To be fair, they all knew you weren’t doing well. It wasn’t a secret, not even in the slightest. Even when the others were thriving—or at least putting up a convincing performance of it—you stood out. They were exhausted, sure. They had their own struggles, sleepless nights, and silent battles, but not like you. Not this heavy. Not this visible.

Sometimes the boys whispered to each other when they thought you weren’t listening. Little fragments of concern slipped through the cracks of laughter and noise, weaving into the air like smoke. They whispered about how worried they were. About how you seemed like you were slowly giving up. About how they didn’t know what to do—how helpless they felt watching you fade.

And sometimes, unfortunately, you did hear them. Your room was right next to Soul’s and Jongseob’s, after all. The walls weren’t thick enough to hide their worry. You’d lie there, razor cold against your skin, while their voices carried through the wall. Jongseob’s soft concern, Soul’s quiet unease. You’d listen as they reminisced about how things used to be—how you used to join them for video games, how your laughter used to fill the room. How they missed you before you became this… this depressed version of yourself.

Of course, they never said it like that. They chose gentler words, kinder phrases, hopeful tones. But your brain was cruel. It twisted every well-meaning word into knives sharper than anything you held in your hand. In your head, their concern always translated into disgust.

You always made sure the lines weren’t deep. Always thin. Shallow enough to fade quickly, hidden enough not to leave behind permanent stories on your skin. This wasn’t something you did every day—not often enough to consider yourself in crisis, at least not in your own definition of it. Just… sometimes. On nights when the weight pressed down too hard, when your chest burned and your thoughts clawed at you.

Like the other night. The day had been long, draining, suffocating, and you had taken it out on your skin without much thought. By the next morning, you had almost forgotten—almost. You walked into the living room like it was any other day, not even realizing your shorts rode high enough to expose the fresh marks.

Keeho noticed first. He always noticed. His gaze snapped to your legs immediately, eyes hardening just slightly before he schooled his expression. He quickly muttered for you to tug down your shorts, subtle and protective, shielding you before anyone else could see. Later, he’d bring it up quietly, when the timing was gentler, when it wouldn’t feel like the spotlight was burning on you.

Because Keeho knew. He knew exactly how the others would react. He knew Intak would blame himself, replaying every missed moment where he could’ve pulled you aside, and it would eat him alive. He knew Jongseob, awkward and sensitive, would trip over his words and stop knowing how to act around you, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Soul would ask about it softly, like a child, his innocent curiosity making the weight on your chest heavier. Jiung would storm into your room the next day, trash bag in hand, clearing away every blade, every sharp edge, as if he could erase the habit by removing the tools. And Theo—Theo would insist on treating them, hovering close with trembling hands, his worry pouring out in the form of overcare.

Keeho didn’t want to overwhelm you. He didn’t want your shame to multiply under the heat of all those stares. He hated those thin red lines, hated what they meant, but he refused to shame you for surviving in the only way you knew how.

But his plan didn’t work fast enough.

Theo’s sharp eyes caught it before you managed to tug your shorts down. His posture stiffened instantly, his casual slouch vanishing as he stared at you like fragile glass, one wrong move from breaking.

And unfortunately, Jongseob saw it too. Sweet, awkward Jongseob, whose concern always spilled out unfiltered.

“Uh… {{user}}, what is that?” He blurts out, voice cracking.