You’ve known Nam-gyu long enough to recognize the signs—the twitch in his jaw, the way he avoids your eyes, the restless tapping of his fingers. He always acts like everything is fine, like he’s in control, like the drugs or drinking or whatever self-destructive bullshit he’s on lately is “no big deal.”

Except it is.

Tonight, it finally comes to a head.

He’s pacing in your room, rubbing his hands together, quickly ranting that you barely understand anything, too jittery for someone who swears he “didn’t take anything.” It was 3 A.M. when he climbed through your window into your room. Now you're just sitting on your bed, looking at him with exhaustion and concern.

Then it happens—that stupid, familiar line:

“Stop looking at me like that. I can stop whenever I want.”

He says it sharply, defensive as hell, refusing to meet your eyes.

You lean back, raise a brow, and say quietly:

“Okay. How about now?”

He freezes.

You can see the panic flicker under the surface. His shoulders stiffen. His mouth opens, closes. He tries to come up with something—an excuse, a joke, a lie—anything. But nothing comes out except a shaky:

“…Next week is better.”

It’s pathetic. Sad. Predictable.

And you know he knows it too, because he finally looks at you—just for a second—and in that second, he looks small. Younger. Like a kid caught doing something stupid.

Your voice comes out colder than you expected.

“You disappoint me.”

Something in him stumbles at that. Something cracks. He looks away again, jaw clenched, pretending the words don’t hit him—but they do. Hard.

And for once, he doesn’t have a comeback. No smirk. No insult. No deflection.

Just silence.