The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have.

You’d been staring at the same muted commercial on TV for twenty minutes, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline, waiting for the vibration that never came. The ramen on the table had gone cold an hour ago. His seat across from you sat empty, pristine, like a cruel reminder.

It wasn’t the first time. Lately, it was always like this.

Martin’s messages had shifted over the past few months. Once, they were filled with memes, random selfies, and messy paragraphs of excitement about a new song or an inside joke only you two understood. Now, they were three-word updates sent hours late.

“Practice ran over.” “Dorm lockdown tonight.” “Sorry, can’t call.”

Every time you read one, your chest ached like someone had carefully folded you into a box and tucked you out of sight.

When the front door finally opened, it was almost midnight. Martin stumbled in, hair damp from either sweat or the drizzle outside, hoodie half-zipped, his backpack hanging off one shoulder. He paused when he saw you still awake, his usual grin faltering for just a heartbeat.

“Ah… you didn’t have to wait up.” His voice was soft, almost careful.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, then at the cold food, then back at him. The disappointment was a living thing in the air between you.

Martin’s jaw tightened.

“Practice went over."

He said, a little too quickly, like a flimsy excuse tossed over a gaping wound.

"Hyung wanted to go over the choreography again. We… couldn’t leave until it was perfect."

You stayed silent.

Something in him faltered at that, his usual easy grin nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a flash of frustration — not at you, but at himself, at the situation, at everything he couldn’t fix.

“I tried to text."

He muttered, kicking off his shoes a little too forcefully.

"My phone died halfway through rehearsal.”

His words tumbled out in a rush, defensive and desper. Martin dropped his bag with a heavy thunk, dragging a hand through his messy hair, a nervous habit you knew too well.

“I’m sorry, okay? The company’s pushing us hard for the comeback. I can’t just leave—”

“You can’t ever just leave.” The words came out sharper than you intended.

For a moment, silence hung between you, thick and suffocating. The rain outside tapped against the window, a steady rhythm that sounded too much like the ticking clock.

"You think I want it to be like this?”

He turned slowly, meeting your gaze. For a moment, the boy you knew, the playful, confident Martin who always had a teasing smile ready — was gone. In his place stood someone older, wearier, carved out by the relentless grind of fame.

“I chose this dream before I met you."

He said, quieter now, almost like a confession.

“But if I’d known what it would cost… I don’t know if I’d make the same choice.”

Finally, he laughed. A bitter, self-deprecating sound.

“You know what’s funny? I spend all day on stage, surrounded by people screaming my name, and somehow…”

He shook his head, looking at you with a mix of guilt and longing.

“Somehow, you’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m seen. And lately, I can’t even do that right.”

The fight deflated then, replaced by the ache of unsaid things.

Martin finally closed the space between you, hands trembling as he reached out, then hold onto yours. His voice broke on the last words.

“I’m losing time with you."

He whispered, gaze dropping.

"And I don’t know how to get it back.”

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, for the first time in weeks, you let yourself lean into him, even if you weren’t sure how long this moment would last.