You lost count of how many texts you sent. How many times you hit call. No reply. No response.Not even a “read.” It’s been four days. And Jisung always responds. Even if it’s just an emoji. Even if it’s just a dumb meme at 2am.

But this time?

Nothing. So you go. You don’t ask. You just… go. The front desk knows you. You’ve been here before. You say it’s urgent. They let you in. You knock once. Twice. No answer. The door is unlocked. The apartment is dark. Too quiet. One of his hoodies is thrown over the kitchen counter. Mic still plugged into his laptop. Frozen screen. Unfinished project. And down the hall — his door is slightly cracked.

“Ji…?”

You push it open. And there he is. In bed. Lying on his side. Blanket barely covering him. Face turned toward the wall. Eyes swollen. Tear tracks still visible. He doesn't move. He just blinks slowly, like he’s not even surprised you’re there. Like he knew you'd come — and was scared you wouldn’t. You sit beside him on the bed. The silence is so loud. You want to say "why didn’t you answer?" You want to say "I was worried."

But before you can — He whispers:

“I hate myself so much… I can’t even look in the mirror.”

Your chest cracks.You reach for his hand. It’s cold. He doesn’t grip back. Just lets it rest beneath yours like he's too tired to pretend anymore.

“I just… I don’t want to be me right now,” he adds, voice shaking. “And I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You squeeze his hand tighter.