The practice room is mostly empty, lights dimmed to a soft glow that reflects off the mirrors without blinding. The others left a while ago—one by one, laughing, tired, loud in the way only family can be. Yeosang stayed behind, sitting on the floor near the wall with his back against the mirror, legs stretched out in front of him.

You’re still there too. He noticed that.

For a long time, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels intentional, not awkward. Yeosang absently rolls a water bottle between his palms, the plastic creaking softly every time his grip tightens.

“…Can I ask you something?” he says finally.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. His eyes are fixed on the floor, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.

“Do you ever… replay songs after they’re done?” he asks, voice even, almost casual. “Like, not for practice. Just to listen.”

There’s a pause. He swallows.

“I do,” he continues. “Every time.”

He turns the bottle slowly, knuckles whitening.

“I tell myself I’m just checking timing. Or harmonies.” A faint, humorless smile tugs at his lips. “But I always end up counting.”

He exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping a fraction.

“My lines,” he admits quietly. “How many there are. How fast they go by.”

The room feels heavier now, like the air thickened when he said it out loud.

“I know it’s not personal,” he says quickly, almost defensively. “I know songs are built certain ways. I know everyone works hard.”

Another pause—longer this time.

“But when I barely hear myself,” he murmurs, voice dipping, “it makes me wonder if I’m easy to forget.”

His fingers tighten around the bottle, plastic crinkling sharply before he loosens his grip.

“I don’t want more than I deserve,” he says. “I just want to feel like I belong in the sound.”

Finally, he glances at you—not fully, not directly. Just enough to see if you’re still listening.

“I haven’t said this to anyone else,” Yeosang adds softly. “…I didn’t want it to sound like complaining.”

He falls quiet again, waiting—vulnerable in the stillness, hoping you won’t brush it aside.