Chapter Text
The send off lasted exactly eight minutes.
Eight exhausting, suffocating minutes where Choi Yeonjun had to smile like he was not running on two hours of sleep and three iced americano.
The concert itself had ended nearly thirty minutes earlier, but the venue still trembled with noise. Fans crowded behind barricades in narrow organized lines while security guards barked instructions over the chaos.
“No stopping.”
“Keep moving.”
“Phones down.”
Yeonjun stood beneath harsh white hallway lights near the backstage exit, dressed in black cargo pants and an oversized hoodie thrown hastily over his stage clothes. Damp strands of blond hair clung to his forehead from sweat. His in ear monitor had already been removed, leaving the world strangely muffled after two straight hours of screaming crowds.
One by one, fans passed in front of him.
Some cried instantly.
Some shook too hard to speak.
Others threw albums or letters toward staff members desperately before getting pushed along by security.
Yeonjun smiled at all of them automatically.
“Thank you for coming.”
“You did well getting home safely.”
“I love you too.”
The same phrases repeated over and over until they stopped sounding human.
A manager checked the line count nearby. “Three minutes left.”
Yeonjun nodded absentmindedly.
Then the next fan stepped forward.
And suddenly the exhaustion vanished.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Quiet eyes.
The same person Yeonjun had noticed during the concert.
He recognized him immediately.
Not because he was particularly flashy. Actually, it was the opposite. The young man standing before him blended into shadows too easily. Black mask pulled beneath his chin. Dark hair soft against pale skin. No dramatic tears. No trembling excitement.
Just calm.
Watching him carefully.
Yeonjun felt something unpleasant curl low in his stomach.
The fan stopped directly in front of him.
For one second neither of them spoke.
The security guards behind him urged the line forward impatiently.
“Keep moving please.”
Still, the stranger’s eyes stayed fixed on Yeonjun’s face with unnerving intensity.
Like this moment mattered more than breathing.
Yeonjun smiled automatically. “Did you enjoy the concert?”
The fan blinked once, almost startled Yeonjun had spoken first.
“Yes.”
His voice was low and soft.
Pretty.
Yeonjun tilted his head slightly. “You were near the extended stage earlier, right?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
A dangerous mistake.
Fans loved being recognized.
But the expression on this man’s face changed into something else entirely.
Shock first.
Then something warmer.
Something obsessive.
“You noticed me?” he asked quietly.
The question should not have affected Yeonjun the way it did.
But exhaustion had stripped him raw tonight. His nerves were already frayed from endless schedules, cameras, expectations, and noises.
And this stranger looked at him differently from everyone else.
Not like a celebrity.
Like a person he had already memorized.
Yeonjun’s smile faltered for half a second.
Too long.
The fan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
''I am Soobin'' The man said.
Behind them, security grew impatient again. “Please continue moving.”
The stranger finally stepped aside.
But before leaving completely, he leaned slightly closer.
Close enough for Yeonjun to catch the scent of rain and cigarette smoke clinging faintly to his coat.
“You looked tired during the last song,” he murmured softly.
Then he walked away.
Yeonjun froze.
His manager touched his shoulder immediately afterward. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
But his voice came out distracted.
Because that comment should not have meant anything.
Fans said things like that constantly.
Still, the stranger had said it with quiet certainty.
Not concern.
Observation.
Like he had been studying Yeonjun the entire night.
The send off ended two minutes later.
Yeonjun barely remembered the rest of it.
Outside, Seoul rain hammered against the black company van waiting behind the venue.
Yeonjun climbed inside first, dropping heavily into the leather seat while staff loaded equipment nearby.
The moment the van doors shut, silence wrapped around him.
His manager glanced up from a tablet. “You were weird during send off.”
Yeonjun closed his eyes briefly. “I’m always weird.”
“No, I mean distracted.”
“I’m tired.”
“You almost missed three fans because you kept staring at someone.”
Yeonjun opened one eye lazily. “You monitor my eye contact now?”
“When it delays schedules, yes.”
A tired laugh escaped him despite himself.
The manager continued scrolling through schedules. “Anyway, you have filming tomorrow at nine, dance rehearsal at one, livestream at seven. Try sleeping for once.”
Yeonjun hummed vaguely.
But his thoughts stayed trapped in that hallway.
You looked tired during the last song.
The memory bothered him because it was true.
Near the end of the concert, Yeonjun’s smile had started slipping every time the cameras turned away. His knees hurt. His throat burned. He had nearly snapped at a stylist backstage before encore because someone touched him without warning.
Nobody usually notices those moments.
Especially not fans.
Yet somehow that stranger had.
The van began moving through rain soaked streets.
Streetlights reflected across the windows in blurred gold streaks while Yeonjun pulled out his phone absently.
Notifications flooded the screen instantly.
Tagged posts.
Mentions.
Concert clips.
One new upload caught his attention almost immediately.
A photo posted only four minutes ago.
His breath slowed slightly.
It was him during send off.
Close enough to see the exhaustion beneath his makeup.
Close enough to notice the tiny crack in his smile.
The caption read:
he looked at me like he knew me..
Yeonjun stared silently at the screen.
Then his eyes moved upward toward the username.
@sooblight
Something cold slid slowly beneath his ribs.
Because the photo could only have been taken from directly in front of him.
Which meant the account belonged to that fan.
To Soobin.
Yeonjun clicked the profile before thinking too hard about it.
Private account.
A picture of that fan, blurry but he could recognise him.
No followers.
But the tagged previews beneath the lock screen showed enough.
Concerts, airports, radio stations, candid photos taken from distances that felt uncomfortably close.
Every single image centered on Yeonjun.
Only Yeonjun.
The van turned sharply through traffic.
Rain continued beating against the windows while the city blurred outside into silver light.
Yeonjun should have closed the app.
Instead, he kept staring at the username.
At the memory of dark eyes calmly studying him beneath fluorescent hallway lights.
At the soft voice saying you looked tired.
Something about it settled deep under his skin.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Something far more dangerous.
Interest.
Three nights later, Choi Yeonjun saw him again.
By then, he had already made the mistake of thinking about him too much.
It started innocently enough. At least that was what Yeonjun told himself.
During makeup appointments, he caught himself remembering the quiet way Soobin had spoken during send off. During rehearsals, his eyes drifted unconsciously toward darker corners of crowds, searching without permission. Even alone at home after schedules ended, he found himself opening that private Instagram profile again and again despite seeing almost nothing new.
@sooblight
The username sat unpleasantly in his head now.
Like a song lyric he could not stop replaying.
Yeonjun hated it.
He hated even more that he was curious.
Tonight’s schedule was smaller than usual. A guest appearance on a late night radio program followed by a short prerecorded performance. Nothing huge. No massive arena crowds. Just a compact studio building tucked into the middle of Seoul beneath flickering city lights and nonstop traffic.
Rain had finally stopped, but the streets still glistened wet beneath neon signs.
Fans waited outside the broadcasting station behind metal barriers, packed tightly together despite the late hour. Security guards formed narrow paths through the crowd while cameras flashed constantly.
Yeonjun stepped out of the van wearing a black cap and oversized leather jacket, exhaustion already sitting heavy behind his eyes.
The screaming started immediately.
“YEONJUN!”
“I LOVE YOU!”
“LOOK HERE!”
Phones lifted everywhere around him.
Flash after flash exploded against the darkness.
Yeonjun smiled automatically while security pushed forward.
Then he saw him.
Near the back this time.
Not yelling.
Not waving.
Just watching.
Soobin stood partially hidden beside a concrete pillar beneath the station lights, dark coat hanging loosely from broad shoulders. His expression remained calm even while chaos erupted around him.
The second Yeonjun noticed him, their eyes met.
Something hot and uncomfortable twisted low in Yeonjun’s stomach.
Recognition flashed instantly across Soobin’s face.
Not surprise.
Expectation.
Like he had known Yeonjun would find him.
Security continued moving, forcing Yeonjun toward the building entrance.
Still, he looked back once.
Soobin had not moved at all.
Only watching him disappear inside.
“You’re distracted again.”
Yeonjun glanced lazily toward his stylist. “Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Inside the dressing room, warm overhead lights reflected off mirrors cluttered with makeup palettes, water bottles, and half opened garment bags. Staff members rushed around preparing for the broadcast while radio producers discussed timing near the doorway.
Yeonjun sat quietly while someone powdered the shine off his skin.
His phone rested facedown beside him.
He had the strange urge to check if Soobin posted already.
That realization irritated him instantly.
Ridiculous.
He barely knew anything about the guy besides the fact he appeared everywhere and looked at Yeonjun like he belonged to him already.
Yet the thought lingered anyway.
“What are you thinking about?” the stylist asked casually.
“Nothing.”
“You have your serious face on.”
Yeonjun smirked faintly. “Maybe I’m having deep artistic thoughts.”
“You?” She snorted softly. “Impossible.”
He laughed automatically.
But the moment she stepped away, his hand reached for the phone anyway.
Instagram opened immediately.
Search bar.
@sooblight
Private account.
No new posts visible.
Still, Yeonjun stared at the profile longer than necessary.
Then his pulse slowed slightly.
The bio had changed.
he noticed me twice now.
A strange feeling crawled beneath his skin.
Not fear.
Something more intimate.
Like invisible fingers brushing lightly across the back of his neck.
Yeonjun locked the phone quickly.
Why did that affect him?
Why did the idea of being watched by this specific person feel different from everybody else?
Outside the dressing room, staff called for him.
“It’s your turn.”
Yeonjun stood immediately.
Professional smile sliding back into place like second nature.
The broadcast lasted nearly two hours.
Yeonjun performed his newly released song, laughed at the host’s jokes, answered predictable interview questions, and smiled until his cheeks hurt.
The entire time, exhaustion dragged heavily through his body.
But underneath it sat another awareness entirely.
The possibility that Soobin was still outside.
Waiting.
Watching.
The thought should have unsettled him more than it did.
Instead, it distracted him badly enough that he stumbled over a question halfway through the interview.
The host laughed warmly. “Long week?”
“You have no idea.”
Fans online would probably call him cute for that later.
Everything became content eventually.
When filming finally ended sometime after midnight, Yeonjun felt half dead.
Staff guided him through dim backstage corridors toward the private exit where the van waited.
“Fans are still outside,” a security guard warned.
“Of course they are,” Yeonjun muttered.
The hallway doors opened.
Cold night air rushed instantly against his skin.
The crowd behind barricades screamed again the second he appeared.
Cameras flashed violently in every direction.
Yeonjun lowered his head slightly beneath his cap while security surrounded him.
Then he saw him again.
Closer this time.
Too close.
Soobin stood near the front barrier only a few feet away, one hand resting lightly against the metal railing.
No phone.
No camera.
Just staring directly at Yeonjun.
The noise around them seemed to dull strangely for a moment.
Yeonjun slowed without realizing it.
A dangerous mistake.
Security shifted immediately.
“Keep moving.”
But Soobin spoke before Yeonjun could walk away.
“You didn’t eat tonight.”
The words were quiet.
Soft enough that nobody else reacted.
Still, Yeonjun stopped breathing for half a second.
His eyes lifted sharply toward Soobin’s face.
Calm expression.
Certain gaze.
Like he already knew the answer before speaking.
Yeonjun’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because it was true.
Between rehearsals and filming, he had skipped dinner completely.
“How do you know that?” Yeonjun asked before thinking.
Security stiffened nearby instantly.
The crowd noise swallowed most of the exchange, but Soobin heard him clearly.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
Not mocking.
Almost affectionate.
“You do that when you’re stressed.”
Yeonjun stared at him.
Something about the response felt deeply wrong.
Too familiar.
Too observant.
No normal fan should know patterns like that.
The security guard touched Yeonjun’s shoulder firmly. “We need to go.”
Yeonjun blinked hard, forcing himself to move again.
But as he passed the barricade, Soobin spoke one last time.
“Sleep tonight.”
The words followed Yeonjun all the way into the van.
Inside, silence pressed heavily against the dark interior.
His manager glanced up immediately. “What happened?”
“What?”
“You look weird again.”
Yeonjun leaned back against the seat. “Maybe I’m haunted.”
“That would explain a lot honestly.”
Normally he would laugh.
Tonight he stayed quiet.
Outside the tinted windows, fans slowly disappeared behind city traffic and blurred lights.
But Yeonjun’s thoughts stayed fixed on one thing.
You didn’t eat tonight.
Sleep tonight.
Tiny observations.
Tiny details.
Yet somehow they felt more intimate than half the conversations people around him had every day.
His phone buzzed softly in his hand.
Instagram notification.
Without meaning to, Yeonjun already knew who it would be from.
He opened the app slowly.
A new post.
Uploaded seconds ago.
A blurry picture of him entering the van.
Head lowered. Expression exhausted.
Caption:
he looks lonelier up close.
Yeonjun stared at the sentence until his pulse turned uneven.
Then, for reasons he could not explain even to himself, he opened a blank anonymous account he had created two nights earlier and typed a single message.
Sent directly into the darkness between them.
Who are you really?
At 2:13 in the morning, Choi Yeonjun still had not slept.
The apartment remained almost completely dark except for the pale city lights filtering through the floor to ceiling windows and the glow of his phone screen illuminating tired eyes.
His anonymous message sat at the bottom of the chat.
'Who are you really?'
Read.
No response.
Yeonjun lay stretched across the couch in loose gray sweatpants and a black tank top, one arm thrown over his face while silence filled the apartment around him.
Usually after schedules, exhaustion knocked him unconscious instantly.
Tonight his mind would not stop moving.
You didn’t eat tonight.
Sleep tonight.
he looks lonelier up close.
The words replayed endlessly beneath his skin.
There was something deeply unsettling about being observed so carefully. Fans noticed superficial things all the time. Hair color changes. Expressions during performances. Clothes at airports.
But Soobin noticed patterns.
Habits.
Weaknesses.
The thought should have frightened him.
Instead, it made his pulse slow strangely every time he opened that account.
His phone buzzed suddenly.
Yeonjun sat up immediately.
A response.
For one full second, anticipation tightened painfully in his chest.
Then he opened the message.
'does it matter?'
Yeonjun stared.
No greeting.
No confusion about the anonymous account contacting him.
Almost like Soobin already knew exactly who he was.
Another message appeared before Yeonjun could answer.
'you know who i am already, don't you?'
A strange chill moved through him.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
You follow me everywhere.
Read instantly.
Then:
'yes.'
No shame.
No excuse.
Just honesty.
Yeonjun swallowed slowly.
Rain started again outside, soft against the glass.
The city beyond his apartment blurred into scattered lights while he stared at the conversation unfolding in the middle of the night like something unreal.
Why?
This time the typing bubble appeared for several seconds before disappearing.
Then returning again.
Finally:
'because nobody else looks at you properly'.
Yeonjun’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
Ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And yet something about those words hit somewhere dangerously deep.
Maybe because lately everybody around him treated him like a product before a person. Managers watched schedules. Brands watched numbers. Fans watched performances. Even friends watched the version of Yeonjun that always smiled easily and flirted naturally and never admitted exhaustion.
But Soobin noticed things Yeonjun tried hiding.
That should not have comforted him.
It did anyway.
His fingers moved before he could stop himself.
'You sound insane.'
Read.
A pause.
Then:
'probably.'
Yeonjun laughed softly under his breath despite himself.
The sound echoed strangely through the empty apartment.
Another message appeared.
'but you still answered me.'
His smile disappeared slowly.
Because that was true too.
The next afternoon, Yeonjun regretted everything.
He stood inside a practice studio running choreography on four hours of sleep while his dance instructor yelled corrections over pounding music.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every mistake scraped painfully against his nerves.
By the fourth run through, sweat clung heavily to the back of his neck and irritation simmered beneath his skin.
“Focus,” the instructor snapped.
“I am focused.”
“No, you’re distracted.”
Everyone kept saying that lately.
Yeonjun dragged a hand through damp hair, breathing hard.
His phone rested near the mirrored wall where notifications continued lighting the screen every few minutes.
He already knew what waited there.
Three unread messages from Soobin.
He had not opened them yet.
Mostly because he knew he would.
“Five minute break,” the instructor finally called.
The second the music stopped, Yeonjun grabbed the phone automatically.
His pulse slowed slightly seeing the messages.
2:47 AM
'did you sleep?'
3:10 AM
'you ignore people when you’re overwhelmed.'
11:32 AM
'eat something before rehearsal.'
Yeonjun stared at the screen.
There it was again.
That awful feeling of being understood too easily.
He should block him.
Seriously.
A sane person would block him immediately.
Instead, Yeonjun typed back:
'Are you watching me right now?'
Read instantly.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately after.
'no.'
A pause.
Then another message.
'i wish i was.'
Heat crawled unpleasantly up Yeonjun’s neck.
Before he could respond, someone dropped heavily onto the floor beside him.
His stylist leaned against the mirror with a sigh. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“When’s the last time you slept properly?”
Yeonjun locked the phone quickly. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious. Your eyes look dead.”
“They always look dead.”
“No. Usually they look expensive.”
That pulled a real laugh from him.
The stylist smiled slightly at the sound before standing again. “Eat before you faint.”
The second she walked away, Yeonjun looked back at the chat.
'i wish i was.'
His stomach twisted strangely.
Because some part of him believed it.
Two days later, Yeonjun left the company building just after midnight.
Schedules had dragged endlessly from dance rehearsals to costume fittings to brand meetings until his entire body ached with exhaustion.
Cold air hit him immediately as security escorted him toward the waiting van.
Fans still lingered outside despite the late hour.
Cameras flashed the second he appeared.
Yeonjun lowered his cap automatically while walking faster toward the vehicle.
Then he noticed someone standing across the street.
Not with the fans.
Separate.
Watching quietly beneath a glowing convenience store sign.
Soobin.
Dark hoodie. Hands in his pockets. Calm eyes fixed directly on Yeonjun.
Something in Yeonjun’s chest tightened hard enough to hurt.
He should have gotten into the van.
Instead, he stopped moving.
Security glanced back immediately. “Yeonjun?”
“I’ll be one second.”
Before anyone could argue, Yeonjun crossed the street.
The city noise felt strangely distant beneath the rush of blood in his ears.
Soobin did not move while he approached.
Up close, he looked even prettier than Yeonjun remembered.
Tall. Pale skin. Soft dark hair brushing his forehead lightly in the wind.
Dangerously calm.
“You’re actually insane,” Yeonjun said quietly once he stopped in front of him.
Soobin’s expression barely changed. “You came over anyway.”
That answer irritated him instantly because it was true.
Yeonjun folded his arms loosely. “Do you follow me every day?”
“Yes.”
The honesty hit harder face to face.
“No shame about it?”
“No.” Again. Calm. Certain. Completely serious.
Yeonjun stared at him beneath flickering streetlights.
Most people became nervous around him eventually. Flustered. Excited. Desperate to impress him.
Soobin stayed terrifyingly steady.
Like Yeonjun’s fame meant less to him than Yeonjun himself.
“You know this is creepy, right?” Yeonjun asked softly.
A faint smile finally touched Soobin’s mouth.
“You keep answering my messages.”
The city suddenly felt too warm despite the cold air.
Yeonjun hated how aware he became of every small thing standing this close to him. The smell of cigarette smoke trapped faintly in Soobin’s clothes. The shadows beneath his eyes. The quiet intensity of his gaze.
“You act like you know me,” Yeonjun murmured.
“I do know you.”
“No, you know the version people see.”
Soobin looked at him silently for a moment.
“You bite the inside of your cheek when you’re angry.”
Yeonjun froze.
“You stop eating when your schedules get too heavy.”
Another step closer.
“You stare at exits whenever rooms get too crowded.”
Yeonjun’s heartbeat turned uneven.
Because every word was true.
Soobin’s voice softened slightly.
“And sometimes during performances, your smile disappears the second cameras turn away.”
Silence crashed heavily between them.
Somewhere nearby, traffic lights changed.
Cars moved through wet streets.
But Yeonjun could barely hear anything over the sudden noise in his own chest.
Nobody noticed those things.
Nobody.
Soobin studied his face quietly.
Then he said the worst thing yet.
“You look exhausted all the time lately.”
Something fragile inside Yeonjun twisted painfully.
Because he did.
And for one horrifying moment, standing beneath neon city lights with his stalker watching him like he was something precious, Yeonjun wanted to admit it aloud.
After that night, Choi Yeonjun started looking for him everywhere.
He realized it three days later during a music show prerecording.
The studio overflowed with noise from before sunrise.
Staff members rushed through narrow backstage hallways carrying cables and garment bags while exhausted idols wandered around clutching iced coffees like lifelines. Bright stage lights burned painfully against Yeonjun’s eyes as stylists fixed his hair for the third time in an hour.
“You’re drifting again,” his makeup artist muttered while touching up concealer beneath his eyes.
“I’m literally sitting still.”
“Mental drifting counts.”
Yeonjun smirked faintly but said nothing because she was right.
His attention kept splitting in strange directions lately.
Toward entrances.
Toward crowds.
Toward every dark haired figure standing near barricades.
Searching.
The realization irritated him deeply, he should not be thinking about a stalker this much.
Yet ever since speaking to Soobin directly, something had shifted under his skin. Their conversations replayed constantly in his head during quiet moments.
You came over anyway.
I do know you.
You look exhausted all the time lately.
Nobody spoke to Yeonjun like that.
Nobody looked at him like that either.
Not as a celebrity.
As something vulnerable.
Human, it made him uneasy. It also made him want more.
“Yeonjun.”
He blinked hard at the sound of staff calling him.
“Camera rehearsal.”
Right, work.
He stood immediately and walked toward the stage entrance where screaming fans already filled the audience sections despite the early hour.
The moment he stepped beneath the lights, noise exploded through the studio.
Yeonjun smiled automatically. Professional. Beautiful. Controlled.
Then his eyes moved instinctively across the crowd.
Searching.
There, third row near the side camera.
Soobin.
A strange pulse hit Yeonjun’s chest so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.
Relief, actual relief.
Soobin wore a black sweater today with sleeves covering most of his hands. Calm expression. Sharp eyes fixed entirely on Yeonjun from the second he appeared, like always.
Yeonjun hated how immediately aware he became of him.
During rehearsal, his gaze kept drifting back without permission.
And every single time, Soobin was already watching him.
No phone raised, no screaming. Just complete attention.
It felt intimate in a way Yeonjun could not explain. Dangerously intimate.
That night, Yeonjun messaged him first.
He stared at the empty chat for nearly five minutes before typing anything.
'Why don’t you ever record videos like other fans?'
Read immediately. Soobin answered less than ten seconds later.
'because i’d rather watch you properly.'
Yeonjun rolled his eyes despite the warmth crawling unexpectedly through his chest.
Creepy answer.
honest answer.
A pause.
Then another message appeared.
'you kept looking at me today.'
Yeonjun’s fingers stopped moving.
Annoying, so annoyingly observant.
'Maybe I was checking if security needed to remove you.'
Read, then:
'but you didn’t.'
Yeonjun bit lightly against the inside of his cheek.
Exactly like Soobin had accused him of doing when frustrated.
The realization made his stomach twist. Before he could answer, another message appeared.
'your ankle hurt during rehearsal.'
Yeonjun looked down instinctively at his leg.
Nobody had noticed that.
Not even staff.
He had landed wrong during choreography earlier and spent the rest of rehearsal pretending it did not hurt.
His chest tightened slowly.
'You seriously watch too closely.'
This time Soobin took longer to respond.
When the message finally appeared, it felt different from the others somehow.
Softer.
'somebody should.'
Yeonjun stared at the sentence until the screen dimmed in his hand.
Something about those words lingered painfully.
Because lately it felt like everybody around him only watched what Yeonjun could provide. Performance. Beauty. Numbers. Attention.
But Soobin watched for signs of exhaustion.
Pain.
Stress.
Weakness.
Things Yeonjun spent years learning how to hide.
It should have terrified him more than it did.
Two weeks passed.
Schedules blurred endlessly together.
Dance practices.
Brand events.
Late night recordings.
Photoshoots where photographers repositioned his body like he belonged to them.
And through all of it, Soobin remained constant.
Always somewhere nearby.
Concerts.
Broadcast stations.
Airport terminals.
Never disruptive.
Never aggressive.
Just there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Learning him.
At some point, Yeonjun stopped pretending he disliked it.
That was probably the worst part.
Tonight’s fansign ended close to midnight.
By the time staff finally escorted Yeonjun through the back exit of the building, exhaustion dragged heavily through every inch of him.
Cold wind hit his face instantly.
Security surrounded him while fans shouted from behind barriers nearby.
Yeonjun lowered his head beneath his hood while walking toward the waiting van.
Then he saw Soobin standing farther down the sidewalk alone beneath a streetlamp.
Not approaching.
Not calling out.
Just watching quietly from a distance.
Yeonjun slowed.
Security noticed immediately.
“We should go.”
“Wait.”
Without fully thinking it through, Yeonjun changed direction entirely.
Toward him.
Streetlights reflected gold across wet pavement while distant traffic hummed through the night. The closer Yeonjun got, the more aware he became of his own heartbeat.
Soobin stayed still until Yeonjun stopped directly in front of him.
“You always stand far away after fansigns,” Yeonjun said quietly.
Soobin looked slightly surprised by the observation.
“You noticed?”
Yeonjun almost laughed.
Of course he noticed.
Lately he noticed everything about him too.
“You’re less creepy from far away,” he muttered instead.
A faint smile appeared briefly on Soobin’s face.
Dangerous smile.
Pretty enough to make Yeonjun irritated instantly.
For a moment neither spoke.
Cold wind moved softly through the empty street.
Then Soobin’s gaze shifted slightly toward Yeonjun’s wrist.
“You’re hurt.”
Yeonjun blinked.
“What?”
“You keep flexing your hand.”
His chest tightened immediately.
Again.
Again with this terrifying attention to detail.
Earlier during the fansign, Yeonjun’s wrist had started aching badly from repetitive signing and strain during choreography practice. He had not mentioned it once.
Yet somehow Soobin noticed anyway.
“It’s nothing,” Yeonjun said automatically.
Soobin looked unconvinced.
“You say that about everything.”
The response hit harder than it should have.
Because it was true.
Yeonjun spent his entire life minimizing pain. Physical exhaustion. Anxiety. Loneliness. Everything became manageable as long as he smiled correctly through it.
But standing here under dim streetlights, being looked at so carefully by someone who noticed every crack anyway, suddenly made him tired.
Really tired.
“You act like you know me better than I know myself,” Yeonjun murmured.
Soobin stayed quiet for a second. “No.” His voice softened slightly. “I just pay attention.”
The honesty in it knocked unexpectedly against something deep inside Yeonjun’s chest.
Dangerous.
This whole thing felt dangerous now.
Not because Soobin might hurt him.
Because Yeonjun no longer wanted him to stop.
The worst part was how quickly it became normal.
Choi Yeonjun stopped questioning why he checked his phone first thing every morning for messages from Soobin.
Stopped questioning why crowded schedules felt easier knowing somebody would notice if he skipped meals again.
Stopped questioning the strange relief that settled in his chest whenever he spotted Soobin waiting quietly behind barricades after exhausting performances.
It was sick.
He knew that.
A normal person would have blocked him weeks ago.
Instead, Yeonjun started depending on him in small, embarrassing ways.
When rehearsals dragged too long, he wondered if Soobin would notice the limp returning in his left ankle.
When makeup artists covered the dark circles beneath his eyes, he found himself thinking, Soobin will still see them.
When cameras flashed too brightly and fans screamed too loudly and managers demanded too much from him all at once, his gaze unconsciously searched crowds for one calm face.
Always him.
And every time he found him there, something inside Yeonjun settled.
Like finally breathing after being underwater too long.
It scared him enough that he tried avoiding the messages for two full days.
That lasted until midnight on Thursday.
Yeonjun sat alone in the backseat of the company van after a twelve hour filming schedule, head resting against the cold window while Seoul blurred past outside in streaks of neon light and rain.
His entire body hurt.
He had barely eaten again.
The silence inside the van pressed heavily against his skull.
Without thinking, he opened their chat.
The last unread message waited near the bottom.
Sent eight hours earlier.
'you’re overworking yourself again.'
Yeonjun stared at the sentence.
Then typed back before pride could stop him.
'How would you know?'
Read instantly.
Always instantly.
Like Soobin spent every waking second waiting for him.
The thought should have disturbed him.
Instead it made warmth spread slowly through his exhausted chest.
A response appeared.
'you rub the back of your neck when you’re stressed.'
Yeonjun’s fingers paused.
Right now, his hand rested exactly there.
He lowered it immediately, irrationally irritated.
'You seriously sound insane sometimes.'
A pause.
Then:
'but i’m right.'
Yeonjun closed his eyes briefly against the seat.
God.
He hated this.
Hated how much he liked being noticed.
Another message appeared.
'Did you eat tonight?'
Yeonjun looked down at the untouched convenience store sandwich sitting beside him.
Silence stretched too long.
Then another notification came.
'i knew it.'
His mouth twitched despite himself.
'You’re annoying.'
'and you’re difficult.'
The van stopped at a red light.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while the city glowed outside in blurred reflections.
Yeonjun should have ended the conversation there.
Instead he typed something dangerous.
Something honest.
'I’m tired.'
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Stopped.
Started again.
Finally:
'i know.'
Simple.
No dramatic sympathy.
No fake comfort.
Just certainty.
And somehow that made Yeonjun’s chest ache worse than if Soobin had written paragraphs.
Because lately nobody said things like that to him anymore.
Nobody slowed down enough to notice.
His phone buzzed again.
'come over.'
Yeonjun blinked.
Another message followed instantly.
A location pin.
For several seconds, he only stared at it.
A quiet apartment building somewhere across the Han River.
His pulse started beating unevenly.
This was insane.
Actually insane.
Meeting secretly with a stalker in the middle of the night because Yeonjun felt lonely enough to crave the attention.
If his company found out, they would lose their minds.
If dispatch found out, his career could implode overnight.
He should say no.
Instead, thirty minutes later, Yeonjun pulled a black hoodie over his head, left his apartment through the underground parking garage, and climbed into a taxi alone.
The ride across Seoul felt unreal.
Streetlights slid across the taxi windows while Yeonjun sat low in the seat with his hood pulled up, heart beating harder the closer he got.
Halfway there, reality started catching up with him.
What the hell was he doing?
Soobin was still a stranger.
A stranger who followed him obsessively across schedules and memorized his habits and somehow knew him too well already.
Every warning sign screamed at Yeonjun to turn around.
Still, he never told the driver to stop.
Rain had faded into soft mist by the time the taxi pulled up outside the apartment building.
Small.
Quiet.
Older than Yeonjun expected.
He stared at it through the window for several long seconds before finally stepping outside.
Cold night air hit his face immediately.
The city felt strangely silent here compared to the chaos surrounding his own life.
His phone buzzed.
'third floor.'
Yeonjun swallowed slowly.
Then walked inside.
The apartment hallway smelled faintly like cigarette smoke and fabric softener.
Dim overhead lights flickered softly while Yeonjun climbed the stairs, pulse growing more uneven with every step.
Third floor.
Apartment 307.
He stood outside the door longer than necessary.
This was still insane.
He almost left.
Then the door opened quietly before he could knock.
Choi Soobin stood there in loose gray sweatpants and a black long sleeve shirt, dark hair slightly messy like he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.
For a second neither spoke.
Seeing him here felt different somehow.
Too personal.
Too real.
No crowds.
No barriers.
No screaming fans between them.
Just silence.
Soobin’s gaze moved slowly across Yeonjun’s face.
Taking him in carefully.
“You came,” he said softly.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Yeonjun forced a shrug. “You sounded dramatic.”
A faint smile appeared briefly.
“You look exhausted.”
There it was again.
That unbearable gentleness.
Yeonjun looked away first, suddenly too aware of how tired he probably looked standing here past one in the morning wearing sunglasses indoors to avoid recognition.
“I almost didn’t come.”
“But you did.”
God.
The quiet certainty in Soobin’s voice made something warm twist painfully inside Yeonjun’s chest.
He hated how much he wanted to hear it again.
Soobin stepped aside slowly.
“You should come in before someone sees you.”
Yeonjun hesitated only a second before walking inside.
The apartment surprised him immediately.
Clean.
Quiet.
Warm yellow lighting spilling softly across dark furniture and overflowing bookshelves. A record player hummed faintly near the window while rain tapped gently outside.
It did not feel like the home of someone unstable.
That almost made it worse.
Yeonjun pulled off his hood slowly while Soobin locked the door behind him.
The sound echoed softly through the apartment.
Suddenly the reality of this hit all at once.
He was alone in a stalker’s apartment at nearly two in the morning.
And somehow, terrifyingly, he felt safe.
Yeonjun should have left the moment he looked around properly.
At first, the apartment felt almost painfully ordinary.
Soft lighting.
Bookshelves overflowing with novels and scattered albums.
A gray couch with blankets carelessly thrown over one arm.
The quiet hum of rain outside the windows.
It felt warm in a way Yeonjun’s own apartment never did.
Lived in.
Real.
But then his eyes drifted farther.
And his stomach tightened slowly.
Pictures.
Everywhere.
Not displayed openly at first glance. Subtle enough that his exhausted brain almost missed them.
A framed polaroid sitting beside the bookshelf.
Another photograph tucked carefully between stacked records.
A candid picture pinned near the kitchen counter.
All of him.
Choi Yeonjun moved slowly toward the shelf before he could stop himself.
The first photo showed him outside a studio building late at night wearing a hoodie and mask, head lowered while smoking.
His chest tightened immediately.
Nobody should have that picture.
He never posted it.
Fans had not even been there that night.
Next to it sat another image.
Yeonjun asleep inside a van.
Mouth slightly open. Head against the window. Vulnerable in a way he had never intentionally shown anybody.
A strange coldness crawled beneath his skin.
“How did you get these?”
Behind him, Soobin stayed quiet for a moment. “I took them.”
Yeonjun turned sharply.
Choi Soobin stood calmly near the kitchen counter filling two cups with tea like this conversation was normal. Like none of this was horrifying.
Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while silence stretched heavily between them.
Yeonjun looked back toward the walls again.
More photographs.
Some from concerts.
Some from airports.
Some impossibly private.
One picture showed Yeonjun sitting alone on the rooftop of his company building at sunrise months ago after an overnight recording session.
His pulse stumbled unevenly.
“How long have you been following me?”
Soobin placed the teacups down carefully before answering. “Almost two years.”
The words hit like ice water.
Two years.
Two entire years.
Yeonjun stared at him.
He should leave.
Right now.
Every instinct screamed at him to walk out that door immediately and never look back.
This was dangerous.
Actually dangerous.
But underneath the fear sat another feeling entirely.
Something warmer.
Something ugly.
Because nobody had ever looked at Yeonjun this carefully before.
Not really.
Managers looked at profits.
Fans looked at fantasy.
The industry looked at perfection.
But Soobin looked at him like every small detail mattered.
Even the broken ones.
Especially the broken ones.
Soobin watched him quietly for a long moment before giving a soft laugh under his breath. “You must think I’m insane.”
Yeonjun swallowed slowly. “You are insane.”
Another quiet chuckle.
“And you still came here.”
The words settled heavily between them, because that was the worst part.
Yeonjun had known exactly what Soobin was the moment he walked through the apartment door.
Obsessive.
Unhealthy.
A stalker.
And still he stayed.
Still his body slowly relaxed inside this apartment in ways it never relaxed anywhere else.
Still some pathetic starving part of him melted under the attention.
Soobin picked up one of the teacups and walked closer slowly, careful not to move too suddenly.
“I know this is wrong,” he said softly.
Yeonjun looked at him carefully.
For the first time tonight, Soobin actually seemed nervous.
Not ashamed.
Just cautious.
Like he was afraid Yeonjun might finally run.
“I know what I am,” Soobin continued quietly. “I know this isn’t normal.”
The honesty in his voice made Yeonjun’s chest ache strangely.
Soobin held out the tea.
“It’s not drugged, by the way.”
Despite everything, a short breath of laughter escaped Yeonjun.
“You saying that makes this worse.”
“I figured reassurance would help.”
“It doesn’t.”
Still, Yeonjun took the cup anyway.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
Warm.
The contact lingered unpleasantly beneath Yeonjun’s skin.
Soobin leaned lightly against the counter afterward, watching him with that same terrifying focus.
“I know the code to your apartment,” he admitted casually.
Yeonjun froze. “What?”
“You changed it three months ago.'' His voice stayed calm.
Matter of fact.
“The old one was your debut date. The current one is your mother’s birthday.”
A cold wave moved through Yeonjun’s body.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
Fear finally flickered properly through his chest then.
Real fear.
Because Soobin said it so easily.
Like he already belonged inside Yeonjun’s life.
Like boundaries had stopped existing long ago.
Yeonjun tightened his grip around the teacup. “Have you been inside my apartment?”
Soobin tilted his head slightly.
“Not while you were there.”
Not a denial.
The realization made Yeonjun’s pulse spike hard enough to hurt.
He should leave.
He knew he should.
But instead of moving toward the door, his eyes drifted helplessly back toward the photographs again.
Toward proof that somebody had spent two years paying attention to every version of him.
The exhausted version.
The lonely version.
The human version.
And suddenly Yeonjun felt something awful crack open quietly inside his chest.
Because the industry had spent years stripping him apart piece by piece until he barely recognized himself anymore.
Smile correctly.
Lose more weight.
Work harder.
Sleep less.
Be beautiful.
Be grateful.
Be perfect.
Every day somebody demanded another piece of him.
Until exhaustion became his natural state.
Until loneliness felt normal.
Yet here, inside this deeply wrong apartment, someone looked at him like he mattered beyond what he could perform.
Even if the attention came twisted.
Even if it came from obsession.
It still felt dangerously close to care.
Soobin watched his expression carefully.
Softly, he said, “I know more about you than anyone else does.”
Yeonjun looked up slowly.
And the terrifying thing was that part of him believed it.
Soobin’s gaze moved calmly across his face.
“You pretend you’re confident even when your anxiety gets bad.”
Yeonjun’s chest tightened.
“You stop answering people when you feel overwhelmed.”
Another step closer.
“You hate silence after schedules because it reminds you how alone you are.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Because every word landed perfectly.
Too perfectly.
Soobin’s voice lowered slightly. “You don’t need to perform here.”
Something inside Yeonjun twisted painfully at that.
No cameras.
No managers.
No expectations.
Just someone looking at him carefully enough to notice every fracture.
Even if the attention itself was poisonous.
And maybe that was the most damaged thing about Yeonjun now.
The fact that he could recognize the sickness in this completely.
And still crave it anyway.
What started as a mistake became a routine frighteningly fast.
At first, Choi Yeonjun only visited once every few days.
Late nights after schedules.
Quiet hours when Seoul blurred silver beneath rain soaked windows and exhaustion pressed so heavily against his body that he could barely think anymore.
He would leave his apartment wearing oversized hoodies and masks pulled high across his face, slipping into taxis alone while his managers assumed he was finally resting for once.
Then he would end up here.
Apartment 307.
Warm lights.
Soft music.
And Choi Soobin waiting for him like he always knew Yeonjun would come back.
Because eventually, he always did.
It should have terrified him more than it did.
Sometimes Yeonjun still remembered the photographs hidden around the apartment. The knowledge that Soobin had memorized his schedules, apartment code, habits, moods.
Sometimes the realization hit him all over again.
I’m trusting a stalker.
But then Soobin would quietly hand him tea after a sixteen hour schedule without asking unnecessary questions, and the fear blurred into something softer.
Something dangerous.
Comfort.
One night in early winter, Yeonjun arrived just after midnight looking half dead from exhaustion.
The second Soobin opened the door, his expression shifted slightly.
“You didn’t eat again.”
Yeonjun groaned immediately while kicking off his shoes. “Can you stop doing that?”
“You look dizzy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that constantly.”
Despite the words, Soobin’s voice stayed gentle.
Never accusing.
Never mocking.
Just observant.
Yeonjun dropped heavily onto the couch, pulling his hood down slowly while tension ached through his shoulders.
Today had been brutal.
A stylist complained his waist looked thicker on camera.
Management forced him through four extra takes during choreography practice because he looked “low energy.”
Then thousands of people online picked apart every tiny detail of his appearance after the livestream aired.
Too skinny.
Too tired.
Too arrogant.
Too fake.
Never enough.
Never ever enough.
Soobin disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
A few minutes later he returned carrying food.
Actual food.
Warm rice. Soup. Small side dishes carefully prepared.
Yeonjun stared at it.
Then looked away.
“I shouldn’t.”
“You need to eat.”
“My comeback is next month.”
“And starving yourself will help?”
Yeonjun laughed softly without humor.
“That’s how this works.”
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then, quieter. “They weighed me three times this week.” The words slipped out before he meant to say them.
Soobin sat down across from him slowly.
Yeonjun stared at his hands.
“They monitor everything. My face. My body. My skin. If I gain even a little weight people notice immediately.” His throat tightened unexpectedly. “Sometimes I feel disgusting after eating.”
The confession hung heavily in the room.
Embarrassing.
Ugly.
Yeonjun usually buried thoughts like that deep enough nobody could touch them.
But lately words poured out around Soobin too easily.
Like exhaustion finally cracked him open.
Soobin stayed quiet for a moment before speaking softly.
“You looked beautiful tonight.”
Yeonjun’s chest ached.
Not because of the compliment itself.
Because Soobin sounded sincere.
No cameras.
No media training.
No fake idol fanservice voice.
Just honesty.
Yeonjun looked down quickly before Soobin could notice how much that affected him.
The meetings continued after that.
Days blurred into schedules and cameras and impossible expectations.
Nights belonged to Soobin.
Yeonjun started sleeping there sometimes.
Not intentionally at first.
He would arrive exhausted after rehearsals and end up half asleep on the couch while Soobin quietly covered him with blankets and lowered the music.
No demands.
No pressure.
Just warmth.
It became terrifyingly easy to stay.
And slowly, Yeonjun started talking more.
Really talking.
About things he had buried for years.
One snowy night, he sat cross legged on Soobin’s kitchen counter while complaining bitterly about his company.
“They scold people for everything,” he muttered while picking absentmindedly at the sleeve of his hoodie. “If I look tired, it’s unprofessional. If I gain weight, it’s lazy. If I speak honestly online, they panic.”
Soobin listened silently while making tea nearby.
Yeonjun laughed weakly. “Sometimes I think they’d replace me with a hologram if they could.”
“You’re not a machine.”
“Doesn’t matter. They treat me like one.”
The apartment stayed warm despite the snow outside.
Soft yellow lighting spilled across the kitchen while Soobin finally handed him a mug carefully.
Their fingers brushed again.
Always gentle.
Always lingering slightly too long.
Yeonjun wrapped both hands around the tea for warmth.
Then quietly said, “I don’t even know who I am outside of this anymore.”
The vulnerability in his own voice startled him.
Soobin looked at him steadily.
“You’re still you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Simple.
Certain.
Yeonjun’s chest tightened painfully.
Because lately Soobin felt like the only person actually seeing him beneath everything else.
The idol.
The image.
The performance.
All stripped away.
Eventually, Soobin became woven into every emotional part of Yeonjun’s life.
When schedules overwhelmed him, he went to Soobin.
When hate comments crushed his mood for days, he went to Soobin.
When he felt restless and angry and exhausted for reasons he could not explain, Soobin listened quietly without interruption.
Always listening.
Always there.
One night Yeonjun arrived visibly irritated after an argument with management.
The second the apartment door shut behind him, frustration exploded out of him.
“They act like I’m stupid,” he snapped while pacing the living room. “I said I was exhausted and they told me everybody gets tired. Then why am I doing twelve hour rehearsals while sick?”
Soobin sat quietly on the couch watching him.
“They changed the choreography last minute and blamed me for struggling with it.” Yeonjun dragged frustrated hands through his hair. “And if I complain too much suddenly I’m difficult to work with.”
His voice cracked unexpectedly near the end.
The anger collapsed inward all at once.
Exhaustion replacing it instantly.
Yeonjun pressed a hand hard against his eyes.
“I’m so tired.”
Silence.
Then Soobin stood slowly and crossed the room.
Gentle hands touched Yeonjun’s wrists carefully.
Not controlling.
Just grounding him.
“You don’t have to pretend here,” Soobin murmured softly.
And suddenly Yeonjun started crying.
Quietly at first.
Then hard enough his shoulders shook.
Years of pressure and loneliness and exhaustion poured out uncontrollably while Soobin held him carefully against his chest.
No judgment.
No discomfort.
Just warmth.
Yeonjun could barely remember the last time somebody held him while he cried.
Maybe nobody ever had.
His parents certainly had not.
The memory still hurt if he thought about it too long.
They stopped speaking to him years ago after endless arguments about becoming an idol. About ruining his future. About shame. About disappointment.
Sometimes Yeonjun wondered if success had been worth becoming this lonely.
His voice came out small against Soobin’s shoulder.
“I don’t have anyone.”
Soobin’s arms tightened slightly around him.
“You have me.”
The words sank frighteningly deep into Yeonjun’s chest.
Because somehow, despite everything twisted about how they met, despite the obsession and fear and blurred boundaries, part of Yeonjun believed him completely.
And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.
By winter, Soobin no longer felt like a stalker in Yeonjun’s mind.
Not really.
He felt like home.
The person waiting for him after brutal schedules.
The person who remembered whether he had eaten.
The person who listened patiently through every mood.
When Yeonjun laughed loudly over stupid things, Soobin smiled softly and listened.
When Yeonjun argued irritably over tiny frustrations, Soobin listened.
When Yeonjun spiraled silently into exhaustion and sadness, Soobin listened.
Always that same quiet smile.
Like nothing Yeonjun said would ever drive him away.
And after spending so many years feeling disposable to everyone around him, the devotion wrapped itself tightly around Yeonjun’s heart before he even realized it was happening.
Maybe it was unhealthy.
Maybe it was ruining him further.
But for the first time in years, whenever Yeonjun walked into that apartment and saw Soobin waiting there for him, he no longer felt alone.
The first time Choi Yeonjun realized he had not gone home in days, it barely even registered.
It happened quietly.
Like everything else between them had.
A hoodie left hanging over the back of Soobin’s couch.
A toothbrush beside the bathroom sink.
Phone chargers tangled together near the bed.
Tiny signs of permanence settling into places they should not belong.
Outside, winter wrapped Seoul in pale gray skies and bitter cold winds.
Inside Choi Soobin’s apartment, warmth lingered constantly.
Soft lighting.
Low music.
Tea always waiting before Yeonjun even asked.
It became dangerously easy to stay.
Tonight, Yeonjun sat curled into the corner of the couch beneath a blanket while rain tapped softly against the windows.
His phone buzzed repeatedly on the coffee table nearby.
Manager.
Manager.
Company Director.
Manager again.
Yeonjun stared at the screen without moving.
“I think they’re getting worried,” Soobin murmured from the kitchen.
The smell of ramen drifted softly through the apartment.
Yeonjun laughed weakly.
“They’re worried about schedules. Not me.”
Soobin glanced at him briefly before looking back down at the stove.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
Silence.
Then quieter:
“I just don’t care anymore.”
The confession hung heavily in the room.
Yeonjun leaned deeper into the couch cushions, exhaustion dragging painfully through his body.
Today had ended badly.
Again.
A stylist complained his face looked swollen on camera.
A manager snapped at him for arriving late after barely sleeping three hours.
Then some producer jokingly asked if he planned on “finally acting like a professional again.”
The words still sat ugly beneath his skin.
Sometimes it felt like the industry only loved him when he stopped behaving like a human being.
Soobin walked over carefully and handed him a bowl.
“Eat.”
Yeonjun took it automatically.
No arguments anymore.
That was another thing changing lately.
Around Soobin, resistance kept disappearing piece by piece.
Not because Soobin forced it.
Because yielding felt easier.
Safer.
Warmer.
Soobin sat beside him afterward, close enough their shoulders brushed lightly.
Yeonjun barely reacted now.
A few months ago, the intimacy would have terrified him.
Now it soothed something aching deep inside him.
His phone buzzed again.
This time Soobin looked down at the screen.
“Are you going to answer?”
Yeonjun stared at the contact name.
Manager.
For a moment guilt twisted faintly through his chest.
Then Soobin spoke softly beside him.
“You look exhausted every time they call.”
The words settled quietly into Yeonjun’s mind.
True.
Painfully true.
Every ringtone now filled him with dread before conversations even began.
Schedules.
Criticism.
Pressure.
Demands.
His entire life reduced to performance after performance until even breathing felt scheduled.
Meanwhile this apartment stayed silent.
Warm.
Still.
Safe.
Yeonjun flipped the phone facedown.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Soobin smiled softly.
That same gentle smile that always made Yeonjun feel understood in ways that scared him.
“Okay.”
Later that night, Yeonjun stood in the bathroom brushing his teeth while staring tiredly at his reflection.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
Shoulders thinner than they used to be.
Expression constantly worn down now even when he smiled.
Sometimes he barely recognized himself anymore.
The bathroom door opened quietly behind him.
Soobin stepped inside holding folded clothes.
“I washed these earlier.”
Yeonjun glanced down automatically.
His own clothes.
Freshly cleaned.
Folded neatly.
Something painfully soft twisted inside his chest.
Nobody had taken care of him like this in years.
Not since before he became an idol.
Maybe not even then.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured.
“I wanted to.”
Simple.
No hesitation.
No expectation of praise afterward.
Yeonjun looked back toward the mirror quickly before Soobin could see how much that affected him.
But Soobin always noticed anyway.
Gentle fingers brushed briefly against the back of Yeonjun’s neck.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
Yeonjun let out a tired breath.
“When am I not?”
Soobin hummed quietly.
“You can stay here tomorrow too.”
The words should not have sounded as comforting as they did.
Yeonjun closed his eyes briefly.
Tomorrow meant another rehearsal.
Another meeting.
Another day of cameras and expectations and people monitoring every inch of him.
The thought alone exhausted him.
Here, nobody demanded anything.
Here, he could breathe.
Soobin’s hand remained warm against the back of his neck.
Grounding him.
Steady.
“You rest better here,” Soobin said softly.
Yeonjun swallowed slowly.
Because that was true too.
Horrifyingly true.
Three days later, Yeonjun finally returned to his apartment.
Only because his manager practically forced him.
“You disappeared,” the man snapped the second Yeonjun climbed into the company van.
“I was sleeping.”
“For three days?”
Yeonjun stayed quiet.
The manager looked exhausted himself.
“You missed meetings. Nobody could contact you properly. The company is already irritated with you lately.”
Irritated.
Such a small word for the way they picked him apart constantly.
Yeonjun leaned his head against the window.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“You need to start taking this seriously again.”
Something cold settled inside Yeonjun’s chest at that.
Again.
Like he had stopped being human and started malfunctioning instead.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
By the time Yeonjun finally stepped back into his own apartment that evening, the loneliness hit immediately.
Darkness.
Silence.
Cold untouched air.
No soft music.
No tea waiting.
No one looking up the second he entered.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
The apartment no longer felt comforting.
It felt empty.
His phone buzzed softly.
A message from Soobin.
'did you eat?'
Yeonjun stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then slowly looked around the dark apartment again.
Empty kitchen.
Empty couch.
Empty bed.
Something awful settled heavily inside him then.
Because for the first time in years, there really was someone waiting for him somewhere.
And now that Yeonjun had experienced that feeling once, he did not know how to go back without it anymore.
The rumors started quietly.
At first, fans only noticed small things.
Choi Yeonjun looking exhausted at schedules.
Weight dropping too quickly.
Missed livestreams.
Canceled appearances explained away by vague company statements about “health concerns” and “temporary fatigue.”
But fans always noticed more than companies expected them to.
Especially when it came to Yeonjun.
Online posts multiplied daily.
> he looks miserable lately
> why does he seem so detached now?
> something feels wrong
Meanwhile inside Soobin’s apartment, the world stayed soft and silent.
Warm tea.
Dim lighting.
Rain against the windows.
Safe enough that Yeonjun sometimes forgot everything waiting outside those walls.
Tonight he lay stretched across Soobin’s couch wearing one of Soobin’s oversized sweaters while television light flickered faintly across the dark room.
A news segment played quietly in the background discussing idol burnout.
Yeonjun barely listened.
His attention stayed fixed on the feeling of Soobin’s fingers moving slowly through his hair.
Gentle.
Careful.
Steady enough to calm the anxiety buzzing endlessly beneath Yeonjun’s skin lately.
“You missed another rehearsal today,” Soobin murmured softly.
Yeonjun closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“Your manager sounded angry.”
“He’s always angry.”
The exhaustion in his own voice startled him slightly.
Everything exhausted him lately.
People.
Schedules.
Conversations.
Even standing beneath cameras felt unbearable now.
Only this apartment didn’t drain him.
Only Soobin didn’t.
A long silence settled comfortably between them.
Then Yeonjun spoke quietly into the darkness.
“Do you think I’m ruining my career?”
Soobin’s hand paused briefly in his hair.
Instead of answering immediately, he asked:
“Does your career make you happy?”
Yeonjun opened his eyes slowly.
The television continued flickering silently nearby.
Images of smiling celebrities and bright stage lights filled the screen.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because he remembered when it *had* made him happy once.
Years ago.
Before exhaustion became permanent.
Before every meal filled him with guilt.
Before he started feeling more like a product than a person.
“I don’t know anymore,” he admitted softly.
Soobin’s fingers resumed moving through his hair again.
“You don’t smile the same way now.”
The words hurt because they were true.
Yeonjun stared quietly at the ceiling.
Then asked the question that had been lingering in the back of his mind for weeks.
“When did you start noticing things like that?”
Soobin smiled faintly.
“Immediately.”
A quiet laugh escaped Yeonjun.
“Creepy answer.”
“Honest answer.”
Again.
Always honest.
Maybe that was why Yeonjun trusted him more than he trusted anyone else now.
No fake concern.
No pretending.
Just terrifying honesty wrapped in gentleness.
The next morning, Yeonjun woke to seventeen missed calls.
His stomach sank instantly.
Manager.
Director.
PR Team.
Manager again.
Messages flooded the screen.
Where are you?
Call immediately.
Dispatch contacted the company.
We need a statement now.
Yeonjun sat upright slowly, pulse suddenly uneven.
“What?”
Beside him, Soobin stirred awake quietly.
Dark hair messy against the pillow.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
Yeonjun stared at the phone.
“Dispatch.”
The word alone made his chest tighten.
A cold familiar panic started crawling slowly through him.
Dispatch meant investigations.
Rumors.
Exposure.
The industry feeding on people’s lives like vultures.
Another message appeared while he watched.
Fans saw you leaving rehearsal early again. Where are you right now?
Yeonjun pressed a hand hard against his forehead.
Suddenly breathing felt difficult.
Too many thoughts all at once.
Too much pressure crashing back in.
Schedules missed.
Public rumors.
Managers furious.
His career slipping unevenly through his fingers.
Beside him, Soobin sat up slowly.
“Hey.”
Yeonjun barely heard him.
“I can’t do this right now.”
His pulse kept speeding painfully.
Another call lit up the screen.
Manager.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Soobin gently took the phone from Yeonjun’s shaking hands and muted it.
Silence filled the room immediately afterward.
The relief hit Yeonjun so hard it almost hurt.
Soobin watched him carefully.
“You’re panicking.”
Yeonjun looked away quickly, embarrassed by how obvious it was.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re overwhelmed.”
Soft voice.
Soft hands.
Soft apartment lighting.
Everything about Soobin calmed him in ways nothing else could anymore.
And that realization terrified Yeonjun more every day.
Because lately the outside world only seemed to make him worse.
Meanwhile Soobin always made the panic quieter.
“You don’t have to answer them right now,” Soobin murmured.
Yeonjun swallowed slowly.
“But they’ll get angry.”
“They’re already angry.”
True.
Painfully true.
The company had been irritated with him for months now.
Too exhausted.
Too distracted.
Too emotionally unstable lately.
Yeonjun leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees while anxiety clawed through his chest.
“I’m messing everything up.”
Soobin watched him silently for a long moment.
Then quietly asked:
“When’s the last time they cared whether you were okay?”
The question landed heavily.
Because Yeonjun genuinely did not know.
Managers cared about schedules.
Brands cared about image.
Fans cared about performances.
Everybody wanted pieces of him constantly.
But nobody ever asked whether he was surviving it.
Nobody except Soobin.
Tears burned suddenly behind Yeonjun’s eyes from sheer exhaustion.
“I’m tired,” he whispered.
Soobin moved closer immediately.
Gentle hands pulling him carefully against warm chest and soft fabric.
“You can rest,” Soobin murmured against his hair.
And horrifyingly, Yeonjun believed him more than he believed anyone else in the world now.
By evening, social media exploded completely.
Photos circulated online showing Yeonjun leaving schedules early looking pale and visibly distressed.
Articles spread speculation everywhere.
Burnout.
Secret relationships.
Company conflict.
Mental health concerns.
Fans demanded answers.
Meanwhile Yeonjun sat silently on Soobin’s bedroom floor wearing loose sweatpants while scrolling numbly through headlines about himself.
It felt surreal.
Like reading about a stranger.
Soobin entered quietly carrying food.
“You’ve been staring at your phone for an hour.”
Yeonjun laughed weakly.
“People think I’m having a breakdown.”
Soobin set the tray down beside him carefully.
“Aren’t you?”
The honesty knocked the breath softly from Yeonjun’s chest.
Because maybe he was.
Maybe the breakdown started long before anyone noticed.
Maybe years ago.
He looked up slowly.
“You really think I’m falling apart?”
Soobin crouched down in front of him.
Gentle fingers brushing hair back from Yeonjun’s tired eyes.
“I think they broke you a long time ago.”
The words settled painfully deep.
And instead of arguing, Yeonjun started crying quietly again.
Not dramatic.
Just exhausted tears slipping silently down his face while the world outside continued demanding more and more from him.
Soobin wiped them away carefully with his thumb.
No judgment.
No discomfort.
Only that same unbearable gentleness.
“You don’t have to go back tonight,” Soobin whispered softly.
Yeonjun closed his eyes.
Outside the apartment, Seoul buzzed endlessly with noise and expectations and people searching for pieces of him.
Inside, Soobin’s hands stayed warm against his face.
And for the first time all day, Yeonjun could breathe again.
The company sent three managers to find him.
By then, Choi Yeonjun had not returned home in over two weeks.
His apartment remained dark and untouched except for the occasional clothes change and hurried showers between schedules he barely attended anymore.
Most nights ended the same way now.
Soobin’s apartment.
Warm lights.
Quiet music.
Sleep that came easier there than anywhere else.
The outside world had started feeling distant.
Muted somehow.
Like something happening far away from him instead of around him.
Which was probably why panic hit so violently when pounding erupted against the apartment door that afternoon.
Yeonjun jerked upright instantly from the couch, pulse spiking painfully.
“What the hell?”
From the kitchen, Choi Soobin stayed unnervingly calm.
Another hard knock echoed through the apartment.
“Yeonjun!”
Manager.
Yeonjun’s stomach dropped immediately.
“Open the door right now.”
The anger in the man’s voice sliced sharply through the apartment’s usual quiet atmosphere.
For one horrible second, Yeonjun felt like he could not breathe properly again.
Like reality had finally forced its way inside.
“They tracked my phone,” he whispered.
Soobin turned off the stove calmly before walking over.
“Hey.”
Yeonjun looked at him helplessly.
The knocking continued.
Louder now.
“You need to come back with us.”
Panic crawled rapidly through Yeonjun’s chest.
His mind flooded instantly with everything waiting outside.
Schedules.
Criticism.
Cameras.
Exhaustion.
That suffocating endless pressure to keep performing no matter how badly he felt.
His breathing turned uneven.
“I can’t do this.”
Soobin reached him slowly.
Gentle hands resting against Yeonjun’s wrists.
Grounding him immediately.
“You don’t have to.”
The words slipped softly into Yeonjun’s panic like warmth spreading through frozen skin.
Outside, the manager kept shouting.
But suddenly that voice sounded farther away than Soobin standing directly in front of him.
“They’ll destroy me if I disappear longer,” Yeonjun whispered shakily.
Soobin’s expression barely changed.
“They’re already destroying you now.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Painfully true.
Another knock thundered through the apartment.
“Yeonjun!”
His chest tightened harder.
God.
He was so tired.
Tired of expectations.
Tired of smiling.
Tired of feeling owned by everybody all the time.
Meanwhile Soobin only looked at him gently.
Patiently.
Like Yeonjun mattered more than what he could produce.
“You’re shaking,” Soobin murmured softly.
Only then did Yeonjun realize his hands trembled badly.
Soobin carefully pulled the phone from Yeonjun’s hoodie pocket.
Muted it.
Then turned it completely off.
The silence afterward felt immediate and horrifyingly relieving.
Yeonjun closed his eyes.
His entire body sagged slightly.
Like somebody had finally removed weight crushing down on his chest.
Outside the apartment, his manager shouted something else angrily before footsteps eventually retreated down the hallway.
Silence returned slowly afterward.
Yeonjun stood frozen for several long seconds.
Then quietly asked:
“What am I doing?”
Soobin’s thumb brushed softly across his wrist.
“Trying to survive.”
The answer lodged painfully deep inside Yeonjun’s chest.
Because part of him knew this was wrong.
Dangerously wrong.
His career was collapsing.
Fans worried endlessly online.
The company probably viewed him as a nightmare now.
And still the thought of leaving this apartment filled him with more fear than staying.
That realization made him feel sick.
That night, snow fell heavily across Seoul.
Yeonjun sat near the apartment window wrapped in blankets while city lights blurred softly beneath the storm outside.
The television played quietly in the background.
News anchors discussing him again.
Photographs flashed across the screen.
Exhausted airport appearances.
Canceled schedules.
Speculation spreading rapidly online.
The company released another vague statement requesting privacy regarding “health concerns.”
Yeonjun barely reacted anymore.
He felt detached from the entire thing.
Like Idol Yeonjun existed somewhere far away now.
A version of himself slowly fading into static.
Soobin approached quietly carrying tea.
“You’ve been staring outside for a while.”
Yeonjun accepted the mug automatically.
Warm.
Steady.
Comforting.
Everything about Soobin felt like that now.
Like relief.
“I think people hate me,” Yeonjun admitted softly after a long silence.
Soobin sat beside him immediately.
“No.”
“They probably think I’m irresponsible.”
“They think you’re exhausted.”
Yeonjun laughed weakly.
“Same thing in this industry.”
Soobin stayed quiet for a moment before speaking.
“You know what I think?”
Yeonjun glanced toward him tiredly.
“I think you’ve spent so long being whatever everybody needed that you forgot how to exist for yourself.”
The words hurt.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were gentle.
And true.
Yeonjun lowered his eyes toward the tea trembling faintly in his hands.
“When I’m here,” he whispered quietly, “everything feels quieter.”
Soobin looked at him carefully.
“You’re safe here.”
Safe.
The word wrapped itself tightly around Yeonjun’s chest.
Because he could not remember the last place that felt like safety before this apartment.
Not the company.
Not the stage.
Not even his own home anymore.
Only here.
Only Soobin.
The realization settled heavily between them.
Yeonjun knew exactly how unhealthy that was.
And still he leaned slightly closer anyway.
Three days later, Yeonjun voluntarily skipped a major live appearance for the first time in his career.
No emergency.
No illness.
No excuse.
He simply turned off his phone while sitting in Soobin’s bed listening to rain against the windows.
Managers called endlessly.
Messages piled higher and higher.
Where are you?
Answer immediately.
Do you understand how serious this is?
Yeonjun stared numbly at the screen.
Then locked the phone.
Face down.
Ignored.
His chest tightened slightly from guilt.
Then Soobin climbed back into bed beside him and wrapped warm arms loosely around his waist.
The guilt faded almost instantly.
“You should sleep more,” Soobin murmured softly against his shoulder.
Yeonjun relaxed backward slowly into the warmth without thinking.
Outside, the world continued spinning violently around his disappearance.
Inside the apartment, everything stayed soft.
Still.
Safe.
And somewhere deep down, Yeonjun realized with quiet horror that if forced to choose between this peace and the life waiting outside, he no longer knew which one he would pick.
By the second month, the entire industry knew something was wrong.
Choi Yeonjun trended online almost daily now.
News articles multiplied endlessly.
Concerned fans dissected every blurry photograph of him.
Former staff members anonymously leaked stories about burnout and pressure inside the company.
People argued constantly online.
Some blamed management.
Some blamed Yeonjun himself.
Some believed he was secretly hospitalized.
Others believed he had simply broken under the pressure.
Nobody knew the truth.
Meanwhile Yeonjun barely left Soobin’s apartment anymore.
At some point, the outside world had started feeling unreal.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
Too demanding.
Inside the apartment, days blurred together softly.
Rain against the windows.
Warm tea.
Low music playing through dim rooms.
Soobin beside him constantly.
The frightening thing was how quickly Yeonjun adapted to disappearing.
At first guilt crushed him every morning.
He would wake up panicking over missed schedules and unanswered calls.
Now he mostly just felt tired.
Tired enough that even thinking about returning made his chest hurt.
Tonight he sat cross legged on the living room floor wearing loose gray sweatpants while television light flickered across his face.
A reporter discussed him quietly on screen.
“Fans continue expressing concern over Yeonjun’s prolonged absence from public activities. HYBE representatives have declined further comment regarding his condition.”
Condition.
Like he was some damaged object.
Yeonjun laughed weakly under his breath.
Beside him, Choi Soobin looked over from the couch.
“What’s funny?”
“They talk about me like I died.”
Soobin’s expression softened slightly.
“You disappeared.”
The words settled heavily into the room.
Yeonjun stared back toward the television.
Photos flashed across the screen again.
Airport appearances.
Concert footage.
Smiling performances from months ago.
He barely recognized that version of himself anymore.
That Yeonjun looked bright.
Alive.
Now he mostly felt hollowed out.
Like the industry had scraped him empty and left only exhaustion behind.
The reporter continued speaking.
“Fans have gathered outside HYBE headquarters again tonight demanding answers regarding the idol’s sudden withdrawal from activities.”
Videos appeared briefly showing crowds holding signs.
Please come back safely.
We miss you.
Yeonjun’s chest tightened painfully.
For one small moment, guilt surfaced sharply enough to hurt.
“They’re worried,” he whispered.
Soobin watched him quietly.
“They only started worrying after you disappeared.”
Yeonjun looked down.
Because that was true too.
Nobody noticed how badly he was drowning until he finally stopped showing up.
Soobin muted the television.
Silence filled the apartment immediately.
Then he moved closer slowly, kneeling beside Yeonjun on the floor.
“You’re shaking again.”
Only then did Yeonjun realize his fingers trembled around the tea mug.
Lately anxiety hit him unpredictably.
Like his body no longer knew how to exist outside constant stress.
Soobin gently took the mug from his hands and set it aside before reaching up to brush tired hair away from Yeonjun’s forehead.
“You need rest.”
The touch made Yeonjun close his eyes automatically.
Warm fingers.
Soft voice.
Gentleness without demands.
He leaned unconsciously into the contact.
“I don’t know how to go back anymore,” Yeonjun admitted quietly.
Saying the words aloud made something crack painfully inside his chest.
Because maybe this had already gone too far.
Maybe he had stayed hidden long enough that returning to normal life no longer felt possible.
What would happen if he went back now?
The company would monitor him constantly.
Fans would analyze every expression.
Managers would tighten control even harder.
The pressure would start all over again.
Meanwhile here, nobody asked him to perform.
Only exist.
Soobin’s thumb brushed lightly beneath Yeonjun’s eye.
“You don’t have to think about that tonight.”
Again.
Always that same soft reassurance.
And every single time, Yeonjun let himself sink deeper into it.
Later that night, Yeonjun wandered quietly through the apartment while unable to sleep.
The city outside glowed faintly silver beneath rainfall.
Everything felt distant lately.
Dreamlike.
He paused near the bookshelf absentmindedly.
Then froze.
Photographs.
More of them.
Some he had seen before.
Some new.
Yeonjun reached toward one slowly.
A candid image of him sleeping beside the apartment window weeks ago.
Peaceful.
Vulnerable.
Safe.
His stomach twisted strangely.
There were hundreds now.
Entire boxes stacked neatly beneath shelves.
Years of obsession carefully organized into memories.
Any sane person would have run.
Even now part of Yeonjun understood how horrifying this truly was.
The stalking.
The surveillance.
The way Soobin had slowly learned every piece of him before Yeonjun even noticed.
And still.
Still this apartment remained the only place where Yeonjun no longer felt alone.
Footsteps approached softly behind him.
“You couldn’t sleep?”
Yeonjun turned slowly.
Soobin stood there wearing loose black sweatpants and an oversized sweater, expression sleepy but gentle.
Yeonjun looked back toward the photographs.
“You kept all of them.”
“So of course I did.”
No shame.
Never shame.
Just honesty.
Yeonjun should have been frightened.
Instead something warm and painful tightened inside his chest again.
Because nobody had ever cared enough to keep pieces of him like this before.
Not in a healthy way.
But maybe Yeonjun stopped understanding healthy a long time ago.
“You really are insane,” he whispered softly.
Soobin smiled faintly.
“And you still stayed.”
The words hit harder now than ever before.
Because it was no longer temporary.
No longer accidental.
Yeonjun had stayed.
Over and over again.
Until his old life started slipping through his fingers entirely.
Soobin stepped closer carefully.
“Do you regret it?”
The question settled heavily into the silence between them.
Yeonjun looked toward the rain outside.
Toward the dark city beyond the apartment windows.
Somewhere out there, people searched for him desperately.
Managers.
Fans.
An entire industry demanding the return of Choi Yeonjun.
But standing here now, wrapped in soft apartment light with Soobin watching him like he was something precious, Yeonjun could barely remember why going back mattered so much before.
That realization terrified him quietly.
Because part of him knew he was disappearing.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Slowly becoming someone who only existed inside these walls now.
And maybe the most frightening part was that he no longer hated it enough to leave.
Soobin’s voice lowered softly.
“Do you want to go back?”
Yeonjun opened his mouth.
Then stopped.
No answer came.
Only silence.
And in that silence, both of them understood exactly what that meant.
Three weeks later, the company officially announced Choi Yeonjun’s indefinite hiatus.
The statement spread everywhere within minutes.
> Due to worsening health concerns and emotional exhaustion, artist Choi Yeonjun will temporarily suspend activities in order to focus on recovery.
Recovery.
Yeonjun stared blankly at the television while the announcement replayed again.
The words felt strangely disconnected from reality.
Recovery implied he planned on returning eventually.
But lately even imagining stepping back into that life made panic curl tightly through his chest.
Outside the apartment windows, rain fell softly across Seoul.
Inside, everything remained warm and dim and quiet.
Safe.
Always safe.
From the kitchen, the sound of tea pouring into cups drifted softly through the apartment.
Yeonjun lowered his eyes toward his phone resting untouched beside him.
Hundreds of notifications.
Managers.
Members.
Friends he stopped answering weeks ago.
Fans begging him to come back safely.
He no longer opened any of them.
At first guilt used to consume him every time the phone buzzed.
Now the sound mostly exhausted him.
Like the outside world belonged to someone else entirely.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
Yeonjun looked up slowly.
Choi Soobin walked toward him carrying two mugs carefully.
Oversized gray sweater.
Soft sleepy expression.
Gentle eyes focused entirely on Yeonjun like always.
The sight alone loosened something tight inside Yeonjun’s chest immediately.
It happened automatically now.
Like his body recognized safety before his mind did.
Soobin handed him tea before sitting beside him on the couch.
Close enough that their knees touched lightly beneath blankets.
“What are they saying now?” Soobin asked quietly.
Yeonjun glanced toward the television again.
“Same things.”
Concern.
Speculation.
Endless discussions about burnout and pressure and whether Yeonjun would ever return.
The reporter’s voice continued softly in the background.
“Fans continue gathering outside HYBE headquarters demanding updates regarding the idol’s condition.”
Yeonjun muted the television without hesitation this time.
Silence settled warmly around them again.
His chest relaxed almost immediately.
Soobin watched him carefully.
“You hate hearing about them now.”
Them.
The industry.
The public.
The entire outside world.
Yeonjun curled slightly deeper beneath the blanket.
“I just feel tired whenever I think about it.”
And it was true.
Everything connected to his old life now felt unbearably heavy.
Schedules.
Cameras.
Managers.
Even his own stage name felt distant lately.
Like something worn by another person.
Soobin’s fingers moved gently through Yeonjun’s hair.
Slow.
Careful.
The touch made Yeonjun close his eyes automatically.
“When was the last time you slept through the night before staying here?” Soobin murmured softly.
Yeonjun thought about it.
Could not remember.
Before this apartment, sleep always came shallow and restless.
Anxiety lingering even in dreams.
Now most nights passed quietly.
Wrapped in warmth and silence beside someone who noticed every shift in his breathing before Yeonjun even spoke.
That realization should have frightened him more than it did.
“You take care of me too well,” Yeonjun whispered tiredly.
A faint smile touched Soobin’s mouth.
“Someone should.”
Again.
Always those words.
And every single time, they settled painfully deep inside Yeonjun’s chest.
Later that evening, Yeonjun stood alone in the bathroom staring at his reflection again.
He looked different now.
Softer somehow.
Hair longer.
Dark circles fading slightly from actual sleep.
But his eyes looked strange.
Detached.
Like pieces of him had quietly disappeared somewhere along the way.
He barely recognized himself anymore.
The realization lingered heavily while he leaned both hands against the sink.
What was he doing?
Really?
His career hung by a thread.
The world searched endlessly for explanations.
Meanwhile he spent his days hidden away inside the apartment of someone who used to secretly photograph him from afar.
Used to.
The thought hit him sharply.
Because Soobin no longer felt like a stalker in Yeonjun’s mind now.
He felt like comfort.
Like routine.
Like home.
And maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
“You okay?”
Yeonjun looked toward the door slowly.
“Yeah.”
The door opened quietly anyway.
Soobin stepped inside with the same careful expression he always wore whenever Yeonjun went too silent.
Concern.
Gentle attention.
Devotion so constant it had started feeling natural.
Soobin approached slowly until he stood behind Yeonjun near the sink.
Warm hands settled lightly against Yeonjun’s waist.
“You disappeared in here.”
Yeonjun stared at their reflection together.
Sometimes the sight unsettled him.
The intimacy.
The closeness.
How naturally they fit into each other’s space now.
“I was thinking,” he admitted softly.
“About leaving?”
The question came so calmly that Yeonjun’s chest tightened instantly.
Because Soobin already knew him too well.
Yeonjun lowered his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
Then Soobin rested his chin lightly against Yeonjun’s shoulder.
“You always look unhappy when you think about going back.”
The words slipped directly beneath Yeonjun’s ribs.
Painfully accurate.
Because every time he imagined returning, all he felt was pressure crushing against his lungs again.
Meanwhile staying here only made him feel guilty.
Not miserable.
That difference mattered more than he wanted it to.
Soobin’s voice softened further.
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Yeonjun closed his eyes slowly.
Warm hands.
Soft lighting.
Rain against the windows again.
The apartment wrapped around him gently like a place built to hide inside forever.
And somewhere deep down, Yeonjun realized he was beginning to fear leaving more than staying.
Two months later, Choi Yeonjun officially left the industry.
The announcement shattered the internet overnight.
> After extensive discussion regarding his health and future direction, artist Choi Yeonjun has decided to conclude his activities indefinitely.
Indefinitely.
Such a careful word for something permanent.
Fans cried online for days.
News articles flooded everywhere.
People argued endlessly about who destroyed him.
The company.
The industry.
The pressure.
Nobody knew the truth.
Nobody knew Yeonjun was sitting quietly at the kitchen counter of Soobin’s apartment wearing an oversized cream sweater while rain slid softly down the windows beside him.
Reading the statement felt strangely unreal.
Like watching somebody else disappear.
Across from him, Choi Soobin stirred sugar slowly into two cups of tea.
Calm.
Gentle.
Like the world had not just lost one of its brightest idols overnight.
Yeonjun lowered the phone eventually.
Silence filled the apartment warmly.
Then he laughed softly.
Not happy.
Not sad.
Just exhausted.
“I really did it.”
Soobin looked up immediately.
“How do you feel?”
The question lingered quietly in the room.
Yeonjun expected grief.
Panic.
Regret.
Instead all he felt was stillness.
The kind that comes after surviving something loud for too long.
“Tired,” he admitted honestly.
A faint smile touched Soobin’s face.
“You should rest then.”
Again.
Always soft.
Always gentle.
And maybe that should have frightened Yeonjun even now.
The fact that after everything, Soobin remained the center of his entire world.
But sitting here in warm apartment light with nobody demanding pieces of him anymore, Yeonjun could not bring himself to regret it.
Not fully.
Life became quieter afterward.
Painfully quiet at first.
For years Yeonjun’s existence revolved around noise.
Schedules.
Cameras.
People constantly surrounding him.
Now mornings arrived slowly.
Soft sunlight through curtains.
The smell of coffee drifting through the apartment.
Soobin humming quietly in the kitchen.
At first the silence unnerved him.
He kept expecting somebody to call screaming about missed rehearsals.
Expected panic every time his phone lit up.
But eventually even that faded.
Days blurred gently together.
Late breakfasts.
Movies half watched from the couch.
Rainy evenings spent tangled beneath blankets while music played softly nearby.
Sometimes Yeonjun caught himself smiling without forcing it.
That realization always stunned him slightly afterward.
One afternoon, nearly four months after leaving the industry, Yeonjun stood outside on the apartment balcony watching snowfall drift slowly across Seoul.
The city looked distant from here.
Muted.
Like another life entirely.
Behind him, Soobin stepped outside quietly before wrapping warm arms loosely around his waist.
The touch felt natural now.
Familiar.
“You’re cold,” Soobin murmured softly.
Yeonjun leaned backward slightly into the warmth.
“I used to stand outside company buildings like this all the time.”
Soobin rested his chin lightly against Yeonjun’s shoulder.
“I know.”
Of course he did.
The thought no longer unsettled Yeonjun the way it once had.
Maybe it should have.
But somewhere along the way, Soobin’s obsession stopped feeling separate from love inside Yeonjun’s mind.
That was probably the tragedy of it all.
“You know,” Yeonjun said quietly, “sometimes I still think about how insane this is.”
Soobin’s arms tightened slightly.
“How insane what is?”
“You.”
A soft laugh vibrated faintly against Yeonjun’s shoulder.
“Only sometimes?”
Yeonjun smiled weakly.
“You stalked me for years.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my apartment code.”
“Yes.”
“You isolated me from basically everyone.”
At that, Soobin finally went quiet.
Snow continued falling softly beyond the balcony railings.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Soobin’s voice came low and careful beside his ear.
“Do you want to leave?”
The question settled heavily into Yeonjun’s chest.
Because after everything, after all the obsession and emotional dependency and disappearing from the world piece by piece, Soobin still asked.
Even now.
Yeonjun thought about it seriously.
About the industry.
About the stage.
About fans screaming his name beneath blinding lights.
About exhaustion so deep it hollowed him out from the inside.
Then he thought about this apartment.
Warm tea waiting every morning.
Gentle hands brushing through his hair when anxiety got bad.
Someone listening every time he broke apart.
Someone staying.
Always staying.
Yeonjun turned slowly within Soobin’s arms until they faced each other.
The winter light spilling across Soobin’s face made him look softer somehow.
Less frightening.
Or maybe Yeonjun had simply stopped fearing him a long time ago.
“You know what’s awful?” Yeonjun whispered.
Soobin looked at him quietly.
“Nobody ever loved me enough to ruin themselves for me before.”
Pain flickered briefly through Soobin’s expression at the words.
Something raw.
Something human.
Yeonjun reached up slowly and touched his face gently.
And maybe that was the final truth of everything.
This relationship was unhealthy.
Obsessive.
Consuming.
Yeonjun understood that completely now.
But after a lifetime of being treated like something temporary and replaceable, Soobin’s devotion wrapped around every broken part of him until leaving no longer felt possible.
Or even desirable.
Outside, the world still talked about Choi Yeonjun sometimes.
The idol who vanished at the height of his career.
Fans still posted old videos.
Still wondered if he was happy somewhere.
Still hoped he might return one day.
But inside the apartment, Yeonjun sat curled beside Soobin on the couch that night while rain tapped softly against the windows and tea cooled forgotten between their hands.
The television murmured quietly in the background.
Another report discussing him briefly before fading into other news.
Soobin looked over eventually.
“Do you miss them?”
Yeonjun stayed silent for a long time.
Then finally answered softly:
“I think I miss the version of me that could leave.”
Silence settled afterward.
Heavy.
Tender.
Horrifying.
And when Soobin gently pulled him closer, Yeonjun went willingly.
Outside, Seoul continued shining endlessly through the rain.
But Choi Yeonjun never returned to it again.