Calvin Lee
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Eric - A Mistake
🕑 Added 2025-08-19 12:00:15 +0000 UTCEric never imagined his life would turn upside down in such a short time. Just a few months ago, he was a star at the peak of his popularity—an idol adored by millions of fans, his face plastered on billboards and magazines, his body toned and sculpted to perfection. Every stage he stepped on was met with hysterical cheers, every smile made fans' hearts race. He was the epitome of the perfect man.
But today, all of that felt like a distant memory. Eric lay on a narrow dorm bed, staring at the cold, plain ceiling. The dim light from the corner of the room illuminated his perfectly rounded belly—a sign of the new life growing inside him, a reality he still struggled to accept even as the days passed.
It all began at the end of last year, on a night that should have been the pinnacle of his happiness. They had just returned from a prestigious awards show. On stage, the spotlight had illuminated his face as he accepted the trophy for Best Artist of the Year. Applause thundered, cameras captured every smile, and fans screamed his name, their voices filling the venue. It felt like a dream come true.
After the event, all the members decided to celebrate their victory at the dorm. There was no grand party with outsiders—just them, a few bottles of drinks, and soft music playing from a small speaker. The living room was filled with warmth. Their laughter erupted whenever someone cracked a joke, and amidst it all, Juyeon’s gaze kept finding Eric.
Eric still remembered that gaze—warm, intense, as if there was something unspoken behind it. Juyeon sat across from him on the sofa, one hand holding a glass, the other propping up his chin as he stared at Eric. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe there really was something between them they had been ignoring all this time.
The hours ticked by, and one by one, the members retreated to their rooms. Eventually, only Eric and Juyeon remained in the living room. The music shifted to something slower, the lights dimmed to a soft glow.
They talked about many things—how difficult the year had been, the pressure from the agency, the exhaustion that never truly faded. And somehow, the distance between them shrank. Their shoulders touched. Juyeon looked at him more closely, and Eric could feel his warm breath.
"Congratulations on today," Juyeon murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Eric smiled faintly. "We all made it happen."
"But you… you shone the brightest on that stage." There was sincerity in his voice, and Eric felt it pierce through his defenses.
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fatigue that made him let his guard down—but that night, the boundary between them disappeared. The first touch happened so naturally, soft yet filled with unspoken longing. Their kiss was brief but electrifying, followed by a look that said they both knew this shouldn’t have happened… but also couldn’t stop.
The rest of the night was a blur. Only fragments of memory remained—soft laughter between whispers, hands gripping tightly, and warmth filling the small room. Eric had thought this would just be a secret buried with that night. A hazy memory that would fade with time.
But he was wrong.
A few weeks after that night, Eric began noticing strange changes in his body. At first, he thought he was just exhausted. His packed schedule of practice and filming made nausea and dizziness normal. But the nausea always came in the mornings, accompanied by a heavy feeling, as if all his energy had been drained. Even standing in front of the mirror to apply makeup before a broadcast felt like an exhausting task.
Small changes became more noticeable—his appetite shifted, certain food smells made his stomach churn, and his emotions became uncontrollable. He tried to deny it, pushing away the possibility slowly forming in his mind. But as the days passed, it became harder to ignore.
One night, when all the members were asleep, Eric sat in the bathroom with a test in his hand. Time seemed to slow. The ticking of the clock outside the door was painfully loud. His breath was heavy, his fingers trembling as he waited for the result.
And when those two red lines appeared… Eric’s world collapsed.
His breath hitched, his chest tightened, and his vision blurred with sudden tears. He dropped the test on the floor, his back pressing against the cold bathroom wall. His emotions were a mess—panic, fear, anger, even disgust at himself.
His first thought was clear: I have to end this. He was young, at the peak of his career, and even the smallest scandal could ruin his image. So what about a scandal like this? The world would laugh at him, despise him, and the entertainment industry would never accept a male idol who… was pregnant.
But reality wasn’t that simple. Eric was a public figure. Every step he took was watched, every smile analyzed, every move potentially headline news. The thought of paparazzi cameras lurking around corners terrified him. Going to a clinic without the media catching wind was nearly impossible.
The dorm became his only fortress. Here, he hid, shutting himself off from the outside world, telling the agency he needed rest due to a minor injury.
Days passed like a thick fog obscuring his vision. His body slowly changed, and every time he stood in front of the mirror, he felt like he was looking at a stranger. His once-flat, hard stomach—the result of years of training—now protruded. His cheeks and eyes looked softer, as if something was erasing the sharpness of the idol he once knew.
He hated the changes… but amidst the hatred, shame, and fear, something else emerged—something he didn’t understand. A protective instinct. Curiosity. And, though he was reluctant to admit it, affection that grew every time he placed a hand on his belly, feeling the heartbeat of a life he had never imagined before.
Eric knew his life would never be the same. But he wasn’t ready to decide whether this was a curse… or an unexpected blessing.
Meanwhile, his relationship with Juyeon had changed since the news came out between them. The night Eric told him, Juyeon’s expression had shattered—shocked, afraid, at a loss for words. Since then, their communication had dwindled. Not out of hatred, but because there was too much left unsaid, as if words would only add to the weight they already carried.
Sometimes, Juyeon sent short messages: "Are you okay?" or "Need anything?" Simple words, but every time Eric read them, his chest tightened. He often stared at his phone for a long time before finally putting it down without replying. He didn’t know if he was angry at Juyeon for letting him bear this alone, or angry at himself for letting that night happen.
Outside the cold walls of the dorm, the world kept turning. Their group still performed on stage with bright smiles, singing songs they had practiced together. Fans still screamed their names, cameras still captured sweet moments to share. Everything moved on as usual, as if nothing was missing.
Only Eric had disappeared from the spotlight. The agency announced he was taking a break due to "health issues." Fans reacted with thousands of supportive messages, the media spun various theories, but none came close to the truth.
Nights were the hardest. When the other members were asleep, Eric lay awake on his narrow bed, staring at the empty ceiling. He would turn to his side, watching his belly move slightly—sometimes just a little, sometimes enough to startle him.
Every movement reminded him: there was life inside him. A life that was part of him… and part of Juyeon.
Questions haunted him endlessly. Will I regret keeping this baby one day? Or… will I be grateful I dared to fight my fear?
The world of idols was a stage of illusions—perfection. Eric had always been one of those illusions—handsome, talented, strong. But behind the glamour, he was just human. Fragile. Full of mistakes. And soon… he would be a father.
***
Eric spent his days alone in the dorm. The usual sound of footsteps was rare now; his groupmates were buried in their own schedules—broadcasts, recordings, photoshoots, solo projects. Sometimes, from behind his door, he heard the front door open and close, or brief laughter echoing down the hallway before fading away. But rarely did anyone stop to knock, let alone sit and talk with him.
The silence was comforting at first, but over time, it became a cold blanket pressing on his chest.
Now, he estimated he was in his ninth month—at least, that’s what it felt like. There was no certainty, just vague calculations based on the changes in his body. Eric had never known exactly when it all began. By the time he realized it, his belly was already slightly rounded—enough to make his blood run cold, his breath catch, and his mind flood with panic. The bitter realization came with the understanding that he had passed the early months without even knowing what was happening to his body.
Without doctor visits, without ultrasounds, he lived in a space full of questions. No midwife, no medical professional to explain. No records to refer to. All he had were guesses, shadowed by uncertainty. No definite date to anticipate. No calendar on the wall with a red circle marking when he should prepare. Every morning, he woke with dread—wondering if today would be the day, or if he still had time.
Instinct was his only compass. And that instinct, growing louder each day, whispered: the time is near. The baby inside him moved more frequently, as if signaling. Sometimes, late at night when the world outside the dorm was silent, a sudden kick would jolt him awake, instantly banishing any remnants of sleep.
His belly was no longer just rounded—it was full, tight, as if his skin had stretched to its thinnest limit. Every small movement from within felt like a push testing that fragile layer, making him increasingly aware of the weight he carried. The heaviness was constant, pressing from all directions, as if the baby had filled every available space. Even his ribs sometimes ached, while the surrounding muscles tensed, forcing his body to adapt to a shape that wasn’t his own.
The oversized clothes that had once been his shield could no longer hide the truth. The loose fabric still stretched at the front, forming a distinct round bulge that seemed to push outward, casting a firm shadow under the dim room light. The folds of fabric that once draped freely now stopped at the curve, as if surrendering to the pressure from within.
Every time he stood in front of the mirror, his eyes immediately fixed on that silhouette—a clear arc cutting through his reflection like an indelible mark. He tried to look away, but his gaze always returned, as if the mirror was calling him to face reality.
He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, loud and erratic. His fingers unconsciously gripped the hem of his shirt, trying to stretch it, but the fabric remained taut, still outlining the same curve. And in the silence of the room, he felt as if the walls were staring at him—judging, waiting for him to surrender to the truth he could no longer hide.
***
That morning, sunlight slipped through the narrow gap in the curtains, falling directly on Eric’s face, making him squint. Too bright, too alive for a morning that already felt heavy. He lay on the bed, his body slightly curled, as if trying to protect his belly. His knees were drawn up, almost touching the large swell in front of him. The round shape protruded clearly beneath his thin, sweat-dampened shirt, the fabric stretched tight at the center, marking curves and lines that couldn’t be disguised. Beneath it, his skin felt hot and taut, stretched to the point where faint veins were now visible on the surface.
Every slight movement—shifting his legs, adjusting his hips, even just stretching—made the bulge shift slowly, as if following gravity’s pull. The movement wasn’t just his; there was life inside responding, pushing from within, sometimes with gentle pressure, sometimes with sharp jolts that made him groan softly.
The weight settled low in his belly, like a dense mass pulling toward his pelvis. The constant pressure made every position feel wrong—leaning left pressed too much on his side, leaning right made him feel suffocated, and lying flat made him feel crushed from within. He could only shift little by little, searching for an angle where the discomfort eased, even if just for a few breaths.
Since yesterday evening, the discomfort had started—at first just mild cramps that came and went, like the usual aches he could ignore. But this morning, the waves were different. Each time they hit, his belly hardened like stone, protruding tighter, his muscles tensing on their own, as if strings were being pulled from inside. His breath caught unconsciously, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the sensation to fade.
Sometimes the pain lasted only seconds, but it was enough to freeze him mid-movement. A pulse radiated from his core to his lower back, warm and piercing, as if his body was preparing for something inevitable. And between the waves, he could only lie there, listening to his own heartbeat, faster than usual.
The dorm was eerily quiet. No footsteps, no doors opening or closing, no laughter from his groupmates. They were all still in Japan for promotions, leaving him alone. The loneliness made the ticking of the clock louder, every breath echoing in the room.
Juyeon… The name surfaced in his mind. Lately, the man had vanished without a word. No messages, no calls. Eric didn’t know if Juyeon was busy or deliberately keeping his distance. But he wasn’t here. And that realization made Eric’s chest tighten.
Meanwhile, the discomfort that had started as mild cramps yesterday had deepened into waves of pain, pressing from his core. Each time they came, it felt like something was being pulled from within, pushing downward. The pressure was heavy, thick, and increasingly low, filling his pelvis until he could barely stay still.
Eric’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly as he gasped for air between the pulses of pain. Slowly, he slid a hand lower, pressing against the lower part of his belly, which felt hard and hot beneath his thin shirt. His skin was stretched, taut, as if there was no more room left inside.
And there it was—a firm, round bulge, hidden beneath the thin layer of skin. The touch made his heart race. He didn’t need a mirror or a doctor to know what was happening. The baby’s head had dropped, locked in place, ready to break into the world.
There was nothing Eric could do now but wait for his body to decide when the final contractions would come. He didn’t know if it would be later today, tonight, or even tomorrow—only the uncertainty, making time crawl painfully.
He remained on his narrow bed, his back propped against a pile of soft pillows that barely supported his weight. The position wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it was enough to endure the waves of pain that came and went. The air in the room felt warm, yet a thin layer of sweat coated his temples, sticking his hair to his skin.
His eyes shut tightly, as if closing them could dull the sensations wracking his body. Each time the pain surged, his breathing grew heavy, escaping through his mouth in long, forced exhales. His chest rose and fell slowly, trying to follow a calming rhythm.
His right hand moved gently over his belly—the taut, rounded surface warm under his palm. Sometimes he rubbed slow circles, trying to soothe the pulsing ache. Other times, his fingers simply rested on one spot, pressing lightly as if the touch could ease the pressure building inside.
***
By midday, the pain that had been bothering him since morning sharpened into intense, frequent contractions. Each wave stole his breath, his chest heaving as he struggled for air. It felt as if his body was being pulled apart from within, the muscles in his belly and back tightening beyond his control.
He decided to sit on the edge of the bed, hoping the position would relieve some of the pressure bearing down on his pelvis. His movements were slow—first shifting his hips toward the edge, his knees bent, his feet searching for footing on the cold floor. His thin shirt rode up slightly from the motion, revealing a sliver of his sweat-slicked skin.
Carefully, he pushed himself forward. His large belly immediately changed shape—the right side protruding first, then shifting as his center of gravity moved. From the side, his belly looked like a full moon precariously balanced on his weary frame, the skin stretched until faint marks became visible on the surface.
He lowered himself into a full sitting position. As his spine straightened, the bulge at the lower part of his belly became more pronounced—a round shape sitting lower than before, a sign the baby had dropped. The skin there looked tighter, almost glossy under the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Eric exhaled deeply, then leaned back slightly, bracing himself with his left hand on the bed. As he arched his back, his belly shifted again—the upper part slightly deflated, while the lower part hardened, jutting out like a drawn bow. The movement increased the pressure in his pelvis, forcing him to close his eyes briefly.
His right hand moved, sweeping gently from the top of his belly downward. His fingers paused at a particularly tight spot, then circled slowly, as if trying to calm the turmoil inside. Each stroke made his belly shift slightly, the stretched skin following the motion of his hand.
Sweat began beading at his temples, dripping down his neck, dampening the collar of his shirt. His breathing was audible from feet away—long, heavy, occasionally trembling. Sometimes his eyes squeezed shut, fighting the urge to curl up and hide from the reality before him.
Between contractions, he looked down, watching his belly rise and fall with his breath. The baby inside stayed still for a moment, then delivered a small kick that jolted Eric slightly backward. "We’ll get through this… slowly," he whispered, though the words were as much for himself as for the child.
He kept fighting, letting his hand work tirelessly over his belly—rubbing, pressing lightly, or simply holding his palm in place when the pain struck. The taut surface moved faintly under his touch, responding to the baby’s movements inside. Each time a small bulge shifted to one side, he regulated his breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, trying to summon some calm amidst the relentless waves of pain.
Hours passed, and he remained in the same position—sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand bracing his body, the other busy on his belly. His back ached, his thighs stiffened, but the pain in his belly was the center of everything. What had started as occasional cramps now came closer together, hitting harder and deeper with each wave.
Sometimes he clenched his eyes shut, his jaw tightening, holding back sounds threatening to escape. The muscles around his belly tensed like pulled wires, and he could feel the baby moving lower, pressing unbearably into his pelvis. His breathing grew shorter, more ragged, as if just enough to survive one contraction before the next arrived.
He let his belly move on its own with each contraction—his chest and back slightly leaning forward, as if his body knew how to follow the rhythm of the pain. Each exhale brought a fleeting relief, but only for a moment before the next wave crashed harder than the last.
By afternoon, the sunlight through the curtains felt too hot on his skin. Eric still sat on the edge of the bed, his body slightly hunched, letting the contractions hit him without resistance. Not because he had given up, but because he knew gentle touches wouldn’t ease the pain now rooted deep in his muscles.
Both hands braced behind him, palms pressing hard into the mattress to keep himself from collapsing when the pain surged. His shoulders were tense, his neck stiff, his breathing growing uneven. His large belly hung in front of him like an impossible weight—the skin glossy, stretched, each contraction making the surface ripple uncontrollably, following the baby’s movements inside.
Every time the pain came, his lower belly hardened so intensely that the ache radiated to his back and thighs. Eric bit his lip hard, stifling the sounds rising in his throat. His breath caught in his chest, then escaped in heavy exhales, like air forced through a narrow gap.
By evening, the pain no longer came in spaced waves—the contractions were now like a storm, battering Eric’s body without giving him enough time to catch his breath. He had spent the entire day in bed, trying different positions: lying on his side hugging a pillow, sitting on the edge bracing himself with his hands, and finally squatting while cradling his large belly. But none brought real relief.
His waist and lower back felt relentlessly pummeled, each contraction sending pain shooting up his spine. His legs grew numb from sitting too long, bearing the weight of his body, which now felt twice as heavy. Occasionally, he shifted—from lying to sitting, or sitting to squatting—but each movement only triggered new pain, stealing his breath and sending cold sweat trickling down his temples.
His belly was now hard almost constantly, taut like a solid ball refusing to loosen. Whenever he looked down, the large bulge trembled faintly, moving in sync with the baby’s pushes inside. The skin stretched until it shone, faint marks becoming clearer under the dim evening light.
The next wave hit harder than before, stabbing from his pelvis to his spine. Eric swayed slightly where he sat, his breath coming in short gasps. But this time, something was different—a new pressure, impossible to ignore. A strong urge from within, pushing downward, like a harsh warning that his body was preparing for the next stage. It felt like needing to relieve himself, but far more intense, urgent, and impossible to suppress.
With a heavy breath, he pushed himself off the bed. His movements were slow, stiff, as if carrying twice his weight. One hand groped the wall for support, while the other cradled his belly, as if trying to control something thrashing inside.
His steps were heavy, each movement making his belly feel like it was being pulled down. He tried walking to the bathroom, convinced he just needed to empty himself to ease the pressure. But just as he reached the doorway, a distinct sound came—a pop, like a water bag bursting, from inside his belly.
His body reflexively hunched slightly, startled. A warm gush suddenly flowed between his legs, soaking his clothes. His breath caught, not just from shock, but because another contraction followed immediately—faster, deeper, and far more painful than before.
There were no more long pauses between waves—now, as one faded, the next arrived. His belly hardened like stone, the skin stretched so tight the pain shot through his entire back. Eric pressed a hand to his lower belly, almost as if trying to hold something in before it was time.
His legs shook, his breath came in gasps, and his eyes squeezed shut as he fought the urge to scream. But he knew… something had changed. His water had broken. And now, every second brought him closer to the moment he couldn’t stop.
***
The broken waters left a warm puddle on the floor, seeping through his thin pants. The pain no longer came in waves—his body now felt like it was being forced open. The urge grew stronger, deeper, and Eric knew he was on the brink. He could feel immense pressure below, something hard, round, pushing insistently toward the exit. The baby’s head. He was sure it was right at the threshold.
Trembling, he grabbed a blanket draped over a nearby chair. Whose it was, he didn’t care—he just needed something to hold onto. His sweaty fingers slipped as he tried looping the fabric over the door hinge. It took two tries, his hands shaking violently, but finally, a makeshift knot held, strong enough to bear his weight.
His breathing grew shorter, more ragged, like someone who had just finished running. His chest heaved, his thin shirt clinging to his damp skin, sweat still dripping from his temples to his neck. His vision blurred momentarily, but he forced himself to focus on one thing: enduring. He knew he couldn’t do this lying down now—he couldn’t even walk back to the bed.
His large belly hung forward, pulling his entire body toward the floor like an unrelenting weight. The pressure made his lower back throb, pain stabbing every time he shifted slightly. Gasping, he lowered himself slowly, letting his knees touch the cold floor. The hard surface sent a chill up his legs, but he endured, knowing this position might give him some room to breathe.
His hands gripped the hanging blanket, his only support as he leaned forward slightly. His belly jutted low, the skin stretched so tight it almost gleamed under the room’s light. Faint stretch marks became clearer, like fine cracks on a surface strained beyond its limits.
Every time the baby moved, his entire belly quivered, shifting to one side before settling back. He could feel the hard bulge descending further, pressing into his pelvis, making his lower body pulse with heat. The pressure was real, constant, as if the baby’s head was carving its own path.
He gritted his teeth, stifling the sounds threatening to escape. His fingers clenched the blanket, knuckles whitening from the strain. The pain came in waves, giving him no real chance to catch his breath. Each contraction made his body instinctively push, though he didn’t truly know if it was time yet.
Throughout his pregnancy, Eric had secretly read articles, watched videos, absorbing whatever information he could about childbirth. In his mind, he remembered how midwives and mothers in videos often chose squatting or standing positions to give birth. They said gravity helped, easing the passage, speeding up the process. And now, with his body pushed to its limit, he knew it was the only logical choice.
Eric gripped the blanket tighter, his fingers turning white from the strain of holding his weight. Each contraction came like a storm—rising quickly, crashing, then slowly fading, only to return with greater force. Every time the urge hit, his body bore down instinctively, as if every muscle in his belly and pelvis worked in unison to push something out.
Eric clenched his jaw, his entire body tense from head to toe. He could feel the overwhelming pressure—the baby’s round, hard head pressing relentlessly, slowly forcing its way out. A burning sensation spread fiercely around the opening now stretched to its limit, hot, throbbing, as if his skin could no longer hold. Tears streamed down his face unnoticed, mixing with the sweat dripping from his chin.
For a moment, he was sure the time had come. The head was so close, so real, he could almost imagine touching it. Every muscle in his body tightened as he pushed with all his strength, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his throat dry. The pain was so intense, it felt like his body was being torn apart from within.
But as his strength waned, when the contraction faded and his body slumped, the small miracle vanished. The pressure that had peaked suddenly retreated. The baby’s head, so close to emerging, slid back inside, disappearing from the edge. An abrupt emptiness washed over him, as if he had fallen from a great height.
"Ah… no…" he groaned hoarsely, his voice rough from stifled screams. He shook his head, his breath catching in his chest. It felt like his body was betraying him, toying with his hope. Every time he thought he was close, every time the pain peaked, reality slapped him hard—all for nothing, back to square one.
For over an hour, he was trapped in the same cycle—the overwhelming urge, the searing pain, then the failure as the baby’s head slipped back. Despair gnawed at his mind while his body was forced to keep working without rest. Sweat drenched him, dripping from his temples, down his neck, forming damp patches on the wooden floor. His skin was sticky, his breath ragged, and every inhale made his chest burn.
His hands still gripped the blanket hanging from the door, his fingers white from bearing his weight. Occasionally, his grip weakened, nearly slipping, but the next contraction forced him to clench tight again. His knees, braced against the floor, grew numb, alternating with sharp pains shooting to the bone. His lower back throbbed, as if being struck from inside and out.
Below, his large belly moved uncontrollably, each contraction making his skin tighten like a drum struck hard. The hard bulge in the birth canal kept trying to break through, offering cruel hope each time it felt closer. Eric could feel the stretching around his opening growing extreme, hot, like fire licking his flesh. And every time he pushed with all his might until his face reddened, the head almost emerged—only to vanish again once his strength failed.
Tears welled, mixing with sweat that blurred his vision. He didn’t know how many times he had tried, how many times he had endured the same pain. His lip was bitten so hard it bled, stifling the screams clawing at his throat.
"I… can’t…" his voice cracked, barely audible. His shoulders trembled, his body shaking violently under the physical and mental strain. It felt like being trapped in a loop with no way out.
Yet, beneath all the pain and exhaustion, the primal urge never stopped. His body kept forcing him to push, contraction after contraction, relentless. As if nature gave no choice but to keep fighting, even when his strength was nearly gone.
And in moments like this, in the midst of his trembling body and the relentless pain, only one name surfaced in his mind—Juyeon. Every time he nearly collapsed, every time his head drooped from exhaustion, he wished the door would open and Juyeon would walk in, to see with his own eyes just how fragile he had become.
The tears that had started from the pain alone now mingled with the shattering ache in his heart. That night—the night when it all began—kept replaying in his mind. A night filled with rushed decisions, with unrestrained desire, which had now led to this long suffering he was forced to endure alone.
“Juyeon… you should be here…” he whispered weakly, his voice almost choked by the sobs he tried to hold back. His trembling hand pressed against his belly—hard, heavy, and moving wildly—as if trying to show someone the undeniable consequence of it all. The tearing pain that consumed his body, the broken water, and the baby’s head pressing downward—these were consequences he could never escape.
He did not hate his baby, never. But the wound in his heart gaped wide, because the one who should have been by his side had instead walked away, as if unwilling to acknowledge any of it. And in the middle of all this agony, only one hope remained: that Juyeon would come to his senses. That Juyeon would return, see him in his most vulnerable state, and understand that all of this was real.
