He remembered the first time he realized he loved you. It wasn’t some dramatic moment on stage or during one of your endless practices with other members — it was quiet. You had just laughed at something ridiculous he said, the kind of laugh that left your eyes crinkling and your shoulders shaking. That sound stuck in his chest, warm and impossible to ignore. From then on, being by your side became natural, like breathing.

The early days of your relationship felt like running downhill, fast and thrilling, with no thought of where the road ended. Late-night ramen, secret smiles across the practice room, the comfort of knowing that when schedules got heavy, he had you waiting at home. You were his balance, his safe place.

When you both decided to live together, it felt like the next step in something unshakable. Jisung thought you were invincible together. You learned the rhythm of sharing space — your coffee in the morning, his late-night gaming, your music bleeding into his lyrics. There were little disagreements, of course, but they ended with laughter or soft apologies, curled together on the couch.

But lately… things shifted. He couldn’t pinpoint when. Maybe it was the fatigue, the pressure, or maybe something in you that he couldn’t reach anymore. The fights began small — misunderstandings over nothing, words spoken too sharply. He noticed the tension, heavy in the air, clinging to everything you touched. He tried to talk, tried to bring it up with careful words.

But every time, you brushed him off: “It’s nothing.” “You’re overthinking.” “You worry too much.”

And he did worry. He worried because he could feel the gap between you growing, and no matter how hard he tried to close it, you pretended it wasn’t there. He hated that. He hated being the only one reaching, knocking, trying to make sense of what you two had become.

Another fight. He didn’t even remember what started it — dishes, maybe, or the way you didn’t look up when he spoke. Voices rose, accusations thrown without weight or reason. He stood there, chest heaving, looking at you as if you were a stranger wearing the face of the person he loved most.

And for the first time, anger pushed him to the edge. His hands clenched at his sides, fists trembling because the urge to break something — anything — was clawing at him. Not you, never you, but the wall, the silence, the indifference.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke, raw and heavy with everything he’d been holding back:

“I’m tired of knocking on closed doors. Maybe we should stop this?”