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Breathe in.
Breathe out.
It’s difficult, but Jisung is not a coward. Even if it sometimes takes a conscious effort to remind himself of it, he knows he’s not one—the slender boy staring back at him from the mirror being proof of it. He can feel the world slipping from under his feet, every breath getting heavier as his thoughts drift to the same few seconds he’s been trying to bury under the weight of a thousand better ones, but it seems pointless.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
None of it works like it’s supposed to. No amount of exhaling another puff of air does anything to the weight that continues to build within Jisung’s lungs, the heaviness spreading to his limbs as he stands there frozen. No amount of practicing works in Jisung’s favor as he tries to list the five things he can see around, an attempt at bringing himself back to the moment in front of him just like his therapist does with him, but ends up returning to the memory of the same old crowd staring at him. He can almost feel the dryness building at the back of his throat, the glare of anticipation shining down at him just as scorching, if not more, as he remembers it being when he had stepped to the center of the stage.
None of it had worked like it was supposed to.
He had tried to pass it up as a mistake, that maybe he just hadn’t practiced hard enough to remember the exact melody of the verse to have fucked it up on the day of their first comeback performance. That he could just fix it up with a little more hours crouched in the training rooms, back slouched against the soundproof walls that seemed to have a taken a particular enmity towards Jisung’s voice—always reflecting it back a little more coarse and unrefined than he remembered it being. Even if it meant surpassing Hyunjin’s propositions to explore Seoul’s unfiltered beauty at night or dismissing Changbin’s concerned glances at dinner with a boisterous laugh, Jisung could do it all to correct a mistake resulting from regrets.
If it was a mistake resulting from regrets.
Staring in the mirror for a minute longer probably isn’t making it any better for him to breathe, not when the only thing it seems to be reminding him about is the curves of his waist getting leaner and his cheeks hollowing out over the past few months.
Jisung bites down on his lower lip, a choked sob breaking out despite his defenses as he wishes it had been just a mistake he could have laughed about with his members as they walked backstage after the live broadcast. And yet, no amount of wishing allows him to ignore the truth staring down at him as he remembers having spent hours and hours breaking his back to master the performance for as long as he can remember.
He remembers having been in the studio, fingers rubbing back sleep from his eyes as he ignored the burning sensation in the favor of winning a few extra minutes at compositions he has dared to shamelessly claim as only HAN’s. He remembers having collapsed into his bed, his back a sore mess from having fallen asleep against the same training room mirror that had been reflecting back only his lacking compared to everyone else in the room. He remembers losing his voice, all the repeated belting of high notes leaving him with nothing but silence at his disposal, for talking about how exhausted he had been getting. He remembers curling up against Minho’s warm body just the night before, thinking that tomorrow would be the day where he’d get to go to bed with a satisfied grin plastered against his lips. He remembers it all, and he sees it now—in the face of consequences, how none of it had been good enough .
Han Jisung, despite putting his all in, had not been good enough.
He knows he’s not a coward, and he’s definitely not bad at any of this—singing, dancing, sacrificing—but ever so often, it’s the fear of not being good enough which drags Jisung to a deeper low than he has previously managed to escape. He doesn’t feel scared of not being able to do anything that he’s supposed to, because all his life has built up to this; the endless months spent with a fear of never making it past the monochrome walls of the basement always walking in tow with his success. He’s just afraid he’s not going to be able to do it in a way that matches the others standing at his side.
He remembers seeing Chan for the first time in his element—huge sound equipment clutching every corner of the little studio he had created in his own dorm room, the size of it bearing no competition to the bigger dreams breaking out within every beat the older put down. His surprise hadn’t been well concealed at all, the gasp escaping his lips working against his own self to tell the boy smiling down at him that he didn’t think he deserved to have his voice built into any of Chan’s magnificent tracks. He still thinks the older had been too kind to adjust the headphones for Jisung’s smaller fit.
He can almost feel the tears pooling in his eyes, resembling just the way he had their glistening streaks running down his cheeks as Changbin had walked into his room with a birthday cake at midnight. He had been almost forgetting the feeling of home, of being loved and wanted, when the birthday song in Changbin’s mind-numbingly loud pitch had sent his whispering loneliness scattering away. He still thinks the other should’ve gotten him a cheaper cake with all the nights they had spent rambling about expenses.
He doesn’t let himself think of it quite often with all the meaningless fights and childish banters taking the forefront of his past with Hyunjin, but none of it stands in the way Jisung has seen him command every room the moment he walks in. He’s dreamed of having himself a cinematic moment with people fumbling to find words when talking to him, and he’s seen it unfold in front of his eyes with Hyunjin rendering people speechless with a coy tipping of his lips in the right direction. He still thinks Hyunjin’s too humble for letting him soak in the glory of that for all the times they’ve walked side to side.
He can almost remember the bitterness forming at the tip of his tongue, the memory of Seungmin being praised by their vocal instructor with the routinely mention of Jisung’s capabilities being forgotten, burned in the back of his head. He had hated not having claps resounded at his own month-long hard work, and hated it even more that Seungmin had done everything deserving of it. He still thinks Seungmin’s meant to have a better someone at his size, harmonizing with his easy melodies and flawless high-notes better than Jisung’s ever been able to.
He can feel the heat pooling at the back of his neck, as he remembers Felix’s puckered lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek for the ghost of a moment. He had barely done anything to receive it, slumped against the chair in Chan’s studio after he had ushered the other to get some rest, when the freckled boy had walked in unannounced with his hands immediately finding their place within Jisung’s messy locks to tame his exhaustion down. He still thinks his selfish impulses to grasp too much of the other’s glistening hope and love is too much than Felix should allow to someone like him.
His gravitation towards Jeongin had been as instinctual as possible, hands wrapping around the youngest’s delicacy to keep him from harm’s way since the moment he had laid eyes on the innocence hiding away in the other’s sparkling eyes. It had been as simple as walking by Jeongin’s side on their airport runs to be on the receiving end of all shoving and pushing, and sometimes as natural as enveloping the other in a hug to remind him of his growth from a smaller, braced boy to a lively, untethered force many could look up to. He still thinks Jeongin’s too nice to let him play pretend as an older brother when all he has done is probably weigh down the younger with his own baggage of insufficiency.
And then there has been Minho.
Minho. Lee Minho. His Minho hyung.
The struggle of getting himself to breathe doesn’t feel so challenging anymore, as he basks in the feeling of having been left breathless with just the reminder of Minho’s existence. He wants to laugh at himself, for being so pathetic since the moment he had laid eyes on the older—walking into the practice room with the simplest of outfits resembling the blurred artistic displays Jisung had never had the courage to look at straight. And then there had been him to defy all of Jisung’s rules, obviously belonging in a space much greater and worthy than Jisung’s world, who had left him entranced enough to become incapable of pulling away. Years have passed since then, and Jisung still doesn’t deem himself strong enough to have any resolve in matters involving M—.
“Jisungie, what are you doing here alone? Dinner’s getting cold, everyone’s waiting.”
There it is, getting proven again as Jisung struggles to peel his eyes away from Minho’s figure who enters the room ever so gracefully before letting the door close on its own accord.
There’s a crack open enough to allow the sounds of the members’ laughs composed into a single melody to flit through the room. Even though Jisung’s attention would easily find itself entangled in their euphoria at any other time, it is the faint sound of Minho rummaging through the bags thrown across the room that has him focused. The hints of skin peeking through the other’s netted outfit does nothing in his favor, leaving him more and more hypersensitive to Minho’s movements as the older grumbles and sighs about not being able to locate something of his.
Jisung hates his own voice even before he hears it, knowing well enough that the choked sobs are going to leave it colored with coarseness that he always attempts to hide from Minho’s silken worry for him. And yet, he gives in. To the otherworldly, to the deserving. To the one that makes his breath dance around in purest of devotion, and to the one that makes him question the credibility of any other faiths. To his own achilles’ heel, as he walks into the trap knowing well enough it’s going to leave him staggering and stumbling.
Afterall, who is he to deny Lee Minho of anything?
“I’m not hungry, y-you all can go ahead, hyung.”
He wishes it wasn’t so though, because the crack in his voice barely materializes as sound even to his own ears before Minho’s turning around with his guard kicking in. If he were to see the tears pooling within Jisung’s eyes, it wouldn’t even be a heartbeat before he would be crossing the distance between them to have the smaller wrapped in his arms—his lips a faint whisper against Jisung’s irrationality and anxieties. No matter how much he adores them being wrapped around his waist, he still doesn’t think his curves and flaws are deserving for Minho’s hands to embrace.
“What’s wrong, Sung?” he hears Minho say, his footsteps coming to a halt from their stride as he watches Jisung turn away—a hint for some space.
He hates Minho for being respectful enough to put his selfish feelings first even if it has the older biting down on his bottom lip with nervousness. He hates Minho for being so nice to him, to not be selfish enough to put his own concerns first and shake Jisung’s frail figure until he’s spilling out the most pointless of concerns from the deepest corners of his mind.
He hates that Minho gives him space when he asks for it with the subtlest gestures, when all he’s ever done is lose track of the ways in which the older’s eyes crinkle, voice whispers and heart skips a beat when they’re laying in bed with legs a tangled mess—too entranced in the pride of his ability to cause the same.
“Nothing,” Jisung whispers, more to himself than to the older.
It’s a surprise that Minho hears it when Jisung barely registers his disapproving shaking of the head from the corner of his eyes.
“It’s not ‘nothing’. Did something happen? Are you hurt?”
He hates Minho for feigning innocence on his behalf, pretending as if he hadn’t messed up the entire group’s hard work just moments ago. He wishes Minho would snap at him, tell him that he’s done the absolute worst to cause the group a loss none of the members deserved even the slightest of and it only makes things worse when there’s not even the minutest hint of that spite in Minho’s eyes. All they hold is concern and care, worry and love for a boy that Jisung’s been unable to adore throughout his years of reflection.
He hates that Minho’s able to seeing something within him, beyond those hollowed cheeks and skinny arms, and look at him as if he’s the most fucking beautiful thing to admire.
“No, I’m fine,” Jisung clears out his throat, sucking in a deep breath as he weaves around him another layer of lies from the man who makes him feel stripped bare of his defenses. “Just tired.”
It’s a failing attempt even to himself.
“Not eating isn’t going to help with that, Sung. We’ve talked about this before, remember?” Minho patiently mumbles, his voice growing muffled with the sound of rummaging returning. “I packed some cookies before we left, so have a bit of those if you can’t manage an entire meal, yeah?”
He hates that Minho thinks of him, even when they’re waking up to the sounds of blaring alarms at morning hours of the day to brace themselves for an endless run. Minho had been running around the dorm, his screams jolting awake whoever had reluctantly buried their heads under the pillow to drown him out.
But of course, Minho has been undeniable in his presence—always there commanding attention and every speck of people’s thoughts even long after he’s left a room. Jisung doesn’t understand how he manages to make way into Minho’s consciousness, not as a mere face in the crowd but as someone who he willingly walks the extra mile for, packs cookies and snacks for, so routinely that no one even notices the gesture as out of the blue.
“I don’t feel like eating, hyung,” he reiterates, knowing well enough it’s doing nothing in his favor as Minho continues to unwrap the foil as noisily as possible.
As if letting him know that he has no say in this matter, has no power over his own self to be able to actually say no to Minho in any situation even. As if Jisung is nothing if not a slave to his admiration for Minho’s existence—his words, his decisions, his steps and his lips.
His fingers curl into the loosest of fists, because he hates that it’s true.
“Come on, it’s your favorite.”
“Hyung, I don’t want t—” he hates himself for already turning around.
“You barely had any breakfast too, Jisungie. We don’t want you getting sick with the comeback promotions, right?”
“I won’t, so just—” he hates that he doubts himself, wondering if the promotions would go better if he was indeed knocked out in his bed with an excuse of all illness. The others would get to shine to their fullest potential.
“You know what happens if I call Felix in here, yeah? He will start tearing up if he hears you’re refusing to eat the cookies he baked.”
“Please don’t mention i—” he hates himself for having enough power to hurt any of them, when all they do is be the best to him.
“See, we don’t want any of that happening so if you’ll just eat a little. If not these, we’ve ordered a lot outside so see if there’s something to your liking, yeah? Maybe you and I can share—”.
“Fucking hell, hyung can’t you just leave me alone for one moment? I never asked you to babysit me!”
He absolutely, whole heartedly, hates himself and guessing by the way Minho’s hand slackens, dropping to his side with the food in his grip being long forgotten, it wouldn’t be far fetched to say that the older probably does too. His softened gaze, steps aligned in Jisung’s direction, a sympathetic lilt of his lips—all gone, leaving behind a shell that seeming as unfamiliar as Jisung’s voice had sounded to him just a moment ago.
“I’m not fucking babysitting you, Jisung,” Minho speaks, his tone sharpened enough to be defensive against the claims he so vehemently refuses. “I’m making sure you don’t faint in the middle of a fucking performance.”
He knows the answer, knows how ridiculous his side of the argument must sound to Minho’s ears, but it’s difficult enough to lose against the voices in his own head. He can’t have Minho look at him as a stupid little kid too, who just got lucky to be picked by a man that’s the kindest soul he’s ever known and be placed into the hands of people he knows he’d never regret calling his family.
“I get it, all you care about is getting a fucking perfect performance. So don’t worry, I won’t fuck that up even if I have to put my life on the line,” Jisung’s voice is growing louder, and he’s sure that there are ears propped up against the already cracked open door. Yet, he needs Minho to look at him and see someone strong.
“Or would you like it better, if I wasn’t there on the stage to ruin it at all?”
He needs Minho to tell him that he’s ridiculous.
“You know what? Maybe you should consider that, if this is how you’re going to act,” Minho growls, a disapproving glare finding its way to Jisung’s smaller figure. It takes everything in him to not cower, then and there.
“You could’ve just said that the moment we walked off that stage today after I fucked it up,” he knows he’s barely comprehensible, with how the choked sobs are finally escaping his throat unfiltered but he trusts Minho enough to understand him. Even if it’s in a moment where he’s tearing everything down to shreds. “I don’t need your pity or everyone pretending that it didn’t happen. Call me out to my fucking face, Minho.”
“Call you ou—? Okay, sure I’ll do that,” Minho scoffs, in a way that sends shivers running down Jisung’s spine. “I’ll tell you how you’re being an absolutely fucking menace to yourself over something so small and using that to push us—push me —away.”
“It’s not something sm—”.
“I’ll tell you that you, Han Jisung, are being an absolute pain in the ass for pushing yourself so much and not letting yourself be taken care of for once in those moments. I’ll tell you how you’re being an absolute child for thinking that we care about this one performance to question everything we’ve built together with you as Stray Kids. And if you truly think this is all we care about, then maybe we’ve never really gotten to be friends, let alone family.”
Guilt pools up inside Jisung’s stomach, like a weight dragging him down. It’s different from the feeling of being anchored that he usually gets when Minho talks sense into him, tells him of all the stars that are looking over them as they stroll around the lonely streets of Seoul on unplanned nights, sings to him about his cats’ shenanigans, and sits him down to remind him just how well enough he fits into the puzzle that Stray Kids is. It’s a burden, rather than being a comfortable weight, and Jisung has no idea of how to ask for help before he’s crushed without any mercy paid to his fragile self—an identity that he doesn’t know how to define without slipping in mentions of the members.
He wouldn’t know he hated gymming if it hadn’t been Changbin dragging him to one straight for a week. He wouldn’t realize he liked trot if not for Jeongin blasting it through their dorm or breaking out into a song in the middle of their monotonous, lazy days. He wouldn’t know he was capable of feeling a connection stronger than a magnetic pull if he hadn’t found his soulmate in Minho. And he definitely wouldn’t have known that he deserved a family as loving as them if Chan hadn’t patted him down on his back to remind him that Han Jisung mattered in his world and helped him grow into a person that mattered to many more in the crowds unbeknownst to him.
It’s surprising to his own self how he stands there, somehow having broken through all that trust and love being poured into him, despite knowing well enough that it is only his existence as a friend—a confidante, a lover, a brother—to the seven boys at his side that he’s been able to live . The unstable breathing, his shaking hands and freezing skin seems to be an effect well-deserved as he watches that life run out of him as Minho stands at a distance, with hurt glistening in his eyes.
“If that’s the case, then you shouldn’t have to force yourself to put up with me,” Jisung sternly states, hoping that his voice sounds more stable to Minho’s ears than it does to his own.
It’s not his most convincing attempt, he knows that in his heart, but maybe Minho’s anger blinding him to Jisung’s insecurities will let him pass that by. Maybe it’ll allow him to truly see Jisung beyond his ever-present rose-colored glasses, and find in him a boy that hasn’t been worth the stolen glances and whispered confessions they’ve spent years sharing.
God knows Jisung has always seen that version looking back to him, a piercing glare burning into his hopes everytime he dared to think that maybe this time he deserved to have Minho calm his heart.
“You’re right, I won’t,” Minho clenches his teeth, dropping the carefully packed food onto the nearest table. He’s barely looking at Jisung anymore, as he begins walking towards the door, hands clutching the doorknob before his voice returns against the piercing silence for a bare second at best. “I’ll tell the others to save their efforts too.”
Jisung doesn’t care—he doesn’t, because he asked for this.
He asked to be left alone. He asked for Minho to walk out on him. He asked to have the walls close up on him, as he stands there with no one in sight to hold him up. There’s no one worrying about him now, no one watching him.
There’s no one watching over him.
And so Jisung gives in to the trembling that’s been waiting to take him down since what seems like forever. He lets go of all that he’s been holding onto as he turns his back on the mirror in front of him, choosing to collapse on the floor with unrestrained sobs breaking out from his throat. They’re loud, he knows that but he’s too exhausted to have them choke his breaths out now. Afterall, Minho promised he would tell the others to keep their distance and that can only mean something good.
Right?
Jisung doesn’t understand though, why it doesn’t feel liberating to finally allow the tears to spill from his deepest, buried hurt. He’s been waiting to let go since the stinging feeling hit him on the stage, and it’s been hours since then. Yet, the only thing which grips him harder with every teardrop rolling down his cheeks is another pang of hurt, twisting and turning in his stomach till he’s ready to curl upon himself into an indistinguishable ball of regrets and a sorry excuse of a human. It’s all there is to that moment—no sigh of relief hiccuping through his throat, and only a familiar darkness as he closes his eyes before hugging his knees as close as possible.
It’s a shame that they don’t feel as soft as Minho’s caresses.
He knows he shouldn’t be crumbling so easily, not when a manager or member could walk in any second and know that his claims about getting better had been false. Even if in his heart Jisung has known them to be false, he can just dispel it away with an excuse—say that it’s just for the day that the voices got too loud. He isn’t too sure if Chan would believe him, but he thinks he’ll put on an act convincing enough to fool Felix. He trusts Jisung too much for his own good, even though Jisung hasn’t been able to put a finger down on the exact reason why.
He hasn’t been able to understand why crowds go wild for a look of him, when he stands there looking at the same person in the mirror every night only to find a disheveled and lost soul. The question hasn’t been a secret, not after he had verbalized it out loud in a drunken daze and comfort of Minho’s hands wrapped around his waist—tight enough to leave him accounted for, even if the world was to crash then and there. It’s a pity that the same unbarricaded consciousness of his had decided to give out at that moment, something along the lines ‘You’re—’ finding its way to him before the words turned into an incomprehensible string of lullabies. He wishes he could’ve heard Minho through and maybe, just maybe , he would have heard something believable for a second.
If only he could have Minho right now by his side, maybe he would dare to ask aga—.
“You’re enough,” he hears Minho’s voice muffled into his hair even before he registers the arms wrapped around his shoulders from the side.
Jisung jolts up in surprise at the sudden contact, knowing well enough he would have sent them both stumbling if it hadn’t been for Minho’s strength to stabilize their bodies pressed close. He hates that Minho’s taller because when he opens his eyes, it’s into the golden fabric of the other’s outfit with no hint of his reassuring smile or forgiving gaze shining down at the boy crumbling into him. Yet, the way Minho’s grip around Jisung’s shaking figure tightens upon hearing another sob, allows him to reaffirm himself that it must be there—allowing himself to unabashedly bury himself deeper.
”You’re enough for me, Jisungie,” Minho repeats, fingers now running up and down Jisung’s back in a reassuring manner. ”You’re enough for us, for Stray Kids.”
Jisung wants to disagree, and Minho must know that too because he doesn’t give him a chance to speak as he continues.
”You don’t have to try to be perfect or like anyone else for us to want you with us, Sung,” Minho whispers, pressing the ghost of a kiss atop Jisung’s head. ”Han Jisung is all we care for, is the one we love as a friend—is the one I love more than anything I can remember—even if on some days it’s the version that’s fucking up a melody on stage. It’s nothing but a part of the Jisung we love, nothing more, nothing less.”
An overwhelming surge of adoration finds its way to Jisung, as he fights against the urge to crash his lips against Minho’s right then and there. It’s so easy when it’s been years since he’s handed his heart to this person in front of him—so beautiful and kind—without him missing a single day and again to show Jisung that it’s the best decision he’s ever made. All that he sees is a home, a safe haven protecting him from harm’s way even if it means pushing aside Jisung’s own faculties that prove to be too cruel to his own mind.
And yet, what breaks out of him is a question he just can’t put down with the guilt that sticks to every bit of warmth that courses into him through Minho’s soothing touch.
“Why did you come back?”
Minho’s monologue comes to a screeching halt, so does his fingers tracing patterns, as he withdraws for a moment brief enough to only allow Jisung a peek at the other’s eyes. Starry, just like he remembers them being.
“What do you mean?” he hears Minho mumble, as the other readjusts his hold on Jisung’s body all the while making himself more comfortable on the floor.
“You left,” Jisung whispers, his voice growing smaller as he dares to place a hand on Minho’s arm—scared, as if the reminder would make the older snap out of his daze and walk out again. “I made you leave.”
What he doesn’t expect is a soft chuckle to escape Minho’s lips, the sound vibrating against his own stillness.
“I never left,” Minho softly begins, as if afraid of startling Jisung. “How can I ever leave you, my love?”
“I won’t lie to you, Jisungie, and say that it was easy for me to walk back to you,” Minho calmly continues, taking Jisung’s attempts at breathing an incentive to continue with honesty. “It’s difficult for me to try and tell myself that you probably didn’t mean when you said you didn’t want me around. As much as I hate it, sometimes this stupid head of mine gets to me too—tells me that there might be a chance that you meant it, that maybe I had pushed you to the edge and maybe it would indeed be better if I was to leave you alone.”
It’s funny how those thoughts mirror so much of Jisung’s own, as he traces back Minho’s words straight to the traces of doubts in his own head and finds a perfect match. It’s funny, yet liberating, because it allows Jisung to find another part of his own self in the world beyond—telling him that he’s not the only one plagued by the battles underground. He just wishes he would have paid them more mind, to fight for Minho’s sake on the frontlines whenever he’s struggled to do that himself.
“I’m sorry, I could never mean that, you know that right?” Jisung chokes out, hands fisting the fabric of Minho’s clothes and anchoring him. A plea, to trust his touch more than the words before. “I don’t know what makes me get in my head, hyung, for me to doubt that you don’t want me around. But please trust me when I say, none of that is enough to make me forget how I always need you here with me.”
“I know, even though I might’ve forgotten it for a second myself with those moments of anger getting the best of me,” Minho smiles, tight-lipped. “But it’s a relief that I’ve never been strong enough to leave you, Sung. That always brings me back to the correct reminders.”
A whine escapes Jisung’s lips as he feels Minho withdraw, the newly-put distance between them seeming too daunting and freezing as he registers the older’s words without fighting their impact. They’re as honest as he’s heard Minho be, and it would be a crime to try to question their integrity, as if Jisung’s ever capable of it when he’s always been a prey to their sincerity.
Minho’s hands are now cradling Jisung’s face, as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. And the look—the look in Minho’s eyes—as he presses a featherlight kiss to Jisung’s forehead tells him that he wouldn’t be wrong to assume such.
“This heart of mine, right here? It’s so irrevocably and unquestionably in love with you that I’ve left it to grow in every piece of you. It’s there with you, in every tear that falls from your beautiful eyes,” Minho says, pressing a kiss right above the dark circles Jisung spends hours hiding under layers of pretense.
“It’s there in every breath you take,” Another kiss onto the tip of his nose. “In every shy smile that you can’t hide well enough,” One on the tip of his lips.
“In every word that you speak to me,” Minho breathes out, hovering over Jisung’s lips with such closeness that just a light tipping of his head would send him crashing against the other.
It’s still a wonder to Jisung how the anticipation of it leaves Jisung completely breathless, watching him come undone and patch up his wounds all at the same time as Minho finally dares to press a brief, soft peck to close the distance.
“How dare you think that I’d leave when all I know is to live through you, Sung?”
Jisung can’t tell if what leaves him after that is another trail of tears or a smile brighter than the daylight he imagines Minho to embody—it’s a blur, even to himself—but he trusts Minho. He trusts the older to make sense out of the mess, and see it for himself; the absolute gratitude and love that blooms through Jisung’s being as he tries to stabilize himself within the expanse of Minho’s reflection.
Staggering, yet much worthy.