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The world thinks he’s untouchable.
Every stage, every screen, every sold-out arena, the fans all paint Hongshi as someone who’s made it. His face on billboards, his voice on radio, his name whispered like a spell from strangers who’ll never know him. To everyone else, he is THE HONGSHI, the superstar.
But, at one in the morning, he is just a boy in an empty apartment staring at the blue glow of his phone. He opens the social media account of someone he missed.
He told himself it was just curiosity. Just one look. Just to see if he was still there.
Nut was there. But not in the way Hong remembered.
His profile was private now. Just a muted gray icon. No traces of the boy who used to flood his timeline with blurry café selfies, stray cat videos, or that one photo of Hong asleep with his mouth open that Nut never deleted no matter how many times Hong begged.
Hong stared at the lock on the profile picture for too long. He thought about requesting to follow again, but what would that even mean?
“Hey, sorry I left you for a career and broke your heart. Mind letting me back in?”
He closed the app. Tossed the phone away. But it always found its way back into his hands.
They broke up four years ago. Four years since the breakup. Four years since Hong traded late-night motorcycle rides and Nut’s humming in the kitchen for neon lights, rehearsals that bled into dawn.
Hong remembers every second. The way Nut’s hands trembled when he said, “I can’t compete with your dream.” The way Hong stayed silent, because dreams were supposed to be everything. The way he turned his back, pretending he was strong.
He told himself it was worth it. The industry demanded sacrifices, didn’t it? Love was too soft, too fragile.
Hong wanted thunder, wanted the spotlight. Nut wanted quiet mornings and laughter over coffee. They were two songs in different keys, destined to clash.
And yet.
Every ballad song Hong writes, he whispers Nut’s name in the chords. Every hotel room smells wrong without Nut’s cologne.
He scrolls his own timeline. Fans are trending hashtags, celebrating his latest award. There’s a clip of him smiling onstage, flawless. But Hong looks at it and feels hollow. That smile belongs to someone else.
He thinks of Nut’s smile. How it wasn’t for cameras, wasn’t for crowds. Just for him. The kind of smile that warmed even the coldest dawn.
He shuts his phone, but the silence screams louder than the fans ever could.
Memories bleed in. Nut lying on the floor of their old apartment, guitar across his chest, humming aimlessly. Hong stealing his pick just to make him pout. Nut cooking eggs at midnight because Hong always came home hungry after practice.
Ordinary moments. Ones Hong traded for stages and lights.
He tries to drown it out with music. Headphones in, pen scratching across a notebook. But the lyrics betray him.
You were sunshine, I was midnight rain.
You wanted it comfortable, I wanted that pain.
The song writes itself, cruelly honest. It’s not for the album, not for the company. It’s just for him. Or maybe, for Nut.
Hong presses record anyway, uploads a rough cut to his private SoundCloud under no name, no credit. A secret offering. Another message in a bottle thrown into the sea, hoping the tide carries it back to someone who once loved him.
Hours slip by. The city outside begins to glow with morning. Hong hasn’t slept. He never does when the rain won’t stop.
He stares at his last tweet. The one about Midnight Rain's lyrics. Replies flood in. His loyal since beginning fans guessing it’s about an ex from his past that they knew about because Hong never kept Nut as a secret before, others calling him dramatic. Nobody knows the truth. Nobody knows that Hong would give back every stage, every trophy, every headline just to hold Nut one more time.
But he can’t.
Because he’s the one who let go first.
And so he whispers into the empty room, a confession no one will hear.
The rain starts outside. Or maybe it never really stopped.
Meanwhile, Nut’s world was quieter now.
He lived in a small town outside the city, working at a modest photography studio. He took graduation pictures, couple portraits, sometimes product shoots for small businesses. Enough to keep him afloat. Enough to keep him moving.
Some days he still sang, but only to himself. Only in the shower, or while making coffee. He didn’t chase stages anymore. He’d stopped chasing long ago.
But sometimes, when the rain poured heavy and the world outside blurred, Nut let himself wonder if Hong ever thought of him.
Then he’d shake the thought away. Because missing someone who left you for a dream felt like reopening a wound that never truly healed.
-
Hong spiraled more often than he admitted.
Every anniversary of their breakup. Every time he won an award and wondered if Nut saw the broadcast. Every time he came home drunk from the afterparty and realized the apartment was still missing one toothbrush, one coffee mug, one warmth that used to wait for him.
It was 3AM, the rain hammering outside. He was drunk enough to blur the line between bravery and stupidity.
On his private X account, he typed :
“after all these years, i still love you."
And then, against every rational instinct, he tagged Nut’s old handle.
The account was private, locked, with no sign of life. Maybe Nut wouldn’t even see it. Maybe the handle wasn’t even active anymore.
But Hong lay awake until dawn, heart racing like he was back in their early days, waiting for a reply that never came.
.
.
Nut did see it.
Because even if he locked his profile, he never changed his handle. Part of him refused to let go of that tiny piece of identity.
He read the words twice. Three times. His hands shook. His chest ached. He set the phone down, then picked it back up. Over and over.
He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. What was there to say?
But when he closed his eyes that night, he dreamt of Hong standing in the rain, soaked and smiling, the way he used to after they kissed beneath flickering street lamps.
-
Days passed. Hong pretended nothing happened. Work, rehearsals, interviews. Fans screaming his name. But inside, he was still spiraling.
It should have ended there. Two men aching in silence, separated by years and choices.
But fate is cruel and kind in equal measure.
Hong’s manager booked him for a photoshoot at an independent studio outside the city. Small, quiet. The kind of place idols rarely went.
Nut almost dropped the camera when Hong walked in.
The years hit them both at once. Hong’s pretty face, sharper jawline, the exhaustion under his eyes. Nut’s gentler frame, the steadiness in his hands.
For a moment, the rain outside was the only sound.
“Hi,” Hong said, voice cracking like it had four years ago.
Nut swallowed. “You’re late.”
Not a smile, not a hug. Just words. But Hong felt his chest unravel anyway.
The shoot went by in silence. Professional. Controlled. But between flashes, between shutter clicks, their eyes lingered too long. Their breaths caught too often.
When it ended, Hong lingered at the doorway. The rain was still pouring.
“Nut,” he said softly. “Do you still hate the rain?”
Nut froze. The camera strap slipped from his fingers.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I stopped deciding a long time ago.”
Hong nodded. His throat burned. “I missed you.”
Nut closed his eyes. For a moment, Hong thought he would walk away.
But then, quietly, Nut replied, “I know.”
They didn’t reconcile immediately. No kisses, no promises. Just two men standing in the rain, the weight of the years between them heavy but not unbearable.
As Hong left, Nut called after him.
“Hong.”
He turned.
Nut’s voice trembled. “Maybe next time, don’t be late.”
It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t the end either.
And for the first time in four years, Hong walked away with hope.