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Matthew's POV
Matthew felt like he was coming away from it all with nothing and nobody.
Time moved differently now. Each day stretched endlessly yet somehow still slipped through his fingers too fast.
Mornings felt like wading through deep water – every gesture deliberate, heavy. Then he’d blink and find himself backstage at the practice room with no memory of the drive there, or at a schedule with makeup already done.
Some days he felt like he was watching from outside himself. Others, he found himself memorizing fragments without meaning to – his brain collecting things it would need later. Ricky’s laugh hitting a specific pitch when Gyuvin did something stupid. The three seconds of silence before Taerae started humming during cooldown, always the same three seconds. How Hao’s left eye twitched when he was too tired to fake alertness anymore. Matthew’s chest would clench suddenly, mid-conversation: this might be the last time.
Everyone else had begun speaking in futures – companies they were meeting, projects in development, debuts penciled into calendars months ahead. Their conversations buzzed with nervous energy and possibility.
Matthew had nothing. Or he had the letter from Hanbin, which wasn’t the same as a plan.
The paper had grown soft from how many times he’d unfolded it. He kept it wedged where his thumb naturally fell when he opened his wallet. Sometimes he’d touch it without meaning to – reaching for his credit card, brushing the edge, remembering.
Hanbin had written it the week he left Cube – left Matthew behind in Cube – when Matthew’s world was cracking apart and Hanbin somehow knew exactly what words he needed to hear.
He’d returned to desperate habits without meaning to, touching the letter before schedules like a superstition, unfolded it when his lungs felt too small, reminding himself that Hanbin had wanted him to stay.
Back then, that had been enough. Hanbin believed in him, so Matthew could believe in himself by extension.
Now he read them and thought: but what did Hanbin see in him, exactly?
He stopped taking the wallet out after Gyuvin saw and asked too many questions he couldn’t answer. I thought you’re on Samsung Pay? When did you start bringing around your wallet? Is that the letter? Doesn’t Hanbin hyung still write you letters? He did – birthday cards, anniversaries, holiday messages. But this one was different.
And Matthew didn’t know how to explain that he still needed it more than all the others combined.
He kept being sunshine. The role fit too well to abandon now – easier to crack jokes and coax smiles from exhausted faces than to watch everyone scramble to give reassurances Matthew himself probably wouldn’t believe.
Hanbin used to catch him when he pretended too much. See through the act. Not lately though.
The distance between them had grown so gradually – space where there hadn’t been before.
Hanbin’s schedule had become a maze of meetings and phone calls, late nights spent hunched over contracts with tired eyes. When he wasn’t working, he was with Hao – their conversations about plans, punctuated by understanding nods, shared anxiety and gentle laughter.
Matthew told himself it made sense. Hao was steady, analytical, thoughtful. They complemented each other in ways that felt necessary, two minds working in harmony. Because they were almost the same person – mirrors, Hanbin had called them once.
And Matthew had smiled at the poetry of it. Was happy Hanbin had that.
But some mornings he’d wake up and realize he hadn’t actually talked to Hanbin – really talked – in days. Then wondered when Hanbin had stopped seeing him as someone worth sharing the weight with.
He didn’t bother reaching out. The math was simple: he had no plan, no advice worth giving. So what would he even say to Hanbin?
To him, it was a really good reason to stay away.
So he turned to no one.
Because he’d always turned to Hanbin before.
The moment the hopelessness really hit was so small, so ordinary, that it almost didn’t register.
He was grabbing his water during practice break when he heard them – two staff near the door, voices low but not low enough.
“Such a waste. He’s really talented, but…” A pause. “What’s he going to do after? His company’s shit.”
“Might have to go home. Canada.”
“Such a shame.”
Matthew was the only one close enough to hear. Turned on his heel and walked straight to the bathroom.
He held a smile for no audience until the cubicle door locked behind him.
Then he sat on the floor and cried, quiet and quick, the way he’d learned to. His throat ached. His chest ached. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw spots.
Five minutes. He gave himself five minutes.
When he stood up, his reflection looked normal. Puffy eyes, but that could be allergies. He splashed cold water on his face and went back to practice.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t know what he could do.
Gunwook asked him about it once, careful. “What about you, hyung?”
Matthew had shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”
And Gunwook looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.
Gyuvin asked a week later. Ricky asked the week after that, quieter, catching Matthew back at their dorm after schedules. Same question. Same answer.
Matthew kept saying it like eventually it would become true. I’ll figure something out.
But there was nothing. No safety net. No guarantees. Just the slow realization that some stories don’t have neat endings.
That night, he took the letter out one more time.
Keep going.
Matthew traced the last two words with his thumbnail, careful not to tear the paper.
Didn’t know if keep going was supposed to last past disbandment, or if they’d already fulfilled their purpose.
He folded it up again. Put it back where it belonged.
He’d figure something out.
He had to.
Hanbin's POV
Lately, everything existed in a blur of motion.
The group was nearing its end. There were meetings that ran past midnight, his phone battery dying twice in a day, contracts with clauses he had to read four times before the words made sense – highlighter in one hand and doubt in the other.
He spent long hours with Hao, dissecting offers over cooling coffee, trying to decode contracts written in legal language that made his head spin. They talked about what came next, whether any of them would survive re-debut, what life would look like after. Thankfully, Hao had a way of turning panic into numbered lists, of making the unknowable feel like something they could prepare for.
Matthew was handling things well. He always did – resilient and bright, the kind of person who landed on his feet no matter how far he fell.
That’s what Hanbin assumed. Until one evening when he found Matthew sitting alone on the corner pavement right outside the side entrance, staring into space. Perfectly still.
Something cold gripped Hanbin’s spine.
“Mashu?”
Matthew startled, blinking fast. For a second looked completely lost – like he was trying to remember where he was, or who he was supposed to be in this moment.
“Oh, hyung! You’re back early tonight.” His voice carried its usual warmth, but it came a beat late.
That’s when Hanbin realized he hadn’t actually looked at Matthew in weeks, and that he’d missed something in that time.
“We haven’t talked in a while,” Hanbin said, settling beside him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” Matthew’s smile widened, head tilting in that endearing way. But tonight it looked rehearsed. The words came too quickly. “Everything’s good.”
“You’re pretending.”
Matthew’s smile faltered. “I–”
“It’s okay to be upset with me, you know.”
Genuine surprise flickering across Matthew’s features. “What? No. Why would I be?” He reached out, fingers briefly touching Hanbin’s arm in reassurance. “You’re being silly, hyung.”
“I don’t know. We used to...” Hanbin paused, watching how Matthew’s smile reasserted itself. “We used to talk about everything. And I know I haven’t been around lately.”
“You’ve been busy,” Matthew said simply. “It’s okay. Really.”
But his hands were clasped tight enough that his knuckles stood out white.
“You’re struggling.” It wasn’t a question this time.
“Don’t worry about me.” He laughed softly, bright and… empty. “You know I always bounce back.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
Even now, even caught, Matthew looked at him like he was searching for the right version of truth – one that wouldn’t hurt either of them more than necessary.
“I didn’t think you needed to hear it,” he said eventually.
The words landed heavy.
“Of course I did.”
Matthew’s gaze drifted toward the darkened window. “I guess I didn’t want to be another thing you had to worry about.”
“Still.” Hanbin’s throat tightened. “You should’ve looked for me.”
“I look, hyung. I tried. You… you don’t look back.”
“Wh– what do you mean?”
“You’re kinda always with Hao hyung now,” Matthew said gently, without accusation.
Hanbin opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Because Matthew wasn’t wrong. He’d been turning to Hao because those conversations had clear answers. Things he thought he’d be able to control.
He’d thought he was being strong. Instead he’d just been absent.
“I understand, though.” The younger man continued, “He gets you in ways I know I can’t.”
Guilt sat in Hanbin’s chest. “I didn’t mean to disappear on you.”
“Hey, don’t do that. I’m not saying this to make you feel bad,” Matthew patted his arm comfortingly, still trying to ease Hanbin’s discomfort even now. “I probably couldn’t help even if I tried. I can’t even figure out my own life.”
“Don’t think that way,” Hanbin whispered. “I was just… caught up in being scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. Of losing the group. Us.”
Matthew looked at him properly then, and his eyes were pink at the edges. “You know you’ll have to leave eventually, right?”
Leave me. he meant. He didn’t say it, but Hanbin heard it anyway.
“You’re acting like we’re already over.”
“It’ll hurt less if we start now, hyung.”
And something fractured between them. Not loud or explosive. Just quiet, and final, and already gone.
Matthew's POV
The dorm had been getting quieter for weeks. Ricky left first – back to Shanghai with his mom, his room stripped clean in under an hour. Then Jiwoong, then Gyuvin. Each departure made the place feel bigger, hollower, like a body losing organs one by one. Matthew told himself he didn’t mind. He’d gotten good at being alone in crowded rooms… an empty one shouldn’t be any different.
Hanbin wanted to be the last. Of course he did.
By now, it was down to just the both of them. So Matthew started packing. Still didn’t know where he was going, just that he needed to go.
As he folded his belongings into boxes that seemed too small for three years of accumulated memories, one of said memories came forward unbidden.
His hands stilled on the half-folded hoodie.
“Do you ever feel like you don’t belong?”
Hanbin had asked him that once right after debut.
“All the time,” he’d answered.
“But you keep going.”
“Yeah. Because if I stop, I might never start again.”
Hanbin’s hand had found his arm then, rested there. “If you ever need a reason to stay, I hope you know you already have one.”
Back then, Matthew had believed him so completely. Now they just hurt, a reminder of promises that couldn’t survive the weight of reality. Because Matthew was stopping. And he didn’t know if he’d start again.
He folded the hoodie into the box. It was Hanbin’s originally. He didn’t remember when it became his.
Hanbin appeared in the doorway suddenly with two convenience store coffees, condensation already dripping down the plastic. He stood there like he was waiting for permission.
“This feels wrong,” he said softly, just watching.
Matthew didn’t look up. “Which part?”
“All of it. It just doesn’t feel the same like… before.”
That made Matthew pause. His hands stilled on a wrinkled T-shirt, fingers pressing creases into the fabric. He finally looked at Hanbin. “Before?”
“When we left Cube.” Hanbin set the coffees on the desk. Took in the lyrics sheets there that Matthew wouldn’t finish under this roof, surveyed the boxes and half-empty drawers. Eyes drifting to the suitcase splayed open on the bed. “We were scared then too, but we still had each other, somehow. We made plans. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“So what’s different now?” Hanbin moved closer. “Why are you acting like we’ll just drop out of each other’s lives?”
Matthew sighed, shoulders sagging. Hanbin was making this harder than it needed to be.
“We were nobody then,” he said quietly.
“So?”
“So now you’re not nobody anymore. You have–” He gestured vaguely at nothing, at everything. “You have options, opportunities. A really bright future that doesn’t necessarily need me in it.”
“Stop,” Hanbin whispered.
“This time, I’m just choosing to let go before…” He cleared his throat weakly, “Before you start feeling sorry for me. Before I’m the friend you have to carry, again.”
“That’s it?” Hanbin’s voice trembled slightly. “You’ve decided for both of us?”
Matthew reached for another pair of pants. “It was always going to happen eventually.”
“Stay,” Hanbin said. Wrecked. “How ever you want. I don’t care. Just stay.”
“I’ll still be around,” Matthew offered kindly. “But you have to know that I did stay. And I’m so grateful you asked me to stay back then, because now I get to say that I stayed as long as I could.”
Before Boys Planet, he’d been weeks from buying a plane ticket back to Vancouver. He’d already looked at flights – one-way, red-eye, cheap enough that he wouldn’t have to ask his parents for help. But Hanbin convinced him to audition with what if we tried one last time?
And they succeeded.
But Hanbin wasn’t a miracle worker. He was being beautifully naive. Because love – whatever kind they’d shared – was not enough to bridge the gap between dreaming and surviving.
“I don’t think there’s anything left for me here, hyung,” Matthew said.
He’d never said it out loud before. Not like this. The words tasted wrong, made him want to claw it back into his chest where it belonged. But there was no taking it back now.
“I’m here.” Hanbin’s voice had gone ragged. “Isn’t that enough?”
Matthew looked at him for a long time.
“It used to be,” he whispered finally.
And Hanbin didn’t know what to say to that.
Hanbin's POV
Hanbin kept forgetting Matthew wasn’t there. He’d turn to say something and find empty air. The apartment his company had set him up in was bigger than his old dorm room, better furnished, but he’d wake in the morning convinced he could hear Matthew’s laughter out in the hall.
For some reason, he kept the kitchen stocked with the cereal Matthew liked even though Matthew had never been to this apartment. Kept glancing over his shoulder expecting to see Matthew’s sleepy smile in the evenings.
Three weeks after official disbandment, Gyuvin suggested dinner. “Everyone,” he’d emphasized in the group chat. Hanbin had watched the responses trickle in – enthusiastic emojis from Gunwook, a thumbs up from Jiwoong, eventually a simple “see you guys soon” from Matthew that came six hours after everyone else.
The restaurant was too loud, enough that you had to lean in to hear each other. Matthew showed up fifteen minutes late with his usual sheepish grin, sitting down across from Hanbin instead of next to him.
He tried not to let the disappointment show.
Matthew laughed at Ricky’s stories, asked Taerae about his vocal recording sessions, complimented the menu choices. But his eyes never quite landed on anyone’s face. His smile looked like something he had to hold in place through effort.
“What about you, Matthew?” Hanbin asked, after everyone else had shared something – an upcoming drama, a variety show appearance, a collaboration.
No one had asked him directly so far, and Hanbin just couldn’t stand it anymore.
Matthew took a long sip of water. “Still figuring things out.”
The silence that followed lasted maybe three seconds but felt longer. Then Gyuvin tried to launch into a story about his photoshoot that morning, and Matthew’s face relaxed like he’d been granted a reprieve.
Hanbin watched Matthew’s hands. They stayed folded in his lap the entire meal, never reaching for the shared dishes in the middle of the table unless someone passed them directly to him.
Felt helpless the entire night.
He texted Matthew the next week.
Hanbin: Gunwook says you’re impossible to pin down for a meal.
Three hours later–
Matthew: haha yeah sorry been busy
Hanbin: doing what?
The read receipt appeared immediately. No response followed.
Hanbin tried again two days later, sending a screenshot of a stupid English meme Ricky had posted. Matthew replied with a laughing emoji. Then a week later, Hanbin forwarded an article about Canadian artists making waves in K-pop, thinking it might interest him.
Matthew: thanks hyung
That was it.
Matthew had stopped sharing anything meaningful. Nothing personal. Nothing real. Nothing like them. He still hadn’t said what he was doing, where he was heading.
Sometimes, the only sign that he was still in Seoul was through second-hand information. Like when Kamden mentioned in passing that he’d gone on a PC Bang date with Matthew. Or Matthew’s blur, grainy face in the background of a picture that Yunseo posted on his private Instagram. Hanbin zoomed in on Matthew, trying to read something in the sliver of expression he could make out.
His thumb hovered over the message app.
Hanbin: lunch?
He deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again.
If Matthew wanted to see him, he’d say so.
Until then, he could only try to learn how to find comfort in these tiny proofs of existence.
Life moved fast and the night of Hanbin’s solo debut showcase arrived with a mixture of terror and excitement.
He’d been preparing for months, but standing backstage with five minutes to curtain, his hands were shaking. His in-ear monitor felt wrong, too loose, and he adjusted it twice before his manager told him to stop fidgeting.
The stage lights came up and Hanbin couldn’t see past the first few rows, everything beyond that lost in darkness. But during the second song, when he moved to the extended stage, his eyes adjusted enough to catch a figure in the back left section. Hood up, black cap pulled low, slouched in the seat like he was trying to take up less space.
But Hanbin saw him anyway. How could he not?
He knew the shape of Seok Matthew. Would know it anywhere.
His voice nearly wavered on the next line.
He didn’t realize how much he’d hoped until he saw him. Despite everything, despite the distance, despite the careful way he’d been retreating – Matthew came.
He made it through the performance. Nailed every note, hit every mark. During the encore, riding the high and relief of pulling off a successful showcase, he looked for that corner seat again.
Empty.
Matthew had left.
Back in the dressing room after everything, Hanbin’s manager was already fielding calls from media outlets wanting interviews. Someone from the styling team was carefully packing up the stage outfits. A bouquet from Jiwoong sat on the vanity, another from Hao and Gyuvin beside it.
Hanbin sank into the chair and let the noise wash over him. His legs ached. His throat felt a little sore.
“Hanbin-ssi, did you see the fan board?” One of the staff members gestured toward the standing board near the door, covered in colourful post-it notes and messages.
He walked over. Read a few – sweet messages fans left, encouragement and hearts and promises of support.
You did amazing! We’ll always support you!
Hanbin oppa, you’re perfect! So proud of you!
From Boys Planet to solo artist - you’ve grown so much. Fighting, our Hamcee!
Then he saw it. The handwriting stopped him – unmistakable.
You’re so hard not to love, hyung. Thank you for growing so well and living your dreams with such courage. I’ll always be rooting for you.
The last line was slightly smudged, like a hand had dragged across it before the ink dried.
Hanbin knew exactly who it was from. Read it three times, then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.
Around him, people were celebrating, talking about the phenomenal event, discussing next steps. Someone asked if he wanted to go out for drinks.
“Maybe later,” he said.
He sat down heavily at the vanity. He should’ve been riding the adrenaline, but all he could think about was that empty seat and the note.
Because it felt like goodbye. Like Matthew was releasing him with blessing.
Hanbin stared at himself in the mirror. Stage makeup still perfect, hair styled just right, the face of someone who’d just had a successful solo debut.
He didn’t look like someone who’d just been let go for good.
But he felt like it.
Matthew's POV
Three blocks. That’s how far Matthew made it before his vision blurred.
He walked through empty streets, past shuttered convenience stores and dark apartment windows. The grief came in layers – first for the group, then for the version of himself who’d woken up knowing exactly where he belonged. The Matthew who’d been certain of his place, his purpose. And Hanbin – God, for Hanbin – who’d made everything feel possible just by existing next to him.
He’d left the showcase early because staying would have felt too much like glimpsing a future that he wasn’t part of. Better to slip out before the applause died, before anyone noticed he’d been there at all.
He knew what that made him.
You’re so selfish, Seok Matthew.
But he didn’t regret going. Maybe he regretted not staying.
Maybe he regretted a lot of things.
At home – his grandmother’s house, where he’d been staying since leaving the dorm – he watched every fancam, every behind-the-scenes clip, every moment he couldn’t be there for. He clapped along from his bed and whispered congratulations to the ceiling.
He’d even started keeping a journal of sorts. Not about himself – he had nothing worth recording – but about the others. Small celebrations written down, like wishes made for their happiness.
Gunwook’s guest appearance on a rap show went viral – 2M views in two days.
Gyuvin’s getting his own radio show.
Taerae got songwriting credits. The OST’s charting.
Jiwoong hyung booked a leading role.
Ricky’s brand partnership is going international.
Yujin’s preparing for his next comeback already.
Hao hyung’s short film won something in China. I should’ve asked what.
And then: Hanbin hyung had his solo debut. He was perfect. He’s going to be okay.
When people asked what he was doing, he said he was resting. Technically true. MNH hadn’t offered much clarity about his future, and he tried not to think about what that meant. This was normal, wasn’t it? Groups disbanded, members scattered. Some landed on their feet and hit the ground running. Others didn’t.
Business was business.
He returned to dance classes at a smaller studio in Hongdae. Occasionally he even smiled during them, muscle memory awakening something pure – the simple joy of movement for its own sake, divorced from expectations or judgment.
But late at night, he wondered if this was how stories ended for people like him. Not with fanfare or failure, but with a slow fade into irrelevance.
Still, he kept Hanbin’s name on the tip of his tongue, kept track of his schedules and successes, kept supporting him from a distance because some habits were too deep to break.
But he didn’t call.
Space felt like kindness. The only gift he could offer.
Then one evening, weeks later, his phone lit up on his nightstand.
“🍔🫘”
Matthew stared until the buzzing stopped. Then it started again.
He didn’t answer.
He let it ring. And ring. And ring.
By the fourth call, his resolve had broken. He picked up.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” Hanbin’s voice cracked through the speaker, rough in a way that made Matthew’s chest ache. “I’ve tried to give you space but I’m your best friend! And you won’t– you won’t even answer. Not my calls, not my texts.”
Matthew slid down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor, closing his eyes. “Because I don’t know what to say, hyung.”
“Since when do we need something to say? We used to call each other just to breathe into the phone.”
His free hand pressed against his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice came out steady. Reassuring. Like he was comforting Hanbin instead of breaking both their hearts. “Maybe… maybe this is as far as we’re meant to go.”
“What?” The disbelief was sharp. “You can’t– I won’t let you throw us away. You don’t get to–”
“I’m not throwing anything away. Listen, hyung…” Matthew kept his eyes closed as he smiled into the phone, an old trick to make his voice sound brighter. Cheerful, even. “Eventually I’ll just become another person who used to matter in just one chapter of your life. And that’s okay. We got to spend the best years of our youth together, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.”
A pause.
He gathered courage, and then: “You’ll move on. You should.”
“No, I won’t,” Hanbin snapped, like the suggestion physically hurt. “You don’t know that.”
“You’ll learn. Everyone does.” Matthew tried to laugh. “Trust me. I don’t want you to feel stuck with me.”
Silence. Then breathing, uneven and wet.
Matthew dragged his palm down his face, forcing his voice to remain light. “I should probably go now. Take care of yourself, okay?”
“No, wait– don’t hang up. Please don’t hang u–”
He ended the call. The smile finally dropped from his face.
Twenty minutes later, someone pounded on the door. Urgent, relentless.
Matthew opened it.
Hanbin stood there, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead. His chest heaved like he’d sprinted the whole way.
They stared at each other. Hanbin’s eyes were red, jaw set.
“How did you even know where–”
“That’s not what matters right now,” Hanbin cut him off, immediately reaching out to grab his wrist. “What if I want to be stuck with you? What if I want you to be stuck with me?”
Matthew felt his composure beginning to crumble. “Hyung…”
“I’m sorry if you don’t want to hear this, but I’m not letting go.” Hanbin held both his hands now, tugging gently. “And I don’t think you’re ready to either.” His eyes searched Matthew’s face. “You’re still here, aren’t you? That has to mean something.”
Something in Matthew chose that moment to give way. The careful distance he’d maintained, the protection he’d tried to offer them both – all of it falling apart in the face of Hanbin’s dogged, reckless hope.
Matthew nodded.
“I haven’t gone back to Canada,” he whispered.
“Then let’s not say goodbye yet.” Hanbin exhaled, long and shaky. “We’ll figure out how to do life together. We’ll figure out everything together, just like we always have.”
Before Matthew could respond, Hanbin pulled him closer and locked him in an embrace.
“I choose you,” Hanbin said fiercely into his neck. “Even when you think I shouldn’t. Even when–” His voice caught. “Even when it wasn’t enough to make you stay before. I still choose you. Because my life makes more sense with you in it.”
Matthew buried his face in Hanbin’s shoulder. He smelled like rain and sweat and everything that was uniquely him.
“Move in with me, Seokmae-ah,” Hanbin said softly.
Matthew didn’t say yes right away.
But he didn’t say no either.
Hanbin's POV
They didn’t move in together all at once.
Matthew’s things appeared gradually – a hoodie draped over the arm of Hanbin’s couch. His toothbrush – the electric one he’d insisted was better for your gums – sitting in the holder beside Hanbin’s. His matching brown boots by the door.
Then suddenly it was real: Matthew’s name next to his on the lease agreement, both their signatures cramped at the bottom.
The spare room stripped of its storage boxes, mirrors installed on one wall, the floor scuffed from pivot turns. Two mugs in the dish rack every morning – Hanbin’s plain white one, Matthew’s self-made Pokémon one that he refused to change.
The apartment was small where the afternoon light came in slanted and warm through a kitchen. But most importantly it was where the two of them could exist without needing to perform for each other. And in that, discovering new things too.
Matthew learned that Hanbin needed twenty minutes of silence after a bad practice session – just needed to sit on the couch, staring at nothing, before he could talk about it.
Hanbin learned that when Matthew started rearranging the bookshelves for no reason, something was bothering him, and the best thing to do was sit nearby and wait.
Matthew danced in the living room sometimes, just because he could. Hanbin would find him there in the late afternoon, moving through a routine with his eyes closed, and something in Hanbin’s chest would catch – the same feeling he’d had watching Matthew on stage, but quieter now, more private.
He’d set down his coffee and join in, matching the rhythm until Matthew opened his eyes. More often than not, they’d both end up breathless on the couch, shoulders pressed together, laughing at nothing in particular. And Hanbin had to pretend like his heart wasn’t doing small, happy things.
They fought sometimes too. Matthew had a bad habit of leaving wet towels on the bed. Hanbin got snappish when he was stressed and wouldn’t admit it, which meant Matthew spent three days asking “Are you okay?” and getting clipped “I’m fine” responses until Hanbin finally broke and apologized.
Once, they didn’t speak for six hours over something as stupid as whether to get groceries delivered or go to the store. But Matthew had eventually sat down beside him on the couch and said, “I don’t want to waste our time being mad about vegetables,” and Hanbin had laughed despite himself.
Apologies came easier now. They knew how to find their way back to each other, choosing each other daily in a thousand ordinary ways.
Hanbin started bringing home food from industry events – fancy catering that felt absurd in their tiny kitchen, but Matthew always ate it standing at the counter, humming with appreciation.
Matthew left sticky notes on Hanbin’s lyric notebooks: this line slaps! or what if you tried this in the bridge? They traded songs late at night, passing Hanbin’s phone back and forth, tucked snugly under a blanket on the couch.
Sometimes they still talked about the future – what if the money ran out, what if they couldn’t make this work – but those conversations didn’t feel as daunting anymore.
It took time. But they were learning.
Matthew eventually found his footing and signed with a smaller company in June – a three-person operation run out of a Gangnam office. The CEO was a former indie musician who talked more about Matthew’s artistry and authenticity. The contract was six pages instead of sixty.
When Matthew came home that night, he’d stood in the doorway holding the signed papers, looking stunned, and said, “I think they actually care what I want to make and what I have to offer.”
Hanbin had pulled him into a hug then, relief flooding through him so sharply it almost hurt.
They had separate careers now, but a shared life.
Matthew’s first solo release had four songs, twenty-three minutes total. His own choreography, his ideas in his concept photos, his voice in R&B and rock production. The title track was about being afraid of wanting something and wanting it anyway.
Hanbin listened to the whole EP in one sitting, alone in the kitchen while Matthew was out meeting his team, and had to lean against the counter halfway through the second song.
Tears rolled down his cheeks before he’d noticed, the same way it did during that Boys Planet star-level test years ago – watching a boy he knew could shine so bright.
His chest ached with pride, relief, and the sharp awareness that he’d almost lost this. That they’d almost lost each other.
Matthew found him like that. Standing motionless beside the sink, head bowed.
“You’re crying again,” Matthew said softly, and his hand came to rest on Hanbin’s shoulder. He stepped closer, resting his forehead against Hanbin’s back.
“You make a habit of doing this to me,” Hanbin laughed wetly. He reached up to grip Matthew’s wrist, just to have something to hold onto.
“Happy or sad?”
“Both,” Hanbin said. “Neither. I don’t know.”
“Good tears, though?”
“Yeah. The best.”
They learned how to be okay like this. Not groupmates anymore, not bound by the same schedules or obligations – just as two people who’d found their way to the same place. It wasn’t the ending they’d feared. Instead, they’d discovered that some conclusions gave way to beginnings, and some goodbyes were really ‘hello’s in disguise.
The future was still uncertain. Matthew’s career was just starting. Hanbin’s was in flux. There were no guarantees about what any of this meant or where it was going.
But when Hanbin looked at Matthew – standing in their kitchen, smiling at him – he thought maybe it was enough that they were here now. That they’d found their way to this, whatever this was. That they’d become part of each other’s next chapters.
And yes, some would contend nothing lasted forever.
But Hanbin would argue that some things lasted long enough to matter. And maybe that was its own kind of forever too.