Work Text:
Seoul, South Korea
"Hey, Bin, it’s me. Looks like I must’ve just missed you. Give me a call when you get a chance, okay? I miss you and love you. Talk soon."
*
“Cheers!”
He’s been drinking more than usual tonight—more than anyone else at the table.
Hanbin tilts his head back and downs his drink in one smooth motion. The soju burns on the way down, but it does little to dull the ache in his chest, or make it easier to forget that only four of them could make it to this little celebration.
Technically speaking, it’s Gunwook’s birthday that they’re supposed to be celebrating, gathered in a private room they’d booked just for the occasion. But everyone knows this date holds far more weight than just that.
“Ah, our baby’s all grown up,” Matthew coos playfully, his voice just a little slurred as he leans across the table to plant a loud, exaggerated kiss on Gunwook’s cheek.
“Hyung!” Gunwook protests, swatting at him while his face flushes pink. “Cut it out!”
Taerae bursts into laughter, slapping the table. “Oh, come on, Gunwook-ah. Let him have his moment. You are the baby of the group now.”
“I’m twenty-four!” Gunwook shoots back, “Hardly a baby anymore. If anyone’s the baby, it’s Yujin, he’s only twenty-one this year!”
Matthew grins, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, but he’s not here. You are!”
The words linger in the air, heavier than they should be as the room becomes quiet, laughter fading into an awkward silence.
No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing: Yujin isn’t the only one missing tonight.
Hanbin stares into his glass, the faint buzz of alcohol in his veins doing very little to soften the near constant ache in his chest. It’s been two years since all nine of them were together, and as he looks around the table, pouring himself another glass of soju, he can’t help but wish there were more of them here.
Taerae clears his throat, breaking the silence, “So, uh, Matthew, how’s the hosting gig going?”
“Oh, it’s good! Busy, though,” Matthew says, clearing his throat, “I’ve got this new show airing next month, and the production team is killing me with all these retakes. But, you know, I’m grateful. Keeps me on my toes.”
“Honestly, hosting suits you,” Gunwook adds, eager to smooth over the awkwardness. “You’ve always had that energy—like you’re just naturally good at talking to people.”
Matthew preens under the praise, pretending to flip his hair. “Why, thank you, Gunwook-ssi. Coming from a rising idol like you, that means a lot.”
Taerae snorts. “Rising idol? Please. He’s already peaked. The real star is me.”
Gunwook glares at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Excuse me? Who just nailed the rap verse in our last comeback? Oh, right. Me.”
“Yeah, and who wrote the song? Oh, right, me,” Taerae shoots back, grinning.
Hanbin watches their bickering with an amused smile, but he can’t bring himself to join in on their fun. All his words seem stuck in his throat, locked there inside of him, unable to get out, so instead he focuses on the bottle of soju in front of him.
He pours himself a glass.
Then another.
And another after that.
And —“Hanbin-hyung, don’t you think you’ve had enough already?”
Hanbin freezes, the bottle hovering mid-pour. He blinks at Taerae, then at the glass in his hand. His vision blurs ever so slightly, the edges of the glass fuzzy, blending into the table beneath it, and when he finally looks up, blinking past the haze in his head, there are three sets of worried eyes watching him.
“I…” He sets the bottle down with a shaky sigh. “Sorry. It’s just… hard. I just wish everyone could be here.”
“We all do,” Taerae says softly.
“Alright, I think it’s time to call it a night,” Matthew says with a sigh. He pushes his chair back and claps his hands together. “Come on, Hanbin-hyung, let’s get you home.”
Hanbin blinks up at him, his face flushed from the alcohol.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, though his words slur slightly, betraying him.
He is very clearly not fine.
Though to be fair, he’s not sure he even remembers what fine is at this point.
“Sure you are,” Matthew says, as he crouches down, slipping an arm under Hanbin’s to help him up. “Come on, hyung. Up you go.”
Hanbin groans but doesn’t resist, letting Matthew haul him to his feet. He wobbles immediately, leaning heavily against Matthew for support, a testament to just how much he has had to drink.
“Whoa, okay,” Matthew chuckles, tightening his grip. “Good thing neither of us planned on driving tonight, huh?”
“You’re a good hyung,” Hanbin slurs, his head lolling slightly.
Matthew snorts. “You’re the hyung, silly.”
“And smart too.”
“Yeah, yeah, save the compliments for when you’re sober.”
Together, they shuffle toward the door, Matthew half-carrying, half-guiding Hanbin.
The cold night air hits them as they step outside, a stark contrast to the warmth of the private room they had rented. Hanbin shivers, swaying slightly as the world tilts around him. He tips his head backwards, trying to keep the spinning at bay.
“Just sit here for a second,” Matthew says, easing him onto the curb before pulling out his phone. “I’ll get you a cab back to your place, okay?”
Hanbin shakes his head sluggishly. “I’m not going home.”
“Hanbin, you need to go home,” Matthew says, worry evident in his voice. “You can barely stand.”
“No, not—” Hanbin groans, regretting the movement as the dizziness worsens. “I’m staying at a hotel.”
Matthew pauses, lowering his phone. “A hotel?”
“Yeah,” Hanbin says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Haven’t been back to the apartment since… you know.”
Matthew’s expression softens, his brow furrowing in concern. “I thought you said your building manager changed the locks?”
“They did,” Hanbin says, his words slow and heavy. “I just… the hotel’s easier. I was staying with my mom for a while, and now… I don’t know. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m touring soon, and the hotel’s close to the company so my manager can keep tabs on me, this is easier for everyone.”
“You know you can always crash at my place, right? Or move in if you need to. I’ve got that space. It’ll be like old times.”
Hanbin just shakes his head again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m fine.”
Matthew hesitates, studying him for a moment before nodding. “Alright.”
When the cab arrives, Matthew helps Hanbin inside, handing the driver the hotel address.
“You don’t have to do this alone, Hanbin,” Matthew says softly. “You know I’m always on your side, no matter what.”
But Hanbin doesn’t respond.
The cab ride is a blur.
Hanbin leans his head against the window, as he does his best to focus on not throwing up and costing Matthew a cleaning fee, while city lights streak past, blurring around him.
By some small miracle, he holds it together long enough to stumble out of the cab and into his hotel room. The door clicks shut behind him, and he barely makes it to the bathroom before the alcohol catches up with him. He collapses to his knees, clutching the rim of the toilet as his stomach heaves violently.
When the nausea finally subsides, leaving him weak and trembling, Hanbin sinks to the cool tile floor. The cold surface presses against his back, grounding him a little in the stillness of the moment.
That is until he phone slips out of his pocket, landing on the floor with a dull thud.
It’s an impulse—a reckless, terrible impulse—that has him reaching for it. His fingers fumble over the screen, dialing a number he could recite in his sleep.
Even now, drunk and emotionally frayed, he knows it by heart.
The voicemail picks up almost immediately.
"Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now. Since there are, like, five people who actually have this number, if it’s something you can say in a text, just send me a text. And yes, if you’re wondering, that comment is about you. If this is Hanbin... I love you too. Even though you’re making me say it in my voicemail for everyone to hear. Anyway, leave me a message or not. Bye!"
Hanbin’s breath catches in his throat.
He closes his eyes, letting the sound of Hao’s voice wash over him.
The phone beeps indicating it’s time for him to leave his message, and the words spill out before he can stop them, “We really missed you tonight. I mean… I missed you. I miss you every night.” His voice cracks, the sound fragile and splintered. “I just… I don’t know how to be me without you here.”
He pauses, the silence heavy on the line, before he whispers, “I miss you… Please come back to me, my love.”
*
The next morning comes suddenly, without regard for the aftereffects of drowning his sorrows in soju.
He wakes abruptly to the unpleasant shock of cold water splashing over his head, pulling him out of his dreamless sleep suddenly.
He sputters, jerking upright as his head throbs in protest. “What the—”
Standing above him is Jaehee, his manager, holding an empty water bottle and looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Good morning, superstar. Did you know you had a meeting at the company this morning? A meeting you missed ?”
Hanbin blinks, his brain sluggishly trying to piece together fragments of the previous night. He remembers being out with the boys, drinking a little too much soju for Gunwook’s birthday, and then… nothing. He squeezes his eyes shut, straining to recall anything beyond that, but it’s all a blur.
Clearly, it had been quite the night for him to end up here, sprawled on the bathroom floor instead of in bed.
Hanbin groans, as the full weight of his hangover hits him. “Ah, I overslept…”
“Again,” Jaehee replies dryly, crossing her arms. “The meeting was about the arrangements and about your tour. I took notes, but you’re going to need to shower, eat, and make yourself presentable before we go over everything.”
Hanbin leans back against the wall, pressing a hand to his pounding head. “I thought I told you to cancel the tour.”
“Not happening,” Jaehee says firmly. “Now, shower. I’ll order room service. Get to it.”
Dragging himself to his feet feels like lifting a thousand bricks. Every movement is slow, as if his body is protesting against him. Still, he stumbles into the shower as directed, and lets the hot water pound against his skin. It doesn’t do much to clear his head, but at least it washes away the lingering smell of alcohol and regret.
When he emerges, still toweling off his hair, the smell of food greets him. A tray of room service sits on the small table in the corner, but the sight of it turns his stomach. So he grabs a piece of toast and nibbles on it half-heartedly before curling up in one of the chairs, watching as Jaehee rifles through her notes.
Jaehee is efficient, no-nonsense, and meticulous, all the qualities of a good manager—normally, he appreciates that part of her. Today, though, a small seed of resentment sprouts in his chest as she begins explaining what he missed at the meeting.
“Before you ask again, no, we’re not canceling the tour,” Jaehee tells him. “It was hard enough rescheduling the North American leg. Everything’s rebooked, and now you’ve got two months of back-to-back shows in North America and Europe to look forward to.”
Hanbin picks up the itinerary, his eyes scanning the list of dates and cities. The schedule stretches from the end of January to the end of March, relentless and punishing, with barely a moment to breathe. He’d known this was coming—had seen the rescheduled announcements all over social media and even sat through meetings about it—but each time, he’d tuned out the details, clinging to the hope that his repeated requests to cancel the tour might eventually be heard.
They weren’t.
The sold-out venues, even with costs related to rescheduling the dates, were simply too lucrative for the company to pass up.
“It’s a lot,” Jaehee acknowledges, softening slightly. “But the company thinks this will be good for you. Touring, traveling, performing—it’s what you love, right? It’ll help.”
Hanbin doesn’t respond, his gaze lingering on the list of cities, his stomach churning once again.
“They’ve been waiting for this tour for months, Hanbin,” Jaehee presses. “Do you really want to let your fans down now?”
He exhales slowly.
The thing about Jaehee is that she knows him too well. She knows exactly where to press, and the thought of disappointing his fans—the people who’ve supported him through everything—is the one thing that makes him relent.
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”
“Then let’s make this work,” Jaehee says, her voice resolute. “It’ll be a quick two months and then you’ll be back here, and we can work on getting you some time off, okay? We just have to make it through the tour, Hanbin.”
“Yeah, okay.”
*
The itinerary sprawled across the nightstand is a blur of city names and dates, each one a reminder of the endless expectations waiting for him. He’d done his best to go over it as Jaehee had instructed, to highlight the cities that he thought it would be best to film his travel vlog for the tour in, but… even hours later, his head still hurts, and any thought of looking at more plans slips away, as he lays back down on the hotel bed.
His phone lies next to him, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light. Hanbin stares at it for a moment, his finger hovering over Jaehee’s contact to give her the answers she’s waiting on, before swiping away.
There’s only one person he truly wants to talk to.
And it’s not his manager.
He scrolls to Hao’s name, his thumb hesitating over the call button. It’s a ritual he’s repeated more times than he can count, but tonight, the need to hear Hao’s voice outweighs the hesitation.
“Where are you?”
Hao’s voice on the other end is warm, teasing, and it cuts through the heaviness in Hanbin’s chest like a beam of light.
His eyes look over Hanbin with concern, his brow furrowing just a little before he asks, “Hanbin, are you hiding somewhere ridiculous again?”
“I’m not hiding,” Hanbin replies, his voice quieter than he intended. “I’m just in a hotel.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I… I haven’t been home since—”
“You’re unbelievable,” Hao interrupts, though he sounds amused as he says it.
“You too.”
“Fair point.”
The silence stretches between them for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. Hanbin leans back against the headboard, his gaze lingering on Hao, waiting until he finally breaks the easy silence between them.
On the screen, Hao’s face is lit by the soft glow of his own room, his features relaxed, a faint smile playing on his lips as he takes a sip of tea.
“The ‘kids’ are fine, in case you were wondering,” Hao says after a moment. “Though Ricky and Gyuvin locked themselves out of their hotel room yesterday. Apparently, they thought it was a good idea to go grab snacks in their pajamas without the keycard or their phones. I had to call the front desk to help them get back in.”
Hanbin chuckles softly, the sound low and fleeting. He can picture the scene vividly—Ricky and Gyuvin’s sheepish expressions, Hao rolling his eyes even as he stepped in to fix the situation. “They’re lucky they have you to keep them alive.”
“What can I say? I’m a good leader, I learned from the best.”
“And so humble.” The words are meant to be lighthearted, but they settle heavily in Hanbin’s chest.
He doesn’t feel like a leader anymore, not the way he used to. The career of a soloist is a lot more lonely than he’d ever imagined it would be. When they’d all been in a group together, he’d hardly had any time to himself; back then he’d give anything for a moment of alone time. He’d sneak to the company early just to practice in a room all to himself.
Now, what he wouldn’t give to have all of them back by his side.
“You know me.”
“I miss you,” Hanbin says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
“I miss you too,” Hao replies without hesitation.
“When are you coming back?”
“Soon. I promise.”
Hanbin’s lips curve into a faint smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always say that.”
“You know what they say—distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
New York City, New York, USA
Outside, New York feels alive—honking horns, rushing pedestrians, and the glow of digital billboards lighting up the skyscrapers.
Inside their van, not so much.
“It’s not as big as the arenas you played in before,” Jaehee says from the front seat, her tone brisk but not unkind. She’s scrolling through her phone, double-checking the itinerary. “But it’s sold out. That’s what matters.”
Hanbin doesn’t mind the smaller venue. In fact, the thought of something more intimate appeals to him. Even if there were only twenty people inside, he’d still feel lucky.
It’s not about the size of the crowd—it’s about the fact that people halfway across the world are here for him.
As they turn the corner, the venue comes into view, a modest marquee above the entrance spells out his name in glowing letters, and the sight makes his heart skip.
“Your Allins have been camped out for hours, apparently,” Jaehee murmurs, glancing out the window.
Hanbin’s gaze sweeps over the crowd gathered outside. Fans are bundled up against the cold, clutching handmade signs with his name and heartfelt messages. Some wave his golden lightstick, its glow vivid even in the fading evening light.
His chest tightens.
This is why he’s doing the tour.
For them.
He can get through this—for them.
The car pulls to a stop at the back entrance of the venue, where security is already waiting to usher them inside. When Hanbin steps out, he hears a faint cheer rise from the crowd, and he can’t help but glance back. For a brief moment, he wishes he could stop and talk to them, thank them individually.
For not giving up on him.
For not abandoning him, even though he knows he hasn’t been at his best for the last few months.
“Come on,” Jaehee says, gently tugging at his sleeve, clearly sensing his thoughts, “We’re on a tight schedule.”
Hanbin nods, following her inside, but the energy of the fans stays with him, a little bit of warmth settling in his chest.
*
“Ready?”
Hanbin takes a deep breath, nodding. “Let’s do this.”
No matter how many years he’s been an idol, he’ll never get over this feeling—the rush that surges through him the moment he steps onto the stage, the roar of the crowd washing over him like a wave.
His eyes sweep over the audience, a sea of golden lightsticks shimmering before him. From the stage, it looks like an endless ocean of light, pulsing with energy and devotion. Cameras flash, phones rise, and then the opening notes of his first song cut through the air.
The energy in the room shifts—electric, alive, and entirely his.
As the music swells, Hanbin dives into the performance.
When the first song finishes, he transitions seamlessly into the next, his movements fluid, every step guided by years of practice and muscle memory. His voice rings out, steady and powerful, as he pours himself into the music, letting it carry him.
Until finally, the final note of the opening set fades, and the audience erupts, their cheers filling the venue.
Hanbin steps forward, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath.
He lifts a hand to wave, and the crowd responds with another wave of cheers.
“Hello, New York City!”
The words are simple, his English limited despite years of having a Canadian best friend to practice with, but the crowd doesn’t seem to care.
“I am… very happy to be here,” he continues, “Thank you… for coming tonight.”
He pauses, taking in the sight of the golden lightsticks glowing like stars in the darkened venue. A genuine smile spreads across his face, softening his features and reaching his eyes.
“You are… amazing.”
The words are simple, but he means them, more than the crowd will ever now.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels alive.
Maybe the company was right.
Maybe this tour will be good for him.
*
Hanbin sits cross-legged on the plush hotel bed, the room dimly lit by the warm glow of a bedside lamp.
The adrenaline from the concert has long since faded, leaving behind a quiet, bittersweet ache that no amount of drinks from the hotel’s mini bar can seem to quench. Homesickness, not for a place, but for a person.
His fingers toy with the bracelet on his wrist—a simple string of beads in pink and blue, that he’d picked up during the encore of the shows.
His Allins had tossed an array of gifts onto the stage for him to wear as part of the encore. He’d grabbed a few of them, pulling them on as he sang the lyrics of Winds of Fate while dancing around the stage.
But when it came time to pack up, Jaehee had reminded him that he couldn’t keep everything. His luggage didn't have enough room for everything, and he had to be selective.
He’d almost left the bracelet behind.
It was small, unassuming, easily overlooked amidst the more elaborate gifts. But something about the soft pastel beads had caught his eye. The colors, familiar in a way that reminds him of them , and so he’d slipped it on his wrist just before leaving the stage.
Now, alone in his hotel room, he twists the bracelet around his wrist, his thumb brushing over the tiny beads, the pattern made of light blue and light pink.
The emptiness of the space around him feels heavier than usual now in his hotel room. The cheers of the crowd, the golden glow of lightsticks, the rush of performing—they all seem so far away now.
“You look tired,” Hao’s voice cuts through the silence, soft and familiar.
Hanbin startles slightly, realizing he’s been staring at the bracelet for who knows how long. He glances at his phone, propped up against a stack of hotel stationery on the nightstand. Hao’s face fills the screen, his expression a mix of concern and mild exasperation.
“I am,” Hanbin admits, his voice quiet, almost absentminded. He doesn’t even look at the screen as he speaks, his gaze still fixed on the bracelet.
A small huff from Hao draws his attention. Hanbin finally looks up, and his heart softens at the sight of Hao’s mildly annoyed expression. Hao’s pout has always been endearing to him, a reminder of how much he cares, and oh so adorable.
“I swear, if they’re overworking you—”
“They’re not,” Hanbin tells him, “No more than usual.”
Hao nods at his words, “And I’ll scold them for not taking care of my boyfriend properly.”
Hanbin’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “I wish you would. I don’t even think Jaehee-noona would mind the scolding if it was coming from you.”
“You need to take care of yourself, Hanbin,” Hao says, his voice softening, though his concern remains evident.
Hanbin nods, but it’s a weak, tired motion. “I know.”
Hao’s expression shifts, his brows furrowing slightly. “Then we’re ending this call,” he says, his tone playfully stern, though Hanbin can hear the genuine worry beneath it. “Because you need to rest, and not sit here talking to me.”
Hanbin hesitates, his fingers still fidgeting with the bracelet.
He doesn’t want to end the call.
If he had his way, he would talk to Hao until the sun came up.
But all good things must come to an end.
“I miss you,” he says quietly.
He misses Hao every day.
The concert had been amazing, but it wasn’t the same. He can’t help but long for the days when they toured together, sharing the stage, the highs, and even the lows.
Now, they’re separated by oceans and time zones, and the ache of that distance makes his eyes blur as he sits there alone in his hotel room.
“Flattery won’t work this time,” Hao says, “No buts. Go lie down. Sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
The crowd at the airport in Boston is larger than he expected.
Back home, crowds like these are the norm, but here, thousands of miles away, Hanbin hadn’t anticipated seeing this many people gathered just to watch him leave the airport.
He’s been an idol for five years now. He signed up for this—quite literally.
Even so, the attention can still be overwhelming, especially on days like today when all he wants is to curl up in the warmth of his hotel room. Jetlag clings to him like a heavy fog, and last night’s concert took more out of him than he’s willing to admit to his team.
Jaehee is at his side, moving with purpose, one hand grips her phone, scrolling through messages, while the other steadies him with a firm grip on his arm guiding him through the airport.
“You didn’t miss this part of touring, did you?”
Hanbin adjusts the brim of his cap, offering a small smile to the fans as he waves.
“Not even a little,” he replies, his voice low enough that only she can hear.
“Price of fame,” she reminds him, “You signed up for this, remember?”
“I know.” His smile turns faint, almost wistful. “I just didn’t think it would still feel this overwhelming after all this time.”
The crowd surges, fans craning their necks to catch a glimpse of him. Phones rise like a sea of beacons, capturing shaky videos as voices call out his name.
“Oppa!”
“Hanbin, we love you!”
Their words reach him in fragments, each one of them clamouring for a hint of his attention.
He wants to stop, to take a moment to thank them properly, but Jaehee’s grip tightens, pulling him forward. As if reading his thoughts, she murmurs, “No time for that.”
Security forms a protective barrier around them, guiding them through the chaos. Hanbin keeps his head down, his smile fixed in place, even as the relentless flashes from cameras momentarily blind him.
When they finally reach the car, Jaehee climbs in first, holding the door open for him. “See? You survived.”
Hanbin slides into the seat, the car door shutting out the noise in an instant. The sudden quiet feels almost disorienting after all the clamour of their exit from the airport.
He exhales slowly, leaning back against the headrest as the vehicle pulls away from the curb.
Through the tinted windows, he catches one last glimpse of the crowd. Their faces glow with excitement, even against the winter chill, their golden lightsticks a bright contrast to the gray day.
He presses his hand to the window and whispers to them, his voice barely audible to himself, let alone the crowd gathered outside, as he whispers, “Thank you.”
They can’t hear him, but he hopes they feel it anyway.
*
“The bed is empty without you.”
Hanbin smiles down at his phone screen, where he’s got it resting against the vanity mirror of his dressing room. Hao’s face fills the display, looking adorably tousled, his cheek pressed into the pillow as he blinks sleepily at the camera.
A stark contrast to how Hanbin looks, he glances up over the screen, to where his own face stares back at him.
His makeup team has done an impeccable job, the person in the mirror looks polished, confident—a true idol—but the Hanbin inside feels quieter, lonelier.
“I’m in Boston,” he says, his voice quieter than he intended, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you,” Hao protests, his hand patting the empty space beside him. “I’m serious. It’s cold and lonely.”
Hanbin’s lips curve into a soft smile, as he mutters under his breath, “Not unlike Boston.”
“It’s not the same,” Hao counters, his pout evident, even through the small screen.
“No, it’s not,” Hanbin agrees, his voice tinged with a wistfulness he can’t quite hide.
The silence between them stretches for a moment, comfortable yet heavy.
His fingers toy with the bracelet on his wrist, the pink and blue beads. He’d shown it to Hao earlier when their conversation started. It’s silly, he knows, but the bracelet feels like a tether, a small piece of Hao he can carry with him.
He’ll have to take it off before he goes on stage, but for now, it stays.
Hanbin wants to say more, to tell Hao how much he misses him, how the energy of performing had only momentarily been able to cheer him up, how the tour doesn’t even come close to filling the void that the distance between him and Hao leaves.
But before he can find the words, there’s a sharp knock at the door.
Hanbin flinches, hurriedly turning off his phone screen. His heart races as he places the device face down on the vanity.
The door opens, and Jaehee steps in, her sharp eyes immediately landing on him, and then on his phone on the vanity. Her brow furrows slightly, concern etched into her features. “Hanbin… We talked about this—”
“I know, I know,” Hanbin interrupts, exhaling heavily. He knows she’s only looking out for him, but the guilt gnaws at him all the same. “I wasn’t—” He stops himself, realizing there’s no point in lying. They both know what he was doing.
Instead, he sighs and asks, “Are they ready for me?”
Jaehee studies him for a moment longer, her expression softening slightly.
“Just about.”
Chicago, Illinois, USA
“Why is it so cold here?”
“Welcome to Chicago in January,” Jaehee says, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck.
Hanbin hunches his shoulders against the chill, stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets. Though it really does nothing to stop the chill that seems to overwhelm him, or the wind that whips past his face, making it feel as if his thick jacket is hardly there at all.
“This is worse than Seoul winters,” he complains, his teeth chattering slightly.
“Think of it as character building,” Jaehee teases.
The wind whips past his face, slicing through the thick jacket he’s bundled in. His breath fogs in the air as he echoes her with an unamused mutter, “ Character building , oh, is that what we’re calling it these days.”
He’s pretty sure it’s colder here than it had been any of the times he’d gone to visit Matthew’s family in Canada, and that was saying something, because to the best of Hanbin’s geographical knowledge, Canada was north of here.
And yet… somehow, he swears he’s never been anywhere colder before.
The camera crew follows Hanbin and his manager closely as they walk through Millennium Park; he’s supposed to be filming a vlog to share with his fans. It’ll be a collection of clips from all of the cities that he’s visiting on the tour.
He just can’t help but think that this particular city’s section of the vlog would have been better filmed indoors.
Hanbin adjusts the hood of his thick parka, pulling it tighter around his face before glancing at the camera.
“Hi, Allins,” he says, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf wrapped around his neck. “Guess where I am today?” He pauses dramatically, turning to gesture at the snow-dusted park behind him. “Chicago! And let me tell you, it’s freezing here.”
“Hanbin,” Jaehee’s voice cuts in from behind the camera, sharp but not unkind. “Try not to complain so much. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”
“I am enjoying myself,” Hanbin insists, turning back to the camera with a sheepish smile. “I’m just… enjoying it while slowly turning into an icicle.” He wiggles his gloved fingers at the lens. “See? Frostbite is coming.”
The crew chuckles softly, and even Jaehee can’t hide her amused huff.
“Be professional,” she chides lightly, though there’s no real bite to her words.
“Yes, yes,” Hanbin says, straightening up and trying to adopt a more cheerful tone. “Okay, let’s try again. Chicago is so beautiful! Look at all this snow.” He gestures grandly at the park, where the bare trees stand with their branches dusted white. “And look at me, the snow hamster.”
Jaehee groans, but Hanbin grins, clearly pleased with himself.
They continue walking, the camera capturing shots of Hanbin as he marvels at the sights.
The wind bites at his face, but he does attempt to keep up the cheerful façade, pointing out sculptures and talking about how different it feels to be in the U.S. during the winter.
Finally, they reach the most famous landmark of the city, Cloud Gate, or, as locals call it, the Bean.
Hanbin stops in his tracks, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the reflective surface of the massive sculpture.
“Wow,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket to take a picture of himself in its silver reflective surface, “It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”
While the crew sets up to get a wide shot of him standing in front of the Bean, Hanbin’s attention drifts to the people all around him. There are people old and young, couples and families, and friends finally reuniting after so long, they all look so happy and off in their own little world, snapping to take pictures of themselves reflected.
Though there’s one group that draws his attention more than others. He’s sure if they had noticed him their cameras would be pointing his way, but instead, the small group seem to be off in their own world as they hold up tiny stuffed animals, positioning them in front of the sculpture for a picture.
His breath catches when he recognizes the dolls—they’re the little caricatures of the members of ZB1 that his former company had released ages ago. There’s his hamster doll, of course, multiple of them, but also Taerae’s duck, Ricky’s cat, Matthew’s fox… and Hao’s raccoon.
For a moment, Hanbin just stands there, the wind tugging at his hood as a pang of emotion washes over him. He pulls out his phone again, snapping a quick photo of the fans and Zeronis.
“What are you doing?” Jaehee asks, stepping closer.
“Nothing,” Hanbin says quickly, tucking his phone away. But before they start filming again, he sends the photo to the old ZB1 group chat, his fingers trembling slightly as he types: ‘ Look what I found in Chicago. I miss you guys.’
“Alright, Hanbin-ssi, get in position please,” the camera crew calls, and Hanbin hurries into his spot in front of the sculpture and in full view of the camera.
He smiles faintly as he takes his own photo in front of the Bean, suddenly feeling just a little bit warmer.
*
Unsurprisingly, Hanbin feels a lot more energized when he goes on stage than when he was running around the city in the freezing cold weather.
There’s a sort of excited feeling thrumming through him.
One that has a lot less to do with the city that he’s in, and a lot more to do with the fact that a certain group chat that had remained mostly quiet for the last few months had been filled with a flutter of messages ever since he sent the photo earlier.
He’s missed them.
All of them.
And he hadn’t realized quite so much until just now, as he’d been looking at his phone before stepping onto the stage, how much a little bit of reconnection with all of them could warm him up.
That warmth is still filling him now, as Hanbin steps to the center of the stage, gripping the mic with both hands as his first song of the night ends.
“Chicago!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with energy. “It’s so good to be here!”
The crowd erupts again, and Hanbin lets the noise wash over him, his grin widening.
“You know,” he continues, switching to simple English, “It’s so cold here. Like, so cold. But I’m happy to be here with you tonight!”
The fans scream their agreement, waving their lightsticks back and forth.
“Can I tell you a story?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his tone playful.
The audience responds with an enthusiastic cheer, some even shouting, “Yes!”
Hanbin chuckles.
“Today, I had Chicago pizza for lunch. Deep dish. So deep, so cheesy. So…” He pauses dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “Delicious.”
The crowd laughs, a warm ripple of sound that echoes across the venue.
“And,” he continues, “I went to see the famous place in Chicago. You know the one, right?” He mimes the shape of the sculpture with his hands. “It’s so shiny, so big!”
The fans cheer again, some yelling, “The Bean!”
Hanbin nods, his expression turning mock-serious. “While I was there, I saw some of my Allins. But…” He pauses, pretending to pout, his bottom lip jutting out as he slumps his shoulders. “You didn’t recognize me!”
The crowd gasps dramatically, clearly horrified that some of their own had missed a chance to meet him.
“How could my Allins not know me?” Hanbin wails, his tone exaggeratedly pitiful. “Ahh, has it been so long that you’ve all forgotten my handsome face?”
The audience erupts into laughter and shouts of protest, some yelling compliments at him: “We love you!” “We could never forget you!” “You’re so handsome!”
Hanbin perks up immediately, striking a playful pose with one hand under his chin and the other on his hip. “Oh? Really? You think so?”
The fans cheer louder, their energy infectious.
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he adds, “Aww, my Allins are all so cute.”
The crowd reacts with a mixture of laughter, cheers, and coos, and Hanbin basks in the moment, feeling the love radiating from every corner of the venue.
“Let’s keep this energy going!”
*
He’s still jittery hours later when he sinks into the plush hotel bed, his makeup still on, though now smudged, from his performances earlier.
His phone buzzes beside him, the screen lighting up with a flurry of notifications from the group chat that has been going off basically non-stop.
The picture of fans holding up the Zeroni dolls at the Bean had unleashed a stream of replies from his former members, the first of which had started off as sentimental but at some point they had devolved into a series of terrible puns and jokes.
Matthew’s latest message is on the screen, “ deep dish??? more like deep feelings. 🥹”
He watches as the typing bubble appears on the screen, before Jiwoong’s reply, finally appears, “Deep feelings, Matchu? You sound like me in 2019.”
The chat explodes with laughter emojis, and Hanbin shakes his head, grinning.
It feels good—better than he thought it would—to have this banter back, even if it’s just through a screen.
He stretches out on the bed, switching the camera to selfie mode. His hair is a mess, his eyeliner slightly smudged, but he doesn’t care. He snaps a picture, throwing in a peace sign for good measure.
“Post-concert bed selca. Emulating my inner Taerae here,” he types, before sending it off to the group chat.
The chat erupts again.
Between Taerae’s offended “Yah! Hyung!!!” and Yujin’s ‘The resemblance is uncanny’ and Gunwook reminding them, ‘remember when wakeone tried to ban taerae-hyung from sending anymore bed selca’s??? ’ Hanbin can’t stop grinning at his phone.
He really had missed this so much.
He scrolls back up to the earlier photo of the fans and their dolls, his smile softening as he sees the myriad of happy emojis and hearts spammed in the chat.
The photo itself has seven likes on it.
His thumb hovers over the screen, his smile faltering for just a moment.
He knows who hasn’t reacted. The absence feels heavy, a stark contrast to the lighthearted chatter below.
He types out another message. “Miss you guys. Let’s all eat pizza together once I’m home.”
The replies come in fast, filled with agreements.
Hanbin stares at his phone, the glow of the screen casting soft light over his face.
His fingers hover over the screen as he closes out of the group chats and goes over to his saved voicemails instead. He hesitates, his thumb trembling slightly, then presses play and lifts the phone to his ear.
Hao’s voice fills the silence, warm and familiar.
“Hey, Hanbin. I just wanted to call to say that I love you so much. And... I’m the luckiest man in the world to be able to fall a little more in love with you every single day. That’s all. Call me when you can. Bye.”
Hanbin closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him.
His chest tightens with the ache of homesickness.
For a moment, he can almost imagine Hao is there with him, lying on the bed, teasing him about his messy hair or the smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of his eye.
But the moment passes, and reality settles back in.
Hanbin sits up, his movements slow and deliberate. He grabs the thick hotel robe draped over the chair and wraps it around himself before stepping out onto the balcony.
The cold hits him instantly, the wind biting against his skin. It really is far too cold here.
He can’t imagine why anyone would ever willingly live in such a place.
Even as pretty as the skyline is, the city lights blinking and shimmering before him, Hanbin barely notices. All he can focus on is the neverending chill, and the need to hear his voice again.
He pulls his phone out again, dialing Hao’s number.
He knows what will happen, but he waits anyway, listening to the rings until the voicemail picks up.
"Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now. Since there are, like, five people who actually have this number, if it’s something you can say in a text, just send me a text. And yes, if you’re wondering, that comment is about you.” The recording of Hao paused for dramatic effect, before he spoke again, in a softened tone, “If this is Hanbin... I love you too. Even though you’re making me say it in my voicemail for everyone to hear,” he sighed so softly, and then added, “Anyway, leave me a message or not. Bye!"
The beep echoes in his ear, and Hanbin exhales, his breath visible in the frigid air.
“Hey, Hao,” he starts, his voice soft and tentative. “I missed you today. I—” He pauses, his free hand gripping the balcony railing. “I wish you could see the city lights with me. They’re beautiful, but not as beautiful as when we saw them together.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to keep going.
“It’s not the same without you. Nothing is.”
He lingers for a moment, the silence stretching between him and the recording. Then, with a shaky breath, he ends the call before it saves, deleting the message with a quick tap of his thumb.
Los Angeles, California, USA
“I still can’t believe you dragged me here,” Hanbin mutters in Korean, glancing at the polished silverware. “This place looks like it charges extra for breathing.”
“Come on, hyung. You’re a global superstar now. You should be used to this kind of thing,” Ricky teases, “This place isn’t even all that fancy.”
The restaurant is the kind of place Hanbin has only seen before in dramas—low lighting, sleek furniture, and a menu without prices.
Despite Ricky’s insistence that he was a global superstar , and despite the popularity of their former groups, places like this weren’t normally Hanbin’s choice of dining establishments.
“I think my definition of fancy and yours are very different,” Hanbin replies.
Ricky just laughs a little at that, “Don’t worry, Mama already said she would pay.”
Ricky’s mother, seated beside her son, smiles politely. She’s impeccably dressed, her jewelry understated but clearly expensive. Looking at her, Hanbin feels a little underdressed in his sweater and jeans, but Ricky had insisted he come as he was.
There’s a bit of a language barrier between them, Hanbin’s English is subpar at best, and his Mandarin is nearly exclusive to things that Hao had taught him in the privacy of his bedroom, neither suited for brunch conversation. But Ricky’s mother doesn’t seem to mind that he and Ricky have been mostly speaking in Korean to each other since arriving.
Hanbin glances at her again, a pang of guilt tugging at him.
How many times had they come to Los Angeles as ZB1?
Too many to count between the festivals, interviews, award shows.
Each time, Ricky had invited them all to meet his family, but it had never worked out for Hanbin.
Someone always had a schedule conflict, or they’d been shuffled off to the next city before they could even think about personal time. And, of course, Gyuvin had always claimed first dibs on any family dinners with Ricky when there was time.
He can’t help but think that this whole brunch would be a lot easier if there was someone else here to ease some of the tension and help the conversation flow. Gyuvin would know what to do, Hanbin could already imagine how Gyuvin would talk to Ricky’s mother like they’re old friends.
Or… Hao…
Switching to Mandarin, Ricky says something to his mother, who laughs lightly and responds.
Hanbin catches only a few words, not enough to understand what either of them are saying.
“What did she say?”
“She said you look too skinny. She’s worried you’re not eating enough.”
Hanbin laughs awkwardly. “Tell her I eat just fine.”
Ricky translates, and his mother nods, though she still looks at him a bit thoughtfully.
The waiter arrives with their appetizers, a selection of artfully arranged dishes that look too pretty to eat. Ricky’s mother gestures for Hanbin to try one, and he obliges, giving her a thumbs-up after the first bite.
“It’s good,” Hanbin says in English, the words slow, but deliberate.
Ricky’s mother nods in approval, replying in Mandarin. Ricky smirks. “She said you’re too polite.”
“Is there really such a thing as too polite,” Hanbin replies with a grin, earning a soft laugh from Ricky.
As the meal progresses, they steer the conversation to lighter topics.
Ricky talks about his family, his mother chiming in occasionally.
But there’s an undercurrent of tension. It’s in the way Ricky’s jokes don’t land as easily as they once did, in the brief pauses between topics.
Though it’s in the way Ricky’s mother’s gaze lingers on her son, her worry almost palpable, that makes Hanbin’s chest ache the most.
“How long are you planning to stay in LA?” Hanbin asks. He doesn’t mean it to sound pointed, but Ricky’s expression falters for a fraction of a second before he recovers.
“With my group on hiatus, there wasn’t much reason to stay in Seoul,” Ricky explains, his voice quieter now. “Yuehua wanted me to do some solo fan meetings in China, but my Mama…” He glances at her, his gaze softening. “She insisted I come home instead.”
Hanbin nods, sensing the weight behind those words. “She worries about you.”
“She always has,” Ricky says with a faint smile.
The silence stretches between them, filled with things neither of them is sure how to say.
Finally, Hanbin asks, his tone careful, “Have you had any news about… The situation?”
Ricky shakes his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “As far as I know, nothing’s changed. It hasn’t gotten worse, but it hasn’t gotten better either.”
Hanbin swallows hard, the words settling heavily in his chest.
He wants to say something—something comforting, something that could make the weight Ricky’s carrying a little lighter—but all he can think is, No news is better than bad news. Still, the thought feels hollow. He knows Ricky feels the same way.
Ricky clears his throat, breaking the silence, and clearly desperate to change the topic, “How’s the tour going? You were in Chicago last, right?”
“It’s good,” he says. “Busy, but good. Chicago’s freezing, thankfully LA is not.”
“You’ve got your LA show tomorrow, right?” Ricky leans back in his chair, swirling his drink.
“Tonight.”
“Oof, they’re not giving you any downtime are they?”
They can’t really, with how tight rescheduling everything had been.
Hanbin nods. “You should come. I’ll save you a spot backstage.”
Ricky raises an eyebrow. “And risk Jaehee’s wrath? No thanks.”
“She loves you!”
“You’re delusional.”
“Ricky, please, for me?”
He can see that that does it, any resistance that Ricky had been putting up, melts in the face of Hanbin’s sincerity. “Fine, but if Jaehee gets mad at me for being there, I’m blaming you.”
*
“I still don’t know why I agreed to this,” Jaehee mutters under her breath.
The energy backstage buzzes with last-minute preparations. Staff members weave through the space, adjusting microphones, checking lights, and coordinating the flow of the evening.
Hanbin stands in the middle of it all, his stage outfit already on, while a stylist does her best to try to fix his hair. Try being the keyword.
Jaehee, clipboard in hand, casts a sharp glance at Ricky, who leans casually against a wall, arms crossed and clearly enjoying himself, clearly blaming him for the fact that Hanbin had been late arriving at his dressing room.
“I’d let you make a special appearance, but I don’t want to deal with your company any more than I already have to,” Jaehee tells Ricky. “So behave yourself.”
Ricky raises both hands in mock surrender. “I’ll stay in the shadows like a true fanboy. Promise.”
“He’ll be fine, Jaehee. It’s just Ricky,” Hanbin tells her.
“That’s what worries me,” Jaehee replies, though her tone softens as she glances at Hanbin. “You’re up in ten. Focus, okay?”
Hanbin nods, taking a deep breath as she walks off to check on another part of the production.
Ricky steps closer, still keeping to the edges of the bustling crew.
“You’re still down for drinks after the show right?” he asks, his voice low enough that only Hanbin can hear.
Hanbin glances at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Always.”
*
The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains is far too bright for Hanbin’s liking.
He groans, rolling over in the unfamiliar bed, his head pounding faintly from the previous night’s drinks.
It takes a moment for the events to come back to him—the concert, the after-party, and Ricky’s insistence that Hanbin crash at his place when he couldn’t remember his hotel’s address.
“Global superstar, my ass,” Hanbin mutters to himself as he sits up, rubbing his temples.
The guest room Ricky had put him up in is luxurious, with a bed so large it feels like it could swallow him whole. A stark contrast to the cramped dorms that he and Ricky used to share, with the rarely working light bulbs and heating that never seemed to make the place very warm.
Stumbling out of bed, still in the clothes he wore the night before, Hanbin makes his way down the hall after shooting a text message to Ricky to let him know that he was awake. Not that he expects Ricky to see it, Ricky was never an early riser, even if he’d set alarms to wake himself up.
He eventually finds the kitchen, not exactly what he had been looking for, but close enough. Hanbin opens a cabinet at random, finding glasses lined up perfectly. He fills one with water and downs it in a few gulps, before pouring another to wash down the painkillers he fishes out of his pocket. At least he’d had the foresight to grab some of those before he’d passed out last night.
“Good morning.”
The voice startles him, and Hanbin nearly drops his glass. He turns to see Ricky’s mother standing in the doorway, dressed impeccably even this early in the morning.
“Ah, good morning,” Hanbin says in his best attempt at English, bowing slightly.
She smiles warmly, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re up early.”
Hanbin glances at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 9 a.m., but he supposes that is early for someone who’d been out late.
“A little, ah…” He pauses, rubbing at his head, unsure what the right word in English is.
She tilts her head, clearly trying to piece together what he said, eventually she suggests, “Hangover?”
Hanbin nods, “Yes.”
She chuckles softly, moving to a nearby cabinet and pulling out a small box of tea.
“This will help,” she says, holding it out to him.
Hanbin takes it with both hands, bowing again. “Thank you.”
She gestures for him to sit at the island as she starts boiling water. They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, until the faint whistle of the kettle fills the air. After pouring the tea, she places a cup in front of him and says something in Mandarin.
Hanbin blinks, understanding none of it, as her gaze lingers on him.
When she speaks again, it’s in English, her words slow and simple, so that Hanbin can pick up on them. “Ricky’s been very sad lately.”
The words hit Hanbin like a sharp tug in his chest.
He takes a slow sip of tea, letting its warmth settle the ache in his throat, before he replies, “I missed Ricky,” carefully, his own English too weak to truly say everything he means to say.
Hanbin looks down at his tea, his reflection rippling faintly on the surface.
He knows the feeling all too well. It’s a quiet, gnawing ache that never fully fades, the kind of sadness that settles in your bones and makes even the brightest days feel a little dimmer. He thinks about the night before, the way Ricky had laughed a little too loudly and poured them both one too many drinks. Maybe they’d both been trying to drown out the weight of everything—the memories, the loneliness, the reminder of all that they’d lost.
“Ricky misses you too, I think.” There’s a pause, and then she adds, “Both of you.”
Both of you .
The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. Hanbin doesn’t need her to elaborate to know who she means.
The lump in his throat grows, and he hides it behind another sip of tea.
She leans against the counter, her gaze distant, as she continues, “He was... very lonely in Seoul. Always calling home. I told him, come back. Rest. Be with family.”
Hanbin nods slowly, the pieces falling into place. Ricky had always been the one to call home the most during their trainee days, his Mandarin quick and flowing in the dorms as he checked in with his family.
But now, that need to connect must have grown sharper, more desperate.
Especially when the one connection to his home that he’d had with him in Seoul was no longer there.
“I’m glad he went home,” Hanbin says finally, “He needs this.”
Her smile returns, faint but genuine. “And you?”
Hanbin blinks, caught off guard. “Me?”
“You are... lonely too?”
Hanbin hesitates, his grip tightening around the cup. The truth is right there, pressing against his ribs, but he forces a small smile instead. Settling on simply saying, “A little.”
*
“You didn’t even make it back to the hotel last night.”
“Yeah, yeah, eomma. Sorry for having fun.” His teasing tone earns a soft huff from her, but he catches the faintest twitch of her lips.
His head still feels heavy from last night, but he’d done his best not to let it show as they journeyed through the airport earlier, well aware that he had fans watching his every move. Now though, in the comfort of his window seat with only his manager beside him, Hanbin feels no such need to keep pretending that he doesn’t have a killer hangover.
“I’m serious,” Jaehee says, pulling out a tablet and starting to scroll through her notes. “You’re lucky Ricky’s house wasn’t on the other side of the city. We barely made it here on time.”
Hanbin leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes.
“It was worth it,” he murmurs.
The hum of the plane fills the silence between them, but Hanbin’s thoughts drift back to Ricky. The way his smile had faltered last night, the weight in his mother’s voice when she talked about him missing both of them.
A part of him regrets not bringing the topic up with Ricky.
But Ricky had always been a sensitive soul, and the last thing Hanbin had wanted to do was upset him.
Still, he wishes he could have done more.
He wishes he could do anything to make this situation easier, not just for Ricky, but for all of them.
But he’s not a miracle worker.
And no amount of wishing on shooting stars seems to make things easier.
Hanbin sighs, pulling his phone out of his pocket so that he can scroll through his gallery.
His thumb pauses on an old photo—a candid shot of the ZB1 members crowded into a van, Ricky and Gyuvin squished together in the back, grinning like fools. Hanbin’s chest tightens as he swipes through more memories: late-night rehearsals, chaotic group selfies, quiet moments in their dorm.
It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet the longing is as fresh as ever.
“Excuse me, sir,” a flight attendant’s voice interrupts his thoughts. She gestures toward his phone, her English crisp but polite. “Please switch your device to airplane mode.”
Hanbin blinks, glancing at Jaehee, who translates quickly in Korean.
“Airplane mode,” she says, motioning to his phone.
He nods, offering a sheepish smile, and flips the setting on.
As the attendant moves on, Hanbin tucks his phone into the seat pocket and pulls out his headphones.
As the plane begins to taxi down the runway, the screen lights up, and Hao’s face fills it, his expression slightly amused.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you?” Hao’s voice is soft, teasing, and it cuts through the hum of the plane like a blade.
Hanbin doesn’t answer.
He glances sideways at Jaehee, who’s busy flipping through her tablet, oblivious to the conversation on his screen.
The Hao in the video tilts his head, his grin widening. “Hanbin, are you hiding somewhere ridiculous again?”
Houston, Texas, USA
The moment airplane mode is switched off, a flood of notifications buzz through his phone, messages, alerts, and a few tagged posts on social media. He scrolls through absently, until he catches a glimpse of his name paired with Ricky’s in bold text. Over and over and over again.
Jaehee’s sharp intake of breath beside him makes him glance over.
Her screen shows the same thing—a blurry photo of him and Ricky leaving the bar in LA, their faces partially obscured, but still recognizable.
“Ah, shit,” Jaehee mutters under her breath, already dialing a number.
Hanbin leans over to get a better look at her phone. The headline of one post reads: “ZB1 Reunion? Sung Hanbin and Ricky Shen Spotted Partying in LA!” The captions below are worse, with fans speculating about everything from a romantic relationship to reckless behavior.
“Is it that bad?” Hanbin asks, trying to keep his voice light.
Jaehee doesn’t answer.
She’s too busy talking to someone on the other end of the line as they shuffle off the plane.
“Yes, I’ve seen it. We’re handling it now,” she says curtly, her tone sharp enough to cut through the low hum of airport noise. “No, I don’t care if it’s speculative. It’s already trending. Issue a statement—something vague, non-committal. And make sure it doesn’t escalate into anything worse.”
Hanbin follows her down the jet bridge, pulling his cap lower over his face as a precaution. He keeps his head down, listening to her conversation while pretending not to.
“Look, I’ll keep him under wraps until this dies down,” Jaehee continues as they approach baggage claim. “No, he’s not going anywhere. I’ll make sure of it.”
She hangs up with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. Hanbin waits for a beat before speaking, “So… How much trouble am I in?”
Jaehee gives him a look that’s clearly exasperated, “On a scale of one to ten? You’re probably at an eight. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t reach a ten.”
“Thanks, eomma,” Hanbin teases with a small grin, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Don’t push your luck,” she warns.
As they head toward the car, Hanbin’s phone buzzes again. He checks it briefly—a message from Ricky.
Sorry about the mess. Hope you’re okay.
Hanbin types back quickly. Not your fault. I’m fine. Just grounded for now.
*
He really is grounded.
Jaehee had made it clear in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to go do anything fun while they were in Houston. ‘Confined to his hotel room until further notice’ had been Jaehee’s exact words.
Hanbin’s pretty sure that means he’s stuck in here until it’s time to go head to the venue for the concert tomorrow.
He tosses his bag onto the bed with a sigh, glancing around the room.
Another city, another hotel.
He starts unpacking his things.
As he pulls out his clothes, he notices the little souvenirs he’s picked up along the way: a keychain from New York, a postcard from LA. His hand brushes against a pair of sunglasses tucked into a side pocket, and he freezes.
The sunglasses.
He’d meant to give them to Ricky before leaving LA, a small gift he’d picked out from the costumed pieces the fans had given him on a whim. He sets them on the desk with a pang of guilt that they’d never reached their intended destination.
Before he spots the bracelet nestled among his belongings.
Hanbin picks it up, running his fingers over the simple design, the light blue and pink beads. He slips it back onto his wrist without thinking, the weight of it comforting.
But the quiet of the room presses in on him, and his phone on the nightstand seems to hum with an unspoken invitation.
He sits on the edge of the bed, picking it up and opening social media.
The photos of him and Ricky are everywhere. Some fans are delighted, calling it a mini ZB1 reunion. Others are less kind, speculating about his professionalism or criticizing him for going out so publicly.
One post catches his eye: “Is it bad that I’m just happy to see them smiling again?”
Hanbin swallows hard, the words hitting him unexpectedly. He glances down at the bracelet on his wrist, and his thoughts drift to Hao.
Before he realizes it, he’s opening his video gallery, the homesickness suddenly overwhelming.
And then, as if summoned by his longing, Hao’s face fills the screen.
“Hey, are you busy?”
Hanbin smiles at the sight of Hao, who looks pleasantly flustered, standing in the familiar practice room. “Never for you.”
“I’m stuck on this move, and it’s driving me crazy. Everyone else has already gone home for the night. Can you watch and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”
Hanbin nods eagerly, his heart aching at the sight of Hao’s tired but determined expression.
“Please, Mr. Dance Genius. I’m desperate.”
“Show me,” Hanbin says softly.
The Hao on his screen sets the phone down, propping it up against something unseen. The practice room comes into full view, empty except for Hao. Music starts, some unreleased song from his group’s upcoming comeback.
Hanbin watches, captivated, as Hao moves. Even through the screen, Hao’s passion radiates, his precision and artistry unmistakable. Hao may not have been a main dancer, but Hanbin has always believed with a little bit of practice there wasn’t anything that Hao couldn’t accomplish.
Even so, Hanbin’s trained eye catches the flaw in his dance easily enough.
“See? This part feels wrong,” Hao says, stopping the music.
“You’re over-rotating your hip on the pivot. Keep it tighter, and shift your weight faster to your left foot.”
Hao tilts his head, considering the advice, then tries again. “Like this?”
“Perfect.”
Hao’s relief is palpable, and it brings a smile to Hanbin’s face. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Anytime.”
“I can’t wait for this song to come out. Once promotions are over, I’ll finally get some rest,” Hao says, gathering his things. He pauses, his expression softening. “But then your tour will be starting soon, so I guess we’re always doomed to be too busy for a proper date night.”
“I guess so…”
*
“Y’all having fun tonight?”
The crowd’s energy is electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and roaring cheers filling the air. Someone tosses a cowboy hat onto the stage, and without missing a beat, Hanbin picks it up and plops it onto his head.
He grins, tipping the hat in an exaggerated gesture that earns him even more cheers and applause, the locals clearly loving him taking to their fashion.
“This is my last stop in the US,” he begins, speaking in Korean, “And I just want to say thank you for making this journey unforgettable.”
He waits a moment for his words to be translated before the crowd roars with glee again.
He waits for the noise to settle before continuing.
“I didn’t think I was going to make this leg of the tour,” he admits, his tone turning more serious. “I know so many of you had to wait when the US leg was postponed, and I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here.”
The translator relays his words to the audience, and for the first time all night, there’s no cheer. The silence feels heavy, unexpected, and Hanbin’s chest tightens.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise,” Hanbin tells them. Desperately hoping for those words to actually be true. “And you all have to promise too—when I come back, you’ll be here. Pinky swear!”
He wiggles his pinky for emphasis, and the tension breaks as the audience cheers, their enthusiasm returning, many of them holding up their own pinkies too.
He holds his pinky high for a few more seconds before lowering his hand and taking a deep breath. “Thank you, my Allins. Thank you for everything.”
Berlin, Germany
The blast of cold air hits Hanbin as he steps off the plane, sharp and bracing, cutting through the lingering haze of exhaustion from the long flight.
He pulls his coat tighter around himself, shivering slightly.
The February chill in Berlin is a stark contrast to the warmth of Texas, and the time difference feels like an anchor pulling at his body.
“Keep moving,” Jaehee says briskly, her voice slicing through his jetlagged fog. She’s already ahead, striding toward the waiting car.
Hanbin follows, dragging his carry-on behind him.
His team moves in a quiet cluster, their own fatigue evident in the subdued chatter. By the time he slides into the van’s backseat, the weariness is sinking deeper into his bones.
Jaehee passes him a bottle of water and a protein bar as soon as the van pulls away from the curb. It’s her way of speaking without speaking: Take care of yourself, you’re no good to anyone if you collapse. Hanbin offers her a small smile of gratitude, tearing open the wrapper and nibbling on the bar, even though his stomach isn’t sure if it’s hungry or just exhausted to the point of aching.
As the van winds through Berlin’s streets, Hanbin presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city unfurl before him. The architecture catches his eye first—the seamless blend of history and modernity. Ornate facades of old buildings stand proudly beside sleek, minimalist structures of steel and glass, with a dusting of snow over everything.
Hanbin’s fingers itch to grab his phone and snap a picture, but he doesn’t want to disturb the moment.
Instead, he lets his gaze linger, taking it all in.
“Looks nice, doesn’t it?” Jaehee’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. She’s seated next to him, her laptop open on her knees, already diving into work.
“Yeah,” Hanbin murmurs, his voice soft. “I wish I could explore a little.”
“You’ve got a packed schedule,” she reminds him, not unkindly. “Maybe next time.”
Hanbin hums in agreement, though he knows there’s no guarantee of a next time.
His career moves fast, and cities blur together when you’re chasing the next stage, the next crowd. Still, the thought of wandering Berlin’s streets lingers in his mind, a small dream tucked away for later. They do have to film more footage for his concert vlog, though he supposes sleeping off the jetlag is probably the better plan for this stop of the journey.
*
The soft piano intro of the ballad echoes through the small Berlin venue, and Hanbin steps closer to the edge of the stage.
The lights dim, leaving the golden glow of the fans' lightsticks to illuminate the space. It’s a warm, familiar sight, one that always grounds him as he sings the opening lines of this particular song.
He’d written this song years ago, shoved the lyrics into the margins of papers, desperate to capture what he had been feeling at the time into a song.
Into a love song.
There had been speculation when he’d released the song about who it could be about, some guesses more right than others, Hanbin personally always thought it was obvious. How he had poured so much of his love for Hao into this song.
Performing it now, on this tour, thousands of miles away from Hao, usually makes his homesickness worse.
But tonight as he continues, something shifts.
The golden lights of his fans begin to fade, replaced by a gentle wave of blue sweeping across the crowd. Hanbin blinks, momentarily thrown off as the realization dawns. The lightsticks are syncing, their colors changing in unison—a feature usually reserved for larger, more extravagant venues back home.
Changing from golden to a light blue .
His voice wavers for the briefest of moments, but he pushes through, determined to stay on pitch.
His heart clenches in his chest, the emotion swelling so fast it’s almost overwhelming. They planned this. Fans abroad rarely had access to the same resources as those in Korea, and the company didn’t typically bother with syncing lightsticks for overseas shows, especially not for a venue this intimate.
This wasn’t the company.
This was them.
His fans.
He scans the crowd, his vision blurring slightly as tears threaten to spill. Hundreds of blue lights sway in time with the music, a sea of shared memory and support. It’s as if they’re telling him: We remember. We’re still here.
Hanbin swallows hard, focusing on the lyrics as he continues to sing.
The weight of the moment presses on him, but he channels it into the performance, pouring every ounce of his gratitude and love into the song.
When the final note fades, the audience erupts into cheers, but Hanbin doesn’t move right away. He rubs at his face with the back of his hand, wiping away the tears that have escaped despite his best efforts.
The blue lightsticks begin to shift back to gold, though some remain steadfastly blue, their quiet defiance making his chest ache even more.
He steps back to the microphone, his voice soft but steady as he speaks, with a voice barely above a whisper, “Thank you.”
*
The hotel room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint sound of the city outside and the chatter of a familiar voice coming from his phone.
His hands move almost automatically as he begins to pack his bag for the next stop on the tour, but his mind is elsewhere—on the blue lightsticks, on the fans' gesture, on Hao .
He can't stop thinking about how the crowd had responded to his ballad.
The blue lightsticks had hit him harder than he’d expected, and he still felt the warmth of their support wrapping around him, hours after the concert had ended.
“What can I say? I’m a good leader. I learned from the best,” Hao’s voice carries from the phone speaker, warm and familiar. Even without looking at the screen, Hanbin can easily picture Hao's smile, the way his eyes light up when he’s joking. There’s a pause before Hao laughs, the sound of it pulling Hanbin’s lips into a small smile. “You know me.”
Hanbin chuckles softly, still folding his clothes as he listens. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
The words feel like a balm, soothing the ache in his chest.
He pauses for a moment, looking out the window at the night sky over Berlin, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. He wants to share this moment with Hao, to show him the things he’s seen, to have him by his side to experience the world again like they used to.
“I wish you were here with me. I wish we were seeing these sights together. You’d love Berlin.”
Hao’s voice is gentle as he replies, “Soon, I promise.”
Hanbin doesn’t respond right away.
He sets the phone down for a moment and goes to check over his bag again, needing something to occupy his hands, a distraction from the emotions swirling in his chest. As he moves around the room, he glances back at the phone on the bed.
The sound of Hao’s voice fills the space again, and Hanbin’s heart lurches.
He picks the phone back up, holding it close to his face so he can look at Hao, as if he doesn’t already have the exact expression on his face, as if he doesn’t already have the words memorized.
Hanbin says the words without thinking, his voice softly echoing what Hao is going to say at the same time as he says it, “And I always mean it. You know what they say—Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”
Vienna, Austria
"Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now. Since there are, like, five people who actually have this number, if it’s something you can say in a text, just send me a text. And yes, if you’re wondering, that comment is about you.”
“If this is Hanbin... I love you too. Even though you’re making me say it in my voicemail for everyone to hear.”
“Anyway, leave me a message or not. Bye!"
*
“Hey, Hao… it’s me. I know you’re probably busy, but I just wanted to leave you a message, because it’s Valentine’s Day already in Seoul, not here just yet but... well, I don’t want to let the day go by without telling you how much I love you.”
He clears his throat, his voice a little more shaky than he expects.
He hasn’t had a chance to call Hao in a while, and the emotions of the day, the concert, the fans, and the distance, all come rushing in at once.
Valentine’s Day is a day meant to be spent with the person you love, but the person he loves is thousands of miles away and unable to answer his call, and so… This voicemail is not nearly enough, but somehow he hopes that Hao will be able to hear it.
“I wish you were here with me tonight. I wish I could hold you and tell you all the things I can’t say over the phone, but I know we’ll get there. I know we’ll make it through all of this, the distance and everything else… You’re always in my heart, Hao. I miss you so much.”
Hanbin pauses, looking out the window again.
He can see the way the city lights cast shadows on the buildings, the reflection of his face in the glass.
It feels like a reminder of how far apart they are.
His voice catches slightly, but he pushes through, determined to finish the message without breaking down.
“I love you more than I can say. More than words can even describe. I hope you’re doing okay, and I hope you know I’m thinking about you every second of every day. I’ll be okay, but I just wanted you to hear from me, on Valentine’s Day... that I love you.”
Hanbin’s fingers linger on the screen, and for a moment, he just listens to the faint beep of the voicemail system, as if waiting for Hao’s voice to return. But all he hears is the echo of his own words.
“Talk to you soon,” he adds softly, before hanging up.
*
“Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I wanted to do something a little special,” Hanbin begins, his voice warm and inviting, “I’m going to play you all a little love song that I wrote that hasn’t actually been released yet, if that’s okay?”
He’s going off script.
He’ll probably get lectured for this later, but he can deal with Jaehee’s scolding later tonight.
But right now, the venue is buzzing with anticipation, and the crowd’s cheers grow louder at his words. There’s something in the air, something that makes his chest swell with an emotion he can’t quite name. Maybe it’s the energy of the crowd, or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day, and there’s a certain magic that lingers in the atmosphere.
Hanbin adjusts the mic stand, his fingers brushing over the strings of his acoustic guitar. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.
“This one’s… personal,” he says softly, the edges of his voice tinged with vulnerability. “I hope you’ll like it.”
He strums the first chord, a gentle, melodic sound that immediately hushes the crowd.
His voice carries through the venue, smooth and heartfelt:
"You were the sunlight through my storm,
A quiet place I called my home.
In your eyes, I found my way,
But the stars, they led me astray."
The lights dim, casting a soft glow over the stage, and the crowd settles into a quiet reverence as he sings, phone lifted up recording him, videos that will no doubt get him in trouble with the company later and lead to speculation by fans online, but right now…
The melody is tender, intimate, wrapping around the audience like a warm embrace.
As he sings, his gaze lifts from the strings to the crowd, though his mind is somewhere far away—somewhere with Hao.
He pours every ounce of longing, regret, and love into the performance.
As if somehow, despite the distance between them.
Despite everything between them, somehow Hao could hear him, and could understand.
"If I could hold you one more time,
Erase the distance, blur the lines.
Would you hear the words I couldn’t say,
Would you stay, would you stay?"
The audience is captivated, swaying gently, some holding their lightsticks close to their hearts.
A few fans in the front row wipe away tears.
His own eyes blur, as he continues, and when he reaches the final chorus, his voice softens, almost a whisper as he sings:
"Even if the world forgets our song,
In my heart, you’ll always belong.”
The final note lingers, hanging in the air like a bittersweet memory. The venue is silent for a beat, the kind of silence that speaks volumes.
He steps back from the mic, his chest heaving as he catches his breath.
A small, genuine smile breaks across his face.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely audible over the noise.
The fans’ response is nothing short of adoration, the sudden roar of cheers and applause. He’s not sure how many of them actually understood any of the words he was singing, but he thinks that somehow they understood, that somehow they felt his words inside of their hearts.
And for a fleeting moment, he feels lighter.
For a moment, he can breathe again.
*
"Hey, Hanbin. I just wanted to call to say that I love you so much. And... I’m the luckiest man in the world to be able to fall a little more in love with you every single day. That’s all. Call me when you can. Bye."
*
Hanbin tries to make the night feel special, even though the circumstances aren’t ideal.
The table is set with the meal he ordered in—steak, from the hotel’s room service menu, not the fanciest of Valentine’s Day dinners, not at all where he would be under ideal circumstances. After all, his hotel room is far from romantic, but it’s the best he can do.
“So, what did you eat today?” Hao asks, his voice warm and familiar, coming from the speaker of Hanbin’s phone.
“I ordered some steak. Thought I’d make it a little special for Valentine’s,” he says, trying to sound upbeat, but the fatigue lacing his words is hard to hide.
Hao raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Ramen? Again?”
Hanbin sighs, a slight pang of disappointment hitting him.
It’s not Hao’s fault—he’s just doing what he’s always done.
Saying the words he once said months ago.
But it stings to hear the same responses, the same words that have been pre recorded, never able to change or grow with the situation.
“No, not ramen. Steak,” Hanbin mutters, his voice quieter than usual.
He feels the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
The distance, the silence, the endless repetition.
Hao, oblivious to the sadness creeping up on Hanbin, laughs lightly. “You’re going to turn into a noodle at this rate.”
“If I was a noodle, life would be a lot easier,” Hanbin mutters under his breath, staring down at his food, trying to keep his composure.
The thought of being something so simple, something so easily forgotten, feels oddly comforting.
Maybe it would be easier to just fade into the background, to not have to carry this weight anymore.
Hao smirks at him from the screen, the playful expression still on his face. But then, as if sensing something in Hanbin’s demeanor, he pauses.
His eyes soften, and he adopts a more serious tone. “You look tired.”
Hanbin’s chest tightens.
He wants to tell Hao everything—the exhaustion, the constant pressure, the never-ending grind of the tour. He wants to say it all, but the words get stuck in his throat.
How can he explain how fucking hard it is?
How every day feels like it’s taking more from him than he can give?
And even if he could…. What would it matter?
It’s not as if this version of Hao can give him the advice he so desperately needs.
“I am,” Hanbin finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so tired, Hao. I’m so fucking tired every single day.”
Hao’s expression shifts again, concern flashing in his eyes. “I swear, if they’re overworking you—” He stops abruptly, as if cut off by something on his end. Then, with a firm nod, he says, “And I’ll scold them for not taking care of my boyfriend properly.”
The words hit Hanbin like a wave, and before he can stop himself, tears start to form at the corners of his eyes.
He wipes them away quickly, but they keep coming.
He can’t help it.
The kindness, the care in Hao’s words—it’s too much.
It’s all too much.
“You need to take care of yourself, Hanbin,” Hao continues, his voice gentle but firm.
Hanbin shakes his head, his chest tight with emotion.
“It’s hard, Hao. It’s so fucking hard. I’m trying, but—” He stops himself, his voice breaking. “I can’t do it all. I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”
Hao’s face softens even more, his eyes full of concern.
“Then we’re ending this call.” He says it with a quiet authority that makes Hanbin’s heart ache. “You need to rest, not sit here talking to me. Flattery won’t work this time.”
Hanbin opens his mouth to protest, but Hao cuts him off.
“No buts. Go lie down. Sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The recorded call ends abruptly, and Hanbin is left staring at the screen, his fingers still gripping the phone.
He could play it again, start from the beginning, but it wouldn’t make a difference.
The Hao on his screen would always say the same thing.
He exists there.
Constant.
Never changing.
But still…
Hanbin can’t breathe.
His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps, his pulse thundering in his ears.
The weight of it all—the loneliness, the exhaustion, the pain of being so far away from the person who means everything to him—crashes over him all at once.
Suffocating him.
His hands tremble as he swipes back to the call history, the list of Hao’s pre-recorded messages staring back at him like ghosts.
They’re all he has left of him, and yet they’re not enough.
Not even close.
He presses one, letting it play again. Hao’s voice fills the room, soft and familiar, but it only makes the ache in Hanbin’s chest sharper.
“Hanbin, you’re overthinking again, aren’t you?” Hao’s voice teases gently, the faintest laugh laced in his tone. “You’ve got this. I believe in you. Always.”
Hanbin’s throat tightens, and he scrambles to pause the recording, the sound of Hao’s laugh lingering in the air like a phantom.
It’s too much.
He tosses the phone onto the bed, but the emptiness that follows is unbearable.
The silence presses in.
The phone on the bed seems to taunt him.
To tempt him in all the worst and most self destructive ways.
He moves on autopilot, unthinking, as he dials Hao’s number.
The phone rings, and Hanbin holds his breath, his hands gripping the device like a lifeline.
The voicemail picks up almost immediately, Hao’s cheerful voice greeting him. “Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now. Since there are, like, five people who actually have this number, if it’s something you can say in a text, just send me a text. And yes, if you’re wondering, that comment is about you.”
Hanbin’s heart aches as he listens to the message, the playful tone only making the ache worse.
Hao had been so happy back then.
So carefree.
So—
The voicemail continues. “If this is Hanbin... I love you too. Even though you’re making me say it in my voicemail for everyone to hear.”
Hanbin’s fingers tremble as he listens, the words too much for him to bear.
He presses the end button quickly, before the recording can prompt him to leave a message.
He can’t do this.
He can’t keep pretending everything’s okay.
The voicemail picks up once more.
“Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now—”
And then again.
“Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now—”
And again.
“Hey, you’ve reached my phone. Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now—”
And… again….
“Obviously, I can’t answer the phone right now. Since there are, like, five people who actually have this number, if it’s something you can say in a text, just send me a text. And yes, if you’re wondering, that comment is about you. If this is Hanbin... I love you too. Even though you’re making me say it in my voicemail for everyone to hear. Anyway, leave me a message or not. Bye!"
Milan, Italy
“Good morning, everyone! I’m here in Milan today, and I thought I’d take you along as I explore the city. Let’s go!”
Hanbin adjusts the camera in his hand, angling it to capture the cobblestone streets of Milan behind him.
The early morning light softens the edges of the city, making everything feel just a little more picturesque.
There’s a camera crew following along, Jaehee watching from the sidelines with watchful eyes, as they create more content for the fans that couldn’t follow him along on his tour to enjoy from the comfort of their homes.
The camera captures snippets of his walk through the narrow streets: the ornate facades of buildings, a flower stand, a street musician playing a soft melody on the violin.
Hanbin narrates as he goes, pointing out details with a warmth that comes naturally to him. This vlog is a lot easier to film than the one he had filmed in Chicago. The weather in Milan is a lot more merciful.
All in all, it goes well.
But he can feel them.
The fans trailing a few steps behind, their phones and cameras trained on him, recording his every move.
He catches glimpses of them in storefront reflections, their eager expressions, the way they whisper to one another when he pauses to frame a shot.
He tries to focus on the video, on the little details of the city that he wants to share with his audience.
But the weight of their attention clings to him, making the air feel heavier than it should.
Every part of him has become a spectacle.
His time on stage, and off stage.
His happiness, his moments of freedom, his grief.
It’s all a show to them.
The thought flickers through his mind like a shadow, unwelcome but persistent. His smile falters for a fraction of a second before he smooths it out, masking the unease.
There are days when the love of his fans feels like a lifeline, a source of energy that propels him forward.
Their cheers, their support—it’s what has carried him through countless stages, countless nights where exhaustion threatened to pull him under.
But there are also days like this, when the love feels like a weight, a thousand eyes watching his every move, dissecting every smile, every word, every step.
And sometimes, when that love becomes too much, it can lead to…
Hanbin swallows hard, forcing the thought away before it can fully form.
He crosses the street and spots a small café tucked into the corner of a quiet square.
The tables outside are shaded by striped umbrellas, and the smell of fresh espresso wafts through the air. It’s the perfect spot to sit and film the next part of the video.
Sliding into a chair at one of the tables, he sets the camera down on the table, adjusting the angle to capture the café and the square behind him, watching as those that had been following him scurry to the side to make sure they are out of the view of his cameras.
He orders a cappuccino from the waiter, his tone polite but distracted.
Even here, he’s aware of the eyes on him.
A group of fans has gathered at the edge of the square, their phones raised, snapping pictures and recording videos.
They’re trying to be subtle, but he can feel their stares, the weight of their attention pressing against his back.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself.
“This café is so cute,” he says into the camera, forcing his voice to sound bright. “The perfect place to take a little break and enjoy the morning.”
He pauses, glancing toward the fans for a brief moment before returning his focus to the lens.
“I think one of the best parts of traveling is just… slowing down, and soaking in the atmosphere,” he continues, his tone even but tinged with something quieter, something heavier. “It’s easy to get caught up in everything, but sometimes you just have to take a moment to breathe.”
The cappuccino arrives, and he thanks the waiter with a small smile. He picks up the cup, holding it toward the camera.
“Cheers,” he says softly, his smile more genuine now.
As he takes a sip, the warmth of the coffee spreads through him, grounding him, if only for a moment.
But even as he films, even as he smiles and talks to the camera, the weight of their eyes remains.
Always watching.
Always waiting.
Always—
“Why don’t we take a break for a bit,” Jaehee’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Get some lunch while we’re here.”
He glances up at her, then over to the fans lingering at the edge of the square. Their presence weighs heavy on him, a reminder that he’s never truly alone. “You sure that's a good idea?”
“They’ll be happy to see you eating,” Jaehee insists, flagging the waiter down again to ask for a proper menu.
Hanbin picks up the menu but quickly realizes he doesn’t understand half the words. He sets it down with a small sigh, letting the translator the company hired handle the ordering. As they chat with the waiter, Hanbin leans back in his chair, pulling out his phone.
He scrolls through the trending topics.
His name, as always, is there.
A mix of excitement and dread churns in his stomach as he taps into the tags.
Fans gush about seeing him out on the streets filming, sharing excited messages, but no photos of his exact location—yet.
Hanbin knows the unspoken rules of this kind of fandom: the ones who find him first savor the exclusivity, holding back until he’s left to post about their encounters. It’s meant to feel special, intimate, but to Hanbin, it only adds to the unease.
He keeps scrolling, his fingers moving automatically. Videos from his Valentine’s Day performance flood his feed. Fans rave about how he deviated from the setlist to perform an unreleased song. Speculation runs wild: some believe it’s a pre-release for an upcoming album, while others think it was a one-time Valentine’s Day special.
The truth is closer to the latter.
He pauses on a thread where fans dissect the song’s lyrics. Most of them have already put the pieces together.
“Isn’t it obvious who this song is about?” one post reads, accompanied by a video of him performing.
The comments below spiral into sadness and sympathy.
“It’s so heartbreaking.”
“Hanbin must be going through so much.”
“He looked like he was going to cry during that last verse.”
Hanbin’s chest tightens. He takes a shaky breath, willing himself to focus on something else. But his thumb hovers over a new post, one that has caught his attention.
“THIS IS INSENSITIVE AND CRUEL! REPORT AND BLOCK!” the caption reads, followed by a link.
Curiosity wins out.
He taps the link.
The video loads, and his heart stills in his chest as he realizes what it is.
Someone has used AI to extract the audio of his unreleased song from fan videos—and then layered it into a duet with an AI-generated version of Hao’s voice.
Hanbin’s breath catches.
Against his better judgment, he presses play.
The first notes of his own voice fill the space between him and Jaehee. She glances up from her phone, her expression shifting to mild exasperation.
“You know,” she starts, “if you’d cleared that little stunt by me first—”
But then the song shifts, and Hao’s voice—clear, haunting, unmistakable—pours out of the speaker.
Jaehee stops mid-sentence, her lips parting in surprise.
Hanbin grips his phone tightly, his chest heaving as the sound envelops him.
It’s Hao’s voice, but not.
It’s close enough to feel real, close enough to cut deep.
The song was meant for Hao.
Of course it was.
He’d written it about him.
But he’d written it after —
His breath stutters, the grief clawing its way to the surface.
The song transitions back to his own voice, and Jaehee breaks the silence.
“What is that?” she asks gently. “Something you two recorded before, or…?”
“An AI cover,” Hanbin whispers, his voice barely audible.
Jaehee pulls out her phone. “I’ll make sure it gets taken down. Don’t worry.”
Hanbin nods half-heartedly in agreement, as he downloads the audio, saving it to his device. His thumb lingers over the screen afterwards for a moment too long, before he sets the phone down, his shoulders slumping forward.
The weight of everything crashes over him, an invisible force pressing him into his seat.
Each shaky breath feels like a fight to pull himself from drowning, but the waves keep rising.
His chest tightens, and his vision begins to blur at the edges.
“Hanbin?” Jaehee’s voice slices through the haze, sharp and urgent. “Hanbin, are you okay?”
But he can’t answer.
The tears come before he can stop them, slipping down his cheeks.
He clamps a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle the sob that escapes—a sound he didn’t want anyone to hear.
Not here.
Not now.
He curls inward, burying his face in his hands, but even the attempt to shield himself feels futile.
The murmurs start almost instantly. Whispers, gasps, the soft hum of concern or curiosity—it’s impossible to tell which. Across the square, a shift ripples through the crowd.
He hears it.
The murmurs.
Low at first, like the buzz of distant bees, but growing louder, closer.
He forces himself to look up, his vision blurred with tears, and his heart sinks. Across the square, the fans have noticed.
They’re watching.
For a fleeting moment, the air between them feels heavy with shared tension. Then, as if on cue, phones rise in perfect synchrony, flashes of screens and camera lenses all pointing directly at him.
Click. Record. Capture.
The sound of their movements feels deafening, a crushing noise that drowns out Jaehee’s voice, the café’s gentle background chatter, even his own uneven breaths.
Hanbin looks away quickly, his trembling hands moving automatically to brush at the tears streaking his face.
But it’s too late.
His breath hitches, the humiliation and frustration compounding the grief that’s already crushing him. He tries to make himself smaller, to fold into the chair, to disappear.
They’ve seen. They’re recording.
Even his grief isn’t his own.
The realization hits him like a second wave, the sheer indignity of it forcing a fresh surge of tears.
His body shakes with the effort of holding them in, and the murmurs grow louder as the fans across the street inch closer, hungry for a better angle. He knows he should turn away, cover his face, anything to escape their watchful eyes.
But he’s frozen in place, caught between humiliation and exhaustion, and a sadness that is so overwhelming it renders him incapable of moving.
“Hanbin, let’s go inside,” Jaehee says softly, her voice trembling just enough to give away her own unease. She places a hand on his shoulder, a grounding gesture meant to steady him, but it’s no use.
The moment has already spiraled too far out of control.
When he finally manages to stand, his knees threaten to give out beneath him.
He keeps his head down, clutching his phone like a lifeline, the screen still glowing faintly with the cursed video he’d played only minutes ago.
He doesn’t look at the fans again, but he feels their eyes—always watching, always waiting for something to consume.
For them, even this moment will be content.
*
The water is scalding, steam rising in thick clouds that cling to the walls of the hotel bathroom.
It burns against his skin, but Hanbin doesn’t turn the temperature down.
The sting keeps him tethered, keeps him here, keeps him from—
He leans forward, pressing his palms against the slick tiles, his head bowed as the water falls over him.
His chest aches.
His breath comes in uneven bursts, ragged and shallow.
Hanbin closes his eyes against the heat, the sting of it all, to focus on the sound of the shower mixing with the music playing from his phone on the counter.
It’s playing again.
Their song.
His voice, raw and familiar, fills the small space, weaving through the rush of water.
And then his voice—Hao’s voice—joins in, clear and haunting.
A duet that never existed.
That never can exist.
But one that feels too real.
Too perfect.
Hanbin presses his forehead against the wall, the coolness of the tile a sharp contrast to the burning heat of the water.
The song loops in his mind, fragments of it sticking like burrs.
Would you stay?
Would you stay?
Would—
The words feel like a noose tightening around his throat, cutting off air so much that he can’t even remember how to breathe.
The burning water streams over his skin, reddening it, but it doesn’t hurt enough.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Nothing feels like enough.
The song shifts, and Hao’s voice rises, singing a line Hanbin wrote for him but never thought he’d hear.
Even if the world forgets our song.
In my heart—
Hanbin’s hands curl into fists, his nails biting into his palms as the heat begins to blur the edges of his thoughts.
The world narrows, everything folding in on itself.
The music is louder now.
Or maybe it’s in his head.
It’s hard to tell where the sound ends and he begins.
Echoing in the space between his ribs.
The water is too hot.
The room is too small.
His skin is too tight.
He’s slipping.
The tiles blur in his vision, the heat and steam distorting everything into a swirling haze.
His mind fractures, thoughts scattering like shards of glass.
Wait for me.
Wait.
Hao.
He doesn’t remember turning off the shower.
Doesn’t remember stepping out.
The cold air of the bathroom hits him like a slap, sharp and biting against his overheated skin.
He stands there, dripping, his chest heaving as he stares at his blurry reflection in the fogged-up mirror.
It’s not him.
Not really.
The music still plays from the counter, soft now, fading into the background.
Hao’s voice lingers, though.
Cutting through the haze like a ghost.
Hanbin wipes a hand across the mirror, smearing the condensation gathered there to reveal his face.
His eyes are bloodshot.
His cheeks flushed from the heat.
His lips trembling.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at the stranger in the glass.
Until the song ends.
And starts up again.
*
His body moves.
Automatically.
One step, then another.
The music starts.
His voice follows.
But it doesn’t feel like his.
Heavy.
Everything is heavy.
His limbs, his head, the air.
The crowd is there.
He knows they are.
He can feel them, hear them.
But he can’t see them.
The lights blur.
Colors smear together.
Faces dissolve into shapes, blurry and out of focus.
Nothing is clear.
The song is halfway through.
Or maybe it just started.
He can’t tell anymore where one song ends and another begins.
His voice wavers.
Too soft.
Too distant.
Doesn’t matter.
He’s not here. Not really.
He’s still trapped there, back in Seoul, three months ago.
When the world suddenly stopped spinning.
The lyrics escape him. Words come out, but they’re hollow.
Meaningless.
The melody plays on, but he doesn’t hear it.
He feels like he’s floating.
Or sinking.
Maybe both.
The crowd cheers.
But it’s muffled, like he’s underwater.
His chest tightens.
Breath shallow.
Heart pounding.
The music keeps going, but he doesn’t.
The crowd quiets.
And then the music stops, and then…
He feels their confusion.
Their concern.
He doesn’t look at them.
The crowd murmurs.
A ripple of unease.
He stands there, motionless, caught in the void.
The pressure builds, unbearable.
He can’t escape it.
The crowd waits.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
But the fog in his mind doesn’t lift.
It presses harder. Colder. He’s drowning in it again.
He opens his eyes.
The lights are blinding.
The crowd watches him waiting for him to move forward with the concert again.
But Hanbin doesn’t know how to move forward.
He doesn’t know how to move at all.
“I’m sorry.” The words fall from his lips, shaky and broken. His voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears. “Can we... Can we start that song again?”
London, England, UK
The van moves slowly, tires splashing through puddles.
Rain blurs the windows, streaking down in uneven lines.
Hanbin leans against the glass.
It’s cold.
Damp.
His breath fogs the surface.
The city outside feels gray, and endlessly heavy.
Big Ben looms in the distance, its face hazy in the rain. The London Eye stands still, its pods empty and silent.
Familiar landmarks pass by, but they don’t feel real.
Just shapes against the gray.
Absent-mindedly, he pulls out his phone, to take a photo of the rain-slick street, the blurred outline of the city beyond.
His fingers hover over the screen, before he clicks on the group chat that had only seen a brief hint of activity weeks ago, when Hanbin had been in another city on another side of the world.
Thinking of you all , he types before sending the photo.
The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else, but sent to them anyway.
The screen stays quiet.
No replies.
He keeps staring at it, as if waiting will change something.
He’s not sure what time it is in Seoul, or LA, or what time it even is here for that matter.
Everything seems to be passing through a fog, and he —
“Hanbin?”
Jaehee’s voice breaks through the low hum of static in his mind.
He looks up, blinking.
Her eyes meet his in the rearview mirror, her brow furrowed.
“Are you okay?”
Her question hangs in the air, heavy, unanswered, for a moment too long.
Before eventually, he remembers to force a smile and just shake his head, “Just tired from the flight and the tour.”
It’s an excuse.
They both know it.
They’d all seen what a mess last night’s concert had been.
The footage is plastered up on the internet, fans trending hashtags this morning insisting that Studio Gl1de needs to let him rest, that clearly he’s sick or overworked from the constant traveling from city to city.
Jaehee had insisted upon taking him to a clinic last night, but the doctors hadn’t found anything wrong with him.
How could they?
When what he suffers from isn’t any illness or physical injury.
“You should try to get some rest once we get to the hotel,” she says gently, but her eyes linger on him for a moment, before eventually she looks away.
“I’ll try,” Hanbin promises her, but it’s an empty promise.
He leans back, slipping AirPods into his ears.
The van hums around him.
Rain taps against the window.
As he scrolls through his phone, until his thumb hovering over a folder labeled simply gege.
The name stares back at him.
It’s filled with videos, photos, and voice recordings—small pieces of the past he can’t bring himself to let go of.
He taps on one of the videos, the screen lighting up with Hao’s face.
“Where are you?” the Hao on his screen says, his voice soft and teasing. He’s lying in bed, his hair messy and his eyes half-lidded with sleep. “The bed is empty without you.”
Hanbin doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t need to.
This is a recording of a conversation from months ago.
The Hao on his screen continues, reacting to whatever Hanbin had said back then, regardless of what present Hanbin does now.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you,” Hao says, his hand patting the empty space beside him. “I’m serious, it’s cold and lonely.”
Hanbin looks out the window at the rainy streets of London.
Cold and lonely isn’t wrong at all.
He feels cold and lonely right now.
“It’s not the same,” Hao says, his voice tinged with a playful pout.
The words land like a punch.
No, it’s not the same.
Hanbin’s lips twitch.
Almost a smile.
As Hao flops back into the sheets, exaggerated, dramatic.
It’s so him .
So achingly familiar.
That Hanbin feels sick with longing.
The Hao on the screen keeps talking, parroting along with their old conversation.
But Hanbin isn't listening anymore.
His eyes stay on Hao’s face.
The light in his eyes.
The softness in his smile.
The way he looks so adorable, first thing in the morning.
Hanbin’s chest tightens.
He misses this.
Misses him .
Misses the warmth, the ease, the love.
The quiet domesticity of it all.
The soft, easy nature they had with each other.
The Hao in front of him looks happy and full of love and… alive .
The last time Hanbin had seen Hao, he—
He’d been so cold, and there—
There’d been so much—
And he—
“Don’t worry,” this specter of Hao says, pulling Hanbin back to the present, “When you’re home, I’ll reward you with a hundred kisses.”
Hanbin’s breath catches in his throat. His hand trembles as he fumbles to pause the video, his chest feels like it’s caving in.
The silence the video leaves behind is deafening.
No matter how hard the rain pounds against the van window, it can’t drown out the echo of Hao’s voice in his ears.
When you’re home .
He wants more than anything, to go home.
*
The room is dark, except for the faint glow of Hanbin’s phone.
The curtains are drawn tight, but he can still hear the rain outside, steady and relentless.
He should be sleeping.
He needs his rest for the concert tomorrow.
But sleep feels impossible.
His head won’t quiet down.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Hao.
Hao smiling.
Hao frowning.
Hao bleeding.
He shifts onto his side.
Then his back.
Then his stomach.
The sheets feel suffocating.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand.
His hands are shaking as he scrolls.
Through videos.
Recordings.
Folder after folder of Hao.
He picks one at random.
The screen lights up, and there he is.
Hao .
Hanbin props the phone against a pillow, his breath hitching as the image of Hao in a practice room, late at night, the mirrored walls reflecting his every move. He’s dancing. Alone.
Hanbin remembers this night.
It was months ago.
This had been not too long before—
“I can’t wait for this song to come out,” Hao says, pausing to catch his breath. “Once promotions are over, I’ll finally get some rest.”
Hanbin’s chest tightens.
That song.
It never came out.
It probably never will now.
He blinks rapidly, his vision blurring.
Hao always worked so hard.
Too hard.
They both did.
Always thinking there’d be time later.
Eventually.
There would be enough time for them.
“But then your tour will be starting soon,” Hao continues, stretching his arms above his head. His smile is small, teasing. “So I guess we’re always doomed to be too busy for a proper date night.”
Hanbin tries to stifle the sob building in his throat.
What he wouldn’t give now.
For one more date night.
One more chance.
To see Hao smiling.
Laughing.
Breathing.
The Hao on the screen drops back into a dance move, his body fluid, graceful. He’s focused, determined.
And then he stops, turning to the camera with that familiar grin.
“I’m proud of you, you know,” Hao says, his eyes warm, his voice steady.
Hanbin crumples, the tears spill down his face, silent but endless. His shoulders shake as he clutches the phone, staring at Hao’s frozen smile as the video ends, the screen going dark.
But Hanbin doesn’t move.
And the rain outside keeps falling.
*
"Hey, Hanbin. I thought you were supposed to be at the studio late tonight, but I just parked the car, and the light’s on in our apartment. So either that means you lied to me and you’re actually upstairs waiting for me, or you forgot to turn the light off again—even though I’ve told you a hundred times to turn it off."
Hao’s voice filters through the earbuds, gentle and teasing, and Hanbin’s chest tightens.
"You better hope you’re upstairs. I love you. See you in five minutes... or five hours."
Hanbin doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, his thumb hovering over the replay button.
“Hanbin.”
The voice jolts him.
He snaps his head up to see Jaehee standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand.
Her expression is carefully neutral, but her eyes give her away her concern.
Hanbin yanks his AirPods out hastily, shoving his phone into his pocket.
Like that could erase everything.
Like that could make her unsee.
“What do you need?”
Jaehee doesn’t answer immediately.
She steps closer, setting the clipboard on a nearby table, “You’re listening to it again, aren’t you?”
Hanbin stiffens, his jaw clenching.
“It’s none of your business.”
“I know,” she says softly, her tone disarming. “But Hanbin, we talked about this—”
“I said it’s none of your business.”
The words lash out.
He stands.
Too fast.
The chair screeches against the floor.
The sound grates.
Jaehee doesn’t flinch. “You can’t keep doing this, Hanbin. You can’t keep torturing yourself with what-ifs and what might have been.”
“I’m not—” He stops himself, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand,” she says gently.
Hanbin doesn’t respond.
He can’t.
How could he possibly explain the weight of it all?
The way grief presses down on him, heavy and unrelenting, like he’s drowning in it.
The empty space inside of him that no amount of applause, no number of shows, could ever fill.
They said the tour would be good for him.
But all Hanbin can think is that it’s a waste of time.
When he should be there .
All he has left of Hao are these recordings.
The world keeps moving, spinning forward as if nothing has changed.
But for Hanbin, time stopped.
Months ago.
“Hanbin, you can’t keep bottling this up. You’re going to break.”
“I’m fine,” he says.
The words come out flat.
Fake.
“You’re not fine,” she presses. “You don’t have to do this alone. You have people who care about you. Let us—”
“Are they ready for me to go on stage?”
Jaehee hesitates.
She clearly wants to say more.
But Hanbin is already moving.
Brushing past her.
“Hanbin—”
The show must go on.
Always.
Paris, France
“Paris suits you.”
“Sung Hanbin suits me.”
*
Years ago, Paris was where it all began.
Hanbin remembers it vividly, even now.
Fresh-faced and unsure, carrying the weight of responsibilities he wasn’t sure he could handle.
Paris had been beautiful, but it had also been suffocating.
The pressure to prove himself as a leader, to carry their team, had nearly pushed him to the brink. He had cried so much in Paris that his eyes ached for days afterward, a dull throb that mirrored the ache in his chest.
But Paris had also been where everything changed.
It was here that Hao had kissed away his tears before they could fall, his lips soft and warm against Hanbin’s cheeks, his hands steadying him when everything else felt like it might crumble.
The city of love had become their city, the place where their story truly began.
Now, alone in his hotel room in Paris, Hanbin feels none of that warmth.
Even the memory of Hao’s smile lingers like a ghost in his mind.
It’s raining in Paris, just as it had been raining in London.
The soft patter against the windows is constant, a dull rhythm that matches the heavy thrum pounding in his head.
Hanbin drops his bag by the door and sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the untouched white sheets.
He should unpack, or maybe shower, or even sleep—but he doesn’t move.
Instead, he pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over Hao’s contact.
The name stares back at him, as familiar as his own.
He presses the call button before he can second-guess himself.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Hanbin exhales, closing his eyes as he listens to the sound.
Sometimes he likes to dream about Hao actually picking up, his voice warm and teasing, as he would say something like “Did you miss me already?”
An unrealistic dream, but one Hanbin clings to.
Until the ringing stops.
And a robotic voice replaces the voicemail message that has become so familiar to him over the last few months, “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”
Hanbin freezes.
He pulls the phone away from his ear, staring at the screen as if it might offer an explanation.
As if suddenly, he may have typed the wrong number.
But no.
He checks the number again.
It’s the same as always.
He presses redial.
“The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”
“No,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.
He tries again.
And again.
Each time, the same mechanical voice greets him.
Cold and unfeeling.
And not Hao .
“No,” he says louder this time, his breath coming faster.
His hands tremble as he grips the phone, his knuckles white.
He types out a text instead, his fingers fumbling over the keys. ‘Hey, I just landed in Paris. It’s raining here. Remember when we came here before? I was thinking about you.’
He presses send.
The message doesn’t go through.
A red exclamation mark appears next to it, mocking him.
“No, no, no.” His voice cracks as he speaks, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Hanbin tries the call again, desperate now, his chest tightening with every failed attempt.
“The number you have dialed—”
“Stop!” he shouts, throwing the phone onto the bed.
The sound of it hitting the mattress is dull, but it feels like the loudest thing in the room.
His shoulders shake as he struggles to catch his breath.
The rain outside seems louder now, each drop hitting the window like a taunt.
Hao’s number is gone.
There’s no voicemail to leave.
No way to reach him.
No way to pretend.
He’d thought…
That there was still time…
That he…
Hanbin stares at his phone, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.
His hands shake as he scrolls through his contacts.
He lands on Ricky’s name and presses the call button, his heart pounding in his chest.
The phone rings for what feels like an eternity before Ricky’s voice answers.
“Hanbin?” Ricky mumbles, “What’s going on?”
Hanbin doesn’t even register the question.
“Ricky, do you know anything?”
There’s a pause. “Anything about what?”
“About Hao,” Hanbin blurts, his voice cracking. “His number—it’s not in service. I tried calling, and it just—it says it’s disconnected.”
Ricky is silent for a moment, and Hanbin can hear the rustling of sheets on the other end. “Wait, what? Hanbin, slow down. What are you talking about?”
“I called him,” Hanbin says, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “I just wanted to leave a voicemail, but his number—it’s gone, Ricky. It’s gone.”
“Okay, okay, calm down. Let me think,” Ricky’s voice sharpens, the sleepiness replaced by concern. “Did you try texting him?”
“It didn’t go through,” Hanbin says, his voice rising in pitch. “Nothing’s going through. Do you think they might have—”
“Hanbin, stop,” Ricky interrupts, his tone firm. “Listen to me. I’m going to call my company and find out what’s going on, okay? I’ll let you know what they say.”
Hanbin swallows hard, his throat tight.
“Do you think they might have…?” He can’t finish the sentence.
“I don’t think they would have done anything without telling anyone,” Ricky says carefully. “Unless something happened…”
Hanbin’s breath catches.
That’s what he’s afraid of.
That something’s happened.
Something that can’t be fixed.
Ricky says something else.
Some reassurance that he’ll call Hanbin once he knows more.
If he finds out more.
But Hanbin can’t bring himself to reply.
The line goes dead, and Hanbin is left alone in the quiet of the hotel room, the rain still tapping against the window.
A steady rhythm.
But it doesn’t calm him.
His chest feels tight, his thoughts racing.
He paces the room.
Hands in his hair.
Breath too fast.
Everything is too much.
The phone in his hand.
Heavy.
He stares at it.
Waiting.
For Ricky to call.
For answers.
For anything .
But there’s nothing.
Just silence.
Hanbin sinks onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
His fingers move, almost without thought, scrolling until he finds Matthew’s name.
His hands shake as he types out, ‘They disconnect Hao’s number. Please help me figure out what happened.’
Matthew is at least still there in Seoul.
He’s not sure what time it is there, but hopefully Matthew will check his phone, and find any answer that Ricky can’t get out of his company.
Hopefully someone will—
A sharp knock at the door jolts him out of his thoughts.
His heart leaps into his throat, and for a moment, he’s frozen.
Another knock follows, more insistent this time.
He forces himself to stand, crossing the room to open the door.
Jaehee stands there, clipboard in hand, her expression a mix of concern and impatience.
“We need to get ready to head to the venue,” she says. “Are you—”
“Cancel the show,” Hanbin interrupts, his voice tight and uneven.
Jaehee blinks, taken aback. “Hanbin—”
“Say I’m sick or something,” he tells her. “Just cancel the show.”
“What’s going on?”
“Hao’s number—it’s disconnected. I can’t reach him. He’s—” His voice cracks, and he struggles to continue, struggles to say what he fears- that Hao is gone . “I can’t do this right now.”
Jaehee closes the door behind her and steps inside, setting her clipboard down.
“Okay, let’s take a breath.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Hanbin. His company might’ve just decided to stop paying the bill since he can’t use the phone, or a fan could have gotten his number and kept calling, or it could be a simple error.”
“But what if it’s not?” Hanbin snaps, his voice rising. “What if something happened, and no one told us?”
Jaehee sighs, her expression softening, I’ll look into it, okay? I’ll call whoever I need to call. But right now, you have a concert to do. The fans are counting on you.”
“I can’t—”
“You can ,” she says firmly. “You’ve done this before, Hanbin. You’ve pushed through when it felt impossible. I know you’re scared, but we can’t jump to conclusions. Let me handle the logistics. You focus on the show.”
Hanbin looks at her, his chest heaving with uneven breaths.
The weight of her words presses down on him, but they don’t quite reach the panic spiraling in his mind.
Jaehee gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Get ready. We’ll figure this out, I promise.”
*
"Hey, Bin, it’s me. Looks like I must’ve just missed you. Give me a call when you get a chance, okay? I miss you and love you. Talk soon."
*
"Paris," he says, his voice robotic, hollow even to his own ears. "I'm so happy to be here."
The mic feels cold in his hand.
Heavy.
Too heavy.
Cheers erupt, deafening.
They’re excited.
They don’t know that his entire world is ending today.
He doesn’t feel happy to be here.
Doesn’t feel anything except the pounding in his chest.
The music starts.
Words come out.
Flat.
Mechanical.
He’s on autopilot.
The choreography begins, and his body moves, hitting the marks.
Left.
Right.
Spin.
Hands up.
Disconnected.
Smile.
He doesn’t smile.
Can’t.
The stage feels too big.
Too small.
Where is he?
London?
Paris?
Another city.
Another hotel room.
But he’s still there.
Trapped in that room.
Hands covered in blood as he—
Disconnected.
The fans scream his name.
Phones in the air, recording every second.
He stumbles on a step.
Almost misses a beat.
Catches himself.
No one notices.
Or maybe they do.
His voice cracks on a high note.
The wrong pitch.
Wrong tone.
He knows it’s bad.
Knows he’s not giving them his best.
Disconnected .
What if—
No.
No.
He keeps moving.
Keeps singing.
The bridge.
He forgets the words for a split second.
Too long.
The music swells, and he rushes to catch up.
The crowd doesn’t care.
Or maybe they do.
He can’t tell.
Sweat drips down his temple.
His chest is tight.
Breathe.
He can’t.
He’s not here.
Not really.
Disconnected.
There’s a break in the set.
He steps backstage, and he sees Jaehee’s face, and he knows he sees it there written on her face between the smile she’s trying to force.
She doesn’t explain.
She doesn’t need to.
Somewhere deep in his chest, Hanbin already knows.
“No,” he whispers, his voice cracking.
The word feels small and powerless, but he says it again, louder this time.
“No. No, no, please, no.”
“Hanbin, you need to get back on stage,” she tells him. “You need to finish the show, and then we will be on a flight back to Seoul, and—”
“No, no, I—”
He can still hear the crowd reacting to the video on stage that is supposed to buy him a few minutes to get changes, but he… He can’t go back out there.
“Is he…” Hanbin starts, then stops, unable to finish the sentence.
“He’s alive,” Jaehee explains. “For the time being.”
“Then why— why did they—”
“They’re taking him off life support.”
“No,” Hanbin whispers, shaking his head as if that could undo it. “No, no, they can’t—they can’t do this. Please, tell me they can’t do this.”
“Hanbin,” she says gently, her voice thick with emotion, “They don’t want to drag out his suffering anymore. The doctors said… if he was going to wake up, he would have by now.”
Hanbin’s knees threaten to give out.
He stumbles, catching himself against a row of chairs, his breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps.
This can’t be happening.
Not now.
Not here.
When he’s half a world away.
He should be there.
Holding his hand.
Staying by his side until his heart starts beating on its own again.
But instead he’s here.
Playing the part of someone whose whole world didn’t stop breathing months ago.
He can feel eyes on him now—staff members concerned, hovering about.
But it doesn’t matter.
None of it matters.
The walls of the backstage area feel like they’re closing in.
The sound of the crowd outside muffled but still too loud in his ears.
The cheers and chants for him feel distant, surreal.
Like they’re happening in another universe entirely.
“Hanbin,” Jaehee tries again, stepping closer, her hand hovering near his arm, as if she’s afraid he’ll shatter if she touches him. “I know this is a lot. I know it’s unfair. But you have to finish the show. We’ll leave immediately after. The flight is already booked. You’ll be there in time—”
“In time for what?” he snaps, his voice raw and broken.
He looks at her, eyes wide and glassy, filled with a mix of disbelief and desperation.
“To watch him—what? Die? Just… fade away? How am I supposed to go out there and pretend everything is fine when I—when I know—”
His voice cracks, and he presses a hand to his chest as if trying to keep himself from falling apart entirely.
“Hanbin, I know it’s impossible. I know it’s cruel. But if you don’t go back out there, the fans will know something is wrong. You’ve worked so hard for this, and Hao… Hao wouldn’t want you to throw it all away.”
At the mention of Hao’s name, Hanbin’s knees finally give out, and he collapses into the chair behind him. His head falls into his hands, and he shakes his head violently.
“Don’t. Don’t say his name like that. Like he’s already—” His voice falters, and the rest of the sentence dies in his throat.
Dies .
Dying .
He’s—
Jaehee crouches in front of him, her voice soft but firm. “I’m not giving up on him, Hanbin. None of us are. But his family… they’ve made their decision. They’re willing to wait for you to get there. So there’s no need for you to cancel the show—” She cuts herself off, her voice breaking.
“He’s my everything.”
“I know,” Jaehee says, her own tears slipping free. “I know. But you need to hold it together for just a little longer. Finish this, and then we’ll go. I promise you, we’ll go.”
The video onstage ends, and the crowd erupts again, calling his name.
The sound cuts through the fog in his mind like a knife, a cruel reminder of the world outside this moment.
Hanbin wipes his face roughly, his hands trembling.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t—”
“You can,” Jaehee says firmly, standing and offering him her hand. “For him. You can.”
He stares at her hand for a long moment before he takes it, letting her pull him to his feet.
His legs feel unsteady.
Like they might give out at any second.
But he forces himself to stand.
The weight in his chest doesn’t lift.
It won’t.
But he takes a deep, shuddering breath and forces his feet to move.
As he steps back toward the stage, the lights blinding and the crowd deafening, he thinks of Hao.
Of his smile.
Of the way his voice used to sound when he laughed.
Of the voicemail that still haunts him.
Of how it should have been Hanbin there that night, not—
The music cues up, the beat pulsing through the speakers and vibrating in his chest, but Hanbin can’t move.
His feet feel like they’re glued to the stage.
His arms heavy at his sides.
He blinks against the brightness.
The fans are still cheering, their voices rising in a collective chant of his name.
They’re waiting. They’re counting on him.
But he can’t.
He looks out over the sea of faces, and all he can think about is Hao.
Hao, who would’ve been in the crowd once, smiling up at him with that soft, proud look he always wore.
Hao, who should’ve been here.
Hao, who’s waiting for him now in a hospital bed he might never wake up from.
The tears come before he can stop them, hot and relentless, spilling down his cheeks.
His breath hitches.
His chest is tight.
The panic claws its way up his throat.
He can’t—
“I…” His voice cracks as he lifts the microphone, his hand trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
*
In a way, it feels almost poetic that Paris, the city where it all began, is also the place where it all comes to an end.
Seoul, South Korea
"Hey, Hanbin. I thought you were supposed to be at the studio late tonight, but I just parked the car, and the light’s on in our apartment. So either that means you lied to me and you’re actually upstairs waiting for me, or you forgot to turn the light off again—even though I’ve told you a hundred times to turn it off. You better hope you’re upstairs. I love you. See you in five minutes... or five hours."
*
It feels like he’s racing against time.
The airport is chaotic.
Fans and reporters are everywhere, cameras flashing, phones pointed at him.
Somehow, he knows they already understand why he’s here.
Why he couldn’t bring himself to finish the show in Paris.
Why he has come back too soon.
In the middle of his tour.
The rest of the stops were cancelled without notice.
He’s not surprised.
Certain “fans” have a way of leaking everything—phone numbers, flight details, home addresses.
This isn’t new.
But for once, he doesn’t care to pretend like it doesn’t bother him.
Like he’s happy to see all of their faces there.
There’s a wall of voices calling his name, shouting questions, asking for pictures, but it all fades into white noise.
“Don’t stop. Just keep going,” Jaehee says, her voice steady but urgent as she shields him from the crowd.
Hanbin doesn’t stop.
He can’t.
His legs feel like they’re moving on their own.
Carrying him forward, as if stopping would mean losing everything.
By the time they reach the van, his chest is heaving.
He climbs in, slamming the door behind him, and for what feels like the first time in hours, he breathes.
But the breath is shaky, rough, and incomplete.
“Can’t this van go any faster?” His voice cracks, desperation bleeding into every word.
“They said they’d wait for you to get there to say goodbye,” Jaehee reminds him softly. “Breathe, Hanbin. We’re going to make it. You’re going to make it.”
Her words are meant to comfort him, but they don’t.
They might make it in time.
But there’s no way he’s going to be okay.
He hasn’t been okay in months—not since he checked his phone too late and saw the voicemail Hao had left behind.
The last voicemail Hao would ever send.
Hanbin can still hear it sometimes, playing in his head like a broken record when he tries to sleep.
"Hey, Hanbin. I thought you were supposed to be at the studio late tonight, but I just parked the car, and the light’s on in our apartment. So either that means you lied to me and you’re actually upstairs waiting for me, or you forgot to turn the light off again—even though I’ve told you a hundred times to turn it off."
Hao had laughed then, gentle and sweet.
"You better hope you’re upstairs. I love you. See you in five minutes... or five hours."
Hanbin’s stomach churns as the memory grips him.
It’s always there.
Lurking.
Waiting to drag him under.
What if and what might have beens swirling around in his mind.
If he’d picked up the phone—
Maybe it wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe Hao wouldn’t have walked into the apartment that night.
Maybe Hao wouldn’t have been the one to find the intruder, lying in wait.
It had been a fan—the person who had found Hanbin’s address and broken into the apartment.
Someone who hadn’t known Hao lived there too.
Someone who had waited for Hanbin to come home.
Wanting to hurt him , not Hao.
Later, she confessed.
How she’d hoped it would be Hanbin walking through that door.
How she hadn’t meant for it to be Hao.
How she didn’t even know Hao lived there too.
How the guilt haunted her.
How she loved Hao.
How it was Hanbin she wanted gone.
He’d spent so long drowning in the what-ifs.
Replaying every mistake.
Every choice that led to that night.
He hadn’t picked up the phone.
He hadn’t been there when it mattered.
And now—
Hao is gone.
And Hanbin is still here.
Breathing.
Existing.
When it should have been the other way around.
By the time he’d made it home, the damage was done.
So much blood.
So much red.
Hao had been so cold.
So still.
Hanbin had thought it was already too late.
But there had been a pulse there that flickered against his finger tips.
A pulse that had given him hope.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
He was too late.
It just took months for everyone to realize it.
The doctors had done everything they could to keep Hao alive, to stabilize him.
And they did.
But he hadn’t woken up.
The first week, there had been hope.
Then the weeks turned into months, and the hope faded into something else—something heavier, darker.
Hanbin had let himself be pulled away on tour, convincing himself it was what Hao would have wanted.
But now…
The regret churns inside him, sharp and unrelenting, as the van pulls up in front of the hospital.
He’s here.
But he’s too late for everything that matters.
The hospital is swarming.
Even before the van fully stops, Hanbin can see the crowd of fans and reporters gathered outside the entrance.
Cameras flash in rapid succession.
Voices rise in a chaotic hue.
Calling his name.
Shouting questions he doesn’t hear.
A part of him burns hot and angry that his grief is being turned into a spectacle.
That even now, in what should be a private moment, the world insists on watching.
Dissecting.
Consuming.
Every part of him is a show for them.
Hanbin moves through the crowd, his head down, his body rigid.
He doesn’t look at the cameras, doesn’t listen to the voices.
His focus is singular: getting inside.
Once they pass through the hospital doors, the noise is muffled, the cameras left behind.
He exhales shakily, but the relief is short-lived.
The sterile smell of antiseptic and the cold white walls wrap around him like a vice, tightening with every step.
A nurse leads him through the halls, speaking softly, but the words blur together.
Hanbin feels numb, his legs moving on autopilot.
When they reach the waiting room, Hao’s family is already there. His mother stands as soon as she sees him, her face a fragile mix of exhaustion and resolve.
“Hanbin,” she says, her voice breaking.
He barely hears her. His gaze flickers past her, to the closed door at the end of the hall. To the room where Hao waits.
“They explained, right?” she continues, her words trembling. “Why we… why we made this decision?”
He doesn’t respond, his throat too tight to form words.
“My son came to me in a dream,” she says, her voice steadier now, though her hands tremble as she clasps them together. “He said goodbye. He told me it was time. That he didn’t want to keep holding on like this.”
Hanbin’s chest tightens, the air in his lungs turning sharp and painful.
“The doctors agree,” she adds. “If anything were going to change, it would have by now.”
“It’s only been a few months,” Hanbin says, his voice cracking. “If he had more time… He could wake up, couldn’t he?”
“The doctors don’t think that’s likely,” she interrupts gently.
Hanbin shakes his head, his fists clenching at his sides.
He wants to argue, to scream, but the words die in his throat.
Hao’s mother steps closer, her expression softening.
She pulls him into a hug, her arms warm but unsteady, she’s always been so kind to him. As if sensing how important Hanbin was to her son from the first moment that they met.
Maybe if she had been crueler before, her words wouldn’t hurt so much.
“My son wouldn’t want you to keep suffering like this. He wouldn’t want you to be haunted by his ghost. He’d want you to move on, to find happiness again.”
Her words pierce him like shards of glass.
That’s why they hadn’t told him sooner, he realizes.
They’d planned to do this without him, to spare him the pain.
The irony isn’t lost on him.
While he’d been gone, all he’d been able to think about was Hao.
The voice recordings of their conversations had been his lifeline, the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
He doesn’t say any of this aloud.
He can’t.
“He’d want you to be happy, Hanbin,” she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.
But Hanbin knows he’ll never be happy again.
All of his happiness is lying in that hospital bed, strapped to machines, kept alive by wires and tubes.
His voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “Can I… can I have a moment alone with him? To say goodbye?”
Hao’s mother nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Of course.”
The nurse steps forward, gesturing for Hanbin to follow.
His legs feel like lead as he moves toward the door.
He’s not ready.
But he has to be.
The room is quiet, save for the steady hum of machines and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
Hanbin hesitates at the door, his hand trembling as it hovers over the handle.
He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t steady him.
It only sharpens the ache in his chest.
When he finally steps inside, the sight of Hao nearly brings him to his knees.
Hao looks so small in the hospital bed, his face pale, his body unnaturally still.
The tubes and wires attached to him seem out of place, like they don’t belong on someone who once radiated so much life.
Hanbin approaches slowly, his steps hesitant, as if moving too quickly might shatter what little is left of him.
He sinks into the chair beside the bed, his hands gripping the edge as if to ground himself.
“Hao,” he whispers, his voice breaking.
There’s no response.
Of course, there’s no response.
Hanbin swallows hard, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Hao’s face.
He looks like he’s sleeping, like he could wake up at any moment.
Like he might open his eyes and smile, teasing Hanbin for looking so serious.
But Hanbin knows better.
It’s time.
Time to say goodbye.
Time to let go.
But how do you let go of someone who was your everything?
“I’m here,” he says softly. “I… I made it.”
The words feel hollow, as if they don’t matter anymore.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Hao’s hand.
It’s warm.
Far warmer than that day.
The memory claws at him—Hao’s skin, cold and slick with blood, slipping through his grasp.
Hao doesn’t squeeze back.
He can’t.
Not anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Hanbin chokes out, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. For not being there. For not picking up the phone. For leaving when I should have stayed.”
His vision blurs, tears spilling down his cheeks.
He blinks, but the tears keep coming.
“I thought… I thought if I left, it would hurt less. That maybe I could distract myself, pretend everything was okay. But it wasn’t. It never was.”
Every city.
Every stage.
Every spotlight.
It was always him.
Hao’s laughter, echoing in the quiet moments.
Hao’s voice, soft and steady, grounding him when the world felt too loud.
Hao’s touch, warm and reassuring, like home.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I love you so much, Hao. And I… I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The heart monitor beeps steadily, indifferent to his words.
Hanbin leans forward, pressing his forehead against Hao’s hand.
He closes his eyes, his tears soaking into the hospital sheet.
If only they’d had more time.
If only the universe would grant him this one last wish.
For just one more moment with Hao.
Would that really be too much to ask of the universe?
He’d do it better this time.
Savor the time they have together.
Forget about the schedules.
And the comebacks.
And the concerts.
And focus on the only thing that has ever mattered to him.
The only person he’ll ever love.
“I’m scared,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to let you go.”
The silence that follows feels suffocating.
It’s too quiet.
Too still.
The world outside keeps spinning, but Hanbin is stuck here, frozen in this moment.
A knock at the door startles him, breaking the fragile stillness.
He jerks upright as the nurse steps inside.
Her expression is gentle, but firm. “It’s time.”
The words hit Hanbin like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
His chest tightens, the pressure unbearable, but he nods numbly.
“Do you want to stay?” she asks softly, her voice cutting through the fog in his mind.
He hesitates, his gaze flickering to Hao’s face.
The face he’s memorized a thousand times.
The face he’s loved in every way he knows how.
It feels unbearable to be here, to watch the love of his life fade away.
But the thought of missing the last seconds he ever has with Hao feels even more unbearable.
“Yes.”
The nurse nods, her movements careful and deliberate, as if she knows how fragile this moment is.
She steps aside, and the door opens again.
Hao’s family enters the room.
They move quietly, their presence a mix of strength and sorrow.
His mother clutches a tissue in one hand, her other hand trembling as she reaches for Hao’s.
His father stands behind her, his shoulders stiff, his grief contained in the tight line of his jaw.
They gather around the bed, their love for Hao palpable in the way they lean in, in the way they touch his hand or brush his hair.
Saying their own final goodbyes.
But Hanbin barely registers them.
His world has narrowed to Hao and the sound of the heart monitor.
The steady, rhythmic beeping.
Each one a cruel reminder that there’s still time, but not enough.
Never enough.
He watches as Hao’s mother leans down, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Her whispered words are too soft to hear, but Hanbin doesn’t need to.
He can see the heartbreak etched into every line of her face.
He knows, despite everything, how much this decision is hurting her too.
He should say something.
Do something.
But he doesn’t know how to offer comfort when he has none for himself.
The room feels too small, too full of grief, and yet Hanbin can’t bring himself to move.
This is it.
This is all they have left.
His fingers tighten around Hao’s hand, desperate to hold on, even as the inevitability of what’s coming presses down on him.
“I’m here,” he whispers again, his voice breaking. “We’re all here, my love. You’re not alone.”
But it feels like he’s the one who’s alone, drowning in a sea of loss while the world moves on without him.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound is steady, relentless, like a clock counting down.
The nurse moves quietly, her hands deft but gentle as she begins turning off the machines.
One by one, the room grows quieter.
The hum of the ventilator fades, the soft whir of the monitors ceases, until only the beeping of the heart monitor remains.
Hanbin’s grip on Hao’s hand tightens, as if he can anchor Hao here, as if he can stop what’s coming with sheer willpower.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound slows.
Each interval stretching longer.
More unbearable than the last.
Hanbin doesn’t blink, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
Watching.
Waiting.
Dreading.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
And then, silence.
Hanbin feels the weight of it crush him.
A finality that leaves him gasping for air.
But he doesn’t let go.
Not yet.
“I love you,” he whispers again, his voice breaking. “I’ll always love you.”
His hand trembles as he lifts Hao’s, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
The skin is still warm, but it feels like a cruel trick.
A fleeting echo of the life that’s slipped away.
Tears spill freely now, blurring his vision, soaking into the bedsheet beneath their hands.
The world feels impossibly still, as if it’s holding its breath with him.
And then, slowly, it begins to breathe again.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep .