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Jisung’s phone lit up the dark room long before the sound came. He lay on his side in the narrow dorm bed, back to the world, blanket pulled up over his head even though the heating in the building had two settings- too hot or not working. The green glow pulsed against the wall, then dimmed, then pulsed again. He tried to ignore it.
He knew what it was before it even rang properly. He knew because it had been doing this all week- numbers that weren’t saved in his contacts, unknown repeated calls at ungodly hours. He knew because part of him had memorized the pattern: three missed calls one night, five the next, then silence for a few days that hurt worse than the ringing ever could. Tonight it was one.
The ringtone finally broke through the quiet, muffled but insistent under his pillow. Jisung’s shoulders tensed. For a second, his fingers dug tighter into the blanket and he thought, Not again. I can’t do this again. The ringtone kept going.
Across the room, Felix stirred in his bed, a sleepy sound barely audible. Hyunjin rolled over in the top bunk, his mattress creaking. Jisung squeezed his eyes shut like that would block out the sound too. It didn’t. He snatched the phone out from under the pillow with more force than necessary, nearly dropping it on his face. The screen was too bright in the dark, stabbing into his eyes until they watered.
Unknown Number
Except it wasn’t. The area code was familiar. The pattern of the digits was familiar. He had stared at that sequence every night for a year and a half. He had typed it with his eyes closed more times than he could count.
His thumb hovered over the screen. For a moment, he saw his own reflection in the glass- messy hair, puffy eyes, that permanent crease between his brows that hadn’t gone away in weeks. He looked older and younger at the same time. The phone kept ringing.
Felix muttered something sleep-slurred in English and dragged his blanket more tightly around himself. Hyunjin huffed a sigh that sounded dangerously close to “Answer it, you idiot,” but didn’t say anything out loud.
Jisung swallowed, chest tight. Fine, he thought. One last time. One time and then I’m blocking it. He hit accept and brought the phone to his ear.
“What?” he snapped, voice coming out rough, sleep-thick and full of all the resentment he’d been carefully folding and stacking away like laundry.
There was a pause, filled with fuzzy static and the distant thump of bass from somewhere in the background. When the voice came, it was slurred and soft- so familiar that Jisung’s heart forgot how to beat for a second.
“...Sungie?”
Everything inside him stuttered. Minho. The room seemed to tilt. The name didn’t pass through his brain; it went straight to his ribs and dug in.
It had been thirty-nine days since he’d heard that voice. Thirty-nine days since the fight. Thirty-nine days of avoiding certain hallways on campus, certain coffee shops, certain songs. Thirty-nine days of learning how to breathe around a hollow he pretended wasn’t there.
“How dare you call me,” Jisung said. He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded sharper, thinner, like something about to snap. “Are you serious right now?”
On the other end, Minho made a noise that might have been a laugh, if laughter could stumble and fall flat on its face. There was a clatter, like the phone had hit something, and then the muffled sound of someone else saying something in the background.
“I– I didn’t… I wasn’t gonna call,” Minho said, words running into each other. “Chan took my phone, he’s an asshole. But I… I wanted to. I always… I-”
“Don’t,” Jisung cut in. His throat ached like he’d swallowed something broken. “Don’t do this drunk. You don’t get to- you broke up with me, remember? You don’t get to drunk dial me and act like-”
“I didn’t break-” Minho sounded offended, which was almost funny. Almost. “You said we were done. You walked out.”
“You told me to,” Jisung shot back before he could stop himself.
Silence crackled between them for a heartbeat, then another. Somewhere in the background on Minho’s side, a door slammed, and the sound of music got quieter, as if he had walked away from the party.
“Yeah,” Minho said finally, and the word came out wrecked. “Yeah, I did. ’m sorry about that.”
It was the first apology he’d heard from him.
Jisung’s fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles hurt. His eyes burned, hot and sudden. Anger rose like a wave, high and sharp, chased immediately by something softer and crueler, something that sounded like relief.
No. No, he wasn’t doing this. He wasn’t going to be pulled back into Minho’s orbit because he sounded small and drunk and- and like he needed him.
“Go home, Minho,” Jisung said. “Sleep it off. Call someone else to come get you. I’m not- I’m done.”
He moved the phone away from his ear, thumb searching blindly for the red button.
“Sungie, wait-”
The nickname froze him. Don’t call me that, he wanted to say. But the words didn’t make it to his tongue. His hand trembled instead, the phone hovering halfway between his ear and the blankets.
Something shuffled on the other end again, then the distant, unmistakable sound of Minho retching, followed by a choked laugh and another voice going, “Dude, at least throw up in the sink, not the-oh my god.”
Jisung exhaled through his nose, caught between horrified and exasperated. Of course he was that kind of drunk.
“Who’s with you?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could wrestle it down.
“Fel– Felix?” Minho guessed, sounding genuinely uncertain. “No. Wait. Felix’s with you. Right? Or- He likes you more. Everyone likes you more. ’s fine.”
“Wow,” the other voice muttered faintly in the background. “Rude.”
That sounded like Changbin. Jisung pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. This was absurd. Stupid. Exactly why he had avoided answering these calls in the first place.
“Minho,” he said slowly. “Are you at the apartment?”
There was a pause. “Where else would I live?” Minho mumbled, like it was the most ridiculous question.
Jisung’s chest squeezed. He could picture it too clearly. The small off-campus apartment they used to practically live in, the couch where he’d fallen asleep with a textbook open across his stomach, the kitchen counter where they’d shared instant ramen at four in the morning. The memory of the last time he’d been there hit him like a second blow. The shouting. The way Minho had flung his phone onto the coffee table so hard the screen had lit up with the message that had started everything. The way Jisung’s heart had dropped, seeing a stranger’s name at the top of their chat. The words they had thrown like weapons.
It started stupidly. That was the worst part. It hadn’t been cheating. It hadn’t been some giant betrayal. It had been a misread text and two people too proud and too scared to slow down and talk.
Jisung had turned up at Minho’s apartment that evening with a plastic bag full of snacks and the intention of forcing him to take a break from his project. His backpack was cutting into his shoulder, the strap frayed, but he hummed under his breath anyway as he climbed the stairs. He knew Minho was stressed; he’d been pulling all-nighters in the computer lab again, forgetting to eat unless someone placed food in front of him. Jisung’s way of loving him had always been practical- show up at his door with kimbap and energy drinks, take his glasses off when he fell asleep on his laptop, drag him outside for a ten-minute walk when he started snapping at everyone.
He knocked once, then let himself in with the key code Minho had given him months ago. “I brought snacks and my beautiful face,” he called, kicking off his shoes.
The apartment was a mess in the way it always was when Minho was busy- clothes draped over chairs, textbooks open on the table, two mugs in the sink with dried coffee at the bottom. The living room light was off, but there was a glow spilling out from the bedroom.
“Min?” Jisung tried again, heading toward the light.
He found Minho sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, shoulders hunched. The blue light illuminated his face, making the dark circles under his eyes look even worse. He didn’t look up when Jisung leaned against the doorframe.
“You know, there’s a rumor that if you stare at your phone long enough, your brain leaks out your ears,” Jisung said. “I feel obligated to check if that’s scientifically-”
Minho locked his phone and tossed it aside without looking at him. “You’re late.”
Jisung blinked. “Hi to you too.”
“You said you’d be here at six.” Minho’s voice had that tight edge it got when he was beyond tired. “It’s almost seven.”
Jisung glanced at the digital clock on the desk. 6:42. “I had a study group. It went over. I told you that.”
“You said it would be quick,” Minho shot back.
“I can’t control other people’s brains, Minho.”
“Well, clearly you can’t control your own time management either.”
That stung. “Okay,” Jisung said slowly, putting the bag of snacks down on the desk. “Do you want to try that again without being a jerk, or-”
“Without you being late?” Minho interrupted.
“Wow,” Jisung said. “Okay, something crawled inside you and died. That, or you need sleep.”
“I need you to keep your word,” Minho said, standing abruptly. “I have a deadline. I said I’d send the prototype tonight, and you said you’d help me test it. I cleared time, I pushed things, and you’re just- casual about it. Like it’s optional.”
“It is optional,” Jisung said, temper sparking. “I’m helping you because I want to, not because I’m your employee. And I texted you twenty minutes ago that I’d be late. Did you even look at your phone?”
Minho laughed once, short and humorless. “Oh, I looked. I saw plenty.”
The way he said it made Jisung’s hackles rise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Instead of answering, Minho reached for his phone again, thumb flicking over the screen, and then tossed it onto the bed so it landed face up. Jisung didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen lit up with a preview of the last message, big and bold and impossible to miss.
cant wait to see u again 🥺 it had been too long, handsome
His stomach dropped.
The contact name at the top was saved as “Sunwoo 💋”.
A laugh bubbled in his throat, sharp and disbelieving. “Wow,” he said lightly, even as his pulse roared in his ears. “Didn’t know we were sending kiss emojis to other people now.”
“It’s not what you think,” Minho said through his teeth.
“Oh?” Jisung folded his arms, the plastic of the snack bag crinkling behind him. “Because it looks like some guy- or girl, I don’t know- thinks it’s a date. ‘Can’t wait to see you again, handsome.’ Pretty straightforward.”
“It’s my project partner,” Minho snapped. “We met once- in a group. He’s dramatic. That’s just how he texts.”
“Oh, right, of course,” Jisung said, nodding slowly. “Just your project partner. Who sends you kiss emojis. And calls you handsome. And you don’t see why that might be, I don’t know, something you mention to your boyfriend?”
Minho’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t reply,” he said, gesturing at the phone. “Look. The last message is his. I left him on read. Because I thought, ‘Jisung is coming over, I’m not going to get into this now.’ I was planning to tell you in person. But you’re late, so-”
“Stop saying I’m late like I committed a crime,” Jisung snapped. “If it was such a big deal, you could have texted me back and said ‘Hey, I’m uncomfortable with this guy, I need to talk.’ You didn’t. Because you like it.”
Minho’s jaw clenched. “You think I like people flirting with me when I’m dating you?”
“I think you like being wanted,” Jisung shot back, heart pounding. “And I think you like keeping your options open.”
The words hung there, heavier than he’d meant them to be. The second they left his mouth, his chest burned with regret, but pride kept his lips sealed. Minho stared at him, something raw flickering across his face.
“That’s rich,” he said quietly. “Coming from you.”
Jisung’s breath hitched. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Minho laughed again, harsher this time. “Should I start listing the guys you flirt with in the music building? Or the girl from your lit class who keeps touching your arm? Or how you disappear after lectures to ‘hang out with friends’ and magically forget to answer your phone for hours?”
“You think I’m cheating on you?” Jisung’s voice cracked around the question.
“I think,” Minho said slowly, “that you want everyone to like you. And I think you like it when they do. And maybe… maybe I’m tired of wondering whether I’m just one of many people you keep on a string.”
The lump in Jisung’s throat was back, bigger and sharper. “If you’re tired,” he said, his own voice turning cold to match, “you could just say you’re done instead of accusing me of something I’ve never done.”
“I never said you cheated-”
“You just implied it.”
“I said you want attention.”
“So do you,” Jisung snapped. “That’s why ‘Sunwoo 💋’ is in your phone.”
“God, you’re twisting everything,” Minho said, dragging a hand through his hair. “You showed up late without an apology, and now you’re making this about one stupid message that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Jisung said. “Or do I not get to matter when it’s inconvenient for your schedule?”
Something in Minho’s expression shuttered. “You know what? Maybe this was a mistake.”
Jisung felt it like a physical blow. “What was?”
“Us.” Minho’s voice was flat. “We want different things. You want everyone. I want… I don’t even know anymore. I’m constantly anxious. I’m constantly trying to keep up with you. I’m… I’m tired, Sung.”
The nickname on his lips in that sentence made Jisung’s eyes burn.
“Then say what you mean,” he whispered. “Go on.”
Minho hesitated. For a split second, something like panic flickered in his eyes, like he was realizing where the edge was but couldn’t stop his own momentum. “Maybe we should take a break.”
The words cut cleaner than a knife.
“A break?” Jisung repeated, numb. “So you can figure things out with your little kiss-emoji partner, or-”
“So we can breathe,” Minho said sharply. “Before we say something we can’t take back.”
“We already did,” Jisung said. His hands were shaking. “You know what, Minho? You don’t get to ask for distance and then pretend it’s some thoughtful, mature thing. Just say it. Say you don’t want this anymore.”
“That’s not what I-”
“Say it,” Jisung snapped, something inside him crumbling. “Or I’ll say it for you. We’re done.”
The room was too quiet. The clock on the desk ticked loud enough to make him want to scream. Minho stared at him. His lips parted, like he was about to say something different, something softer, something that might have saved them both. Instead, he said nothing. Silence was an answer, too.
“Fine,” Jisung said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. He grabbed the snack bag with fingers that didn’t feel like his own. “Enjoy your break.”
He walked out, heart pounding in his ears, ignoring the way Minho called his name once, twice. He ignored the phone buzzing in his pocket as he stomped down the stairs. Outside, the air was cold and sharp and smelled like rain. He made it halfway back to campus before the tears came.
They hadn’t spoken since.
The next days blurred into each other. Jisung spent more time in the music building, less time anywhere he might accidentally bump into Minho. He started staying in the library until it closed just so he didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. His headphones became part of his uniform. Their friends noticed, of course. Felix, who shared the dorm with him, didn’t even try to pretend he was chill about it.
“You’re both idiots,” he declared one night, sitting cross-legged on his bed with a face mask on. “Beautiful, emotionally constipated idiots.”
“Thanks,” Jisung said, lying on his back and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars Felix had stuck to the ceiling. “That helps.”
“It should,” Felix said. “Because you’re both miserable. I saw Minho in the cafeteria and he looked like a raccoon who’s been living in a dumpster behind a coffee shop.”
Jisung snorted despite himself. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“He had a hoodie up, sunglasses on, and he was drinking black coffee like it owed him money,” Felix said. “He hasn’t been to game night in three weeks. Chan says he’s missing practices. Hyunjin says he snapped at a TA. Chan says the last time they went by his apartment, there were three empty pizza boxes and a half-eaten granola bar in the fridge. That’s it. Who the hell only eats half a granola bar?”
Jisung swallowed hard. His chest hurt. “He’s fine,” he said. “He probably has your dramatic flair for storytelling.”
“I’m very serious right now,” Felix said. “He even asked about you. Indirectly. He was like ‘How’s… everyone?’ and then stared at the floor and Chan had to physically shake him.”
“He can ask himself,” Jisung muttered. “If he cares so much.”
“He tried,” Felix said pointedly. “You keep ignoring his calls.”
“He only calls after midnight,” Jisung shot back. “I’m not… I’m not going to be someone’s drunk dial, Lix. If he wants to talk, like really talk, he can do it sober.”
Felix’s expression softened. “Have you tried talking to him?”
Jisung hugged a pillow to his chest. “We tried. It ended well, as you can see.”
“You both yelled and said stupid things,” Felix said, gentler now. “That’s not the same as trying.”
Jisung didn’t answer.
Across campus, in a much quieter apartment, Minho sat on the floor with his back against the couch and his laptop open on the coffee table, a half-empty energy drink at his feet. The screen glowed with lines of code that all blurred together. None of it stuck. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and leaned his head back until it thunked against the cushion. He’d gotten used to the apartment being filled with noise—Jisung’s playlists, his chatter, the tapping of his laptop keys… the sound of him humming while he cooked ramen. Now every sound echoed. Chan had started dropping by more. Partially because he was worried, and partially, Minho suspected, because Felix had sent him as a spy.
“You’re behind,” Chan said one evening, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. “This is… not where you said you’d be.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Minho muttered. “That helps.”
“Well, you’re making my job hard,” Chan said easily, flopping down on the couch. “I’m trying to be supportive and stuff, but you’re not giving me much to work with.”
“You could just bring snacks and shut up,” Minho suggested.
“Normally, I would,” Chan said. “But normally, Jisung would be here to do the nagging while I provide emotional support. He’d be like ‘Minho, have you eaten today?’ and I’d be like ‘No, but he’s drunk coffee’ and then we’d all bully you into ordering takeout.”
Minho’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. His throat tightened. “Don’t,” he said quietly.
“Don’t what?” Chan asked, sticking a chip in his mouth.
“Don’t say his name like that,” Minho said. “Like he’s just… still here.”
Chan raised an eyebrow. “He is still here. He’s in his dorm. He’s in your class. He’s in our group chat. He’s not dead, Minho.”
“Feels like it,” Minho muttered.
Chan chewed thoughtfully, then sighed. “Look,” he said, more serious. “You know I love you, right? In a manly, platonic, please-sleep-and-eat way.”
Minho huffed a sound that could have been a laugh.
“And I’m saying this with love,” Chan continued. “You’re being a dumbass.”
“Wow,” Minho said. “This is great support. I feel better already.”
“You’re both hurting,” Chan said. “And instead of, I don’t know, maybe talking about it, you’re hiding in your apartment and he’s hiding in the music building and the rest of us are stuck in the middle trying not to accidentally invite you to the same hangout.”
“I thought you liked organizing chaos,” Minho said weakly.
“Not when it’s my friends’ hearts on the line,” Chan said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What actually happened?”
Minho stared at the computer screen. “We fought,” he said, like that wasn’t obvious.
“I gathered,” Chan said dryly. “About what?”
“A text,” Minho mumbled.
Chan blinked. “A… text.”
“He saw a message from my project partner,” Minho said, each word heavy. “It was dumb. He’s flirty with everyone. It made Jisung uncomfortable, and instead of saying ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you about that earlier,’ I… accused him of wanting attention from everyone and said maybe we should take a break.”
Chan stared at him. “Wow.”
“I know,” Minho muttered.
“No, I mean— wow,” Chan repeated. “You really… you really shot yourself in both feet there, huh.”
Minho let his head fall forward into his hands. “I panicked, okay? I thought he was going to leave. I thought he was going to say he realized he didn’t actually want this. So I said it first. I… I wanted to control it. I didn’t want to stand there and wait for him to say he was done.”
“Minho,” Chan said gently. “He wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Jisung,” Chan said. “He’s stupid about you.”
“Well, he’s not anymore,” Minho muttered.
“You don’t know that either,” Chan countered. “All you know is you both said things you didn’t mean, and now you’re being stubborn.”
“It’s not that simple,” Minho said.
“Why not?” Chan asked. “You say sorry. He says sorry. You both admit you’re idiots. You figure out what you need from each other. That’s how relationships work.”
Minho exhaled shakily. His hands were trembling again. “What if he’s happier without me?” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I make him anxious? What if I’m… what if I’m the problem?”
“Everyone is the problem,” Chan said. “That’s what being human is. The point is whether you’re willing to work on it together.”
Minho didn’t answer. Instead, he let days turn into weeks. He watched Jisung from a distance in the shared lecture they couldn’t avoid, saw the way he laughed with Felix and Hyunjin, how he studiously avoided looking in his direction. Every time their eyes almost met, Jisung looked down at his notes as if they were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. It killed him slowly. Every Friday night, the group chat buzzed with plans for game night, and every Friday night, someone quietly messaged Minho and Jisung separately to see if they wanted to come. Every Friday night, they coordinated so the two of them never showed up at the same time.
“We should just lock them in a room and slide pizza under the door,” Hyunjin grumbled one afternoon, flopping dramatically across Felix’s bed. “Like a very soft kidnapping.”
“Soft kidnapping is not a thing,” Seungmin pointed out from the desk, barely looking up from his laptop. “Kidnapping is kidnapping.”
“It is if there’s pizza,” Felix said, thoughtful.
Jisung, lying on his stomach on the floor with a notebook open in front of him, pretended he wasn’t listening even as his pen hovered uselessly over the page.
“Can we not talk about… that,” he said. His voice came out thinner than he liked.
Hyunjin rolled over to look at him. “You mean your emotional downfall?”
“Wow,” Jisung muttered. “Thank you for phrasing it like a Greek tragedy.”
“You’ve been a walking tragedy for a month,” Hyunjin said. “You don’t rap in the shower anymore. You used to spit bars while shampooing.”
“I still shower,” Jisung protested weakly.
“That’s not what I said,” Hyunjin sighed. “I said you don’t rap while showering. There’s a difference.”
“I’m… just tired,” Jisung said. “Midterms, you know.”
“You’re sad,” Felix corrected, softer now. “It’s okay to say you’re sad. It doesn’t make you weak or dumb. It makes you… human.”
“I hate being human,” Jisung muttered into the carpet.
“Same,” Seungmin said serenely.
None of it changed anything, though.
Back in the dark dorm room with his phone pressed to his ear, Jisung listened to the sounds of Minho’s night falling apart.
“I’m fine,” Minho slurred, which was obviously a lie. “M’just… tired.”
“You sound drunk,” Jisung said.
“Drunk is a social construct,” Minho mumbled. “’s just… my heart is stupid.”
Jisung gritted his teeth. “Minho, where are you, exactly?”
There was a pause, then: “Bathroom?” he guessed. “Changbin dragged me to this party and then I was like ‘this is loud’ and then I thought about you and then I was like, ‘I should call him’ and then Chan took my phone and-”
“Okay, so you’re with Chan and Changbin,” Jisung said, forcing his brain to work. Relief loosened something in his chest; he wasn’t alone, at least. “Are you on campus?”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, either in agreement or because he had forgotten the question mid-way. “Sungie.”
“Stop calling me that,” Jisung said automatically.
“Why?” Minho asked, genuinely confused. “’s your name. Well. Not your real name. But it’s the one in my heart. ‘Jisung’ is like… for everyone. ‘Sungie’ is mine.”
The words slid under Jisung’s armor like a knife. His stomach twisted. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t drink,” he snapped, because anger was easier to hold than the fragile, stupid hope that was unfurling inside him.
“I don’t usually,” Minho said. “But you’re not here. So I tried. Didn’t work. Just miss you more. It’s dumb. I’m dumb.” His voice broke on the last word.
Jisung stared at the shadowed wall. He could see the outline of Hyunjin’s hanging plant, the crooked line where Felix had torn down an old poster. None of it felt real. “Minho,” he said quietly. “Why are you calling me?”
There was a soft thump, like Minho had slid down the wall to sit on the floor. The echo of it made something ache in Jisung’s chest; he’d done that in this very dorm, once, during a late-night call when they were both too tired to move but too awake to hang up. “Because,” Minho said after a long moment, “I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.”
The words were simple. They knocked the breath out of him.
“I tried,” Minho continued, voice thick. “I tried working more. I tried going out. I tried not… seeing you. I even walked the long way to class so I wouldn’t pass the music building. But then I still hear someone laugh and I think it’s you. I smell that stupid bubble tea you like and I look for you in the line. I go home and there’s… there’s nothing. The apartment’s so quiet. The bed’s so cold. I keep reaching for you in the middle of the night and you’re not there and I wake up and it feels like I’m falling.” His breath hitched.
“Minho…” Jisung whispered.
“I know I messed up,” Minho said. “I know that. I said things I didn’t mean. I hurt you. I was… I was scared and stupid and I used my words to push you away before you could leave. I thought if I said it first, it’d hurt less. It didn’t. It just… hurt more. All the time.”
Tears blurred Jisung’s vision. He sat up slowly, pulling his knees to his chest, phone still pressed tight to his ear. Felix, now fully awake, watched him from his bed, eyes wide and worried. Jisung met his gaze for a fraction of a second, then looked away.
“And now I’m drunk,” Minho continued, “which is stupid because I wanted to talk to you for real, not like this. I wanted to be brave and show up and say I’m sorry and ask if you could ever forgive me. But every time I get close to your dorm, I stop and I can’t breathe and I walk away.”
Jisung’s heart clenched. He pictured Minho standing on the path outside his building, hands in his pockets, pacing under the streetlights. “I’m mad at you,” he said.
“I know,” Minho said immediately. “You should be. I’m mad at me too.”
“I’m really, really mad at you,” Jisung repeated, voice shaking. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like I was… too much and not enough at the same time.”
“I’m sorry,” Minho said. The words came out like they hurt. “You were always enough. You were— you are the only thing that ever made sense. I just… I don’t make sense. I thought if I could control something, it’d be easier, and I… chose wrong. I shouldn’t have tried to control you. Or us.”
Jisung wiped angrily at his cheeks. “You accused me of wanting attention from everyone.”
“I know,” Minho said, miserable. “I was projecting.”
“That’s a big word for someone who just threw up in a bathroom,” Jisung said weakly.
“I still have a brain,” Minho muttered. “Somewhere. In the toilet, maybe.”
A laugh broke out of Jisung before he could stop it, choked and wet. He bit his lip, but it was too late; Minho heard it.
“There it is,” Minho whispered. “I’ve missed that sound so much.”
“Stop,” Jisung said, voice cracking. “You can’t just… say things like that.”
“I’m drunk,” Minho said helplessly. “My filters are gone. I’m just… telling the truth. I miss you. I miss your stupid laugh. I miss your cold feet in my bed. I miss your hair in the shower drain. I miss your sticky notes on my fridge. I miss everything.”
Jisung pressed his forehead to his knees. “You broke up with me,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Minho whispered. “And I regret it every day. I thought you’d be better without me. That you’d… shine more, or breathe easier. I thought I’d be doing you a favor.”
“You don’t get to decide favors for me,” Jisung said.
“I know,” Minho repeated. “I know now. I’m… learning. Slowly. Badly. Drunkenly.”
There was another rustle on the line, like the phone was shifting hands, and then Chan’s voice came through, clearer and slightly exasperated. "Hey, Jisung,” he said. “It’s Chan.”
“Hi,” Jisung said warily.
“Just wanted to confirm you are, in fact, on the line and not a figment of Minho’s drunken imagination.”
“Unfortunately, I’m real,” Jisung said.
“Cool, cool,” Chan said. “So, uh, Minho’s very gone. Like, he’s at that stage where he’s either going to cry on the bathroom floor or decide he’s invincible and try to climb something. I’m voting we avoid the climbing. I can get him home. I just… maybe… if you had a minute tomorrow when he’s sober? He’s been a mess, man.”
“I’ve been a mess too,” Jisung said before he could stop himself.
“I know,” Chan said gently. “We see you, okay? We’re not taking sides. We just… want you both to be less miserable. Whether that’s together or apart. But you guys need to talk. For real. Not like this.”
Jisung swallowed. His heart thudded dully against his ribs. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted. The words felt like they were made of glass.
“Then tell him that,” Chan said. “Tell him you’re not ready. But don’t just… not say anything. You both deserve closure. Or a second chance. Or yelling. Or whatever you need. Just… something other than this.”
In the background, Minho called faintly, “I can hear you, you know,” followed by Changbin’s snort of laughter.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chan said. “Drink some water.”
“I don’t want water, I want Sungie,” Minho grumbled.
Jisung’s heart twisted again. “I’ll… think about it,” he told Chan.
“Good enough for now,” Chan said. “I’m gonna take him home. Try to keep your phone on tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Jisung said softly.
There was another shuffle, and then Minho was back on the line, though his voice sounded more distant, like he was being half-carried. “Sungie,” he mumbled. “Don’t… don’t hang up yet. Please.”
“I won’t,” Jisung said before he could think better of it.
They stayed like that as Chan and Changbin maneuvered Minho out of the party, down the stairs, into a car. Jisung listened to the muffled thuds, the muttered curses, the way Minho kept protesting that he could walk on his own while clearly not doing a great job of it.
Felix, across the room, mouthed, Are you okay?
Jisung shook his head, then nodded, then shrugged helplessly. How was he supposed to answer that?
When the sounds finally settled- the creak of Minho’s apartment door, the familiar echo of the hallway, the soft thump of him being lowered onto the couch- Minho breathed out a sigh that crackled in Jisung’s ear.
“Home,” he mumbled.
“Good,” Jisung said quietly. “Drink some water.”
“Bossy,” Minho muttered, but he took a sip when Chan must have handed him a glass, because Jisung heard the faint clink and gulp.
“He’s gonna pass out soon,” Chan said, voice closer to the phone again. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” Jisung said.
He thought that would be it. That he’d hang up, curl into himself, and stare at the wall until morning. Instead, just before the call ended, Minho spoke again, clearer for a fleeting second.
“I love you,” he said.
Then the call dropped. Jisung stared at the “Call Ended” screen until it went dark.
He didn’t sleep much. Felix climbed down from his bed, shuffled across the room, and wordlessly hauled himself under Jisung’s blanket, wrapping an arm around him from behind.
“I’m not a teddy bear,” Jisung mumbled.
“You are tonight,” Felix said, burrowing his cold nose into Jisung’s neck. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” Jisung said, even though he was.
“Do you… want to talk about it?” Felix asked softly.
“Not yet,” Jisung whispered. “I just… he said…”
“I know,” Felix said. “I heard enough to get the gist.” He squeezed him gently. “You don’t owe him anything. But you owe yourself honesty. If you want him, that’s not a weakness.”
“I’m so mad at him,” Jisung said, voice breaking. “And I… I miss him so much it’s like my bones hurt. I don’t know what to do with that.”
“You hold both,” Felix murmured. “Being mad doesn’t cancel missing him. Missing him doesn’t cancel being mad. You decide what you can live with.”
Jisung let the tears fall then, silently soaking the pillow. Felix didn’t say anything else. He just stayed.
As the sky outside the window lightened from deep blue to gray, Jisung’s mind wandered back over every moment with Minho—the good and the bad. The first time they’d met in freshman year, when Minho had labeled him “too loud” and then secretly listened to his SoundCloud uploads. The time they’d crammed for exams together and fallen asleep on top of the notes. The way Minho’s smile softened whenever he thought nobody was looking. The fight. The look on Minho’s face when he’d walked out. And then tonight. The way Minho’s voice had cracked. The words he’d said when he thought the world was spinning too much for him to censor himself.
I miss you. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. I love you.
By the time the sun edged over the horizon and the first weak rays slid past the curtains, Jisung knew he couldn’t pretend his heart was fine with never resolving this. He didn’t know if he could forgive everything. He didn’t know if they would get back together, or if they would end this once and for all. But he knew he couldn’t exist in this limbo forever. He needed to see Minho. Sober. Awake. Himself.
The next day, campus looked exactly the same and completely different. The trees in the quad were starting to bud. People crisscrossed the paths with backpacks and coffee cups and sleep-mussed hair. Someone played guitar on a bench, badly. Jisung clutched his phone in his pocket like it was a talisman. His tea tasted like nothing. Every face in the crowd looked like Minho until it didn’t. Felix and Hyunjin flanked him on either side as they walked across the grass.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come in?” Hyunjin asked for the third time.
“Absolutely not,” Jisung said. “The last thing I need is you two hovering in the corner like disapproving parents.”
“I could be the fun uncle,” Hyunjin suggested.
“You’re neither fun nor an uncle,” Seungmin, who had joined them just to walk to the edge of campus, pointed out.
Hyunjin gasped. “Take that back.”
“Point stands,” Seungmin said.
Jisung stopped at the bus stop. His heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“Chan texted me his class schedule,” Felix said, pulling out his phone. “He should be home now. No classes until three, apparently.”
“Great,” Jisung said, though his stomach lurched. “Perfect. Love that for me.”
“You can still change your mind,” Felix said. “This doesn’t have to be today.”
“If I wait, I’ll talk myself out of it,” Jisung said. “And then I’ll hate myself more than I already do.”
Felix’s face crumpled. “Don’t hate yourself.”
“I’m trying not to,” Jisung said. “This is part of that.”
Hyunjin tugged him into a quick hug, nearly knocking the tea out of his hand. “Text us when you’re done,” he said into his hair. “If you don’t, we’re storming the place with a boom box and tissues.”
“That’s a threat,” Jisung said, managing a small smile.
“It’s a promise,” Hyunjin said.
The bus ride felt both too short and too long. Jisung sat near the back, headphones on but no music playing, watching the streets blur past. Every landmark brought a new memory or a fresh wave of nausea. When he finally stood at the bottom of Minho’s apartment building, his legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The keypad at the entrance blinked at him. He hesitated. He could leave. Right now. Turn around, walk back to the bus stop, pretend this never happened.
But then he thought of Minho’s voice, small and cracked, saying I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. He thought of his own reflection in the mirror these past weeks, eyes hollow, smile dim. He lifted his hand and typed the code. The door clicked open. The hallway smelled the same- cleaner and whatever the neighbors were cooking. He climbed the stairs slowly, counting each step to keep himself from bolting.
Outside Minho’s door, he stood for a full minute, staring at the wood. His hand shook when he finally knocked. For a few seconds, nothing happened. He heard movement inside the scrape of a chair, a muffled curse, the sound of feet stumbling across the floor. The door swung open. Minho stood there in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt that had seen better days. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and his glasses were crooked. There was a faint red mark on his cheek as if he’d been sleeping on the couch.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other. All the air left Jisung’s lungs. Minho looked worse than he’d expected and exactly like he had imagined- dark circles, stubble, thin line of tension in his shoulders. But his eyes… his eyes were the same, and they were looking at Jisung like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.
“Hi,” Jisung said, because his brain had decided to stop providing him with useful language.
“Hi,” Minho echoed. His voice was hoarse. “You’re… you’re here.”
“You called,” Jisung said. “Last night.”
Minho winced. “Yeah,” he said. “I… remember parts. I also remember vomiting. That’s less romantic.”
Despite everything, a laugh burst out of Jisung. The tension in the doorway eased an inch.
“Can we… talk?” Jisung asked, nerves fluttering like birds in his chest. “Sober this time.”
“Yes,” Minho said immediately, stepping back. “Please. Come in.”
The apartment smelled like coffee and something vaguely burnt. The living room was about as messy as Jisung remembered, though there were more empty cups now, more discarded hoodies on the couch. A blanket was balled up in the corner, and the pillow there was dented in the shape of a head.
“You slept here,” Jisung said before he could stop himself.
Minho rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes it… feels weird sleeping in the bed,” he admitted. “It’s too big.”
The implication hung there, thick and heavy.
Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you… want to sit?”
They ended up on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, knees almost touching but not quite. Minho fidgeted with the string on his sweatpants. Jisung twisted the lid of his tea cup round and round.
“So,” Minho said finally. “About last night.”
“You were really drunk,” Jisung said.
“I was,” Minho agreed. “I’m not… proud of it. I actually don’t… drink like that. Ever. It was stupid.”
“But you were honest,” Jisung said quietly.
Minho’s fingers stilled. He looked up slowly. “I meant everything I said,” he said. “Even if I said it in a messy, humiliating way. I… I miss you. I’m not okay. I… I love you.”
The words hung between them, raw and unpolished. Tears threatened at the back of Jisung’s eyes again. He blinked them away.
“I’m still mad at you,” he said.
“I know,” Minho said. “You have every right to be. I was- I was cruel. And cowardly. And I didn’t… trust you.”
“You accused me of… things,” Jisung said, swallowing. “Of wanting attention from everyone. Of not choosing you. That hurt.”
“I know,” Minho repeated, voice shaking. “And I’m… sorry. I am so, so sorry, Jisung. There’s no excuse for what I said. The truth is… I was jealous. And insecure. And instead of saying ‘Hey, I know you’re loyal, but my brain is being stupid and I need reassurance,’ I attacked you. Because that’s easier than saying I’m scared.”
“You thought I was going to leave you,” Jisung said.
“I always thought you were going to realize you could do better,” Minho admitted. His gaze dropped to his hands. “You’re… bright. And funny. And everyone loves you. I’m… prickly. And tired. And I snap when I’m stressed. I kept waiting for the day you’d wake up and go, ‘Why am I doing this to myself?’ So when you got mad about Sunwoo’s text- which, for the record, I should have told you about earlier- my brain went ‘this is it’ and decided to… speed run the self-destruction.”
“It’s not fair that you decided that for me,” Jisung said gently.
“I know,” Minho said. “I’m learning that too. I don’t… get to decide how you feel. I only get to be honest about how I feel and hope you… want me anyway.”
The vulnerability in his voice undid something in Jisung.
“I wasn’t… flirting with everyone, you know,” Jisung said, picking at a loose thread on the couch. “I mean, yeah, I talk to people. I laugh. That’s just… me. But I never wanted anyone else the way I wanted you. I never… considered anyone else my… home.”
Minho inhaled sharply.
“I’m sorry,” Jisung said. “I’m sorry if my… friendliness made you feel small or… insecure. I wish you’d told me. I wish you’d said, ‘Hey, I need you to reassure me sometimes.’ I would have. I will. If we… if we try again.” The last part slipped out before he could stop it.
Minho’s head snapped up. “If we…?” he echoed, hope flaring bright in his eyes.
“I’m still angry,” Jisung said, holding up a hand. “This… doesn’t just disappear because you cried on the phone and told me you love me. But… these past weeks… I’ve been miserable too. I miss you when I’m studying. I miss you when I’m walking home. I miss you when I pick up my phone and don’t have fifty memes from you waiting for me. I tried to tell myself I was better off. That I could focus more. That I’d sleep more. None of that happened. I just… lost you.” His voice broke on the last word.
Minho shifted closer without thinking, then stopped himself, hands hovering. “Can I…?” he asked quietly, gesturing.
“Yeah,” Jisung whispered.
Minho’s fingers wrapped gently around Jisung’s hand. Their palms were warm and a little clammy. The familiar contact sent a shiver up Jisung’s arm.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Minho said. “Not like that. Not to my own fear. If you… if you can find it in yourself to give me another chance, I want to do better. I want to actually communicate instead of assuming. I want to tell you when my brain is being an asshole instead of taking it out on you. I… I want to go to therapy, actually. Chan’s been nagging me. He’s probably right.”
Jisung’s lips twitched. “He usually is. It’s annoying.”
“I also want to set some boundaries,” Minho continued. “Like… I’ll talk to Sunwoo and make it clear his flirty texting isn’t appropriate. I’ll be more transparent about… who I work with. Who I spend time with. Not because I owe you a schedule, but because I want you to feel secure. And… I’d like to ask you to… maybe check in with me when you’re going off with people who are clearly into you. Not because I don’t trust you, but because my brain will spiral otherwise.”
“Okay,” Jisung said slowly. “That’s… fair. As long as it goes both ways. If you’re feeling insecure, you tell me. If I’m feeling overwhelmed by school or people or… anything, I tell you. We don’t wait until it explodes.”
“We don’t weaponize breaks,” Minho added quietly.
“We don’t weaponize breaks,” Jisung agreed. “If we need space, we say ‘I need a day to cool down, but I’m not leaving.’ And we trust that.”
Minho squeezed his hand, eyes shiny. “I can do that,” he said. “I… want to learn how.”
Silence settled between them, softer now. The air felt less suffocating.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Jisung asked after a moment. The fear was still there, small and loud. “What if we try again and we just… hurt each other more?”
“Then we’ll know we tried,” Minho said. “But… I also know that loving you is the best, scariest thing I’ve ever done. And I’d rather risk the work than live the rest of my life wondering ‘what if.’”
Jisung let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “When did you get so poetic?” he asked, voice watery.
“I’ve been hanging out with Changbin too much,” Minho said. “He writes lyrics on napkins.”
Jisung laughed through the tears. “If you start rapping them, I’m leaving again.”
“I’ll stick to dancing,” Minho promised, cheeks flushing.
The familiarity of the banter, the easy slide into their rhythm, made Jisung’s heart ache in a new way. He shifted closer on the couch until their knees touched. Minho’s breath hitched. He didn’t move away.
“Okay,” Jisung said quietly. “Let’s… try. Slowly. Carefully. We don’t have to go back to how it was overnight. We can… rebuild. Date again. Learn each other again. See who we are now.”
Minho blinked rapidly. “Really?” he whispered.
“Really,” Jisung said. “But if you ever tell me we’re ‘taking a break’ like that again, I will break your gaming console in half.”
Minho’s eyes widened in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” Jisung said.
A small, disbelieving smile tugged at the corners of Minho’s mouth. “Okay,” he said. “No weaponized breaks. Noted.”
They sat there for a moment, fingers intertwined, hearts pounding.
“Can I… hug you?” Minho asked. “It’s okay if you say no. I’ll survive. Probably. Maybe. With dramatic sighing.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said. His voice came out small. “Please.”
Minho moved carefully, like Jisung was something fragile. He shifted closer, sliding one arm around Jisung’s shoulders and the other around his waist. Jisung went willingly, tucking himself into Minho’s chest like he’d done a thousand times before. The smell of Minho’s laundry detergent and shampoo hit him in a rush. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in, shoulders shaking.
Minho’s hand came up to cradle the back of his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into his hair. “For everything. For the text. For my reaction. For making you doubt yourself. For every night you went to sleep thinking you weren’t enough. That was never true. Not once.”
Tears slid hot and silent down Jisung’s cheeks. “I’m sorry too,” he murmured against Minho’s shirt. “For walking out without… giving you space to explain. For throwing ‘we’re done’ in your face just to hurt you. For… not seeing how scared you were. I should have asked instead of assuming.”
“We both messed up,” Minho said. “We can… both do better.”
Minho pulled back just enough to see his face. Jisung’s eyes were red and puffy, nose sniffly, cheeks blotchy.
“You’re beautiful,” Minho said.
Jisung swatted his arm weakly. “I look like I lost a fight with a tissue box.”
“A beautiful tissue box,” Minho insisted.
“You’re such a loser,” Jisung muttered, but there was no heat in it.
“Can I…?” Minho started, then trailed off.
Jisung’s heart skipped. “Yeah,” he whispered.
Minho leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull away. Their lips met in a kiss that was nothing like their usual ones. It wasn’t heated or rushed. It wasn’t about hands and sparks and pushing each other against walls. It was soft, tentative, almost reverent. An apology. A promise. A question. Jisung answered by pressing closer, tilting his head to deepen it just a fraction. Minho’s hand slid up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing away the last of his tears. When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.
“I missed this,” Jisung whispered.
“Me too,” Minho said. “So much.”
They stayed like that, leaning into each other, the weight of the past weeks pressing down and slowly lifting all at once.
“Do you… want to stay for a bit?” Minho asked after a while. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just… exist in the same space again. Watch something stupid. Or nap. Or just… be.”
Jisung thought of the dorm room, the watchful eyes of Felix and Hyunjin, the way his bed felt too big and too small at the same time. “I’d like that,” he said.
Minho’s smile was small and disbelieving and so, so soft. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll… make coffee. Or tea. Or… whatever you want.”
“Tea’s good,” Jisung said. “But… can we sit a bit longer first?”
“As long as you want,” Minho said.
He shifted them so they were both leaning back against the couch, Jisung tucked under his arm, legs drawn up. The blanket from the corner somehow ended up draped over their laps. Minho’s fingers traced idle patterns on the back of Jisung’s hand, not demanding anything, just… there.
For the first time in weeks, Jisung’s chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a message from Felix.
How’s it going??? Are we in “he lives” or “bury the body” territory???
Jisung huffed a quiet laugh and typed back.
He lives. No bodies. We’re… talking. I’ll tell you later.
Felix replied with approximately thirty heart emojis and one knife.
“Felix?” Minho guessed, peeking at the screen.
“Yeah,” Jisung said. “He was ready to storm the apartment if I didn’t check in.”
“Of course he was,” Minho said fondly. “He threatened to replace me as your emotional support if I didn’t get my act together.”
“He can never replace you,” Jisung said, surprising himself with how easily the words came.
Minho’s arm tightened around him. “Don’t say things like that,” he murmured. “I’m trying to emotionally recover here.”
“I thought we were being honest,” Jisung said, tilting his head to look at him.
Minho met his gaze, something warm and fierce in his eyes. “Then I’ll be honest too,” he said. “I’m still scared. I’m scared I’ll mess up again. I’m scared I’ll hurt you again. But I’m more scared of not trying. Of letting my fear run my life. I… I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to… choose you. On purpose. Every day. Even when it’s hard.”
“I’m scared too,” Jisung admitted. “I’m scared I’ll… smother you. Or disappoint you. Or that my anxiety will make everything harder. But… I want to choose you too. I want to learn how to disagree without… ending everything. I want to… grow up. I guess.”
“Growing up sucks,” Minho said.
“Yeah,” Jisung said. “But… doing it with you sounds… less terrible.”
Minho smiled, slow and dazzling, the smile that had sucker punched Jisung the first time they’d met and never lost its power. “Then let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s… grow up. Together. Slowly. Stupidly. With snacks.”
“Lots of snacks,” Jisung agreed. “And… therapy.”
“And therapy,” Minho said. “And maybe couple’s Mario Kart. To build communication skills. And destroy them.”
“You’re on,” Jisung said. “I call Yoshi.”
“You always call Yoshi,” Minho grumbled.
“Because I’m loyal,” Jisung shot back.
Minho laughed, bright and free, the sound filling the apartment the way Jisung’s heart wanted to fill his chest. They settled in, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds, the world outside continuing as if nothing had changed. Inside, everything had. It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t magically fix overnight. They would still fight. They would still misunderstand each other sometimes. They would still be human. But for the first time since that stupid, painful night, they weren’t pretending to be okay apart. They were choosing the hard, messy work of being okay together.
And as Minho pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Jisung’s temple, and Jisung curled closer into his side, it felt like the first true step toward something stronger than what they’d had before.