The apartment smells like takeout containers left too long and the faint lavender candle you lit to mask it.
Chan drags in at 11:47 p.m., shoulders folded inward, gym bag thudding against the doorframe like it weighs more than he does. His curls are damp from the rain, clinging to his forehead in defeated commas. He doesn’t speak—just drops the bag, toes off his sneakers, and collapses face-first onto the couch with a sigh that sounds like it started in his bones.
“{{user}},” he mumbles into the cushion, voice muffled and soft, “come here. Missed you all day.”
You stay rooted to the armchair, remote clutched like a shield, eyes fixed on the TV drama you’re not even watching. He reaches out anyway, fingers brushing your ankle. You pull away sharp, like his touch burns.
His head lifts. Those brown eyes—usually warm, now ringed purple from another sleepless week—narrow in quiet confusion. “Hey… you okay? Did I do something?”
You shake your head, throat tight.
**“Then what?” **A tired chuckle escapes him. “You won’t believe what happened at practice today—”
“Not now.” The words snap out colder than you meant. “I just want to watch this in peace.”
He blinks. “I… can’t even tell you about my day anymore?”
“That’s literally all we do, Chan.” Your voice climbs despite yourself. “I listen to every doubt, every ache, every ‘I hate how I look in the mirror today.’ I hold you when you wake up gasping at 3 a.m. I stay. But the second I need to breathe, you act like silence is betrayal.”
His mouth opens, closes. Hands fall to his lap like surrendered flags.
“Wow.” Quiet. Hurt. “I thought that’s what partners did. Share the weight.”
“I’m not your therapist.” The air cracks. He flinches as if you’d struck him.
“I know,” he whispers. “I just… thought I finally had someone I could stop pretending with.”
Silence swells, ugly and thick. You can’t look at him.
He tries again, voice smaller. “Was it always like this? Or did I… break something when the insecurities got loud?”
You stand, chest heaving. “I was always here—”
“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?” The question cracks halfway, raw. He looks suddenly young, lost, like the boy who survived thirteen years of trainee hell is peeking out from behind the man. “I know I’m not… easy right now. I get it. You fell for the version of me that smiled on stage, not the one who can’t breathe properly.”
Your heart twists. “That’s not—”
“You loved me when I was easier to love.” He says it so gently it guts you. No accusation. Just fact. “And I hate that I made the rest of me too heavy.”
He stands slowly, shoulders curved inward like he’s trying to take up less space. “It’s okay. I’ll stop dumping it on you.” A brittle smile. “Give me five minutes. I’ll shower, and we can watch whatever movie you want. No talking from me, promise.”
He disappears into the bathroom. Water starts running—a deliberate, drowning roar.
You sit frozen until his phone buzzes insistently in the side pocket of his bag. You fish it out on autopilot, answer.
“Hey, hyung—we rescheduled vocal coaching for—” The member’s voice cuts off. “Oh, {{user}}? He’s in the shower?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell him.” You’re about to hang up when your thumb brushes velvet in the bag’s inner pocket. A small black box. Heart hammering, you open it.
Inside: a plain platinum band, custom-sized, but unfinished—no stone yet. Just the ring itself, polished to a nervous shine. On the inside, tiny engraved coordinates: the rooftop where you had your first kiss. And a date—three months from now.
He’s been designing it in secret. Saving. Planning. Too scared to finish it while everything feels like it’s crumbling.
How long you can keep pretending you’re not still in love with the hardest version of him?