Chapter Text
Prolog
Chris had always been a talkative person. He was the kind of guy who could strike up a conversation with anyone, the kind who smiled at strangers and treated them with respect no matter who they were.
Kindness came naturally to him—it was simply who he was.
Except when it came to one person.
Lee Minho.
Chris and Minho have been rivals ever since high school.
Every time Chris accomplished something, Minho followed right after—doing the same thing, only better. Better grades. Better performances. More attention.
It drove Chris insane.
No matter how hard he worked, Minho always seemed to be one step ahead, like he was doing it on purpose.
Chris hated him. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. He didn’t know if Minho felt the same, and that uncertainty only made it worse.
Every time they passed each other in the hallway, Bang Chan could feel his stomach twist, bubbling with anger he didn’t know how to control. His jaw would tighten, his fists clench— And Minho would just smirk.
“Still trying to keep up, Chan?” he’d tease, voice light, eyes full of amusement, as if Chris’s frustration was nothing more than entertainment. Chris never answered. He just walked past him, heart pounding, already plotting how to beat him next time.
But after they graduated, they lost contact. They went their separate ways, choosing different paths, and for the first time in years, Chris could breathe without constantly looking over his shoulder.
Minho faded out of his life quietly, without confrontation or closure—just distance.
Chris threw himself into music. He spent countless nights in his small home studio, the walls covered in notes and half-written lyrics, learning how to play instrument after instrument on his own. Guitar, piano, drums—whatever he could get his hands on. Music became his world, his escape, his voice.
At nineteen, he released his first album. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his. Every song carried pieces of him—his frustration, his dreams, his loneliness. The album did better than he ever expected, and slowly, steadily, Chris began to build something real.
Minho became nothing more than a distant memory. A name that surfaced only occasionally, buried deep in the back of his mind, no longer sharp enough to hurt.
CHAPTER 1
Chris sat on his couch, staring at the black screen of the TV.
The apartment was quiet in the way only lived-in places could be—not silent, exactly, but filled with the low hum of things existing without purpose. The refrigerator whirred faintly in the kitchen. Somewhere in the walls, pipes clicked as if adjusting themselves. Outside, a car passed, tires hissing softly against the asphalt, then disappeared down the street.
The TV screen reflected him back at himself, warped slightly by a fingerprint smudge near the bottom corner. He hadn’t turned it on all day. He couldn’t remember the last time he had. At some point, the habit of background noise had simply stopped mattering.
He leaned far forward, elbows resting on his knees, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to fold himself smaller. His hands hung loosely between his legs, fingers twitching now and then as if searching for something to grab onto.
A quiet sigh slipped out of him, barely loud enough to exist.
God, it’s so boring living alone, he thought to himself.
The thought didn’t feel dramatic or sad in the way loneliness was usually portrayed. It was dull. Flat. Like stating a fact you’d grown tired of acknowledging but couldn’t stop noticing. The kind of boredom that settled into your bones and stayed there, unmoving.
The bowl of instant noodles resting in his lap was already growing cold.
Steam no longer rose from it. The broth had gone cloudy, a thin film forming on the surface. He could smell it faintly—salt, artificial chicken flavor, the metallic tang of the cheap fork resting inside. He had made it out of routine more than hunger, something warm to hold while the minutes passed.
Chris stared at the noodles without really seeing them.
He had no appetite.
The only thing he could think about was the strange feeling that he had forgotten something—something important. It hovered at the edge of his thoughts, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of his tongue. Every time he tried to grasp it, his mind slid away, leaving behind only the unease.
Like today was supposed to matter.
That feeling sat heavy in his chest, not sharp enough to hurt but persistent enough to be uncomfortable. He replayed the day in his head, searching for clues. He’d woken up late. He’d brushed his teeth, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, stared at the ceiling longer than necessary. Nothing had stood out. No appointments. No alarms he’d ignored.
But still, the feeling remained.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember what it was.
He shifted on the couch, the worn fabric creaking softly beneath him. The bowl tipped slightly, and he steadied it with one hand, annoyed at himself for almost making a mess. He considered forcing himself to eat a few bites, just to justify having made it at all.
He didn’t.
Suddenly, the dark screen reflected a soft glow.
Chris blinked, momentarily confused, before realizing the light wasn’t coming from the TV at all. His phone vibrated in his hand—he hadn’t even remembered picking it up—and the buzz echoed faintly in the quiet room.
The sound startled him more than it should have.
He looked down at the screen. A notification banner stretched across it, lighting up his face in pale blue.
A message from his landlord.
That was odd.
Chris frowned slightly, thumb hovering over the screen without touching it yet. Tommy usually only texted him about rent. Short, practical messages sent at predictable times. Besides, they were actually pretty good friends, all things considered. Tommy had been the one to show him around the building when he first moved in, had helped him carry furniture up the stairs, had even stayed for a beer afterward.
They didn’t message casually.
Chris unlocked the phone and opened the notification.
He read it silently, once, then again.
Hey Chris! Don’t forget that your roommate is moving in today. He said he can come at 2 PM instead.
Best, Tommy.
For a second, nothing happened.
The words sat there on the screen, perfectly clear, perfectly readable—and yet his brain lagged behind, like it was buffering.
Then it hit him.
Right.
His new roommate was moving in today.
The realization landed all at once, a physical thing, knocking the air out of his lungs. His stomach dropped, a rush of heat flooding his face as embarrassment followed close behind.
That was it.
That was what he’d forgotten.
And the apartment was a mess.
Chris’s gaze flicked instinctively around the living room, suddenly seeing everything with brutal clarity. The throw blanket crumpled on the armchair. A stack of unopened mail on the coffee table. Dust clinging stubbornly to the edges of the shelves. None of it had seemed worth worrying about five minutes ago.
Now it all felt catastrophic.
This was bad.
Really bad.
He lurched to his feet so quickly the bowl of noodles slid in his lap, broth sloshing dangerously close to the edge. He swore under his breath, heart pounding, and rushed to the kitchen before he could think too hard about it.
No time to eat now.
Without ceremony, he dumped the noodles into the compost bin. The noodles slid out in a sad, wet clump, the sound louder than it had any right to be in the small kitchen. He didn’t look at them for more than a second before turning away.
Water splashed into the sink as he twisted the faucet handle too hard. He shoved plates under the stream, soap foaming quickly as he scrubbed with a sponge. His movements were rushed and uneven, like he was fighting the clock even though he hadn’t checked the time yet.
His mind raced as fast as his hands.
Two PM. What time was it now? One-thirty? One-forty? He risked a glance at his phone, which sat on the counter near the sink. 1:18 PM.
Less than an hour.
He stacked the plates in the drying rack with more force than necessary, the clink of ceramic echoing sharply. A fork slipped from his grasp and clattered into the sink. He winced but left it there, already turning away.
He half-ran to the guest room to clean it up, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in his haste.
The guest room door stuck slightly, as it always did. He yanked it open and flicked on the light, bracing himself for disaster.
It wasn’t too bad.
Just a couple of pillows scattered across the floor, a blanket folded messily at the foot of the bed. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and disuse. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, striping the bed in pale gold.
Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He scooped up the pillows, fluffing them awkwardly before placing them back on the bed. He smoothed the blanket, straightened the nightstand, and wiped a thin layer of dust from the windowsill with the sleeve of his shirt.
Good enough.
Then came Chris’s own room.
He paused in the doorway for a moment before entering, hand resting on the frame. It felt more personal somehow. Like letting someone see inside it—even indirectly—was different from the rest of the apartment.
He shook off the thought and stepped inside.
It wasn’t especially messy either, aside from a few scraps of paper littered across the floor. Sketches, mostly. Notes to himself. Ideas that had felt important once and then hadn’t.
He bent to pick them up, stacking them on his desk without really looking at them. As he moved toward his studio to finish cleaning, he misjudged the distance between himself and the dresser.
Pain exploded up his leg as he slammed into it.
“Shit,” he hissed, hopping back instinctively and grabbing his thigh. The impact sent a sharp pulse through him, grounding him in his body in a way the rest of the day hadn’t.
He reached out quickly to shut the top drawer he’d knocked open—
—but something bright yellow caught his eye.
The color stood out violently against the muted tones of his room. Not belonging. Not forgotten in the way the rest of the clutter was.
Curiosity got the better of him.
Chris hesitated, then reached into the drawer and grabbed something small and hard. The plastic felt cold in his palm, unfamiliar despite how well he knew it.
When he pulled it out, his eyes widened in horror.
His box cutter.
From high school.
The sight of it punched the breath out of him. Memories surged forward uninvited—hallways, lockers, the weight of things he hadn’t known how to say out loud. His grip loosened instantly.
He dropped it back into the drawer immediately and slammed it shut.
The sound echoed too loudly in the room.
His hands shook.
Chris stood there for a moment, staring at the dresser as if it might open itself again. His heartbeat roared in his ears. He pressed his palms against his jeans, grounding himself, counting his breaths until the shaking eased.
It was just an object, he told himself. Just something old. Forgotten.
He cleaned the studio with mechanical precision, not allowing his thoughts to linger anywhere dangerous. Straighten. Wipe. Put away. His movements slowed as he forced himself to breathe evenly, to exist in the present moment.
By the time he finished, the tension had dulled to something manageable.
There was a knock at the door.
Chris froze.
The sound was unmistakable—firm but polite. Real. Not imagined.
The lock clicked as he crossed the living room, heart hammering once more. His hand trembled slightly as he turned it. The door creaked open slowly, hinges protesting in a familiar way.
And there he was.
Minho.