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The practice room lights fell like a cold veil over their exhausted bodies—too white, too sharp, too real for the illusions they were trying to preserve.
Yet, despite the merciless reflection of the neon lights on the polished floor, there was something fragile in the air, a breath floating between them like an invisible thread. It was a presence Taesan felt on his skin every time Woonhak drew near, the moment his light laughter slipped into the space between Boynextdoor’s perfectly choreographed movements. It was both sweet and cruel, for he knew this bond was fracturing under the weight of endless hours and an overwhelming schedule.
He had learned to sense it even before Woonhak looked at him. That gaze, which used to be a silent promise, now seemed to weigh on him like a reminder of everything they risked losing. Taesan’s fingers mechanically brushed the microphone, but this technical gesture wasn't enough to erase the void settling between them. A subtle distance was creeping into every silence, every interrupted movement.
Fatigue swallowed them both differently. For Taesan, it was a heavy fog stifling his ability to think; for Woonhak, it was a hollow ache. What he missed most were the nights when, unable to sleep, Taesan would FaceTime him just to tell him something silly or watch him sleep through the screen. Those late-night calls had vanished, replaced by a mute darkness.
Woonhak had started by waiting for his texts: “Are you done?”, “What are you eating?”. But above all, he waited for Taesan’s usual teasing. Normally, Taesan wouldn't let an hour pass without throwing a playful jab, trying to make him blush or whine just for the pleasure of seeing him smile. That specific silence—the lack of affectionate "bullying"—hurt Woonhak the most. It meant Taesan didn't even have the energy to play with him anymore.
There was that morning in the van with tinted windows on the way back to the dorm, when Taesan had sat far away from him. He was staring at his phone, his earbuds isolating him from the world. Back at the dorm, Woonhak glanced at their gaming console. They had promised to finish their game together, but Taesan’s controller sat on the shelf, untouched for days. Every second without that contact, every moment they weren't "fighting" over a high score, became a cruel reminder: he’s right there, but he doesn’t see me.
Then came the meals. Taesan ate in silence, head down.
— "Hyung… you’re not eating much…" Woonhak whispered one evening.
Taesan looked up, startled.
— "I… I’m not very hungry." His voice was neutral.
Woonhak looked down, fidgeting with his fingers. He felt that pushing further would be useless. The wall was too high.
.
.
.
That same night, in the shadows of their room, Woonhak finally broke.
— "Hyung…" he whispered, his voice cracking. "I… I feel like you’re avoiding me."
Taesan stopped dead. It wasn’t an accusation, just a fragile confession.
— "… What?" Taesan breathed, guilt flooding his eyes. "No… no, I didn't mean to."
But he knew he had let work steal their closeness. He had forgotten to tease him, forgotten to call him at night, forgotten to play with him.
— "You know…" Woonhak began, his voice strangled, "I waited. I thought it was just the comeback… but every time… every silence… I felt like you didn’t want me anymore."
Taesan felt his heart tighten. Woonhak’s words were a blow he hadn't seen coming.
— "No, Woon… I didn't mean to… I didn't know how to show you that…"
— "That what?" Woonhak asked, his eyes shimmering. "That you still love me? Because I’ve been waiting for days, Taesan… I’ve been waiting and you…"
A sob rose. Taesan rushed forward and pulled him into his arms. Woonhak trembled against him.
— "Shhh…" Taesan whispered, his voice warm, stroking his back. "I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to feel alone… never again. We’ll finish our game tomorrow, I promise. And I’ll call you tonight, even if we’re in the same room."
— "I missed you…" Woonhak sobbed.
— "I missed you too, you little idiot," Taesan replied, finally finding a bit of his usual playfulness to mask his emotion.
Tears fell, and in that suspended moment, Taesan finally pressed his lips to Woonhak’s. A kiss heavy with everything they hadn't said. A kiss that promised the laughter, the games, and the late-night calls were finally coming back. Woonhak gripped his sweater, and Taesan vowed to himself never to let silence take the place of their laughter again.
The world could scream around them, the comeback could swallow them whole, the schedules could kill them with exhaustion, but these small moments—these simple, silent gestures—were their refuge, their truth, their love remaining intact in the middle of the storm.