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Soobin liked Yeonjun. He always had.
From the very first moment they met, when Yeonjun, with that effortless smile, had lied about his age just to make Soobin feel a little more at ease, Soobin had thought he was cool. But that was it.
It had been simple then. An admiration that made his chest warm whenever Yeonjun ruffled his hair, a crush that made him giggle over stolen glances and late-night jokes whispered under stage lights. It was innocent—fleeting, even. A childish sort of adoration.
But somewhere along the way, it changed.
Somewhere between sleepless nights spent watching Yeonjun dance long after practice ended, between the way his heart twisted every time Yeonjun threw an arm around someone else, between the fleeting moments when Yeonjun looked at him like maybe, just maybe, he saw something more—somewhere in between all of that, Soobin’s affection became something heavier. Something sharp-edged and aching.
It was no longer just a crush.
It was a quiet, consuming kind of longing. A wanting so deep it left him breathless.
It was the realization that every playful smile Yeonjun gave him wasn’t enough. That every touch, every teasing remark, every lazy half-hug in the dressing room—all of it only fed the fire burning beneath Soobin’s ribs.
And it hurt. God, it hurt.
Because Yeonjun was Yeonjun—too bright, too untouchable, too full of life to ever feel the same slow-burning ache that had settled in Soobin’s chest. Yeonjun, who laughed so easily, who flirted with the world, who belonged to everyone but had never once been his.
Soobin didn’t know when it had happened. When admiration had turned into infatuation, and infatuation had turned into something so raw it made his bones ache.
But it was too late now.
Because Soobin had already fallen—fully, painfully, and without any way to stop.
So what could he do? Was he meant to endure this agony forever? To let it fester inside him, curling around his ribs like something poisonous, something he could never purge?
It hurt to love Yeonjun. It hurt in ways Soobin hadn’t been prepared for. If this was what defined love—this slow, relentless ache, this constant war between yearning and restraint—then maybe he wasn’t the hopeless romantic he once thought himself to be.
They told him love felt like butterflies, like warmth settling in the hollow of his chest. But every time he looked at Yeonjun lately, it felt like sickness, like nausea twisting in his stomach, like something rotting inside him.
So he did the only thing he could.
He distanced himself.
For his own sake. For Yeonjun’s.
Because Yeonjun was too kind, too softhearted in ways he pretended not to be. If he knew—if he even suspected that he was the reason Soobin felt like this—he would never forgive himself. And Soobin couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let Yeonjun carry the weight of his unspoken love like it was his burden to bear.
But God, if Yeonjun looked at him like that again—with those eyes, so full of warmth, of tenderness, of a love Soobin could never claim as his own—he would die. He would keel over and scream. He would break.
No.
If he put distance between them, maybe, just maybe, Yeonjun would resent him for it. Maybe he would grow annoyed, frustrated. Maybe he would even hate him a little. And hate would be easier to live with than pity. Hate wouldn’t sting the way sympathy would. Hate wouldn’t make Soobin feel small.
He would rather have Yeonjun hate him than love him in a way that fell short of what he so desperately wanted.
Because what was love if it wasn’t returned in the same way?
If Yeonjun’s affection was soft and fleeting—nothing more than the warmth of a hand on his shoulder, a laugh shared between friends, a glance that never lingered long enough—then Soobin didn’t want it.
He couldn’t bear it.
The thought of Yeonjun caring for him, but never in the way he needed, was far crueler than outright rejection. At least hatred was definite, something he could understand. Something he could survive.
But love—the wrong kind of love—would ruin him. It would strip him down to nothing, leave him grasping at scraps, hoping for something more when there was never going to be more.
So if Yeonjun had to feel anything for him, let it be resentment. Let it be anger. Let him walk away with fire in his eyes rather than tenderness. Let him leave rather than stay and pretend.
Because at least then, Soobin wouldn’t have to wonder. Wouldn’t have to hope. Wouldn’t have to suffer the slow, agonizing realization that Yeonjun would never be the way he wanted him to be.
Sure, it would be hard. The absence of Yeonjun would leave a hollow space in his life. But surely, surely, he could fill it with something else.
Surely, he could learn to live without him.
Beomgyu raised an eyebrow, lips parting slightly before pressing into a thin line. He leaned back against the couch, watching Soobin with the kind of careful scrutiny that made Soobin shift uncomfortably under his gaze.
"You’re cutting Yeonjun off?” he asked, voice laced with disbelief. “Soobin-hyung, you live together.”
Soobin popped a grape into his mouth, chewing slowly. “He’s really busy,” he said, as if that explained everything. As if that single excuse could justify the way he was about to unravel everything they had spent years building. “Plus, it’s gonna hurt him more if I don’t.”
Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about him, though. Is it?” His voice was quieter now, more careful. “You’re worried it’s gonna kill you to see him.”
Soobin froze for only half a second, just long enough for Beomgyu to catch it.
“It is about him,” Soobin insisted, voice too firm, too quick. He shifted, pressing his palm into the table’s edge, feeling the sharp dig of wood against his skin—grounding, distracting. “And it’s going to hurt him to see me like this. To see me in pain because of him.” He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper now. “I can’t have that on his conscience, Gyu.”
Beomgyu didn’t respond immediately. He only looked at him, expression unreadable, the weight of his silence pressing heavy between them.
And then, finally—softly—he asked, “Soobin… have you thought to ask him about it?”
Soobin’s breath caught in his throat.
Of course, he had.
A hundred times over, he had imagined the conversation. The way he’d sit Yeonjun down, hands clenched in his lap, voice shaking as he finally said it.
Some versions of the scenario were kind. In those, Yeonjun would smile, maybe a little surprised, but ultimately fond—he’d reach out, ruffle Soobin’s hair, tell him he was an idiot for ever doubting him. That the constant touches, the lingering stares, the easy affection—it had meant something all along. That he felt the same.
But those were just delusions.
The other versions were worse. The ones that crept in when he was lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, suffocating under the weight of his own thoughts.
In those versions, Yeonjun hesitated. His expression shifted—something unreadable flickering across his face before he carefully schooled his features into something neutral, something distant.
Then he’d say it.
"I don’t feel the same way."
Maybe he’d try to be kind. Maybe he’d look at Soobin with pity, voice gentle, breaking him apart with soft edges instead of sharp ones. Or maybe he’d be disgusted. Maybe he’d recoil, stare at him like he was something else entirely, something Yeonjun had never even considered in that way.
Soobin didn’t know which would be worse.
“And if he doesn’t?” Beomgyu pressed, pulling him back to the present. “If he really doesn’t?”
Soobin let out a slow breath, the edges of his nails digging into the wood of the table.
“Then you can distance yourself,” Beomgyu continued. “Then he won’t feel like he did something wrong.”
Soobin shut his eyes for a moment, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. “Beomgyu,” he murmured, voice strained, “he would know.”
He knew Yeonjun too well. Knew how deeply he cared, how much he felt things. If Soobin suddenly pulled away after such a conversation—if he started avoiding him, started suffering—Yeonjun would know. He would blame himself, no matter what Soobin did to make it seem otherwise.
“And the guilt of it is going to kill him,” he admitted, his fingers curling into his palm. “So if it’s just me doing the drifting—if it’s me fucking up the group dynamic, me making things difficult—then he won’t feel like it’s his fault. He won’t feel guilty.”
Beomgyu was quiet for a long time. His gaze softened, lips parting slightly like he wanted to argue.
Instead, he just said, quietly, “He’ll feel hurt.”
Soobin let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “He’ll feel resentment,” he corrected. “He might even hate me. But he won’t feel guilty.” His voice cracked on the last word, but he swallowed it down, forced himself to keep talking. “And that’s all that matters to me. That my stupidity doesn’t make him feel guilty.”
Beomgyu sighed, shoulders slumping. His fingers tapped against his knee, restless, like he was holding something back.
And then, finally, he just shook his head.
“You’re an idiot,” he muttered.
Soobin let out a small, humorless laugh. “I know.”
It killed him to do it.
Every time he spotted Yeonjun brighten at the sight of him, lips parting in that familiar, eager way, only for his excitement to dim when he realized Soobin wasn’t looking his way—wasn’t acknowledging him—it felt like something inside Soobin withered.
And when Yeonjun’s expression fell, when confusion flickered across his face, so quick yet so obvious to anyone who knew him well enough, Soobin felt like a monster. He saw it in the way Yeonjun’s shoulders tensed before slumping ever so slightly, the way his fingers twitched, reaching for something—reaching for him—only to curl into his palm instead. He saw the way Yeonjun’s lips jutted out into that same small pout, the one Soobin had spent years teasing him about, the one he had once adored without consequence.
Now, he could only watch from a distance, unable to step forward, unable to reassure him like he always had.
It was unbearable.
Every instinct in his body screamed at him to fix it—to nudge Yeonjun’s shoulder, to say something stupid just to make him laugh, to give in. But he couldn’t. He had to stay firm. If he wavered, if he let himself reach out now, he would never be able to do it again.
And so, he let the moments slip away.
Again.
And again.
And again.
At first, Yeonjun tried. Of course he did—Yeonjun was nothing if not persistent, nothing if not relentlessly stubborn when it came to the people he cared about.
He kept calling Soobin’s name in the dorm, kept plopping down next to him on the couch like nothing had changed, kept looping an arm around his shoulder when they stood together backstage.
And every time, Soobin flinched.
Every time, he pulled away too quickly, let his answers be too clipped, let his expression be just a little too unreadable.
He watched the realization settle into Yeonjun’s features in real time.
The way his brows knit together, his usual ease faltering. The way he started hesitating before reaching out, before speaking, before smiling at him.
And then, one day, he stopped trying.
Soobin knew the exact moment it happened.
There was no dramatic confrontation, no explosion of anger or frustration.
Just quiet.
Just Yeonjun catching himself before calling his name, his lips pressing together as he swallowed whatever words had been lingering on his tongue.
Just Yeonjun passing by him in the hallway without so much as a glance, without that small, teasing smirk he used to send his way.
Just Yeonjun laughing with the others, his body still slotting so easily into the team, but the space between him and Soobin growing wider and wider.
Yeonjun gave up.
And Soobin had never hated himself more.
Yeonjun did not take long to realize Soobin was shutting him out. He wasn’t stupid—oblivious at times, maybe, but not when it came to Soobin. Not when it came to the person who had been by his side for years, who had once lit up at the sight of him, who had once met him halfway without hesitation.
And yet, despite knowing something was wrong, despite seeing the evidence in the way Soobin’s eyes darted away too quickly, in the way his replies grew clipped and distant, Yeonjun still found himself bewildered. Confused.
At first, he had been worried—so worried. His stomach twisted every time Soobin pulled his hand away without pause, as if Yeonjun’s touch burned him. As if it was something he couldn’t stand.
He noticed when their conversations, once so easy, so natural, turned into something stilted and brief. How Soobin’s excited, breathless responses melted into apathetic ones, each word duller than the last.
He noticed everything.
“Binnie?” Yeonjun had asked one evening, forcing a smile as he swung an arm around Soobin’s shoulder, ignoring the way he immediately tensed. “Wanna go get ice cream? My treat.”
“I’m busy. Sorry.”
Soobin didn’t even bother making eye contact when he said it, already moving away, already slipping from his grasp.
“Oh.”
That was all he could say.
Soobin was always busy those days. And yet, when Yeonjun lingered behind, when he let his curiosity—or rather, his concern—get the best of him, he found that Soobin wasn’t really doing anything at all.
Sometimes, he was on his phone, scrolling mindlessly. Other times, he was sitting with Beomgyu, head lowered as they whispered between themselves, a hushed conversation that Yeonjun was never to be included in.
And then, the truth sank in. The avoiding wasn’t incidental. It wasn’t a result of stress, or a bad mood, or anything Yeonjun could easily fix.
It was intentional.
The realization hit him like a stone to the chest, something heavy and sharp all at once, splintering a part of him he hadn’t even realized was fragile.
And just like that, he knew.
Soobin had chosen to shut him out.
And Yeonjun, for all his pride, for all his persistence, could only take so much before he gave up.
But it was hard. God, it was so fucking hard.
Because how do you avoid someone when they are everywhere? When their absence only makes their presence stronger, more suffocating?
How do you forget the person you love?
Soobin was still there, still smiling, still laughing—but not with him. Never with him. Yeonjun would steal glances, would let his gaze linger just a little too long, would wait for the moment Soobin would finally look back, finally see him again.
But it never happened.
Soobin beamed at everyone else, his voice light and teasing with Beomgyu, his laughter soft and warm with the others. Yet, whenever Yeonjun tried to slip in—whenever he tried to test the waters, to reclaim even a fraction of what they had before—Soobin would shut down.
Expression blank. Shoulders stiff. Tone distant.
And then, the worst thought crept in, curling around his ribs, sinking into his gut like poison.
Did he find out?
Did he know?
Had Soobin somehow figured out the truth, had he pieced together all of Yeonjun’s stolen glances, his lingering touches, his barely disguised affection?
Is that why he’s avoiding me?
Because I love him?
The thought was unbearable.
Because if Soobin had found out, if he knew and this was his response, then that meant he found it disgusting.
That meant he found Yeonjun disgusting.
Why else would he flinch at his touch? Why else would he physically recoil, as if Yeonjun’s affection was something to be avoided at all costs?
It was humiliating.
More than that, it was devastating.
So Yeonjun did what he could.
He stayed out later. He spent more time with the others, let himself be dragged to outings, to parties, to anywhere that would make him forget. Anything that would help him ignore the hollow ache in his chest.
And if his friends weren’t available, if the dorm felt too empty, if the silence became too loud, he would go out with other idols. It didn’t matter who, as long as they were willing to fill the void Soobin had left behind.
Because what the fuck else was he supposed to do?
Soobin was fine.
He was fine because there was nothing wrong. Because there was nothing to be upset over. Because Beomgyu was here, talking loudly beside him, their conversation full of easy laughter, filling the dorm with enough noise to drown out the quiet ache in his chest.
He was fine because the others weren’t home—gone to god-knows-where, leaving just the two of them behind. And that was good. Because if Yeonjun were here, it would be harder.
It would be harder to keep up the act, harder to pretend his heart wasn’t twisting every time Yeonjun glanced his way, only to be met with cold indifference.
It would be harder to remember why he was doing this in the first place.
Then, Beomgyu’s phone buzzed. The sound was sharp, intrusive, cutting through the comfortable noise they had built. A video call request.
From Yeonjun.
The dorm was no longer loud. No longer full of warmth and easy chatter. Suddenly, there was only silence. A thick, heavy silence that settled over them, pressing into Soobin’s skin, making his stomach churn.
He could feel Beomgyu’s eyes on him, hesitant, questioning. But he couldn’t bring himself to meet them. He only stared at the phone screen, at the name he had been avoiding, at the call that was waiting to be answered.
Then, another message popped up.
YEONJUN: hwy choi beomghu pcik upppp :<
Soobin’s fingers curled into fists.
Beomgyu let out a short laugh, one of those instinctive ones that slipped out before he could stop it. But even that faded quickly. He hesitated again, gaze flickering back to Soobin.
Soobin sighed. He didn’t need to say anything. He only nodded, forcing himself to scoot further away, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the conversation that was about to unfold.
Beomgyu picked up.
Yeonjun’s face filled the screen, but the lighting was terrible—barely visible, dark and shadowed. And then Soobin realized why.
It wasn’t just a dimly lit room.
It was an alleyway.
Yeonjun was outside. On the road.
“Hey. Beomie.” Yeonjun finally slid into view, and fuck, his words were slurring. His lips pulled into a lazy, lopsided smile, unfocused and slow. His eyes were glassy, his hair slightly disheveled.
Soobin felt his stomach drop.
“Hyung—are you drunk alone on the streets of Seoul?” Beomgyu asked, his disbelief caught in a scoff.
Soobin wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.
But then Yeonjun shook his head—slowly, lazily, as if the motion itself required too much effort.
“No…” His voice was quieter this time, sluggish. “’M not alone.”
Soobin’s breath caught.
“Hanbinnie came with.”
His chest ached.
He shouldn’t care.
He had no right to care.
He shouldn’t feel this ugly thing curling in his gut, twisting his stomach into knots. Shouldn’t feel this bitter taste creeping up his throat. He had been the one to pull away. He had been the one to build the distance.
And yet—
“Ohhh, Beomie~” Yeonjun’s voice was light, playful. Slurred but sweet, carrying that same affectionate tone he always used. Used to use on him. “You should’ve come out too. We’re having so much fun.”
Beomgyu let out a short breath, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Sure seems like it, hyung. Where even are you?”
Yeonjun hummed. “Dunno. Somewhere in Myeong-Deong, I think? Hanbin said there was a good bar here.”
Hanbin. Hanbin. Hanbin.
The name grated against Soobin’s ears like static, like something that didn’t belong in this conversation, in Yeonjun’s mouth.
He wasn’t watching the screen, but he could hear the rustling on the other end, the slight shuffling of movement, the faint murmur of another voice. And then—
“Hyung, don’t be embarrassing.”
A different voice. Someone else.
Someone closer to Yeonjun than he was right now.
Beomgyu blinked. “Was that—”
“Ah, Binnie,” Yeonjun cooed, and it hit Soobin like a truck, like a fist to the ribs. “C’mon, say hi to Beomie.”
Binnie.
The room tilted.
Soobin clenched his jaw, fingers curling into his sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric.
That was his name.
That was what Yeonjun called him.
That was his.
His stomach twisted, breath hitching as he fought against the sharp pang in his chest, the nausea climbing up his throat.
“Oh wait, let me— hi? Can you hear me?” Hanbin’s voice was closer now, clearer. And Soobin hated it. Hated the casualness. Hated the way he sounded so comfortable next to Yeonjun.
Hated the fact that Yeonjun was letting him.
Beomgyu cleared his throat. “Yup. Hanbin, hi. You, uh, taking care of him?”
Hanbin let out a light laugh, the sound easy, familiar. “Trying to. He’s a little out of it.”
“Aww, I’m fine.” Yeonjun whined, voice warm, full of tipsy affection. “Binnie’s being dramatic.”
Soobin felt sick.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that Hanbin got to be there.
That Hanbin got to hear that voice, got to have Yeonjun’s whiny complaints and drunken giggles directed at him.
That Hanbin got to sit beside him, got to be the one tugging at his sleeve, got to be the one Yeonjun leaned on when he was drunk and vulnerable.
It wasn’t fair that Yeonjun let him.
Soobin had been the one to leave. He had been the one to push Yeonjun away.
But God, he hadn’t thought Yeonjun would replace him so easily.
Jealousy was consuming him.
And yet, who could he blame other than himself?
Soobin could not handle it. Not for much longer. His chest felt tight, as though the air had turned to lead, suffocating him. The small moments—the teasing, the affection, the casual way Yeonjun had said that name—were like daggers, each one piercing deeper than the last. He had tried to ignore it, tried to bury the feeling, but it was impossible now.
And when Yeonjun’s call was cut off, followed by a text riddled with typing errors—so obviously drunk and messy—it was like a tiny weight lifted from Soobin’s shoulders, only to be replaced by something heavier. Something sharper.
His breath came out in a shaky sigh of what could only be described as relief and pain in equal measure.
"Soobin, are you okay?"
Beomgyu’s voice broke through the haze of his thoughts, soft yet concerned. Soobin clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed on the floor as if he could somehow disappear into it. He could feel the weight of Beomgyu's stare, could sense the question hanging in the air, waiting to be asked. But he couldn’t speak. The lump in his throat was too heavy, the words too sharp, too dangerous to release.
“Binnie,” Soobin muttered, his voice raw, a tremor in it that he couldn’t hide.
He looked up at Beomgyu then, whose eyes had widened, a flicker of realization flashing across his face. It was as if the world stopped turning for a moment, and Soobin could see the understanding settle on Beomgyu’s features—too quickly, too painfully.
“He called him Binnie,” Soobin whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if he was speaking to himself more than anyone else. He felt as though his heart had been ripped from his chest, torn apart with every syllable.
Beomgyu's lips parted, and for a second, Soobin thought he might say something reassuring, something to break the silence, to take away the sting of the words that had just escaped Soobin’s lips. But instead, all Beomgyu did was sigh—a heavy, sorrowful sound that felt like it came from the depth of his own heart. He knew. He understood.
“Soobin—”
“You remember what he used to call me? When he called me that?” Soobin asked, his voice cracking under the weight of the question, of the hurt that poured out with it.
Beomgyu inhaled sharply, as if the air itself had turned too thick to breathe. He was quiet for a long moment, hands slowly lowering to Soobin’s knee, his touch grounding but not enough to stop the storm raging inside of him.
Soobin could feel the tension in Beomgyu’s fingertips, the way his hands lingered there as if asking Soobin to stay grounded too, to not lose himself in this unbearable pain.
Soobin blinked, and the tears that had been threatening to fall broke free, trickling down his cheeks as he let out a breathless sob. He looked at Beomgyu, eyes trembling with the weight of all he hadn’t said. His lip quivered, the harsh reality of everything he had tried to avoid crashing over him in an unstoppable wave.
“He… Beomgyu, what do I do?”
His voice was a fragile whisper, the words barely escaping his lips. They hung in the air, suspended in the thick silence, and Beomgyu’s gaze softened as he looked down at him. There was no judgment, no frustration in Beomgyu’s eyes—just understanding. That understanding, the kind only a best friend could have, made Soobin’s heart crack wide open.
Beomgyu didn’t speak for a moment. He didn’t have to. Instead, he simply reached forward, pulling Soobin into his arms, letting him collapse against his chest as the sobs wracked through his body.
Soobin cried harder, the tears coming faster now, overwhelming him. He loved Yeonjun. It wasn’t something he could turn off. It wasn’t something that could be erased by distance or time. It was there—burning deep in his chest, in his soul. It had always been there.
The way Yeonjun had smiled at him.
The way his eyes had softened every time their gazes met.
The way his voice had always been so warm, so full of affection.
Soobin couldn’t let go of that. He couldn’t escape it.
The weight of everything he had tried to bury was coming to the surface, and it hurt. It hurt more than he had ever expected it to. His heart was breaking in a way that felt irreversible, and all he could think about was how much he missed the way Yeonjun used to look at him. How much he missed being the one for Yeonjun.
“I fucked up,” Soobin choked out between his sobs, his breath uneven, the words painful on his tongue.
Beomgyu shook his head, his hands rubbing Soobin’s back in slow, steady motions as if to calm the storm inside him. “No. No, you didn’t.” His voice was gentle, soothing in the way only Beomgyu’s words could be. “You’re hurting, hyung. It’s okay to hurt.”
“I… I might’ve made fun of you for being dumb, but I wholeheartedly understand you,” Beomgyu continued, his tone growing softer. “Soobin-hyung, I’m here for you. I don’t blame you. I never will. It’s your feelings. Don’t blame yourself for them.”
But Soobin couldn’t stop blaming himself. He couldn’t stop thinking that if he had just been stronger, if he had just been braver, maybe things could have been different. Maybe Yeonjun wouldn’t have moved on. Maybe he wouldn’t be calling someone else Binnie now.
The tears fell freely now, soaking Beomgyu’s shirt as Soobin’s heart continued to break with every thought of what he had lost. And yet, beneath the pain, a small part of him still loved Yeonjun with all of his being. That love was the only thing that remained, even as everything else crumbled around him.
But maybe it was never enough. Maybe it would never be enough to make Yeonjun look at him the way he used to. And the weight of that reality was more than Soobin could carry.
The door creaked open, and the unmistakable sound of slurred, obnoxiously loud singing filtered through the dorm, followed by a loud thud that made the air vibrate with its abruptness. Soobin flinched, unable to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.
Beomgyu immediately jumped up, his eyes darting to the door with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Soobin, however, stayed rooted to his spot, his chest tightening with each passing second. His heart raced, a rapid beat that was almost painful.
A half-drunken giggle echoed through the room, and Soobin squeezed his eyes shut, unable to escape the mental picture of Yeonjun stumbling through the door in that carefree way, laughing as though the world didn't matter. Soobin hated it. He hated how effortlessly Yeonjun could keep going— living his life, being carefree and beautiful— while Soobin was left here, drowning in his own twisted emotions.
"Help me up, Gyu." Yeonjun's voice rang out, thick with drunken amusement, his words slurring as they spilled from his lips. Soobin didn’t look at him; he couldn't bear to. He wasn’t even sure if Yeonjun cared to notice him anymore.
Beomgyu chuckled lightly, the sound almost too bright against the silence that had settled around Soobin. How could he laugh like that when I feel like I'm being crushed by the weight of all this?
Yeonjun's voice came again, louder this time, pulling Soobin from his spiraling thoughts. "Couch. Couch. I don’t wanna walk more."
The words were simple, but they felt like a slap to Soobin’s chest. A wave of nausea hit him as he saw Yeonjun's face, his expression carefree yet distant, like he wasn’t even aware of how it hurt Soobin to see him this way—so far removed from the person who once needed him. Soobin's heart clenched painfully in his chest as he watched Yeonjun move past him, not once acknowledging his presence.
How much longer can I keep pretending this doesn't hurt?
Yeonjun didn't even look at him. Not a glance, not a twitch of recognition. And that hurt more than Soobin could put into words.
“You’re wasted.” Beomgyu's voice broke through his thoughts, the lightness in it grating on Soobin’s nerves, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel angry.
Yeonjun’s disoriented grin spread across his face as he let out a soft hum in agreement, his usual charm fading in the haze of alcohol. Soobin could hear the tiredness in his voice, the distant echo of someone who had long since given up on pretending everything was fine.
But what hurt even more was the way Yeonjun’s gaze flickered to him—brief, fleeting, as though Soobin was just another part of the background, as irrelevant as the couch or the air in the room. And that was it. Just a flicker of something Soobin couldn't place, but one that made his chest tighten painfully.
It wasn’t a smile. Not even a semblance of one. It was just... confusion. And Soobin couldn’t stand it. He wanted to reach out. To take Yeonjun’s face in his hands, to pull him close and whisper to him that everything could be okay, that this… this wasn’t how they were supposed to end. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not after everything that had already been shattered between them. Though, he was the one to shatter it, was he not?
His fingertips tingled with the memory of holding Yeonjun close. Of the warmth of his touch, the way he used to lean into him without hesitation. But now... now Yeonjun didn’t even look at him.
And that thought... that realization... it was like acid in his veins.
Yeonjun's lips parted as if he was about to say something, but instead, he let out a soft, almost imperceptible noise—a sound of discomfort, maybe? It was too quiet to fully hear, but Soobin felt it deep in his bones. The need to check on him, to make sure Yeonjun was okay, surged within him. He opened his mouth, but his body wouldn’t move. The words died on his lips before they could even form.
What if he doesn't want me to care?
But Soobin’s hesitation was met with a deepening of the confused, pained expression plastered on Yeonjun’s face.
So, before Soobin could act on his impulse, Beomgyu was already reaching out, helping Yeonjun settle more comfortably on the couch. Beomgyu’s voice was soft, soothing, full of the affection Soobin wanted so desperately to still receive from Yeonjun. Beomgyu can have him. Let him have him. Yeonjun’s not mine anymore.
Soobin couldn’t take it anymore. The suffocating feeling of being trapped in his own emotions while watching Yeonjun slowly slip further away was too much. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, loud and unforgiving in the silence. Without a word, he turned and fled to his room, his feet moving almost mechanically, as if his body knew what to do before his mind did.
The moment the door slammed shut behind him, Soobin collapsed onto his bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into himself as the tears spilled over, uncontrollable and violent. His chest ached with the weight of his feelings—the love that still, inexplicably, clung to him like a second skin. The deep, raw love that he couldn’t erase, couldn’t just let go of, even if Yeonjun had since moved on.
He doesn’t care anymore.
That thought, repeated over and over, was the only thing that kept him grounded in the pain. The painful truth that Yeonjun would never look at him the same way again. He could feel his heart splintering with each breath, as if every part of him was breaking off, one piece at a time. The love he held for Yeonjun was a ghost, one that tormented him, lingering around every corner of his thoughts.
And it hurts... God, it hurts so much.
He had tried to keep it together. To pretend that he could handle it, that he could stand by and watch Yeonjun slowly slip further and further from him. But he couldn’t anymore. Not with the weight of the past, the way Yeonjun used to look at him, the way they used to be.
Soobin buried his face in his pillow, the muffled sound of his sobs mixing with the quiet hum of the city outside. How do you love someone who doesn’t even look at you anymore?
Soobin barely registered the sound of his door creaking open, his mind too heavy with thoughts to acknowledge much of anything. The weight of his emotions pressed against his ribs, making every inhale feel like a struggle, every exhale like a confession he couldn't afford to make. He had folded himself into the corner of his bed, knees pulled close, fingers gripping the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.
"Soobin-hyung? You okay?"
The voice was gentle, laced with a concern that felt like a lifeline he wasn't sure he deserved. He lifted his head just enough to meet Beomgyu’s gaze through tear-filled eyes. The younger boy stood near the door, hesitant but unwavering, his expression softened by the dim lighting of the room.
Soobin hesitated before giving a slight shrug, trying to feign indifference, but the attempt was pitiful. The tremble in his shoulders betrayed him. The way his breath stuttered on the way in, the way he flinched slightly at the movement—Beomgyu saw it all. He always did.
“I’m… I’m just a bit upset, is all.” Soobin finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Beomgyu let out a small, knowing laugh—one that wasn't mocking, just understanding. He moved to sit beside him, their shoulders brushing as he draped an arm over Soobin’s hunched frame. The warmth of it was immediate, grounding, and Soobin couldn’t help the tiny, tired smile that tugged at his lips despite himself.
“Okay. You’re ‘a bit upset,’” Beomgyu echoed, drawing out the words slowly, letting them settle between them. His fingers found the fabric of the blanket, kneading into it absently as if searching for the right words. And then, softly—
“You think Yeonjun isn’t?”
The question made Soobin pause. He turned slightly to Beomgyu, eyes narrowing in confusion. Why would Yeonjun be upset? Yeonjun, with his bright smile and easy laughter. Yeonjun, who always had people flocking around him, who never seemed to falter—who had moved on so easily.
Beomgyu caught the look and sighed.
“Ah. You think Yeonjun isn’t upset.”
Silence stretched between them, but inside Soobin’s mind, there was no such quiet. The thought gnawed at him, unraveling in pieces he had been trying desperately to ignore. He had been the one to sever the ties, to step back, to build the distance brick by brick. And he had done it for a reason—because loving Yeonjun felt like standing at the edge of a precipice, staring into something too vast, too consuming. He had loved him too much. It was terrifying.
And Yeonjun had… moved on. Right? That’s what it looked like, at least.
“He seemed fine, Gyu,” Soobin muttered, voice dull, as if saying it out loud might make it true.
Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head.
“He was drunk, Soobin. You think he’s been drinking and going out all the time for fun?”
The words hit him like a slap, sharp and unrelenting.
Yeah. That’s exactly what he had thought. He had watched from a distance as Yeonjun smiled at strangers, laughed too loudly, danced like the world wasn’t weighing on him the way it was pressing down on Soobin. He had convinced himself that Yeonjun was happy, that he had walked away unscathed. But had he really?
Beomgyu tilted his head, observing him carefully, waiting for the realization to sink in before letting out a quiet chuckle of disbelief.
“You really think so?”
Soobin opened his mouth, ready to respond, but nothing came out. Because now, for the first time, doubt crept in.
Because maybe Yeonjun was just as broken as he was.
And that scared him. Because not only did it mean he had hurt Yeonjun, but it also meant there was hope.
That fragile hope was crushed the day Soobin saw Yeonjun walk into the dorms, surrounded by his friends, his laughter ringing out effortlessly as if the past had never happened. The sight of it made Soobin’s breath hitch, his fingers curling into his palms. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was something worse.
The way everyone fawned over Yeonjun, their voices lilting, their touches lingering—it burned. They spoke to him like he was a dream, a fantasy, a doll made for admiration. Just like Soobin used to. Back when it was all teasing. Back when it meant something.
The way Wooyoung’s arm curled around Yeonjun’s waist, tugging him close as if he belonged to him. The way Yeonjun let it happen. The way he leaned into the warmth without hesitation. The way he giggled, especially when someone made a joke about his looks.
Soobin had no right to be jealous.
But he was. Of course, he was.
And Yeonjun didn’t even hesitate—didn’t even falter—until his eyes flickered to the corner of the room. Until he saw Soobin watching him, gaze dark, fingers clenched, breath shallow. It was the first time their eyes had met in months. And it was never supposed to happen.
There was no hiding the storm brewing in Soobin’s expression, nor the sick, sinking feeling settling in his stomach as he was forced to remember: he used to be the only one holding Yeonjun close. He used to be the only one Yeonjun loved.
And the fans knew that too. But they also weren’t blind. No amount of manufactured interactions, scripted banter, or choreographed moments could disguise the rift between them. No amount of company-approved pictures could erase the suffocating distance that had grown between them.
Like that photoshoot.
Like that moment they were forced to stand side by side, the weight of their history pressing down on them, suffocating. The company demanded smiles. The company demanded closeness. But all they could give was hollow imitations of what used to be.
Soobin still remembered how it felt—the unbearable stiffness in his limbs, the way his own heartbeat betrayed him, loud and frantic against his ribs. The way Yeonjun stood just far enough away to make it obvious, arms folded, lips pressed tight, his smile nothing more than a well-rehearsed lie. They had barely spoken. When they did, it was clipped, cold, wrapped in layers of careful indifference.
“Move your arm in a bit,” Soobin had murmured, voice barely carrying between them.
Yeonjun had done it—because he had to—but his fingers had curled into his palm, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
“You don’t have to look like I disgust you,” Soobin had muttered under his breath, only loud enough for Yeonjun to hear. “It’s not a good image.”
Yeonjun’s breath had hitched—just barely—but Soobin caught it. And for the briefest second, something flickered in his gaze. Something raw, something broken.
But then it was gone.
“I don’t,” Yeonjun had replied, voice so quiet it was almost lost beneath the clicking cameras. But it wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t anything. Because as far as he knew, Soobin was the one who was disgusted by him.
Yeonjun found himself staring at Soobin across the room, searching for something—anything—in his expression. Because he didn’t understand the way Soobin was looking at him now. He wanted to.
As much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to.
Because wasn’t Soobin the one who cut ties? Wasn’t he the one who turned away first? Wasn’t he the one who left? Was he not the one who found him disgusting?
Then again, maybe it was just the noise that was bothering him. Maybe Soobin just thought they were too loud, too reckless, too much.
But some part of Yeonjun, a part he didn’t want to acknowledge, was hoping it wasn’t that. Praying that his slight hope would not be dimmed.
Yet, he could hardly admit it to himself.
So, he sank back into Wooyoung’s arms, resting his head against the shorter man’s shoulder and shutting his eyes. He had to push aside the pain gnawing at his heart, threatening to cause something worse than death.
Though some part of him did not want to. Not at all.
Soobin did not find himself able to talk to Yeonjun—not truly, not meaningfully, not the way he once could when everything between them still felt soft and sacred.
Especially not now.
Not when Yeonjun had been busy spending every spare moment with Kai, laughing with him, working out with him, getting stronger, sharper—like he was chiseling away at whatever had once been soft in him, too. And maybe that was what hurt Soobin the most. That Yeonjun could move forward. That he was moving forward. Without him.
And Soobin just stood there, stuck, rotting in the ghost of what they used to be.
He wanted to talk to him. God, he needed to. The words itched at the back of his throat, scratched at his lungs until breathing felt like bleeding. Every day, he thought about it—telling Yeonjun everything. About the regrets that swallowed him whole. About how he missed him in ways that had no end. About how silence had begun to feel like punishment, like drowning slowly in a sea he willingly walked into.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t.
Because every time he even thought of approaching Yeonjun, his legs betrayed him, his heart shrank into itself like a withered flower, and he would convince himself again that Yeonjun didn’t want to hear it. That he was better off. That Soobin had already done enough damage.
And then, of course, Yeonjun overdid it. Because he always did. The man never knew when to stop, not until his body forced him to. It was one of the things Soobin used to love and hate about him. The way he gave his everything until there was nothing left.
Apparently that applied to gym sessions too.
Kai had only looked away for a second. Just a second. But then he heard it—a sharp inhale, choked and clipped at the end, followed by a low, broken whimper that was unmistakably Yeonjun. He turned back immediately, eyes wide, to see him clutching his wrist, his brows knit together in pain, mouth pulled into a grimace.
“You okay…?”
“Yeah…?” Yeonjun tried, his voice already fragile and trembling. But then— “Shit, Hueningie, I think I pulled something—fuck—” he hissed, cutting himself off as his hand spasmed.
Kai immediately rushed to his side, panic clear in the furrow of his brows as he reached for Yeonjun’s arm with careful hands.
“We need to get this checked out. Don’t move it, okay?” he murmured, already pulling out his phone to call for help. And the first person that came to mind was Taehyun.
In the dorm, Taehyun, Beomgyu, and Soobin were lounging on the couch, the movie in the background long since turned into white noise. Soobin had barely been paying attention anyway—his mind was too cluttered with things he couldn’t say and emotions he couldn’t name.
When Taehyun’s phone began to ring, he glanced down and smiled faintly at Kai’s name lighting up the screen. Beomgyu glanced over, raising an eyebrow at Soobin and grinning, knowing.
But that grin quickly faded when Taehyun answered and Kai’s voice came through the speaker, tight with concern.
“Taehyun… Yeonjun just… what did you do?” Kai spoke, voice almost inaudible.
Soobin’s body jolted like a string had been pulled in his chest. His head snapped toward the phone, his heart already thundering in his ears.
Something in Kai’s tone—it wasn’t just worry. It was urgency. And Soobin’s blood ran cold.
“Taehyunie…” Yeonjun’s voice came through next, strained and breathless, every syllable making Soobin’s stomach twist tighter, “I think I sprained something? Or like... pulled a muscle. I dunno. Fuck, 't hurts more than I thought it would.”
He could hear the pain even through the speaker. And worse—the effort Yeonjun was putting into pretending he was fine.
It made something fracture in Soobin’s chest.
“Shit,” Taehyun muttered, already rising to his feet, fingers flying as he texted their manager. “You need to take a break from working out if you’re still prepping for your solo, Yeonjun-hyung. You’re going to burn yourself out.”
“How are the bruises on your legs?” Taehyun asked next, the question gentle but firm, and Soobin blinked—eyes suddenly glassy.
Bruises?
His heart dropped. He hadn’t even known.
Had he really been so absent? So distant? So ignorant?
When had his avoidance stopped being self-preservation and turned into cruelty?
“My legs are fine,” Yeonjun replied with a strained laugh, one that twisted something deep inside Soobin. “I just… God, I think I messed up the workout.”
Of course he did. Of course he blamed himself.
Yeonjun always did. Even when it wasn’t his fault. Even when he was the one suffering.
Soobin sank deeper into the couch, numbness prickling at his fingers. The room around him blurred as guilt pooled hot and acidic in his throat. He’d let Yeonjun get hurt. He hadn’t even noticed the bruises. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t cared, or that’s what it must’ve seemed like.
But he had cared. He still did. Every second of every day, his heart ached for the boy he once held like a secret. And now Yeonjun was out there pushing himself past his limits, breaking his own body, and still—still—trying to laugh through the pain.
And all Soobin could do was sit there, shame burning through his chest, wondering how he had let it get this bad. Wondering if it was too late to fix it. Wondering if Yeonjun would even want to hear from him anymore.
But above all else, Soobin realized this:
He couldn’t keep doing this.
Couldn’t keep pretending Yeonjun was fine.
Couldn’t keep lying to himself that he was fine.
He needed to talk to him.
Because if he didn’t—if he let another moment pass in silence—he was going to lose him forever.
And that thought? That was the only thing that scared him more than the guilt.
So, he tried to do what he could.
Tried to stitch together the courage he had left, gather the fragments of himself into something that resembled bravery, even if it trembled in his chest like a dying thing.
Soobin took a breath. It wasn’t steady. It cracked somewhere near the end, and his throat tightened, as if even his body knew he was overstepping some invisible boundary.
Still, he forced the words out. Like a leap into freezing water.
“Are you okay, Yeonjun…?”
The words were gentle. Almost too gentle, like he was afraid they would shatter on their way out.
Taehyun and Beomgyu both turned toward him, the moment suspended in air like a held breath. Their eyes widened, slowly, cautiously, because they weren’t sure if they had heard him correctly. Was Soobin… talking to Yeonjun? Of his own accord?
That alone was enough to make time slow down.
But on the other end of the call—nothing.
Not a single sound.
And for one harrowing, drawn-out second, Soobin almost regretted speaking at all. His heart dropped like a stone, and shame came surging up his spine, cold and ruthless.
Maybe Yeonjun didn’t want to hear from him.
Maybe the silence was an answer in itself.
Then—finally, softly:
“…Is that Soobin?”
The question was hesitant, uncertain, almost like he thought he might’ve imagined it. And God, that alone nearly broke Soobin in half.
“Yeah,” he murmured, trying not to choke on his own breath. “Are you okay?”
Another pause.
But this time, Soobin caught it—the faintest flicker of something across his own face. He didn’t even know what it was. Desperation, maybe. Hope, fear. All of them. Too many things to name.
But on Beomgyu’s face? That flicker was clearer. A spark. Something loosening in his eyes. A kind of cautious hope, raw and unspoken.
“…I’m… yeah,” Yeonjun finally said. “I’ll be fine.”
Soobin gulped.
The response was too clipped. Too rehearsed. Too… Yeonjun, when he was trying not to fall apart.
And of course it was. Of course he wasn’t going to open up easily. Why would he?
This was the consequence of Soobin’s own choices. Of his silence. Of his absence. Of the cruel, empty spaces he had carved between them when he thought it would hurt less that way.
It hadn’t.
It just hurt differently.
Still, he pushed forward. Careful. Fragile.
“You don’t…” Soobin faltered, words catching on the thorns of his guilt. “You’re not just saying that to keep us from worrying, right? You can tell us if it’s too much.”
His voice cracked softly at the end, and he hated how obvious it was. How raw it sounded. How it exposed the shaking in his hands, the pounding in his heart.
This was the same person he used to laugh with on rooftops at 3 a.m., the same person whose hands he used to memorize like verses. And now he was speaking like they were strangers again—careful, like a child approaching a wounded animal.
He waited. The silence stretched out again, only this time it didn’t feel empty. It felt tense—full of something. Like they both knew exactly what wasn’t being said.
Soobin could hear the hesitation, even across the static. Could feel the weight of everything Yeonjun wasn’t saying. The words trapped behind his teeth. The anger. The ache. The sadness. All of it. And Soobin knew. Knew because he felt it, too.
“…Yeah,” Yeonjun eventually said. “It’ll be okay.”
But there it was again.
The voice that sounded like it had been strangled in its sleep. Like it had more to say but didn’t trust itself to say it.
And Soobin felt it in his bones: Yeonjun was holding something in. Not because he wanted to—but because it wasn’t safe to spill yet. Because Soobin hadn’t given him that space. Not in a long time.
But he would. He had to.
He owed him that, at the very least.
He pressed the phone closer to his chest once the call ended, as if it could somehow help him carry the weight of what had just happened. The weight of what he’d lost. What he still might lose.
But something had shifted. Just a little.
A crack of light.
Soobin glanced toward Beomgyu, who met his eyes silently. There was no teasing now. No smirking. Just a quiet, knowing look. One that said thank you. One that said please keep going.
And Soobin made a choice. Quietly, but firmly.
He was going to talk to Yeonjun.
Not over a phone. Not in a hallway full of cameras. Not in passing, not when they were surrounded by the others.
He was going to talk to Yeonjun for real. When he could finally look him in the eyes and say the things that had been killing him in silence.
Whenever the older boy wasn’t swarmed by his friends, by the noise, by the world trying to pull him away—
Soobin would find the quiet.
And in that quiet, he would speak.
Soobin’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His fingertips were trembling like brittle leaves caught in a windstorm, the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on his chest until even breathing felt like a task he wasn’t qualified for. His heart pounded—no, thundered—in his ears, nearly drowning out the tentative knock he left on the door in front of him.
And still, that knock felt too loud. Too sudden. Too final.
“Mm?” came Yeonjun’s voice from the other side, soft and warm—so painfully warm, like he hadn’t yet realized who it was. But Soobin knew. He knew that warmth would disappear the second the truth settled in.
He swallowed hard, throat dry. “Can I come in?”
There was a pause. A pause too long, too telling. He could imagine the way Yeonjun’s brow furrowed in confusion, his lips pursing in that signature pout of focus as he tried to place the voice. Tried to believe it.
“…Yeah,” Yeonjun finally said. But the warmth was gone now. The softness, the playfulness. In its place sat something distant. Cold. Robotic.
Soobin opened the door, heart in his throat, and stepped inside.
Yeonjun was sitting upright on the bed, his legs buried under a throw blanket, an oversized T-shirt hanging off his frame—too big, not his. Maybe it was borrowed from Changbin. Maybe someone else. Soobin tried not to think about it too hard. Yeonjun only sat rubbing his sprained hand, absentmindedly, the motion small and tired.
His gaze lifted to meet Soobin’s.
But it wasn’t the gaze Soobin remembered. It wasn’t the fond, teasing glint. It wasn’t the quiet softness that used to make Soobin feel like he was the only person in the room. No. It was guarded. Distant. A “let’s-get-this-over-with” kind of look. The kind that made Soobin want to curl into himself and disappear.
Because Yeonjun was hurt. Exhausted. And more than anything, he didn’t understand how similar Soobin felt. How Soobin had been walking around with his ribs cracked open from the pressure of pretending like nothing was wrong.
But here was the difference:
Yeonjun stopped talking to Soobin out of heartbreak, out of anger.
Soobin stopped talking to Yeonjun out of love.
And that love, twisted and gnarled and silenced, was now standing in the middle of a dimly lit dorm room, wondering if it had waited too long.
“What?” Yeonjun asked flatly, watching Soobin’s eyes trail down to the injury. The same injury he felt he had no right to worry about.
Yeonjun let out a humorless laugh. A scoff laced with ice.
“Is this about my hand? It’s fine. No need to worry.”
He lifted the injured hand wobbling it to prove a point, even though it visibly hurt him. Soobin’s gut clenched. His instinct screamed to rush forward, hold it gently, stop him. But the look in Yeonjun’s eyes held him in place like chains.
And for a second, he wanted to take the out. Say that was why he was here. Check on the injury. Nothing more. It would be easier than opening the floodgates which were his feelings towards Yeonjun. Explaining why he so terribly hurt him.
But he didn’t.
“It isn’t about your hand,” he said quietly.
Yeonjun’s expression didn’t shift much. Just a tired sigh, the kind that felt like it came from somewhere so much deeper than frustration. He dropped his hand onto the mattress like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“Then what is it about?”
Soobin drew in a shaky breath. His throat burned, guilt and anxiety clashing like warring armies beneath his skin.
“Us.”
Yeonjun blinked once.
Then he laughed.
But it wasn’t amused. It was cold. Sharp. Like he couldn’t believe the nerve.
“Well, then. There really isn’t much to talk about, is there?” he said, gesturing toward Soobin with the same hand that had once brushed his cheek with reverence, lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You made sure of that.”
Soobin froze.
The words hit like glass to the chest.
Soobin felt them sink in, splintering beneath his ribs.
Every muscle in his body stiffened, his stomach twisted in on itself like wrung fabric. The guilt hit him like a crashing wave.
“Choi Soobin,” Yeonjun began, his voice growing sharp. “Do you know how hard I tried? How fucking hard I tried to talk to you? How many times I came to you—worried, confused—only for you to bat me away like I was a fucking fly? Like I was too much?”
He leaned forward, closer, his voice rising with the ache in his chest.
“You made me feel disgusting. Small. Like I was some burden you couldn’t wait to be rid of. I kept thinking, if you—of all people—couldn’t stand me, then who the hell could? If the leader, our leader, wanted nothing to do with me anymore, what does that say about me? Huh? If you can’t stand me, why would anyone else?”
Soobin’s eyes stung.
His breath caught somewhere in his lungs, and it didn’t want to leave.
“I was already spiraling, Soobin. You knew that. Even before the solo started. Even when it was just an idea floating around—I was scared. I was overwhelmed. And then when it began for real? I fell apart. I fucking fell apart trying to meet everyone’s expectations. I lost every piece of confidence I’d built for myself. I felt like shit, and you—”
Yeonjun’s voice cracked.
“You weren’t there.”
Soobin tried to speak. Tried to say anything. But nothing came out, and his throat burned with unsaid words.
He swallowed thickly, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wanted to say I’m sorry again, but it felt useless. Like a paper umbrella in a hurricane.
Still, the words came, trembling and broken.
“I’m sorry, hyung,” he finally whispered. The words were so quiet they could’ve been mistaken for breath.
Yeonjun flinched.
Then his expression cracked. Lips quivered. Eyes shimmered. And Soobin felt his entire world stop.
“I was so fucking lost. I didn’t understand. I kept waiting, just waiting, for you to turn around. To tell me it wasn’t what I thought. That I wasn’t disgusting. That you still cared.”
Soobin’s world tilted. His heart stuttered
“What?” he choked out. “Disgusting? Why would I… why would I ever think that you were disgusting?”
Because the idea was absurd. Blasphemous. Yeonjun, the most beautiful person Soobin had ever known—in every way—could never be anything less than radiant in his eyes.
And yet… that’s what he had made him feel.
Yeonjun didn’t answer.
Not at first.
He only stared—wide, watery eyes fixed on Soobin like he was still waiting to wake up from some endless, cruel dream. There was something hollow behind them. Something fragile. But beneath that fragile glass was a flicker of desperation—a silent cry bleeding through the cracks.
A plea;
Please… tell me I’m wrong.
His hands began to tremble in his lap, fingers curling into themselves. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, but it didn’t budge. His chest tightened. His vision blurred.
And Soobin—Soobin just stood there, helpless. Useless. Watching the man he loved crumble, not with screams or fury, but with the quiet kind of devastation that looked an awful lot like surrender.
“Yeonjun-hyung…” Soobin’s voice was nearly a whisper, shaking. “Why would I ever find you disgusting?”
Yeonjun let out a sound—some ugly, bitter half-laugh that didn’t even try to hide the way it cracked at the edges. He wasn’t laughing. He was trying not to cry.
“You—” he started, then exhaled sharply, as if the words physically hurt to drag out. “The touching. The teasing. The little comments. You noticed. You realized what it meant. The implications. And then you pulled away.”
He laughed again, quieter this time. Almost mocking himself. “You found it gross.”
Soobin’s face fell.
He didn’t just look surprised—he looked like someone had stabbed a knife through his chest and twisted. And honestly? It felt like it too?
“Is that… is that what you thought?” he whispered, but the words barely left him before the weight of them struck. The implications.
The two words slammed into him like a wave to the gut. He staggered under it, blinking as the blood drained from his face.
And Yeonjun saw it. The shift. The puzzle pieces falling into place far too late.
Soobin’s lips parted in a stunned breath.
“Wait,” he said, voice hoarse. “What implications?”
The air in the room thickened.
Yeonjun’s shoulders stiffened as something cold and bitter crawled up his spine. He stared at Soobin, the disbelief in his eyes slowly morphing into something sharper.
“Don’t play coy, Soobin,” he replied. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” Soobin said, louder this time, more frantic. “I don’t fucking know what you mean and it’s driving me insane.” His fists clenched at his sides, trembling.
Yeonjun stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Like this entire time, they’d been walking parallel paths—close enough to graze fingertips, but never close enough to actually reach each other.
His voice, when he spoke again, was quiet.
Wounded.
“I liked you.”
The world stopped.
Soobin couldn’t breathe.
“I was touchy with you because I wanted to be close. I flirted because I meant it. Because I thought maybe, just maybe, you might like me back. That maybe you saw it too.”
Every syllable landed like a blow to Soobin’s chest. Because that ruined everything. But yet, it also mended everything.
“And when you pulled away, when you started acting cold, I thought… I thought you figured it out. That you realized I wasn’t joking, and it disgusted you. Because what other reason could there possibly be for you to just... just disappear when I got more affectionate, more obvious? What other reason could there possibly—”
But Yeonjun didn’t finish.
Because Soobin moved.
Fast.
Like something inside him finally snapped.
One second Yeonjun was spilling his guts, baring his soul and standing on the edge of some unbearable precipice, and the next, Soobin surged forward and kissed him.
He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let Yeonjun finish that final sentence.
His lips crashed against Yeonjun’s with the force of everything he’d kept buried: the guilt, the love, the torment, the heartbreak. It was messy. Desperate. Like he needed to prove—without words, without hesitation—that Yeonjun had been so wrong.
Yeonjun froze.
His eyes wide, breath caught in his throat like a gasp he forgot to let go of.
But Soobin didn’t stop. He kissed him like he was starving, like he was trying to pour every unsaid truth through his lips. Like he had been aching to do this for years. His hands gripped the sides of Yeonjun’s face, trembling as his thumbs brushed away a tear that hadn’t even finished falling.
Yeonjun melted. His body folded into the kiss with the weight of everything he’d tried so hard to suppress. His eyes slipped shut, and he kissed back like he’d waited too long for this, like he’d dreamed about it too many nights and woken up alone every time.
And still, Soobin didn’t stop.
He kissed him again, and again, like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. Like letting go might send him plummeting.
Only when the tears on both their cheeks blurred into one did Soobin finally, finally pull away. But he didn’t go far—just rested his forehead against Yeonjun’s, breathless and shaking.
“That’s why,” he whispered.
Yeonjun’s eyes fluttered open, red and wet and full of things he didn’t know how to say.
Soobin’s voice cracked.
“That was the reason.”
He laughed, but it was hollow, trembling.
“I didn’t pull away because you disgusted me, Yeonjun. I pulled away because I loved you. And I was terrified that if I let it show… if I let it consume me the way it wanted to, I’d destroy everything. Me. You. The group. Everything.”
His breath hitched.
“But I destroyed it anyway, didn’t I?”
Yeonjun shook his head, more desperate now than he’d ever felt before. His hands cupped Soobin’s cheeks, thumbs frantically brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, as if trying to undo the damage with nothing but trembling fingertips. He didn’t even seem to notice his own tears spilling freely, soaking into Soobin’s shirt like rain through thin cotton. Like grief made visible.
“Maybe you did at first,” he murmured, voice tight and trembling, “but not now. You talked to me. You fixed it—It’s not… it’s not your fault.”
But Soobin couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t accept grace so easily, not when guilt was festering like rot inside his chest. His shoulders crumpled as another sob broke loose, and he dropped his head into his hands, weeping openly, helplessly. The kind of cry that wracked the body and broke the soul in half.
Because he had done this.
He had caused this.
He had let his fear override his heart and it cost them everything.
“No…” he choked out, voice barely human. “No, I did. I was too scared to face my feelings and it hurt you. I left you alone when you needed me. Fuck—hyung, you hurt your leg and your hand and I was too fucking blind to see it.”
Yeonjun’s expression tightened, brows pulling together like the words physically pained him. But he didn’t argue, not immediately. He only shook his head, fiercely, over and over, like he could shake the guilt out of Soobin if he just did it hard enough.
“I hid it for a reason,” he whispered. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“But they knew,” Soobin said, voice breaking. “They all knew about your leg. They knew you were suffering. And I— I didn’t.”
He wanted to scream. Rip himself apart. Rewind time and hold Yeonjun through every moment he’d been alone in the dark, doubting himself.
Yeonjun bit his bottom lip so hard it turned crimson, almost split. He looked like he wanted to argue, but his voice came out softer instead.
“And I’m okay now,” he said. “I don’t… I don’t blame you. Soobin, do you understand how much this conversation healed me?”
His hands moved down, fingers curling over Soobin’s wrists, grounding him.
“Everything I thought about myself… everything I was so afraid of has been lifted off my shoulders.”
Soobin closed his eyes, head still bowed, heart aching. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “And I was the one who made you think it.”
That was the truth he couldn’t forgive himself for.
He had broken the boy who once smiled at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
He had made Yeonjun question his worth. His beauty. His heart.
He had watched the brightest light in his life dim and did nothing—all because he was afraid of how brightly it made him burn.
A long silence stretched between them.
And then,
“Hey,” Yeonjun said, voice a little steadier, a little softer. Soobin lifted his head, eyes red, cheeks blotchy. He looked wrecked.
Yeonjun gave him a small, fragile smile. “You did that because… when something doesn’t work out in your favor, you don’t want to hurt yourself trying to fix something that can't be fixed.”
Soobin blinked at him.
Yeonjun shrugged, thumb brushing over the back of Soobin’s hand. “I didn’t do that. Because I’m willing to put myself through hell for even a glimpse of hope that you might like me back.”
He laughed lightly, self-deprecating and sheepish. “We cope differently. That’s not your fault. We’re just both really fucking stupid.”
That made Soobin laugh, breath hitching on a sob halfway through. And suddenly they were both laughing—broken, fragile sounds that bled into something warmer.
And then Yeonjun reached out, tugged Soobin gently forward until their foreheads met.
“But,” he whispered, “you talked to me. You came to me when you realized how bad it was. That takes courage, Binnie.”
Soobin froze.
The name hit him like a lightning strike. Binnie.
Yeonjun hadn’t called him that in months.
And just like that, Soobin broke all over again. He collapsed forward, arms wrapping tightly around Yeonjun’s waist, holding him like a lifeline. Like if he let go, he’d wake up alone and this would all vanish into a dream he didn’t deserve.
He buried his face in Yeonjun’s shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of his shampoo, the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart.
This was real. It was happening. And not even his most hopeful dreams had ended like this.
Yeonjun’s arms curled around him just as tightly, head tucked over Soobin’s as he held him close, fingers gently carding through his hair.
And then quietly, shyly;
“So… are we like… boyfriends now?” Yeonjun asked, a little breathless. A little giddy.
Soobin pulled back just enough to see his face. The blush on his cheeks. The hopeful sparkle in his still-wet eyes.
He grinned, wiping his own cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Of course. If you wanna be.”
Yeonjun laughed—giggled, really—and buried his face in Soobin’s shoulder to hide his embarrassment. His ears were red, his nose was sniffly, and he looked like he could burst from happiness.
Soobin leaned in, teasing softly. “You’re blushing so much. Is your boyfriend making your heart race?”
“Shut up,” Yeonjun mumbled into his hoodie, laughing through it. “God, you’re so obnoxious already.”
“Mm. But you love me.”
Yeonjun peeked up, eyes shining.
“Yeah. I do,” he whispered.
And Soobin’s smile softened. He leaned in and kissed him again—this time slower, gentler, full of everything unsaid.
“I love you too,” he whispered against Yeonjun’s lips.
Eventually, they curled up together in bed, limbs tangled and hearts stitched together with quiet touches. Soobin pulled Yeonjun into his chest, letting him rest there, warm and safe. Yeonjun nuzzled into him, letting out a sigh that sounded like home.
They shared soft pecks between whispers, promises murmured like lullabies.
Because the love was really never unreciprocated.
Not once.
Not since that day in 2015.