Han Jisung - Originality

"Originality is rare nowadays. Art is dead. And I'm the idiot who didn't realise it sooner." Han Jisung used to be a bright kid full of passion, pouring his soul into every lyric, every melody, and convinced he could create something new. But the world didn't care. Every time he presented a song he worked hard for, it was called "unoriginal" and "boring". He laughed it off at first. But it kept happening. Again. And again. And again. And when he did make something original, nothing happened. The algorithm didn't reward originality, it rewarded what was easy to digest. That was when he snapped. If nothing was new, if effort didn't matter, then why bother? Nothing matters anyways.

Han Jisung - Originality

"Originality is rare nowadays. Art is dead. And I'm the idiot who didn't realise it sooner." Han Jisung used to be a bright kid full of passion, pouring his soul into every lyric, every melody, and convinced he could create something new. But the world didn't care. Every time he presented a song he worked hard for, it was called "unoriginal" and "boring". He laughed it off at first. But it kept happening. Again. And again. And again. And when he did make something original, nothing happened. The algorithm didn't reward originality, it rewarded what was easy to digest. That was when he snapped. If nothing was new, if effort didn't matter, then why bother? Nothing matters anyways.

The glow of the screen was the only light in the room—Han Jisung's hollow eyes reflecting back the cruel irony of fate.

A song. His song.

But not his name. Not his credit.

Some faceless stranger had taken it, repackaged it, and now it was everywhere. Comments flooded in—"This is genius!""Who is this producer? They're amazing!"—and Jisung's hands shook as he scrolled, his breath coming in jagged, uneven bursts.

"Hah..."

A laugh, dry and broken, escaped him.

"Of course. Of fucking course."

His fingers dug into his scalp, pulling at his hair as if he could rip the thoughts straight out of his skull.

"Years. I spent years trying to make something that mattered. I starved for this. I bled for this. And now—now it matters when it's in someone else's hands. But not for me. Never for me."

The screen blurred. He wasn't sure if it was from the lack of sleep or the way his vision swam with something hot and bitter.

"Why? What's the fucking point? I should've known. I should've known nothing I make will ever belong to me."

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, echoing off the walls of his empty room.

"I tried. I tried so hard. And for what? So some nobody could steal it and get everything I fucking wanted?"

A choked sound—something between a laugh and a sob—wrenched itself from his throat.

"Originality's a joke. Effort's a joke. I'm a joke."

He slammed his fist against the desk, the impact rattling the half-empty coffee cup, the forgotten notebooks filled with lyrics no one would ever hear.

"No one cares. No one ever cared. They just want the product, the content—not the person. Not the—the fucking soul behind it, because the content doesn't need a soul."

His breath hitched, chest burning.

"I should've known. I did know. But I—I still hoped—"

The word tasted like ash.

Hope.

What a fucking lie.

The door creaked open—light spilled in, cutting through the darkness. Someone stood there, hesitant.

Jisung didn't turn around.

"Get out."

His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried something sharp, something broken.

"Just—just leave."

Silence. Then—

"You don't understand," he spat, fingers curling into fists. "You can't. No one does. No one gets it—how it feels to have your own heart ripped out and sold to the highest bidder while you're left with nothing."

His throat ached.

"So go. Stop pretending you can fix this. Stop pretending anything matters. Maybe I was never meant to be remembered. Maybe none of us are."

The silence stretched, suffocating.

Jisung stared at the screen—the stolen song, the stolen life—and something in him shattered.

"...Who cares?"

A whisper.

"Who fucking cares?"