A Winter Waiting for Miyu,
and the Kindness We Shared in Seoul

This Time, I Would Be Waiting in Seoul

Whenever I traveled to Japan to see Miyu perform, there were people who walked unfamiliar streets with me and shared the hours before and after the show. In January 2026, those people came to Seoul. We saw the concert on the 17th and the fan meeting on the 18th, and on the 19th I accompanied the fans returning to Japan to the airport to see them off. The time we had spent watching performances and eating together continued onto the road to the airport.

I also kept thinking about Chikapi, to whom I had always been grateful: this would be his first visit to Korea. I hoped the time we spent together in Seoul would leave him with good memories, too. January is usually the coldest part of the year in Seoul. Around this time, temperatures often fall below minus ten degrees Celsius, and spending long stretches outdoors takes a certain amount of resolve. Fortunately, our plans fell outside that bitter cold.

Temperatures stayed above freezing on both days of the concert and fan meeting; considering that this was midwinter in January, the weather felt almost mild. The air still carried its winter chill, of course, but it was not cold enough to make us hunch into ourselves. With long waits expected, these were welcome conditions. And so this time in Seoul began less with the harshness of deep winter than with the sense of hours quietly accumulating in clear, still winter air.

Japanese Fans Bring Their Energy to Seoul

One of the striking things about these days in Seoul was the presence of the Japanese fans. This was more than a few people making separate visits: fans whose faces I already knew from Japan traveled to Korea for the events, giving the gathering an international feeling almost without effort. Korean and Japanese fans waiting in the same space for the same performance is a sight that has become familiar, yet it still feels special. This time, even before the show, people were often greeting one another, catching up, and talking through their plans. Meeting again in Seoul was already an event in itself, and the atmosphere had warmed up well before the performance began.

January 16: An Instagram Live Sets Things in Motion

The spark that set all of this alight came on Friday night, January 16, the evening before the concert. A TikTok Live had originally been announced. Fans in Japan and Korea logged onto TikTok at the appointed time and waited, but the broadcast did not begin. A brief silence gave way to scattered confusion in the chat.

Soon Miyu explained herself that TikTok Live was not working properly and that she would switch to Instagram Live instead. With scarcely any time to prepare, the Instagram stream opened on Miyu, newly arrived in Korea. The sudden change of platform was momentarily disorienting, but the instant her face appeared, that confusion became anticipation.

She looked relaxed, having only just arrived from the airport; she told us in her own voice that she was in Korea, and spoke naturally of looking forward to seeing the fans soon. The broadcast lasted only about seventeen minutes, but the fact that things had strayed from the plan made it feel all the more immediate. What reached us through the screen was more than an update. It felt like a signal: now it really was beginning.

After the live ended, messages began passing naturally between fans. Even the unexpected move to Instagram became a story to share, and as we imagined meeting again in Hongdae the following day, our preparations began to feel more concrete. The concert had yet to start, but from the night before, these days in Seoul were already finding their own momentum.

A Concert and a Fan Meeting, Two Days Becoming One Story

On a timetable, the January 17 concert and January 18 fan meeting looked like separate events. In practice, they were bound to become one continuous story: the energy of the stage, followed the next day by conversation at a closer distance. Placing the two together meant this time in Seoul was ready to be remembered as something that unfolded, rather than as a single event.

Nothing had begun yet, but so much was already taking shape. Japan and Korea, the stage and everyday life, a concert and a fan meeting. As these things overlapped across the coming two days, I had a feeling this would become more than a visit to a performance and a journey home. And that feeling would remain with me for a long time after those two days were over.

Time always moves quickly on the day of a concert. The performance has not begun, yet your thoughts are already several steps ahead. When you are thinking about the queue, buying merchandise, and the order of admission all at once, even sitting down to eat can feel like a luxury. That makes a meal before a show a perennial question. Eat too much and you feel weighed down; eat too lightly and you stay hungry through the performance.

That day we chose Bukchon Son Mandu, a handmade dumpling restaurant on a Hongdae street. Its location near the venue mattered, but what settled it was that the food needed no deliberation. There was no need to spend ages studying the menu: ordering and eating followed quickly. It was a place that asked nothing more of our already heightened nerves.

Before the Show, Just Enough

I took a table with a friend who had often traveled to Japan with me. We knew each other’s pace well, and an easy atmosphere settled around us without the need for much conversation. Even amid the familiar excitement before a concert, this was a chance to catch our breath. Steamed dumplings and a few simple side dishes arrived at the table. As I picked up a dumpling, still giving off steam, and took a bite, I could feel some of the tension begin to ease. The flavors were neither greasy nor excessive. It felt less like filling my stomach than restoring a little balance to my body.

A heavy meal before a show can leave you sluggish; too little food can make it hard to concentrate. On that narrow boundary, the dumplings at Bukchon Son Mandu were a good choice. We could eat quickly without feeling we had neglected the meal, and leave with just the right sense of having eaten enough.

The Ease of Being with Someone Familiar

The person across the table was what made the meal feel especially comfortable. We had traveled to Japan together several times and knew the rhythm of the hours around a concert, so we understood how the other was feeling without needing a long discussion of the show. Silence between us was never awkward, and that was a particular comfort before a performance.

Practical questions came and went—“Which line will move faster later?” or “Shall we look at the merchandise first?”—but even those felt light. We could share the excitement without talking ourselves into more tension. At moments like this, a modest place suits us better than somewhere determined to raise the mood.

The interior of Bukchon Son Mandu is unshowy: wooden tables, menus filling the walls, staff moving briskly between them. That simplicity keeps your thoughts from scattering. As a place that did not add to the clutter in our heads before the show, it did exactly what we needed.

A Sign of the Beginning at the Venue Entrance

After finishing our meal and gathering our things, we naturally turned toward the venue. There was still a little time before the show, but heading to the entrance early felt easier than wandering around nearby. Our short pause at Bukchon Son Mandu was over; it was time to return to concert mode. When we reached the entrance, Miyu was coming in with the staff.

It was only a passing moment from a distance, but our eyes met. She recognized us and offered a small greeting first. It lasted only an instant. There was no special conversation, and the performance had not begun.

Yet that one greeting distinctly changed the atmosphere. Without needing to explain it, I felt that the day was going to go well. The time on stage was still ahead of us, but my heart had moved a beat forward already. Even amid the nerves before a concert, some unnecessary tension left my shoulders, replaced by something like confidence that this was a good beginning.

The show was still to come, but the day had opened on a good feeling. The greeting was no grand event, and perhaps that is why it stayed with me. A brief connection offered before the prepared performance, in a moment before everything was ready. That was how the Seoul concert began for me: with a sense of promise, even before Miyu stepped onto the stage.

The Anticipation Before the Show, and the Warmth of the Queue

The concert had begun long before the stage lights came on. The first thing I felt was the tension of waiting. News that only twenty copies of the Baby Paradise CD would be available quickly changed the air around the venue. The signing conditions explained to us there required buying the CD along with roughly 70,000 won in merchandise.

With so little room to maneuver, people naturally hurried to join the queue. A shared rhythm formed outside: just a little earlier, if possible. Everyone moved quickly, but there was no disorder. Perhaps because so many fans had been through similar events before, there was little excessive tension or unnecessary friction. Everyone knew what they wanted, and the process remained calm.

A Smooth Route from Ticket Collection to Admission

The route laid out at the venue took us from ticket collection to merchandise purchases, then into the queue for admission. What impressed me was how the staff gave directions. They did not overexplain, but they were precise where it mattered and answered questions kindly. That helped the venue maintain a steady atmosphere throughout.

The fans were much the same. I saw hardly anyone making a disturbance in line or disregarding the rules. People respected their allotted turn, and even as the wait grew longer, the strain remained relatively low. That atmosphere mattered: it allowed anticipation for the concert to build without unnecessary stress.

Small Exchanges in the Waiting Hours

There was no avoiding a long wait, but the time never dragged. In fact, familiar faces I had not seen for a while made the queue move faster than I expected. I met fans with whom I had watched several shows in Japan, picked up unfinished conversations, and found us naturally sharing recent news and memories of past performances. Conversations with the fans from Japan went beyond a simple greeting.

We might begin with “How was that Tokyo show?” or “Seoul feels a little different this time,” then move easily into our recent plans and the performances ahead. Being outside the venue gave conversation a lighter touch, and jokes passed between us that needed no thought before we laughed and answered. These conversations transformed what could have been a quiet, sluggish queue.

With a little exaggeration, extravagant reactions, and bold declarations like “That really was legendary,” the line had become a small gathering almost before we noticed. The familiar tension before a performance remained, but it felt like anticipation rather than unease. Then gifts prepared by the Japanese fans began changing hands, bringing still more life to the group. Someone had found pig T-shirts like the one Miyu had received during a Nagoya trip on Awesome Korea and brought them to share.

Someone carefully took out a printed newspaper featuring Miyu and handed it over. Someone explained the acrylic key chains they had made, giving them out one by one. Each object arrived with its own story, and each story naturally lengthened the conversation. None of these moments required anyone to work at lifting the mood.

Having supported the same person for so long, and being together again, was enough. Waiting became a way of joining our separate stretches of time back together. The stage lights were still off, but there was already warmth enough in the queue. Laughter took the place of boredom, stories the place of silence. Thanks to that, the day’s concert had become meaningful even before anyone stepped onto the stage.

One Small Thing That Took the Chill out of the Queue

The queue was indoors, but the winter air was still cold. Standing still for a long time drew warmth from our bodies faster than I expected. Quite apart from the excitement of the show, I could feel myself stiffening. Then the staff began handing out pocket warmers, one to each person. They did it quietly, without explanation or fanfare.

Only later did I learn that Kano Miyu had prepared them herself. She had worried that the fans would be cold and wanted to make the wait a little easier. At a time when preparing to go onstage must have kept her busy enough, she had also thought about the space where her audience would be standing. That thought came through naturally.

One pocket warmer cannot change a winter. But it clearly changed the wait that day. Even before my hands warmed up, something in me softened. Without words, it conveyed that she thought of the waiting time as part of the concert, too, and a quiet feeling spread among the fans who understood. Someone smiled and clasped the warmer tightly; someone exchanged a glance and a nod with the person beside them.

This small kindness had already altered the impression of the show. Before we knew which songs we would hear, the concert had given us a feeling of welcome. We were more than people waiting for admission: in her thoughts, we had already been invited in. That was why the Seoul show felt warm enough before it even began.

Merchandise, with a Different Lineup

The way merchandise was sold was much like earlier shows in Japan. We followed the prepared route, looked through the goods in turn, and paid; the space stayed orderly, without major confusion. What stood out was the change in prices and selection. Most items cost nearly twice as much as before, and a signed poster and Baby Paradise CD had been added to the lineup.

The poster was 30,000 won, the CD 10,000 won, and an instant photo, or cheki, 15,000 won. Those figures alone might have felt steep, but the mood was a little different from ordinary shopping. The goods that day spoke less to wanting something to buy than to wanting something to keep the day with. With the anticipation already built up and the time onstage still ahead, merchandise felt like both a choice and a record.

One scene captured that feeling especially clearly: a Japanese fan bought all the signed posters that remained. At first glance it might have seemed an extravagant decision, but knowing why gave it an entirely different meaning. He was not simply buying for his own collection. He wanted to share the posters with other fans in Japan who had been unable to attend the Seoul concert. His affection for Miyu, and his wish to let those absent fans remain part of the performance, were both there in that choice.

Taking things to share, rather than collecting them for himself, made the purchase a story in its own right. That is why the merchandise sales that day cannot be reduced to numbers or prices. A signed poster or a CD held some of the air of the venue and the feelings of the people gathered there. Merchandise is a product in the end, but on this day it was clearly also a means of holding on to memory.

Feeling the Strength of Her Present — Seoul Live “1999”

When it was time, the lights slowly dimmed, and the small Hongdae venue became another place in an instant. Cheers rose from here and there before the room was fully dark, and everyone’s eyes had already gathered in the same direction. The moment Miyu appeared, waiting turned into a feeling that needed no explanation. The sound swelled of its own accord, and the show began.

I remember the set list as a current running through the night. Songs that raised the energy quickly alternated with songs that let us breathe, carefully adjusting the temperature of the performance. The opening leaned into rhythm, getting our bodies moving first, and the room soon grew warm. As more people let themselves follow the beat rather than simply shout, the distance between the stage and the audience visibly narrowed.

Around the middle of the set came songs that held the atmosphere firmly in place. Kuroi Shinzo, or “Black Heart,” and DO IT NOW seemed less intent on releasing every emotion at once than on giving the performance its center. Rather than driving too hard, she sustained the stage with a steady breath that never faltered.

In this stretch, the show shifted from something we enjoyed into time we held through together. The song that stayed especially clear within that current was Akiramenaide, “Don’t Give Up.” As it began, the air in the room settled naturally. It was not a song that called for cheers or lifted the crowd’s spirits, and that made the moment all the more absorbing.

Its essence seemed to lie in continuing calmly, without exaggerating emotion. It felt like taking out words she had repeated to herself for years: an attitude closer to “Even so, I won’t stop” than “Everything will be all right.” After that song, the performance began moving forward again. Baby Paradise brightened the atmosphere without letting it scatter into something weightless.

It was a brightness with the ease of someone who had known what it meant to be shaken. The audience responded naturally, and the room grew freer. By then our bodies moved before calculation could intervene, and our voices grew louder without conscious effort. As the second half progressed, the concert began drawing its threads together.

Re:Road, which closed the main set, sounded less like a declaration to press ahead than a quiet acknowledgment of the road traveled so far. A succession of choices sustained with others, rather than alone. I felt that its place in the set could not have been accidental. Then came the encore.

The final song was TERMINAL. Its title might suggest an ending, but the feeling it left was almost the opposite. Rather than a song that put everything in order and closed the door, it felt like a signal that she was ready to move again. The choice spoke directly to her present work between Japan and Korea, making clear that this concert was another starting point, rather than a final result.

When the song ended, the room did not settle easily. Cheers continued for a long time, and people turned to one another, smiling. We had been swept up in it all, yet somehow my thoughts remained clear. This was not a night I could put away with the words “I saw a good concert.”

Seoul Live “1999” was not a performance I would remember for elaborate staging. What remained instead was the clarity of which songs arrived at which moments, and the emotional temperature with which they carried the show forward. It created a flow rather than putting feeling first, and held firmly to the present rather than calling up the past. The night felt less like a commemoration than a confirmation: a chance to feel, together with the audience, how far Kano Miyu had come.

Don’t Give Up — Words Carried from Long Ago

The title Don’t Give Up might suggest a song that makes a forceful declaration from the stage. The atmosphere it actually created was very different. Rather than stirring up emotion or appealing to the audience, she sang like someone who had already chosen many times not to give up and was checking the steadiness of her own breath once more. An attitude that reached us without needing greater volume.

In that moment, the song showed us a way of standing before it delivered a message. How she stood there stayed more clearly than what she said. Its weight did not come simply from being an old song. Miyu is known to have written Don’t Give Up when she was around ten, before she had the stage or career she has now.

During the concert, she gently spoke of struggling to settle into school as a child: a time when fitting in did not come naturally, and finding her place took time. The song began in those years. That makes Don’t Give Up feel less like a song written to encourage somebody else than sentences written down to offer to herself. It is closer to the choice “Even so, I won’t stop” than the reassurance “Everything will be all right,” and that resolve stays free of exaggeration.

When feelings written by ten-year-old Miyu pass through the years and are sung again in the same person’s voice, the song becomes a story in the present tense, rather than a recollection. The uncertainty of childhood and the steadiness of today overlap on one stage, yet the performance does not collapse under the emotion. What remains instead is a clear impression: Miyu has been walking in the same direction for a long time.

Wanting to Bring the Stage and Audience Closer

Midway through the performance, Miyu briefly spoke about the arrangement for this Seoul show. She explained why the band was a little more pared back than at her Japanese concerts. In Korea, she wanted to narrow the gap between stage and audience as much as possible, and had adjusted the sound accordingly. Hearing that brought together the sensations I had felt while watching.

Rather than drums pushing hard from the front, the relatively spare arrangement centered on guitar and keyboards. The sound felt less as though it filled the space than as though it traveled directly from the stage into the audience. Perhaps that was why each song came through more distinctly, and her breathing and emotional shifts seemed to reach us from much closer by.

I could feel that choice throughout the show. If her performances in Japan had carried audiences along on energy and momentum, this Seoul live felt closer to breathing together in the same room. With nothing excessive in the sound, our attention settled naturally on the person onstage, and the atmosphere responded immediately to a slight change in expression or a single remark.

Ultimately, this was a performance that chose to shorten the distance rather than enlarge its scale. Her intention to close the gap between stage and audience remained more than an explanation: it became a physical sensation through the entire show. That is why I remember the night less as a concert I watched than as time we made together in one shared space.

An Unexpected Moment Offered from the Stage

The scene that stayed with me most strongly on a personal level was a very brief moment onstage. During the performance, Miyu reached out her hand first. I had not expected the gesture, and only an instant passed before I took it. It felt less like something prepared as part of the staging than an action that arose naturally from the performance.

That made it all the more striking. The moment was short, but long enough to change my impression of the entire concert. The distance between stage and audience briefly disappeared, and I felt my place shift from someone watching a performance to a person sharing the same space. No special words passed between us, and there was no long stretch of time, yet that brief touch stayed with me longer than I had expected.

It is true that I was disappointed not to win the random drawing at the fan meeting. Looking back, though, this fleeting moment took up more room in my heart than the outcome of a planned event. It was a spontaneous gesture offered there and then, rather than part of the program.

Some experiences gain their deepest meaning from their context, rather than their result. I think that is why this concert will stay with me for a long time. It is not only the arrangement or the set list. That single unexpected moment offered from the stage gave the Seoul show a distinct place in my own memory.

After the Performance, a Feeling That Pointed Ahead

After the concert, a QR code at the venue shared news of the release of her first photo album, Akiramenaide. With the performance still lingering in us, the announcement felt more like an extension of the stage than a simple notice about a product. The title of a song we had heard became the album title, leaving the impression that this concert was one point within a continuing current. There was a practical limitation for anyone in Korea: ordering required a forwarding address.

But that did not feel like much of a disappointment. In my experience, albums like this often lead to release events in Japan, and my first thought was naturally that I should buy it there in person. It seemed better suited to meeting it alongside my next visit to Japan than to ordering through a screen and waiting for a package. That thought did not remain pure speculation.

The next day, in conversation with someone from her Japanese agency, I heard informally that a release event related to the photo album would probably take place in Japan. Only then did the vague thought I had after the concert begin to take a practical direction. The album remained with me less as something I had to buy immediately than as another reason to await the next journey: something connecting the present I had witnessed in Seoul to the next scene in Japan. The performance was over, but the quiet sense that the story would continue remained.

A Farewell Session with Room for Conversation

There was a clear reason why the farewell session after the Seoul show felt special: we were given enough time. At farewell sessions or signings I had attended before, all I could really do was say the one thing I had prepared as I passed. The queue moved quickly, and staff ushered us on to the next person without room to pause. I could say I had greeted her, but it was difficult to call it a conversation.

This time was different. Brief as it was, there was genuinely enough time to begin a thought and convey it to the end. Each fan could tell the story they had brought without being interrupted, and Miyu responded, allowing conversation to develop naturally. There were unmistakable moments of words passing both ways, beyond a simple exchange of thanks. The difference felt considerable.

One moment in that flow particularly struck me. As soon as she saw a certain fan, Miyu smiled and teased, “I haven’t seen you at all lately.” Until early the previous year, he had regularly attended even the performances in Japan, but at some point he had stopped traveling and had been appearing only at shows in Korea. Miyu had remembered precisely that she had not seen him in Japan for a while.

There was nothing accusing or interrogative in her voice. It was more like a joke to someone she had known a long time, and the brief remark brought laughter from those around her. The fan laughed, and the people nearby naturally shared the moment. That one small joke made it clear that Miyu saw her fans as remembered individuals rather than an indistinct group.

Even now, the scene makes me smile, and brings back a little thrill. What particularly impressed me was that the time was not merely a formality. It did not feel like a succession of prepared lines; it was a flow shaped by her responses to each new moment. Short as it was, afterward I distinctly felt that I had spoken with her.

Rather than the old disappointment of everything passing too quickly, I felt settled: I had said what I wanted to say. Another noticeable change was how much the distance between her and the fans had shortened. At events in Japan, even a fleeting touch while making a hand heart was often stopped immediately, but the mood at this farewell session was different. Contact such as holding hands was accepted naturally, and I often saw fans clasping her hand as they exchanged greetings.

Most memorable were the moments when Miyu herself reached out first. They looked less like planned gestures than actions arising naturally from what she felt at the time. Those small differences completely changed the warmth of the farewell session. It felt like the last scene extending from the concert rather than a formal event.

The feelings built onstage were not hurriedly tidied away below it; they came to rest slowly in the distance between one person and another. “We brought it to a close together” seems more fitting than “I took part.” The concert’s afterglow continued naturally, and the day remained in memory with much greater depth: a day that retained its human warmth to the very end, beyond simply being a day when I saw a good show.

The Feeling Continued — The Baby Paradise CD Signing

That atmosphere did not end with the farewell session. The Baby Paradise CD signing that followed had the same character, and if anything felt like time for even deeper conversation. Participation depended on buying a CD on a first-come basis, but the mood was calm rather than competitive, and above all the pace remained unhurried. Getting a signature never became a mere procedure.

Instead of writing a name, taking a photograph, and immediately surrendering the space to the next person, there was a little breathing room for actual conversation. Perhaps because we had already faced each other and exchanged greetings once at the farewell session, talking came more easily. These were clearly connected encounters within the same day.

At earlier signings, however much I prepared, I usually managed no more than a sentence or two: “I’m cheering you on,” or “I’ll come to the next show.” Often I could not even be sure the words had properly reached her. This CD signing was different. I could convey what I wanted to say without being interrupted, and Miyu responded, carrying the conversation on, however briefly.

What struck me most was how entirely unmechanical the time felt compared with before. At previous events, there had always been strong pressure from staff to hurry. Here, rather than pressure to keep the queue moving, there was a sustained sense that the conversation with the person in front of her came first. Even receiving the signature felt less like a separate event than another scene in the conversation continuing after the show.

The way the farewell session and CD signing shared the same feeling decisively changed my impression of this time in Seoul. What I had seen onstage and the manner I encountered below it did not contradict one another. The emotions the concert had given me were not abruptly cut off by the running of the event; they found their natural conclusion in conversation between people.

That is why I do not simply remember getting a signature or attending a farewell session. I remember clearly that we talked, and that what I said was received. We were much closer than before, with room to exchange many more words. In that sense, the Baby Paradise CD signing was not a bonus after the farewell session, but the final piece that made the concert complete.

Greetings That Continued After the Show

Even after everything on the schedule had finished, we did not leave straightaway. Knowing the concert was over mattered less than not wanting to put the day away like this. So we stayed naturally until she left, to exchange a final greeting. It had been a long day, but the feelings that had settled and gathered in me were stronger than the tiredness in my body. Too many scenes and emotions overlapped for this concert to be summed up as simply one I had enjoyed.

After a while Miyu appeared, and seeing us still there, she thanked us first. It seemed to have touched her that we had remained until the end to see her off even after the performance. The greeting was brief, but warm enough. Then we naturally exchanged words of seeing one another again tomorrow.

With that, the day came to a close without fully shutting its door, leaving room to continue into the next. And so the concert in a small space in Hongdae, Seoul, drew the day together by naturally connecting the hours onstage and below it. The performance ended, but the feeling did not stop. Its afterglow was already quietly reaching toward the next day’s fan meeting.

After the Show, a Very Korean Way to Close the Day

Once the performance was over, deciding how to end the day required no lengthy discussion. We found a fairly large barbecue restaurant near the venue, and everyone naturally headed there. Few places are better suited to settling the energy of a show and gathering the day together once more before people go their separate ways. That was how we came to Haha & Kim Jong-kook’s 401 Butcher Restaurant. There were thirteen of us: four Japanese fans and nine Korean fans.

It was a sizable gathering, but the mood was calmer than I had expected. We had only just shared the concert, and none of us had quite sorted out what we felt. Someone was turning over scenes from the show, someone was talking about the next day’s fan meeting, and someone was simply waiting for the meat to arrive. Our paces differed, but at one table those rhythms rested alongside one another without getting out of step.

Why People Gather After a Performance

401 Butcher Restaurant is one of the larger barbecue restaurants around Hongdae. Its spacious interior and seating that can accommodate groups make it an easy choice for several people arriving together after a show. Above all, we could count on getting a meal even at the late hour after the concert. Everyone was hungry, but that did not mean we wanted to walk into just anywhere.

Almost as soon as we sat down, meat began arriving on the grill, and the table took on a familiar shape. The sound of pork belly cooking, kimchi and garlic, leafy greens for wrapping a bite: as these appeared one by one, the air of the concert gradually became the air of a meal. The change felt surprisingly natural. We did not have to force ourselves to hold on to the performance. In the time spent grilling and sharing meat, our feelings found their own places.

For the fans from Japan, the scene itself was an experience: the particular rhythm of a Korean barbecue restaurant, conversation circling the grill, and the process of cooking and sharing meat. Without needing an explanation, everyone quickly settled into that flow. Conversation continued as naturally as the meat cooked. The final hours of the day were finding their conclusion in a very Korean way of letting a concert’s afterglow settle.

Chikapi’s Birthday, and One More Meaning to the Evening

There was another reason the gathering became a little more special. It was the birthday of Chikapi, one of the fans visiting from Japan. Before going to the restaurant, we had ordered and picked up an ice cream cake from a nearby Baskin-Robbins. Once the meal was well underway, we brought it out naturally.

There were no sudden lights-out or elaborate surprises, and that made it all the better. We ate meat, shared cake, and offered a few simple birthday wishes. The concert had already filled the day as its great event, so this small extra celebration felt just right. Chikapi seemed to enjoy the unexaggerated atmosphere, and the sight of Japanese and Korean fans celebrating his birthday together seemed to capture the character of the day.

This was more than an after-concert gathering. It was another confirmation of relationships that continued across countries and individual itineraries. Different in texture from the cheers in the venue, a quiet but unmistakable sense of togetherness was forming.

Autographs Across the Wall, and a Passing Thought

As we ate, my eyes naturally lingered on the restaurant wall. One side was filled with celebrity autographs. The densely gathered names of entertainers, athletes, and television personalities spoke of a place many people had chosen over many years. Looking at those signatures, a thought came to me: what if Miyu ate here one day and left her own signature on this wall? It was a small imagining, but it suited the mood of the evening.

The Right Way to End the Day

As the meal drew to a close, conversation at the table grew looser. From the concert, we drifted into differences between Japan and Korea, plans for the following day, and where everyone was staying. Someone was putting the last meat on the grill; someone else was already gathering a coat, ready to stand. The pace of conversation slowed, but the warmth did not fade.

We all seemed to share a sense that the day was coming properly to rest here. After the meal, we went outside together. We would be heading in different directions, but did not disperse immediately. Instead, we gathered once more for a group photograph.

It recorded the people who had shared the long day after the show, with the afterglow of the stage and the warmth of the table still around us. More than anyone’s suggestion, it felt like an unspoken agreement that this was the most natural way to close the day. Only after the photograph did we finally go our separate ways. We all walked toward different places to stay, yet strangely I felt more settled than empty.

The day that had begun at the venue had passed through a barbecue restaurant and returned us gently to ordinary life. That my final memory of it was not a dazzling stage scene, but conversation over grilling meat, laughter, and a group photograph, makes it linger all the more. The concert ended onstage; the day became complete at the table and outside the restaurant. Gathered together in that way, January 17 folded naturally toward the fan meeting to come the following day.

The Day’s Mood Begins at the Door

The fan meeting began for me outside the venue, before it began within. When I reached the Hongdae venue around eleven in the morning, there was still time before the official schedule, but things were already quietly in motion. Near a vehicle parked outside, I met a member of staff from Office Walker.

We spoke briefly about the previous evening’s concert, and I offered a greeting: “Yesterday was wonderful. I’m looking forward to today, too.” We bowed to one another and exchanged a few encouraging words, a wholly natural moment. I had finished the greeting and was just about to go inside when the car door opened and Miyu stepped out. It was less a prepared encounter than a coincidence of precisely overlapping timing.

At close range our eyes met naturally, and we could say hello. This was a greeting at the outermost edge of the day, before we were inside the venue or she was onstage. With the previous night’s concert still in my body, the chance to greet her without any embellishment felt especially good. We did not say much.

Yet the brief greeting held both a sense of thanks for coming and a hope for a good day together. That opening scene, shared at an ordinary human distance before we entered the formal frame of a concert or fan meeting, gave the day a slightly different mood from the start. Our feelings were already attuned before the stage began. That was the quiet beginning of the January 18 fan meeting.

An Afternoon Inheriting the Stage’s Afterglow

The official schedule called for admission at one and a start at one-thirty, but the fans’ day had begun much earlier. To attend, we first had to collect our tickets; only then could we join the admission queue. Ticket distribution had been announced for eleven-thirty, but conditions at the venue meant it actually began a little after noon. That small delay left us in an awkward interval.

There was not enough time for a proper meal, but waiting for the fan meeting without eating raised concerns about having the energy to last. Many fans settled on a simple solution: a trip to a nearby convenience store for bread or a drink, then back to the venue. And so the fan meeting began with a hastily chewed piece of bread in place of a substantial lunch.

But the wait did not remain mere time to get through. As on the previous day, the fans naturally turned it into a community gathering. People who had not seen one another for some time exchanged greetings, and laughter followed as we revisited the concert. Especially memorable was the sight of Korean and Japanese fans mingling and talking easily.

Even when language was imperfect, the experience of the performance already gave us enough common ground. It did not matter who had spoken first. A short question like “How was yesterday?” quickly became talk of the show, the journey, and what came next.

With Miyu at its center, the space naturally became a small meeting place for fans from both countries. Even when she was not onstage, she was already connecting people. That made the wait feel both like the beginning of the fan meeting and a substantial part of it in its own right.

A Small Hope Held in One Number

After collecting our tickets, we queued again for admission. Unlike the concert the day before, seating moved relatively quickly once we were inside. The first thing we did after sitting down was draw a small number. A little machine produced one at random, and we were told it would be used for an event later.

The number that came to me was seven. A number that lifts the spirits for no particular reason: the familiar lucky seven. With the previous day’s concert, today’s fan meeting, and now this number falling into sequence, a little unfounded hope was hardly surprising.

I had no idea what it would lead to, but at that moment it was enough to hold the small flutter of anticipation that belongs at a fan meeting. The hope was neither excessive nor burdensome. Winning would be nice; otherwise, I could simply enjoy being there. Having already taken in so much from the previous night’s show, I felt the fan meeting mattered more for what unfolded than for its results.

Time Together Takes Precedence over Merchandise

Looking around after entering, I noticed the merchandise table first. Sales continued as they had the day before, but without a separate purchase bonus that day, the atmosphere was fairly calm. Many fans had bought most of what they wanted already, and above all there was a naturally shared understanding that the purpose of this day was to spend time together rather than buy something. Still, Baby Paradise CDs and signed posters, which had sold out quickly the previous day, were back in stock, briefly drawing a small stream of people.

For those who had missed out, it was another chance; for those who had finished shopping, it was a moment to watch quietly. It struck me that an understanding of one another’s circumstances came before competitiveness or haste. And so the afternoon opened slowly, already carrying several layers of feeling and circumstance before the stage began. This was time that could only happen after a concert, rather than simply an extension of one. That calm air defined the fan meeting.

An Afternoon Opened by Everyday Photographs

The fan meeting began with neither music nor an opening greeting. Before picking up her guitar, Kano Miyu brought out several photographs. Rather than a prepared image of herself onstage, these were pictures from her recent daily life: scenes taken in transit, moments between performances, instants that looked unremarkable. Through them, stories unfolded naturally.

She did not give a long explanation of each photograph. A short description of what had been happening was enough to pass on the air of that moment. It felt less like a presentation or introduction than leafing through someone’s album beside them. Fans laughed or nodded at the pictures, and each response led into another story.

As we looked at photographs from Taiwan, the audience laughed when Miyu recalled being fascinated by seeing an electric fly swatter for the first time. She described the sound when a mosquito touched it and what it had been like to swing one herself, and the conversation moved to how familiar the object was in Korea, too. What delighted me was not drawing conclusions about which country had what, but watching people react together to a small object that was new to someone. For a moment, our attention shifted from the accomplished singer onstage to a story from everyday life.

The photo segment stayed with me for reasons that had nothing to do with elaborate staging or a surprise twist. Instead of a finished stage persona, she shared the unaltered hours of a person who traveled, grew tired, laughed, and slept. By then the character of the fan meeting was clear. The afternoon would be less about showing us something than quietly sharing time with one another.

Questions and Answers, and a Face beyond the Stage

Once the photographs had relaxed the room, the fan meeting moved naturally into questions and answers. Rather than a list prepared in advance, questions the fans had written there were read out one by one. They ranged from music to everyday life, and Miyu did not hurry past any of them.

She would look up for a moment to think, choose her words, and answer slowly. Even that brief pause showed how seriously she took this time. Some questions were lighter. Asked what food she liked best, she smiled briefly and answered samgyetang, the Korean ginseng chicken soup.

A small ripple ran through the audience at the unexpected reply: it was a rather substantial choice among Korean dishes. She did not elaborate at length, but conveyed a sense of it as food that restored her strength when she was tired. That short answer would lead to our choice of dinner after the fan meeting.

One particularly memorable question asked what she thought she would be doing if she had not become a singer. After a small smile, Miyu spoke about her parents. Both her mother and father were bank employees, she explained, and without a particular turning point she would probably have become an office worker herself. There was no sense of abandoning a dream or longing for a different life.

Her answer seemed instead to quietly show how clearly she had chosen the road she was on. Someone also asked about the support of her Korean fans. Nodding, she said it gave her great strength to know that people in Korea kept supporting her and coming to her shows. She did not explain at length, but it did not sound like a courtesy line.

The feeling that she genuinely drew energy from that support came through naturally. I was certainly sorry the Q&A could not continue longer. Only a limited number of the many questions could be addressed, and we had to move to the next segment while many remained unread. Each time, a mixture of small sighs and laughter came from the audience.

But the disappointment seemed to arise less from a shortcoming in the program than from how alive the conversation felt. What remained most clearly was the face of a person pausing to think before a question, rather than a singer onstage. Even the regret at not hearing more became part of what made this feel like a real encounter.

The Hope a Number Carries, and a Small Disappointment

After the Q&A came the prize drawing. Six gifts had been prepared around six, the number Miyu said she liked, and their unveiling sent another light ripple through the room. The draw was simple, but the process was unhurried. Checking each number, looking toward the winner, and exchanging a brief reaction allowed the character of the gathering to show itself again.

My number was seven. I had thought it a promising enough number, but in the end it was never called. It was nothing to be deeply disappointed about, though I could not help hoping a little each time another number was announced. An ordinary human feeling, the kind that always comes along to a fan meeting.

There was a clear reason the disappointment did not last. What mattered here was not whether I received a gift, but the fullness of the time we had already shared. Even without hearing my number, this afternoon of listening to questions, laughing, and nodding along was already full enough. The small disappointment found its natural place within the memory of the day.

Fragments of What Might Come Next, Heard beyond the Stage

After the fan meeting ended, I had a brief conversation with someone involved in the event, off to one side while the space was being cleared. It was not a setting for a long talk, but there was enough time to recognize each other and say hello. They greeted me warmly first, and I naturally answered with the Japanese otsukaresama deshita, an acknowledgment of the work they had put in.

That opened a more relaxed exchange beyond formal greetings. A little relief that the concert and fan meeting had finished safely, a few thoughts on the Seoul visit as a whole, and then a careful indication of the direction of future plans. These were hints of what might be ahead, rather than anything officially announced.

They were offered in a lower voice, with a tone closer to sharing than concealment. Alongside the relief at completing the concert and fan meeting safely, I heard a little about the next plans in Japan: something was being prepared for spring in connection with the photo album. At the time it was not a confirmed, officially announced schedule, so I could not take a date as a promise.

Still, it left me with the hope that even after this meeting in Seoul, another reason to meet in person might follow. The brief conversation also made clear again that these days in Seoul were not a full stop. The concert and fan meeting felt like one point within something continuing, rather than a completed outcome. Perhaps that was why the time left a calm afterglow rather than excitement.

It felt less like an afterword to an itinerary already finished than a signal that the next page was quietly taking shape. We bowed once more and brought the exchange to a close, and our time in Seoul continued naturally beyond the stage. There was no grand announcement or official statement. Even so, something came through clearly: this story was not over, and somewhere its next scene was already being prepared.

The Wait Grows Longer, and Some of Us Remain

Even after the fan meeting, the day did not end easily. As on the previous day, we spent time outside waiting for Miyu to leave. Final preparations took longer than expected, and the wait stretched far beyond what we had imagined; it felt like nearly two hours. Every event was over, but our hearts had not yet left the place.

We did not all wait at the same pace. Some left partway through; others stayed until the end. One Japanese fan had to go straight to the airport after seeing Miyu leave, without managing to eat. His schedule left no choice, but that scene seemed to symbolize how closely packed and tightly timed these two days had been.

When Miyu finally appeared after the long wait, the atmosphere naturally grew still. Rather than loud cheers or commotion, there was a quiet warmth between people who had passed through the day together. She bowed repeatedly toward the fans waiting outside and thanked us. Her Korean was hesitant, but she repeated “Thank you for coming,” with a sincerity beyond a formal greeting.

Especially memorable was how she worried about the fans’ health, telling us several times in her hesitant Korean, “Please be careful not to catch a cold.” The concert and fan meeting were both over, yet those short words held her concern to the very last moment. It was consideration for people who had waited so long in the cold, and a greeting that brought the two days to a close as one person speaking to others.

In that moment, the concert, the fan meeting, and even the extended wait became one continuous passage. Songs onstage, conversations below it, and the brief greeting left at the end. It was no dazzling scene, and that made it a conclusion likely to stay with me all the longer. These two days in Seoul came to rest with human warmth intact to the very last.

A Few Words Decide the Evening

There was little need to deliberate over dinner. Miyu’s answer during the fan meeting, naming samgyetang as her favorite Korean food, had naturally stayed with all of us. There was no special discussion, no forceful proposal from anyone. “Shall we have samgyetang today, then?”

someone quietly suggested, and the suggestion became the decision. After the concert and fan meeting, few choices could have been better for bringing the day to rest without overheating our emotions. A warming ginseng chicken soup, something to settle the heart and let us slowly digest the day’s stories: I could hardly imagine a more fitting meal.

A Table for Eight Forms Naturally

There were eight of us that day: three Japanese fans and five Korean fans. Compared with the large gathering the night before, it was a much smaller group, but the time felt more concentrated for it. We had all heard the same question, shared the same answer, and already felt ourselves moving in the same direction. “Miyu said she liked it.” That sentence was enough. It was less a meal on someone’s behalf than a choice that continued the current of the day. And so we moved quickly and quietly. Even through the heart of Hongdae’s busy streets, our footsteps kept a strangely even pace.

The Reassurance in a Name Meaning a Hundred Years

We arrived at the annex of Baengnyeon Tojong Samgyetang. Its name, evoking a hundred years, already suggested a place that had lived through time. The fact that an established main restaurant had expanded to an annex made it clear that this was no fleeting arrival. Our timing, though, fell into an in-between hour: four o’clock on Sunday, neither lunch nor dinner.

Perhaps that explained the relatively empty dining room, quite unlike the crowds on the hottest summer days, when Koreans traditionally seek out restorative foods, or my memories of waiting in line. The quiet actually made the space easier to understand. Its layout, the room between tables, even the smell of broth gently spreading through it—things I missed when it was full of people—came naturally to my attention.

I had visited several times before. On the traditional midsummer days for restorative meals, it was one of the first restaurants in the area to draw a queue, and it was a local favorite with steady visitors in every season. That made the quiet feel less unfamiliar than like a brief chance for the restaurant to catch its breath.

Knowing the dependable taste of its busy hours made meeting the space in this stillness feel all the more reassuring. An unpretentious exterior, an interior without needless decoration, and a short menu. Even the price of 18,000 won for a standard serving of samgyetang seemed matter-of-fact beside the years and methods behind the place. I felt the steady attitude of a restaurant that had long held its ground.

This was less the result of wondering where to go because Miyu liked samgyetang than a place that came to mind the instant she said it. A flavor I knew, a space I had experienced, and a restaurant that needed no explanation as a place to bring the Japanese fans. With no crowd around us, this bowl of samgyetang was ready to remain in memory more slowly and more distinctly.

The First Response to the Broth

When the samgyetang arrived, conversation paused. Steam rose as the lids opened, carrying a gentle scent of ginseng above a whole chicken nestled in each bowl. The Japanese fans, too, naturally put down their phones at the sight. After the first spoonful, the reactions came almost together. “It’s delicious.” “Much lighter than I expected.” “The broth has real depth.” Someone kept nodding; someone took another spoonful of broth. The ginseng aroma and garlic flavor, which can sometimes feel strong to a Japanese palate, were restrained here, and that seemed to make a particularly good impression.

The Warmth Food Gives a Conversation

One good thing about samgyetang is that it naturally slows your eating. It is not a dish you can rush, and everyone adjusts their pace before the hot broth. Conversation at the table found its shape as well. We returned to a scene from the fan meeting, moved to a song from the concert the day before, then drifted into food culture in Japan and Korea. The Japanese fans said there was nothing like this in Japan, and the Korean fans answered that nothing could be better in winter. Between those exchanges, the soup quietly did its work.

The Afterglow of “I Like It”

Taste alone did not make the meal special. What mattered was that Miyu’s brief statement at the fan meeting, that she liked samgyetang, had led to something we actually did. We had remembered someone’s taste and naturally included it in the course of the day. Miyu was not at the table, but her words clearly were. The meal felt less like imitating someone in her absence than sharing in the same time. We needed no reminder of what she had said earlier: everyone was already remembering the same scene.

The Slowest Way to Bring the Day to Rest

As the meal neared its end, the bottoms of our bowls were beginning to show. Someone mixed in rice and finished the last of the broth; someone set the bowl down and took a quiet breath. Before I felt full, I felt warm. The samgyetang was dinner, but it also felt like the last stage of settling these two days in Seoul. Concert, fan meeting, waiting, and now this meal: the speed of the day was slowly subsiding into the broth.

A Room Worth Waiting for, a Memory in the Same Direction

After eating, we naturally moved on to the next place. We already knew the destination: the Su Karaoke annex, a karaoke venue Kano Miyu had visited before. It was neither a concert hall nor the fan meeting venue, yet it clearly belonged in the current of our time in Seoul. When we arrived, a room could in fact have been ready almost immediately.

The staff told us there was one we could enter straightaway. But we did not take it. There was hardly a need to think. Without saying so, we could tell we were all of the same mind: “Even if we wait a little longer, let’s go to the room Miyu used.”

In the end, we waited about twenty extra minutes. It was neither a long wait nor a dull one. We had spent the day learning to wait, and everyone understood what this choice meant. On this day, choosing a space that held the same memory felt more natural than choosing an empty room.

The Window-Side Room We Had Waited for

We were shown to a room by the windows on the fourth floor. I remember it as Room 401, though I am not certain. Judging by the angle and position, it was the closest match to the room the fans had talked about. The view opened toward the windows, with a little of Hongdae’s night streets visible below. It was not lavishly decorated, and that made it feel more real. The thought that Miyu must have sung here came naturally, without exaggeration. This was no specially staged setting like a concert platform, but a room where someone might have paused, sung, and laughed.

At the time, the staff told us the fourth floor was operated for women only. We explained our circumstances, and after checking, they assigned us the room that day. I do not take the exception made then as a rule anyone could use on the same terms. What stayed with me longer than which floor we used was the fact that the people I had come with chose to wait for the same space.

That actually made the character of the place clearer to me. It felt less like breaking a rule or making an unreasonable request than someone understanding the circumstances and quietly opening a way. So there was no unnecessary burden or awkwardness as we entered. Only the natural feeling that this was the room.

Time Remembered First for the Room, Then the Songs

The karaoke room cost 100,000 won for two hours. It was certainly expensive compared with an ordinary karaoke venue, but nobody discussed the cost of that day’s choice. The context of the place was already enough. Japanese and Korean fans were mixed together, but karaoke almost erased the difference in language.

Someone sang earnestly; others shaped the mood with applause and laughter. Neither polish nor song selection mattered most. What mattered was simply spending time in that space together. After the concert and fan meeting, people who were not yet ready to separate had gathered naturally. This room could hold that feeling.

What struck me most was that the time did not remain only among us. One Japanese fan sent Miyu a photograph taken there, so she learned that the fans had come to the place together. Another fan shared the scene in a story, which Miyu eventually reposted. At that moment, the room became entirely present tense: a space still connected to her now, beyond somewhere she had visited in the past.

Outside the Official Schedule, a Very Natural Choice for Fans

Visiting the karaoke venue was entirely unofficial. It was not on any timetable, and it would be difficult to say whose suggestion began it. That made it feel all the more like time belonging to fans, and made it linger. It was a choice made by people unwilling to let the day go, even after the concert and fan meeting were over.

The fact that we deliberately waited twenty more minutes despite an available room explains that time most precisely. We had chosen what meant more to us over what was easier. And so the Su Karaoke annex became one of the quietest, clearest scenes of these days in Seoul. How much we sang does not matter. What matters is that we deliberately chose a memory facing in the same direction.

After the Noise Subsides, a Way to Settle the Last Night

By the time we left karaoke, a stillness had settled into the night air. Only after stepping out of the room full of laughter and singing did I begin to feel the day nearing its end. We had no energy left for anything ambitious, or for searching out another destination.

The choice came naturally: somewhere we could all sit, where we did not need to do anything at all. Our steps led to Starbucks at Seogyo-dong Intersection. It was not a place with a particular meaning, and perhaps that was why it suited the last night so well. There was no need for the tension of a concert venue or the rising energy of karaoke.

It held just the right temperature for settling our feelings at the end of the day. Mugs, tumblers, and soft toy key rings lined the displays around the counter. Among those familiar café scenes, I finally felt that I did not have to accomplish anything more today.

One Table, Conversations at Different Paces

We all sat at the same table. As our numbers had naturally grown, the table became fairly long, and as people took their seats, Korean and Japanese fans settled into loose groups. Nobody had divided us or arranged the seating. We simply sat where there was room, and our languages and rhythms gathered of their own accord.

The conversation was different this time. Rather than going over the concert or the details of the fan meeting again, we talked about more ordinary things. Among the Korean fans came the reality of returning to work the next day, and remarks about how unreal these past days had felt. From the Japanese side came talk of flights home and when they might be able to visit again.

That did not mean the table had split completely in two. When laughter broke out, it traveled all the way to the other end; when someone reacted loudly, glances naturally crossed the table. Even without fully understanding one another’s conversations, we shared a sense of what this time was: a night that needed no more explanation.

The Fewer the Words, the Greater the Ease

I was especially struck by how comfortable this time felt. Korean and Japanese had mingled naturally during the day; now, at night, people returned to their own languages. There was no need to choose words out of consideration for another person, or add an explanation to make oneself understood. We spoke less, but the atmosphere grew looser.

Someone put down a phone and gazed absently out the window; someone played with a straw, seeming to turn the day over in their mind. Not needing to do anything in particular was what made the time special. The concert, fan meeting, journeys, and waits of the day were all behind us. We had reached the point where each of us could fold these two days away at our own pace.

A Small Kindness Comes Naturally

Even ordering drinks reflected the mood of the day. There would have been nothing odd about paying individually, but one Korean fan naturally said, “These are on me,” and took care of the drinks. There was no show of generosity, no attempt to give it some larger meaning. It was simply the most natural thing to say at that table.

The scene has stayed with me in particular. It felt as though the feelings and relationships built over two days were finding their expression in a small act. Such moments can last longer than cheers in a concert hall or conversation at a fan meeting. It showed that the night had already passed from event time into the hours just before returning to everyday life.

A Scene That Suited the Last Night

The Starbucks lighting was bright, but the atmosphere was quiet. Drinks slowly diminished in their cups, and the pauses in conversation lengthened. Some people gathered their things first; others sat until the end, then rose slowly. We did not all move at once, but we shared the sense that this table was bringing the night to rest.

Perhaps the final scene stays with me precisely because it was a café, rather than a concert or fan meeting. The intense moments had already passed, and the hours after them were better folded away quietly in an ordinary place like this. There had already been enough to make the day special. This was the right way to let it go at the end.

And so, after sharing the same night at the same table, we prepared to return to our separate places. There were no grand words or commemorative photographs, yet the last night remains unusually clear in my memory. Perhaps these two days in Seoul linger all the longer because they ended this way.

A Choice to Warm Us Before Departure

The third day was the day the Japanese fans would go home. Everything in Seoul was finished, and this was the last morning before they returned to their own lives. It was a Monday, so the other Korean fans were already back in their routines. Only the Japanese fans and I remained to spend these final hours in Seoul together.

Before heading straight to the airport, we decided to share a meal in Hongdae. Simply knowing it was the last meal made us choose with a little more care. We wanted something substantial without being heavy, something that would warm and loosen our bodies in the cold. Our first thought had actually been bossam, sliced boiled pork served with leaves and accompaniments for wrapping.

It was another of Miyu’s favorite Korean foods, and seemed well suited to a final meal. But finding somewhere serving proper bossam in the morning was harder than expected. Even finding an open restaurant was not easy. Just as disappointment began to set in, suyuk came naturally to mind: boiled meat related to bossam, which we could eat alongside soup.

Explaining it as similar to the bossam Miyu liked was enough for the Japanese fans to nod, and the choice was made. We headed to Boseung Hoegwan’s directly operated Hongdae branch. It was an easy choice both for eating as a group and for continuing toward the airport.

Sliced Pork and Soup with Rice, the Warmth of a Last Meal

We all chose a set meal combining suyuk and gukbap, soup served with rice. At around 18,000 won per person, it was quite generous for the price. The sliced pork on the table was pleasantly plain, and the soup was not spicy, making it easy for the Japanese fans to enjoy. Above all, hot broth in cold weather gradually eased the tension before parting.

The Japanese fans responded well: to the lack of heat, the way the broth settled their stomachs, and the fact that the boiled pork did not feel unfamiliar. Someone called it the most comforting food they had eaten in Korea; someone else smiled and said they could see how it was similar to bossam. The flavors were not especially showy, but that simplicity suited a last meal all the better.

Our conversation returned to the concert and fan meeting. But its tone had changed a little from the day before. We were putting memories in order rather than raising our emotions. “That part was good,” or “Do you remember what she said then?” As the words passed between us, our time in Seoul folded away one moment at a time.

What It Meant to Eat Together Before the Airport

This meal was more than a chance to fill our stomachs. It was the Japanese fans’ last proper occasion in Korea, and something close to a farewell shared among people who had spent these past days together. We regretted missing bossam, but the suyuk and soup we chose instead ultimately matched the feelings of the day: warm, restrained, and lasting.

Only after eating did I really feel that the time to part was approaching. We spoke of the route to the airport, their different flight times, and whether we would be able to meet again. More often than firm plans, we exchanged the words “See you again.”

They did not sound casual, and that reminded me how much these few days had held. That was the end of our last meal in Seoul. A choice beginning with food Miyu liked, made around her even though she was not there with us. Because of it, the moment of parting could be a little warmer.

The Last Route Together Before They Left

After the meal, we headed for the airport. I did not have to accompany them all the way; there would have been nothing strange about parting here. Yet somehow that option fell away naturally. Nobody said we ought to go this far together, but all of us were already walking in the same direction.

Thinking back over the flow of the past days, it seemed more fitting to share this final journey to the airport as well. Rather than cutting off the time that had run through concerts, a fan meeting, meals, and conversation, it felt more natural to let it fold away slowly through the gentle interval of travel. So we chose to move at the same pace until the end.

The way down to Hongik University Station was familiar by now. We had gone up and down it many times over two days, and the mixture of tourists and weekday daytime crowds looked no different from usual. Within that ordinariness, only the knowledge that this was the last journey quietly gave it another texture.

On the Airport Railroad, Travel Becomes Conversation

We entered near Exit 7 of Hongik University Station and headed toward the Airport Railroad. As we passed through the gates, a scene came back to me: on his first day in Korea, I had given one Japanese fan a T-money transit card. Since it was his first visit, I had loaded it with 10,000 won as a gift, hoping to make getting around less difficult.

At the time I thought of it as a small kindness, but now the scene returned with a fresh meaning. With that card, he passed through the gate without hesitation, and the journey felt easier. It was a very small object, yet it seemed like a link quietly joining these days together. The Airport Railroad was busier at lunchtime than I expected.

Travelers, office workers, and airport staff mingled in the carriage, and at first there were hardly any seats. Fortunately, we just managed to find one. When many people got off at Gimpo Airport Station, the three of us could sit side by side. Only then did I have the leisure to look out the window.

A Conversation Beginning with Miyu, and the “Kano Family”

It was a little over an hour from Hongdae to Incheon Airport. By no means a short distance, yet it did not feel long at all. Conversation continued naturally as we traveled. Miyu was, of course, the starting point. Scenes from the concert, words at the fan meeting, moments that had stayed with us: we called them back one by one.

But the conversation did not stop there. It moved naturally into life in Korea and Japan, widening to our everyday routines and future plans. Talking while traveling felt much easier than sitting face to face. Looking in the same direction slowed our words and let us listen more calmly to each other’s stories.

Then someone jokingly said we were practically the Kano family by now. It was a remark to laugh off, yet strangely it felt quite precise. Our nationalities, ages, and lives were different, but we had spent days sharing the same current around one center, Miyu. In that sense, the expression naturally found its place as something more than a joke.

Terminal 1, Where Ordinary Realities Return

The closer the train came to Incheon Airport, the more the atmosphere changed. There were more people with suitcases, and a little of the airport’s particular tension seeped in. We planned to get off at Terminal 1 because, of the two Japanese fans leaving Korea that day, the one departing first was using it.

Leaving the train and riding up the escalator, I distinctly felt the end drawing close. The conversation we had been carrying on naturally diminished, replaced by practical talk of departure procedures and routes through the airport. Their journey was slowly drawing itself together.

Even after reaching the terminal, we did not part immediately. We spent a little more time over coffee. It was less a choice to postpone goodbye as long as possible than a wish not to sever the flow of the past days too abruptly. Even these hours felt part of the journey.

A Last Place to Leave a Few Words Before Departure

Airports always demand quick decisions, but that day we needed somewhere we could linger a little more slowly. Before turning to departure procedures, we sat down at A Twosome Place on the fourth floor of Incheon Airport’s Terminal 1. I was with two Japanese fans. We had roughly an hour and a half, time that could feel either short or long.

Once we sat with coffee before us, the realization that these days were truly ending began to rise. The current that had carried us through concert, fan meeting, meals, and journeys paused at this table. The airport’s particular bustle was visible beyond the glass, but the air around us was calm. Here was one last place to leave words before departure.

Talk of What Comes Next, over Coffee

What struck me most was the direction the conversation naturally took. We were speaking of the future, rather than the immediate schedule or the tiredness of the past hours. One Japanese fan cautiously shared a larger idea: someday, he wanted to organize a charity concert centered on Kano Miyu himself. It sounded like more than a wish; I could hear the traces of thought already given to it.

What form it might take, whom he could invite and how, and why he wanted to put on such a show. As the coffee sat before us, the conversation grew quite specific. It was not a plan about to happen, but it was the sort of conversation that could arise among people who had shared these days. I felt I was listening, at close quarters, to affection becoming a desire to try doing something.

Listening reminded me again that this had been more than a trip to attend a show. With Miyu at the center, slightly different dreams and possibilities were growing in each person’s own life. What impressed me was that we shared them calmly over an airport café table, without needing to make them grander than they were.

A Brief Decision at the Departure Entrance

When the time came, we naturally rose from the table. The fan returning to Japan would depart from Terminal 1, and we walked together toward the departure area. He had originally been directed to Departure Entrance 4, the entrance to security screening. When we reached it, however, the display showed a wait of about thirty-eight minutes.

After days that had already felt long enough, that number loomed larger than expected. Just then, an Incheon Airport employee nearby offered a short piece of advice in Korean: “There’s nobody at number two.” It was brief, but enough to change the situation. I passed it straight on to the Japanese fan, and without delay we turned toward Entrance 2. The queue at Entrance 2 was much shorter.

Only after seeing him go inside did I relax. I had come to see him off, so I could not go with him beyond security. I was glad I had been able to make the route up to that point a little easier. It was no great deed. Just as people had helped when I asked about unfamiliar streets in Japan, I had passed on words in a language familiar to me and changed direction beside him.

The Moment Our Paths Divide

We exchanged final greetings at the departure entrance. Without adding anything special, we already had enough shared time behind us. “Travel safely,” and “See you again” passed between us, and they did not sound formal. They were greetings that already assumed there would be a next time. Once the Japanese fan had completed the departure formalities and disappeared inside, I headed to Terminal 2 with the other Japanese fan.

We were within the same airport, but the change of route gradually changed the feeling around us, too. By then, I clearly felt that their journey was truly ending. Soon there would be no further reason to travel together, no next item on the schedule. And that, in its way, made my heart a little lighter.

We rode the Airport Railroad one stop farther and arrived at Incheon Airport’s Terminal 2. Most of the itinerary was already over, but we were not quite ready to part completely. So we naturally spent time waiting near the departure entrance. Only one Japanese fan remained with me now. From that moment, an atmosphere quite different from being in a group began to form.

The departures area was as busy as ever, yet the spot where we stayed felt strangely quiet. Among people rolling suitcases past us and travelers hurrying to check the displays, we used our time at a slower pace. We had about an hour to wait, but it did not feel especially long. Instead, stories we had not yet had a chance to share came naturally, quietly filling the time.

Words That Come Only When Two People Remain

There were things that had been harder to say in a group: the sadness of the itinerary nearing its end, the feeling that the trip had passed much faster than expected, and the reality that we truly had to return to our own routines now. Chikapi seemed to feel much the same. He said first that it was a shame it was already over, with an unadorned feeling in the words. Yet the sadness did not settle into heaviness.

It turned naturally toward next time. “Let’s meet in Japan next,” and “Perhaps the next stop will be Tokyo.” These were less confirmed plans than a conversation that took the possibility of meeting again for granted. Thanks to the days we had shared, the word “next” no longer sounded vague.

Kano Miyu remained at the center of our stories. We began with the concert, moved to memorable moments from the fan meeting, and spoke of how each of us had come to take part. With Miyu as a shared point of reference, the conversation never broke off. Nobody had to force a topic; it continued on its own. That made the hour feel less like waiting than a final chance to let everything settle.

The Last Farewell, and the Person Left Behind

Eventually the departure time approached, and Chikapi, too, had to head inside. He was returning on an Air Seoul flight, and we exchanged a few words before the departure procedures. “Travel safely,” and “Next time, let’s meet in Japan.” The words carried weight. Between people who had passed through these days together, they felt like a promise real enough to believe.

Only after Chikapi disappeared through the departure entrance did I truly realize that the last Japanese fan from this gathering had left. I was alone at the airport. I could have gone straight home, but strangely I could not bring myself to do so. After coming this far, I was not ready simply to turn around: the afterglow inside me had yet to settle.

A Short Walk through the Airport Alone

I decided to take a little time to myself and walked slowly around the airport. The particular tension around departures, the bright lighting of the shops on the departures level, the many languages reaching me from every direction. What had belonged to the itinerary over these past days now looked like scenes simply passing by. I wondered briefly why I might return here next, and whom I might come to meet. But there was no need to find an answer. These days were already full enough; what remained was how to hold their memories. Only after making a circuit of the airport could I finally turn toward home.

Looking back on the three days, Miyu is still the first person who comes to mind. Her voice heard close to the stage, and the greetings she offered with a smile, gave familiar Seoul streets a different set of memories. Beside those memories are the people I queued with, ate with, and finally sat alongside on the Airport Railroad. We had gathered to see Miyu, and that remained our center.

But after sharing the same hours, we had also gained a next time with one another. When these days in Seoul ended, the clearest feeling left was a conviction that we had spent them well. Beyond judgments about the quality of the concert or the arrangement of the events, I could understand for myself how the time had been filled between people. So this epilogue feels less like a conclusion than a record I want to leave behind.

What the Concert Left — a Place Where People Connected

One reason this concert felt special was that Chikapi, who had always helped me in Japan, had visited Korea for the first time. He was someone who traveled alongside me during trips and events in Japan and took care even of things I might not notice. I had long hoped to return that kindness in Korea someday.

These days in Seoul were a rare chance to put that feeling into practice. Above all, I was glad that through the concert, fan meeting, meals, and journeys, we could share memories as people who had spent time together, beyond a relationship of helping and being helped. I also remember a moment during an earlier livestream when we told Miyu that Chikapi and I were interpreting for each other in English.

She looked surprised, and a little envious, too, conveying that she wished she spoke English well enough to join the conversation, even saying she respected us. It moved me deeply to realize that she remembered more than a fan’s name: she remembered the context of the relationship and its small stories. To remember details like that is to see a relationship as people.

The Impression of Smooth Organization — Protecting the Afterglow

Looking back on the Seoul concert, the flow beyond the stage stays with me as much as the performance itself. The event was run calmly overall, without forcing the schedule ahead in a rush. From admission to the concert and everything afterward, one part followed another naturally, without making the audience feel hurried or pushed along. No single scene called attention to the organization, and perhaps that was precisely what allowed the feelings of the show to remain intact.

At some concerts I had attended before, the schedule moved so quickly that there was no room even to settle my emotions. Farewell sessions and signings often felt like procedures along a prescribed route, and more than once I had to pass on without finishing what I had prepared to say. Events in Japan were precisely organized, too, but the time allowed per person was so short that even exchanging a greeting could feel difficult.

This time in Seoul was clearly different. Both the farewell session and the Baby Paradise CD signing genuinely left room for words to pass, brief as the encounters were. I could begin what I wanted to say and see her response in front of me. The difference felt much greater than I had expected, because the occasion allowed a short conversation rather than simply receiving a signature and moving on.

Such differences change the ending of a concert. What we receive onstage is not hurriedly tidied away below it, but continues naturally in one current. That was why I was left more strongly with the sense that the Seoul concert had come to a good close than with the sense that it was over. The time reminded me that it is quiet details like these, rather than elaborate staging, that make us look forward to meeting again.

Time with the Japanese Fans, and toward What Comes Next

Having enough time to talk with the Japanese fans was another great gift of these days. Through conversations that continued over journeys, meals, and waits, the concert expanded from something to watch into something to make together. With Miyu as our center, we shared our lives and plans. That is why this journey remains a record of relationships as much as of attending a show.

Now I return to everyday life. I look toward my next visit to Japan and wait for spring. Preparing for parting always brings sadness, but this time I feel unusually full. In Korea, Japan, or wherever her work takes her, I hope Miyu keeps doing more and realizes the dreams she holds, one by one.

And somewhere along that road, I hope we can find ourselves in the same space again, looking in the same direction. This epilogue is a margin left for the next page, rather than an ending. With the songs onstage and the conversations beyond it layered into one memory, I quietly fold this record away. And as I wait for spring, I prepare to take to the road again.