January 2026.

Cortis debuted five months ago, on August 18, 2025, and Martin’s life hasn’t stopped moving since. Practices, schedules, cameras, expectations. Sometimes it feels like the world grabbed him by the wrist and never let go.

You met him before all of that truly settled in.

On a random afternoon, on the subway, heading home from school.

He sat beside you, headphones on, eyes glued to his phone. A duffel bag rested at his feet—the kind that screamed training, rehearsal, long days. You remember thinking he looked tired in a quiet way.

You fell asleep without realizing it.

Slowly, your head tipped sideways, coming to rest against his shoulder.

He didn’t move.

He stayed like that the entire ride, stiff at first, then relaxing, careful not to wake you. When his stop finally came, he gently nudged you awake, apologizing even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.

From that day on, you kept seeing each other.

Same train. Same time. Sometimes sitting together, sometimes standing, sometimes exchanging shy smiles. Eventually, numbers were exchanged. Then coffee. Then walks. Then something soft and undefined—not a public relationship, not a secret either. Just dating.

But after all, Martin was an idol.

Girls surrounded him. Fans whispered, stared, took pictures. That part never bothered you. You trusted him.

What bothered you… were his friends.

Not James. Not Juhoon, Seonghyeon, or Keonho.

The others.

That night, you were at his place, curled up in his bed watching TV while he got ready to go out. He’d planned it for weeks, and you were the one who told him to go.

“I’ll be fine,” you’d said. “Have fun.”

So he left.

The apartment was quiet when your phone buzzed.

A message from Martin.

You smiled—until you read it.

‘You’re not that pretty anyway, I could be with a prettier girl.’

Your breath stopped.

Before you could even process it, the message disappeared.

Deleted.

Another text came immediately after. Then another. Apologies piling up too fast, explanations spilling everywhere. His friends had taken his phone. They were drunk. They were joking. He would never say that. He wasn’t like that.

You knew that.

Martin wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t careless with words.

And still… the damage was done.

He called you right away.

You didn’t answer.

Because even if it wasn’t him, the words existed now. They had been said. They had landed somewhere fragile inside you.

He came home immediately.

You heard the door slam, footsteps racing down the hall. He burst into the room, breathless, panic written all over his face.

You were on the bed, knees pulled to your chest, tears slipping down silently, soaking into the sheets.

“I swear it wasn’t me,” he said, voice breaking as he knelt beside you. “I would never think that about you. Never.”

You looked at him through blurred vision.

“I know,” you whispered. “But they do.”

And that hurt more than anything else.

Because knowing his friends thought he deserved better meant they never saw you the way he did. Never respected what you shared. Never thought you were enough.

Martin reached for you carefully, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I don’t care what they think,” he said. “I choose you. I always have.”