Chapter Text
Weeks had passed.
But Hamin still couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Noah had returned to normal faster than he expected—too fast, almost unsettlingly so.
When he stepped inside the apartment that evening—
“Happy anniversary!!”
Confetti burst through the air.
Hamin stood there with a small, carefully prepared surprise waiting for him. Just the two of them, inside their shared home, warm lights and soft decorations filling the room.
For a second, Noah froze.
Then he smiled.
He laughed. He acted like everything was normal.
But Hamin saw it.
The lingering redness around his eyes. The slight puffiness he tried so hard to hide. Like the crying hadn’t fully ended yet—only paused long enough for him to walk through the door.
Noah brushed it off with ease, insisting it was nothing. Just tiredness. Just allergies. Just something small.
And then he stayed.
He fully stepped into the moment.
Noah kept watching Hamin’s chaotic attempt to lift the mood, staring a little too long, like he was trying to hold onto it.
And somehow, he cried again.
He said it was overwhelming. Grateful. Warm.
He pulled Hamin into a long hug.
Hamin could feel the faint tremor in his body against his own.
Hamin wanted to believe it was a cry of happiness.
But something in his chest refused to settle.
Even after days had passed.
He couldn’t help but notice it—the old pattern resurfacing.
Noah was wearing his mask again. Quietly rebuilding that stabilizer inside his heart. He seemed distant, but not gone. He was still there. Always there.
Just… carefully placed behind something Hamin couldn’t quite reach.
Noah was trying his best.
And Hamin wanted to support him—more than anything—but he didn’t know how.
He kept thinking.
Kept watching.
But he never found the courage to bring it up.
Every time he looked at Noah, something in his chest tightened in a way he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t exactly fear.
Not the fear of losing someone to the past.
It was the fear that something fragile was already cracking—and one wrong touch would make it shatter completely.
“You look like you’re about to die.”
Noah’s voice cut through the silence as he stepped into the living room, tossing a blanket onto the sofa a little too carelessly.
Hamin barely had time to react before something cold pressed against his cheek.
An ice pack.
“Seriously.” Noah clicked his tongue, leaning over him. “Do you even sleep anymore, or are you just practicing becoming a ghost?”
“I slept,” Hamin muttered, pressing the ice pack over his eyes.
“No, you didn’t.” Noah squinted at him. “Your face is personally insulting me right now.”
“…That’s not even—”
“Shh. Accept your fate.”
Noah pushed his forehead lightly with two fingers, then plopped down beside him like he owned the place.
There was no heaviness in his expression. No hesitation. Just Noah—messy, warm, annoyingly alive Noah.
For a moment, Hamin almost forgot.
Almost.
“If you get sick, who’s going to take care of me?”
Hamin huffed a small laugh before he could stop himself.
“What—stop laughing, look at your eyes, you grew an eye bag, big dark eye bag!” Noah poked the dark circles under Hamin’s eyes with his index finger.
“Work’s been really hectic lately,” he muttered, using it as an excuse.
He wouldn’t even say the truth. The lack of sleep had nothing to do with work.
It was the noise in his head.
The overthinking. The spiralling. The weight of things he didn’t know how to fix.
Especially when it came to Noah.
He didn’t want to make the same mistake again.
The kind of mistake that came from thinking you were helping—only to end up hurting the person you cared about the most.
“That’s such a terrible excuse. Are you trying to turn yourself into a zombie? Oh no, I’m so scared—Aaaah, let me go, you zombie!”
Hamin pounced on Noah and immediately started tickling him.
The high-pitched laughter filling the dark room. Just like that, something in the room loosened.
The mood lingered longer than Hamin expected.
As if nothing ever happened. Noah kept talking—about random things, about his work, about his boss, about the new gym he found, about the new healthy recipe he made.
The role had somehow reversed.
It was like Noah was trying to heal him.
Hamin listened, easing the tension in his chest.
He didn’t realize when his body finally relaxed into the sofa.
Didn’t realize when his eyelids started to feel heavy.
Only Noah’s voice stayed, steady in the background.
“…you’re really bad at taking care of yourself, you know that?”
“Mm…”
“Seriously. If I leave you alone for one day, you’ll probably dissolve.”
“…I won’t.”
“Liar.”
Noah’s voice softened just slightly at the end.
Then there was a pause.
Small. Almost nothing.
But Hamin felt it already.
Noah stopped talking.
Not fully.
Just… mid-thought.
Like a word got stuck somewhere behind his teeth.
Hamin opened his eyes a little.
Noah was still sitting there.
Still smiling.
But his gaze had drifted somewhere else.
Not the room.
Not Hamin.
Somewhere further.
Somewhere Hamin couldn’t reach.
It lasted only a second.
Then Noah blinked.
The familiar smile slipped back into place.
“Anyway, would you stop staring at me?” he continued, voice lighter again, wiggling his eyebrows at the younger.
Hamin stared at him. “…What?”
Noah giggled and pulled himself closer to Hamin, putting them both under his favorite blanket and began turning on the TV.
“Let’s go somewhere.” He suddenly said. Just then, a cat-care program appeared on the screen.
The mood changed too fast that Hamin felt he couldn’t keep up.
His overthinking mind had not finished doing one think before it crashed into something else.
“A trip. This week.”
Noah tilted his head, grinning again, leaning to peck on the younger’s cheek.
“So suddenly?”
“Mm-mh.”
Hamin should’ve asked more.
Should’ve asked why the smile was too bright for the sudden burst.
Should've asked how Noah had gotten so good at pretending.
But all he could do was a nod.
“…Okay.”
Noah smiled.
“Good.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Hamin couldn't sleep a wink.
On the surface, everything seemed normal again.
He kept trying to support Noah silently—pretending everything was fine. Pretending he had never seen Noah break down at the mortuary.
The more Noah acted like his usual noisy, annoying, overdramatic self, the more tangled Hamin's thoughts became.
Every instinct screamed at him to do something.
But what?
He tried to find a gap to step in, a moment that felt safe enough for Noah to handle when he brought it up. But he was a coward. He couldn’t.
It was the third night in a row he had pretended to fall asleep first.
Once Noah's breathing settled into a peaceful rhythm, Hamin's eyes would fly open the moment he was left alone with his thoughts.
His eyes were red and dry.
He would slowly get out of bed and wander around the apartment aimlessly, moving from kitchen to the living room and back again without really knowing why he kept walking. The silence felt heavier at night, stretching through the walls as if it had nowhere else to go.
He had already checked the time three times in less than ten minutes.
It was pathetic.
He had already given up on sleeping.
There was no answer.
The more he searched for a solution, the more his thoughts resembled the wreck of the Titanic—broken, scattered, impossible to piece back together.
He finally reached for a glass of cold water and sat down, letting the chill press against his palm as if it could anchor him back into something real. His gaze drifted, almost absentmindedly, toward the bookshelf.
Mostly fitness magazines. Their engineering books. Cookbooks. Comics. And philosophy novels Noah insisted on buying for Hamin.
Then something slipped from between two books.
Like being bewitched, Hamin pulled it free.
A yearbook.
Noah’s high school yearbook.
Against his better judgment, he opened it, and Noah’s graduation photo greeted him immediately. The younger version looked exactly the same—same mature smile, same calm aura, the same presence he carried when Hamin first met him in college.
“Future engineer. Remember this face.”
Hamin let out a soft laugh without really thinking about it.
He flipped through another page, then another, then another, until the motion became almost absentminded. For a while, he just looked. The photographs carried a strange kind of nostalgia, even though none of it belonged to him. It felt like reading someone else’s memories and somehow still recognizing the emotions inside them.
Then he remembered something.
“Nam Yejun,” he whispered.
He remembered Noah’s parents mentioning him once.
Nam Yejun.
Noah’s best friend. The person who had once been the center of Noah’s world.
He skimmed through the student directory, eyes moving across the third-year section slowly at first, then again with more focus when nothing stood out.
Nothing.
He checked again, slower this time, as if reading more carefully could somehow change what was already there.
Still nothing.
Just as he was about to give up, something caught his eye—a second book tucked behind the yearbook.
He placed the yearbook back and pulled it out, studying the cover with a faint crease forming between his brows.
“Fake Yearbook.”
He raised an eyebrow. What kind of title was that?
The logo of the school was the same as Noah’s high school but, something about it felt… off. Like it didn’t belong sitting beside the official one.
The moment he opened it, he immediately recognized Noah.
The Noah who didn’t hide behind any façade. The smile was bright and shameless.
“Your future rock singer! You are my fan!”
The quote made something ache inside Hamin’s chest. It sounded nothing like the Noah sitting beside him these days. As though that version of him had been left behind somewhere along the way.
Hamin flipped through page after page, the motion becoming slower each time as unfamiliar familiarity started to settle in. Familiar faces appeared in clusters—classmates, groups, moments frozen mid-laugh, mid-motion, mid-life.
Then one face stopped him cold.
Yejun.
There was another photo.
And another.
And another.
In this book, Yejun appeared everywhere.
Beside Noah. Beside classmates. During festivals, during performances, during class activities—always in motion, always caught in moments.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Alive.
Hamin immediately reached for the official yearbook again, almost instinctively, as if the answer might change if he looked at it from a different angle. Back and forth he went, comparing photographs, comparing names, searching for something he couldn’t quite explain but knew was wrong.
The uniforms were the same. The classrooms were the same. Even the faces looked almost identical, like two versions of the same year printed in slightly different realities.
Until—
They were all wearing first-year uniforms.
“Did he transfer?”
Just as the thought grew too loud—
“Can’t sleep?”
Hamin startled, and both books slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a sharp, uncontrolled sound.
Noah flinched at the noise too. His gaze dropped immediately to the yearbooks scattered between them.
A beat of silence.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to—”
“Let’s go somewhere.”
Hamin froze. “…What?”
“The trip. Let’s go.”
Noah bent down and picked up the yearbook.
Then he closed it.
“…Now?” Hamin asked.
A beat.
Noah didn’t look at him when he answered.
“Now.”
✧ ✧ ✧
Noah didn’t wait for another question.
He was already moving.
The yearbook was placed back on the shelf with careful precision—too careful, like it might break if he handled it wrong again.
“Go pack your jacket,” he said, already walking toward the door.
Hamin stood there for a second.
“…We’re really going now?”
Noah glanced over his shoulder, a grin already forming again.
“Did you think I was joking?”
That tone.
Light. Casual. Almost teasing.
But Hamin noticed it too quickly now—the speed of it. The way Noah kept his voice just slightly too steady, like he was holding something down under the surface.
Still.
He nodded.
“…Okay.”
The car engine started before Hamin could properly settle into the passenger seat.
Noah was driving.
That alone felt wrong in a way Hamin couldn’t explain.
Usually it was the opposite—Noah sprawled in the passenger seat, complaining about traffic, stealing snacks, half-asleep within ten minutes.
Now he was focused.
Hands on the wheel. Eyes forward. Too forward.
“Buckle up,” Noah said.
Hamin obeyed silently.
The car pulled out.
For the first few minutes, it was normal. Noah turned on the radio. A random live streaming filled the room between them. The radio DJ was telling people about ghost that lingered after mid-night.
“Oh,” Noah said, tapping the steering wheel. “This one’s not bad.”
Then—without a warning, he glanced at Hamin and made a boo sound. Hamin let out a small breath of laughter before he could stop himself.
“…You’re distracting and driving.”
“Nope. I’m multitasking.”
A pause.
Then Noah leaned slightly toward the wheel, dramatically serious.
“I am a professional.”
Hamin shook his head, lips curving anyway, and for a moment it actually worked—just enough for the tension between them to loosen, just enough for things to feel almost normal again.
But it didn’t last.
The road got quieter as they kept driving, and the story-teller from the radio earlier faded out without Noah bothering to replace it with anything else. He just let the silence sit there between them, like it belonged there.
Hamin noticed first.
He glanced sideways and saw Noah was still smiling, but it wasn’t changing anymore, like the expression had been set in place and left there too long, like someone had paused him mid-movement and forgotten to press play again.
“…Hyung,” Hamin started carefully.
“Hmm?” Noah answered, still light, still casual.
But delayed.
Like the answer had to travel a longer distance before it reached his voice.
Hamin swallowed.
“…Where are we going exactly?”
Noah blinked once.
Twice.
Then—
“Oh.”
A small laugh.
“We’ll see.”
That should’ve been normal, but it wasn’t.
Because Noah didn’t look at him when he said it.
The car continued moving forward, buildings slowly thinning out on both sides as the road widened and the sky opened up further ahead. Hamin’s fingers tightened slightly in his lap.
He wanted to ask—about the yearbook, about the way Noah had closed it too quickly, about the shift in his voice, about everything that didn’t make sense—but every time he tried to form the words, nothing came out.
Noah noticed.
Of course he did. He always did.
“You’re thinking too loud again,” Noah said suddenly.
Hamin blinked. “What?”
Noah chuckled.
“You get that face.”
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m about to save the world but I don’t know how’ face.”
Hamin frowned. “That’s not a face.”
“It is. It’s very annoying.”
A pause.
Then Noah added softer, “…You don’t have to fix everything, you know.”
That sentence landed weirdly—not heavy, not soft either.
Just… placed.
Like it belonged somewhere else.
Hamin turned slightly.
“Hyung.”
“Yeah?”
This time Noah answered instantly. Too instantly, and Hamin hesitated before asking.
“…Are you okay?”
Silence.
It was not the comfortable kind silence. It had edges.
Noah kept looking forward, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then—
“Yeah.”
Simple.
Clean.
Too clean.
A beat passed before he smiled again, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hamin didn’t answer, because he didn’t know which part of that sentence to trust.
The road stretched further, Noah turned slightly off the main route without much explanation. Hamin noticed immediately.
“…That’s not the highway.”
“Nope.”
“…Why are we going this way?”
Noah’s fingers tapped once on the wheel, then again, then stopped.
“Oh,” he said lightly. “Short cut.”
A pause.
Then—
“…I think.”
That was the first crack Hamin didn’t miss.
Because Noah laughed after it.
But it came a fraction too late.
Hamin’s chest tightened.
“…Hyung.”
“Yeah?”
Again—instant.
Too instant again.
Hamin swallowed.
“…Never mind.”
Noah hummed softly.
Like nothing happened.
Like everything was fine.
Like the yearbook wasn’t still sitting somewhere between them in silence.
And yet—
the car kept going.
farther away from everything familiar.
✧ ✧ ✧
They didn’t talk for the last stretch of the drive. Noah turned off the radio at some point and Hamin didn’t notice when it happened—the silence just stayed, like it had never left.
When the car finally stopped, Noah didn’t immediately get out. He just sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, eyes fixed forward.
“Here,” he said.
Hamin looked out the window.
Wind. Grass moving in slow waves. A long stretch of open land falling into a quiet drop below. The sky too big for the ground beneath it. It felt… unreal.
“…This place,” Hamin murmured.
Noah hummed. “Found it a while ago.”
A pause.
“Figured you’d like it. You look like someone who overthinks in scenic locations.”
Hamin let out a small breath.
“…That’s not a personality type.”
“It is for you.”
They got out of the car, and the wind hit immediately—cold, clean, almost too honest. Noah stretched like he always did, like nothing in the world could weigh him down, like everything was still just another ordinary day.
“Ahh… nice,” he said, grinning.
They walked a little closer to the edge, not too close, just enough to see everything. The world felt quieter here, or maybe it just had nowhere else to go
Hamin stood beside him, waiting, not even sure for what anymore. The silence didn’t make the chaos in his mind disappeared. It only became louder.
He waited, and waited.
Noah spoke first.
Of course he did.
“…You saw it.”
Hamin blinked. “Huh?”
Noah tilted his head slightly.
“The book.”
Silence.
Hamin didn’t answer immediately. His throat tightened.
“…Yeah,” he finally said.
Another pause.
The wind filled it, brushing Noah’s hair as he trying to catch his lover’s gaze, though the other kept avoiding his eyes. Then Noah nodded once.
Like he expected that.
Like it was already part of the plan.
“…Aren’t you going to ask me?” Noah said.
Hamin froze.
“…Ask what?”
Noah gave a small laugh, thin and careful. “You’ve been thinking too loud for days.”
Hamin didn’t deny it. He couldn’t.
A long silence followed, heavier this time.
Then Hamin finally stepped closer.
Just a little.
“…Hyung.”
“Mm?”
“…Are you really okay?”
No answer. Not immediately.
Noah looked at the horizon instead. The wind kept pushing his hair slightly, cold slipping through the fabric of his jacket. Shivered, he hugged himself and looked at Hamin, a small smile tugged on his face.
“I’m fine,” he said eventually.
Hamin shook his head, “…That’s not what I meant.”
Noah let out a breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh, but it broke halfway.
“…Do you know what’s funny?” he said suddenly.
Hamin stayed quiet.
“I thought if I kept acting normal… it would become normal.”
Silence.
“I think I got good at it.”
Hamin’s chest tightened.
“…Hyung.”
Noah raised a hand slightly—not stopping him, just… holding him there for a second.
“I’m still here,” Noah said.
Then, softer, almost like it hurt to say it out loud, “I just… don’t know where to put everything else.”
Hamin finally turned fully toward him. He stepped closer and took both of Noah’s hands between his own, trying to warm them. Noah’s eyes lingered on the gesture—a faint pink dusting his cheeks.
“…You can tell me.” Hamin suggested, “No pressure. Just—tell me.”
Noah didn’t answer right away, and Hamin didn’t rush it.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
Not shaky.
Just… lower.
Controlled.
Carefully kept together.
“…Do you want to hear?”
Hamin froze.
That question didn’t feel like invitation.
It felt like permission being asked from someone who wasn’t sure they were allowed to exist outside their mask.
Wind passed between them.
Long.
Slow.
Hamin nodded.
“…Yeah.”
A beat.
“…I want to.”
Noah looked at him for a moment—really looked, like he was checking if the world would still stay intact after this.
Then he exhaled.
Small. Almost relieved.
“…Okay,” Noah said.
And this time, his voice didn’t pretend.
✧ ✧ ✧
Noah remembered that day clearly.
The stage lights had barely faded when he rushed backstage with his heart still pounding inside his chest. Even now, years later, he could still remember the rush of adrenaline.
The excitement.
The disbelief.
The overwhelming certainty that something wonderful had just happened.
He had never been that nervous before a performance.
Not even close.
Yet the moment it was over, the tension that had been holding him together snapped all at once. Before Yejun could even take off his mask properly, Noah grabbed both of his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug.
“I have a good feeling about this!”
His voice echoed through the crowded backstage hallway, drawing a few curious glances from other participants. Yejun stumbled slightly from the sudden impact, the edge of his mask slipped to the side, revealing one eye behind it—without the thick glasses he usually wore—and Noah could see the laughter hidden there much more clearly.
Yejun chuckled and returned the embrace.
“It would be our first win.”
“Yes!” Noah immediately pulled back just enough to look at him. “Exactly! First win. Do you know what that means?”
Yejun already looked exhausted.
“What?”
“It means we're destined for greatness.”
Yejun groaned.
Noah ignored him.
“Today: Masked Singer. Tomorrow: National competition. Next year: World domination.”
“That's quite a jump.”
“No. That's called ambition.”
Yejun laughed again, soft and unrestrained—the kind of laugh that made his eyes disappear into crescents. Noah remembered staring for a second longer than necessary, not because anything felt wrong, but because everything felt right.
He smiled back without realizing it. Then reached out and ruffled Yejun’s hair, messy and careless.
“Hey—
“That’s the Nam Yejun I know.” Noah said, laughing, a deep, Santa Clause’s laugh, while holding his belly filled the space between them.
Yejun tried to fix his hair, but he didn’t really fight it. He didn’t even push Noah away. Instead, he just grinned wider.
That time, everything felt blessing.
The competition.
The stage.
The future.
Yejun standing beside him.
At sixteen, the world seemed ridiculously simple.
If they kept singing, they would sing forever.
If they kept walking together, they would stay together.
If they were happy now, they would be happy tomorrow too.
That was how Noah remembered that time.
Bright.
Warm.
Untouchable.
As though nothing in the world could ever take it away.
“Noah!”
The voice snapped him back.
He blinked, pulled out of the memory as the classroom came rushing in again—chaotic, loud, alive. A few classmates had already gathered around his desk, all talking over each other with excitement.
There had been an announcement.
Something about the competition.
Noah blinked again, slower this time, before it fully registered. The school had just broadcast the results of the mid-year break competition through the class speaker.
They won.
Not just him.
Them.
A lazy grin slowly formed on his face as he leaned back into his chair like the world wasn’t suddenly spinning a little brighter.
“Obviously,” he said, voice light, almost careless.
Then he tilted his head toward Yejun without really looking at him. “It’s all because of him.”
A few students laughed.
“What—seriously, you guys don’t get it?” Noah pushed himself up from his seat, suddenly animated again. He walked over and dropped an arm over Yejun’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“This angel voice carried us. I was just the backing vocal.”
Yejun immediately stiffened.
His ears went red almost instantly under the attention.
Because it was true—he had never really sung in front of anyone before. Even during the last solo competition, he had begged the teachers to keep things low-profile, to announce Noah’s result without drawing attention to himself.
“…Don’t say it like that,” Yejun muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “We… sang it together.”
Noah clicked his tongue. “Same thing.”
That only made the class louder.
“You can sing?! Yejun?? We want to hear!!”
Yejun shot Noah a quick look—half warning, half helpless.
Noah just grinned. “What? It’s true.”
Then, shameless as ever, he added, “But no. He only sings for me. You guys can’t hear it.”
“WHAT?? That’s not fair!!”
The classroom erupted.
And for a moment, Yejun actually laughed along with them—soft, breathy, almost relieved—watching Noah completely own the chaos he created.
But then—
Something in the noise shifted.
A passing comment. A classmate mentioning something about the replay stage.
A broadcast.
Television.
This week.
Yejun’s expression tightened before he could stop it.
Just slightly.
Like a crack no one else noticed.
But Noah did.
Of course he did.
“…You okay?” Noah asked, leaning slightly closer.
Yejun blinked, like the question took a moment to fully reach him. Then he nodded quickly, almost too quickly.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
But it didn’t sound like fine.
Before Noah could say anything else, Yejun stood up.
“I just… need the restroom.”
He left before anyone could respond.
Noah watched him go for a second longer than necessary, then followed.
The hallway was quieter. The kind of quiet that made footsteps feel too loud, too sharp against the walls. Yejun was already there when Noah reached the sink.
Hands under running water. Head slightly lowered. Like he was trying to wash something off that wasn’t on his skin.
“…Hey.”
Yejun flinched—just a little.
He looked up through the mirror.
His face looked pale. Almost paper-thin.
“Are you sick?” Noah stepped closer, tilting his head. “You look like a ghost.”
A pause.
Only the sound of running water filled the space.
Then Yejun turned it off.
“…Do you think,” he started carefully, eyes not fully meeting Noah’s, “they would really put our performance on TV?”
Noah blinked.
“…What?”
Yejun hesitated.
In the mirror, his expression looked different. Less certain. Fragile in a way Noah couldn’t quite name yet—like one wrong answer might make everything collapse.
Noah stared at him for a moment.
Then he let out a short laugh.
“Oh gosh, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”
He shook his head lightly, like it was just nervous overthinking. “Of course they will. Remember all bunch of cameras on us? That’s the whole point.”
A beat.
Then he grinned.
“We’re basically going to be famous.”
He said it like it was exciting. Like it was simple. Like it didn’t carry any weight at all.
Yejun nodded slowly.
But his fingers were still shaking when he reached for the drier.
Noah noticed.
Of course he did.
So, he reached out and grabbed Yejun’s hand before he could hide it properly.
“Hey,” Noah said, softer now. “It’s okay.”
Yejun finally looked at him. Really looked.
Noah squeezed his hand once.
“I’m here,” he said. “If you’re nervous… I’m here.”
A pause.
Then, like it was nothing serious at all—
“And I’m the one who’s gonna be more famous anyway, so don’t worry too much.”
It was meant to be a joke.
It sounded like one.
But it didn’t fully land that way.
Still, Yejun let out a small breath.
“…Idiot,” he muttered, but his shoulders loosened slightly.
Noah just grinned.
“Yeah, yeah. Come on.”
✧ ✧ ✧
The day the episode aired came faster than Noah expected.
He was sitting on the living room floor, legs crossed, TV slightly too loud in the background. His parents moved around in the kitchen, the sound of dishes and low conversation filling the house in a way that felt almost normal.
But Noah wasn’t.
His phone was already in his hand.
The starter applause from the broadcast didn’t steal any reaction from him.
He had texted Yejun two hours ago.
don’t forget. it’s today.
No reply.
An hour later, another one.
you better not be buried in books again.
Still nothing.
When the preview started playing on TV, he sent again.
it’s starting soon.
No read. No typing bubble. Nothing.
Noah frowned at the screen, thumb hovering like the next message might fix something.
“…This guy,” he muttered under his breath. “Seriously…”
He sent another one anyway, almost instinctively.
answer meeeeeeeeee!!!
Behind him, his mom walked over with a bowl of snacks and placed it beside him.
“You’re not watching the TV,” she said lightly. “You’re watching your phone.”
Noah didn’t look up. “Multitasking.”
“Multitasking what? Stressing?”
“I’m not—” he clicked his tongue. “I’m fine.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, like it slipped out before he could stop it:
“…I miss him.”
His mom paused.
“You saw him today at school.”
“That is not the point, Mom.”
“It’s literally the point.”
Noah turned slightly, brows furrowed. “What if he’s ignoring me because he’s dying under ten textbooks and no one is saving him??”
His mom blinked once, then flicked his forehead.
“Stop being dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“You are.”
Noah huffed, leaning back—but his grip tightened on his phone again. Still nothing. No reply from any of the messages. His thumb hovered. Then typed again. Deleted. Typed again.
Finally—
are you even alive?
Sent.
“…Rude,” he muttered immediately after, like he regretted it but not enough to take it back.
His mom sighed. “Just watch the show.”
“I am watching.”
“You are not.”
“I am emotionally watching.”
“Sure.”
The broadcast changed the participant again for the nth time. Applause filled the room.
Noah didn’t notice the exact moment it happened—only that the background noise had slowly started to feel further away.
His thumb was still hovering over the phone.
Waiting.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
Then—
the stage lit up.
Masked silhouettes appeared under bright lights.
Music started.
At first, Noah barely reacted. His eyes were still on the screen, but his attention wasn’t really there anymore.
Not until the sound shifted.
Not until something in the harmony cut through the noise in his head.
It took him a second.
Then another.
Before his grip on the phone loosened slightly.
For the first time that night, it wasn’t something he was actively holding anymore.
It just… rested on his lap.
Harmony filled the room—clean, familiar, perfectly aligned. Everything felt suspended, like even the air had decided to stop moving for a moment.
Noah leaned forward without realizing.
His gaze sharpened.
Focused.
Yejun’s voice came through clearer than anything else, and something in his chest loosened without permission—like a knot that had been pulled too tight for too long.
For a moment, the noise in his head went quiet.
Not gone.
Just distant.
“…Yeah,” he murmured, almost smiling. “That’s you.”
The performance ended too fast.
The applause came back like nothing had ever paused.
Just as quickly, everything collapsed back into sound.
Noah blinked once.
Then again.
Like he was trying to catch up with something that had already moved ahead of him.
“…Wait.”
His hand moved again before he even fully processed it—phone back up, almost instinctively, like the answer might be hiding there now.
Still nothing.
No reply. No typing indicator. No “seen”.
His brows tightened.
I just watched it, you were insane!
Sent.
Ten seconds passed.
Nothing changed.
His jaw tightened slightly. “…No way.”
HELLO???
Sent.
His finger hovered longer this time.
Not typing.
Not thinking.
Just suspended above the screen, like if he waited long enough, something would finally react.
“…Seriously?”
His mom glanced over. “Did he respond?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s asleep.”
“At this hour??… He always replies…”
The sentence came out lower than before.
Less accusation.
More disbelief.
Like he was still expecting reality to correct itself.
Another message.
answer me.
Sent.
His thumb hesitated this time.
Just for a second.
Then pressed anyway.
Silence followed immediately.
No response from the screen.
No vibration.
No sound.
Just the TV still running in the background, laughing at something Noah wasn’t listening to anymore.
He didn’t move right away.
Not immediately.
His shoulders dropped slightly, like the energy that had been holding him upright finally loosened its grip.
“…I miss him, Mom.”
His voice came out softer this time.
Not dramatic.
Just tired.
“I know,” his mom answered.
Noah nodded faintly.
But his eyes stayed fixed on the phone.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Still nothing.
There was only silence. No reply. No sign.
It felt like an empty space he couldn't ignore anymore.
Until the next morning.
The familiar desk in front of the classroom was empty.
He froze before he could even catch his breath from rushing to school late.
Beep.
Noah blinked.
Beep. Beep.
The loud chatter of his classmates suddenly felt muted.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
As if reality had slapped him across the face.
Air caught in his throat.
Something in his chest dropped without warning.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
And that was the moment the silence stopped feeling temporary.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
That night, the fever came.