Chapter Text
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The dorm felt wrong. Too still. Too hollow.
Even though the sunlight spilled through the living room curtains like it always did, it couldn’t reach them, not really. The air was thick, almost suffocating, as if it carried the weight of all the words they never said to him.
Jay sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. He hadn’t spoken since the hospital. His phone lay on the floor beside him, Sunoo’s contact still open in his messages. The last text Sunoo had sent, a soft “goodnight ♡” stared back at him, and Jay’s chest felt like it was caving in.
Jungwon had taken Sunoo’s favorite mug out of the cabinet that morning without thinking. It was the mint green one, the one Sunoo always used for tea on slow afternoons. He set it on the counter, stared at it for a long moment, then quietly put it back without a word. The sound of ceramic against ceramic felt too loud in the silence.
Jake sat on the floor in Sunoo’s room, his back against the bed frame, staring at the empty sheets. The bed was still made the way Sunoo liked it, pillows neatly stacked, blanket folded just right. Jake’s eyes kept tracing over the small details: the lip balm on the nightstand, the neatly arranged skincare bottles, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the air. It was unbearable. He felt like if he moved, he’d disturb something sacred.
Heeseung avoided the room entirely. He lingered in the hallway, pacing, then stopping, then pacing again. He had been the last to see Sunoo alive. The last to try and speak to him. And he had walked away. The thought wouldn’t leave him, it drilled into his mind until his throat ached from holding back the sobs.
Ni-ki had Sunoo’s hoodie draped over his lap, fingers curled into the soft fabric. It was oversized, warm, and still smelled like him. He didn’t let go of it all day, pulling it close when his chest tightened, like if he held on hard enough, maybe Sunoo wouldn’t feel so far away.
They all ended up in the living room together that night. No one spoke. The clock ticked, the city hummed outside, but inside, it was just them and the space Sunoo had left behind.
And it was devastating.
Because now, every laugh felt quieter. Every dinner felt emptier. Every step through the dorm was a reminder that there was one pair of footsteps they would never hear again.
They didn’t just lose Sunoo.
They lost the warmth he carried with him, the way he lit up even the dullest days, the way he made them feel seen without trying.
And the worst part, the part that kept them awake at night, was knowing they could have saved him if they had only tried harder.
But now, all they could do was sit in the crushing silence, and hope that, wherever he was, he finally felt the love they failed to give him.
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Ni-ki
Ni-ki hadn’t slept since that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, the image replayed, the way Sunoo’s body felt in his arms, limp and cold, the panic in the members’ voices, the sirens.
He would jolt awake, heart pounding, but then remember… there was no waking up from this. He sat on the floor in Sunoo’s room, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie still clutched in his hands. It had been days, but he hadn’t washed it. Couldn’t. The faint scent of Sunoo’s shampoo lingered in the fabric, and Ni-ki pressed his face into it like it was the only lifeline he had left.
He hated the quiet. Sunoo’s room used to be filled with soft music or little hums as he folded laundry. Now, it was just… still. Empty. Even the air felt wrong, like it knew he wasn’t coming back. Ni-ki’s eyes kept going to the little trinkets on the shelves, the small figurines Sunoo had collected, the photo booth strips of them making ridiculous faces, the Polaroid from their first tour where Sunoo had been grinning so wide, Ni-ki remembered thinking this is what happiness looks like.
And now it was all frozen in time.
Ni-ki didn’t cry loudly. He didn’t break down in the way movies showed grief, there was no screaming, no punching walls. Just a quiet ache that sat in his chest and wouldn’t leave. A slow, unbearable weight that made breathing feel like work. He kept replaying small moments in his head. The way Sunoo would scold him for leaving shoes in the hallway, but then secretly put them away for him anyway. The way he would always slide Ni-ki the last piece of fried chicken without saying a word. The way he laughed loud, unrestrained, and full of life.
Ni-ki’s throat burned. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the hoodie. “I should have been there more… I should have noticed…”
The silence swallowed his words whole.
That night, Ni-ki curled up on Sunoo’s bed, hoodie still in his arms. He pulled the blanket over himself, pretending just for a moment that if he stayed there long enough, Sunoo would walk in, roll his eyes, and tell him to get out.
But the door never opened.
And Ni-ki realized he could live a hundred years and never get used to that.
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Jungwon
Jungwon had always been told that being a leader meant holding the team together, making sure no one fell too far, no one was left behind.
But now, sitting on the floor of his room with the dorm eerily silent, all he could think was, I failed him.
He hadn’t been able to eat properly in days. Every time he picked up his chopsticks, the memory came rushing back. Sunoo sitting at the dining table, pretending to eat while pushing food around his plate, a faint smile masking something deeper. Jungwon had noticed. Of course he had noticed. But he thought, He’ll tell me if something’s wrong.
Sunoo never did. And Jungwon never asked enough.
His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through their chat history, back to the earliest messages, stupid jokes, endless hearts and emojis, little reminders from Sunoo to drink water or rest between practices. Then, as the weeks went on, there were more unread messages from Sunoo, short and vague: I’m fine. Don’t worry.
Jungwon had believed him.
Now the words felt like knives.
He walked into Sunoo’s empty room, footsteps hesitant, like stepping into sacred ground. His eyes landed on the bed perfectly made, as if waiting for someone to come home. On the desk, a notebook lay open, the handwriting neat and round, a to-do list half-checked off. It was such a painfully ordinary sight, yet it crushed him. His knees gave out, and he sat on the floor, staring at the space where Sunoo used to sit during late-night talks. The nights they’d spend whispering about dreams and fears until they both fell asleep mid-sentence.
Jungwon’s voice cracked. “You trusted me… and I didn’t protect you.” The weight of leadership had never felt heavier. This wasn’t a missed rehearsal, or a minor injury, or a misunderstanding between members. This was irreversible. Permanent. The dorm still smelled faintly of Sunoo’s perfume, sweet and light. Jungwon closed his eyes, trying to hold onto it before time took even that away.
He didn’t know how to lead without Sunoo’s quiet strength balancing him. Didn’t know how to laugh without Sunoo’s teasing making it real. Didn’t know how to be okay when one of them was gone forever.
That night, he sat in the living room long after the others had gone to bed, staring at the empty couch where Sunoo used to curl up with a blanket. His chest ached with the unbearable truth.
He could keep the group moving forward. He could make sure they smiled for the cameras. But he could never fill the space Sunoo left behind.
And that was the part that hurt the most.
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Sunghoon
Sunghoon had always been good at hiding his emotions. On stage, in interviews, in front of cameras, he could plaster on a smile and pretend everything was fine. But this… this was different.
Sunoo wasn’t someone you could just pretend was still here.
The dorm felt wrong without him. Every room felt colder, like someone had stolen the lightbulbs out of his world. Sunghoon found himself avoiding Sunoo’s door completely, afraid that if he stepped inside, the reality would crush him. But even staying away didn’t help his mind filled in the silence with Sunoo’s voice, his laugh, the faint sound of him humming while scrolling through his phone.
It was worse at night.
They used to share late-night conversations when both couldn’t sleep sometimes about deep things, sometimes about nothing at all. Now, Sunghoon stared at his phone in the dark, thumb hovering over Sunoo’s contact. He’d scroll through their selfies, videos of them teasing each other during practice, clips Sunoo sent just to make him laugh. The last video was only a week before…
Sunoo grinning into the camera, hair messy, saying, “Don’t look so serious, Hoon. Smile once in a while, okay?”
Sunghoon dropped the phone on his bed and buried his face in his hands. Guilt clung to him like frostbite. He’d noticed Sunoo pulling away lately, but he thought maybe it was stress, exhaustion. He didn’t push. He thought he was giving him space. Now all he could think was, If I had said something, if I had just stayed with him that night…
The day after the funeral, Sunghoon finally stepped into Sunoo’s room.
The air was heavy with his scent, sweet but faint, fading already. Sunghoon’s eyes roamed over the desk, the neat rows of skincare products, the little collection of trinkets Sunoo loved. Everything was so perfectly arranged, so untouched, it felt like walking into a memory instead of a real place. He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling around the blanket. He remembered lending Sunoo this blanket once during a cold practice night. Sunoo never gave it back, just kept it with a smug grin.
Sunghoon pulled it into his arms and pressed his face into the fabric, as if he could breathe Sunoo back to life.
He whispered, “I wasn’t supposed to let you go.”
The blanket didn’t answer. The room didn’t answer.
And so Sunghoon sat there in the dark, holding onto the last piece of Sunoo he had left, terrified of the day when even the scent would disappear.
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Jake
Jake had always been the optimist. The one who reassured everyone, who found the silver lining no matter how bad things got. But now, there was no silver lining. There was no lesson, no deeper meaning. Sunoo was just… gone.
And it didn’t make sense.
Jake sat in the living room long after everyone else had retreated to their rooms, the clock ticking too loudly in the silence. The couch cushion beside him was empty, the same spot Sunoo would always claim, curling his legs up and leaning into Jake’s side without asking.
He stared at that empty space for so long it felt like it was staring back.
Every memory came rushing in uninvited.
Sunoo teasing him about his accent.
Sunoo pretending to be annoyed when Jake draped himself over him like a lazy cat.
Sunoo sending him those random late-night messages that made no sense but still made him laugh.
The last time they spoke…
Jake replayed it over and over until he could quote every word, every pause. Sunoo had said he was tired. Jake thought he meant physically. He told him to rest, maybe take a day off from practice. He didn’t hear what Sunoo was really saying. Now he would never get the chance to answer properly.
When they found him that night, blood dried on his skin, knife on the floor, Jake had been the one who grabbed his shoulders and shook him, shouting his name until his own voice broke. He could still feel the cold weight of Sunoo’s body in his arms, still remember the desperation in his chest when the paramedics pulled him away.
They said he was already gone. Jake didn’t believe them. Not until they zipped the bag closed.
In the days after, he kept expecting to hear Sunoo’s door open, hear him complain about being bored, or see his name light up Jake’s phone. It never happened. On the third night, Jake went into Sunoo’s room. He sat at the desk, opening the drawers like he was searching for something, anything that could explain why. Instead, he found a small polaroid tucked in the corner. It was of the two of them, Jake’s arm thrown over Sunoo’s shoulders, both of them grinning so hard their eyes disappeared.
Jake traced Sunoo’s face with his thumb. His chest hurt in that way that felt permanent.
He whispered into the empty room, voice cracking,
“I’m sorry I didn’t see how bad it was. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough to keep you here. I'm sorry we hurt you.”
The picture didn’t answer.
And Jake knew it never would.
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Jay
Jay wasn’t used to feeling powerless.
He had always been the one who acted fast, who fixed things before they fell apart. But with Sunoo… he hadn’t fixed anything. He hadn’t even noticed it breaking.
The night they found him was burned into his mind like a scar. Jay could still see the hallway, the way Ni-ki’s scream ripped through the air, the thud of his own feet against the floor as he ran. And then, Sunoo.
Lying there.
Still.
Too still.
Jay had dropped to his knees so hard he didn’t feel the bruise until days later. His hands hovered over Sunoo’s chest before pressing down, counting, breathing, counting, just like he’d been taught in training. But Sunoo’s body stayed limp. He shouted for him to wake up. Told him he was being dramatic. Told him it wasn’t funny. Told him he couldn’t do this to them. His voice cracked on the last word.
And then the paramedics came.
And then they said the words.
And Jay’s world went quiet.
Now, in the days after, Jay’s quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, angry. He’d lash out at the others without meaning to, at Jungwon for not noticing sooner, at Jake for not pushing Sunoo to talk, at himself for everything. But at night, when it was just him, the anger collapsed into something worse. He’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every interaction over the past month. The way Sunoo had been quieter. How he skipped meals sometimes. How his smiles looked like they cost too much energy.
And Jay
He had seen it.
But he didn’t see it.
That was the thought that wouldn’t leave him.
One night, he sat on the floor in front of Sunoo’s door, knees pulled to his chest, a hoodie of Sunoo’s clutched in his arms. It still smelled faintly like him, sweet laundry detergent and the lotion he always used. “I should’ve been there,” Jay whispered into the fabric, his voice so low it was almost nothing. “I should’ve stopped you.”
But the door stayed closed.
And Sunoo didn’t answer.
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Heeseung
Heeseung didn’t cry at the funeral.
He stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, staring at the polished wood of Sunoo’s casket until the world blurred at the edges. Everyone thought it was strength. That he was holding it together for the others.
But it wasn’t strength.
It was shock.
And guilt.
That night, the night before they had all gone to bed early after practice. He had been walking to the kitchen for water when he passed Sunoo’s room. The light was still on. The door was cracked just enough for him to see Sunoo sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders shaking. Heeseung froze in the hallway. He wasn’t good with… this. With tears. With pain he didn’t know how to fix. But something made him push the door open anyway.
“Hey,” he’d said softly, leaning against the frame. “You okay?” Sunoo had looked up, his cheeks wet, eyes red. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, something important but then closed it again. Instead, he gave the smallest, weakest smile Heeseung had ever seen and nodded. Heeseung had hesitated for a moment, his fingers curling against the doorframe. Then he’d nodded back, muttered something about letting him rest, and quietly closed the door.
That was the last time he saw him alive.
And the memory kept replaying, twisting deeper each time.
If he’d gone in.
If he’d sat down next to him.
If he’d asked again.
If he’d stayed.
The “ifs” ate him alive.
Days later, Heeseung found himself standing outside Sunoo’s door again. He pushed it open slowly this time. The room was too neat, too untouched like it was waiting for someone who would never come back. He sat on the bed, running his hand over the blanket. He could almost feel the warmth of that night, the slight tremble in Sunoo’s voice, the sound of his muffled sobs.
“I’m sorry,” Heeseung whispered, his voice breaking for the first time since it happened. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve…” His words trailed off into silence.
The room didn’t answer.
It never would.
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THE END