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The next morning, the shrill alarm on Seonghwa’s phone jolted them awake. They barely had time to register the mess they’d left in the hotel room or the fact that they’d been there together all night before they realized they were running late. Seonghwa pulled Hongjoong into the bathroom, and they showered quickly, washing away any traces of the night they'd shared. In the rush, there was no room for embarrassment, and Hongjoong barely had time to think, just grab the spare clothes Seonghwa had packed, nibble on a granola bar, and share a quick sip from a water bottle before they were back out the door.
They arrived at the studio just before practice was set to begin. They’d hurriedly agreed to tell the others they’d gone out for an early morning run together, an excuse that would explain their absence from the dorm and why they’d cut it so close to practice. But as they walked towards the room, Hongjoong’s stomach twisted, a low wave of panic rising within him. What if someone suspected? What if this was the moment everything came to light, all their late-night conversations, their stolen moments? Just as his mind began to spiral, Seonghwa gently touched his shoulder and pushed the door open.
Inside, they were met with an eerie silence. The other trainees, normally bustling with energy and chatter before practice, stood quietly, each lost in their own world. No one looked up or even seemed to notice Seonghwa and Hongjoong entering.
Hongjoong’s initial relief at the lack of attention was quickly replaced by a strange discomfort. He glanced around the room, noting the tense postures, the way some of the trainees stood close together in uneasy silence, eyes flicking nervously to the corners of the room. The usual casual camaraderie had vanished, replaced by a palpable sense of anxiety.
Seonghwa exchanged a glance with him, equally puzzled. Hongjoong cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension. “Uh, sorry we’re late,” he said, voice tentative, “We went out for a morning run and got back later than we thought.”
A few heads turned toward them, but no one responded. There were no questions, no teasing, just distracted nods and blank expressions.
Hongjoong felt an instinctive chill at the charged silence. It was as though everyone was too focused on some invisible threat to care. He leaned closer to Seonghwa. “What’s going on? Why is everyone acting like this?”
“I don’t know,” Seonghwa whispered back, his gaze scanning the studio. The other trainees exchanged furtive looks, their eyes darting nervously around the room, settling in particular on the ceiling corners and walls, as if they were expecting something or someone to appear.
The tension was thick, even oppressive, but no one seemed willing to explain. Hongjoong shot Seonghwa a bewildered look as if to say, We’ll find out later. Together, they reluctantly fell into the line with the others.
Just then, the choreographer entered, snapping his fingers sharply to signal the start of practice. “Let’s go, we’re starting,” he said, all business, his eyes scanning the room quickly before turning to the front of the studio.
Even through the warm-up, the uneasy air lingered, every movement feeling strangely hesitant and heavy. Hongjoong and Seonghwa watched as a few trainees occasionally glanced nervously toward the corners of the room as though expecting to catch a glimpse of some unseen presence.
The practice proceeded mechanically, everyone going through the motions but with a stiffness that came from being distracted. They weren’t moving like a group, but as individuals, as though each of them carried some private fear. Hongjoong felt something gnaw at him. The unsettled glances, the nervous energy radiating from his friends—it didn’t feel like ordinary nerves. There was something off, a deeper fear running beneath the surface.
Throughout the day, a strange mood lingered over the group. Normally loud and full of energy, the trainees were unnervingly quiet, casting suspicious glances around the room as though waiting for someone—or something—to appear from the shadows. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchanged uneasy looks, silently questioning what could be causing such a shift, but every attempt to ask met with vague responses. Even during breaks, conversations were brief and guarded, the trainees speaking only in polite fragments, like they were avoiding something unspeakable.
After practice ended, the tension seemed to follow them out the door, clinging to the group like a shadow. That evening, the group decided to go out for barbecue—a rare opportunity to relax and let loose. Seonghwa and Hongjoong hoped a change in scenery might help the others finally open up and explain the day’s strange atmosphere.
Gathered around a long table, the usual lively chatter was missing. The comforting sounds of meat sizzling on the grill seemed at odds with the uneasy silence that blanketed them. Conversations were hushed, almost whispers, barely louder than the crackling of the grill. Sitting next to each other, Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchanged yet another confused look, growing more restless with each minute.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, Hongjoong leaned in, addressing the others. “So… is someone going to tell us what’s going on? You guys have been acting weird all day.”
The trainees shot each other hesitant glances, with some even looking over their shoulders, as though worried about being overheard. Finally, Hyunwoo, seated across from Seonghwa and Hongjoong, took a deep breath and spoke, his voice low and cautious.
“Do you guys think… we’re being watched?” he murmured, not meeting anyone’s eyes, his chopsticks idly pushing food around his plate.
Seonghwa frowned, sharing a look with Hongjoong. “What are you talking about?” he asked quietly.
Hyunwoo didn’t answer immediately, glancing around the restaurant again as if searching for hidden faces or listening devices. The other trainees followed his gaze, their faces taut with worry. After a moment, Yunho leaned in and whispered, “I don’t see anyone watching… I think we’re okay here.”
The group seemed to relax, if only slightly, but the unease was still palpable. Whatever this was, they all seemed to feel it—a sense of being watched, of needing to guard their words and actions. Seonghwa’s patience finally wore thin.
“Alright, seriously,” he said, his voice steady but intense. “What’s going on? Why have you all been acting like this?”
Hyunwoo glanced at the others again, his face conflicted. When no one objected, he finally spoke, voice hushed. “There’s… something I heard from a trainee friend of mine at another company.”
Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s attention sharpened, an instinctive sense of foreboding settling in. “What happened?” Hongjoong asked, tension tightening his voice.
Hyunwoo hesitated, lowering his voice further. “Apparently, at one of the big companies, some trainees got kicked out. Not for minor stuff, either—because of their personal lives.”
“Personal lives?” Seonghwa echoed, confusion crossing his face. “What does that mean?”
Hyunwoo leaned in closer. “Things like dating. Going to parties. Drinking alcohol, doing drugs. One of them got accused of being gay.”
The silence around the table was sudden and complete, every trainee tense.
“He was about to debut,” Hyunwoo continued. “But once the company found out, they blacklisted him. The way they treated him…” He trailed off, shaking his head, his expression darkening. “And it’s worse than that. Apparently, they were spying on the trainees—tracking their moves, catching them in any little slip-up.”
Seonghwa felt a chill creep down his spine. “How would they know all that?” he whispered, barely daring to breathe.
Hyunwoo’s gaze dropped. “They’re supposedly setting traps. Tempting the trainees, leading them on just to get them to mess up.”
Hongjoong swallowed hard, feeling his pulse quicken. “So, you’re saying they’re… monitoring them? Like with hidden cameras? Mics?”
Hyunwoo nodded grimly. “That’s what my friend said. And if one company’s doing it, who’s to say others aren’t?”
The weight of his words settled over the group, casting a somber shadow. Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchanged a loaded look, anxiety rising. If one company was capable of something like this, what about KQ? Could their own company be watching their every move, waiting for any reason to take action?
“I mean, we don’t know if KQ does this,” Hyunwoo said, noticing the fear on their faces. “But… it’s possible, isn’t it? Maybe we’re just lucky we haven’t been caught yet.”
Seonghwa and Hongjoong fell silent, their minds racing. Memories of the previous night, of their carelessness, flickered through Seonghwa’s mind, now feeling dangerously foolish. Hongjoong looked away, his own mind reeling with the possibilities. Their secret wasn’t safe—not if Hyunwoo’s story was true. And if KQ found out…
Trying to steady himself, Seonghwa finally spoke, his voice wavering. “We don’t know for sure if KQ does anything like this, right? There’s never been any hint…”
Hyunwoo’s gaze was unyielding. “No, there hasn’t been. But… are you willing to take that risk?”
The question hung over them, thick and unanswerable.
The tension around the table grew thicker as Hyunwoo’s words sank in. No one spoke at first, each person processing the chilling possibility that their lives—the things they thought were private—might not be private at all. Seonghwa glanced at Hongjoong, his chest tight with anxiety as he tried to grasp the implications. Hongjoong’s mind raced as well, haunted by the idea that the freedom they thought they had might be an illusion.
Yeosang was the first to break the silence. "But… KQ isn’t like those big companies, right?" he said quietly, more as if trying to reassure himself than anyone else. "They’re more relaxed. We don’t have strict rules like that. It’s different."
Mingi nodded in agreement, though he still looked uneasy. "Yeah, I mean… they’re not on us about every little thing. We can go out on weekends, and they’re not overbearing about relationships like you hear in other places."
San frowned, looking between the others. "True, but we still can’t have phones. That’s pretty basic industry stuff. And just because they’re relaxed, doesn’t mean they’re not watching."
Yeosang shrugged. "The phone rule isn’t really enforced, though. Half of us still have ours, and as long as we’re not obvious about it, no one seems to care."
"That’s what makes it worse," Hyunwoo muttered, his voice tight with worry. "What if they’re watching without saying anything? What if they’re letting us break the small rules just to see who slips up on something big? It could all be a setup."
The thought made Seonghwa’s stomach twist. He looked over at Hongjoong, who had gone pale. The idea had a chilling logic—what if the freedom they believed in was only bait? What if KQ was silently waiting for someone to make a mistake?
Mingi shook his head, trying to keep things grounded. " KQ’s smaller compared to those massive companies, and they’ve never cared much about the details. Sure, they have rules, but it’s not like they’re cracking down hard."
"But maybe that’s the point," San said, leaning forward, his voice urgent. "What if they do know things and just aren’t saying anything until the right moment? They could be watching us without us even realizing."
"And how would they even pull that off?" Yeosang asked, but the doubt in his voice was clear.
“They could have hidden cameras, or mics. We wouldn’t even know,” Hyunwoo murmured, his gaze drifting around the restaurant, scanning for any sign of something out of place. “It doesn’t have to be obvious. They could be monitoring everything.”
Seonghwa shuddered, his mind flickering back to last night. Suddenly, every private moment felt tainted. He glanced away, his heart pounding as he considered the possibility. “I don’t know…” he said slowly. “I mean, we’ve never seen any signs of that here. Maybe it’s not like that.”
“Or maybe we’re just not looking closely enough,” San replied. “We wouldn’t know until it was too late.”
Hongjoong finally spoke up, though his voice was strained. “Look, I get it—we’re all freaked out. But we’ve been here a long time. If KQ was doing something like that, wouldn’t there be rumors?”
“Not if they’re hiding it well,” Hyunwoo insisted. “Think about it. They don’t enforce the phone rule unless we’re too obvious. Maybe they’re testing us, watching to see if we break rules and using it against us.”
Seonghwa’s mind spun. The precariousness of his and Hongjoong’s secret felt more dangerous than ever, as if they were only one slip-up away from disaster. He exchanged a look with Hongjoong, whose face mirrored the same fear.
Mingi leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know, man. It feels like a stretch. KQ’s small. They barely have the budget to keep up with training schedules, let alone monitor us like that. And we haven’t heard of anything happening to anyone here.”
“Exactly,” Yeosang agreed. “They’re not strict—not like the big ones. If they were going to pull something like that, wouldn’t they have shown their hand by now?”
“But what if they’re just waiting for the right time?” Hyunwoo pressed, his eyes narrowing. “What if they’re waiting for us to slip up enough that they have a reason to blacklist us?”
Seonghwa felt his chest tighten, and his gaze dropped. The fear that had gripped him since Hyunwoo’s story was only growing. Was it possible KQ was playing a long game, waiting to trap them? As paranoid as it sounded, the idea gnawed at him.
“I don’t think we can take that chance,” San said finally, his voice low but steady. “Even if there’s only a small chance KQ’s watching… it’s not worth the risk. What if we’re next? What if they’re just waiting for a reason to cut us loose?”
Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his mind racing with the same fears. He’d thought they were careful, but now the walls seemed like they might have hidden eyes. Was this how it had started for the trainee Hyunwoo had mentioned? Had a sense of freedom turned out to be nothing but a trap?
“I don’t want to take that risk either,” Seonghwa admitted, his voice soft. The weight of everyone’s eyes settled on him, but his thoughts were distant, focused on everything he and Hongjoong had to lose. If KQ—or anyone—was watching, they could be ruined in an instant.
“Me neither,” Hongjoong said quietly, his voice laced with fear. Questions he’d been pushing down rose to the surface. Was their privacy just an illusion? Could someone already know?
The air grew colder as Jaesung, who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat. The flickering lights from the grill cast shadows across his face as he spoke, his tone detached yet tinged with an unsettling conviction.
“Look,” he began, breaking the tense silence. “I’m not saying it’s right for a company to spy on people, okay? But let’s be real—they were right to throw those trainees out or at least give them a hard reality check.” He glanced around the table, as if daring anyone to disagree. “What those guys were doing? Partying, drugs, relationships, being gay? That kind of stuff will ruin careers if it ever gets out, especially after debut. And it won’t just wreck their careers, but everyone else’s too. The entire group could go down with them.”
A dark silence settled over the table as the others absorbed Jaesung’s words, their faces conflicted. Seonghwa felt a chill run through him, a heaviness pressing down on his chest. Even Mingi and Yeosang, who had been more optimistic, seemed subdued.
Jaesung continued, his voice steady but harsh. “I mean, if you’re not doing anything wrong, there’s no reason to be paranoid, right? No reason to worry. That’s why I think it’s actually smart that the company found out about those guys before it was too late.”
Yunho shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his friends before he hesitantly spoke. “Yeah… but still, throwing someone out and blacklisting him completely just because he’s gay? I mean, doesn’t that seem a little… extreme? Cruel, even?”
Jaesung’s gaze turned cold. “Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being gay. But let’s be real—choosing to be that way in an industry, in a society, that doesn’t accept it? That’s a selfish move. If he cared about the group or his future, he wouldn’t risk everything like that. It’s reckless. It’s… irresponsible.”
Seonghwa’s hands clenched into fists under the table, his stomach twisting painfully at Jaesung’s words. Beside him, Hongjoong had gone tense, his jaw set as he stared down at the table, refusing to look up.
“And throwing him out because of it?” Jaesung continued, unfazed. “Sure, it’s harsh. But it’s a necessary move. Someone like that shouldn’t even have been a trainee in the first place, not when he could ruin things for normal people.” He leaned back, crossing his arms, his tone becoming increasingly cold. “Look, it’s sad or whatever, but being gay means fewer opportunities. These people need to stop being selfish and ruining things for everyone else just because they want to live in a fantasy.”
Hongjoong’s stomach churned, each of Jaesung’s words sinking into him like a blade he couldn’t pull free. The room, the conversation, everything else faded into a muted haze, leaving him with only the harsh words echoing in his mind. His senses dulled, and all he could hear was that relentless litany: selfish, reckless, irresponsible, repeated again and again, their weight crushing him from within. He could feel himself slipping, his mind drowning in a cold void, disconnected from the voices around him, even from the soft clinks of dishes and the smoky heat of the grill. None of it seemed real anymore. Shouldn’t have been a trainee in the first place, living in a fantasy, Jaesung had said, every word laced with quiet contempt. Words Hongjoong knew were aimed right at him, whether anyone realized it or not.
He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together under the table. His knuckles were bone-white, and his fingers had gone numb, but he couldn’t bring himself to loosen his grip. A nauseating pressure sat like a weight in his chest, pressing down on his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Had he been selfish, reckless? A small part of him wanted to shout, to argue that it wasn’t selfish, that this was just who he was. But that part of him shrank into silence, buried beneath the overwhelming fear that Jaesung might be right.
All of the sacrifices he’d made, every late night, every painstaking day of training, the hours of drills, all the moments he’d pushed past his breaking point, all for this dream of debuting… and yet, here he was, realizing it could all be destroyed. Not because he wasn’t good enough, not because he hadn’t tried hard enough, but because of who he was. That he could lose it all for something he couldn’t even change. The feeling was bitter, almost mocking. He had reshaped his entire life for this dream, yet his own existence was a flaw, a crack in the foundation that no amount of hard work could fix.
He felt his vision blur, and his head spun, his thoughts spiraling darker. His entire future, the only future he’d ever dared to imagine, teetered on a knife’s edge, and all it would take was one misstep, one slip-up, and it would all come crashing down, taking the others with him. He was risking not only his dream but theirs, and they didn’t even know it. How would they look at him if they found out? Would they hate him? Would they see him the way Jaesung did? The thought struck him like a blow, the shame burning through him.
And as the shame swelled, an unsettling clarity crept in. Maybe Jaesung was right. Maybe he was living in a fantasy, selfishly hoping that he could be both a trainee and… whatever he was. It wasn’t a matter of pride or even identity anymore; it was survival. If anyone found out, it wouldn’t just be his career that crumbled but the careers of those around him, the ones who trusted him. And he’d be the one responsible, the one who’d brought ruin to the people he cared about most.
A cold, almost mechanical realization set in, settling into his bones. He was selfish for wanting to believe he could live in two worlds, that he could protect this part of himself without putting everything he loved at risk. If keeping the others safe meant destroying a part of himself, maybe he deserved it. Maybe he had to.
The next few days carried a strange, suffocating atmosphere. The trainees, usually vibrant and full of energy, now moved with an odd hesitance, their laughter replaced by tense silences. Hongjoong could feel the weight of the unspoken words hanging over them like a storm cloud, heavy and oppressive. He hadn’t heard how the conversation at the restaurant had ended—he had been too wrapped up in his own spiraling thoughts to care. And, in truth, he didn’t want to know.
Seonghwa and Hongjoong had barely spoken since that night. Their interactions were reduced to brief exchanges, devoid of the warmth they once shared. Hongjoong tried to avoid Seonghwa at all costs, grappling with the unfairness of it all. He understood that he was being ridiculous; they all were. The reason he had chosen to join KQ in the first place was because of how they had treated Block B, a company that had shown him nothing but support and understanding. Typically, he would have argued fiercely against any trainee suggesting such a vile perspective as Hyunwoo’s. But now, everything felt different. It felt personal. The shadows of doubt crept into his mind, gnawing at his confidence. He found himself questioning what KQ would do if they ever discovered his secret, if they would act like other companies had done in the past.
The realization hit him hard: he wasn’t just failing as a trainee, he was failing as a leader. The weight of this revelation pressed heavily on his shoulders, leaving him restless and disoriented.
It took all of three days of this strange, subdued behavior for the inevitable to happen. Hongjoong was called into the CEO’s office in the middle of practice, a summons he knew had been coming but that did little to ease the anxiety clawing at him. As he stood to leave the practice room, he noticed Seonghwa’s concerned gaze, but Hongjoong acted like he didn’t see it. He walked towards the CEO’s office, and with every step, his heart raced faster, pounding against his ribcage like a caged animal desperate to escape.
“Hongjoong, come in,” Kyuwook, the CEO, greeted him as he entered the small, sparsely decorated office. The man’s expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity. Hongjoong hesitated, then took a seat, his fingers nervously fidgeting under the table, avoiding the CEO’s piercing gaze.
“You guys have been acting strange all week—all of you. What happened?” Kyuwook’s voice was calm, but there was an underlying intensity that made Hongjoong’s throat tighten. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something—anything—but nothing came out. He felt ridiculous, like a child caught in a lie, but a small part of him couldn’t shake the fear that he might be wrong, that KQ might actually be spying on them after all.
The CEO sighed, as if reading his thoughts. “Is this about the trainees thinking KQ is spying on them?”
Hongjoong’s head shot up in surprise, his expression one of shock. The CEO noticed, his brow furrowing slightly. “You really think no one would notice? I mean, you guys aren’t very subtle about it.”
Hongjoong felt his breath hitch. He was at a loss for words. “I get that some of the newer trainees might believe this, but you? You’ve been here the longest. You should have known we barely have the money to give you a proper training; we don’t have the resources to spy on you too.” Kyuwook leaned back in his chair, hands clasped thoughtfully. “And we also don’t want to. We definitely don’t have the money to train someone and then set them up for failure and ridicule them just to feed our own egos.”
Hongjoong sat in silence, the weight of shame settling over him like a thick fog. Kyuwook continued, “I am more lenient with the rules because I want you to be honest and truthful people, able to differentiate between right and wrong. I trust each and every one of you to work hard and to want this enough not to put your own careers on the line for something stupid. You’re people, not machines, and when you mess up, I want you to trust us enough to tell us so that we can take care of it and help you before it becomes a big mess, okay?”
Hongjoong felt small in that moment, the realization crashing over him like a wave. He should have known better. So why didn’t he? Why had he allowed his fears to spiral out of control? The CEO’s voice continued, but the words blurred into a distant murmur. “Seriously, Hongjoong, this behavior is not like you. Is there anything we did, me or one of the staff, that made you believe we would do something like this?”
No, Hongjoong thought, heart racing. This wasn’t about what the company had done; it was about what he had done. He had let his insecurities cloud his judgment, and in doing so, he had failed as a leader. Still, the weight of the situation kept him mute, and he simply shook his head.
Kyuwook seemed to sense Hongjoong was uncomfortable and his voice was friendly as he continued. “Listen, I want you to tell the other trainees that KQ doesn’t do something like this, and that we trust you, Hongjoong.” Hongjoong nodded, the weight of the situation nearly suffocating him. He excused himself and stood to leave, eager to escape the uncomfortable tension that had filled the room.
“Hongjoong,” the CEO called out just before he could walk out the door. “If there’s ever an issue, I want you to know that you can tell us. About anything. We won’t judge you or throw you out. We only want to help and see you succeed, okay?”
Hongjoong gave a small nod, feeling the last shreds of his composure slip away as he finally fled the room. He hurried back to the sanctuary of his studio, skipping the rest of practice. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone with his thoughts, a swirling mess of confusion and regret.
He leaned against the wall, trying to ground himself. The conversation with Kyuwook replayed in his mind like a haunting melody. Why had he doubted them? Why had he let Hyunwoo’s words get to him? It was a mix of fear and frustration that left him reeling, spiraling deeper into uncertainty. The weight of being a leader hung heavily around his neck, and the truth was inescapable: if he wanted to protect the group, he had to confront his own insecurities. But the thought felt insurmountable, like climbing a mountain with no summit in sight.
Seonghwa couldn’t shake the feeling of worry gnawing at him. Hongjoong had been distant ever since Hyunwoo had shared the unsettling information about the other company and Jaesung’s harsh opinions regarding the industry. The night they had spent together just before had felt magical, almost like a promise of what could be—a dream of building something beautiful together. But now, that warmth was replaced by an uncomfortable chill.
Hyunwoo and Jaesung had delivered a reality check that had knocked the wind out of him, leaving him feeling vulnerable and unsettled. Yet, all Seonghwa wanted was to reach out to Hongjoong, to talk things through, to find a solution together—whatever that solution might be, even if it meant deciding to part ways. But every time he attempted to make eye contact or initiate a conversation, Hongjoong seemed to ignore him entirely, acting as if Seonghwa was nothing more than a shadow passing in his periphery.
It hurt. It really did. But what stung more was the realization that Hongjoong must be hurting even more deeply. A pit of guilt formed in Seonghwa’s stomach as he wrestled with the idea that he might be the one to blame. Had he pushed Hongjoong too fast, too hard? He knew that recognizing who he was and fully accepting it were two entirely different battles. Now, he feared that in his own longing for Hongjoong, he had driven him to a place he wasn’t yet ready to explore, a place that now felt like it was consuming him.
When Hongjoong was called to meet with the CEO in the middle of practice, Seonghwa’s heart sank. He had wanted to give him a reassuring smile, some encouragement to help him through whatever the meeting might entail, but as usual, Hongjoong had brushed past him, ignoring his existence. Seonghwa felt an ache in his chest as he watched Hongjoong leave the practice room, his shoulders slumped and his head low.
Practice dragged on, the movements feeling mechanical and hollow without Hongjoong’s energy to lift them. When they were finally done, the other trainees began to murmur amongst themselves, gossiping about what the meeting with the CEO could possibly entail. Seonghwa felt a mix of irritation and concern rise within him at their idle speculation. He had no intention of joining in; he was far too worried about Hongjoong to entertain any baseless theories. Instead, he lingered behind, waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of Hongjoong when he returned.
As the minutes ticked by, the practice room slowly emptied, the bright lights overhead casting elongated shadows on the polished floor. With each passing moment, Seonghwa’s anxiety grew. By the time the last trainee filed out, a heaviness had settled over him. Hongjoong still hadn’t come back.
Seonghwa bit his lip, certain that whatever the CEO had wanted to discuss couldn’t have been easy for Hongjoong, not if it had taken this long. His mind raced with all the worst-case scenarios, each more dire than the last. Just then, he spotted the CEO and another staff member walking down the hallway, their voices low and serious. Hongjoong wasn’t with them, which meant that the meeting had concluded, but still, there was no sign of him.
Seonghwa’s heart raced. If Hongjoong hadn’t left yet, then there was only one place he could be: his studio.
He made his way down the familiar hallways of KQ, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as he approached the door to Hongjoong’s studio. With each step, his heart thudded louder in his chest, echoing the uncertainty that had settled in his gut. Seonghwa raised a hand to knock but hesitated, wondering if he should even interrupt Hongjoong’s solitude. But that worry was quickly eclipsed by a deeper concern; if Hongjoong was in there alone, spiraling under the weight of whatever he had just faced, Seonghwa couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.
“Hongjoong?” he called softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Silence greeted him, thick and suffocating. He waited for a moment, heart pounding, but there was no response. He knocked gently on the door, the sound muffled but still echoing in the quiet hallway. “Hongjoong, it’s me, Seonghwa.”
A long pause stretched on, and just when Seonghwa was about to turn away, he heard a faint shuffle from inside.
“Go away,” Hongjoong’s voice came through, low and heavy with defeat.
Seonghwa felt a pang in his chest, the simple command feeling like a knife twisting in his heart. “Please, let me in. I’m worried about you.”
No answer. Seonghwa knew it wasn’t his place to just waltz in there and demand Hongjoong talk to him. But at this point, his worry for Hongjoong outweighed his respect for Hongjoong’s boundaries.
“I’m coming in now, okay?” Seonghwa announced.
Still no response. With a deep breath, he opened the door and slipped into the small room. The sight before him made his heart sink. Hongjoong sat slumped in his chair, his feet resting on the seat, chin tucked tightly against his knees. He looked horrible—tired, drained, and utterly defeated. Dread filled Seonghwa; he felt as though a heavy weight had settled in the pit of his stomach. What had the CEO wanted to talk about? Had he found out something he shouldn’t have? Was this the end of their dream to debut?
Seonghwa instinctively reached out to squeeze Hongjoong’s shoulder, a gesture of comfort, but the moment his hand neared, Hongjoong flinched so hard he almost toppled out of his chair. Seonghwa let his hand fall to his side, heart racing. The distance between them felt unbearable.
“What did the CEO want to talk about?” Seonghwa asked carefully, trying to keep the hurt from seeping through his voice. Just a few days ago, Hongjoong had let Seonghwa touch him in ways he hadn’t allowed anyone else before, and now even the thought of Seonghwa’s touch made him recoil.
Hongjoong remained silent for what felt like an eternity, the air heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The CEO said he noticed all of us being off these past couple of days,” Hongjoong explained hesitantly. “But he reassured me that he’s not spying on us. He said he trusts us to know what’s right and what’s wrong. That he believes in us, and he wants us to believe in him, too.”
There was a short pause, and Seonghwa felt his heart shatter as he listened to Hongjoong, who sounded utterly defeated.
“And then he asked me to reassure the other trainees of that,” Hongjoong added.
Seonghwa's heart ached at the sight of Hongjoong in such a state, but confusion mingled with his concern. The meeting had gone well, so why was Hongjoong so downcast? “Hongjoong,” Seonghwa began carefully, searching for the right words. “I thought the company not spying on us and setting us up for failure was a good thing. But why do I feel like you’re not happy about this? Is there something else you’re not telling me?”
“It’s because I should’ve known better!” Hongjoong suddenly exploded, the intensity of his emotions catching Seonghwa off guard. Seonghwa flinched at the outburst, and Hongjoong's eyes widened in shock at his own reaction.
“I failed everyone. I’ve been here the longest, and I have the closest relationship with the CEO and the staff. I should’ve known better! I should’ve known that they trusted us, that they believed in us. I should’ve shot Hyunwoo down the minute he suggested KQ spying on us. But instead, I let doubt take root. I failed everyone as a leader. I failed you, and the other trainees, and I failed the company! And all of that just because Hyunwoo and Jaesung... just because... because I’m... I’m...”
Hongjoong tried to continue, but the words caught in his throat, as if the courage he had summoned was slipping away. Instead, he buried his head in his knees, overwhelmed and defeated.
Seonghwa’s heart broke for him. “Because you’re gay, and what Hyunwoo said made you insecure, and what Jaesung said made you feel bad about yourself?” he gently provided.
Hongjoong didn’t answer, but the silence was confirmation enough for Seonghwa.
“Listen to me, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa urged, his voice steady. “You didn’t fail anyone, alright? You were hurt, and that made you feel insecure, but nothing bad happened, okay? The CEO wasn’t mad at you, and I’m sure the other trainees will believe you when you tell them what the CEO has said.”
“You really think so?” Hongjoong asked, his voice small but hopeful as he slowly lifted his head, daring to meet Seonghwa’s gaze for the first time in days.
“Yes, I do,” Seonghwa affirmed. “The others look up to you. They will believe you. And a few days of us behaving oddly won’t make the company doubt us as trainees or you as a leader. Everything will be alright, I promise.”
Hongjoong’s expression shifted, a glimmer of hope breaking through the fog of despair. “I just... I feel so stupid for letting Jaesung’s words affect me like that…”
“I understand, Hongjoong. He and Hyunwoo also made me doubt everything,” Seonghwa replied, his voice filled with empathy. “But remember what we promised each other? It’s us against the industry, Hongjoong. Whatever happens, we’re gonna fight it together, and we’re gonna succeed together, okay?”
Hongjoong nodded slowly, and then, as if a weight had been lifted, he got up and enveloped Seonghwa in a tight hug. Seonghwa felt like all the air had been squeezed out of his body while Hongjoong held him close, but he didn’t resist. Instead, he leaned into the embrace, hugging Hongjoong back just as tightly.
In that moment, Seonghwa promised himself to give Hongjoong all the time he needed—to not pressure him into a relationship he clearly wasn’t ready for yet. He didn’t know what they were right now or what they would be in the future, but it didn’t matter to him. As long as they were together, supporting each other through the uncertainties, that was enough.
They finally returned to the dorm later that evening, the weight of the day’s events still hanging in the air. Gathering all the trainees in the common room, Hongjoong took a deep breath before sharing the details of his meeting with the CEO. The atmosphere was tense at first, skepticism etched on many of the trainees' faces as they absorbed the news. But as Hongjoong spoke, the earnestness in his voice slowly chipped away at their doubt, and one by one, they began to believe him.
It took a day or two, but after a while, laughter and banter resumed among the trainees, slowly easing the tension that had built up over the past few days. The staff, too, seemed to be making an extra effort to foster a sense of camaraderie, engaging more with the trainees, sharing jokes, and offering words of encouragement. It was as if they were all trying to convince each other that they were in this together, that trust could be rebuilt.
Seonghwa could see the flickers of relief in Hongjoong’s expression as the atmosphere lightened, but he also noticed the underlying guilt that still lingered there. Determined to support him, Seonghwa stepped up in any way he could. He consoled the other trainees when worries crept in, helped resolve conflicts when they arose, and kept a watchful eye on them to ensure they stayed grounded. Hongjoong never openly acknowledged Seonghwa’s efforts, but Seonghwa could sense the silent gratitude in the way Hongjoong’s shoulders relaxed a little more with each passing day.
However, between the two of them, things felt strangely different. With the ongoing sexual tension between them finally relieved and the events of the past days giving them a harsh reality check, the warmth that had once characterized their connection was now replaced by a cautious civility. They were supportive toward each other, but it felt like a far cry from the almost-couple they had been just a short while ago. Seonghwa missed the closeness they had shared more than he wanted to admit, but he also reminded himself of the promise he had made: to give Hongjoong the time he needed to navigate through his feelings and the aftermath of the meeting.
Seonghwa understood that they would eventually need to have an honest conversation about everything—their feelings, their fears, and what the future might hold for them. But he also recognized that it wouldn’t make sense to force the issue until Hongjoong had worked through his own thoughts and emotions. Until then, he would remain by Hongjoong’s side, offering quiet support, hoping that when the time was right, they could find their way back to each other.
It wasn’t Hongjoong who came to talk to him one night, but Yunho. Seonghwa had been lying on his bed in their dimly lit dorm room, staring up at the ceiling, trying to drown out the persistent voices of doubt in his head. Hongjoong’s bed across the room was still empty, just as it had been for the past several nights. If he came home at all, it was always well past midnight, or sometimes not until morning, and more often than not, he didn’t come back at all.
Seonghwa’s anxious thoughts were interrupted by the quiet creak of the door as Yunho slipped into the room. “Hongjoong still not home?” Yunho asked softly, his gaze drifting to the empty bed beside Seonghwa’s. Seonghwa shook his head, sitting up and patting the mattress to invite Yunho to sit down beside him.
Yunho sighed as he took a seat, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I worry about him, you know,” he admitted, glancing at Seonghwa with a flicker of hesitation, as if unsure whether he should be saying this at all.
Seonghwa looked away, his heart heavy. He wanted to reassure Yunho, to explain everything, but he felt trapped, knowing Hongjoong wouldn’t want him to share too much. He wasn’t sure how much Yunho suspected, but he didn’t want to reveal anything Hongjoong might not be comfortable with Yunho knowing.
“He’s been acting strange ever since the CEO talked to him about the whole spying thing,” Yunho continued, his voice laced with frustration and concern. “Are you sure there’s not more to it?”
Seonghwa shook his head, trying to keep his voice steady. “No. I can promise you, they’re not spying on us.”
“But…” Yunho’s brows furrowed as he looked back at Hongjoong’s empty bed. “You’ve noticed how different he’s been since then, right?”
Seonghwa nodded, his own unease resurfacing. He knew Yunho was only trying to make sense of everything, but Seonghwa couldn’t bring himself to voice all the thoughts running through his mind. “Hongjoong… he’s under a lot of pressure right now,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully. “As the temporary leader, he feels like he has to have all the answers. He kind of blames himself for…” Seonghwa hesitated, realizing he was toeing the line of Hongjoong’s trust. This wasn’t Yunho’s burden to bear, especially not when Hongjoong was trying so hard to protect the other trainees from his struggles. It wasn’t fair to make Yunho carry Hongjoong’s weight, the weight of a leader, even if Seonghwa felt it pressing down on him, too.
Yunho nodded, though his frustration remained evident. “It’s okay,” he said finally, letting out a long, resigned sigh. “You don’t have to explain it all. Hongjoong’s always been like this—emotionally distant, I mean. Even when I first arrived here, I could tell he was struggling, but no matter how much I tried to help, he never really let me in. He always insisted everything was fine, even if I could tell it wasn’t.”
Yunho paused, his gaze softening as he looked at Seonghwa. “I don’t know why he trusts you. Maybe it’s because you’re older and he doesn’t feel as much like he has to be a leader around you. But I’m glad he has someone to lean on.”
Seonghwa felt a pang in his chest. He could see Yunho’s concern, the lingering exhaustion from days of trying to keep everything together without fully understanding what was weighing Hongjoong down. The other trainees admired Hongjoong and were always looking to him as a leader, but Hongjoong’s closed-off nature had left Yunho feeling helpless and, it seemed, a little lonely.
Seonghwa glanced at Yunho, noticing the exhaustion etched into his face. He hadn’t realized just how deeply Yunho cared about Hongjoong, and something about the situation made Seonghwa feel closer to him in that moment.
“Do you… want to sleep here tonight?” Seonghwa asked softly, his voice gentle.
Yunho looked at him for a second, a mix of surprise and relief flickering in his eyes, and then he nodded. Without a word, he slipped under the covers beside Seonghwa, who instinctively shifted to make room in the narrow bed.
The bed was cramped with Yunho’s tall frame pressed close, and the space was more crowded than Seonghwa was used to. But as he settled, feeling the quiet comfort of Yunho’s presence, Seonghwa began to relax for the first time in days. The silence between them felt warm and safe, more of a reassurance than anything either of them could put into words.
Lying there, Seonghwa couldn’t tell if Yunho had accepted because he needed the comfort himself or if he’d noticed that Seonghwa was also starting to buckle under the weight of worry. But as the room filled with a quiet calm, it didn’t really matter. Wrapped in that mutual understanding, Seonghwa felt his doubts fade into the background, replaced by a steady, quiet peace. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth and gentle weight of Yunho’s presence lull him into a deep, much-needed sleep, free from the doubts that had haunted him on so many lonely nights before.
It took another week before Hongjoong finally approached Seonghwa. Seonghwa was alone in the practice room, rehearsing late into the night. The empty studio felt vast and unwelcoming, with the mirrors reflecting only his own solitary figure as he moved. The absence of Hongjoong’s familiar, grounding presence felt like a hollow ache that Seonghwa couldn’t quite shake, but he forced himself to stay focused.
Every misstep, every slight error, brought him back to his purpose here—to debut, no matter what. He needed to prove his dedication, to sharpen his skills even if that meant training alone for hours, despite how heavy the silence felt without Hongjoong at his side.
When the song ended, Seonghwa caught a glimpse of movement at the door. Startled, he turned, his gaze meeting Hongjoong’s faint reflection in the mirror. Hongjoong stood in the doorway, shoulders slightly slumped, fingers twisting together in restless, anxious motions. He looked out of place, almost fragile, and his eyes stayed fixed on the floor as if the weight of his thoughts wouldn’t allow him to look up.
For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension in the air growing almost palpable. Then, understanding the importance of the moment, Seonghwa picked up the remote, cutting the music that had become his lone soundtrack. He slid down to sit on the cool, polished floor, leaning back against the mirror and looking at Hongjoong with a silent invitation.
After a moment’s hesitation, Hongjoong took a slow step forward, and then another, until he finally settled beside Seonghwa, their shoulders close but not quite touching. The silence wrapped around them again, a thick and uneasy blanket, and Seonghwa felt his heart pounding, both from exertion and the unspoken words that hung in the air between them.
They sat like that for a long while, neither of them breaking the silence. Seonghwa could feel Hongjoong’s internal struggle radiating beside him, a battle fought and refought before he had even entered the room. Seonghwa waited, sensing the weight of whatever Hongjoong had come to say. He wasn’t going to rush him.
Finally, Hongjoong took a deep, shuddering breath, the sound almost fragile in the quiet room. When he spoke, his voice was low and raw, as if it had taken all his strength just to let the words out. “I’m sorry for avoiding you.” He still wouldn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the floor as though he were ashamed to meet Seonghwa’s eyes.
Seonghwa felt a surge of empathy and tried to keep his voice as steady and reassuring as he could. “It’s okay, Hongjoong.”
But Hongjoong shook his head sharply, his voice taut with frustration. “No, it’s not. It’s… it’s not fair to you. You don’t deserve that.” His voice broke for a second, and he forced himself to continue. “I know I failed you, but I just… I needed time to think. To figure things out.”
Seonghwa’s heart tightened as he looked at Hongjoong, seeing the storm of emotions reflected in his slumped posture. “You didn’t fail me, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said quietly, hoping to offer some comfort. But he could tell that Hongjoong had more to say, so he added, softly, “What conclusion did you come to, then?”
Hongjoong seemed to hesitate, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for words. A long silence passed before he finally found his voice again. “I… I thought a lot about… everything,” he whispered, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap. “About you. About me. About everything that’s been happening these past few weeks. And…” He paused, his breath catching, as though he was still wrestling with what he wanted to say. “And about what I want in the future.”
Seonghwa felt his pulse quicken, and he nodded, trying to hide the knot of dread that had started to form in his chest. His face stayed calm, but his hands clenched slightly, pressing into the floor as he braced himself, giving Hongjoong the space he needed to continue.
Hongjoong took another shaky breath, his words slow and deliberate. “I want to thank you. For… for everything.” His voice was quiet, yet there was a rawness to it that made Seonghwa’s heart ache. “You let me… figure things out. You gave me a space to be… myself, in a way I’ve never been able to be before.” He looked down, his hands tightening into fists. “I… never thought I’d have the courage to admit to myself that I’m… that I’m gay. You… gave me that.”
A mix of emotions surged through Seonghwa—pride, warmth, and a flicker of panic. Hongjoong’s words felt like both a gift and a goodbye, and the uncertainty of it left him feeling suddenly vulnerable. He struggled to keep his voice steady as he asked, “Why are you… thanking me, all of a sudden?”
The tremor in Seonghwa’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by Hongjoong, who seemed to pull back further into himself, his discomfort and hesitance stark in his gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something that weighed heavily on his mind but was too difficult to voice. His silence filled the room again, leaving Seonghwa’s question lingering unanswered.
Hongjoong took a shuddering breath before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because… because Jaesung was right.”
Seonghwa felt a surge of protest welling up, but Hongjoong continued before he could get a single word out.
“I mean, he was wrong about this being a choice. Because if it were… if it were a choice, Seonghwa, I wouldn’t choose to be someone the world condemns for who I am. I wouldn’t choose to live in a way that makes people hate me just for loving someone. To exist in a way that could get me killed in some places… no one would choose that, and thinking otherwise is just—” His voice broke off, words trailing away in bitter resignation.
The silence stretched painfully before Hongjoong drew in another deep breath. “But Jaesung was right about the rest. If the truth about our… about our relationship, or even just our sexuality, ever came out… it would ruin us, Seonghwa. Our careers, our dreams, maybe even our friendships. And we’d take everyone else down with us. It’s selfish to pretend otherwise.”
Seonghwa felt his heart splintering. He’d anticipated a hard conversation, but this… this went beyond anything he’d prepared himself for. “But what if… what if it doesn’t come out?” he asked, the desperation seeping into his voice as tears began pooling in his eyes. “What if we’re careful?”
Hongjoong shook his head, his expression a mixture of frustration and heartbreak. “Can you count the number of times we almost got caught? Because I can’t. And let’s just pretend for a second that our friends, or even the company, wouldn’t care… what happens when the next person who catches us doesn’t have good intentions? What happens then?”
“But it doesn’t have to be this way, Hongjoong!” Seonghwa’s voice cracked, his hands balling into fists. “We can find a way, somehow.”
Hongjoong’s eyes filled with unshed tears, his voice now desperate, almost pleading. “Then tell me, Seonghwa,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that our sexuality will never be an issue. That everyone will just accept us. That if the truth about us ever came out, the public would just… support us. That our careers wouldn’t be over.”
Seonghwa opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to say it. He wanted to believe it. But the harsh reality was there, staring back at him in Hongjoong’s pleading gaze, a truth he couldn’t deny.
“Please, Seonghwa… tell me it’ll all be okay,” Hongjoong whispered, voice trembling, the desperation etched deep in his expression, like he wanted nothing more than for Seonghwa to convince him that he was wrong, that everything would work out. But Seonghwa couldn’t say it. And his silence was answer enough.
Hongjoong’s face crumpled, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He swallowed hard, nodding in resigned acceptance. “Let’s just… let’s just end this now, Seonghwa. Before we fall any deeper. Before we… before we fall in love.” His voice broke, the words clearly hurting him as much as they did Seonghwa. “No one knows, right? So we could just… we could just act like this never happened. And after a while, maybe it’ll be like it never did.”
Tears were streaming down Hongjoong’s face as he spoke, his expression torn between pleading and hopelessness, as though he didn’t want to ask this of Seonghwa but saw no other way out.
Seonghwa felt a surge of anger rise within him—anger at the unfairness of it all, at the suggestion that they should just forget everything, as if what they had was something insignificant instead of one of the most profound connections he’d ever experienced. The idea of pretending none of it had happened… it hurt more than he could say. He wanted to shout, to tell Hongjoong to take it all back, that they didn’t have to do this.
But when he looked at Hongjoong, at the raw pain in his eyes, Seonghwa saw it was just as devastating for him. Hongjoong was only trying to survive, to protect them both from a world that seemed determined to tear them apart. And Seonghwa couldn’t deny the logic, twisted as it was: maybe stopping now would let them keep their dreams, even if it meant giving up on each other.
After what felt like an eternity, Seonghwa finally nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay… I agree. Let’s… let’s stop here. Before we destroy everything around us.”
For a moment, Hongjoong’s face showed a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps. But then it softened into a bittersweet acceptance, a strange, tired relief. The weight of their shared decision settled heavily between them as they sat there, side by side, knowing that whatever they’d had was over before it had really begun.
They sat in a lingering silence, each lost in thought, the weight of their decision hanging heavy around them. After a while, Hongjoong broke the quiet, his voice barely more than a whisper, fragile and tentative. “Do you… do you hate me now?”
Seonghwa shook his head instantly, his voice soft but steady. “No, Hongjoong. I don’t hate you. I… I don’t like this, but I know it’s probably the best decision for us both.”
Hongjoong gave a small, defeated nod, swallowing as he gathered the courage to speak again. “So… would you still want to be friends?” he asked, a hesitant hope in his voice. “I still want to be your friend, Seonghwa. Only if you want to, of course. I don’t want to… force you or anything.”
The relief that washed over Seonghwa was palpable, lifting the tightness from his chest. He’d braced himself for a far worse outcome, fearing he might lose Hongjoong altogether. But the thought of still being in each other’s lives—even as friends—felt like a lifeline.
“Of course I still want to be your friend, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa answered, his voice filled with a gentle reassurance. “Even if we can’t be… whatever we were before, I still want you in my life. You make me laugh, you give me confidence, you… you understand me in a way no one else here does.”
Hongjoong’s expression softened, and a faint, hopeful smile crept onto his tear-streaked face. He looked up at Seonghwa, eyes brimming with a sense of gratitude and relief.
“We promised each other something, didn’t we?” Seonghwa murmured, the memory of that promise strengthening his resolve. “That no matter what this industry throws at us… even if the world doesn’t want us to exist as we are… we’d be there for each other. That we’d fight for each other. I promise you Hongjoong, that I will always fight for you, for us. Whether it be about our sexuality or our success as idols.”
Hongjoong’s gaze held steady, his eyes glistening as he absorbed Seonghwa’s words. He managed a small nod. “I’ll always fight for you, too,” he said, voice thick with emotion.
“I should go,” Hongjoong said softly after a few minutes of silence, each of them grappling with the finality of their agreement. His voice wavered, barely louder than a whisper as he added, “I… I still have some music to work on and…”
“Yeah,” Seonghwa cut in gently, offering him an easy out. “I should probably keep practicing too. I want to get this choreo perfect for tomorrow.”
They both stood, the silence between them stretching and echoing in the studio. An unspoken heaviness hung in the air, lingering like the last notes of a song that neither of them could bring themselves to end. Hongjoong lingered at the doorway, his hand on the handle. “Goodbye, Seonghwa,” he murmured, turning to look back one last time.
“Goodbye, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa replied, voice barely holding steady.
And then, without another word, Hongjoong slipped through the door, his figure disappearing as the door clicked shut. The hollow quiet left in his wake seemed to swallow the room, a silence that amplified every heartbeat, every shaky breath.
Seonghwa’s legs gave way, and he sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands as the first sob tore through him. He wasn’t angry at Hongjoong—he knew, painfully, that they’d made the best choice they could under the circumstances. But he couldn’t stop the ache, the hurt that bubbled over for everything they would never get to be, the life and dreams they’d never get to explore together. He cried for the both of them, for what they’d shared in quiet moments and for all the possibilities stolen away by a world that couldn’t accept them as they were.
All he could do was grieve a relationship that would never be now.
Hongjoong managed to keep himself together all the way to his studio, but as soon as he was alone, the walls he’d kept so firmly in place crumbled. He sank into his chair, curling up in its embrace, feeling his chest tighten as the pain he’d been holding back washed over him. For so long, he’d kept his heart locked away, never allowing himself to feel something so real and consuming for anyone. And now, here he was, forced to sever that connection before he’d even had the chance to truly understand it.
He knew he’d lied to Seonghwa, and he hated himself for it. He could never go back to who he was before. Seonghwa had shown him sides of himself he didn’t know existed, awakening emotions and desires he had never dared to explore. For the first time in his life, he’d genuinely wanted someone—not just emotionally, but physically. Seonghwa had been patient, guiding him, teaching him about intimacy with a gentleness that had torn down every guarded wall Hongjoong had put up over the years.
No, forgetting what he felt would be impossible. Getting over it? Maybe, with time. But forgetting? Never.
Hongjoong had said it because he didn’t want Seonghwa to feel guilty when he inevitably found someone else—someone he could love freely and fully. After all, Seonghwa had been his first in every way that mattered, yet Hongjoong knew he wasn’t Seonghwa’s. Seonghwa had loved before, and he would again. Someday, he would find happiness that wasn’t burdened by secrecy, and Hongjoong would simply become a distant memory, one of many in Seonghwa’s life.
But for Hongjoong, it would be different. No matter how much he tried to let go, Seonghwa would always be more than just a passing moment. He would remain significant—an imprint on Hongjoong’s heart that would never fade. The thought shattered him, but he knew this was the only way. Seonghwa deserved a happiness free from the shadows Hongjoong knew they’d always be forced to live in.
Even if that happiness would never be his to share.