Are Fans Allowed To Grieve?

By unpacking the deep emotional bonds fans form with artists, this thinkpiece explores how music, shared experiences, and years of devotion turn fandom into something deeply personal, and why a group’s separation can feel like a loss, a collective grief, and the enduring loyalty that outsiders often misunderstand.

Words Gerie Marie Consolacion
Art by Dwight Fiestada
May 15, 2026

On fandoms, farewells, and the feeling no one warned us about.

The past months have been heavy, especially for fans who received the news that their bias officially left the group.

But this occurrence is not new. Ever since, we have become witnesses to how fandoms cope and wept when their idols started to chase a new career direction, or when their idols decided to part ways.

With the recent news of Heeseung from ENHYPEN officially leaving the group to become a solo artist, fans shared their dismay because it was quick, unannounced, and abrupt. Like they had no time or space to prepare themselves for this news. It was like a wave that crashed into them unexpectedly.

Not long after Heeseung's announcement came Mark Lee's announcement of leaving NCT and SM Entertainment itself after being a member for 10 years. A day after Mark Lee's departure came Ten's announcement of officially leaving SM Entertainment, but he promised to still participate in NCT and WayV's future activities.

The current events opened a lot of wounds in different fandoms, especially those that did not receive any proper goodbye or closure.

From the ENHYPEN and NCT fandoms, fans from Korean groups ZEROBASEONE, RIIZE, EXO, BIGBANG, and Treasure shared sentiments with the recent events. Among these boy groups, fans of One Direction also shared their sentiments—not to invalidate or put the spotlight on themselves, but to sympathize with the mourning fandom.

But does their mourning bother us that much, and are we entitled to call them OA?

An unexpected wave

There is a particular kind of grief that the internet has never quite known what to do with. It doesn't come with a condolence card or a bereavement leave. It lives in the comment sections, in the fan edits set to somber music, in the group chats that go quiet and then explode with a hundred messages at 2 in the morning. It is the grief of a fandom.

For Rhoze Ann Abog, an Engene, the moment she read the news about Heeseung was visceral.

“It's so hard to process everything, ang hirap basahin ng buong statement. Kadalasan ay hindi ko na tinatapos basahin dahil tumutulo na ang luha ko. Maybe OA for some, pero iniiyakan ko talaga siya. Nagmi-message ako sa KPOP friends ko asking if totoo ba yung nabasa ko, we share sentiments and rants about it.”

Jazley Joy Galapate, who has been a fan of ENHYPEN and NCT for four years, remembers the shock cutting through her differently and not as noise, but as silence.

“Shocked. Because I always have this thought that they are the pillar of the group. As optimistic as it may sound, I always hope that they will be together for a long time, so receiving news that is the opposite of that was nerve-wracking.”

What both of them are describing is not irrationality. Most humanely, we can call it an attachment, the very real result of years of emotional investment.

And attachment, when severed, hurts. The science of parasocial relationships tells us that the brain processes the loss of a parasocial bond similarly to how it processes the loss of a real one. The pain is not imaginary. It is just misunderstood.

When the ‘I told you so’ weighs

Not all grief arrives as a surprise. Some of it is anticipated—which, in many ways, makes it harder.

Charles Vincent Nagaño has been a Zerose since ZEROBASEONE's debut in 2023. He watched the group come to life through Boys Planet, fell for them through Taerae's ‘Man in Love’ performance, and spent years knowing, in the back of his mind, that they had an expiration date built into their contract.

“I've been into KPop ever since I was young, so I already expected and anticipated everything with ZB1—including their continuation as a five-member group. But actually getting the news felt unbearably heavy. I wanted to tell my co-fans 'I told you so!' but the heaviness prevails. I couldn't say a word.”

Tracy Audacity, another Zerose, had processed the anticipation differently by trying to make peace with it before it happened.

“For me, I had already prepared myself for it. Since they came from a survival show, I knew from the start that there was a set duration for the group, around two and a half years, after which their future would depend on their respective agencies. Because of that, I was already expecting that their time as a group might eventually come to an end.”

And yet, when the confirmation came, the peace she had brokered with herself was not entirely enough.

“It still felt sad, of course, especially knowing that their journey as a group is now changing and that their paths would now be different. Instead of being one group, they would now be moving forward as separate acts.”

And despite how we prepare ourselves, the reality and the particular cruelty of anticipated grief still prevail. No matter how you do the work ahead of time, it still finds a way to undo you.

Losing your childhood friend

When we speak of parasocial loss, we are often dismissive of its depth. But the fans we spoke to described something far more layered than a simple celebrity crush or a fleeting obsession.

They describe growing up.

Galapate shared that, “It felt like losing someone who grew up with you, who saw different versions of you because they've become part of your youth. It felt like losing your anchor while sailing the ship.”

Antonette Aquino has been a One Direction fan for fifteen years. She was in high school when Zayn Malik left the band in 2015. She was in college when Liam Payne died in October 2024. The timelines of her life and the timelines of the band have become inseparable.

“At the time, you don't realize yet that you're becoming a part of something big. First, you just listen to their music because you love it, or you want to understand why they're so popular. Before their hiatus, they were constantly releasing albums and doing tours. As a fan, I was also at the peak of that moment, and I never thought that one day it would end.”

She speaks of Liam's death with the same weight that anyone might speak of losing someone real. Because to her, in many ways, he was.

“When Liam died, I also thought that it was some hoax that people made up online.”

And Mary Rose Maligmat, who carries the grief of both One Direction and TREASURE, articulates what Zayn's departure versus Liam's death meant to her as a fan.

“Zayn's leaving One Direction did not have much impact on me because he can return anytime. What devastated me so much was Liam Payne's death. The possibility of a reunion was almost there, until it wasn't. And it will never be. I have become one of the fans who are unlucky to have not seen 1D OT5.”

The word unlucky is telling. Maligmat is not describing herself as embarrassed or excessive. She is describing herself as someone who missed something real—like a moment, a performance, a night in a stadium that she will never get back.

Why do we cry over someone who doesn’t even know we exist?

Here is where the public conversation tends to go wrong.

For every fan sharing grief online, there is someone in the comments ready to remind them that they don't really know these people. That it's parasocial. That they should get a grip. The Filipino internet has its own vocabulary for this dismissal: OA, iyak nang iyak, hindi ka naman kilala nun.

In which Abog shared her thoughts about it directly, “They feel na ang OA ng mga KPOP fans na umiiyak because of one group na may umalis na member, nag-disband, or any unfortunate things sa KPOP. They always think na 'hindi ka naman kilala n'yan,' 'bakit mo iniiyakan 'yan?' pero hindi nila alam that you have a deep connection with that person or group.”

Galapate echoes the sentiment, and extends it with empathy—even for the dismissers.

“Outsiders often perceive our reactions as 'overreacting' because they aren't in our shoes. They haven't experienced the way these individuals have impacted our lives—sometimes even ‘saving’ us during difficult times. I believe deep emotional attachment is the main factor; non-fans can't truly grasp the sense of loss that comes with seeing a group no longer ‘complete.’ Because they haven't experienced the unique bond within the fandom, they can't understand our perspective, though I wouldn't wish that kind of heartbreak on them.”

And Maligmat, perhaps most generously, offers the most sociological reading of the dismissal.

“Maybe that's because they are outside looking within a massive parasocial relationship that they cannot grasp. Perhaps they are unaware that these artists could've brought the fans comfort and given them a reason to carry on during a dark time.”

The music industry has always sold us the idea of the idol as an escape. What it doesn't always acknowledge is how real that escape becomes. How the songs begin to mark your years, how the concert becomes a rite of passage, how the fandom becomes a community that holds you when nothing else does.

Aquino’s words land with particular weight: “I think what happens to fandoms can be seen as 'stupid' or 'OA' to non-fans because it's less personal for them and easier to dismiss. They don't have the shared experiences to make them feel the same way that fans do, and that's totally okay. We all make choices, and being a fan is one of mine.”

Being a fan is a choice, and it is one made with the full understanding that this is what it will cost you.

The fandom as refuge

One thing that keeps appearing across every story we gathered is this: the fandom itself becomes the lifeboat.

When the news breaks—when the statement drops at midnight, when the company posts the letter—fans do not process alone. They find each other.

Tin, who stanned both EXO and BIGBANG, remembers the particular comfort of X (formerly known as Twitter) in the aftermath of Tao's departure.

“While I was scrolling on Twitter that time, it felt nice to have people who had the same thoughts and feelings about the situation.”

Charles describes his group of Zerose friends as an almost speechless gathering. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. And when it is too much, you’re out of words—feelings like that are extremely valid and understood.

“My fellow fan friends have always talked about this day. But when it finally happened, we couldn't say a word. Not literally, as we were all over X/Twitter cursing YueHua and WakeOne. Basically, we were just looking for someone to blame.”

The blaming is part of it, too. The anger is part of it. Abog describes going on Twitter to join online protests. Maligmat describes making fan edits with sullen music. Tracy describes chikahan on forums.

These are not the actions of people who are detached from reality. These are the actions of people building ritual out of loss, the same thing humans have always done.

Charles, however, is honest about the fandom's limits for him personally.

“For me, not really. The fandom reminds me of everything I went through with the group so it felt a little more difficult to cope. It's just me, though. I never really liked getting comforted. But for some, it might have helped a lot.”

This, too, is a kind of community—one that makes room even for those who need to grieve alone and quietly.

What closure looks like (and doesn't)

The question of closure is perhaps the most revealing. When we ask fans what it would look like, we are really asking: what would make this feel finished?

The answers tell how different they are.

Galapate measured, “For me, closure simply means seeing them healthy, happy, and thriving in their own ways. That's enough for me.”

Aquino is specific and a little heartbroken, “One last reunion tour!!!”

Tracy's is already behind her, “Kapag nag-proper goodbye sila as a group sa last concert nila. Which they did!”

Tin's is somewhere between impossible and everything, “GROUP REUNION. Seems impossible but it would be everything.”

Charles requested, “A final, goodbye album maybe.”

And Maligmat is the most quietly devastating. “Honestly, just the assurance that the members are in good terms after the band is enough already. But I guess things are meant to end this way for a reason.”

She calls what she is doing “waiting indefinitely.”

It is the most honest description of fan grief that we have encountered—the truth that for some losses, closure is not a destination but a practice. Something you do a little of every day, between the rewatching and the Spotify replays and the moments you catch yourself thinking of them mid-afternoon, for no reason at all.

Rhoze's closure came not from a concert or a statement from the company, but from the idol himself.

“A statement from the artists itself. It really helped me to process and accept what happened since I really respect his decision.”

This is what gets lost in the discourse about OA fans: the profound respect most of them carry for the very people they are mourning. They are not grieving entitlement. They are grieving love—and choosing, over and over, to continue giving it.

Those were the beautiful years of their life. In the end, what every fan we spoke to returns to is not the loss itself, but what preceded it.

For Tin, stanning EXO and BIGBANG are the beautiful 5–6 years of her life. For Tracy, being a Zerose is “fun all throughout the years!”

For Galapate, her fangirl years are “a beautiful, chaotic roller coaster ride.”

For Aquino, “It's like riding a rollercoaster; it's all sorts of emotions, but you still sign up for it,” along with Maligmat’s “Waiting indefinitely.”

And Nagaño described it as, “It felt like finishing a book you already know the ending to.”

There is something important in all of these endings. None of them say it wasn't worth it. None of them say they would undo it. Even the grief, perhaps especially the grief, is evidence of something that mattered.

Abog, who has cried over statements she could not finish reading, who has unfollowed accounts for days just to survive the algorithm, who has leaned on her friends and her faith to get through it, still says this:

“Without them, I would not be this much happier and excited to experience new culture and journey.”

And Maligmat, who grieves for a version of One Direction she never got to see complete, who holds the ache of Liam's death and the ache of never getting that reunion tour, who knows she is “waiting indefinitely,” shared that “Music is truly boundless, and it still fascinates me to this day how diverse communities, social symbols, and shared meanings are birthed around the pop idol industry.”

So are we entitled to call them OA?

No. We really aren't.

Because what fandoms do—this weeping, this rallying, this making of art out of absence, is not excessive.

It is, in fact, one of the most ancient things humans know how to do. We have always gathered around shared stories and shared figures and made them mean something. We have always felt the loss when those figures leave. We have always found each other in the aftermath.

The idols change. The platforms change. But the grief, and the love underneath it, has always been exactly this size. And that is not something anyone should have to apologize for.