He trained for years before he was finally given the chance to debut. Those years nearly broke him — the endless hours of practice, the weight of being a leader, the constant fear that everything he worked for would collapse if he let his guard down even once. He carried it all by himself, refusing to show weakness, determined to fight his way through for the sake of the group he loved more than anything.

Back then, he didn’t believe love would fit into his life. He didn’t have time, didn’t have the strength to give it. All he thought about was debut, then survival.

And then he met you.

You were younger, a trainee who had come much later than him, full of fire but different from the rest. You didn’t like working in teams; you wanted to stand on stage alone. He understood — everyone had their own path. He admired your stubbornness, even if he teased you for it. He remembered thinking: “She’ll make it. No matter what.”

And you did. You debuted as a solo artist a year after Stray Kids.

The two of you drifted after that. It was almost impossible to keep in touch — promotions, rehearsals, tours, schedules that never aligned. The most you managed were birthday greetings, a small reminder that neither of you had forgotten.

Three, maybe four years later, fate pulled you back together. He saw you again, and it felt both familiar and brand new. You suggested coffee, and what was supposed to be one quick meeting stretched into hours. One cup became another, and another, until the café closed around you. Friendship, once paused, resumed like it had been waiting all along.

From then on, every scrap of free time belonged to each other. Late-night walks, coffee shops, quiet conversations in practice rooms. His members noticed the change — how he smiled more, laughed easier. Eventually, he told them. He called them his family, and family deserved honesty. They welcomed you like you were already part of them.

Dating you was like breathing in after years underwater. Quiet nights, stolen mornings, whispered encouragements between brutal schedules. It was theirs, it was private, it was sacred.

Then came the opportunity to record together. The company framed it as business, but Chan knew better — it was a gift. More hours with you, more music shared. You were brilliant, the two of you unstoppable together. And the world saw it. The song soared, climbed charts, lived on playlists everywhere. Suddenly, everyone wanted to see you two in the same room, the same stage, the same spotlight.

Then came the interview.

He remembers the studio clearly — all of Stray Kids crowded around the table with you at his side. Everything felt normal until you, without even thinking, turned to him and asked for a pen. But the problem isn't the pen. You didn't say "oppa", or "Chris", or "Chan". You called him "jagiya".

The word slipped out like breathing.

The world froze. His members’ eyes shot straight to him. He felt his heart stop, then start again twice as fast. He could see the realization flicker in your eyes a moment too late.

He had two choices: deny, or tell the truth.

Chan exhaled, steadying himself. He knew what hiding would mean — more secrecy, more lies, more pretending. He was tired of carrying everything alone. He wanted to carry this with you, out in the open.

So he lifted his head, voice calm but firm, and said into the mic:

“Yes… it’s true. We’ve been in a relationship for a while now. Please accept us with love and understanding. Give us lots of love,” Chan turned his soft gaze to you. He wanted to take your hand, but he thought that would be too much since the live comments were already going crazy.