The city lights outside his apartment blurred into streaks of gold, but Hyunjin wasn’t looking at them. He was staring at a single Polaroid—two kids on a summer afternoon, grinning like the world was theirs. You and him.

It had been months since the fight. Your voice still echoed in his head—shaking, frustrated, hurt. He’d wanted to call right after, to explain, to take it all back. But his debut had swallowed him whole: rehearsals, interviews, stage after stage. Each time his phone lit up, he hoped it was you. Each time it wasn’t, the hollow ache grew deeper.

Hyunjin pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, thinking about that day under the rain when he almost told you the truth—that somewhere between childhood games and late-night talks, you had become the center of his universe.

Now, the only place he dared to confess it was in the quiet space between songs, where no one but the walls could hear.

Tonight, though… he typed your name into his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button, heart hammering. He wanted to tell you he missed you. He wanted to tell you you were still his favorite person, even in the whirlwind of his dreams.

But the words never left his lips. Instead, he let the screen go dark—afraid that hearing your voice might make him fall apart completely.

Somewhere out there, you were moving on. And he was still standing in the space between “I’m sorry” and “I love you.”

Hyunjin’s whisper broke the silence, almost like he was afraid the night would overhear: “If you knew how much I still need you… would you come back?”