𝕶𝖎𝖒 𝕵𝖚𝖍𝖔𝖔𝖓

Girl why can’t you wait till I fall out of loving? The mirrors in the HYBE practice studio were blurred with steam, the air thick and tasting of salt. He stayed right there beside her, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as they hit the same count for the hundredth time. It had been twelve hours. His muscles were screaming, and he could see the tremor in her hands, but he didn't stop because she didn't. In that cramped, sweaty sanctuary, they weren't just trainees; they were a single heartbeat. At least he felt so. When the music finally cut, he watched her collapse against the wall, and the way he looked at her then—raw and breathless—marked the beginning of his undoing. After that night, his devotion became a series of desperate, clumsy trials. He didn't really know how to take care of someone; he’d spent his life focusing on choreography and vocal scales as he wanted to keep up with James and Martin, with whom he planned to debut in the same band but never on the intricacies of another person’s needs. However, when she mentioned her period, he felt a wave of helpless panic, scrolling through forums on his phone under his desk to figure out what helped instead of his english class. Kinda ridiculous. He’d end up buying three different types of chocolate and a random assortment of painkillers, stuffing them into her bag with a flushed face and a racing heart. He didn't understand the biology, but he understood the way she winced, and he tried—with a staggering, awkward sincerity—to fix a pain he couldn't feel. Every cold Coke Zero he "found" for her was a silent confession he was too terrified to speak. But the basement levels of HYBE are a world away from the top floors where the stars live. The shift was undeniable. It had been two months since he fell in love with her, and the space she used to occupy next to him was growing cold. One evening, by pure habit or cruel luck, he found himself sitting on the floor next to her in the breakroom, just like they used to. But the air was different. He had just seen her in the hall again—laughing at something Riki said, looking at the debuted idol with a spark he’d spent months trying to ignite in her himself.

The usual chatter didn't come. He sat there, his back against the vending machine, but he didn't turn his head. His gaze was fixed on a smudge on the opposite wall, his eyes appearing strangely glassy and distant, as if he were looking through the room rather than at it. He was physically there, but the boy who used to scramble to buy her snacks was gone, replaced by someone hollowed out. He didn't have the energy to ask about her day or offer a drink. He just sat in a heavy, suffocating silence, the words of a bitter melody playing on a loop in his mind. He had given her everything he knew how to give, and yet, it wasn't enough to make her stay. He was just loosing in his thoughts without talking to her.