Jay never hid Nanyoung from you.

He never flinched when you asked, “Was she kind?” “She was,” he’d say. “But not… you.”

And for a while, that was enough.

Until one night — after the tour in Seoul, after all the stage lights and glitter and hotel rooms with room service you barely touched — you saw a note in his lyric book.

A song. Just four lines. Untitled. Unfinished.

Nanyoung.

The way your name never had to be written. Because every other page was you. Scribbled and starred and lined with chords.

But something about that one moment — something about the untouched note, the frozen words — it haunted you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just started… fading.

You skipped meals. Told him you were just tired. Folded smaller into the couch when he reached for you. Pulled your sleeves over your wrists.

And Jay noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed you.

“Baby,” he murmured one day, brushing your hair back gently, “you’re shrinking.”

You laughed, all teeth, but your eyes didn’t sparkle. “That’s what happens when people aren’t fed songs.”

He froze.

You regretted it immediately, but it was too late. The silence was sharp. You stood, tried to walk away.

But he grabbed your wrist.

“I wrote one song about her,” he whispered, almost like it hurt to say. “Because she was part of a chapter. A calm one. She was winter.”

You didn’t look at him. “And I?”

“You,” Jay said, tugging you closer, voice cracking like vinyl, “are everything I didn’t know I could survive.”

He kissed your hand. Held it like it was glass. His touch trailing softly over your wrist — bones now sharper, skin thinner.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he whispered. “Don’t starve just because I used ink once. I used oceans for you.”

You bit your lip. “But you loved her first.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “But I love you forever.”

Then came the flood.

The next morning, the studio was a war zone. You came home to a living room littered with bags — things thrown out. Polaroids, sweaters, love letters, ticket stubs. All of it, hers. Burned or boxed.

All except your things.

You opened the bedroom and nearly wept.

Your scarf — hung carefully on the bedpost. The sketch he drew of you — framed on the wall. A new journal — already filled with lyrics, every page starting with your name.

And him.

Jay was on the bed, curled over your pillow, wearing your oversized sweater — the pink one he said smelled like strawberry soap and sleep. Your shirt was bundled in his arms like a lifeline.

His headphones were on, replaying one thing:

“Hey, bumblebee… it’s me. Love you. Can’t talk right now.”

Your voicemail. Again and again. On loop.

He was crying. Quiet, broken sounds, mumbling your name like a spell.

You walked over, wordless. Climbed beside him.

He pulled you against his chest like something fragile. His hands trembling as they traced your smaller frame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “I should’ve burned it all sooner. I should’ve reminded you… you’re not just another girl.”