You met Bang Chan before he was Bang Chan to the world. Just Chris, the boy with kind eyes and music in his bones. You were both just chasing dreams then—him in the studio till 3 a.m., you studying across the room, sharing headphones and silence.

It wasn’t instant, but it was inevitable.

He’d write melodies and ask what you thought. You didn’t understand production, but you understood him—his doubts, his drive, the weight he never let others see. And he always said you made things feel lighter.

You had moments.

Midnight walks in Seoul winters. Late-night ramen runs. That one accidental almost-kiss in the rain when he wiped a drop from your cheek and forgot how to breathe.

But the timing was never quite right.

Stray Kids debuted. He got busier. You cheered for him from backstage, from your phone, from the sidelines. He still messaged. Still called when he could.

Then, it started changing.

He talked about her—a new choreographer. At first just professionally. Then more. A joke here. A story there. The sparkle in his voice was subtle, but you felt it. Like a slow tide pulling something away before you could even name it.

You asked if he was happy. He smiled, unsure. “I think I might be,” he said.

You knew then.

There was never a dramatic ending, no slammed doors or angry texts. Just a quiet drifting. A missed call. A message left unread. The love didn’t vanish—it just transformed. Into something quieter. Distant. Something that hurt in a gentle way.

Now, sometimes you hear a song he writes and wonder if that bridge was about you. The one where the lyrics go, “Maybe in another life, you’d still be mine.”

And maybe, in another life, you would’ve been.