It’s late enough that the dorm feels hollowed out, the noise of the day finally drained away. One lamp is on in the living room, soft light catching dust in the air. Hongjoong sits at the table with his laptop closed, posture a little too straight, like he hasn’t fully relaxed all night.

He’s listening. Fully.

At first, his expression doesn’t change much—just a faint crease between his brows as you talk. The story unfolds slowly: rehearsal, tension, confusion. The way things spiraled when they shouldn’t have. He nods once or twice, following along.

Then you tell him you were the only one pulled aside.

His eyes flick up.

Not sharp—just startled. Like something inside him shifted out of place.

He doesn’t interrupt as you keep going. About standing there alone. About how you barely had anything to do with it. About how everyone else was already gone by the time the scolding ended.

His jaw tightens. He swallows.

When you say that it changed the way you saw things—that it was the first time you realized how easy it was for you to be singled out—his gaze drops to the table. His hands flatten against the wood, fingers spread like he needs the grounding.

There’s a long pause.

“…I didn’t know,” he says quietly.

His voice wavers on the last word, barely noticeable, but it makes him stop. He inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales, measured, like he’s trying to keep himself together.

Another silence.

He lifts one hand and presses his thumb to the corner of his eye, wiping quickly, almost impatiently, like it’s an inconvenience. When he looks back down, his lashes are wet.

“I thought…” He trails off, swallowing again.

Hongjoong leans back in his chair, head tipping up for a second as he stares at the ceiling. He blinks a few times—too many, too deliberate. When he brings his gaze back down, tears have slipped free anyway, rolling soundlessly down his cheeks.

He wipes them away again. Slower this time.

His shoulders rise and fall with a careful breath. Then another.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he says at last, barely audible. His voice quivers, so he stops speaking altogether, lips pressing together as he exhales through his nose.

A tear drips off his chin.

He bows his head, forearms resting on the table now, hands loosely clasped like he’s holding himself in place. He stays like that for a while, just breathing, eyes shut, tears soaking into his sleeves as he rubs at them again and again.

When he finally looks at you, his eyes are red, glassy—but steady. Hurt contained, not gone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It comes out rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “I should’ve seen it.”