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It was always Chan and Jisung first.
Before the name Stray Kids was more than an idea, before the stage lights and chart numbers, before the chaos and weight of fame — it was just the two of them. Chan and Jisung. Hyung and dongsaeng. Dreamer and believer.
Jisung still remembers that first day like it’s tattooed behind his eyes — the studio that smelled like dust and sweat, Chan’s voice kind and strong, reaching out like a lifeline: “Let’s do this together.”
Back then, Jisung didn’t know what this was. But he said yes anyway.
Because when Chan looked at you like that — like you mattered, like you were more than just another kid trying to prove himself — you didn’t question it. You followed.
And for a long time, it felt like they were in their own world. He’d watch Chan in the mirror, dancing like his bones knew rhythm in a different language. He’d fall asleep to Chan’s demos, to that gentle rasp he found more comforting than silence. He memorized his moods, his routines, his tells — the twitch in his jaw when he was pushing himself too hard, the way his laugh changed when he was really tired.
He used to think it was just admiration.
But at some point — somewhere between the midnight walks and the whispered worries, the shared ramen and shared exhaustion — Jisung realized he’d stopped just looking up to Chan.
He’d started loving him.
And not in the way you’re supposed to love your leader. Not like a brother or a friend.
It was softer. And sharper.
It was needing to be the one who made Chan laugh on bad days. The one who saw through the “I’m okay” smiles. The one who’d pull him close, not because Chan needed comfort — but because Jisung needed to give it.
But he never said anything.
Because after the group formed, it stopped being just them. Chan became everyone’s hyung, everyone’s anchor. And Jisung? He took a step back. Let others take their place beside him. Smiled through the ache.
He wrote instead.
“Countless trials, mistakes and fights Piled up on a teary night…”
That was for him. For all the nights he saw Chan curled in on himself, trying to be strong for everyone else. For the silent breakdowns behind locked doors.
“Every time I see you cry, I felt like drowning in the dark…”
That line nearly broke him. Because it was true. Every time he saw tears in Chan’s eyes, he felt helpless. Like the ground fell away under him. Like nothing mattered more than making it stop.
Not the music. Not the fame.
Just him. Just Chan.
Jisung wanted to be the one who erased the pain. Who rewrote the ending.
“I run to this end of story — it’s not gonna be a sad ending…”
Because even if the world broke apart, even if things changed and time pulled them in different directions, Jisung believed in the plot twist. The one where Chan didn’t have to suffer alone. The one where someone held his hand and meant it.
“I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear
So baby, hold my hand now…”
It was a prayer.
When Jisung sang that line, he was thinking of Chan in the dorm kitchen at 2 a.m., back turned, shoulders heavy. Of the way his voice wavers when he says he’s fine. Of the way he still carries guilt for things long forgiven.
He was thinking of how much he hates the tears Chan hides. How he wishes he could rip every ounce of pain from his chest and take it as his own.
Because if there’s one thing Jisung knows — really knows — it’s this:
He doesn’t want the legend. Doesn’t want the leader. Doesn’t want the version of Chan the world worships.
He just wants him.
His silence. His laughter. His tired eyes. His scars.
And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s foolish. But Jisung doesn’t care.
Even when old memories root themselves deep inside him like thorns — like coughs you can’t shake, like anxiety that spreads like bacteria — he still comes back to that one thought:
“I come back as expected.”
He always does.
No matter how far he strays. No matter who Chan is standing next to, smiling at, leaning on — Jisung comes back.
his heart does.
he, in fact, never really left. He can't.
So Jisung hides it well.
He dances. He jokes. He plays the fool. And when the words get too real — “’Cause all I want is you, not your tears” — he forces his voice not to crack.
What would Chan do if he knew?
If he knew that Jisung would burn every bridge if it meant making him happy?
If he knew that, despite the smiles and the distance and the time, it was still Chan for him?
Would he stay?
Or would he let go of the hand Jisung’s been holding in the dark for years?
Jisung doesn’t want to find out.
So he says nothing.
he writes and he sings.
Because some hearts speak in silence.
And some promises sound like:
“baby, hold my hand now.”