flew by, I became a mother and my days began to revolve around my toddler. Occasionally, a fun memory related to SHINee would pop up and I would smile faintly. But I was still hesitant to play their songs.
One day, I was feeling over-stimulated by the repetitive songs of Cocomelon, played for the benefit of my daughter. I wondered what I could play that we would both enjoy. I picked up the remote and I automatically chose “Hello”, the song that introduced me to K-Pop. My daughter watched the video intently as Jonghyun’s soulful voice rang across the house. Her fascination with the group brought a smile to my face. SHINee's songs, which used to add a certain magic to my days, eased their way back into my life again.
I do listen to SHINee now, but only in the presence of my little one. A part of me still aches for the person who left too soon, for the songs he could no longer breathe life into.
