Chapter Text
There are some things you don’t realize are missing until you need them.
Seungmin doesn’t wake up thinking, They forgot me.
He wakes up thinking about schedules.
The ceiling above his bed is familiar, small crack near the corner, a shadow shaped like a leaf when the sun hits it right. He blinks slowly, letting his eyes readjust to the light. His phone buzzes on his nightstand.
A notification from the group chat.
He reaches for it automatically, heart lifting just a little, before he even reads it.
Chan: rehearsal moved to 11. be ready by 10:30
That’s it.
No good morning. No dumb sticker from Felix. No Changbin complaining about being tired. No Hyunjin spamming emojis.
Seungmin stares at the screen longer than necessary.
It’s stupid. He knows that. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s tired. They’ve been running on barely any sleep for weeks; comebacks, interviews, recording sessions that stretch too late into the night. He tells himself all of that as he rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes again.
Still, something sits heavy in his chest.
He tries to ignore it.
At breakfast, the dorm is loud in that half-awake way. Bowls clink, someone’s music leaks out from a phone speaker, someone else is complaining about the lack of clean spoons.
Seungmin pours cereal and sits at the counter. He listens more than he talks, like always.
Felix is laughing with Hyunjin about something that happened in the practice room yesterday. Changbin is arguing with Jeongin about whether or not iced coffee counts as breakfast. Chan is already on his laptop, earbuds in, forehead creased in concentration.
No one looks at him.
Not in a pointed way. Not cruelly. Just… not at all.
He clears his throat softly.
“Rehearsal’s at eleven, right?”
Chan nods without looking up. “Yeah. Ten-thirty departure.”
“Okay.”
That’s it.
Seungmin eats slowly, the cereal going soggy as he chews. He tells himself he’s imagining things. He tells himself he’s tired. He tells himself he’s always been like this, quiet, observant, fine on his own.
But there’s a difference between being quiet and being invisible.
At the practice room, it’s more of the same.
They run choreography again and again. The mirrors reflect eight bodies moving in sync, familiar shapes, familiar sweat-streaked faces. Seungmin hits his marks. He always does. His voice doesn’t crack. His steps don’t falter.
No one corrects him.
No one praises him.
When they take a break, he sits on the floor near the wall, towel around his neck, water bottle sweating into the wood. He watches the others cluster together, heads bent over Chan’s phone as he shows them something.
He leans forward a little, hoping, stupidly, that someone will notice, will tilt the phone so he can see too.
They don’t.
His chest tightens.
It’s nothing, he tells himself.
You’re reading into it, overreacting.
He scrolls through his own phone instead. Social media. Messages from STAY. Fan edits, comments, reminders of love from people who don’t even know him.
It makes a small smile show on his face until one post catches his eye.
Our puppy Seungmin’s birthday in two days 🐶🤍 can’t wait!!
Two days.
He stares at the date at the top of his screen.
Right...
He’d known that. Of course he had. It’s his birthday. He just… hadn’t really thought about it.
Birthdays have always been strange for him. As a trainee, they were quiet. As an idol, they were loud but distant, cakes shoved into his hands, cameras flashing, people singing for him because they were supposed to.
The members usually remembered, though.
Usually.
He glances up again.
No one’s looking at him.
The tightness in his chest sinks deeper, heavier, like a stone dropping into water.
The day before his birthday passes like that, blurred at the edges, full of half-moments.
Seungmin keeps finding himself on the verge of speaking.
Tomorrow’s my birthday, he thinks, every time someone pauses, every time there’s a lull in conversation.
He never says it.
He doesn’t want to sound like he’s asking for something. Doesn’t want to be that person, fishing for attention, reminding people he exists. He tells himself that if they remember, they’ll remember on their own.
If they don’t…
He doesn’t finish that thought.
That night, lying in bed, he scrolls through old photos. Birthday pictures from previous years. Group selfies, silly hats, Chan’s arm slung around his shoulders, Changbin grinning too close to the camera.
He presses his lips together.
They care, he tells himself firmly. They’re just stressed.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.