Archive of Our Own

Matthew’s POV

Matthew kept them in a box under his bed – crumpled receipts, corners torn from a notebook, the backs of practice schedules. Whatever paper his fingers found first when the need hit.

And then a name.

Hanbin.

These letters were never meant to be sent, weren’t even really for Hanbin. But his name sat there anyway, an address to nowhere.

It hadn’t started that way, though.

When Matthew first arrived in Korea, it was just about surviving.

The letters began because crying silently in the dorm bathroom every other night wasn’t enough anymore. Because texting his mom at 3 AM each time he wanted to quit had started to feel like drowning her in his failures, one desperate message at a time.

Those early letters to himself were barely legible confessions of homesickness and despair. The only language he trusted was English, and even that felt foreign when he tried to translate feelings he didn’t quite understand.

He missed home with an ache that had settled deep in his chest – missed being fluent in his own existence. The language barrier made everything worse. Everyone else moved through conversations like they were born knowing the right thing to say, the right way to bow, when to laugh and when to stay quiet.

While Matthew would stare at Korean text until his eyes burned, the characters refusing to make sense. He’d open his mouth in practice and the wrong words would come out – too formal or not formal enough, his pronunciation off. Even thinking in English felt like work now.

He was too loud when he should be quiet, too quiet when he should speak up. Too obviously foreign, and everyone knew it.

Between dance lessons that left him bruised, vocal training that pushed the limits of his throat, and all the other classes they had him in, exhaustion became his baseline. Not something sleep couldn’t fix.

So he wrote. In the blue hours right after dawn when the dorm still held its breath and most of Seoul slept around him. Just to have somewhere to put all the noise.

And then Hanbin came into Matthew’s life, and every letter afterward was addressed to someone.

He had already been there when Matthew arrived at Cube – his very first hyung in Korea.

He introduced himself with a warm smile and the strange ability to remember everyone’s names after a single introduction. He wasn’t loud, but he filled a room anyway – the kind of person you noticed not because they demanded attention, but because they made space for everyone else.

Matthew thought he was an angel incarnate – and then immediately felt stupid for thinking it.

But what else could explain someone who learned his protein bar flavour preferences within a week? Who made sure they ordered takeout without cheese in it because Matthew mentioned once that he hated it? Who laughed at Matthew’s mangled Korean without making him feel like an idiot?

No one was that nice. That consistent. That patient.

But it was as though the universe had carved Hanbin from something celestial and sent him down to remind people that goodness still existed in the world.

It made it easy to believe their friendship was fate. That it had been written in the stars long before either of them knew the other existed. That this – them – was always meant to be.

So the letters evolved.

They weren’t just about coping anymore. They were about him. To him, even if they were never going to be read.

The days at Cube were harder than Matthew ever let on.

He still remembered the first time Hanbin stayed behind with him in the practice room after everyone else had left. Matthew had been one stumble away from losing it – muscles burning, every move wrong, the mirror mocking him with his own clumsy reflection.

He hadn’t even asked for help.

“I’m done,” he muttered, sliding down the wall.

“No, you’re not.” Hanbin tossed him water. “One more time.”

Matthew didn’t move, just groaned. “You say that every time, hyung.”

“Yeah. Because one more time works.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” Hanbin’s voice carried that particular brand of gentle stubbornness that Matthew was beginning to recognize. “I’ll stay with you, okay?”

Not pushy. Not overbearing. Just… there.

Thank you for waiting until I believed in myself again, he wrote that night, pen moving across a torn piece of sheet music. That’s not nothing. I don’t know how you do it – how you make everything feel less scary.

The letters became a record of the highs and the lows and the weird, beautiful little in-betweens that no one else saw.

Like the night they snuck out to Han River for what turned out to be the best fried chicken Matthew had ever tasted.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Hanbin warned, nudging him with a chicken bone.

Matthew yawned into his fist. “You’re the one who kidnapped me from my beauty sleep and dragged me out here at midnight.”

“And you’re the one who ate half the order.”

“Shh.” Matthew pressed a finger to the lips across his. “That’s irrelevant.”

There were other moments too – countless small treasures that piled up.

The night they stayed up trash-talking a trainee they both couldn’t stand, voices hushed under a shared blanket. Matthew had his knees pulled to his chest, and Hanbin kept elbowing him every time he laughed too loud.

“Do you think he even knows what pitch is behind all that arrogance?” Matthew muttered.

“No, but he definitely knows what volume is,” Hanbin whispered back, and they both muffled their laughter into their pillows, shoulders shaking, trying not to wake anyone.

Midnight drives to nowhere special, just to see stars that Seoul tried its best to hide.

“Where are we going?” Matthew asked, voice rough from vocal drills.

“You’ll see,” Hanbin said, eyes bright with anticipation.

They drove until the city lights thinned out and the sky opened up – actual darkness, actual stars. Matthew pressed his forehead to the window, watching the world flatten into fields and distant trees.

“Hey,” Hanbin said quietly. “You’re allowed to like this.”

“Like what?”

“This. Taking a break. Not working. Just... being.”

Matthew’s throat tightened back then. He didn’t know how to explain that he’d forgotten what that felt like.

These were the moments he hoarded, the ones that found their way into letters even when he hadn’t planned to write them.

You’re the only person here who makes it feel less like a competition and more like we’re running toward the same dream together.

Then Hanbin left Cube.

They hugged in the parking lot after loading boxes into the car. Matthew’s face was pressed into Hanbin’s shoulder, and he could feel him shaking – or maybe that was Matthew. Both of them, probably.

“You’re going to shine, hyung,” Matthew said, voice trembling. “Wherever you go.”

Hanbin pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. “You too. Don’t forget that.”

Before he left, he pressed a folded letter into Matthew’s hand. The paper was warm from being in his pocket.

“Don’t read it yet,” Hanbin whispered as a watery laugh bubbled up his throat. “It’s embarrassing.”

Matthew kept that letter in his wallet. It was still there to this day.

Read it so many times the creases went soft and the ink faded at the folds. It was written in awkward Papago-English that somehow said everything anyway.

He tried writing back. Started a dozen drafts, maybe more. But every attempt began with I wish you’d come back, and he’d crumple it up because that’s not… that wasn’t what it was supposed to be.

I don’t know what I’m doing, he wrote instead, pen weak against paper. And I miss you.

When Matthew left Cube too, it felt like watching his dreams dissolve in real time. He drifted for a while, untethered and directionless. Trainee life without purpose was torture – all the pain and sacrifice with none of the hope to justify it.

Even after he joined another company, it had all become mechanical. He went through the motions because he didn’t know how to stop.

He thought about going back to Canada. Seriously considered it, had the plane ticket search open on his phone more nights than he cared to admit. His thumb would hover over “Book Now,” and he’d imagine himself walking through Vancouver International, breathing air that didn’t smell like compromise.

But before he could give in, Hanbin came to him with this:

“Let’s do Boys Planet and debut together.”

And just like that, the world tilted back on its axis.

Matthew said yes because saying no would have been cowardice, especially after all the effort Hanbin had put in to convince him.

Yes, even though every part of him that had learned to protect itself was screaming go home. Yes, because Hanbin asked with that same quiet certainty that one more time could change everything.

And maybe that was stupid. Maybe it was setting himself up to hope and then break all over again.

But when Hanbin looked at him like that, it made him believe in impossible things.

Matthew didn’t let himself think too deeply about the whole thing – not during auditions, not when the show started shooting, not when the competition transformed people into glittering, desperate versions of themselves.

Beautiful chaos. That’s what it was. Lights everywhere, cameras catching everything – every stumble, every triumph, every time you forgot to breathe right. Which was constantly. And beneath it all: Hanbin.

The same as ever, but different too. More settled in his own skin, confident in a way that wasn’t loud but rang clear as a bell. Matthew caught himself watching more than he should have, not because he wanted anything specific. But because that’s where his internal compass had always pointed.

There was a moment – small, probably meaningless to anyone else – when Hanbin handed him water after a long shoot. The same easy gesture from when they trained together, fingers brushing for half a second. And for that brief contact, Matthew felt like no time had passed at all.

But then came the pressure. The manufactured drama. The way everything turned into content, even the spaces between words.

Matthew struggled to find his footing. He wasn’t the best dancer, wasn’t the most charismatic, probably not the strongest singer. He was always second-guessing himself, always trying to smile like it didn’t hurt to be uncertain all the time.

Some evenings, he’d catch Hanbin across the room – laughing with someone else, that bright, uninhibited laugh that made his cheek whiskers appear – and a familiar ache would coil inside him.

Questions. Quiet ones. The kind he was ashamed to ask, even in his own mind.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t delusional enough to think Hanbin belonged to him.

But the doubt crept in anyway.

Maybe he’d made it all up. The closeness, the mattering – maybe that was just the by-product of late-night melancholy and wishful thinking. Just Matthew being lonely and latching onto the first person who was kind to him.

Maybe Hanbin was like this with everyone. And Matthew was just another person standing in his light, mistaking warmth for something personal – only now realizing it reached everyone else.

That doubt haunted every letter he wrote since.

Then the impossible happened.

They both made it into the final lineup of ZB1.

After the show – after their names rang out over speakers and the cameras zoomed in – Matthew didn’t sleep for almost two days. He kept waiting to wake up, kept checking his phone like the results might change. Even standing side-by-side on the debut stage, ZB1 inked into contracts and announced to the world, some part of him still couldn’t believe it had actually happened.

This means more because you’re here, he wrote that night, still half-convinced he’d hallucinated the whole thing.

They’d actually done it.

It was real. They had fans who screamed their names, light sticks that painted venues in ocean blue, a group chat that someone renamed at least five times a week.

But nothing felt quite the way he had imagined.

Success tasted different than he’d expected. Sweeter, yes, but with an aftertaste of vertigo. Or maybe the constant hum of adrenaline that never quite let up.

Fame was double-edged and loud: venues that roared, schedules that blurred together, cameras that caught everything. Being part of something that big, that fast, came with pressure so relentless it was hard to breathe sometimes. The weight landed on all of them, but especially on Hanbin – the title of ‘leader’ a crown of thorns he wore.

Matthew found time to write anyway, even if the letters became quick lines on napkins between shoots, or half-formed thoughts scribbled on hotel room notepads at weird hours in different time zones.

Hyung, you still smile like you used to.

He did. And he still ruffled Matthew’s hair when cameras weren’t watching, still offered him the last bite of shared meals, still soothed him to sleep when he wasn’t feeling well.

And Matthew still didn’t know what any of it meant.

The thing about being around Hanbin constantly again was how easy it felt – and how strange that was, after everything.

They’d spent months apart, all those letters unsent, and somehow their old rhythm just came back anyway.

The comfortable banter returned, the shorthand they spoke in glances and nudges, jokes that only made sense to the two of them.

But something had shifted. Maybe in Matthew. Maybe in everything.

Because on the surface, everything was perfect. Hanbin was perfect – the best friend anyone could ask for.

“You’re my best friend, Seokmae-ah.”

He said it often, easily. A truth he never questioned.

But Matthew questioned it.

Not because he didn’t want to believe it, but because he didn’t know what that meant anymore – not when Hanbin kept everyone close. Close enough to feel chosen, but never quite close enough to be sure.

That was what ached.

Because eventually, Hanbin would hit a limit. He held them all up, pushed them forward, carried more than any single person should have to carry. And someday it would all catch up to him.

But when that day came – when Hanbin finally needed someone to lean on – would it be Matthew he turned to?

He used to, at least. Back before all of this. Matthew held onto that memory and tried not to think about how many people were in the picture now. Hoping that that wouldn’t change.

All while telling himself that this was friendship in its purest form: being patient and asking for nothing. Even when so much of it felt like pretending.

Pretending he wasn’t keeping score of every small moment, every near-miss where he hoped Hanbin would choose him. Nodding when Hanbin was too busy, smiling when others claimed pieces of his attention first.

He didn’t want to make Hanbin choose. Didn’t want to become another weight he had to carry. Because if Hanbin ever looked at him and thought I’m not enough, Matthew would never forgive himself.

He offered what felt safe. Small things.

Like when fans asked who his number one was, he always said Hanbin. Every time. The other members teased him about it – called him predictable, rolled their eyes – but he never changed his answer.

He slipped vitamins into Hanbin’s bag, reminded him to eat, to sleep, to remember that he was human too. Not because Hanbin couldn’t take care of himself, but because he never stopped moving long enough to realize he was running near empty.

And Hanbin wasn’t doing anything wrong. That was the problem. He was doing everything right.

He was being exactly who he’d always been. How could Matthew ever resent him for that?

So Matthew made it his quiet mission to stay steady. Showed up when Hanbin needed him, didn’t complain when he didn’t. Stayed grateful, supportive, uncomplicated.

Then he went home and wrote another letter. Folded it up and shoved it into the dark with all the others, because putting it on paper meant he didn’t have to let it show on his face.

The months blurred together like that – Matthew giving what he could, writing what he couldn’t say.

Then suddenly it was New Year’s Eve.

ZB1’s first year ended down to the side of the stage, fireworks and confetti cannons exploding at midnight while the crowd counted down in joyful roar.

He hugged Hanbin at midnight. Hanbin’s arms came around his shoulders and stayed there, warm and grounding and exactly what he needed. Matthew pressed his face into Hanbin’s shoulder and breathed in – Diptyque and smoke from the air. He tried to hold onto it, the way it felt to be held like this.

Then he spent the first five minutes of the next morning trying to find the right way to write: I don’t know what to do with all this.

ZB1’s second year bloomed with even more intensity.

More fame, tighter schedules, higher stakes. Everything moved faster.

Hanbin was thriving. He spoke with more confidence in interviews, moved across the stage like he owned it, his voice richer when he sang.

And Matthew was proud of him – so proud it felt unreasonable huge, too big to just keep it to himself. He wanted to grab strangers by the shoulders and tell them: Look at him. Do you see how brilliant he is? He’s incredible.

And terrified.

Because the lines were blurring for him again – between what was shared and what was assumed, between real connection and Matthew’s own echo chamber of careful what-ifs and old feelings.

Because the closer they got to the end of their contract, the more Matthew realized how much he’d been living on borrowed time.

They had a few months left. Maybe less. Then this version of their lives would be over.

He didn’t talk about it. Just started writing more – faster, messier, like he could preserve something by getting it all down before the clock ran out.

He documented everything. Every laugh, every shared look, every moment that felt like it might matter later when everything was just a memory. He wrote it all down like proof, evidence that this had been real even if it was never meant to last.

He might’ve kept writing forever if spring cleaning day hadn’t blown everything up.

The dorm had turned into a disaster zone of trash bags and misplaced belongings. Someone blasted music from the living room. Hao was in the kitchen making faces at whatever he’d found rotting in the back of the fridge.

Matthew shoved the box of letters into the back of his closet to make space, threw a sweatshirt over it, and moved on.

Told himself he’d deal with it later. Then proceeded to forget about it completely.

Two days later, he remembered. Just because he wanted to look through them again for nostalgia’s sake.

Went to get it. And it wasn’t there.

Matthew’s hands went numb. He sat on his bed, stood back up, sat down again. His brain couldn’t land on a single coherent thought except: Where the hell is it?

For half a second, he considered pretending it had never existed. Then the panic set in for real.

He tore his room apart. Checked under the bed, inside drawers, behind his table. Obvious places. When that turned up nothing, he started checking places that didn’t even make sense – inside pillowcases, under the carpet, behind the mirror.

Nothing.

Which meant someone else had to have found it.

His feet were moving before he’d fully decided. Down the hallway, past the creaky floorboard.

Hanbin’s room first.

He was in the shower – perfect timing. Matthew could hear the water running. The room smelled like lavender and clean laundry, everything in its place the way Hanbin always kept it.

He checked under the bed – just slippers. The closet was neat, organized. Drawers full of the usual knick-knacks. Detritus of an orderly life.

No box. No letters.

Thank God. At least Hanbin didn’t have it.

One down.

He tried Jiwoong’s room next. Found drawers full of skincare products and protein powder.

No box. He left before he had to explain why he was scavenging in someone else’s gym bag.

Ricky’s room was just a monument to black clothing and designer sunglasses. He retreated quickly, unable to handle that level of main character energy while having a mental breakdown.

Gyuvin’s had him wading and kicking through piles of clothes. Still nothing. He made it a point to help fold them into some semblance of order.

He hit every other room after that. Gunwook’s, Taerae’s, Hao’s. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Which left Yujin.

Matthew was elbow-deep in their maknae’s sock drawer, digging through layers like a maniac, when a voice came from behind him. “Matthew hyung?”

He nearly died. Not even from shame – just pure cardiac arrest. He whipped around, sock still clutched in his hand.

Yujin stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “Uh... are you okay?”

Matthew scrambled upright too fast and immediately cracked his head on the dresser edge. “Ow– shit. Yeah! I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for gum.”

“In my sock drawer?”

“Yeah. That’s where I keep mine.”

“You keep gum… in your sock drawer?”

“Yep.”

Long silence. Yujin stared at him.

Then the teenager tilted his head. “Wait… are you looking for a box of letters?”

Matthew’s stomach dropped into his shoes. “Oh! Letters? What letters? I don’t–”

“I saw them in the middle of your room,” Yujin said, clearly oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening in front of him. “They were all in English and had Hanbin hyung’s name on them, so I thought they were fan mail. I gave them to him.”

Matthew stared at him.

“You... what.”

“Yeah. I told him manager hyung probably gave them to you to check first, you know? In case they were weird or inappropriate.” Yujin continued helpfully. “Right?”

Matthew nodded slowly, like he was trying to keep his soul from escaping through his ears. “Right. Yes. Just… making sure.”

Then he turned and walked straight out.

Behind him, Yujin called, “Hyung! Do you still want the gum?”

But Matthew was already gone.

He made it back to his room, shut the door, and collapsed onto his bed.

How had the box even ended up in the middle of his room? He thought back, trying hard to remember.

Shit. Yujin was right. He’d pulled it back out of the wardrobe to dig for something. Then his mom called and he got distracted. He must’ve just… left it there. Sitting in plain sight.

And then he’d missed it in Hanbin’s room too. He was sure he’d checked everywhere.

Every honest word he’d never meant to share. Every doubt, every wish, every messy thought he’d poured onto paper over the past few years. In Hanbin’s hands.

Maybe Hanbin had already read them. Maybe he was reading them right now.

Maybe being laughed at. Or worse– pitied.

He didn’t know which possibility hurt more.

He avoided Hanbin for the rest of the day. Then the next day. Then the day after that. Didn’t text, didn’t even breathe in his direction. Strategic bathroom breaks, sudden urgent calls, any excuse that meant he didn’t have to look Hanbin in the eye.

Because what would he even say?

“Hey, sorry. Those were just, you know, emotionally-loaded monologues written over years about our entire shared history. Don’t worry about it.”

He wanted to disappear. Flee to Canada and never come back. Change his name. Join a monastery. Be given a medically sound reason to drop off the face of the Earth.

Instead, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He wrote one more note.

If you read them, please don’t hate me.

For the first time, he didn’t fold it up. Didn’t hide it away like all the others.

He left it on Hanbin’s desk and walked away.

Hanbin’s POV

Hanbin had been watching Matthew for days now, trying to figure out the strange energy that seemed to radiate off him. He noticed it first in the way Matthew stopped meeting his eyes – held for a split second sometimes, then skittered away.

At first, Hanbin dismissed it. They were all running on fumes – two hours of sleep stitched together with energy drinks and studio lights. Exhaustion played tricks on people, made them pull away without meaning to, made them see problems where none existed.

But this wasn’t fatigue. This was something else.

It lived in the space Matthew created between them in the van, even when the seat beside Hanbin sat empty. In the way he’d hover at the edge of group conversations, then walk away like he’d remembered something urgent.

In the pause before he’d respond when Hanbin spoke to him directly – too long, too careful, like he was translating his thoughts through several languages first. In the searching looks that dissolved into half-smiles and quick exits, leaving Hanbin with the uncomfortable sense that he’d missed something.

Matthew was so off.

Restless and almost... careful. Like he was holding his breath.

So Hanbin replayed the past few days over and over, trying to spot the wrong turn. Had he said something thoughtless? Forgotten an important conversation? Been too busy, too distracted, too focused on everyone else?

What’s going on with you, Matthew?

He turned those questions over in his head while he started packing for their overseas schedule, throwing clothes onto his bed with more force than necessary.

It was only when he took out his suitcase that he remembered the existence of this random box.

“Hanbin hyung.” Yujin appeared in his doorway, arms full of miscellaneous belongings displaced during the chaos of spring cleaning day. He thrust a cardboard box forward. “Found these in Matthew hyung’s room.

Hanbin blinked at the box, then at Yujin. “Fan letters?”

“Maybe? They all say ‘Hanbin’ on them.” Yujin shrugged. “I thought maybe the company gave them to Matthew hyung to screen first since they’re all in English.”

He was already humming his way down the hall before Hanbin could point out that the company didn’t route fan mail through members’ rooms in unmarked boxes.

Already surrounded by the mess of packing, Hanbin shoved the box into the nearest empty suitcase to conserve the limited space and promptly forgot about it.

Until now, as he unzipped the suitcase.

Fan mail always stirred something in his chest. The thought that strangers took time from their lives to write to him, to share pieces of themselves with someone they might never meet, felt sacred somehow. Each letter was someone’s effort to reach across an impossible distance.

But when he lifted the box’s lid, his breath caught.

Achingly familiar loops and slashes that belonged to Japanese study notes and hastily scribbled post-its for fans. English words in Matthew’s unmistakable scrawl, each letter formed with the same care he brought to everything.

No way.

The box was heavier than it looked. Hanbin flipped through what had to be dozens of folded letters, all stacked chronologically with the oldest buried at the bottom. Some written on proper paper, others scrawled on napkins, practice schedules. All dated. All kept.

With curiosity overriding the pressure of time, Hanbin pulled out one of the earliest letters with hands that suddenly felt clumsy. Then he reached for his phone, opening Papago just in case.

Hanbin

[5 Mar 2022]

Hyung, don’t you think we became friends super fast? We talk like we’ve known each other forever. Maybe there’s something in the Cube water. By the way, do you know you smiled at the vocal coach today when no one else did? Asked if she’d eaten. She looked surprised, like she wasn’t used to being remembered. That’s just what you do though. You notice people. You make us all feel like we’re worth seeing. I don’t think you even realize how rare that is. But I do. And I feel really lucky to be someone you see.

The translation glowed on his screen. Sweet – almost painfully sweet – but it didn’t make sense. Matthew never struggled with words. He was the one who could make a joke out of anything, who wore his heart outside his chest like it was safer there than hidden.

So why this? Why hide sentiment behind paper and ink when words came so easily between them?

“Hyung, we’re leaving in ten minutes!” Gyuvin’s voice carried through the door.

Hanbin quickly reached for another letter, his movements urgent.

Hanbin

[11 May 2022]

Hyung, you remind me life’s not just about surviving. It’s also about finding reasons to laugh even when we’re exhausted. Even when I don’t know what I’m doing or if I’m good enough to be here. Almost every day I find something to laugh about just because you’re there. Like that night we stayed late in the practice room, lying on the floor laughing about nothing. That was the first time I didn’t feel so alone in Korea. I feel like I have so many things to thank you for but let’s go with… thank you for just being Sung Hanbin. I’m so glad you’re in my life.

March 2022. May 2022.

The dates made his heart skip. Back in Cube... when they’d barely known each other two or three months. When their friendship was still new enough that he’d overthink his responses to Matthew, wanting to get it right. When he hadn’t yet learned that Matthew laughed at everything he said anyway.

But Matthew had already been writing about him then, about their connection like it was something worth archiving so early on. Hanbin hadn’t realized it all meant so much.

“Hyung! Come on!” Gyuvin sounded like he was seconds from breaking down the door.

Hanbin shoved both letters back into the box. The cardboard lid didn’t quite sit flush – he’d disturbed the careful order inside. His hands hovered over it for a second, some part of him reluctant to leave it like this, incomplete.

He threw the rest of his things into his suitcase without looking, shirts and chargers tangling together. It was hard to think when his mind spinning with questions he didn’t have time to ask.

He’d have to read the rest when he got back.

The box stayed behind, but the weight of it followed him out the door.

The letters haunted him for the next three days they were abroad.

Not their content – he’d barely scratched the surface – but their existence. The sheer volume of them. The careful dates, the well-kept scraps of paper, the magnitude of the unknown contained in a single cardboard box.

But then the timeline suddenly clicked into place in his mind, the pieces coming together all at once. Matthew’s behaviour now made perfect sense.

He thinks I’ve had them this whole time. He thinks I’ve been reading his secrets for days, knowing everything and just... saying nothing.

No wonder Matthew looked like he was waiting for something terrible to happen.

The realization followed Hanbin everywhere. Through interviews where he kept catching Matthew’s glances – anxious and furtive. Through rehearsals where Matthew positioned himself one person too far away, always just outside Hanbin’s peripheral vision. Through the night Hanbin lay awake in his dark hotel room wondering what Matthew had written that made him so afraid.

What truths had he been carrying alone all this time?

The second day crawled, curiosity eating Hanbin alive.

By the third, he was checking his phone compulsively, calculating time zones, counting down the hours until their flight home.

Hanbin left his suitcase in a corner of the hallway. Gyuvin said something behind him – probably about dinner, maybe about practice tomorrow – but he heard none of it. He went straight to his room and locked the door.

The box sat exactly where he’d left it, patient and waiting.

He pulled every letter out and spread them across his floor. They made a paper timeline, early 2022 bleeding into 2023, 2024, 2025. Nearly the entire time they’d known each other. Some months crowded with entries, others sparse. A three-year map of Matthew’s mind, written in his own hand.

Hanbin settled cross-legged, picked up where he’d left off and started reading.

Hanbin

[17 Jun 2022]

Hyung, I still catch myself waiting for your laugh even when I know you’re not here. It’s like some part of me still expects you to show up. I think that’s how I know this was real – this friendship, us. It stuck. Like glue, or like fate. It doesn’t go away just because we did, right?

Their first separation. Hanbin remembered those weeks in physical terms – the way his mind felt fuzzy, how he’d scroll through their KakaoTalk conversations at night. Wondering if Matthew was doing the same thing in a trainee dorm across the city, if the space between them felt as wrong to him as it did to Hanbin.

They’d only had a few cherished months together at Cube. Nowhere near enough time to build the kind of friendship that should survive distance. But somehow it had. Even apart, Matthew had remained in his thoughts, a constant presence even in absence.

Hanbin

[7 Jul 2022]

Hyung, do you ever think some people come into your life and you just know they’re going to matter? Like your soul recognizes them before you even understand why. And then suddenly you’re just kinda… making space for them. That doesn’t happen often. It happened with you though. I didn’t know how but I just knew you’d change my life. Like calm down universe, I just met the guy! In fact, I’m pretty sure it moved things around just so we’d end up in the same place, at the same time. I know that sounds dramatic but come on, you know me.

Hanbin found himself smiling. So very Matthew – making jokes to soften the utter depth of sincerity he held for everything. But he wasn’t wrong.

There had been something about Matthew from the very beginning. Not just that he was talented or that his smile was contagious or that he was easy to be around. It was deeper than that. Inevitable, maybe. The way Matthew had walked into his life there’d been a space waiting that only he could fill. Hanbin had felt it too, that cosmic click of oh, there you are the first time Matthew called him hyung.

Hanbin

[9 Aug 2022]

Hyung, I almost gave up today. Seriously thought about going back to Canada. Had the flight search open and everything. Being here without you has been harder than I thought it would be. New place, new faces. Everything felt too big. But then I heard your voice in my head “Don’t quit, you’re meant for this.” You said that to me once like it was a fact, not a maybe. You weren’t even trying to be inspirational, you just believed it. And you have the audacity of being very convincing. So I stayed. I stayed because you told me I could.

Hanbin hadn’t known. Hadn’t known that some throwaway encouragement – he’d probably said it casually between bites of convenience store kimbap – had been something that kept Matthew in Korea. That kept him fighting when everything felt like the beginning of the end.

How many other times had this happened? How many other moments had his words carried more weight than he’d realized?

He continued reading through the rest of 2022 and into 2023, into Boys Planet.

Hanbin

[30 Sep 2022]

Hyung, do you remember when you said that if we ever debuted, you hoped we’d do it together? I’m not super religious but I prayed for that too. Not just to debut – but to do it with you. I can’t believe we’re doing Boys Planet, and I still don’t know if I can pull off this miracle. But you’re why I keep trying my best. I hope you know that. I hope you know how many times I chose you. And us, I guess.

The memory returned in pieces. Practice room floor, one in the morning, both of them staring at the ceiling because their bodies were exhausted but their minds wouldn’t shut up. Hanbin had said it quietly, almost to himself: If we debut, I really hope it’s together. Not a plan – plans required realism, probability, strategy. This was just a wish tossed into the universe.

He hadn’t known Matthew was holding his breath. Hadn’t known Matthew had been wishing for the exact same impossible thing.

Hanbin

[10 Jan 2023]

Hyung, everytime you visit the G group dorms I swear it feels like no time has passed. Like we just picked up where we left off. I didn’t even realize how much I missed this (your cheek whiskers included) until we had it back. Thanks for asking me to do this with you. I don’t know what the future holds, but right now I’m just glad I get to be here with you.

Hanbin laughed despite the emotion clogging his throat. Leave it to Papago to translate ‘cheek whiskers’ into ‘face hair’. He remembered those visits – stolen moments between challenges or eliminations, rules be damned. He’d needed to see Matthew. Needed proof that they were both still here, still fighting for the same dream. And every time, Matthew’s face would do this thing – go soft yet bright, like Hanbin arriving was the first good thing to happen all day.

It felt essential then. It felt even more essential now, knowing that it mattered the same way for the both of them.

Hanbin

[14 Feb 2023]

Hyung, you treat people so well. Like genuinely. I’ve seen it a hundred times now and every time I get it – I get why people are drawn to you. I love that about you, I really do. But it’s getting a little hard watching how easily you care about everyone. How you lift people up so naturally. I’m not sure why, and honestly it’s weird. But sometimes I wonder if I mean something different to you... or if I was just here first. Which makes me sound like I invented friendship. That’s selfish, I know. I’m working on it though. Just slowly. Like shitty wifi in the basement slow.

The words landed differently this time. Matthew wasn’t just writing about their friendship – he was questioning his place in it.

He knew what Matthew meant. Caring had always come easily to him – being present, noticing things, listening, remembering. It wasn’t something he decided to do, never thought much about how he treated people. He just did what made sense.

Yes, he knew the staff’s birthdays. Checked in on sore ankles, tired eyes. Asked “did you eat?” and actually waited for the answer. Sent texts to people months after working together, just to say hi, I hope you’re doing well.

It wasn’t calculated. It was just... what else was he supposed to do? Look away? The world already had enough people looking past each other.

But Matthew sounded jealous.

The realization was startling, not because it was unreasonable, but because Hanbin had never considered that his kindness would ever make Matthew feel less.

Why did he think he was just another person to Hanbin?

The answer came uncomfortably: Because Hanbin had never told him otherwise. Had never given him any reason to believe he was one of the most important people in Hanbin’s life.

Assumed he just knew. But it was clear now that he didn’t.

Hanbin kept working his way through 2023, watching their relationship evolve through Matthew’s eyes. The debut. The chaos of newfound fame. The pressure and the joy and the overwhelming reality of their dreams coming true.

Hanbin

[1 Aug 2023]

Hyung, sometimes I still wonder if this is real. Like maybe I’m still dreaming, and any second now I’ll wake up back at Cube. You used to say we’d find a way to debut together, no matter what. You said it so confidently, but I thought maybe you were just saying it to keep me going. But here we are in ZB1. Proof that promises made under blankets can actually come true. I don’t think I would’ve made it this far without you. And I know it won’t be easy – you’ve got a lot on your shoulders as the leader. But when things get hard, I hope you’ll trust me enough to lean on me. I’d carry you if I had to (this is obviously the only reason I gym so hard). Anyway, the point is I’m so proud of us. You did so well, hyung.

Hanbin still remembered the moment they called Matthew’s name for third place. The relief slamming into him so hard he’d had to lock his knees to stay upright. He’d tried not to cry on broadcast, to keep it together until later. And when they met on the winner’s podium later, when Matthew crashed into him with that disbelieving smile, he’d sent a big thank you to any higher power for giving them the chance to live their dreams together.

Now, staring at Matthew’s letter, he shook his head fondly. The gym joke was so stupid it was perfect. He knew the offer to carry him was real, literal or not.

Matthew had already known what was coming. Had known leadership would be heavy, that Hanbin would take on too much because he always did. And he’d been quietly building himself into someone strong enough to catch Hanbin when he fell.

He’d been preparing to carry Hanbin, and Hanbin had spent two years not letting him.

Hanbin

[14 Oct 2023]

Hyung, you looked like you were having a hard time today. I didn’t say anything because you already had someone with you. But I noticed. And I wanted to be there, to sit next to you and remind you that you don’t always have to be strong for everyone. You can let go if you need to, I’ll catch you. But if you don’t want to – that’s okay too. I just wanted you to know I’m here anyway.

Hanbin closed his eyes and tried to place the specific date. It could have been any day, really – there’d been so many hard days, so many moments when he’d felt responsibility press down on him. He remembered smiling through it all because that’s what leaders did.

But Matthew had noticed. Had wanted to reach out. Then second-guessed himself, afraid of making things worse.

It didn’t stop him from making the same promise though – over and over again in different words that Hanbin would’ve never heard, building a safety net Hanbin would’ve never seen.

Ready to be whatever Hanbin needed even if it meant staying silent, staying back, staying in wait.

Hanbin kept reading despite the sour sensation spreading from his jaw.

Hanbin

[30 Dec 2023]

Hyung, with the new year coming I found myself thinking about what’s ahead – the chances and the moments we haven’t lived yet. It’s wild to think we used to be strangers. Now it feels like you’ve always been here. In all my best memories, you’re there. I don’t say it enough, but I really am better just because I know you. So, thanks for being born. I wish we and ZB1 could last forever.

Hanbin tried to think of his own favourite memories. The moments that felt most like him – most like the version of himself he wanted to keep. Matthew was woven into every single one. Not just there, but central. Essential. The memories wouldn’t exist without Matthew’s laughter threading through them, without his presence making everything brighter.

His personal sun. When had that happened?

He moved into 2024. Fewer letters now – they’d been busier after ZB1 gained more traction, schedules bleeding into each other without pause. Hanbin understood that much.

But the letters had become heavier. Matthew’s handwriting still careful, still organized by date, but the words underneath had shifted. Month after month, Hanbin watched Matthew wrestle between being happy for Hanbin and his own growing uncertainty about them.

Hanbin

[4 Mar 2024]

Hyung, do you ever get tired of being everything for everyone? You give so much of yourself. Sometimes I wonder how you carry all of us. If you ever wish someone would carry you back. And if you did – would it ever be me? Would I be the one you run to, instead of the one you just take care of? I’d like to think I could be that familiar place you can come back to, even when everything else pulls you somewhere new. I’m not asking though. I never will. But I hope you know I’d still carry you any day, that hasn’t changed. Still gymming hard.

Matthew’s willingness to wait forever without asking for anything in return. Content to stay in whatever shape Hanbin needed him to be, even if it wasn’t what he intended.

Hanbin thought about exhaustion, about overwhelm, about times when he was ready to collapse. Where did his mind go first? Who did he think to go to when he needed comfort?

Still Matthew. Somehow, in some way, always Matthew. His heart wanted to, at least.

Hanbin

[19 Jul 2024]

Hyung, you’ve been leading us so well. So many people adore you, and you deserve all of it. You look so happy doing what you love. Every time I watch you, I feel like crying. Just a little. Is this what you meant – all those times you said you wanted to cry just looking at me? I didn’t understand it then. But I think I do now. Because sometimes I see you and I don’t know how to hold all this pride in. You’re still my favourite person. Even when I’m too embarrassed to actually say it.

Hanbin had said that. Multiple times, actually. Always laughing as he said it while literal tears wet his eyes, trying to play off the overwhelming fondness that would hit him at certain moments. But Matthew had been paying attention. Had been trying to understand what it meant to feel too much affection at once that it hurt.

Hanbin

[25 Nov 2024]

Hyung, everyone looks at you like they know you. And maybe they do. Maybe I just got too used to having you to myself. Now when they laugh at your silliness, when they talk about how warm you are, when someone else calls you their favourite – I feel... strange. Not because I don’t want them to love you. In fact, I’m a huge believer that everyone on planet Earth should love you. But with so many more people around now, I don’t know if you still look for me the way I always look for you.

Hanbin’s hand went to his throat, fingers pressing against the sudden tightness there.

Did he search for Matthew in a room?

Yes. Always.

Every space, every crowd, every moment of chaos – his eyes found Matthew first. It was as natural as breathing. In the middle of interviews, his gaze would drift. During performances, he’d catch Matthew’s eye between formations. Even in their own dorm, surrounded by the members, Hanbin’s attention would shift toward Matthew without thinking.

Oh.

The 2025 entries had taken on an almost confessional quality. Matthew wasn’t just detailing moments anymore – he was letting them go, one by one, knowing that their time was running out. Getting ready for the goodbye.

Hanbin forced himself to reach for one of the most recent letters with hands that were definitely shaking now.

Hanbin

[15 Apr 2025]

Hyung, I don’t want to take anything from anyone. And I definitely don’t want to be another person who takes from you. But I don’t know if being seen by you means I’m special, or that I’m simply next in line. You still call me your best friend. I smile when you say it. But sometimes I wish you didn’t. Because if I wasn’t scared, I think I’d say: You’re the reason I believe in good things. And if there’s a version of this life where I get to be yours – in any way – I hope I find it.

The letter slipped from his fingers.

His vision blurred. Not from tears, but from the sudden, overwhelming shift in perspective – like staring at one of those optical illusions where suddenly you couldn’t see it the old way anymore.

Matthew was no longer writing about friendship. He wasn’t writing about gratitude or brotherhood or any of the safe things Hanbin had been telling himself.

My best friend is in love with me.

The thought didn’t scare him the way it should have.

And then: Do I feel the same way?

The question should’ve sent him into crisis mode. But instead, memories began flooding back.

The way something bright flared in his chest whenever Matthew smiled at him. How he always answered Matthew’s texts first, even when his phone was dying.

He noticed when Matthew was tired, or sad, or anxious before anyone else did. He remembered the small things – how Matthew liked his pancakes, the exact tone his voice took when he was hurt, the way he tucked his hands into his sleeves when he was nervous.

How he’d started buying Matthew’s favourite snacks to keep in his bag just in case. Saving funny stories throughout the day, collecting them like gifts to share with Matthew later.

I do hold him differently.

It wasn’t just care. It was... choosing. Every day – in a hundred small ways – he’d been choosing Matthew. Prioritizing him. Making room for him in his thoughts, in his heart, in his life.

He’d written it off as being a best friend, but the pattern was impossible to ignore now. The careful attention. The quiet devotion.

How did I not see it?

He picked up the final letter. The longest one yet.

Hanbin

[28 May 2025]

Hyung, it’s my birthday today and I keep thinking about how many birthdays I’ve had since meeting you. How many candles I’ve blown out while making the same wish. I used to wish for debut, for success, for all the dreams we talked about. But at some point, my wishes got simpler. Now I just wish for more time.

If we had to start over, in another city, another life – I think I’d still find you. I’d still follow you. Even now, when we’re tired, when the world sees us as idols before it sees us as people – I’d stay. Not because you told me to, but because I want to. Because no matter what this is or isn’t, no matter what I never say – when I think of home, it’s you. You were never just someone I met. You were the moment everything after started making sense.

Hanbin had to lie down.

Matthew had spent his twenty-third birthday writing this. While everyone was probably messaging him happy birthday wishes, while he should’ve been celebrating, he’d been alone somewhere pouring his heart out to someone he thought would never read it.

And then Hanbin remembered the note.

He scrambled to his tiny bookshelf, pulling out the novel where he’d absently stuck that weird piece of paper days ago.

If you read them, please don’t hate me.

At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Now he knew.

Matthew had been terrified. Had probably spent days imagining the worst.

And here Hanbin was, days later, holding Matthew’s heart in his hands.

He’d thought he was the sentimental one, into the habit of writing letters to the member to make sure they knew he cared.

Little did he know Matthew had him so beat.

He stood, box of letters clutched against his chest, and headed for the door.

It was time to put Matthew out of his misery.

Matthew’s room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light.

Hanbin entered without knocking, and found Matthew sitting on his bed, staring at his phone like it might explode. Shadows under his eyes. Shoulders tense.

“We need to talk,” Hanbin said, holding up the box.

Matthew went very still. His face cycled through different emotions in rapid succession – fear, resignation, hope, panic, and back to fear. His hands were twisted in his lap, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched them. “You read the letters.”

“All of them.” Hanbin sat heavily in the desk chair. “Matthew, what…?”

“I know, okay?” Matthew’s words came out in a rush. “I know it’s weird and I shouldn’t have–”

“Three years?” Hanbin interrupted, his voice going higher. “You’ve been writing letters about me for three years?”

Matthew’s face burned. “I never meant for you to see them.”

“But you wrote them anyway.” Hanbin pulled out a random letter, scanning it quickly. “You wrote that it’s getting hard for you to see me care about other people.”

Matthew looked like he wanted to disappear into the mattress. “Hyung–”

“And this one.” Hanbin grabbed another. “You said you’d follow me to another life. That you’d choose me again.” He looked up, meeting Matthew’s mortified gaze. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been... feeling like this?”

“Maybe Boys Planet? Could’ve been before. I don’t know exactly when it started.”

“And you never said anything.”

“What was I supposed to say?” He made a voice, “Hey hyung, so like… I know you’re nice to everyone, but do you care about me more, or what? See how pathetic that sounds?”

Hanbin almost smiled. “You could’ve tried.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Matthew shook his head vehemently. “You’re just– you’re you, hyung. You make everyone feel special. Everyone gets… gets pieces of you, and I didn’t want to be another person who–” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to ask for more.”

Hanbin stared at him. “So you just suff–”

“I was happy,” Matthew said quickly. “I am. I’m grateful. For whatever this is, whatever you’re willing to–”

Hanbin stood abruptly, started pacing. Matthew flinched and stopped talking.

“You wrote that you don’t know if being seen by me means you’re special or if you’re just next in line.” Hanbin spun to face him. “Like you’re competing with everyone else for... for me.”

“Aren’t I?”

The question sat there, and Hanbin felt his pulse quicken at the vulnerability in Matthew’s voice.

Matthew had never asked for more than what Hanbin gave freely to the world. Never demanded attention, never pulled or pressed or competed.

But Hanbin gave him more anyway.

Not because Matthew asked. Because Hanbin wanted to.

What they had wasn’t the same as what he gave the world. And somewhere inside, Hanbin had always known.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”

Matthew’s breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“I don’t…” Hanbin ran his hands through his hair, searching for the right words. “I don’t know how to explain this, okay? I try to be good to everyone. But you…”

He trailed off as the truth settled in his mind.

“There’s no queue. No line. There’s just you.” The words came easier now. “You’ve always been different.”

And God knows Hanbin had tried to give evenly to everyone, not to tilt, not to let his heart lean too far in any one direction.

But he had leaned. He had been leaning.

Every time Matthew’s voice curled around Hanbin’s name – Hanbin leaned, heart-first.

“Different how?” Matthew asked uncertainly.

“I always know when it’s you,” Hanbin said, returning to his chair. “When you text, when you call, when you walk into a room – something in me recognizes you before I look up.”

“Hyung...”

“You’re not like everyone else to me. When I worry about people, I worry about you first. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. You’re…” He stopped.

He looked up at Matthew.

It was like he was seeing Matthew clearly for the first time. Or maybe seeing himself. All those moments he’d dismissed as habit, as comfort, as friendship – they’d been something else entirely. His heart had been steadily choosing Matthew for years without his brain catching up.

“I talk to a lot of people. I care about a lot of people,” Hanbin repeated slowly. “But you’re the one I come back to. Even when I don’t realize it. You’re the one I always wait for. You’re the one I think about when I’m driving. When I’m walking to the dorm. When something funny happens. When something hurts. When I’m tired.” His voice caught slightly. “You’re the one, Matthew. You’re the one I–”

He swallowed.

“The one I love,” Hanbin said finally. “Not like I love everyone else. Not like I love the members, or our friends. I love you like...” He searched for an adequate phrase. “Like you’re mine.”

Matthew let out a choked, squeaky sound.

“I think I have all this time,” Hanbin continued. “I just didn’t understand what it was. But reading your letters, seeing how you’ve been feeling – it’s like everything suddenly made sense. And maybe I’ve been waiting for you to ask for more, too.”

“So... what now?” Matthew asked hoarsely.

Hanbin moved to sit on the edge of Matthew’s bed.

“Now I stop making you guess,” he said, reaching out to take Matthew’s hand. “And you stop settling for whatever you think I’m willing to give you.” He paused. “Which is everything, if you were wondering.”

Matthew’s fingers tightened around his. “Really?”

“Really. I want you,” Hanbin said, bringing their joined hands to his chest. “Not just as my best friend. I choose you, like you’ve been choosing me.” He smiled. “You think of me as some… selfless saint, but I would be selfish for you, Matthew. I have been selfish for you.”

For someone who gave his heart to the world, Hanbin finally understood – he’d only ever wanted one person to keep it.

Matthew’s face crumpled then. “Thank God,” he whispered, pulling Hanbin closer, burying his face in his shoulder. “I thought I’d lose my mind.”

Hanbin wrapped his arms around him, held him tight. “I was just slow,” he murmured into Matthew’s hair.

“I think I kinda love you, hyung,” Matthew spoke against his skin, words muffled.

Hanbin laughed softly. “So smooth in the letters, but so silly in person.”

“Hey!” Matthew protested, pulling back with pink cheeks.

“Okay, hyung is sorry,” Hanbin said, patting Matthew’s head softly. “This is payback for all the heart palpitations I had to sit through while reading the letters. I literally had to lie down towards the end.”

Matthew’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“Guess you just have that kind of effect on me,” Hanbin’s hand stilled in Matthew’s hair, his voice growing tender. “I love you too, Seokmae-ah. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out.”

“You’re not that bad. Took me three years and an accidental box of evidence.”

“Then it seems Yujin did the heavy lifting for us.”

“Just for that, he’s rising above Gunwook in the ranks of my favourite dongsaeng as we speak.”

“And hey, about your birthday wish?” Hanbin said softly. “We’re going to have all the time we want.”

They’d been circling each other for years, both too afraid to be the first to jump.

But now they were falling together.

And once Matthew knew where he stood, everything else fell into place.