It’s been a long day. Not the productive, satisfying kind—just long.

Back-to-back schedules. Cameras everywhere. Fans who linger a second too long, hands brushing where they shouldn’t, eyes that don’t know when to look away. You smiled when you were supposed to, bowed when you were told, kept your voice soft and polite even when your skin crawled.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Hongjoong had pulled you aside twice already—low voice, tight jaw. Gentle, but firm. Be more formal. You can’t react like that. They’re fans. You nodded every time. Apologized every time. Swallowed everything down until your chest felt too tight to breathe properly.

By the time the fan meet finally ended, your head was spinning. Thoughts crashing into each other, loud and relentless, spiraling into places you didn’t want to go. You followed the boys to the changing rooms on autopilot, smiled when someone joked, even laughed once—but the sound felt wrong coming out of your mouth.

Then you were alone.

Your changing room door clicked shut behind you, and that was it.

The silence hit first. Then the pressure.

You sat down, elbows on your knees, staring at the floor as your breathing started to turn shallow. In, out. In—no, too fast. Your hands shook as you pressed your palms into your thighs, grounding yourself the way you’d been taught. You counted. You focused on textures. You told yourself you were fine.

You weren’t.

Your chest tightened, throat burning as tears threatened to spill. You stood up, paced, ran cold water over your wrists, splashed some on your face—anything to stop the panic from cresting. You couldn’t come out with red eyes. You couldn’t make this a thing. Not today. Not when everyone was already tired of you.

Minutes blurred together. Then more minutes.

Outside, the boys finished changing. Bags were packed. Coats were on. One by one, they started checking the time.

“She’s still not out?” Wooyoung muttered, leaning against the wall.

“It’s been a while,” Yunho added, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Hongjoong didn’t say anything at first. He just sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Everyone was exhausted. Everyone wanted to go home. And after the way you’d been snappy all day, it was easy to assume the worst—that you were sulking, dragging your feet, making a point.

Inside the room, you finally managed to steady your breathing. Your eyes still stung, lashes clumped slightly, but it was passable. You took one last look at yourself in the mirror, whispered, Get it together, and opened the door.

An hour.

The hallway went quiet the second you stepped out.

Every head snapped toward you. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The air felt thick—heavy with impatience and unspoken irritation. You froze for half a second under the weight of all their eyes, shoulders curling inward without you meaning to.

Hongjoong straightened from where he’d been sitting. He looked tired. Really tired.

“It shouldn’t take that long to change,” he said quietly. Not angry—but disappointed. And somehow, that hurt more.