The decision hadn’t felt real until the spotlight locked onto you and the first chord echoed through the venue. Up until then, it had just been an idea sitting quietly in the back of your mind, easy to ignore, easy to postpone. The song wasn’t on the setlist, and no one had expected you to actually perform it tonight. Whenever it came up before, it was always brushed aside with a vague promise of “another time.” But standing there under the heat of the lights, adrenaline still coursing through you from the previous song, something inside you refused to let it stay unsaid any longer. Maybe it was the way Hongjoong had been close all night, your shoulders brushing during transitions, your voices blending in a way that felt too familiar. Maybe it was the exhaustion of pretending the lyrics weren’t about him. Whatever the reason, you gave the signal to start, and the band followed without question.

The first verse came out steadier than you expected, but by the second, your pulse was racing. The lyrics were never vague. They spoke about emotional distance that lingered even when two people stood side by side, about unsaid words filling the silence, about writing feelings into songs instead of saying them directly. The audience didn’t know the weight behind them. They swayed along, captivated by the vulnerability, assuming it was just another heartfelt performance. But you felt the shift the moment your eyes flickered toward Hongjoong for a fraction of a second too long. His expression had changed, almost imperceptibly, but enough for you to know he understood.

You didn’t need confirmation beyond that. You heard it when his harmony came in a beat later than usual during the bridge, a hesitation so small no one else would catch it. By the time the final note faded, your hands were trembling, and the applause felt distant compared to the noise in your head.

Backstage, the energy was high. Everyone was replaying moments from the set, laughing in relief, brushing off minor mistakes like they always did. A couple of compliments came your way about how emotional the performance was, how strong your vocals sounded, and you responded automatically, nodding and smiling when needed. But beneath it all was a tight knot in your chest that refused to ease. You could feel Hongjoong somewhere nearby without actually looking at him, and that alone made it harder to breathe. Whatever conversation was waiting to happen, you weren’t ready for it yet.

You slipped away the first chance you got, ducking into the changing room and closing the door behind you. The sudden quiet pressed against your ears, amplifying the rush of thoughts you’d been trying to outrun. You paced once, then again, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve as every lyric you’d sung replayed in your mind. You hadn’t warned anyone. You hadn’t warned him. The vulnerability of that choice settled heavily in your stomach now that the adrenaline was fading.

A knock sounded at the door, short and firm, and before you could respond, the handle turned. Hongjoong stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than the cheers from earlier.

The shift in the room was immediate. The tension he carried in with him was palpable, woven into the way his shoulders were set too stiffly, the way his jaw flexed like he’d been clenching it for a while. He didn’t move far from the door at first, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made it impossible to pretend this was a casual check-in. There was frustration there, clear and unfiltered, but underneath it was something closer to being blindsided.

He ran a hand through his hair before speaking, the exhale that left him sharp around the edges. “That was about me, wasn’t it?” His voice wasn’t raised, but the tension in it was undeniable, like every word was being pushed out carefully to keep something else from spilling over.