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Changbin and Hyunjin had always been a pair, in ways that felt as natural as breathing.
From the day Changbin’s family moved in next door and the two boys stumbled into each other’s lives, they’d been inseparable, carrying the same scraped knees and childish laughter across the same pavements. They learned how to wobble forward without stabilisers on their bikes side by side, celebrating small victories as if one’s achievement belonged to the other as well.
And when Hyunjin’s father left without a word, leaving only an absence that cut deeper than either of them understood at the time, it was Changbin’s hand Hyunjin gripped tight, Changbin’s clumsy reassurances that tried to make the world steady again.
The years only layered hardship on top of hardship—his mother’s grief curdling into sharp words and nights that reeked of alcohol, nights Changbin refused to let Hyunjin bear alone. Weekends were spent on Changbin’s floor or on the spare bed his parents never questioned, an unspoken agreement that what Hyunjin lacked at home, he would always find next door.
Even later, when Hyunjin turned down a dance scholarship at KNUA, choosing instead the comfort of following Changbin into the same university halls, it felt less like a sacrifice and more like a continuation of what had always been true: wherever one went, the other would follow.
They were constants for one another, woven through every milestone—first kisses, first parties, first reckless fights, and for Hyunjin, the first unshakable realisation of what it meant to fall in love.
Changbin and Hyunjin had always been a pair. Until, suddenly, they weren’t.
--
“What do you mean you’re leaving?”
The words fall out before he’s ready for them, voice already fraying at the edges. His eyes sting, his lips ache from biting them too hard in an effort to keep the sobs at bay. It feels like his chest has caved in, like his lungs can’t remember what air is supposed to do inside them. His heart pounds as though it wants to split him open and yet he swears it barely beats at all.
What does Changbin mean, he’s leaving? And without him?
The apartment seems to shrink around them. Just four walls, a sagging couch, the paused glow of a drama on the TV—but Hyunjin feels like the world has ground to a halt inside this small space, like he’s been left stranded somewhere Changbin can’t or won’t reach.
Changbin stands across from him with a body too still, a face trying for composure, though the eyes give him away. Pain swirls in them, sadness too, like he’s already halfway gone.
“3Racha just got signed,” he says finally, voice quiet but steady. “This is… this is big for me, Jinnie. I might finally be someone.”
“You’re already someone!” The words break out of Hyunjin sharper than he intends, desperate, reckless.
“Not the way I want to be.” Changbin grimaces as if regretting the words before they’ve even finished leaving his mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Hyunjin has already heard them. Already felt the shift.
“So what then? You get signed and suddenly nothing else matters? Our promises don’t matter?”
“That’s not true—”
“But it is!” Hyunjin snaps, his throat raw. “We had dreams, remember? Since we were kids. Since bikes and scraped knees. You said we’d always be together.”
“They’re still important to me,” Changbin insists, though the conviction falters. “It’s just—”
He doesn’t finish. And maybe he doesn’t need to, because Hyunjin already feels the answer bleeding through. Tears blur his vision, hot and humiliating, and he forces himself to murmur, “I get it.” His voice wavers. He hates that it does. “It’s always been music.”
“That’s not true either,” Changbin says quickly, too quickly.
But Hyunjin can’t look at him. He stares at the TV instead, at the frozen image of two actors holding hands with easy smiles, as if mocking him with a version of happiness he can’t reach. His voice is small when he asks, “When do you leave?”
“Two days.”
The words slice through him clean and cold. He doesn’t know if the shaking in his body comes from anger or heartbreak or the sheer chill of being blindsided—maybe all of it at once. He nods, keeps his gaze fixed forward. He doesn’t want to see Changbin. Doesn’t want to see the boy who promised to never leave him now inching closer, reaching for his hand as if touch might soften the blow.
“How long have you known?” Hyunjin asks, his voice breaking into something closer to accusation.
There’s hesitation, a sharp breath, and then—“Three weeks.”
The floor tilts beneath him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to put more stress on you—you’ve had your dance practice—”
“So you tell me the day before my performance?” His laugh is brittle, hollow.
“I had to tell you.”
“You should have told me when you found out.”
“I didn’t want to make you sad when you were happy.”
Hyunjin finally drags his eyes back to him, wet and aching and ice-cold. “And does the way I feel now look better than what you imagined?”
Changbin closes his eyes tight, as though sheer force will keep his own tears from spilling. “I couldn’t just leave without telling you.”
“I wish you had,” Hyunjin whispers.
Silence drops heavy between them, and for a moment neither of them is sure which words are true and which are just weapons. Hyunjin doesn’t even know himself. He only knows it hurts—that his first love, his best friend, has carried this secret without him. That he is, yet again, the last to know.
Changbin’s face twists, his eyes squeezed shut as if he can force the tears back where they came from. “You don’t mean that,” he whispers.
“Don’t I?”
The answer sticks somewhere between truth and lie, because Hyunjin isn’t sure himself. Hurt wraps around him like a net, every thread pulling tighter, and the betrayal is jagged in his chest. His best friend—his first love—has carried something so enormous without him. He promised not to leave, not after everything, and yet here he is with bags half-packed in his silence.
Hyunjin’s mind races, grasping at straws. If Chan knew, then surely Felix did. If Jisung knew, then Minho too. And what about Seungmin, about Jeongin? Did they all stand by, holding this secret between them like it was nothing?
The words fall out before he can stop them. Changbin doesn’t flinch.
“They all knew,” he admits, voice low. “Chan told Felix right away. Jisung told Minho last week. Seungmin and Jeongin heard from Felix.”
“I’m the last to know.” The thought lands heavy. Always the last. Always protected from truths that apparently everyone else can handle. Too emotional, too fragile, too much.
He remembers finding out by accident that Jisung and Minho were dating—standing there with champagne still fizzing in his throat as someone casually mentioned it was their eight-month anniversary. He remembers Jeongin hiding his university rejection, thinking Hyunjin would pity him, would care too much. He hates that this is who he is to them: the last, the fragile one, the one nobody trusts with the weight of reality.
“I wanted to tell you sooner,” Changbin says quickly, almost desperate. “Please, Jinnie, believe me.”
Hyunjin forces his expression blank, forces his eyes to dry even as his chest feels shredded apart. “I’m happy for you,” he lies, lips stiff. “You’ll all do great.”
Please don’t leave me.
“You’ll have to send me pictures of the studio. Keep me updated. I want to hear demos.”
Binnie-hyung, please.
“You better not forget about me, hyung.”
For a moment he thinks he hears a reply—Changbin’s face creased in confusion at the whiplash shift, murmuring something about how he’d never forget. But Hyunjin is already retreating, already moving toward the safety of his room. “You owe me the biggest bunch of flowers you can find tomorrow,” he says softly from the doorway, trying to make it sound light. Then the door closes, shutting them into separate worlds.
He slides down to the floor on the other side, palms pressed hard over his face. The dam bursts open. Tears stream, sobs muffled into his hand until his teeth ache from biting down on his skin to keep quiet. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that—long enough for the tears to dry sticky on his cheeks, for his throat to rasp, for his limbs to grow numb beneath him.
When he finally drags himself up, his legs fizz with pins and needles and his back protests with every step. He crosses to his desk and reaches for tissues, but his eyes land on the cork board pinned above it. Photos crowd the space, a timeline of his friendships. The little plastic pocket of movie tickets catches his attention—every silly rom-com and late-night screening he and Changbin ever went to tucked neatly inside. “They hold sentimental value!” Changbin would laugh every time, sliding another stub in place.
Hyunjin’s vision blurs again. He stares harder at the photos. The beach trip from last weekend: Felix clinging tighter than usual to Chan, Jisung’s smile not quite touching his eyes as he looked at Minho. In the group shot, Jeongin pressed closer than he ever normally allowed, Seungmin insistent that Hyunjin take the middle spot. He hadn’t noticed at the time. Now it all clicks. Now it all hurts worse.
The betrayal bubbles up. Why hadn’t anyone said anything? These were supposed to be his people, his family. He picks up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, ready to demand answers. But what’s the point? Wouldn’t it only prove them right—that he feels too much, reacts too much? With a choked breath, he sets it down again and crawls into bed instead.
Sleep comes quickly but cruelly, full of images of Changbin walking away, of Chan and Jisung disappearing too, of all of them scattering until Hyunjin is left behind alone. He wakes after barely four hours, body exhausted but restless, the alarm insisting he has to drag himself to the studio anyway.
The apartment is silent when he opens his door. Changbin must have tidied up after him—TV dark, blanket folded neatly over the couch. Hyunjin slips into the bathroom, showering fast, brushing his teeth in front of a reflection that looks worse for wear: dark circles carved deep, lips raw from chewing, cheeks splotchy from scrubbing too hard. He shrugs. The makeup team will cover it.
His phone buzzes with a message from Seungmin asking if he’s okay. He doesn’t answer. The bitterness sits heavy, untouched.
By the time he’s running his ninth full set of the choreography, his body is burning and his chest heaving. That’s when Felix and Minho arrive, their steps hesitant as if the air itself has warned them off.
“You’re late,” Hyunjin says to their reflections in the mirror, pushing damp blond hair out of his face.
“Thought you’d want some time,” Minho answers gently.
Hyunjin laughs, sharp and hollow. “Right. Sensitive little Hyunjinnie. Better give him space after his best friend decides to leave. Better let him fester when he finds out everyone else already knew.”
Felix flinches, half hiding behind Minho, eyes wet already. Minho holds his gaze. “Changbin wanted to tell you himself. You can’t take it out on us, Hyun. We’re hurting too.”
“But you have Chan and Jisung. They love you. They won’t forget about you.” His voice breaks. “What about me?”
Felix whispers, “Changbin loves you too. He won’t forget you.”
“Not the way I want him to.”
The crack finally splinters. Hyunjin crumples to his knees, sobbing as Felix and Minho rush forward to hold him, pressing him tight between them.
“He said he wouldn’t leave me,” he gasps.
“It’s okay, Jinnie,” Felix whispers, brushing away tears even as his own fall. “We’ll visit when they’re settled. Seoul isn’t that far.”
Minho adds softly, “Give them a week or two and they won’t have a moment of peace.” He tries to smile as he pinches Hyunjin’s cheek.
Hyunjin grips their hands, presses them to his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. “I didn’t mean to be angry. I’m sorry.”
Their eyes soften, but the fear remains. They all know what this means—how hard it will be for everyone, but how impossible it might be for Hyunjin.
“Come on, Jin-ah,” Minho says eventually, hauling him gently up. “We’ve got a performance to prepare for.”
They practice until the exhaustion feels cleaner, until muscle memory pulls them through routines side by side. And when it’s over, Hyunjin stumbles home and collapses onto the couch.
He doesn’t stir when Changbin slips in later, doesn’t see the bouquet of flowers placed carefully on the table, or the jewellery box tied to the stems, or the envelope set beside it. He doesn’t feel the soft kiss pressed to his forehead.
Hyunjin sleeps as Changbin collects his bags, as the door closes behind him.
Changbin and Hyunjin were always a pair. Until they weren’t.
--
Hyunjin keeps his arms wound tight around his waist as he moves down the hallway, like he can hold himself together if he presses hard enough. His head stays lowered, eyes on the scuffed tiles instead of the people brushing past. Music spills faintly through his headphones, but the words don’t reach him anymore, haven’t in months—not since Changbin. Back then every lyric meant something; now it all sounds hollow, stripped of meaning the moment he walked away.
He whispers apologies as he weaves through the crowd, voice barely audible under the noise of chatter and shoes squeaking against the floor. One shoulder knocks into him harder than the rest, sharp pain blooming against already tender skin, and he gasps before he can stop himself. His hand twitches at the strap of his bag, trying to fix what the collision unsettled, and then he’s moving again, trying not to falter before the next corner.
The classroom door gives him an escape. He slips inside without lifting his gaze, threading through tables and chairs until he reaches the back row by the windows. Safe. Quiet. He slides into the seat, fingers fumbling for his sketchbook before he even breathes properly. The clock on the wall tells him he’s early, earlier than usual. For a second he just sits there, alone in the silence, the relief of it sinking into his chest.
His phone comes out like a habit, thumb opening Pinterest before he can decide whether he wants to. A daily prompt waits on the screen. He reads the word once, twice. Lonely.
Of course. He lets out a dry laugh, flipping to a blank page. Ironic, cruel even, that the universe always seems to find ways of mocking him.
Hyunjin lets the pencil hover above the paper, mind spiraling before a line can take shape. He thinks about what life has become since that day, how much of himself he’s shed without even meaning to. The walls went up first—thick and impenetrable. Then his voice dulled, his laughter disappeared. Now he’s little more than a shell, walking through classes, sketching in silence, waiting for something to stir again. His heart and soul had both left with Changbin, and dance—the one thing that used to save him—feels like a stranger. Colours have bled from the world. Everything looks faded, washed out.
He thinks about the people he’s left behind in the fallout. Minho, Felix—faces he hasn’t seen since that morning in the practice room. Seungmin trying for weeks, messages unanswered. They’d all tried, every single one of them, except the only one he ever truly wanted to hear from.
The memories press heavy as he flips the pencil across the page, too fast, too distracted. The tip tears through the paper, and when he blinks down he realises the whole surface is pockmarked with small dark circles. His tears. He hadn’t even noticed them falling. With a sigh, he rips the page free before he can think better of it, folding it into a tight square and pushing it deep into his bag. He doesn’t want to see what his grief dragged out of him.
When the door opens and voices spill into the room, he straightens, slipping his sketchbook away. The clock ticks louder. He keeps his head bowed as his professor begins talking, words skimming over him in vague instructions. But once the wheel is spinning beneath his palms and the clay pushes back against him, something settles. The motion empties his mind. For a while he just listens—the chatter of his classmates, the scrape of stools, the hum of the motor—and lets his hands shape whatever they want. He even catches himself smiling.
By the time class ends, he lingers as usual, letting the others rush out in a noisy blur. The professor doesn’t mind. Everyone knows Hyunjin waits for the hallways to clear. It’s easier that way.
The library is his next refuge. He moves on autopilot up the stairs to the second floor, past rows of shelves until he finds his spot: section B-3, Historical Art. The books never judge, even when they challenge him, especially the English ones that force him to concentrate harder, learn faster. And there are beanbags tucked away in the corner, soft enough to sink into until the hours slip by.
He’s lost in a thick volume, Art in Theory: 1900–2000, when a tap to his shoulder startles him. He looks up and the tension unravels. Jeongin, smiling.
“Sorry I’m late, hyung,” Jeongin says, cheeks flushed like he rushed to get here. “A friend’s in town for a couple weeks. He needed some help.”
Hyunjin feels the urge to tell him it doesn’t matter, that lateness means nothing when the silence fills him anyway. He only shakes his head and sets the book aside, watching Jeongin settle onto the beanbag opposite. “You don’t ever need to apologise to me,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’m glad your friend’s okay.”
Jeongin’s grin is quick, bright, the kind that could light a room. But it flickers the moment his eyes scan Hyunjin’s face. “You’ve eaten, right?” he asks, too casually.
The question slices straight through him. He shakes his head, trying to keep his expression neutral, but Jeongin’s smile drops away entirely, replaced by that frown Hyunjin has grown to dread. His brows knot tight, his whole body leaning forward with concern.
“You didn’t eat yesterday either.” The words sound heavier than they should, almost like an accusation, but Hyunjin knows better. Jeongin is worried, desperate, and Hyunjin hates himself for putting that look on his face.
“I’m fine,” he lies, softening his voice, as if gentleness will make it true. “I’ll eat later. I promise.”
Jeongin doesn’t flinch, but his eyes say everything. “I don’t believe you.” He sees through every word, every hollow reassurance, and Hyunjin can only look down, guilty under the weight of it.
“Then I’m coming home with you,” Jeongin declares after a beat. His tone has that stubborn edge that Hyunjin has learned not to fight. “We’ll watch Stranger Things. I’ll make bibimbap. And—oh! I found a melon bread recipe. We’re trying it tonight.”
Hyunjin exhales, long and heavy. He doesn’t deserve the warmth Jeongin offers so freely, but he can’t turn it away either. “Anything for you, Jeonginnie,” he says, the words meant as surrender but carrying affection anyway.
The break ends too soon. Jeongin groans about his communications professor always picking on him in class; Hyunjin teases that maybe he should try being less smart. Jeongin flicks his wrist in retaliation. They part ways outside the arts building, Jeongin waving before jogging off.
Hyunjin slips through the doors and his body falls back into its usual armour: arms crossed over his stomach, head bowed, eyes locked on the floor. His mouth shapes automatic apologies whenever he brushes against someone. Sorry. Excuse me. He doesn’t even think about it anymore.
More apologies slip from Hyunjin’s mouth as he winds his way through the corridor, his body already softening at the thought of his canvas waiting for him. Just the blues and greys, the shimmer of reflected sky—that’s all he wants to think about. That, and the silence of the room when the brush first touches the surface.
“Hyunjin-ah? Is that you?”
The voice freezes him in place. He doesn’t need to turn to recognise it, but he does anyway, head lifting just enough to meet Chan’s gaze down the hall. The older boy is smiling, though it’s a worn kind of smile, tinged with sorrow.
Hyunjin swallows, words fumbling out before he can stop them. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong person.” He wants to move, to escape, but his body refuses.
Chan ignores the feeble deflection, stepping closer with warmth in his tone. “I’m so happy to see you. Jeongin said I might find you here.”
Hyunjin’s stomach twists. Jeongin. Of course. His jaw tightens as he stares at the floor, wishing he could will the tiles to swallow him. Why hadn’t Jeongin warned him? And what was Chan even doing here, at his university, at his classroom door?
“What do you want, hyung?” The words come out sharp, clipped.
Chan’s steps are careful as he closes the distance, and the sight of him up close is enough to prick tears into Hyunjin’s eyes. He blinks hard, refusing to let them fall. He’s cried enough already—he’s exhausted of it. And yet the flood of emotion is undeniable: the ache of seeing a friend he once leaned on, the stab of remembering why it hurts to see him now.
“I never got to say goodbye,” Chan says gently. “And you never showed up for your performance that night.”
Hyunjin’s eyes roll before he can stop them, the motion so sharp it almost stings. “That’s not why you came here.” His voice is flat, defensive.
Chan gives a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right.”
“Then say it. I’m going to be late for class.”
The coldness in his tone seems to catch Chan off guard, but he recovers, reaching into the bag strapped across his chest. When his hand emerges, he’s holding two tickets. “These are for you and Jeongin. We’re in town for a show, and I wanted to invite you. They’re backstage passes too, for the weekend. You don’t have to come both nights.”
Hyunjin stares at the slips of paper, torn between the urge to snatch them and the urge to rip them apart right here. He thinks of Jeongin, how much he’d want to see the others again. He thinks of himself, how much he doesn’t.
“I don’t listen to music anymore,” he mutters finally. “So it’s not really my place. I’ll give them to Innie.”
The confusion on Chan’s face is immediate. “What do you mean you don’t listen to music anymore? How do you even—how do you dance without music?”
“I don’t dance,” Hyunjin says, shoulders shrugging like the admission costs him nothing, though it carves another hollow into his chest. He’s grateful, at least, that Jeongin hadn’t told Chan about the transfer, the switch of majors. That secret was his alone to hold.
Chan tries for lightness, but it falls flat. “Don’t joke around like that.”
Hyunjin’s gaze lifts, sharp and unflinching. “I’m not joking. Music’s meaning left when Changbin did.” The words land like broken glass.
The hallway is emptying around them, students drifting away to their classes. Hyunjin knows he’s cutting it close. He never lets himself be late, and today won’t be the first.
He plucks the tickets from Chan’s hand and slides them into his pocket, voice detached. “I’ll pass these to Innie. Enjoy your time in Daegu, hyung.”
He moves past without looking back, leaving Chan rooted in the corridor, eyes full of a sadness Hyunjin doesn’t want to see.
Later, in front of his easel, Hyunjin finds his hands refusing him. Every stroke falters. Every colour feels wrong. His painting twists into something unrecognisable, and all he can think about is Chan—Chan showing up here, Chan dragging the past back into the room with him. And Jeongin too, for leading him straight to Hyunjin in the first place.
Frustration boils over. He drops the brush, steps back. It’s hopeless today. The canvas can wait. He dismisses himself quietly, slipping from the room. The walk back to his dorm is short, but the weight in his pocket makes every step feel heavy. The tickets burn like they’re searing straight through the fabric, leaving him raw all over again.
When Jeongin shows up later, the knock on the door is too soft to be a warning. Hyunjin doesn’t even lift his head from the couch cushion, body weighted down with a fatigue that feels older than he is. By the time the younger slips inside and closes the door behind him, Hyunjin is too drained to summon anger, though the question still tumbles out.
“Why did you tell Channie-hyung where my class was?” His voice is flat, almost fragile.
Jeongin freezes halfway across the room, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing before he stammers, “I—”
Hyunjin waves a hand, the effort of irritation too much to hold onto. “I’m not mad. I just wish you’d given me some warning.”
That loosens something in Jeongin. He drops to his knees by the couch, folding himself against Hyunjin like a child, forehead pressing to the older’s leg. His words come muffled at first, desperate. “I’m so worried about you, Jinnie. I thought he could help.”
Hyunjin shifts his hand automatically into the boy’s hair, the gesture instinctive, soothing, though he keeps his face turned toward the wall. “I appreciate the sentiment, Innie. But I’m fine as I am.”
The words sound empty even to him.
Jeongin jerks upright, red-eyed, his cheeks streaked already. “But you’re not!” His voice cracks on the denial. “You barely eat, you don’t talk to anyone except me and the school’s counsellor. You stopped dancing. You haven’t spoken to any of them in months and they all miss you so much. You’re—” he chokes, fists curling helplessly against his knees, “you’re hurting yourself because you won’t talk back.”
Hyunjin blinks slowly, lashes damp, throat tight. He lifts a hand to brush away the boy’s tears, and his own mouth twists in a sad curve. “I never meant to make you upset, Jeongin.”
“I’m upset for you.” The words ring sharp, cutting. “What Changbin-hyung did was wrong, but you didn’t need to cut everyone else off. They could have helped you. They still can.”
The silence that follows feels heavy. Hyunjin drags his gaze toward the side table, where his phone sits facedown. One small movement could unlock the screen. One small act could open the group chat with Minho and Felix, their names still sitting there untouched. He imagines typing something, anything, and imagines the way their replies would pour in, bright and immediate.
He thinks about Seungmin, about the stubborn one-sided stream of dog pictures that still arrive every few days, like the boy is determined to anchor Hyunjin to the world even if he never answers. His chest tightens.
And then Jisung. He hasn’t scrolled back through their chat since leaving, but tonight his thumb swipes almost on its own, past walls of memes stacked like bricks, past the voice notes that clutter the thread. Jisung never liked texting—“It’s like writing essays,” he used to whine—and so it’s his voice that fills the room now, grainy through the speaker.
A recording from two weeks after Hyunjin left spills out, tremulous and small. “Come back. Or at least… say something. Please.”
Hyunjin’s breath stutters. Jeongin’s hand finds his and grips tight, like he knows the sound alone is enough to shatter him.
He scrolls half-heartedly through his chat with Chan, the last messages waiting there like a hand he never reached for. The eldest had worried when Hyunjin went quiet, but the tone had stayed gentle—reassuring him that however long it took, they would still be there. No pressure, no demands. Just patience.
He doesn’t open Changbin’s thread. He can’t bring himself to. Even the idea of it makes his chest constrict, because whether the chat is filled with unsent words or left empty altogether, both possibilities are unbearable.
“Come with me tomorrow,” Jeongin says suddenly. His voice is steadier now, though his hands are clenched together in his lap. “Not to the concert—I know Channie-hyung gave you tickets. Just… come with me to see them after classes. Please.”
Hyunjin turns his head, studies him. “Nothing can change your mind on this?”
Jeongin shakes his head, resolve shining through exhaustion. “Do this for me and I’ll never ask you for anything again.”
Hyunjin leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as his breath drags unevenly through his lungs. One more time, he tells himself. Only for Jeongin. Guilt churns low in his stomach; the boy has spent months orbiting him, sacrificing his own friendships to keep Hyunjin from collapsing completely. The least he can do is try.
His throat tightens as he swallows. “I’ll do it. But only for you.”
The look Jeongin gives him in return is all too knowing, a flicker of light through the heaviness. “You can pretend it’s for me if you want. But I know you miss them too. This is for both of us.”
Hyunjin forces a small smile. “Sure, Jeonginnie.”
Already he feels drained at the thought—classes in the morning, and then the impossible weight of seeing familiar faces again after four long months.
“C’mon,” Jeongin says, tugging at his sleeve, voice pitched with forced brightness. “We have bibimbap to order and melon bread to make.”
Hyunjin lets himself be hauled upright, phone already in his hand as he taps through the menu of Jeongin’s favourite restaurant. The boy busies himself at the kitchenette, pulling ingredients from cupboards, humming under his breath like he can keep the dark thoughts away with sheer willpower.
Later, when the dishes are cleared and the apartment has fallen quiet, Hyunjin lies curled on the bed with Jeongin tucked close. Sleep refuses to come. His mind won’t stop spinning circles, anxiety digging its claws in. What if they’re angry with him? What if the silence he kept has broken something too deep to fix? He wouldn’t blame them.
Still, the ache of missing them gnaws sharper than fear. His chest clenches around every memory that surfaces: late-night competitions with Minho and Felix, sand still clinging to their hair from beach trips Chan insisted on whenever homesickness got too loud. Seungmin’s steady company in puppy cafés, their conversations sprawling until hours slipped by unnoticed. Jisung’s chaos, the way they fought like brothers only to dissolve into laughter minutes later, leaving wreckage behind them.
And Changbin. Always Changbin. Brave, bright, impossible to forget. Hyunjin hates how easily the thought of him still cuts deep, how the love remains stubborn even after being abandoned. He hates how much he craves the warmth of arms that once promised never to let go.
A few months aren’t nearly enough to quiet a heart that has been bound for years. He knows that. Knows it as he steels himself for the sight of them all tomorrow, for the way his pulse will stumble when Changbin’s eyes find his. He just hopes—prays—that the bonds they built haven’t been severed beyond repair, that friendship can be stronger than the silence he wrapped himself in.
He squeezes Jeongin closer, shutting his eyes against the storm of images and longing. Tomorrow will come whether he’s ready or not. Tonight, he tries to breathe.
--
Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Hyunjin glances around the small café, each chair and table somehow too bright and too loud all at once. He can feel the tension in his shoulders, the tight knot in his stomach, as though his body remembers the months of silence like a shadow he can’t shake.
Jeongin had skipped his afternoon communications class—“She can’t pick on me if I’m not there,” he’d whispered with that sly grin—and waited outside Hyunjin’s painting class. He knew Hyunjin’s hands wouldn’t cooperate today, not completely, and had left early as well, ready to lend calm and company instead of words.
A gentle tap on his cheek draws him out of his spiraling thoughts. Jeongin’s thumb brushes lightly across the skin there, a small anchor, and Hyunjin swipes his tongue over his cracked lips, wincing. He needs a new habit for when the nerves claw through his chest, a way to stop the trembling.
The bell above the door jingles, and a chorus of voices fills the air. Hyunjin freezes, instinctively searching the entrance, heart clenching; relief washes over him in a slow wave when he sees only a group of high schoolers, laughing and talking too loudly for their own good.
Jeongin’s hand finds his and squeezes, a quiet, grounding reminder that he doesn’t have to face this alone. Hyunjin returns the squeeze, letting his fingers curl around the smaller boy’s without thinking.
Their names are called, and they move to the counter together. Peach iced tea for Hyunjin, iced chocolate for Jeongin. Jeongin insists on snacks, coaxing a small bowl of fresh watermelon, mango, and orange slices onto their table. Hyunjin can only watch him, marveling at how naturally the younger boy moves through the world, even when his own steps feel heavy and unsure.
They’re midway through a heated debate about nothing in particular when the bell above the café jingles again. Hyunjin’s body goes rigid, the air thick with anticipation. The instant he hears the voice—the loud, familiar, impossible voice of Jisung—his chest tightens.
“If we leave here without me trying at least three kinds of cheesecake, I’m going to assume you all hate me,” Jisung says, voice brimming with mock indignation.
The group laughs, Seungmin rolling his eyes and tapping the brunette on the back of his head with that quiet, measured patience that always seems to hold him steady.
Jeongin waves them over, arms wide, and Hyunjin feels that familiar tightening in his chest—the old panic, the fear of confronting all the faces he has missed for months. He waves back, a small, trembling motion, forcing a smile that feels fragile on his lips.
Chan is first, and despite seeing him yesterday, Hyunjin notices the subtle changes. The bags under his eyes, hidden beneath carefully applied makeup, seem deeper somehow. Felix’s hand is intertwined with Chan’s, and the sight cracks a tiny hole in Hyunjin’s defenses. He looks at the younger boy—the freckles, the faint purple in his hair—and feels the weight of every missed laugh, every delayed conversation.
Jisung leans into Minho and Seungmin, his chubby cheeks pulled tight, lips wobbling in that way that used to make Hyunjin laugh. Minho’s eyes are sharp, tense, and Hyunjin knows the concern underneath, the worry barely contained. Seungmin looks distant, controlled, but he knows Hyunjin well enough to see the relief buried behind the calm exterior.
And then there’s Changbin.
Hyunjin almost doesn’t want to see him. Part of him is terrified of the truth in those eyes. Does he look as broken as Hyunjin has felt? Or has time hardened him where Hyunjin has only softened?
When his gaze falls, the air in his chest collapses. Changbin’s face is still, reserved, almost like that day, but the depth of the pain, the quiet sadness in his eyes, hits Hyunjin like a physical blow. His shoulders are broader now, his hair swept to the left with an undercut that somehow suits him. For a moment, Hyunjin sees him as he always has: sharp, capable, and achingly familiar.
Chan’s eyes meet Jeongin’s, and the frozen moment breaks. Chan claps his hands, questions flying as everyone settles their orders. Changbin’s gaze leaves Hyunjin’s just long enough to help Chan with the drinks, and Hyunjin feels a tremor of longing and relief sweep through him all at once.
He lets himself breathe as arms wrap around his shoulders, bodies pressing close, hair brushing his face. Felix’s light purple-toned hair, Jisung’s rainbow-painted locks, the familiar warmth and chaos of them all—it’s almost too much.
The floodgates open.
Hyunjin grips Felix and Jisung back, holding on as if by some miracle the months of distance and silence can be erased in one fierce, shaking hug. He missed them—missed all of them—so much it hurts. And he wonders, shamefully, why he ever stopped talking to them at all.
Hyunjin sits back against the booth, fingers wrapped loosely around his peach iced tea, trying to steady his racing heart. The chatter and laughter around him feel almost surreal, like he’s peering into a world he’d voluntarily stepped away from for months. Every smile directed at him, every teasing glance, is both comforting and overwhelming.
Changbin’s eyes flicker to him across the table, cautious but not cold. There’s a weight there, a careful measurement of distance and emotion, and Hyunjin feels it like a physical presence pressing against his chest. He wants to reach out, to say something—anything—but his throat feels raw, his voice brittle, and the words refuse to form.
Instead, he shifts slightly, letting Jeongin rest a hand on his knee under the table. That small touch grounds him, reminding him that he doesn’t have to navigate this alone. He watches as Chan and Jisung banter, Felix giggles on Minho’s lap, and Seungmin’s steady gaze flickers to him occasionally, as if checking that he’s breathing, that he’s still here.
“I… I missed this,” Hyunjin whispers, almost to himself, letting the words slip between bites of melon. He watches the group react—some raising eyebrows, some smiling knowingly—and feels a strange mixture of guilt and relief. They had waited for him. Even after everything, they had waited.
Changbin finally leans slightly forward, his voice low and careful. “You… you really disappeared.” It’s not an accusation, not quite; more a statement, heavy with unsaid words. Hyunjin swallows hard, nodding slightly, heart hammering at the sound of Changbin’s voice after so long.
“I know,” he murmurs, fingers twisting around the edge of the booth, “I… I wasn’t okay. I thought stepping away would… help me.” His voice falters, caught somewhere between apology and confession.
A pause stretches across the table, filled only by the soft clinking of cutlery and Jisung’s indecisive debate over cheesecake flavors. Then Changbin exhales, just slightly, and mutters, “We were worried. But… I get it.”
Hyunjin lets himself exhale too, the tension easing just a fraction. The room doesn’t feel quite so tight, the weight in his chest a little lighter. He glances at Jeongin, whose grin is wide and unshakable, and feels a warmth spread through him.
“You’re here now,” Felix whispers, resting a hand lightly on his forearm, “that’s what matters.”
Hyunjin’s lips twitch into a small, shaky smile. He had been so afraid of this moment—so sure that everyone would be angry, disappointed, or distant—but sitting here, watching them all together, seeing the way they still care, the way they still welcome him, it feels… like coming home.
He’s still nervous. He’s still unsure of how to move forward, still battling the guilt that had plagued him for months. But for the first time in a long while, Hyunjin allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could start to be okay again.
Jisung nudges him, eyes bright, “So… tomorrow, show day. You coming, right? You better be. No excuses.”
Hyunjin nods, fingers brushing against Jeongin’s again under the table. “I’ll be there,” he promises quietly, “I’ll be there for all of you.”
The group erupts into teasing laughter, voices overlapping, and for the first time in months, Hyunjin feels a small spark of something he hadn’t realized he missed so deeply: belonging.
“You are coming to the show, right?”
It's the first time he's heard Changbin's speak in months, his heart doing summersaults at how familiar the gravelly and nasally voice is. It's twinged with uncertainty as he looks up at Hyunjin, his lips pressed together tightly.
Hyunjin hesitates, chewing on the end of his straw again, feeling the weight of Changbin’s presence beside him. The clenching fist, the subtle shift of shoulders—it’s like a silent reminder that despite months of distance, the older boy still cares, still notices every little thing.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” Hyunjin admits quietly, voice barely above the hum of conversation and clinking cutlery. “Not yet. I’m… I’m not sure I can feel it the way I used to.”
Changbin doesn’t say anything immediately. His hand unclenches slightly, though he doesn’t move it away, and Hyunjin feels that tether—the unspoken connection, the familiarity of being understood without words.
Jisung leans over, grin teasing but warm, “Well, you won’t know until you try, right? You’ve got us. And if anyone can pull you back into it, it’s us.”
Hyunjin swallows hard, heart thudding painfully in his chest. He wants to believe it, wants to take comfort in their words, but there’s still a hesitation he can’t shake—the fear that he’ll step in and everything will crumble again, that the missing months will define him in their eyes.
“Ambient noise isn’t the same as silence,” Minho adds softly, resting a hand lightly over Hyunjin’s under the table. “But if you’re willing, even a little, we’ll be there. We’ll help you feel it again.”
Hyunjin’s lips press together, blinking rapidly as he tries to hold back the rush of emotion. He glances at Changbin again, still avoiding his eyes, and suddenly the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“I… I’ll try,” he says finally, quiet but determined. “Just… don’t push me too fast, okay?”
Changbin finally looks up, eyes dark but soft, and gives a small nod, just enough for Hyunjin to see the flicker of relief in them. “I won’t. We’ll take it slow.”
Jisung whoops, grabbing a forkful of cheesecake, “Slow or not, you’re coming to the show tomorrow. No arguments.”
Hyunjin exhales, a small, shaky laugh escaping him. The warmth of the group around him, the steady reassurance from Jeongin at his side, the quiet understanding from Changbin—it’s overwhelming, but in the best way possible.
For the first time in months, Hyunjin allows himself to imagine a night filled with laughter, music, and the people he’d missed more than he could ever admit. Maybe, just maybe, the weight of the past few months doesn’t have to define him anymore.
The afternoon flies by, the group catching Hyunjin up on everything he had missed during his radio silence. Minho and Felix had both started part-time jobs teaching dance classes, and Seungmin’s Instagram had blown up after a few of his photographs went viral.
Jeongin chimes in about his insufferable communications professor. “Maybe you should try not being so smart,” Seungmin jokes, earning a soft laugh from Hyunjin between bites of fruit.
“You’re still studying dance, Hyuni?”
Hyunjin shakes his head, glancing at Chan and silently thankful that his friends respected his privacy. “I’m majoring in traditional arts and minoring in sculpting.”
“How come? You love dancing!”
“It’s hard to choreograph when music sounds like static from a TV,” he shrugs, finishing his drink.
A beat of silence passes before Felix claps his hands, drawing everyone’s attention. “I bet your art looks beautiful, Jinnie! You have to show us sometime,” he says, beaming.
Hyunjin smiles, nodding at the embodiment of sunshine beside him.
“It’s getting late—we need to head back soon for soundcheck,” Chan announces, checking his phone and replying to a text from their manager.
The group gathers their trash and returns the trays to the counter. Jisung shyly orders a strawberry ade and another slice of chocolate cheesecake to go.
As they walk down the sidewalk, they reach the corner where they must part ways. Hyunjin is relentlessly persuaded to rejoin the group chat, and Felix makes him redownload Instagram. “Just so you can look at Seungmin’s photography, of course!”
Another group hug ensues, tight enough that Hyunjin can feel his bones press together, and for a moment, he swears he hears his lungs screaming for air.
“Don’t be a stranger, Jinnie,” Jisung calls over his shoulder as Minho locks hands with him and they head toward the club where 3RACHA is soundchecking.
Hyunjin waves, already mentally preparing to decompress at the dorms after such an exhausting day. Jeongin walks a few steps ahead, absorbed in his phone and the flurry of silly messages from Seungmin and Jisung.
Footsteps pound behind him, and a tentative tap on his shoulder confirms his suspicion.
Turning, he finds Changbin, cheeks flushed, staring up at him. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll wait for you up ahead,” Jeongin says, pausing, sensing the tension.
Changbin takes Hyunjin’s hand, warm and firm in his own. “C’mon, I think there’s a park a couple blocks away,” he murmurs, seeking silent permission.
Hyunjin texts Jeongin to go home, assuring him he’ll be fine, and follows Changbin as they walk through the park gate, their hands laced together. They settle onto a vacant bench beneath the streetlights, the city’s hum distant around them.
Changbin doesn’t let go. “You don’t wear rings anymore,” he observes softly.
“I don’t do a lot of things I used to anymore,” Hyunjin admits.
Changbin’s eyes hold his, vulnerability flickering behind the familiar intensity. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Hyunjin shifts on the bench, tugging his knees closer to his chest, letting the warmth of Changbin’s hand seep into him. The streetlights cast soft pools of golden light across the empty park, illuminating the faint glimmer in Changbin’s eyes as he watches him carefully. Neither speaks for a long moment, just letting the quiet hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog fill the space between them.
“I… I don’t know where to start,” Hyunjin whispers finally, voice trembling slightly. He twists his fingers in his lap, avoiding Changbin’s gaze. “It’s… everything’s been so messed up. I didn’t know how to… how to deal with anything.”
Changbin squeezes his hand gently, thumb brushing along the back of Hyunjin’s hand in slow, measured circles. “You did what you needed to do to survive,” he says softly. “I won’t pretend to understand it all, but I get that you had to take care of yourself.”
Hyunjin swallows hard, nodding, though tears threaten to spill again. “I… I thought… leaving would make it easier. For everyone. For me. I thought if I just… disappeared, it would hurt less.” His laugh is bitter, almost broken. “It didn’t. None of it helped.”
“I know,” Changbin murmurs, voice low, almost a caress. “I know it didn’t. But you’re here now. That’s what matters. You’re… still here.” He tilts his head slightly, eyes searching Hyunjin’s, steady and soft. “I don’t care about the months you were gone. You’re here, and that’s enough for me. It’s more than enough.”
Hyunjin lets out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I thought I could protect myself by staying away… but I just… I missed you. I missed all of you. Every single day.” He glances down at their hands, fingers still intertwined, the weight of Changbin’s presence grounding him. “I hated that I couldn’t even… tell anyone. I hated that I was so… weak.”
“You weren’t weak,” Changbin says firmly, leaning closer just a little, voice unwavering. “You were scared. You were hurt. And you survived. That’s not weakness, Hyunjin. That’s… that’s strength. I swear, you’re stronger than you know.”
Hyunjin’s lips tremble. He lets his head fall toward Changbin’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin. “I… I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for disappearing,” he murmurs, voice muffled.
“You don’t have to,” Changbin whispers, tilting his head so he can press a gentle kiss to the top of Hyunjin’s head. “I don’t need you to forgive yourself. I just… need you to know I’m here now. That I’ll stay. I’ll stay, no matter what.”
Hyunjin inhales sharply, letting the tension drain from his shoulders, a small, trembling sigh escaping him. “I… I missed this. Being near you,” he admits softly. “Even when it hurt… even when I was mad at you…”
Changbin hums, a low, warm sound that makes Hyunjin’s chest ache with relief and longing. “I missed you too. More than I thought I could handle. And I… I’m sorry. For everything I did. For leaving you behind, for not… being there when you needed me most.”
Hyunjin lifts his head slightly, eyes glimmering in the soft light. “I still… I still love you,” he says, almost in a whisper, voice breaking. “Even after everything. I can’t stop.”
Changbin’s gaze softens, emotion flickering across his features before settling into something steady, resolute. “And I love you,” he says simply, firmly. “I always have. And I always will. You’re not alone anymore, Hyunjin. Not ever.”
They sit in silence for a long while after that, letting the words linger between them, letting the quiet settle like a balm. Hyunjin leans fully against Changbin now, his head resting lightly on his shoulder, fingers still entwined. The tension in his body softens, his heart finally catching its breath. For the first time in months, he feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be—seen, held, and somehow, slowly healing.
“Jeonginnie told us he was taking care of you,” Changbin says quietly, voice low but firm, his eyes never leaving Hyunjin’s. “That being said, I’m going to be bothering you for a long time about taking care of yourself. Don’t think I didn’t notice how skinny you’ve gotten.”
Hyunjin swallows hard, chest tight, and suddenly blurts out, voice wet as he sniffles, “I’m still mad at you.”
Changbin hesitates for a moment, his hand reaching up to brush some hair behind Hyunjin’s ear. “And I’m going to apologise to you every day,” he says gently. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I mean it.”
Hyunjin blinks, voice trembling as he looks at him, “Can you play me a demo?”
Changbin’s lips twitch into a small, incredulous smile. “Thought you didn’t listen to music anymore?”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes, sniffling again, “Play your damn music, Hyung.”
Changbin’s eyes soften, the corners crinkling as he reaches into his bag, pulling out his phone. He taps a few buttons, and the quiet hum of the demo begins to fill the air, low and gentle at first, barely louder than the distant cars.
Hyunjin closes his eyes, letting the sound wash over him, each note reverberating through his chest. It isn’t just music—it’s Changbin, it’s them, it’s a bridge back to the life he’d been shutting out for months. His fingers loosen slightly around Changbin’s hand, letting the warmth anchor him.
“You… it’s still… it’s still you,” Hyunjin murmurs, voice small, awed. He swallows, unable to stop the lump in his throat. “Even with everything… it’s still you.”
Changbin squeezes his hand gently, leaning just a fraction closer so their shoulders touch. “I never left, Jinnie,” he says softly, voice rough with emotion. “Even when you couldn’t see me, I was here. And I always will be.”
Hyunjin lets out a shaky breath, resting his head against Changbin’s shoulder. “I don’t want to be… afraid anymore. I want… I want to feel this. Everything.”
“Then feel it,” Changbin murmurs. “I’ll play it as long as you need, Hyunjin. I’ll be here as long as you need.”
Hyunjin lifts his hand slowly, brushing his fingers along Changbin’s jaw, the connection tentative but grounding. The demo plays on, slow and deliberate, carrying with it the unspoken words, the apologies, the longing, and the promise that, finally, they could begin to heal together.
He lets himself sink into it, into the music, into Changbin, into the warmth and presence that he thought he had lost forever.
“What's it called?” Hyunjin asks as the last notes fade.
“If,” Changbin replies softly.
“And it’s not finished yet?” A small sound escapes from the back of his throat, an almost inaudible sigh, but it’s enough for Hyunjin to understand. “Another one, please,” he presses, trying to coax more from his best friend.
Changbin pauses, scrolling through his phone with a thoughtful frown. His hand hovers over a track, and Hyunjin can’t resist the playful urge bubbling up inside him. With a gentle press, he taps Changbin’s thumb to start the song.
Changbin stops it almost immediately, eyes meeting Hyunjin’s, unreadable and intense. “This demo only has a first verse and a hook,” he says quietly.
Hyunjin nods, watching him carefully. “I want to hear it anyway.”
A conflicted expression crosses Changbin’s face, a silent battle waging in his dark eyes. He swallows and finally lets the music play. “I started this a few days after I left,” he admits, voice low. “I’ve been meaning to finish it… but it didn’t feel right without seeing you.”
Hyunjin feels the weight of the words settle between them. He glances down just in time to feel his phone vibrate—a text from Jeongin asking if he’s okay. A quick reply, and then his attention snaps back to Changbin.
“My mother wants me home,” he teases lightly, showing the phone with a crooked grin.
“Can’t keep him waiting then,” Changbin murmurs, but there’s a softness in his tone that belies the tension in his shoulders.
“You have a soundcheck to get to,” Hyunjin says, pretending nonchalance, “I’d hate for Channie-hyung to be mad because you decided to kidnap me to a park in a city you’ve never been to before.”
Changbin leans closer, gripping his hand tighter. “I’m sure they won’t miss me much. I’d rather be here with you anyway.” They stand, and without another word, Changbin pulls him into a tight hug. One hand slips under Hyunjin’s beanie to hold the back of his neck, the other wrapping around his waist. “I missed you so much… I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
Hyunjin hugs him back, the warmth and familiar scent almost overwhelming. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you just yet,” he admits, voice muffled against Changbin’s shoulder. “You really hurt me, Binnie.”
“I know,” Changbin says, his voice thick with emotion, “but I meant it when I said I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I’ll never leave you behind again.”
Hyunjin rests his head atop Changbin’s hair, letting himself be anchored by the presence he’s missed so desperately. His heart swells with relief and longing, but a quiet voice in his head reminds him not to let himself get swept away too fast.
Pulling back slightly, he taps Changbin on the shoulder, signaling it’s time to part. He feels the reluctance in the shorter boy’s grip on his waist, hesitant to let go.
“Don’t forget to read the letter, please,” Changbin murmurs, a faint quiver in his voice.
“I will,” Hyunjin promises, his own voice firm despite the flutter in his chest.
They walk back through the park, hands brushing until the path opens to the familiar streets and the café where they’d met earlier. At the corner where their groups had parted, they pause, giving each other a long, lingering look. Both smile, a quiet understanding passing between them, and then Hyunjin turns and disappears around the corner, out of sight.
He navigates the campus with newfound energy, taking every shortcut he can find, eager to get back to his dorm. The stairs become a blur beneath his feet, three at a time, the anticipation of tomorrow and the reconnection with his friends propelling him forward.
By the time he reaches his room, his chest is still racing, but his heart feels lighter than it has in months. He exhales, sinking onto his bed, the memory of Changbin’s hand in his lingering warmth in his own.
The door to his apartment clicks shut behind him, and Hyunjin’s long legs carry him straight to his bedroom, stopping in front of his closet. He slides it open and reaches for a book he hasn’t touched since moving in.
Sitting on his bed, he carefully opens the thick volume, not wanting the pressed flowers inside to fall. He can’t bring himself to throw them away—they were Changbin’s bouquet, their favourite blooms arranged together: cherry blossoms cradling red and white roses, dozens of mabel tulips. Looking at them still stings, but there’s joy there too.
He lifts the small jewellery box hidden in a cut-out section of the pages. Pressing the little button, he unlocks it, revealing the silver bracelet inside. His memory drifts: the first time he’d seen it, pointing at it to Felix in a shop window. It would have matched the bracelet he’d given Changbin for Christmas the year before.
Hyunjin guesses Felix must have mentioned it to Changbin—he doesn’t remember ever showing it himself.
Sliding it onto his wrist, he smiles at the familiar, comforting weight of the silver.
He places the jewellery box on the bedside table and turns on the lamp, returning his attention to the book. Lifting the glued pages, he finds the envelope he’d taped inside.
His eyes trace the words on the page. His lips wobble, and he sighs, frustrated at crying again—but this time it’s relief, happiness, and joy he hadn’t thought he would feel again. He wipes at his eyes, and just then, a message from Changbin pops up. Without thinking, his hands move before his brain catches up: unlocking his phone, opening the chat, heart beating fast.
Changbin
Sorry to seem eager.
I just wanted to know if you thought about the tickets to the show?
It’s okay if you still aren’t sure.
I don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to.
sily - 43.6mb
Me
I’ll be going
I can’t let you all leave me again without seeing you guys perform live
Anyway, they’re FREE too, I would be a fool to not go
Changbin
Never going to leave you again.
I’m going to annoy you every day.
You’re stuck with me, and I’ll give you all the free tickets you want, even if Hyung tells me no.
Hyunjin giggles at his phone, imagining Changbin’s determined face in his head. Maybe he will ignore the voice in the back of his head, after all. He is still hurt, yes, but he also can’t deny how just seeing his friends again made him feel.
Changbin
Wait
Don’t listen to the file I sent you
The file is suddenly deleted from their chat.
Me
How come?
Give it back!
Binnie (∩︵∩)
Changbin
I’ll see you on Saturday, I have a song to finish
Go to sleep, Jinnie-ah, I’ll text you in the morning
Me
σ( •̀ω•́ )σ
Fine, goodnight Hyung
Changbin
Goodnight Hyuni
Hyunjin puts the note back in the envelope, making sure all of the flowers are still pressed in their pages.
Changbin
Wait
Do you still collect movie stubs?
Me
I haven't been to see a movie in a while
I still have all of our stubs
Changbin
Go see a movie with me tomorrow?
Me
What about your song?
Changbin
Channie-hyung and I are staying up all night to make sure we finish it
Before I take you out to watch a movie
:)
Me
Please look after yourself
And channie-hyung too
Changbin
Yes morher
Morher*
MOTHER**
Meet me at the café tomorrow after classes
Me
Yes hyung
What are you taking me to see?
Changbin
It's a surprise for us both
Goodnight hyunjinnie
Me
Goodnight Binnie-hyung
Changbin
Wait
Me
My last class finishes at 2:30
Btw
I read the note
Changbin
Okay
Got it
Goonidght
Goodnight*
sily - 43.6mb
The file downloads, and Hyunjin slips his headphones over his ears. The first notes hit him, quiet at first, but there’s something immediately familiar—the tone, the rhythm, the rawness of Changbin’s voice.
He closes his eyes, letting the sound wash over him. Every word lands like it’s meant just for him, every inflection, every pause. He hears the confessions in the lyrics—the apologies, the declarations, the ache of someone who knows they’ve lost time and wants it back. The words echo the letter Changbin had given him, the pressed flowers, the bracelet, the park—they all come flooding back, crystallised into this moment.
His chest tightens, a trembling ache spreading through his ribs. He wants to reach for Changbin, to tell him it’s okay, to let him in again, but the phone is still in his pocket, silent. His stomach twists and his throat burns as he swallows hard, eyes fluttering shut. The vulnerability in Changbin’s voice—the way he sings the longing and regret—makes something inside him ache, something he hasn’t allowed to feel in months.
He replays it, over and over, listening to Changbin’s voice almost crack on the lines that beg for understanding, that beg for forgiveness. He can hear the words he knows Changbin would never say aloud in person, the ones he reserved for him alone, the ones that make his heart pound and ache all at once. Hyunjin clutches the headphones tighter, the edges of the music blending into the pulse in his ears.
By the fifth replay, he’s whispering along without realising, lips moving to the confessions he’d only ever dared imagine hearing from Changbin, mouth dry and voice trembling. The song is a bridge between them, a tether he can hold onto until he can speak again. Every note, every syllable, makes him ache and burn in the most confusingly wonderful way.
Finally, his fingers shake as he takes out his phone. He can’t wait any longer. He dials Changbin, heart hammering, stomach twisting with anticipation and fear, and then presses send.
“Jinnie?”
“Did you mean it?” he asks, heart thudding.
A pause, a breath that he can hear through the speaker. “I wish I had told you sooner.”
“I wish you had told me sooner!” Hyunjin snaps, voice sharp despite himself. “You can’t just tell me you love me in a letter and leave me! We’ve both been hurting because your head is so thick!”
“Hey, well, you could’ve said something too!” Changbin’s voice rises defensively.
Hyunjin rolls his eyes, a small laugh escaping. My actions were obvious enough, he thinks. “If he already knows how I feel…”
Changbin sighs. “Actually, it took Chan and Felix cornering me for me to finally realise. I didn’t want to think I was reading into it all wrong.”
“You are the dumbest smart person I know.”
A laugh from Changbin, warm and low, fills the line. “You’ve got me there. I fucked up, Jinnie. I should have told you before I told you I was leaving.”
Hyunjin feels the sting of those words, bitter but familiar. “What? So we could finally say we loved each other and still leave?”
“No, no,” Changbin hurries. “Before that—way before that. I should’ve told you when I realised I was in love with you.”
“When was that?” Hyunjin whispers, almost afraid to hear the answer.
Changbin hesitates, then remembers aloud: the winter break at the beach, when the rest of their friends were busy or sick, and it was just the two of them walking along the cold sand. Hyunjin’s chest tightens as the memory comes back—the cold wind, the pale moonlight reflecting in their eyes, the small, quiet moments between laughter and errands.
“You fell in love with me because of a meme,” he blurts out, trying to lighten the weight in his chest.
“Absolutely not,” Changbin protests, and Hyunjin can almost see the flush on his face. “I remember thinking about how pretty your eyes looked in the moonlight, how your nose was bright pink from the cold… You were glowing. I fell in love with you, Hyunjin, not some joke.”
Hyunjin laughs softly, pressing the phone to his cheek. “Of course it was cheesy. Of course it was perfect.”
Changbin continues, voice steady now, almost reverent. “I’ve probably been in love with you a long time, I just didn’t know if it was because you’d been my best friend forever. But seeing you now… seeing who you’ve grown into… I can’t stop being proud of you. I regret every day I left without telling you how I felt.”
Hyunjin can’t speak for a moment. Everything he’d feared—heartbreak, rejection—melts under the weight of hearing it straight from Changbin. The ice around his chest loosens slightly, and he lets himself just listen.
“Did I say too much?” Changbin asks, hesitating. “I didn’t mean to unload. We just started talking again, not even two hours ago…”
“Want to hear about when I fell in love with you?” Hyunjin asks softly, almost automatically.
“Please,” comes the quiet reply.
He recounts the night Yeong-gi broke up with him, the horror movies, the ice cream, the little promises. Every memory is laced with embarrassment, laughter, and warmth. With each story, he notices how Changbin’s breaths catch, how he laughs at the right moments, how the phone feels heavier in his hand—not in weight, but in significance.
“And this doesn’t change that I’m still mad at you,” Hyunjin admits, fingers tracing the bracelet on his wrist. “I’m less mad, but I’m still mad.”
“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Changbin says softly.
“I can’t deny I still love you,” Hyunjin whispers, fingers tracing the bracelet on his wrist, heart thudding in his chest. His throat tightens as the words leave him, and for a second, he thinks he might start crying. The silence stretches, soft and full, and he imagines Changbin leaning back, exhaling slowly, maybe running a hand through his hair.
“I never stopped loving you. I tried to get back to you so many times… I would have waited forever if I had to.”
Hyunjin closes his eyes, letting the warmth fill him, the moonlight brushing his skin, the quiet around him heavy and comforting. For the first time in months, he feels safe, understood, and wanted. He whispers Changbin’s name again, softly, because it feels like home.
They fall silent, the kind of quiet that’s heavy but comforting. Hyunjin’s thoughts drift, settling into the warmth that comes from finally being understood, finally being wanted. The moonlight presses against his window, the night silent around him. And for the first time in months, he feels whole again.
--
Hyunjin’s class let out early that afternoon, his professor having had a family emergency, so he made his way to the coffee shop sooner than he needed. The sunlight poured through the front windows, painting the wooden tables and glossy cups in golden warmth. Hyunjin settled into one of the tall bar chairs, his sketchbook and pencils ready, a peach iced tea and a bowl of fresh watermelon and pineapple beside him.
For the first time in months, he felt light, untethered from the fog of loneliness that had clung to him for so long. He let himself watch the streets and the dogs that walked by, their owners laughing and calling out to them, and even found himself smiling at a particularly fluffy cloud that seemed to roll across the sky just for him.
Reaching into his backpack, he instinctively searches for his sketchbook, but instead his fingers close around a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it and recognises the drawing he had made six weeks ago, while waiting for his sculpting class—a pair of hands, pinky fingers interlocked, bracelets dangling from their wrists. He carefully refolds the page and slides it into the front zipper of his bag, a soft grin spreading across his face as he thinks about how far he and Changbin have come since that day.
“Perfect timing,” he murmurs as Changbin approaches, carrying another peach tea and a bowl of fruit, along with his own iced latte. The older boy sits down beside him without a word, a quiet understanding passing between them.
They fall into an easy rhythm, Hyunjin sketching the bouquet of flowers Changbin had bought him—the bouquet that had marked the beginning of a second chance for them both—while Changbin hums softly, tapping out beats on the table and occasionally brushing his thumb over Hyunjin’s hand. The intimacy is gentle, familiar, and yet it carries the weight of all the months they had rebuilt together: the trust they had relearned, the apologies made and accepted, the daily routines and small gestures of care that had grown into something steady and resilient.
They had spent weeks after the cafe reunion catching up properly, sharing their routines, music, sketches, and laughter. Hyunjin had been tentative at first, careful not to let himself hope too much, but Changbin had been patient, giving him space while showing up consistently—texting, calling, dropping by unexpectedly, and staying up late together finishing songs. They had navigated old fears, insecurities, and lingering guilt, learning how to communicate without the cloud of avoidance that had defined their earlier months apart.
“Always so humble, my Hyuni,” Changbin says, glancing down at the sketch. “I’ll have to teach you how to sell yourself well. The art world is full of vultures.”
Hyunjin laughs softly, eyes still on the page. “Please don’t drag me to the gym with you and Channie-hyung. I don’t think I’d suit biceps bigger than my head.”
“I’m all the muscle you need,” Changbin replies, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.
“Always so noble,” Hyunjin teases, biting the end of his straw with a grin. “When I’m a famous artist, I’ll be sure to hire you as my bodyguard.”
“You laugh, but I’d do it for free.”
“You just want an excuse to have your hand on my waist.”
Changbin’s hand rests lightly on Hyunjin’s thigh, his smile confident and warm. “Who says I need an excuse anymore?”
Hyunjin rolls his eyes, but his heart flutters. He loves the quiet way they have settled into each other’s lives again—no rush, no pressure, just the steady accumulation of trust, care, and affection. It isn’t perfect; they are both still learning, still cautious, but every moment like this is proof that they are moving forward.
He remembers the show on that Saturday, the way Changbin had found him in the crowd, how ‘Sorry, I Love You’ had played and the dedication had made Hyunjin’s chest ache with relief and joy. He thinks about the dinners they had shared afterward, the gentle conversations that stretched into the night, the soft, infrequent kisses that were full of tenderness and promise rather than impatience.
“What's got you smiling like that?” Changbin asked, voice teasing, eyes sparkling.
Hyunjin’s grin widened. “Thinking about you.”
“Oh yeah? Do I look good? Did I grow? Are my shoulders wider?”
Hyunjin laughed and tapped his bicep lightly. “You always look good, Binnie. I was thinking about how happy you make me, how thankful I am that you’re back in my life.”
“I’m not easy to get rid of,” Changbin said, his tone softening, vulnerability slipping through.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Hyunjin replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.
And in that quiet afternoon, bathed in sunlight and the gentle murmur of the coffee shop, Hyunjin felt the full weight of their journey—the months of distance, the slow rebuilding, the careful trust, and the newfound certainty that they were here together now, not just as best friends, but as something deeper, something steady, something worth holding onto.
--
Changbin and Hyunjin were always a pair.
From the minute they saw one another again, after months of misunderstanding and heartache, they were a pair—hearts syncing silently in the little moments, smiles catching in the sunlight.
From the day Hyunjin finished university with an art degree and moved to Seoul into the apartment they now shared, close to the museum he had been offered a job at, they were a pair—morning coffees, late-night sketches, music humming softly through the rooms they called home.
From the moment they were asked to be best men at Felix and Chan’s wedding, Hyunjin catching the bouquet Chan tossed with a laugh, they were a pair—joy and warmth wrapping around them like a familiar scarf.
From the weekend they spontaneously wandered into a tattoo parlour and got matching tattoos—a mabel tulip and a red rose curling around each other—Hyunjin’s on his thigh, right where Changbin’s hand always rested, and Changbin’s curling under his peck and up toward his collarbones, the perfect spot for Hyunjin to rest his head while they binge another horror movie from Changbin’s far too large collection.
From the time they walked along the beach at nightfall, hand in hand, Changbin pausing to kneel and propose beneath the stars, they were a pair—steady, certain, and utterly themselves together.
They were constant in one another’s lives, present through first kisses, first parties, first heartbreaks, and, for both of them, first true love.
Changbin and Hyunjin were always a pair, and they would always be a pair they stayed—together, through everything, forever tethered to one another, like the quiet heartbeat of a song they both knew by heart.