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Mingi leaned over the sink, watching drops of water gather at the tips of his hair and hit the porcelain.
The mirror was fogged over, thankfully hiding his reflection.
He didn’t want to see himself right now. Not like this.
He had been standing there for quite some time already, towel around his waist, head hanging low, letting dreary thoughts consume him.
The shower was supposed to help dispel the emotional numbness he now felt almost every day.
Mingi chuckled humourlessly.
The probably too hot water had indeed helped him feel again, just not in the way he had hoped.
His quiet laugh caught in his throat painfully, he heaved for air at a sudden pressure closing up his airway.
Mingi hunched down further over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain so hard his knuckles whitened, a desperate, guttural sob ripping its way out of his chest.
He tried to hold it back, but the dam had been broken.
More sobs spilled out of him in raw, jagged gasps, the pressure in his lungs only increasing more and more.
His forehead pressed down against the cool porcelain of the sink below him.
The pressure had been building all week. Maybe longer, he wasn’t sure anymore. The days had started to blur and mix beyond recalling.
The weight had settled in his chest first, a low, constant ache, then spread to his limbs, numbing everything. Thoughts felt heavy and disconnected, movements mechanical and choppy.
He kept telling himself it was just a rough patch. A couple of bad days. He just needed to get through the weekend. Then it was next weekend. Then another.
He gripped the sink harder, arms trembling, the porcelain edge biting into his skin.
The fog on the mirror had started to fade now, slowly revealing his image in small fragments.
Mingi lifted his head and met his reflection’s red and puffy eyes, cheeks blotchy, mouth hanging slightly open, still heaving for air.
He hated this version of himself.
The weak one.
The one who cried in silence because he didn’t want to be even more of a burden on everyone.
The one who made lists of things to fix and then stared at them until they became proof he couldn’t accomplish anything.
Mingi stared into his own eyes, another feeling creeping past the suffocating weight of despair.
Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw someone unrecognizable.
Someone tired, beaten, empty.
Someone who didn’t deserve the air he was breathing.
Someone who had gotten this far only by sheer luck, but who was always one step away from falling apart completely.
Others would kill for the opportunity to have his life, to be able to go up on stage and perform, to have thousands of fans swooning over his group.
His stomach twisted, sick and tight.
He didn’t belong here.
It should have been someone different, someone who had his shit together.
Someone who didn’t break down in the bathroom, crying over nothing, unable to pull himself together long enough to get through even a week without crumbling at least once.
He wasn’t enough.
He’d never be enough.
The thought crushed him, pressing the air out of his lungs.
His throat constricted once again, a raw, guttural yell catching in his chest, but he couldn’t make a noise. His jaw ached with the strain of screaming without sound, his throat burning and hands stinging from the iron grip he had on the sink.
He had nowhere to put the anger quickly rising in him.
When Mingi met his reflection’s eyes again, he snapped.
His fist slammed into the mirror, sending hundreds of fractures over the smooth surface.
Mingi cried out at the sharp pain digging into his knuckles.
His reflection stared back at him, almost mocking, now riddled with cracks.
It looked like the way he felt inside, wrong, cracked, shattered.
A hundred broken versions of himself stared back at him, each one reflecting one of his failures.
The man who tried too hard at practice, worrying all the others when he collapsed.
The man who pushed his voice close to breaking, almost ruining his entire career.
The man who could barely get out of bed in the morning.
The man who hated himself and couldn’t remember when or how it started.
The man who didn’t know how to stop destroying himself and the man who didn’t want to.
Blood was running down his knuckles, small pieces of glass embedded in the delicate skin.
His breathing was ragged now, fast and shallow.
He couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t look away.
The broken glass didn’t lie. Quite the opposite, it showed the truth.
The version of him that lived behind his eyes, behind the faked smiles and forced laughter, behind the juvenile teasing and reassurances that, yes he was fine, he was just tired.
Mingi couldn’t stand it.
With another desperate scream, his fist shot out once again.
The glass splintered.
And for a moment, everything stopped.
He watched, almost in slow-motion, as the cracks widened and shards rained down on him, how small pieces of reflective glass hit the porcelain and tiled floor, shattering even further into tiny pieces.
A sharp pain shooting up his arm brutally yanked Mingi back into reality.
One of the bigger shards had cut into his forearm, crimson rivulets of blood now splattering sluggishly onto the white surface of the sink below him.
Mingi stumbled backwards at the sight, dazedly wiping at the cut as if to wipe it away, instead only succeeding in smearing the blood even further.
The red staining his hands made a wave of nausea rise in him.
He blindly staggered away from the mess of shards, from the blood now sickeningly mixing with the remnants of salty tears.
Mingi’s foot slipped on the wet tile of the bathroom floor.
His body hit the floor with a dull thud, pain radiating throughout him.
His heart thumped hard against his aching ribs, making breathing just that much harder.
Mingi suddenly felt drained of the energy, of the anger that had possessed him just moments before.
He didn’t have it in him to get up off the floor, to even lift his hand and maybe get a towel to stop the blood now forming a small puddle below his right arm.
He distantly wondered if he needed stitches.
He knew he should have been frightened, scared, scrambling to contain the bleeding, but by now he just felt empty. Numb.
Mingi’s ears were ringing, the cold bathroom tile pressed into his cheek, dulling the throbbing sensation of his injury just a little bit.
He thought about staying there, just for a while.
He didn’t want to die, not really.
But he didn’t want to live either. To exist like this every day. Not anymore.
And the bathroom was so quiet.
He shut his eyes.
And promptly threw them back open when he heard someone knocking harshly on the bathroom door.
“Mingi?! Mingi, are you okay?!”
Mingi’s eyes widened minutely. Shit. He’d forgotten that Yunho was right outside in the living area.
Stupid. He’d been trying to keep quiet for a reason, smashing a mirror wasn’t exactly a smart move in that regard.
At this, his eyes filled with tears again, dripping quietly down to the floor.
The knocking became more frantic as Yunho didn’t get an answer.
“Mingi, answer me please! Mingi!?”
Mingi didn’t find it in him to utter a single sound, tears now flowing freely.
He didn’t want his childhood friend to see him like this, broken and defeated.
He was supposed to be strong, able to pull himself together, not this hollow version of himself.
The door shook in its frame as Yunho now threw his entire body against it, still desperately calling out to Mingi.
Mingi’s eyes were entirely unfocused as the door burst open, barely a flinch betraying that he’d registered the intrusion.
Yunho frantically scanned the room and froze at what he saw.
The bathroom was a mess of glittering shards and splatters of crimson, and in the midst of it all lay Mingi, motionless yet still breathing, eyes staring off to nowhere.
A curse escaped Yunho as he zeroed in on the bleeding cut on Mingi’s arm.
He skidded to his knees beside his childhood friend, grabbing a small hand towel on his way and tightly wrapping the wound with shaking hands.
“Mingi, shit, what happened?”
Yunho cupped the side of Mingi’s face, lightly tapping him to get his attention.
“Mingi, can you hear me?”
At this, Mingi’s eyes found Yunho’s and the latter nearly cried with relief.
Mingi opened his mouth to confirm, to say he was fine, that Yunho shouldn’t bother worrying-
A wet sob was all that left him.
Yunho’s face crumpled.
He’d never seen Mingi like this.
Of course, they were childhood friends, both of them had seen each other cry over a skinned knee or a bee sting before, but not like this.
Mingi looked utterly broken, a shadow of the usually bubbly and happy man lay before Yunho.
Both of them were crying now.
Yunho didn’t know what to say, his words utterly failing him and catching in his throat.
He cradled Mingi’s upper body to his chest, the other man leaning against him heavily.
Mingi’s fingers twitched and, with a great amount of effort, he pressed his injured arm to his own chest and gripped Yunho’s shirt lightly with his other hand.
In that moment he was more exhausted than he’d been ever since he could remember.
The only thing he could do was letting himself cry into Yunho’s shoulder.
And so he did.
Yunho held Mingi’s shuddering frame tight to his chest, burying his face in the other’s hair.
His own tears spilled hot down his cheeks as he held on tighter, voice breaking.
“You’re okay now. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
Mingi thought that he couldn’t possibly cry harder. He was proven wrong at Yunho’s words.
He couldn’t believe him, not yet, not while he was surrounded by mirror shards and his own blood, but a sliver of hope brought light into the dark image of his future.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Mingi sobbed until his throat felt scraped raw and his body stopped trying to force sound through it.
Yunho didn’t let go once. His hand carded through the hair on the back of Mingi’s head, steady and slow, grounding both of them.
At some point, the sobs became quieter, less violent, just stuttering exhales, the kind that left you hollowed out and exhausted.
Mingi’s breathing eventually slowed, syncing with Yunho’s with the occasional stutter.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The towel on Mingi’s arm had taken on a pink tinge, but it had stopped the bleeding.
Yunho carefully gripped Mingi’s wrist, pulling his injured forearm away from his body to inspect it.
Mingi watched Yunho gnaw on his lower lip in thought, looking as though he wanted to say something.
Guilt crept up on Mingi and he broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
Yunho jolted a little. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You did.” Yunho’s voice cracked, yet he didn’t sound angry. “But I’d rather be scared than not be here.”
Yunho shifted, cupping Mingi’s face with both of his hands, a haunted look in his eyes.
“I need you to be honest with me here, okay?”
Mingi nodded, slightly confused about Yunho’s expression.
“Did you,” Yunho’s voice cracked again, “did you … intend to hurt yourself?”
Understanding dawned on Mingi, face crestfallen.
He covered Yunho’s hands with his own, willing him to see the sincerity in his eyes.
“God, Yuyu, of course not. Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t think how this all looks to you, I-”
Yunho cut off Mingi’s rambling before he could get himself even more upset.
“Okay, I believe you, alright?”
Yunho touched their foreheads together, an intimate interaction they’d done since they were children, every time the other was in distress.
Mingi closed his mouth, basking in the familiarity, shoulders finally relaxing.
Yunho let out a deep breath.
With his eyes still closed he whispered into the space between them.
“If you ever, ever feel this way or worse again, please, please, Mingi, just come to me, okay?
I’m always here for you, I always will be, I promise.”
Mingi just nodded, and Yunho noticeably relaxed into his hold.
They stayed like this for another while, each thankful for the other’s presence.
Eventually though, Yunho opened his eyes and his sight fell upon Mingi’s injury again.
“Okay, Mingi,? I need to look at that cut, alright? Can you sit up?”
Mingi groaned, being remined of the cut made the pain flare up again, but he shifted his weight away from Yunho until he was leaning against the bathtub behind him.
Meanwhile, Yunho rummaged through the medicine cabinet under the sink, letting out a pleased hum when he found the first aid kit stashed there.
“Give me your arm,” he said softly.
Mingi held it out, wincing as he unraveled the towel which now slightly stuck to the cut.
It looked awful in the harsh bathroom light, knuckles torn open with small bits of glass still embedded in them, dried blood in dark crimson lines down his wrist and covering his hands.
The huge cut down his forearm was jagged, yet not deep and the bleeding had mostly stopped already. Yunho breathed a breath of relief at this discovery and took Mingi’s arm gently, cradling it like something fragile.
“This might sting,” he murmured.
Mingi just nodded in affirmation.
Yunho held Mingi’s hand gently as he started cleaning the wound.
Clean cloth and warm water first, then a bit of cotton soaked in antiseptic.
Mingi flinched, hissing under his breath, but didn’t pull away.
“Damn,” Yunho muttered, focused. “You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” Mingi said quietly.
Yunho paused and looked up at him. “Does that happen often?”
Mingi nodded, throat tight. “It’s been getting worse over the past few weeks. I don’t know why. I just feel so… numb all the time until at some point everything seems to surface at once.”
Yunho didn’t answer right away.
He just hummed quietly and kept going, carefully extracting small shards of glass from Mingi’s knuckles, then pressing gauze to the wounds.
His touch was slow and deliberate, careful not to jostle Mingi’s wounds too much.
It made a gentle warmth bloom in Mingi’s chest, filling the exhausted emptiness.
“You can ask for help, you know,” Yunho said after a long silence. “You don’t have to try and fix yourself. You just have to be here. With us. That’s enough. You’re enough.”
Mingi blinked hard. The tears didn’t fall this time, they just sat there, blurring his vision.
“I don’t feel like I am.”
“Well,” Yunho said, gently wrapping a bandage around his arm, wiping at his own tears.
“That’s your brain lying to you. And I’m gonna keep reminding you it’s a lie. Even if I have to break a door down every damn time.”
Mingi let out a shaky laugh, small and hoarse, but real.
“I think I owe everyone a new bathroom door.”
“You owe us nothing,” Yunho said.
He finished wrapping the bandage, then looked up at him, earnest. “Except maybe to sleep. Do you want me to stay with you?”
Mingi nodded slowly, heart tight and tired but just a little less heavy.
“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “Please.”
Yunho squeezed his hand gently, now wrapped and clean.
“Can you make it to the bed or just the couch?”
Mingi flexed the muscles in his legs experimentally and winced at the pain and exhaustion running through him.
“Just the couch for now I think.”
Yunho nodded and looped an arm under Mingi’s shoulder.
Together they slowly made their way to the couch, both of them sinking deep into the cushions.
The exhaustion was creeping in now, thick and sluggish, settling into Mingi’s bones like cement.
He shifted, resting his head on Yunho’s shoulder.
Mingi hummed in contentment as Yunho’s hand started to card gently through his hair.
As nails lightly scratched as his scalp, Mingi heard Yunho talking.
As he cracked an eye open, he saw that Yunho was on the phone. He was probably calling Hongjoong to warn the others about the mess they would find in the dorm.
Guilt started to creep back up into Mingi’s chest but before it could take hold, Yunho set down his phone and laid down on the couch, pulling Mingi gently down with him.
Mingi tucked himself against Yunho’s side, head resting on his chest, bandaged hand between them, the other clutching the hem of Yunho’s sleeve.
Yunho’s arm wrapped around him without hesitation, pulling him in tight, warm and steady.
The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of Yunho breathing beneath him.
Mingi broke the silence quietly, almost inaudibly.
“…I don’t think I can do this alone anymore.”
Yunho’s arm tightened around him in silent confirmation. Like he’d been waiting to hear it.
“You don’t have to,” he said gently, his voice low against Mingi’s hair. “You never did.”
Mingi shut his eyes, willing the once again gathering tears away.
“I just didn’t want to be a burden on anyone.”
“You’re not,” Yunho said, and he said it like the truth was as easy as breathing. “You’re not too much. You’re just hurting. And I’m here. We’re all here. Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yeosang, San, Wooyoung, Jongho and me. Okay?”
Mingi didn’t answer right away. He just nodded into Yunho’s chest and let himself finally, fully lean into the comfort. Let himself be held.
They stayed like that in reassuring silence into the late hours of the night.
Being.
Existing.
Together.
And, for the first time in a while, Mingi didn’t feel so empty.