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Human beings have this tendency to remember unfinished or interrupted tasks better than they do completed ones. It's called the Zeigarnik effect.
Like it or not, it makes sense. Because the mind doesn't easily forget what it's left with, does it? It's the things left unsaid, undone, or unresolved that cling the most. Say, the jagged upper edge of an unpointed brick wall, or the empty spaces between puzzle pieces that are practically screaming hey, fill me in—the list goes on—they itch and nag. The things we finish, on the other hand, just slip away. People turn in assignments and forget about them after the due date passes, have their tests collected and hey, what was the answer to question four? loses a clear answer—what was question four?
A job done, well or not, a conversation wrapped up, a plan well-executed—all are meant to fade into the background, lost to the routine of moving on to the next task. When we reach the end of something, our brain signals completion and shifts focus, letting it go and quietly forgetting it like it never even happened. Why should you remember it when it’s not important? You will when, or even if, it ever is again, so don’t worry about it. In the end, it’s as if the things you’ve done carry no weight, even to the person you were before they were done.
Seungmin is sure his hyungs just fall prey to it all the time, this phenomenon. Forgetting just how much Seungmin needs, and that they’re never quite able to give.
∅
A series of small mistakes—that’s all it is. A buildup. Little things that could have been done but weren’t. Actions that might’ve, even if only for a little while, quelled the ache. Of the eight of them, Seungmin thinks Minho lets those opportunities slip by the most.
He’s known him for such a long time, probably longer than everyone else. His second eldest hyung was a little shorter, and chubbier, too—less confident, as a trainee. He was still figuring himself out, thus preferred to be led and taken care of instead of the other way around. Seungmin was his first real friend after he joined the company. He showed him the ropes and pulled him out of his shell, so yeah, he’d like to think they know each other—feel for each other—better than anyone else.
It’s strange, the way things turned out. That Seungmin, the younger one, coaxed out that cheeky, feline personality everyone has come to know and love, and yet became the follower of the two. He trails after Minho like a lost puppy, not quite given up yet.
He notices things—like how Minho sits just a little too still sometimes, fingers idle on his phone screen long after a video’s over, pretending he hasn’t been watching nothing for two long minutes in the middle of one of their five-minute-breaks during practice. He always makes fun of the others for sacrificing a good night’s rest, even when he’s the one who looks like sleep hasn’t touched him in days. He also never asks for help—because he doesn’t need it, unlike Seungmin, who does, but believes asking for it and not receiving it is worse than pretending it’s not there at all.
Minho wouldn’t know, though, because he doesn’t notice anything.
He probably thinks Seungmin’s strong enough, and that’s not all that surprising. He does keep showing up and joking around, matching the energy in the room like everything is perfectly fine, even when that couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s good at that. He figures Minho, of all people, would see through it, though, and make an effort to check in, see what Seungmin needs. He doesn’t.
There was this moment—two weeks ago, maybe—that won’t stop replaying in his head. At a restaurant. Loud, warm, filled with the clatter of plates and the low thrum of voices in overlapping conversations that none of them were actually part of, it was. Promotions were finally winding down, and they’d earned it—a night to sit down and eat well and breathe without three or more staff members breathing down their necks with their cameras rolling.
Seungmin was quieter than usual, and he knew it, but hadn’t really had it in him to reel it in the way he usually would’ve. Yeah, he was tired, but they all were—in fact all are, all the time—so what else was he supposed to say when Jisung nudged him and asked, “You good?”, if not yeah, I’m fine when it was the truth? He might’ve smiled a little too late when jokes were tossed across the table, and refused to touch his glass of soju, but if we’re making comparisons and you put him next to the rest of them, he was probably the least affected by it. At least he thinks so.
The food came, steaming hot and familiar and it smelled so good and they were allowed to eat whatever they wanted, there, tonight, because they were given a blessed, seven-day-long week off. So they got whatever the hell they wanted. Side dishes were set in the middle of the table to share, and they all said their graces, and it was so small. Such a tiny, insignificant thing that triggered the whole thing. Seungmin. reaching slowly for the kimchi pancake—his favorite—after everyone had their share, and Minho’s chopsticks beating him to it. Taking the last piece without even a glance in his direction.
He pulled his hand back to fill his bowl with rice quickly, instead, like he hadn’t reached out at all. When he looked up, Minho was laughing at something Chan said, head tilted back, eyes crinkled up with that stupidly pretty smile on display, and it hurt. It wasn’t about the pancake, obviously. It was about seeing without being told and giving without being asked.
Seungmin chewed quietly, the warmth of the food doing nothing for the cold slinking into the gaps between his ribs—the vice grip it had around his stupid, silly heart—and moved on.
∅
If you asked him, he’d probably say he and Felix were once the closest in the group. They couldn’t understand each other at all, at first, two tiny little sixteen year olds, new to it all and lost as ever. Seungmin kind of just made it worse—made it so they couldn’t talk in the first place, because Felix was this…bright ball of sunshine, walking, like he just picked it up back from the place he was raised—you know, Seungmin couldn’t pronounce the word Australia the right way until just before debut—and took it with him to Korea, and Seungmin hadn’t been too keen on trampling all over that. On being a dampener.
A part of him just—kept saying that’s what he was, the more time he spent around the guy. It wasn’t that Felix made him think so, or that anyone tried to tell him that he was. He just knew, intrinsically, that every second he spent around Felix made the older boy feel like he was exhausting himself, putting in so much effort just to communicate. It was less that he and Seungmin couldn’t get along, more just the language barrier getting in the way, because Felix was learning Korean and Seungmin hadn’t known a lick of English and couldn’t understand the other boy’s accent because of his own. Couldn’t help the same way the rest of them could.
He knew he tired Felix out, because he couldn’t grasp the other boy’s native language, but also couldn’t do anything to fix it besides wait. Or speed up his own comprehension.
The thing about that was that Felix wouldn’t let him back off, even though clearly there was tension between them—discomfort and anxiety on both ends. Felix kept trying, and during that time, he compensated for what he couldn’t communicate verbally through touch; it just so happened that Seungmin was on the receiving end of that more often than the rest of them—which was good. Nice. Really fucking nice.
So they got close, physically, and even after Felix became almost completely fluent, that didn’t go away. They kept talking and touching and Seungmin got to practice his English, and it was perfect—because Felix noticed things Seungmin wasn’t ready to talk about without having to ask. He never pushed anything, just showed how much he saw through easy hugs and hand holding and arms casually thrown over shoulders, so he hadn’t really felt like a hyung the way they’d all been raised to see anyone even a day older than them, just like a friend, and Seungmin thrived off it.
They grew older, and the years passed, and that never really went away—just dulled a bit.
Hyunjin and Felix. Han and Felix. Chan and Felix. They were all popular with the fans, but Seungmin and Felix fell pretty far behind in that race. It was nice, because that meant they could indulge privately—Seungmin never really let the fans’ opinions get to him, at the very least. Then their private time dwindled, because the other units got more and more popular, and that’s when it became a problem. Supply and demand, you know? There were a lot more calls for fanservice, and Chan and Han and Hyunjin, and the others, and almost no time for Seungmin.
Felix still tried, though. He tries. He tries so hard, because he loves so much. He reaches out to touch, to hold, whenever he can, in the absence of words, because he doesn’t have the time to notice anymore. Seungmin thought he was okay with it, because he was being chosen, still, and this chunk of the sun was choosing to give a piece of himself to him—until he decided not to, one day, hours into a rehearsal that dragged out too long, all their bodies heavy and sweat-slicked with mirror reflections distorted by exhaustion.
The track had been looping endlessly, and every mark felt like a test failed if anyone’s body decided to give out on them. Seungmin was sitting against the wall during a break, legs outstretched, water bottle untouched beside him, the air in the room hot and heavy. His back was so achey, but not enough to complain, and his throat was dry, too so he couldn’t try if he wanted to.
Walking ray of sunshine, laughing across the room—loud, bright, radiant like always. Felix had a towel draped over his shoulders and a bottle in one hand, bouncing from member to member like he was the one meant to orbit. There was a pat on Hyunjin’s shoulder, a joke tossed at Jeongin, a quick exchange with Chan, a backhug for Jisung. Seungmin watched him move around the room like a ray of light, touching everyone but him.
At one point, Felix’s eyes darted over for what probably couldn’t have even been a second, and they made eye contact, and neither of them looked away. It felt like, only for that second, he was about to cross over just to say hi. To dab a clean towel on Seungmin’s forehead or even rub it up against his hair, dry him off a bit—normal.
Then someone called his name and he turned away again, just as quickly, pulled back into the others’ gravity. Seungmin closed his eyes, then leaned his head against the wall, and tried so, so hard to breathe past the tightness in his chest, because he knew Felix wasn’t doing it on purpose—he gets distracted easily, and he wants to talk to everyone.
But hey, isn’t that the worst part? Because it’s easier to understand being shut out on purpose, to understand that maybe the blonde just wasn’t feeling it, or that—if that were the case—he and Seungmin just don’t get along like that. Those would’ve been fine, yeah? Easy to work around. Being forgotten by someone who loves everybody, though—someone who has enough warmth for everyone in the room except you?
The very last thing he needed, honestly.
When practice started up again, and Minho counted them in and they all started moving, Seungmin hit every move with clean precision. He was sharp lines, no mistakes, because they had to show up and show out and be perfect—no cracks.
When his and Felix’s eyes met in the mirror, the latter smiled at him.
Seungmin smiled back, because he always does. But he didn’t say a word.
∅
Chan came after them both. Seungmin remembers it as well as he does remembering to take the plastic off leftovers before he heats them up—no kimchi pancakes, this time around.
He remembers a boy exhausted beyond his years approaching him during vocal training and telling him he was incredible. He remembers staring at him and the way he gestured when he spoke, and thinking hey, he’s so warm, and not in the temperature way. He remembers telling him he sounded really good, too.
And then he remembers being chosen, and reassured, and wanted, and struggling and learning and debuting and then the years slipped right on by, and Seungmin kept growing, and Chan watched him like all he’d ever wanted in the world was to see him succeed.
But sometimes that’s all it ever is. The bigger picture. Chan has so much on his plate already, eight people he wants and needs to take care of—barely including himself, yes—that he forgets that some of them aren’t too concerned with making leaps and bounds towards worldwide fame and success in record time. That they’re okay with remaining here, stagnant, with each other—that even that in itself is enough forever. It’s not just Seungmin.
It just feels like when Chan remembers that, it’s only ever for everyone else but him.
He doesn’t know when exactly it happened, because it wouldn’t have been the first time. They were on the couch, Seungmin and Hyunjin and 3RACHA in their dorm—because get out, Kim Seungmin, Hyunjin wants to see you, declared his second-eldest hyung an hour or so before then, as he barged into his and Felix’s dorm, Felix nowhere to be found—with some variety show playing in the background, everyone half-asleep or scrolling through their phones. No one was really talking, just existing side by side, all as mutually exhausted as they always are.
Seungmin was curled up right at the left end, legs tangled with Hyunjin’s—a position he’d been wrestled into before acquiescing—beneath a soft navy-blue cotton blanket. He’d had the sleeves of his sweatshirt tugged down over his hands like usual, and his eyes were dry thanks to staring at his phone screen too long. He’d resolved to watching the others drift off one by one out of the corner of his eye with his temple pressed up against the back cushions.
Chan’d gone to the kitchen, for like, five minutes, and came back with a cup of tea—still steaming chamomile, the kind you make when your throat hurts or you can’t sleep—cradled gently between both steady, overworked hands. Seungmin hadn’t heard the kettle go off, but he caught the only motion in the room as he walked in, then tracked his movements as he walked past him. He placed the cup gently in front of Hyunjin, who hadn’t asked for it, and patted his knee gently as if he were the only one there—as if he and Seungmin weren’t curled up together, and his hand hadn’t brushed the second-youngest’s calve on his way there.
He hadn’t even—hadn’t even glanced at Seungmin, didn’t ask if he wanted one, didn’t offer a sip, didn’t pause long enough to notice the way Seungmin had been clearing his own throat the same way Hyunjin was. He just noticed that Hyunjin was sick, and hadn't realized he’d passed it on to Seungmin, too.
And it was nothing, is what he keeps telling himself. Nothing, because he was trying to hide it, anyway, and he probably wouldn’t have even been able to stomach the tea if he’d tried. It would’ve been a waste, and maybe Chan knew that, he knows his members so well—but if he had, it would’ve been nice to get the same brush of skilled fingers through his hair as Hyunjin had, at least. At least. He knows Chan sometimes does forget to take the plastic off his food before he reheats it, but he always realizes a second after pressing start on the microwave, and fixes it before it ruins his food. He never does it on purpose, but still. It hurts.
Seungmin feels like the food that gets stuck to the plastic wrap. Torn off and thrown out.
∅
You know, they’re all so absorbed in themselves—in who they pretend to be, what they have to be for the cameras—that it’s hard to be angry.
Especially at Hyunjin, who Seungmin knows worries more than the rest of them ever will. He’s terrified of having another reason to have to take a step back, of stumbling and losing it all because of choices—cardinal sins, things he’d never do, never even consider beyond those he’s already atoned for—he’s made in the past, and that’s just one of those things that will never go away that he can’t be faulted for.
He just wants to perform, and do well, and fit into the box they’ve built for him. In a way, it’s partly Seungmin’s fault, isn’t it? The same as it is everyone else’s, probably. They’re all just constantly feeding into an image they’ve curated for someone who’s already scared of the title visual, as much as they all try to dance around it.
So at that concert stop, just a few days ago, it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, because it wasn’t personal, and it wasn’t Hyunjin’s problem that his mic pack was tangled. Not his concern, that Seungmin’s fingers were cold and uncooperative, that he was fumbling to set it right before cue time.
The stage was so loud, and the lights were blinding from above, and staff members were barking orders at people he barely recognized. Everyone was halfway dressed, definitely not ready, and their hearts were all pounding, he knows, with jitters that never really go away, and it was his own fault that the cord was running too tight under his jacket, that the tape was peeling from a wayward fix earlier.
Hyunjin was closest—fixing his hair in the mirror, adjusting rings, stretching his arms out wide like he was shaking off his own nerves. Big circles clockwise, one, two, three, four. Counterclockwise, five, six, seven, eight—Seungmin could’ve counted them off for him, they’ve done the same routine so many times, side-by-side, for years now.
He didn’t say anything. He could’ve, sure, but asking felt heavier than usual. A bother. It meant pulling Hyunjin away from the second he’d found to decompress, and Seungmin couldn’t bring himself to do that, even though there was a time when he would’ve done it without hesitation. A time where, Seungmin thinks, Hyunjin would’ve just noticed, instead. Maybe that was what made it hurt a little more, because he hadn’t even glanced over, even though they were the only two left in the closet-slash-changeroom. He just let the space between them hold its silence, filled only with noise from the crew outside and the static in Seungmin’s own head.
Eventually he got the tape to hold. It was sloppy, sure, but shortly after, on stage, Hyunjin shone. He was elegant, golden, reaching out to fans and cameras with everything he had. Has. Always will have. It was worth it, the ache. Just knowing he hadn’t done something that could’ve thrown off the older man’s entire performance, as much of a stretch as that may be.
Seungmin, too, sang his part, and hit every note, but still walked offstage feeling like he did something wrong anyways. He just needed help, and they were the only two there, so Hyunjin should have noticed, right? If he’d just opened his mouth and went hyung, asked could you get this?, maybe things would be different.
∅
Changbin breathes life into everything he touches, and leads a crowd wherever he goes. Seungmin met his sister once—multiple times after that—and the first thing she asked was why it looked like Changbin wasn’t taking good care of him. He kind of just stared at her because she looked at him like his sister did his first vacation home, so they left it at that and moved on.
Seungmin has never forgotten it.
Since then, Changbin has bulked up and Seungmin’s let color rise to his cheeks in a way it hadn’t after he signed his first contract and joined the company. Though he did it for himself, in a way, realized he couldn’t go on the way he was, he also did it because of her. If she noticed, as incredible a bubble of warmth and care and love as she had been, and they had just met, it was only a matter of time before her younger brother got his head out of his ass, matured, and noticed it, too, because Seungmin met Changbin’s mom and it definitely runs in the family.
He did. Get his head out of his ass, I mean—but not notice, because Seungmin can do things pretty quickly when he puts his mind to it, and he’d rather not freak Changbin out.
Seungmin thinks he’s his favorite hyung—though he loves all of them, don’t get the wrong idea—just because he lets Seungmin take, take, take, and has never even for one second let him feel bad about it. He is an endless vessel of giving and giving and giving until the other person doesn’t want it anymore, because even when he’s exhausted out of his mind, he asks if Seungmin wants to order in and eat together, talks to him when he hasn’t said a word all day, and gives him piggyback rides and lets him rest his head on his shoulder without saying a word about it even if it’s weird and out of character because he wants him happy.
So when he forgets, after they’ve all finished schedules for the day—filming, recording, interviews, so much to do—and it’s a minute past midnight, and everyone’s dragging their feet out of the building with hoarse voices, laughter that turns into yawns, and eyes blinking slower than usual, it means a little more. It felt like a cold settled in his bones—that which creeps up your sleeves and down your collar and makes you feel small no matter how tall you stand.
The managers were pulling the van around, headlights slicing through the dark shadows in front of the building, and Seungmin stepped outside last, arms tucked into the thin hoodie he’d grabbed in a rush that morning. It was freezing, and he forgot his coat, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. He’s not sure he’d accept even if someone offered, honest to God he just wanted someone to remember.
Changbin was right next to him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, and he was layered up like always, so thoughtful, and careful, and smart. He had his hood pulled up, scarf around his neck, and an extra jacket folded over one arm, the one he always brings just in case, and Seungmin saw it. So much thicker than what he was wearing.
For one heartbeat, he waited—not because he expected it, okay, but because, well. Changbin always notices, and he never not remembers, gives and gives and gives wherever possible because it’s just written in who he is and Seungmin is greedy, so he waited.
But Changbin was talking to Hyunjin, laughing at something one of the others said, nodding along to whatever story was being told and giving it his full attention like he’d die if he didn’t. He was animated, and so tired, but still present then in that way only he knows how to be, just not for the second youngest.
The wind picked up. He remembers it because he had to tuck his hands deeper into his sleeves and curl his shoulders up and in just to try and keep it from getting to his neck and down his shirt. He felt the skin of his knuckles pull tight, unmoisturized, raw from the cold and probably splitting open already, they were so dry.
He also remembers trying to blink the sting out of his eyes, because there was nothing. Changbin hadn’t even spared Seungmin a glance, so there wasn’t anything he could notice. He climbed in first when the van pulled up, and hadn’t even looked behind him, and Seungmin saw the jacket fly to the back over Felix’s lap when most of them had gotten situated, and heard a murmured you’re going to freeze and he fucking ached.
He’d clambered in silently, sliding into the corner seat and pressing his frozen fingers to the heater vent like a man starved, and just didn’t mention it. He sat there, breathing in silence, and telling himself it was fine, that it wasn’t like Changbin didn’t care or that he didn’t want to, but just that he hadn’t noticed—and that if he had, he’dve done something without a moment’s hesitation. Probably would’ve taken off his jacket, warm with body heat, and handed it over.
But Seungmin wouldn’t have even wanted that. Changbin doesn’t owe him anything; he gives more than anyone ever does. He would’ve taken it from anyone.
∅
Unlike the rest, Jisung made him feel a little more hopeful before he tore all of it to shreds. Not on purpose, obviously, but accidentally enough that it felt purposeful. Like he knew what Seungmin needed and decided to dangle it right in front of him, cat to ball of yarn.
Jisung has always needed a little more than the rest of them, but everyone sees that. Knows it. One too many incidents in the past have clued them all in, and somewhere along the line it became a conscious effort on all sides to make sure he gets enough, whether it be a simple pat on the shoulder or exuberant praise for his hard work. It’s not a problem for any of them, and though it has taken years for Jisung to get used to it, to accept it, he takes it like a champ—proud of all of them for doing it, even, because it proves they’re such good people.
Sometimes, Seungmin thinks Jisung sees right through him. That his own experiences have given him enough to catch onto another person’s ticks, or feel just for him. The want and the need, or the worry and the fear—he does, see it all, in a scary way, an empath in his own right, but remains an observer. Seungmin thinks it’s because he was scared once, too, to ask and to take and to want so badly that it almost hurts, that he doesn’t push it—even if that’s exactly what Seungmin needs.
This was probably the most recent, midst this long, terribly drawn-out stumble. It was past midnight, and the studio was bathed in blue light from the monitors because the lights were off and Jisung works best in the dark and he was busy bouncing between tracks, tweaking levels, humming under his breath.
He was in the zone, headphones probably supposed to be half-on but long ago having slipped over both ears in his focus, and he’d periodically shift in his chair like the beat was wired into his bloodstream. Perhaps that was why Seungmin, seated on the couch behind him after being invited to come along, didn’t say anything. He had his phone out, was hunched over it and scrolling through it absentmindedly, with an elbow on his knee and the collar of his seater pulled tight over the lower half of his face. He’d been there an hour, maybe more, waiting—he hadn’t meant to stay out that late, but he just thought that at some point, Jisung would turn around and kick up the important conversation he’d been hinting to on the way over (the one they couldn’t really start in the company car next to a driver they barely knew).
He knows it was pathetic, watching Jisung work and listening to the loop repeat, same line over and over. He wondered, then, if he should speak up. Ask. Say something. But he didn’t, because he wanted to see if Jisung would turn around and notice—he hoped that he’d hear something in the silence behind him, and be reminded, even if it hurt to see he was forgotten. He at least wanted to know he was important enough to be remembered, that Jisung would be willing to pause and say,hey’ I’ve noticed, like he used to. Like when they were freshly debuted, when Jisung could read him in half a glance.
Jisung didn’t turn around.
He leaned closer to the screen, actually, cursed softly when the program lagged and, Seungmin is sure, he had to hear the same two seconds of a sample play four times before the system caught up. He was tired, too. Hyper-focused and brilliant and somewhere else entirely, so Seungmin stood up, quiet and careful, and he left the studio without a word, and Jisung didn’t notice. Didn’t shoot him a message, either, not until the next day.
It’s been, like, three days, and Seungmin still wonders what he wanted to talk about. Maybe he’d noticed, and remembered that Seungmin needs just as much as he does, and wanted to try and fix it—he’ll never know.
∅
Jeongin is their youngest, and he gets more than he could ever need. More than he wants, actually.
Seungmin remembers them both, so little. The youngest boys of eight, the last two to get their braces off and grow into their voices, to spring to full height and learn how their bodies worked—the ones who took the hate the hardest because they were still so scared, so sensitive and vulnerable and, well. Blank canvases, easy to manipulate.
Oddly enough, Seungmin thinks Jeongin is the strongest of them all. Brave-faced, he never really takes anything to heart, no matter what he hears, anymore—or at least, he doesn’t show it, if he does. It didn’t take very long for him to fall right into place, like he was meant to be there, part of the life. Even so, Seungmin remembers being worried about him before, too.
They’d all quietly observed it—the weight loss and the tears and the tired eyes when the boy, barely sixteen years old, wasn’t quite ready yet and far from adjusted. Jeongin was pretty fucking sensitive and self-deprecating, and he blamed himself for a lot, and though Seungmin wasn’t really any better, they were both kids. It was to be expected.
He also remembers being the first to hear that Jeongin was proud, though. That when he had adjusted, and he was finished with school and got his braces off, grew into his own skin, got healthy and strong—stronger than Seungmin—that the youngest of them all just knew it was all supposed to work. That he hadn’t for a second questioned his own premature decision-making, and the choice to pursue a career in this, because it was exactly where he wanted to be.
So Seungmin knows he’s capable, but he also knows that Jeongin knows he isn’t.
Because he was there, too. They were all kids, sure, but him and Jeongin were the only two of the same age, for seven days or so, every single year—and that meant a lot, just to them. Seungmin knows that while he and the rest of the group were watching Jeongin from afar, Jeongin watched him, because he wanted to give back in some way, too, even though he couldn’t do it for the rest of them. It just felt wrong and of course he still wanted to be doted on and taken care of and spoiled because he was a brat—Seungmin couldn’t ever say that in any other way but fond—so he did what he felt was right, and he shouldered what the others seemed too preoccupied to shoulder themselves. Took the endless mass that was Kim Seungmin for himself and pretended like he hadn’t just to save him his dignity and did something for everyone else that they wouldn’t have to worry about. Selflessly.
In doing so, Jeongin exposed the rawer parts of him in secret—and those seven days became special because they somehow let the two of them pretend that Seungmin wasn’t older than him and a disappointment and that they were on the same playing field. Jeongin finds ways to divert their hyungs’ attention to Seungmin, just for one week, and slinks into the background.
It’s a blessing until it isn’t, and this year they were busy around his birthday (even if they weren’t, he’s always thought it unfair of him to take what their maknae deserves), so he let it pass, and didn’t say anything when Jeongin didn’t do anything about it—then, suddenly, it was September twenty-second and it was here and Seungmin regretted it.
Evening had turned to night, and the dorms were quiet, everyone scattered to their rooms or winding down. The artificial buzz of celebration felt like it had already faded, buried beneath expectation and fanservice and photo-taking and barely even a second to sit down. Earlier, on live, there had been cake, and Seungmin bickered with a behind-the-scenes Hyunjin for maybe three minutes or so before the staff behind the camera kicked him out.
There were a couple posts on Instagram, stupid pictures on a couple of the guys’ public profiles and one from their official Instagram account, which never happens. There were also so, so many messages from family and friends on his personal, texts to his number and promises of gifts and dinner. The kinds of things you’re supposed to feel grateful for.
And Seungmin was grateful—he always is. Every year.
But the lights were off in his room and his phone screen was too bright in that darkness, and he was scrolling through his notifications again even though he’d already seen them all. Hundreds of fans on Bubble messaged him, and the other members, too, all tagging him in their groupchat with old photos and inside jokes like they did every single year.
Jeongin—just the story repost. The same one as everyone else. He doesn’t usually caption anything, but at the very least, he’d leave a red heart—that wasn’t there, then. Abruptly, Seungmin realized there wasn’t even a message from him, when everyone else, also very busy, took the time to at least send one. He told himself it was fine, because they’d both been busy, and Jeongin wasn’t even home yet and was probably exhausted out of his mind, and that the fact that he acknowledged it should’ve been more than enough.
Still, he stared at the screen a little longer than he should’ve, thumb hovering over their chat, because the last message? It’s from weeks before then, and Seungmin sent it. A TikTok link that Jeongin had just replied to with a laughing emoji. That was it.
He hadn’t gotten any new messages, not even a little happy birthday, Seungmin-hyung when maybe that would’ve helped. It might’ve made his chest feel a little lighter, a small moment between them, amidst all the pain and achey uncertainties of the past couple weeks. Jeongin remembering like his hyungs forget to.
He forced himself to turn off the screen—to set the phone face-down on his nightstand, and pull the blanket higher, tighter. Seungmin told himself he was being ridiculous, because it’s Jeongin, and it’s the group, and he is loved by them more than he will ever know—but they forget far more often than they should.
Seungmin can’t blame them for it when it’s written in human nature, this phenomenon.
∅
That message from Jisung the morning after was a simple lmk what u think, by the way, with a file attached, and the track was really fucking good. It was one Seungmin will record vocals for like a professional, when he can drag himself out of bed and get himself to do it. He doesn’t know when that’ll be.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He does. Always. He wants to give Jisung the harmonies he hears in his head, the ones he’s already imagined Seungmin laying down—soft, breathy on the edges, maybe strained in the second verse, if that’s what the song needs. He wants to give the group what they need and what they’ve come to expect from him, what they’re waiting for, but there’s something about getting up lately that—it’s harder than it used to be.
His limbs work fine, his voice doesn’t crack when he sings—he’s healthy. He’s still young. When he blinks awake, though, clearing the fog from his eyes, the ceiling above him still blurs, like his eyes can’t decide if the day is worth seeing clearly. The covers are heavy, the air colder than it should be, and the window is shut. His hoodie from the night before smells like fabric softener, but that—not even that comforts him anymore.
He could get up and shower. Just throw on that same hoodie, walk through the dorm like nothing’s wrong, and even swing by the studio, joke with Chan, shoulder bump Jeongin and steal a sip from someone’s iced Americano and smile like the song in his inbox didn’t sit there like a quiet apology he’s not ready to accept (he might never be able to do so.).
But he’s tired, and sleep won’t fix it.
He’s tried that, and really it only made him feel worse. Seungmin has slept through whole afternoons—uses the excuse that he stayed late practicing, like they all do—only to wake up with the same tightness in his chest, like something is trying to suffocate him. He’s stubborn, though, and he won’t let it, even when he emerges from his room to find no one at the dorm looking for him.
He aches. All the time, now.
It’s not even about the birthday anymore, or the pancake, or the jacket, or the soju he didn’t drink or the moment in the mirror where Felix smiled and he smiled back and nothing was said. It’s not about the untouched tea, the missed glance, the forgotten hug or the mangled mic pack or the jacket that landed on someone else’s lap. It’s not about Jeongin’s red heart, or the lack of it.
It’s just everything. All at once. The silence and the ignorance and the need.
He opens Jisung’s message again, the timestamp mocking him. He listens again. The track is even better the second time—even if they’re all a bunch of fucking geniuses, Jisung really outdid himself. He made something that sounds like crying underwater—it’s longing. It’s longing and it’s grief and it’s want laced in synths and piano keys, and there, in the middle, just faint enough to miss if you’re not listening closely, is a blank space.
It’s a pause for him.
Seungmin closes his eyes. Fucking cruel, the way Jisung remembered that, of all things. It hurts even more than being forgotten.
At one point, he drags himself out of bed, throws on a hoodie. There’s a pair of shoes by the door, left untied, which means someone is here, nevermind the leftover rice in the cooker on the counter. Felix always says Seungmin is welcome to take it, but he knows it’s easier for the blond to have something quick to eat in the mornings lest he not eat anything at all, so he settles for an orange and a straight-black cup of coffee and slips on Felix’s laced-up converse and—he’ll have lunch later—slips out the door, Jisung’s track still up in his brain like a memory of something unfinished. Victim to that phenomenon.
Morning starts late—Hyunjin and Jeongin have an early shoot, and show up an hour past the agreed ten o’clock. When they whine about exhaustion, they get an extra thirty minutes to relax before they join in, because hey, that’s a valid reason to be tired, and their manager gives them each a slice of brioche from his secret stash (the orange duffel in the back corner) because according to him, they need the carbs. When Felix mentions that hey, Seungminnie needs to bulk up, too, he actually just receives a pinch of the cheek and a murmur of he eats enough, you know, in response. Seungmin sometimes forgets just how long he’s been lying about taking the rice in the mornings, skipping breakfast instead and using his roommate’s short-term memory to his advantage.
Practice comes next, and his body remembers the steps even if his mind doesn’t. He mouths along to lyrics he hasn’t touched in weeks, and no one calls him out for not singing them. It all passes like a blur.
Lunch happens around him in a similar way, because he really can’t focus on whatever the hell the others are talking about. He picks at rice—carbs, carbs, carbs—with chopsticks he never uses, nods when spoken to, laughs two seconds late like he did over dinner two weeks ago, and still isn’t questioned for it. Someone passes him a drink—iced green tea, the kind he always gets—and he doesn’t touch it. No one notices that, either.
The hours blur. A meeting with the manager. A fitting for next week’s shoot. A ride back to the studio, too, one with Jisung curled up in the backseat next to him, earbuds in, mouthing something to a melody Seungmin can’t hear. He forgets to say bye to the stylists, so Seungmin shoots them a polite thank you for your hard work for both their sakes. He also forgets to thank the intern who holds the door when they walk in, so Seungmin nods in her direction as the two of them slip right on through. Let it be known that Seungmin tries very, very hard to give his hyungs the benefit of the doubt, okay? He lets them push hard enough to hurt on a good day, and still walks out of it semi-put together. That should make the way he has to swallow back tears—Jisung almost forgets to plug in his phone as he sits down, Seungmin notices—when he has to remind him to do yet another thing, say a lot, now, yeah? Because he wouldn’t, normally. He’d take it like a champ.
It doesn’t matter. Everyone is busy. Everyone is tired.
Maybe if he just hadn’t said anything, kept his mouth shut, the day would’ve ended like all the others—quietly, half-finished. But Seungmin needs and Jisung is playing the demo again, and everyone is together this time, and it sounds so good he can feel the ache travel up his spine and settle into the back of his neck like the unwarranted and very unsafe scruffing of a kitten, paralyzing him.
He listens to layered melodies and harmonies, the parts he knows are reserved for Felix’s low timbre or Chan’s unbelievably high falsettos or Changbin’s intense wordplay, Jeongin’s honeyed vocals or Minho’s silken tone or Hyunjin’s spitfire. He knows especially where Jisung figures he fits in, too, because he was there in the car listening yesterday night and, well. He knows when his part comes in, for the same reason, so he doesn’t really have to pay attention—instead he sits quietly in the corner, letting his eyes drift over the proofread lyrics airdropped to him in the car earlier, not really absorbing anything. He has to pretend he is when his mind is clearly elsewhere, the air around him heavy and banking on something breaking beneath it, crushing him.
At some point, during a moment of lucidity, he hears someone say, “This one’s gonna be great with your harmonies, Seungmin.”
Not as a demand, nor a plea. It’s just a statement, casual, like it’s always been. An acknowledgment of his talent, his hard work and dedication to his craft and the important role he plays in making the track whole. And he still—he says something, in spite of that. Doesn’t really know why his voice is so much quieter than usual, almost absent, when he responds, and sure as hell doesn’t know how he’s able to say “Yeah, sure.” with his tongue coated in lead that’s just as heavy as it is metallic in taste. It doesn’t sound like him—he can receive compliments better than that, can offer more than just a yeah, sure in the face of the flatterer.
The words sit heavy in the air. The room itself seems to hold its breath—but it's nothing, in the grand scheme of things. It’s certainly not a slip-up. It’s just… really empty-sounding.
Something flickers in the eyes of the others—Jeongin first, then Felix, then Chan, but he can’t bring himself to look at any of them after that. It’s brief, barely there, but Seungmin can feel it linger even though he doesn’t look up again. They know something’s wrong. They don’t know what, but they feel it. He knows they do, because it's so obvious and they care so much it might actually genuinely make him cry and—oh, shit, is he?
He brings a hand up to rub over his face in a lackluster attempt at normalcy. Not yet. His hands are dry even if his eyes feel wet and sad and stinging. The silence is stretching longer than it should, the air thick and uncomfortable in the space between them all and he realizes, abruptly, that he’s outmatched here—seven to one. He needs to leave. He can’t fucking do this right now, what was he thinking? Thoughts begin swirling and his chest grows tight before he can help it, and—Seungmin needs to leave, just as badly as he needs touch and comfort and reassurance and care. He should walk out. It’s easier that way, right? Just leave, disappear, let the moment fade away. But then—
“Seungmin-hyung?”
It’s Jeongin’s voice. Soft, though with a question in it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask but going for it anyway. It pulls at Seungmin’s feet, making him hesitate, because he was already up and halfway to the door before he realized it. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look back, and his hand is clearly still on the doorframe, as though he’s holding himself there, fingers curled over the grooves of the way-too-expensive design.
“Are you—” Jeongin begins, voice strained with uncertainty, like he doesn’t know whether to push, to ask, to dig deeper.
Seungmin feels the weight of it settle in the room, feels the shift, like the others are holding their breath too, waiting to see what comes next. He can almost hear the unspoken are u ok? reminiscent of his tone in messages they no longer share, but ignores it. Because he isn’t, he knows, but there also isn’t a good reason for that, is there? His hyungs love him and they care and Jeongin does, too, he’s just greedy. It’s wrong, asking them for more than the so much they’ve already given him.
Still, his mouth opens, jaw clicking with its suddenness, and the words are about to spill out and he thinks can i have this then please, let me have this the first syllable of the phrase I think coming out choked, “I—” before a loud series of bangs sound against the door.
“We’re starting practice!” Their manager’s voice booms from the hallway, too loud to ignore. A familiar feeling of urgency rushes through him, and Seungmin doesn’t know if the interruption relieves or frustrates him, but he doesn’t wait for anything else—not for Jeongin’s second attempt at figuring him out, or for the words to finish forming in his mouth (only to come out raw and hurt), no. He doesn’t even wait for the door to open all the way.
Without a second glance, he walks out, the sound of the door closing too final in his ears. He’s already too far gone.