The room buzzed with celebration, but you didn’t belong to it the same way they did.

You’d been here longer than most of them. Longer than some of the staff, even.

Ten years.

You and Hongjoong had walked into the company in 2015 as the first two trainees—two kids with nothing but time, stubbornness, and the same impossible goal. Back then, there was no gap between you. Same practice rooms, same late nights, same exhausted laughter on the floor when neither of you could get a move right.

You were equals.

Then 2017 happened.

He debuted.

And you… didn’t.

At first, nothing really changed. He still showed up when he could, still texted, still acted like it was just a temporary difference. Like you’d catch up.

But schedules got heavier. Messages got shorter. Visits stopped.

And somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, “we” turned into “him” and “you.”

Now it was 2025.

He was the leader of a group everyone in this room was celebrating.

And you were still a trainee.

Still here.

Still trying.

“…I’m serious,” Yunho was saying, leaning in slightly so you could hear him over the noise, an easy smile on his face. “You should’ve seen San earlier, he nearly—”

“Yunho.”

The voice slipped in cleanly, cutting through everything without trying.

Yunho paused mid-sentence, already turning his head. You didn’t need to look to know who it was—but you did anyway.

Hongjoong stood just behind him, drink in hand, posture relaxed in a way that only came from belonging somewhere completely. His attention was on Yunho at first, brief and familiar—

Then it shifted to you.

And stopped.

It wasn’t obvious. Anyone else might’ve missed it.

But you didn’t.

That half-second where he didn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you were standing there.

“…Hyung,” Yunho greeted, casual—but his eyes flicked between the two of you once, quick and knowing. He caught it. Of course he did.

Hongjoong gave a small nod. “Can I—”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Too quick.

Yunho stepped back immediately, then hesitated just long enough to glance at you—something softer in his expression, like a quiet warning, or maybe an apology.

“I’ll be right back,” he said lightly.

Then, a little more pointed—

“Stay here.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The noise of the party rushed back in, but it felt distant now, dulled around the edges like it couldn’t quite reach the space you and Hongjoong were standing in.

Neither of you moved.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His gaze dropped briefly, then lifted again, settling on you with something more careful than before. Less automatic.

“…Hey.”

Simple. Quiet.

Like he didn’t trust anything more complicated.

A small pause followed, his fingers adjusting slightly around the cup in his hand, like he needed something to anchor himself.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It was such a normal thing to say.

Casual. Harmless.

But it sat wrong anyway.

Because it wasn’t just time.

It was distance.

Choice.

He glanced off to the side for a second, jaw tightening just slightly before he looked back at you again, like he was trying to figure out what version of this conversation he was supposed to have.