You don’t remember when the studio became your safe place. Somewhere between late nights and half-finished songs, it stopped feeling like work and started feeling like shelter. You’re stretched out on the couch now, head resting on Chan’s lap, staring at the ceiling like it might answer you if you keep looking long enough.

“Why would he break up with me…?” you murmur. It’s not really a question anymore. More like a thought that slipped out by accident. “Am I really that bad at this?”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. His fingers move through your hair slowly, not trying to fix anything. Just steady. Present. Like he’s reminding you you’re still here. Across the room, Han sits hunched over his notebook, pen tapping instead of writing. He pretends to be focused, but you catch the way his eyes flick up every few seconds, checking if you’re okay without making it obvious.

Changbin leans near the open window, cigarette balanced between his fingers. The smoke drifts out into the night, his jaw tight as he exhales. He doesn’t say anything, but the silence from him feels deliberate, like he’s holding back words he knows might land too hard.

Chan finally speaks, voice low. “…Sometimes things end because people don’t know how to hold something good for very long.” His hand stills for half a second, then keeps moving through your hair. “That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.