You found him in the hallway.
The party buzzed on behind closed doors — laughter, bass, the clink of bottles — but Seungmin sat slouched against the wall just out of sight, knees drawn up, cup empty at his side.
He looked up at you with glassy eyes and a crooked grin.
“There you are,” he whispered. “I was wondering when you’d come find me.”
You crouched next to him. “You alright?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just tired. And maybe a little too drunk. Or not drunk enough. Can’t tell.”
You touched his shoulder gently.
He stared at your hand like it was something holy.
“You always do that,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
“Touch me like it’s normal. Like I’m yours.” He smiled, but it trembled. “But I’m not. Am I?”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“I know I’m not supposed to say this. I’ve been trying not to say this. For years.” He laughed — but there was no joy in it. Just exhaustion. “But I love you. Not the friend kind. Not the safe kind. The messy, terrifying kind.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, blinking fast, as if that might hold the tears back.
“You’re my best friend. You’re my person. But I…” He swallowed hard. “I’m so stupidly, completely, helplessly in love with you.”
You stared at him, lips parted, heart pounding in your throat.
“And it sucks,” he choked out. “Because I get to have you in every way except the way I want. I get your laughter, your texts, your hugs. I get to know your favorite songs and what you look like when you’re thinking too hard.”
He turned to you, eyes shining now.
“But I don’t get to kiss you. I don’t get to hold your hand when no one’s looking. I don’t get to call you mine.”
Your heart broke a little.
He blinked again — too fast now — and finally one tear fell.
“And I’d take it all back, you know? I’d undo every second of this stupid love if it meant I could just keep being near you without it hurting so damn much.”
He paused.
Then whispered:
“…But I can’t. Because it’s you. It’s always been you.”
The silence after stretched thick.
Heavy.
You didn’t know what to say — and he didn’t ask you to.
He just pressed his palm to your knee, fingers curling slightly, voice soft as glass breaking:
“Please don’t leave. Not yet. I’m not ready to pretend I don’t love you again.”