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“An idol shouldn’t be allowed to love.”
Kyujin repeats it in her head like a rule carved into something permanent—stone, maybe, or bone. Something that doesn’t bend, doesn’t forgive. Something that stays even when everything else moves.
But Kyujin is not stone. She’s just a girl.
Just a girl who fell in love with her unnie.
Just a girl who isn’t supposed to fall for her unnie.
It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or something worth writing songs about. It was quiet. It was in the small things, Jiwoo waiting for her after practice, even when everyone else had already left. Jiwoo laughing at her dumb jokes like it was the end of the world. Jiwoo fixing her hair before going on stage, fingers gentle, voice softer than anything Kyujin had ever known.
“You did well today,” Jiwoo would say. And Kyujin would carry those words like they meant more than they should.
–
Maybe she is just romanticizing it. Maybe she built something out of moments that weren’t meant to mean anything. But to her, it feels real. It feels soft. It feels like home.
And that’s the problem. Because an idol shouldn’t fall in love. Especially not like this. Especially not with someone in the same group. Kyujin knows the consequences without needing anyone to say them out loud. If Jiwoo finds out… if NMIXX finds out… if the company finds out… if the fans find out…
Everything ends.
Not just for her.
For all of them.
The group she loves. The stage she lives for. The life she worked so hard to have. Gone. All because she couldn’t control something as simple—and as dangerous—as her own heart.
“An idol shouldn’t fall in love.”
“An idol should stay single.”
“An idol should keep a pure image.”
“An idol shouldn’t be gay.”
“An idol cannot be in love under any circumstances ever.”
The words don’t come from anyone in particular anymore. They exist everywhere. In comments, in interviews, in the silence between things people choose not to say. Kyujin hears them even when no one is speaking.
–
Eunchae hears them too. They echo differently for her, but they’re louder, more pressured. She doesn’t know when it started—when her eyes began to follow Kyujin without permission. Every performance, every practice, every moment in between… her gaze finds Kyujin like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It scares her. Because she knows something Kyujin doesn’t.
She knows who Kyujin is looking at.
It’s not her.
It’s never her.
It’s always someone older than her.
It’s always Kim Jiwoo.
Eunchae notices the way Kyujin’s voice softens when she talks to her unnie. The way her shoulders relax, like she can finally breathe. The way her eyes linger just a second too long, like she’s memorizing something she’s not allowed to keep. Eunchae notices everything. Because she’s looking just as hard. Just in a different direction. Kyujin only sees her as a friend. A younger member. Someone safe, someone easy.
And Eunchae lets her.
Because what else is she supposed to do?
Kyujin likes people older than her. Everyone knows that. It’s in the way she gravitates, the way she listens, the way she admires.
Eunchae was never part of that.
She tells herself it’s fine.
She tells herself she’s used to it.
She tells herself that being close to Kyujin—even just like this—is enough.
It has to be.
—
Jiwoo doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t understand what she’s seeing. Because Jiwoo has her own world, one carefully hidden behind smiles and modesty.
Her and Yoona.
It’s been going on for a while now. Long enough that it doesn’t feel new anymore, but not long enough to feel safe. It exists in quiet corners, in late-night messages, in glances that mean everything and nothing at the same time. Only NMIXX knows. They don’t talk about it, but they know.
Even Kyujin.
Even Kyujin, who has loved Jiwoo long before Yoona ever did. There’s something unfair about that. Something almost cruel. Because Jiwoo doesn’t see the way Kyujin looks at her. She doesn’t notice the way Kyujin softens, the way she lights up, the way she breaks herself into smaller, quieter pieces just to stay close.
Kyujin doesn’t see Eunchae either.
She doesn’t see the second layer of hurt unfolding right beside her.
Two people.
Hurting.
Quietly.
At the same time.
And she has no idea.
—
“An idol shouldn’t fall in love.”
“An idol should stay single.”
“An idol should keep a pure image.”
“An idol shouldn’t be gay.”
“An idol cannot be in love—”
“Kyujin, are you okay?”
The voice cuts through everything. Kyujin blinks, the words in her head shattering like glass. Lily is looking at her, brows slightly furrowed, concern written plainly across her face. “You seem pale,” she says gently. “You should step out from this performance just this time.” Kyujin takes a second to process it.
Oh.
Right.
They’re performing tonight.
They’re still promoting, even after a month. Another stage, another crowd, another chance to be perfect.
Silly her.
How could she forget? “You can’t be forgetting,” something inside her whispers. “You should be perfect.” Because maybe—Maybe Jiwoo will look at her differently if she is. Maybe Jiwoo will—
No.
Kyujin swallows hard. Jiwoo can’t love her. Not like that. Not ever. And Kyujin knows that. But still…
“I’m okay,” she says, forcing a small smile. “Just tired.”
Lily doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.” “I’ll be fine,” Kyujin insists, softer this time.
Because what else can she say? That her chest feels too tight? That her thoughts won’t stop? That loving someone who will never love her back feels like slowly disappearing?
There isn’t a script for that. So she sticks to the one she knows. “I’m okay.”
—
Eunchae watches from a screen backstage. She always does.
She sees the way Kyujin straightens up after that, how she shakes it off like it’s nothing. Like she didn’t just look like she might collapse under the weight of something no one else can see.
Eunchae wants to go to her. She almost does. But then Jiwoo gets there first.
“Hey,” Jiwoo says, lightly nudging Kyujin’s shoulder. “You good?” And just like that—Kyujin smiles. Not the forced one she gave Lily. A real one. Soft. Warm. Honest. “I’m good, unnie.”
Eunchae looks away. Because she can’t stand it. Because it hurts more than she expects every single time. Because no matter how much she prepares herself, it never gets easier. She clenches her hands into fists, nails pressing into her skin. “An idol shouldn’t fall in love,” she reminds herself again.
But it doesn’t stop anything.
—
The stage lights are blinding. The music starts, loud and familiar, vibrating through Kyujin’s bones. Her body moves on its own—years of training, muscle memory taking over where her mind can’t.
This is the part she’s good at. This is the part where nothing else is supposed to matter. But it does. It always does.
She catches a glimpse of Jiwoo during the second verse, just for a second. Their eyes don’t even meet, but it’s enough.
It’s always enough.
Kyujin pushes through the choreography, her breaths syncing with the beat. The cheers from the audience are loud, overwhelming, but distant at the same time.
Everything feels slightly out of place. Like she’s there, but not fully. Like she’s performing a version of herself that doesn’t have room for things like this. Halfway through the performance, something in her chest tightens again.
Not enough to stop her.
But enough to hurt.
She keeps going.
Because she has to.
Because an idol doesn’t break on stage.
—
Eunchae notices. Of course she does. She always notices.
There’s a slight delay in Kyujin’s movements—barely visible, something no one else would catch. But Eunchae sees it.
Her heart drops.
For a moment, she forgets everything else—the rules, the distance, the fact that she’s supposed to stay in her place.
All she can think is—Kyujin isn’t okay. And that matters more than anything. Even if Kyujin doesn’t look at her the same way. Even if she never will.
—
The performance ends without incident. No one messes up. No one falls. No one sees what almost happened. To everyone else, it’s just another flawless stage. But backstage, the air feels different.
Kyujin leans against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. Her chest still feels tight, like something is sitting there, heavy and unmoving.
“Hey,” a voice says softly. Not Jiwoo.
Eunchae.
Kyujin looks up, a little surprised. “You did well,” Eunchae says, her voice quieter than usual. Careful. Kyujin smiles, a little weaker this time. “Thanks.” There’s a pause. Eunchae hesitates, then steps closer. “You don’t look okay,” she says. Kyujin laughs lightly, brushing it off. “I told you, I’m just tired.”
“You’re lying.” The words come out before Eunchae can stop them. Kyujin blinks. Eunchae immediately looks like she regrets it. “I just—” she starts, then stops, struggling to find the right words. “You don’t have to pretend all the time.”
Kyujin’s expression softens slightly. For a moment, something shifts. Something honest. But then—
“It’s fine,” Kyujin says again. And just like that, it’s gone.
Eunchae nods slowly. Because she knows she can’t push. Because she knows this is where she has to stop. Because she’s just—A friend. “Okay,” she says quietly.
—
Later that night, Kyujin lies awake, staring at the ceiling.
The dorm is quiet. Everyone else is asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her mind won’t stop.
It replays everything—Jiwoo’s voice, Eunchae’s words, the performance, the feeling in her chest. “An idol shouldn’t fall in love.” She turns onto her side, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.
If she could just turn it off…
If she could just stop feeling like this…
Everything would be easier.
No guilt. No fear. No quiet, aching hope that refuses to go away no matter how many times she tells it to. She closes her eyes. But all she sees is Jiwoo. And that soft, impossible feeling she can’t seem to escape.
—
On the other side of Seoul, Eunchae is awake too. She stares at her phone, Kyujin’s contact open, a message typed out but not sent. “Are you really okay?”
She’s been staring at it for ten minutes. Maybe more. She sighs and locks her phone instead. Because she already knows the answer. And because asking won’t change anything.
—
Somewhere between all of this—between the rules and the silence and the things left unsaid—Three hearts keep beating anyway. Even when they shouldn’t. Even when it hurts. Even when they hold on to nothing.
Because no matter how many times they repeat it—
“An idol shouldn’t be allowed to love”—They already do.
Kyujin can’t be Yoona, and Eunchae can’t be Jiwoo.