DISEASE

"She wanted the stage. They gave her silence."

When Mun was younger—maybe six, maybe seven—she stood in front of the mirror, dancing to a song playing on the neighbor's radio. She wrapped a scarf around her head and held a comb like a microphone. Her eyes sparkled. She wasn't poor. She wasn't tired. She was alive.

She told her mother she wanted to act. To sing. To be on stage.

Her mother laughed—then slapped her.

"You think this life is a joke? You think we feed dreams here?"

From that day, Mun kept her dreams small. Folded them into corners of her notebooks. Hid them beneath essays and equations. But in her heart, she still performed. Every time she stood alone, she whispered lines. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined a spotlight.

No one ever encouraged her. No one ever said, "You could."

So, she became her own audience. Her own fan. Her own stage.

Because even if the world never clapped, her soul would never stop dancing.

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