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The practice room felt cruel, despite the warm golden-orange light casting soft shadows over Jihoon’s face as he sat in solitude, trying to regain control of his breathing. The familiar sound of his worn sneakers squeaking against the polished wooden floor usually provided him comfort—a steady noise that helped him focus. But this evening, that sense of comfort was elusive; it felt like a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming thoughts that were poisoning him slowly—just a distraction from the chaos raging in his mind. The air felt thick and heavy, almost stifling, as he fought to mute the echo of Seungcheol’s voice—gentle, warm, and achingly affectionate as he had talked about Jeonghan earlier that day.
It had been after the fansign in Icheon, once the signing event wrapped up and Jihoon found himself in the makeup room. His makeup artist had to leave for Seoul early, as her husband was heading to Los Angeles, so she requested that he finish the photo session as quickly as possible. Jihoon didn’t want anyone waiting, so he hurried through the pictures with his bandmates before making his way to the green room.
“Jihoonie, thank you for understanding,” his makeup artist said, her voice warm. She was a talented woman, skilled at enhancing Jihoon’s features and stage presence, knowing that he often preferred to let his work speak for him.
“It’s okay, noona. I understand,” Jihoon replied, smiling back at her.
He settled into the vanity chair as she began to remove his tiara and jewelry, then got to work on his makeup.
Halfway through, Seungcheol entered the room, his expression shifting to a pout as he spotted Jihoon getting his makeup taken off. “We still needed to take pictures, Jihoonie-ya!” he exclaimed. Before Jihoon could respond, his stylist jumped in to explain the situation.
Seungcheol’s playful whining made Jihoon laugh. “Hyung, we can take pictures once I’m finished,” he assured him, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.
“Really? You’re okay with being bare-faced?” Seungcheol asked, his mood brightening at Jihoon’s reassurance.
“Absolutely,” Jihoon said, his soft smile reflecting his enjoyment of the playful exchange.
The managers had decided it would be good for the boys to take a day off, emphasizing the importance of mental health. Everyone was excited about the break. While the other members made plans, Jihoon told them he needed to rest. Most agreed without hesitation, knowing how much of a homebody he was. However, Seungkwan and Seokmin noticed the shift in his mood and tried to convince him to join them. But Jihoon stubbornly stood by his decision.
The truth, though, was that he didn’t want rest. He needed to escape. To avoid his thoughts. To lose himself in the quiet solitude of the dance studio. That’s why he rented the practice room for the evening—hoping that through movements and music, he could forget, even for a moment, the way Seungcheol had spoken about Jeonghan—effortless, like praising him was second nature, like Jeonghan’s perfection was an undeniable fact.
“Hannie looked so beautiful today, didn’t he?” Seungcheol had said with a fond laugh, his eyes lighting up as he recalled the moment. “That tiara really made his blonde hair stand out—he looked just like a Disney princess. Even with barely any jewelry, he had this elegance that’s so… Yoon Jeonghan. And the way he handled the members with such care, especially when Channie and Kwan nearly fought after Carats joked that Channie was the better singer? God, I loved how he took control of the situation.”
Seungcheol’s laughter had been so easy, his admiration so genuine, like it was the most natural thing in the world to marvel at Jeonghan. “There’s just something about him—his smile, his voice, his whole presence. It’s like he brings this calm, soothing energy with him everywhere he goes.”
Jihoon had felt his heart seize up in his chest at those words. And now, hours later, as he sat on the floor of the empty practice room, waiting for the ache to dull, it still hadn’t subsided. It rather twisted inside him like a knife, slow and cruel. He let out a sharp breath, his hands trembling as he wiped the sweat from his brow. But the sweat wasn’t the problem. The pain was. The pain of losing Seungcheol was already gnawing at him, as if the inevitable had already happened.
He couldn’t lose him. Scratch that, he didn’t want to lose Choi Seungcheol.
But what claim did he have?
None.
Not when he and Seungcheol hadn’t even defined what they were. Jihoon wasn’t Seungcheol’s boyfriend—at least, not officially. He wasn’t anything, really. They were just… something unspoken. Always close, yet never crossing the line of bandmates. Sure, Seungcheol called him dongsaeng , but Jihoon could never quite figure out how much weight that word held to Seungcheol. He didn’t understand why Seungcheol had joked about them getting married all those years ago, or why he had kissed him back then. Seungcheol’s feelings were a puzzle, one that Jihoon had tried to piece together countless nights, only to find himself more lost, like navigating an endless, dark maze. But when Seungcheol was there, physically beside him, everything seemed to fall into place—their relationship status, their feelings, the unspoken words between them—they all made sense in those moments. They’d been like this since their pre-debut days—bound together by a connection that didn’t need words, a connection that felt too real. But now, that connection felt fragile, like it was fraying at the edges, ready to snap at any moment. And Jihoon wasn’t sure if he could survive the break if it finally did.
His throat tightened, and he pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to force back the burning behind them. Why did it hurt so much? Why was the thought of Seungcheol slipping away to Jeonghan making him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling? Maybe it was because, deep down, Jihoon had always thought that they had more time— more time to figure things out, time to define the feelings that lingered between them, unspoken but undeniable, he thought that they had more time to build a foundation strong enough to weather any storm. He had imagined countless moments where they could sit down, be honest with each other, and untangle the chaos of their emotions.
Seungcheol had been more distant lately—not physically, but emotionally. He often talked about Jeonghan, as if he could effortlessly compose an entire page of poetry about him, his laughter ringing out brightly whenever Jeonghan entered the room, his gaze lingering on him in a way that made Jihoon’s heart ache. Each casual mention of Jeonghan felt like a thorn, twisting in Jihoon's chest, as he was left to wonder if there was something he was missing, something that had changed between them.
Jihoon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was becoming an afterthought. Where once they had shared everything—inside jokes, late-night conversations, and dreams for the future—now those moments felt rare and fleeting.
But whenever Seungcheol’s phone lit up with Jeonghan’s name, Jihoon couldn’t help but remember all the quiet promises they’d made to each other—the countless hours spent together, the moments that had once felt like they belonged to them alone. Now, those memories felt distant, overshadowed by Seungcheol’s growing admiration for someone else. Each mention of Jeonghan’s accomplishments, each shared laugh, felt like another crack in the foundation of what they had. Jihoon couldn’t help but feel that the camaraderie they had forged was now eclipsed by this new light, leaving him to fade into the background of his own story.
A strange jealousy simmered in Jihoon’s chest, a feeling that left him hollow and lost. He wanted to be happy for Seungcheol, and wanted to be the supportive friend he knew he should be. But the fear of losing him to someone as captivating as Jeonghan was overwhelming. He wanted to remind Seungcheol of their bond, to reclaim the closeness they’d once had, but each time he opened his mouth, the words died on his lips, trapped in a turmoil of confusion and heartache. So he watched in silence, feeling himself slip further away.
Would Seungcheol even notice if he were gone? Would he care? Those thoughts spiraled relentlessly in Jihoon’s mind, creating a vortex of doubt and insecurity. Each question felt like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples of uncertainty across the surface of his heart. Jihoon found himself longing for clarity, desperate to understand where he stood in Seungcheol’s life. The thought weighed heavily on his heart, making it hard to breathe as he faced the reality of their shifting dynamics. Maybe, just maybe, Seungcheol was already moving on to something else, someone else.
These thoughts were unbearable.
He bit down on his lip, hard, willing the tears away. He wasn’t one to cry. Not usually. But this was different. This was Seungcheol. This was the person who had been by his side through everything—through every grueling trainee day, through every high and low since their debut, through every moment where Jihoon felt like he might fall apart. Seungcheol was the one who always held him together, the one who knew him better than anyone else. He was Jihoon’s constant, his anchor.
And now, Jihoon felt like he was drifting, like that anchor was slowly being pulled away from him.
He didn’t know what hurt more—the idea of Seungcheol leaving him behind or the crushing realization that maybe he had never been close enough to keep Seungcheol in the first place. The thought sank into him like a heavy stone, crushing his insides and leaving an unbearable ache in its wake. Every touch, every shared glance, every late-night conversation now seemed to blur into a painful memory, tinged with doubt. What if the cuddling after intense practices had meant nothing? Maybe it was a simple gesture of comfort that Jihoon had misinterpreted as something more? What if the late-night talks were just ways to pass the time? Maybe that kiss had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, a playful tease that Seungcheol didn't take seriously. The warmth of it still lingered on Jihoon's lips, but now it felt tainted, as if it had been a mere joke to Seungcheol, an impulse he quickly forgot in the glow of their friendship. It truly stung to think that maybe Seungcheol had only stayed up all night with him to ensure Jihoon produced good music, that the time they spent together was a means to an end, a necessary step in their creative process rather than a bond of genuine intimacy.
The thought twisted painfully inside him.
All those moments they’d shared, moments Jihoon had thought were special, suddenly felt insignificant in the face of Seungcheol’s effortless admiration for Jeonghan. Even the dream they’d once joked about—getting married one day— What if Seungcheol’s words about getting married had been nothing more than a whimsical thought, a playful comment meant to garner views on YouTube rather than a promise for the future? The idea felt like salt in an open wound, amplifying Jihoon’s insecurities and fears.
Jihoon couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been living in a fantasy, one where Seungcheol had always seen him as a friend and nothing more. The deeper Jihoon delved into these thoughts, the more isolated he felt. It was as if he were trapped in a collapsing house of cards, watching Seungcheol drift further away, powerless to stop him.
Their relationship had always been complicated. From the very beginning, Jihoon had felt something for Seungcheol that went beyond friendship, beyond camaraderie. It had started as admiration, of course. Seungcheol had always been the leader, the one who carried so much weight on his shoulders with a smile that masked the burden. Jihoon admired him for his strength, his unwavering dedication to the group, and his ability to keep everyone together even when things got tough.
But somewhere along the way, admiration had turned into something else—something deeper, something that Jihoon hadn’t been able to put into words. He didn’t know when it happened, didn’t know the exact moment when his feelings had shifted. Maybe it was one of those nights when they stayed up late together, working on music in the Universe Factory, sitting side by side in comfortable silence. Maybe it was one of the times Seungcheol had looked at him, really looked at him, with eyes so full of understanding and warmth that Jihoon felt like he could fall apart right then and there. The air around them felt charged, electric, as if every shared glance was a spark igniting an unspoken desire. When Seungcheol leaned in just a fraction closer, Jihoon could feel the heat radiating from him, a magnetic pull that left his breath hitching in his throat.
Every accidental brush of their skin sent shivers coursing through Jihoon, stirring something deep within him that he couldn’t ignore. The way Seungcheol’s lips curled into that inviting smile made Jihoon’s heart race, each heartbeat amplifying the tension that hung in the air like a heavy fog. It felt as though they were teetering on the edge of something exhilarating yet terrifying, where the line between friendship and something more blurred with every lingering look.
Jihoon’s thoughts spiralled as he caught Seungcheol's gaze, the intensity in his eyes making him feel exposed and raw. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the way his pulse quickened at the thought of closing the distance between them.
Or maybe it was just a slow, steady evolution of the way they had always been—until one day, Jihoon woke up and realised that he didn’t just admire Seungcheol. He loved him.
He had loved him for so long now that it felt like part of him, like breathing. But it wasn’t something he could say. Not out loud. Not when he didn’t even know if Seungcheol felt the same. They had always been careful, both of them, dancing around the edges of something more but never stepping fully into it.
And now, Jihoon wondered if he had waited too long.
Jihoon took a shaky breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The person looking back at him felt like a stranger, someone lost and vulnerable. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the reality of what was happening, but he knew he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay.
He glanced down, clutching his hands into fists, feeling the sting of his own nails digging into his palms. The truth was painful, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer. Seungcheol’s heart was drifting toward Jeonghan, and Jihoon was left behind, watching from the shadows, holding onto memories that were slipping through his fingers like sand.
As he sat there, alone in the dim light of the practice room, Jihoon felt a tear slide down his cheek. This time, he didn’t stop it. The pain of letting go was too great, and for the first time, he allowed himself to feel it fully, to acknowledge the loss of something he had never truly had.
With a heavy heart, he rose from the floor, legs trembling beneath him, as if the weight of his emotions had made them weak. Jihoon glanced around the room, absorbing the now-familiar scene—the mirrors, the microphone stand, and the floor that had seen countless practices and the laughter of many dancers and dreamers in Icheon. This space had served as a refuge for so many, yet now it felt strangely familiar and irrevocably altered.
As he moved to the centre of the room, he felt the overwhelming urge to dance again, to let the music guide him through his sorrow like it did before. But even that felt like a betrayal of the feelings clawing at his chest. Instead, he stood still, trying to find a sense of peace in the chaos of his emotions.
“What am I fucking even doing?” he whispered to the empty room, his voice barely above a murmur. “Why can’t I just fucking be happy for him?” The question hung in the air, unanswered and heavy.
He collapsed against the cold wooden floor, closing his eyes and surrendering to the surge of emotions. Memories flooded back, making him question—was this what it felt like to lose someone you loved?
He had never felt like this before, never felt so out of control. His feelings for Seungcheol had always been something he kept hidden, something he tried to manage. But now, they were spilling out, raw and uncontained, and he didn’t know how to stop them.
What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to move on if Seungcheol chose Jeonghan? How was he supposed to let go when he had held onto these feelings for so long?
It was all too much.
As the tears flowed freely, Jihoon felt an overwhelming wave of acceptance wash over him. He knew he had to let go of the idealised bond he had cherished, acknowledging that it was shifting into something he couldn’t fully comprehend. Each tear felt like a release, lightening the weight he had carried for so long, yet leaving a lingering ache in his heart.
He found himself contemplating the possibility of supporting Seungcheol from a distance, of embracing a friendship that now felt tinged with bittersweet uncertainty. Would he be able to navigate this new terrain, to forge a path that led not to heartache but to acceptance? Yet, the reality was that this journey would take time, and in this moment, he allowed himself to mourn the connection that had once held so much promise, now slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers.
As Jihoon wiped his tears and took a deep breath, he realised that life would continue to unfold in unexpected ways, and he would need to be prepared for whatever came next. It was a difficult truth to accept, but perhaps it was necessary for his own growth.
The future felt uncertain, more uncertain than it had ever been. He didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know if he and Seungcheol could ever be more than what they were now.