minnie !

nobody had ever told chan how to dress for his best friend’s funeral.

there were guides for everything else. how to tie a tie. how to bow at the right angle. how to smile for cameras when your eyes were burning from lack of sleep. how to stand on stage and accept awards like you hadn’t clawed your way up from nothing.

but no one had ever told him how to dress when the person who had once stood at the end of an aisle waiting for him was now lying in a casket at the front of a chapel.

so he chose the only thing that made sense.

the suit.

the one he married her in.

it still hung at the very back of his closet, wrapped carefully in plastic, tucked behind stage outfits and coats he rarely wore. he hadn’t touched it in years. hadn’t needed to. he’d told himself he was preserving it for something sentimental— an anniversary renewal, maybe. a future story to tell their kids. a “remember when” moment.

instead, his hands trembled as he unzipped the garment bag.

black. tailored perfectly to his shoulders. the fabric still smooth beneath his fingertips. he could almost hear your voice from years ago, soft and teasing.

“you clean up nice, chris.”

back then, you had stood in front of him in white, sunlight filtering through stained glass, your eyes shining brighter than anything he’d ever seen under stage lights. he had cried that day too.

tears had blurred his vision as he’d said his vows. tears had slipped free when he’d slid the ring onto your finger. tears had fallen when you kissed him and everyone had cheered.

happy tears.

overwhelmed tears.

now, as he buttons the jacket with slow, unsteady fingers, they fall for a different reason.

it is quiet when he arrives.

too quiet.

the kind of quiet that presses against his ears and makes every breath feel intrusive. black-clad figures fill the seats, heads bowed, hands clasped. flowers line the aisle— white lilies, your favorite. the scent is almost suffocating.

he feels eyes on him when he steps inside.

he knows what they’re thinking.

why that suit?

but he doesn’t look at anyone. not even the members, who sit together near the front. he catches a glimpse of them— felix wiping his cheeks, changbin staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, minho’s hands folded too tightly in his lap. hyunjin’s shoulders shake silently. jisung looks small. seungmin and jeongin sit stiff, grief etched into their faces.

they all loved you.

you had been their person too.

but you had been his first.

his best friend before you were his girlfriend. his girlfriend before you were his wife. his wife before you were—

he can’t finish the thought.

the casket stands at the front, polished wood gleaming under soft lights. closed. he’s grateful for that. he doesn’t think his heart could survive seeing you still and cold.

he approaches slowly, each step heavier than the last.

he remembers walking down a different aisle once. remembers the music swelling, the doors opening, everyone turning to look at you.

you had been radiant.

today there is no music. just muffled sniffles and the faint rustle of fabric.

he stops in front of the casket.

“hey,” he whispers, voice cracking.

his reflection stares back at him faintly in the polished surface. red-rimmed eyes. pale skin. the same suit.

“i wore this for you,” he says, a broken laugh escaping him. “figured you’d appreciate the symbolism.”

his fingers brush the edge of the wood.

“you always said i looked my best in this.”

he remembers that night after the wedding, when you two had finally been alone. your hands had smoothed over his lapels, your forehead pressed against his chest.

“don’t ever get rid of this suit,” you’d murmured. “it’s my favorite version of you.”

he had promised you he wouldn’t.

he hadn’t realized he’d be keeping that promise like this.

the service begins, but the words blur together. scripture, eulogies, stories about your kindness, your laugh, the way you always showed up when someone needed you.

chan hears everything and nothing all at once.

he hears felix’s voice tremble as he speaks about late-night baking sessions in the dorm kitchen, about how you used to scold them for not eating properly.

he hears changbin choke through a story about how you once sat with him for hours when he couldn’t finish a song.

he hears laughter through tears.

he hears love.

but all he can think about is the hospital room.

white walls. antiseptic air. machines beeping steadily until they weren’t.

your hand in his, weak but warm.

“i’m sorry,” you’d whispered, eyes glossy but calm. “i didn’t think it would end like this.”

“don’t,” he’d told you, tears streaming down his face. “don’t talk like that. you’re not going anywhere.”

you had smiled softly. the same smile you’d given him at the altar.

“you’re still wearing the ring,” you’d murmured, thumb brushing over his hand.

“of course i am.”

“good,” you had breathed. “full circle, yeah?”

he hadn’t understood then.

he understands now.

when it’s his turn to speak, his legs feel like they might give out.

he steps up to the podium anyway.

he owes you that.

he grips the sides, staring out at the sea of black and blurred faces.

“i don’t really know how to do this,” he admits, voice hoarse. “she was always better with words.”

a soft ripple of knowing laughter moves through the room.

he swallows.

“she was my best friend before she was anything else. before the dating rumors, before the wedding photos, before the rings.” his lips twitch faintly. “she knew me when i was just chris. not bang chan. not a leader. not an idol. just… me.”

his gaze drifts to the casket.

“she saw every ugly part of me and stayed anyway.”

his voice breaks.

“she was there for every comeback. every late night in the studio. every time i thought i wasn’t good enough.” he lets out a shaky breath. “she’d just look at me and say, ‘you’re doing your best. that’s enough.’”

he pauses, pressing his lips together as tears spill freely now.

“i wore this suit when i married her,” he says quietly, fingers brushing his lapel. “i remember crying because i was so happy. because i couldn’t believe someone like her chose me.”

a sob escapes him despite his effort to contain it.

“i didn’t think the next time i’d wear it would be to say goodbye.”

the room is silent except for sniffles.

“but if there’s one thing she loved,” he continues, softer now, “it was full circle moments. she believed everything meant something. that even pain had a purpose.”

he looks down at his ring.

“so maybe this is ours.”

his shoulders shake.

“i loved her in this suit. and i love her in it now.”

his voice drops to a whisper.

“i’ll love her in every lifetime.”

when he steps away from the podium, he feels hollowed out.

the burial is worse.

the sky is gray, clouds hanging low as if the world itself is mourning. the wind tugs at his jacket, cold against his tear-streaked face.

he stands at the edge of the grave long after most people have left.

the members linger nearby, giving him space but not straying too far.

he watches as the casket is lowered slowly into the earth.

it feels wrong.

like she might sit up any second and laugh, telling him it was all some elaborate prank.

she doesn’t.

dirt hits wood with a dull, final sound.

he thinks about the first time he held your hand.

about the first time you said you loved him.

about the night he proposed— how he’d been more nervous than any performance in his life. how you’d cried then too, nodding before he’d even finished the question.

tears on happy days.

tears on the worst day of his life.

the same suit.

different reasons.

full circle.

a hand settles on his shoulder. minho.

“let’s go home,” he says gently.

home.

the word feels foreign now.

but chan nods.

when he returns to the house, it’s too quiet.

your shoes still sit by the door. your mug still rests in the drying rack. a blanket drapes over the couch where you used to curl up and wait for him to finish late-night work.

he stands in the middle of the living room, still in the suit.

“i’m back,” he calls out softly.

silence answers.

his knees give out.

he sinks onto the floor, back against the couch, and finally lets himself break.

the sobs are ugly. loud. uncontrollable.

he presses his forehead to his drawn-up knees, clutching at the fabric of the suit like it might anchor him.

“you promised,” he chokes. “we were supposed to grow old together.”

no answer comes.

just the echo of his own grief.

hours pass before he can move.

when he finally stands, he walks to the bedroom.

your side of the bed is untouched.

he sits there carefully, fingers tracing the indent in the pillow.

“i kept my promise,” he whispers. “i didn’t get rid of it.”

his gaze falls to the suit jacket.

slowly, he removes it, draping it over the chair.

he loosens the tie. unbuttons the shirt.

with each layer shed, it feels like peeling back a wound.

but he can’t live in that moment forever.

he folds the suit carefully, hands gentler now.

he places it back in the garment bag.

back in the closet.

not hidden.

not forgotten.

preserved.

because it isn’t just a funeral suit.

it’s a wedding suit. it’s the day you walked toward him in white. it’s the day you kissed him under falling petals. it’s the day he cried because he was so, so happy. and today, it was the day he cried because he loved you enough to let you go.

full circle.

as he lies in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, the ache in his chest feels endless. but beneath the grief, beneath the hollow devastation, there is something steady.

love.

unchanged.

unbroken.

the suit may hang in the dark of the closet, worn for two of the most important days of his life. but his love for you doesn’t need fabric or ceremonies.

it lives in every memory.

every song he’ll write.

every quiet “goodnight” whispered into empty space.

nobody had ever told chan how to dress for his best friend’s funeral.

but as sleep finally pulls him under, tear tracks drying on his skin, he thinks maybe he chose right.

because loving you had always been a full circle moment.

and even in goodbye—

it still is.