#avestars

Heeseung - Sh*t People

Heeseung learns early how to stand slightly behind everyone else.

In practice rooms, it looks like humility. In meetings, it seems like professionalism. Online, it looks like silence. He’s good at it; being last in line, letting others speak first, swallowing the instinct to correct, to defend, to say that’s not what I meant. Every time something goes wrong, he checks himself before checking the world. It must be me. Heeseung knows the rhythm of blame the way he knows a melody. Automatic. Quiet. Internal.

He’s so busy trying to be what everyone needs that he forgets to ask what he needs. Fans want perfection. Staff want compliance. Shippers wish for moments that aren’t real but still look real. Akgaes want him to be everything and nothing at the same time—shine, but not too much; lead, but don’t overshadow; exist, but only in the way they approve of. And the sasaengs, he doesn’t even like thinking about them. The way his phone feels unsafe. The way dorm curtains never feel thick enough; the way kindness gets mistaken for permission. There are days when it feels like everyone takes something from him. His patience. His image. His silence. And he lets them. Because somewhere deep down, he believes that if he’s just a bit more understanding, a little more forgiving, a little more accommodating, it’ll all stop hurting. It doesn’t. Tonight, he’s alone in the studio long after practice ends. The lights are dimmed, the air humming softly. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the mirror, staring at his reflection like it might explain something he’s missed. His mind is loud with voices that aren’t his.

Why didn’t you smile more? Why did you stand there like that? Why are you letting them treat you this way? Why are you like this?

He hates that he believes them. He hates that he’s never on his own side. Sometimes, this part hurts the most; sometimes he still misses the people who hurt him. The staff member praised him only when he complied. The fans who loved him only when he fit their version of him. The comfort of thinking he belonged, even if it was conditional. But when he’s honest, he knows the truth. Those good moments were fragile. Rehearsed. He was only acceptable when he was exhausted, when he was shrinking himself, when he was at his worst. A soft knock breaks the spiral.

“Heeseung?” Jungwon’s voice, careful. “You still in here?”

Before he can answer, the door opens a crack. Sunoo peeks in first, eyes immediately gentle when he sees him on the floor. Jay follows, then Jake and Ni-ki, the room slowly filling with familiar warmth.

“You disappeared,” Jake says quietly. “We were worried.”

Heeseung shrugs, instinctively minimizing. “Just… thinking.”

Jay sits down beside him without asking. Close enough that their shoulders touch. Solid. Real. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”

No accusation. Just observation. For a moment, Heeseung almost deflects. Almost smiles and says he’s fine. Nearly carries it alone like he always does. But something about the way they’re all here—unrushed, unexpectant—makes his chest tighten.

“I’m tired,” he admits finally. His voice cracks on the word. “I feel like no matter what I do, someone’s upset. And I keep telling myself it’s my fault. That if I were better, quieter, more careful… it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Sunoo sits down in front of him, meeting his eyes. “Hyung,” he says softly, “you know that’s not true, right?”

“I don’t,” Heeseung whispers. “Not always.”

Jungwon’s voice is small but firm. “You don’t deserve to be mistreated just because you’re kind.”

Ni-ki nods, blunt as ever. “You forgive people way too much.”

That gets a weak laugh out of him. Wet-eyed, but real.

Jay squeezes his shoulder. “You’re allowed to stop giving second chances to people who only take from you.”

The words settle slowly, like something heavy finally being set down.

Heeseung exhales, long and shaky. “I feel stuck,” he confesses. “Like, no matter where I go, there are… people who don’t treat me right. And they stay in my head. Even when they’re not here.”

Jake leans back on his hands. “Yeah. That happens. But that doesn’t mean they get to decide who you are.”

Sunoo smiles at him, soft and sincere. “We’re here. The good ones. And we hear you.”

That’s when it breaks. Heeseung presses his sleeve to his eyes, shoulders trembling. He doesn’t try to apologize for crying. No one asks him to stop. Jay stays steady beside him. Jungwon wordlessly hands him a tissue. Ni-ki pretends not to stare but scoots closer anyway. For the first time in a long while, Heeseung doesn’t feel like the place where everyone dumps their weight. He feels held.

When the tears slow, Sunoo speaks again. “You don’t have to justify staying hurt, you know. You can wish people well and still walk away.”

Heeseung nods, swallowing. “I think… I’m done letting people hurt me just because I’m afraid to disappoint them.”

Jay grins a little. “Took you long enough.”

Heeseung laughs, weak but genuine. Later, when they leave the studio together, the hallway feels quieter. His mind still echoes with old voices; but now, there are new ones too. Ones that remind him he’s allowed to choose himself. Ones that stay. He’s still stuck with memories. Still healing and still learning. But for the first time, Heeseung stands a little closer to the front of the line. On his own side.

Jay - could never be me

Jay doesn’t think of himself as someone people lean on. It’s strange, really—when he’s surrounded by voices calling his name, by hands reaching out across stages and screens, by letters filled with gratitude and love—but the thought never sticks. It slides right off him, like rain on glass. Comfort is something other people give. Not him.

He sits alone in the dorm living room long after midnight, the city lights outside blinking like distant stars. Cars pass below, their headlights streaking through the dark, and he finds himself watching them more often than he should. There’s something hypnotic about it—the idea that everyone inside those cars is going somewhere, while he’s just… here. Still. Stuck in his head.

“I’m so tired,” he mutters to no one.

Not tired like he needs sleep. Tired like his chest feels heavy even when nothing is happening. Tired like he wakes up every morning already exhausted from the thoughts he hasn’t even had yet. Jay rubs his face, fingers lingering at his jaw, his cheekbones. He frowns at his reflection in the dark window. He’s never liked looking too long. Cameras already do that enough. Selfies feel awkward, unnatural; like he’s pretending to be someone he isn’t.

Someone confident. Someone is effortlessly handsome. Someone who knows he belongs.

He hears the others laughing softly down the hall; Sunoo’s bright giggle, Jungwon’s calm voice, someone probably teasing Ni-ki again. Jay smiles instinctively, warmth blooming in his chest… and then it fades just as quickly.

They’re good because of each other, he thinks. Not because of me.

Lately, he’s felt strange. Disconnected. Like he’s watching himself from a distance. Like he’s a guest appearing as Jay. On stage, he performs perfectly; sharp movements, steady gaze, voice strong and controlled. Fans scream his name, and he bows, smiles, and waves. He knows what he’s supposed to look like. He knows how to act. But inside, there’s a quiet voice whispering:

They're so full of good things. That could never be me.

He thinks about ENGENES sometimes, how they say his words help them, how they find comfort in his presence, his honesty, his strength. He rereads messages he shouldn’t doubt, letters he’s already read a dozen times.

Jay, you make me feel safe. Jay, thank you for staying strong. Jay, I’m comforted just knowing you’re there.

His throat tightens every time.

“If only you knew,” he whispers. “If only you knew how much I don’t feel like that.”

He thinks comfort means having all the answers, being soft and warm, and unbreakable. He believes it means never doubting yourself, never feeling ugly, out of place, too much, or not enough. Jay feels all of those things. All the time. He doesn’t realize that comfort isn’t perfection. That it’s not confidence without cracks. That’s not being okay every second of the day.

Comfort is honesty. Comfort is staying. Comfort is letting people see that you’re tired; and choosing to stand anyway.

The door creaks open behind him.

“Hyung?”

Jay turns to see Jungwon standing there, hair messy, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“You okay?” Jungwon asks softly.

Jay hesitates. Then shrugs. “Just thinking.”

Jungwon walks over and sits beside him without another word. No pressure. No questions. Just presence. They sit in silence for a while, watching the cars pass.

“You know,” Jungwon says eventually, voice quiet, “when I’m tired… I think about you. About how you don’t give up.”

Jay blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Jungwon smiles faintly. “It helps.”

Something in Jay’s chest cracks open. He looks down at his hands; hands that shake sometimes, hands that feel unsure, hands he never thought were steady enough for anyone else to hold onto.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe the good things he keeps searching for are already there; woven into the way he cares, the way he worries, the way he stays even when it’s hard. Maybe comfort doesn’t feel like comfort from the inside.

Jay leans back against the couch, exhaustion settling into his bones, but this time, it’s lighter. Softer.

“I’m still tired,” he admits.

Jungwon nods. “That’s okay.”

Jay watches another car disappear into the night and lets himself believe, just for a moment, that even if he feels like he’s a guest appearing as himself;

To someone out there, To someone beside him, To someone watching from afar;

He is already enough. Even if he doesn’t see it yet.

Jake - Friction

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the peaceful kind, no, this is the kind that settles in after something has already broken. The type that hums between you and Jake like a stretched wire, vibrating with all the words you’ve both decided not to say. He’s sitting across from you on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s afraid they’ll shake if he lets go. The living room is dim, lit only by the city glow bleeding through the curtains. Somewhere outside, cars pass. Life keeps moving. Inside, the two of you are stuck on the surface of something profound you used to drown in together. You miss letting him sink in. Not just his laugh or the way he’d absentmindedly hum while doing nothing at all, but the way being with him used to feel effortless. Like you didn’t have to tread water. Like you could just… exist. Together. Now, everything feels careful.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jake says softly, glancing up at you. His voice still carries that warmth, and he still knows precisely how to reach you. That almost makes it worse.

“I could say the same about you.”

He exhales through his nose, something like a half-smile tugging at his lips before it disappears. “Guess we’re even.”

You want to laugh. You want to argue. You want to fight, honestly, because at least fighting would mean you’re still touching the same fire. But the truth settles heavier in your chest. You don’t even remember the last time you fought. Somehow, the two of you got tired of losing battles you were fighting on the same side. Every disagreement became quieter, softer, until they weren’t disagreements at all, just things you swallowed, things he swallowed, until the space between you filled with everything unsaid.

“We used to be so… loud,” you murmur.

Jake’s fingers tighten together. “Yeah. We were.”

You look at him then. Really look. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his shoulders slope forward, like he’s bracing for impact that never quite comes. Jake has always been someone who stays. Someone who anchors himself for the people he loves. But now he looks like he’s standing ankle-deep in water, afraid to go any farther. Afraid to risk drowning.

“I don’t want this,” you say quietly. “Whatever this is.”

He swallows. “Me neither.”

The words hang there, fragile. Honest.

“But we keep pretending it’s fine,” you continue. “Like if we don’t touch it, it won’t hurt.”

Jake lets out a shaky breath, finally meeting your eyes. There’s guilt there. Fear. And something that looks a lot like longing.

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he says. “Every time I thought about pushing, about trying to fix things… I was scared I’d break us completely.”

“So you stayed close to the shore,” you whisper.

His shoulders sag. He doesn’t deny it.

“And I was out here,” you add, voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm. “Waiting. Trying not to drown.”

Silence crashes over you both. Jake’s jaw tightens, eyes shining.

“I didn’t know,” he says, and you believe him. That’s the cruellest part. “I swear, I didn’t know you felt that alone.”

You laugh, bitter and small. “I didn’t want to need saving.”

Jake stands abruptly, pacing once before stopping in front of you. He crouches so he’s eye-level, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the familiarity that still aches.

“Do you think I wouldn’t have tried?” he asks, voice cracking. “If I knew?”

You hesitate. The answer scares you.

“I think you were scared,” you say instead. “And so was I.”

He nods slowly, as each movement costs him something. “We got used to crashing into each other. The chaos felt… normal. When things got quiet, I didn’t know how to reach you without causing another storm.”

Your chest tightens. “Peace started feeling like distance.”

Jake’s breath hitches. “Yeah.”

For a moment, it feels like this is it. Like this is where you’re supposed to call it; name the damage, accept that love sometimes wears itself down, and let go before it hurts more. But the thought of calling him a friend, of watching his life from a distance, wondering who he becomes without you; makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t want to lose you like that,” you whisper. “I don’t want us to fade into polite check-ins and missed birthdays.”

Jake’s eyes soften, and something breaks open in his expression. He reaches out, hesitates, then cups your cheek gently, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard.

“I don’t want a version of us without the friction,” he admits. “Without the hard parts. Without the way we challenge each other.”

Your eyes burn. “Do you think we’re worth saving?”

The question trembles between you. Jake doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. His hand shakes slightly as it holds your face.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that we’re worth trying even if it scares me. Especially if it scares me.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it. Jake opens his eyes instantly, thumb brushing it away like it’s the most essential thing in the world.

“I don’t want the easy way out,” he continues. “I don’t want to skip to the ending just because it hurts right now. I want to learn how to swim again; with you.”

Your chest feels too full, too raw. “What if we mess it up again?”

Jake smiles sadly. “Then we’ll fight. We’ll mess up. We’ll fix it. But at least we won’t be pretending everything’s fine while falling apart.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your forehead more firmly to his. “You’re terrible at playing it safe.”

He huffs. “Only with the things that matter.”

Finally, you let yourself sink into him. Jake pulls you into his arms, holding you tight; not like he’s afraid of losing you, but like he’s choosing you. Over and over again. His hand rubs slow circles into your back, grounding, steady. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere, even when it’s hard. Even when we hurt.”

The quiet around you changes then. It’s still soft, still fragile, but it’s no longer empty. It’s full of possibilities. And for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re drowning alone.

Sunghoon - To Love Someone Else

Sunghoon always knew how to balance on thin blades. Ice taught him that, how to keep his weight centred, how to glide over cracks without letting anyone see the tremble in his ankles. When he was a figure skater, his world was cold and quiet, all early mornings and empty rinks, the sound of his breath fogging the glass. Falling hurt, but it was simple. You lost, you got up, you tried again. Being an idol was louder. Lights instead of spotlights on ice. Screams instead of silence. Cameras instead of mirrors. He learned new choreography, new smiles, new ways to stand so the world wouldn’t see where he was still unsteady. Somewhere between those two worlds, Sunghoon learned how to survive. He didn’t learn how to love. You met him late at night, when the practice room lights were dimmed, and the building had gone quiet. He was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled to his chest. His hair was damp with sweat, eyes distant in that way you were starting to recognize; like he was somewhere far away, somewhere colder.

“You didn’t go back to the dorm,” you said softly.

He glanced up, startled, then relaxed when he saw it was you. That smile—small, tired, but real—found its way onto his face. “I needed… a minute.”

You sat beside him without asking. You’d learned that Sunghoon liked choices, not assumptions. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It rarely was. He liked that about you. You didn’t rush him. You didn’t try to fill every quiet moment with words.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice low, “you make me feel good.”

You blinked, surprised. He wasn’t someone who said things like that easily.

“And that’s… not something I take for granted,” he added, eyes fixed on the floor. “Not lately.”

Your chest tightened. You could see it, the way his shoulders always seemed just a little too tense, the way he laughed easily with the members but grew quiet when the day finally ended. Sunghoon was kind, gentle, and glowing in ways fans adored. But there was always something missing, like a piece of him left behind on the ice. You wanted to reach for him. You didn’t.

Instead, you said, “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He laughed softly, humourless. “I think I do.”

He turned to look at you then, really look at you. His eyes were warm, careful. Studying. You’d seen that look before, on stage, when he was counting beats, making sure he didn’t misstep.

“You’re… perfect,” he said. “Probably better than good.”

Your heart skipped, traitorous.

“But please,” he continued quickly, as if afraid of where his words were going, “don’t waste your pretty time on me.”

There it was, the wall.

Sunghoon exhaled, rubbing his face with his hands. “I could fall for you,” he admitted quietly. “If I wanted to.”

You swallowed.

“And that’s the problem,” he whispered. “Because I know myself. I get attached. I love too deeply. I’d give you everything, and—” His voice broke, just barely. “I don’t think I’m ready to love someone else.”

You didn’t interrupt. You could feel the weight of his confession settle between you.

“There was someone,” he said, staring at his reflection in the mirror now. “Not a person. A life.” A sad smile curved his lips. “Skating was… everything. When I left, it felt like I wasn’t enough to stay. Like it was so easy for that world to move on without me.”

His jaw tightened. “I hate it. I hate that it still feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. Like I’m stuck between who I was and who I’m supposed to be now.”

Your eyes burned.

“And you,” he said, turning back to you, voice barely above a whisper, “you look at me like I’m already whole. And I hate that too.”

“Why?” you asked gently.

“Because you deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate.” His fingers curled into his sleeves. “Someone who isn’t still haunted by the way another dream left him so easily.”

You reached out then. Slowly. Giving him time to pull away if he needed to. He didn’t.

Your hand rested over his, warm and steady. “Sunghoon,” you said, “loving you wouldn’t be a waste.”

His breath shuddered.

“I’m not asking you to be ready,” you continued. “I’m not asking you to choose me, or anyone. I’m just here. In this world. With you.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them. He laughed weakly, embarrassed. “I could fall for you,” he said again, voice breaking. “I know I could.”

You squeezed his hand. “And it’s okay if you can’t. Right now.”

Something in him finally gave. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder, silent tears soaking into your shirt. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him like he might shatter if you didn’t. For the first time in a long while, Sunghoon let himself stop balancing. He didn’t have to be the perfect skater. Or the flawless idol. He didn’t have to choose between two worlds tonight. He just breathed. And for now, that was enough.

Sunoo - look what you did

Sunoo pressed his back against the cold studio wall, knees drawn up, hands trembling slightly. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant echo of music from another practice room. He felt the weight of it all pressing down; expectations, criticism, and the sharp sting of exclusion from people who didn’t understand him.

You had an unfair advantage… The thought hit him like a stone. He had always tried so hard, laughed so freely, loved so openly, but sometimes that was all twisted against him. Even when people meant well, their words cut deeper than they realized. And the ones who didn’t even try to understand… they were the hardest to shake.

Sunoo wrapped his arms around himself. “Why do I feel like I have to fight just to be seen?” he whispered. His voice cracked, barely audible, but it carried the weight of months, maybe years, of small, accumulated hurt.

He thought of ENGENES; their letters, their cheers, the way they always seemed to know precisely when he needed them. That thought made his chest ache in a different way, a sweeter kind of pain. They had seen him. They had held his heart in their hands without ever trying to break it. And that love… it was relentless, impossible to ignore.

“I hate that it hurts,” he admitted, voice trembling. “I hate that even with them, I still feel… broken sometimes.”

And he did feel broken. The whispers of exclusion, the pointed criticism from those who would never understand, the moments when he questioned whether he even belonged in ENHYPEN… it all lingered, like shadows threatening to snuff out his light. But then he thought of the fans who loved him unconditionally. 

The ones who see me. The ones who know me. The ones who cheer even when I’m falling apart.

Sunoo closed his eyes and imagined their smiles, their words, their unwavering belief. And for the first time in hours, maybe days, a small spark flickered in his chest.

“I can’t let them win,” he whispered. “I won’t let them take this from me.”

It was funny, in a dark way. He wanted to hate the people who hurt him. He tried to hold onto that anger. But the truth was, the people who mattered; the ones he loved, the ones who loved him back, had made him stronger than the hurt. 

Stronger than the doubt. Stronger than the whispers that told him he wasn’t enough.

He leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. “Look what they did,” he said, voice soft, almost smiling through the ache. “They made me love harder. They made me fight harder. They made me shine even when it’s hard. And I… I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

Even when the shadows crept in, even when the non-ENGENES whispered that he didn’t belong, Sunoo felt the warmth of the love that truly mattered. It was a fire he could carry through anything. And maybe, just maybe, that fire was enough to remind him who he was; the boy who laughed too loudly, who danced with all his heart, who smiled even when it hurt.

“Because of them,” he whispered, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the pulse of life, of love. “I’m still me. I’m still… Sunoo.”

The studio stayed quiet, but he felt a flicker of light inside him. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But it was persistent. Steady. Unstoppable. And as long as ENGENES believed in him, as long as he could feel that love, the sun inside him would never go out. Even in the shadows, he would shine.

Jungwon - the boys who don't know what they want

The first time you noticed it, it wasn’t even dramatic. Jungwon smiled at you across the studio, hair falling just a little too perfectly into his eyes, and for a moment, you thought maybe, just maybe, he’d stay. But he didn’t. He was warm, though, undeniably so. The kind of warmth that made your chest ache and your stomach twist with the hope that this time, things would be different. He’d laugh at your stupid jokes, linger in your messages late at night, and talk about everything and nothing all at once.

And it felt real. Until it wasn’t. Because that’s the thing about boys like him, or maybe just him—he never said what he wanted. He left things unsaid, like pieces of a puzzle you couldn’t quite put together. He showed up, yes; but only partway. Sweetness, laughter, attention, care—they all came in pieces, enough to make you feel wanted, enough to make you feel seen, but never enough to make you feel secure.

You remember the night you stayed over after practice. You thought he’d stay. You thought maybe the warmth of his hoodie around you, the quiet of the room, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest meant something more. But he left before morning, a small goodbye, a faint smile, and then; gone. And you learned quickly that he loved you only as long as it was easy, only as long as it was safe, only as long as it didn’t demand too much of him. It hurt, but you told yourself it was okay.

“I don’t want to be wanted that way,” you muttered under your breath once, staring at the ceiling, your chest tight with frustration and longing. It was a whisper to yourself, a confession in the dark. You were done holding onto boys who didn’t say what they wanted, done holding onto someone who never tried hard enough, done trying to fit into the spaces they made just for you; spaces that weren’t really yours to fill.

But it still hurt. Because Jungwon… he had this way of reaching just far enough to make you think he could be different. He’d ask your birthday like he wanted to remember it, like he wanted to know you. And for a while, it felt like you weren’t strangers anymore. And for a while, you believed him. He held your attention like a fragile thing, careful and tentative, and you wanted to believe that he’d hold on. That he’d try. That he’d stay. But the pattern repeated, every time. The boys who don’t know what they want, they never do. You remember standing outside his dorm once, drenched from the rain, heart pounding as it could tear through your ribcage, and you realized he wasn’t coming back that night. He never did. And you knew you had to walk away, even though your feet were screaming for him to stay. And still, the anger and hurt mingled with something else: a strange, almost unbearable care for him. Because he was kind, too. Thoughtful, funny, careful in a way that made you ache. And when he was near, the world shrank down to just the two of you, and you wanted to forgive him over and over, even though you knew better. So you let yourself hold that care quietly, in secret, like a candle that couldn’t burn too bright. You whisper it to yourself when the nights get too long:

I’m done holding onto boys who don’t say what they want. I deserve more. I deserve someone who tries, someone who stays.

And maybe one day, you’ll look at Jungwon and smile; not because you still need him, but because you understand. He’s not a villain; he’s… not for you. And that’s okay. Because you’ll find someone who isn’t just enough, who doesn’t leave pieces of themselves behind as they disappear, and you’ll realize that being wanted isn’t about being chased or admired in fragments; it’s about being chosen, fully, thoroughly. And that day, when it comes, Jungwon’s memory won’t sting so sharply. It’ll just be a quiet ache, a lesson in knowing your worth, a reminder that sometimes, the boys who don’t know what they want aren’t worth your tears; but the ones who do… they’re everything. He hates himself for it. Every time he sees you smile, every time your hand brushes against his, every time you laugh at something stupid he said, Jungwon feels it; the pull, the warmth, the impossibly heavy tug of wanting to stay… and knowing he can’t. He wants you. But he doesn’t know how. He shows up, like he always does. He’s kind, careful, and considerate in the ways he knows. He laughs with you until his cheeks hurt. He asks your birthday, remembers the little things, texts you late at night to say goodnight, but… he hesitates. Always hesitates. He can’t, or maybe he won’t, commit to saying the words that would make it real. Because he doesn’t know what he wants. And that’s the part that kills him the most, seeing the way you lean in, the way your eyes search his for something more, something permanent, and knowing that he can’t give it to you.

“I’m not… I’m not good at this,” he mutters once, voice low, barely audible over the hum of the studio lights. You look at him, confused, heart tightening.

“I mean… with feelings. With… everything. I like being with you, I like being here, with you. But I—” He swallows hard, runs a hand through his hair, “I don’t know what I want, and I hate that I don’t. I hate that I hurt you without meaning to.”

He oversees you. Your eyes flicker with that mix of frustration and hurt he’s seen a thousand times now. And he wants, he wants to reach across the space between you and fix it. But he can’t. Not yet. Not when he’s still figuring himself out. And maybe that makes him the worst kind of person. The kind who shows you just enough light to make you stay, but not enough to keep you.

“I like you,” he whispers finally, voice trembling, “more than I… more than I should. And it scares me because I don’t know how to be what you need. I don’t know if I can ever be.”

You say nothing, because there’s nothing to say, and he hates that silence almost as much as he hates himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he continues, stepping closer, the air between you charged with everything he can’t say. “But I don’t want to lose you either. I… I don’t know. And it kills me, knowing that maybe just showing up like this isn’t enough. That maybe being here and being kind and… and sweet… isn’t what you need from me.”

He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat. He wants to take your hand, wants to pull you close, wants to promise that he’ll try, he’ll really try; but the truth is, he’s terrified. Terrified that he’ll fail, afraid that even if he tries, it won’t be enough, fearful that the person you deserve isn’t him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers finally, almost to himself, “for being… this. For being someone who doesn’t know, for being someone who keeps you at the edge of me without knowing if I can ever be all the way there.”

And then, painfully, he steps back. Not because he wants to leave you, oh, he doesn’t, but because he knows the only way to be honest right now is to let you go a little. To allow you to breathe in a space where he can’t suffocate you with his uncertainty.

“I… I care about you, more than I should. And I hope… I hope that one day I figure it out. For me, for you… for us.”

He can only watch you in that quiet moment, heart aching, wishing he could be enough now, wishing he could erase all the times he left too soon, or stayed too hesitantly. And maybe that’s all he can do; for now. Be here, quietly, painfully, imperfectly… hoping that when he does figure it out, you’ll still be there to meet him.

Ni-ki - If I'm Being Honest

The rain had been falling for hours, the steady rhythm against the window like a heartbeat he could count on when everything else felt uncertain. Ni-ki sat on the edge of his bed, legs curled under him, fingers tracing the hem of his hoodie. He kept telling himself he would be fine, that time would ease the ache, but the truth pressed down in waves he couldn’t lift.

The night you left, he remembered how calm you seemed, too relaxed; no arguments, no warnings, just a quiet farewell that left him spinning. “I need space,” you had said, almost like a promise, almost like a reassurance, but the emptiness that followed was deafening. He remembered the way your hand had lingered on his shoulder for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, like it was trying to memorize the warmth before it vanished.

And now, sitting alone in the pale light of your absence, Ni-ki couldn’t help but question everything. Had you ever felt the same way? Or had the laughter, the late-night talks, the small touches that made him feel like he belonged; had it all been a performance? His chest tightened with the thought. The first morning without you, he had woken to the harsh silence of your absence.  The hoodie you left behind smelled faintly of you, and for a moment, it was almost comforting, almost like you hadn’t gone. He had held it to his face, breathed in the lingering scent, and for a heartbeat, felt like he could still reach you. But when the scent faded, so did the illusion. Days passed in a haze. Ni-ki found himself replaying your last conversations, searching for clues he might have missed, agonizing over the exact moment your mind had decided to leave.

Was it sudden, like tearing off a bandage? Or had it been slow, a quiet surrender he hadn’t noticed until it was too late?

The questions circled endlessly, and no answer ever came. He wandered through the empty spaces of the apartment, tracing the edges of where you used to be. The couch where you’d leaned against him during movie nights. The kitchen where you’d laughed at something silly he said. The desk where you had doodled absentmindedly while he practiced. Every corner was a memory, a ghost that didn’t speak but made his chest ache anyway.

One evening, he found himself at the window again, watching the rain blur the city lights. He whispered into the quiet room, voice cracking: "Did you even mean it? All of it? Or was it words?” He pressed his forehead to the glass, hoping the cold might numb the emptiness, but it only sharpened it.

He remembered the little things, the brush of your hand, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the warmth that had made the world feel softer. He didn’t want to forget them, even if remembering hurt. Because somewhere in that memory was proof that you had existed in his world in a way no one else could replace.

Ni-ki’s tears came quietly at first, then in a torrent, soaking into his sleeves as he sank to the floor. “I really thought you loved me,” he murmured, voice trembling. “I really thought it mattered.”

But even in his grief, a tiny seed of understanding took root. Sometimes love isn’t enough to hold two people together. Sometimes hearts break in different rhythms, and leaving can be as easy for one as it is devastating for the other. Maybe you hadn’t meant to hurt him. Perhaps you had loved him in your own way, and that love had… ended.

He stayed on the floor until the rain slowed, until the city lights outside shifted into quiet amber. Then, slowly, he gathered the hoodie, pressed it to his chest, and whispered, almost to himself, “I’ll remember you. The real you, the part that was mine. I’ll keep it safe.”

And in that act, small, fragile, imperfect, he found a strange comfort. The ache didn’t disappear, and the questions didn’t vanish, but for the first time in days, he allowed himself to breathe without panicking. The pain would remain, yes, but so would the memory. And for Ni-ki, sometimes that was enough to survive.

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