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Masato wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this city, not on this stage, not next to Junseo.
Sometimes, when the rehearsals ran long and exhaustion blurred the lines of reality, he thought maybe he’d imagined it, the warmth of Junseo’s laugh, the weight of his hand steady against Masato’s back. Surely none of it could belong to him.
And yet, here they were.
The night before eliminations always felt cruel. Boys cried in the bathrooms, voices hoarse from praying, from begging their names not to be forgotten. Masato never cried, not where anyone could see. He learned young how to keep his face still even when his chest burned.
But Junseo noticed anyway.
“You’re too quiet again,” Junseo said, sliding into the hallway where Masato sat curled up against the wall. He lowered himself beside him, knees brushing, voice gentler than the cameras ever caught.
Masato didn’t answer. If he spoke, his voice would betray him.
Junseo leaned back against the wall, watching the ceiling. “You know,” he murmured, “you’re one of the strongest here. Even when you don’t think so. I—” His voice faltered, rare for him. “I notice. I notice you.”
Masato’s heart stuttered. He turned, wide-eyed, searching Junseo’s face for a crack in the words. But Junseo wasn’t teasing. He was just looking at him, steady, unshakable, like he meant it.
It was too much.
Masato kept his head down in rehearsal. It wasn’t humility, not exactly; it was survival. The mirrors were cruel enough without seeing his own reflection look back at him with disappointment.
The coaches had said his timing was good, his expression “getting there.” Still, Masato knew what the others thought: that he was quiet, maybe forgettable. And in this kind of competition, being forgettable was worse than being hated.
But then there was Junseo.
Junseo didn’t let him disappear. He clapped him on the back after run-throughs, laughed when Masato muttered self-deprecating jokes, dragged him into group stretches even when Masato wanted to melt into the corner. He carried the easy confidence of someone who had debuted before, who had stood on real stages with real fans screaming his name.
Masato hated how much he admired that.
And worse, how much he wanted Junseo to look at him, not with polite encouragement, but with something heavier. Something that lingered.
When practice ended, Masato lingered in the studio to run the chorus again, breath ragged in the empty room. He didn’t hear the door until Junseo’s voice cut through.
“You’ll burn out if you keep this up,” Junseo said, crossing the floor with his water bottle in hand. “Even machines need rest.”
Masato startled, half-smiling despite himself. “I’m not a machine.”
“You practice like one,” Junseo replied, then tilted his head, studying him in the mirror. “Don’t you trust yourself?”
The question pierced more than it should have. Masato bit his lip, gaze dropping. “It’s not about trust. It’s about… keeping up.”
Junseo’s reflection softened, and he stepped closer, close enough that Masato felt the warmth of his shoulder even without touch. “You’re already more than enough, Masato.”
The words landed like a blow. Masato’s throat closed around everything he wanted to say in return—Then why do I only want to be enough for you?
But he swallowed it down, as always.
Masato’s breath came sharp, and before he could stop himself, the words slipped out, soft and dangerous: “I wish we weren’t here.”
Junseo blinked. “What do you mean?”
Masato’s fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie. He wanted to bite his tongue, to take it back, but the truth had lived in him too long, restless and aching. “Because if we weren’t here, I could…” His voice broke. “I could say things.”
Silence stretched, taut and unbearable.
Junseo turned fully to him then, close enough that Masato could see the faint shadow of tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his lips parted as if to answer. Close enough that Masato could imagine, just for a heartbeat, what it would feel like to close the distance.
But the sound of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall, snapping the moment in two. A staff member’s shadow flickered across the wall, reminding them both where they were, who they were supposed to be.
Masato pulled back first. His chest hollowed as the words dissolved unsaid.
Junseo didn’t push. He only let out a long, quiet breath and rested his head briefly against the wall, close enough that Masato could feel the warmth radiating from him but not enough to bridge the space between them.
“Someday,” Junseo whispered, almost too soft to catch.
Masato’s throat tightened. He nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Junseo could see it.
For now, the things they didn’t say would hang between them, heavy and fragile. But someday, someday, the stage lights would dim, and the cameras would stop rolling, and maybe then they would finally let the words fall.
The dorms were supposed to be a place of rest, but nights stretched long and heavy. Masato lay awake most evenings, listening to the shifting breaths of boys around him, each one carrying their own fear of tomorrow.
Sometimes, though, Junseo slipped into the quiet. Not loudly—never loudly. Just his presence, leaning against Masato’s bunk, whispering soft nonsense that somehow made the silence bearable.
“You’re always awake,” Junseo said one night, sliding down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “Do you ever sleep?”
Masato shrugged, sitting up. His hair was a mess, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I close my eyes, I think too much.”
Junseo chuckled, low and warm. “Me too.”
They sat there for a while, neither pushing the other to explain. The dorm was dark except for the sliver of light under the door, and Masato thought: If the cameras never existed, maybe this would be easier. Maybe he could lean down and say it, not in perfect Korean, not even in words if he couldn’t manage them. Just let the truth pass between them in the press of a hand, the tilt of a forehead.
Instead, he whispered, “Junseo… do you ever wish you weren’t here?”
Junseo turned, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”
Masato’s chest tightened. He forced a smile. “Never mind.”
But Junseo’s gaze lingered, searching, like he could hear the unsaid words in the spaces Masato couldn’t fill.
Masato turned away, heart pounding.
The stage lights always left Masato dizzy. The applause, louder some weeks, quieter others, blurred into something unreal. He bowed with the rest, smile fixed in place, but his heartbeat always thudded with the same fear: Will I still be standing here tomorrow?
Backstage was chaos, boys collapsing into hugs, trainers barking instructions, makeup smudging under sweat. Masato slipped out of the crowd, searching instinctively, until he found Junseo.
Junseo was surrounded, as usual—other contestants slapping his shoulders, congratulating him. He smiled, easy and practiced, but when his eyes lifted, they found Masato’s.
Just for a second.
It was enough to make Masato’s breath catch.
Later, in the quiet of the waiting room, Junseo slid onto the bench beside him. Their knees brushed, and neither moved away.
“You did well,” Junseo said softly. “Better than you think.”
Masato shook his head. “I missed a beat.”
Junseo leaned in, voice low enough that only Masato could hear. “Nobody cares. Not when you look the way you do on stage.”
The words hit too close, too sharp. Masato turned away, cheeks heating. He wanted to laugh, to deflect, but part of him clung desperately to the idea that Junseo meant it, that Junseo saw him not just as another trainee but as him.
When Junseo’s hand brushed against his on the bench, Masato almost didn’t breathe. The contact lasted only a second before Junseo pulled back, casual as if it hadn’t happened. But Masato’s chest ached with it for hours.
The screen flickered, and Masato’s face appeared with the label: Candidate for Rank 8.
His stomach clenched. He stood when staff motioned, bowing quickly before moving forward to stand under the lights with another trainee. The stage felt too big, the heat of the cameras too sharp.
One by one, the ranks were announced. Rank 10. Rank 9. Each boy moved to his seat.
And then: “Rank 8, Masato.”
He stepped up, spine straight, every movement rehearsed. The cheers blurred together, but none of it mattered. What mattered was the empty space still in the waiting area. What mattered was Junseo.
Masato’s chest felt tight as he sat down, pretending calm. His eyes betrayed him again and again, flicking back to where Kim Junseo sat, waiting. Smiling for the cameras, but Masato knew better. His hands were tight in his lap, his posture stiff. Junseo was trying too hard to look fine.
Ranks continued: 7. 6. 5.
Masato’s heart thudded painfully with each number. He couldn’t move, couldn’t whisper the reassurance he ached to give. He could only sit there under the stage lights, trying not to let his nerves show.
Finally: “Rank 4, Kim Junseo.”
Relief tore through Masato so sharply he almost faltered in his applause. He forced his expression into something controlled, but inside, he was shaking. Junseo stood, bowed, and walked forward with his usual composure. To the cameras, he looked untouchable. To Masato, every detail was glaring; the slight delay in his breath, the way his fingers brushed against his thigh as if grounding himself.
When Junseo took his seat, their eyes met. Just for a second.
It was nothing. It was everything.
And sitting there as “Rank 8,” Masato realized he could shine under every light this stage had, but he would always feel dim whenever Junseo wasn’t beside him.
It was late, too late, when Masato found himself in the hallway again. He couldn’t sleep. The air was heavy with the ghosts of names they wouldn’t see tomorrow. He leaned against the wall, fingers tangled in his hoodie strings, staring at the floor.
Junseo found him there, of course. He always did.
“You’ll catch a cold,” Junseo murmured, sliding down to sit beside him. Their shoulders touched this time, not by accident. “You okay?”
Masato swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
They sat in silence for a long time. The hum of the vending machine, the faint snore of someone in another room, the steady rhythm of Junseo’s breathing, it all blurred together.
Finally, Masato whispered, “Do you ever… wish this was different?”
Junseo turned. “Different how?”
Masato’s chest ached. The words pressed at his lips, desperate to escape. Different, so I could tell you. Different, so I could want you without fear. Different, so we could be more than this.
But all he managed was: “Different, so it didn’t hurt so much.”
Junseo’s gaze softened, unreadable. For a moment, Masato thought he would say something, bridge the space between them. He leaned in, close enough that Masato felt his breath warm against his cheek.
Then footsteps echoed at the end of the hall. A staff member’s shadow flickered by, and the spell broke.
Junseo pulled back. Masato’s chest caved.
They sat in silence again, both pretending the moment hadn’t almost happened.
“Someday,” Junseo whispered finally, so quietly, Masato wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
Masato closed his eyes. His throat tightened, but he nodded. Someday.
But tonight, silence was all they had.
The dorm was too quiet after elimination nights. Some bunks were empty now, sheets folded neatly, belongings gone. Masato hated those empty spaces more than anything, the reminders of how temporary everything was.
He lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling. Sleep never came easy, but tonight it was impossible. His chest still burned from Junseo’s whisper in the hallway, from the way he had leaned in close enough that Masato could imagine it, imagine the impossible.
Someday, Junseo had said.
The word tasted like hope, and hope was dangerous.
Masato sat up, restless, and slipped from his bunk. He padded softly down the corridor, heart pounding for no reason at all, until he found himself at Junseo’s door. It was reckless, stupid. But he couldn’t help it.
The door was cracked, and through the sliver, he saw Junseo asleep. His breathing was steady, his arm thrown carelessly over the blanket. The moonlight through the blinds painted soft lines across his face.
Masato froze.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching. But something in him rooted him to the spot, unwilling to leave. He thought of all the moments they had shared, the bench backstage, the notebook clutched too tightly, the hand squeeze in the auditorium, the almost-touch in the hallway.
Junseo shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing slightly, and Masato’s chest constricted. He wanted, more than anything, to reach out. To smooth the line from his forehead. To whisper the words that lived inside him like fire.
You’re the reason I’m still standing. You’re the only thing that makes this place bearable. I—
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because what would it change? Nothing, except everything. The cameras would eat it alive. The fans would twist it. The trainers would warn him against distraction. And maybe, worst of all, Junseo would look at him with pity instead of the warmth Masato had memorized.
So Masato only stood there, breathing shallow, his hand pressed tight against his chest as if to hold himself together.
“Someday,” he whispered into the dark, words meant only for the air.
Then he turned and walked back to his room, each step heavier than the last. He slid beneath his blanket, clutching his notebook close. He didn’t write tonight. There were no words left that didn’t already ache.
Masato closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the dorm. Somewhere, not far, Junseo was sleeping—dreaming, maybe, of a stage Masato might never reach.
And Masato promised himself, silently, painfully: he would hold on. For Junseo. For the chance of someday.
Even if it broke him.