Chapter Text
The apartment was quiet, but it was far from peaceful. Every sound seemed to be too loud, each one making his chest feel a little more tight. The cars passing by down below echoed loudly in his ears.
Hyukjae sat on the couch, knees pulled up, arms around himself. He stared at the fraying carpet edge under the coffee table, trying to focus on anything else, but his thoughts kept circling the same drain.
Why am I like this? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I ruin everything with Yoonseok?
There wasn’t an answer and there was never going to be one.
His hands shook. He curled them into fists, but it didn’t stop the trembling. The panic gave way, like a slow drop of dew rippling down into that familiar gray pool.
Nothing is ever going to feel okay. I’m a burden. It’d be easier if I just stopped being here altogether.
He pictured Yoonseok waiting for Hyukjae to just get it together. Yoonseok was the one person who could pull him out when things got bad, and the idea of losing him made Hyukjae’s stomach twist.
He loved Yoonseok, of course he did, but the love he felt was tangled and knotted up with guilt and a dependency that he hated. It made everything feel like a house of cards and one wrong move would make it all come crashing down.
He remembered the mornings when Yoonseok woke him gently, fingers brushing through his hair, coaxing him to eat something. The nights when Yoonseok stayed up with him, waiting for the breakdowns to end or for the violent wretching to cease. He had never pushed, never asked for explanations.
There were small things: tea made just the way Hyukjae liked it, a blanket tucked around him, a soft reminder to breathe; it all meant everything.
Together, they were love, and comfort, and the only thing that made some days bearable. But that same care made the feeling of guilt settle heavily in Hyukjae’s stomach.
He shouldn’t have to do this for me. I shouldn’t need this much attention.
Every time he leaned on Yoonseok, shame tightened inside him. Love felt like a comfort, yes, but also a mirror reflecting how much he relied on someone else to keep him together.
The idea of losing Yoonseok terrified him.
He couldn’t picture the apartment without those gentle reminders that he wasn’t alone. And still, deep down, he worried that his dependence was pushing Yoonseok away.
His anxiety insisted it was true, the depression made it sound so logical.
Every missed cue, every tired sigh, every silence seemed like proof that something between them was slipping.
Hyukjae could see it so clearly — the slow distance growing, the frustration in Yoonseok’s eyes that he tried so hard to hide, his patient love being withered down with exhaustion. The thought made the room go fuzzy. Anxiety whispered in his ear that it wouldn’t last. That one day, even Yoonseok’s patience would run out. That one day, Hyukjae would be left alone.
That day came much sooner than Hyukjae had ever expected.
Yoonseok had been silent in the bedroom for hours. Distant. The kind of distance that made Hyukjae’s skin prickle. When Yoonseok finally came out of their room, he was carrying a suitcase. His voice cut straight through the room.
“Hyukjae, we need to talk.”
Hyukjae jerked at the sound. He couldn’t make himself speak, so he just nodded.
Yoonseok’s expression was flat. “I’m done guessing what’s going on with you,” he said. “I’m done trying to read your mind. Every time shit gets a little hard, you shut down and disappear. And I’m tired of it.”
Hyukjae swallowed hard, panic rising. “I’m trying,” he whispered.
Yoonseok exhaled through his nose with no sympathy. “Trying isn’t enough,” he said. “You’ve been ‘trying’ for months. And nothing is different. You barely talk to me, you don’t tell me what you feel, you don’t let me in. It’s like talking to a wall.”
Hyukjae winced, tears gathering in his eyes. “I can’t—”
“You can’t what?” Yoonseok snapped, voice cold and clipped. “You can’t communicate? You can’t make a single fucking effort to meet me halfway? You can’t stop shutting me out for once?”
His words hit like precise strikes on Hyukjae’s heart.
“I’ve done everything I can,” Yoonseok continued, voice steady in a way that hurt more than shouting. “I’ve waited. I’ve helped. I’ve given you every chance and it’s still not enough. Nothing is ever enough for you.”
Hyukjae pressed his hands to his ears, but he could still hear every word. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be like this, I just—”
“But you are like this,” Yoonseok said, unmoved. “And I’m done pretending that I can fix you.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Hyukjae choked. “I’m scared.”
“I know you’re scared,” Yoonseok said, but there was no warmth in it, only exhaustion. “Your fear isn’t an excuse to let someone else do all the work. I’m not carrying this relationship by myself anymore.”
Hyukjae’s tears streamed freely. He reached out instinctively, then stopped halfway, hand trembling.
“Please… don’t leave me,” he whispered.
Yoonseok’s face didn’t soften. “I can’t stay with someone who refuses to give me even an inch. I can’t keep wasting my time hoping you’ll finally show up.”
Hyukjae’s breath stuttered, panic clawing up his throat. “Don't leave! Please!”
But Yoonseok was already walking to the door, dragging his suitcase behind him. He paused only a moment, eyes unreadable. Not loving. Not tender. Resigned.
“I’m done, Hyukjae,” he said quietly. “I’m leaving.”
Then the door closed. A soft click, a painful finality.
Hyukjae stayed frozen on the couch, rocking gently, sobs shaking through him. The apartment felt hollow, too quiet, too big — like something essential had been cut out of it.
Like something essential had been cut out of him.
Hyukjae had been on the couch almost all week, curled up with his knees pressed to his chest. He hadn’t gotten up to change clothes. He hadn’t really eaten. He hadn’t moved except to rock slightly, as though the motion could somehow keep him tethered to reality.
The world outside of the sliding glass doors on his balcony felt impossibly distant, flattened and stoic. Time had no meaning here. Gloomy days bled into nights. Nights bled into the same melancholic dawn.
Then came a knock.
Hyukjae blinked in surprise. His chest tightened, panic coiling sharp within him. He wanted to disappear into the couch cushions, to vanish entirely, but the sound persisted.
Another knock, firmer.
“Hey, are you in there?” a calm, gentle voice called out.
Hyukjae’s hands shook as he forced himself upright. Every movement felt monumental. Heart hammering, he shuffled toward the door, the distance to it seeming to stretch for miles. When he finally reached the knob, he hesitated, staring at it like it might both save him and betray him at the same time.
He peeked through the peephole at the man standing there. He looked to be mid-to-late thirties, tall but lean, with dark hair slightly tousled, wearing square framed, black glasses sitting neatly on his nose. His worn jeans and soft gray sweater were plain and unassuming, the kind of clothes that suggested this man is a perfectionist. There was an incredible softness in his round, doe eyes that conveyed unbridled patience.
Hyukjae’s throat constricted. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silence. A flicker of fear mixed with a little hope, and a lot of shame, passed through him with a jolt. He felt exposed, like every tremor of his body was visible to the man on the other side, though the door between them remained closed.
The man’s voice came again, low and gentle, carrying just enough warmth to make the panic in Hyukjae’s chest release slightly. “It’s okay. I’m not asking to come in or anything. I just wanted to check on you.”
Hyukjae’s legs felt like lead as he reached for the knob again. He took a deep, shaky breath, and with a final swallow of fear, he turned it and opened the door.
The man didn’t move forward. He stayed just where he was previously: outside the threshold, giving space, his calm presence somehow grounding Hyukjae. His eyes met Hyukjae’s; steady, soft and patient. He radiated an awareness that seemed to measure Hyukjae’s fragility without judgment — a quiet, watchful concern that made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to analyze just then.
“Hi,” the man said softly, raising a hand in greeting. “I live next door. I’ve noticed you on your balcony, or, rather, I can see you from mine. I also heard harsh words from a man earlier this week? A door slamming? I just wanted to check to make sure you were alright.” His eyes flicked to Hyukjae’s, cautious. “I’m concerned. I don’t know if anyone hurt you. If the other man that lives here, maybe he hit you, or did something worse?”
Hyukjae’s panic seized him so violently that his breaths came shallow and rapid. His mouth opened, closed, opened again; hot tears pricked his eyes.
“I — I’m fine,” he whispered, though even he didn’t believe it. The urge to run back to the couch and vanish entirely was almost irresistible. But the cordial neighbor was still there, and somehow, that made him stay.
“I don’t know your name,” the man continued, voice careful, measured. “But, I’ve seen you sitting there, day after day. Same spot, same clothes… you look like you haven’t moved much and I tend to worry.”
Hyukjae’s hands fisted at his knees. He wanted to shut the door and wallow in peace. And yet? There was some small part of him, a part that had been starving for acknowledgment, that hesitated.
“I… uh…” His words crumpled in the silence. He couldn’t speak.
The man nodded slowly, deliberate, and patient. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer me. I just wanted to see if you were okay. If you needed help. I won’t stay if you don’t want me to. I just… I didn’t want to leave you completely alone.”
Hyukjae blinked. That simple acknowledgment felt heavier and warmer than anything he’d felt in days; a small, trembling victory.
“I… uhm… thanks,” he whispered finally, voice barely audible.
The neighbor offered a small, cautious smile. Hyukjae noted that the man had soft dimples on each cheek.
“Okay. I’ll leave you be. But, if you need anything — really anything at all — I’m right next door. I just didn’t want someone hurting you without anyone coming to help.”
Hyukjae nodded slightly, chest heaving, trembling, teetering between trepidation and the faintest spark of relief. The words, the presence, the concern — they lingered in his mind long after the door had clicked shut.
He sat back down on the couch, curling tighter into himself, heart still hammering. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t invited anyone in, but somehow, he wasn’t entirely invisible. He let that thought float for a while, small and delicate, even as anxiety clawed at the edges of his mind. His hands clutched his hoodie tighter, fingers tracing the fabric as if it could hold the thought safely in place. He closed his eyes, replaying the brief moment at the door, as he drifted to sleep.
The next morning, a soft shuffle by the door drew his attention. He peeked out from beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders, heart thudding painfully.
There, just past the threshold, a small scrap of paper lay, neatly slid under the door.
Hyukjae stared at the paper, unsure if he wanted to pick it up. His fingers shook as they hovered above it, but he slowly picked the note up, holding it like it might bite him.
He unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was neat, deliberate:
Hi, again! I forgot to tell you my name yesterday. It’s Kim Heechul. Here’s my number. You don’t have to use it, but just in case you need to: 010-XXXX-XXXX.
Hyukjae’s breath caught. His hands trembled as he held the note, heart speeding up, mind full of something else he hadn’t felt in a long time: curiosity.
The simple, thoughtful gesture made the weight on his chest feel just a little lighter. But the idea of speaking to anyone — even to someone who had only shown the upmost concern — felt overwhelming.
The note stayed with him, placed safely in the pocket of his hoodie.
He lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. A seed had been planted. A tiny, tentative recognition that he wasn’t entirely concealed from the world. That maybe, just maybe, someone could care about him without expecting anything in return.
That thought didn’t fully erase the weight of Hyukjae’s anxiety, or the thick fog of his depression. He was still exhausted, still weak, and still terrified of everything outside of his apartment. But this note from Heechul was a lifeline.
And for now, that was enough.