Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s been months.
Months since I realized how I really feel.
Months… and the worst part is being silent. Unable to talk. A locked box.

Can you imagine? An idol, in a group as famous as ATEEZ, in love with one of his closest friends? Impossible.
It would destroy years of hard work. We’d be outcasts in the industry.

I can’t do that to my family, to the group, to the company. I can’t be that selfish. I can’t ruin everything so many people worked for.

So I stay quiet. I bury it deep inside, hoping it never comes up to the surface.

Sometimes I tell myself that maybe the fans would understand.
Honestly, I spend a lot of time online, especially on Twitter, and what I see warms my heart.

A lot of people ship us. I mean… with all the fan service we do, it’s not really surprising.

Sometimes, after a concert, I scroll through Instagram Reels for hours. I watch hundreds of edits about me and San.
Fans analyze every little thing we do. I’d find it funny if their theories weren’t actually true on my side.

Most fans call themselves delusional.
Of course they think there’s nothing real between us. It’s impossible.

And that’s usually when I put my phone down, face first on the mattress. That’s when I remind myself of reality.
That all I can do is feel sorry for myself. Stay silent. And that’s when the tears fall.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

I took a shower. I feel better, clean. I always feel like a walking germ after every concert.

Tonight was Paris. The last stop, and honestly one of my favorite crowds.
The French have this little something extra I can’t describe. We’ve always had a soft spot for European fans. Their energy is insane…

Lost in my thoughts, I hear my phone buzzing on the table. I check the screen.
It’s a message in the group chat.

Hwa-hyung (mother)

Are you coming to my suite? I want us all together… Yunho and Yeosang are already with me

Of course. A sweet little message full of nostalgia after the last show of the tour. That’s so like him.

My body tells me to crash and sleep until the next flight, but… I don’t want to leave Hwa alone. And I know the others feel the same.

Captain (damn squirrel)

I’ll be there in a minute Hwa!

Mangi

Already feeling nostalgic, hyung?

Little Bear

It’s only 1 a.m. Usually your depression kicks in around 2:30.

Hwa-hyung (mother)

I won’t allow these mocking.
As the oldest, it’s normal for me to feel nostalgic…

Wooyoung

Guys, he used the three little dots.
It’s official. Grandpa mode activated.

Hwa-hyung (mother)

Fine. Whoever loves me, come to my suite.

Mangi

Alright alright Hyung…

I laugh as I put my phone down and start putting on my pajamas. A few seconds later, another vibration. I light up the screen. My heart skips a beat just seeing the name.

It’s San.

Sannie (❤)

I’m coming! @Hwa-hyung (mother)

All my tiredness disappears.
I pull on the rest of my pajamas, practically bouncing toward the door.
If San goes, I go. If he jumps, I jump. Why else would we have matching tattoos?

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

The suite looks like a war zone the moment I open the door – empty snack bags, jackets thrown over chairs, music playing softly from someone’s speaker. The air smells like cologne, chips, and exhaustion. Jongho and Mingi probably didn’t shower yet. That must explain why I hear the sound of the shower. Yunho for sure.

Hongjoong’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet, phone in hand, trying to convince everyone to film a last “thank you Paris” clip for fans. Mingi’s lying flat on his back, laughing at something Jongho just said. Seonghwa’s trying to collect trash but gives up halfway through. Yeosang is, as always, just watching chaos in its primal form. Silent and probably unaware of whatever bickering Mingi and Hongjoong hyung got into.

And San’s there. Hoodie on, hair still damp from his shower, sitting on the couch with his legs tucked under him. He looks up the second I walk in.

“Woo! Took you long enough,” he says, smiling, eyes crinkling the way they always do when he’s too tired to hide it. Everyone looks up to me.

“I had to look good for the party,” I say, holding up my pajama pants like they’re couture.

The whole room bursts into laughter. Mingi throws a pillow at me, misses. Never been a good snipper.

I flop down next to San, and he automatically shifts just enough to make space, his knee bumping mine in the process. He doesn’t move after that, and neither do I.

Hongjoong’s halfway through his sentimental leader speech again.
“I just– I want to say thank you to everyone, for your hard work– ”

“Hyung, please,” Jongho interrupts, groaning, “you’ve said that like five times already.”

“I’ll say it six if I want to! This is our last night abroad!”

The room dissolves into chaos again.

San leans closer, voice low near my ear. “He’s definitely drunk on nostalgia again.”

I chuckle. “He had one sip of beer, right?”
“Exactly.”

“I swear if we had a chance to choose who got to be the captain…”

Mingi and Jongho burst out of nowhere. The first one smiled and Jongho just asked:

"What did you say about Hongjoongie hyung?...”
I catched his arm and tried to muffle whatever he was going to say.
“Don’t or you’ll regret it at the dorm.”

Mingi ran to Joong. San laughed. Jongho escaped and joined Mingi who was already spilling the tea. Hongjoong chuckled.

“Wooyoung, what did you say about me being captain?...”

Everything turns noisy all over again.

The night stretches like that– laughter, half-finished conversations, Seonghwa lecturing Mingi for spilling crumbs on the couch, Jongho singing softly under his breath and at some point, Yunho comes back from his shower and makes way for Mingi and Jongho. It’s loud and chaotic, but it feels safe. Familiar.

By 3 a.m., we’re all fading. Someone’s snoring. Someone’s filming the snorer.
San yawns next to me, head tilting back. His eyes droop.

“We should go,” I whisper.

He hums a yes but doesn’t move.

I stay too. Because leaving would mean letting go of this warmth. And tonight, I can’t.

When I finally close my eyes, I hear him breathe out beside me; slow, steady. I let the sound lull me to sleep.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

I wake up to soft light filtering through the curtains and the sound of someone opening a can.

San’s already up, sitting on the armrest of the couch with his phone. His hoodie’s gone; now it’s just a white t-shirt, wrinkled beyond saving.

“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

He looks over his shoulder, smiling. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

I groan. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then wake up earlier.”

He throws me a small packet of biscuits. I catch it, barely.

The suite’s full of life again. Mingi’s blasting music from the bathroom, Jongho’s eating cereal  with a towel on his shoulders, and Hongjoong’s sitting by the window writing something in his notebook. Probably lyrics. He never stops working.

Yunho emerges from his sleep, hair a total mess, voice still half-asleep.
“Hey, wait–  shouldn’t we have, like… slept in our own rooms last night?”, he said before joining Mingi.

From the bathroom, Mingi yells over the music, toothbrush in hand:
“Yeah, and why does Hyung get the biggest suite anyway? I mean… With a whole kitchen?!”

Seonghwa, currently pretending to clean a counter that doesn’t need cleaning, says primly,
“Because I’m the oldest, obviously.”

Hongjoong doesn’t even look up from his notebook.
“And because I booked the rooms with the managers, that’s why.”

Mingi tried to have the last word:

“But you also booked our rooms so–”

“Nah-ah. Respect your elders. ‘Specially Hwa,” he says looking at the said man, eyes sparkling.

Jongho, mouth full of cereal, mutters just loud enough for us to hear:
“Tch… damn lovebirds.”

Hongjoong freezes mid-sentence. “YAH! What did you just say?”

Jongho nearly chokes. “Nothing, Hyung! I said– uh– great leadership!”

And suddenly Jongho and Hongjoong are bickering again. Seonghwa cracks a smile.

San catches my eye over his coffee mug, that silent ‘and we’re the immature ones?’ look.

He hands me a mug. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

He sits beside me while I drink, scrolling through his phone.
We sit like that for a while– comfortable silence, no pressure. The kind of quiet you only get when you’ve known someone for years. Then he was moving around in the kitchen searching for whatever he wanted to find.

San’s half-bent into the fridge, searching with deadly focus.
“No more kimchi,” he mutters darkly.

“We’re in Paris, not Seoul,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You’ll live.”

He straightens up and hands me a jar of strawberry jam.
“Make me a toast.”

“Excuse me?”

“C’mon,” he says, grinning, handing me the bread. “You’re already up. Might as well be useful.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” I mumble, but grab the knife anyway.

He stays close; hovering just behind me, chin almost over my shoulder as I spread the jam.
“You’re putting way too much,” he says, reaching out to stop my hand.

“San, if you want me to do it, let me do it.”

“But look– ”

And that’s when Yunho walks in, skin still damp from skincare in addition to that voice of his, way too loud and innocent.
“...Am I interrupting something, or can I just grab the orange juice?”

San jerks back instantly, ears turning red.
“YAH! It’s not what you think!”

“Sure, sure,” Yunho says, smirking as he opens the fridge. “Don’t mind me.”

He walks out humming, and San turns to me, scandalized.
“He’s got the dirtiest mind in the group, I swear.”

“You say that,” I tease, “but you were literally correcting my toast technique. And on top of that, why are you embarrassed? We literally cuddle anytime we can.”

He bursts out laughing. That full, bright laugh that fills the whole room.

I almost choke on my coffee trying not to laugh too.
San shakes his head. “I swear, that guy lives to make my life difficult.”

Did he ignore my question?

“Yeah,” I say, bitter but still smiling. “Mine too.”

He bumps my shoulder lightly. “We should pack soon. You don’t wanna be the reason we’re late again.”

“I was late once!”
“Exactly.”

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

After lunch, the suite quiets down again. Half the members are in their rooms packing, the others are napping.
I’m on my bed, back in my room and scrolling mindlessly through Instagram.

There are already fan edits from last night. Same angles, same songs, same comments– ‘Woosan moments’, ‘they’re so close omg’, ‘my delulu is winning’.

I should be used to it. I am, mostly.

Then a notification pops up. San.

Sannie (❤)

sent a reel
“haha you saw this? we’re viral again lol”

The description of the reels says “OMG WooSan moment again guyyyys”

I laugh, small and breathless. “Of course we are,” I whisper to myself.
Of course we’re viral. It’s what we do. What we’re supposed to do.

It’s funny, until it isn’t.

It still hurts, somehow– not because of the video, but because that’s where we stay.
Frozen between what’s real and what’s for show.

I put my phone face down on the mattress. My throat burns. My eyes sting.
The quiet hits too fast, too hard. I bite my lip, blink too fast, and of course that’s when Yeosang walks in.

“Woo, you were supposed to help me with my suitcase–” He stops mid-sentence. “Are you crying?”

I shake my head quickly. “No. Just– it’s The Thing.”

His expression softens instantly. “Again?”

“Yeah. It’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” he says, sitting beside me. “Just tragic.”

I laugh wetly. “Thanks, that helps a lot.”

He sighs and nudges me with his elbow. “You know, for someone who talks as much as you, you’re really bad at talking about this.”

“Yeah, well. Not exactly something I can shout about in the hallway.”

“Fair,” he says. “But at least you’ve got me.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Yeosang’s the only one who knows. Ten years of friendship, and he figured it out before I did.
He named it ‘The Thing’ to make it sound smaller, manageable, less tragic. But it never really is. Maybe he’s right though.

He doesn’t say anything else. He just sits beside me for a moment, quiet.
After a while, he pats my leg. “Come on, help me fold my mess. If you stay here, you’ll start crying again and I’m too emotionally fragile for that.”

I laugh through my nose. “You? Emotionally fragile?”
He shrugs. “I learned from the best. And if you keep moping, I’ll tell San you broke his phone charger again.”

I grin. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”

And just like that, the heaviness lifts a little.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

Takeoffs are my worst nightmare.
I’ve said it a hundred times. San never lets me live it down.

“If you let go,” I warn him, gripping his hand as the plane starts to roll, “I swear I’ll start screaming.”

He laughs. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling. “You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The plane tilts up, my stomach drops, and I squeeze tighter.
He squeezes back.

When we’re finally in the air, I let out a long breath.

Ten minutes later, I’m breathing again. He’s already half-asleep, head falling onto my shoulder.
His hair smells like fabric softener. I try not to notice.

I took a photo.
It’s a nice one– peaceful, quiet.
I sent it to the group chat.

Wooyoung

Caught a wild San in his natural habitat!!

They take no time to respond.

Hwa-hyung (mother)

Fans would lose their minds if they saw that.

Mangi

Post it and watch the world burn AHAHHAHAHAHA

Wooyoung

You wish

I grin, tuck my phone away, and stare at the seat in front of me.

Everyone else is asleep or half-asleep. The hum of the engines fills the cabin. One hour passes. Two.

I try to sleep, but my thoughts loop endlessly: comeback, fashion week, San, Elle Korea shoot, San, stage outfits, San, schedules, San.
San.

After what feels like forever, I unbuckle my seatbelt and head to the bathroom.

Inside, the light is too harsh, the mirror too honest.
I sit on the closed toilet lid, phone in hand.

I opened the notes app.

“Dear San–”

I stop, roll my eyes. “Nope. Too dramatic.” Delete.

“There’s something I want to tell you.”

Delete again. “God, what am I even doing?”

I stare at the blank screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
“I’m not gonna send it,” I say out loud, to the mirror. “I’m not that stupid.”

But my fingers start typing anyway.

너는 혹시 알아? 저 반짝이는 건 (Do you happen to know? That sparkling thing)

함께 하는 이 밤에만 보이는걸 (Only visible on nights like this)

너를 향한 내 눈빛과 (my gaze towards you)

우리는 대우고 해 매일 (We cherish and love each other every day)

너도 나와 같은 생각이라면 (If you have the same thoughts as me)

우리 비행은 더 수월할 거라고 (Our flight will be smoother)

너도 나와 같은 느낌이라면 (If you have the same feelings as me)

아마 더 (Probably more)

광활한 품속에 안겨서 (Embraced in your vast arms)

누구도 이곳에는 못 들어와 (No one can enter here)

I read it back once, twice.

Oh so I can write lyrics now?

I save it, close the app, and breathe out.
The knot in my chest doesn’t loose a bit.

When I get back to my seat, San’s awake, smiling at me.
I sit down carefully, close my eyes, and let the hum of the plane drown out everything else.

For once, silence feels okay. But only because I’m not alone.

I’m never alone and I will never be.

Chapter Text

It’s been four days since we came back from Paris.
The jet lag still hits at random times– sometimes at 2 p.m., sometimes at 3 a.m.
Tonight, as always though, I can’t sleep, so I text Hongjoong.

Wooyoung

Hyung, are you still at the studio?

Captain (damn squirrel)

Yup, comeback to prepare yk. Why?

Wooyoung

Can I come by?

Captain (damn squirrel)

Don’t see why you couldn’t, right?

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

When I show up, he’s half-buried under headphones and empty coffee cups.
He blinks when he sees me holding my phone and a crumpled notebook.

“Did you forget something?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “My courage.”

He laughs, but it dies quickly when I hand him my phone, screen lightened.
I brought the notebook just in case. I know Hongjoong doesn’t like to write on phones and he will never lend me any of his notebooks.
He flips it open– my handwriting, uneven, shaky, but mine.

It’s quiet for a long time.
He reads everything twice. Then he looks up.

“You wrote this?”

“Yeah. On the plane back.”

Hongjoong leans back in his chair, eyes widened. “Wow. You… never write.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“No, I mean– it’s good. Like, really good. Where did that come from? Who got you heartbroken like that?”

I shrug. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He studies me for a long moment. He has that look leaders have when they want to ask something but decide not to. Then he just nods.

“If you keep working on it, we could make this into something.”

A pause, then:

“Maybe even for the comeback.”

My throat goes dry. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Don’t waste it. Whoever broke your heart is a good source of inspiration. Fighting!”

“Can you stop saying this?”

“Why? Wooyoung-ah, I’m not stupid enough to believe you can write beautifully since this morning. Someone got you inspired; and whoever it is, keep them. Despite this being really good for ATEEZ’s artistic side, try not to create a dating scandal please.”

I sigh.

“Hyung, if I’m heartbroken, how the hell am I supposed to create any dating scandal?”

“Don’t know. But maybe you could tell me who it is first? Then, maybe I’ll make sense out of it…”

I chuckled and gave him a little pat on his shoulder.

“Nice try Hyung.”

“I’m serious though Woo, keep them and you’ll write plenty of love songs like this.”

I nod, pretending to take it lightly, but inside, it feels like something dangerous just started.
Because the song isn’t about “love” in general.
It’s about him.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

The following week is packed with fittings, choreography updates, and the first teaser shoot.
It’s all noise and flashes, makeup brushes and stylists pulling at sleeves.
Sometimes I feel like a Barbie; being all dolled-up like this. That’s one of the aspects I like in being an idol.

They call it a “chemistry shoot.” Basically, we’re just here doing behind the scenes videos for our next comeback.
That means forced smiles, quick touches, laughing on cue– all the things we do naturally, except now there’s a camera that wants proof.

San and I are paired again. Of course.
The staff loves us together. They always have. “Woosan energy,” they call it.
A marketable friendship. Something you can hashtag.

“Closer!” the photographer says. “You two look too serious.”

San grins at me, his smile easy, practiced. “Don’t look so stiff, Woo.”

I tried to smile. My shoulders relax, but something inside me doesn’t.
He bumps his shoulder into mine and laughs, and I hear the staff giggle behind the camera.

It’s fine. It’s always fine.

Until I catch our reflection on the big monitor across the room.
His arm around me, both of us laughing, framed by perfect studio light– and for a moment, I can’t tell where the performance ends.

Because that’s what hurts: how real it looks.
And how fake it has to be.

“Cut! Perfect!” someone shouts.

I smile trying to ignore the confused look in San’s eyes, bow slightly to some members of the staff and step off set before anyone notices that my hands are shaking.

The hallway outside smells like makeup remover and fresh paint.
I walk until the noise fades, until it’s just me and my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

There’s a bench near the exit. I sit, elbows on knees, head down.
The lights buzz softly above me.

Seonghwa appears a few minutes later, drink in hand, like he’d been looking for me.
He doesn’t ask permission to sit down.

“You okay?” he says, voice quiet but steady.

“Yeah.” The lie leaves my mouth before I even think.

He hums. “You always say that when you’re not.”

I stare at my hands. “Same for everyone Hyung. I’m fine, just– tired.”

He hums, not convinced. “You’re good at hiding it, Woo. Seriously. But even glass cracks if you keep pressing too hard.”

I glance at him, suddenly aware of the quiet authority in his tone. “Glass cracks?” I echo, half-smiling, half-sighing. “Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?”

“Maybe both,” he says. “Just… don’t let it break you where anyone else can see. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

I stare at the floor. His words linger longer than they should, heavier than I want them to. “Thanks, Seonghwa,” I say softly.

He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and pushes off the wall. “Get some air. Clear your head. Don’t let the chaos swallow you.”

I stay on the bench a little longer after he leaves, listening to the faint hum of the studio behind me.
Eventually, I stand, shoulders straightened, and walk back toward the set.
The air is cooler now, crisp against my skin.
The kind of cold that feels earned.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

The day starts like any other– practice, sweat, the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished floors. We’re practising our next title track Deja vu. Choreo full of body and hip rolls.
By the time we finish, my shirt is stuck to my back and San is still dancing like he hasn’t heard the word break in his life.

When we finally collapse on the floor, someone shoves a bottle of water at me.
It’s San. He’s grinning. He always grins.

“Drink, before you pass out,” he says.

I mumble a thanks, too tired to look at him.
It should have ended there.
But the universe loves bad timing.

That evening, he goes live on Insta.
I watch from my bed, phone propped on my chest. He’s in the dorm lounge, hair messy, voice soft from exhaustion.

“Who’s your favorite member today?”

Question from an ATINY.

“Hmm,” he says, pretending to think. “They’re all annoying. But maybe Hongjoong-hyung. He bought me coffee today.”

The chat explodes with laughter and hearts.
And I know it’s nothing. It’s a joke.
Still, my chest tightens in a way I can’t explain.
Maybe it’s the tiredness. Maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t really talked since Paris.
Maybe I just wanted him to say my name.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

We meet later for dinner– ramen, cheap and salty, the kind that fixes everything.
Except tonight, nothing feels right.
He sits across from me, scrolling through his phone between bites.

I try to sound casual. “So… Hongjoong’s your favorite now?”

He looks up. “What?”

“You said it in the live.”
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Guess coffee beats friendship, huh?”

San blinks. “Are you serious right now?”

“It was just weird, that’s all.”

“Woo,” he says slowly, “you’re actually mad about that?”

“I’m not mad. I just–”
I stop. I don’t know what I just.

Seonghwa, picking at his own bowl, looks up. “You two are acting like children. Can we eat in peace?”

He smirks, shaking his head slightly, but I can tell he’s half-amused.

San ignores him and shakes his head, setting his chopsticks down. “You pick fights over nothing, man.”

“Man? Ugh, duh, maybe because you never notice anything,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.

Seonghwa sets down his chopsticks too and gives me a long look. “You really have a talent for making everything awkward.” His lips twitch, half-smile, half-exasperation.

Hongjoong waves a hand at us, clearly annoyed. “Can we just eat? This isn’t a therapy session.”

The air goes still.
Even Mingi looks up from his bowl. “Uh… should we go?”

“Yeah,” San says sharply. “Maybe we all should.”

He stands, chair scraping against the floor.
“Whatever this is, fix it yourself,” he mutters, and leaves.

The door slams and I just stare at my half-eaten ramen until it turns cold.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

For the next few days, San doesn’t talk to me.
Not in the van, not in practice, not even small jokes during breaks.
He’s polite.
That’s worse than angry.

Every time he laughs with someone else, I feel the ache sharpen.
I tell myself it’s fine.
It’s not.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

By the fourth night, I stop pretending to sleep.

Schedules fill the days– dance practice, interviews, wardrobe fittings.
Every night ends the same: the dorm quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the whir of my thoughts.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, phone face-down beside me.
Notifications light up occasionally, but never from him.

I think about the lyrics I left to Hongjoong.
I think about Paris.
I think about San’s hand brushing mine during the shoot and how I froze, not from nerves, but from wanting too much.

Mostly, I think about how stupid that fight was. Well actually how stupid I was.

…

It’s past two in the morning when I finally give in and grab my phone.
His chat is still pinned at the top, unread messages buried under days of silence.

My thumbs hover, then type.

Wooyoung

you still awake?
seen 2:14 AM

I almost lock my phone again, but a reply pops up seconds later.

Sannie (❤)

depends. who’s asking?

Wooyoung

some guy who’s bad at saying sorry

Sannie (❤)

Oh really?

Wooyoung

yeah

Sannie (❤)

Hm hm. Go on then; tell me u’re sorry

I smile, the first real one in days.

Wooyoung

i didn’t mean to pick a fight

Sannie (❤)

you did tho

Wooyoung

yeah

Sannie (❤)

…why?

Wooyoung

i don’t know. i was tired.
maybe jealous. stupid, right?

Sannie (❤)

jealous?

Wooyoung

forget it

Sannie (❤)

nah, say it

Wooyoung

i just hated hearing my best friend say someone else was his favorite.
Childish.

Sannie (❤)

you’re impossible

Wooyoung

i know

Sannie (❤)

but i missed you anyway

The words sit there on the screen, glowing faintly in the dark.
I stare at them until they blur.

Wooyoung

i missed you too

Sannie (❤)

then stop disappearing. Deal?

Wooyoung

deal.

Sannie (❤)

Good.
now sleep before you start picking a fight over nothing.

Wooyoung

shut up

Sannie (❤)

idiot.

I laugh, quietly, into the dark.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

The next morning, practice feels lighter.
He nudges me during warm-ups; I roll my eyes, pretending not to smile.
No one says anything, but I catch Hongjoong watching us with that tiny knowing grin.
The kind that says everything’s back to normal.
Or close enough.

At night, the insomnia comes back– but softer now.
Less like punishment, more like habit.
I open the notes app and stare at the half-written lyrics from the plane.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

Paris again, but colder this time.
This time, I’m alone. Different hotel, quieter nights, streets slick with rain.
Still, the city hums with energy, and the Fashion Week lights buzz like electricity.

I can’t help but smile. I’ve been invited to Courrèges, to sit among designers, journalists, and some of the biggest names in the industry.
The air smells of perfume, fresh ink, and polished marble floors. It’s overwhelming, but in the best way.
I love it. I really do.

There’s a pulse in the crowd–  fans waiting outside, cameras flashing, energy crackling like static. It reminds me a little of the stage, the concerts, the screaming and cheering– the adrenaline of performing. I watch them, and I feel alive, part of something bigger than myself.

Fashion has always fascinated me. The colors, the textures, the way a simple outfit can tell a story.
Seonghwa and I have talked about this before– about how clothes can be armor, a statement, an identity. I feel that same connection now, stepping into this world as one of the idols who gets to play in it. Legitimacy. For K-pop, for us. It’s not just fanservice anymore. It’s real. It matters.

The runway begins. Models glide past, each step precise, confident, perfect. I lean forward, eyes wide, heart thudding in that quiet, electric way.
I take photos, notes, mental snapshots– details I’ll remember, details that might even influence stage outfits, performances.

I love it. Every second.

But San isn’t here.

I think about how he would’ve laughed at some of the more eccentric looks, how he’d probably text me about his favorites, how he’d notice the subtle details that I sometimes miss.
And suddenly, the lights and applause, the glamour, the excitement– it all feels a little hollow.

Later, in the hotel room, I post a photo of the city lights outside, blurred and hazy through the window.
Just the lights. Nothing else.

My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Sannie (❤)

You look good.

Wooyoung

You can’t even see me.

Sannie (❤)

Still counts.

I chuckle quietly, the sound soft in the otherwise silent room.
But I miss him. That ache doesn’t leave, no matter how much I love this world, this experience.

Still, I am here.
I belong.
And for the first time, I feel like this life, this city, this stage — it’s mine to step onto, even if just for a moment.

Later, as I scroll through our messages again, it’s all jokes, memes, casual nothingness.
Yet between the lines, there’s that unspoken weight. That thing we never say aloud.

Paris is beautiful, exhilarating, and alive.
And I’m alive too.
But I still reach for the other side of the bed, wishing he was here.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

Back in Seoul.
It’s been a week since Paris.
Hongjoong insists on a dinner together– “team bonding,” he says, like we’re not together every day.

There’s food everywhere.
Mingi’s half-drunk already, Yeosang’s cutting fruit with surgical precision, and Jongho’s fighting to stay awake.
The room smells like meat, laughter, and comfort.

San drops into the seat next to mine like it’s gravity.
He smells faintly of cologne and sleep. It’s unfair.

For a while, everything’s loud.
Then the noise fades– Hongjoong and Seonghwa start cleaning up, Jongho finally passes out.
It’s just San and me, sitting in the quiet.

He scrolls through his phone, smiling at something.
When I glance over, I see it: the photo from Paris. The one I posted.

“You still looking at that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Just liked the lighting.”

“Sure.”

He sets his phone down, turning toward me.
His eyes are softer now, not teasing, not serious. Just… searching.

“Did you miss me?” he says.

It’s light. Probably a joke.
But it doesn’t sound like one.

“You’re too loud to miss,” I manage.

He grins, but it fades slowly. “You didn’t answer.”

I look down, fingers tightening around my glass. “Maybe.”

For a moment, there’s a silence so still it feels like it could break the world in half.

Then Hongjoong yells from the kitchen–

“Who left rice on the floor again?!”

San bursts out laughing. I do too.
The moment shatters, like it always does.

I try ignoring the ache in my chest.
The ache I feel since I picked a fight over pure jealousy.

“Sannie?”

He hums.

“Why did you throw a tantrum?”

A pause but I continue quickly, enlightening my question:

"I mean, obviously, I was stupid being jealous like that and you had all the rights to be angry but… reaching the point of slamming the door shut?"

He sighs.

“Woo I-”

My body moved before I could even think about it, my hand grabbing his.

‘Whatever it is, explain it to me, please.”

He chuckles.

“No need to be that dramatic Woo. I’ll tell you, don’t worry.”

Chapter Text

It started in Paris.
The last concert– the one everyone says was perfect, full of light and noise and love.
And maybe it was. On stage, at least.

Off stage, Woo was different.
Not angry, not sad, just… quieter.
Like someone turned his volume down and forgot to switch it back.

I thought it was exhaustion.
We’d been running nonstop– concerts, events, rehearsals, flights.
But Woo’s the kind of tired that still laughs, still talks, still grabs your hand mid-chaos.
This was something else.

He still laughs sometimes, still teases the others, still throws an arm around me during group selfies.
The touches are there– the familiar warmth of his hand on my shoulder, the bump of his knee against mine when we sit too close.
He hasn’t stopped being tactile.

But that doesn’t mean he’s really there.

He smiles and jokes like normal, but when I talk to him, it’s like my words slide right past him.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely, trapped in a place I can’t reach.
He’ll nod, hum, maybe say “yeah”, but there’s nothing behind it.
And I don’t get it.
How can someone still touch you like you’re close, and still feel a hundred miles away?

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

By the time we flew back to Seoul, I thought maybe things would start to feel normal again.
Woo was in a good mood that morning– joking with staff, humming as he packed, throwing half his snacks into my bag like always.
For a second, I believed it.
Believed he was fine, that we were fine.

On the plane, he dropped into the seat next to mine with that familiar grin.
“If you let go,” he said, completely straight-faced.
“I swear I’ll start screaming.”

I laughed– maybe harder than I should’ve. It felt good, hearing him sound like himself again.
I held out my hand anyway, pretending to sigh.
“You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked, laced our fingers together, and said, “I mean it.”
His thumb brushed mine as the engines roared to life, and for a brief, dizzy second, everything was right.
The world, the noise, the exhaustion– it all faded.
It was just us, the way it always had been.

…

At some point, I must’ve drifted off.
The kind of sleep that comes only when you’re next to someone who makes the world quiet (and when you’re exhausted).

When I woke up, the seat beside me was empty.
Just the blanket folded neatly, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the fabric.
For a second, I thought maybe I’d dreamed it– the hand, the laughter, the warmth.

The cabin lights were dim, most of the members asleep. I waited, watching the aisle, half-expecting him to come back right away.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

He finally did. Headphones on, eyes tired, that same small smile on his lips– the one that never quite reaches his eyes anymore.
He sat down, adjusted his seatbelt, and didn’t say a word.

I wanted to ask if he was okay, to say that he could talk to me.
But the words stayed stuck somewhere in my throat.

So when he sat back,
I just smiled.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

At first, I told myself it was just burnout– that he needed time, quiet and rest.
But the more days passed, the less I believed it.
Because even when he rested, even when we laughed, he never really looked at me.

Sometimes, I catch him staring at the floor instead of my face, or pretending to check his phone when I walk into a room.
And it makes something small and heavy settle in my chest.

It’s stupid, but lately I’ve been wondering if maybe he just… doesn’t like me anymore.
Not in a dramatic way– not hate.
Just that quiet kind of distance you get when someone stops caring the way they used to.
Maybe I’m not the person he wants to be close to now. Maybe he outgrew me, and I’m the only one who hasn’t noticed.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

A few days later came the photoshoot. That was when I really started to notice the distance.

Woo was fine at first– bright, joking with the stylists, charming as always.
But the second they asked us to stand closer, his smile wavered. Barely, but I saw it.

The camera flashed, and something behind his eyes just… shut off. He went through the motions, professional as ever, but it was like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t look so stiff, Woo,” I tried to cheer him up, sliding my arm around him.

When the director shouted ‘cut’, he excused himself.
Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t look back.

I turned to follow– instinct, stupid or not.
But Yeosang stepped right in front of me.

“Hey, you’re up next, with me.” he said quickly, like it was planned.

“It can wait,” I muttered.

He shook his head. “It really can’t.”

He looked at me, gaze full of warnings.

“Two minutes, San. Let him breathe.”

I froze.
He said it so softly it barely sounded like advice.

At some point, Yeosang left me for a second, murmuring something into Seonghwa’s ear. He clearly knows something.

It wasn’t the moment to ask for an explanation though.

So I stayed.
Smiled for the camera. Did what I was supposed to.

But the whole time, my eyes kept flicking toward the door Woo had just walked through.

…

When he came back, he was composed.
Too composed. The kind of calm that makes you realize something cracked underneath it.

I tried to talk to him after.
He brushed it off, said he was fine. And I believed him– because I wanted to.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

The shoot ends later than expected.
Everyone’s exhausted, the lights are too bright, and the staff keeps thanking us like we didn’t just smile through glass.

Woo disappears the second the last photo is taken.
He bows politely, thanks the team, then slips out with his jacket half on. No goodbye. No glance back.

I stand there, still holding the prop they gave me– a fake coffee cup that suddenly feels like the most useless thing in the world.

Yeosang walks by, scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t noticed a thing.
But I know he has. Yeosang always notices.

“You’re not gonna tell me where he went, are you?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He doesn’t look up. “Probably just needed air.”

“Yeah, but he’s been ‘needing air’ a lot lately.”

That earns me a small, quiet smile. The kind that isn’t really a smile.
“Maybe you should give him some, then.”

I stare at him. “You know something.”

He finally looks up. His gaze is calm– too calm. “I know Woo. That’s all.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He pockets his phone and sighs, shifting his weight. “He’s got his own stuff, San. You can’t fix what you don’t understand.”

That one stings. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s probably right.

I swallow hard. “Then what is it about?”

Yeosang’s eyes flick toward the door Woo disappeared through, then back to me.
“I think that’s for him to tell you.”

The way he says it –quiet, careful–  makes something twist in my chest.
Because it’s not what he says, it’s what he doesn’t.
The silence after, the way he leaves before I can ask again.

He walks off toward the exit, calling for one of the staff, all smiles and normalcy again.
And I just stand there, still holding that empty cup, watching the space Woo left behind like it might explain something.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

So when I went live the next evening, I wasn’t thinking.
Not really.

The chat was flooding with “Woosan” comments, the usual chaos, and I thought maybe I could joke my way through it. Be a little reckless.

So when someone asked who my favorite member was, I didn’t even hesitate.
I smiled straight at the camera and said,
“They’re all annoying. But maybe Hongjoong-hyung. He bought me coffee today.”

It was supposed to be funny. A small jab, something Woo would roll his eyes at later.

Except when I ended the live, I didn’t feel like laughing.
Because the truth hit me right away.
I’d done it on purpose. Said it just to see if he’d react. If he still cared.

And the worst part?
He probably did.
I just wouldn’t get to see it.

⋆✴︎˚⁸｡⋆

So when he called me out over dinner a few nights later, I didn’t even know how to react.
He threw that livestream line back at me– Hongjoong being my “favorite”.

It stung because it meant he had seen it. And I stung because I’d meant it to hurt.

So instead of explaining, I got defensive.
I told myself he was overreacting. That it wasn’t a big deal.

But deep down, I knew exactly what I’d done.
And when I said, “Whatever this is, fix it yourself,” it wasn’t about him.

It was about me. Because I didn’t know how to fix what I’d broken– not with him, not with myself.