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Jeno’s laughter fills the car again. It’s loud and full, bouncing off the roof and softening the edges of the night. From the backseat, I watch the way his head tilts toward Jaemin. One hand rests on the wheel, the other reaches across to flick Jaemin’s ear. Jaemin doesn’t even flinch. He just smirks and swats him away, calm and familiar.
This is how it always is. Jeno drives. Jaemin sits in the passenger seat. I take the back.
No one talks about it, but we’ve all gotten used to this setup. It makes sense. The front seat is smaller, easier to share. Shoulder to shoulder, they talk in lower voices. Sometimes they laugh about things I don’t catch. Sometimes they fall into silence, the kind that feels like a conversation only they understand. And me, I rest my head against the window and tell myself I like the quiet. I convince myself that it’s better this way.
Sometimes I believe it. Most days I don’t.
Tonight we’re heading home after dinner. The usual Friday night routine. Shared plates, burnt meat, too much rice, and Jaemin saying he’s full even as he keeps eating. Jeno paid for all of it. He always does when it’s Jaemin. I offered to split, but he waved me off with a smile and said, “Next time.”
There’s never a next time.
I don’t complain.
I’m used to it. I’ve gotten good at being fine with things.
“Chenle,” Jaemin says, turning in his seat to look at me. “Did you fall asleep already?”
I blink. “No. Just resting my eyes.”
He grins. “You sound like an old man.”
Jeno laughs. “He always sleeps in the car.”
I don’t respond. I just smile and lean my head back against the window. From this angle, I can’t see them anymore. I only hear their voices. The soft laughter. The sound of Jaemin’s foot bumping Jeno’s. The gentle hum of Jeno singing along to a song because Jaemin said he liked it the other day.
Everything between them feels soft. Familiar. Easy.
I remind myself that Jaemin is my best friend. That Jeno is just a friend. That I have no reason to feel like this.
I’ve never told anyone. Not even Jaemin. Especially not Jaemin. I’ve never let it slip. I’ve been careful, always. I never linger too long. I never look too obviously. I never speak too sweetly.
I have worked hard to protect this friendship. Harder than they’ll ever know.
But some nights, like tonight, something breaks through. Something stretches beneath my ribs and sits heavy in my chest.
Maybe I’m just tired.
Or maybe I’m lying to myself again.
When we reach our place, Jeno slows to a stop. The car’s headlights cast shadows across the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I say as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Text me when you get inside,” Jeno says. He always says that.
I nod. “Drive safe.”
Jaemin leans back with a grin. “Same time next week?”
Jeno smiled. “Yeah. Sure.”
I close the door before they can say anything else. I don’t look back. I already know what I’ll see. The two of them, side by side, comfortable in their own quiet world.
And me, on the sidewalk that never seems wide enough for three.
It always starts the same way.
Jeno texts, “I’m here.”
I text back, “Coming.”
I grab my bag, wave at the front desk, and step out into the late afternoon sun. His car is waiting by the curb. The windows are half-down. I see his hand resting on the wheel, the corner of his mouth lifted when he spots me.
I get in.
Shotgun.
Just for now.
He glances at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, even if I’m not sure what that means anymore. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t press. He never does.
The drive is quiet for a bit. The hum of the engine. The city passing us by. I want to enjoy this. These few minutes when it’s just the two of us, even if we’re headed somewhere else. Even if it never lasts.
I don’t say much. I don’t want to break whatever this silence is. I don’t want to ruin the illusion that this could be something else, that he could be driving just for me.
But then, like always, we pull up in front of our apartment. Jaemin’s already waiting outside, arms crossed, sipping from a takeaway cup. He grins when he sees the car, jogs over, opens the passenger door—
And I move.
Automatically.
Without a word, I unbuckle, slide out, and open the back door. I climb into the backseat while Jaemin settles into the front, still mid-laugh, mid-story, like this is normal.
Because it is.
It’s always like this.
He doesn’t ask why I moved. No one does. No one ever has. It’s unspoken. Like rules written into muscle memory.
The car starts again. Jaemin talks. Jeno listens. I fade.
From the back, their voices wrap around me like a conversation I was never meant to join. I hear Jeno laugh. I hear Jaemin teasing him. I watch the way Jaemin turns toward him, the way Jeno glances sideways and smiles like it’s second nature.
I look out the window.
I’ve memorized this route. I know which streets have trees. I know where the light hits the windows just right. I count the turns. I watch the shadows on the buildings.
And I pretend I don’t feel anything.
I tell myself this is what friendship looks like. That I’m lucky to have it at all. That it’s selfish to want more.
Jaemin turns in his seat. “Chenle, you good back there?”
I smile. “Yeah.”
“Too quiet,” he says. “You hungry?”
“A little,” I answer. “Anything’s fine.”
Jeno glances at me in the rearview mirror. Just a second. Just enough to make my heart forget how to beat.
“Korean barbeque again?” he says.
“Sounds good,” Jaemin nods.
I stay quiet.
The car moves forward. The world keeps turning. The same way it always does.
And me? I stay where I belong.
In the backseat.
Dinner’s loud. In a good way.
The restaurant is packed, the kind of place that smells like grilled meat and smoke and too much garlic. The kind of place we’ve gone to a hundred times before, without even needing to ask where we’re meeting. It’s always this one. It’s close to work. Jeno likes the spicy marinade. Jaemin says the lighting makes his skin look good.
We slide into our usual booth. I take the seat across from them. Jaemin sits beside Jeno, of course.
Jeno opens the menu, already flipping to the page with the sets we always get. He doesn’t ask what we want. He already knows.
“One order of Set C,” he tells the waiter. “Add japchae and steamed egg. Two colas, one cider.”
“You remembered,” Jaemin grins.
“You say the same thing every time,” Jeno says, and his voice is soft in a way I always notice more than I should.
I lean back against the booth, stretching a little. “You two are so domestic. Should I give you a moment?”
Jaemin rolls his eyes. “You’re just mad you didn’t get your own drink.”
“Actually,” Jeno says, turning to me as the waiter walks away, “I got you cider. You always order that when you’re tired.”
I blink. Then recover quickly. “Right. I did say that once.”
Once. Months ago. I barely remembered. But he did.
The grill lights up in front of us, glowing orange as the meat sizzles. The noise and smell fill the air. Jaemin picks up the tongs and starts flipping pieces. Jeno refills all our drinks, topping off my glass before I can reach for the bottle myself.
I watch the way he does it so naturally. Not out of obligation. Just because he’s that kind of person. The kind who notices. The kind who gives without asking.
The kind who makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re important.
And I hate how much I want to believe that means something more than it does.
“So,” I say, snapping myself back into my role. “Guess who fell asleep in the staff bathroom today.”
Jaemin chokes. “You didn’t.”
“I did. Ten whole minutes. Woke up to someone knocking because they thought I fainted.”
Jeno laughs, full and warm. “You’ve hit a new level of tired.”
“I’m evolving,” I say, grinning. “Next week I’ll try the stock room.”
“You need more rest,” Jaemin says, flipping another piece of meat.
“I need a raise.”
“Good luck with that,” Jeno mutters. “You’ll get promoted to bathroom ghost first.”
Jaemin cackles. “Imagine Chenle haunting toilets. ‘Oooooo you forgot to flush.’”
I throw a napkin at him. “You’re both annoying.”
But I’m laughing too. Loudly. Easily. Like it doesn’t sting that they share inside jokes faster than I can blink. Like I don’t notice the way Jeno leans in a little closer when Jaemin talks. Like I don’t see how often his gaze lingers just a beat longer on the boy beside him.
They love me. I know that.
They just love each other more.
And I can live with that. I’ve been living with that.
I eat. I laugh. I tease them both. I fill the space with noise so I don’t have to feel the silence inside my chest.
At the end of the meal, when we’re full and a little sleepy, Jeno stands first and opens the door for both of us as we leave.
“Thank you, gentleman,” I say with a bow, playing it up.
He smiles. “Always.”
And maybe it’s selfish, but for a moment, I wish he only meant that for me.
A message lights up my screen.
Jeno: I’m downstairs.
I glance at the clock. 10:47 PM. Still over an hour before my shift starts, but I grab my bag anyway. The night air always feels heavier when it’s late like this. Too quiet. Too cold. But familiar.
The building lobby is half-lit, half-forgotten. I walk out to see Jeno’s car waiting under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, the headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. I open the passenger door and slide in.
He turns to look at me and smiles.
“You’re early,” I say as I settle into the seat.
“You’re later than I expected,” he replies, teasing. “I almost left.”
I laugh. “Liar.”
“Maybe a little.”
The engine hums as we pull into the street. City lights stretch in long streaks across the windshield. For a while, there is only the quiet shuffle of the tires over the road and the low music spilling from the speakers. It’s not one of our usual playlists. Just something slow and calm. Probably something he listens to on drives like this.
“I thought traffic would be better,” he says after a minute. “Guess I was wrong.”
Cars ahead of us blink their brake lights in a lazy chain, one after another. We slow to a crawl.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind.”
And I don’t. Not tonight. Not when it means more time like this.
Jeno taps his fingers gently on the wheel. The rhythm doesn’t match the song, but it suits him anyway. He looks relaxed in the soft light, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the heater so the cold doesn’t reach me.
We’re surrounded by the city but it feels like we’re in our own little world.
“You finish that drama yet?” he asks, glancing at me.
“The one about the chef and the ghost?”
“Yeah. You were ranting about the pacing last time.”
I grin. “I did. The ending sucked, but the ghost was hot, so I forgave it.”
He snorts. “You have strange priorities.”
“Excuse me for having taste.”
“You always fall for the ghost.”
“Because they’re dead and emotionally distant. What’s not to like?”
He laughs. “You really need more sleep.”
We pass another red light, then another. The dashboard clock glows 11:16. Still early, and yet I already feel like I’ll miss this once it ends.
“You know what’s weird?” he says after a while.
“What?”
“I can’t remember the last time we hung out like this. Just the two of us.”
I blink. “Huh. Yeah. Me neither.”
“It’s usually all three of us now. You, me, and Jaemin.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything yet.
“I kind of miss this,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.
The words land soft. They echo.
I want to answer, but my throat is stuck somewhere between a laugh and something else. I swallow it down.
“You miss me?” I manage.
He glances at me with a crooked smile. “Maybe.”
I want to believe him. Just for a second, I let myself pretend he means it the way I hope he does.
He adjusts the air vents again and tilts them toward me. “You’re always cold.”
I hadn’t noticed. “Thanks.”
We fall into easier conversation. Nothing heavy. Just the kind of things that don’t matter but feel like they do because of who you’re saying them to. He asks about my coworkers, and I tell him about a new guy who managed to set off the fire alarm by microwaving soup with the lid still on. He tells me about how Jaemin locked himself out of his own bedroom last week because he changed the doorknob and forgot the new key.
We laugh. We laugh a lot.
I forget to feel jealous. I forget to overthink the way his voice softens when he talks about Jaemin. I forget that I’m always the one sitting behind them, always the one walking alone when the sidewalk only fits two.
For once, I am not thinking about where I stand.
I am just here. Sitting beside him. Breathing in the same quiet, sharing the same space.
His hand moves to the volume knob, lowering the music just a little. His fingers are long and steady. I look at them too long, then snap my gaze back to the window.
“You ever think about quitting?” I ask suddenly.
“Quitting what?”
“Work. Routine. Everything.”
He thinks for a moment. “Sometimes. But I think I’d get bored.”
“Really? I think I’d sleep for ten years.”
“You’d sleep through the apocalypse.”
“Exactly. I’d wake up when society resets and pretend nothing ever happened.”
He chuckles, deep and warm. “You’d thrive in chaos.”
I smile to myself. “I already do.”
By the time we reach my building, it’s 11:57.
He doesn’t turn off the engine. Just leaves it running while I gather my things.
“I’ll see you later?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”
He gives me a little salute and smiles. “Anytime.”
I step out into the cold. The door closes behind me. His headlights fade as the car disappears down the street.
Inside the building, I exhale slowly.
I know what this is.
I know it’s just friendship. I know he doesn’t look at me the way I look at him. I know that tonight, like every other night, will be tucked away into a quiet corner of my chest where I keep all the things I can never say.
But still.
For a little while, I let myself be happy.
And that has to be enough.
The sidewalk is narrow. Only wide enough for two people to walk side by side. So I fall back.
Jeno and Jaemin move ahead of me, shoulder to shoulder. Their laughter mixes easily, low and constant, like background music I know by heart. Jaemin says something dumb, and Jeno laughs, not just with his mouth but with his whole body. When Jaemin nearly stumbles off the curb, Jeno reaches out without thinking and steadies him with one hand.
I keep my eyes on the backs of their heads. I do not try to catch up.
After a moment, Jaemin glances back like he just remembered I am here. “You okay back there?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling like it’s easy. “Just enjoying the view.”
They laugh, and Jeno stretches his hand back without turning. I take it before I can talk myself out of it. He tugs me forward just a little, closing the distance between us.
Then the sidewalk narrows again. I let go.
There are three cups on the table. One matcha latte. One iced Americano. One sweet cold brew with milk and caramel drizzle, exactly how I like it.
I never told him how I take my coffee.
Jeno sets it in front of me without saying a word. My name is written on the lid in his handwriting, a little messy but still familiar.
I take a sip. It is perfect.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He shrugs. “You always steal mine. Figured I’d get you your own.”
I laugh. It feels easier than thinking about why I feel so seen.
Across from us, Jaemin is adjusting the whipped cream on his drink and complaining that this café always gets the ratio wrong. Jeno listens, smiling like he’s heard this exact complaint before. Then Jaemin’s napkin flies off the table.
Jeno looks at me.
“Chenle, can you grab that?”
His voice is soft. Like it always is. Like it means something.
I nod and pick it up. “Yeah.”
Just Jeno being nice. That is what I tell myself. He is like this with everyone. He is thoughtful. He notices things.
It does not mean anything.
It is colder than I expected tonight. I did not check the weather before we left. My hoodie is too thin and the wind keeps slipping through the fabric, sharp against my arms.
Jeno notices. He always does.
He does not ask if I am cold. He just pulls off his own hoodie and tosses it toward me. I catch it, letting the weight of it fall across my shoulders.
It smells like him. Fresh and clean and warm.
“You’re going to freeze,” I say as I put it on.
“I’ll survive,” he answers.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You’re worse at pretending you’re not cold.”
Jaemin watches from the food stall, his straw between his teeth. I wait for a joke or some snarky comment, but he just hums and looks away.
Jeno turns to the vendor and asks for three hotteok instead of two. He hands one to me first, then Jaemin. His hands are red from the cold.
I keep the hoodie on.
They are doing it again. That thing where they look at each other too long. Where one says something and the other bursts into laughter like it is the funniest thing in the world. Where the space between them feels smaller than it should.
I sit next to them on the couch, laughing too loud at a joke that was not funny. I make another joke, say something ridiculous, just to join the noise and not the silence inside my chest.
In the middle of it all, Jeno reaches across Jaemin and hands me a bag of chips. I had not asked. My bowl was just empty, and he noticed.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He smiles. “You looked bored.”
Then he turns back to Jaemin like nothing happened.
I eat in silence. My mouth is full, but my chest feels empty.
I do not cry. I would not know how to cry quietly anyway.
I climb into the backseat without needing to be told. It is just easier.
Jaemin opens the passenger door, pausing as he looks at me.
“You can sit in front if you want.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m comfy back here.”
Jeno leans over and adjusts the seat for him like he always does. Once we are on the road, their conversation flows easily. They talk about Jaemin’s new playlist, some movie they want to see, something funny that happened at work. I listen, trying to feel included, trying not to count how many times Jaemin laughs just for Jeno.
The heater hums. The music plays soft enough to feel like a lullaby.
Then, at a red light, Jeno looks at me through the mirror.
“You okay, Chenle?”
His voice is light and casual, like he just remembered I was here.
“Just tired,” I answer.
He reaches out to turn the volume down a bit. He always does that when I say I am tired. I never asked him to.
That is just Jeno. Kind. Observant. A little too thoughtful.
It does not mean anything.
I repeat it to myself like a prayer.
It does not mean anything.
Sometimes, I think living with Jaemin is the only reason I have not completely fallen apart.
And sometimes, I think he is the reason I am breaking at all.
He moved in six months ago, back when commuting from his parents’ house was starting to wear him down. We didn’t really talk about it. One day he was complaining about the two-hour travel time, and the next he was showing up at my door with his suitcase and a bag of convenience store ramen. I didn’t ask questions. I just cleared out the second shelf in the bathroom and told him to stop using my shampoo.
Our rhythms aligned quickly. We didn’t have to try. Jaemin was neat without being obsessive. I was chaotic but not impossible to live with. He liked to cook. I liked to eat. He was the type to clean the apartment while blasting music on Sunday mornings. I was the type to stay in bed and pretend I couldn’t hear him vacuuming right outside my door.
But the part that always got to me, quietly, was how easily he started taking care of me.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was in the little things. The way he’d come into my room with a bowl of rice and soup on the nights I worked late, placing it on my desk like it was nothing. “Eat before you pass out,” he’d say, like I hadn’t forgotten again. The way he’d drape a blanket over me when I fell asleep on the couch with my laptop still on my chest. The way he always cooked extra, even when I said I wasn’t hungry. “You’ll be hungry later,” he’d say, and he was always right.
He never acted like it was a burden. In fact, he teased me more often than not. Called me a spoiled cat. Said I was lucky he liked feeding people or I’d starve to death. I’d roll my eyes and call him a control freak. Then I’d finish everything he made, every single time.
Sometimes he’d crawl into bed with me when the nights felt too long. Not in a romantic way. Just in that best friend way we never had to explain. He’d slip under the covers, arms chilled from the AC, feet cold against my legs, and I’d groan dramatically but let him stay. We’d fall asleep back to back, the soft hum of the fan in the background, his breathing steady beside me.
He’d send me messages throughout the day. Short, simple ones.
Jaemin: Eat something.
Jaemin: Don’t skip your break.
Jaemin: I left a bottle of coffee in the fridge. Don’t drink it all in one go.
Every time I said thank you, he’d just shrug it off. “You’d do the same for me,” he’d say, and I wanted to believe I would. But Jaemin was better at it. He noticed things. He paid attention.
Once, I came home completely drained after back-to-back shifts. My body felt like it had forgotten how to stand upright. I dropped my bag at the door and collapsed on the floor.
Jaemin didn’t say anything. He just walked over, helped me up, and guided me to the shower like I was made of glass. When I came out, there was hot soup waiting on the table, and he was sitting on the couch with my favorite blanket folded next to him.
“You’re going to die at thirty,” he told me without looking up from his phone. “I’m going to have to give a speech at your funeral.”
“Make it dramatic,” I said through a mouthful of rice. “Cry a little.”
He grinned. “Only if I get to wear all black and slap someone.”
This is how it always is between us. Soft bickering layered with kindness. Jaemin makes it easy to feel safe. He keeps the fridge full. He does the laundry when I forget. He waits up for me when I text that I’ll be home late.
I’m not sure I deserve it. Any of it.
But I don’t know how to live without it either.
The waiter hands us menus, but Jeno doesn’t bother to open his. He glances at me first, then at Jaemin, and smiles like he already knows. Like he always knows. Jaemin hums over the drink section, pretending to decide, but Jeno just nudges his elbow and says, “You always get the lemon soda.” It’s not a question.
When the waiter comes back, I barely get a word in. Jeno speaks smoothly, listing our dishes like he’s done it a hundred times before. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s just how well he pays attention.
After he finishes, he picks up the pitcher on the table and starts pouring drinks. I reach for a glass, but he beats me to it, sliding one toward Jaemin first, then mine. His movements are quiet. Thoughtful. Automatic.
I thank him. He doesn’t look up. Just adds ice to Jaemin’s drink like it’s second nature.
We fall into easy conversation, the kind where no one has to fill awkward silences or explain themselves. Jaemin talks about some funny thing that happened at home earlier, something about the toaster burning the bread and setting off the smoke alarm. Jeno laughs, the sound warm and genuine, but I catch the way his eyes never leave Jaemin.
I joke about how Jaemin is a disaster in the kitchen, but Jeno defends him like a knight.
“Hey, he can cook,” Jeno says. “Just not toast.”
I laugh loud enough to cover the ache in my chest. It’s easier that way.
At one point, Jaemin accidentally spills sauce on his sleeve. Before he can reach for a napkin, Jeno is already there, handing him one with a quiet, “Here.”
Then Jeno’s hand brushes mine as he wipes a small smear of sauce from my chin. I freeze for a second. Pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
“It’s nothing,” I tell myself.
When the meal is nearly over, Jeno stands and slips his jacket over Jaemin’s shoulders without waiting for him to ask. Jaemin looks surprised but doesn’t refuse.
“You were cold,” Jeno says simply.
“I wasn’t,” Jaemin protests softly.
“You were.”
I watch, silent.
Outside, the cold air hits me, sharper than I expected. Jaemin leans against me, warm and easy, and asks if we’re going for dessert.
I nod because I need something sweet to swallow the tightness inside.
Jeno grins and leads us to the nearby bakery. I stay a little behind as the sidewalk narrows.
Jeno steps closer to Jaemin and I fall back.
Again.
The bakery is bright and warm, filled with the smell of sugar and butter. Jaemin heads straight to the glass display, face lighting up like a kid’s. Jeno follows him, leaning in close to point out the flavors.
I stand behind them, hands in my pockets, pretending to look at the cakes too. I already know what I want, but I wait. I always wait.
Jaemin’s voice rises as he argues over strawberry versus chocolate, and Jeno is laughing again, head tilted back, eyes crinkled. It’s the kind of laugh that makes other people turn to look. The kind that fills a room.
I smile along with them, because that’s what I do. I say something dumb to keep the conversation going, something about how all cakes taste the same anyway.
“That’s blasphemy,” Jaemin gasps, smacking my arm.
Jeno chuckles and turns slightly toward me. “You liked the strawberry one last time.”
My chest twists. “Did I?”
“You finished half of mine,” he says.
“Oh. Right.” I laugh, scratching the back of my neck. “I’m a thief like that.”
He gives me a small smile. “It’s okay. I got you your own this time.”
And just like that, the cashier is handing me a little pink box. My name is written on the corner in small, neat letters. His handwriting.
I look up at him, unsure what to say.
Jeno shrugs. “I figured you’d forget to order.”
It’s a joke. I laugh, again, like always.
Jaemin already has his cake and is asking for extra forks, talking about how we should share everything so no one gets food envy. He links his arm with mine as we head back to the table. Jeno follows, balancing the drinks.
We sit, the three of us, around a tiny round table that forces our knees to bump. The forks clink against paper plates. Jaemin feeds me a bite of his chocolate cake with exaggerated care, and I roll my eyes for dramatic effect.
“Too rich,” I tell him, mouth full.
“Like your taste in men,” Jaemin shoots back.
Jeno nearly chokes on his drink.
We laugh, all three of us, heads tipped back, eyes closed.
And for a moment, I forget.
I forget where I sit. I forget what hurts. I forget that I am always the one watching.
But then Jaemin leans on Jeno’s shoulder. It’s so casual, so easy, like they’ve done it a hundred times. Jeno tilts his head to rest lightly against his.
And I remember.
I focus on my cake. It’s sweet. Too sweet.
I take another bite anyway.
The night is colder by the time we get home. Jaemin walks ahead with the keys, humming the chorus of a song we played in the car. Jeno laughs and copies his off-key notes until Jaemin threatens to lock him out.
I trail behind with the leftover cake boxes in hand, watching their shadows stretch long against the pavement. The sound of their voices fades a little when I slow down to tie my shoelace, but I don’t ask them to wait. They don’t notice that I stopped, but that’s okay. I’m good at catching up.
Inside, Jaemin heads straight for the bathroom, shouting something about needing a long shower. Jeno stays behind to help me unpack the food.
He takes the boxes from my hands without asking, like he always does.
“You’re still cold,” he says, not looking at me.
“A little,” I admit.
“Go warm up,” he tells me. “I’ll handle this.”
I nod, but I don’t move. I just watch him work. He’s always like this. Quietly capable. Kind in the way that makes it hard to breathe.
He looks up and smiles a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
He reaches out and tugs lightly on the sleeve of my sweater, like a silent check. His fingers are warm.
“Then go rest,” he says gently.
I nod again. This time, I listen.
In my room, the warmth is slow to come. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my hands. They are shaking a little, but only because I’m cold. I tell myself that twice.
Jaemin’s voice floats from the bathroom. He’s singing again. Off-key, loud, comfortable.
I think about how lucky I am to have him.
Living with Jaemin is a blessing. He makes space for me without trying. He cooks breakfast on his day off and saves the last egg for me. He folds my laundry when I forget. Sometimes, when I come home too tired to speak, he sits beside me and rests his head on my shoulder until the silence feels less heavy.
I never told him anything. I never gave him a reason to think I’m breaking.
Maybe that’s why he still thinks I’m whole.
He brings me tea sometimes, late at night, when my headaches get bad. He hums while he sets it down on my desk and says nothing when I don’t look up. Jaemin is many things. Loud. Annoying. Dramatic. But he is also soft in all the right moments.
And I love him for it.
Not the way I love Jeno. Not in the way that makes me feel sick with wanting. But in a way that makes me stay. Even when it hurts.
Because Jaemin would stay for me too.
I hear his door open and close after a while. Then a knock on mine.
“Le,” he says softly. “Still awake?”
I open the door.
He’s already in his pajamas, hair damp from the shower, a tub of ice cream in his hands.
“Midnight snack?”
“Just don’t tell Jeno,” he grins.
We settle on the couch like we always do. Me curled into the corner, Jaemin’s feet in my lap. The TV is on, but we don’t really watch. He talks about his latest work project. I listen with half a smile, nodding when I’m supposed to. He doesn’t press when I get quiet.
He never does.
Eventually, he falls asleep with his head on my shoulder. I stay there for a long time, not moving. My spoon rests in melted ice cream. The room is quiet except for his soft breathing and the hum of the refrigerator.
In the stillness, I think about Jeno again. About how he opens doors and carries things and listens even when no one’s talking. About how he sees what I need before I say it. About how he offers me comfort in a hundred quiet ways.
But then I remember how he looks at Jaemin.
How he always looks at Jaemin.
And I stop myself before I fall too deep.
I shift a little, adjusting the blanket over Jaemin’s legs. I let my head rest against the back of the couch.
I breathe in slowly.
I remind myself that this is enough.
It has to be.
It’s late again.
I am not on shift tonight, but I stayed longer than I should have at the studio. The lights were low. The city felt quieter than usual. I think I just wanted to delay going home. Delay watching them together again.
My phone buzzes when I step outside.
Jeno: You still there?
Me: Just left.
Jeno: I’m nearby.
I don’t ask why. I just wait.
Ten minutes later, his car pulls up beside the curb. The windows are foggy from the heater, and his hair is a little messy like he’s been running errands or driving for hours. I open the passenger side door and slide in before I can talk myself out of it.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say.
He shrugs, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching to adjust the heat in my direction.
“You didn’t say you were tired,” he replies, “but I figured you were.”
I smile, barely. “I’m always tired.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
He doesn’t say more than that. Just shifts into drive and starts toward home. The city passes in streaks of gold and red, blurred lights through the window. I rest my cheek against the glass and close my eyes for a second.
“You ate?”
I shake my head without lifting it.
Jeno sighs. “I knew it.”
A few blocks later, he pulls into a drive-thru without asking. Orders my usual, adds an extra drink just in case. He waits for my hand to appear before passing me the food, always mindful, always watching.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Eat.”
I do. Slowly, carefully, like my body doesn’t know how to accept kindness when it’s handed too easily.
He turns the volume down on the radio. “Jaemin said you were spacing out yesterday.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know what to say that won’t make something crack.
“I guess I’ve just been… tired,” I settle on again.
Jeno nods like he understands. Like he always does. His fingers tap gently against the steering wheel. The road is mostly empty now. A quiet lull in the middle of the city’s rush.
“You know,” he says, “you don’t have to hold everything in all the time.”
I glance at him. “I don’t.”
“You do,” he says, voice gentler now. “You laugh a lot. You talk a lot. But sometimes, it feels like your eyes are somewhere else.”
I look away. Out the window again. Into the dark.
“It’s just been a long week,” I say. “Jaemin’s been picking up more shifts too. I think it’s just catching up.”
He hums. “You guys okay?”
“We’re fine.”
We are. Jaemin is good to me. He always has been. That is not where it hurts.
Jeno turns into a side street and slows down. The quiet between us stretches longer than it should, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It just feels like something is waiting to be said.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” I ask suddenly.
His eyes flick toward me. “Leaving?”
“Just… disappearing for a while. No explanations. No plans. Just gone.”
He exhales through his nose. “You’d miss us.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He glances at me again. Something soft settles in his expression. “We’d miss you too.”
My throat tightens.
“Hey,” he says. “Wherever you’re disappearing to, at least take me with you.”
I let out a quiet laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s easier than crying.
“Deal,” I say.
We drive in silence for a few more blocks. Then he pulls over on a quiet road with a view of the river, the lights reflecting like broken glass on the surface. We sit there without speaking, just the sound of the heater humming, the soft creak of the seat when I shift slightly toward him.
He doesn’t look at me when he speaks again. His voice is lower now.
“You know I care about you, right?”
My breath catches. Just for a second.
“Yeah,” I manage.
“I mean it,” he says. “You don’t have to talk. But you don’t have to hide either.
I stare at the dashboard. At the way the light from the radio glows across his hand. At the little scratches on his ring finger where he chews when he’s nervous.
I want to tell him everything.
I want to tell him how I love him. How I’ve loved him. How I’m trying not to. How I’m failing. How I feel like I’m always standing on the edge of something I’ll never be allowed to have.
But I don’t.
I just nod.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say instead, so quietly it barely counts.
He smiles. Reaches over and flicks the hood of my jacket gently.
“Anytime,” he replies. “Really. Anytime.”
We stay there a little longer.
And for a moment, even though I know it’s nothing, it almost feels like something.
I had been waiting for that movie for months.
It was the kind of anticipation that built slowly. Every trailer, every teaser, every stupid meme countdown posted on fan accounts. I didn’t even care if it was good. I just wanted to see it. I just wanted to go with them.
When it finally came out, I sent a message in the group chat.
Chenle: Hey. Movie drops this Friday. Let’s go?
Jaemin replied first.
Jaemin: Can’t. My mom’s birthday. I’m heading home that weekend.
Jeno: Let’s wait then? We can watch it when Jaemin’s back.
I stared at the screen for a long time. The typing bubble popped up. Disappeared. Popped up again. Then nothing.
I waited another minute. Typed something. Erased it.
Chenle: It’s fine. You guys go whenever.
No one argued. No one offered an alternative.
I watched it alone the next evening. Corner seat, second-to-last row, a large popcorn I barely touched. Laughed when the theater laughed. Pretended not to notice the couple beside me sharing a drink, their heads tilted toward each other.
Afterward, I walked home. Didn’t even bother calling for a ride. It started to drizzle halfway there. My shoes got soaked. I told myself I didn’t mind.
By the next day, my throat was raw. I was shivering through my hoodie, and everything hurt.
“You’re burning,” Jaemin said, a frown pulling at his brows. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead and sighed. “You should’ve said something sooner.”
I didn’t tell him I had no voice last night. I didn’t tell him I had been curled up on the couch, watching the credits roll in silence while my body shook and my head spun.
He made me porridge before packing for his trip. Sat beside me while I ate. Swapped the cold towel on my head every hour. Forced me to take medicine even when I wanted to sleep instead.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispered before leaving. “Jeno will come by later. Just rest, okay?”
I nodded. I didn’t want him to cancel. Not for me.
After he left, the quiet pressed too close. I fell asleep without meaning to.
When I woke up, Jeno was sitting on the floor beside the couch, phone in one hand, a steaming mug in the other. He looked up the moment I stirred.
“Hey,” he said, softly. “You’re awake.”
I tried to sit up. He reached out, gently pressed my shoulder back against the pillow.
“Don’t,” he said. “I got it.”
He helped me sit up slowly. Handed me the mug. Ginger tea. The way I like it. The way he likes it too. I hated that I noticed that.
“You didn’t have to come,” I said. My voice was hoarse.
He frowned. “You think I wouldn’t?”
I smiled. Tried to make it look like I was joking.
“I’m not dying, you know.”
He shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching. “You’re the worst sick person. No drama. No threats. Not even a ‘goodbye cruel world’.”
I let out a weak laugh.
“I’m saving that for next time,” I said.
He stayed while I drank. Refilled the water pitcher. Made soup. Tucked the blanket tighter around me without a word.
I should have felt comforted. I should have felt lucky. He was here. He was taking care of me. He always did.
But it only made everything worse.
Because I knew what this meant. I knew what it didn’t mean.
I wanted him to hold my hand like he did with Jaemin when Jaemin was half-asleep in the passenger seat. I wanted him to laugh the way he laughed when Jaemin made dumb jokes. I wanted to be in the front seat for once. Just once.
But I wasn’t.
I was the sick friend.
The one he brought soup to because he was kind. Because he cared.
Because that’s what Jeno does. He takes care of people. He notices when you’re quiet. He remembers your favorite tea. He checks your temperature with the back of his hand.
He does it without thinking. Without meaning anything by it.
And I was the idiot still pretending it meant something anyway.
I closed my eyes again. Let the ache settle deeper than the fever. Let it twist around everything I hadn’t said. Everything I was never going to say.
I thought maybe I was sick because I held it in for too long.
Maybe I was burning from the inside out.
And the worst part?
He was here.
Right here.
Making it so much harder to forget how much I wanted him to stay.
It starts small.
I stop replying right away. Let their messages sit unread for a little longer than usual. Tell them I’m busy even when I’m not.
Jaemin notices first.
“You okay?” he asks one night while we’re brushing our teeth side by side.
I nod. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t press. Just hands me the toothpaste and nudges my shoulder with his, like he’s trying to remind me that he’s here. I smile, but it feels a little off. I think he knows, but he lets me pretend anyway.
I start skipping dinner when I know they’re eating out. Make up reasons. Late shift. Last-minute errands. A headache I do not have.
I tell myself it’s not avoidance. It’s space. It’s self-preservation. It’s me choosing not to watch Jeno pull Jaemin’s chair out before he sits. Not to hear Jaemin’s laughter fill up a room that already feels too small.
I don’t want to be the third anymore.
Not when I can feel how easy it is for them to forget I’m there.
The next time Jeno picks me up from work, I sit in the backseat even though Jaemin’s not with us.
He blinks at me in the mirror.
“You can sit in front.”
“I’m good here,” I say.
He doesn’t argue, but his eyes linger a moment too long before he pulls away from the curb.
I stop suggesting movies. Stop making plans first. If they want me there, they’ll ask. If they don’t, I won’t come.
Sometimes they ask. Sometimes they don’t.
I let the space grow between us, let it stretch slow and quiet, hoping they won’t notice the shape of me changing.
But Jeno still calls me when he’s near my workplace.
“You hungry?” he asks one evening.
I glance at the clock. I’m not.
“Not really.”
“Wanna drive around for a bit?”
I hesitate.
Say yes anyway.
We don’t talk much that night. Just watch the streetlights flicker through the windshield while the radio hums low between us. He doesn’t ask why I’ve been quieter lately. He doesn’t mention that I haven’t joined the last three hangouts.
He just drives.
At one point, he reaches into the glove compartment and tosses me a bag of candy. The one I always steal from Jaemin’s stash.
“You forgot this the other day,” he says.
I blink. “I didn’t even know I left it.”
He shrugs. “I did.”
I chew on the candy. Let the sweetness coat my tongue and the silence stretch on.
I wonder if he misses me.
Not the loud version of me. Not the one who never shuts up. The one who always jokes first, who always fills the space.
I wonder if he notices that I’m fading out on purpose.
If he does, he doesn’t say.
And that hurts in its own quiet way.
I stop sitting in the middle.
There used to be this rhythm to us, like a pattern we all knew without saying. I would wedge myself between them on the couch, legs sprawled over someone’s lap, head tilted against a shoulder. It used to feel like home.
Now I choose the edge.
I sit on the armrest. On the floor with a pillow. In the dining chair dragged over from the kitchen. Always just far enough that they don’t notice I’ve stepped out of the frame.
No one asks why.
I still laugh at the right moments. Still chime in when they bicker, still say “me too” when Jaemin says he wants fries or when Jeno wants to switch playlists. But I never reach out first anymore. Never stay longer than I need to.
I leave group chats on mute.
I stop tagging them in stories.
I stop asking Jeno to drive me to work, and he doesn’t offer unless Jaemin’s coming too. I tell myself it’s a coincidence. That he’s busy. That maybe I’m the one pulling back so far it’s just natural they stop reaching.
I say no to things I used to say yes to. Game nights. Random errands. Ice cream at 1 AM.
Jaemin shrugs it off, tells me I’m being lazy. Tosses a sock at my face and says I’m boring now. He doesn’t know how much I want to say yes. How much it aches to keep saying no.
But I do.
Because it’s easier than sitting next to them and pretending I don’t see the way Jeno’s eyes soften when Jaemin talks. Easier than pretending that watching them doesn’t feel like being pressed up against glass. Close enough to see, but never to touch.
One afternoon, Jeno texts me.
Jeno: Want to help me look for something at the mall?
I stare at the message.
It’s the first time in a while he’s asked me alone. No Jaemin. No trio.
I don’t answer right away.
I go into the kitchen and make tea I don’t drink. I clean a counter that’s already clean. I stare at the blinking cursor.
Then I reply.
Chenle: Can’t. Got stuff to do.
Jeno replies with a thumbs up.
That’s it.
I turn my phone over.
I lie down on the couch, facing the backrest. Jaemin’s not home yet. I think about calling him. I don’t.
I think about Jeno. I always do.
I press a hand against my chest and try to quiet the noise.
It’s louder now. The silence between us.
But no one hears it except me.
I hear the door open and close softly, followed by the quiet rustle of sneakers being kicked off. Jeno’s familiar steps echo down the hallway, slow and careful, like he’s unsure if he should be here.
“Chenle?” he calls out.
“I’m in the living room.”
He appears a second later, carrying a small paper bag and a hoodie slung over his arm. He gives me a quick smile as he drops the bag on the kitchen counter.
“I came to grab the charger I left last time. Hope that’s okay.
I nod, not looking away from the screen. “Yeah. It’s fine.”
He disappears into the guest room and comes back a minute later, charger in hand, but he doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he sinks into the armchair across from the couch, setting the hoodie on the armrest. His eyes flick to the TV.
“What episode is this?”
“Seven,” I answer, short.
“I stopped at five. Was it worth continuing?
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
He laughs a little under his breath. “You sound so convinced.”
“I’ve seen it before,” I add, still not meeting his eyes.
He nods. “Of course you have. You always binge things before the rest of us.”
I don’t say anything. Just pull my legs up on the couch and hug the throw pillow tighter.
After a beat of silence, he tries again. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you have?”
“Rice. Leftovers.”
He frowns, that familiar wrinkle between his brows appearing. “From when?”
“Yesterday.”
“Chenle,” he says, quiet but firm.
“I wasn’t that hungry.”
“You still need to eat properly.”
I shrug again, trying to focus on the screen, even though I’m not really watching it.
He shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “There’s this new ramen place near the gym. Just opened last week. Broth’s decent. They do this spicy pork one I think you’d like.
I nod once. “Maybe.”
“We should go.”
“Sure.”
He watches me for a second too long, and I can feel it. His gaze, steady and thoughtful. It makes me itch. I keep my face blank, try not to show how tired I feel.
He’s quiet for a while. The TV keeps playing, filling the space with canned laughter and bright colors that feel too loud.
Then he speaks again. “You’ve been quiet lately.”
I force a small laugh. “Not like I talk a lot.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You do, actually.”
I don’t respond.
“I just…” He hesitates. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me.”
My throat tightens. I look at him then, and I wish I hadn’t. His face is so open, so full of concern it hurts. He means it. He genuinely cares.
That’s the worst part.
“I’ve been busy,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’re always busy, but this feels different.”
“It’s not.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
He doesn’t push. Of course he doesn’t. Jeno never pushes.
The silence stretches again. He glances at the TV, tries to pretend he’s just watching. I know better. He’s here because he wants to make sure I’m okay.
But I’m not.
And it’s easier to keep pretending than admit the truth. That being alone with him like this makes everything harder. That his softness, his kindness, only sharpens the ache.
Because I know how he is when he loves someone. I’ve seen it in how he looks at Jaemin. How he remembers little things, anticipates needs before they’re voiced. How his hands move first and his heart follows quietly behind.
And sometimes he does those things for me too.
But I don’t know what they mean when they’re mine.
So I sit there, nodding along, pretending the silence is comfortable.
I don’t ask him to stay. I don’t ask him to leave either.
Eventually, he gets up. Picks up his hoodie. Walks toward the door.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
I nod. “Okay.”
He hesitates, opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. But then he just gives me a small smile and lets himself out.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I finally let myself exhale.
After the door closes, I stay curled on the couch, eyes glued to the screen, but I couldn’t tell you what the show is about anymore.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
Maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour.
The silence grows louder without Jeno in the room. I hate it. I hate how he still brings warmth with him, how the room always feels just a little colder after he leaves. Like I’ve been tricked into thinking something good could last longer than it should.
I press pause. The TV freezes mid-laugh.
In the quiet, I hear the hum of the fridge, the ticking clock above the dining table, and nothing else. I should be used to this. Jaemin’s always busy. And lately, I’ve been making sure Jeno doesn’t stay long.
I just don’t know why it feels so heavy tonight.
Maybe because Jeno noticed. Because he said it out loud.
I’ve been avoiding him.
I didn’t think it showed. I’ve been careful. Pulling away gently, not suddenly. Not in a way that would worry anyone. No confrontations. No drama. Just… less. Less texting. Less calling. Less time spent hanging around when I know he’ll come over.
And still, somehow, he noticed.
I get up and clean the already clean kitchen just to keep my hands moving. I check the fridge. Close it again without taking anything out. Refill the rice container even though it’s not empty.
I used to tell Jaemin everything. Every small thing.
But I stopped.
It didn’t feel right anymore. Not when I started lying by omission. Not when my own thoughts started feeling like betrayal.
So I keep it to myself now. All of it.
The things I notice. The way Jeno still takes the time to check if I’ve eaten. The way he always keeps a playlist of my favorite songs in his car. How he buys me extra sauce packets without asking. The way he looks concerned when I’m quiet. The way he lingers.
I tell myself it’s just who he is.
Kind. Observant. Thoughtful.
None of it means anything.
But I wish it did.
I go to bed without changing. Just pull the blanket over myself and close my eyes.
I don’t cry. Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because I’m tired of crying over something that was never mine in the first place.
The next morning, I leave before either of them wakes up.
Jaemin texts me around noon.
Jaemin: you disappeared
Jaemin: did you eat
Jaemin: do i need to beat you up
I send him a blurry selfie with a coffee cup in hand.
Chenle
Jaemin: idiot. come home for dinner
Chenle: if i finish early
Jaemin: we’re watching that dumb game show you like
Chenle: say less
That’s how Jaemin shows love. Through sarcasm and threats and cooking three servings of pasta because “the extra is for tomorrow” but he knows I’ll eat it all in one sitting. Through late-night gossip, through movies on the couch with his feet on my lap, through showing up with cough syrup and oranges when I so much as sneeze.
It should be enough.
Sometimes it is.
But sometimes, when Jeno’s name lights up my phone, when his voice cuts through the static, warm and familiar, I forget how to protect myself.
And I hate that.
So I keep my replies short.
I stop asking if he’s eaten.
I stop waiting for his messages.
I stop offering shotgun when it’s just us.
Little things. Small things.
Things he might not even notice.
But I do.
And the space between us grows.
Quiet. Careful.
Almost invisible.
But I feel it.
Everywhere.
I saw Jeno at the grocery store.
It’s stupid, really. One of those chance run-ins that would have made me giddy a year ago. The kind of coincidence I used to think meant something.
Now it just feels like bad luck.
He spots me before I can turn away. He’s pushing a cart, casual hoodie and baseball cap, half-full with actual groceries. I’m holding a basket with a pack of chips, instant ramen, and a canned coffee I didn’t even feel like drinking.
“Chenle,” he says, smiling like he’s happy to see me.
I pretend my heart doesn’t twist. “Hey.”
He glances at my basket and then lifts the edge of his cart like an offer. “Wanna walk with me? I still have a few things to grab.”
I hesitate. I could say no. I should say no. But I nod.
“Sure.”
We fall into step.
He picks out eggs and juice. Adds pork belly to the cart with a casual, “Jaemin’s been craving kimchi fried rice again.”
I nod. “He mentioned.”
“You two still surviving each other?”
I snort. “Barely. He keeps stealing my laundry time and reheats rice with no water.”
He laughs. “That sounds like him.”
There’s a short silence. Then he glances over. “You don’t come around much lately.”
I stare at the shelf of sauces in front of us. “Been busy.”
“Yeah?” he says, not pushing. “With what?”
“Work,” I say. “And sleep. Trying to get some.”
He gives a small hum. “Fair.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but his steps slow as he grabs a box of Jaemin’s favorite cereal and tosses it in. Then, like it’s an afterthought, he grabs my favorite gum. The same one I always used to steal from his car.
He drops it into the cart. Doesn’t say a word.
I stare at it for a second, then look away.
At checkout, he handles the cashier, packs his own things, and nudges a second pack of gum into my hand without looking.
“You know,” he says as we step out into the cool evening air, “I still drive by your building sometimes.”
I glance at him. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Habit.”
I don’t answer.
“I’m heading to Jaemin’s office after this,” he says. “Said he forgot his charger again.”
“Sounds like him.”
“You wanna come?”
It’s an innocent question. So harmless on the surface. But it curls tight in my chest.
I shake my head. “Nah. Got stuff to do.”
He nods slowly. “Alright.”
I can feel him looking at me, like he’s trying to read something I didn’t say. But he doesn’t push.
“Take care, Chenle.”
“You too.”
He walks away with two bags in hand, one of them holding Jaemin’s favorite cereal, and the other with my gum.
I stand there for a long time.
And for some reason, it’s that second pack that hurts the most.
Dinner was nothing out of the ordinary. A place we’ve been to before, a menu I knew by heart. Jeno asked if I wanted the same thing and I said yes before he could even finish the sentence.
But something about tonight felt different.
Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was always like this, and I was just tired of pretending it didn’t sting.
Jeno pulled out Jaemin’s chair. Offered him the last dumpling. Wiped something off the corner of his mouth with a napkin, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jaemin laughed and swatted his hand away, cheeks pink. They looked like a couple in love. They weren’t, but they could be. Anyone would believe it.
I smiled through the whole thing. Made jokes. Laughed too loud. Pretended I wasn’t watching.
After dinner, as usual, Jaemin suggested dessert. Something sweet. Something warm. Something to keep the night going just a little longer.
He turned to me. “Chenle, where do you wanna go? That café near your work again?”
I shook my head, kept it light. “Actually… I think I’ll head home. I’m kind of tired. You guys go.”
Jaemin blinked. “Are you sure? You love their cheesecake.”
“Yeah. Just not in the mood. I’ll get a slice some other time.”
Jeno looked at me. “Want me to drop you off first?”
I nodded. “Please.”
The ride back was quiet. They talked a bit about their day, about some new show they were watching. I rested my head against the window and let their voices blur into each other. When we pulled up to the apartment, Jaemin turned in his seat.
“Text us when you get in,” he said, gently.
I smiled. “Will do.”
I didn’t go in.
I waited until they drove off. Until I was sure they were gone. Then I walked. Just kept walking until the familiar streets started to feel unfamiliar. Found the cheapest hotel I could and checked in without thinking.
I didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to be strong or okay or funny or fine. Not tonight.
I just wanted to cry without holding back. I wanted to feel sad and let it take up all the space it needed. Just for tonight.
At midnight, my phone buzzed. Jaemin. He had just gotten home.
where are you? chenle please tell me you’re okay
Then a missed call.
Another.
Jeno called too. I let it ring.
Then came the message from him.
please let me know where you are so I can fetch you. or just let us know you’re okay.
I stared at the screen for a long time. Fingers trembling over the keyboard.
Finally, I typed:
don’t wait up. I’m okay. will go home in the morning.
I turned my phone face down.
Pulled the blankets over my head.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself break.
The hotel room was too quiet.
I didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check my phone again. I just lay there, curled up on stiff white sheets that didn’t smell like home, under fluorescent lights that buzzed softly through the silence.
I tried to sleep, but my body didn’t know how to rest anymore.
My mind kept playing it over and over. The way Jeno’s hand hovered over Jaemin’s back when he laughed. The way he remembered to bring Jaemin’s favorite drink, even though he hadn’t asked. The way he looked at him, soft and open, like there was no one else in the room.
Maybe there wasn’t. Maybe I’ve never really been in the room.
Maybe I’ve just always been the extra chair at the table, the leftover spoon, the friend who’s easy to keep because I don’t ask for anything.
I used to think Jeno looked at me like I mattered. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe he’s just kind. Maybe he’s kind to everyone.
I press my hand to my chest, just to feel the weight of it. It’s still beating, somehow, even though it feels like it shouldn’t be. My head hurts. My eyes sting. I didn’t even cry that much. I just wanted to. The sadness stayed like a lump in my throat, too solid to move, too sharp to swallow.
When I wake up, it’s barely morning. The sky is still dark.
I scroll through my phone. There are more messages.
From Jaemin:
please let us know you’re safe
I’m just worried
call me when you’re ready
From Jeno:
I checked with the coffee shop near your place, the one you like. not there.
I went to the park too, in case. just wanted to make sure.
if you don’t want to talk that’s okay. I’ll wait.
I don’t reply.
Not yet.
I check the time. It’s barely six. No one expects me to be home yet.
I stare at the ceiling and try to figure out how to stitch myself back together before I see them again. How to erase the hurt from my voice, from my face, from the way my hands still shake a little when I think about last night.
Because when I go back, I have to be fine again.
I have to smile and laugh and ask if Jaemin enjoyed the cheesecake. I have to nod when Jeno says he missed me last night and pretend I didn’t hope he’d come looking.
I have to look at the two of them and pretend I’m not slowly fading out of place.
I close my eyes.
The pillow smells like bleach. Like nothing. Like no one.
It’s better that way.
At least here, no one is watching me fall apart.
I got home before sunrise.
The sky was pale and soft, caught somewhere between night and morning. I slipped into the apartment quietly, careful with the keys, careful with my footsteps. Everything looked the same. Shoes lined neatly by the door. Blankets on the couch. Jaemin’s water bottle sitting on the counter, half full.
I didn’t stop moving. I went straight to the shower and turned the water on as hot as it could go. Steam curled around me, thick and suffocating. I let it burn down my shoulders, over my spine, hoping it would take something with it. But the heaviness stayed.
I scrubbed my skin until it hurt. Washed my hair twice. Brushed my teeth for longer than necessary. I got dressed like it was just another morning and walked to work with my headphones in, pretending everything was fine.
When I came back that evening, something was off.
It was still quiet. Too quiet. Like the silence had deepened into something colder.
I noticed it first in the living room. The corner shelf was missing Jaemin’s manga stack. The charger that always dangled from the side table was gone. The blue throw blanket he always curled up with was no longer on the couch.
My chest tightened.
I walked down the hallway and pushed open his bedroom door.
The bed was stripped. Drawers open. Closet half-empty. A few hangers still swinging slightly like they had just been touched.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my mind trying to catch up.
The front door clicked open behind me.
I turned and saw Jaemin walk in, a small box in his arms.
“You’re moving out?” My voice cracked.
He didn’t look at me. He walked into his room and set the box down.
“I already did,” he said. “Just came to get the last of my stuff.”
My throat felt dry. “Why?”
He looked at me finally. His eyes were dark with something quiet and tired.
“I went back to my parents’ place. Thought it made more sense than staying somewhere I don’t feel wanted.”
I blinked at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t talk to me anymore, Chenle. You barely even look at me. You keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’ve been asking if you’re okay. You never let me in.”
“I’m just tired,” I said, but even I didn’t believe it.
Jaemin shook his head. “You’ve been tired for weeks. That’s not it.”
My voice rose before I could stop it. “You think everything is about you? I’m at the lowest point in my life, and instead of just being there, you’re making this about how you feel?”
Jaemin’s mouth parted slightly, like I had slapped him.
I immediately regretted it.
“That’s not fair,” I added, softer this time.
“No,” he said, stepping back. “Maybe it’s not. But I kept trying. You didn’t.”
“Jaemin—”
“I hope you get better soon.”
He walked past me. Not angry. Just done.
The door didn’t slam. He closed it gently behind him.
I stood in the middle of the room, still damp from the morning shower. Still holding everything I had never said out loud. Still waiting for someone to tell me what to do.
But there was no one left to ask.
And now I was really, truly alone.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the silence of the empty room pressing down on me like a weight I could not lift. The box Jaemin left behind was still on the floor, half forgotten, like the words we never said.
I thought that if I kept everything inside, if I pretended the ache wasn’t there, the cracks wouldn’t show. I thought hiding the pain would protect what we had, that if I could just be “okay,” Jaemin would never have to worry, and maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t lose each other.
But that was a lie I told myself.
Because keeping silent did not make things better. It made me distant. Cold. Unreachable. And in trying to protect the friendship, I ended up pushing it away. Like I was holding onto something fragile by squeezing too hard.
I was so afraid of losing Jaemin that I did exactly that.
And now, all I am left with is this hollow space where we used to share jokes, late-night talks, and quiet understanding. The memories don’t fill the silence. They only remind me of how far away everything has drifted.
I tried to be strong for everyone else. For Jeno. For Jaemin. But in the end, I was only strong on the outside.
The truth is, I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if I can.
Maybe that’s why I ran away that night. Because staying meant facing a truth too painful to bear.
The friendship I fought so hard to protect was already breaking apart. And I was left watching it fall, powerless and afraid.
Maybe some things are not meant to be saved.
The message came late at night, when the world outside was quiet and my phone felt heavier than usual.
Jeno: Hey. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m just a message away.
I stared at the words, the screen glowing softly in the dark. I wanted to reply. I wanted to say something. But the knot in my chest tightened.
Another message came a few minutes later.
Jeno: I miss you, Chenle. Not just the laughs or the late-night talks, but you. The real you. Please don’t shut me out.
His words were careful, kind, but there was urgency beneath them, a desperate hope that I might let him in.
I put the phone down without answering. Maybe tomorrow.
The next day, the message was waiting again.
Jeno: I’m not going anywhere. Take your time. Just don’t forget I care.
It wasn’t pressure. It was patience. And maybe that was what I needed most, someone who wouldn’t give up on me, even when I was too broken to ask for help.
I typed a reply, my fingers trembling.
Chenle: I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt a little less alone.
A few days later, Jeno showed up at my place. Just like old times. No pressure, no big plans, just hanging out, watching dumb videos, and letting the silence fill the space without awkwardness. For a while, it felt like maybe things could go back to normal.
But then, as we were packing up after a long night, Jeno said something without thinking.
“I just wish I could tell Jaemin we hang out sometimes. You know, without it being a big deal.
His words hit me harder than I expected. I forced a laugh and said, “Yeah, well, maybe some things are better left unsaid.”
He looked at me, surprised. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just complicated.”
“Complicated for who?” I asked quietly, my throat tight.
He didn’t answer right away. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
But it was weird, and it hurt.
I nodded and forced a smile. “It’s fine.”
He reached out, trying to close the distance between us. I wanted to take his hand, but I pulled back.
That night, when he left, I felt lonelier than before.
Jeno started hanging out with me more often. Maybe it was because Jaemin was hours away, busy with work and family. I didn’t say it out loud, but part of me was grateful. At least someone was around.
He didn’t pressure me, never did. He’d show up with a smile, bring snacks or a new movie, and sit quietly beside me when I didn’t have the energy to talk. Sometimes we’d just share silence, and somehow that felt safe.
It wasn’t the same as before. There was an unspoken weight between us now, a line we didn’t cross. But having him there, even like that, helped me hold on.
I wondered if Jaemin felt the space growing too. Maybe he did. Maybe that was why Jeno and I became something close to normal again, even if it was quiet and complicated.
One night, Jeno came over after work. We hadn’t planned anything special, just some quiet time watching a movie. He brought a few beers with him. Maybe more than a few. I noticed when his voice started to slur slightly.
As the night wore on, Jeno grew quieter but also more touchy-feely. At first, it was small things… a hand on my shoulder, a nudge on my arm. Then, after a clumsy joke, he suddenly pulled me into a hug.
For a moment, I froze. His arms were warm and his breath unsteady against my neck. I knew this was just the alcohol making him more clingy. Still, I let myself hold onto the moment longer than I should have.
It felt like a tiny island of comfort, even if it was fleeting. I wanted it to mean something more, but I knew better.
When he pulled away, he gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Guess I had a bit too much.”
I laughed softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
But inside, a sharp ache twisted in my chest. It was the pain of wanting something I could not have.
Jaemin showed up at my door without warning. It wasn’t like him to just drop by, but when I opened it, I didn’t hesitate to let him in.
He stepped inside quietly and sat down on the edge of the couch. His eyes searched mine, serious but soft.
“I miss you, Chenle,” he said after a moment. “Not just as my roommate, but as my friend. I hate how things ended between us.”
I swallowed, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. “I miss you too.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’ve been through too much to just let it go like that. We don’t throw away what we have over a fight.”
“Yeah,” I whispered, looking down at my hands. “Our friendship means more to me than I can put into words.”
He smiled gently, the smile I had missed so much. “Then let’s not end it like this. We can work through it. We always do.”
His words warmed me, but I held back the truth that had been burning inside. I wasn’t ready to explain everything.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said quietly. “I want us to go back to how we were. Like none of this ever happened.”
For the next week, we fell back into our old rhythm. We talked about everything and nothing. We laughed at dumb jokes, shared meals, and stayed up late just like before. It felt almost normal. Almost like we never fought.
But beneath my calm, the storm inside me continued to rage. I was pulling away again, even if I didn’t say it out loud.
One evening, as we sat together after dinner, I finally found the courage to speak.
“Jaemin, I have something I need to tell you.”
He looked at me, alert but patient.
“I’m moving,” I said, my voice low. “I got a work reassignment. It’s farther than before.”
His face stayed steady, but I saw the flicker of something deeper in his eyes.
“I’m doing this for my career,” I added quickly. “It’s a good opportunity. I hope you understand.”
He nodded slowly and gave me a small, sad smile. “I understand. But I wish you didn’t have to go.”
“I wish I didn’t have to leave either,” I said honestly. “But this is something I have to do.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Just promise me one thing. No matter where you go, we don’t lose what we have. Our friendship.”
I looked at him and nodded. “I promise.”
Even though I said the words, I wasn’t sure if I could keep that promise.
Because there were things I still wasn’t ready to say, things I was still trying to understand myself.
And I wasn’t sure if the friendship we fought so hard to save could survive the distance and the silence growing between us.
It was a Wednesday. Late afternoon. Overcast sky. The kind of weather that never fully decided whether it wanted to rain or just linger in the weight of almost.
Jeno showed up outside my apartment with two iced coffees. He didn’t text beforehand. He just came.
“Thought you might need a break,” he said, holding the cup out to me like a peace offering.
I took it with a quiet smile. “Thanks.”
We sat on the steps outside the building, side by side, legs stretched out in front of us. Neither of us said much for a while. The street was quiet, the occasional hum of a passing car filling the silence between sips.
“I heard from Jaemin,” he said eventually.
I didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”
“He said you two talked. I’m glad.”
“Me too,” I said, even if part of me still ached when I thought about it.
There was another pause. Then he asked, “So is it true? You’re really moving?”
I nodded. “End of the week.”
“Four hours away.”
“Yeah.”
He exhaled, resting his forearms on his knees. “That’s… pretty far.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
He looked at me then. Really looked. And for a second, I almost believed he saw through everything. The jokes, the tired smiles, the polite distance I had built around myself.
“You’re not running away, are you?” he asked, soft.
I didn’t answer right away. “I’m just… doing what’s best for me.”
“I get that,” he said, even if his voice sounded like he didn’t.
He leaned back against the step, his shoulder brushing mine. “It sucks, though. You leaving.”
“I know.”
“Feels like the end of something.”
“Maybe it’s just a break.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m gonna miss you, you know?”
My chest tightened. I stared straight ahead, afraid to let my face give me away.
“Chenle?”
“Yeah?”
He turned his head slightly. “We’re okay, right?”
I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
He nodded slowly, but I could tell he didn’t fully believe it.
The sun dipped lower behind the clouds. Our drinks watered down. The silence grew comfortable again, but it was a different kind of comfort. Like two people sharing the same room but living in different endings.
He stood up first. “You need help packing?”
I shook my head. “I’m mostly done.”
He nodded. Hesitated. “Can I hug you?”
I said yes, even though I shouldn’t have.
He wrapped his arms around me. Familiar and warm and everything I had tried to forget. I closed my eyes and let myself stay in it a little too long.
When we pulled apart, I smiled. “Take care of yourself, Jeno.”
“You too, Chenle.”
He walked away after that. No dramatic pauses. No turning back.
And I stayed on the steps, watching the sky darken, wondering if I had just let go of the only person I ever really wanted to stay.
The day I left, the city felt quieter than usual. Even the sky looked muted, covered in a blanket of soft grey, like it knew something was ending.
Jaemin helped me carry boxes to the car. We didn’t talk much while we worked. There was music playing from his phone, something light and familiar, but the silence between us was louder than anything. He lifted the heavier stuff without asking. I handed him bags and suitcases without saying a word.
When everything was packed and the car was full, we stood by the open door for a moment, not ready to say goodbye.
“You got everything?” he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “That’s the last of it.”
He looked down at the ground, then back at me. “Four hours isn’t that far.”
“I know.”
“You’ll visit, right?”
“I’ll try.”
He gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Try harder than you did before.”
That stung, but I didn’t let it show. I just nodded.
He walked with me to the driver’s side, then leaned against the car, arms folded like he was trying to hold something together.
“I’m really proud of you,” he said. “You’re doing something brave. Starting fresh.”
I wanted to say thank you, but the words got stuck in my throat. I wasn’t sure if this was brave or just running away.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he added.
So did I.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you everything,” I said quietly, hands clenched around my keys. “I just… couldn’t.”
He didn’t ask. He never asked again. Just nodded like he understood, even if I knew he didn’t.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Some things are hard to say. Doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
That broke something in me. Because I knew he cared. And still, I couldn’t bring myself to let him all the way in.
We hugged, brief and tight. I memorized the way he smelled, the way his hands felt gripping my back, like he wasn’t sure how to hold on without holding too tight.
When we pulled apart, I gave him one last look. He smiled, softer this time.
“Drive safe.”
“Take care of yourself,” I said.
I got in the car. The engine came to life. He stepped back as I pulled away.
In the rearview mirror, I saw him watching until I turned the corner.
Only then did I let the tears fall.
Not because I was leaving the city. But because I had spent so long trying to protect the friendship that I had slowly broken it piece by piece. By not saying the things that mattered. By trying to love quietly.
And now, the silence was all I had left.
Life four hours away moved quietly.
I woke up before the sun. Walked to work when the sky was still pale. Learned to cook for one. I started sleeping early, drinking coffee without sugar, and forgetting to check my phone. The silence stretched, and I let it.
There were no late-night drives. No movie marathons. No glances from across the room that I tried too hard not to read into. Without Jeno and Jaemin, it felt like I had finally removed the thorn. The only problem was I kept forgetting how to stop wincing.
Then, one night, my phone rang.
Jaemin.
I almost let it ring out.
But something in me reached for it. Something stupid. Something soft.
“Hey,” I said.
“Chenle,” he breathed out, like my name had been sitting on his chest. “You’re alive.”
I laughed a little, quiet. “Barely.”
“You haven’t posted anything in months. I thought you were kidnapped.”
“Just working.”
“You always say that,” he said. “I miss you.”
I swallowed. “Yeah. I miss you too.”
For a while, it felt normal. He told me about work, about his mom’s new obsession with baking, about how cold the nights had gotten lately. I closed my eyes and listened, letting the sound of his voice fill the parts of me I had been ignoring.
Then he hesitated.
“Can I tell you something?”
I should have said no.
“Sure.”
“It’s about Jeno.”
My chest tightened, but I didn’t say anything.
“I think… I don’t know. I think we’re kind of in something.”
My fingers clenched around the phone.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew.
He exhaled, like he had been holding it in. “It’s not official or anything. We haven’t really talked about it. But he’s been coming over a lot. We spend weekends together. He holds my hand sometimes, and he kissed me once. I don’t know. It just feels like something.”
Something.
I wished I had let the phone ring.
“That’s… nice,” I said, and the words felt like chalk on my tongue.
“I thought you’d want to know. You’re my best friend, you know?”
I smiled into the dark. “Right.”
“You’re okay, right? I mean, you sound tired.”
“Long week,” I said. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow too.”
He softened his voice. “Okay. Call me when you can?”
“I will.”
But I didn’t.
When the call ended, I stayed where I was, sitting cross-legged on my bed, phone still warm in my hand. The room felt smaller. The silence turned sharp.
It wasn’t like I didn’t expect it.
But hearing it from Jaemin, like it was some new adventure, some bright corner of his life I had no part in anymore, made it harder to breathe.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling.
I told myself I had moved on. I told myself this distance was good for me. I thought I had managed to forget.
But maybe forgetting only worked when no one reminded you.
And tonight, Jaemin reminded me.
That I still loved someone who would never love me back.
And that I left, thinking it would save me.
But maybe I only made room for the ache to grow quieter.
Not smaller.
The call with Jaemin became the last.
Not intentionally. There was no fight. No cold goodbye. Just silence that slowly folded over itself until even breathing around it felt normal. I stopped checking if he messaged. He stopped asking if I would. And somewhere in between, we both let go.
I never asked Jeno what they became. I didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, it wasn’t mine to question.
Life didn’t get easier, but it moved.
I woke up. I worked. I came home to a place that still didn’t feel like mine, but at least it didn’t carry their ghosts. Some nights I still dreamed of them, their laughter spilling across my old apartment, the way Jaemin used to steal my chips, how Jeno would glance at me like he was seeing something I didn’t know I was showing.
But dreams weren’t memories. And memories weren’t real anymore.
Months passed. Seasons shifted. I started laughing at new things. I made friends who didn’t know my story. I learned to enjoy quiet again, this time not as a shield but as something whole. Something soft.
One evening, I passed a familiar song playing in a café. It was something Jeno once played on a loop. I stopped in my tracks, just for a moment. Let the melody wash over me. Let myself feel it.
And then I kept walking.
Because some love stories don’t end with confessions or grand reunions. Some end in silence. In distance. In the quiet choice to survive.
And maybe that’s enough.
Because I loved them. Fully. Silently. Honestly.
And now, I love myself more.