For thousands of families, yesterday wasn't just another day. Behind every statistic is a human being, and every number is someone's mother, father, brother, sister, child, friend, neighbor, or loved one. I know for a fact that it's easy to scroll through social media and see numbers, headlines, and videos, but sometimes we forget that every single person affected has a story. There are families desperately trying to find their loved ones, people who woke up today without a home, children who are scared and don't understand why everything suddenly changed, and people waiting for answers that they may never want to hear.

And I want to take a moment to thank the people that are also doing everything they can to help. Rescue workers, emergency responders, volunteers, medical workers, neighbors, and ordinary people who are putting aside their own fear to help someone else. To every person who has been out there helping, searching, comforting, carrying, rescuing, donating, or simply being there for someone who needed support, thank you. I'm so glad that humanity is also what reminds us that we are not alone.

I may not be in Colombia or colombian, and not know every person who has been affected. But that doesn't mean their pain should go unnoticed. My heart goes out to every family that has lost someone, who are still waiting for news, to those who are injured, who have lost their homes or everything they worked so hard for, to the people who are afraid to go back inside their homes, and to everyone who is simply trying to process what happened.

You don't have to know someone personally to care about what they're going through. And right now, Colombia needs that care.

I hope that the people who are still missing are found, that the injured receive the care they need, that families are reunited, and that those who lost their homes find somewhere safe to stay. And most importantly, I hope that no more families have to experience the pain of losing someone they love in such a tragic way.

To Colombia: please know that you are not alone 🇨🇴❤️‍🩹

Let's keep Colombia in our thoughts, support one another, and let's never take another ordinary day for granted. Here are some links from Twitter and websites you can look at to help:

ABAC (Food Bank for Colombia): Here, you can donate money that will be distributed to all 26 banks of Colombia

SOS Chocó: Platform that helps Chocó directly (Chocó has been suffering since October last year from floods and river overflows, causing families to lose their homes, food, and more.

Refuges (TWITTER POST): List of every place that is taking people who have lost their homes so they can stay.

VERIFIED LINKS FOR PEOPLE OUTSIDE COLOMBIA (TWITTER THREAD)

MEDICAL LIST (TWITTER POST): The capital of Chocó (Quibdó) is asking for more supplies as they are running out of them.

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POST #4

At school, you’re the girl whose locker is overflowing with fan mail, whose absences are excused because you were performing on live television or accepting another award instead of sitting through third-period chemistry, doodling in the margins of your notebook like everyone else.

To your fans, you’re Seoul’s sweetheart. A pop princess with a smile that sparkles brighter than the stage lights, chart-topping singles, and a signature goodbye at the end of every interview where you broke the fourth wall with a classic kiss blown toward the camera, followed by a little wave, as though everyone watching is an old friend waiting on the other side of the screen.

To the tabloids, though? You’re a headline waiting for an excuse.

WHO’S THE MYSTERY BOY? POP QUEEN OR PROM QUEEN? CAN SHE REALLY HAVE IT ALL?

The stories are practically written before you give them anything that they can print. Funny how no one ever asks whether you wanted any of it in the first place. Not that it matters. Your sister has spent years drilling one lesson into your head: smile, wave, and stay polished. Every bad day can be spun into good publicity with the right PR team, statement, and angle.

After one too many “mandatory” appearances over the weekend, you finally make it through the school gates on Monday morning. The center if your palmed itched to congratulate yourself for remembering to put on some makeup once you see a paparazzi’s at the gate ready to capture your face, successfully flashing a smile and a few greetings with a few fans that passed by.

Inside, though, you’re barely holding yourself together. Less than six hours ago, you were performing at an award show. In a few more, you’ll be onstage again for Music Bank. Somewhere between the flight, the interviews, the car ride home, and the frantic costume changes, sleep quietly slipped off your schedule without so much as a goodbye.

Still, your body is absolutely convinced it’s three in the morning covered head to toe with your blanket and not on your Literature class.

Mrs. Choi, however, seems convinced it’s the perfect time to discuss Hamlet.

“…And what do you think, pop star?”

You blink yourself back to reality, correcting your posture at the same time. “I think...” Every head in the classroom swivels toward you. “...Hamlet probably just needed a nap.”

The classroom erupts into laughter. It wasn’t even that funny. Mrs. Choi pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll count that as participation.”

You sink lower into your chair. Some teachers simply enjoyed watching students embarrass themselves. Mrs. Choi, unfortunately, enjoys watching you embarrass yourself a little more than most—especially after last year’s music awards, when you beat her favorite singer for Best New Artist. Or at least that’s why Keonho, being his noisy self, found out and gave you the news.

Petty, you know.

But so is making you analyze Elizabethan tragedy before your brain has even caught up with the time zone.

You don’t even make it to lunch before your manager intercepts you outside the administration building. His charcoal suit looks painfully out of place among backpacks, varsity jackets, and students dramatically complaining about algebra homework as if it’s the end of the world.

He checks his watch the second you step outside. “You’re late.”

“I was in class.”

“That’s not what I heard a few second ago from some students saying you were making jokes.”

You shrug, playing with a piece of your bag pack. “Coping mechanisms.”

He doesn’t even crack a smile, but by how he raised his eyebrows, you know he would eventually. “We have to go for a second, the car’s waiting.”

You sigh loud enough for a group of sophomores to giggle as they walk past.

“I’ve had exactly one class today.”

“You’ll survive missing the rest.”

“I have a history test tomorrow.”

“You’ve accepted two music awards before taking history tests.” You looked away, the sudden attitude you had fading

“...That doesn’t make it better.”

“It does for the label.” Your eyes go the back of your head as you give him your backpack.

“Of course it does.” He gently places his hand in front of you and you took off your bag, bowing in gratitude as you stepped inside the car. You couldn’t even say goodbye to Seonghyeon and Keonho.

The drive was filled with the radio. Yunho, your manager, spends it glued to his BlackBerry while you’re trying—and failing—to stay awake against the window. Your phone vibrates.

Seanshine ✩

Did Shakespeare survive?

A smile finds you before you can stop it.

Barely.

Cafeteria says you’re getting kidnapped again.

Label emergency.

Tell the paparazzi I died heroically in chemistry.

That’s tomorrow.

Even worse.

YOOO, BRING ME THE CANDIES TOMORROW :D - kEONHOO

You laugh to yourself before slipping the phone back to your pocket once you felt that particular turn the car did whenever you reached the studio. The studio occupies an unassuming building tucked between a coffee shop and a photography studio that mostly consisted on tinted windows and a receptionist who greets your manager by name.

You’re halfway through signing yet another stack of visitor form when he says it.

“He’s already here.”

You glanced up. “Who?”

“The producer.”

“The one the boss wants writing my next album?” He nods. “...Already?”

“He flew in this morning.”

“So did I.”

“And he landed before you.” Your manager teased, and your nose wrinkle.

“What a show-off.”

Couple minutes later, the recording studio greets you with cool air and the faint smell of coffee and polished wood. Gold records line one wall—some yours and some belonging to other artist on the label, all gleaming beneath soft amber lights. A grand piano sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by guitars, keyboards, and enough cables to trip an elephant.

Someone was testing chords, a slow progression on the piano that showed how confident and precise he was. Your boss, who was next to him, clapped his hands at the sight of you.

“There she is!” The melody was interrupted, the person next to him stands tall. Literally, he was definitely 6’4. Blonde hair just messy enough to look intentional, graphic tee, black jeans, and expensive sneakers that somehow still have coffee stains on them, yet looked cool.

Just like you were doing, he studies you for a second, and if this is what you think it is, then he was trying to decide whether you’re worth the next six months of his life.

Your boss claps his hands together, looking between the two of you with the enthusiasm of someone who has absolutely no idea what he’s about to unleash.

“Perfect. Martin, this is our girl.”

Oh, you know exactly who Martin Edwards is.

Not personally, obviously. But when you’re in the music industry, names travel faster than songs. Besides, it was almost inevitable to see not see him thanks to a few fans that fawn over his smirk and looks.

Martin Edwards. Same age as you. Producer, songwriter, occasional guitarist, but gifted in probably every damn instrument that you can have on earth. The industry’s newest golden boy that even executives couldn’t stop talking about at award shows and after-parties, even veterans want to collab with him. Every artist he’d worked with in the past year had walked away with a Top Five hit, and somehow, he’d done it without chasing trends or manufacturing viral moments.

People called him annoyingly talented. And the numbers agreed.

You’d watched a handful of interviews, too.

Unlike most producers, he didn’t talk about streams or algorithms or “creating marketable moments.” He talked about songs like they were living things as if every melody had somewhere it wanted to go and his job was simply to help it get there.

“I know who she is.”

His gaze never leaves yours.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Well.

At least he knows your name.

Warmth climbs your neck before ears you can stop it. Maybe it’s the height difference, or the fact that he’s looking at you just to figure you out.

You offer your hand anyway.

“And you must be the producer everyone keeps talking about.”

His hand closes around yours, steady. Gone almost immediately by how his thumb caressed your hand.

“So, they tell me.”

God. He was tall—looming, even. Blond hair, almost certainly fake, but whoever had done it deserved a raise. Brown eyes that looked like honey if the light hit him just right, sharp jawline, and a smile that looked expensive.

Unfair, really.

“I’ve heard you’re very talented.”

“And I’ve heard you’re very famous.”

The words landed like a mix of a compliment and a diagnosis, but you smiled politely anyways. “Thank you?”

“I didn’t say it was a compliment.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I didn’t ask if it was.”

Your boss lets out a nervous chuckle, cutting the handshake. “Right! Why don’t we all sit down? We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

One of the engineers quietly becomes fascinated by the mixing console, the assistant by the coffee machine suddenly finds refilling paper cups to be the most important task in the world and to fill a few at the speed of a turtle.

Interesting. Apparently, everyone in this room already knows what Martin is like.

You settle into the chair from him while your boss opens a folder thick enough to stop a bullet, fixing his glasses in the process.

“As you both know, the label wants the lead single before summer. Healthy budget, radio campaign, and the tour starts in August.” Martin nods once.

“Good,” your boss continues. “Now, Martin has listened to your previous albums.”

“I figured, and I appreciate that.”

“And he has a few ideas.”

Martin finally speaks. “Your records sell because people like you.”

It took you a minute to process, “I’m sorry?”

“They don’t sell because the music takes risks. I believe it’s just because of people being attached to you and the nostalgia in a way.”

The room grows quiet, and you felt your fingers tighten around the armrest, and you were sure your boss saw that by the way he laughs a little too loudly. “Martin likes being direct.”

“Lucky for him, so do I.” Even after smiling at him, Martin doesn’t seem to care. Matter of fact, he straightened his posture and remove the sunglasses.

Brown eyes were common, but his were the kind that looked made your heart stop for a second, getting lost in them.

“I think you’ve got an incredible voice and good instincts too… but”

There it is.

“But every decision you’ve made sounds approved by a committee and they don’t sound like a person that actually wants to show to the world, what they got.”

“I’m sorry?” Was that the only word you knew?

“The production plays it safe. The melodies play it safe. The lyrics play it safest off safe.”

“They’re universal.” He nods and take a small second to think.

“I can’t put it in nicer terms, so I’m going to be direct like I’ve been this whole five-minute conversation: Your music is exactly what the label wants you to be.”

You tilt your head. “You figured all that out from two albums?”

“I figured it out by the second chorus. And I don’t blame you, I blame all the people in this room”

It truly was a surprise how heavy silent could be felt after such raw words, your boss looks seconds away from developing a migraine, but that actually didn’t matter, not when that boy in front of you seems to show genuine interest on why your songs don’t connect with you.

“And what if I told you I like those songs?”

“I’d believe you.” Your eyebrow raised, reading into him too quickly.

“And?”

“I’d also believe you’ve written better ones.”

As self-defense, your arms instantly crossed to protect yourself from the hard truth. “...You haven’t heard the songs I don’t release.”

“That’s right.”

“Then how would you know?”

Martin shrugs. “Because in my head, there’s no artist that gets this successful without leaving their best ideas in a notebook somewhere.”

For a brief moment, you don’t know what to say, because there are at least three spiral notebooks sitting in the bottom drawer of your desk at home and one hiding in this studio, mostly with songs that weren’t approved just because it didn’t match the concept the company was going for.

Your boss mistakes your silence for agreement. “Exactly! That’s why I wanted the two of you together. Martin pushes artists and even made that song that you currently like.”

“You helped with ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’, didn’t you?” The tip of his ears turned red, nodding. “I’m impressed... it’s a good song.”

His gaze drifted away first, reaching for the legal pad resting on top of the piano. “I’m not interested in making another version of your last record.”

“Lucky you, neither am I.”

His eyes lift again. “No?”

You shake your head. “I’ve been singing songs about crushes and falling in love over and over again since I was fourteen.”

“And now?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Not what I was asking, but congratulations.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “What I’m saying is...” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “People grow up, and so do artist.”

For the first time since you’ve walked into the studio, Martin gives the smallest smile to you before he nods to your boss next to him.

“So,” he says, “maybe we won’t hate working together.”

“I think it’s a little early for that.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve already decided you’re stubborn.”

A frown appeared on your face, one that you weren’t afraid to show directly to him. “And I've already decided you're arrogant.”

The ghost of a smile crossed his face as a smirk.

Gone almost instantly.

“Which means,” he says far too brightly, “creative chemistry!”

“Only one condition.” Martin index finger showed up. “You have no choice but to accept the songs she chooses for the EP.”

A bitter smile was directed to him. “And why do you want me to do that?”

“Easy. Keep doing generic songs that won’t fill your pockets or hers.”  One of the engineers’ snorts so loudly he has to disguise it as a cough. Martin doesn’t react, and neither do you, but the difference was that he was fighting back a small smile at the sight of that middle age man trying to intimidate him with his height.

Defeated, he clapped his hands once more.

“Excellent. We’ll start tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” you ask.

“You’ve got school until noon,” he replies. “Then rehearsal with your dancers. Hair and makeup test at four. Studio at six.”

You stare at him. “When exactly am I supposed to sleep?”

He flips another page in the schedule. “...Sunday?”

You sigh. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

As everyone begins gathering their papers, you sling your backpack over one shoulder. Martin remains by the piano, scribbling something in the margin of his notebook, you were about to go out after the whole studio got empty except for the tall one.

Curiosity gets the better of you. “Am I very predictable that you are already writing lyrics?”

Without looking up, he tears the page free and hands it to you. There was only one sentence. You read it twice, then a third time.

When your gaze finally lifted, Martin was already back at the piano, fingers absentmindedly searching through a progression of chords as though the conversation had ended minutes ago and he hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Far too observant.

And entirely too good at reading people he’d only known for half an hour.

You fold the piece of paper anyway, slipping it into the front pocket of your backpack “Don’t get too excited,” you say, adjusting the strap over your shoulder.

He didn’t even glance up. “About what?”

“Working with me.”

“Who said I was?”

“You haven’t stopped trying to impress me since I walked in.”

He accidently played a wrong key, your eyes connected before Martin actually laughs.

“See you tomorrow, pop star.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Give me a reason not to.”

“Learn my name.”

“Eventually.”

You don’t notice Martin watching you leave, his eyes lingering on the empty doorway a second longer than necessary.

By six o’clock, the city had traded sunlight for neon signs with traffic humming beneath the studio windows. The chamomile tea cupped between your palms had long since surrendered its warmth, the last mouthful turning lukewarm. Your backpack rested beside the couch, half unzipped, notebook peeking from the front pocket—the folded page Martin had handed you yesterday still tucked safely inside.

The speakers drifted from one song into another until the opening chords of Hate That I Love You floated through the room.

Again.

Honestly, if Yunho ever discovered exactly how many times you’d played the song this week alone, he’d probably stage an intervention. Or a psychotic breakdown, possibly both.

Yet, the thought or your favorite song could compete with your tiredness.

Every muscle ached with the dull heaviness that followed too little sleep. Eyelids burned, your shoulders slumped deeper into the sofa, and the cushion beneath you seemed determined to coax another inch, another sigh, another minute with your eyes closed.

Just five minutes. Five harmless minutes.

The chorus blurred into the verses, the traffic beyond the glass softened into distant white noise, and even the air conditioning settled into a slow, steady rhythm.

Knuckles rapped twice against the studio door loud enough for your eyes to flutter open a heartbeat before the handle turned.

Martin stepped inside carrying two paper coffee cups and a notebook tucked beneath one arm, cool evening air slipping in behind him before the door clicked shut once more.

His gaze swept across the room, landing on the tea balanced precariously in your hands, then on your unmistakable attempt to pretend you hadn’t been drifting asleep.

One eyebrow lifted. “...Rough day?”

A quiet laugh escaped, more tired than amused. “I’ve had better.”

The corner of his mouth threatened to curve. “Good.”

You frowned. “...Good?”

“If you’re exhausted,” he replied, setting one of the coffees on the piano before dropping into the bench, “you’ll stop trying to impress me.”

A smirk appeared on your face before you could stop it. “I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“No?”

“No.”

Another pause. “You failed anyway.”

That earned him a pillow, Martin caught it without looking against his chest. “Now that was violent.”

“You deserved it.”

Without another word, he crossed the room.

The speakers lowered until Rihanna’s voice became little more than melody drifting through the studio. A lamp near the piano clicked on, warm amber replacing the harsh ceiling lights, leaving the corners of the room wrapped in shadow.

“Thirty minutes.”

“For what?”

“For you to take a nap.”

One by one, legal pads appeared across the coffee table, pens, highlighters and more stuff that you couldn’t see properly due to your half-lidded eyes.

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “...You’re joking.”

“I’m actually not.”

His movements were followed by your gaze, dumfounded. “You’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours!”

“And?”

“And you’re already bossing me around.”

“Well,” He left aside his backpack, a cocky smile plastered on his face. “I’m producing your album.”

“You haven’t produced anything yet.”

“No,” Martin agreed, unbothered. “But right now I’m preventing the lead artist from passing out before we write a single note.”

It was crazy how those words could make the song slip into the background, dissolving beneath the steady hum of the air conditioning.

“I’m fine.”

Martin looked up from the notebook he had already opened. “You’re functional, but that’s not being fine.”

“...There’s a difference?”

“A big one, as a matter of fact.” His pencil tapped once against the page. “Besides, I don’t write with people who are trying to survive the session.”

Your fingers curled a little tighter around the paper cup, the tea had gone completely cold now.

“I don’t have time to sleep, anyways. I’m either busy with school, or dance rehearsals, showcases, I mostly sleep in the car or only on Sundays.”

“I...” A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “...noticed.”

The list fell away, and so did the argument. Martin reached for one of the coffees he’d brought, wrapping both hands around the cup before taking an absent sip.

“I looked at your schedule… I couldn’t help it because it was on the table.”

“...Fair.”

“You’ve been awake for...” His brow furrowed, doing the math. “Twenty-two hours?”

The cup was thrown away, molding yourself back into the couch. “Twenty.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It builds character."

“I think the word is hallucinations.” A smile escaped from your lips, calm engulfing you for a second. “There it is,” Martin murmured.

“What?”

“The first genuine smile.” Heat climbed into your cheeks before you had the chance to stop it.

“I smiled yesterday.”

“You smile for cameras,” he continued, eyes drifting back toward the notebook. “I don’t think you smile because you want to.”

It’s crazy how not one journalist had managed to make you feel as exposed as one songwriter with messy blond hair and a coffee stain on his sneakers.

“Like I said, I don’t know you,” Martin said after a moment, almost as though he regretted saying it aloud. “But I mean when I say I’d rather write songs with whoever shows up after the cameras leave.”

In the middle of the silence, your shoulders surrender almost reluctantly another inch into the sofa, the tall one noticed it. Without saying a word, he reached for the throw blanket folded neatly over the armrest, crossed the room, and tossed it toward you, landing on your legs messily.

“You throw like a drummer,” you mumbled.

“I do beats.”

“It shows.”

“You know what else shows.” A teasing tone was heard. “So does your exhaustion.”

Your eyes rolled, sighed at how he left your side with triumphant air. “You’re seriously not letting me work?”

“I’m absolutely letting you work, just not yet.” Your eyes drifted shut for what was supposed to be a single blink. “Happy 30 minutes.”

That was the last thing heard before sleep finally won.

That was the last thing heard before sleep finally won, and those thirty minutes that became thirty-two truly felt like a reward.

The first thing returning wasn’t consciousness, just an unknown melody that found its way through sleep.  

You felt the warm light pressed gently against your eyelids and the blanket still resting across your legs, a little too conscious causing your eyes to flew open.

“...Oh my God, I reaIly fell asleep.”

Across the room, Martin didn’t even glance up from the piano. “I told you so."

“To be honest, I thought you wouldn’t let me sleep.”

That earned a sideways look. “Yeah, and I said I would.”

You pushed yourself upright, the blanket sliding into your lap. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “You’re welcome.”

Heat threatened your cheeks again, and he was more focused on the instrument in front of him by how fingers wandered over the piano keys.

“So… what do you actually want to write?”

“I don’t know, honestly.”

“I let you sleep so you can lie to me? Please.”

“I mean...” A sigh escaped. “I know what I’m supposed to write.”

He played with his silver rings, thinking. “And what are you not supposed to write?”

Your thumb traced the paper sleeve wrapped around the coffee cup, too much coming all at once.

His stopped his movements before gently grabbing a notepad and a pencil. “Forget about the label, charts, and the audience. If nobody else was ever going to hear it, what would you write?”

His eyes met yours, your gaze drifting toward the backpack abandoned beside the sofa half-open. Martin followed the movement.

“You brought something.”

“It’s nothing.”

“If it’s in the bag I pretty much doubt it isn’t nothing.”

You hated how easily he’d guessed, in a heartbeat. The zipper sounded louder than it should have when you opened and picked up those two notebooks. The first carried neat tabs, color-coded sticky notes, and carefully labeled pages with the words “LABEL” on the front cover.

The second looked nothing like it. Black cover with cute stickers and the corners bent. And elastic band stretched from too much use and holding whatever it had for dear life.

Martin didn’t reach for it, only watching how your fingers lingered on the cover. “I wrote these between flights, hotel rooms, even bathrooms so nobody would hear me.”

The confession caused him to laugh, feeling related. Your thumb brushed the edge of another page. “I’d send the polished versions and these stayed with me.”

The notebook finally crossed the piano. Martin accepted it with surprising care. The beating of your heart raced faster as he opened the first page. To your surprised, he stopped, closing it again.

“I don’t want to read them.”

You blinked. “Are you serious right now?”

“At least, not yet.”

Confusion knitted your brow. “I thought—”

“I don’t want lyrics you wrote for me, but the ones you couldn’t stop yourself from writing.”

That simple sentence somehow took you back to those days when only the four walls of your room knew about all the tears you shed out of helplessness. Above all, they knew how many hours you stayed up late writing on loose sheets of paper, terrified that they would be discovered. Which is crazy, considering how the media portrayed you as an “icon of teenage freedom.”

They’d never seen the girl underneath the glitter, or the one who learned to smile when she wanted to scream.

You reached for the notebook again without hesitation. Your fingertips found the folded corner of a page near the middle.

“I wrote this one around the time...” You swallowed. “There were a lot of lies surrounding my life, and because of my contract, my family and I had to play along. And even when I was completely exhausted...” Your voice thinned. “I still had to sit in front of cameras and pretend everything was perfect.”

A knot tightened in your throat, pushing it down. “I’m sorry.”

His voice was softer than expected, and you looked at him.

“Don’t be.”

“I know, but I am anyway.”

Something about that made your chest ache. You looked back at the page, the handwriting noticeable younger there by how messy it was and the ink pressed too hard into the paper.

“I never finished it because I didn’t know how.”

Martin pulled the notebook closer. “Then let’s not finish it. At least not the old version.” His fingers tapped lightly against the page. “Tell me what you were trying to say.”

“I wanted to write about being watched and how they think they know you. Made more emphasis on wanting to disappear without actually leaving”

His pencil moved before stopping. “That’s good.”

A nervous laugh slipped out. “Sure, that’s depressing.”

“Start with the feeling, story later.” At the look of your slightly doubtful expression, he added. “Nobody needs to know who lied to you, which contract, camera, or night. They just need to understand what it felt like.”

You went quiet. Then, slowly, you turned the page.

“Okay.”

Martin shifted on the piano bench, beautifully played a few chords. You listened and your fingertips tapped against the notebook.

“Sounds too happy.” Martin laughed under his breath.

“You really are difficult.”

“Did you forget I warned you?”

Without a word, the next chord came slower with a little… something that made your eyes lift.

“That!” He played it again, taking the courage to pick up the pencil.

“What about...”

And somewhere between the laughter and the piano, the song began to change. Whenever you crossed out a line, Martin suggested another. Sometimes he finished a melody before you finished a sentence, and others you surprised him with a lyric that made his fingers stop completely.

Once, you both reached for the same pencil, causing your hands collided. Martin cleared his throat and let go.

“You take it.”

By the time the clock crept past nine, the city outside had gone completely dark. More than three pages were covered in crossed-out lines, arrows, fragments, and handwriting that grew messier every time inspiration struck.

It wasn’t finished, but for the first time, that didn’t made you eat your brain in anxiety.

You stared down at the last line.

Three months And I’m still sober Picked all my weeds But kept the flowers But I know It’s never really over

“That’s actually a really good chorus.”

Your eyes lifted. “The chorus?”

He nodded. “Congratulations, pop star; you are halfway done… I think.”

“You think so?”

Martin looked at the pages between you, then at you.

“I think about how you finally stopped writing what people wanted to hear.”

A smile slowly appeared, fully yours and looking directly at the boy next to you.

The amount of NSFW content being created within the Coerblr/Cortisblr community (that has now spread to the LNGSHOT community) has become genuinely concerning. This isn't just one person making a bad decision, it's several people participating, encouraging each other, and acting like none of this is worth questioning.

To make matters worse, two of the people involved are 16-17 years old, which means they are still minors. Two others only recently turned 18, and now there are rumors that some people participating or interacting with this content may not even be the ages they're claiming to be. If people are faking their ages and are actually younger, that only makes the entire situation even more alarming.

Whether those rumors are true or not, the fact that there's enough uncertainty to even have this conversation should be setting off alarm bells for everyone involved. Instead, people keep brushing it aside or pretending it's normal.

I've said this before, and I'll say it again: fandom spaces need boundaries. Or in other words, not every character, creator, or community needs to have NSFW content attached to it, especially when there are minors involved in creating it, consuming it, or interacting with it (and tbh, this won't stop at all). At some point, people need to stop and think about the consequences instead of prioritizing shock value or personal gratification.

I also don't understand why some people are treating any criticism as "puritanism" or "drama." This isn't about policing people's interests since from day one, this has beem about recognizing when a situation has become irresponsible and potentially harmful. If minors are involved in any capacity, people should be taking a step back, not doubling down.

That being said, I also need to address the people responding by telling these creators to kill themselves.

Stop.

You can criticize their actions, call out the behavior, report the content if it breaks platform rules, and even separate from the community entirely like half of us did due to the toxicity. But telling someone to end their life is making your point stronger.

It doesn't make you morally superior or the "good guy." It doesn't help protect anyone, all it does is contribute even more toxicity to an already messy situation. If your response to harmful behavior is to encourage someone to die, you've crossed a line yourself.

Hold people accountable without becoming another example of the toxicity that's already poisoning this community. If your goal is to make fandom spaces safer, then act like it.

I'm exhausted that this conversation keeps happening, but apparently we're still here. I'm just disappointed that we're still having this conversation in the first place. We keep talking about making fandom spaces safer, yet people continue to ignore obvious red flags until everything blows up again.

We should've learned from previous situations and know better by now.

I would also speak about the engene situation, but tbh, it just makes my blood boil and reinforces my reason on why i won't step again into enhablr and will only do it for the Jay story

A hand on your shoulder stopped you from looking beyond. “The guy I’m dancing with says his friend told him he thinks you’re pretty—want to do a double?”

Your gaze shifted away from your glass of rum and soda toward the direction your friend was pointing: he was cute, even though he didn’t put any effort into his pirate costume, but how his eyes roamed over your body was a clear sign of his other intentions.

Sadly, your last-minute outfit was your mom’s friend Catwoman outfit; the leather did its work in molding itself to your body, and that costume won the approval of all your friends; their support was so contagious that it made you feel even more confident. However, the way your friends looked at you was nothing compared to the way some of the other partygoers looked at you—to the point that you started to feel overly self-conscious and, above all, smaller than you really were.

“I think I would rather double up my drink, thank you very much.”

Your friend’s expression was enough to make you laugh. “Come on, we’re at a party! How long has it been since you’ve kissed someone?”

“Too long to know that guy isn’t worth it. In fact, I bet he’s going to leave with the girl dressed as a devil once you tell him I don’t want anything.” The tall girl looked around for the girl and nodded.

“You’re right, that guy’s a loser. Sorry, babe.” You shrugged indifferently, taking another sip of your drink.

“I know you mean well, but honestly, I don’t want anything to do with anyone. Besides, they’re already playing the good songs, and you’d better be right by my side.” Your index finger pointed at her chest, making her laugh and give you a little hug.

“As soon as I hear our song, I’ll ditch his ass.” The beat of the song you were just talking about blasted through the speakers; both of you locked eyes. “And that’s right now.”

The two of you burst into laughter before her poor excuse for a dance partner even realized what had happened. She ran to the two boys, watching how the pirate’s eyes were still on you and turned exactly as predicted toward the girl dressed as a devil. You didn’t even have time to say I told you, son before she wrapped her arms around you.

“Not even three seconds.”

“I gave him more credit than he deserved,” your friend admitted.

The two of you disappeared into the growing crowd just as the chorus exploded through the four walls. Your other friends spotted you two almost immediately, screaming the lyrics as they walked in your direction.

The place felt cramped as some formed a circle, and others tried to imitate the choreography from the music video with complete confidence, several shots of vodka, and absolutely no rhythm. Within seconds, everyone was laughing too hard to care what they looked like, and no one truly cared about it; that was the beauty of a Halloween party.

The song vibrated beneath your boots; your friend’s curls bounced wildly as she spun beside you, nearly knocking into another couple; you climbed onto a chair with your other girlfriend before some collectively copied you two, and some were screamed to get down before he fell on his ass.

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, though you attributed it to the alcohol that was taking over your system.

For the first time all week—maybe even all month—you weren’t thinking about assignments, college applications, your mother’s endless reminders to be careful, or the fact that half the room seemed determined to stare at you because of the fitted leather costume.

You were simply there, sweaty, breathless, and laughing until tears threatened to ruin your eyeliner.

By the eighth song, you held up your hands in surrender.

“I need water,” you announced dramatically.

“And another drink?” Your friend, who was dressed as Snow White, raised her eyebrows, teasing.

“Water,” you repeated. “Probably.”

The group booed playfully despite knowing you don’t even drink as you slipped away toward a quiet corner near the kitchen. A couple left right when you walked in, and the difference was immediate.

Instead of deafening music, all you heard were muffled bass notes and all the people screaming the lyrics. The water didn’t even last a second in the glass, quenching your thirst immediately, and once you were done, you headed to the bathroom for the second time to touch up your makeup. Your mascara had smudged under the mask, and you were really looking forward to that touch-up.

You dabbed away the faint black smudges beneath your eyes with a tissue, muttering an apology to whoever was practically trying to knock the door off its hinges.

“Five seconds!” you called, twisting your lipstick back into place.

“People are dying out here,” someone complained dramatically.

“You’ll survive.”

A few rushed adjustments later, you gave yourself one last glance in the mirror. Everything was in place, minus the eyeliner that was close enough. Besides, everyone else at the party was probably just as sweaty and disheveled by now.

The moment you opened the bathroom door, three girls squeezed past you with relieved sighs.

“Godspeed,” you wished them, earning a laugh before making your way outside, the cold air hitting you the second you stopped onto the back porch.

It was almost shocking after spending hours inside, surrounded by body heat, perfumes, smoke, and the smell of sugary alcohol. You leaned against the wooden railing, closing your eyes for a second as the October breeze cooled the back of your neck.

Your phone vibrated in your purse.

Mom

Baby Everything okay?

You smiled before unlocking your phone.

You

Alive. No one’s set the house on fire yet.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Mom

Very funny I’ve convinced your dad to pick you up in two hours. Stay with your friends and be safe

You

Okeyyy Ily

Without expecting an answer, you put it back where it was. The street was quieter than you’d expected. Cars lined both curbs, their windshields reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights, and even somewhere down the block, another party echoed faintly with laughter.

Then your eyes landed on someone across the street.

A boy your age stood beneath one of the streetlights, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants despite the mild weather.

He wasn’t looking at his phone, his view up into the sky taking in the moon.

Black pants, dirty Converse, a white button-down shirt, slightly disheveled hair, glasses, and something that you couldn’t miss: the Superman shirt with the red and yellow “S” in it. What are the odds?

You saw him earlier at the party with a group of friends as well, a quick look, to be honest, and with the several lights casting on his face, you could tell he was cute.

Despite his looks, he looked completely out of place. And it wasn’t because of the costume, but when everyone else inside the house was trying so desperately to be loud, he was quiet.

He hadn’t noticed you watching him yet. His shoulders rose with a slow breath before falling again, and your heel started to tap on the ground in hesitation.

Don’t bother strangers.

Oh, your mother would be so pissed with what you were going to do, and very disappointed in your lack of survival instincts.

If you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see your friends, but you knew they were having fun, so no one would notice if you disappeared for a few minutes.

The sound of your boots against the asphalt finally pulled him from whatever universe he’d vanish into; his dark eyes landed on you and widened slightly.

“… Hi.”

His voice carried an accent you couldn’t immediately place, especially after being distracted by the depth of his voice.

“Hi.” Silence. God, why had you come over here? “You were inside, right?”

“Yeah… And you were too.”

“… Yeah.” Another silence, but it didn’t last long as you let out a chuckle. “This is going great.”

That earned the smallest smile. “It is.”

“So…” you leaned against the lamppost a respectful distance away. “Are you hiding from someone?”

He looked back toward the house. “…Kind of.”

“The music?”

A tiny huff escaped him. “Also, that.”

You nodded dramatically. “Valid. I just… You looked like someone who could use company.”

His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “You don’t even know me.”

“Thank you for the breaking news.”

“And you still came?”

“Well, you looked sad.” He looked away once again. “I will leave if I bothered you.”

“It’s okay.” A sigh left his chest. “I wasn’t trying to make it obvious.”

“Well, you failed.”

“Apparently.” You laughed softly.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

The breeze carried distant laughter between you two, finding peace with each other. Finally, he spoke again. “My name is Juhoon.”

You repeated it carefully. “Juhoon?”

His expression softened. “You pronounced it right.”

“What can I say, I’ve been practicing for this exact moment.”

Another laughed, this time showing his teeth. “I’m Y/N”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too. You don’t sound like you’re from here.”

“I’m not.”

“I guessed.”

“I’m from Korea.”

“I knew it.”

“You did?”

“No, I guessed confidently.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “You have confidence?”

“Fake confidence.”

“It still counts.”

Naturally, the conversation drifted from college to how confusing Halloween had been the first time he’d experienced it.

“I thought everyone had collectively lost their minds.”

“They kind of do every year.”

“I noticed.” He looked back toward the party.

“They’re louder than people back home.”

“It’s the passion.”

“I noticed that too.” In the middle of the conversation, your hand reached into your purse for that pack of cherry-flavored gum you always carried, and you handed one to Juhoon.

“So…” you tilted your head, unfolding the piece of paper of the gum. “Why’d you come if you’re spending half the party outside?”

“A friend invited me.”

“Mhm”

“I thought…” his hand went to the back of his neck. “Maybe if I surrounded myself with people, I’d stop thinking.”

“And I guess that didn’t work?”

A dry laugh. “Not even a little.”

“You don’t have to tell me, but I’m a little tipsy right now and I really want to know.”

You weren’t sure how you were looking at him, but his eyes softened at the sight of you.

“First, let me help you sit down on the stairs.” Without warning, his hand rested on the small of your back. You were sober—that much was obvious—though the gesture made you blush and ignore the heat in your ears.

“Now that we are comfortable, I…” He laughed at himself. “This is going to sound stupid.”

“It probably won’t.”

“It definitely will.”

“It can be stupid, we are teenagers.” The party was still going and it was louder, yet the small bubble you two created was enough to solely focus on him.

“So, there was this girl.” You resisted every urge to smile knowingly.

“Of course there was.”

“We never dated, we were friends, but not really.” He locked his eyes on yours, catching your confused expression. “We acted like a couple, talked every day, and called until two or three in the morning. We’d dates, held hands.”

He laughed bitterly. “But every time someone asked what we were... she’d say we were just friends.”

You winced. “Ouch.”

“I kept thinking that maybe she just needed more time.”

“How long?”

“...Almost two years.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit, Juhoon.”

“I know.”

“No, Juhoon.” You pointed at him.

“I know.”

“You waited two years?”

He covered his face for a second. “I know.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, she has a boyfriend now. And his boyfriend is… was… my best friend.”

“Fuck”

“I found out on Instagram.”

The words hung heavily between you, you played with your hands to hold the urge to put it on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“And you know what? I think the worst part is that she never actually lied.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She never promised we’d date, loved me, or asked me to wait. I did all of that myself.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You didn’t do all of that yourself.” He looked confused, and that was your queue to get closer to him. “If someone accepts all the affection, all the emotional intimacy, all the late-night calls, all the hand-holding, all the things’ people in relationships usually do...” You shrugged. “...they’re participating, and you weren’t crazy for thinking it meant something.”

His jaw tightened. “You were just reading what anyone would’ve read.”

“...Really?”

“Really.”

He looked like he’d been waiting for someone to say that. “For months,” he admitted. “I keep wondering what I did wrong.”

“You loved someone who wasn’t capable—or willing—to give you clarity. And that’s not the same as doing something wrong.”

He blinked rapidly. “I keep thinking, if I had been better.” His voice cracked.

“Stop, you could’ve been perfect. If someone doesn’t choose you, then perfection wouldn’t suddenly make them.” You smiled sadly as you caught his lips tremble.

“They always told me that if someone likes you, you’ll know. And I never knew.”

“You know what I think?” He nodded. “I think you’ve been mourning a relationship you never actually got to have and you’re grieving all the maybes. The future you imagined, the dates you thought would happen, the confession you thought was coming, and even the version of her that loved your back.”

He quickly looked away; you saw his shoulders started shaking. “...Juhoon?”

A laugh that came out broken took you off guard. “I’m sorry. I think I’m also quite drunk.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I don’t usually—” His sentence dissolved into a shaky inhale. Before you had time to think, your hand finally landed on his shoulder.

“I promise you, it’s okay.” He hesitated only a second before closing the distance himself, his forehead rested against your shoulder first. Then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself anymore, he broke.

His tears showed how he spends weeks trying to suppress, his fingers gently gripped your forearm as silent tears soaked into the leather of your Catwoman costume.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, your hand gently rested a hand between his shoulder blades. “And I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I waited for someone who never wanted me.”

“You loved someone, and that’s never stupid.” For several minutes, neither of you moved, but life continued, with the difference that Juhoon was finally allowing himself to let go of two years’ worth of hope.

As soon as his head moved away from your shoulder, both of your hands instinctively came to rest on either side of his face—something you always did when your friends were crying. To out of it to worried, your thumbs wiped away the salty trails on his cheeks, and you made the biggest mistake of your life: looking him in the eyes.

How could anyone look so attractive while crying?

He looked at you as thought he had forgotten how, and you slowed your movements, brushing away the last traces of tears until there was nothing left to wipe except the redness beneath his eyes. His glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, and before you could stop yourself, you straightened them with careful fingers.

“There,” you murmured, receiving a small laugh from him again.

“I probably look horrible.”

“To me, you look like someone who’s been carrying way too much.”

“That’s… actually very nice to say. Thank you.”

The words were so small they nearly disappeared into the wind.

You smiled.

“You know...” You tilted your head toward the house, where muffled music still rattled the windows. “It would be a shame if Superman spent the entire Halloween party brooding under a streetlight.”

He glanced down at his shirt, his arms supporting him as he leaned back. “I don’t think Superman broods.”

“Oh, he absolutely does.”

“I thought that was Batman.”

“That’s because you’ve never met Clark Kent after two vodka cranberries.” A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

“I don’t think that’s canon.”

“It is now. So, as Catwoman,” you continued, placing a dramatic hand over your chest, “I think it’s my civic duty to keep Superman from having an existential crisis.”

“I thought Catwoman flirted with Batman.”

“She does, she’s just helping Clark because of budget cuts.”

That earned you the brightest laugh yet, echoing down the quiet street, and for the first time since you’d walked over to him, it didn’t sound forced.

You held out your hand. “Let’s go.”

He looked down at it. “Where?”

“Back inside, obviously.”

“I don’t know...”

“You don’t have to think.” You wiggled your fingers. “You’ve done enough thinking for one night.”

His gaze lingered on your hand for another second before he slipped his into yours, locking your fingers as you pulled him back to the mess. Heat wrapped itself around you like another costume, and someone had switched to early-2000s pop, and judging by the screaming, everyone collectively believed they were the main character.

“There you are!” She shouted from across the room. “We thought Catwoman had stolen someone.”

You lifted your joined hands. “I did.”

Juhoon’s eyes widened at your sudden confidence. Your friends erupted into theatrical gasps.

“A hostage?”

“This Superman looks willing,” another friend laughed.

Juhoon looked at you uncertainly. “They’re always like this?”

“Worse.” You tugged gently on Juhoon’s hand until he followed you into the crowd.

At first, he barely moved, swaying awkwardly with the music. You bumped your shoulder against his while grabbing two red cups with awful drawn pumpkins.

“That’s not dancing.”

“It is where I’m from.”

“You are lying.”

“I am!” Almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened, gently taking your hand to spin you, pulling you closer to him.

Soon enough, he got more comfortable around you and your circle, he even started laughing whenever your friends dramatically butchered lyrics, and copied your ridiculous dance moves with surprising commitment.

At one point, you caught him smiling before he realized he was, and it made warm settle beneath your ribs.

The next song was louder and faster. Both of you stopped drinking and focused on enjoying everything as you two sobered a little bit until a guy stumbled backward with a bright blue cocktail in his hand.

You could even see how the glass tipped, and the cold liquid splashed across Juhoon’s white button-down.

“Shit,” the stranger groaned. “I’m so sorry, man.”

Juhoon blinked down at himself, the electric-blue stain spread across the cotton, dripping toward his belt.

“...It’s okay.”

“No, dude, it’s not.”

“It’ll wash.”

“I’ll pay for—"

“It’s really okay. I barely use this shirt.” The stranger apologized another five times before disappearing into the crowd looking mortified.

You winced. “So much for wearing white.”

“Come on, to the bathroom.”

He followed without protest, and you didn’t know why were you going with him in the first place. Compared to the rest of the house, the upstairs hallway felt strangely still, pushed open the bathroom.

“Sit.”

“I think I’ll survive standing.”

“I know, but you’ll drip dramatically all over the floor, and you already left a trail.”

“...Fair.” He perched on the edge of the bathtub while you searched beneath the sink.

“No stain remover.” You found a clean hand towel instead. “This will have to do.”

Running it beneath cold water, you wrung it out before stepping between his knees.

“May I?” He looked from the towel to you.

“...Yeah.” You pressed the damp cloth carefully against the blue stain; the fabric darkened beneath your fingers.

“Sorry, this might be cold.”

“I don’t how many times I’ve repeated this word, but it’s okay.”

“In the meantime, you can use the baby wipes behind you to clean your face as well.” After that, the room became very quiet, and suddenly, you were aware of everything.

The scent of laundry detergent lingering on his shirt beneath the alcohol, the faint citrus of your own perfume, the music vibrating faintly through the pipes that somehow matched your heartbeat, a huge contrast of his breathing.

You concentrated far harder on the stain than necessary.

“It’ll probably come out.”

“I hope so.”

“...White shirts are expensive.”

He smiled. “I got this one on sale.”

“Oh.”

“I lied.” You looked up, and he was already looking at you.

“...Why?”

“I wanted you to laugh.”

“What a try-hard.”

“Hey, I wanted to.” Your hands remained against his chest, his sentence full of teasing tones, and the room felt smaller each time you two locked eyes.

“I have to say something,” he said quietly.

“Hm?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever looked after me like this.” Your movements stopped at how his voice carried no expectation, only quiet surprise.

“It isn’t a big deal.”

“It is to me.” Without fear, your eyes met again, and this time, neither of you looked away.

He wasn’t crying anymore; that was an hour, maybe more, ago. But his eyes were still soft from it, impossibly gentle behind slightly fogged glasses.

Without thinking, your hand drifted higher, your fingers brushed a loose strand of dark hair away from his forehead.

Oh, the alcohol was definitely acting up.

His breath caught. “So...” you whispered, suddenly unable to remember why you had spoken at all.

“So.”

“You should probably...”

“...Probably.” Neither of you moved; the towel slipped from your fingers into the sink with a quiet thud, ignoring how Juhoon’s gaze flickered—just once—to your lips before returning to your eyes, as though asking a question he was too afraid to voice.

You answered it by closing the last inch between you.

The kiss was hesitant enough that either of you could have pulled away, but when no one showed signs to back up, that was it.

His lips were warm despite the October air that still clung to him.

One of his hands found your waist with astonishing care, as though he was afraid pressing any harder might make you disappear. Yours settled against his jaw, your thumb brushing the place where tears had dried only minutes earlier.

It wasn’t desperate or fueled by the alcohol (at least an 80 percent) humming pleasantly through your veins.

It was slow, curious even. When you finally drew apart, your foreheads rested together, both of you smiling in the same disbelieving way.

Juhoon let out a breathless laugh before leaning in for a second kiss.

You had to rise onto your tiptoes, though not for long, since his hands found your waist and, with a questioning glance that gave you every opportunity to object, helped you sit on the edge of the sink without breaking the kiss.

You smiled against his lips. “Superman is supposed to be stronger than this.”

He frowned playfully before his cheeks flushed the slightest shade of pink. “I think Superman has a weakness.”

“Oh?”

“You.”

The answer came so earnestly that you couldn’t help laughing. “That was incredibly cheesy and bold to say to someone you just met 2 hours ago.”

“I know.” You shook your head, still smiling.

“I don’t think you’re over your situationship.”

His expression softened. “I don’t think I am either.”

The honesty settled comfortably between you. “I don’t want to confuse gratitude with…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. Matter of fact, I don’t want you to think you’re a rebound.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“You don’t?”

You shook your head. “I think you were sad, and I met you while you were sad. And let’s be real, I think we kissed because, somewhere between talking under a streetlight and dancing terribly to an early LMFAO song, I just went with the flow.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Besides, it doesn’t have to mean more than that tonight. I don’t want anything right now, either.”

He looked at you for a long moment before a relieved smile crossed his face. “I like that answer.”

“So do I; I’m very smart.” You noticed a streak of bright blue still clinging stubbornly to the front of his shirt, tapping it with one finger. “Damn, I completely failed.”

“What?”

“The stain.”

“Oh.” He laughed. “I think it actually got worse.”

“It absolutely did.”

“Reminder that you distracted the person cleaning it.”

“You distracted yourself.”

Before you could think of anything to say, someone pounded on the bathroom door hard enough to make both of you jump.

“Y/N! Open up!”

You slid off the sink so quickly you nearly lost your balance. Juhoon instinctively steadied you with a hand at your elbow before immediately letting go again.

You cleared your throat. “One second!”

You caught sight of yourselves in the mirror.

Your lipstick was smudged, is hair looked even messier than before, both of you looked suspiciously happy.

“Oh my God, we look like a mess.” You hurriedly wiped at the corner of your mouth while Juhoon attempted—and failed—to flatten his hair.

“It’s not working,” he muttered.

Another impatient knock. “I will actually kick this door!”

You unlocked the door, and your friend stood there holding your purse in one hand and your phone in the other.

The moment she looked from you to Juhoon back and forth, her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

“I… was going to ask why you two disappeared.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please don’t.”

“I will if you even are alive.”

“What do you mean?”

She held up your phone instead. “Your mom is outside.”

The smile vanished from your face. “...What?”

“You haven’t answered your phone for like...” She glanced at the screen. “Seven calls.”

Your stomach dropped.

Seven?

You snatched the phone from her hands.

Eight missed calls. Three messages.

“Oh, no.”

“She looks really angry.”

You groaned, already imagining the lecture waiting for you. “I completely forgot what time it was.”

“You’ve been in here for...” She looked at Juhoon. “...actually, I don’t want to know.”

Juhoon rubbed the back of his neck, visibly trying not to smile. “Nothing happened, I promise.”

You adjusted your purse over your shoulder before looking back at him. “I should go.”

“Can I have your number? I don’t really want tonight to become another thing I only remember.”

Your eyes widened, and you swear you heard your friend squeal in excitement. “Sure”

Taking his phone, you quickly typed your name and number before handing it back.

“I’ll text you.”

“I’ll answer.”

“Your mother is aging by the second.”

“Right!” You looked back at Juhoon one last time. “Try not to let another girl keep you waiting for two years.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Good. See you around, Kent.”

“Goodnight, Kyle.” You rolled your eyes affectionately, following your friend down the stairs, laughter and music swallowing you once more.

Across the crowded room, Juhoon was still standing at the end of the hallway.

When your eyes met, he gave you a small wave that you returned with a smile before stepping outside, where your mother’s crossed arms, your father’s patient sigh, and the flashing notification on Juhoon’s phone waiting to be sent all promised that, somehow, the story wasn’t ending there after all.

─── LMAO REMEMBERING THIS WAS CRAZYYY even made me nostalgic at the thought of my friends, i miss them DOWN. Any grammatical mistakes will be corrected later!