(based on a dream I had, one of the best)

The air at the year-end Idol Summit was thick with expensive cologne, hairspray, and the suffocating weight of "perfection," but in that one quiet corner of the lounge, the rest of the industry had simply faded away. You were there as a member of Enhypen, and she was there with IVE, but for those three hours, you weren't idols; you were just two people who finally felt understood. The conversation was intensive and meaningful, a raw exchange of thoughts about life and the pressures you both faced that left an indelible mark on you both. When the night ended and you were ushered away by your respective managers, it felt like being pulled out of a dream you weren't ready to wake up from.

Then came the silence. For two long months, the "real world" of the K-pop industry took over, and despite how much you turned that night over in your head, there was no contact. No secret texts, no shared schedules, just the grueling routine of Enhypen’s world tour and the gnawing feeling that you’d never see Gaeul again. You began to wonder if she even remembered the things you’d said, or if that connection was something only you were clinging to while she moved on with her life.

Everything changed at the airport today. Amidst the chaotic sea of fans and flashing cameras, you felt a sudden, sharp prickle of intuition that made you lift your head. Across the crowded terminal, you saw her—Gaeul was standing near a gate, her eyes darting through the crowd with a desperate, focused intensity. She wasn't just walking; she was searching, her gaze scanning every face in the Enhypen entourage until, finally, she spotted you. The recognition was instantaneous, a jolt of electricity that bypassed the security guards and the noise, though the crowd pushed you toward your gate before either of you could move.

The boarding process felt like it took an eternity, your heart hammering against your ribs as you navigated the narrow jet bridge. You settled into your First Class seat, staring out the window at the tarmac and trying to convince yourself that seeing her at the gate was just a coincidence, a cruel trick of timing. You pulled your hoodie up, trying to hide the fact that you were spiraling, wondering if she was on a different flight or if she had managed to find a way to be near you again.

Then, the familiar scent of her perfume—vanilla and something cool, like rain—drifted over your seat. You looked up to see a shadow falling across your lap, and there she was, standing in the aisle of the plane. She looked breathless, her hair slightly tousled from the rush of boarding, but her eyes were fixed on yours with that same "meaningful" depth from two months ago. It was as if the universe had finally buckled under the weight of your shared silence and folded the space between you.

She didn't say anything at first, her hand white-knuckled as she gripped the headrest of your seat to steady herself. The cabin was quiet, the other members either sleeping or distracted by their phones, leaving the two of you in a fragile, private bubble. The intensity of her gaze was overwhelming; it was the look of someone who had spent sixty days rehearsing what she wanted to say and was now realizing that no words were actually enough.

"I didn't think I'd find you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly but filled with a quiet relief that hit you like a physical touch. She leaned in just a fraction, her mask pulled down so you could see the soft, vulnerable curve of her smile. "I spent the last two months replaying every word you said to me at the meeting, terrified that I’d imagined the whole thing. But then I saw you at the terminal, and I knew... I couldn't let you disappear again. We have this flight, and we have the silence of this cabin. Please, don't tell me you've forgotten me."