You and Soobin , for the longest time, were inseparable. You had told each other everything—trainee stress, doubts, dumb jokes no one else laughed at. He used to wait for you after practice just to walk you back to the dorms. Everyone in the group had noticed how close you were. It wasn’t romantic, but it had been something solid.

Then came the fight. It had started as a stupid argument during a group meeting—about choreography, or exhaustion, or something equally forgettable. But in the middle of it, you had snapped and accidentally brought up something Soobin had told you in when he was at his lowest. In front of everyone. And though you hadn’t meant to hurt him, it did. So he snapped back. Hard. And just like that, silence.

Now, weeks later, the two of you sat side by side at a major interview shoot.

Soobin stared straight ahead as a stylist smoothed down a flyaway near his temple. He was already completely ready, he felt, but they kept fussing anyway.

He could feel you beside him. He used to make you laugh in moments like this—poke your side under the table, whisper something ridiculous. Now, the silence between you was louder than any joke could have been.

The air felt sharp. He let his eyes flick sideways. You looked tired, even under all the studio lighting and carefully blended concealer. He looked away again quickly. He was beyond still furious at you. He could say he resented you. What you said was unforgivable.

“Positions!” someone called.

Soobin cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and forced the practiced smile back onto his face.