Chapter Text
October 2012, Seoul
The night after the meeting felt colder than it should have.
Sangwon sat on the floor of his living room, back against the couch, a half-finished beer sweating on the coffee table beside him. The dawn light was gray and colorless, slipping past the blinds in thin, exhausted lines. He should have been asleep hours ago. He should have been able to forget the look on Leo’s face,that startled flicker of guilt, drowned instantly by the presence of the girl clinging to his arm.
But every time Sangwon closed his eyes, he saw it again.
Jiahao’s angry voice.
Leo’s silence.
And the way Leo’s hand tightened protectively around his girlfriend’s fingers when the tension broke.
Sangwon rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids. Nothing helped. His chest felt hollow and aching, like someone had scooped out something important and left him with the echo of it.
He should have known better.
He should have stopped caring a long time ago.
He should have stopped hoping even longer before that.
But people didn’t stop loving overnight.
People like him didn’t stop at all.
Not when the person they loved kept walking into rooms like a ghost that refused to rest.
Not when every breath tasted like memory.
A week later
The band was scheduled to gather at their practice studio to prep for a small year-end performance — nothing major, just a fan event. They’d done it every year. A tradition. Something comfortable and easy.
But nothing felt easy anymore.
Sangwon arrived early, headphones on, hoodie pulled low. He wanted to slip in unnoticed, warm up, pretend last week never happened. Maybe if he focused hard enough, he could pretend Leo didn’t exist.
The studio was empty except for Junmin, who was tuning his guitar.
The older man looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Morning. You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sangwon said simply.
Junmin didn’t comment. He never pushed. That was one of the reasons Sangwon could stand him.
“You alright to rehearse?” Junmin asked. “We’ve got a couple of rough transitions to smooth out before Friday.”
“Yeah. Let’s start whenever.”
Junmin opened his mouth, probably to ask something else, but stopped when the studio door clicked open.
Footsteps.
Two sets.
One light, familiar.
One slightly heavier, slower.
Sangwon didn’t need to lift his head to know who it was. His chest tightened in automatic response — frustration, longing, fear, anger, all tangled up in a single breath he tried to swallow back.
Leo walked in.
And his girlfriend was with him.
Her laugh floated in first — soft, warm, impossible to ignore. She stood close to him, talking about something they’d eaten earlier, waving her hands animatedly. Leo nodded, smiling, listening as if nothing in the world weighed heavier than her words.
A normal couple.
A happy one.
Perfect, even.
And entirely wrong.
Sangwon turned away sharply, gaze on the floor, pretending to dig through his bag.
Junmin’s eyes flicked between them, tension sparking like electricity across the room.
“Oh, hey,” Leo said, voice quieter now. The air changed as soon as he saw Sangwon, even if he tried to hide it.
His girlfriend blinked, surprised by the abrupt shift in the atmosphere. “Morning, Sangwon,” she said, polite and warm.
“Morning,” Sangwon replied, forcing out the word with the stiffness of someone lifting something too heavy.
His throat felt like sand. He didn’t look at Leo. Couldn’t.
Leo cleared his throat. “I’m dropping her off before we start. She just wanted to—”
Junmin cut in before the sentence finished. “We should begin soon.”
Leo nodded, eyes flickering once — just once — in Sangwon’s direction.
Sangwon didn’t return the glance.
Not looking was the only thing keeping him together.
Twenty minutes later, they were, rehearsing one of their older tracks — easier, upbeat, nothing sentimental. Leo handled the keyboard section, fingers steady, practiced. Sangwon sang backup for the chorus. They’d done this hundreds of times.
But Sangwon’s focus was threadbare. Every time he inhaled to sing, he tasted the memory of Leo’s cologne from the alleyway — smoky, subtle, familiar. Every time he exhaled, he saw the girl’s hand around Leo’s wrist, anchoring him in a life Sangwon didn’t know how to exist outside of.
He missed a note.
Subtle. Barely noticeable to anyone else.
Not to Leo.
Leo’s hands faltered on the keys for half a beat.
Junmin looked up.
Kangmin — who had just arrived — paused in the doorway.
Sangwon closed his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Let’s go again.”
“You sure?” Junmin asked quietly.
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
He knew it.
Junmin knew it.
Leo definitely knew it.
Still, they restarted.
Second verse.
Everything smooth at first.
Then the bridge hit — Sangwon’s harmony line.
His voice cracked.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Enough for Leo to freeze again. Enough for his girlfriend, who was sitting in the back scrolling through her phone, to look up in mild surprise. Enough for Sangwon’s face to burn in humiliation.
“Take five,” Junmin said gently. “Everyone breathe.”
Sangwon nodded stiffly and set the mic down, hands cold.
He could feel Leo’s gaze — sharp, searching, guilty — like needles against the side of his face.
He ignored it.
In the hallway
He slipped out of the room before anyone could stop him.
The hallway was narrow and dim, with the flickering fluorescent light humming above him. He leaned against the wall, hands in his hoodie pockets, breath shaky.
The door opened behind him.
He didn’t need to look to know who stepped out.
Leo.
Of course Leo followed.
He always followed.
Never enough to stay.
But always enough to break him.
“What’s going on?” Leo asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
Sangwon let out a humorless laugh. “You’re one to talk about lying.”
Leo flinched. “Sangwon…”
“Go back inside,” Sangwon said, pushing off the wall, trying to walk past him.
But Leo caught his wrist.
Sangwon froze.
His heartbeat stuttered painfully.
Leo’s grip wasn’t tight — it never was — but it was steady, grounding, familiar.
Too familiar.
“Don’t run from me,” Leo murmured. “Not again.”
Sangwon’s breath shook. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
Leo hesitated — then released him slowly, fingers dragging just slightly before letting go.
Sangwon stepped back instantly, pulling his hand to his chest like it had been burned.
“You’re not okay,” Leo said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You can’t even look at me.”
“Because you’re—”
Sangwon swallowed hard.
“—you’re here with her.”
Leo’s face tightened. “We’re together. I can’t change that.”
“Yeah,” Sangwon said bitterly. “You made your choice.”
“The world isn’t kind,” Leo said quietly. “You know that. You know why—”
“No.” Sangwon’s voice cut through sharply. “Don’t blame the world. Don’t blame people. Don’t blame expectations. You didn’t choose her because it was easier. You chose her because it was safer.”
Leo didn’t deny it.
That hurt the most.
Sangwon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And you left me alone to deal with the wreckage.”
Leo stepped closer, expression cracking for the first time that morning. “You think I didn’t break too?”
“Did you?”
Leo inhaled shakily. “Every day.”
For a moment — a moment too brief, too fragile — Sangwon believed him.
Then the studio door opened again.
Leo’s girlfriend peeked out. “Babe? Everything okay?”
Leo stepped back instantly, walling up his expression.
Protective.
Distant.
Separate.
Sangwon felt his stomach twist painfully.
“We’re fine,” Leo said quickly, turning away from Sangwon. “Two minutes.”
She nodded and went back inside.
Leo didn’t look at Sangwon again.
He didn’t have to.
Because the message was already clear:
We broke quietly.
We break still.
But not loudly enough for anyone else to see.
Rehearsal resumed, but the atmosphere was strained — tight like a rope pulled too hard.
Leo’s girlfriend stayed in the back, humming along occasionally. It felt wrong. It felt like she was sitting in a seat that had once been his. Not literally — but symbolically. She was occupying space that used to belong to him, emotionally, mentally, silently.
Junmin watched everything with the eyes of someone who didn’t understand but knew enough to worry.
Kangmin watched with the eyes of someone who did understand — just not the whole truth.
And Sangwon’s voice never fully steadied.
Not once.
Toward the end of the session, Leo accidentally dropped a chord progression. A mistake he hadn’t made in years. His fingers slipped, tension leaking into every note he tried to play afterward.
Junmin frowned. “You two need to get your shit together,” he muttered under his breath.
Kangmin shot a warning look at him.
But the damage was done.
Leo closed the keyboard lid with a short, frustrated exhale. “Let’s call it,” he said.
No one objected.
Most of the group headed home, scattering across the parking lot. Leo’s girlfriend wrapped her scarf tighter and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. It was a light kiss, innocent, sweet.
It felt like a knife.
Sangwon turned away fast, pretending to dig through his backpack.
“Text me when you get home,” she said softly.
“I will,” Leo murmured.
Sangwon hated how gentle he sounded.
Once she left, the air shifted again — lighter, but heavier at the same time.
Leo lingered.
Sangwon didn’t look at him as he zipped his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
“Are you going to ignore me forever?” Leo asked quietly.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you want the truth,” Sangwon said, turning to face him. “Or another lie to make yourself feel better.”
Leo’s expression hardened. “I never lied about how I felt.”
“Yes, you did,” Sangwon whispered. “Every day you stayed with her.”
Leo looked like he’d been punched.
Sangwon didn’t wait for a response. He brushed past him, heading toward the bus stop.
Leo didn’t follow this time.
He just stood there, jaw tight, hands clenched, watching Sangwon walk away.
Later that night, Sangwon sat by his bedroom window, legs pulled up to his chest, cigarette between two fingers. The city lights shimmered below, blurred by the fog on the glass.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Kangmin.
”You sure you’re okay?”
Sangwon stared at the screen for a long time before typing back.
”Yeah. Just tired.”
It was a lie.
But it was the only thing he could say.
Another buzz.
This time from a name he didn’t want to see.
Leo: We need to talk.
Sangwon stared at the message until the cigarette burned down to the filter.
He didn’t answer.
Not tonight.
Not again.
Not when every conversation ended the same way — with hope he couldn’t afford and a heartbreak he wasn’t surviving.
But even though he didn’t reply…
He didn’t delete the message either.
And that — tragically — was its own kind of truth.