Chapter Text
It wasn't like it happened all at once.
There was no single moment when Seungmin could point and say, 'This is when it started.' There was no dramatic breaking point, just a slow, creeping wrongness that settled into his bones and refused to leave.
He'd wake up already tired, mornings blurring into rehearsals, rehearsals into schedules, schedules into nights spent staring at the ceiling even when his body begged to shut down.
He told himself it was normal.
Everyone was exhausted.
This was the job.
This was the life he chose.
Despite trying to reason with himself, Seungmin's head hurt more often than it didn't. A dull pressure that sat behind his eyes, flaring under bright lights or heavy sound. He would just blink through it and narrow his focus, hoping it would pass if he ignored it.
Sometimes it did.
Sometimes it lingered.
Meals had become optional. Sleep only came in fragments.
When his appetite disappeared, he shrugged it off.
When the noise got too loud and the lights felt too sharp, he clenched his teeth and powered through.
Seungmin learned to work around it, to tell himself it wasn't a big deal.
It was just another thing to push through.
He was good at pushing through.
Seungmin smiled when he was spoken to, laughing at the right moments. He hit his marks in practice even when his focus wavered. He let the others take up space while he quietly folded himself smaller so he was less noticeable.
It was easier that way.
If he didn't ask for help, he couldn't be a burden.
If he didn't show the cracks that were starting to appear, no one would have to worry.
And if no one worried, everything was fine.
…Right?
That logic made sense in his head.
If he didn't say anything, he wouldn't bother anyone.
There were fleeting moments when Seungmin wondered what would happen if he admitted out loud that something was wrong. If he would open up to someone about how he was feeling, but the thought never lingered.
Seungmin didn't want to slow them down; he didn't want to be the reason plans shifted or schedules changed.
He didn't want to worry them.
So Seungmin kept going, even when everything began to feel farther away—like he was there, but not at the same time.
Like people were looking past him instead of at him.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Seungmin hoped someone would notice anyway.
That someone would look close enough.
Just once.
Seungmin knew he wasn't doing well, but nobody seemed to notice.
This stretched on for weeks.
The exhaustion Seungmin felt was now past the point of fixing with a nap or a day off. Everything felt heavier. Practice. Performances. Even just existing around the others.
Seungmin knew it wasn't their fault. He was the one who shut down when things got bad, the one who smiled and said he was fine because everyone else already had enough to deal with.
But it still stung that no one noticed the skipped meals or the nights he didn't sleep.
No one seemed to notice how quiet he'd gotten.
Maybe that was on him—Seungmin was good at hiding—but some part of him still wished someone would look close enough to see through it.
Just once.
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Seungmin woke up one morning with the dull, throbbing start of a migraine pressing behind his eyes.
Figures.
Between the stress, the skipped meals, and whatever his sleep schedule had turned into, it was only a matter of time.
Showering didn't help. The water was too hot, the sound too loud. He pressed his palms against the tile, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will the pain away.
By the time he stepped out, Seungmin's head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. He rubbed his temples, praying the caffeine would help, as he pulled on a hoodie and jeans.
When Seungmin walked out to the common room, the dorm was already buzzing. Chan was double-checking schedules on his phone, Hyunjin was half-dancing his way through breakfast prep, and Jisung was running late—again.
The usual chaos.
Seungmin slid onto one of the barstools at the counter, coffee mug clutched between both hands. The light overhead felt too bright, the chatter too loud.
He didn't join the conversation; he just watched the others move through their routines, voices overlapping in a way that made the throbbing in his head worse.
For a moment, Seungmin thought about saying something—mentioning the migraine, maybe asking if they could push his recording a bit later. But the thought barely formed before he shut it down.
Everyone was swamped. If Seungmin said anything, Chan would just worry, or worse, rearrange the schedule.
He'd just have to deal with it. It was just a headache. Seungmin's handled worse.
He finished his coffee in silence, the bitter taste lingering as he grabbed his bag and headed out.
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The bright overhead lights hit Seungmin like knives, and the bass leaking through his headphones made his head pound harder.
He tried to focus—tried to let muscle memory take over—but every note came out flat, thin, empty. His voice wasn't bad, just… wrong. Lacking the usual spark Chan always praised him for.
Chan's tone was calm at first, guiding him through a few more takes. But as time went on, Seungmin could hear the quiet sighs and saw Chan rub his temples between recordings.
Chan wasn't angry, not really. Just overworked, running on caffeine and willpower. Still, that didn't stop the sting that settled in Seungmin's chest.
When Chan finally stopped the track and leaned back in his chair, his voice was tired. "Let's call it for now. We'll try again later."
Seungmin froze. "I can do it again," he said quickly, throat tight.
Chan shook his head without looking at him. "It's fine, Seungmin. We'll try again later."
The words were short, but not intended to be harsh. Still, Seungmin's brain twisted them anyway, hearing disappointment where there wasn't any.
"Sorry," he muttered, bowing slightly before slipping out of the booth.
Chan didn't respond. And, maybe, that hurt more.
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The hallway outside the recording studio felt colder than it should have.
Seungmin leaned against the wall for a second, eyes shut, trying to breathe past the pounding in his head. The quiet helped a little—no bright lights, no headphones pressing against his ears—but the weight in his chest didn't lift.
He checked his phone.
A message from Jeongin sat unread from earlier: Lunch after recording? I'll wait for you
He stared at it for a long moment before typing back, Go ahead without me. Running late
It was a lie, of course. The thought of food made Seungmin's stomach turn, and the last thing he needed was Jeongin noticing and asking questions, or worse, telling Chan or Minho.
He took some time to take in the silence of the hallway before slowly making his way to the dance studio.
Seungmin dropped his bag by the wall, forcing his expression neutral before stepping inside.
The fluorescent lights were harsh. Every sound dug straight into his skull. He told himself it would pass, that once he started moving, maybe the rhythm would snap him out of it.
It didn't pass.
Apparently, the migraine hadn't even fully kicked in, because he started developing an aura during practice, causing blind spots in his vision, which led Seungmin to collide with Minho during one of their run-throughs.
"Yah! Pay attention!" Minho barked.
Minho's response wasn't out of the ordinary when someone bumped into another member, but Seungmin couldn't help but take it personally.
Couldn't they see he didn't feel good?
No, of course not, because the members don't have psychic powers or X-ray vision. Of course they won't notice.
Seungmin just had to be better.
During the next break, Seungmin sank down against the mirrored wall, pressing his fingertips into his temples. The aura was fading, but the migraine had fully bloomed now—each throb syncing with the beat of the music still echoing in his head.
He barely looked up when Minho's shadow fell over him.
"What's going on with you today?" Minho asked, crossing his arms. His tone wasn't sharp, but it carried that familiar edge of concern wrapped in authority.
Seungmin took a breath. "Nothing. Just tired."
Minho frowned, unconvinced. "Tired's one thing, but you're really off today. You ran into me earlier because you weren't paying attention. You can injure someone. You're usually better than this."
"I said I'm fine," Seungmin barked.
"Yah! Don't take your bad mood out on me," Minho snapped back.
Seungmin tensed, but kept his mouth shut.
Minho sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Start taking better care of yourself, Seungmin. You're supposed to be one of the members I don't have to babysit."
That hit harder than it should have. Seungmin swallowed, forcing a nod.
"Yeah. Got it."
Minho lingered for a second longer, watching him, then walked off to talk to the choreographer.
And that was that.
The message was clear enough—don't stress the others out. Don't be the problem.
So Seungmin wouldn't be.
When practice finally started up again, Seungmin made it through another song before the pressure in his head became unbearable. The room spun slightly every time he turned too fast, the fluorescent lights flaring white across his vision.
Seungmin didn't say anything when he slipped toward the door while the others were distracted.
The second the door closed behind him, his composure cracked.
He pressed a hand to the wall, the cool surface grounding him just enough to stay upright. His throat felt tight—he might cry. Or throw up.
Maybe both.
Minho had asked what was wrong, but only because Seungmin had messed up. Because he'd become a problem. That was what it always came down to, wasn't it?
Seungmin pushed away from the wall, ignoring the tremor in his hands, and kept walking. Past the bathrooms. Down the hallway. Through the side exit.
The cold air outside hit him like a slap, but he didn't stop. No coat, no bag, no phone. He didn't even realize he'd left everything behind.
Practice would go smoother without him today anyway.
Before he knew it, Seungmin had made it to the Han River. The sky was overcast, low and gray, and a light drizzle had started to fall.
Seungmi sat on his usual bench, head tilted back toward the clouds.
At least out here, it was quiet. No mirrors. No noise. No expectations. Just the soft hum of the city in the distance and the rain tracing cold lines down his face.
Seungmin felt like a ghost—half-there, half-forgotten—and what made it worse was that it almost felt easier this way.