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For how long they had been together, for all the hard work they had put in, the hours that turned into days, the days into weeks, the weeks into years, it should have been enough.
They had grown up together. Learned each other’s habits. Shared headphones, shared beds in dorm rooms, shared quiet smiles across crowded rooms. Eight voices, eight hands reaching for the same dream.
One moment, they were eight, laughing too loud, arguing over nothing, promising always.
The next, they were three.
And the one person Jisung had never imagined leaving his side, the one who used to wordlessly hand him water after schedules, who knew when he was spiraling before he said a thing, who stayed up with him until the sun came up just so he wouldn’t be alone.
He was the first to disappear.
The other four followed quietly after, one by one, until it was only him, Chan, and Changbin left standing in the studio. Too much empty space. No one to direct. No one to inspire. Just echoes of laughter that used to live in the corners of the room.
Chan took it the hardest. Jisung could see it in the way he stayed later than necessary, in the way he kept rearranging songs that didn’t need fixing, like maybe if he worked hard enough, they would all come back.
But Jisung spiraled the lowest.
Every text to Minho stayed unread. Every call rang out until it died on its own. He kept his phone on him at all times, volume turned all the way up, just in case. Just in case Minho remembered how he used to reach for Jisung without looking. Just in case he remembered the way they used to share earbuds, shoulders pressed together, breathing in sync.
Felix still talked to him. His voice always quiet, always careful, apologetic in a way that made Jisung’s chest ache. He always asked how Chan was doing. Never how Jisung was. And he never called him.
The others tried.
Jisung ignored their calls the same way Minho ignored his. Let them ring. Let them fade. If Minho didn’t have to answer, neither did he.
Some nights, he still caught himself turning toward the empty chair beside him, ready to say something stupid just to hear Minho laugh. And every time he remembered there was no one there, it felt like losing him all over again.
“I don’t want to stop creating,” Changbin said quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I can’t,” Chan gasped, like the words had been ripped straight out of his chest.
Changbin looked to Jisung.
He was still there. Still standing. Still breathing through it.
That was answer enough.
“So… do we just produce for others?” Changbin asked. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging uselessly between his legs.
“I mean,” Jisung shrugged weakly, “we could.”
“Or…”
The producer in the room was one of their closest friends. He’d been there since the beginning. Late nights, early mornings. Sleeping on studio couches. Teaching them how to turn noise into something that mattered.
Changbin lifted his head.
“Or you three keep going.”
“Just us?” Chan’s voice cracked.
“3Racha?” Changbin said softly, like he was testing the word to see if it still fit.
The producer hummed, thoughtful. “You have what it takes. All three of you. The vocals. The rap. The vision. You don’t need…”
Chan stood so suddenly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He didn’t say anything. Just walked out, shoulders tense, hands shaking at his sides.
“I didn’t mean…” the producer whispered, guilt settling heavy in his chest.
“It’s fine,” Changbin said automatically.
But it wasn’t.
They did need the others.
They needed Felix’s warmth in the booth. Hyunjin’s instincts. Minho’s steady presence. Seungmin’s honesty. Jeongin’s quiet spark.
They weren’t supposed to be three.
They were supposed to be eight.
And calling it 3Racha without them felt less like moving forward and more like admitting something precious was gone for good.
Jisung doesn’t remember when it started or how. He just knows it was a collection of small moments, stacking quietly on top of each other, building over time until something shifted and no one could quite say when.
It was Minho sitting beside Felix instead of him during late-night practices. Chan not coming back to the dorm until morning. Changbin splitting his time down the middle, stretched thin trying to keep the peace. Jisung choosing the studio because at least there, everything still made sense.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could point to and say this is where it broke.
Just a gradual rearranging of gravity.
They still laughed together. Still ate together. Still moved like a unit onstage. But offstage, the lines blurred and hardened all at once.
Jisung told himself it didn’t mean anything. That people shifted. That stress did strange things to closeness. That this was just another rough patch they’d outgrow like all the others.
They always did.
Except this time, no one was reaching across the space first.
And by the time Jisung noticed how wide the distance had grown, he couldn’t remember the last time Minho had been standing beside him without thinking about where everyone else was.
Felix called him the day before the album was released.
“It’s getting good reviews,” Felix said softly.
“Yeah,” Jisung replied.
Silence followed.
He fucking hated the silence.
They used to have so much to say to each other. They’d spent nearly every waking moment together and still never ran out of things to talk about. Now the quiet sat between them like something fragile and ugly.
“Have you heard from him?” Jisung asked.
Felix hesitated, just a second too long. His breath caught. “No,” he said softly.
Jisung let out a short, brittle laugh. “Yeah. Me neither. Not even a fucking emoji.”
Felix swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, like saying it any louder might crack something that was barely holding together.
The studio door opened and Chan stepped in. Jisung looked up instinctively.
“Binnie’s almost ready.”
Felix sucked in a breath at Chan’s voice on the other end of the line. Jisung could hear it, sharp and shaky.
“I’ll be off in a moment,” Jisung said.
“He… you guys heading out?” Felix asked carefully.
Jisung hummed. “Company party. For the album.”
“Oh,” Felix said. “Yeah.”
“Talk to you later.”
“Hey, Sung…”
Jisung waited, heart thudding too loud in his chest.
“Tell him I’m proud of him.”
Jisung glanced at Chan again, standing there pretending not to listen, pretending not to hurt.
“Would be better if you told him yourself,” Jisung said quietly.
He ended the call before Felix could respond.
Chan didn’t ask who it was.
He just shook his head once, slow and tired, like he already knew.
And somehow that hurt more than if he’d asked.
Their fans were torn. Heartbroken even. But thankfully, still loyal. They bought the new album, streamed songs, filled seats in arenas, sang along to lyrics that felt more like echoes than anything alive.
The tour went on. But it was different now. So completely different.
The energy backstage felt hollow. The joking was forced. The smiles were tighter, rehearsed. Jisung noticed the way every laugh Chan gave ended a second too soon, how Changbin’s hand lingered on the mic stand like it might stop him from falling.
Jisung started drinking more. Not to celebrate. Not really. Just to dull the edges of the silence, to make the empty space in the bus and hotel rooms less sharp.
Chan started drinking with him. Changbin followed. Before every stage, shots lined up like ritual, a feeble attempt at courage.
After the shows, it got worse. They drank in the hotel rooms until they passed out.
They didn’t talk about Minho. Or the others. Not really. But the weight of them pressed into the room anyway, in the quiet between shots, in the leftover crumbs of laughter that should have been eight voices instead of three.
And yet, somehow, the music still played.
They still sang. Still rapped. Still danced. But every note carried a little fracture of what they had lost. Every crowd cheered and the applause still shook the floor, but it sounded distant, like it was meant for someone else.
The hotel room smelled faintly of takeout and sweat. A playlist was humming through the speaker, something soft and nostalgic.
Jisung slumped on the edge of the bed, Chan sprawled on the floor with his back against the dresser, and Changbin curled up in the corner like a cat, his knees pulled to his chest.
Somewhere between exhaustion and tipsy, Chan started humming a melody from one of their older songs. Quiet at first, just enough for himself.
Jisung tilted his head. “That one… I used to hate singing it.”
Chan shrugged, a small, crooked smile. “You always missed the start cue.”
“Did not!” Jisung protests.
Changbin snorted. “You definitely did.”
And somehow, for the first time in weeks, Jisung laughed. Soft, shaky, but real.
They fell into the rhythm together, improvising lyrics about nonsense, about inside jokes only the three of them remembered. Changbin added his deep growl in the right spots. Chan filled in harmonies, careful not to hit the wrong note.
It was messy. Offbeat. Stupidly fun.
For a while, it felt like old times. Like nothing had broken.
Then Jisung glanced at the empty corner of the room where Minho used to curl up. And the corner by the window where Felix would be leaning against the sill, tapping along.
The laughter caught in his throat.
Changbin noticed and nudged his shoulder. “Hey, we’re still here.”
Chan reached out a hand, and Jisung let him lace their fingers together. Changbin pressed his hand over both of theirs.
Three hands. Three voices. Three hearts holding together.
It wasn’t eight. It wasn’t the way it should have been.
But it was something. And for now, it was enough to keep breathing through the silence.
When Felix and Chan started fighting, it was slow and quiet. They noticed, of course they did. It was hard to hide anything between eight people who lived and worked on top of each other.
At first, no one thought much of it. They all bickered. It was normal when you had eight guys growing up together under a spotlight, constantly watched, constantly judged, constantly hungry. There was nothing like an exhausted, starving twenty-four-year-old.
Fighting was normal. They always made up.
Eventually.
But Chan and Felix weren’t. And it was getting worse.
Felix cried more often, red-eyed and quiet. Chan stayed away from the dorm longer, coming back late or not at all. When Jisung asked about it, Chan brushed him off. So Jisung asked Changbin, because Chan told Changbin everything.
Changbin hadn’t known either.
Then the sides began to form. Unconsciously.
Jisung walked up to Chan, voice low. “Felix and Jeongin are coming tonight.”
“Oh.” Chan ran a hand through his hair, the motion restless. “That’s… good.”
Jisung studied him. “I didn’t invite them back.”
“No, no, you should. You… yeah. Of course they should come back.”
“Hyung.”
Chan smiled, but it was thin. Practiced.
“It’ll be good to see IN-ah and… and…” He swallowed. “Yeah. Of course you should have them come back.”
Jisung glanced over his shoulder at Changbin, who only shrugged, mouth pressed into a line.
They met them backstage twenty minutes before call time.
The hallway smelled like hairspray and sweat and something metallic. The walls felt closer than usual. Jisung spotted Felix first, tall, familiar, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Jeongin hovered just behind him, eyes wide, unsure.
For a second, no one moved.
Then Felix smiled, soft, careful, like he was afraid of startling someone.
Jisung noticed the scar before he noticed the smile.
It pulled faintly at Felix’s cheek, pale and wrong, like it didn’t belong on his face at all.
That didn’t make sense. Felix didn’t scar easily. Minho used to joke about that…
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Jisung answered, his eyes lingering on the scar.
Jeongin stepped forward pulling Jisung’s eyes from Felix, “Hyung.”
Chan froze for half a beat too long before forcing a grin. “IN-ah.”
Felix’s gaze flicked to Chan, and something tightened in his expression. “Hyung.”
Chan nodded. Didn’t step closer. Didn’t step away.
Changbin cleared his throat. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” Felix said quietly. “We… wanted to be here.”
The silence stretched, brittle and loud in Jisung’s ears. He felt it pressing against his ribs, threatening to cave him in.
Finally, Jeongin broke it. “The album’s… really good. I’ve been listening nonstop.”
Changbin smiled at that. Real this time. “Yeah?”
Felix nodded quickly. “It sounds like you. All three of you.”
Chan looked down at the floor. “That’s good,” he said after a moment. “I’m glad.”
Someone down the hall shouted for five minutes to stage.
Everything snapped back into motion.
Jisung shifted his weight, suddenly unsure of where to stand, what to say. Felix looked like he wanted to hug him. Like he was stopping himself.
“Good luck,” Felix said instead.
“Yeah,” Jisung replied. “Enjoy the show.”
As they walked toward the stage entrance, Jisung glanced back once.
Felix and Jeongin stood shoulder to shoulder, watching them go.
There was room beside them.
Too much room.
Jisung didn’t know why he did it.
Right before the encore, while the crowd was chanting their name and the lights were too bright and his heart was already racing, he pulled his phone out and texted Felix.
Come back to the hotel after. You and Innie. Have a drink with us.
It was stupid. Impulsive. Exactly the kind of thing he’d regret later.
He hoped the guys wouldn’t be pissed. Changbin would roll with it. Chan… not so much.
The concert ended in a blur of noise and sweat and forced smiles. Backstage, while staff shouted congratulations and shoved towels into their hands, Jisung felt his phone vibrate.
Is that a good idea? Felix replied.
Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long.
Fuck it.
Of course it is, he typed back.
The van hummed beneath them, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows. The noise from the concert still rang in Jisung’s ears, but inside the vehicle, it was too quiet.
Chan sat up front, towel looped around his neck, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Changbin slouched beside Jisung, already sinking into exhaustion.
“Good show,” Changbin muttered.
“Yeah,” Chan said, distracted. “Crowd was loud.”
Jisung stared down at his phone, its weight unfamiliar in his hand. The reflection of passing lights slid across the screen. He swallowed.
“They might come by,” he said finally.
Chan’s tapping stopped. “Who?”
Jisung didn’t answer right away. The van hit a small bump, rocking them all gently.
“Felix and Jeongin.”
The silence that followed was sharp, immediate.
Changbin glanced between them. “Tonight?”
Jisung nodded. “I texted them before the encore.”
Chan dragged a hand down his face, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “Sung…”
“I know,” Jisung said quickly. “I know. I just, I thought maybe…”
The van turned, tires hissing softly against the pavement.
Chan exhaled, slow and unsteady. “It’s… okay.” His voice wobbled, just barely. “It might be weird. But maybe weird is fine.”
Changbin snorted. “We live in weird.”
That earned a small huff of laughter from Jisung. Even Chan’s mouth twitched.
The elevator ride to their floor passed in silence. The lights were too bright. The quiet too loud.
It used to be full after concerts, noisy and crowded, voices overlapping as they replayed the night, arguing over who missed which cue, who sang flat, who nearly tripped. Jisung remembers always being pressed up against Minho, their fingers brushing, or Minho’s arm hooked casually around his waist like it belonged there.
Now he stands alone.
Chan claims one corner. Changbin another. Jisung leans against the back wall, the mirrored surface cool against his shoulders.
Too much space.
God he hates it.
“It really was good to see them,” Chan said at last.
“Innie’s grown,” Changbin added. “Don’t you think?”
Chan nodded, a small, fond smile pulling at his mouth. “He definitely has. Got a couple more inches on us, for sure.”
Jisung leaned back against the mirrored wall, watching their reflections blur as the elevator climbed. For a moment, it almost felt normal, talking about nothing important, filling the space with soft observations instead of the things they weren’t ready to name yet.
The elevator chimed.
And the doors slid open, waiting.
A knock sounded just as Jisung stepped out of the bathroom, steam following him into the room.
Jisung’s heart jumped into his throat.
He moved to open it, fingers hesitating on the handle like he might burn himself.
When the door swung open, Felix stood there with Jeongin beside him, both of them holding plastic bags from a convenience store.
Felix lifted one awkwardly. “We brought drinks. And… snacks. In case.”
Jisung swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good.”
They stood there for a second, five people, years of history, too many unspoken things, before Changbin stepped forward and clapped his hands.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “come in before someone starts crying in the hallway.”
Felix laughed softly, relief flickering across his face.
They drank.
Shot after shot lined the table, clinking together like punctuation marks between things no one wanted to say. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea, with so much still raw, so much unsaid, but also…
It helped.
“You guys were amazing,” Jeongin said, cheeks already flushed after barely two shots. He leaned forward, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ve always loved watching the three of you perform together.”
“Thanks, Innie,” Changbin said gently, trying to slide Jeongin’s glass a little farther away. “Maybe we slow down.”
“What? No.” Jeongin laughed, but it wobbled. “I can keep up with you guys. I know I always stumbled behind you before, but I can keep up now. I promise.”
Jisung’s chest tightened. He glanced at Chan.
“Hey, maknae,” Chan said softly, voice immediate and sure. “That was never the problem. You were never the problem.”
Jeongin’s breath hitched. “But maybe if I…”
Chan wrapped his arms around him before the thought could finish, pressing Jeongin’s face into his chest, murmuring quiet shushes until the tension melted out of him. It took a few minutes, but Jeongin calmed, pulling back with a nervous laugh and wiping at his eyes.
“Ha. Sorry. Sorry,” he said. “Maybe I should eat something before I drink anymore.”
“Yeah,” Changbin said quickly. “Good call.”
They tore into the snacks together, chips passed hand to hand, shared bites, the small comfort of doing something normal. Something familiar.
“Jinnie wanted to come,” Felix said brightly, a little too brightly, but no one called him on it. “But he had that modeling gig in Paris.”
“Fuck, really?” Jisung said, genuine warmth breaking through. “That’s great.”
“Yeah.” Felix nodded. “And Seungmin…well. You’ve talked to him, right?”
He glanced to Changbin, who nodded once. “Yeah.”
No one said anything after that.
No one said Minho.
The name hung in the air anyway, unspoken but heavy, like a glass everyone was afraid to knock over.
Changbin cleared his throat and raised his drink. “To… tonight,” he said. “Just tonight.”
“Just tonight,” Jisung echoed.
They clinked glasses.
For a while, it worked. Laughter came easier. Stories resurfaced, tour mishaps, stupid fights, memories that felt like they belonged to another lifetime. Jeongin curled up beside Changbin, Felix leaning into Jisung’s shoulder like muscle memory never forgot.
Chan watched them all, eyes soft and aching.
For a moment, just a moment, it almost felt like enough.
And that was the cruelest part of all.
It’s the alcohol that does it.
Not the sadness. Not the memories. The alcohol, warm and careless and convincing enough to make Jisung forget why he’s been holding his breath all night.
They’re laughing about something stupid. Changbin’s telling a story for the third time, hands waving, Jeongin giggling into Felix’s shoulder.
And then Jisung says it. “Minho would’ve hated this tequila.”
The room goes still.
The laughter doesn’t stop all at once, it stumbles, then dies, like someone reached over and cut the music mid-song.
Jisung freezes, the words hanging between them, ugly and unavoidable. He hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t even realized he’d been thinking it out loud.
Felix’s smile falters. Jeongin looks down at his hands. Changbin closes his eyes briefly, like he’s bracing for impact.
Chan doesn’t move at all.
Jisung lets out a breathless laugh, trying to take it back. “He, he always said it tasted like regret and bad decisions, remember? He’d steal mine instead and complain the whole time.”
“Jisung.” Chan’s voice is quiet. Too quiet.
The room feels smaller.
“I didn’t mean…” Jisung’s throat tightens. “I just… it slipped.”
Felix swallows hard. “He used to say that,” he murmurs. “About the tequila.”
That’s when it really breaks.
Chan pushes up from the couch so suddenly his glass tips, liquor sloshing onto the table. “Why are we doing this?” he snaps. “Why tonight?”
Jisung stares at him. “Because he’s not here.”
“I know he’s not here,” Chan says, voice cracking. “I live with that every day.”
“Then why can’t we say his name?” Jisung fires back, heat bleeding through the alcohol. “Why do we act like he just… died?”
Jeongin flinches.
Felix reaches out, palm open like he’s trying to stop something already in motion. “Guys.”
“He left,” Chan says sharply. “He chose to leave.”
Jisung laughs, sharp and broken. “Is that what you think?”
Chan falters.
Changbin finally steps in, voice low and steady but strained. “Okay. Okay, pause. Everyone breathe.”
But Jisung is past pausing.
“He didn’t choose to leave me,” Jisung says, tears burning hot now. “He just stopped choosing me.”
The words land like a punch.
Felix’s eyes fill instantly. Jeongin presses his lips together, shaking.
Chan looks like he’s been hit in the chest. His shoulders sag, anger draining out of him all at once.
“I didn’t know how to fix it,” Chan says quietly. “I didn’t know how to fix any of it.”
Silence settles again but this time it’s different. Heavy. Honest.
Jisung wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, laugh turning into a sob. “I texted him before the encore,” he admits. “For months. I still do sometimes. Just in case.”
Felix’s breath hitches.
Chan sits back down slowly, rubbing at his eyes. “Sungie…”
“I know,” Jisung whispers. “I know it’s pathetic.”
“It’s not,” Felix says immediately, voice thick. “It’s… it’s love.”
That does it.
Jisung breaks completely, shoulders caving in as he cries, the sound raw and unfiltered. Chan moves without thinking, pulling him in, Changbin’s hand heavy and grounding on his back, Felix and Jeongin close enough that he can feel them there.
Too many tears. Too much truth.
The alcohol didn’t fix anything.
But it finally made the quiet impossible.
Jisung’s crying eases into something softer. Messier. Chan’s hand stays steady at his back. Changbin doesn’t move away. No one does.
Felix has been silent for a long time.
Too long.
He’s sitting on the edge of the coffee table, fingers twisted together so tightly his knuckles have gone white. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a breath.
“He didn’t just side with me because he agreed with me.”
Everyone stills.
Felix swallows. “He sided with me because he was falling apart too.”
Chan looks up slowly. “Falling apart… how?”
Felix’s jaw tightens. “Before everything blew up. Before sides were drawn. He told me he was tired. That he felt like he was failing no matter what he did.” His eyes shine, but he keeps going. “He asked me if I thought it was selfish to want… space.”
Jisung’s chest constricts.
“He said he didn’t know how to stay without hurting someone,” Felix continues. “And he didn’t know how to leave without becoming the villain.”
Jisung’s chest constricts.
Because Minho hadn’t left for no reason.
It had been the fight.
The one between Chan and Felix.
The one between him and Jisung.
It was too big. Too loud. Too public. Everyone knew about it, staff, managers, the members themselves. A pressure fracture that never had time to heal before someone leaned on it too hard.
No one had meant for it to become that.
But it did.
Jisung had chosen Chan. Not because he didn’t love Felix, he did, but because Chan had been breaking in front of him, unraveling in a way Jisung recognized too well. Loyalty came easy when it felt like survival.
Minho had chosen Felix.
Quietly. Firmly. Without ever saying it out loud.
And that was the moment everything cracked.
Suddenly it wasn’t eight people hurting together. It was sides. Corners of rooms. Conversations that stopped when someone walked in. Love that came with conditions no one wanted to admit existed.
Jisung hadn’t realized how much it would cost him until Minho stopped reaching for his hand in the dark.
Felix’s voice pulls him back. “He loves you Sungie.” A dark look passes over his face, "Through it all it was the one definite he had.”
Jisung’s eyes burn. “So he chose to leave?”
Felix shakes his head, “No. He would never chose to leave you.”
Jisung stands so fast his knee slams into the table, glasses and bottles rattling violently.
“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, the word tearing out of him. His hands come down hard enough to sting. “Because instead of hurting me, he completely destroyed me. He ripped my heart out of my chest and left without a goodbye.”
His voice breaks on the last word. He swallows hard, breath shaking.
“If that’s not leaving,” he says hoarsely, “then what is?”
Chan’s on his feet instantly, arms reaching for him, but Jisung shoves him away.
“No,” he spits. “Don’t.”
“He’s a fucking coward,” Jisung snarls, turning sharply toward Felix. “And you can fucking tell him I said that. You hear me?”
Felix flinches but doesn’t look away.
“And you tell him,” Jisung continues, voice breaking as it rises, “next time he asks about me, you tell him I’m fine. I’m great. I’m fucking thriving. Selling out fucking stadiums without any of you that left us. Selling albums.” His breath stutters. “And you tell him…”
Jeongin sobs.
The sound cuts through Jisung like a blade.
He freezes.
Slowly, the anger drains out of him, replaced by something raw and sickening. He looks at Jeongin, red eyed, shaking, trying so hard not to cry louder, and the fight collapses out of Jisung’s body all at once.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
He turns fully toward Jeongin. “Hey. Hey, no, innie, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
Jisung drops to his knees in front of him without thinking, hands hovering uselessly before finally settling on Jeongin’s arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean… this isn’t for you.”
Jeongin sniffles, voice breaking. “I just… I hate that you’re hurting.”
That does it.
Jisung presses his forehead to Jeongin’s knee, shoulders shaking. “I know. I know. I hate it too.”
Chan kneels beside them, slower this time, careful. He doesn’t grab Jisung, just rests a hand between his shoulder blades, grounding instead of restraining.
“Breathe, Sung,” Chan murmurs. “You’re safe. We’re here.”
Changbin joins them, sitting close enough that Jisung can feel his presence. Solid. Unmoving.
Felix hasn’t moved from where he’s standing. His eyes are wet, but his voice is steady when he speaks.
“I’ll tell him,” he says quietly. “But not that you’re fine. Not that you’re thriving.” He swallows. “I’ll tell him you’re angry. And heartbroken. And still here.”
Jisung lifts his head, eyes red and hollow. “Why?”
“Because that’s the truth,” Felix says. “And because he deserves to know what leaving actually did.”
Silence settles again but it’s different now. Softer. Exhausted.
Jisung slumps forward, letting Chan finally pull him in this time. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t have the energy.
“I didn’t want to choose sides,” Jisung whispers into Chan’s shoulder. “I just wanted my family.”
Chan tightens his arms. “I know.”
Jeongin leans in too, Changbin’s arm coming around both of them. Felix hesitates for half a second then joins, careful but present.
Five of them. Breathing together.
Still broken.
But no longer tearing each other apart.
Felix and Jeongin leave.
And the tour keeps going.
Silently.
Felix still calls. Jeongin texts, memes, photos of food, the occasional I miss you. Jisung answers every time. Tries to sound normal.
He tries with Seungmin too, but Seungmin is distant. Polite. Careful in a way that makes every conversation feel like work. Eventually, it becomes exhausting.
Hyunjin is… fine. Hyunjin is thriving.
They talk once, late at night.
“It’s kind of freeing,” Hyunjin says, laughing easily. “I can fuck whoever I want, whenever I want. No staff constantly up my ass.”
“Sounds nice,” Jisung says as staff crowd around him, hands in his hair, makeup brushed over his face, notes shoved into his line of sight. Someone eyes his phone like it’s a liability.
Hyunjin snorts. “Shit. Sorry. Guess you’re still in the thick of it.”
“It’s not so bad,” Jisung says, even as a stylist gently nudges him away from where Chan and Changbin are standing. “Not like it was. At least they don’t glare when I get too close to Chan or Binnie.”
“No,” Hyunjin says slowly. “I suppose they wouldn’t.”
The line goes quiet.
“Have you heard from him?” Jisung asks, squeezing his eyes shut as he turns away from the makeup artist. “Has he reached out to you?”
Hyunjin exhales. “No.”
Jisung’s jaw tightens, then he forces it to loosen. “Guess he’s too busy for us.”
“Yeah,” Hyunjin murmurs.
They hang up not long after.
That night, Jisung sits alone on the edge of his hotel bed, scrolling through old messages he’s sworn not to open anymore.
Minho’s name sits at the top of the list.
Unread.
He doesn’t type anything. Doesn’t delete it either.
Across the hall, Chan and Changbin are talking quietly, something about setlists, something about tomorrow’s city. Jisung listens through the wall like it’s proof he’s still anchored to something real.
He misses noise.
He misses being crowded.
He misses being eight.
Onstage, the cheers are loud enough to rattle his bones. Offstage, everything feels like it’s underwater.
He keeps going anyway.
Because that’s what he’s always done.
The months pass, slow and heavy, and suddenly the end of the tour is looming over them.
Japan. The last stop.
Chan wants to go straight back to the studio afterward. No breaks. No pauses. Jisung agrees immediately. Anything to keep the silence away. Anything to keep from thinking too hard about what comes after.
Jeongin, Felix, and Hyunjin attend the concert.
Backstage photos are agreed to. Smiles are negotiated. They stand close enough for the cameras, careful with their hands, careful with their faces. It’s awkward, but they make it work. They always do.
Then everyone disperses, conversations breaking off into smaller pieces.
That’s when it starts to slip.
“Does it still hurt?” someone asks Felix, nodding toward his cheek.
Felix blinks. “What?”
The person gestures, vague and apologetic. “The scar. I mean, after the wreck.”
Hyunjin’s head snaps up. Jeongin goes very still. Felix’s mouth opens, then closes again. Chan and Changbin close in on them quickly.
The word hangs there, wrong. Heavy.
Jisung laughs under his breath, sharp and confused. “The what?”
“The accident,” someone says quietly. “It’s, what, a year this week? Or is it next?”
The room tilts.
“What accident?” Jisung asks, too loudly now.
No one answers.
Chan’s hand lifts, settling at the small of his back, an anchor he didn’t ask for but suddenly needs.
Felix shakes his head, eyes soft and wrecked with a pain he isn’t ready to name. Hyunjin stares at the floor. Jeongin swallows hard.
Changbin…
Changbin doesn’t even try to hide it. Tears slide down his cheeks, silent and steady.
And that’s when it hits him.
This isn’t fear.
This isn’t shock.
This is grief.
Jisung’s chest tightens. His brain scrambles for an explanation, anything that doesn’t end in the thought clawing at the back of his skull.
He shakes his head once, sharp. “No,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “I’d remember.”
Because if something had really happened, if it were that bad…
Someone would have told him.
Right?
“Five minutes!” a staff member calls, loud and cheerful, cutting straight through him.
Chan’s hand closes around Jisung’s wrist. Gentle. Firm. “Hey. We need to get out there.”
“But…”
Jisung looks at him, really looks at him, and something in Chan’s face makes his stomach drop.
Something cold crawls up Jisung’s spine. He looks past him, Changbin watching him like he might bolt, Jeongin with tears clinging to his lashes, Hyunjin staring hard at the floor like it might give him answers.
“You knew,” Jisung says slowly.
Chan’s jaw tightens.
“You…” Jisung’s voice cracks as he gestures helplessly at the room. “You all knew?”
No one says no.
The silence is answer enough.
Chan leans in, voice barely more than breath. “After,” he says. “I promise. I’ll tell you everything after.”
His hand presses a little firmer at Jisung’s back, steady, grounding.
Jisung’s jaw tightens until it aches. He stares at a point over Chan’s shoulder, somewhere safe and empty.
Then he nods.
Once.
Like sealing a deal he already knows is going to break him.
The concert goes smoothly. Too smoothly, for what’s waiting for them after.
Nearly three hours later they come offstage soaked in sweat, adrenaline still buzzing, the air thick with congratulations. People clap them on the shoulders. Voices overlap, amazing, proud of you, you killed it.
They smile. They bow. They thank everyone like they always do.
Champagne pops. Glasses are pressed into their hands. Laughter breaks out in pockets.
Jisung plays along. So do Chan and Changbin.
The others drift back in backstage one by one, faces too careful, joy worn like a costume that’s starting to chafe.
Jisung’s attention keeps catching on Felix. On the scar.
It isn’t fresh. That much is obvious. Which means he’s had it for a while. Jisung can’t remember when. Or how.
The gap it leaves behind in his memory feels deliberate, like something he boarded up on purpose and forgot he’d done it.
Finally, Chan gathers them in close, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. “The hotel,” he says. “My room. We’ll talk.”
One by one, they nod. None of them look at Jisung.
The ride to the hotel is silent.
Too silent.
The ringing in Jisung’s ears swells until it feels like pressure, like something trying to force its way out of his skull.
“Channie,” he says finally, voice thin in the dark. “Why don’t I remember the wreck?”
Chan’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. “We don’t know,” he whispers.
Jisung frowns. “Was it bad?”
Chan doesn’t answer.
The ringing spikes. Jisung squeezes his eyes shut and lifts his hands to his ears, breathing shallow. The seat shifts beside him, Changbin’s arm wraps around his shoulders, warm and steady, his hand rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding a child through a nightmare.
“Was it bad, Binnie?” Jisung asks, peeking up at him.
Changbin presses his lips together. His throat works once. Then he nods.
Jisung’s chest stutters. “But… but Felix is okay now, right?” He laughs weakly, like he’s already correcting himself. “He’s okay.”
“He is,” Chan says quickly. Too quickly. He keeps his eyes forward, jaw set.
Jisung’s fingers curl into Changbin’s sleeve. “Then what aren’t you telling me?”
The car hums along the highway. Streetlights flicker across Chan’s face, catching the shine in his eyes before he blinks it away. He exhales, long and heavy. “Let’s wait,” he says quietly. “Until we’re back in the room.”
Jisung nods, because that’s what he’s been doing all night, agreeing to wait.
But his stomach twists with the sense that waiting is the last thing he should be doing.
The hotel comes into view far too soon.
Doors open. Bags are collected. Polite goodnights are murmured to staff who have no idea they’re standing in the middle of a fault line.
They ride the elevator up together, shoulder to shoulder, Jisung pressed between his two big brothers, no one speaking. The numbers climb. Each ding feels like a countdown.
When they reach Chan’s room, he swipes the key and holds the door open.
Inside, the lights come on. The door shuts behind them with a soft, final click. And for the first time all night, there’s nowhere left to run.
The knock comes soon after they arrive.
Chan opens the door and Felix steps in first. Jeongin follows close, fingers curled into Felix’s sleeve like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets go. Hyunjin hesitates in the doorway before coming in last, eyes already red.
The room feels too small for all of them.
Chan shuts the door. “Sit,” he says quietly.
They do. A loose circle. Uneven. Jisung clocks the empty space immediately and doesn’t know why his chest tightens around it.
Felix’s scar catches the light.
“You said you’d tell me,” Jisung says. “So tell me.”
Felix exhales slowly. “We went for a drive.” The words slip neatly into place, like they’ve been waiting. “That night,” Felix adds. “After the fight.”
Jisung’s breath stutters.
The fight crashes back in, not clean, not contained. Not just one thing.
“I remember that,” Jisung says too fast. “It wasn’t just…” He stops, presses his lips together. The memory sharpens anyway.
Chan and Felix in the kitchen, voices raised. Felix crying, Chan snapping back just as hard. Something about control, about pressure, about not being able to breathe anymore.
A glass shattering on the floor. Changbin swearing under his breath.
Jisung and Minho in the living room, words turning sharp, reckless. Jisung saying something cruel because he was tired and angry and scared. Minho going very still afterward.
“I remember. We were all upset. Tired. Something broke.” Jisung whispers. “I remember yelling from the kitchen. Chan, you were…”
He trails off, looks at him.
Chan nods once. His jaw tightens. “It got loud.”
Minho pacing, hands in his hair. Jisung snapping something sharp and unfair. The way Minho had gone quiet afterward, jaw set, eyes burning.
“I can’t do this right now,” Minho had said.
Felix’s fingers twist together. “I said I needed air. That I couldn’t stay there.”
“And Minho grabbed the keys,” Jisung says suddenly. “I remember that,” Jisung says quickly. “I remember you leaving.”
“Minho drove,” Changbin adds. “Lix and Seungmin left with him.”
Jisung nods. His heart is starting to race now. “Yeah. Yeah, I remember crying after you left. I… he and I…we never fought like that. We never left angry like that.”
The room is silent.
Felix’s fingers twist together. “We didn’t get far.”
Chan picks it up from there, voice careful. “A car ran a red light.”
Jisung sucks in a breath, his gaze snapping back to Felix’s face. To the scar. “Was it bad?”
Felix nods, eyes dropping to his hands.
Beside him, Jeongin breaks completely. The sound is small and wrecked, like he’s been holding it in for hours, days, longer than that. Changbin pulls him close immediately, one arm wrapped tight around his shoulders, hand pressed to the back of his head.
“I got this,” Felix says quietly. He points to the scar on his cheek. “And…” He stands before anyone can stop him, lifting his shirt, tugging his pants down just enough to reveal the long, jagged scar running across his hip stopping just before his belly button. “…this.”
Jisung’s breath catches hard in his chest.
“He lost a lot of blood,” Chan says softly.
The words trigger something, sharp and sudden.
A hospital waiting room. Too bright. Too white. A private space sectioned off just for them. Staff moving carefully, voices low. The sense that they were being kept somewhere separate for a reason.
“We had to wait a long time,” Changbin adds, voice thick.
“They weren’t sure if he would make it,” Hyunjin says, barely above a whisper.
Jisung’s head snaps up. “Seungmin.”
The name comes out sudden, urgent.
“He was there,” Jisung says, heart pounding as the memory locks in. “In the waiting room. I remember him being there.”
Everyone nods.
“He was in the back of the car,” Chan says. “He walked away from the wreck. They checked him, of course, but he was released.”
Relief flickers, brief, misplaced.
“Okay,” Jisung says, nodding to himself. “Okay, so… Felix was hurt. Seungmin was fine.”
His thoughts start racing, scrambling for order, for sense.
“And Minho…” The name catches in his throat.
Suddenly, urgently, he reaches for his phone. “I need…”
He unlocks it with shaking fingers, his call log already open like muscle memory took over for him.
“Sungie?” Chan says softly.
“I just need to call,” Jisung insists, breath hitching. “I just need to hear his voice.”
Hyunjin breaks, a raw sob tearing out of him. He turns away, shoulders shaking. Felix squeezes his eyes shut, tears spilling freely now as he looks anywhere but at Jisung.
Jisung barely notices.
He presses call and lifts the phone to his ear.
“Pick up,” Jisung whispers. “Come on, baby. Pick up.”
Chan reaches for him, fingers closing gently around his wrist.
Jisung jerks away, sharp and panicked. “Don’t…”
The call cuts to voicemail.
Jisung doesn’t listen to the message. He hangs up and calls again immediately.
And again.
Each unanswered call makes his breathing more uneven, his hand shaking harder.
“Please,” he murmurs, voice cracking now. “You’re mad, okay, I get it, just…just say something.”
The phone goes to voicemail.
He calls again.
And again.
The room fills with the sound of ringing, like a metronome counting down to something none of them are ready to reach.
Finally, Chan moves closer, voice breaking despite himself. “Sung. His phone…”
Jisung shakes his head violently. “No. No, it’s just dead. Or he turned it off.”
Another call. Another voicemail.
Jisung presses the phone so hard to his ear it hurts. “I’ll apologize,” he whispers desperately. “I’ll say whatever you want. I just need to hear you.”
No one stops him this time.
Because stopping him would mean saying the words and once those words exist, there’s no calling back from them.
Chan moves in front of him, blocking his path, sitting as close as their legs will allow, blocking out the others.
“Why won’t he answer?” Jisung asks, voice hollow, breaking apart. “It’s been…it’s been a year. He’s never stayed mad at me longer than a few minutes. Why won’t he call, hyung?”
Chan’s hands lift, cupping Jisung’s face. His thumbs brush at the tears streaking down Jisung’s cheeks, even as his own spill over.
“He can’t, baby,” Chan whispers. “He can’t call.”
Jisung hiccups, shaking his head hard. “What do you mean he can’t? What…what are you…”
“Sungie, he’s de…”
Jisung bolts. “No. No. Don’t.”
He yanks his phone back into his hands and stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it before anyone can stop him. His chest heaves as he scrolls frantically, fingers slipping on the screen until he taps a different name.
It rings once. Twice.
A tired voice answers. “Hannie?”
“Seungmin.” Jisung’s voice is breathless, desperate. “You’re okay? The wreck…you’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” Seungmin says quietly. There’s a pause. Then, softer, “You remember?”
“I…I remember the fight,” Jisung says, sliding down until his back hits the bathroom door. “You leaving with Minho and Felix. I remember the hospital.”
Silence stretches on the line.
Then Seungmin speaks again, carefully. “Then you remember he’s dead?”
The words land wrong.
They don’t shatter. They don’t explode.
They simply… stop everything.
Jisung’s mouth opens. No sound comes out.
“What?” he whispers.
On the other side of the call, Seungmin inhales shakily. “Hyung… you were there. You screamed at the doctor. You…” His voice breaks. “You collapsed in the hallway when they told us.”
“That’s not…” Jisung presses his fist to his chest, panic surging. “That’s not right. I would remember that.”
“You didn’t sleep for two days,” Seungmin says. “They had to sedate you. Chan didn’t leave your side.”
Jisung’s vision blurs. “No,” he breathes. “No, he was just, he was hurt. You said they weren’t sure. That means…”
“It means they tried,” Seungmin says gently. “It means they couldn’t save him.”
A sob rips out of Jisung’s throat.
On the other side of the bathroom door, fists pound softly. Voices call his name. He barely hears them.
“I’ve been calling him,” Jisung whispers. “Texting him. His phone keeps ringing.”
“I know,” Seungmin says. “I see the notifications. Chan kept the phone charged because…” He breaks off. “Because you weren’t ready”
Jisung slides fully to the floor now, curling in on himself.
“Hyung,” Seungmin continues, voice shaking. “You told us to let you forget. Just for a while. You said you couldn’t survive it and still perform.”
Jisung presses his forehead to his knees. “I didn’t mean forever,” he whispers.
“I know.”
There’s a knock on the door again, this time softer. “Sung,” Chan calls through it, voice wrecked. “Please.”
Jisung closes his eyes.
For the first time in a year, the truth doesn’t bounce off.
It sinks in.
Minho isn’t mad.
Minho isn’t busy.
Minho isn’t ignoring him.
Minho isn’t coming back.
And there’s no voicemail in the world that can change that.
Silence.
The banging on the door stops after thirty minutes.
Jisung lies on the floor, cheek pressed against the cool tile. In another life, he’d be disgusted with himself for it, bathroom floors are filthy, wrong, something to avoid.
In this life, he doesn’t register it at all.
His phone screen is still lit. Seungmin is still on the line. Silent. Waiting.
An hour passes like that. Then Seungmin takes a careful breath.
“Sungie,” he says gently. “Can you do me a favor? Can you unlock the door? Hyung just… he wants to be able to see you. He’s worried.”
Jisung doesn’t answer. But after a long, aching moment, he lifts his arm. His fingers fumble once, twice, then find the lock.
Click.
The door opens immediately.
Chan slips inside and closes it behind him, quiet as a held breath. He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t rush. He lowers himself to the floor beside Jisung instead, turning so their cheeks rest against the tile, eye to eye.
Ground level. Same height. Same air.
“Thank you, Minnie,” Chan says softly into the phone.
He waits until the call ends. Until the room is just the two of them and the sound of breathing.
Then, gently, “Sungie?”
Jisung blinks. His eyes are red, glassy, unfocused.
“He didn’t answer,” Jisung whispers. His voice is hoarse, scraped raw. “I called him so many times.”
Chan swallows. “I know.”
“I thought if I heard his voice,” Jisung continued. “Just once. I thought maybe…”
Chan doesn’t interrupt. He just stays there, unmoving, a steady presence pressed into the cold floor with him.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Chan says finally. “Not then. Not now.”
Jisung’s lips tremble. “I told him to leave.”
Chan shakes his head, slow and firm. “You had a fight. People fight. He didn’t leave because of you.”
“I said things,” Jisung breathes. “I said…”
“I know,” Chan says. His voice breaks, just slightly. “And he loved you anyway.”
That’s what does it.
A sound tears out of Jisung, something between a sob and a gasp, and his body curls inward like he’s trying to fold himself smaller. Chan moves then, carefully pulling Jisung against his chest, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, the other cradling the back of his head.
Jisung clutches at Chan’s shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
“He’s gone,” Jisung whispers. Not asking this time. Saying it.
Chan presses his forehead to Jisung’s temple. “Yeah, baby.”
Jisung sobs into his chest, shaking hard enough that Chan has to hold him tighter.
Outside the bathroom, the world waits.
But for now, Chan stays right there on the cold tile with him.
Chan carries him to bed.
Felix and Hyunjin are already there, passed out in a tangle of limbs and exhaustion. Changbin and Jeongin sleep on the couch, bodies angled toward the bedroom like they never quite let themselves relax.
Chan eases Jisung down carefully, sliding him into the narrow space between his brothers. He adjusts pillows. Pulls a blanket up around his shoulders. Makes sure he’s warm.
As Chan starts to straighten, Jisung’s hand shoots out, fingers curling around his wrist with sudden panic. “Don’t,” Jisung murmurs, eyes still closed. “Please.”
Chan stills immediately. He bends down so they’re close again. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “I’ll be in this chair. Right here by the bed.”
He presses Jisung’s hand to his chest once, then gently pries his fingers loose only when Jisung nods.
Jisung’s grip softens.
Hyunjin shifts in his sleep, instinctively curling closer, an arm draping over Jisung’s waist like it’s always belonged there. Felix lets out a soft snore, warm and steady, the sound tugging something heavy but safe over Jisung’s thoughts.
The room settles.
Chan pulls the chair up beside the bed and sits, forearms resting on his knees, eyes never leaving Jisung as his breathing evens out.
Sleep takes him slowly, not the kind that heals, but the kind that gives him a few quiet hours where the truth can’t reach him yet.
Chan stays.
Because some promises don’t end when the lights go out.
They wake slowly the next morning.
One by one. Carefully. Like sudden movement might break something fragile in the air.
Changbin volunteers to get coffee and breakfast before anyone can argue. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the room wrapped in a thick, unnatural quiet.
The bathroom light flicks on and off as they take turns. Someone rinses a cup. Someone opens the curtains just enough to let gray morning light spill across the floor. No one talks.
Jisung stays in bed.
His eyes are closed, but he isn’t asleep. He’s aware of everything, the shift of the mattress when Felix moves, Hyunjin’s quiet breathing at his back, the soft creak of the chair every time Chan adjusts his weight beside the bed.
When Changbin returns, the room fills with small, ordinary sounds. Paper bags rustling. Coffee lids popping off. The scrape of wrappers. Chewing. Sips.
Life, insisting.
Jisung swallows. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
“Was there a funeral?”
The room stills.
Chan answers without hesitation. He hasn’t moved from the chair. Not once. Not even to go to the bathroom. “There was,” he says quietly. “You were… unable to go.”
Jisung nods faintly, eyes still closed. “Why?” he asks.
Chan exhales slowly. “You tried,” he says. “You got dressed. You made it to the car.”
Hyunjin’s shifts on the bed. He’s sitting up against the headboard and his hand smooths over Jisung's head, fingers working through tangles.
“You started shaking,” Jeongin adds softly. “You couldn’t breathe.”
Changbin sets his coffee down, untouched. “You kept asking where Minho was. You thought we were lying to you.”
Jisung’s throat tightens. “Did I… make a scene?”
“No,” Chan says immediately. “You had a panic attack. I stayed home with you.”
That’s worse.
Jisung presses his face into the pillow. “Who went?”
“All of us,” Felix says. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been crying in his sleep. “His family. Friends. Staff.”
A pause.
“You were there,” Felix adds gently. “Just… not physically.”
Jisung’s chest rises and falls unevenly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Not to anyone in particular. To the room. To the year he lost. To the man he loved and couldn’t say goodbye to.
No one tells him it’s okay.
Hyunjin shifts closer, sliding down in the bed so his forehead rests between Jisung’s shoulders. Felix’s hand finds his, fingers lacing together. Changbin sits on the edge of the bed like a guard.
Chan stays in the chair.
Right where he promised.
And for now, that’s enough to keep Jisung breathing.
They return to Korea in silence.
The hum of the plane fades into the roar of the airport, into the familiar streets. Jisung notices how quiet everything feels. How empty the dorm seems, even though they’re back.
He remembers, the last time, it was the silence that drove him back into the studio, forced him to bury himself in work just to keep moving.
As they step into the dorm, it’s just him, Chan, and Changbin. The others have gone to their own homes. Homes they had moved into after the wreck.
“Where is he buried?” Jisung asks, voice low, almost hesitant.
“Back near his home,” Chan says. “His parents took him there to be buried.”
Jisung swallows. “Can we go there? I’d like to… visit. And see his parents.”
Chan nods. “Of course we can. I’ll call them today.”
“Thank you.” Jisung heads toward his room, shoulders hunched, words already spent.
“Maybe you should eat, Sungie,” Changbin calls softly after him. “You didn’t eat on the flight and…”
“No. I’m okay. Thank you.” He closes the door behind him.
The room smells faintly of laundry detergent and leftover air from when he left it a week ago. He drops onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow.
The exhaustion he’s been holding back all night finally breaks through.
Outside, the dorm is quiet. A fan hums softly. Footsteps echo distantly.
Jisung closes his eyes. Sleep comes slowly at first, pulling him down in jagged, uneven waves.
When he dreams, it isn’t Minho’s face that comes first. It’s the wreck. The screeching metal. The hospital lights. The blur of people rushing.
And then, somewhere behind it all, he feels Chan’s hands on him again, steady, grounding.
He wakes hours later, sun slanting in through the blinds, the room too bright and too empty. He sits up slowly, fingers brushing the blanket. The weight of the day presses down on him, but it’s a little easier knowing he’s not alone.
Jisung rises, stretches stiffly, and for the first time since the plane landed, he lets himself think about seeing Minho’s parents. About the visit. About speaking aloud the things he hadn’t dared to say.
It terrifies him. But he nods to himself.
He will go.
He has to.
Because letting go isn’t forgetting. And he’s not ready to forget, not yet.
They go together.
Not right away, schedules, timing, courage, but eventually, all seven of them stand side by side in a small town that smells like earth and pine and something familiar Jisung can’t quite place.
Minho’s parents greet them at the door.
His mother pulls Jisung into her arms before he can say a word. She smells like soap and tea. His father’s hand rests heavy and steady on his shoulder.
“You came home,” she says, voice soft and breaking.
“I’m sorry,” Jisung whispers, over and over, into her shoulder.
She shakes her head gently. “He loved you.”
They don’t stay inside long.
The grave is nearby. Simple. Clean. His name carved deep into stone, dates too close together, a space that shouldn’t exist.
Jisung drops to his knees before he realizes he’s doing it. The earth is cool beneath his palms. “I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
No one rushes him. Chan stands behind him like a wall. Changbin kneels beside him. Felix and Hyunjin hang back just enough to give him space. Jeongin cries quietly into Seungmin’s shoulder.
The wind moves through the trees.
Jisung talks. Not loud. Not eloquent. Just honest. He tells Minho about the concert. About the studio. About how quiet everything is without him.
“I still hear you,” he admits. “Sometimes I think you’re in the kitchen. Or the hallway. I keep turning around.” His voice breaks. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The stone doesn’t answer.
But the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore.
Later, back at the house, the cats weave around their ankles like nothing in the world has changed.
Minho’s cats. His babies.
Jisung sinks to the floor and they climb into his lap like they remember him. One headbutts his chin. Another curls against his chest, purring so loud it vibrates through him.
He laughs, soft, broken, and then cries into their fur.
“He used to say they knew,” Minho’s mom says quietly. “Who belonged to him.”
Jisung nods, wiping his face. “They do.”
When they leave, the sun is low. The day feels full in a way grief sometimes allows.
In the car, no one speaks.
But this time, the silence doesn’t feel like something he needs to run from.
It feels like something he can sit with.
Minho is gone.
But he is loved.
And somehow, somehow, that’s enough to let Jisung breathe again.