Every afternoon, Chan would look at you with that careful, searching gaze and ask questions like he was piecing together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

“Tell me about our first date,” he said one evening, voice soft as he sat up in the hospital bed, the cast on his arm resting awkwardly in his lap.

You hesitate.

“I want to understand it,” he continues.

“Because the way I look at you in those videos… I’ve never looked at anyone like that.”

Your throat tightens.

“You don’t have to force anything, Chan.”

“I’m not forcing it,” he says quickly.

“I just… I don’t want to lose something that mattered that much. Even if I don’t remember it.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled faintly.

“It was nothing fancy. You snuck me into the practice room after midnight because you said you wanted to show me the choreography for a song that hadn’t been released yet. We ended up ordering tteokbokki and eating it on the floor. You kept messing up the steps on purpose just to make me laugh. Then you played the demo on your phone and asked me if it felt like ‘us.’”

Chan listened intently, brow slightly furrowed, nodding along like it was a beautiful story someone else had lived.

Not his. Never his.

“Sounds… nice,” he murmured. “I wish I could remember laughing like that with you.”

He kept asking.

About how you met, about the silly arguments you had over who got the last bite of ice cream, about the way he used to call you at 4 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep just to hear your voice.

Each time, he listened with genuine curiosity, but his eyes stayed distant—polite, appreciative, but empty of recognition.

Still, small things began to surface in him unconsciously.

He noticed how you always took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars, sliding the cup toward you exactly the way you liked before you even asked. He noticed how you grew quiet when sadness crept in, your shoulders curling inward, and he’d gently bump his knee against yours without thinking. He noticed you always sat on his left side, close enough that your arm brushed his when you leaned in.

One rainy afternoon, while you were sharing a small meal in his hospital room, a bit of sauce clung to the corner of your lip. Without hesitation, Chan reached over and wiped it away with his thumb, the gesture so natural, so familiar, that time seemed to stop.

Both of you froze.

His thumb lingered for half a second against your skin, warm and gentle—the exact motion he used to do a hundred times before. Your breath caught. Chan’s eyes widened, confusion and something deeper flickering across his face before he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

“I… sorry,” he whispered, voice rough. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You couldn’t speak. That single touch felt like a crack in the wall between you, but it wasn’t enough to bring the memories flooding back.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Weeks passed.

Chan was discharged from the hospital, and the members insisted on taking a full break—no schedules, no recordings, no pressure—until he felt like himself again. You continued visiting him at the dorm, bringing food, sitting with him on the couch while he tried to catch up on the music he’d missed, helping him relearn the new choreography through videos.

He was kind. Always kind.

He smiled at your stories, thanked you for being there, even held your hand once when you looked particularly tired.

But the distance remained.

He still looked at you like a cherished stranger, not like the person he once loved with his whole guarded heart.

The ache inside you grew heavier with every passing day.

Until one quiet evening, when the dorm was empty except for the two of you, you finally couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You sat on the couch, hands twisted in your lap, voice barely above a whisper.

“Chan… I think you should just move on.”

He looked up sharply from the notebook he’d been scribbling half-remembered melodies in.

“I don’t want to be someone you feel obligated to love,” you continued, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “You’re trying so hard, and I can see it. But every time you look at me, it’s like you’re forcing yourself to feel something that isn’t there. I can’t keep watching you struggle like this. It’s killing me. So… maybe it’s better if I step back. Let you heal without the weight of a relationship you don’t remember.”

The silence that followed was devastating.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first. His eyes—those beautiful, tired eyes—filled with a pain he couldn’t name.

That night, after you left with a quiet goodbye and a soft kiss on his cheek that felt like farewell, Chan couldn’t sleep.

He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the dorm unusually quiet without the usual chaos of the members. His chest felt tight, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with his lingering bruises.

The thought of you leaving—of never seeing your quiet smiles again, of never hearing the way you said his name like it mattered—hurt.

Not because of memories.

But because of feeling.

A deep, inexplicable ache bloomed behind his ribs, raw and unfamiliar yet impossibly real. It wasn’t recollection. It was something newer, something born in the present: the terrifying realization that even without the past, the idea of losing you carved a hole in him he didn’t know how to fill.

He pressed a hand over his heart, breathing shallow.

“…Don’t go,” he whispered into the empty room, voice breaking in the dark.

But you were already gone.

And for the first time since the accident, Christopher Bang felt something terrifyingly close to love… and the fear of losing it all over again.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Chan drowned himself in work.

Even though the members had agreed on a break, he couldn’t sit still. He watched every performance video from the past year on repeat, mouthing lyrics he didn’t remember writing, learning choreography his body had already mastered once.

The small flashes of recognition — a familiar beat here, a harmony he instinctively knew — pumped adrenaline through his veins like nothing else.

“Hyung, you should rest,” Jisung said gently one night, watching Chan replay the same bridge for the twentieth time.

“I can’t,” Chan muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I lost a whole year. I need to catch up. The fans are waiting. The group… we can’t stay behind.”

Every tiny success lit a fire in him.

When he perfectly recreated a rap flow he’d forgotten, when he instinctively fixed a melody that felt “off” even though he didn’t remember composing it — those moments made his chest swell with purpose.

For the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he felt like he was moving forward instead of drowning in everything he’d missed.

But the memories of you started slipping in at the worst times.

It began small.

One afternoon in his kitchen, he opened the cupboard and saw the oat milk carton.

His hand paused mid-reach.

“YN used to like these, right?” he said quietly, almost to himself.

The words hung in the air before he even realized he’d spoken them. He froze, staring at the carton like it had burned him.

A few days later, while scrolling through old photos on his phone for reference, he landed on a candid shot from a late-night convenience store run.

A pack of strawberry candies sat in the corner of the frame.

“She liked these too… the sour ones,” he murmured, thumb hovering over the screen. His heart stuttered.

Why did he know that?

He didn’t remember buying them. He didn’t remember handing them to you. But the knowledge was there, soft and insistent, like muscle memory.

Each time it happened, he stopped cold.

The momentum he’d built in the studio shattered for a few painful seconds. He’d rub his chest unconsciously, feeling that same unfamiliar ache from the night you’d told him to move on.

The small recognitions kept coming, uninvited.

He caught himself humming a soft melody one evening on the balcony — the exact tune he used to play for you when you couldn’t sleep. He stopped singing the moment he realized.

Another time, while helping Hyunjin pick out a new hoodie online, a soft gray one popped up.

“I think YN would’ve liked that color on me,” he said without thinking, then immediately closed the tab, jaw tight.

The fragments were torture.

They weren’t full memories — just echoes, feelings, habits.

Enough to remind him that something important had lived in the space he couldn’t reach, but not enough to bring you back.

After three weeks of this, Chan couldn’t take it anymore.

He showed up at your apartment building unannounced one night with hoodie pulled low over his eyes. His heart was hammering harder than it had during any comeback stage.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say.

He just knew he needed to see you.

You opened the door after the third knock, eyes widening in surprise. You looked tired — the kind of tired that came from forcing yourself to move on.

The promise ring was no longer on your finger.

“Chan?” Your voice was soft, guarded. “What are you doing here?”

He stood there in the hallway, searching your face like he always did — hoping something would click. It didn’t. Not fully. But the ache in his chest sharpened into something unbearable the moment he saw you.

“I…” He swallowed hard, voice rough from disuse and emotion. “I keep remembering things. Not big things. Just… little pieces. The oat milk. The strawberry candies. The way you always sat on my left. How you go quiet when you’re sad.” He let out a shaky breath, stepping closer.

“Every time it happens, I stop. Everything stops. Because it feels like my body remembers you even when my head doesn’t.”

You stayed silent, arms wrapped around yourself.

“I’ve been drowning in work, trying to get back on track with everything Stray Kids missed,” he continued, eyes glistening. “And it helps. It really does. But then these fragments of you keep cutting through, and I… I don’t know what to do with them. They hurt, but they also feel like the only real thing in all this mess.”

He lifted his hand like he wanted to reach for you, but let it fall.

“I know you told me to move on. I know I’m not the person who loved you before. But tonight, when I was in the studio alone, I caught myself reaching for my phone to send you a voice note. And it hit me… even without the memories, the thought of you walking away completely is tearing me apart in a way I can’t explain.”

His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

“I’m not asking you to wait forever. I’m not even asking you to love me again right now. I just… I need you to know that these little pieces of you keep finding me. And every time they do, I stop and wonder what kind of idiot I must’ve been to have someone like you and not be able to remember it.”

He looked at you, eyes pleading, the rain still clinging to his lashes.

“So I came here. Because I’m scared that if I keep drowning in work and ignoring these feelings, I’ll lose the only parts of you that are still trying to come back to me.”

The hallway light flickered above you both. Chan stood there, vulnerable, no longer the confident leader who had thrown himself into schedules to forget the emptiness.

Just a man chasing fragments of a love he couldn’t fully recall — but was starting to feel all over again.

You didn’t speak right away.

The words you’d said weeks ago still hung between you — I think you should just move on. You had meant them. You still did, in a way.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help him remember you.

God, you wanted that more than anything.

But you refused to force something he didn’t truly feel. You wouldn’t become an obligation, a task he tackled out of guilt or responsibility.

“I…” Your voice came out small. “I don’t want to push you into this, Chan. If we try, it has to be because you want it. Not because you feel like you owe me the past. Not because the members are watching or because it’s the ‘right’ thing to do. If the feelings aren’t there… if they never come back… I can’t survive watching you pretend.”

Chan’s breath hitched. He stepped closer.

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m scared too. But these fragments… they keep pulling me toward you. And the thought of you walking away for good — it hurts in a place I don’t even have memories for. So yeah… I want to try. Please. Let me try.”

You searched his face for any sign of doubt. There was none — only raw, uncertain hope.

Slowly, you nodded.

The moment you did, Chan closed the distance and pulled you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. His uninjured arm wrapped around your back with surprising strength, his face buried in your hair. For the first time since the accident, he held you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The following weeks became a careful, exhausting blur.

Stray Kids eased back into light activities now that Chan was healing well — short dance practices, vocal sessions, and group meetings where they revisited old concepts without pressure.

Chan threw himself into it with renewed fire, the small sparks of recognition coming faster now.

A familiar chord progression. The way his body instinctively knew the new choreography. Late-night studio sessions where melodies he’d half-forgotten started flowing again.

Each tiny victory lit him up, pumping him with the drive to keep going.

But every evening, he came back to you.

You helped him relearn your relationship in the gentlest, most painful way possible — piece by fragile piece.

You sat together on the couch late at night and went through old photos on your phone.

“This was the night you cooked for me,” you’d say softly, showing him a blurry selfie of burnt pancakes and both of you laughing.

He’d stare at the image, brow furrowed, then quietly ask, “Did I make you laugh like that a lot?”

You told him stories about your first real fight, how he’d shown up at your door the next day with flowers and apologies. How he used to trace little stars on your wrist when he was anxious. He listened to every word, sometimes reaching out to touch your wrist absentmindedly, as if his fingers remembered what his mind didn’t.

Small memories kept surfacing — triggered by scents, sounds, touches.

One night, while you were cooking together, he unconsciously started singing the exact silly song he used to make up for you when you were stressed. He stopped mid-verse, eyes wide, and whispered, “That was for you, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah… it was.”

But it wasn’t all gentle progress.

There were nights when nothing came back. Nights when he looked at you with that lingering distance, frustration and guilt etched across his face.

“I’m trying,” he’d say, voice cracking as he held your hands. “I swear I’m trying so hard. But sometimes it still feels like I’m reaching for someone else’s life. And I hate that I’m hurting you while I do it.”

You’d pull him close then, letting him bury his face in your shoulder. “I know. I’m not asking for perfect. Just… don’t force it if it’s not there.”

Yet every time he held you tight — like he had that first night at your door — something in him seemed to settle. His arms remembered the shape of you even when his mind was still catching up.

The members watched quietly, supportive but worried. Changbin would text you encouraging messages. Minho would leave snacks for both of you with a small note: Take it slow.

Chan was getting better every day — stronger, sharper, more like the leader they all knew.

The memories of Stray Kids’ recent year were slowly knitting back together.

But the memories of you came slower, softer, like fragile threads he was terrified of snapping.

Still, he kept reaching for them.

And every night, when the apartmenr grew quiet, he’d pull you into his arms again, holding you like you were the one thing anchoring him to the missing pieces of himself.

“I don’t remember all of it yet,” he whispered one night, lips brushing your temple as rain tapped against the window. “But the parts that are coming back… they feel like they belong to you. And that scares me. Because what if I remember everything… and it still doesn’t feel enough? What if I remember how much I loved you… and I can’t love you the same way again?”

You closed your eyes, heart breaking and mending at the same time in his tight embrace.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” you whispered back.

Because loving Chan had always hurt a little.

And forgetting him — even for him — hurt even more.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

In the quiet dark of his apartment room at 3 a.m.

Chan had fallen asleep exhausted after another long night of catching up on Stray Kids’ schedules.

The members were giving him space, the apartment unusually still.

He’d been replaying old voice notes on his phone — ones he didn’t remember recording — trying to force the pieces together.

His body gave out before his mind did.

In sleep, the dam finally broke.

It started as fragments, the same small ones that had been teasing him for weeks: the taste of strawberry candy on your tongue, the way you always took your coffee, the soft sound of your laugh in the empty practice room.

Then the flood came without mercy.

He saw everything.

The nervous way he’d asked you out that first time, heart pounding louder than any stage.

The rainy balcony where he’d kissed you so hard he forgot how to breathe.

The nights he’d crawl into your arms and whisper “I love you” like it was the only truth that mattered.

The promise ring, the way your fingers trembled when he slipped it on.

The way you looked at him like he was more than Stray Kids’ leader — like he was just Chan, your Chan.

Every memory slammed into him at once, vivid and merciless.

The love.

The laughter.

The fear of losing you to his idol life.

The way he’d promised you he’d always fight for “us.”

Chan woke up gasping, tears already streaming down his face before he was fully conscious. His chest heaved like he’d been drowning and finally broke the surface.

The room spun.

His heart hurt so badly he clutched at it, nails digging into his hoodie.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

And you weren’t here.

The realization hit harder than the accident itself — you were ten minutes away in your own apartment, probably trying to sleep after another day of quietly helping him while protecting your own breaking heart.

He had left you alone with the weight of his amnesia for weeks. He had looked at you like a stranger. He had made you say the words “maybe you should move on.”

Chan didn’t think. He didn’t change clothes. He didn’t even grab an umbrella.

He ran.

The streets were slick with rain, neon lights blurring through his tears as he sprinted the short distance between the his and your building.

His lungs burned. His legs ached from the healing bruises. But none of it mattered. The only thing that existed was the desperate need to reach you — to hold you before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He reached your door, soaked to the bone, chest heaving, knuckles slamming against the wood with shaking hands.

You opened it after the third frantic knock, eyes wide with worry, still in your pajamas, hair messy from sleep.

“Chan? What’s wrong? Are you okay—”

The moment he saw your face, the face he now remembered loving with every fiber of his being, something inside him shattered.

He lunged forward without a word.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it lifted you slightly off the ground. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, body trembling violently as broken sobs tore from his throat. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto your shoulder, mixing with his tears.

“I remember,” he choked out, voice raw and cracking. “I remember everything. Oh God, baby… I remember.”

His hold tightened, almost desperate, like he was afraid if he let go even an inch you would disappear the way his memories had. His fingers dug into your back, clutching the fabric of your shirt as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, the words muffled against your skin. “I’m so fucking sorry I forgot you. I forgot us. I forgot how you sound when you laugh, how you feel in my arms at 4 a.m., how you made the whole world quiet for me. I looked at you like you were nothing and you stayed. You stayed even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He pressed his wet cheek harder against yours, lips brushing your ear as more tears fell.

“I remember the roof. The ring. The way I promised you I’d never let you feel alone. I remember loving you so much it terrified me because I thought being an idol would take it away… and then it did. It took me away from you.”

His voice broke completely, shoulders shaking with the force of his cries.

“Don’t let me go,” he begged, holding you even tighter, rocking you both gently in the doorway. “Please. I know I hurt you. I know I made you think you were forgettable when you were the best thing that ever happened to me. But I’m here now. I’m me again. And I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face with both cold, trembling hands, thumbs desperately wiping at your tears even as his own kept falling.

His eyes — red, swollen, but finally, achingly familiar — locked onto yours with devastating clarity.

“I’m home,” he whispered, voice hoarse and shattered. “I came home to you.”

Chan looked at you — really look at you — his hands still cupping your face like you were something fragile and irreplaceable. His eyes, red and swollen from crying, searched yours with a depth that hadn’t been there for weeks.

No more polite distance. No more careful stranger.

Just raw, devastating recognition.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate — the kind of kiss that tasted like relief and regret and eight months of love he’d lost and suddenly found again. His lips pressed to yours with trembling intensity, salty from the tears still streaming down his cheeks.

More tears fell as he kissed you, hot and endless, mixing with the rainwater on his skin.

He made a broken sound against your mouth, half-sob, half-whisper of your name.

The moment your lips met, something deeper unlocked inside him. More memories flooded in, sharper and more vivid than before.

The way you used to kiss him backstage after stressful performances — quick and secret, just enough to ground him. The slow, lazy kisses on lazy mornings when he’d sneak you into his bed. The way you tasted when you smiled into his mouth. The way your fingers always found the back of his neck, pulling him closer like you never wanted to let go.

His heart ached in the best and worst way possible — a beautiful, crushing ache that reminded him exactly how much he had loved you, how much he still loved you, and how terrifyingly close he had come to losing it all forever.

He kissed you harder, tilting his head, pouring every unspoken apology and every recovered memory into it. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, wiping away your tears even as his own kept falling.

When he finally pulled back for air, forehead resting against yours, his breathing was ragged and his voice came out wrecked.

“I feel it,” he whispered, lips brushing yours with every word. “I feel everything again.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek and landed on your lips. He kissed it away immediately, soft and reverent, then kissed you again — slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the feeling all over again.

“I’m so sorry I made you wait,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick and trembling. “I’m so sorry I looked at you like you were someone I didn’t know. You were my everything. You are my everything.”

He held your face a little tighter, eyes squeezing shut as fresh tears spilled. The ache in his chest bloomed wider — not painful in a bad way, but overwhelming in its intensity.

Love. Guilt. Gratitude. Longing.

All of it crashing through him at once because of one kiss.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth, the words shaky but certain. “I love you so much it hurts right now. In the best way. Like my heart is finally waking up and it’s screaming because it missed you this whole time.”

He kissed you once more, lingering, pouring every recovered memory and every new feeling into it. His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you flush against his soaked body as if he could fuse the two of you together so nothing could ever separate you again.

In the quiet doorway, with rain drumming against the walls and tears still falling freely, Chan held you and kissed you like a man who had been given back his entire world — aching, grateful, and terrified of ever forgetting again.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The rain had finally stopped by morning, leaving the world outside your apartment quiet and washed clean.

Chan woke first, just like he used to.

Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting your bedroom in gentle hues of gold and pale pink. He lay still for a long moment, heart full and aching at the same time, simply watching you.

You were curled tightly into his side, face pressed against his chest, one leg draped over his, your hand fisted loosely in the front of his hoodie like even in sleep you were afraid he might slip away again. Your breathing was slow and even, warm against his collarbone.

Everything from last night came rushing back — the flood of memories, the desperate run through the rain, the way he had lunged into your arms crying, the kisses that tasted like tears and second chances.

His chest tightened with overwhelming gratitude.

He didn’t move to wake you. Instead, his hand found the curve of your back and began stroking slow, soothing lines up and down your spine — the exact gentle rhythm he used to use when you couldn’t sleep after a long day.

His fingers were careful, reverent, tracing every dip and rise like he was relearning the map of you.

With his other hand, he threaded through your hair, playing with the strands, twisting a lock around his finger before letting it fall softly.

He pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of your head, then another to your forehead, his lips lingering as if he could pour every ounce of love and apology into your skin.

“I’m here,” he whispered against your hair, voice low and hoarse from last night’s tears. “I’m right here, baby. I remember you. I remember everything now.”

He kissed your temple, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your closed eye where a dried tear track still lingered.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he breathed, lips brushing your cheek. “Thank you for staying even when I looked at you like a stranger. You’re so strong… so patient. I don’t deserve you, but God, I’m so grateful I have you back.”

Another kiss, this time to your jaw, then just below your ear — random, tender presses wherever his lips could reach without waking you.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, the words spilling out like a quiet vow. “I love you so much it still hurts in the best way. You’re my safe place. The only one who makes the noise in my head stop. I missed you even when I didn’t know how to miss you.”

His fingers kept stroking your back in slow circles, while his other hand continued playing gently with your hair. He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, then your shoulder, then the spot where your neck met your collarbone.

“You make me want to be better,” he whispered. “Not just for Stray Kids. For you. I promise I’ll never take this — take us — for granted again. Never.”

You stirred then, a soft sound escaping you as consciousness slowly returned. Your body shifted against his, eyes fluttering open, still heavy with sleep.

The second you moved, Chan tightened his hold, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. Both arms locked around you protectively — one hand still buried in your hair, the other splayed wide across your back as if he could shield you from every painful week you’d endured.

“Shh… don’t go anywhere,” he murmured, voice warm and thick with emotion, lips brushing your forehead again. He pressed another kiss there, then to your temple, holding you tighter as you fully woke in his arms.

“Stay right here with me. Just a little longer. I’ve got you.”

His fingers resumed their gentle strokes along your back, playing with your hair, while he scattered more random kisses — your cheek, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth — each one soft and full of quiet joy.

“I’m so happy,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracking just slightly. “I’m so happy I remember. I’m so happy you’re mine again.”

He held you like that, tight and unwavering, heart beating steady and full against yours — grateful, happy, and finally home.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

⤷ ゛ TAGLIST ˎˊ˗