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𐙚 A/N Oh my goodness I swaer this series has consumed my life lol. In the best way ofc but ugh this one was so hard for me to write idk why. I also chnaged the plot a little coz originally she was supposed to be speaking to Phuwin but after thinking about it it just made so much more sense to have the conversation be with the members instead. But some parts of this were driving me crazy because they just read awkwardly or are kinda boring but no matter what I did I just couldn't fix it... so I hope you guys still enjoy!! Timeline: 2026 Now Playing: 22 (OVER SOON) by Bon Iver, We Hug Now by Sydney Rose, The Night We Met by Lord Huron, hapiness by Taylor Swift. Word Count: 17.1K

"It might be over soon, two two."

The last three months pass through Lola’s mind in pieces - not full memories, not full days, just fragments. Moments. Flashes. A life she’s been moving through without ever really touching.

March bleeds into April, April dissolves into May, and she can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Time has stopped feeling linear. It’s just… happening around her, dragging her along whether she’s ready or not.

She remembers the first week after Heeseung walked out with a clarity that still stings. The shock. The ringing silence. The way the dorm felt too big and too small at the same time. The way she kept listening for footsteps that never came.

Every night she left her door unlocked. Every morning she woke up disappointed.

She remembers waking up with her heart racing, reaching for her phone before she was even fully conscious - muscle memory, instinct, hope she didn’t want to admit she still had. Her thumb would swipe the screen, eyes blurry, breath held tight in her chest.

Nothing. No message. No missed call. No “I’m sorry.” No “How are you?" No “I miss you.”

Just silence.

A silence that grew heavier each day, settling into her bones like cold.

She learned how to function without feeling. How to laugh without meaning it. How to sleep without dreaming.

But she never learned how to stop missing him.

Then rehearsals started.

Not gently. Not gradually. Not in a way that gave her time to breathe or process or even understand what had happened.

Two days after she arrived back in Seoul - just forty‑eight hours after Heseung left - she was back in the practice room. Same mirrors. Same speakers. Same choreography.

Except it wasn't the same and everything felt wrong.

His absence was everywhere. In the empty spot he used to stretch in. In the harmonies that sounded thinner without him. In the jokes the boys didn’t make anymore. In the way no one said his name, even though they were all thinking it.

Schedules tightened immediately, like the company was determined to fill every second of her day so she wouldn’t have time to fall apart. Tour prep swallowed her whole - hours of choreography, vocal warm‑ups, fittings, meetings, interviews, content shoots.

She learned how to move without thinking. Her body hit every beat, every count, every formation, because it had to. Because muscle memory didn’t care that her heart was broken.

She learned how to smile without feeling. For staff. For cameras. For fans. For the boys, who watched her with quiet worry but didn’t push.

She learned how to speak without letting her voice shake. During practice. During meetings. During fancalls - which started just three days after the breakup.

She sat in front of a ring light, makeup perfect, hair styled, smile soft and sweet, while fans told her they loved her, missed her, were proud of her. She nodded. She laughed. She waved.

And every time a fan asked about the group, about the boys, about how rehearsals were going, she felt something inside her twist - because she knew they were asking about him too, even if they didn’t say it.

Five days after the breakup, she was on a plane to Australia.

Their first time there as a group. Jake's first time being back since he left. A milestone she can understand. A milestone they once imagined sharing with him.

Instead, she stared out the airplane window, numb, exhausted, watching clouds drift by like days she couldn’t feel.

Australia was loud. Crowded. Bright. Fans screaming her name, lights flashing, music vibrating through her chest.

But she felt nothing felt right.

She performed like a ghost - flawless, precise, empty. The boys kept close, forming a quiet shield around her backstage, guiding her through the chaos without making it obvious.

Rehearsals. Stages. Makeup. Meeting rooms. Repeat. Work filled every inch of the space Heeseung left behind - not because it healed her, but because it didn’t give her time to feel the wound.

She kept moving because stopping meant remembering. Stopping meant hurting. Stopping meant facing the truth she wasn’t ready to touch.

So she didn’t stop.

She learned how to live on autopilot. How to exist without existing. How to keep going even when she felt like she’d been hollowed out from the inside.

The boys watched her quietly - not hovering, not smothering, just… present. They moved around her like they were afraid to disturb something fragile. They didn’t ask about him. They didn’t say his name. They didn’t need to.

Heeseung's absence lived in the room with them, heavy and unspoken, like a ghost they all pretended not to see.

Some days she felt like she was floating above her own body - watching herself rehearse, watching herself laugh at jokes she didn’t hear, watching herself sign posters and pose for photos and bow onstage like she wasn’t hollow inside.

She’d see herself in the mirror during choreography and barely recognise the girl staring back. Her movements were perfect. Sharp. Clean. Professional.

But her eyes were empty.

Other days she felt nothing at all. No sadness. No anger. No longing.

Just… blankness. A quiet, heavy fog that wrapped around her and muted everything - sound, colour, emotion.

Nights were the worst.

She’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the air conditioner or the distant traffic or the boys whispering in the hallway - anything to fill the silence he left behind.

Sometimes she’d reach for her phone without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen, waiting for a notification that wasn’t coming.

She stopped checking after a while. Stopped waiting. Stopped hoping. Or maybe she didn’t stop - maybe she just got better at pretending she had. Maybe she learned how to tuck the ache somewhere deep, somewhere quiet, somewhere she could ignore as long as she kept moving. Maybe she learned how to live with the silence instead of fighting it.

Tour began in April.

Stage after stage they all blurred together. Cities changed. Hotels changed. Crowds changed.

But she didn’t.

Every night, the lights hit her like a wave - blinding, hot, overwhelming - and the roar of the crowd shook the floor beneath her feet. Fans screamed her name, held up signs, cried when she waved at them. The adrenaline should’ve lit her up from the inside.

Instead, it pushed her forward even when her heart wasn’t in it - like a current dragging her along.

She hit every mark. Every note. Every cue.

Her body moved flawlessly, muscle memory guiding her through choreography she’d practiced a thousand times. Her voice never cracked. Her smile never slipped. Her timing never faltered.

To anyone watching, she looked perfect. Professional. Powerful. Alive.

But she didn’t feel any of it.

Not the music vibrating through her chest. Not the cheers echoing in her ears. Not the heat of the stage lights. Not the rush of performing in front of thousands.

It all washed over her like water over stone - touching her, surrounding her, but never sinking in.

Some nights, she’d stand in the wings before going onstage, staring at the crowd, feeling absolutely nothing. No nerves. No excitement. No joy.

Just a quiet, heavy numbness that sat in her chest like a rock.

And when the music started, she’d step into the light anyway - because that’s what she was supposed to do. Because the world kept spinning even when she didn’t.

But despite everything... it wasn’t all bad.

She wasn’t sixteen anymore. She wasn’t the girl who let numbness swallow her whole. She’d been through too much, learned too much, grown too much.

She knew how to manage the emptiness now - not perfectly, not gracefully, but intentionally.

Therapy helped. Talking helped. Letting herself feel nothing without judging it helped.

So she focused on the good - the small, fleeting, unexpected moments that reminded her she was still here, still alive, still capable of feeling something.

A member making her laugh so hard she snorted during practice. A late‑night convenience store run with the boys where they argued over ramen flavours. A quiet afternoon in the dorm where they all piled onto the couch to watch a movie and she fell asleep on someone’s shoulder without realising.

They adjusted without discussing it.

Someone always stood beside her during formations. Someone always handed her water before she asked. Someone always cracked a joke a little softer, a little gentler, watching her out of the corner of their eye to see if she’d smile.

Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn’t. Sometimes she didn’t even notice they were trying - not because she didn’t appreciate it, but because she was too deep in her own head to register anything outside of it.

Most of her time she spent writing. Making music. Producing. Composing. It’s the only place she's ever truly been honest with herself - her diary, her journal, the one space where she doesn't lie or soften anything. So she poured everything into it. Hours and hours of writing, bleeding, trying to understand herself through sound because she couldn’t do it any other way.

And she put time into herself when she could. She went to the cinema alone, letting the darkness and the sound swallow her for two hours. Played video games until her fingers cramped, losing herself in worlds where she didn’t have to think. Saw her friends whenever schedules allowed - coffee dates, quick dinners, stolen hours that reminded her she wasn’t alone.

She had sleepovers with the members when the nights felt too heavy. They’d drag blankets into the living room, order too much food, and fall asleep to some terrible movie none of them were actually watching.

Jay’s birthday arrived, and for the first time in weeks, Lola felt something loosen in her chest. The room was warm, loud, full of the kind of chaotic affection only they could create. And when Jay accidentally smashed the cake into his own face - frosting streaked across his cheek, eyes wide with startled betrayal. She laughed. For what felt like the first time in weeks.

Not a polite laugh. Not a forced one. A real one. Bright, unrestrained, bubbling up before she could stop it. For a moment, she looked like herself again.

Then there was St. Paddy’s Day in Australia. The streets buzzed with music and strangers and neon lights. She let herself be pulled into it, into the noise and the colour and the movement. She danced without thinking, drank just enough to feel the warmth settle into her bones, and allowed herself to have fun.

For a few hours, she wasn’t grieving. She wasn’t drowning. She wasn’t trying to survive anything.

She was simply there - present, alive, letting the world hold her up instead of crush her.

There were always these little pockets of hope - tiny, bright moments that cracked through the numbness like sunlight through blinds. Moments that made her feel human again, even if only for a heartbeat.

But the sadness never fully left.

It sat quietly in the background, a soft ache she carried with her everywhere. Not overwhelming. Not consuming. Just… present.

A reminder of what she’d lost. A reminder of who she still missed.

She was living. She was trying. She was growing.

But she was also grieving.

And both things were true at the same time.

And now it’s May.

Thailand. A new city. A new hotel. Another stop on a tour she’s been sleepwalking through.

The elevator ride feels lighter than it has in weeks.

Lola leans against the cool metal wall, eyes still a little puffy, cheeks still warm from crying, but her chest… her chest feels different. Looser. Unknotted. Like something inside her finally unclenched.

Seeing Phuwin - someone completely outside the group, outside the company, outside the breakup - was exactly what she needed. She didn’t have to pretend. She didn’t have to be careful. She didn’t have to worry about being a burden or making things awkward.

She just talked. And cried. And breathed.

And for the first time in sixty‑one days, she felt like herself again - even if only for a few hours.

He listened without flinching. Held her hand. Made her laugh. Reminded her she wasn’t alone. Reminded her she wasn’t broken. Reminded her she was allowed to feel everything she’d been avoiding. It's one of the many things she loves about him.

By the time she stepped out of the warmth of his house, something in her had shifted. Her shoulders felt lighter. Not in a way she could point to, but in that subtle, unmistakable way that comes after finally exhaling a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding for months. It was as if she’d been carrying a weight so familiar she no longer recognised it as heavy, and only now, after sitting with someone who listened without rushing her, had she finally set it down.

The night air didn’t feel as sharp. Her chest didn’t feel as tight. Her thoughts didn’t feel as loud.

Now, walking down the hotel hallway, she feels tired in a good way. The kind of tired that comes after a long cry and a long talk and a long overdue release.

She’s excited to get into bed. Excited to sleep properly for once. Excited to wake up tomorrow without the ache sitting so close to her ribs.

She swipes her keycard, pushes open the door-

And freezes.

All of the boys are inside.

Not lounging. Not talking. Not on their phones.

Just sitting. Waiting.

Her room is dimly lit, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow over all of them - Jay on the edge of the bed, Sunoo cross‑legged on the floor, Jungwon leaning against the desk, Niki perched on the windowsill, and Jake and Sunghoon standing near the wardrobe like they aren't sure whether to sit or stay alert.

For a second, nobody says anything.

Lola blinks, confused, her hand still on the door handle. She looks from one face to the next, trying to understand why they’re here, why they’re all so quiet, why they’re all looking at her like she’s made of glass.

The silence stretches - not tense, not heavy, just… full. Full of concern. Full of questions. Full of something they don’t know how to say yet.

She steps inside slowly, closing the door behind her.

Her heart picks up. Not in fear. Not in panic.

Just in surprise and a little bit of confusion. She wipes under her eyes instinctively, even though the redness is obvious.

Still, none of them speak.

Jay’s knee bounces restlessly. Sunoo’s fingers twist in his sleeves. Jungwon’s jaw is tight. Jake’s arms are crossed. Sunghoon looks like he’s trying not to pace. Niki’s eyes are wide, darting between everyone.

No one speaks.

So she does.

“Uhh... What’s going on?” letting out an awkward laugh. "What are you all doing here... How did you even get in?"

Jungwon exhales sharply - not angry, but absolutely not calm. “We didn’t know where you were.”

Lola frowns. “I told you I was seeing Win.”

Jay’s voice comes out sharper than he means it. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I didn’t hear it,” she says, defensive without meaning to. “Sorry. it must have been on silent.”

Jake runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “We called you. A lot.”

Sunoo’s voice cracks. “You were gone for hours.”

Lola blinks, momentarily stunned. The sight in front of her knocks the breath out of her chest. All of them gathered, all of them waiting, all of them watching her with a tension she wasn’t prepared to face. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected every single one of them to show up. And she certainly hadn’t expected the strange mix of emotions simmering beneath their concern.

It isn’t just worry in their eyes. It’s something sharper. Something heavier. Something that feels like frustration threaded through fear - the kind that comes from loving someone so fiercely that the thought of her hurting alone makes them ache.

She can feel it radiating off them: the confusion, the protectiveness, the quiet anger at the idea that she’s been carrying something this big without them. It hits her all at once, leaving her disoriented, breathless, overwhelmed by the intensity of their presence.

“I mean… you knew where I was,” she says, trying to understand. “You know where he lives. If you were really worried, you could’ve just messaged him or gone over.”

The reaction is immediate.

Jake’s head snaps up. Jay’s eyes widen. Sunoo flinches. Jungwon’s expression hardens. Sunghoon's shoulders tense. Niki looks like she just said something dangerous.

Jake speaks first, voice tight. “Lola… we’re not going to show up at someone’s house because you couldn't answer your damn phone.”

Jungwon adds, sharper, “And we’re not even close with him.. he's you're friend not ours.”

Sunghoon steps forward, eyes tired. "It doesn't even matter you were supposed to be back an hour ago."

Sunoo’s frustration finally spills over. “You scared us.”

Lola’s breath catches.

Jay cuts in, voice cracking. “We just- We thought something happened.”

Niki whispers, “We didn’t know if you were okay.”

Lola’s defensiveness falters. Because she finally sees it - really sees it.

This isn’t just about tonight. This is about everything. Two months of watching her go numb. Two months of not knowing how to help. Two months of being scared to push too hard or not enough. Two months of insecurity and worry piling up until it finally bubbled over.

She looked at all of them - the tense shoulders, the tired eyes, the clenched jaws - and it hit her that they weren’t just worried.

They were terrified. Not of her breaking. Not of her running. But of losing her in the silence the same way they’d lost Heeseung.

Her voice softened instinctively. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Another apology slipped out, quieter this time. “I’m really sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to worry you.”

But the words didn’t land.

Jay let out a frustrated breath, rubbing his face. “You keep saying that, but you don’t seem to get it.”

Lola blinked, thrown off by the sharpness in his tone. “I do get it. I just said I understand that you were worried.”

Jake’s voice came out harsher than he intended. “We weren’t just worried. We were scared for you LJ.”

Sunoo added, voice trembling, “And you’re acting like it’s not a big deal.”

Lola’s shoulders tensed. “What? I’m not acting like anything. I just… This has just escelated so fast... I don't even really know what's going on right now.”

And she meant it. She genuinely meant it.

Because from her perspective, this was coming out of nowhere. She understood why they were upset - of course she did - but the intensity felt dramatic, overwhelming, too much for a day where she was already exhausted and emotionally wrung out.

She had just walked through the door five minutes ago. Five minutes. And suddenly she was being confronted, cornered, hounded by six people she loved, all demanding explanations for something she hadn’t even realised was happening.

Her confusion twisted into frustration.

They haven’t even let me process anything. I haven’t had a second to breathe. And now they’re upset that I’m not reacting the way they want me to?

She felt her jaw tighten.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. It wasn’t that she didn’t take their concerns seriously. It was that she hadn’t been given the chance to understand them yet.

For the boys, this had clearly been building quietly for weeks - whispered worries, shared glances, unspoken fears. But for Lola, it was sudden. Abrupt. A tidal wave she hadn’t seen coming.

And now they were upset that she wasn’t immediately matching their emotional intensity.

Her annoyance flickered again - small but sharp.

I just walked in the door. I didn’t even know this was a problem. And now I’m being made to feel like I did something wrong?

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady, trying not to snap, trying not to let the exhaustion of her day bleed into the moment.

But the truth was simple:

She was tired. She was overwhelmed. And she didn’t understand why they were blaming her for something she hadn’t even known existed.

Before Lola can get a word out, Sunghoon speaks first - his jaw tightening, voice already strained.

“You can't just not answer your phone tiny.”

Lola’s brows pull together, defensive without meaning to be. “What! Why are you guys acting like I've made this concious decscision to ignore you... I just didn’t hear it,” she repeats. “I was talking. I wasn’t checking my phone every five minutes.”

Jay drags a hand through his hair, pacing now, agitation rolling off him in waves. His movements are sharp, restless, like he’s trying to outrun the feeling clawing at his chest. His breath comes uneven, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense with the kind of fear that disguises itself as anger when it gets too big to hold quietly.

“And yet you're standing there acting like we're overreacting? Like we shouldn’t be worried? That hurts.”

The words burst out of him - not loud, not cruel, but raw. Raw in the way someone sounds when they’re finally admitting how scared they were.

He isn’t angry at her. He’s angry at the idea of her suffering alone. He’s angry at the thought that she didn’t think she could come to them.

His pacing isn’t frustration with her. It’s frustration with himself. With all of them. With the situation. With the fact that she stood there trying to act fine while her world was cracking open.

She stares at him, stunned. The words hit her harder than she expects, knocking her off balance in a way she can’t hide. Jay’s frustration, the pacing, the sharpness in his voice. It all crashes into her at once, leaving her blinking, breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

“Bro, what? I’m not saying any of that. I’m sorry I didn’t answer my phone and I made you all worry.”

Her voice comes out softer than she intends, shaky around the edges. She takes a moment - a long, deliberate inhale - trying to calm herself, trying to steady the rising panic in her chest. She forces her shoulders to drop, forces her breath to slow, forces herself to listen instead of react.

Because something else is happening here. She can feel it. The tension beneath their words, the hurt beneath their panic, the way their emotions are spilling out sideways because they don’t know how to express what they’re actually afraid of.

She swallows, grounding herself before she speaks again.

“Okay, I feel like something else is going on here and you’re taking it out on me.”

The words are gentle, not defensive - an attempt to understand, not accuse. She’s trying to reach past the panic, past the frustration, past the sharp edges of their fear. She’s trying to see what’s underneath it all.

The room goes still.

No one says anything for a moment - some of them realising she’s right, others fighting it, clinging to their anger because it feels safer than admitting what’s underneath.

Lola exhales, long and tired.

“Does someone want to explain to me… calmly… what’s going on? Because I don’t think this is as simple as me not replying for a few hours.”

Even through her frustration, even through the exhaustion of her day, she can see it - the cracks in their voices, the panic behind their anger, the way their fear is sitting just under the surface.

They’re not mad about the phone. They’re mad about what the phone symbolises. They’re mad because they’ve been scared for weeks and never said anything.

And Lola, despite the sting of how they jumped down her throat the second she walked in, still feels that familiar pull inside her. The instinct to help, to soothe, to fix. Even hurt, even overwhelmed, even shaken by their reaction, her first impulse is to ease their minds.

It’s who she is.

It’s who she has always been.

She has spent years being the emotional buffer in the group - the one who absorbs tension, the one who smooths over conflict, the one who senses distress before anyone else notices it. She has always been the one who steps forward when someone is scared, the one who reaches out when someone is hurting, the one who tries to carry the weight so no one else has to.

Even now, even after their voices rose too quickly, even after their fear rushed out and cut her deeper than they meant to, she still wants to understand them. She still wants to make it better. She still wants to fix whatever this is.

It’s not weakness. It’s not submission. It’s not her avoiding conflict.

It’s love.

A fierce, loyal, selfless kind of love. The kind that makes her want to protect them even when she’s the one who needs protecting. The kind that makes her want to soothe their panic even when she’s shaking herself. The kind that makes her want to reach for them even when they’ve hurt her first.

She has always been the one who tries to hold the group together. She has always been the one who tries to keep everyone safe. She has always been the one who tries to fix the cracks before they become fractures.

And this moment is no different.

Even with her heart pounding, even with her throat tight, even with her emotions raw and exposed, she still leans toward them - not physically, but emotionally. She still tries to listen past the panic. She still tries to hear what they’re really saying. She still tries to understand the fear beneath their frustration.

The boys look at each other. Waiting for someone to speak.

The argument is small, but it’s sharp - frustration layered over fear, fear layered over love. Voices aren’t raised, but they’re tight. Edges aren’t cruel, but they’re jagged.

Lola stands there, waiting patiently, waiting for someone to explain why they’re all reacting like this.

And then Jungwon steps forward.

Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just with the quiet authority he’s always had - the kind that settles a room without needing volume.

“Okay,” he says, steady but firm. "You're right."

The words cut through the tension like a clean breath.

Jay stops pacing. Jake’s shoulders drop. Sunoo’s eyes flick to the floor. Sunghoon exhales. Niki uncurls his hands.

Lola freezes, unsure if she should speak or stay silent.

Jungwon looks around the room first - checking each member, grounding them - before turning back to her.

His voice softens, but the seriousness stays.

“We’re not mad at you,” he says, voice steady in a way that makes her chest tighten. “None of us are.”

Lola swallows, unsure whether to believe him, unsure whether she deserves to.

“We’re sorry for snapping at you,” he continues. “But… we’re upset.”

Her brows pull together. “Upset?”

He nods, slow and honest. “Because you’re not talking to us.”

The words land heavier than she expects - like something placed gently in her hands but still too heavy to hold.

Jay shifts on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve been waiting... Giving you space hoping you would come to us... But you never do we've just watched you pull back for months. Not completely. Not like before. But enough that we feel it.”

Jake's voice is quieter, almost careful. “You’ve been retreating into yourself again. Not like dramatically or anything. Just… slipping away in small pieces.”

Sunoo's voice is small, almost fragile. “And we don’t want to lose you like that. Not again. Not in that way.”

Sunghoon steps closer, expression gentle but tired, the kind of tired that comes from caring too much for too long. “We know you’re not spiralling. We know you’re handling things better this time. We see the work you’re doing. We’re proud of you for it.”

Niki nods, eyes wide and earnest. “But you’re still hurting. Even if you think you’re hiding it well.”

Jungwon's voice is steady and calm, the anchor in the room. “And we want you to lean on us. The way we lean on you. The way we always have. That’s what we’re asking for.”

Lola’s breath catches.

Because she hadn’t realised. She truly hadn’t. She hadn’t noticed the distance forming, hadn’t seen the quiet spaces she was leaving behind. She hadn’t been consciously avoiding them - she’d just been busy, overwhelmed, numb, trying to keep herself afloat in ways that felt private and necessary.

In her mind, they’d had moments. Small conversations, shared exhaustion, quiet nods of understanding. Moments she thought counted as connection, as proof they were all navigating the same storm together. But clearly… that hadn’t translated. Not to them. Not in the way she assumed.

“I… I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. Shock sits heavy in her chest, thick and disorienting. “I swear. I just… haven’t had time to process anything myself. Never mind talk about it.”

She looks at them, really looks, and realises how much she’s missed - the worry in their eyes, the tension in their shoulders, the way they’ve been watching her slip away in ways she didn’t feel from the inside. She should have known. She should have seen it. But she didn’t. And the guilt settles like a weight she didn’t expect.

Jay’s expression softens, the tension in his shoulders easing. “We know.”

Jake's nods, quiet but certain. “We do.”

Sunoo wipes under his eye, the gesture small and aching. “But it still felt like you were slipping away.”

Sunhoon adds, voice low and steady, “We just didn’t want to wait until it got worse... Not again.”

Jungwon finishes, placing a gentle hand on her back. “We’re your family. We want to be part of your healing, not just the people watching from the outside.”

Lola stands there, stunned. Because clearly… those moments hadn’t reached them the way she believed. What felt like connection to her had felt like absence to them.

Her voice comes out small, almost childlike. “I didn’t know.”

Jungwon nods, steady and warm. “You do now.”

And the room falls into a quiet that isn’t tense anymore - just full, honest, human. But underneath that honesty sits something new: an awkwardness none of them quite know how to navigate.

The air feels different now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Just… uncertain.

The room has finally settled - quiet, heavy, but calmer. Jungwon’s intervention pulled everyone back from the edge, and now they’re all sitting, breathing, processing, trying to figure out what comes after a truth that big.

Lola sits on the bed, hands folded in her lap, still stunned by everything they’ve said. She can feel all of them around her - close, present, wanting to stay - but the argument has left a thin layer of awkwardness between them, like a film no one knows how to wipe away.

The silence stretches, not hostile, just hesitant. They want to speak. They want to reach for each other. They want to return to the ease they usually have. But no one knows what the first step should be.

Jay keeps glancing at her, opening his mouth like he might say something, then closing it again. Sunoo fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. Niki shifts his weight, foot tapping lightly against the floor. Sunghoon exhales slowly, as if trying to steady the atmosphere. Jake looks at the ceiling, then at Lola, then at the floor. Jungwon watches her with soft eyes, waiting for the moment the tension breaks.

They’re all here. They’re all staying. They just don’t know how to move forward yet.

And Lola feels that - the awkwardness, the care, the wanting - all of it pressing gently around her.

Then Jake clears his throat, trying to fill it.

“So… what did you do at Win's place?”

It’s innocent. It’s awkward. It’s meant to ease the tension - a small question offered gently, hoping to bridge the gap between them.

But Lola hesitates.

Not because she wants to lie. Not because she wants to hide anything. But because she’s suddenly terrified of saying the wrong thing, of accidentally reopening wounds they’ve only just managed to close. She doesn’t want to make things worse. She doesn’t want to misstep again.

And yet… she knows honesty is the only way forward now.

Her throat tightens, but she forces herself to speak.

“I… talked to him,” she says quietly. “About how I’ve been feeling.”

The words feel fragile leaving her mouth, like she’s placing something delicate in the middle of the room and hoping they handle it gently.

But the reaction is instant.

Jay’s head snaps up. Sunoo's mouth falls open. Niki flinches like someone's tapped on his bruise. Sunghoon's shoulders tense, the calm he’d just found slipping. Jake's expression twists, hurt folding into frustration. Jungwon closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before he speaks.

The frustration that had only just settled flares right back up - not explosive, not cruel, but sharp enough to sting.

Jay speaks first, voice tight. “Lola, come on.”

She blinks, startled. “What?”

Jake's tone is sharper now - a tone he almost never uses with her. “This is exactly what we’re talking about.”

Niki’s voice cracks. “You’re talking to other people about our issues instead of talking to us.”

Lola’s brows knit, confusion and guilt tangling together. “It’s not- I wasn’t trying to-”

Sunghoon cuts in, not angry but undeniably upset. “We’re right here. We’ve been right here for months.”

The room shifts again. Not hostile, but wounded. The air feels heavier, quieter, thick with the kind of hurt that doesn’t lash out but sinks inward. They’re not yelling. They’re not attacking. They’re hurting.

And Lola feels that hurt hit her all at once - sharp, sudden, overwhelming. It lands in her chest like a weight she didn’t see coming.

She thought she was giving herself space. They thought she was slipping away.

She thought she was handling things privately. They thought she was shutting them out.

Two different realities collide in the middle of the room - hers and theirs - crashing together with the force of everything they’ve never said aloud.

And Lola stands in the middle of it, finally understanding the truth she missed

Jungwon's voice is low and controlled, the kind of calm that comes from trying very hard not to let emotion spill over. “We’re not saying you can’t talk to your other friends. But you’re telling him things you haven’t told us.”

Jay runs a hand through his hair, pacing again, agitation returning like muscle memory. “We’re the ones who see you every day. We’re the ones who’ve been worried sick. We’re the ones who’ve been trying to help.”

Jake adds, sharper than before, “And you’re telling him instead of us.”

Sunoo wipes under his face, frustrated and hurt. “It feels like you don’t trust us.”

Lola’s breath catches. “That’s not true at all... Of course I trust you!”

Sunghoon steps forward, eyes tired in a way that makes her chest ache. “Then why didn’t you talk to us?”

She opens her mouth, closes it, tries again - because she can feel the weight of their disappointment pressing against her ribs.

“I… I don't think it's that simple.”

Jay stops pacing, staring at her. “Erm... Yeah, it is that simple. actually. You just open your mouth, and you talk.”

“No, actually,” Lola says, voice small but firm. “It’s not.”

The boys freeze - not in anger, but in surprise. Her pushback is gentle, but it’s real. And it shifts the air again.

She swallows, trying to explain without making it worse, trying to untangle the knot inside her chest long enough to show them what she means. Because she didn’t choose someone else over them. She didn’t trust him more. She didn’t shut them out on purpose.

And now she’s standing in the middle of their hurt, trying to find the right words to bridge the gap she never meant to create.

“You’re all part of this,” she says softly, voice trembling with the effort to make them understand. “The tour. The schedule. The silence. The worry. The… everything. You’re in it with me. And I didn’t want to dump more on you when you’re already dealing with your own stuff.”

She isn’t defensive. She isn’t hiding. She’s pleading - gently, quietly - for them to see her heart the way she sees theirs.

Jake's expression softens, but the frustration stays beneath it like a low hum. “God. How many times, LJ... We want you to dump it on us.”

Sunoo nods, eyes glossy, shoulders tight. “We want to help.”

Jungwon's voice is steady, grounding, the anchor she’s always relied on. “We’re not upset that you talked to him. We’re upset that you didn’t talk to us.”

Sunghoon adds, “We are your family. We’re supposed to carry this together.”

Lola’s breath shakes. She feels the weight of all their eyes, all their hurt, all their love - and she wants so badly to fix it, to reach them, to make them understand she never meant to leave them in the dark.

“I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” she says quietly. “I just… needed to talk to someone who wasn’t part of all this. Someone who wasn’t watching me every day. Someone who wasn’t scared of me slipping up.”

Jay’s expression cracks, the frustration slipping into something raw. “We’re not scared of you. We're scared for you... Because we care, dumbass.”

Niki nods, voice barely holding steady. “We already lost one person.”

The words strike her immediately. Not as cruelty, but as truth delivered with too much force for her heart to absorb all at once. They land in her chest like a sudden jolt, a shock that ripples through her before she can steady herself. It’s not the sharpness of the comment that stuns her, but the accuracy of it - the way it cuts straight to the part of her she’s been avoiding, the part she’s been afraid to name.

She looks at them - the constants in her life, the last anchors she has left in a world that has never stopped shifting beneath her feet - and something fierce rises in her chest. Not panic. Not fear. But a desperate, aching urgency. A need so sharp it almost hurts.

It isn’t desperation born from fear of losing them. It’s desperation born from wanting to grow with them. Wanting to evolve together. Wanting to step into the next chapter without leaving anyone behind.

She loves them enough to tell them the truth. She loves them enough to risk discomfort. She loves them enough to let the bond change instead of letting it break.

She needs them to understand. She needs them to stay. She needs them to see that she wasn’t choosing someone else - she was just trying to survive.

Sunoo whispers, barely holding himself together, “We don’t want to lose you too. We can’t.”

The room falls silent again - but this time it isn’t sharp or defensive. It’s honest. Raw. Human. A silence shaped by fear and love sitting right beside each other.

And Lola finally understands the gravity of what they’ve been carrying. The months of watching her withdraw, the quiet panic of seeing her slip into old patterns, the helplessness of not knowing how to reach her.

The atmosphere is still tight - not explosive, but fragile, stretched thin by emotion that’s been building for months. The boys are upset again, voices edged with fear disguised as frustration, because they think she still doesn’t understand why they’re hurting. They’re not angry at her. They’re scared for her.

Lola sits there, stunned, overwhelmed, her mind scrambling for the right words - something that will soothe, something that will explain, something that will show them she does care, that she does see them, that she never meant to make them feel shut out.

And then she exhales - slow, shaky - gathering every ounce of courage she has left.

Finally, she speaks.

“Guys…” she lets out a long, uneven sigh. “This is the first time since… everything happened that I’ve actually let myself feel anything.”

The room stills.

Sunghoon's shoulders drop a little. Jake's arms uncross. Sunoo's eyes soften. Jay stops pacing mid‑step. Niki leans forward, breath held. Jungwon watches her carefully, like he’s afraid she might break if he looks away.

She continues, voice quiet but steady - the kind of steady that comes from holding herself together by the thinnest thread.

“With tour… rehearsals… meetings… travel… I haven’t had time to process anything. I haven’t had time to deal with it. I’ve been moving nonstop since the night he left. I’ve been performing, flying, smiling, working. I haven’t had a second to breathe.”

Her voice wavers.

“Even when I’m in therapy I feel like I’m going crazy because I have absolutely no idea how to describe the pain I’m in.”

She swallows hard, throat tight.

“And today was the first time I stopped long enough to feel it. It was the first time that… I felt safe enough to…” She sighs again - this one sharper, frustrated with herself. “Try. I guess.”

The boys exchange looks - not angry now, but confused, hurting, trying to understand the depth she’s finally revealing. They’re seeing her clearly for the first time in months, and it scares them. It scares her too.

Lola takes a breath, gathering herself.

“And I need you to hear this without getting upset again.”

They nod, slowly - cautious, attentive, bracing themselves.

She continues.

“You all have places you can go,” she says softly, desperation threading through every word. “People you can talk to. Partners you can stay with. Homes outside the group. You have support systems that exist beyond this room.”

She shakes her head, voice trembling. “I’m not saying your pain isn’t real. I would never compare your feelings to mine. And I’m not trying to erase anything you’ve been dealing with.”

Her voice wavers - not from fear, but from the sheer weight of what she’s about to say.

“But I didn’t just lose a friend. Or a coworker. Or a roommate.”

She meets their eyes one by one, making sure they see her, really see her.

“I lost my partner. The love of my life. I lost everything. And I’ve been trying to figure out how to live without him.”

The room goes silent - heavy, stunned, aching - as if the air itself is holding its breath.

Because it wasn’t just him she lost. It was the life she had built around him - the quiet safety of knowing where she belonged, the way her world had shape and meaning simply because he was in it. His presence had been a compass, a rhythm, a way of existing. And when he left, that entire structure collapsed.

She felt his absence constantly. Not in a dramatic way - but in the small, relentless moments that made up her days. It was like losing a limb: something that should be there, something her body still expected, something her mind still reached for. Every movement reminded her of what was missing. Every breath felt slightly off‑balance.

She was grieving someone who wasn’t dead. Someone who was still out there, living, breathing, laughing, existing - just not with her. Not for her. And that was its own kind of cruelty. Because everywhere she looked, everything she touched, every routine she tried to rebuild, was another reminder that he wasn’t hers anymore. That the life she had imagined with him had evaporated overnight.

She carried that grief like a storm trapped inside her chest. Trying to describe it felt impossible - like trying to explain the wreckage while still standing in it. There were no words big enough, no metaphors strong enough, no language capable of holding the enormity of what she had lost. Some experiences were simply too devastating to articulate, too raw to name, too sacred in their pain to speak aloud.

And she had been living with that silence for months.

The boys stare at her - not angry now, not frustrated - just hurting with her, finally understanding the depth she’s been drowning in.

Her voice cracks, thin and breaking at the edges.

“It’s so fucking stupid,” she whispers, “but sleeping alone for the first time in three years…”

Jay looks away, swallowing hard, jaw tightening like he’s trying not to show how much that hurts to hear.

“And trying to remember my inhaler or my medication,” she continues, voice trembling, “because he always packed my bag for me.”

Sunoo brings his hand to his eye, blinking fast.

“Having to make my own meals when I get home late,” she says, breath hitching, “because he always cooked.”

Jake’s breath stutters, shoulders curling inward.

“Driving myself to the studio instead of being driven.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed by the avalanche of tiny losses.

“He was in everything,” she says. “Every routine. Every habit. Every part of my day. And I didn’t even realise how much until he wasn’t there.”

She looks at them - really looks - her voice barely above a whisper now, fragile and honest.

“So if I didn’t notice all those tiny things… why would you?”

The room goes still again, the boys staring at her with a mix of heartbreak and dawning understanding - because this isn’t just grief over a breakup. It’s grief over a life that vanished overnight. A way of existing that was ripped away. A person who is still alive but no longer hers.

The boys freeze - because she’s right. Because they didn’t see the small losses. Because they didn’t understand the depth of her grief. Because they were watching the surface while she was drowning underneath.

Jungwon's expression breaks first - soft, devastated, understanding in a way that makes Lola’s heart hurt.

Jake wipes his face, eyes red. Sunoo sniffles. Jay looks like he’s fighting tears. Sunghoon's jaw trembles, the emotion finally catching up to him. Nikki’s eyes shine, wide and hurting.

Lola finishes, voice trembling but honest, the truth spilling out of her in a way she can’t stop.

“I’m not shutting you out. I’m not choosing anyone over you. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just… trying to relearn how to exist. And today was the first time I let myself feel how hard that’s been.”

The room falls into a silence that isn’t tense anymore. It’s full. It’s real. It’s the truth they’ve all been avoiding - the truth she’s been carrying alone.

The quiet settles again. Not sharp, not explosive, just heavy with everything that’s been said, everything that’s been revealed, everything they didn’t know.

Lola sighs, rubbing her palms together, grounding herself before she continues. Because she’s not done, and they need to hear the rest.

“Look… I know we talk to each other,” she says softly. “I know we lean on each other when we can. But you also keep to yourselves. All of you.”

The boys shift, subtle but telling - because they know she’s right.

“And you all have partners now,” she adds gently. “People you subconsciously go to when things get hard. People you can stay with. People who distract you. People who make you feel safe.”

She lifts her shoulders slightly, not accusing - just stating a truth she’s observed quietly for months.

“I don’t hold that against you. If anyone understands what that’s like… it’s me.”

The boys soften. Because they know she isn’t wrong, and because they know she’s speaking from experience, not resentment.

“And I’m happy for you,” she continues. “Really. I’m happy you all finally have people you can lean on and open up to. As your friend, your happiness is all I can ever wish for you.”

Her voice wavers, but she keeps going, gentle but firm.

“But it’s a little unfair to be mad at me for not talking to you… when I haven’t really had the chance.”

She looks around the room, meeting each of their eyes, making sure they hear her - really hear her.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” she says. “You’re just living your lives. You’re building relationships. You’re finding comfort. And I love that for you.”

She swallows, breath trembling.

“But I’ve been alone in a way none of you have. And I’m not blaming you for that - I’m just asking you to understand why it’s been harder for me to reach out. And a little patience while I try and figure everything out.”

Lola keeps going, gentle but firm, her voice threading through the room like something fragile and necessary.

“Most of the time, I’m the only one at the dorm,” Lola says softly. “And when you are home… you’re with your partners. Which is fine. I’m not complaining. I’m not asking you to change anything.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed by the truth she’s finally saying out loud.

“But you’re upset that I didn’t talk to you… when you weren’t really there to talk to in the first place.”

The boys freeze - because she’s right. Because they didn’t see it. Because they didn’t realise how alone she’s been in the quiet moments, in the spaces between rehearsals, in the nights where the dorm echoed with nothing but her own breathing.

She continues, voice soft but steady, the kind of steady that comes from months of holding herself together alone.

“Everyone is dealing with this in different ways. I get that. And that’s good.”

Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t cry - she’s past crying. She’s in that numb, aching place where tears don’t even come anymore.

“I’m just… confused.”

The boys look at her and for the first time they see how tired she is. Not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. The kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavier.

“I can’t even begin to understand how I’m feeling,” she admits. “I don’t have the words yet. I don’t have the clarity. I don’t have the space.”

She exhales, shoulders sinking, the weight of months pressing down on her.

“All I know is that I’m exhausted.”

The room shifts. Not with tension, but with something quieter, older, familiar. A nostalgia none of them say out loud. A yearning for the past - for when they were younger and smaller and scared, and they went to each other for everything. For the nights they slept on each other’s beds. For the mornings they shared blankets and hoodies. For the years when all they had was each other, and that was enough.

They all feel it - that ache for the version of themselves who didn’t have partners, or schedules, or separate lives. The version of themselves who clung to each other because they were all they had.

And Lola feels it too. She misses them. She misses the closeness. She misses the simplicity of loving them without the world pulling them in different directions.

She isn’t asking them to go back. She isn’t asking them to choose her over their partners. She isn’t asking them to change their lives.

She’s just asking them to understand why she’s been so alone.

She looks at them, eyes soft, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying. I really am. But I’m tired. And I’m doing my best with what I have.”

The boys are quiet now. Not angry. Not defensive. Just listening, really listening.

Lola takes a slow breath, her voice soft but steady.

“I’m mourning my relationship with E,” she says. “I’m grieving the life I thought I was going to have.”

The words land heavy. No one moves. No one breathes too loudly. It’s the kind of truth that rearranges the room.

“And I’m re‑learning how to survive without the safety of this group.”

Her voice trembles, but she keeps it controlled - because she needs them to hear her clearly, not through panic or guilt.

“You guys… you have people now. You have homes outside this one. You have places to run to when things get hard.”

She swallows, eyes shining.

“But I don’t. Not anymore.”

The boys' shift - small movements, barely noticeable, but full of emotion. A shared ache. A shared nostalgia. A shared longing for the past.

Lola’s voice softens even more.

"None of this is to blame you or make you feel bad,” she says. “I’m just… trying to explain why I’ve been so quiet. Why I’ve been so distant. Why it’s been so hard to reach out.”

She exhales, shoulders sinking under the weight of months of silence.

The room absorbs her words - heavy, honest, real - and the boys finally see her clearly, not as the strong one, not as the resilient one, but as someone who has been trying to rebuild herself from the ground up with no one to lean on.

“I spent so much of my life alone,” Lola says, voice thin, trembling. “Completely alone. And when I finally had a family… I clung to it with everything I had.”

The boys don’t move. They don’t breathe. They just watch her.

“I used to lie awake at night terrified,” she continues. “Because having something meant the possibility of losing it. And after everything I’d been through, this-” she gestures gently toward all of them "was the one thing I couldn’t lose.”

Their expressions break - softening, cracking, folding inward.

“That love. That family. That safety.” Her voice wavers. “It was everything to me. For so long it was all I had.”

She swallows hard, breath shaking.

“And then all of a sudden… my worst nightmare came true.”

Silence drops over the room - thick, still, devastating. The kind of silence that feels like grief itself.

“I had absolutely no idea how to process that loneliness again,” she whispers. “Not without falling apart. Not without letting it consume me.”

Jake’s eyes shine. Sunoo wipes his cheek, giving up on hiding his tears. Jay looks away, jaw tight. Sunghoon bites down on his lip. Niki’s hands shake. Jungwon’s expression cracks - just slightly, but enough.

Lola keeps going because she has to - because once you open a wound this deep, you can’t stop halfway.

“This breakup…” she breathes, “it didn’t just hurt. It's reshaped me. It's broken pieces I didn’t know could break. It's chipped away at parts of me I thought were solid. It changed who I am. Who I thought I was.”

Her voice trembles, but she doesn’t stop.

“I didn’t just lose him. I lost the version of myself I was when he loved me. I lost the future I thought I was walking toward. I lost the safety of knowing someone was always there.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed.

“And now I’m trying to adjust to a life that feels wrong. A life that feels too big. Too empty. Too unfamiliar.”

The boys stare at her - devastated, understanding, hurting with her.

“I’m not just grieving him,” Lola says, voice barely holding together. “I’m grieving the version of myself I was with him. The routines. The safety. The certainty.”

Her voice softens, almost breaking.

“I’m grieving the mornings when he woke me up because I always slept through my alarms. The nights where he made sure I'd eaten or had enough water throughout the day. The way he packed my bag because he knew I’d forget my medication. The stupid little jokes he made when I was stressed.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed by the avalanche of memories.

“He was in everything. Every part of my day. Every part of my life. And I didn’t even realise how much until he wasn’t there.”

The boys look shattered - not because she’s hurting, but because they finally understand the depth of her loss. The magnitude.

“So when you ask why I didn’t talk to you,” she says softly, “it’s because I didn’t even know what I was feeling. I didn’t notice half of these things myself. So why would you?”

The room goes still - not tense, not angry, just full of the truth they’ve been missing.

“So honestly I’m not shutting you out,” she finishes. “I’m not trying to hurt you and I hate that I've made you feel like that. But I guess I’m just… trying to survive something I never thought I’d have to survive.”

She exhales, exhausted - the kind of exhaustion that comes from grief that reshapes a person, grief that chips away at who they thought they were.

“And I’m tired,” Lola whispers. “I’m so tired.”

The boys don’t speak. They don’t argue. They don’t defend themselves.

The room is still. The air feels different now - not tense, not sharp, just heavy with truth and the ache of everything they’ve missed.

Sunghoon is the first to move.

He crosses the room without hesitation - not a single pause, not a single moment of doubt. The movement is instinctive, almost urgent, like his body decides before his mind can catch up. He climbs onto the bed behind her, settling in close, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him before he even touches her.

His arms wrap around her from behind, gentle but firm, circling her in a way that feels protective rather than possessive. His chin comes to rest on the crown of her head, a familiar weight, grounding her instantly. It’s a gesture he’s done a thousand times, but tonight it carries a different kind of meaning. Softer, heavier, full of everything he hasn’t said.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’m sorry. We should have seen. It’s no excuse.”

The apology isn’t rushed. It isn’t defensive. It’s honest.. He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, the kind of kiss that isn’t romantic, but deeply human. Grounding. Protective. Familiar. A promise in the form of touch.

“But we’re here now,” he says quietly. “We’ve got you.”

The words settle around her like a blanket - warm, stead and safe. His arms tighten just slightly, enough to let her know he means it. Enough to let her lean back without thinking. Enough to remind her that even though everything is changing, even though they’re all growing up, even though the bond is evolving, the love hasn’t gone anywhere.

In that moment, his presence behind her becomes more than comfort. It becomes reassurance. It becomes apology. It becomes acceptance. It becomes the quiet, unwavering truth that she is not alone - not now, not in this, not ever.

The others move too - like something old and sacred pulling them forward.

Jay sits at her side, knee touching hers. Jake settles near her feet, hand resting lightly on hers, cheek settling softly on her thigh. Niki curls in close, forehead resting on her shoulder. Sunoo and Jungwon lean in from the floor, hands resting on the blanket near her legs.

It’s messy and cramped and uncomfortable - elbows digging into ribs, knees knocking together, someone’s foot definitely in the wrong place.

But none of them care.

They need it. All of them. The closeness. The warmth. The physical touch they’ve been yearning for without even realising it.

For a moment, it feels like years ago - when they were younger and smaller and scared, and they piled onto one bed because the world felt too big and they only had each other.

Lola takes a slow breath, her voice softer now, but steadier than before.

“Sometimes I just get hit with this… horrible, devastating reality,” she murmurs, voice barely holding together. “That life goes on.”

The words land heavy - heavier than anything she’s said tonight.

“The world keeps spinning. People keep moving. Schedules keep filling. And just because my world is falling apart… doesn’t mean the rest of the world stops with me.”

She shakes her head, not bitter, just honest in a way that hurts.

“So I get up. I dust myself off. And I carry on.”

Her eyes lift, tired but clear.

“That’s the difference between me and everyone else,” she says quietly. “My inability to let something destroy me.”

She isn’t bragging. She isn’t posturing. She’s stating a truth she learned the hard way - the kind of truth carved into her bones.

“No matter what happens… I always get back up. Because I have to.”

Her voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t break. It’s steady - painfully steady, the kind of steadiness that comes from surviving things no one should have had to.

“And trust me sometimes I want to but I will never let something get that close to killing me. Not now. Not ever again.”

The boys stop - because they know she means it. Because they’ve seen her survive things she never should have had to. Because they’ve watched her rebuild herself more times than they can count.

And without even thinking, they all inch closer. Bodies pressing in, shoulders touching, knees bumping, hands brushing against her arms and legs. Letting her feel their support through their bodies. Letting her know she isn’t alone in this moment, even if she’s been alone in so many others.

Sunghoon tightens his hold around her shoulders. Jay leans in until their foreheads almost touch. Jake gives her hand a squeeze, gently playing with her fingers as she speaks. Sunoo curls closer, cheek damp. Niki nudges her side gently. Jungwon shifts until his shoulder is pressed against her back.

They don’t speak. They don’t interrupt. They don’t try to fix it.

They just stay close - messy, tangled, imperfect - but present.

Lola takes a slow breath, her voice softer now, but steadier than before.

The boys sit in stunned silence, absorbing everything she’s said. The grief, the loneliness, the exhaustion, the survival. But Lola isn’t finished.

She takes a shaky breath, her voice quieter now, but sharper around the edges.

“And I’m angry. Jesus, I’m so fucking angry.”

The words hit the room like a shockwave.

The boys look up - startled, confused - because angry is not a word anyone has ever used for Lola. Anger has never been part of her vocabulary. She has always been gentle, patient, soft-spoken, the one who diffused tension rather than created it.

But now she continues, and the truth spills out of her in a way that feels new, unfamiliar, frightening even to herself.

There were so many words people used to describe her - calm, kind, steady, resilient - but angry was never one of them. It simply wasn’t who she was. You could count on one hand the number of times they’d seen her mad. It wasn’t in her nature. She didn’t lash out. She didn’t explode. She didn’t break things.

But this… this had changed her so deeply at her core that she was being rewritten from the inside out.

“But this… this has hurt me so much that I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before.”

She looks down at her hands - clenched around Jake's without her noticing, knuckles white, fingers trembling. Anger sits in her palms like something foreign, something she doesn’t know how to hold.

It isn’t loud. It isn’t violent. It isn’t destructive.

It’s grief wearing a different face. It’s heartbreak turned inside out. It’s the kind of anger born from devastation, from losing something that once felt like a permanent part of her life.

The boys watch her, shattered themselves. They inch closer, instinctively, letting their bodies speak where their words fail - a silent promise that they’re here, that they see her, that they won’t let her face this alone.

“It stripped me of everything valuable and left me with the ugly parts.”

Her voice trembles.

“The anger. The frustration. The exhaustion. The bitterness. The jealousy.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed.

“I’m so angry.”

The words hit the room like a crack in the foundation - sharp, unexpected, almost foreign coming from her. The boys don’t move. They don’t speak. They just listen, finally understanding how deep this goes.

Lola’s voice stays quiet, but the truth inside it is enormous.

“I’m angry at Heeseung for leaving me,” she says. “But then I’m angry at myself for not really being angry at him.”

A few of the boys flinch - not from her words, but from the honesty in them.

“Because I understand why he did what he did. And I love him too much to ever truly hate him.”

That line breaks something in the room.

“I’m angry at the media,” she continues. “For making me and all of you feel used and violated.”

The boys react in small ways - the kind that say everything without words.

“I’m angry at the anonymous people online,” she says. “For spreading rumours and hate about me again.”

“I’m angry at this useless fucking company.”

The boys freeze - because they feel that too. Because the company has shaped them, saved them, hurt them. Because they’ve all been bruised by decisions made far above their heads. Because they know exactly what she means without her having to explain.

Jay’s eyes flicker with betrayal he never voiced. Jake's fingers curl into her own, knuckles white. Niki’s breath stutters, remembering nights he cried alone. Sunghoon's chest rises sharply, protective instinct flaring. Sunoo leans closer, needing her to feel he’s there. Jungwon's expression cracks - soft, devastated, furious on her behalf.

They don’t interrupt. They don’t try to fix it. They don’t try to soften it.

They just sit with her anger - the anger she never lets herself feel, the anger she never shows, the anger born from grief so deep it reshapes a person.

“I’m angry that they took my safe space,” she says. “That I feel like I can’t talk to my fans anymore because every time I open my mouth, I feel like I’m lying to them.”

Her voice breaks - not loudly, not dramatically, but in that small, fragile way that means she’s been holding this in for far too long.

“I’m angry because they’re demanding answers from me... answers I want nothing more than to give... but I can’t.”

The boys watch her with a kind of reverence, like she’s revealing something sacred and painful. Jay’s eyes soften, guilt flickering across his face. Jake’s breath stutters, chest tightening. Sunoo’s lashes flutter, wet again.

“I’m angry at my parents,” she whispers. “For not being here to hold my hand while I go through all of this.”

Jungwon’s expression cracks - a tiny, heartbreaking shift. Niki’s fingers curl into the blanket, protective.

She exhales, defeated.

“Fuck it… I’m just angry at the world.”

The room goes silent - not tense, not defensive, just full of the truth she’s been carrying alone. A silence that feels like a collective inhale, like they’re all bracing themselves against the weight of her honesty.

She looks up, eyes shining but steady - and the boys see it clearly now: the anger isn’t loud, or violent, or destructive. It’s new. It’s unfamiliar. It’s draining her in ways she doesn’t know how to articulate.

Lola has never been someone who lived in anger. She lived in softness. In resilience. In quiet strength.

But now she’s feeling everything at once. Grief, fear, loneliness, betrayal, heartbreak, and the anger is just the shape those emotions have taken because she doesn’t know where else to put them.

The boys sit in silence. Not defensive, not frustrated, just stunned by everything she’s said. And Lola… she’s tired. So tired she doesn’t bother softening her voice anymore.

She exhales, slow and shaky.

“Fuck... I just feel lost,” she says. “But I don’t really know what else to do except... keep going.”

The words settle over the room like dust - quiet, inevitable and impossible to ignore.

She continues, her voice thinning at the edges.

“I spend most of my time alone now. And I haven’t really spoken to anyone about what’s happened. Not properly. Just a few small chats with my therapist.”

Her voice softens - not out of gentleness, but out of exhaustion.

“And I’m starting to realise how much of the last five years I’ve spent with people.”

She looks down at her hands, studying them like they belong to someone she doesn’t recognise.

“I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t with someone.”

The boys freeze. Because they’ve never thought about it like that. Never realised how monumental this truth is for her. Never understood how deeply it ties into who she is.

For Lola, isolation wasn’t a phase. It was a childhood. A foundation. A shaping force.

She grew up alone. She learned to survive alone. She learned to protect herself alone. She learned to expect nothing from anyone because no one had ever stayed long enough to give her anything.

And then suddenly - five years ago - everything changed.

She found them. A family. A home. A constant presence. Noise in the quiet. Warmth in the cold. Hands reaching for her instead of pulling away.

For the first time in her life, loneliness wasn’t her default state. She woke up surrounded by people. She fell asleep knowing someone was in the next room. She ate meals with laughter in the background. She rehearsed with bodies pressed close. She lived in a world where she was never truly alone.

For five years, she didn’t have to face the world by herself.

And now she does.

Again. All at once. Without warning. Without preparation.

Without the emotional memory she once had - because she unlearned loneliness. She outgrew it. She replaced it with connection, routine, love, family.

And now she’s being forced to relearn isolation like a language she forgot how to speak.

They see how overwhelming it must feel - to suddenly be by yourself after five years of never being alone. To suddenly have silence where there used to be warmth. To suddenly have space where there used to be closeness. To suddenly have emptiness where there used to be love.

They see how much she’s been carrying. How much she’s been hiding. How much she’s been trying to survive without the tools she once had.

And they inch closer - instinctively, protectively - because they finally understand the depth of her struggle with isolation, and how much she needs them now, even if she didn’t know how to ask.

“I look back on every day since I debuted,” she says quietly, “and I see the faces of the people I love.”

Her voice cracks. A small, fragile sound that carries years of history.

“And now I realise just how much I despise being left alone.”

The boys don’t breathe. Because they know this isn’t just about Heeseung. It’s about her childhood. Her past. Her deepest fear.

“I found myself doing anything to make sure I never felt like that little girl again,” she says. “The one who never had any friends. The one who never felt like she belonged.”

That truth hits the room like a slow, devastating wave. She shakes her head, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she’s admitting.

“I clung to you. To this group. To the safety of never being alone. I mean we literally spent every second awake doing something together.”

It’s true. Painfully true. For years, they were inseparable. Dorms, studios, rehearsals, meals. They grew up together. They survived together. They became a family because none of them had one before.

Her voice drops to a whisper - the kind that feels like confession.

“But... I don't know... maybe now… maybe I should be alone.”

They see her and the importance of this moment for her character. Lola has spent her entire life fighting isolation. It shaped her. It hardened her. It taught her to survive without softness, without safety, without anyone to catch her when she fell.

And then the last five years happened - five years where loneliness was virtually nonexistent. Five years where she was never alone. Five years where she belonged. Five years where she was loved. Five years where she finally felt like part of something bigger than herself.

“What?” Jake whispers. He looks like the ground has tilted beneath him - like he’s hearing something impossible.

Lola continues, gentle but devastating.

“Maybe being alone isn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe it’s just something I need to learn again.”

The boys look shattered - because to them, being alone is the worst possible thing. To them, being alone means something is wrong. To them, being alone means the group is fractured, broken, unsafe.

Jay shakes his head immediately, voice tight. “Bells… no.”

Sunoo leans forward, desperate. “Being alone isn’t good for you.”

Sunghoon's voice cracks. “It’s not good for any of us.” Shifting so his cheek is now restinf on her head instead of his chin.

Jake's eyes shine. “We’ve been through everything together.”

Jungwon shuffles closer, calm but emotional. “We rely on each other. All of us.”

Nikki nods quickly, almost frantically. “Noona. We can’t go a minute without seeing each other.”

Jay adds, “We get nervous when we spend too much time apart.”

Sunoo whispers, “We hurt when one of us hurts.”

Jake's voice is soft. “We haven’t spent longer than a week apart in five years.”

Sunghoon finishes, voice low but steady. “And we wouldn’t want to.”

Their reactions come fast, overlapping and messy, Panic disguised as reassurance. They’re scrambling, tripping over their own words, trying to pull her back from a cliff they think she’s standing on. They’re terrified. Not of her being alone, but of losing her to the loneliness she survived once already.

And the idea of her repeating those cycles - of her slipping back into the isolation she grew up in - terrifies them.

But they don’t understand what she’s saying yet. Not fully. Not clearly.

They hear alone and think abandonment. They hear alone and think danger. They hear alone and think she’s slipping away from us.

Their worry blinds them. Not because they don’t care, but because they care too much. Because Lola means too much. Because she is the glue, the heart, the quiet centre of their world. Because they can’t imagine a version of their lives where she isn’t right beside them.

They’re trying - desperately - to reassure her that she isn’t alone, that she never will be again, that they’re here, that they’re staying, that they won’t let her fall back into the darkness she fought her way out of.

But they don’t yet understand that she isn’t asking to be abandoned. She isn’t asking to disappear. She isn’t asking to be cut off.

She’s trying to explain something quieter, deeper, more complicated - that she needs to relearn how to exist with herself, not without them.

And the boys, in their panic, can’t see that yet.

They only see her hurting. And they only know one response: get closer, hold tighter, speak faster, reassure harder.

Because losing Lola - even to her own loneliness - is something none of them could survive.

She looks at each of their faces closely as they speak - stunned, overwhelmed - as they keep going.

“We go through everything together,” Jungwon says. “We eat together,” Jay adds. “We sleep together,” Sunoo murmurs. “We live together,” Jake says. “We work together,” Sunghoon continues. “We survive together,” Niki whispers.

Each line hits her like a heartbeat. But Jungwons voice is the one that lands hardest.

He exhales softly, eyes warm with something ancient and tender. “We’re not just a group,” he murmurs. “We’re a single living being… each of us a heartbeat, a breath, a fragment of the same soul moving through different bodies.”

His voice carries the weight of years. The shared history, the shared wounds, the shared growing. “We’re stitched together in ways most people will never understand. You’re not separate from us. None of us are. We’re pieces of one spirit, scattered into seven forms.”

Lola’s breath catches. Because she’s never heard them say it like that. Never heard them articulate what the group means to them. Never realised how deeply they see her as part of themselves.

Of course she knows they love her. She sees it. She feels it every day - in the small moments and the big ones. In the way they check on her. In the way they tease her. In the way they protect her. In the way they show up for her without hesitation.

They have been here for her in ways no other human beings ever have. They single‑handedly restored her faith in humanity, kindness, empathy, love... and herself.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because they’re not just scared of losing her. They’re scared of losing themselves without her.

The boys are looking at her. Waiting, hoping, needing her to say something that confirms she’s still with them, still part of them, still one of the seven.

Jay’s eyes are wide, almost pleading. Sunoo's hands shake where they rest on the blanket. Sunghoon's grip around her shoulders tightens protectively. Jake leans forward, breath held. Niki’s eyes shine, full of panic. Jungwon’s jaw trembles, trying to stay composed.

They’re all panicking. Not because they misunderstood her, but because they love her so fiercely that the idea of her stepping away, even for a moment, feels like losing a limb.

But it’s okay. They’re trying. They’re here. They’re present. They’re holding her in every way they know how.

And Lola sees it. The panic, the devotion, the love - all of it written across their faces like a language only they speak.

And she starts to cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just soft, exhausted tears she didn’t want to shed tonight - the kind that slip out when your body finally realises it’s safe enough to let go.

She wipes her face, trying to breathe, trying to steady herself, trying not to fall apart in front of them. But they’re all staring at her with those wide, worried eyes, and she can’t hold it in anymore.

Because she feels safe with them. Safe enough to break. Safe enough to unravel. Safe enough to let them see the parts of her she usually hides.

She didn’t want this conversation. Not yet. Not like this.

But here they are. And here she is. And the truth is already spilling out, unstoppable now that she’s finally opened the door.

A memory flashes behind her eyes. Not even hours old.

Phuwin sitting across from her, listening quietly as she explained everything she’s just told the boys. The way he leaned back, sighed, and said one word that hit her like a punch.

She swallows, trying to find her voice - hesitant, terrified, but determined. Because they asked for honesty. Because they wanted the truth. Because she owes them the same clarity she gave her friend.

And because, deep down, she hopes they’ll see it the way she does. Not as something shameful, not as something dangerous, but as something hopeful. A chance to grow. A chance to move forward. A chance to stop repeating the same cycles and start building something healthier, stronger, more stable.

She hopes they’ll hear it as love. Not rejection. Not fear. Not distance.

She hopes they’ll understand that what she’s about to say isn’t her pulling away. It’s her trying to make sure they never lose each other again.

So she takes a slow breath, surrounded by their bodies, their warmth, their presence - all of them huddled around her like a shield.

And she speaks.

Lola takes a slow breath, eyes flicking between each of the boys as she tries to steady herself.

“But maybe… maybe it’s not good to feel like this,” she says softly.

They freeze - confused, hurt, startled, like the ground has shifted beneath them.

She lifts a hand slightly, a gentle plea. “Just hear me out… I can explain. I just need to find the right words.”

Her voice is gentle, but honest in a way that makes all of them lean in.

“It made sense to cling to each other as strongly as we did,” she says, choosing each word carefully. “We were kids. We were thrown into this surreal world at such a young age. We didn’t have anyone else.”

Her eyes soften, remembering the early years. The fear, the pressure, the way they held onto each other like lifelines.

“You were all I had,” she says. “And I was all you had.”

Her voice cracks - not dramatically, but in that small, devastating way that means she’s speaking from the deepest part of herself.

“Of course we clung to each other with everything we had. It was the only way we could get any kind of control over the world around us.”

The boys soften.

Because they remember.

They remember the fear. The uncertainty. The pressure. The nights they cried in dorm rooms. The mornings they woke up terrified. The way they slept in piles because the silence felt too big.

They remember how different they were from other kids their age. How other friendship groups had school, families, weekends, normalcy. But they had each other. Only each other.

And they clung - fiercely, desperately, instinctively - because that closeness was the only thing that kept them from falling apart.

“We were each other’s only constistence,” she says quietly. “In an environment of constant change and uncertainty.”

She looks at them taking in every face, every expression, every flicker of emotion.

“No matter what changed around us… we knew the seven of us never would.”

Her voice steadies, but the truth inside it is enormous.

“We always had us to lean on,” she says. “We were the only ones who understood. Who’d been through the same things. Who knew the same pain.”

Her voice softens, almost breaking.

“There’s so much comfort in knowing that you were the only people in the world who knew what I’d been through.”

She shakes her head, inundated by the weight of the memories.

“So of course we acted like no one else existed,” she says. “We were scared teenagers. And the only people we could rely on… were each other.”

The boys stare at her because she’s right. Because she’s naming the truth they’ve all felt but never dared to say out loud. Because she’s describing the closeness that shaped them, the closeness that saved them, the closeness that made them different from any other friendship group their age.

They held to one another like lifelines because that’s exactly what they were.

She wipes her face again, tears still falling. Jake lifts his hand to wipe them as they fall from her eyes - gentle, instinctive, terrified of letting her cry alone.

She takes a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the blanket because looking at them feels too raw.

The word Phuwin had said earlier still echoed through her chest like a bell she couldn’t silence. Codependency. It had landed with a weight she hadn’t expected, a weight she hadn’t been ready for, a weight that suddenly made everything make sense.

She knew the term. It wasn’t new to her. She had brushed against it in therapy before - lightly, cautiously, never long enough to let it settle. Every time the topic surfaced, she and her therapist had drifted toward something else, something easier, something less threatening. And outside those sessions, she had joked about it. In interviews. On livestreams. In passing comments with the boys. She had laughed about how none of them could function without each other, how they were practically glued together, how they panicked if they spent more than a few hours apart.

But she had never truly taken the time to understand what it meant. Or what it was doing to her. Or how deeply it had shaped her life.

The boys watched her closely, confusion flickering across their faces. She felt their fear, their love, their confusion, all of it swirling around her like a storm.

She wiped her cheeks again, but the tears kept falling. Soft, quiet, unstoppable. She wasn’t sobbing. She wasn’t breaking apart. She was simply letting herself feel, letting herself be seen, letting herself be held by the only people she trusted enough to fall apart in front of.

But now, sitting here with the boys, her boys, huddled around her, she felt the truth of it more clearly than ever. She felt how deeply they had all clung to one another. How fiercely they had held on. How desperately they had needed each other to survive the world they were thrown into as children.

She felt the weight of five years spent in constant closenes. The rehearsals, the meals, the shared beds, the whispered fears, the laughter, the tears, the unspoken promises. She felt the way they had become one living organism, one body, one soul, because it had been the only way to survive something that should never have been placed on their shoulders.

And she felt, for the first time, how that closeness had shaped her. How it had protected her. How it had saved her. And how it might now be holding her back from healing.

She lifted her eyes, finally meeting theirs. Six faces full of fear, love, confusion, devotion. They didn’t understand yet. They didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t know what she was trying to say. But they wanted to. They were trying. They were listening.

And she knew she had to continue. She owed them the truth. She owed herself the truth. She owed this moment the honesty it deserved.

She took another trembling breath, surrounded by their warmth, their presence, their love.

And she continues.

“I didn’t realise how much of me has changed. How much of me is lost. How much I rely on you. How much I need you.”

The boys freeze. Because hearing her say need feels different now. Heavier. More fragile. More dangerous.

She continues, her voice barely holding together.

“When I was on tour… I was miserable.”

The admission hangs in the air like a confession she never meant to make.

“Not because of the work,” she says. “Not because of the fans. Not because of the travel.”

Her voice softens, almost breaking.

“But because I was away from you.”

The boys look stunned - hurt, guilty, understanding all at once. And they remember how she looked on those calls. How tired she sounded. How she tried to smile but her eyes never matched. How she always asked what they were doing before she ever talked about herself.

She exhales, and the truth spills out of her in a way she can’t stop now.

Because this is what codependency feels like. It feels like love. It feels like safety. It feels like being cured.

It feels like someone is the medicine for every ache you’ve ever had - how someone can be the cure, the fix, the thing that makes the pain stop. It feels like you’ve finally found the antidote to loneliness, fear, insecurity, heartbreak.

It feels like you’re healing.

But you’re not.

You’re just quieting the symptoms.

The sickness - the fear of abandonment, the inability to self‑soothe, the terror of being alone - is still there, buried under the comfort of someone’s presence.

And Lola is realising that now. Realising that needing them this much isn’t the same as loving them. Realising that relying on them to breathe, to sleep, to feel okay, to feel whole. Isn’t healthy. Realising that she has built her entire sense of safety on the idea that they will always be there.

And when they weren’t - when she was on tour, when she was alone in hotel rooms, when she woke up without their voices in the next room - she didn’t just miss them.

She fell apart. She couldn’t function. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t exist without them.

And that’s what scares her.

Because codependency feels good. It feels warm. It feels like home. It feels like a good thing.

But it’s not. It’s a temporary fix that hides the wound instead of healing it.

She feels that now - the ache beneath the comfort, the emptiness beneath the closeness, the way she has lost pieces of herself because she poured everything into them.

She feels how much she has changed. How much she has disappeared. How much she has relied on them to keep her upright.

And she feels the danger in that. The danger of needing someone so much that you forget how to stand on your own.

It’s about healing. It’s about reclaiming the parts of herself she lost while trying to survive a world that demanded too much from her too young. It’s about learning how to exist without falling apart when she’s alone. It’s about loving them without needing them to keep her alive.

And she continues.

Her hands tremble in her lap, fingers curling and uncurling like she’s trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping through her grasp. She looks down at them. At the shaking, at the exhaustion, at the truth she’s finally ready to say.

“When I was talking to Wintoday… he said something that just fucked me up.”

A small laugh escapes her - thin, brittle, the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the laugh people make when they’re trying not to cry harder.

She hesitates... because saying it out loud feels like crossing a line she’s never crossed before. A line she didn’t even know existed until a few hours ago.

“He completely called me out on my shit.”

The boys blink, confused and startled, until she explains, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Told me about the idea of losing yourself entirely in someone else.”

The words hang in the air like smoke - heavy, lingering, impossible to ignore.

“And I realised… that’s what I’ve done.”

Her voice trembles again, and she feels the truth of it in her bones.

“Not in a negative way. Not because any of you did something wrong. But because I suddenly understood that I shouldn’t fear being alone. Or being away from you. Not to the point where I feel nauseous.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed by the realisation. By how terrifying it was, by how much it explained, by how much it hurt.

“That’s not normal.”

And it isn’t.

It’s not their fault. It’s not her fault. But it is something she wants to fix.

She wants to learn how to be alone without falling apart. She wants to learn how to exist without needing someone to keep her steady. She wants to learn how to love them without losing herself in the process.

She could feel her pulse in her throat as she continued, the air around her thick with everything she had already said and everything she still needed to say.

“But maybe now… maybe I shouldn’t be relying on you the way I used to. Maybe I need to learn how to be alone again. Not because I want to leave you. Not because I don’t love you. But because I finally understand that none of this… none of how I’ve been feeling… is good for us.”

The room went still. Not tense, not angry, just full of the truth she had finally spoken aloud. A truth that had been growing inside her for years, unnoticed, unnamed, until today.

She watches them freeze. Because they had never heard her say that. Never heard her question the closeness they had always relied on. Never heard her acknowledge the part of their bond that might not be healthy.

They had always seen their closeness as strength - as love, as loyalty, as survival. And it was all of those things. But it had also become something else. Something heavier. Something that had begun to shape her life in ways she hadn’t noticed until she was forced to stand alone.

Her anxious attachment had never felt like a problem. It had felt like comfort. Like safety. Like family.

And in a way, they were.

They had saved her. They had held her together. They had given her the love she had never received before.

But needing someone that much - needing them to feel seen, to exist, to feel okay, to feel whole - wasn’t healing. It was hiding the wound.

And that terrified her.

Because she finally understood that distance isn’t a punishment. It isn’t abandonment. It isn’t loss.

Sometimes distance is a gift.

Space is where people grow. Space is where people learn who they are. Space is where people become themselves again. Space is where people breathe.

Loneliness - real loneliness, not isolation - can be one of the greatest gifts a person can receive.

She wanted that. She needed that. Not because she wanted to leave them. But because she wanted to come back stronger. More whole. More herself.

She wanted to love them without losing herself in the process. She wanted to be part of them without depending on them to survive. She wanted to grow. And she wanted them to grow too.

She hoped they would see it. She hoped they would understand. She hoped they would hear this not as rejection, but as hope.

Hope for healing. Hope for growth. Hope for a future where they could be close without being consumed by each other.

“None of what we’ve been feeling is good,” she says. “We’re separate people. We’re not kids anymore.”

The words leave her softly, but they land with the weight of years. She can feel the boys tense. Not in anger, not in fear, but in the stunned stillness of people hearing a truth they’ve never dared to consider.

“We shouldn’t fear being away from each other,” she says softly. “It doesn’t mean we’re going to lose each other. Or that we love each other any less. Or that we’re going to change.”

Her voice steadies - not because she feels strong, but because she finally feels honest. The truth has been sitting inside her for so long that speaking it feels like exhaling after years of holding her breath.

“It just means we’re growing up.”

She sees the boys soften - shoulders lowering, eyes widening, expressions shifting - and she relaxes because they know she’s right, even if it hurts. Even if it scares them. Even if it feels like she’s touching something sacred and fragile.

“We’re not the same people we once were,” she says. “Hell, we’re definitely trauma‑bonded to the point where we don’t know where one ends and the other begins. And that’s okay. Without that I don’t think we would have survived what we have.”

Her voice softens, and the room seems to soften with it.

Because she’s naming something they’ve all felt but never spoken aloud. The way their closeness was born from fear, from pressure, from survival. The way they fused together because the world around them was too big, too fast, too demanding for children to navigate alone. The way they became one organism because it was the only way to stay alive in an industry that didn’t care if they broke.

But now… they aren’t children anymore.

And Lola is trying to help them see that.

She’s trying to help them understand that distance isn’t abandonment. That space isn’t danger. That growing separately doesn’t mean growing apart.

She isn’t blaming them. She isn’t blaming herself. She isn’t blaming the past.

She’s simply acknowledging that they all deserve more than survival. They deserve growth. They deserve independence. They deserve to become whole people - not fragments of one shared identity.

She wants them to see that space can be healing. That distance can be strengthening. That growing individually can make their bond healthier, not weaker.

She wants them to see that this is love - the kind that wants to last.

“And I think maybe it’s good that we’ve dealt with this separately. That we’ve processed away from each other. That we have lives outside of one another now.”

The words leave her softly, but they land with the weight of years.

“God I mean once upon a time,” she says, “that could never have even been an option. We wouldn't have even dreamed of it... And now look at us.”

She wipes her face again, exhausted, her fingers trembling as they brush away the tears that keep slipping free.

“We will always have a home with each other. But it’s okay that we have other homes now too.”

The boys inhale sharply.

“It doesn’t diminish our bond,” she says. “It doesn’t mean we mean any less to each other.”

Her voice drops to a whisper.

“We’re just growing up. And of course we’re not going to cope the same way we did when we were teenagers.”

Lola is still crying. Soft, exhausted tears she didn’t want to shed tonight. Tears that come from clarity, not collapse. Tears that come from finally understanding herself, not from breaking apart.

And the boys are crying too - every single one of them - because everything she’s said has cracked something open inside them. Something they’ve never touched before. Something they’ve never examined. Something they’ve never dared to acknowledge.

They cry because she’s right. They cry because they remember. They cry because they feel the truth of her words in their bones.

They cry because they’ve spent years believing that closeness meant survival - that distance meant bad - that separation meant loss.

But Lola is showing them something different. Something gentler. Something wiser. Something they never learned as children because they were too busy surviving.

She’s showing them that they don’t have to cling to each other out of fear anymore. They can choose each other out of love instead.

And as they cry. All of them, together, something shifts in the room. Something softens. Something opens. Something heals.

Because for the first time, they’re not clinging out of fear. They’re holding each other out of love.

And Lola feels it. The shift, the understanding, the beginning of something new.

She moves closer. Slow, hesitant, but determined. And the boys immediately reach for her, as if the instinct to hold her is older than any of them can remember.

Jay pulls her in first, arms wrapping around her with the kind of desperation that comes from years of loving her. Jake wraps his hands back around her tigh, like he’s anchoring himself to her. Sunoo buries his face in her shoulder, his breath shaking against her skin. Sunghoon holds the back of her head, fingers trembling against her scalpas if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. Nikki squeezes her side, clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright. Jungwon stands and closes the circle, arms around all of them, pulling the entire group into one tight, trembling knot.

And suddenly they’re one big, shaking, crying knot of limbs and love and history.

They hold each other like they’re afraid to let go. They cry like they’ve been holding it in for years. They breathe like they finally feel safe again.

Lola sobs into Jay’s chest, her tears soaking the fabric of his shirt. Jake’s tears fall onto her leg, warm and startling. Niki’s breath trembles against her neck, his whole body shaking. Sunghoon's jaw quivers as he holds her tighter, like he’s trying to protect her from something he can’t name. Sunoo sniffles loudly, clinging to her shoulder like a lifeline. Jungwon's eyes shine as he squeezes them all closer, grounding the entire group with the steadiness he’s always carried.

They’re not seven idols. They’re not a group. They’re not a brand. They’re a family.

And families break together. Families heal together. Families grow together.

“We love you,” Jay whispers - the words barely audible, but heavy with everything he’s never said.

“We’ll always love you,” Jake adds, voice cracking as he presses his forehead to her leg.

“No matter what,” Sunoo says through his tears, his grip tightening around her shoulder.

“Nothing will ever change that,” Sunghoon murmurs, thumb brushing the back of her head in slow, soothing circles.

“Never,” Nikki echoes, voice trembling, eyes squeezed shut.

Jungwon voice is steady, grounding all of them. “We embrace the change together. We show up for each other. Always.”

Lola cries harde, not from pain, but from relief.

Relief that feels warm instead of sharp. Relief that feels like breath returning to her lungs. Relief that feels like the first step into a future she didn’t know she was allowed to want.

Because she needed to hear that. She needed to feel that. She needed to know that even if things are different now, the love hasn’t changed. Not even a little.

And all seven of them hold each other again - crying, shaking, breathing - finally accepting that their bond is forever, even if some things are different now.

The shift is subtle, but she feels it. They all do.

It’s the moment a childhood chapter closes. The moment an adult chapter begins.

They’re entering a era where they can become who they’re meant to be - individually, separately, fully - without breaking the bond that saved them.

Because love doesn’t shrink when people grow. It expands. It adapts. It stretches to fit the new versions of the people inside it.

Their bond isn’t dissolving. It’s evolving.

They will still show up for one another. They will still support one another. They will still love one another with the same ferocity that carried them through their darkest years.

It just might not look the same as befor. And that’s okay. That’s good. That’s healthy.

Lola feels it in her chest. The relief, the hope, the quiet joy of knowing she doesn’t have to choose between loving them and becoming herself.

The boys feel it to, the release of years of fear, the softening of old wounds, the understanding that they don’t have to cling to survive anymore.

They’re not losing anything. They’re gaining something. A future. A healthier bond. A chance to grow without growing apart.

And in that tangled knot of limbs and tears and history, they all breathe - deeply, freely - for the first time in years.

It feels like sunrise. It feels like healing. It feels like hope.

They’re stepping into a new chapter together. And they’re ready.

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