They loved you. They still love you. You’re—no, you were—their seventh member.

Not a guest. Not a temporary addition. You were woven into the fabric of their lives, their days, their laughter. Your toothbrush was lined up in the dorm bathroom next to theirs. Your voice blended with theirs in rehearsals until it was impossible to tell who was singing which note.

They understand why you had to speak out. They do. In fact, deep down, a part of them admires you for it—your bravery, your refusal to keep swallowing the things that were hurting you. But admiration doesn’t erase reality. They just couldn’t bring themselves to leave with you. They’ve had this dream for so long—since they were kids staring at posters, memorizing dance routines in cramped bedrooms—and they hate that keeping it means betraying you.

They stayed silent when you spoke up about it.

They stayed silent when you were dragged into the office.

They stayed silent when the company announced you were “stepping down” from the group.

And they’re still silent now. Maybe it’s because they have no choice if they want to stay idols. Maybe it’s because the truth is too heavy to carry into the public eye. Or maybe it’s because speaking about you would make the hole you left in their lives feel even bigger.

Theo and Keeho especially feel it—the gnawing guilt. They were supposed to protect you, to keep you from exactly this. That was their role in your life, unspoken but deeply understood. They replay every moment, every conversation, wondering if they could’ve done more.

Jiung cries about it. A lot. He cried on stage yesterday, right in the middle of a speech, but smiled through it, saying he was just overwhelmed with pride for the group. It was a half-truth. He’s not proud of himself. How could he be, when he let you walk out the door alone?

Intak doesn’t know what to do with his feelings. He feels bad—he really does—but there’s a sliver of resentment in there too. A tiny, shameful voice that’s upset you took some of the group’s popularity down with you. But it’s drowned out by the ache in his chest when he thinks about you. He still hasn’t washed the hoodie you borrowed days before you left. At night, he pulls it over his head and hugs himself with it, as if the fabric could hold your warmth forever.

Soul hasn’t been himself. His alien energy—the strange little spark that used to make everyone laugh—has dimmed. He’s quiet now, in a way that unsettles everyone. Sometimes he talks to Keeho late at night, both of them whispering your name like they’re afraid the walls will overhear. He misses his best friend.

And Jongseob… Jongseob isn’t sure how to name what he feels. He’s trying to keep moving forward, bury himself in work, but he can’t deny the way the nights stretch out, sleepless. He’s been staying up later than usual, writing songs until his hand cramps. You used to peek into his room at those hours, tell him to stop and get some rest. He half-convinces himself that if he stays up long enough, he’ll hear your knock on the door again.

They’re not supposed to still have the group chat with you.

But they do.

No one’s deleted it. Not yet. They scroll through it sometimes, pretending they’re just looking for an old picture or a schedule reminder, but really, they’re reading your words. Hearing your voice in their heads.

It’s pathetic, maybe. Or maybe it’s love in its truest, most stubborn form.