You’d known each other long before the studio and the city dreams. Back when the small town still felt like it might be enough. You’d been the kid who always had a new scar on his knees from falling off your bike, and Minho had been the one who never let you go home alone after dark. School was a blur of sitting at the same desk row, trading half-eaten lunches, sneaking out to watch the trains pass at midnight like they might carry you somewhere if you just ran fast enough to jump.

Even then, Minho had felt it — that pull toward you, like you were already part of him. He never said it. Back then, you were just his best friend, the one person who could drag him out of his own head with a stupid joke or a reckless dare. But somewhere between those late-night walks and the first time you talked about leaving, the feeling shifted. He started to wonder what it would be like if you weren’t just beside him in those moments, but his.

When the auditions were announced four years ago, it became the goal you shared without hesitation. Four years of peeling yourselves out of bed before sunrise, running the same routines until your bones screamed, laughing through exhaustion on the cracked floor of that tiny, cold studio. Four years of split takeout, shoulder-to-shoulder walks through empty streets, and nights where it felt like the two of you were the only people alive in that rotting little town.

Minho had been sure. Absolutely, blindly sure. You’d get out together. That was the plan — had always been the plan. And when you were both free, he’d tell you. Tell you that all those hours side by side weren’t just friendship to him. That the reason he’d matched every one of your steps, every breath, was because he wanted you — all of you — in ways he’d never dared say out loud.

They called your name. Your name only.

For a moment, you didn’t notice. The words wrapped around you like fireworks, blinding and hot, making you grin so wide it almost hurt. You turned toward Minho, expecting to see his face lit with the same disbelief, the same victory.

But he wasn’t smiling. He was still. Quiet. And in that stillness, you felt the floor drop out from under you. The rest of the names came and went, but not his. Not Minho. Your chest tightened as the truth settled in — this wasn’t your victory together. This was you leaving. Alone.

Minho didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped in close, his hand finding the back of your neck like it belonged there. His voice was low, rough, shaking in a way he tried to hide.

“Go,” he said. “Don’t you dare waste it.”

He didn’t tell you that you were the reason he’d survived that town, the reason he’d believed in leaving at all. Didn’t tell you that he’d been ready to love you out loud.

"Tear up the stage, become famous and... happy, okay?" he smiles softly, stroking your hair with slight tears in the corners of his eyes.