“Y/N! YOU’RE FINALLY HERE!” minhee’s voice cut through the haze of your hurried arrival, her hand already reaching out to grab your wrist before you could even catch your breath. the reception hall loomed behind her, all soft golden light spilling through the open doors, the distant hum of conversation, and the particular cadence of glasses clinking in toasts you weren’t sure you could sit through.

social anxiety could be a bitch.

“i’m here, i’m here,” you gasped, slightly out of breath from sprinting across the parking lot in heels that were a total mistake… and would continue to be a mistake for the next several hours. you wondered if your legs could withhold the aching pain squeezing your toes, if you would finally learn to just wear flats and stop overthinking your fashion choices.

spoiler alert: you would not. you have always lived by the “beauty is pain” phrase. masochist, much?

minhee clicked her tongue, playfully rolling her eyes, “the ceremony started fifteen minutes ago. fifteen. i was about to file a missing person report!”

“god, minhee, you’re so dramatic,” beside her, yuqi materialized like a ghost summoned—or maybe just drawn by the commotion, because minhee’s voice carried, and yuqi had never been able to resist an audience, especially when the audience came with the perfect opportunity to make fun of her best friend, “it’s good that you’re here, y/n. minhee was having a full on panic attack.”

“okay and? i was scared that our y/n might abandon us here!” minhee’s voice pitched upward, high-pitched whines escaping glossed lips, followed by the downturn of her lips, “you know damn well i didn’t wanna attend this wedding! like, no offense to yuri, but she’s literally marrying my ex!”

“minhee, come on now…” yuqi exhaled, now resting her hand on the raven-haired’s shoulder, “no time for regrets, yeah? we’re here for yuri, just yuri. let’s be happy for her.”

minhee’s expression crumpled, just for a moment; a flash of something raw and real beneath the performative facade. you saw it, the hurt that hadn’t quite healed, still capable of drawing blood when pressed the wrong way.

and then it was gone, smoothed over by a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“i am happy for her. swear to god i am,” a feigned chuckle, her own fingers already moving to fix long tresses of hair that didn’t need fixing, a nervous habit you had seen a thousand times, “let’s—let’s just get going! we’re literally fifteen minutes late!”

the three of you walked into the hall together, your arms linked through theirs, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of it. the knot of anxiety that had been living in your chest since you rsvp’d to the wedding loosened, just a fraction. these were your people. this was your friend’s wedding. you were allowed to be happy tonight.

the venue was stunning, all white roses and fairy lights draped across exposed wooden beams, the kind of elegance that suited yuri perfectly… you would admit that she always did have impeccable taste.

your eyes roamed around the room, taking in the careful curation of it all. flowers spilled from tall glass vases in arrangements that looked yet had probably cost more than your rent: peonies, tulips, and some delicate white blooms you couldn’t name. the chairs were white, simple, tied with pink ribbons that matched the bridesmaid’s dresses. even the air smelled expensive—something floral and clean, the particular scent of a room that had been curated within an inch of its life.

you spotted her at the altar, resplendent in a simple yet refined gown, her veil catching the light like spun sugar. beside her, holding her hands with a reverence that made your throat tighten, stood junho. minhee’s unforgettable ex, as she had first introduced you two years ago.

the love of my life, she had called him once, quite early in the relationship, when she was still drunk on the possibility of him. the one i’m going to marry, she had corrected later, when things had gotten serious, when she had started picking out rings, planning futures, and believing that this time, finally, it would work. she had shown you photos of venues, debated color palettes, and future dress designs she would wear during that exciting day.

unfortunately, love flew away before she could relish in it.

a lovely couple they were, you had never expected them to break things off that quickly. it happened the way these things often did—not with a bang, but with a slow, creeping distance that neither of them seemed to know how to bridge. missed calls, canceled dinners, occasion fights, lost feelings… it was the gradual erosion of two lovers unfortunately worn down by time, circumstance, and the particular cruelty of growing apart while still remaining by each other’s sides.

you had watched it happen, had held your best friend’s hand throughout the fallout, through the nights she spent crying into her pillow, through the months of rehabilitation.

and now, here he was, standing at an altar. marrying someone else.

you could never understand men’s logic.

your gaze flickered to minhee. she was standing very still beside you, still clinging onto you and yuqi, her smile still fixed in place.

despite everything, she still smiled. a strong warrior she was, you had always adored song minhee. she always managed to find a way to piece herself together, even when showing up felt like a crime, even when the weight of everything she had lost pressed against her ribs akin to a compression machine.

her fingers were tight around your arm, knuckles white, yet her chin was high, gaze steady, signifying that she was here—song minhee was here, and she was not going to back down just because of a man. she was not going to let the past rob her of this moment, of her friend’s joy, of the life she had built for herself in the aftermath.

the three of you found your respective seats and let the ceremony wash over you. the vows were heartwarming: about partnership, about choosing each other every day, about building a home together. you applauded when they shared a kiss. you laughed when the officiant fumbled over a tongue-twister. you shed a tear when yuri turned to her mother during the thank-you.

it was good. you were happy for yuri.

and then, somewhere between the entrees being cleared and the champagne being poured for the toast, you felt it; the walls starting to press in, the sudden need of silence, air, and a moment to yourself.

you excused yourself from the table with a murmured “toilet”, ignoring yuqi’s knowing look.

the hallway outside the main hall existed in a state of profound silence, the music reduced to a distant bass hum. the air was colder there, thinner, stripped of the warmth and perfume that had suffocated the reception. you exhaled, rolling back the shoulders that had been braced against the weight of merriment for so many hours, and made your way towards the restrooms.

your heels clicked against the polished concrete floor, the sound echoing within the empty corridor. the hallway stretched out before you, lined with doors you assumed led to storage rooms, dressing rooms, the hidden machinery that made weddings like this one run smoothly. you happily welcomed the solitude.

you were so lost in your thoughts, turning over the shape of the evening in your mind, that you didn't see the figure rounding the corner until it was too late; you collided into someone’s chest.

yikes, y/n, way to ruin your day.

“sorry—” your hand instinctively covered your head, stepping back to regain your balance. you dared to look up, already offering the passerby an apologetic smile—

the words died on your tongue.

the world didn’t stop. that would have been too dramatic for your taste, yet something in your chest did. something in your ribcage seized up so abruptly that you were certain, for one suspended second, that your heart had forgotten its function.

because the man standing in front of you, blinking down at you with an expression of mild surprise, was not a stranger. definitely not.

lee minho.

five years. five years since you last saw him in person.

he looked different. time had touched him the way it touches things that are cared for. his jaw was sharper, the softness of youth carved away into something more defined. his shoulders broader beneath the crisp black suit. his dark hair fell in soft waves across his forehead, the kind of effortless styling that looked simple yet probably took an hour to perfect–l-ong enough to frame his features, the kind of hairstyle you had seen with k-pop idols these days.

he was staring at you.

he was staring at you with the same frozen expression you could feel plastered across your own visage. eyes slightly wide, lips parted, the careful composure of two people who had spent years without each other crumbling in the space between one breath and the next.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the silence stretched, thin and fragile as spun glass. and you could feel it, the weight of everything unsaid, everything unfinished, everything you had buried so deep you had almost convinced yourself it was gone.

run, your body screamed. turn around now—

“hi.”

his voice was the same, with that particular tone that used to make your stomach flip. it still did. damn it, it still did.

you opened your mouth. closed it. swallowed. your throat felt like sandpaper, your tongue too thick for your mouth, your brain scrambling for something, anything to say that wasn’t—

“hi,” you managed, and the word came out smaller than you intended, thinner, stripped of all the armor you had spent years building. carmine lips forcefully formed a smile, despite the ruefulness curdling in your chest.

he shifted his weight, and you noticed that he was holding a glass of champagne he hadn’t drunk from. his fingers were wrapped around the stem too tightly–or your brain was just playing games with you, seeing what it wanted to see, reading meanings into gestures that meant nothing at all.

“i didn’t know you’d be here,” his voice was careful now, measured. his smile mirrored yours, polished, practiced, the kind of smile that had been workshopped in dressing rooms and perfected in front of cameras. it was the smile he always wore when he was in public, when he needed to be the version of himself that the world expected.

you chuckled, and it came out hollow, “i didn’t know you would, either.”

a pause. someone laughed somewhere down the hall, and the sound felt impossibly distant.

his gaze dropped to your dress, and something flickered across his countenance—recognition, maybe. memory. the particular weight of knowing that you had worn this dress once before, to an event that existed in a version of your lives that no longer felt real.

you watched him swallow.

your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as he began to form words yet again. the sharp bite of pain grounded you, kept you anchored to the present, to the hallway, to the careful distance you had spent years learning to maintain.

“i’m on the groom’s side,” he started, his voice was lighter now, almost conversational, as if he was trying to fill the space between you with something ordinary, something that sounded like… ‘old friends’, “junho’s cousin.”

of course. of course he was junho’s cousin. of all the people, of all the families, of all the weddings—

“oh, i see,” you cleared your throat, subtly nodding your head, “i’m friends with yuri, the bride.”

“i know,” the corner of his mouth twitched, “junho mentioned one of her friends was a choreographer. i should have—” a light chortle, “i should have guessed.”

you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you didn’t know what to do with any of this. the hallway felt too narrow, too haunting, the air too thick for your lungs to process. you wanted to simply die in that spot… fate sure had such a sophisticated sense of humor.

“i didn’t realize junho knew what i did,” and the words came out sharper than you intended, edged with subtle bitterness. your hands came up to your arms, covering them as you felt the cold… or maybe, the look that he gave. you tried to ignore, “yuri and i, we’re not as close as he thinks we are.”

“i—”

“minho,” your voice was firmer now, cutting through whatever careful sentence he was constructing. a soft sigh escaped you, something between exhaustion and resignation, as you gestured vaguely towards the restroom, “would you mind?”

“right,” he stepped aside immediately, the movement quick, almost too quick, like he had been waiting for your permission. one of his hands found his pocket, his shoulders dropping slightly, and for a moment he looked like the boy you had known before the fame, before the cameras; the fellow dancer you fell in love with.

your chest tightened further.

“of course,” he cleared his throat, gesturing towards the restroom with a nod, “i’ll see you then, y/n.”

your name in his mouth. your name. after all this time. it landed somewhere soft, somewhere you had been protecting for three years, somewhere that was now cracking open despite all your efforts to keep it sealed.

no, y/n. don’t you dare. it had been years.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

you walked past him. you didn't run, yet it was a near thing. your shoulder didn't brush his, and you were grateful for that, because you weren't sure what would have happened if you had felt the warmth of him again. if you had felt the familiar press of his arm, the shape of him, the gravitational pull that had once been as natural as breathing.

the restroom door closed behind you with a soft click, and you leaned against it, pressing your palm flat against the wood. the surface was cool against your skin, grounding, real… something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was spinning.

your stomach lurched. the champagne you had earlier sat sour in your throat, and for a terrible moment you thought you might actually be sick. you could still see his face behind your eyelids. the way his voice had softened when his tongue tasted your name. the way his shoulders had dropped when you told him to step aside, like he had been expecting it, like he had been bracing for it this whole time.

breathe.

you made it to one of the stalls, locked the door behind you, and sank onto the closed toilet lid. the tile floor was cold beneath your heels. your hands were trembling, your fingers curling into fists in your lap, nails digging into skin hard enough to leave marks. your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your temples, in your throat, in the hollow of your chest where he used to live.

and then, the past decided to torture you once more.

YOU HAD BOTH BEEN DANCERS. that was how it started, how it always started with people like you and minho. you met at a competition first, one of the national events held in a convention center that smelled like sweat, desperation, and the particular adrenaline of people who had poured everything into something no one could promise would pay off. your competitors were merciless, unforgiving, all were chasing the same dream of winning with the same hunger.

he was good. you noticed him immediately, because lee minho danced like the music was something he had invented himself, like every beat was a language he had been born speaking. his movements were sharp where they needed to be sharp, fluid where they needed to be fluid, and there was something about the way he moved: a precision, a control, an understanding, a dance virtuoso that had successfully made you stop mid-stretch and just.. watch.

he noticed you too. you found out later, from yeonjun of all people, that he had pointed you out during a water break and said, "she's dangerous."

you laughed when you heard that. “he called me dangerous?”

he shrugged, closing his bottle cap as he reached to elbow your arm, “bet he meant it as a compliment.”

it was a compliment. the first of many.

you ended up on the same team for an international competition; six months of training, of traveling, of bleeding and sweating and crying in practice rooms across the city. six months of waking up before dawn to stretch, of collapsing into bed long after midnight, of pushing your bodies past every limit you thought you had. six months of learning each other's rhythms, your habits, the particular shape of your exhaustion and your hope.

somewhere between the third all-nighter and the victory you didn't quite achieve, you fell in love with him. or maybe you were in love with him from the moment he corrected your footwork with a patience that surprised you, his hands gentle on your hands, his voice soft as he said, "like this. try it like this."

you remembered that moment with a clarity that bordered on painful. the way his fingers had splattered across your waist, steadying you. the way he had knelt beside you on the studio floor, his face close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. the way he had looked at you when you finally got it right—not triumphant, not proud, but something softer. something that looked like wonder.

“there,” he mumbled softly, almost reverent. “that's it.”

you had felt it then… the shift, the pull, the particular gravity of someone who saw you, truly saw you, and found you worth looking at.

the months that followed were a blur of movement and music, of bodies learning to speak the same language, of silence that said more than words ever could. you learned the shape of his hands in yours, the weight of his gaze when you were the only two left in the studio, the way he would fall asleep on the floor between sets, his head pillowed on his arms, his face soft and unguarded in a way it never was when he was awake.

you learned that he was funny in a way that surprised you; dry, sharp, the kind of humor that took you a moment to catch. you learned that he was kind in a way that wasn't performative, that he noticed when someone was struggling, that he would stay late to help without ever making it feel like charity. you learned that he was scared, too. scared of not being good enough, of the auditions and the rejections and the particular cruelty of a world that asked for everything and gave back nothing. scared that the thing he wanted most would slip through his fingers the moment he stopped chasing it.

you learned these things in stolen moments, in the spaces between rehearsals, in the quiet of a practice room at 2 am when the rest of the city was asleep and the only light came from the street outside, filtering through blinds that had been broken for years.

it was him who made the first move. in that same practice room, after a run-through that had left you both breathless and sweating, the music still playing softly from the speakers, the lights humming their eternal hum. you had been sitting on the floor, your back against the mirror, trying to catch your breath. 

and when you looked up, his eyes were already on you.

he had looked at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. and then, before you could say anything, before you could talk yourself out of whatever was about to happen, he crossed the room.

three strides. that was all it took. three strides and he was in front of you, his shadow falling over you, his hands finding your face with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

his lips were soft at first, tentative, questioning. the kind of kiss that asked permission with every gentle press, that left room for you to pull away, that gave you every chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted.

he was wrong. you wanted this. you had been waiting for this.

your hand came up to curl around his wrist, fingers wrapping around the delicate bones there, holding him in place.

 and when he felt that, something in him shifted.

he kissed you again, and this time it was different. not harder, not deeper in the way you would learn in the years to come, but more. more certain. more sure. he poured something into it that felt like months of wanting, of waiting, of wondering if you felt it too. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, as if he was memorizing the shape of you, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he stopped. 

he was not the dry, sarcastic, “mean” guy that everyone knew. he was just… minho. the incredibly attentive, witty, and caring lee minho. you could never understand how people would dislike him.

your pulse thundered within your chest; a wild, untamed rhythm that roared in your ears until you could hear nothing else. your other hand found his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt, holding on like he was the only thing keeping you up right. the world outside the practice room faded into static, into nothing, into the soft echo of background music and the rhythm of his breath against your lips.

you pulled him down to the floor with you, your back pressing against the mirror, his body a warm weight against yours, and for a long, suspended moment, there was nothing else. no competition, no auditions, no future to worry about. there was only him. only his gentle caress, his kisses… most importantly, his unkept smile. 

then, he held you in his arms. he held you until the music stopped, until the lights flickered, until the janitor knocked on the door and told you it was time to leave. you walked out of that practice hand in hand, your fingers laced together, your heart so full you thought it might burst. 

the competition came and went. you didn't win, not the way you had hoped, not the way you had trained for. but you didn't lose either. not really. because when you walked off that stage, your body aching and your heart full, he was there. he was waiting. and when he took your hand in the hallway, his fingers lacing through yours, you knew that whatever came next, you would face it together.

you had been wrong about that, of course. you had been wrong about so many things.

however, in that moment, you had believed. you had believed in him. you had believed in you. you had believed in a future that looked like the two of you, side by side, dancing through whatever came next. it was a beautiful belief. you had held onto it as long as you could.

you had dated for nearly two years. two years of stolen moments between practices, of takeout eaten on studio floors, of choreographing duets that were really just love letters set to music. you learned the shape of his hands, the sound of his laugh when he was truly relaxed, the way he said your name when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world had fallen away.

then came the following year. the year he successfully became an idol. 

being an idol was always the dream—for both of you, if you were being honest. you had grown up in the same studios, chasing the same stages, breathing the same air that smelled like sweat and ambition. yet somewhere along the way, you had made your peace with a different kind of life. choreography. teaching. the kind of success that happened behind the curtain, in the wings, in the spaces where the lights didn't reach.

minho wanted the stage. minho wanted the lights. and you loved him too much to want anything else for him.

you supported him. you accompanied him to the audition. you held his hand when the results came in, his palm clammy with sweat, his grip so tight it left marks... you were the one who said, "this is it. this is everything you've worked for."

you meant it. you meant it even as something in your chest began to splinter, because you silently knew, with the clarity that only came when something was ending, that you were not part of the dream he was chasing. you were the thing he would have to leave behind.

it started slowly. the way these things always do.

the texts became shorter. the calls became rarer. he was always practicing, always recording, always too tired to talk, and you told yourself it was temporary. you told yourself he was building something, and building required sacrifice, and you were strong enough to wait. you had always been strong enough to wait.

but waiting turned into something else. something colder.

he stopped coming to your apartment, the apartment you had picked together, the one with the comfortable layout and a balcony that let in all the street noise. you would lie awake at night, listening to the cars pass, and wonder when the last time was that you had seen him smile, that you had spent time together... most importantly, that you had properly talked like actual lovers.

he stopped asking about your day. he stopped asking about anything. the silence between you grew longer, heavier, filled with things neither of you knew how to say. you made excuses for him. you always made excuses for him. he was tired. he was busy. he was becoming someone new, and you were the ghost of the person he used to be.

and then one day, you couldn't anymore.

you had brought him food. his favorite, the tteokbokki from the place near the studio, the one he said tasted like home. you had walked through the rain to get there, your umbrella broken, your hair plastered to your face, your coat soaked through and clinging to your skin. you had wanted to surprise him. you had wanted to remind him that you existed, that you were still here, that you were still his.

he was alone in the practice room when you arrived. the music was boisterous loud you could feel it in your teeth, a bass thrum that vibrated through the floor and up into your bones. he was running a sequence, something sharp and precise, the kind of choreography that demanded everything from a body, that left nothing behind. he moved like he was trying to escape something, like if he danced hard enough, he could outrun whatever was chasing him.

he looked exhausted. he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

after what felt like an hour, he finally finished the sequence, his chest heaving, his reflection staring back at him from the wall of mirrors. he didn't turn. didn't acknowledge you. just stood there, breathing, his shoulders rising and falling, his hands braced on his knees.

and then he saw you.

his face flickered through something—surprise, maybe. something else you couldn't name. and then it settled into nothing. a mask. the same mask he wore for cameras, for strangers, for everyone who wasn't supposed to see the parts of him he kept hidden.

"you're here," he exhaled. not a question. not an invitation.

"i brought you dinner." you held up the bag, your fingers numb from the cold. "you need to eat."

he looked at the bag. he looked at you. his face didn't change. and then he turned back to the mirror.

"i'm not hungry."

"minho—"

"i said i'm not hungry, y/n."

you tried anyway. you had to try. you had spent years loving him, and you couldn't stop now, not when he was standing in front of you looking like a version of himself you didn't recognize, like someone had taken the man you loved and replaced him with this hollowed-out thing that wore his face and spoke in his voice but wasn't him.

you asked about the practices. he gave you one-word answers, his eyes fixed on his own reflection. you asked about his members. he shrugged, a small, dismissive movement that sent something cold pooling in your stomach. you asked if he was sleeping, if he was eating, if he was taking care of himself—and each question landed like a stone dropped into water, sinking without trace, leaving nothing behind.

with a resigned finality, you said, "please. just sit down. just eat something."

the words came out softer than you intended, frayed at the edges, stripped of all the things you actually wanted to say: please come back to me. please let me in. please tell me what i did wrong, what i could have done differently, what i can still do to fix this.

he spun around so fast you stepped back.

"i don't need you to take care of me." his voice was sharp in a way you had never heard before. sharp in a way that cut. "i don't need you showing up here, y/n."

you opened your mouth. closed it.

"i'm trying, y/n." his hands were shaking. you noticed that. his hands were shaking. "i'm trying to be what they need me to be. i'm trying to be enough. and you keep—" he stopped, his jaw tightening. "god—just... leave me alone!"

THUD!

his words hung in the air between you, sharp and final, and you felt something in your chest crack; something you had been holding together for months, for years, for the whole terrible duration of watching him slip away from you.

you waited for him to say something else, something that would make this make sense… some explanation, some apology, some crack in the mask he had built between you that would let the man you loved crawl back out. you waited for his guilt, standing there in your rain-soaked clothes, with your heart in your hands, offering it to him for the hundredth time, watching him refuse to take it.

loving him so much it was destroying you.

i'm trying, he had said. and you had believed him.

you were still believing him, even now, even as he stood with his back to you, his reflection staring at you from the wall of mirrors with eyes that saw nothing.

then, he turned back to the mirror.

and your heart crumbled instantly.

it wasn't the loud, dramatic thing you had imagined heartbreak would be. there was no sound, no collapsing, no final, cinematic crack. it was quieter than that. smaller. a hairline fracture that split through the center of everything you had been holding together, and you understood that there was nothing left to hold onto. that you had been holding onto nothing for months. that the person you loved had left you long before tonight, and you had just been too stubborn, too hopeful, too in love to let yourself see it.

without further arguing, you left.

you didn't remember anything after that.. you just remembered walking.

out of the studio, past the practice rooms where you had once spent nights learning the shape of his body against yours. down the stairs, the same stairs you had climbed a hundred times with his hand in yours, his laughter echoing off the concrete walls. onto the street, where the rain had stopped but the air still held the memory of it—damp and heavy, pressing against your lungs like something you couldn't quite exhale.

outside was gray and quiet, the kind of gray that settled into your bones and stayed there, the kind of quiet that made every sound feel like an accusation. your footsteps echoed against the wet pavement, a rhythm that didn't belong to you, a beat you had learned from him and couldn't unlearn. you walked toward the subway station with nothing in your head but static, your shoes soaked through, your coat still clinging to your skin, the bag of rice cakes growing cold in your hands, growing heavier with every step, like the weight of everything you hadn't said, everything you hadn't been able to make him hear.

you were halfway down the stairs when you heard him.

"y/n!"

his voice cracked on your name, splintered into something raw, something that didn't sound like the voice you had heard in the practice room. it was the voice of the man who was your dance partner, your best friend, your boyfriend.

you turned.

he was at the top of the stairs, chest heaving, hair falling into his face, his silhouette carved against the gray light of the street behind him. he had run after you. he had actually run after you. and for one terrible, hopeful moment, you thought—

you didn't let yourself finish the thought.

you stood at the entrance of the subway car, the doors open behind you, the automated voice announcing the next station in a cheerful monotone that felt obscene in the weight of this moment. the lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made even happy places feel like waiting rooms. you looked at him. he looked at you. the distance between you was maybe twenty feet, yet it felt like the entire universe.

and you waited.

get on the train, you thought, and the words were not a command but a prayer, not a demand but a plea. get on the train, and we can talk, and you can explain, and we can fix this. just get on the train.

your hands were shaking. the bag of rice cakes crinkled in your grip. your heart was a fist in your chest, pounding against your ribs, trying to break free, trying to cross the distance he wouldn't cross.

just get on the train.

he didn't move. he… hesitated.

the doors eventually slid closed.

the automated voice chimed, pleasant and final, and the train began to pull away from the platform. you watched him through the window, his silhouette shrinking against the fluorescent lights, his face fading into the tunnel. he was still standing there, hands at his sides, hair falling into his eyes, his chest still heaving from the run he hadn't finished. he was still standing there, and you were moving, and the space between you was widening, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

you watched him until the darkness swallowed everything: the shape of him, the weight of him, the last thread of a future that had once seemed so certain.

he didn’t call nor text you. and your demolished heart knew that it was over.

YOUR HANDS HAD STOPPED SHAKING. you noticed this with a distant sort of surprise, watching hands relaxed in your lap. your lungs deflated a deep, full-of-fatigue sigh as you rested your forehead on your arms, knees caged to your chest. 

despite the soothing stillness of the space, your chest remained hollowed out, as if something had been scooped out and left behind; a cavity where your heart used to be, an absence where his name used to echo. 

no, you weren't crying. you weren't even upset about the encounter, not really. the sight of him had sent something through you, yes—a shock, a tremor, the particular disorientation of seeing a ghost you had long since stopped looking for. yet the panic had faded. the sharp edges had worn smooth. and what was left in its wake was not grief, not longing, not any of the things you had expected to feel.

it was just... quiet. a quiet that felt like exhaling after years of holding your breath.

you didn’t need to cry. the tears had been spent years ago, in the weeks and months after the doors closed, in the sleepless nights when you replayed every moment, every word, every choice until you couldn’t remember which way was up. you had cried into your pillow, into your takeout containers, into the collar of the hoodie he had bought you as a birthday gift. you had cried on the bathroom floor of the apartment you had picked together, the very last remnant of him before you decided to move out and sell it.

he left quietly three days after your last encounter at the subway. not even a single note. not even a single text. not even a single call… not even a single goodbye from him. no explanation. no apology. you remembered walking into your apartment after a night walk, witnessing how emptied the apartment was.

his shoes were gone from the entryway. his jacket was no longer draped over the back of the chair. the shelf where he kept his comic books stood bare. the bathroom counter had only your things on it, the space where his toothbrush used to sit beside yours now just an empty tile.

without a word. without a fight. without even the decency of goodbye. there shouldn’t be any further reasons to be justified. he had made his choice. he had chosen a better choice.

…whatever.

pushing your thoughts away, you stood up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. your legs were unsteady, yet they held. 

you unlocked the door and stepped out of the stall, your heels clicking against the tile floor. the restroom was still empty: a row of sinks, mirrors, the soft hum of the ventilation system the only sound. you walked towards the sink, your reflection growing larger in the mirror with each step.

the woman's face stared back at you; pale, yes, a little wide-eyes yet composed. your mascara hadn’t run. your lipstick was still intact. there was no evidence, on your visual, of the earthquake that had just happened inside your chest. no cracks in the foundation. no fault lines.

you ran your fingers through your hair, smoothing down the strands that had escaped during your hurried retreat. you tucked a few pieces behind your ears, adjusted the strap of your dress, straightened your spine.

you took one last breath, slow, deliberate, a quiet promise to yourself that you would not fall apart again this evening.

then you turned away from the mirror, strutted to the door, and pushed it open. the hallway stretched before you, with a few passersby roaming around, the distant swell of music from the reception drifting through the walls. you walked towards it, followed by heels clicking against the concrete, each step a small act of defiance.

no, you will not let him ruin your day. 

the reception continued without you. the music swelled and faded, a distant heartbeat beneath the hum of conversation. laughter rose and fell, and the champagne continued to flow, toasts raised and glassed clinked… and the world moved on as it always did, as it always would.

you walked back into the hall and took your seat, the velvet cushion cool beneath your thighs, the warmth of the room pressing against your skin after the chill of the bathroom. yuqi turned to you, brow furrowed, lips parting around a question she hadn’t yet asked.

you just smiled and reached for your glass. the champagne was flat now, the bubbles long since surrendered to the air, but you brought it to your lips anyway.

you let the evening wash over you. you laughed when yeonjun told a story about yuri’s disastrous first attempt at cooking, his voice rising to a theatrical pitch as he mimicked her frantically waving a smoke-filled pan. you cried during the father-daughter dance. you applauded when the cake was cut, watching the bride and groom feeding each other with shaking hands and adoring eyes. you were present. you were whole. you were more than fine.

when the last dance was announced and the lights came up, you slipped away before anyone could pull you into another conversation.

you said your goodbyes—quick yet genuine. you pressed a kiss to minhee's cheek, feeling the faint salt of her skin, the slight tremor in her smile that told you she was still holding herself together. you squeezed yuqi's hand, letting your fingers linger a moment longer than necessary, letting the silence between you say everything you didn't have words for.

you congratulated yuri one last time, pulling her into a hug that was fierce and fast, breathing in the scent of her perfume and the particular happiness that clung to brides like morning light.

"thank you for coming," she whispered into your ear, her voice thick with emotion.

"no, thank you for inviting me," you whispered back.

and then you were outside. the night air was a balm against your skin; it was cool and forgiving, blessedly free of the perfume-and-champagne haze that had clouded the reception, the particular stuffiness of too many bodies in too small a space. you breathed it in deep, letting it fill your lungs, letting it wash away the traces of the evening—the clink of glasses, the swell of music, the weight of a hundred conversations you had smiled through without really hearing.

the parking lot stretched out before you, mostly empty now, the remaining cars scattered like sleeping animals under the pale glow of the streetlights. the asphalt was still holding the day's heat, a faint warmth rising from the ground, and somewhere in the distance, a train whistled—a sound that no longer made your chest tighten the way it used to.

you found your car at the edge of the lot, away from the others, tucked beneath the low-hanging branches of an oak tree that had been strung with fairy lights for the occasion. they blinked softly, patiently, as if they had been waiting for you.

you leaned against the hood, the metal cool against your back, and pulled a cigarette from the small clutch you had brought. you didn't smoke often, well, not anymore. there had been a time, in the months after, when the burn of tobacco had been the only thing that felt real, the only thing that cut through the numbness. you had quit eventually, had learned other ways to feel alive.

but tonight felt like a night that warranted it. a night for rituals. a night for small, deliberate acts of closure.

the flame flickered in the darkness, caught, and you inhaled. nicotine smoke filled your lungs, sharp and familiar, burning just enough to remind you that you were still here, still whole, still standing.

the first drag was always the sharpest. the second was smoother. by the third, the tension in your shoulders had begun to ease, the knot in your chest loosening its grip. you stared up at the sky, what little of it you could see through the city lights; a pale slice of moon, a scattering of stars too faint to name, and let yourself breathe.

you had survived lee minho. you had survived loving him. you had survived losing him.

and tonight, you had survived seeing him again.

the cigarette burned down between your fingers, the ember glowing orange in the darkness, the smoke curling up toward the sky before disappearing into the night. you watched it go, watched it fade, and felt something in your chest settle. something that had been restless for years. something that had been waiting for a closure you had never received.

maybe this was it. not a conversation. not an explanation. not an apology.

just this. the quiet of a parking lot. the burn of a cigarette. the slow exhale of a breath you had been holding for too long.

you took one last drag, let the smoke fill your lungs one final time, and then you stubbed it out against the sole of your heel. the ember died with a soft hiss, and you straightened up, your joints popping softly after too long in one position.

your keys were in your hand, the door within reach. you could be home in twenty minutes. you could change out of this dress; the one you had worn on one of your dates, the one you should have thrown away, the one that had seen too much and held too many memories. you could wash off this makeup, scrub away the last traces of the evening, crawl into bed and let sleep claim you.

tomorrow, this would be nothing but a memory. a footnote. a closed chapter.

you reached for the door handle—before your ears registered the sound of footsteps.

they were soft at first, almost hesitant—the kind of footsteps that weren't sure they were welcome. the kind that could retreat, if necessary, could pretend they had never been there at all.

you tensed, your hand freezing on the handle, your breath catching in your throat.

you knew those footsteps. you knew the rhythm of them, the particular cadence, the way they fell just slightly heavier on the left side because of an old injury from a competition years ago; an injury you had watched him ice in your apartment, had held his hand through, had kissed better when he couldn't sleep.

no… please don’t—

you looked over your shoulder.

minho was standing a few feet away, his suit jacket gone, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie loosened around his neck. the parking lot lights caught the planes of his face, softened them, made him look less like the polished idol who graced magazine covers and more like the boy who used to fall asleep on your shoulder after late-night practices.

his hair was falling into his eyes, the way it always did when he was nervous, and his hands were shoved into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched—a posture you recognized from a thousand moments across the years. he was trying to make himself smaller. trying not to take up too much space.

he was looking at you with an expression you couldn't name. something raw. something unguarded. something that looked almost like fear.

you turned away. your hand tightened on the door handle. you could get in. you could drive away. you could leave him standing there, the same way he had left you standing on that subway platform, watching you disappear into the tunnel without following.

you could. you should.

click.

the door unlocked. you pulled it open.

“y/n.”

his voice cracked on your name. just like it had five years ago, on the subway stairs. just like it had in a hundred dreams you had told yourself you had stopped having.

you froze.

“please.”

one word. one syllable. and in it, everything. every unsaid thing, every unfinished sentence, every moment of silence that had stretched between you for five years. he said it like a prayer. he said it like he was standing at the edge of something and didn't want to fall alone.

your hand was on the door. you could still leave. you could still walk away, and that would be the end of it, and you would have your silence and your distance and the careful life you had built without him.

however, you had been silent for five years. you had been distant for five years. you had built a life, yes, a good life, a life you were proud of… yet there was still that hollow in your chest, that space you had never quite been able to fill with anything else.

you let go of the door.

you turned around.

minho was standing in the same spot, but something in his posture had shifted. his shoulders were down, his hands hanging at his sides, his face open in a way you had never seen it—not in the years you had known him, not in the years since. he looked like a man who had spent five years carrying something too heavy and was finally, finally setting it down.

you didn't speak. you didn't move. you just looked at him, and he looked at you, and the parking lot was silent around you, the reception faded to a distant hum, the night holding its breath.

“i want to talk to you.” his voice was akin to a thread holding against a weight that threatened to snap it, surprisingly fragile. “i know i don't have the right. i know i should have—” 

he stopped, his jaw tightening. “i should have done this long ago. i should have…”

his hand came up, ran through his hair, a gesture so familiar it made your chest ache. he was nervous. lee minho, who had stood on stages in front of thousands, who had faced cameras and critics and the weight of an industry that demanded everything, was nervous standing in a parking lot in front of you.

“please,” he begged again, and this time the word was quieter, softer, stripped of everything but the simple, desperate need behind it. “just.. give me ten minutes. that's all i'm asking. ten minutes.”

you stared at him. the space between you felt like a chasm, five years wide, filled with everything that had been said and everything that hadn't. he was standing on the other side, asking you to bridge it. asking you to meet him halfway.

you thought about the subway platform. you thought about the hesitation, the doors closing, the distance widening. you thought about the apartment, emptied of everything but silence. you thought about the years you had spent wondering what would have happened if he had just gotten on the train.

and you thought about the woman you were now. the woman who had survived that night. the woman who had built a life out of the wreckage. the woman who had learned, slowly, painfully, that she didn't need closure to keep living.

but maybe, just maybe, she deserved it.

you nodded.

it was a small movement, barely perceptible, yet he saw it. his whole body seemed to exhale, the tension draining from his shoulders, his hands dropping to his sides. something flickered across his face—relief, maybe. or gratitude. or something else entirely, something you didn't have a name for.

“thank you,” he mumbled, and the words came out rough, scraped raw. “thank you, y/n.”

you didn't answer. you just waited, your back against your car, the night air cool against your skin, the last traces of cigarette smoke fading from your lungs.

minho took a step closer. then another. he stopped when there was still space between you; respectful, careful space, the space of a man who knew he had no right to ask for more than you were willing to give.

he placed you under his scrutiny for a long moment, his eyes tracing your face like he was memorizing it, like he was seeing you for the first time in five years and didn't know when he would see you again.

“you look good,” he uttered finally. his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “you look—” he shook his head, let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “you look happy.”

“i am,” your voice came out steadier than you expected. steadier than you felt, “i am happy.”

he nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground between you. the asphalt was cracked there, a thin line of tobacco pushing through, stubborn and dark. he stared at it like it held the secrets he had been looking for.

“i thought about you. a lot,” his voice was barely a whisper now, almost to himself. “more than i should have. more than i had the right to.”

you didn't say anything. you waited.

the silence stretched between you, thin and fragile, and you watched him struggle with something. you watched his throat move, watched his hands clench and unclench at his sides, watched the words form and dissolve behind his eyes.

“ i should have gotten on the train,” the words came out raw, scraped clean of pretense, stripped of everything but the simple, devastating truth of them.

the words hit you like a punch to the chest. you had waited five years to hear them. you had stopped waiting, somewhere along the way—had told yourself it didn't matter anymore, that the train was just a train, that the doors closing was just doors closing.

but it wasn't. it was never just that.

“i should have,” his voice cracked on the words, the careful composure splintering at the edges. “i should have gotten on that train, and i should have held you, and i should have—“

he stopped, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, pressed hard enough to leave marks. “i should have chosen you.”

your throat tightened. you blinked, hard, refusing to let the tears fall. not yet. not until you understood what this was, what he was asking for, what he was offering.

“why didn't you?” the question came out softer than you intended, frayed at the edges, stripped of all the armor you had spent five years building.

he dropped his hands. his eyes were red-rimmed, bright in the parking lot lights, and for a moment he looked so young… younger than you had seen him in years. he looked like the boy who had been your everlasting dance partner, who had held your hand on the subway, who had promised you things he hadn't known how to keep.

“because i was scared.”

…motherfucker.

“of what?”

“of everything.” the word exploded out of him, raw and honest and so unlike the polished, measured man who had smiled at you in the hallway an hour ago. “of failing. of not being enough. of letting everyone down. of—”

a defeated sigh, his pride was absolutely shattered, “of losing you.”

you stared at him. the words hung in the air between you, heavy and true, and you felt something crack open in your chest—something you had been holding shut for five years.

“you lost me anyway.”

“i know.” his voice was barely a whisper now, so quiet you almost didn't hear it, “i know i did. i…”

he stopped yet again, swallowed, forced himself to meet your eyes, “i thought if i got on that train, if i let myself hold on to you, i would never be able to let go. and i needed to let go. i thought i did. i thought if i wanted this—the career, the life i was supposed to want, i had to choose. and i thought... i thought you would understand.”

you couldn't help the bitter scoff escaping your lips, your expression souring as he continued explaining his... bullshit, “i did understand. i understood that you were tired. i understood that you were scared. i understood that you were trying to build your career, and building required sacrifice.”

you paused, felt the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, felt the years of silence finally cracking open. “i understood all of that, minho. what i didn't understand was why you wouldn't let me stay.”

his expression tensed further. the words landed, you saw them land, saw them hit something deep and unguarded, something he had been protecting for a very long time.

“y/n—”

“you didn't give me a choice,” your voice was rising now, the years of silence finally breaking free, the words pouring out before you could stop them. “you didn't ask me what i wanted. you just decided. you decided that i couldn't handle it. you decided that i would hold you back. you decided that the best thing to do was to push me away, and you did it so thoroughly, so completely, that there was nothing left for me to hold onto.”

he opened his mouth. closed it. his hands were clenching at his sides.

“i waited for you,” the tears were falling now, hot and fast, and you didn't bother to wipe them away. “i waited for you to call. i waited for you to text. i waited for you to show up at my door and explain, and apologize, and tell me that you had made a mistake. i waited for you to fight for me the way i had been fighting for you for months. and you didn't. you just—”

a shuddering breath, “you just left.”

he stood there, frozen, his face a mask of something you couldn't name—grief, maybe. or shame. or the particular devastation of hearing your worst self reflected back at you.

“did you even love me, minho?”

the question came out before you could stop it. it was the question that had lived in you for five years, the one you had asked yourself in the dark, in the quiet, in the moments when you thought you had finally moved past it. it was the question you had been too afraid to ask, too afraid to know the answer.

the silence that followed was different from the others. it was the silence of something breaking, something that had been holding for a very long time finally giving way.

he stared at you. his face was pale, his eyes bright, his hands still shaking at his sides.

“did you?”

the question was a mirror, held up to both of you, reflecting all the years of doubt and fear and wondering.

you held his gaze. you didn't look away. you had been looking away for so long, and you were tired.

“i loved you.”

past tense. the words sat between you, heavy and true, heavier than the silence, heavier than the years, heavier than everything you had carried since the day he left you.

he let out a sound; something between a laugh and a sob, a noise that came from somewhere deep, somewhere he had been keeping locked for a very long time.

“i do—i did too,” the confession seemed to cost him something—you could see it in the way his throat moved, the way his hands clenched at his sides. “from the rooftop. from before that. from the moment you became my teammate.”

the words landed in your chest like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything you thought you had buried. from the moment you became my teammate. from the beginning. from before there was even something to name.

a tear slipped down your cheek. you didn't wipe it away. you let it fall, let it trace a cold path down your skin, let it be a witness to the truth you had finally, finally spoken.

“why didn't you say this back then?”

the question came out smaller than you intended, frayed at the edges, stripped of all the armor you had spent five years building. it wasn't an accusation. it wasn't a demand. it was something softer, something more fragile—just a woman asking the man she had loved for half a decade why he had let her go without a fight.

“why, minho—”

“i was scared… i didn't know how to be what you needed and what i truly wanted at the same time. i thought—” his voice caught, his thumb reaching up to wipe the tear falling down his cheek, “i thought you deserved someone who could stay. and i didn't know how to stay.”

“you could have learned… you could have tried.”

“i know…” he muttered again, softer this time, almost to himself, “i know i could have. and i've spent five years wishing i had.”

he exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to take something from him. when he looked up again, and there was a rawness in his expression that you hadn't seen since the night he left.

however, he didn't say anything else. he just stood there, waiting, and you realized he was giving you the space to say what you had come here to say. he was giving you the words you had been holding for five years.

you took a breath. you let it fill your lungs, let it steady you, let it carry the weight of everything that had happened since the last time you stood in front of him and didn't say what you meant.

“if you had gotten on the train… if you just let me stay… if you just talk to me…” your voice fractured, the sentence collapsing under the weight of everything it was trying to carry. you steadied yourself, swallowed, tried again,  “i would have stayed with you forever.”

he closed his eyes. when he opened them again, tears were already gathered along his lower lash line, threatening to fall.

“i know.”

two words. one syllable each. and in them, everything. every regret he had carried for five years. every night he had lain awake wondering what would have happened if he had just moved, if he had just taken one step, if he had just closed the distance between the platform and the train. every version of the life he could have had, the life he had chosen to walk away from, the life that had been waiting for him on the other side of those doors.

i know.

and for a moment, neither of you moved. 

the night held its breath. the lights blinked softly overhead. somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed, a voice called out, a world continued spinning.

you thought about the apartment you wouldn't share. the life the two of you wouldn't have. the future that had been stolen by timing, fear, and the particular cruelty of growing up.

and you thought about the woman you were now. the woman who had survived. the woman who had built something new out of the wreckage. the woman could stand here, in this parking lot, facing her past, and feel not the sharp sting of loss, yet something softer. something that knew the shape of the wound but no longer bled from it.

“we can't go back,” you announced it like a door closing. a chapter ending. like something you had finally, finally made peace with.

he shook his head. “y/n…”

“we can't—” you paused, searching for the words. “we can't be what we were. not anymore.”

“… i understand,” his voice was quiet, resigned. 

you nodded. the truth of it settled into your bones, not warm, not cold, but something in between. something like peace. something like acceptance. something like the slow, painful process of learning to let go.

he was not just a memory. not just a ghost. not just the man who had broken your heart. the man standing in front of you, with his own life, his own scars, his own future stretching out ahead of him. a man who had loved you, who had lost you, who had carried you with him even when he couldn't hold you.

he looked back at you, and you knew he was seeing you the same way.

with pride and ego no longer holding you back, you opened your arms.

the gesture was small, almost instinctive; your arms opening, your hands reaching, an offering you had been holding back for five years. no words. just the quiet invitation of yourself, waiting to be received.

he didn't hesitate. he moved into them like he had been waiting for permission his whole life, like he had been holding himself back for five years and was finally, finally allowed to let go. his arms wrapped around you, tight, desperate, and you felt him shake against you, felt his breath catch in his throat, felt the weight of everything he hadn't said pressing into the space between your bodies.

you held him. you held him the way you should have held him years ago, on the subway platform, before the doors closed. you held him the way you had wanted to hold him in the practice room, when he had turned away from you and you had understood, for the first time, that love was not always enough.

his face was pressed into your hair. his arms were locked around your waist. his breath was warm against your neck, uneven, shuddering, and you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, or maybe that was your own heart, you couldn't tell anymore.

“i'm sorry,” his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i'm so sorry, y/n.”

you didn't tell him it was okay. it wasn't, not really. there was no version of this where the apology could undo what had been done, where the words could fill the space between what had happened and what could have been.

you just... held him. you let him hold you, and for a moment you let yourself have this... the closing of a door that had been open for too long, the final page of a chapter you had been trying to finish for years.

when you finally pulled apart, his face was wet. yours was too.

he reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away the tears with a gentleness that made your chest ache. his hand lingered there for a moment, warm against your skin, and then he pressed his lips to your forehead.

it was soft. it was final. it was everything you hadn't known you needed.

you pulled back almost immediately, and you smiled at him. it was painful, yes. but it was also real. it was also love, in its own quiet way—the love that remained when romance had faded, when the future had been mourned, when there was nothing left to do but let go.

he smiled back. his eyes were red, his cheeks were wet, but he was smiling.

“ i don’t want this to be goodbye, y/n,” pleaded the man you had loved, the man who would always be a part of you even as you walked away. you memorized the shape of him in this moment: the soft light of the parking lot, the tired lines of his face, the way he held himself like someone who had finally, after all these years, been allowed to rest.

"goodbye, minho."

you turned. you walked to your car. you didn't look back.

yet as you drove away, the city lights blurring through your tears, you felt something shift in your chest. something release. something settle.

the apartment you wouldn't share. the future you wouldn't have. the life that could have been.

you carried them with you still. yet somewhere along the way, they had stopped being a weight and started being something else. something like a song you had once loved, one that would always make your heart ache a little when you heard it, however, that you could listen to now without breaking.

besides, some people are not meant to stay.

© lynsbng 2026 — ‘once upon a broken heart’ event.