Chapter Text
Day 0
The kitchen in Chan and Jeongin’s dorm always felt warmer than the old dorm.
Not just temperature-wise—though having several burners working at once certainly helped—but warmer in a way that settled into Minho’s bones. The walls were a soft gold, sunlight filtering in through wide windows overlooking the Han River, the skyline of Seoul hazy in the early spring air. A faint hum of traffic drifted up from below, muffled and distant.
The kitchen itself was clean and modern in that effortless way Chan seemed to manage—light wood cabinets, pale stone counters, everything tidy without feeling sterile. A row of small plants softened the sharp lines: trailing pothos spilling lazily from a shelf above the sink, a sturdy snake plant guarding the corner near the window, and a few little herb pots lined neatly along the sill—basil, rosemary, and mint catching the sunlight. Their fresh green scent mingled faintly with the food.
There were small hints of Australia scattered through the space too, subtle but unmistakable if you knew Chan well. A cork trivet shaped vaguely like the continent sat near the stove. A faded Sydney Harbour tea towel hung from the oven handle. Even one of the planters was a little ceramic kangaroo that Felix had apparently insisted on buying during a late-night online shopping spree.
The result was a space that felt lived in—bright, warm, welcoming—like the kind of kitchen people drifted into without thinking, pulled by the smell of food and the promise of company.
Minho stood at the stove in loose black sweatpants and one of his oversized grey hoodies, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. A pale blue apron—Kiss the Cook embroidered in crooked English—hung around his neck. His hair, still slightly damp from a rushed shower, fell into his eyes as he leaned over the pan—black in that deep, glossy way that almost looked blue when the kitchen light caught it, strands slipping forward across his lashes until he impatiently pushed them back with the side of his wrist as he worked.
Control.
He needed it — something steady, something he could hold in his hands.
Cooking gave him that. In the kitchen, things made sense. Heat answered when he turned the dial. Ingredients behaved the way they were supposed to. If something went wrong, it was measurable. Fixable.
From the living room came the warm, chaotic soundtrack of the others. Changbin’s voice rose above the rest, already arguing about something trivial. Hyunjin’s laughter followed, loud and dramatic enough that it echoed down the hall. Felix’s lower voice drifted through it all, attempting peace with the patience of someone who knew he would fail. Seungmin tossed in a dry comment that earned a chorus of protests, and Jeongin’s bright laugh cut through the noise like sunlight.
The sounds wrapped around the kitchen like a blanket—familiar, alive, messy in the best way.
When he cooked, the world narrowed to timing and texture, to the clean rhythm of knife against board.
And for a little while, he felt in control again. In control of himself.
“Hyung, is it ready?” Jeongin called from the living room, voice bright and impatient.
“Almost,” Minho replied, tone flat but fond.
Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling as Minho turned off the stove.
The rice is cooked perfectly, bright and fluffy. Doenjang jjigae simmers in the stone pot, tofu trembling gently in the thick, earthy broth. The salted mackerel rests on a plate, skin crisped golden, edges still crackling faintly from the pan.
Minho had stayed up past midnight baking in the heavy, broken silence of the dorm kitchen—well, technically in Chan’s kitchen, since their own stove had given up two days ago in a dramatic pop and the acrid scent of burnt plastic.
The strawberry glaze gleamed under the overhead light, ruby bright and glass smooth, catching the shine each time he tilted the pan. The crust was perfectly golden—no dark edges, no pale patches. He’d remade it once already because the first one cracked straight through the center when it cooled. Unacceptable.
That version had been consumed in record time by the others, who had appeared as if summoned by scent alone. A sacrifice, he’d told himself dryly. An offering to appease the hordes.
This one, though—this one had to be perfect.
As perfect as Jisung’s smile. Heart-shaped lips stretching into that ridiculous gummy grin that made his eyes crinkle shut.
As perfect as his voice when he sang, the notes coming so effortlessly it still amazed Minho how quickly that genius little mind could turn stray thoughts into songs.
As perfect as the way he fit against him—like the space beside Minho had been carved specifically for him.
Jisung loved strawberry cheesecake.
And Minho loved Jisung more than anything else.
From the living room came the familiar chaos—Changbin arguing about something trivial, Hyunjin laughing too loudly, Felix’s low voice drifting warm and steady. Seungmin chimed in dryly. Jeongin hovered close to the couches edge like a magnet. Even Seungmin sounded more awake than usual.
Most of them had invaded at Chan’s invitation and Minho’s promise of food.
Minho barely heard them.
His mind was stuck on the doorway of their dorm two days ago.
Jisung’s suitcase by his feet. His hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. His gaze drifted everywhere except where it should have been—down at the floor, at the wall beside the door, at the faint scratch in the wood from where Changbin had slammed it open once. Anywhere but at Minho.
“Why do you have to push this now?” Jisung had snapped, voice low but shaking. “You know how my parents are.”
Minho’s jaw had tightened. “I’m not asking you to hold my hand at dinner in public. I just want to meet them. As your boyfriend.”
The word had hung between them. Boyfriend.
Jisung’s expression shifted—fear flashing quick and unguarded.
“I’m not ready for them to know I’m gay.”
The words weren’t new. Minho knew that.
But this time they felt heavier.
“And I’m tired of feeling like a dirty little secret,” Minho replied, quieter but sharper.
Jisung flinched.
“I never said you were a secret.”
“You don’t have to. All our friends know, my parents know and love you! Yours still think I’m just your roommate”
“Maybe… maybe I’ll try. Not this trip. But soon.”
Silence.
Then the worst part.
“You’re being selfish,” Jisung had said, voice cracking. “This isn’t just about you.”
Minho’s pride had answered before his heart could.
“Fine. Go.”
The bedroom door slammed shut.
He heard the soft click of the front door through it.
No goodbye kiss.
No apology.
Just distance.
Today, Jisung’s flight landed at Incheon at 2:10 p.m., returning from visiting his family in Kuala Lumpur for the weekend.
So Minho baked.
Because Jisung loved strawberry cheesecake.
And Minho had ruined everything the morning he left.
The cheesecake was his own message–that he’d do anything to make things perfect for him.
Small dishes line the counter in neat symmetry — kimchi bright and red, spinach glistening with sesame oil, bean sprouts lightly seasoned. He wipes the rim of the soup bowl with his thumb, adjusting it half an inch so everything aligns. He moved with quiet efficiency, expression calm—almost blank—but there was a subtle tension in his jaw.
He checked his phone on the counter.
No new messages.
Bug 🐿️💛 [08:21 AM]
I’ll think about what you said. Don’t be mad forever, okay? 😒
His phone buzzed in his hand and he stared at the screen for a long time. The anger from the argument was still sitting hot in his chest, tangled up with something worse — the familiar sting of feeling like something that had to stay hidden.
So he set the phone down–just for a minute, at least that’s what it felt like. Another buzz.
Bug 🐿️💛 [09:02 AM]
Boarding now. Don’t ignore me this whole trip ✈️
He picked up the phone again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
He almost typed Come home safe.
Almost typed I’m sorry.
Instead he locked the screen and tossed the phone onto the bed beside him.
Not because he didn’t care–he cared too much.
So he told himself he’d reply later.
After Jisung had landed.
After he cooled off completely.
Bug 🐿️💛[04:47 PM]
Landed ✈️ the humidity here is insane 😭
Not now, what would he even say?
After he figured out how to say what he meant without it sounding like an accusation.
Bug 🐿️💛[11:18 PM]
i keep reaching for you and hitting the wall 😑
He could picture it too easily—Jisung lying in some unfamiliar bed, reaching instinctively for the warmth that should have been beside him.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Come home soon. He almost sent it.
By then the silence between them had grown heavy enough that answering felt harder than continuing to avoid it.
So he didn’t.
Bug 🐿️💛[11:24 PM]
i didn’t mean to call you selfish. i was just scared.
Minho’s jaw tightened.
The word selfish still echoed in his head from the fight, sharp and raw.
But the apology sat there too.
Small. Honest. Very Jisung.
He could hear his voice saying it.
Soft. Guilty. A little panicked.
Minho typed three words.
I know you—He stopped–deleted them.
Because if he answered now, the whole conversation would open again. The same fight. The same fear sitting between them.
And Minho didn’t trust himself not to say something worse.
So he told himself he’d reply in the morning. When they were both calmer. When the distance made the argument smaller.
Another buzz.
Bug 🐿️💛[11:31 PM]
i love you Minho ❤️
Minho stared at that one the longest. The words glowed softly on the screen.
So simple. So easy for Jisung to say, even when everything else was messy.
Minho leaned back against the counter in the kitchen, the phone heavy in his hand.
He should answer, he knew he should.
Three words. That’s all it would take. But something stubborn and wounded in his chest held the silence there.
He’ll be home in a few days, Minho told himself. I’ll say it then.
So he set the phone down again. Left the messages unread, and went to bed alone. Left him on read for the two nights. It’s not like they hadn’t ever had an argument when they gave each other space for the weekend.
He told himself that maybe he was just still upset. Jisung was on his way, he should be there fairly soon. They knew that airport and the route here well enough. As long as he didn’t go home to sleep first of course, he was probably dropping off his suitcase first, maybe grabbing a shower. Chan said he’d texted him to come here first though, he said he’d be here.
The thought tugged something soft in his chest. Something just felt–off.
The chatter in the living room cut off mid-laughter.
He plated the food carefully. Eight plates. Perfect looking
Not faded.
Cut.
The sudden silence was so abrupt that the ticking of the kitchen clock sounded thunderous.
Minho frowned.
The only sound now was the television.
A muffled woman’s voice leaking from the television. Professional. Solemn.
Minho stepped out of the kitchen slowly, wiping his hands on the apron.
The extra food is still bubbling away on the stove.
He rounded the corner into the living room, plate and bowl in hand.
Everyone’s heads turned.
And Minho had never seen them look like that.
Chan was standing near the TV, remote dangling from his hand. His face was drained of color, lips parted slightly. His hair fell into his eyes but he didn’t brush them back.
“…–king news. Malaysia Airlines Flight 325 en route from Kuala Lumpur to Seoul, formerly reported missing—Has been confirmed to have crashed.”
Felix’s hands were clutched together so tightly his knuckles were white.
Hyunjin looked frozen, eyes wide and glassy.
Changbin was shaking his head faintly like he was trying to deny what he’d heard.
On the screen, bright red letters scrolled across the bottom.
BREAKING NEWS: MISSING MALAYSIA–SEOUL FLIGHT CRASHES LAOS—STATUS OF SURVIVORS UNKNOWN
His gaze locked on the screen.
Footage of smoke rising above the dense green canopy. Emergency vehicles. Blurred images of wreckage.
Flight 325.
The words didn’t process at first.
“Three-two-five, baby! It’s gotta be a sign — good luck!” Jisung had practically bounced on his heels, thrusting his phone toward Minho so fast he almost dropped it. The ticket information glowed between them, the flight number bold at the top.
325
Minho raised an eyebrow. “You’re excited about a number now?”
Jisung looked scandalized. “It’s not just a number. March 25th.” Jisung grinned, proud of himself for being the one to remind him of the connection. “See? It’s fate. Anniversary flight.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Minho muttered, but there was no bite to it.
Jisung tilted his head. “You don’t think it’s cool?”
“I think you’re reading too much into it.”
“But it’s us,” Jisung insisted. “Three-two-five. The day we all debuted together.” Minho stepped closer, glancing at the screen again. The numbers looked ordinary. Harmless.
“Then maybe it means you’ll stop causing trouble for at least one flight,” He said dryly.
Jisung gasped. “I never cause trouble.”
“You exist,” Minho replied.
Jisung swatted at his arm, laughing. “Admit it. It’s lucky.”
Minho reached up and pulled Jisung’s hood up over his pouting face without thinking.
“It’s just a flight,” He said quietly. “There’ll be a hundred more after it. Don’t miss it because you’re flirting with numerology.”
Minho rolled his eyes, but his fingers lingered briefly at Jisung’s shoulder before dropping.
“Just get there safely,” he murmured.
Jisung lifted his phone one last time, pointing at the number like it proved something bigger than coincidence.
“Three-two-five,” he repeated brightly. “We always start good things on that day.”
They just… floated.
Minho blinked.
“What?”
The single word felt small in the room.
Minho’s ears started ringing.
“That’s not…” he began quietly.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be.
“I…” His voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. “I need to finish… in the kitchen.”
No one moved.
No one breathed.
He blinked slowly, as if that might reset the moment.
“Jisung should be here soon,” he added, almost absently.
Like this was a delay.
Like planes just ran late sometimes.
Like if he timed it right, the rice would still be warm when Jisung walked through the door.
He took a step backward toward the hallway, eyes unfocused.
“I have to… turn off the stove,” he murmured.
Chan’s throat worked as he swallowed. His voice, when it came, was controlled—but only barely. He stepped forward slowly, remote trembling in his hand.
“Minho,” Chan said, voice breaking despite his effort to stay steady. “I need you to sit down.” There was a tremor under the calm. His eyes were glossy. Already wet.
Minho didn’t.
Because the last thing he said to Jisung—
The last thing— Was that he was tired of being hidden.
“Minho, please.”
The room felt too small. The air too thin.
“No,” Minho said softly.
His voice didn’t sound like his own.
“He landed at 2:10.”
No one spoke.
No one corrected him.
Because the news anchor’s voice continued:
“…authorities have confirmed that the aircraft lost contact with air traffic control approximately three hours into its flight.…”
Minho’s eyes flicked back to the scrolling text.
Flight 325.
His stomach dropped so violently he thought he might vomit.
“No,” he repeated, sharper now. “That’s not his flight.”
Chan’s lips trembled.
“Minho...”
The word shattered the room.
Minho’s breath caught.
Something inside him—something steady and structured and controlled—split clean down the middle.
Jisung standing in the doorway with his suitcase, hoodie half-zipped, eyes flashing.
The slam of the door.
The cheesecake under glass on the counter.
Perfect and ready for a magazine photoshoot.
“I didn’t…” Minho whispered.
Chan reached him then, gripping his shoulders firmly.
“Minho, look at me.”
Minho didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
“He might not have— they said no survivors found yet. That doesn’t mean—” But Chan’s voice cracked on the last word.
And Minho saw the fear. The grief already forming the unspoken possibility.
Minho’s knees gave out.
Changbin lunged forward, catching him before he hit the floor. The plate and bowl in his hand dropped to the floor with a crash.
No one flinched at the sound.
Minho stared straight ahead.
The ringing in his ears grew louder.
His chest tightened painfully.
“I didn’t answer him.”
The room blurred.
Somewhere, Felix started crying quietly.
Chan pulled Minho into his chest, arms wrapping around him tight, like if he held him hard enough he could keep him from breaking apart.
Minho didn’t cry.
Not yet.
He just stared at the TV.
At the smoke rising over the jungle.
And the apology sitting untouched in the kitchen.
The world came back all at once.
Sound. Pressure. Jisung..
Chan’s arms around him. Changbin’s grip steady at his side. Someone saying his name—once, twice, three times.
Minho shoved them away.
Hard.
“Don’t touch me.” He snapped, though the words barely formed.
He stumbled backward, vision tunneling, the edges of the room dissolving into static. The television was still talking—still showing flames, jungle canopy, wreckage—but the words were warped, distant.
He couldn’t breathe.
“I need—” His voice fractured. “Move.”
He didn’t wait for them to.
Minho fled down the hallway, socked feet slipping against polished wood, shoulder clipping the corner of the wall as he lunged for the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him with enough force that the frame rattled.
The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.
Outside, muffled voices erupted.
“Minho!” Chan’s voice. Panicked now. No more forced calm.
But inside—
Inside, it was just him.
The bathroom was small. Clean. Bright white tiles and a wide rectangular mirror above the sink. The harsh overhead light flickered faintly.
Minho gripped the edge of the sink.
His reflection stared back at him.
Pale.
Eyes wide. Unfocused.
He didn’t recognize himself.
His face was drained of color. His lips trembled. His eyes were wide in a way that made him look young—too young.
He inhaled sharply—
Nothing.
His lungs wouldn’t fill.
He tried again.
Air scraped down his throat but stopped halfway, like his chest had sealed shut. His hands trembled violently, fingers digging into porcelain.
“No,” he whispered.
His heart was racing so fast it hurt. Thudding against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His vision blurred, then sharpened too brightly. Every detail was too much—the grout between tiles, the drip of the faucet, the faint hum of the fan.
His chest constricted.
He clawed at his hoodie like he could tear space open.
“He can’t—” His voice hitched.
His reflection stared back, mouth moving, but the words felt disconnected.
You didn’t answer him.
You didn’t say sorry.
You let him leave angry.
A sob ripped out of him unexpectedly—violent and raw.
Minho staggered backward, then forward again, palms slamming against the sink.
“He’s fine,” he gasped. “He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine—”
But the image of smoke over jungle canopy wouldn’t leave.
Flight 325.
His stomach twisted so sharply he thought he might collapse.
Outside, pounding on the door.
“Minho, open the door!” Chan, muffled by the door.
“Hyung!” Jeongin’s voice broke on the word.
Minho couldn’t hear them properly anymore. Everything sounded underwater.
He looked at himself again.
His reflection looked broken.
“He was going to tell them,” he whispered hoarsely. “Eventually.”
The memory hit him full force.
“Maybe… maybe I’ll try. Not this trip. But soon.”
Minho hadn’t softened.
The door slammed.
He hadn’t stepped forward.
He hadn’t said it was okay to wait.
He’d just stood there.
“I didn’t mean it,” Minho choked.
His chest seized.
Air wouldn’t go in.
He clawed at his hoodie, fingers shaking violently.
“He wasn’t ashamed of me,” he gasped. “He was scared.”
The thought hit too late.
“Why didn’t I answer the messages?”
Too late.
Minho let out a sound.
It started low in his chest.
It climbed.
It tore out of his throat before he realized it was him making it.
A scream.
Raw. Animal. Unrecognizable.
Why didn’t I answer the fucking messages?!
His fist moved before his mind caught up.
CRACK.
The mirror spiderwebbed where his knuckles struck.
Pain exploded across his hand—but it barely registered.
Outside, the pounding grew frantic.
“Minho!”
He hit it again. And again. And again.
CRACK.
Glass fractured further, shards splintering, tiny pieces raining into the sink.
He screamed again.
Not words.
Just sound.
The third punch shattered it completely.
Glass burst outward, scattering across tile and porcelain. A jagged edge remained in the frame, reflecting him in broken fragments—dozens of Minhos staring back with hollow eyes.
Blood bloomed across his knuckles, bright red against pale skin, dripping into the sink.
He didn’t stop.
“I would’ve waited!” he sobbed, striking it again. “I would’ve waited!”
His fist collided with tile this time.
Pain shot up his arm, sharp and blinding.
He welcomed it.
It was real.
It was something he could feel that wasn’t that crushing, suffocating emptiness.
“You don’t get to—!” he choked out, voice shredded. “You don’t get to leave like that! ”
Another sob tore free.
“I just wanted to stand next to you!”
His knees buckled.
He slid down the wall, back scraping tile, leaving faint streaks of red where his hand dragged.
The screaming hadn’t stopped.
It took him several seconds to realize the sound was still coming from him.
He clamped a hand over his mouth.
But it didn’t muffle it much.
His chest heaved violently, breath coming in broken, high-pitched gasps. His fingers tingled. His vision went dark at the edges.
He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
Outside—
A heavy thud against the door.
“Minho, I’m breaking it,” Changbin’s voice, strained.
“No—wait—” Chan’s voice again, trembling. “Key! Above the door! Minho please.”
Minho’s head dropped forward, forehead pressing against his knees.
“I didn’t say sorry,” he whispered to the tile.
His blood smeared across white ceramic.
“I didn’t say sorry.”
His breath stuttered.
Everything felt distant now. Floating.
Cold.
“Hyung,” Jeongin sobbed. “Please.”
Minho tried to respond.
His throat wouldn’t work.
His fingers twitched weakly against the floor.
And for the first time since he’d seen the headline—
He cried.
Not quiet tears.
Not controlled.
It came violently, body folding in on itself, shoulders shaking as grief tore through him like something physical, something alive.
Outside, the lock clicked.
The door burst open.
Chan froze at the sight of him.
Blood on the sink.
Glass everywhere.
Minho curled on the floor like something shattered beyond repair.
Minho curled on the floor, shaking so hard it looked like he might splinter apart.
“I pushed him,” he whispered hoarsely. “He left thinking I didn’t understand.”
Chan dropped to his knees immediately, ignoring the glass, pulling Minho carefully into his chest.
“You love him,” Chan said, voice wrecked. “He knows that.”
But Minho couldn’t shake the thought.
That the last thing Jisung heard from him wasn’t I love you.
It was ‘Fine. Go.’
They’d located the wreckage of the plane by the end of the first day.
“Authorities now confirm that satellite imagery has identified what appears to be a debris field deep within the Annamite mountain range of northern Laos.”
“Due to heavy cloud cover and persistent storm systems, aerial access to the region was delayed for nearly two hours after contact was lost.”
“Officials say the crash site is located in one of Southeast Asia’s most rugged and forested regions.”
“The Annamite Range is just… full of steep slopes, an immensely dense canopy we’re talk thirty to forty meters tall, and limited road access,” An expert explains “Throw in the rain and this is a a very challenging operation.”
“Ground teams are now trekking into the area on foot.”
“No official word yet on survivors”
Week 1
The apartment stayed full for a whole week.
No one wanted to leave Minho alone.
No one wanted to be alone themselves.
Except Minho.
“Search teams have reached the main wreckage site of Flight 325.”
He could feel it — the way they hovered. The way doors never quite closed all the way. The way someone was always in the kitchen when he walked in, or sitting on the arm of the couch when he tried to sink into it.
No one trusted him alone.
They didn’t say it out loud, but it was there in the careful glances, in the way Chan slept on the floor outside his own bedroom the first two nights, letting Minho keep it for himself. In how Changbin “just happened” to be awake whenever Minho got up at 3AM. In how Felix would trail after him with soft, wordless company.
He couldn’t even sneak out.
He tried once — pulled on a hoodie, slid his phone into his pocket, turned the knob as quietly as possible.
The door hadn’t even clicked shut before Seungmin’s voice came from the living room.
“Where are you going?” Minho froze.
“I need air.”
“Great, I’ll come with.”
“I don’t need—”
“Perfect day for a walk really, the weather is awful.” Seungmin repeated, already grabbing his shoes.
It was like they had some kind of spider sense.
“Officials describe the aircraft as having suffered catastrophic structural damage, with debris scattered across several kilometers of mountainous jungle terrain.”
The moment he stepped too far from the center of the apartment, someone materialized. Leaning in a doorway. Standing up from the couch. Appearing from the kitchen with a glass of water he hadn’t asked for.
He wasn’t sure what exactly it was they thought he would do.
Maybe he did?
Maybe that was why they didn’t let him out of their sight.
The apartment felt smaller with all of them in it. Heavy with breathing and grief and the constant hum of the television no one was actually watching.
Minho hated it.
Chan barely slept.
He sat at the dining table with his laptop open and his phone pressed to his ear until his voice went hoarse. Airline representatives. Managers. Embassy officials. Anyone who might have more information than the scrolling banner on the television.
He spoke calmly, always calmly.
Even when the person on the other end said, We don’t have confirmation yet.
Even when they said, We are still searching.
His fingers trembled once when he muted the call.
Only once.
Changbin paced so much the hardwood began to creak beneath him. Back and forth from the balcony door to the hallway. Back and forth past the couch where Minho sat unmoving. He ran a hand through his hair every few minutes like he was trying to reset his brain.
“Just one sign please.” he muttered once. Not to anyone specific. Just to the air.
Hyunjin cried quietly in corners when he thought no one was looking. Curled up near the window, knees pulled to his chest, face half-hidden in his sleeve. The kind of crying that makes no sound until it shakes through you.
Felix kept reading updates out loud in a trembling voice.
“As of now, no survivors have been located…”
He swallowed and refreshed the page.
“…Challenging conditions continue to complicate rescue efforts, including unstable ground, landslide risks from heavy rainfall, and limited visibility beneath dense forest canopy.…”
As if speaking the words made them more manageable. As if giving the horror structure turned it into information instead of fear.
Seungmin sat perfectly still on the edge of the couch.
He stared at his phone like he could will it to buzz.
Like if he concentrated hard enough, a notification would appear:
Han Jisung:
I’m okay.
He didn’t blink much.
Jeongin clung to whoever was closest. Like proximity alone could stop the world from collapsing further.
And in the center of it all—Minho.
Silent.
Listening to every breath in the room.
Listening for one that wasn’t there.
Minho sat on the couch, his back pressed stiffly into the leather, knuckles wrapped in fresh white gauze that stood out too brightly against his skin.
The apartment had gone quiet in a way it never used to be. The television murmured low, the glow from the screen casting pale light across the room, but no one was really watching it.
They all drifted into their usual places without meaning to. Chan at the end closest to the kitchen, shoulders slumped but still somehow holding the room together. Changbin half-sprawled beside him, restless energy simmering under his skin. Hyunjin folded in on himself near the armrest, long limbs tucked tight like he was trying to disappear. Felix sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows resting on his knees. Seungmin upright and still, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Jeongin tucked close to whoever was nearest, like gravity pulled him toward warmth.
It was muscle memory.
No one had told them where to sit.
They just… did.
Routine.
Except for the space beside Minho.
That space was always his.
The cushion there seemed untouched now, smooth and unclaimed.
The empty spot at his side made his chest feel tight.
The absence had weight.
He kept his arm draped along the back of the couch anyway.
Out of habit.
Out of refusal.
Like at any moment, Jisung might come barreling in, flop down beside him, and complain about how cold Minho always felt.
No one sat there.
No one even looked at it for too long.
They all pretended it wasn’t a void.
Minho didn’t speak much.
When someone asked him something, he answered short. One word. Two at most.
He stared at the television without seeing it.
At his phone without unlocking it.
At the door every time footsteps echoed in the hallway outside their apartment.
His jaw was set so tightly it hurt.
He could still feel the phantom weight of Jisung leaning into his shoulder.
Still hear the way he would hum under his breath without realizing.
Still see him curled there, legs tangled, stealing half the blanket and pretending he wasn’t.
Minho shifted slightly, the leather creaking beneath him.
The sound was too loud.
Everything was too loud.
Except the one thing he needed to hear.
He didn’t speak.
Because if he opened his mouth—
He was afraid the silence would answer.
The news ran constantly.
On screen headline: NO SURVIVORS FOUND AT PRIMARY IMPACT SITE
“Authorities report extensive fire damage in central sections of the fuselage.” The anchor’s tone was somber. “At this time, no survivors have been located.”
Footage of jungle canopy.
Helicopters hovering above endless green.
“Recovery efforts remain ongoing.”
By the end of the week the members start returning to their own dorms. Not all at once, at least during the night. First it’s Changbin and Hyunjin, then they’re back and Felix and Seungmin swap out.
Nobody will let him fucking be.
The word comes from the company.
Hello, this is JYP Entertainment.
We are devastated to report that Han Jisung of Stray Kids was confirmed to be a passenger onboard Malaysia Airlines Flight 325, which was involved in the tragic incident reported earlier this week.
We are in close communication with the airline and the relevant authorities as search and rescue operations continue. We are awaiting verified information and will provide updates as soon as official confirmation becomes available.
Our deepest condolences and prayers are with all passengers, crew members, and their families during this incredibly painful time. We sincerely hope for the safety of everyone involved.
After careful discussion, it has been decided that Stray Kids will temporarily suspend all scheduled activities and promotions in order to focus on this situation and remain together during this difficult period.
The members are prioritizing one another and their loved ones. We kindly ask that you keep them in your thoughts and offer your warm support as they navigate this heartbreaking moment.
We respectfully request privacy for the artist, his family, and the members as they process this matter.
Thank you for your understanding.
It explodes online.
News stations replay footage of the band on loop — airport arrivals, music show performances, variety clips of Jisung laughing too loudly at his own jokes. His face fills every screen. Smiling. Bright. Alive in a way that feels cruel now.
Headlines shift from “Idol Confirmed as Passenger” to “Stray Kids Announce Hiatus Following Tragedy.”
Hashtags trend worldwide within hours.
#StayWithStrayKids
#ComeBackHan
#WeLoveYouStrayKids
Speculation spreads faster than facts.
The media tone wavers between respectful and invasive.
Every update — even “no update” — becomes breaking news.
Fans organize virtual prayer circles across time zones.
Streaming parties become vigils.
Thousands change their profile pictures to soft green hearts.
Letters pour into the company building.
Some pages long, ink smudged with tears.
Fans leave flowers outside concert venues that were supposed to host upcoming shows.
They begin sharing:
“Please don’t speculate.”
“Respect the members’ privacy.”
“Don’t spread rumors.”
Inside the apartment, the members feel it in waves.
Chan scrolls through messages in silence, throat tight. He types out thank-you's he doesn’t know how to finish.
Felix reads supportive comments out loud sometimes, voice trembling but grateful. “They’re saying they’re praying,” he whispers once, like it matters.
Hyunjin cries again — this time not just from grief, but from the overwhelming kindness.
Changbin stares at a thread of fans coordinating candlelight gatherings and mutters, “They’re insane,” but his voice is soft with something close to affection.
Seungmin nods quietly when someone mentions how unified the fandom feels. Jeongin scrolls until his eyes blur, clinging to every message that says we’re waiting.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s too much.
Minho can’t breathe.
The notifications.
The headlines.
The endless replay of his face beside Jisung’s.
Every time he opens his phone, it’s there.
Every time the television flickers on, it’s there.
Jisung laughing.
Jisung smiling.
Jisung alive in clips side-by-side the horrific imagery of the crash.
“Recovery efforts remain ongoing. Hopes for rising stars return currently high!”
Sometimes it’s just the overhead view.
A helicopter shot, steady and distant — green canopy torn open in a jagged wound, smoke billowing up in slow gray ribbons in some shots, or just the mangled corpse of what used to be a plane. From that height it almost doesn’t look real. Just a scar in the forest. Just damage to land. Just a prop from a horror movie.
Sometimes it’s ground footage.
Rescue crews in bright vests moving carefully through mud and broken branches. Investigators stepping over twisted metal,over scattered luggage gloved hands lifting fragments with deliberate precision. A cell phone, intact, but they’re respectfully blurred whatever image was on its screen. The camera never lingers too long, but it doesn’t need to.
People called him an angel.
A light.
A star gone too soon.
They’re mourning a version of him broadcast in high definition.
Mourning before they’ve even finished looking for him.
Minho’s jaw tightens until it hurts.
They don’t know him.
Not the way Minho does.
They don’t know how he steals blankets.
How he hums off-key in the shower.
How he bites the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous.
The attention feels like hands.
Too many hands.
Pressing in.
Wrapping around his throat and lungs.
He can’t even grieve properly.
There’s no quiet.
No darkness to sit in.
Just headlines and sympathy and cameras and a world watching him unravel.
He wants to scream.
He wants everyone to stop talking.
He wants the hashtags gone.
He wants the news cycle to choke on something else.
He wants—he doesn’t even know what he wants.
Because somewhere under the suffocation is anger.
Hot and sharp and unfair.
Anger at the plane.
At the world.
At the silence.
At Jisung for getting on the fucking flight.
The anger makes him feel monstrous.
So he swallows it and it burns.
He sits on the couch, knuckles bandaged, television muted, eyes hollow.
The others find comfort in the noise.
Minho feels like he’s drowning in it.
He can’t even fucking fall apart properly.
Not like this.
Not with the whole world watching him do it.
Not with every fucking step he takes being watched.
The reporters speak in hushed tones, as if lowering their voices makes the tragedy gentler.
The scrolling text reads: DEBRIS FIELD EXPANDS — SEARCH AREA WIDENS
“Officials confirm that additional aircraft fragments have been discovered several kilometers downslope from the main impact zone.”
“This development suggests that the aircraft may have broken apart mid-air before descending into the mountainous jungle.”
“Search coordinators state that the debris field now spans a much larger area than initially anticipated.”
“The dense forest canopy continues to hamper aerial detection efforts. Thermal imaging equipment has been deployed, but thick vegetation significantly limits its effectiveness.”
“Authorities emphasize that every accessible area is being searched methodically.”
The words blur together.
Minho sits too close to the screen.
The light flickers across his face, turning his skin pale blue.
Every time the footage switches angles, his chest tightens.
He scans the images instinctively.
As if he might see something familiar.
As if he might recognize a piece of fabric. A seat number. A sign that doesn’t mean what they’re saying it means.
Sometimes the camera catches something covered by a white sheet.
The broadcast cuts away quickly.
Not quickly enough.
Someone changes the channel once.
Minho changes it back.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
Proof.
A miracle hidden in pixels.
The smoke keeps rising.
Day after day.
Week 2
SEARCH OPERATIONS SCALED DOWN IN LAOS CRASH
“Today marks two weeks since Flight 325 disappeared over the Annamite Range.”
“After fourteen days of intensive ground operations, Laotian officials have announced that search efforts for additional survivors have been scaled down...”
“Thermal imaging scans and aerial sweeps have not detected signs of survivors beyond the primary debris field.”
“Investigators confirm the aircraft appears to have broken apart mid-air during severe weather.”
“The jungle canopy significantly limits visibility from above,” one rescue coordinator stated. “Some areas are only accessible by foot.”
“Recovery efforts will continue in accessible zones.”
Scaled down.
The room deflated.
It wasn’t dramatic. No one screamed. No one dropped anything.
The air just… left.
Minho didn’t react at first.
He kept staring at the television, jaw set, fingers flexing once against the gauze wrapped around his knuckles.
Scaled down.
They were going to quit already
The beginning of the end.
Then the next sentence came.
“Due to the condition of the wreckage, most remains are unidentifiable.”
Remains.
The word lodged under his ribs.
Remains.
Not bodies.
Not people.
Remains.
He felt something inside him curdle.
Cold. Bitter. Wrong.
Jisung wasn’t remains.
Jisung was warmth under the covers at 3 a.m.
Jisung was humming off-key in the shower.
Jisung was strawberry stains on his lips and dramatic overreactions and soft laughter pressed into Minho’s shoulder.
Jisung was tangled limbs and stolen hoodies and sleepy “five more minutes.”
Remains.
The television continued talking.
Recovery efforts. Identification challenges. Ongoing coordination.
Minho didn’t hear the rest.
He stood abruptly.
The movement startled the room.
Chan was on his feet immediately.
“Minho—”
“Don’t.”
His voice was flat.
Empty.
Not loud.
Which somehow made it worse.
He walked to the window and stared down at the city below. Seoul carried on like nothing had happened. Cars moved. People crossed streets. Life continued.
How dare it.
How dare the traffic lights change.
How dare coffee shops open.
How dare strangers scroll their phones and complain about the weather while the news called him remains.
His hands curled into fists.
The gauze pulled tight across his skin.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the cool glass.
Behind him, the television was muted.
Someone had turned it down.
He didn’t know who.
The silence felt heavier than the broadcast.
Remains.
The word echoed again, hollow and mechanical.
As if a life could be reduced to fragments.
As if love could be measured in debris.
Chan’s voice came softer this time, closer.
“Minho.”
He didn’t turn around.
His reflection in the window looked distant.
Smaller somehow.
“They don’t know,” Chan said carefully. “It’s just— procedure.”
Minho’s jaw tightened.
“I know what it means,” he replied quietly.
And he did.
It meant hope narrowing.
It meant closure the world was preparing for.
It meant people were already speaking in past tense.
He swallowed hard.
Jisung wasn’t past tense.
He wasn’t a headline.
He wasn’t a casualty count.
He wasn’t something to be catalogued and covered and archived.
He was—
Minho squeezed his eyes shut.
For a split second, he imagined Jisung walking through the door, complaining about the news coverage, rolling his eyes at the dramatic anchors.
For a split second, he could almost hear him.
The city outside kept moving.
Unbothered.
Unpaused.
Minho opened his eyes again.
The traffic lights changed from red to green.
How dare it.
How dare the world continue breathing when he couldn’t.
Week 3
The new week started with the television on. No one had turned it off the night before.
It hummed softly in the background of the apartment, volume low, captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
Morning light filtered in through the curtains in pale strips. No one had really slept. They had just shifted positions on couches and floors, drifting in and out of something that wasn’t rest.
Chan was already awake, sitting at the dining table with a mug of tea he hadn’t touched.
Changbin stood by the balcony, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Hyunjin sat curled into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Felix and Jeongin were on the floor, backs against the sofa.
Seungmin sat upright, phone in his hand but screen dark.
Minho hadn’t moved much from where he’d been all night.
The anchor’s voice cut cleanly through the room.
“In a press conference this morning, Laotian authorities formally suspended active search operations for Malaysia Flight 325.”
No one breathed.
The words didn’t land at first.
They hovered.
Then—
“After three weeks of recovery efforts in dangerous and remote terrain, officials now classify the crash as a total loss of life.”
Total loss of life.
The phrase was clinical.
Efficient.
Final.
“Investigators state that the structural breakup and impact forces were non-survivable.”
The room reacted in fragments.
Felix’s hands flew to his mouth.
“The families have been notified.”
Jeongin made a small, broken sound — like he hadn’t meant for it to escape.
Hyunjin bowed his head immediately, shoulders folding in on themselves as if he’d been struck.
Changbin’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle jumped visibly beneath his skin. “Total loss,” he repeated under his breath, like he was testing the cruelty of it.
Seungmin stared at the screen without blinking.
For a split second, it looked like he was going to argue with it.
“International aviation investigators are now focusing on analysis of the recovered flight recorders.”
Like he could will the words to rearrange themselves.
Chan closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
The anchor continued speaking.
“The Annamite crash site remains one of the most difficult recovery zones in recent regional aviation history.”
None of it mattered.
The phrase echoed instead.
Total loss.
As if they were inventory.
As if Jisung was something that could be categorized and finalized.
Minho didn’t move.
He sat exactly as he had been.
Hands resting loosely on his thighs.
Eyes fixed on the television.
No visible reaction.
The others looked to him instinctively.
Waiting.
But his face was blank.
Too blank.
The silence stretched.
Then Changbin swore under his breath and turned away sharply, pacing toward the kitchen.
Hyunjin started crying again — quiet at first, then shaking.
Felix slid closer to Jeongin, pulling him in without speaking.
Chan stood slowly, like the air had thickened.
“Minho,” he said gently.
Minho didn’t respond.
The television replayed the aerial footage again.
Smoke rising over a green canopy.
Total loss of life.
Something in the room shifted.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was the sound of hope breaking cleanly in half.
Minho’s fingers curled slightly.
Just slightly.
He swallowed once.
And then he reached forward.
Picked up the remote.
Muted the television.
The anchor’s mouth kept moving silently.
Minho stared at the screen a moment longer.
Then he set the remote down carefully on the table.
And stood up.
No tears.
No shouting.
Just a quiet, devastating finality settling over him like dust.
Behind him, the room was breaking.
In front of him, the world had just ended.
Minho insists on returning to their dorm.
Chan tries to fight him, but Minho says he’ll throw himself out the fucking window and go home himself if he doesn’t let him out.
Chan and Changbin escort him back to the dorm.
Home was worse.
But also somehow better.
Home, at least, would be quiet.
Once the escorts left.
Of course, they didn’t leave immediately.
They moved carefully through the apartment like it was fragile. Checking locks. Checking windows. Speaking in low, professional voices.
“There’s food in the fridge.”
“The stove’s been replaced.”
Minho’s eyes flicked toward the kitchen automatically.
The old stove — the one that had broken two days before the crash — was gone. In its place stood a clean, stainless-steel replacement. Shiny. Untouched.
Someone continued talking.
“If you need anything—”
“Try to rest.”
Their voices blurred together.
He nodded at the right intervals.
Or maybe he didn’t.
He couldn’t really tell.
There was a ringing in his ears.
High and constant.
Like feedback from a microphone left on too long.
It drowned out the details.
Drowned out the well-meaning instructions.
Drowned out the concern.
“Minho?”
He blinked.
Someone was in front of him.
Concerned expression.
He realized they had asked him a question.
He didn’t know what it was.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
The ringing only grew louder.
Finally, the door closed.
The lock clicked.
Footsteps faded down the hallway.
Silence settled slowly, like dust.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Minho stood in the doorway of Jisung’s bedroom for hours the first night back.
The bed was unmade from the morning he left. A hoodie tossed over the chair. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.
He stepped inside slowly, like entering sacred ground.
His fingers brushed the pillow.
He sat.
Then lay down.
Then curled into the space Jisung usually occupied.
He pressed his face into the sheets.
They still smelled like him.
Minho inhaled deeply.
Again and again.
As if he could breathe Jisung back into existence.
He started sleeping there every night.
Wrapped in Jisung’s blanket.
Wearing his clothes.
Sometimes he whispered into the darkness.
“I’ll wait.”
“I don’t care if we never tell them.”
“I’m sorry. Just come back.”
The silence answered.
The nightmares don’t start as nightmares.
That’s the cruelest part.
They begin in warmth.
In golden light.
In the quiet safety of before.
Sunlight filters through thin curtains in their dorm room, soft and honey-colored. The air smells like fabric softener and citrus shampoo and something sweet—like strawberries from the cheesecake still resting in Chan’s kitchen.
Jisung is curled against Minho’s side.
One arm thrown lazily across his waist. His head rests over Minho’s chest, hair messy from sleep, lips slightly parted. His breath is slow and even, warm through the thin cotton of Minho’s t-shirt.
Minho can feel the gentle rise and fall.
Can feel the weight of him.
Alive.
Safe.
He looks down at him and thinks, not for the first time:
How is one person allowed to be this beautiful?
Jisung’s lashes flutter faintly. His nose scrunches in his sleep. His fingers tighten unconsciously in the fabric at Minho’s hip.
Adorable.
Annoying.
Perfect.
Minho brushes his fingers gently through Jisung’s hair.
“I’ll come with you next time,” he murmurs in the dream.
And in the dream, Jisung smiles without opening his eyes.
“Next time,” he echoes softly.
Minho presses a kiss to his forehead.
He remembers thinking—we have so much time.
They’ll tell his parents eventually.
Maybe not this trip.
But soon.
They’ll grow older together. Fight about stupid things. Share apartments and then houses. Maybe adopt cats. Maybe argue over furniture.
A whole lifetime.
In the dream, Minho feels peaceful.
Certain.
He watches Jisung sleep and thinks.
I’m going to spend the rest of my life beside you.
Jisung shifts, climbing halfway on top of him now, cheek pressed to his chest. His voice is drowsy when he finally speaks.
“Don’t be mad anymore.”
“I’m not,” Minho says instantly. In the dream, that’s true.
Jisung looks up at him, eyes warm and clear.
“Promise?”
“I promise.” And Minho believes it, believes everything will be fine.
The sunlight dulls first. Fades from gold to gray.
The warmth leaves the room, he doesn’t notice immediately. He’s too focused on the way Jisung’s hand feels against his skin.
But then—Jisung’s breathing stutters, just slightly.
Minho frowns. “Jisung?” Jisung doesn’t answer, his body feels heavier. Too heavy.
Minho looks down, Jisung’s eyes are open now, but they aren’t focused. They’re distant, clouded.
“Hey,” Minho says, panic creeping into his voice. “Stop joking.” Jisung’s lips part, but no sound comes out. The room grows hotter, The curtains stop moving. The air becomes thick—hard to breathe so much humidity. Minho tries to sit up but Jisung’s weight pins him down.
Pins him to the mattress, to the moment.
“I–I’d wait,” Minho pleads. “We don’t have to tell them yet. I don’t care. Just—” Jisung’s head tilts slowly.
And suddenly the bed isn’t a bed anymore.
It’s metal. Twisted. Hot. Burning hot.
The sheets beneath them are gone—replaced with jagged wreckage pressing into Minho’s back.
The smell shifts from citrus and laundry detergent— To smoke, burning, blood.
Morning birdsong changes to screams and groans from the other passengers, those who are still alive at this moment.
Jisung’s hand in his shirt is no longer warm, it’s limp.
His skin is pale, too pale. Minho tries to shake him.
“Wake up,” He whispers, then louder. “Wake up Sungie.”
The sound of distant sirens echoes through the dream.
The jungle replaces the bedroom walls—dense, suffocating green stretching endlessly around them.
Jisung’s body begins to slip from his arms, Minho grabs for him desperately.
But his fingers pass through.
Through.
Like ash.
“My fault,” Minho chokes. “I’m so sorry—please.” Jisung’s voice finally comes.
But it’s not right, It echoes unnaturally.
“You were tired of hiding.” The words repeat, overlapping.
“You were tired.”
“You were tired.”
“You were tired.”
The jungle grows louder.
The smell of smoke thickens.
Jisung’s smiling portrait flashes in the trees—billboard-sized, bright and artificial, eyes crinkled in laughter.
Fans’ voices chant his name somewhere unseen.
Minho screams for them to stop, but no sound leaves his throat.
Jisung’s face shifts in his hands—from warm and alive—too broken and still.
The word echoes again.
Remains.
Minho jolts awake gasping.
Drenched in sweat.
Hands clawing at empty sheets.
The room is dark, cold.
Silent.
No weight against his chest.
No arm around his waist.
No soft breathing.
Just the hollow space beside him in Jisung’s bed.
He doesn’t go back to sleep.
He stops answering texts aside from checking in daily that he is, in fact, alive.
Week 4
“Experts say given the severity of the crash and the conditions at the site, the likelihood of anyone surviving the initial impact was considered extremely low.”
“Public memorials continue across Malaysia and South Korea.”
The funeral was public. It had to be.
Fans gathered in the thousands outside the memorial hall in Seoul, the hall was washed in white.
Not bright white.
Soft white.
The kind that feels like surrender.
Rows of white chrysanthemums lined the entrance — traditional, respectful, overwhelming in numbers. White blooms layered in towering wreaths, packed so tightly the petals overlap in soft, ruffled clusters. Their fragrance isn’t sweet in the way roses are. It’s cooler. Cleaner. A faintly bitter-green thick scent that sits sharp at the back of the throat. They climbed the walls in tall standing wreaths sent by companies, artists, and broadcast stations. Each ribbon bore black calligraphy: With deepest condolences. We will remember you. Rest peacefully.
Endless rows. Giant framed photos of Jisung—smiling, laughing, mid-performance— bright stage lights catching in his eyes, smile wide and unguarded, head slightly tilted like he was mid-laugh—stood beside mountains of letters and plush toys.
The scent of flowers hung thick in the air.
Every inhale feels like swallowing grief made floral—sweet enough to almost be pleasant, but too thick, too constant. Their perfume clinging to skin long after you leave, as if mourning has a smell and it refuses to let go.
The members wore black. Not flashy.
Not stylized.
Plain, formal mourning attire.
Minho’s suit was sharply tailored — black, fitted through the shoulders and waist, crisp white shirt beneath, black tie pulled tight and severe. His hair was styled neatly, but he hadn’t looked in the mirror long enough to notice.
He had never felt so hollow inside it.
The fabric itched against his skin.
Too tight at the collar.
Too stiff at the shoulders.
Like armor he hadn’t agreed to wear.
Cameras flashed as they entered.
Like this was a fucking red carpet for a show.
He kept his expression blank.
Carefully blank.
Because if he let it slip even slightly, he would collapse right there on the steps.
Jisung’s parents stood near the front.
His mother looked smaller somehow. Like the world had pressed in on her from all sides. His father’s shoulders were bowed in a way that spoke of something permanent. His older brother’s face was rigid, jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Minho had never met them.
He was supposed to.
He was supposed to stand beside Jisung and bow politely and introduce himself properly.
Tell them how much he loved their son.
Instead he stood meters away, invisible in his grief.
The setup was beautiful.
Immaculate.
Reverent.
And utterly wrong.
Because it was arranged for someone who was supposed to be loud and warm and alive.
Not framed.
And the space beside Minho felt far too empty.
Strangers approached the microphone one by one.
Industry colleagues. Acquaintances. People who had met Jisung twice and spoke about his brightness. His energy. His talent.
They weren’t wrong.
But it made Minho’s stomach twist.
You didn’t know him.
You didn’t know how he clung to Minho’s sleeve when he was anxious.
You didn’t know how he whispered half-formed lyrics into Minho’s chest when he was too tired to finish them.
You didn’t know how scared he was to come out.
You didn’t know how brave he was trying to be.
And yet they wept publicly.
Minho’s hands shook at his sides.
He dug his fingernails into his palms until it hurt.
When fans began crying loudly, calling Jisung’s name, something inside him snapped.
This wasn’t theirs.
This wasn’t something to consume.
That smiling portrait at the center of the hall—
That was his.
His soulmate.
His almost.
His what-could-have-been.
The ceremony blurred after that.
He bowed when he was supposed to.
Stood when he was supposed to.
Moved when someone nudged him gently forward.
He lasted until the final bow.
Until the last official gesture.
Until the doors opened and the noise of the outside world rushed in again.
The moment they stepped into the back hall—out of sight.
Minho broke.
Not quiet tears.
Not controlled breathing.
Not the kind of grief that fits into a headline.
A full collapse.
His knees hit the floor despite the expensive fabric.
The impact barely registered.
A sound tore from him — raw, ripped straight from somewhere deep and animal — that silenced even the crowd of staff for a heartbeat.
Chan caught him before his head struck the ground.
Hands firm, shaking.
Minho clutched the front of Chan’s jacket desperately, fingers twisting into the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
“I didn’t even get to tell them,” he sobbed. “I didn’t get to tell them I loved him.”
His voice cracked so violently it barely sounded human.
“I was supposed to meet them.”
The words dissolved into broken gasps.
“I was supposed to stand next to him.”
Chan dropped to his knees with him, holding him up as the world blurred around them.
Minho pressed his forehead against Chan’s chest like he could hide there.
Like he could rewind time.
“I was going to fix it,” he choked. “We were going to fix it.”
Chan’s own composure shattered.
He wrapped his arms around him fully now, not caring about the possibility of cameras, the crowd on the other side of the doors, the headlines that might come later if anyone had seen them.
All of them cried.
Changbin turned away, shoulders shaking as he pressed the heel of his hand hard against his mouth. Hyunjin covered his face completely, long fingers trembling as silent tears slipped through. Felix wiped helplessly at his eyes again and again, like he couldn’t quite keep up with them. Jeongin sobbed openly beside them, the sound raw and young and broken. Even Seungmin’s composure cracked, his jaw trembling as he reached down to steady Minho’s shoulder with an unsteady hand.
And in the center of it all—
Minho wept like someone who had lost not just a person—but the life they were going to have together
He wept for every tomorrow that had vanished.
For the apartment that would never echo with Jisung’s off-key singing when he was joking around, the kind that made everyone groan but somehow still made the room feel brighter. For the songs that would never be written—half-finished melodies that would never make it out of Jisung’s head, lyrics that would never spill out onto scrap paper at three in the morning. For the way Jisung used to reach for his sleeve when he was anxious or tired, fingers curling into the fabric like Minho was something solid he could anchor himself to.
For the simple things— the way their fingers fit together like they had learned each other by heart.
He wept for a future that had disappeared before it ever had the chance to begin.
For the conversation that would never happen.
For the moment he had planned over and over in his head—standing beside Jisung, introducing himself properly, finally saying the words out loud without fear.
For the hand he would never hold in front of the right people.
He didn’t care that the floor was cold.
He only knew one thing.
He hadn’t said it loud enough.
And now— he never could.
Month 2
“Recovery teams have largely withdrawn from the crash site due to hazardous terrain and diminishing returns.”
“The region remains largely inaccessible, with dense vegetation quickly reclaiming visible debris.”
If Chan’s lucky Minho might answer texts every other day. But he does respond when Chan calls him into the conference room.
The trip was terrible, everywhere he went, Jisung followed.
On screens.
On posters.
In music stores.
In the empty seat beside him in the van.
In his dreams–he chased him now, begged him to stay before the shift would happen, but it still happened every time anyways.
The conference room lights were too bright.
Too white.
Too unforgiving.
Chan sat at the head of the long table, shoulders squared, fingers laced tightly together in front of him. He looked exhausted — dark circles carved beneath his eyes, his skin dull from too many sleepless nights — but he was upright. Holding himself together out of sheer responsibility.
The others were already seated.
Changbin leaned back stiffly in his chair, arms crossed like he was bracing himself for something. Hyunjin stared down at the table, long hair falling forward as if the wood grain had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. Felix sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, shoulders drawn inward. Seungmin’s expression was carefully blank, the kind of composure that took effort to maintain. Jeongin looked smaller than usual in an oversized black sweater, sleeves pulled over his hands.
When Minho walked in, the conversation died instantly.
Every head turned toward him at once, the quiet that followed so sudden it felt almost physical.
He looked like something that had been left standing after the storm passed.
Pale, hollow-eyed, the kind of tired that settled deep into the bones. He was wearing Jisung’s hoodie—the oversized grey one with the frayed cuffs.
Everyone recognized it.
A few glances passed between them—quick, subtle. Not judgmental. Just worried.
Minho didn’t acknowledge any of them. He reached the table and practically threw himself into the empty chair beside Changbin. The legs scraped loudly against the floor.
“Ok,” he said flatly.
Small talk followed. Awkward. Mechanical.
“Did you sleep?” someone asked, though the voice felt distant enough that Minho wasn’t even sure who it was.
“Not really.” The answer came out disinterested, emotionless. Almost robotic.
No one pushed for more.
The air in the room felt thick, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Chan cleared his throat. The sound cut through the room like a blade.
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
Minho leaned back in his chair, arms already crossing over his chest defensively.
Chan’s jaw tightened slightly.
“The company intends to put together a memorial album,” he said carefully. “Using Jisung’s unreleased tracks.”
The silence that followed was razor sharp, everyone tensed.
“Absolutely not.” Minho didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Chan’s jaw set.
“It wasn’t a question.”
Minho’s eyes snapped up. “Yeah, well. Not happening.” The words were sharp, immediate. Changbin shifted in his seat. Hyunjin inhaled sharply.
Chan leaned forward slightly. “That’s not your call.”
Minho let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, it’s not?”
“They’re under contract.”
“Those are Jisung’s songs,” Minho shot back. “He wrote them.”
“Technically,” Chan said, his voice tightening, “They belong to the label.”
Minho’s chair screeched as he shoved himself upright.
“Then tell them no!” Chan’s composure cracked.
“…They didn’t ask me either,” He snapped, the room went still. Chan’s hands slammed flat against the table. “I’m telling you personally– as a courtesy so you didn’t hear about it on TV or the radio.” His voice was louder now. Not controlled. Not leader-soft.
Minho stared at him.
“You’re just going to let them sell him?” he demanded. “Package him up and push him out one last time?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It’s exactly what this is!” Minho’s voice rose, raw and jagged. “They couldn’t wait another week? A month? They need content that badly?”
Chan stood up. “If we don’t handle this our way, they’ll do it their way..” The words hit hard, Minho’s hands trembled at his sides.
“You think that makes it better?”
“I think,” Chan said through clenched teeth, “that if this is happening, we make sure it’s done right.”
The words hit the room like something thrown.
Felix flinched instinctively, shoulders jerking. Jeongin’s eyes filled almost immediately, blinking hard like he could stop it if he tried. Changbin pushed halfway out of his chair, hands braced on the table like he might step in before this turned into something worse. But he didn’t move.
The silence stretched tight across the room.
Then Chan’s voice cut through it. Louder than anyone had heard it all week.
“I’m trying to protect what’s left!”
Minho laughed — sharp, bitter. “Protect it? By handing it over?”
“You think I want this?” Chan shot back. “You think I don’t feel sick about it?”
“Then fight them!”
“I am fighting them!” The yell bounced off the conference room walls.
For a second, both of them looked startled by the volume. Minho’s breathing was uneven now.
“You’re the leader,” he said, quieter but no less furious. “Act like it.”
Chan’s eyes flashed. “I am.” The words were heavy. Measured. And that only made Minho angrier.
“You don’t get to decide this.”
“And neither do you.” Minho stepped closer to the table, leaning over it.
“He wouldn’t want this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know him.”
“So do I!” The two of them were inches from shouting again.
Changbin stood fully now. “Come on, enough.” But neither of them heard him.
Minho’s voice cracked under the strain. “He didn’t even get to finish some of them,” he said. “They’re not done. They’re private.” Chan’s shoulders sagged slightly.
“That’s why I’m telling you now,” he said, quieter. “So we can decide how it’s handled. What goes out.” Minho’s eyes burned.
“You’re already handling it.”
“I’m trying to stop it from being worse.”
The words hung there.
Ugly. Complicated.
Minho shook his head. “You’re wrong.”
Chan exhaled sharply. “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s happening. Like it or not.” Minho’s fists clenched.
For a moment, it looked like he might flip the table. Instead, he stepped back.
Breathing hard. Hurt and furious and helpless all at once. Throwing himself back down into the chair but refusing to look at any of them. Not a single one of them was fighting this.
He shoved his hands into the hoodie pockets–Jisung’s hoodie.
Everyone in the room felt it.
The grief wasn’t just about loss anymore. It was turning into fractures.
After the meeting he refuses to leave the dorm for anything that isn’t required.
Month 3
“The tragedy remains one of the most severe aviation disasters in recent regional history.”
Nearly everything is gone.
The smell was the last thing he tried to save.
He didn’t wash the hoodies. Didn’t change the pillowcase. Folded the blanket carefully and slept with it wrapped around him every night, like he could preserve something if he was careful enough.
But time thinned it anyway.
His own scent replaced it slowly.
He tried to recreate it — Jisung’s cologne, his shampoo, his soap. Layered them. Mixed them. Sprayed the collar of the hoodie until the smell was almost overpowering.
It was never right–too sharp–too clean.
Missing the warmth.
He pressed his face into the fabric and inhaled.
Nothing but memory, and even that felt unreliable now.
Sometimes he thought he was forgetting what Jisung actually felt like — the exact weight of him, the warmth of his hands, the way his body fit against Minho’s side like it had learned the shape of him.
Even the nightmares are changing.
They used to start warm.
Jisung curled against him, soft and real, half-asleep, hair falling into his eyes. Then the fall would come.
Now the dreams are shorter—colder.
Jisung starts farther away each time.
His touch fades faster.
Sometimes he doesn’t even turn around.
Minho used to beg him to stay, now he just watches, and Jisung disappears without a word.
The memorial album is announced at a press conference Minho is forced to attend.
He knows it’s wrong the moment he walks into the room.
Too many cameras.
Too many microphones.
Too many sympathetic expressions.
A large screen behind them displays the album title in soft white lettering. A photo of Jisung wearing studio headphones fills the background — smiling, bright, completely unaware of what this image is about to become.
Minho takes his seat.
The chair feels wrong beneath him — too small and too big at the same time, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
Under the stage lights he looks thinner. Paler. The dark circles beneath his eyes refuse to soften even in the glow of the cameras.
He sits very still, hands folded together on the table.
He doesn’t smile the way he used to. Not with his eyes.
Around them the room hums with quiet movement — cameras adjusting, reporters shifting in their seats, the low rustle of notepads and whispered conversations.
Chan speaks first.
Calm. Measured. Professional.
The kind of voice you use when you’re holding something fragile together with both hands and hoping no one notices the cracks.
“This project is meant to honor Jisung’s artistry…”
Honor.
The word tastes wrong.
Minho keeps his face blank–he has perfected that now.
A reporter asks how they felt listening to the unreleased tracks again.
Minho’s hands tighten in his lap.
Listening to them again implies choice.
Implies nostalgia.
Implies something warm.
The first time he heard those songs, Jisung had been alive—pacing the studio, headphones hanging crooked around his neck, gesturing wildly as he talked.
Too much? Is it too much?
Now they play snippets, through polished speakers in a conference hall while journalists scribble notes.
The room listens like it’s just another release.
Another album.
Another story.
“It was difficult,” Chan answers carefully.
Another reporter asks whether the members had input on the final production.
Minho’s jaw shifts slightly. Input.
As if grief were a creative meeting.
He doesn’t speak unless directly addressed.
When he is, his answers are short.
Respectful. Neutral.
He does not look at the screen behind him.
He does not look at the photo.
He looks straight ahead.
Like if he focuses hard enough, he won’t hear the word “legacy” one more time.
In one short interview clip, he blinks too slowly. In another, his hands tremble slightly when he adjusts the microphone. The cameras catch it –they always do.
Later, the clips will be replayed in slowed-down edits and reaction compilations, strangers circling the moment like it means something they can decipher. Someone will comment that he looks tired. Someone else will say he looks angry. Others will argue about what it means.
Comments shift from support to concern.
Is he eating?
He looks exhausted.
Please let him rest.
Someone take care of him.
Chan sees them.
He doesn’t show Minho at first.
But he sees them pour in, and he sees Minho.
The way he stares at nothing after schedules end, long after everyone else has packed up and left. The way his shoulders jump at sudden noises that never used to bother him. The way he barely sleeps unless someone else is in the room.
Chan notices everything.
One night, long after the others have gone back to their dorms, he finds Minho sitting alone on the dance studio floor.
His back is pressed against the cabinet beneath the mirror.
The lights are off.
“Minho,” he says gently. No response. “You can’t keep doing this.” Minho doesn’t look up.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Silence. Chan exhales.
“I set up an appointment.” That gets a reaction. Minho’s head lifts slowly.
“With who.”
“A counselor.” The word lands hard.
“No.” It’s immediate. Flat.
Chan keeps his voice calm. “Just once. You don’t have to commit to anything.”
“I said no.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not eating.”
“I’m fine.” Minho’s jaw tightens. “I’m fine.”
Chan’s composure cracks slightly. “You think this is strength?”
Minho finally looks at him — eyes hollow, defensive.
“You think talking to some stranger fixes this?”
“No,” Chan says quietly. “But maybe it keeps you from breaking completely.”
Minho stands abruptly. “I already broke.” The words are sharp. Final. “There’s nothing to fix.” He walks past Chan without another word.
Chan stays in the room long after the sound of the door closes.
Because pushing him feels cruel.
But not pushing him feels worse.
The album climbs. Top ten worldwide. Then top five. Then number one again in places it had already conquered.
Clips of Jisung resurface everywhere.
Old variety show moments. Studio outtakes. Fan edits set to the new tracks. Compilations titled “Han Jisung Being the Brightest Soul.”
His laugh loops endlessly.
His smile freezes mid-frame.
His voice overlays everything.
Minho can’t open an app without seeing him.
He tries not to and fails.
One night the television is on low volume in the living room. A music program is doing a segment on the album’s global success.
Behind the host, a montage plays.
Jisung dancing.
Jisung teasing Minho.
Jisung grabbing his arm mid-laugh during some old variety show clip.
Jisung wrapping his arms around him from behind, pressing a quick kiss to the back of his neck while the others shout as a heart rate monitor shoots up.
The host smiles gently at the camera.
Calls it “a beautiful farewell.”
Something inside Minho snaps.
Before he registers the movement, his arm swings.
His phone leaves his hand and slams into the television screen.
The crack is sharp. Violent.
Colored lines burst across the display like jagged lightning, splintering the image into warped fragments. The television tips sideways off its stand and crashes to the floor with a dull, hollow thud.
Then silence slams into the room after it.
Minho stands there, breathing hard.
The phone lies on the floor, screen shattered, dark. And then—
Realization hits. His stomach drops so suddenly it almost feels like falling.
The phone.
All his photos.
All his videos.
All his texts.
Voice notes sent at 3 a.m.
Blurry selfies in bed no one else had ever seen.
Jisung half-asleep, mumbling into the mic.
Jisung complaining dramatically about Minho smacking his ass during practice and then continuing to dance anyway while the others howled.
Tiny moments.
Private ones.
The last message.
I love you Minho ❤️.
Everything the public had never and would never see.
Everything that was theirs.
“Fuck.”
His hands shake as he drops to his knees.
Minho drops to his knees beside the phone.
His hands shake as he picks it up.
The screen doesn’t light.
He presses the button. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
“Fuck.”
His breathing turns uneven. Too fast.
“No, no, no—”
He curls in on himself on the floor, clutching the broken phone against his chest like it’s fragile glass instead of already shattered circuitry.
It feels like losing him again.
Like this time it’s his fault.
Like he just erased what little he had left.
He doesn’t hear Chan come in at first.
Doesn’t hear the footsteps over the ringing in his ears.
He only realizes he isn’t alone when someone kneels in front of him.
“Minho.” Chan’s voice is steady.
Calm in the way only Chan can be when someone else is falling apart.
Minho shakes his head, tears streaming freely now.
“It’s gone,” he chokes. “Everything’s gone.”
Chan gently tries to pry the phone from his grip, Minho resists.
“It had everything,” he sobs. “All of it. The pictures. The videos. The texts. I— I didn’t back it up, I didn’t—”
“Hey.”
Chan’s voice stays low.
Grounded.
“It’s fixable.” Minho laughs brokenly.
“It’s shattered.”
“Screens are replaceable,” Chan says. “Data isn’t always stored just in the device. We can try.”
Minho looks up at him, eyes red and swollen.
“I threw it.”
“I know.”
“I threw it.”
Chan nods once. “You’re spiraling.” The word lands softer than it should. Minho’s shoulders shake.
“I can’t breathe,” he whispers.
Chan moves closer, careful. “You need help.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Minho’s grip tightens again around the phone. “I can’t lose this too.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Chan holds his gaze.
“Minho. This is not sustainable.” Silence stretches between them.
The cracked television lies on its side behind them, screen fractured beyond repair.
Jisung’s paused smile from pictures knocked over in the fall, pictures he’d turned over weeks ago, still visible through the broken glass.
Minho squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t want to talk to someone.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to sit in a room and say his name like it’s a case study.”
“You won’t.” Chan’s voice doesn’t waver. “You’ll say his name because you loved him.”
Minho’s breathing stutters.
There's a long pause. “I can’t do this anymore,” Chan says quietly.
That lands differently.
Minho’s eyes lift.
Chan doesn’t look angry. There’s no frustration in his face, no reprimand waiting behind his words. Just exhaustion–and worry. The kind that has been building for too long.“I can’t keep watching you drown,” he says.
Minho’s gaze drops again.
The broken phone rests heavily in his hands. Thin fractures spread across the screen like spiderwebs, splitting his reflection into jagged pieces. One eye here. Half his mouth there. Nothing quite whole.
He studies it like he’s trying to recognize the person looking back.
“…If I go,” he says finally, voice rough and hoarse, “you promise we fix this first?”
Chan follows his gaze to the shattered glass, then back to Minho.
His answer comes without hesitation. “Of course we will. We’ll take it to a specialist first thing tomorrow.”
“And if it’s gone—”
“It’s not gone.”
Minho swallows.
The words sit between them for a long moment before he speaks again.
“…One appointment.”
Chan exhales slowly, relief barely visible. “One appointment.” he agrees.
Minho loosens his grip on the phone just enough for Chan to gently take it from his hands. The cracked glass catches the light as Chan turns it over carefully.
Minho’s fingers are still trembling.
He slips the phone into his pocket for safekeeping and reaches out, steadying Minho by the arm as he helps him to his feet.
Minho sways slightly before finding his balance again.
Behind them, the television lies on its side, screen fractured and dark.
The room has gone quiet again.
Month 4
The repair shop was small and quiet, tucked between a stationery store and a narrow café whose roasted beans drifted faintly through the door whenever it opened. An electronic bell chimed when Chan pushed it open. Minho followed a step behind him, his expression grim.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly metallic and dusty. The space was cluttered but organized—rows of phone cases hung along one wall, charging cords coiled neatly on hooks. Behind the counter, a technician looked up from his workbench where a half-disassembled tablet lay under the harsh glare of a desk lamp. Behind him, rows of tiny labeled drawers lined the wall, the entire setup resembling a meticulous electronics autopsy in progress.
“Hi,” Chan said politely. “We were wondering if you could take a look at this for us.”
Minho placed the phone on the counter as gently as he could, as if even the slightest jolt might destroy whatever chance remained of saving what was inside it.
The technician picked it up carefully.
The screen was completely shattered, cracks splintering outward like frost across glass. One corner of the frame had bent inward slightly where it had struck the television. He pressed the power button.
Nothing.
He turned the phone slowly beneath the light.
“This took a pretty hard fall,” he said.
Chan nodded. Minho said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ruined screen.
The technician opened a drawer and retrieved a set of delicate tools. Within seconds he had the back panel loosened, lifting it carefully before sliding the device beneath a magnifying lamp.
“The display assembly is destroyed,” he said after a moment. “And the frame is bent enough that replacing the screen isn’t really an option. I could try to straighten it, but a new display would never seat properly.” He glanced up briefly.
“The phone itself isn’t worth repairing. Structural damage like this tends to cause ongoing problems.”
Minho’s shoulders stiffened.
“But,” the technician added calmly, adjusting the lamp, “the motherboard looks intact.”
Chan leaned forward slightly. “What does that mean for the data?”
“It means that’s the part we care about most,” the technician said. “If the motherboard and memory chip survived the impact, there’s a very good chance everything stored on the device is still there.”
Minho’s gaze dropped to the open phone on the counter.
“…The texts too?” he asked quietly.
The technician nodded.
“Yes. Messages are stored on the internal memory. As long as the storage chip wasn’t damaged—and from what I can see, it doesn’t appear to be—we should be able to extract them.”
Minho nodded slowly, absorbing that.
“I can’t guarantee one hundred percent until I run a full recovery,” the technician continued, “but it looks promising. If the data is intact, we can transfer everything to a new phone.”
Chan glanced at Minho and gave his shoulder a small reassuring squeeze.
Minho didn’t speak right away. His eyes lingered on the broken device lying open beneath the lamp. Then he nodded once.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Please do that.”
The office is quieter than he expected
Soft lighting. A small bookshelf. Two chairs angled toward each other instead of across a desk.
Minho sits stiffly on the edge of one of them, like he might get up and leave at any moment. His hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing slightly with restless energy.
The woman across from him looks calm, composed. She offers him a warm, patient smile.
“Chan said you didn’t really want to be here,” she says gently. Minho lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“Did he now?”
“Is he wrong?”
“…No. He made a deal,” he says finally. “This only happens once.”
“So he told me,” she replies after a moment. “And while I don’t exactly approve of his methods, I understand the intention. So we might as well make this one time worthwhile, right?”
After a moment she asks, “How have you been sleeping?”
Minho’s mouth tightens.
“Badly.”
“Nightmares?” He nods, not even sure why he offered the admission.
She writes something down but doesn’t comment on it.
“What happens in them?”
Minho looks at his hands.
“They start normal,” he says after a moment. “He’s there.” The counselor doesn’t interrupt. “We’re in bed,” Minho continues quietly.
His voice trails off. He looks away, knees bouncing slightly with nervous energy.
“And then?” she prompts gently.
Minho swallows.
“And then he… leaves.” Disappears. The counselor nods slightly.
“That sounds painful.” Minho huffs a quiet breath.
“That’s one word for it.” Traumatic is the word that flashes through his mind, but he doesn’t say it.
She studies him for a moment before asking softly, “Do you talk to him in the dreams?”
Minho hesitates.
“…I used to.”
“And now?” He looks toward the window beside her. Pale afternoon light presses softly against the glass.
“Now I just watch.” Another quiet pause passes before she speaks again.
“You loved him very much.”
Minho winces slightly at the past tense.
“Yes.” His jaw tightens. “I still do.” The words come out heavy, like they have weight.
The counselor sets her pen down.
“Grief can make people feel like they’re drowning,” she says calmly. “Our goal isn’t to make the water disappear.”
Minho glances up at her for the first time.
“It’s to help you learn how to breathe when you do go under,” she continues, “so it doesn’t completely take over your life.”
For the first time since he walked into the room, Minho doesn’t immediately look away.
They returned to the repair shop the next afternoon.
The same bell chimed when Chan pushed the door open. Minho stepped in behind him, the familiar smell of coffee from the café next door drifting faintly through the shop again.
The technician looked up from his workbench and recognized them immediately.
“Oh—hi again,” he said, giving a small wave.
He turned and reached behind the counter, collecting something from a padded tray before turning back toward them.
“Good news,” he said, sliding a slim black phone across the counter, its fully intact glass screen shiny and perfect.
“All your data transferred successfully.”
Minho stared at it for a moment before picking it up.
The screen lit under his thumb.
The wallpaper appeared instantly, the same photo that had been there before.
Jisung leaned sideways into the frame, cheek pressed against Minho’s shoulder, grinning wide while Minho looked halfway between shy and amused. The heat of affection spreading before the ache of longing moved to replace it.
Chan murmured a soft thank you to the technician as he settled the payment, though his attention never strayed far from Minho.
Minho had already opened the messages.
The conversation thread was still there.
Every text.
Every photo.
Every stupid late-night message and blurry video.
Every voice note.
Even the last one.
The one he had read over and over until the words stopped looking real. His thumb hovered over the screen but didn’t press anything. The technician nodded and reached under the counter.
“And this,” he said gently. He set the old phone down in front of Minho, wrapped in a small clear plastic bag. The glass was still shattered, fractures spiderwebbing across the surface like lightning trapped under the screen, the frame still bent.
Minho turned the broken phone over once in his hands before slipping it carefully into his pocket. Then he looked down at the new phone in his other hand.
Same apps.
Same messages.
Same photo waiting on the lock screen.
And yet it wasn’t the same, nothing ever really was after something broke.
Minho closed his hand around the new phone and slipped it into his jacket. Life moved forward anyway.
Counseling helps. Not in some miraculous, cinematic way.
But enough.
The first few sessions are stiff. Minho sits rigid in the chair, arms crossed, answering in short sentences. The counselor doesn’t push.
“I’m not here to fix you,” she says gently. “You’re not broken.” He almost laughs at that.
She teaches him grounding techniques.
“When you feel the spiral start, name five things you can see. Four you can touch. Three you can hear.” He rolls his eyes the first time.
He does it anyway. It works more often than he wants to admit.
One afternoon, he mutters something about being unstable. About being a risk. She tilts her head slightly.
“You are grieving,” she says. “That does not make you dangerous.”
He doesn’t look at her. “I punched a mirror.”
“You punched a mirror,” she agrees calmly. “You did not hurt anyone else. You were overwhelmed.” The distinction sits with him.
“You are not a threat to your members. You are not a threat to your company. You are a person in pain.” No one had phrased it like that before.
He starts sleeping more. Two hours becomes four. Sometimes five.
“You don’t need perfect sleep,” she tells him. “You need consistent sleep. Even small improvements matter.”
The counselor eventually brings up the bed.
“Why are you avoiding your own?” He stiffens. She doesn’t let it become accusatory.
“You need a space that is yours. Not just a shrine.”
The word shrine hits hard. He doesn’t argue.
That night, he lies in his own bed for an hour. The next night, two.
The first time he makes it through until morning, he stares at the ceiling in disbelief.
The nightmares still come. But they’re shorter. Less violent.
“Your brain is trying to process,” she explains. “It doesn’t need to shock you as much anymore.”
In the dreams, Jisung still fades. Still turns away.
But Minho doesn’t wake up choking on air.
Sometimes he wakes up breathing hard.
Sometimes he just blinks at the dark and realizes—he’s still gone.
But he can fall back asleep. It’s healing.
Not cleanly.
Not quickly.
But when he tells her he managed five hours, she smiles softly.
“That’s progress,” she says. And for the first time in months, he believes it might be.
He stops checking the news every morning.
At first it feels wrong.
Like he’s abandoning something.
Like if he doesn’t look, he might miss the miracle.
But there haven’t been updates in weeks.
No new footage.
No breakthroughs.
It’s barely even on the news anymore.
The crash has slipped from headlines to footnotes.
“Authorities maintain that no survivors were believed possible under the circumstances.”
The media has moved on to brighter, shinier things — new debuts, comeback teasers, scandals that trend for 48 hours and disappear just as quickly.
Sometimes Minho scrolls and doesn’t see Jisung at all.
That hurts in a different way.
The world kept turning.
Of course it did.
He stops checking for updates.
There are none.
No miracles.
No breaking developments.
Just silence where hope used to live.
They’re still officially on hiatus, but he starts showing up at the company building anyway.
Not because he’s ready.
Because staying home feels worse.
The studio is quieter now.
He sits more than he speaks.
Listens more than he contributes.
Sometimes Changbin says something dry and sarcastic and Minho laughs before he can stop himself.
The sound feels foreign.
Wrong.
The guilt follows instantly.
How can he laugh when Jisung can’t?
Chan notices the way his expression falls.
“You’re allowed to,” he says once.
Minho doesn’t argue.
He just nods faintly.
He’s not healing.
Not really.
But he’s trying to exist in a world that has already moved on.
Trying to rebuild something with half of himself missing.
Month 5
He starts going out with them more. Not to events. They keep hiatus going, work is a subject they haven’t been brave enough to approach yet,
Just small things.
Late-night convenience store runs. Quiet dinners in private rooms or old haunts. Walks that don’t feel like performances.
They don’t say it out loud, but they accompany him to his sessions now.
Chan offers nearly every time to drive him, Changbin– who pretends it’s just conveniently near some errand he has to run. Felix brings boba by just 10 minutes before her needs to leave.
They wait outside without making a big deal of it.
Jeongin starts seeing someone too.
Hyunjin follows a week later.
No one jokes about it.
No one calls it weak.
They just… go.
The counselor’s office smells faintly like tea.
Soft lighting. No harsh edges.
Minho sits forward in the chair this time instead of folding in on himself.
“I laughed yesterday,” he says.
She nods. “And?”
“I felt disgusting after.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not here.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Do you believe he would want you to stop laughing?”
He hesitates. “That’s not the point.”
“It might be.” He looks down at his hands.
“It feels like I’m leaving him behind.”
“You’re not leaving him,” she says gently. “You’re carrying him forward.” Silence. He swallows.
“The world has already moved on.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m supposed to just… adjust?”
“I don’t think adjust is the word,” she says. “I think integrate is.” He frowns slightly.
“You don’t erase him. You don’t replace him. You build around the absence.” The phrase lingers.
“Is it bad that the news doesn’t talk about it anymore?” he asks quietly.
“What do you feel about that?”
“Angry,” he admits. “And relieved.”
“That makes sense.”
He exhales slowly.
“They’re outside,” he says after a moment.
“Who?”
“The members.”
She smiles faintly. “How does that feel?”
“…Annoying.” A pause.
“And?” He looks toward the door.
“Safe.” She nods.
“That’s not weakness, Minho. That’s connection. They care about you, lean on that, they lost him too. You don’t need to carry that alone.” He sits with that.
For the first time, when the session ends, he doesn’t feel like he survived it. He feels like he participated in it.
When he steps back into the hallway, Chan looks up immediately. Minho just nods once.
“I’m good,” he says.
Chan smiles when Minho steps out of the building.
It’s warm.
Genuine.
“Lunch, my treat?” he asks lightly, like this is normal. Like this is any other Tuesday.
Minho shrugs. “Buy for everyone. Whole office.”
Chan rolls his eyes. “How kind of you to offer my wallet. You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” A beat. “But I will. I’m truly magnanimous."
Chan shakes his head, grinning and laughing softly, but there’s no argument in it. “Fine. I need to grab something from the office anyways.” Lunch is simple.
Takeout from a place down the street they’ve ordered from a hundred times before. Plastic containers. Steam curling when they lift the lids.
They eat in a quiet corner of the company building.
It’s… pleasant. Warm.
Minho actually finishes his food.
They talk about nothing important. A new trainee’s vocal tone. A mix that needs adjusting. Whether Changbin will ever stop over-seasoning his cooking.
It almost feels steady.
Afterward, they swing by one of the upper offices to drop off the extra meals.
Minho leans casually against the edge of a desk while Chan talks to one of the managers about scheduling. The conversation is light, logistical. Calendar dates. Post-hiatus planning.
Minho nods along when needed.
Chan’s phone vibrates in his pocket.
He glances at the screen.
His expression shifts — not dramatically, just a flicker.
“I need to take this,” he says, already stepping away.
He moves toward the hallway.
Far enough that Minho can’t hear everything.
Just fragments.
Chan’s voice drops into a rushed whisper.
“What?” A pause.
“No, that’s not—” Another pause.
“Are you sure?” Minho frowns slightly.
The manager continues talking, unaware.
Chan’s tone changes again — confusion bleeding into something sharper.
“When?” Silence stretches
“And you’re just telling me now?!”
“I’ll deal with that later.”
“No, Don’t tell anyone yet.” Chan’s tone is sharp, commanding.
Minho straightens. Chan’s back is rigid now.
He ends the call abruptly.
For a second, he just stands there.
Then he turns around, and he looks damn near panicked.
Not angry.
Panicked.
Minho’s stomach drops. Chan doesn’t say a word.
He crosses the distance quickly — too quickly — and grabs Minho by the arm.
“Come on.” His voice is tight. Urgent.
“Chan—?”
“Now.” He’s already moving, half pulling Minho with him toward the exit.
The manager calls after them, confused.
Minho stumbles slightly to keep up.
“Chan, what—?” Chan doesn’t answer.
He just keeps walking fast — almost running — hand firm around Minho’s wrist.