roma★
almost home
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
trying on a metaphor
⁂
Today's Document
DEAR READER
Misplaced Lens Cap
Origami Around
Acquired Stardust
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
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Keni
Xuebing Du
titsay
blake kathryn
we're not kids anymore.
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@kpopdiva89
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1. Who was your very first K-pop bias, and are they still one of your favorites?
2. What was the first K-pop song that made you think, "Okay, I'm in this for real"?
3. Which group pulled you into becoming a multifan?
4. Who is your current ult bias, and what made them take that spot?
5. Which idol surprised you by becoming your bias when you least expected it?
6. If you could attend one concert you've missed, whose would it be?
7. What's one K-pop song you wish you could hear again for the first time?
8. Which comeback era had you absolutely obsessed?
9. What is your favorite K-pop music video of all time?
10. Which idol would you trust to survive an escape room with you?
11. Which idol would you absolutely not trust to survive an escape room with you?
12. What's a K-pop opinion you had as a new fan that completely changed over time?
13. Which group has your favorite discography overall?
14. What's your favorite K-pop choreography?
15. Which idol do you think has the most infectious laugh?
16. If you could swap lives with one idol for a day, who would it be?
17. What is the funniest K-pop variety show moment you've ever seen?
18. Which idol friendship makes you the happiest?
19. What K-pop lyric or quote has stayed with you the longest?
20. If you could ask any idol one question and be guaranteed an honest answer, who would it be and what would you ask?
21. Which idol had the biggest "I get the hype now" effect on you?
22. What's a B-side you believe deserves way more attention?
23. Which idol would you choose as your roommate?
24. Which idol gives off the strongest "older sibling" energy to you?
25. Which idol gives off the strongest "chaotic best friend" energy?
26. What is one K-pop-related purchase you absolutely don't regret?
27. Which comeback teaser had you the most stressed, excited, or emotional?
28. If you could create your dream K-pop collaboration, who would be involved?
29. What's something K-pop has introduced you to outside of music (friends, hobbies, travel goals, language learning, etc.)?
30. Looking back at your K-pop journey, what moment made you realize, "Yep… this is definitely not just a phase anymore"?
31. Which idol do you think would win a season of Survivor?
32. If your biases formed a group together, what concept would they have?
33. Which K-pop song would you use to introduce someone to the genre?
34. What's the most random reason you've ever started stanning someone?
35. If you could relive one K-pop memory, what would it be?
Schedules Clash
Part 11
The problem with falling into a routine with someone is that eventually you notice when the routine breaks.
For months now, talking to Hongjoong had become as natural as breathing.
Not scheduled.
Not expected.
Just there.
A message waiting when you woke up.
A voice memo sent from some studio at an unreasonable hour.
A photo of a notebook.
A random thought.
A joke.
A song.
Something.
Anything.
So when the messages started slowing down, you noticed immediately.
Even if you pretended you didn't.
—
It began the week ATEEZ started preparing for another major tour stretch.
Hongjoong warned you ahead of time.
Hongjoong
This month might be bad.
You were sitting in a studio lounge in Los Angeles when the message arrived.
Arden
Bad how?
A minute later:
Hongjoong
Everything at once.
That was enough explanation.
You understood.
Because your schedule looked almost identical.
Album meetings.
Recording sessions.
Press obligations.
Festival planning.
A charity performance in Chicago.
A writing retreat in Nashville.
Everything stacked on top of everything else.
Arden
We'll survive.
Three dots appeared.
Hongjoong
Hopefully.
—
At first, nothing changed.
Then everything did.
A missed call.
A delayed reply.
A conversation that ended halfway through because one of you got pulled into work.
Little things.
Manageable things.
Until suddenly they weren't little anymore.
—
You were in Nashville working on new material when you realized you hadn't actually spoken to Hongjoong in nearly four days.
Texted?
Yes.
Spoken?
No.
Four days.
Which shouldn't have mattered.
But somehow it did.
You sat on the porch of the writing cabin overlooking a lake, guitar balanced across your lap.
Your phone rested beside you.
Silent.
The screen lighting up only with work emails.
No messages.
No calls.
Nothing.
You hated how much you noticed.
—
That evening, your phone finally buzzed.
You grabbed it immediately.
Then immediately hated yourself for grabbing it immediately.
Hongjoong
Sorry.
You stared.
Arden
For?
The reply took ten minutes.
Which somehow made it worse.
Hongjoong
Everything.
Your chest tightened slightly.
You looked out across the dark water.
Then typed.
Arden
That's vague.
Three dots.
Hongjoong
I've slept maybe six hours in three days.
Your frustration vanished instantly.
Because of course it had.
Because that was the problem.
You understood him too well.
Arden
Hongjoong.
Hongjoong
I know.
Arden
No. I don't think you do.
You can't keep doing that.
Five minutes passed.
Hongjoong
I'm trying.
And somehow that was worse than an excuse.
Because it was honest.
—
The first real argument happened two days later.
Not explosive.
Not dramatic.
Just painful.
Which was somehow worse.
You had finally managed to get a video call scheduled.
A miracle considering both your calendars.
You were sitting cross-legged on a hotel bed in Chicago.
Hongjoong was in a rehearsal room somewhere in Seoul.
Both exhausted.
Both running on caffeine and stubbornness.
"You look terrible," you told him.
His eyes narrowed.
"You too."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Normally, that would've made you laugh.
Tonight it didn't.
The silence lingered.
Awkward.
Heavy.
Hongjoong noticed first.
"What's wrong?"
You looked away.
"Nothing."
"Arden."
You hated when he used that tone.
The one that saw through everything.
"You've been avoiding me."
His expression shifted immediately.
Not angry.
Hurt.
"I have not."
"You disappeared for four days."
"I told you I was busy."
"I know."
The words came out sharper than intended.
Hongjoong sat back slightly.
You immediately regretted it.
But not enough to take it back.
Because the truth was—
You were tired too.
Tired of airports.
Tired of interviews.
Tired of pretending distance wasn't hard.
Tired of missing someone you technically weren't even dating.
"You think I don't notice?" he asked quietly.
The anger drained out of you immediately.
Because he sounded exhausted.
Not defensive.
Exhausted.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
The silence returned.
Neither of you speaking.
Neither of you backing down.
Eventually Hongjoong rubbed a hand over his face.
When he looked back at the screen, he seemed older somehow.
More tired.
"I'm trying to be everything at once."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Leader.
Producer.
Performer.
Friend.
Maybe something more.
Always carrying something.
Always responsible for someone.
You knew that.
You knew it better than anyone.
Which made this conversation feel awful.
Because suddenly neither of you was wrong.
And neither of you was right.
—
You spoke again almost simultaneously.
"Sorry."
Both of you stopped.
Then laughed weakly.
The tension cracked slightly.
Not gone.
Just less sharp.
Hongjoong shook his head.
"I hate this."
"Me too."
A pause.
"I don't want every conversation to become about schedules."
Neither did you.
Because schedules weren't the actual issue.
The issue was simpler.
And scarier.
You missed him.
That's all.
You just missed him.
—
The realization settled heavily between you.
Unspoken.
Obvious.
Neither of you acknowledging it directly.
Hongjoong looked away from the camera briefly.
Then back.
"Come here."
You blinked.
"What?"
He pointed toward the screen.
"Closer."
Suspiciously, you leaned closer.
"So I can what? See your pores?"
"Arden."
You laughed despite yourself and moved closer.
The tension eased a little more.
Hongjoong smiled faintly.
"There."
"You're ridiculous."
"Maybe."
For the first time all evening, he looked relaxed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Enough to remind you why this mattered.
Why he mattered.
—
The call lasted another hour.
No arguing.
No schedule talk.
Just existing together.
Like before.
Like yourselves.
Eventually, a manager appeared in the background behind him.
Another obligation.
Another rehearsal.
Another thing demanding his attention.
Reality returning.
Hongjoong sighed.
You smiled sadly.
"Go."
"I know."
Neither of you moved.
Again.
Some habits never changed.
Finally he looked at you.
Softly.
Carefully.
"Don't disappear."
Your chest tightened.
"You either."
A pause.
"I'll call when I can."
Not a promise.
Not a guarantee.
Just the truth.
You appreciated that more.
"Okay."
His smile returned.
Small.
Tired.
Real.
Then the screen went dark.
And for the first time, both of you understood something neither had wanted to admit before:
Liking each other wasn't the difficult part.
Finding space for it was.
Previous B.Y.B.T.M. Next
Hearts Growing Bigger
When your child gets the hiccups and you softly tell them it’s just their heart growing to make room for more love.
Bangchan
Chan was in the middle of working.
Laptop open. Headphones hanging around his neck. Half-written lyrics glowing across the screen while soft rain tapped against the apartment windows.
And then—
“Hic!”
A tiny, offended sound came from the couch.
Chan glanced over immediately.
Your daughter sat bundled in her dinosaur blanket, blinking like she’d personally been betrayed by her own body.
“Hic!”
Her little hands slapped over her mouth dramatically.
Chan smiled. “You okay, princess?”
She frowned. “Daddy, make it stop.”
He stood instantly, already reaching for water before you gently stopped him with a touch to his wrist.
“I got it.”
Chan watched as you crouched in front of her, brushing tiny curls from her face.
“Hiccups just mean your heart’s growing bigger,” you told her softly. “So it can hold more love.”
Your daughter froze.
Chan froze.
“Huh?” she whispered.
You nodded seriously. “Every hiccup means more room for all the people you love.”
“Hic!”
Her eyes widened. “It’s growing again?”
“Mhm.”
Chan stared at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of the universe.
His expression softened so fast it physically hurt.
Your daughter suddenly grinned.
“That means I REALLY love mommy and daddy.”
Chan had to look away for a second.
Because something in his chest clenched painfully warm.
You always did this—turned ordinary little moments into something magical.
Later that night, after your daughter finally fell asleep hiccup-free against his shoulder, Chan quietly asked from the kitchen doorway,
“Where do you even come up with stuff like that?”
You shrugged. “Kids deserve soft explanations for things.”
Chan walked over slowly, gaze unbearably fond.
“No,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your waist. “I think they deserve you.”
And honestly?
He’d probably think about the hiccup thing for the next ten years.
Minho
Minho was absolutely not prepared for this conversation.
One second he was helping your son build a Lego tower.
The next—
“Hic!”
A tiny hiccup interrupted the intense architectural process.
Your son frowned immediately.
“Hic!”
Minho blinked at him. “Did your soul leave your body?”
“Minho.”
“What? That’s what it looks like.”
Your son gasped dramatically at the next hiccup, looking personally attacked.
You walked in carrying laundry, smiling instantly at the scene.
“Aww, baby got hiccups?”
“Hic!”
“Why?” your son asked miserably.
You sat beside him, smoothing his hair down.
“It means your heart’s getting bigger,” you explained. “Making more room for love.”
Silence.
Minho slowly looked up from the Lego piece in his hand.
“…What?”
Your son’s eyes turned round. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
“Hic!”
Minho watched your son suddenly sit there looking deeply emotional over hiccups.
And somehow…
Minho got emotional too.
He’d heard a million old wives’ tales growing up.
But that one?
That one was beautiful.
Your son looked down at his chest thoughtfully.
“My heart must be HUGE then.”
Minho snorted softly. “Your ego definitely is.”
“Minho.”
“Sorry.”
But he was smiling.
Actually smiling.
The soft kind he only really wore at home.
That night while brushing teeth side by side, your son hiccuped once more and proudly announced,
“More love.”
Minho had to grip the sink because he nearly cried over toothpaste and hiccups.
And later, while lying in bed beside you, he muttered quietly into the dark,
“You make everything gentler.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The way you explain things to him.” His voice was softer than usual. “I like it.”
Coming from Minho?
That was basically a full love confession.
Changbin
“Hic!”
Changbin immediately panicked.
“BABY ARE YOU OKAY?”
Your daughter blinked at him from her high chair.
“Hic!”
“Oh no.” He looked at you urgently. “Should we call someone?”
You stared at him.
“For hiccups?”
“You never know!”
Your daughter looked seconds away from tears because her father looked more distressed than she did.
You stepped in quickly, rubbing her tiny back.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Hiccups just mean your heart’s growing bigger.”
Changbin paused mid-panic.
“…What?”
“So it can hold more love.”
Your daughter’s watery eyes widened.
“For appa too?”
“Especially for appa.”
Changbin physically melted.
Like actually.
One hand slapped over his chest dramatically.
“Oh my god.”
Your daughter hiccuped again and Changbin immediately pointed at her proudly.
“SEE? SHE LOVES ME MORE NOW.”
You laughed. “That’s not exactly—”
“NO THIS IS SCIENCE.”
Your daughter giggled so hard she forgot to be upset.
And Changbin?
Done for.
Absolutely gone.
The rest of the evening he kept randomly staring at you with this dazed expression.
Finally you asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You’re seriously the warmest person alive.”
Then dramatically pulled your daughter into his chest.
“Our hearts are growing together.”
“Binnie,” you sighed.
“Hic!”
He gasped. “SHE AGREES.”
Hyunjin
Hyunjin reacted like you’d recited poetry.
Because honestly?
To him, you had.
Your daughter sat in his lap during movie night when the hiccups started.
Tiny little hiccups every few seconds.
She pouted immediately, clutching his hoodie.
“Daddy…”
Hyunjin rubbed her back carefully. “Does it hurt, angel?”
“Hic!”
Before he could start googling remedies, you leaned over from beside them.
“It just means your heart’s growing.”
Your daughter blinked.
Hyunjin blinked.
“To make room for more love,” you added gently.
The room went quiet.
Your daughter placed a tiny hand over her chest.
Hyunjin looked genuinely stunned.
Like something profound had just been revealed to him.
“That…” he whispered slowly. “Is the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
You laughed softly. “It’s just a little thing.”
“No.” He looked at you with complete sincerity. “No, it isn’t.”
Your daughter hiccuped again.
Hyunjin kissed the top of her head immediately.
“So much love in such a tiny body…”
“Hyunjin, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
He absolutely was.
Later he ended up painting while the two of you slept.
And when you woke up the next morning?
There was a sketchbook page on the table.
A drawing of your daughter holding her chest with tiny hearts blooming around her.
Written underneath in messy handwriting:
Your heart will always have room for love.
You nearly cried before breakfast.
Jisung
Jisung thought your son was dying.
“Hic!”
He whipped around from the kitchen so fast he nearly dropped the ramen bowl.
“Oh no.”
“Hic!”
“Oh NO.”
Your son looked startled. “Dad?”
Jisung crouched immediately. “Buddy, stay with me.”
You walked in just in time to see your husband acting like a medic in a war movie.
“What are you doing?”
“He has hiccups!”
“…Yes.”
“Hic!”
Jisung pointed dramatically. “See?!”
You sighed fondly before sitting beside your son.
“Hiccups just mean your heart’s growing bigger.”
Jisung went silent.
Your son blinked. “Why?”
“So it can hold more love.”
The room became weirdly emotional instantly.
Jisung’s face softened so fast.
“That’s…” He pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s actually insane.”
Your son hiccuped again and immediately smiled.
“My heart loves dad a lot then.”
Jisung made a wounded sound.
“Okay wow.”
You laughed as he collapsed sideways onto the couch dramatically.
“I can’t handle this family.”
Five minutes later your son hiccuped again and Jisung gasped loudly.
“MORE LOVE ACQUIRED.”
Your son burst into giggles.
And honestly?
Jisung repeated your explanation to literally everyone for weeks.
Staff.
Members.
Managers.
Random friends.
“Hiccups are your heart growing,” he’d say emotionally. “ISN’T THAT BEAUTIFUL?”
Felix
Felix nearly teared up immediately.
Your daughter sat on the kitchen counter hiccuping softly while Felix held a juice box for her with deep concern.
“Hic!”
“Oh bub…”
You walked over, rubbing her little shoulders.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Your heart’s just growing.”
Felix looked up instantly.
“Hm?”
“So it can make more room for love.”
Silence.
Your daughter smiled shyly.
Felix looked completely devastated in the softest way possible.
His eyes literally turned glossy.
“That’s…” He swallowed hard. “That’s so beautiful.”
You laughed quietly. “Lix, don’t cry over hiccups.”
“I’m emotional!”
Your daughter hiccuped again and Felix immediately kissed her forehead.
“You’ve got the biggest heart already, angel.”
“No,” she informed him seriously. “It’s getting BIGGER.”
Felix clutched his chest.
“Oh my god.”
The rest of the night he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
You’d find him randomly staring at your daughter with the softest expression imaginable.
Finally you nudged him. “You okay?”
He smiled slowly.
“I just think… if someone told little kids things like that more often, the world would be gentler.”
And that sentence alone nearly made you emotional.
Seungmin
Seungmin initially thought you were making things up.
Your son hiccuped halfway through dinner and frowned instantly.
“Hic!”
Seungmin handed him water automatically.
Then you casually said,
“It just means your heart’s growing.”
Seungmin looked over.
“…Excuse me?”
“To make more room for love.”
Your son stared at you in awe.
Seungmin stared at you like he was trying to figure out if you’d secretly become a children’s book author.
“Hic!”
Your son smiled immediately this time.
“My heart’s growing for mom and dad?”
You nodded.
And Seungmin—
Seungmin actually got quiet.
Which was rare.
Because he could joke through almost anything.
But the way your son looked suddenly comforted instead of scared?
That hit him hard.
“That’s…” He cleared his throat. “Actually really nice.”
You grinned knowingly. “You doubted me.”
“I still think you invented it.”
“I absolutely did.”
He barked out a laugh.
“I knew it.”
But later that evening, he overheard your son telling his stuffed bear,
“Don’t worry. Hiccups mean more love.”
And suddenly Seungmin understood exactly why you said things like that.
Because children remembered softness.
And maybe adults needed it too.
Jeongin
Jeongin was fascinated immediately.
Your son hiccuped twice while sitting beside him during bedtime story hour.
“Hic!”
Jeongin looked down. “Tiny man, what was that?”
“Hic!”
Your son looked offended.
You smiled from the doorway.
“His heart’s growing.”
Jeongin blinked slowly.
“…What?”
“So it can hold more love.”
Complete silence.
Your son touched his chest softly.
Jeongin looked genuinely mesmerized.
“That is…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Wait, that’s actually adorable.”
Your son hiccuped again.
Jeongin immediately smiled.
“Wow, your heart must be working overtime.”
Your son giggled.
And Jeongin?
He couldn’t stop smiling after that.
Even during bedtime story interruptions.
Even while getting kicked accidentally under the blanket.
Even when your son hiccuped six more times.
Because every single time—
Your son would whisper proudly,
“More love.”
And honestly?
Jeongin thought that might’ve been the sweetest thing he’d ever heard in his life.
Hearts Growing Bigger
When your child gets the hiccups and you softly tell them it’s just their heart growing to make room for more love.
Hongjoong
Hongjoong had been in the middle of helping your son color a dragon onto scrap lyric paper when the tiny hic! interrupted the room.
Then another.
Your son blinked in confusion, little hands pressing against his chest. “Appa… why my body jump?”
Hongjoong immediately switched into problem-solving mode, already reaching for water. “Maybe drink slowly—”
But you gently rubbed your son’s back first.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered. “That just means your heart is growing bigger so it can hold more love.”
Silence.
Hongjoong froze with the cup halfway in the air.
Your son gasped dramatically. “REALLY?”
“Mhm,” you nodded seriously. “You love so many people now your heart needs more room.”
The little boy accepted this instantly, sitting there proudly hiccuping like he’d just evolved into a higher life form.
Meanwhile Hongjoong looked completely wrecked.
“…Why is that the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard?”
You laughed softly, but he was staring at you with this dazed expression, eyes warm and shiny under the lamp light.
“No because—” he pointed weakly, “you just casually say things that permanently alter my brain chemistry.”
Your son hiccuped again.
Hongjoong clutched his chest dramatically. “Mine’s growing too now.”
Seonghwa
Your daughter hated hiccups.
Every single one offended her personally.
“Make it stop,” she whined tearfully from Seonghwa’s lap after her fourth hiccup.
Seonghwa was already panicking on her behalf. “Baby, breathe slowly—do you want water? Juice? Should Appa call someone?”
You crouched beside them, brushing her hair away from her cheeks.
“Honey,” you murmured, “hiccups happen when your heart grows bigger.”
She sniffled. “Why?”
“So more love can fit inside.”
Seonghwa went utterly still.
Your daughter blinked at you with watery eyes. “Really?”
“Mhm. And your heart grows fast because you love people so much.”
The next hiccup came.
Instead of crying, she placed both hands over her chest proudly.
Seonghwa made the softest broken noise beside you.
You looked over to find him staring at both of you like he’d just witnessed divine intervention.
“…You’re unreal,” he whispered.
“What?”
“The way you talk to her.” His eyes were impossibly soft. “You make everything gentle.”
Then he hugged both of you at once, holding your daughter close while quietly muttering:
“My girls are gonna kill me one day.”
Yunho
Yunho’s son treated hiccups like a comedy routine.
Every hic! sent him into louder giggles until he practically fell over.
Yunho was laughing too hard to help.
“Buddy, you sound like a squeaky toy!”
“HIC—APPA!”
You shook your head fondly before pulling your son into your lap.
“You know why hiccups happen?”
He immediately gasped. “Why?”
“Your heart is growing bigger so you can hold more love.”
The boy’s entire expression transformed into awe.
Yunho’s laughter stopped instantly.
“…Wait.”
Your son touched his chest carefully. “Because I love Appa?”
“And me,” you smiled.
“And grandma?”
“Mhm.”
“And dinosaurs?”
“Especially dinosaurs.”
Yunho looked genuinely emotional now, lips parted slightly as he stared at you.
“That’s…” He blinked. “That’s actually beautiful.”
You shrugged sheepishly. “My mom used to say it.”
Yunho looked at his son, then back at you with the most lovesick expression imaginable.
“I’m never recovering from hearing you say that.”
Then he pulled out his phone immediately.
“I need to write that down before I forget.”
Yeosang
Yeosang’s son got hiccups in the middle of bedtime stories.
“Hic!”
The little boy frowned deeply, offended by the interruption.
“Hic!”
Yeosang tried not to laugh while rubbing his back.
But before he could say anything, you kissed your son’s forehead softly.
“Looks like your heart’s getting bigger.”
Both father and son looked at you.
“So more love can fit inside,” you explained quietly.
The room went completely silent.
Your son accepted it immediately. “Oh.”
Then he laid back down peacefully like the mystery had been solved.
Yeosang, however, looked absolutely stunned.
He blinked at you once.
Twice.
“…You just made hiccups sound magical.”
You smiled. “Did I?”
“Yes.” His voice came out softer than intended. “How do you even think of things like that?”
You only shrugged while fixing the blanket around your son.
Yeosang watched you for a long moment after that.
Then quietly:
“Our kids are lucky you’re their mom.”
And judging by how pink his ears got afterward, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
San
San was dramatically devastated over your daughter’s hiccups.
“My baby is suffering,” he mourned while holding her against his chest.
Your daughter giggled between hiccups while you rolled your eyes affectionately.
“She’s fine.”
“Hic!”
San gasped like he’d been shot.
That’s when you leaned over and smoothed your daughter’s tiny curls down.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Your heart’s just growing bigger so more love can fit.”
San stopped breathing.
Your daughter blinked. “Really?”
“Mhm. That’s why kind people get hiccups.”
“Oh.” She looked very pleased with herself.
Meanwhile San looked seconds away from tears.
“You can’t just SAY things like that.”
You laughed. “Why not?”
“Because now I’m emotional!”
He buried his face into your shoulder dramatically while muttering:
“That’s the sweetest parenting sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Then your daughter hiccuped again and proudly announced:
“I HAVE BIG LOVE.”
San actually started crying laughing.
Mingi
Mingi had been trying every anti-hiccup trick known to mankind.
“Hold your breath.”
“Hic!”
“No wait—drink upside down.”
“Hic!”
“Okay maybe that only works in cartoons—”
You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe.
Finally you took your daughter into your arms and rubbed little circles onto her back.
“It’s okay, princess. Your heart’s just getting bigger.”
She blinked up at you. “Why?”
“To hold more love.”
Mingi went dead silent.
Your daughter smiled instantly. “For Appa?”
“And for everyone you love.”
Another hiccup.
She looked delighted now.
Mingi stared at you with his mouth slightly open.
“…I think I just fell in love with you again.”
You snorted. “Again?”
“Yeah because WHAT WAS THAT?”
He pointed at you dramatically.
“That was like… movie dialogue. Fairy tale mom dialogue.”
Then he hugged both you and your daughter so tightly she squeaked out a hiccup-laugh combination.
Mingi nearly combusted from cuteness.
Wooyoung
Wooyoung’s daughter was being incredibly dramatic about her hiccups.
“Appa I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“HIC—I’m tiny dying.”
You burst into laughter while Wooyoung clutched his chest from secondhand dramatics.
Then you crouched in front of her.
“Baby, hiccups just mean your heart’s growing bigger.”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“So it can hold more love.”
Wooyoung’s smile disappeared instantly.
Not because he disliked it.
Because he was completely stunned.
Your daughter sat there thoughtfully before nodding seriously.
“That make sense.”
“See?” you smiled.
Another hiccup interrupted her.
Wooyoung suddenly turned away, covering his face.
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You literally are.”
“I’m NOT.” His voice cracked horribly. “That was just really cute!”
He looked at you again with glistening eyes.
“How do you always know exactly what to say to her?”
Then quieter:
“I wanna remember every little thing you say forever.”
Jongho
Jongho’s son got hiccups while sitting on the kitchen counter helping bake cookies.
“Hic!”
The boy looked confused.
Jongho handed him water immediately. “Drink slowly.”
But you gently touched your son’s nose first.
“Your heart’s growing.”
The little boy blinked. “It is?”
“Mhm. It needs more room for all the people you love.”
Jongho stared at you so intensely you nearly laughed.
His son placed a hand over his chest carefully.
“I love lots.”
“I know,” you whispered.
The next hiccup came softer.
Jongho leaned against the counter quietly watching the two of you.
Then after a long pause:
“…You’d make every scary thing feel safe for him, wouldn’t you?”
The tenderness in his voice nearly melted you.
You reached for his hand.
But Jongho only shook his head in disbelief, smiling softly to himself.
“That explanation was ridiculously beautiful.” He squeezed your fingers gently. “I don’t think I’ll ever hear hiccups normally again.”
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First Visit
Part 10
You don’t talk about it much beforehand.
Not because it isn’t important.
Because if you did, it would start feeling too real too fast.
But when the message comes through from Hongjoong—simple, direct, uncharacteristically unfiltered—you stop pretending this is still just messages and late-night calls.
Hongjoong
I have 36 hours in New York next week.
You stare at the notification for a full minute.
Then reply.
Arden
That’s not a lot of hours..
Hongjoong
It’s enough.
That’s when it shifts.
Not dramatically.
Not with big declarations or emotional speeches.
Just quietly.
Like a door opening that neither of you mentions out loud.
—
When he arrives, it’s early evening in Manhattan.
Grey sky. Cold wind. The kind of weather that makes the city feel sharper around the edges.
You’re standing outside your studio building when the black car pulls up.
You don’t move immediately.
Because somehow your brain still hasn’t fully processed it.
This is different from video calls.
Different from voice notes.
Different from everything so far.
This is physical space.
Real distance collapsed into presence.
The door opens.
He steps out.
And for a second, neither of you says anything.
Hongjoong looks… tired.
But not just tired.
Travel tired.
Life tired.
And still, when he sees you, something in his expression shifts immediately.
Like he’s been holding tension for hours and forgot until this exact second.
“Hi,” he says.
Just that.
You exhale softly.
“Hi.”
A beat passes.
Then he smiles.
Smaller than you expected.
More real than you expected.
“I remember you taller in person,” you say automatically.
He blinks.
Then laughs.
“Is this your first impression?”
“It’s important data collection.”
“That’s not how people work.”
“That’s exactly how people work.”
He shakes his head, still smiling.
You notice then—really notice—that he’s carrying a small bag over one shoulder. No entourage in sight right now. No stage presence armor. Just him.
And it makes your chest feel weirdly tight.
“You made it,” you say softly.
“I said I would.”
“People say things.”
“I meant it.”
That lands quietly between you.
Then you step aside.
“Come on.”
—
Your studio feels different with him inside it.
Not because anything has changed.
Because he has.
He stands near your desk first, looking around slowly. Not touching anything. Just observing.
Not like a celebrity.
Like a producer.
Like someone mentally cataloguing sound, space, and possibility.
“This is very you,” he says finally.
You raise a brow.
“That sounds like an insult.”
“It’s not.”
You lean against the desk.
“I don’t know what that means.”
He glances at you briefly.
“Organized chaos.”
You snort.
“I’ll take it.”
Then he notices the notebook on your desk.
Doesn’t pick it up.
Just looks at it.
“That’s the song?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Then nod.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t push further.
Instead, he pulls out a chair.
Sits.
Like he belongs there.
Which is unsettling in a way you don’t know how to name yet.
“You’ve been working on it alone?” he asks.
“Mostly.”
“Play it.”
Your stomach tightens slightly.
“This is not a formal studio session.”
“I know.”
“You’re not judging it.”
“I know.”
“You’re very calm about this.”
“I trust you,” he says simply.
That stops you.
Completely.
Because it’s not said like pressure.
Not like expectation.
Like fact.
You swallow lightly.
Then pick up your guitar.
—
The room fills with your voice first.
Then melody.
Then the song you wrote across time zones and late-night calls and everything you refused to name properly.
He doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t move.
Doesn’t react loudly.
Just listens.
Properly listens.
And you realize halfway through that this might be the first time someone has heard this song exactly as you meant it.
Not as content.
Not as product.
As intention.
When you finish, the silence after feels heavier than before.
You set the guitar down slowly.
“…So?” you ask.
He exhales softly.
“It hurts,” he says.
You blink.
“That’s not—”
“That’s good,” he adds quickly.
He looks at you then.
Really looks at you.
“It hurts in the right places.”
Your throat tightens slightly.
“That’s a strange compliment.”
“It’s the only kind that matters.”
You laugh quietly despite yourself.
“Producers are weird.”
“We are efficient,” he corrects.
You shake your head.
Then sit down across from him.
“You flew across the world for this,” you say.
“I flew across the world for you,” he replies casually.
You freeze slightly.
He notices immediately.
And softens.
“I mean—” he starts.
But you cut him off gently.
“I know what you mean.”
Neither of you corrects it further.
Because there’s nothing to correct yet.
Just truth sitting between you.
Unlabeled.
Unfinished.
Real.
—
Later, you order takeout and eat sitting on the floor of your studio because neither of you felt like moving anywhere else.
You talk about music.
About tours.
About exhaustion.
About how strange it is to feel understood across continents.
At some point, he leans back against the couch, eyes half-lidded from travel fatigue.
“You should sleep,” you say quietly.
“So should you.”
“I live here.”
“You still don’t sleep.”
You roll your eyes.
“I resent your accuracy.”
He smiles faintly.
Then looks at you.
Longer than usual.
“You know,” he says slowly, “this is not what I expected.”
“What, New York?”
“You.”
That makes you pause.
“…That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not.”
A beat.
Then softer:
“It’s better.”
Your breath catches slightly.
You look down at your hands.
“Careful,” you murmur.
“About what?”
“Statements like that.”
A quiet laugh.
“I’ll try.”
Silence settles again.
Comfortable now.
Familiar in a way that should be impossible given how little time has actually passed.
Eventually, he checks his phone.
Time slipping away.
“I have to go soon,” he says.
Your stomach dips slightly.
“Already?”
“36 hours was generous,” he reminds you.
You nod slowly.
“Right.”
Neither of you moves immediately.
Then he stands.
You follow.
At the door, he pauses.
Looks at you.
Not rushed.
Not distracted.
Just present.
“Arden.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t overthink it,” he says softly.
You huff a quiet laugh.
“That’s literally impossible.”
“I know.”
“But try anyway.”
You smile slightly.
“Okay.”
He nods once.
Then leaves.
And when the door closes behind him, the studio feels quieter again.
But not empty.
Not anymore.
Because something has officially crossed over now.
And neither of you is pretending otherwise.
Previous B.Y.B.T.M. Next
Campfire Catastrophes
The group chat had started with one message.
Bang Chan: camping trip???
That was it. No context. No planning. No logic behind it.
And somehow, forty-five minutes later, eight grown men and you were standing in the parking lot of a sporting goods store staring at camping equipment like it had personally insulted you.
“You know,” you said slowly, eyeing the towering wall of survival gear, “normal people research things before deciding to disappear into the woods.”
“We did research,” Chan argued.
“You watched one twenty-minute YouTube video called Top Ten Camping Hacks.”
Felix gasped. “It had five million views.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
Jisung pushed a shopping cart dramatically toward the automatic doors. “Adventure awaits.”
“Disaster awaits,” you corrected.
“Same thing,” Hyunjin said.
And honestly, that should’ve been your warning to turn around immediately.
But unfortunately, you loved them.
Which was why you were now watching Minho aggressively poke a display tent with visible distrust.
“This thing looks flimsy.”
“It’s a tent,” Seungmin said. “What did you expect? Reinforced concrete?”
Minho narrowed his eyes. “I expect protection from bears.”
“There are no bears here,” Jeongin said.
“How do you know?”
“Because we’re camping two hours outside Seoul, not in the Canadian wilderness.”
Changbin had already wandered off and returned carrying enough instant ramen to feed a small nation.
“I have secured dinner.”
“You secured sodium poisoning,” Seungmin replied.
Meanwhile, Felix and Jisung were arguing over marshmallows.
“Mini marshmallows are superior,” Felix insisted.
“No, giant marshmallows are funnier.”
“For what reason?”
Jisung held one up thoughtfully. “Weaponry.”
You rubbed your face tiredly.
“This trip hasn’t even started and I already want to go home.”
Chan slung an arm around your shoulders with infuriating optimism. “That’s the spirit.”
—
Three hours later, you arrived at the campsite.
Well.
“Campsite” was generous.
It was more like a slightly flatter section of forest with a bathroom building somewhere in the distance and a suspicious amount of bugs.
The second everyone stepped out of the vans, chaos immediately began.
“Why is the ground uneven?” Hyunjin complained.
“It’s nature,” Seungmin said.
“Nobody told nature to do this.”
Changbin dramatically slapped at a mosquito. “I’m being hunted.”
“You’ve been outside for six seconds,” you said.
“I’m delicious to insects.”
Minho grabbed two bags and looked around unimpressed. “Which one of you actually knows how to set up a tent?”
Silence.
Then all seven heads slowly turned toward Chan.
Chan blinked. “Why are you looking at me?”
“You’re the leader,” Hyunjin said.
“That means absolutely nothing in the wilderness.”
“You watched the video,” Jisung added.
“I watched part of the video.”
You stared at him.
“…How much of the video?”
Chan avoided eye contact.
Felix looked horrified. “You didn’t finish it?”
“I got distracted!”
“With what?”
“…Another camping video.”
Seungmin let out a long sigh that sounded deeply spiritual.
“This is how we die.”
—
Setting up the tents became a group exercise in mutual suffering.
Nobody understood the instructions.
Nobody agreed on anything.
And somehow every pole looked identical but fit nowhere.
“I think this part bends,” Felix said.
“It’s not supposed to bend like that,” you replied.
Too late.
The pole snapped loudly in half.
Everyone froze.
Felix stared at it in betrayal. “Oh.”
Jisung collapsed onto the grass laughing so hard he nearly rolled downhill.
“You broke the house!”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO.”
Changbin pointed accusingly. “Now wolves will get us.”
“There are STILL no wolves,” Jeongin said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do.”
Meanwhile, Chan and Hyunjin were trying to hammer stakes into the ground with a rock because nobody had packed a mallet.
“This feels incorrect,” Hyunjin muttered.
“It’s innovative,” Chan argued.
“It’s stupid.”
“That too.”
You turned just in time to see Minho silently take the tent instructions from Jisung, glance at them once, and immediately start fixing everyone’s mistakes with the expression of a deeply disappointed father.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He understands camping.”
Seungmin looked equally stunned. “That’s terrifying.”
“I had outdoor training in middle school,” Minho said without looking up.
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“Watching all of you struggle was entertaining.”
“That’s actually evil.”
“Thank you.”
After another hour of suffering, the tents finally stood.
Crookedly.
Questionably.
But they stood.
Jisung looked at the nearest tent proudly. “We built shelter with our own hands.”
“The poles are visibly leaning,” you pointed out.
“It has character.”
“It has structural instability.”
Felix carefully pushed one side.
The entire tent folded in on itself instantly.
A moment of silence.
Then Jeongin quietly said, “I think the tent died.”
—
Dinner preparations somehow went even worse.
“Who packed the cooking equipment?” Chan asked.
Another silence.
Slowly, everyone looked at everyone else.
“No one packed the cooking equipment,” Seungmin realized.
Changbin looked devastated. “Then how do we make ramen?”
Jisung held up disposable chopsticks. “Violence?”
You sat on a cooler and laughed into your hands because at this point it was either laugh or cry.
“How are you all functioning adults?”
“We have managers,” Hyunjin answered immediately.
“That explains so much.”
Eventually, after digging through every bag, Felix triumphantly found a portable burner shoved beneath six packs of snacks.
“We’re saved!”
“Do we have gas for it?” Seungmin asked.
Felix paused.
“…Potentially.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“Nope.”
Chan checked the canister and nearly collapsed with relief. “It’s full.”
Everyone cheered like he’d personally hunted dinner himself.
The ramen process still became a disaster.
Jisung added too much water.
Changbin added too much seasoning.
Hyunjin somehow dropped an entire packet of noodles into the dirt.
“It’s seasoned now,” he said weakly.
“You cannot eat forest noodles,” you told him.
“Watch me.”
Minho physically took the pot away before Hyunjin could commit to the bit.
Eventually, though, everyone ended up sitting around the fire with steaming cups of ramen and slightly burned sausages.
And honestly?
It felt kind of perfect.
The forest had gone dark around you, filled with the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. The fire crackled softly, painting warm orange light across tired faces.
For once, nobody was rushing anywhere.
No schedules.
No cameras.
No rehearsals.
Just all of you existing together.
Felix leaned against your shoulder with a happy sigh. “This is nice.”
“You said that three mosquito bites ago.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Changbin was still eating like he hadn’t seen food in weeks.
Jisung kept throwing tiny sticks into the fire purely for dramatic effect.
Jeongin sat bundled in two hoodies despite insisting earlier he “wasn’t cold.”
And Chan looked weirdly emotional staring at everyone.
You noticed immediately.
“You’re having leader feelings again, aren’t you?”
He looked offended. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re looking at us like we’re a found family montage.”
“…Maybe a little.”
Seungmin snorted. “He’s one acoustic guitar away from crying.”
“I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Felix corrected gently.
Chan sighed.
“…Unfortunately.”
—
The peace lasted approximately twelve minutes.
Then Jisung screamed.
Everyone jumped violently.
“What?!” you shouted.
“There’s something in the trees!”
Changbin nearly dropped his ramen. “A BEAR?”
“THERE ARE NO BEARS!” Jeongin yelled automatically.
The bushes rustled again.
Felix clung to your arm.
Hyunjin grabbed Chan like a human shield.
Chan looked deeply betrayed. “Why am I in front?”
“Leadership.”
The rustling got louder.
Everyone collectively stopped breathing.
A tiny cat wandered out of the bushes.
Silence.
The cat stared at the nine of you with complete indifference.
Jisung looked emotional. “Forest spirit.”
“It’s literally just a cat,” Seungmin said.
Felix was already crouching down making baby voices.
“Hi sweetheart! Hi tiny angel!”
The cat ignored him entirely and walked straight toward Minho.
Of course it did.
Minho looked smug immediately. “It recognizes kindness.”
“It recognizes cat food residue,” Hyunjin said.
Within minutes the cat had fully adopted your campsite.
It sat beside Minho near the fire while everyone argued over names.
“We should call it Ramen,” Changbin suggested.
“That’s horrible,” Seungmin said.
“What about Campfire?”
“That’s worse.”
“Tiny Christopher,” Jisung offered.
Chan looked alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
You ended up calling the cat Marshmallow because Felix insisted it was “soft and emotionally round.”
Nobody knew what that meant.
But somehow it stuck.
—
Sleeping arrangements became another war.
“I’m not sharing with Jisung,” Seungmin declared immediately.
Jisung gasped dramatically. “You wound me.”
“You kick people in your sleep.”
“I move artistically.”
“You elbowed me off a bed once.”
“Growth requires sacrifice.”
The final arrangement somehow ended with you, Felix, and Jeongin sharing one tent while Chan got trapped mediating arguments in another.
From outside, you could still hear chaos.
“STOP STEALING THE BLANKET.”
“I’M COLD.”
“THAT’S NOT MY PROBLEM.”
“WHY ARE YOUR FEET SO FREEZING?”
“You’re all being dramatic,” Minho’s voice said calmly.
“You threatened Jisung with a flashlight five minutes ago!”
“He deserved it.”
You snorted into your sleeping bag.
Jeongin looked exhausted already. “We should’ve booked a hotel.”
Felix whispered, “But then we wouldn’t have character development.”
“That sentence means nothing.”
“Emotionally, though?”
You laughed quietly.
Outside, the fire had died down to glowing embers.
The forest had settled into stillness.
And despite the disaster of the entire day, warmth spread softly through your chest.
Because somehow this—
The yelling.
The terrible planning.
The broken tents.
The near starvation.
The absolute incompetence—
Was still one of the happiest days you’d had in a while.
Then Jisung screamed again from the neighboring tent.
“THERE’S SOMETHING TOUCHING MY LEG.”
A pause.
Then Seungmin’s exhausted voice:
“That’s literally my arm.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“…Why is it damp?”
“GET OUT.”
You buried your face in your sleeping bag laughing while Felix nearly suffocated trying not to scream with laughter beside you.
From outside came Chan’s tired voice:
“I’m never taking you people camping again.”
And immediately eight voices answered at once.
“Yes you are.”
Wherever She Lands
Being ATEEZ's manager was exhausting under normal circumstances.
Being ATEEZ's manager while suffering from mononucleosis?
That was a special kind of nightmare.
The fatigue wasn't normal tiredness.
It wasn't the kind that disappeared after a good night's sleep.
It was bone-deep.
The kind that made your body feel weighted down with concrete.
The kind that turned simply standing into a challenge.
The kind that made your eyes close before your brain even realized what was happening.
Unfortunately, your job didn't exactly allow for bed rest.
Schedules still existed.
Interviews still happened.
Music shows still needed managers.
And despite your doctor practically begging you to take time off, you'd stubbornly insisted you could handle it.
The members disagreed.
Strongly.
The first time they found you asleep somewhere ridiculous was at KQ.
You'd been answering emails while sitting on the floor outside a practice room.
One moment you were typing.
The next—
"You think manager-nim is ignoring us?"
"Probably."
"She's looking right at her phone."
"Manager-nim?"
Silence.
"Manager-nim?"
"..."
"..."
"..."
"She's sleeping."
All eight members stared.
You were sitting upright against the wall.
Phone still in hand.
Head tilted awkwardly.
Completely unconscious.
Wooyoung blinked.
"That's terrifying."
San crouched beside you.
"How does someone fall asleep sitting?"
Mingi nodded.
"That's actually impressive."
Hongjoong's expression immediately tightened.
"How long has she been sleeping?"
Nobody knew.
Yeosang gently removed the phone from your hand.
You didn't even wake up.
That was when they started worrying.
The second time happened in a van.
You were supposed to be giving them the day's schedule.
Instead, halfway through reading it—
"And then after the radio appearance we have—"
Silence.
"..."
"..."
"..."
Seonghwa looked over.
Your head had fallen forward.
You were asleep.
Mid-sentence.
Jongho sighed.
"Again."
"How does she keep doing that?"
"Maybe she's a robot with low battery."
"You can't say that while she's dying."
"I'm not dying," you mumbled without opening your eyes.
The members jumped.
"You were awake?"
"No."
"You literally answered."
"I'm sleeping."
Then you immediately fell back asleep.
The van exploded into laughter.
The third time was genuinely concerning.
It was nearly midnight.
Practice had ended.
Everyone was exhausted.
Hongjoong was the last one leaving.
He almost missed the small figure curled beneath a table in a meeting room.
"..."
He blinked.
Walked closer.
"...Manager?"
No response.
You were asleep.
Under a table.
Using a stack of schedule binders as a pillow.
Hongjoong stared.
Then immediately pulled out his phone.
Emergency group chat.
Hongjoong: Found manager.
Wooyoung: Where?
Hongjoong: Under a table.
San: WHAT?
Mingi: Is she alive?
Hongjoong: Unfortunately.
Five minutes later eight men stood around the table.
Looking down at you.
You remained asleep.
Yeosang sighed.
"Poor thing."
Seonghwa carefully draped his hoodie over you.
Jongho checked your temperature.
Wooyoung crouched down.
"Manager-nim."
Nothing.
"Manager."
Nothing.
"Free chicken."
Your eyes opened instantly.
The room erupted.
"NO WAY!"
"SHE'S AWAKE!"
"THAT WORKED!"
You immediately closed your eyes again.
"Five more minutes."
After that, they began keeping track.
Not intentionally.
It just became impossible not to.
Because they found you asleep everywhere.
On couches.
In waiting rooms.
Against walls.
In makeup chairs.
At desks.
On the floor.
Once inside a storage closet.
Nobody ever figured out why you'd gone in there.
Not even you.
The members adapted.
Especially Seonghwa.
Seonghwa became your unofficial caretaker.
If he noticed you slowing down, he'd quietly hand you water.
If he saw dark circles under your eyes, he'd make sure you ate.
If you looked dizzy, he'd immediately appear beside you.
Sometimes it felt like he had a sixth sense.
One afternoon you nearly dropped a stack of paperwork after standing up too quickly.
A hand caught the papers.
Another steadied your shoulder.
Seonghwa.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
"You almost fell."
"I'm okay."
"You say that every time."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"I am a little dizzy."
"Thought so."
Hongjoong became the responsible one.
Which wasn't surprising.
If schedules ended early, he'd force you to leave.
If staff meetings ran long, he'd tell everyone you needed rest.
If he caught you working during breaks—
"Go sleep."
"I'm busy."
"Go sleep."
"I have work."
"Go sleep."
"..."
"That's not a suggestion."
Yeosang started carrying snacks.
Not for himself.
For you.
You'd never notice until suddenly a granola bar appeared in your hand.
Or a juice box.
Or fruit.
One day you looked down.
"Yeosang."
"Yes?"
"Did you put a banana in my bag?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
"You forgot breakfast."
Yunho became transportation.
Whenever he spotted you trying to carry something heavy—
"No."
"I can do it."
"No."
"Yunho—"
"No."
The item would immediately disappear into his hands.
You never won.
Not once.
Mingi worried constantly.
He tried not to show it.
Failed miserably.
"Did you sleep?"
"Yes."
"How many hours?"
"Enough."
"That wasn't a number."
"It was enough."
"Manager-nim."
"Mingi."
"Manager-nim."
"...seven."
"Okay."
"Happy?"
"No."
San became aggressively affectionate.
Which was dangerous.
Because mono made you cold all the time.
And San discovered this.
One filming day he found you shivering.
Five minutes later he appeared with three blankets.
Three.
"San."
"You looked cold."
"I only need one."
"You have three."
"Why?"
"In case one gets lonely."
Wooyoung took a different approach.
Annoyance.
Not real annoyance.
Protective annoyance.
The kind that came from caring too much.
One day he caught you carrying equipment.
He looked horrified.
"What are you doing?"
"Working."
"Put that down."
"No."
"You're literally sick."
"I'll survive."
"You fell asleep in a chair yesterday."
"I was resting."
"You were snoring."
"I don't snore."
"You absolutely snore."
Jongho became the practical one.
He researched.
Constantly.
"What symptoms today?"
"Jongho."
"What symptoms?"
"I'm fine."
"Rate your fatigue."
"You sound like a doctor."
"Answer the question."
Then there was the incident.
The one that finally convinced everyone you were pushing yourself too hard.
ATEEZ had a long filming day.
Everyone was tired.
Everyone wanted to go home.
You'd spent the entire day running around handling staff issues.
By midnight you could barely keep your eyes open.
Still, you kept going.
Because that's what managers did.
At least until Seonghwa noticed you hadn't spoken in twenty minutes.
That wasn't normal.
You always spoke.
Constantly.
Schedules.
Reminders.
Updates.
Warnings.
The silence worried him.
He found you backstage.
Curled up on a pile of jackets.
Fast asleep.
Phone still in your hand.
Dark circles under your eyes.
Face pale.
Looking utterly exhausted.
Seonghwa's heart dropped.
The others gathered quickly.
Nobody joked this time.
Nobody laughed.
Because suddenly you looked less funny and more sick.
Really sick.
Hongjoong sighed.
"She's getting worse."
Nobody argued.
Because they all knew he was right.
You woke up to voices.
Soft ones.
Concerned ones.
"...she needs rest."
"...doctor said recovery takes time."
"...she never listens."
You slowly opened your eyes.
Eight worried faces immediately turned toward you.
"Oh."
"She's awake."
"Hi."
"Good morning."
"It's two in the morning."
You groaned.
Everyone smiled.
Because at least you were awake.
Then Hongjoong crouched beside you.
"Manager."
You immediately knew that tone.
Dangerous.
Leader tone.
The one nobody argued with.
"Yes?"
"You're taking tomorrow off."
"No."
"That wasn't a question."
"We have schedules."
"We have other managers."
"But—"
"No."
"Joong—"
"No."
"Captain."
"No."
The members looked delighted.
You looked betrayed.
The next morning you discovered they'd been serious.
Your work phone was gone.
Your schedule was covered.
Your apartment fridge had somehow been stocked.
There were meals.
Medicine.
Sports drinks.
Fruit.
Notes.
So many notes.
One from each member.
Please rest.
Stop working.
We mean it.
Sleep.
Seriously sleep.
That's an order.
Please.
We'll be okay.
Don't make us kidnap you.
You laughed so hard you nearly cried.
Three days later you returned.
Feeling slightly better.
Still tired.
But better.
When you walked into the company building, everyone immediately noticed.
ATEEZ most of all.
"There she is."
"Alive."
"Finally."
"Did you rest?"
"A little."
"A little?"
"Okay, a lot."
"Good."
For once, nobody looked worried.
Just relieved.
The sleeping didn't stop completely.
Mono wasn't magical.
Recovery was slow.
But now whenever they found you asleep somewhere ridiculous—
A couch.
A chair.
A waiting room.
A practice room floor.
Someone would quietly place a blanket over you.
Someone would leave water nearby.
Someone would make sure nobody disturbed you.
Because by then everyone knew.
Their manager worked harder than anyone.
She took care of all eight of them every single day.
The least they could do—
Was take care of her too.
And if that meant letting her nap in increasingly bizarre locations?
Well.
That was just part of the job.
Even if finding your manager asleep inside an empty equipment case remained one of the most confusing moments of their careers.
To this day, nobody knows how you got in there.
Not even you.
I read the post about the crush. Thank you for writing it. I really enjoyed it 🥹
Your welcome. Glad you enjoyed it ❤️
Late Night Video Calls
Part 9
You learn quickly that silence is the easiest thing to misread.
Especially when you’re watching a blinking cursor at 2:43 AM in New York and wondering if someone on the other side of the world is thinking the same thing.
Most nights, you tell yourself not to check your phone.
Most nights, you fail.
And most nights, there’s something waiting anyway.
A message.
A voice memo.
A small reminder that Kim Hongjoong exists in a different time zone, but somehow not a different orbit.
Tonight, it’s a call.
No warning.
Just your screen lighting up with his name.
Hongjoong
You stare at it for half a second.
Then answer.
“Hi.”
There’s a pause before his voice comes through.
Soft.
Tired.
“Arden.”
You sit up a little straighter on your couch.
“You sound like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t.”
“Shocking.”
A faint laugh.
Behind him, you hear quiet studio noise. Something clicking. Someone speaking in Korean off-screen. The distant hum of work that never fully stops.
“You’re in rehearsal?” you ask.
“Yes,” he says. “We finished. I stayed behind.”
“Of course you did.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s objectively a bad thing.”
He hums like he’s considering this.
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
That lands differently than it should.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just direct.
You lean back into your couch, suddenly very aware of the quiet in your apartment.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re being weird tonight.”
“I am always normal.”
“That’s a lie.”
A small pause.
Then he laughs properly this time.
The kind that feels like it loosens something in your chest without permission.
“You saw the videos?” he asks after a beat.
Of course he knows.
You sigh.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” you say. “The internet is doing what it does. Overthinking our existence.”
“Our existence,” he repeats slowly.
You groan softly.
“Don’t repeat it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it means something.”
A pause.
Long enough that you almost think he’ll let it drop.
“Does it?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your phone.
There it is.
The line you keep walking without meaning to.
You stare at the ceiling for a second.
Then answer honestly.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
But not uncomfortable.
Just present.
You can hear him breathing on the other end. Can almost picture him sitting somewhere dimly lit, hair slightly messy, eyes too focused for this hour.
“I didn’t plan for any of this,” he says quietly.
“Neither did I.”
Another pause.
“But I don’t want it to stop.”
Your stomach flips slightly at that.
Not because it’s dramatic.
Because it’s simple.
And honesty, from him, always feels heavier than anything rehearsed.
You sit up again, elbows resting on your knees.
“Hongjoong,” you say carefully.
“Mm?”
“This is how people get into trouble.”
A faint laugh.
“We are already in trouble.”
You exhale through your nose.
He’s not wrong.
The internet already proved that much.
Still—
“This is fast,” you say.
“I know.”
“And complicated.”
“I know that too.”
A beat.
Then you ask the only thing that actually matters right now:
“Are you okay with that?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
Behind him, someone calls his name again.
He ignores it.
Then, finally:
“Yes.”
Simple.
Certain.
No hesitation.
Your breath catches slightly anyway.
Because you expected uncertainty.
Not that.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Then his voice softens.
“Are you?”
You let yourself think about it properly.
Not the headlines.
Not the videos.
Not the distance.
Just him.
His voice at 3 AM.
His focus when he talks about music.
The way he listens like he’s building something in his head out of your words.
“Yes,” you say finally. “I think I am.”
A quiet exhale on his end.
Like relief.
Like tension he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Good,” he says.
“Can I show you something?”
You blink.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in rehearsal.”
“I’m done.”
You hear movement on his end. Chairs shifting. A door closing. The background noise fading as he steps somewhere quieter.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “What is it?”
There’s a rustle.
Then music starts.
Faint at first.
Then clearer.
A rough demo.
You sit up immediately.
“Is this—”
“My group’s next track,” he interrupts quickly.
You freeze slightly.
“Oh.”
“I wanted your opinion,” he adds.
Your chest tightens at that.
Not because it’s secret.
But because it’s trust.
Real trust.
“I’m not qualified for that,” you say automatically.
“You are,” he replies instantly.
No hesitation.
You listen anyway.
The track builds.
Layered production.
Sharp edges softened by melody.
And underneath it all—his fingerprints. His structure. His instinct.
You don’t even realize you’re nodding slightly until it ends.
When it stops, you sit in silence for a moment.
Then:
“Okay,” you say quietly.
“Okay good or okay bad?” he asks immediately.
You smile.
“Okay dangerous.”
A pause.
Then he laughs under his breath.
“I’ll take it.”
“You always should.”
Silence again settles between you.
Comfortable.
Familiar now in a way that feels slightly alarming.
“I saw your studio photos earlier,” you say after a while.
“My studio photos?”
“Fans posted them.”
A small groan.
“Ah.”
“You looked stressed.”
“I was.”
“You always look stressed.”
“I am always stressed.”
“That tracks.”
He laughs again softly.
Then quieter:
“You should be asleep.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“I’m working.”
“So am I.”
Then, almost gently:
“You’re not writing right now.”
You go still.
“…How do you know?”
A faint hum.
“I can hear it in your voice.”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.
“That’s not a real skill.”
“It is.”
You shift on the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs.
“I was thinking,” you admit.
“About?”
You hesitate.
Then decide honesty is safer than avoidance.
“Everything.”
“Me too.”
That makes something quiet settle between you.
Not heavy.
Not light.
Just… real.
You don’t know how long you stay on the call after that.
Long enough that the conversation stops needing structure.
Short answers.
Soft laughter.
Occasional silence that doesn’t feel like absence.
Eventually, he speaks again.
“Arden.”
“Yeah?”
“Text me when you actually sleep.”
You smile faintly into the dim light of your apartment.
“I don’t sleep,” you say automatically.
“I know,” he replies.
Then, softer:
“But try.”
A pause.
You answer honestly.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
Neither of you hangs up immediately.
Because now that feels normal too.
And somewhere between New York night and Seoul morning, the distance stops feeling like space.
And starts feeling like something you’re both learning to cross anyway.
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The One Time You Yelled
Being Stray Kids’s unofficial older sister was exhausting in the way babysitting eight overgrown, famous toddlers was exhausting.
Especially when one of those toddlers was your actual little brother.
“Binnie, that is not how you cut an onion.”
“I’m literally doing it right,” Changbin argued from the kitchen.
“You’re holding the knife upside down.”
Minho deadpanned
“…Oh.”
You sighed from your spot on the couch, not even looking up from your laptop. “Thank you for proving my point.”
Around you, chaos unfolded in its usual comfortable rhythm. BangChan and Jisung were arguing over music at approximately the same volume as a jet engine. Jeongin had somehow convinced Felix to help him hide every single spoon in the dorm. Hyunjin was dramatically mourning the death of a plant nobody remembered buying. Seungmin was sitting next to you trying not to get involved.
And you?
You were used to it.
For years, actually.
You’d known most of them since they were awkward trainees surviving on convenience store ramen and determination. Somewhere along the line, you’d become the person they called when they were sick, stressed, homesick, overwhelmed, or incapable of doing basic adult tasks.
Which was constantly.
“You’re making that face again,” Chan said, dropping onto the couch beside you.
“What face?”
“The ‘I regret caring about you people’ face.”
“I always regret caring about you people.”
He grinned. “But you still do.”
Unfortunately, yes.
You did.
That was probably why they got away with so much.
Because no matter how annoying they became, you were patient. Calm. Reasonable. The stable adult in the middle of the hurricane.
Even the members admitted it.
“She’s impossible to make angry,” Felix once said confidently during a livestream.
You’d snorted from behind the camera. “Please don’t test that theory.”
“Seriously,” Hyunjin added. “I’ve never seen noona actually mad.”
Changbin had nodded. “She gets annoyed. That’s different.”
“Exactly,” Chan said. “Like… disappointed mom energy.”
You’d threatened to leave the room after that.
But secretly, they were right.
You didn’t yell.
You rarely even snapped.
Because someone had to be emotionally functional around here.
Which was why absolutely nobody noticed you reaching your limit.
Not at first.
It started with little things.
“Who used my charger?”
Silence.
You looked around the living room slowly.
Eight suspiciously innocent faces stared back.
“Guys.”
“I think it disappeared naturally,” Jisung said.
“You think my charger underwent evolution and walked away?”
“That’s scientifically possible.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Then your hoodie vanished.
Then your headphones.
Then someone drank the iced coffee you’d specifically labeled with your name and three warning stickers.
You found the empty cup in Minho’s hand.
“I was thirsty,” he said simply.
“You could’ve ordered your own.”
“I could’ve,” he agreed.
You narrowed your eyes.
He smiled.
You should’ve recognized the danger then.
But the problem with living among chaos for too long was that your standards adjusted accordingly.
So when they started a prank war, you assumed it would burn itself out naturally.
That was your first mistake.
“It was funny,” Felix insisted after Chan opened his bedroom door and got hit in the face with confetti.
“It got in my eye!”
“You’ll survive.”
Then Hyunjin wrapped Changbin’s entire gaming setup in pink ribbon.
Then Jisung replaced all the family photos with pictures of bread.
Then Minho filled Chan’s room with rubber ducks.
It escalated rapidly.
Because of course it did.
You tried staying out of it.
“I’m neutral,” you declared firmly.
“Coward,” Changbin accused.
“Emotionally intelligent,” you corrected.
“You’re no fun.”
“I pay taxes and schedule my own doctor appointments. Fun left my body years ago.”
Unfortunately, neutrality meant you became a target.
The first prank was harmless.
You opened your bedroom door one morning to find hundreds of sticky notes covering every visible surface.
Cute.
Annoying.
But cute.
The second prank involved Jisung setting your ringtone to a recording of Changbin screaming.
You nearly threw your phone into traffic.
The third prank—
“Why,” you asked slowly, staring at the kitchen, “is everything blue?”
Felix looked delighted with himself.
“Food coloring.”
“The milk is blue.”
“Yep.”
“The rice is blue.”
“Yep.”
“The water in the Brita filter is blue.”
“That one took effort.”
You closed your eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Okay,” you said calmly. “That’s enough now.”
“Aww, noona’s annoyed,” Hyunjin cooed.
“I’m not annoyed. I’m concerned.”
“About what?”
“About your survival instincts.”
Changbin cackled loudly from the couch.
Traitor.
Still, they backed off for a little while after that.
For approximately thirty-six hours.
Then schedules got stressful.
Everyone got sleep deprived.
The dorm became progressively messier.
And somehow, despite being neither their manager nor their maid, you ended up cleaning after eight exhausted men who had apparently forgotten trash cans existed.
Again.
You didn’t complain.
Much.
But little frustrations started piling up.
Like stepping on wet towels.
Or finding dishes in places dishes should never be.
Or discovering someone had eaten the leftovers you’d been thinking about all day.
You came home one evening after a brutal workday to find the living room looking like a tornado had personally visited.
Clothes everywhere.
Takeout containers stacked on the table.
Three open bags of chips spilled across the couch.
And in the middle of it all—
Jisung and Hyunjin sword fighting with cardboard tubes.
You stood in the doorway silently.
Nobody noticed.
“I’m winning,” Hyunjin declared.
“You’re literally losing.”
“Artistically, I’m winning.”
You slowly set your bag down.
Still nobody noticed.
Then Changbin walked in from the kitchen holding your mug.
Your mug.
The one you explicitly told them not to touch because it had been a gift from your mother.
“Oh, hey,” he said casually.
And then—
He dropped it.
The ceramic shattered against the floor.
Silence.
Every head turned.
Changbin froze.
You stared at the broken pieces.
Honestly, if that had been the only thing? You probably would’ve brushed it off.
But exhaustion, stress, and weeks of accumulated irritation finally snapped like a stretched rubber band.
“What,” you said quietly, “is wrong with all of you?”
The room went still.
Not playful still.
Terrified still.
Your voice wasn’t loud yet.
That somehow made it worse.
“I clean this place constantly. I replace things you lose. I cook for you. I help you. I listen to every problem you have at three in the morning—”
“Noona—”
“No,” you cut in sharply.
Changbin immediately shut up.
That alone startled everyone.
“I ask for ONE thing. Basic respect. That’s it.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
You pointed at the disaster surrounding you.
“This is ridiculous. You’re adults. Famous adults, actually. And somehow not one of you knows how to throw away garbage or wash a dish or leave my things alone for five minutes.”
Jisung looked seconds away from evaporating.
“I’m tired,” you continued, voice finally rising. “I am SO tired of cleaning up after everyone while you destroy the apartment like unsupervised twelve-year-olds!”
Jeongin physically shrank into the couch.
Seungmin stared at you like he’d just witnessed a natural disaster.
“And this stupid prank war?” you snapped. “It stopped being funny days ago!”
Nobody spoke.
Even Minho looked alarmed.
You laughed once, sharp and exhausted.
“I mean, seriously, what did you think was going to happen? That I’d just keep smiling while you trashed everything?”
Chan opened his mouth carefully. “We didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” you interrupted. “That’s the problem. None of you think.”
The second the words left your mouth, guilt hit immediately.
Because their expressions—
Oh no.
Eight devastated faces stared back at you.
Changbin looked especially crushed.
You pressed a hand against your forehead.
The anger drained out of you almost instantly, leaving exhaustion behind.
“…I need a minute.”
Then you walked straight to your room and shut the door.
Outside, silence lingered for a full ten seconds.
“Oh my god,” Felix whispered.
“We’re dead,” Jisung said faintly.
“I’ve never heard her yell before,” Hyunjin muttered.
Chan dragged both hands down his face. “Okay. Nobody panic.”
“Nobody panic?” Changbin repeated incredulously. “She used my government name.”
“That’s true,” Minho admitted. “That’s serious.”
“I think my soul left my body.”
Changbin sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the broken mug pieces still scattered across the floor.
“…I broke Mom’s present.”
“You did,” Minho confirmed.
“Not helping.”
For the first time since the prank war started, the dorm fell completely quiet.
Because the thing about you was—
You were safe.
Comforting.
Steady.
The person they leaned on.
Seeing you genuinely angry felt deeply wrong.
Like accidentally making the sun disappear.
Chan exhaled slowly. “Okay. Damage control.”
“Should we apologize?” Jeongin asked weakly.
“Yes, obviously.”
“What if she never forgives us?”
“She’ll forgive us,” Chan said.
A pause.
“…Eventually.”
“That did not make me feel better.”
Meanwhile, in your room, you sat on the edge of your bed staring at the wall.
You hated yelling.
Especially at them.
They were idiots, yes, but they were your idiots.
A quiet knock came after about twenty minutes.
You already knew who it was.
“Come in.”
Changbin entered carefully, like approaching a wild animal.
Seeing your little brother look genuinely nervous made your guilt worse instantly.
He stood awkwardly near the door.
“…You really scared us.”
You groaned softly, covering your face. “I know.”
“No, like. Hyunjin almost started praying.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s Hyunjin.”
Fair.
Changbin shuffled closer slowly before sitting beside you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he mumbled, “Sorry about the mug.”
Your shoulders sagged.
“I shouldn’t have yelled like that.”
“You should’ve yelled sooner.”
You blinked at him.
Changbin scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Seriously. We’ve been annoying.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“We kinda forgot you’re a person too.”
You stared at him.
“That sounded bad,” he said quickly. “I mean—not like that—”
“I know what you meant.”
And honestly?
He wasn’t wrong.
You’d slipped too comfortably into taking care of everyone. And they’d gotten too comfortable being taken care of.
It happened.
Still, the guilt lingered.
“I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Yes, you did.”
You frowned.
Changbin looked at you seriously. “Noona. We ARE acting like children.”
“…Maybe slightly.”
“You literally found ramen in the bathroom yesterday.”
You pointed at him accusingly. “That was yours.”
“Not important right now.”
Despite yourself, you snorted.
Relief flooded his face instantly.
“Oh thank god.”
The door burst open immediately afterward.
“She laughed!” Felix announced.
And suddenly all eight members piled into your room at once.
“Move,” Minho complained.
“You move.”
“I was here first!”
“You literally weren’t.”
The noise hit full force again, but this time it felt softer somehow.
More careful.
Hyunjin sat on the floor dramatically. “I thought our family was broken forever.”
“You saw me upset for thirty minutes.”
“It was the worst thirty minutes of my life.”
Chan crouched in front of you with the exhausted expression of a man who managed seven disasters professionally.
“We’re sorry.”
The others nodded immediately.
“Really sorry,” Felix added.
Jisung raised a hand. “I would also like forgiveness for the bread photos.”
“No,” you said automatically.
“That’s fair.”
Minho leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We got a little carried away.”
“A little?”
“A lot,” Chan corrected.
You looked around at all of them.
At their guilty faces.
At the genuine worry still lingering in the room.
And your irritation softened completely.
“…I shouldn’t have exploded.”
“No,” Changbin said immediately. “That part was deserved.”
“Very deserved,” Seungmin agreed.
“I heard disappointment in her voice,” Felix whispered. “I almost cried.”
“You DID cry,” Jisung corrected.
“That was private!”
You laughed despite yourself.
The tension finally cracked.
Chan sighed dramatically in relief. “Okay. Good. Nobody’s disowned.”
“Yet,” you warned.
Hyunjin gasped. “There’s still danger.”
“There’s always danger.”
Then Changbin nudged your shoulder lightly.
“We’ll clean the dorm.”
“You said that last week.”
“We mean it this time.”
“You also said that last week.”
“Okay but emotionally this time feels different.”
The others nodded solemnly.
You eyed them suspiciously.
“…How different?”
Twenty minutes later, you stood in the kitchen watching eight members aggressively deep-clean the dorm like their lives depended on it.
Which, socially speaking, they apparently believed they did.
“Felix, vacuum properly!”
“I AM!”
“Why are you vacuuming the wall?”
“It looked dusty!”
Hyunjin held up a mystery container carefully. “Should this be alive?”
“No,” Chan answered immediately. “Throw it out.”
Minho passed you quietly carrying trash bags.
“…Feel better?”
You glanced around at the chaos of cleaning.
At Changbin arguing with Jisung over detergent.
At Felix humming while organizing snacks.
At Chan looking relieved you were speaking normally again.
And yeah.
You did.
“A little.”
Minho nodded once. “Good.”
Then he added casually, “You yelling was terrifying, by the way.”
“You too?”
“I considered writing a will.”
You rolled your eyes.
Drama queens. Every single one of them.
But later that night, after the dorm was finally clean and everyone had settled down, Chan found you alone in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you don’t always have to be patient with us.”
You looked up.
He leaned against the counter, expression unusually sincere.
“We love you either way.”
The words hit harder than expected.
Because maybe that was part of the problem.
You were so used to being dependable that you forgot you were allowed to get frustrated too.
Allowed to have limits.
Allowed to be human.
Even around people you loved.
Especially around people you loved.
You smiled faintly. “Don’t get used to me yelling.”
Chan grinned. “Trust me. Nobody wants that.”
From the living room, Changbin shouted suddenly—
“WHO USED MY PROTEIN POWDER?”
A beat of silence.
Then Jisung yelled back, “IT WAS HYUNJIN.”
“TRAITOR!”
Chaos erupted instantly afterward.
You sighed into your tea.
Chan laughed beside you.
And somehow, despite everything—
The dorm finally felt normal again.
You’re in the Story Too
The first time anyone notices, it isn’t dramatic.
It happens in the middle of an ordinary rehearsal day—fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, the dance studio warm from movement, music still echoing even after the speakers cut off.
You’re sitting on the floor against the mirrored wall, one knee bent, the other stretched out, scrolling through your phone while the members hydrate and complain in equal measure.
“Hyung, I swear my soul just left my body,” Wooyoung groans, flopping down nearby.
“Your soul left your body during warm-up,” Mingi replies, tossing him a water bottle.
It’s chaos, but normal chaos.
Then San leans over your shoulder.
“Wait,” he says suddenly.
You glance up. “What?”
He squints at your screen. “Do you… have any photos of yourself on there?”
That gets everyone’s attention faster than a dropped beat.
“What?” Yunho straightens.
San points, like he’s discovered a glitch in the universe. “Her gallery. I just noticed—she’s showing me something from last week, and I scrolled. There’s no selfies. Like… none.”
You blink. “Why would I have selfies?”
The room goes quiet.
Even Jongho, sitting nearby wiping sweat from his neck, pauses.
“…You don’t take photos of yourself?” Yeosang asks carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal.
You shrug. “Not really.”
Wooyoung gasps like you’ve confessed to a crime. “Not even one??”
“I mean,” you say, scrolling back to your home screen, “if I need a photo of myself I usually just… avoid needing it.”
That earns you eight different reactions at once.
Horror.
Disbelief.
Deep personal offense.
And Jongho, very quietly, narrowing his eyes like he’s already decided this is a problem that requires immediate correction.
“You don’t even take pictures when we’re out?” Seonghwa asks.
“I take pictures of you,” you correct.
“That is not the same thing,” Mingi says, offended on a philosophical level.
Hongjoong, who has been quiet, leans forward slightly. “How many pictures are on your phone total?”
You hesitate. “I don’t know. Not many?”
“That’s it,” Wooyoung declares. “We’re intervening.”
You stare at him. “Intervening in what. My lack of narcissism?”
“Yes,” he says seriously.
Jongho stands up.
That alone is usually enough to end arguments.
But instead of stopping them, he looks at you with an expression that is… strangely determined.
“You’re my sister,” he says simply. “This is concerning.”
You narrow your eyes. “Traitor.”
“I’m your concerned traitor.”
That ends the discussion for the moment—but not the topic.
And you don’t notice the way Hongjoong exchanges a look with Seonghwa.
Or how San quietly steals your phone later when you’re distracted.
Or how, by the end of the day, something has already started.
It begins small.
Almost unnoticeable.
A single candid photo sent to your phone at 11:48 PM.
It’s Wooyoung, mid-laugh, face scrunched up, holding a ridiculous amount of snacks in both hands like he’s just won war spoils.
Caption: “Evidence that I am fun. You’re welcome.”
You stare at it for a long moment before you realize what’s happening.
Then another notification pops up.
Mingi: a blurry photo of you walking ahead of him in the hallway, hair slightly messy, hoodie too big, completely unaware.
No caption.
Just a heart emoji.
Then Yunho.
A video: you scolding San for something unclear, hands on hips, while San nods like he’s being blessed by divine judgment.
The camera shakes because Yunho is laughing behind it.
You sit up in bed slowly.
“What… is this,” you whisper.
Your phone buzzes again.
Seonghwa: a perfectly framed photo of you asleep in the van earlier that day, head tilted against the window, sunlight on your face.
It’s soft.
Too soft.
You stare at it longer than you mean to.
Then Jongho messages you:
Stop overthinking it. Go to sleep.
You frown.
Then, after a pause:
Also don’t delete them.
You blink.
“…What?”
The next day, it escalates.
You realize it at breakfast.
You’re pouring cereal when Wooyoung casually slides into the seat across from you and holds up his phone.
“Say cheese.”
Click.
“What are you doing,” you say slowly.
“Documenting history,” he replies.
“You’re being weird.”
“Correct.”
You reach for his phone.
He pulls it back immediately. “Ah-ah-ah. No confiscation. This is public service.”
San leans over your shoulder and snaps another photo of you mid-reach.
“Stop it,” you say.
“No,” San replies cheerfully.
Across the table, Hongjoong is quietly watching, expression unreadable.
Seonghwa is smiling.
Yeosang is trying—and failing—not to laugh.
And Jongho?
Jongho is eating breakfast like he is absolutely not involved in anything happening.
Which is how you know he is definitely involved.
By the third day, you start noticing patterns.
Mingi is the worst offender for stealth photos—always angled, always candid, always slightly chaotic.
Wooyoung prefers dramatic reenactments: “act natural” followed by immediate betrayal.
San films everything like he’s making a documentary titled “The Emotional Life of Jongho’s Sister (2026 Edition)”.
Yunho catches you in soft moments you didn’t know existed—stretching in sunlight, laughing at something off-camera, resting your head on your hand while reading.
Seonghwa is precise. Almost artistic. His photos look like they belong in magazines.
Yeosang doesn’t take many—but the ones he does feel intentional in a way that makes you weirdly quiet when you see them.
Hongjoong rarely takes photos directly.
But somehow, there are always new ones appearing.
And Jongho?
Jongho is organizing them.
You figure this out when you catch him on your laptop late at night, exporting files into folders.
“You’re seriously cataloguing them?” you ask from behind him.
He doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.”
“…Why.”
“So you don’t lose them.”
“I don’t lose things.”
He pauses. Looks at you over his shoulder.
“You literally don’t have photos of yourself.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not.”
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. “This is weirdly organized for a prank.”
“It’s not a prank,” he says.
That makes you pause.
“…Then what is it?”
Jongho looks back at the screen, expression unreadable for a moment.
Then he says, very simply:
“You deserve to exist in your own life.”
That lands heavier than you expect.
You don’t respond right away.
So he adds, quieter:
“And we’re fixing it.”
The next stage is louder.
You wake up one morning to find your lock screen changed.
It’s a photo of you mid-laugh, head thrown back, Wooyoung’s arm barely visible as he clearly took it from too close.
You stare at it for a full ten seconds.
Then sit up abruptly.
“WHO—”
Your phone buzzes.
Wooyoung: good morning :)
San: you’re welcome
Mingi: it’s cute right
Yunho: don’t change it
Seonghwa: it suits you
Yeosang: leave it for a week at least
Hongjoong: we will notice if you change it
Jongho: don’t argue. eat breakfast.
You sit there in silence.
Then whisper, “I am being emotionally bullied.”
It becomes routine after that.
A new photo every day.
Sometimes ten.
Sometimes one really well-timed video that ruins your ability to function for several hours.
You try to protest.
You really do.
You delete a few.
They reappear.
You change your lock screen.
It changes back.
You try locking your phone more aggressively.
Wooyoung learns your passcode in under two days “for emergency purposes.”
You start to suspect Hongjoong is involved in surveillance-level coordination.
“Are you all insane,” you say one evening, watching San air-drop another batch of photos to your phone.
“Yes,” San replies immediately.
“No,” Yeosang corrects gently. “We’re consistent.”
“That’s worse.”
Jongho walks past you both and drops a bottle of water into your lap.
“Drink,” he says.
“I’m being harassed,” you reply.
“You’re being documented,” he corrects.
“I did not consent to this.”
“You did when you became our manager,” Wooyoung says from across the room.
“That is not legal reasoning.”
“It is here,” Mingi adds.
But something starts to shift.
Because you don’t delete everything anymore.
At first, it’s accidental.
A photo of you and Yunho laughing too hard at lunch stays.
Then one of you and Seonghwa sharing headphones.
Then a video of Jongho quietly fixing your broken phone case without being asked.
Then—
You stop pretending not to look at them.
You catch yourself scrolling through them during breaks.
Noticing things.
How often you’re laughing in them.
How often you look… tired, but present.
How often you’re included without asking to be.
It’s unsettling.
In a way you can’t quite name.
One night, you find them all in the practice room.
Even though there’s no schedule.
Even though they should be resting.
Hongjoong stands when you enter.
That’s your first warning.
“We need you to come with us,” he says.
“…Why.”
Wooyoung grins. “Surprise.”
“That is not reassuring.”
San gently guides you forward anyway.
Jongho walks behind you.
Which means resistance is pointless.
You realize halfway down the hallway that no one is explaining anything.
“That’s usually not a good sign,” you mutter.
“It’s a great sign,” Mingi says.
“That’s also not reassuring.”
They take you to a small room you don’t usually enter.
Lights are dim.
A projector is set up.
A table sits in the center.
And when you step inside—
The first thing you see is your face.
Not a mirror.
Not live.
Photos.
Hundreds of them.
On the walls.
On screens.
Printed, arranged, scattered, curated.
You freeze.
“What…” you whisper.
Seonghwa steps beside you. “Before you panic—we didn’t post anything online.”
“That is not my concern right now.”
Yeosang gestures gently. “We kept them private.”
Hongjoong adds, “We wanted you to see them properly.”
Wooyoung bounces slightly on his heels. “Like a museum. But better. Because it’s you.”
“That is not how museums work.”
San hits play.
The projector flickers.
A video starts.
It’s you.
Laughing.
So many moments you didn’t realize were being captured.
You reaching for coffee.
You yelling at Wooyoung.
You falling asleep on a couch.
You standing in sunlight, hair messy, expression soft in a way you don’t recognize from mirrors.
Jongho’s voice comes from somewhere behind you.
“We noticed something,” he says.
You don’t look away from the screen.
“You never take space in your own memory,” he continues. “So we did it for you.”
Your throat tightens slightly, which annoys you immediately.
“That’s not necessary,” you say quietly.
“No,” Hongjoong says. “It wasn’t necessary.”
A pause.
“But it’s true,” Mingi adds softly.
The video keeps playing.
San’s voice from behind the camera: “Say something to the camera!”
You in the clip: “Put that thing away before I break it.”
Laughter.
Yunho’s voice: “She’s smiling though.”
Another clip.
Seonghwa adjusting your hair without you noticing.
Yeosang handing you a snack when you forgot to eat.
Wooyoung attempting to balance a spoon on your head while you threaten him verbally.
Jongho quietly standing beside you in half the clips, always there but never interfering.
The room is full of noise and light and memories you didn’t realize you were allowed to have.
You swallow.
“Why,” you say finally, voice lower than you intended.
Wooyoung answers immediately.
“Because you act like you don’t matter in your own life.”
Silence.
San softens. “And that’s annoying.”
“That is not the correct emotional framing,” Seonghwa says.
“It is for me,” San replies.
Yeosang steps closer. “We like you more than you seem to like yourself.”
That hits harder than everything else.
You look at them then.
All of them.
Waiting.
Not pressuring.
Just… there.
Hongjoong’s voice is quieter. “We thought maybe if you saw what we see, it would help.”
You breathe out slowly.
Then glance back at the screen.
At yourself.
At moments you don’t remember.
Moments that still somehow belong to you.
“I don’t hate myself,” you say finally.
Jongho nods once. “We know.”
You hesitate.
Then add, honestly:
“I just don’t really think about myself at all.”
That lands differently.
No jokes follow.
No teasing.
Just understanding.
Wooyoung breaks the silence first.
“That’s worse.”
You look at him.
“What?”
“That’s worse than hating yourself,” he says seriously. “At least then you’re in the story.”
You blink at him.
“…That’s uncomfortably deep for you.”
“I have layers,” he says.
“Unfortunately.”
San laughs softly.
Jongho steps closer now, standing beside you.
“You don’t have to become someone else,” he says. “Just… stop disappearing from your own perspective.”
You stare at the photos again.
Your face in them.
Not curated.
Not perfect.
Just… there.
Existing.
“I don’t know how to do that,” you admit.
Hongjoong nods. “Then we’ll help.”
Mingi grins slightly. “We already started.”
Yeosang adds, “We’re persistent.”
Seonghwa smiles gently. “Very persistent.”
Wooyoung beams. “Extremely annoying.”
“That part I noticed,” you say automatically.
That gets a few laughs.
Something loosens in your chest.
Just slightly.
Later, after everything quiets down, you stay behind longer than the others.
Looking at the wall of photos.
At moments you didn’t realize mattered.
Jongho comes back eventually.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just stands beside you.
“You didn’t delete them,” he says after a while.
“No,” you admit.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I almost did.”
He nods like that’s expected.
“But you didn’t,” he says.
You glance at him. “Why do you care so much?”
Jongho doesn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“Because I know what it’s like to be seen only when you perform something.”
That makes you go quiet.
He continues, steady.
“You don’t perform. So you think you don’t count.”
You look away.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” he interrupts, not unkindly. “To you.”
Silence settles again.
Then he adds:
“You’re not optional in our lives.”
You let out a slow breath.
“…That’s a very intense way to say I’m mildly tolerated.”
A faint hint of a smile. “No.”
Another pause.
“Very tolerated,” he corrects.
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.
“Wow. Emotional growth.”
He nudges your shoulder lightly.
“Take the win.”
A week later, you notice something else.
You start taking photos.
Not many.
Not curated.
Just small moments.
Wooyoung mid-laugh.
San asleep on a couch.
Mingi trying to cook and failing dramatically.
Yeosang holding a stray cat outside the building.
Seonghwa arranging snacks like it’s an art form.
Hongjoong focusing so hard on something he forgets to blink.
Yunho stretching before rehearsal.
Jongho looking at you like he already knows what you’re thinking.
At first, you don’t tell them.
You just… keep them.
Like they kept yours.
One evening, Wooyoung catches you.
Of course he does.
“You’re doing it,” he says immediately, pointing at your phone.
You blink. “Doing what.”
“This,” he says. “The thing we did to you.”
“You mean photography?”
“Yes, but emotionally.”
San leans over. “Let me see.”
“No.”
Mingi gasps. “She’s hiding evidence.”
“It’s not evidence!”
Jongho, passing by, glances at your phone.
“You kept them,” he says simply.
You hesitate.
Then shrug. “They’re… fine.”
That earns a quiet, satisfied nod from him.
Hongjoong, from across the room, smiles faintly.
Seonghwa looks… relieved.
Yeosang just says softly, “Good.”
And Wooyoung, because he cannot help himself, declares:
“We’ve created a monster.”
You point at him. “You started this.”
“Yes,” he says proudly. “And it worked.”
Later that night, your phone buzzes again.
New message.
A shared album.
Title: You’re in the story too.
You open it.
And for the first time—
It doesn’t feel like you’re missing.
It feels like you were there all along.
Just waiting for someone to show you.
Fans Start Noticing
Part 8
It starts the way most things do these days—quietly.
Too quietly.
At first, it’s just a few screenshots.
A blurred airport photo.
A backstage angle from Coachella.
A caption someone swears they “definitely didn’t overanalyze.”
Then it spreads.
Slow.
Inevitable.
You don’t notice it immediately because you’re in a studio in New York trying to fix a bridge that refuses to behave.
Your producer is arguing with a drum sample.
Your phone is on silent.
And somewhere across the world, Hongjoong is probably doing the exact same thing.
Neither of you has time for the internet.
Unfortunately, the internet always has time for you.
—
It’s Liv who finds it first.
She doesn’t even enter the room dramatically.
Just stands in the doorway holding her phone like it has personally betrayed her.
“You need to see this.”
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re staring at a wall pretending it’s a chord progression.”
You turn slowly.
“Rude.”
She walks over and drops her phone onto the mixing desk.
On the screen:
A TikTok compilation.
Your name.
His name.
Clips stitched together from Coachella backstage footage, blurred but unmistakable.
You standing beside Hongjoong.
Hongjoong laughing.
Hongjoong looking at you.
You watching their set.
You texting.
You sitting on the floor writing.
A caption flashes at the bottom:
“Who is ARDEN BLAKE to ATEEZ’s Hongjoong???”
You blink once.
Twice.
“…Oh no.”
Liv folds her arms.
“That’s your reaction?”
“What do you want me to say? Yes, I am secretly dating a K-pop producer I met in the desert?”
She squints.
“That would be worse.”
“Thank you for your support.”
But your stomach has already tightened.
Because it’s not just one video.
There are more.
Threads.
Fan theories.
Side-by-side screenshots of your messages you didn’t even realize were public moments.
The internet doing what it always does best:
Connecting dots that were never meant to be connected publicly.
You scroll without meaning to.
A clip pauses on Hongjoong smiling at you backstage.
Someone has slowed it down.
Added dramatic music.
Of course they have.
Liv leans closer.
“They’re calling it a collaboration teaser.”
“That’s insane.”
“You’re trending.”
“That’s worse.”
—
By the time your phone starts vibrating nonstop, you already know what’s coming.
Messages.
Notifications.
Publicist emails.
The machine waking up.
You don’t answer any of them yet.
Because there’s one notification you’re actually looking for.
It finally appears.
Hongjoong (Private)
Are you seeing this?
You stare at it for a second.
Then type:
Arden
Yes.
Three dots appear immediately.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Hongjoong
This is fast.
You exhale through your nose.
Arden
Everything is fast on the internet.
Hongjoong
Are you okay?
That question again.
Always that question.
You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch.
Liv watches you carefully but says nothing.
You think about lying.
You don’t.
Arden
I think so.
A beat.
Hongjoong
I didn’t expect people to notice.
You almost laugh.
That’s the funny part.
People always notice.
Even when there’s nothing to notice yet.
Arden
Neither did I.
Another message:
Hongjoong
We haven’t done anything wrong.
That makes something in your chest loosen slightly.
Because it’s true.
Objectively.
Logically.
Still—
Arden
I know.
Hongjoong
But it might get louder.
You stare at that for a moment.
He’s observing.
Like always.
Like he’s already calculating outcomes the way he calculates production layers.
You lean your head back against the couch.
Arden
Yeah.
Hongjoong
Do you want to stop?
That question hits differently.
Because it’s not panic.
Not pressure.
Just choice.
Real choice.
You imagine it for a second.
No messages.
No late-night calls.
No unfinished songs shared in the dark.
Your throat tightens slightly.
You answer honestly.
Arden
No.
Almost immediately:
Hongjoong
Okay.
Simple.
No hesitation.
You blink at the screen.
Hongjoong
Then we just be careful.
You exhale slowly.
Arden
We’re already not careful.
Hongjoong
We can learn.
That makes you laugh quietly despite everything.
Because of course he would say that like it’s a technical skill.
Like learning mixing.
Or stage production.
Or songwriting structure.
You glance at Liv, who is now sitting across from you with the expression of someone watching a slow-moving disaster they cannot legally intervene in.
“What?” you whisper.
She points at your phone.
“I hate that I understand this situation.”
“You don’t understand it.”
“I do understand it .”
Your phone buzzes again.
Hongjoong
I’m in rehearsal. I should go.
Of course he is.
Always moving.
Always working.
You hesitate for a second.
Arden
Don’t overthink it.
Hongjoong
Too late.
You smile faintly.
Arden
Go rehearse.
Hongjoong
Okay.
Text me later.
You look at that message for a moment longer than necessary.
Then answer:
Arden
Always do.
Seen.
Then gone.
—
The studio feels different after that.
Not worse.
Not better.
Just… heavier.
Liv eventually breaks the silence.
“So.”
You don’t look up.
“So.”
“This is going to get complicated.”
You finally glance at her.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re still doing it.”
You hesitate.
Then shrug slightly.
“Apparently.”
Liv exhales.
“Cool. Love that for you.”
You pick up your guitar again.
Try to focus.
But your phone stays face-up on the desk.
Waiting.
Like it always does now.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, you already know:
This isn’t the part where it gets quieter.
This is the part where it starts being real.
Previous B.Y.B.T.M. Next
Neon Lights, Soft Hearts
The first thing you learned about working with ENHYPEN was that exhaustion came with the job description.
The second thing you learned was that Nishimura Riki—Ni-ki to the world, but mostly “Riki” to the staff—was impossible to ignore.
Not because he tried to stand out.
Quite the opposite.
He moved through airports with his hood up and his headphones on, quietly bowing to staff members while the older members filled the space around him with noise. He rarely complained during fittings, never argued about schedules, and somehow still apologized when you had to stay late adjusting stage outfits.
“Sorry,” he’d mumble every single time you crouched near his shoes to fix a pant hem.
“You say sorry like I’m being held hostage here,” you told him once.
His ears had turned pink.
“I just… don’t want you tired because of me.”
That had been six months ago.
Now you were in Tokyo, surviving on convenience store coffee and three hours of sleep while preparing the group for a packed week of Japanese promotions.
Your hotel room overlooked glittering city streets, though you’d barely had time to appreciate them. Every day blurred together in a haze of garment bags, touch-up kits, frantic schedule changes, and chasing members down hallways with lint rollers.
Tonight had been especially chaotic.
One of the stage jackets ripped minutes before recording.
Jake spilled makeup powder over two backup outfits.
Sunghoon accidentally walked off wearing the wrong jewelry set.
And through all of it, Riki kept hovering nearby.
“Do you need water?”
“You haven’t eaten yet.”
“I can hold that for you.”
At first, you thought he was simply being polite.
Then you noticed he only did it with you.
By the time filming finally wrapped, your shoulders ached so badly you wanted to cry.
The members piled into vans, loud and relieved, while staff scrambled to reorganize tomorrow’s schedules.
You stayed behind in the dressing room, hanging costumes carefully so they wouldn’t wrinkle overnight.
The room had mostly emptied when the door slid open again.
You didn’t look up immediately. “Did someone forget something?”
Silence.
Then—
“You’re still working.”
You glanced over your shoulder.
Riki stood in the doorway wearing a black hoodie and loose gray sweatpants, blond hair slightly damp from removing stage styling. Without makeup and performance clothes, he looked softer somehow. Younger.
Still unfairly beautiful.
“I’m almost done,” you said.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. “You said that forty minutes ago.”
“You timed me?”
“I noticed.”
Your chest did a strange little flip.
You quickly turned back toward the clothing rack. “The sooner I finish, the sooner I sleep.”
“That’s exactly why I came back.”
“Hm?”
You felt him move closer.
Not too close.
Never enough to make you uncomfortable.
“I was wondering,” he said carefully, “if you’re free tomorrow night.”
You blinked.
“Tomorrow?”
“After schedules.”
You finally looked at him fully. “Why?”
For one terrifying second, he seemed nervous.
Actually nervous.
The same boy who performed in front of stadiums was suddenly rubbing the back of his neck like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Somewhere?”
“In Tokyo.” His mouth twitched shyly. “I want to show you my favorite places.”
The room suddenly felt much warmer.
“Riki…”
“If you’re busy, it’s okay,” he rushed out. “I know you probably want rest and I know staff rules are complicated and I don’t want to pressure you—”
“I didn’t say no.”
He stopped speaking.
The silence stretched.
Then his eyes widened slightly.
“So… is that a yes?”
You tried not to smile too hard. “I guess it is.”
The grin that spread across his face made your heart genuinely stutter.
—
The next evening felt strangely unreal.
You spent nearly an hour staring at your suitcase trying to decide what qualified as not-a-date-but-possibly-a-date clothing.
In the end, you settled on something simple: a cream sweater, dark skirt, tights, and your warmest coat against the Tokyo winter air.
You told yourself your nerves were ridiculous.
He was just showing you around.
That was all.
Then your phone buzzed.
Riki: I’m downstairs :)
Your heart immediately forgot how to function.
When you stepped outside the hotel, he was waiting near the entrance with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. No stylists. No managers. No cameras.
Just him.
And when he saw you—
He froze.
Actually froze.
You laughed nervously. “Why are you staring at me?”
“You look…” He swallowed. “Really pretty.”
Heat rushed straight into your face.
“Thank you.”
He looked equally embarrassed after saying it, gaze darting toward the streetlights. “Ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Tokyo at night was breathtaking.
The city glowed endlessly around you—towering screens, neon reflections against wet pavement, crowded sidewalks buzzing with life despite the cold.
And somehow, beside you, Riki looked completely at home in it all.
“This was the first place I came alone after moving back and forth for training,” he told you as he guided you through narrow side streets in Shibuya. “I got lost for like two hours.”
You laughed. “You? Lost?”
“I was fourteen.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Hey.”
You grinned when he nudged your shoulder lightly.
The night unfolded gently after that.
He took you to a tiny ramen shop tucked beneath glowing signs where the owner greeted him like family.
Then to an arcade where he became outrageously competitive over claw machines.
“You’re cheating.”
“I’m talented.”
“You literally leaned into the machine.”
“That’s strategy.”
“You’re a liar.”
His laugh came bright and unguarded, and you realized with startling clarity that you’d never seen him this relaxed before.
Not on stage.
Not backstage.
Not during practice.
Just… happy.
At one point, after finally winning a plushie on his fifth attempt, he handed it to you casually.
“For you.”
“You fought that machine for twenty minutes.”
“Exactly. Treasure it.”
You hugged the plushie to your chest anyway.
As the hours passed, Tokyo shifted around you.
The crowds thinned.
The air grew colder.
And somehow, the distance between you disappeared little by little.
You stopped noticing when your shoulders brushed.
Stopped noticing how often he looked at you.
Stopped pretending your feelings weren’t becoming dangerous.
By the time he led you toward the quieter streets near the river, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
“You’re different tonight,” you told him softly.
Riki glanced over. “Different how?”
“Less guarded.”
He walked silently for a moment.
Then—
“I think I’m happiest in Japan.”
The honesty in his voice caught you off guard.
“I miss it when we’re away too long,” he admitted. “The food. The streets. Hearing Japanese everywhere.” His breath fogged in the cold air. “I wanted to show you this version of me.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You don’t have to show me a different version,” you said quietly. “I like the one I already know.”
He stopped walking.
You nearly bumped into him.
When you looked up, his expression had changed completely.
Softer.
Warmer.
Terrifyingly sincere.
The city lights reflected in his eyes as he stared at you like he was trying to gather courage for something.
“Can I tell you something honestly?”
Your pulse skipped.
“Okay…”
“I’ve liked you for a long time.”
The world seemed to still.
Cars passed somewhere nearby.
Water rippled quietly beside the walkway.
But all you could focus on was him.
Riki exhaled shakily, laughing once under his breath like he couldn’t believe he was doing this.
“At first I thought it would go away,” he admitted. “Because you work with us and because everyone likes you and because maybe I was just being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
“But then every time you fixed my outfits or stayed late to help us or remembered tiny things about me…” His voice softened. “I kept falling harder.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
He stepped closer carefully, giving you every chance to pull away.
“I know this is complicated,” he murmured. “And I know I’m busy all the time. But when I think about who I want beside me…” His gaze met yours fully. “It’s you.”
Your heart felt impossibly full.
“Riki…”
“If you don’t feel the same, that’s okay,” he said quickly, though his voice betrayed how much it mattered. “I just didn’t want to regret never telling you.”
You stared at him for one long, breathless moment.
Then finally whispered—
“I like you too.”
He blinked.
“You do?”
You laughed softly despite your nerves. “Obviously.”
The relief that crossed his face was almost overwhelming.
“You have no idea how nervous I was.”
“You’re good at hiding it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You really aren’t.”
That made him laugh again.
God, you loved that sound.
The wind shifted gently around you, carrying distant city noise through the night.
Riki looked at you carefully then.
Almost shyly.
“Can I ask something else?”
Your heartbeat quickened.
“Yes.”
His voice dropped softer.
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
The question settled between you so tenderly it nearly hurt.
And suddenly every late-night fitting, every shared glance backstage, every quiet moment over the past months made sense all at once.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Yes.”
His breath caught.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, Riki.”
For a second he simply looked stunned.
Then genuinely happy.
Not idol happy.
Not camera happy.
Real happy.
The kind that reached all the way into his eyes.
He stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your heart nearly exploded.
You nodded once.
That was all the permission he needed.
His hand lifted carefully to your cheek, warm despite the winter cold, and then his lips met yours in the gentlest kiss imaginable.
Soft.
Tentative.
Sweet enough to make your chest ache.
The city lights blurred behind your closed eyes as he kissed you like something precious—like he’d wanted to do it for far longer than tonight.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.
And smiling.
“You know,” you whispered, “you’re very different offstage.”
He tilted his head innocently. “Better or worse?”
You pretended to think about it.
“Still deciding.”
He laughed quietly and rested his forehead against yours.
“Good,” he murmured. “That means I get another date to convince you.”
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Around you, Tokyo continued glowing endlessly into the night.
But somehow, standing beside him beneath the neon skyline, the entire world felt softer now.
Respawn Point
The first thing you noticed about Chanwoo in real life was that he laughed exactly the same way he did online.
Not the polite laugh he used on variety shows. Not the clipped little chuckle fans edited into compilations.
No.
It was the real one.
Loud. Sudden. Completely unfiltered.
The kind that burst out of him before he could stop it.
And unfortunately for your dignity, it happened the second he saw you nearly trip over your own suitcase at the airport.
“Wow,” he said, grinning as he caught the handle before it toppled over. “Two minutes in Korea and you’re already embarrassing yourself.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
And suddenly none of this felt real.
Because for three years, Chanwoo had only existed through a headset.
Late-night gaming sessions.
Discord calls.
Inside jokes.
Arguments over ranked matches.
A friendship built through screens and lag and the sound of him yelling your username whenever you stole his kills.
You knew his voice better than some of your actual friends’.
But this—
This was different.
This was warm hands around your suitcase handle.
Dark hair falling into his eyes.
The smell of his cologne instead of the static scent of your bedroom at 2 a.m.
Real.
Dangerously real.
“You’re shorter than I expected,” he added.
Your jaw dropped. “You literally told me you thought I was five foot three.”
“You sounded taller online.”
“How does someone sound tall?”
“I don’t know. You just do.”
“You sound annoying.”
“I am annoying.”
That stupid grin widened.
God.
You were in trouble already.
—
“Wait, wait—”
Chanwoo pointed dramatically at your phone screen while the taxi rolled through Seoul traffic.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“You still have it, don’t you?”
“I deleted it.”
“You’re lying.”
You sighed dramatically before opening your photo gallery.
“You made me keep this for blackmail purposes.”
The second you showed him the picture, he folded in half laughing.
“I LOOKED GOOD.”
“You looked like a sleep-deprived mushroom.”
“It was a fashion era!”
“It was a cry for help.”
The photo in question was from two years ago during one of your all-night gaming marathons.
Chanwoo had lost a bet.
Which resulted in him dyeing his hair silver for exactly four days before deciding it “destroyed his soul.”
You had immortalized it forever.
“You know,” you said smugly, “I could post this.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.”
He narrowed his eyes at you.
Then he reached over and snatched your phone.
“HEY—”
“Delete it.”
“Give it back!”
“You’re too dangerous.”
“You’re literally an idol. Why are you scared of one ugly selfie?”
“Because you’re evil.”
You lunged for the phone.
The taxi hit a bump.
And suddenly you were halfway across the seat with one hand gripping his wrist while Chanwoo laughed himself breathless.
For one horrible second, neither of you moved.
Too close.
Way too close.
Your face was inches from his.
You could feel the warmth of his skin under your fingers.
His laughter faded slowly.
Your stomach flipped.
And then the taxi driver loudly cleared his throat.
You jerked back so fast you nearly hit the door.
Chanwoo coughed into his hand.
“Anyway,” he said casually, voice one octave too high, “you’re still not getting your phone back.”
—
You’d imagined meeting him in person a thousand times.
Most versions were chaotic.
Some were awkward.
A few involved him being secretly weird and ruining the illusion forever.
None of them prepared you for how easy it felt.
Like your friendship had simply… continued.
No adjustment period.
No stiffness.
No “getting to know each other.”
You already knew him.
You knew he got grumpy when he was hungry.
You knew he spammed voice lines when he got competitive.
You knew he always went quiet when something bothered him.
You knew he hated horror games but played them anyway because your reactions entertained him.
And apparently, he knew you too.
“You’re doing it again.”
You looked up from the convenience store ramen aisle. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you stare at labels like they personally offended you.”
“I can’t read half of this.”
“You’ve been studying Korean for two years.”
“Yeah, and this package says seventeen syllables for one noodle flavor.”
He laughed softly.
Then he grabbed a cup from the shelf and handed it to you without hesitation.
“This one.”
“How do you know I’ll like it?”
“You always order spicy stuff.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And you hate mushrooms.”
You blinked.
“And you pretend to dislike sweet flavors even though you literally stole my strawberry milk that one time.”
“That was one time.”
“You drank the entire thing.”
You stared at him.
Chanwoo paused mid-step.
“What?”
“You remember weirdly specific things.”
His ears turned pink instantly.
“It’s not weird.”
“It’s a little weird.”
“We’ve known each other for years.”
“Still weird.”
He muttered something under his breath and walked ahead.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
—
The problem started around day three.
That was when your body apparently decided Chanwoo was attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair considering you’d spent years bullying each other online.
You weren’t supposed to notice things now.
Like how pretty his eyes were when he smiled.
Or how gentle he got when he was tired.
Or how his voice dropped lower at night when conversations turned softer.
You definitely weren’t supposed to notice how protective he became in crowds.
But Seoul was busy.
And every single time someone bumped too close, Chanwoo’s hand instinctively found the small of your back.
Guiding.
Steadying.
Keeping you near him.
The first time it happened, you nearly short-circuited.
The fifth time, you started looking forward to it.
Which was a problem.
A massive one.
Because this was Chanwoo.
Your best friend.
Your favorite gaming partner.
The person who once spent four straight hours helping you beat a boss because you threatened to uninstall the game forever.
You couldn’t ruin that.
Right?
—
“You’re distracted.”
“I’m literally winning.”
“Barely.”
You glared across the PC café.
Chanwoo smirked without looking away from his monitor.
The two of you had somehow ended up exactly where your friendship started:
Gaming side by side.
Only now instead of hearing his voice through headphones, he was right there.
Close enough to bump your shoulder every time he got excited.
“You’re cheating,” you accused.
“I’m better than you.”
“Same thing.”
“Skill issue.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you flew across the world to hang out with me.”
You froze.
Chanwoo did too.
The teasing smile slipped slightly from his face.
The noise of the café blurred into the background.
And suddenly the air felt weirdly heavy.
Because yeah.
You had flown across the world for him.
Not for tourism.
Not for sightseeing.
For Chanwoo.
His gaze flickered toward you slowly.
“...You really did.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
You forced out a laugh. “Don’t make it emotional. I’ll leave.”
“I’m serious.”
His voice was quieter now.
“I kept thinking you’d cancel.”
“Why would I cancel?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, staring at the keyboard. “People say things online all the time.”
Something in his tone made your chest ache.
“You thought I wouldn’t come?”
“A little.”
“Chanwoo.”
He finally looked at you.
And for the first time since you met in person, the teasing disappeared completely.
“I would always come for you.”
Silence.
Real silence this time.
The kind that made your pulse loud.
Chanwoo stared at you like he was trying to memorize something.
Then softly—
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His smile then wasn’t playful.
Wasn’t smug.
Wasn’t teasing.
It was small.
Careful.
Almost disbelieving.
And somehow that was worse.
—
After that, things changed.
Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough.
Enough that your stomach flipped every time he looked at you too long.
Enough that his teasing started sounding suspiciously affectionate.
Enough that tension started sneaking into moments that used to feel effortless.
Like now.
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re literally shivering.”
The Han River breeze cut through your hoodie while the two of you sat on the grass with convenience store snacks scattered around.
You stubbornly crossed your arms.
“I said I’m fine.”
Chanwoo sighed dramatically before pulling off his oversized jacket and tossing it at you.
You blinked.
“Put it on.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
“You’ll complain in ten minutes.”
“I complain regardless.”
Fair point.
Still, when you slipped the jacket on, warmth immediately wrapped around you.
And unfortunately—
It smelled like him.
Clean laundry.
Soft cologne.
Something distinctly Chanwoo.
You tried not to visibly malfunction.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Mhm.”
“You look weird.”
“I always look weird.”
He laughed quietly.
Then he leaned back on his hands beside you.
Close.
Too close.
The city lights reflected in the river while distant conversations drifted through the night air.
And somehow, for once, neither of you filled the silence immediately.
Chanwoo looked peaceful.
That hit you harder than expected.
Because online, he was always loud.
Funny.
Chaotic.
But here—
Here he looked soft.
Tired around the edges.
Real.
You looked at him too long.
He noticed.
His head turned slightly.
Your eyes met.
And suddenly neither of you looked away.
Your stomach dropped.
Chanwoo’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Like he felt it too.
That pull.
That terrifying, impossible thing growing between you.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”
“You know if you keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna misunderstand.”
Your breath caught.
“Who says I’m not trying to make you misunderstand?”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Silence.
Immediate silence.
Chanwoo stared at you.
Actually stared.
Like his brain had completely stopped functioning.
“Oh,” he said finally.
You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
“Forget I said that.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
His voice came out rougher now.
And suddenly he moved closer.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Enough that your pulse started hammering.
“You can’t say something like that and then take it back.”
“I absolutely can.”
“You really can’t.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re nervous.”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m always nervous around you lately.”
Your brain short-circuited.
“What?”
Chanwoo let out one breathless laugh and dragged a hand through his hair.
“There,” he muttered. “Now we’re both suffering.”
You stared at him.
He looked equally horrified by his own honesty.
Which somehow made this feel even more real.
“Chanwoo…”
“For like a year now,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe longer.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“A year?”
“You think I willingly stayed on calls with you until 4 a.m. because I enjoy losing sleep?”
“You do lose sleep gaming anyway.”
“That’s different.”
A smile threatened despite your panic.
“You’re confessing terribly.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t even say you like me.”
“I thought it was implied!”
“It could’ve meant friendship!”
“Who flies across the world for friendship and then stares at someone like they’re in a drama?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Fair.
Chanwoo groaned softly and covered his face.
“This is so embarrassing.”
“You started it.”
“You said the misunderstanding thing first!”
“You were staring!”
“You were staring too!”
And suddenly you were both laughing.
Not because it was funny.
But because neither of you knew what else to do with the overwhelming relief crashing between you.
Years.
Years of almosts hiding underneath jokes and games and late-night calls.
And now finally—
Finally—
Chanwoo looked at you again.
Gentler this time.
“So,” he said quietly.
“So?”
“Can I kiss you or are we gonna keep yelling?”
Your heart nearly exploded.
“You ask that now?”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You called me dramatic twelve times today.”
“You are dramatic.”
“And you’re annoying.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, smiling softly. “But you still like me.”
Unfortunately.
You did.
A lot.
You barely had time to answer before he leaned in.
Careful at first.
Tentative.
Like he was still giving you time to change your mind.
But the second your hand touched his sleeve, something in him melted.
The kiss deepened slowly.
Warm.
Smiling.
Familiar in the strangest way, like this had been waiting for you both all along.
And when you finally pulled apart, Chanwoo rested his forehead against yours and laughed quietly.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’m never letting you win another game again.”
You blinked. “What does that have to do with this?”
“I need to stay attractive somehow.”
You shoved him immediately.
“There he is. Ruined the moment.”
Chanwoo grinned before catching your wrist gently.
Still smiling.
Still close.
Still looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were actually here.
“Worth it though,” he said softly.
And honestly?
You thought so too.
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Hi I was wondering if you were open to doing a reaction or scenario where Ateez has a crush on reader and one day they learn somehow that reader has a crush on somebody else (preferably not another member if that’s cool). No confessions, just like they happened to somehow learn that reader has had her eyes on someone else too
Hope this is what you had in mind love❤️
He Has a Crush on You and Finds Out You Like Someone Else
He Has a Crush on You and Finds Out You Like Someone Else
This is an anon request, hope you like it❤️
Hongjoong
Hongjoong finds out completely by accident.
You're sitting with him in the studio while he's working. He's half-listening as you ramble about your day, fingers tapping against the keyboard.
Then you say it.
"Do you think it'd be weird if I asked him to get coffee with me?"
Hongjoong pauses.
"Who?"
You immediately freeze.
The look on your face tells him everything before you even answer.
"Oh."
And suddenly the room feels smaller.
Not because you're confessing.
Not because you're planning anything.
Just because for months he's secretly been carrying feelings for you, and apparently you've been carrying feelings for someone else.
He forces a smile.
"Not weird."
You visibly relax.
Meanwhile he's trying not to think about how happy you look discussing another person.
The rest of the conversation feels blurry.
That night he spends hours in the studio pretending to work while the same thought keeps repeating.
Of course it wasn't me.
Seonghwa
Seonghwa learns through your phone.
Not because he's snooping.
You handed it to him to show him a photo.
Instead a message notification pops up.
Y/N: Do you think he likes me back?
Followed by a screenshot of someone's Instagram.
A colleague.
Someone Seonghwa knows.
His heart drops before he can stop it.
You quickly snatch the phone back.
"Oh my god, ignore that."
The embarrassment on your face is immediate.
Seonghwa laughs softly.
"It's okay."
But inside?
It isn't okay.
Because suddenly every moment he'd spent wondering if you looked at him differently feels foolish.
He still treats you exactly the same afterward.
Still brings you coffee.
Still checks if you've eaten.
Still remembers every tiny detail.
The only difference is now he knows those feelings are one-sided.
And somehow that hurts more than not knowing.
Yunho
Yunho finds out from you.
Because you're terrible at hiding excitement.
You're practically bouncing beside him.
"I think he smiled at me today."
Yunho chuckles.
"Who?"
Then you tell him.
And he immediately wishes he hadn't asked.
His smile stays in place.
His stomach sinks.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
You're grinning.
Actually grinning.
The kind of grin he's spent months hoping he'd be the reason for.
Yunho listens to the entire story.
Nods.
Offers advice.
Acts supportive.
Because that's who he is.
Then later he's lying in bed staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about how easy it was for you to talk about your crush.
How impossible it would be for him to talk about his.
Yeosang
Yeosang discovers it through social media.
Someone posts photos from an event.
You're in one picture.
The person you like is in another.
The caption says:
"Y/N was looking at him all night lol."
Most people would ignore it.
Yeosang can't.
Because suddenly he's zooming in.
Looking at the photos.
Looking at your expression.
Looking at the way your attention seems completely focused elsewhere.
And he realizes the comments are right.
He quietly locks his phone.
His chest feels oddly heavy.
The worst part isn't jealousy.
It's certainty.
For months he'd convinced himself there was a chance.
Now he's not so sure.
The next time he sees you, you're exactly the same.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Talking to him normally.
Meanwhile Yeosang keeps wondering whether you've ever looked at him that way.
San
San learns from Wooyoung.
Which immediately ruins his day.
Wooyoung drops beside him.
"Did you know Y/N likes someone?"
San nearly chokes.
"What?"
"Yeah."
And then comes the name.
A name that definitely isn't his.
The smile falls off San's face so fast Wooyoung notices.
"...Oh."
Too late.
Way too late.
San tries to laugh it off.
Fails miserably.
Because unlike most people, San falls hard.
And he'd fallen for you months ago.
The rest of the day he's unusually quiet.
Not cold.
Not upset with you.
Just disappointed.
Because apparently while he was imagining possibilities, your attention had already settled somewhere else.
Mingi
Mingi finds out during a game night.
Somebody asks who everyone's celebrity crush is.
The question circles around the room.
When it reaches you, you hesitate.
Then mention a specific person.
The reaction is immediate.
Everyone starts teasing you.
Your face turns bright red.
Mingi laughs with everyone else.
Because that's what he's supposed to do.
Inside?
He feels like somebody punched him.
Not because you've done anything wrong.
You haven't.
You aren't dating.
You don't even know how he feels.
But hearing you talk about someone else with that shy smile?
That hurts.
Later that night he replays the moment over and over.
Every laugh.
Every blush.
Every detail.
And every time he reaches the same conclusion.
You definitely don't look that way when you're talking about him.
Wooyoung
Wooyoung finds out because you're terrible at lying.
Absolutely terrible.
The group is teasing you.
Someone asks if you're interested in anyone.
You immediately deny it.
Too quickly.
Too loudly.
Way too suspicious.
The interrogation begins.
Eventually you crack and reveal the name.
Everyone cheers.
You bury your face in your hands.
Wooyoung laughs harder than anyone.
Outwardly.
Internally?
His heart just shattered.
Because he'd always thought if you liked someone, he'd know.
You tell him everything.
Apparently not this.
And somehow that realization stings almost as much as the crush itself.
For the first time in a long while, Wooyoung goes home feeling strangely defeated.
Jongho
Jongho discovers it through pure observation.
You're usually calm.
Collected.
Reasonable.
Then a certain person walks into the room.
And suddenly you're different.
A little flustered.
A little nervous.
A little too aware of where they're standing.
Jongho notices immediately.
Once he notices, he can't stop noticing.
The way your eyes find them.
The way you smile.
The way you straighten your posture when they're nearby.
Eventually the truth becomes obvious.
You like them.
Not him.
Them.
Jongho doesn't say a word.
Not to you.
Not to anyone.
He's never been the type to make things dramatic.
Instead he simply accepts it.
Or at least tries to.
But later, when he's alone, he can't help wondering what he was missing.
Because if you'd looked at him even half as often as you looked at that person, he would've confessed already.