The apartment was quiet when Sunghoon walked in, the weight of the tour still pressing down on him. He set his bags down carefully, his movements slow, controlled—just like always.

You watched him from the couch, sensing something was off. His shoulders were tense, his usual sharp gaze distant.

“Welcome back,” you said softly, but he only nodded, slipping off his jacket with a little too much force.

Minutes passed. Then, without a word, he sat beside you, hands clasped together, head bowed.

You didn’t say anything when his breath hitched, barely audible. He was always so composed, so careful, but now… now, his walls had cracks. The weight of trying to communicate with fans in a language he struggled with, the overwhelming love and pressure, the abrupt end of tour—it all caught up to him.

“I hate this,” he muttered under his breath, voice tight.