The night before the play, Seokjin sat across from you at the kitchen table, silent while you ran through your lines. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t helping. Just staring at the page that had that scene.

“Do you really have to kiss him?” His voice finally broke the quiet, flat but heavy.

You didn’t look up, just kept flipping the script. “It’s written in. That’s the story, Jin. Don’t start this again.”

His chair scraped back suddenly, his hands pressing into the table. “You think it’s nothing. Just a stage direction. But to me? It’s not nothing.”

You sighed, a little impatient. “It’s two seconds, Seokjin. Stop making it bigger than it is.”

His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say more, but instead he muttered, “Maybe I’m the only one who cares enough to make it big,” and walked out of the room.

⸻

The next night, under the lights, the play carried on perfectly. The crowd laughed where they should, leaned in during the dramatic pauses. And then it came—the kiss. The male lead leaned in, your lips brushed his, and the audience erupted into applause.

When the curtain fell, your castmates cheered, pulling you into hugs, handing you flowers. You laughed with them, your cheeks aching from smiling. For a moment, you forgot about him.

It wasn’t until the crowd thinned and you stepped outside into the cool night air that the memory of Seokjin’s face returned—tight, cold, jaw locked as he’d sat in the audience. You almost expected him to be waiting at the exit like always. But he wasn’t there.