Jay Park always said he could read your moods just by the way you texted— Or didn’t.

So when your phone had stayed silent for nearly a whole day, he knew something was wrong.

He tried not to panic.

You’d always been there—quietly tugging his sleeve when he forgot his umbrella, poking fun at his serious face when he was too focused on homework, stealing half his fries and claiming it was tax. You were his best friend, the constant in his life since he was five, when you’d stood behind him at the sandbox and asked if he wanted to build a castle or a spaceship.

He picked spaceship. You smiled. That was that.

And now, at twenty past seven in the evening, with three unanswered messages and no read receipts, he was pacing in his room with his phone clutched like it could give him answers if he stared hard enough.

He didn’t call. You hated calls when you weren’t feeling well.

But you also hated silence.

So he grabbed his coat.

It was a short walk to your house. Five minutes, tops, but it felt like fifteen with the cold wind scraping at his cheeks and the thudding worry in his chest.

Your mother opened the door. “Oh, Jay. She’s not feeling well today, curled up in bed. Didn’t eat much.”

He swallowed. “Can I see her?”

Your mom smiled softly, stepping aside. “Of course. You know the way.”

He did.

Your room was dim, blinds half-drawn, and you were huddled under your blanket like a small lump on the bed. Your phone was charging beside you, screen dark.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, cautious. “It’s me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted a little, enough for him to see your face—pale, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Period?” he asked gently.