🦋⸽ 𝓑𝗎𝗍t𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗒 @b-buterflyy - Tumblr Blog

Until I die...

Pairings: Boyfriend!Hongjoong x Fem!Reader

Genre: Heavy Angst, drama, infidelity, illness.

wc: 12,7k

Summary: You loved him more than anything, even when you knew he was slowly falling out of love with you. You kept quiet through the heartbreak. Through the illness. You worked through your pain and smiled so no one would worry. But when your time began to run out, you did the only thing you could do: Leave something behind for each person you loved.

Warnings: Angst (heavy), Terminal illness/death of main character, Grief and loss, Medical descriptions (mild, non-graphic) Infidelity (Hongjoong cheats on reader) Emotional abuse/neglect from a romantic partner, Depressive thoughts/emotional pain, Bittersweet ending

a/n: Hi, lovely readers! I just want to start by saying… yes, I did cry while writing this. And yes, I do enjoy writing angst.

I know, I know—maybe I need help. Or a hug. Or both. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it (even if it broke your heart into a thousand sharp little pieces).

If you liked it, please let me know—scream in the comments, throw tissues at me, or, you know, ask me to write more angst. I’ll probably say yes and suffer through it again for you 🥲

Join my Taglist: Here

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask again, slower this time, your voice barely a whisper.

The words don’t sound real. They hang in the air like fog, thick and heavy, impossible to breathe in.

The doctor shifts forward, his eyes full of practiced sympathy.

“Your tests confirm late-stage Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” He says gently. “It’s... blood cancer, Miss Kang.”

Blood cancer.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. You blink once. Twice.

Blood. Cancer.

That can’t be right. You only came here because you’d been dizzy for a few days, a little fatigued. Bruising easier than usual, sure, but you thought maybe it was just anemia. Or a flu. Overwork.

Not cancer. Never cancer.

He keeps talking, though you barely hear a word.

“There are some medical options,” He continues, his tone careful. “Low-dose chemotherapy, mostly for symptom control at this stage. A possible stem cell transplant, but the success rate is low given how advanced it is. We can also refer you to hospice care to prioritize your comfort—”

His voice fades. Distant. Like he’s underwater.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor, and your hands are gripping the edges of the chair even though you can't feel them anymore.

You should be crying. You should be panicking. But your brain... it’s stuck on something else.

Three months. ATEEZ’s comeback is in three months.

You’re part of the production team. There’s producing meetings, recording timelines. You promised to check Hongjoong’s revised lyrics tomorrow—he worked so hard on that track.

You can’t die. Not now. Not when things are just getting good for them.

And Yeosang. Your brother’s birthday is next month. He’s turning twenty six. You haven’t even gotten his gift. He mentioned wanting a custom watch—it was expensive, but you were going to surprise him.

And then, of course, Hongjoong.

Your boyfriend. Nearly two years together, though lately he’s been... distant. Busy. Distracted. You haven’t even told him how sick you’ve been feeling.

You blink again. Was it really just a flu?

Your nails dig into your palms.

Cancer.

You're dying.

But all you can think about is how you’re going to fit chemo into a production meeting. How you’ll cover for your absences so no one—especially he—notices.

You don’t want to be a burden. You just want to hold onto what little you have left.

“Miss Kang?” The doctor’s voice pulls you back. You force yourself to meet his eyes.

He’s waiting—waiting for you to fall apart, maybe. Waiting for grief to flood in.

But all you say is: “Can I go now? I have a deadline.”

He hesitates “Of course. But we do recommend starting treatment as soon as possible—”

“I don't want any, don't want to be a burden.”

You stand. Your knees nearly give out, but you mask it with a quick breath and a weak smile. Your hands are trembling as you gather your things. You don't even remember putting your bag down.

As you step out into the hallway, the lights feel too bright, the world too loud. Your phone buzzes.

Joongie🖤: Studio all night. don't wait up.

You stare at the message, expression unreadable.

Cancer. Blood cancer. You’re dying.

But all you reply is: “Okay, love you.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You’re in the booth with Mingi and Seonghwa, helping them smooth out a harmony layer on the bridge. The air is dry, heavy with the static buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the condenser mic.

You’ve run the track three times now—your eyes are tired, your head pounds, and there’s a high ringing in your ears you’ve been trying to ignore since morning.

You press the intercom “One more run, okay? Then we’ll double it and move on.”

They both nod, focused and trusting. It’s a rhythm you’ve shared for years. But just as Seonghwa hits the high note and Mingi drops into the lower octave, it happens.

A sharp sting behind your nose. Then a slow, warm trickle.

You blink.

Red.

It stains your fingers before you realize what’s happening—your hand comes away wet. The blood drips onto the soundboard, splashing across the control dial.

“Shit—” You mutter, jerking your head up.

Seonghwa is the first to notice. His expression shifts in an instant from focused to horrified. He yanks his headphones off and rushes out of the booth, pulling tissues from the stack beside the mixing desk.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, gently pressing the tissues to your face. His hands are warm and steady, but his voice is tight with concern.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly, trying to laugh but your throat is dry. “It’s probably just the heat. You know how weather messes with your sinuses sometimes.”

Seonghwa doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at you. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t buy it, not really. The little crease between his brows gives him away.

Before he can press further, the booth door creaks open. Mingi’s head pops out, brows raised.

“What happened?”

“Just a little nosebleed,” You call out, raising a hand with a thumbs-up, blood still drying on your knuckles. “Nothing major. Give me a sec and we’ll get back to the recording.”

Mingi hesitates, his gaze flicking between you and Seonghwa, who’s still crouched in front of you with stained tissues.

“You sure? You look… pale.”

“I’m always pale,” You tease with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Studio lighting hates me.”

They chuckle a little, but it’s thin. Tense. The kind of laugh you give when you want something to be normal, even though it clearly isn’t.

You clean the soundboard with a tissue, careful not to smear the blood further. Your hands are trembling just slightly, but you hope neither of them notice.

And then, just like that, you sit back down, press the intercom, and say:

“Let’s go again.”

The room is quiet for a beat. Then Mingi sighs and slips the headphones on. Seonghwa does the same, reluctantly taking his seat. He watches you for a second longer before turning away.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You don’t explain the pounding in your chest or the ache crawling up your legs.

You just breathe, press play, and pretend that nothing is wrong.

But you can feel their eyes on you now—careful, worried, watching.

And for the first time this week, you wonder how much longer you’ll be able to keep pretending.

⋆

It’s almost midnight when you finally step into the smaller recording studio, the familiar hum of wires and soft glow of monitor lights greeting you like an old friend.

Hongjoong is already there, seated at the mixing desk, headphones draped around his neck, scrolling through the demo layers with an expression you know too well.

Focused. Detached. Somewhere far away from you, even though you’re in the same room.

You haven’t seen him properly in days—just quick glances in hallways, brief texts about edits or schedules. It’s been weeks since he kissed you goodnight. Months since you felt like you had his full attention.

Still, tonight matters. It’s your first one-on-one session in over a week. Sure, it’s for work. But it’s him. And you’ve missed him so much it aches.

You walk in quietly, clutching your notepad and tablet. Your legs feel like lead. Your bones hurt. You would give anything to sleep, just sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

But none of that matters now. Because he’s here. And you want to be here with him.

“You’re late,” He murmurs without turning around.

You blink, caught off guard “Only by five minutes.”

He doesn’t answer. Just clicks into the instrumental and adjusts his mic levels.

You set your things down and take your place behind the desk, syncing the track. Your fingers move on instinct, but your vision blurs slightly when you glance down, the lights of the soundboard feel too bright, the colors too sharp.

“You look tired,” Hongjoong says, finally glancing at you. His tone isn’t warm. It’s not concerned. It’s just… an observation.

“I am,” You answer honestly, letting the words hang between you. You’re hoping—just hoping—he’ll soften, just a little.

Ask why. Ask what’s wrong. But he doesn’t.

He shrugs “We all are.”

Right.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek “Let’s do a run-through, yeah?”

He nods once and heads into the booth, you hit record.

The beat pulses through the speakers, his voice layering smoothly over the base. He’s good, always has been, and this track is personal for him. You can feel it in the way he bites down on each verse, dragging emotion into the syllables.

And yet, as he sings about struggle and perseverance, about finding light in the dark, your chest burns. You wonder if he means a single word of it anymore.

The second take ends. He peeks out of the booth, resting his hands on the doorframe.

“How’s the timing?” He asks.

You try to answer, but your mouth feels dry. Your head is pounding. The room is spinning just enough to make you feel unstable.

You clear your throat “It’s good. You hit that second verse cleaner this time.”

He nods. No smile. No praise. Just a nod.

You stare at him for a second longer, heart thudding, and finally whisper, “I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop it. Small. Vulnerable.

He blinks “What?”

You force a smile “I said the mix is almost done. Just need to level out the chorus.”

Lie. Coward’s version of the truth. He doesn’t press. Just turns away, going back to the booth.

You exhale, shakily. Look down at your hands. They're trembling again. You close your eyes and rest your head in your arms for a second, just a second, but Hongjoong’s voice through the mic pulls you back up.

“Don’t sleep on me,” He says—light, almost teasing.

But there’s no affection behind it. No warmth.

Just a reminder.

You're not his girlfriend tonight. You're the producer.

You swallow the lump in your throat and press record again.

And you wonder how it’s possible to be this close to someone you love and still feel so completely alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s rare to have a quiet evening, let alone a meal outside the studio. But Yeosang insisted.

“You’ve been skipping too many dinners,” He said when he called. “I’m picking you up at seven. No excuses.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, not today. Not after another dizzy spell in the breakroom. Not after you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the pale, fragile version staring back.

So now, you're sitting across from him in a small Japanese restaurant, the kind you both used to visit when you were younger.

It’s warm, quiet, the kind of place that smells like miso and nostalgia. He orders for both of you—he always does—and you let him, too tired to pretend you care about the menu.

He chats about Ateez's schedules, about San’s newest obsession with cooking, about the funny disaster that was Wooyoung’s attempt at laundry this week.

You nod and laugh in the right places. But your limbs are heavy, your stomach barely handling the miso soup you’re swirling in front of you.

Then it happens. You reach for the cup of tea, and your hoodie sleeve slides up. Just a few inches.

But it’s enough.

The yellow-purple bloom of the bruise on your forearm is stark against your skin, impossible to miss.

Yeosang goes still. His eyes lock onto it, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything, just stares.

Then his voice drops, cold and quiet “What happened to your arm?”

You freeze. Quickly pull your sleeve back down.

“It’s nothing,” You say with a too-fast shrug. “I—uh—I hit it on the kitchen counter a few days ago.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t believe you.

“In the kitchen?”

You nod “Yeah. Just… clumsy, you know?”

He leans back in his seat slowly, watching you carefully now. His jaw tightens.

“You sure that’s it?”

You blink “What else would it be?”

He doesn’t answer. But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That horrible, fleeting thought that passes through his mind.

Did someone do this to you?

Did he?

“Yeosang,” You say quietly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” He lies, voice tight.

“Yes, you are. And I promise, no one hurt me. Especially not Hongjoong.”

You smile. It takes effort. It hurts.

He doesn’t smile back “I’m your older brother,” He says after a long silence. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

You nod “Of course.”

But the truth is already rotting inside you. It’s in your blood. Your bones. The way you can’t even finish a bowl of soup without feeling like you’re going to collapse.

And it’s killing you—slowly, quietly.

And you're lying to the one person who would do anything to save you.

—

The mirrors are fogged at the edges, the air thick with the rhythm of stomping feet and sharp breaths. The members of ATEEZ are halfway through the final run of their choreography when San finally calls for a break, dropping to the floor with a dramatic groan.

“Five minutes,” The choreographer calls out. “Drink water. Stretch. Don’t die.”

Yeosang wipes the sweat off his forehead, reaching for his water bottle, but his eyes keep flickering to Hongjoong—the leader sitting off in the corner, completely checked out, thumbs tapping away at his phone like the world around him doesn’t exist.

He sighs. Something’s been off for weeks—with you, with him.

The bruise on your arm flashes in his memory again. Too dark. Too fresh. Too big for a simple kitchen bump.

He swallows and turns to Seonghwa and Mingi, who are stretching nearby.

“Can I ask you guys something?” He says, keeping his voice low.

Mingi nods, looking up “What’s up?”

“It’s about my sister,” Yeosang says slowly, choosing each word. “Has she seemed… off lately to you?”

The moment the question leaves his mouth, Seonghwa stills. Mingi, too. Then Seonghwa shifts, sitting up straight.

“What do you mean by ‘off’?”

Yeosang hesitates “She had this bruise on her arm this afternoon. Big one. Said it happened in the kitchen, but... I don’t know. She’s pale. She barely touched her food. She looked like she was going to fall asleep at the table.”

Mingi makes a noise—not quite surprised, not quite confused “Dude,” He says, glancing at Seonghwa. “She had a nosebleed the other day. In the recording booth. Just started bleeding mid-take.”

“And she said it was because of the heat,” Seonghwa adds with a frown. “But I don’t know, man. She looked exhausted. Like, barely-standing, exhausted.”

Yeosang’s expression darkens “She told me she was fine. Said she was just tired.”

“She’s always tired lately,” Seonghwa murmurs. “She’s not okay.”

Mingi nods “You think something’s going on? Like… is she sick or something?”

“I don’t know,” Yeosang admits. “But I’m going to find out.”

In the silence that follows, they all glance toward Hongjoong.

Still glued to his phone. Still tapping out replies, smiling faintly at something on the screen—completely unaware of the conversation happening a few feet away.

“Should we tell him?” Mingi asks quietly.

Yeosang watches Hongjoong for a long beat. Then he shakes his head.

“He won’t care. Not right now.”

Seonghwa frowns “You think something’s going on with him too?”

Yeosang doesn’t answer. Because he already knows the truth—or at least part of it. He sees the distance.

The coldness. The way you still light up when you talk about Hongjoong, like you’re trying to convince yourself he's still the man you love. And the way Hongjoong barely even looks at you anymore.

He sees it all.

And he’s afraid of what it might mean.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You drop your bag by the entrance and lean against the wall, breath trembling. Your whole body aches—not the usual muscle strain or fatigue from long days. It's deeper. Like your bones are rotting from the inside out.

You peel off your hoodie slowly, wincing as the sleeve sticks to the sweat on your arms. Bruises decorate your skin like splattered ink. New ones, old ones, all unexplained.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

No shoes by the door but your own. No low humming from the kitchen. No Hongjoong.

You told yourself he was busy. You keep telling yourself that.

You shuffle to the bathroom and stare at your reflection. Your skin is pale, almost gray under the fluorescent light. You look like a ghost wearing your face.

There’s blood on your upper lip. Again.

You don't even flinch this time. You just grab some tissues and press hard. Your nose is getting used to this.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Another voicemail from the hospital. You press play.

“Hi, we’re following up on your last test results. We strongly advise reconsidering treatment options. The sooner we start, the better your chances of—”

You press delete. You already told them no.

What’s the point of prolonging what can’t be saved?

Chemo would only destroy what little normalcy you have left. The hair, the strength, the time—what’s the use if there’s no real chance? If you’ll die anyway?

You sit on the floor. Cold tiles against your back. The room spins for a second. You blink through it. You open the notes app on your phone. Not to write a letter—not yet. But you type a single sentence:

“If I die tonight, would he even notice?”

You don’t cry. You’re too tired to cry. Instead, you crawl into bed in one of Hongjoongs’ shirts, and you curl up with your sickness like it’s the only thing that hasn’t abandoned you.

You whisper into the dark “I don’t want to die like this.”

And you fall asleep with the taste of blood in your throat and nothing but silence to hold you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s nearly 2 a.m. The building is quiet, everyone else long gone. You’re still in your small studio, slouched in your chair, eyelids burning from hours of staring at the screen. You rub your temples, lean back, and play the track again.

Your eyes narrow. It’s missing something. Hongjoong’s verse. The one he promised to send by midnight.

You glance at the clock: 2:07 a.m. With a tired sigh, you drag yourself up and out. He’s probably still in his studio, working like always. Maybe he forgot to hit send.

Maybe… you just want to see him.

You walk quietly through the hallway, your oversized hoodie sleeves covering your trembling fingers. You’re exhausted, nauseous, and your body feels like lead—but you’re used to that by now.

When you reach his studio door, your hand pauses mid-air. It’s not fully shut. A crack of light seeps out.

Then you hear it.

A sound. A laugh. A muffled moan.

Your heart stops. Slowly, too slowly, you lean closer. Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe someone left a video playing. Maybe—But when you press your eye to the crack and tilt your head—You freeze.

She’s on his lap. Arms around his neck. Lips on his throat. His hands on her hips, his head thrown back, mouth open, soft groans escaping.

Your stomach flips violently.

He whispers something. Something soft, a voice you haven't heard in weeks—the way he used to talk to you.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby. Can’t get enough of you.”

Your world tilts. You don’t scream. You don’t make a sound. You take a step back. And another. And another. You walk away before they can see you. Before he can see what he’s done.

Your hand covers your mouth, the hallway spinning around you.

You stumble back to your studio. The file’s still open. Hongjoong’s verse still missing. Like you’re missing.

You don’t cry. You don’t delete the track. You close the laptop gently, like it’s fragile.

Because if you break one thing, you might not stop.

⋆

The next day, you show up right on time. Hair brushed, hoodie clean, headphones slung around your neck.

No one would guess that you barely slept, that you spent the night curled up on the studio floor because you physically couldn’t make it home.

Hongjoong arrives ten minutes late. He barely glances at you when he walks in, phone in hand, cap low over his eyes.

You smile at him anyway. Smile. Even if it’s broken. Even if he doesn’t look at you.

“You ready to record your part today?” You ask, tapping your notes like your heart isn’t crumbling.

He nods casually, pulling out his water bottle and warming up his voice “Yeah. Just the bridge, right?”

You hum in agreement, adjusting the mic settings “Mmhm. Also… just checking, you still remember about our dinner on Friday?”

That catches his attention for a second. He looks up “Dinner?”

Your stomach knots. Your hand tightens around the pen “The one I booked a month ago. That place near the Han River? You made me promise not to cancel, even if work got heavy?”

A pause. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes “Ah… yeah. Of course I remember. I’ll be there.”

And just like that, he goes back to humming into the mic.

You nod, smiling again.

Of course he’ll be there. Of course he said that.

Because you’re still pretending. And he’s still pretending. And both of you are very good at acting.

But that Friday it wasn't what you expected to be.

You spent two hours getting ready. Even put on makeup, something you haven’t done in weeks. Your legs feel like glass, and your skin is bruising under your sweater sleeves, but you still curl your hair and pick the perfume he once said he loved.

You arrive early, of course. The restaurant is soft-lit, romantic. There’s a tiny candle flickering on the table you reserved a month ago.

You order water. You wait.

Fifteen minutes.

Thirty.

An hour.

You check your phone. No messages. No calls. No apologies.

The candle flickers lower. The server comes by for the third time and finally asks, gently:

“Would you like to order something? Or…?”

You smile at him “No, thank you. I think… I’m not really hungry anymore.”

You pay for both meals you didn’t order, just in case he shows up later.

When you get home that night, your phone finally buzzes. You’re already curled under your blanket, still wearing the clothes you picked for your date.

Joongie 🖤: "Sorry. Something came up. We’ll reschedule next month."

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn’t break, it simply stops trying. A bitter chuckle slips from your lips.

“I’ll probably be dead next month.”

And then you roll over and close your eyes.

Alone.

—

The soft creak of the front door wakes you.

Your eyes flutter open, your body sinking deeper into the mattress before you force yourself up. Every bone protests. Your limbs feel too heavy, your joints throb. There’s a ringing in your ears again—low, constant—like a warning.

But still, you sit up. Because it’s him.

Maybe you’re foolish. Maybe you’re still waiting for the version of him who once held your hand in packed rooms, who left sleepy kisses on your forehead, who whispered “I love you” like it was sacred.

Maybe you’re just hoping he’ll look at you the same way again.

Barefoot, you walk across the cold floor. Your oversized sweater slips from one shoulder, the fabric brushing against skin that bruises too easily now. The lights in the living room are dim, but you see him.

Hongjoong. Standing near the coat rack, pulling off his hoodie with a long, tired sigh.

You stop in the doorway “Where were you?” Your voice is soft. Not angry. Just… quiet. Worn down.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers “Working.”

You glance at the clock. 3:47 a.m. You scoff—not with bitterness, but disbelief.

“It’s almost four, Hongjoong.”

That makes him turn, eyes sharp with irritation.

“I have a comeback on my fucking shoulders. Of course I’m staying late.”

The words bite, but you try to swallow it down “I know, I— I wasn’t trying to—”

“I already said sorry,” He snaps, tossing his hoodie carelessly onto the couch. “Don’t start nagging me about forgetting the damn dinner.”

“I’m not,” You murmur. “I just… didn’t think you’d actually come home tonight.”

That’s all you meant. Just that. Not an accusation. Not even a disappointment. Just honesty.

But something in him bristles like you lit a match near his fuse. He turns fully to you, and for a second, the air leaves your lungs. You smell it—faint but distinct—alcohol.

And worse, you see it: darkened skin just above his collar, smudged and uneven, red-purple hickeys that his t-shirt doesn’t fully cover.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Still… you say nothing. Because if you speak, you might scream.

“You are complaining,” He says suddenly, voice rising. “That’s all you do lately. You’re always tired, always acting like the world’s ending—”

“I’m not acting—” You breathe, voice cracking. But he doesn’t let you finish.

“We’re all tired,” He barks. “You think you’re the only one going through shit? Everyone’s stressed. Everyone’s working. But no one else is dragging it around like some pathetic excuse.”

That word—pathetic—splits something in your chest.

“I didn’t know I was an excuse to you,” You whisper.

He scoffs like you’re being dramatic “God, you’ve been so exhausting lately. You don’t even look like yourself. You’ve lost weight, you’re pale all the time, you’ve got these dark circles under your eyes. You look… sick.”

You are sick.

But he doesn’t know that. Because you never told him. Because he never asked.

“If something’s wrong with you, just say it already,” He huffs. “Stop walking around like some damn ghost expecting me to coddle you.”

You feel it in your chest now—the slow, suffocating sting of grief folding into itself.

Your voice breaks when you speak again “It’s been almost a month since we really talked. Since we existed together. I planned that night for us, Joong. I just… I miss you.”

He looks at you like he’s staring through a window. Cold. Detached.

“See? Complaining again.”

Your heart splinters. And in that moment, you understand.

He’s already gone. He left you long ago. Now he’s just looking for reasons to make it your fault. You nod, almost imperceptibly. Your throat burns, but you force your lips into a flat line.

“Okay,” You whisper. “Sorry.”

And you walk away. Back to your room. Back to the bed made just for the two of you—that’s held only one body for weeks now.

You collapse onto the mattress, curling into yourself. And this time, you don’t hold back the tears.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three days have passed since that night.

Since the night you finally let the tears fall—not because of the war inside your blood, but because of something far more painful: losing Hongjoong.

You hadn't realized how much he meant to you until the silence between you turned permanent. You hadn't cried for your illness… but for him, you broke.

And since that night, things have only gotten worse.

The nosebleeds are more frequent now. Your bones ache just from getting dressed. Bruises blossom across your skin from the gentlest touch, like a whisper of pain stitched into every cell.

The dizziness never leaves, and somewhere deep inside, you know: You're running out of time.

So you start moving. You make a list in your head of the things that matter. The things you must do before it’s too late. And at the top of that list… is Yeosang.

Today, you drag Yeosang to the largest mall in Seoul, ignoring his annoyed sighs as he follows you across the marble floors.

He mumbles something about how the two of you should be at the company, you doing the last track’s reviews and how he should be at the dance studio.

But you wave it off with a smirk and keep pulling him along until you’re both standing in front of a luxurious watch display.

You point at the glass case and ask, “Which one do you like?”

Yeosang looks at you suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly “Why are you asking me that?”

You grin “Just pick one.”

He frowns, shifting his weight onto one foot “You don’t have to buy me something expensive, you know. My birthday’s not even here yet, it’s in three weeks.”

“I know,” You reply, voice soft but steady. “But I want it to be ready by the exact day. It’s custom-made, so it’ll take time.”

Yeosang sighs, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips now “You’re impossible.”

Still, he looks at the collection and nods toward a sleek silver watch with delicate engraving.

“That one. It’s simple. I like it.”

You nod back, but before you can say anything else, the world sways under your feet.

Your vision goes fuzzy, the lights above blurring into streaks of white. You try to blink it away, try to steady yourself… but your body gives out before you can say a word.

Yeosang catches you before you hit the floor.

—

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor fills the hospital room, calm and cold. Yeosang sits beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if holding himself together.

He’s been sitting like that for almost two hours now, unmoving except to occasionally glance at your pale, unconscious face.

He didn’t panic when you fainted. Not at first. He carried you to the car, drove like a madman, shouted your name again and again. But nothing prepared him for what the doctor would say.

When the door finally opens, Yeosang stands immediately. The doctor asks him to step outside, but Yeosang shakes his head and says flatly.

“Just tell me. Say it here.”

There’s a pause. Then the doctor exhales slowly “Your sister has acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” He says quietly. “Advanced stage.”

Yeosang doesn’t move. The words don’t make sense. They bounce around in his skull like static.

“No,” He mutters. “She would’ve told me. That’s not— She… she would’ve said something.”

The doctor’s expression doesn’t change “She was diagnosed two weeks ago. She refused chemotherapy, declined transplant and long-term treatments. She didn’t want to go through the medical process.”

“She didn’t want to fight?” Yeosang snaps, his voice cracking. “Why wouldn’t she fight?”

“She made it very clear she didn’t want to burden anyone, she just accepted the risks.”

Yeosang takes a sharp breath, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. He turns his eyes toward you again.

You look so small. So still. The same girl who used to sneak into his bed as a child whenever there was thunder.

The same one who’d sing off-key just to make him laugh. The one who held his hand during their parents’ worst fights and promised she’d always be there.

Now she was slipping through his fingers. And he hadn’t even noticed.

The doctor continues gently, “At this stage… it could be days. Maybe weeks. But it’s impossible to know. All I can say is… it won’t be long.”

Yeosang lowers himself into the chair again, slowly this time, as if his body can no longer hold him up.

His throat burns. His hands are shaking.

You, his little sister—the only person in the world who never asked him to be perfect, never judged him, never left—you were dying. And you didn’t even tell him.

Tears pool in his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t hide them. Doesn’t wipe them away.

He reaches out and takes your hand in his. It’s cold. But he holds it anyway, like maybe if he holds tight enough… you won’t let go.

—

You feel it before you see it—the weight of the world pressing down on your chest, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your eyelids flutter, slow and reluctant. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar… white, bright, sterile.

A hospital.

You sigh softly through your nose. So much for hiding it a little longer. Turning your head slightly, you already know who’s sitting there. You can feel him.

Yeosang.

He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling. Silent sobs rack through him like he’s trying to hold in a scream that’s been locked inside his ribs for too long.

You blink, the sting in your eyes not from the room’s brightness but from what you’re seeing.

Yeosang is crying.

Not angry. Not yelling. Not scolding. Just crying.

And not the kind of crying you’ve seen when a choreography goes wrong or when stress cracks him for a second. No, this is deeper. Rawer. His heart is breaking in real time.

You know exactly why. And for a second, guilt slices through you sharper than anything the illness ever has. He must’ve talked to the doctor. He knows.

You swallow, throat dry. You try to speak, but your voice is barely there.

“Yeosang…”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, lifts his head, and his eyes lock onto yours like you’re a ghost he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. And then—in one breath—he breaks.

He doesn’t say a word. He just stands and wraps his arms around you.

Carefully.

So gently, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he squeezes too hard. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and you feel the wet heat of his tears soak into your hospital gown. His hands grip your back, trembling with everything he can’t say out loud.

You freeze, caught in that fragile second between comfort and collapse.

Because this is Yeosang. Your brother. Your protector. The one who always had it together, who never let anyone see the cracks in his armor. And now he’s holding you like the world has ended.

And in his eyes… maybe it has.

“I thought I had more time,” You whisper, your hand weakly brushing over his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He still doesn’t speak, only pulls you closer, and you feel it—the ache in his breath, the sobs he still tries to swallow down even now, even here.

You try to smile “I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

A shaky breath escapes him, and you finally hear his voice—hoarse and cracked and barely above a whisper.

“Why didn’t you let me fight with you?”

That’s when your heart shatters. Because there’s no good answer to that question. Only a dozen broken excuses, that you didn’t want him to suffer, that you didn’t want to be the burden, that you didn’t want to see pity in his eyes.

That you wanted to protect him.

But now he’s holding you like he’s the one who needs saving. You lean your head against his shoulder and let yourself cry too, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” You murmur. “I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart.”

His arms tighten just enough to make your breath catch “I’d rather watch you fall apart… than lose you without even knowing you were slipping away.”

He’s never said anything so honest to you before. He’s never needed to.

And now you lie there in his arms, the beeping of machines ticking off seconds you can’t promise to survive, and think about all the things you wanted to do—all the people you have to say goodbye to.

But for now, you let yourself just be his sister.

And let him cry.

Because sometimes, even the strongest ones break.

—

It’s been nearly twenty minutes since the tears finally stopped. Yeosang still hasn’t let go of you, but his sobs have faded into soft, steady breaths against your shoulder.

You rest your cheek gently against his hair, fingers combing through the strands like you used to when he couldn’t sleep as a kid. It’s soothing, for both of you.

Neither of you says anything for a while. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, you murmur, "Please don’t tell anyone."

He doesn’t move. But after a second, he replies quietly, "Why not? They’re your friends. They deserve to know."

You feel your throat tighten. He’s right, in theory. But theory doesn’t count for much when you’re the one dying.

"You should at least tell Hongjoong," He adds. "He’s your boyfriend."

That word—boyfriend—makes you freeze.

Is he?

The silence in the room grows louder. Because it’s not a matter of labels. You know the truth, or at least the truth that hurts the most.

He isn’t really yours anymore.

He’s probably out right now, laughing with her, forgetting how your fingers used to trace his skin, how you used to fall asleep listening to the rhythm of his breath.

He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once since that night.

You blink away the burn behind your eyes "Especially him," You say, quieter now. "Don’t tell him anything."

Yeosang pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are tired, still red "Why not?"

You manage a hollow smile, one that doesn't quite reach your lips. "Just don't."

"Okay," Yeosang says gently.

You shrug, gaze drifting toward the window. The world outside is still spinning, oblivious to what’s happening here.

"Thank you."

Yeosang doesn’t argue. Instead, he just nods slowly and rests his forehead against yours.

"I’ll carry it with you." He whispers.

And you close your eyes—because even if your time is running out, for now, you’re not alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You turn your head away, your voice no stronger than a breath.

“I don’t want to eat.”

Your fingers tremble where they clutch the blanket, but you hide them beneath the sheets, as if that will make you seem stronger than you feel.

Yeosang lets out a soft sigh, gentle but tired. You hear the quiet clink of the spoon as he places it back down on the tray.

“Sweetheart…” He says, reaching to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. “Just a little, okay? You need to eat.”

You don’t answer right away, the smell of the soup making your stomach churn.

“I don’t feel like it,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the wall across from you—anywhere but on him. “Everything tastes like metal.”

“I know,” He whispers, his voice tight with worry, “but you have to try.”

You hesitate. Then, without meeting his gaze, you sit up slightly and open your mouth. Just one bite.

He smiles weakly, bringing the spoon up “There’s my good girl.”

The warmth of the soup hits your tongue, bland and bitter, and you swallow with difficulty. It’s not the food that makes your eyes sting.

It’s the look in his.

It’s been three days since the doctors told you it was no longer safe for you to go home—not with how easily your body is giving up on you.

The dizzy spells, the nosebleeds, the bruises from brushing against doorframes… the way your bones feel like they’re crumbling from the inside out.

You wanted to protest. You had plans. You had things to finish.

But Yeosang insisted, and he hasn’t left since.

He comes early, brings you coffee even though he knows you barely sip it anymore, and forces you to take at least three bites of every meal.

After breakfast, he leaves for the company—but never without kissing your forehead like he used to when you scraped your knees as a kid.

He returns before nightfall, sometimes with books, sometimes with that sad smile he tries so hard to make look hopeful.

He sleeps on the couch in your hospital room now, no matter how many times you tell him to go home. He never listens.

And you love him for it. But the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, is a steady ache in your chest that no painkiller can touch.

Every time he walks through that door, every time he hides his puffy eyes behind a joke, every time he tucks your blanket up to your chin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish overnight…

You feel like a burden.

Like the weight of your dying is something he carries more than you do.

You glance at him now—his hands fidgeting with the spoon, his jaw clenched like he’s trying not to say something too heavy for the room.

You want to thank him. You want to tell him to stop. You want to ask him to leave before it gets worse.

But instead, you whisper, “Sorry.”

Yeosang turns his head sharply “For what?”

You shake your head slowly, sinking deeper into the pillows “For making you stay. For making you watch me like this.”

His face crumbles for a second, and then he gently places the spoon back on the tray and leans forward, taking your hand in both of his.

“Hey,” He says, voice trembling, “You’re not making me do anything. I’m here because I want to be. I’m here because I’m your brother. And I love you.”

His fingers tighten around yours “You’re not a burden. You’re the only reason I’m holding it together.”

Your lips part, but the lump in your throat makes it impossible to speak.

And still… the ache doesn’t go away.

Because no matter what he says, you see it in his face. The fear. The grief. The knowing.

You’re slipping, and he knows it.

⋆

The energy in the company feels… off.

It’s subtle at first. A quiet kind of absence. Like someone turned the volume down on the whole room.

You haven’t shown up in days—no messages, no check-ins, no complaints about how overworked you are, or how the coffee always tastes like burnt water.

Just silence. A hole in the atmosphere no one seems to want to name yet.

“Did she take a sudden vacation?” Wooyoung mumbles, peering at the shared project calendar on the studio screen. “She didn’t say anything to me…”

“She didn’t say anything to anyone,” Seonghwa answers, brow furrowed as he scrolls through his texts. “I messaged her two nights ago. No reply.”

“She didn’t even complain about Mingi messing up the last track?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly alert.

Seonghwa shakes his head “Nothing.”

That alone is strange. You always replied to Seonghwa. Even just with a thumbs up or a meme. The realization settles heavily between them.

Then there’s Yeosang.

He’s here, technically. Sitting through meetings, nodding at updates, eyes staring at whatever screen is in front of him.

But he hasn’t made a single joke all week. He hasn’t even complained about the lunch orders.

And his eyes… They’re always red. Always tired. Not the ‘I slept late’ kind of tired—the kind that looks like he’s been fighting off the weight of the world.

They all noticed the bandage on his hand too. A small thing, easily missed—except he’s been picking at it, like his mind isn’t even in the same room as his body.

In the recording studio, he flubs his lines. Not once, not twice—four times. Yeosang never messes up. Never.

By the fifth take, he mumbles an apology and pulls off the headphones, muttering something about needing air before walking out.

Silence follows him.

Wooyoung exchanges a look with Seonghwa “Something’s wrong.”

Seonghwa’s jaw is tight, his voice quiet “Yeah.”

—

The company building was quiet after hours, the fluorescent lights casting a cold glow over the empty hallways.

Most of the staff had gone home, but Seonghwa was still around, sorting through choreography notes.

Wooyoung, who’d gone to grab something from the vending machine, passed by one of the practice rooms when he caught sight of a familiar figure slumped in the corner, motionless.

He paused “Yeosang?”

No answer. He pushed the door open slowly, the faint sound of choked breathing slipping through the silence.

“Yeosang?” He repeated, softer this time.

That’s when he saw him. Yeosang was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled up, face buried in his hands.

His shoulders were shaking, his breaths ragged, and the tears—God, the tears—were pouring silently, as if they had been held in for far too long.

Wooyoung froze, the can of soda slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor.

“Yeo…”

Seonghwa heard the noise from down the hall and came quickly. When he stepped into the room and saw the sight before him, his heart dropped.

Yeosang didn’t even lift his head. He couldn’t.

He had held it together for days—for weeks. Through the hospital visits. Through the sleepless nights. Through every forced smile he gave the others so they wouldn’t ask questions.

But the moment he was alone, the weight became too heavy. Too sharp.

“Yeo,” Wooyoung said again, crouching down, touching his shoulder. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Yeosang finally looked up, and both Seonghwa and Wooyoung felt their breath hitch. His eyes were bloodshot, cheeks damp, mouth trembling as if every word was a mountain.

“She’s dying,” He whispered.

Wooyoung blinked “What?”

Yeosang clutched his phone like a lifeline, and slowly, with shaking fingers, turned the screen toward them.

Your hospital ID. Your name. Your patient band. Your photo with that tired smile.

“She’s in the hospital,” He said, voice cracking. “It’s—it’s cancer. Blood cancer. And she didn’t tell anyone. She kept working like nothing was wrong. She didn’t even try treatment. She said she didn’t want to suffer.”

He paused, his whole body trembling.

“The doctor told me… she could go at any moment.”

The room went silent.

Wooyoung staggered back onto his heels, lips parted in shock “No… no, she’s—she was just here last week. Laughing. Messing with me in the recording studio. She can’t—she can’t be—”

“She is,” Yeosang choked out. “She is, and I—I have to watch it happen. Every day I go there and she smiles like she’s okay, like she’s not falling apart in front of me.”

Seonghwa stepped forward, heart clenched, crouching beside him. He wrapped an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders, grounding him with quiet strength.

“You’ve been going through this alone?”

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Yeosang admitted, voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to make it real.”

Wooyoung wiped at his eyes, trying to process the hurricane of grief building inside his chest. “Why didn’t she say anything to me…? I would've—”

“She didn’t want to be a burden,” Yeosang interrupted. “That’s what she told me. Can you believe that? She’s dying and she’s worried about burdening us.”

There was nothing else to say for a moment. Just silence. Just three broken hearts on a practice room floor.

Then Seonghwa pulled Yeosang into his arms fully, holding him tight as his tears returned full force. Wooyoung leaned in too, hand gripping his arm.

“You’re not alone in this,” Seonghwa whispered. “Not anymore.”

“We’ll be there,” Wooyoung added. “For both of you.”

And in the quietest part of the night, Yeosang let go.

He let it all out—the pain, the fear, the helplessness—into the hands of the only people who could understand.

Because this wasn’t just grief.

This was love. Cracked and bleeding.

And it was real.

⋆

There’s a sound tugging at you from sleep.

At first, it’s faint—like a whisper underwater. A low hum of voices and the quiet, broken rhythm of someone trying not to cry.

Then it gets sharper.

“…She’s sleeping, be quiet,” You hear Yeosang murmur, his voice strained.

“But how the hell am I supposed to—” Another voice cracks, shattering mid-sentence.

You frown softly, your eyes still closed, floating somewhere between consciousness and exhaustion. Then a sniffle. Then a choked sob. Muffled. Held in.

And you know. You know before you even open your eyes.

Slowly, you peel your lids open, vision blurry under the hospital room’s dim light. Your throat is dry. Your body aches in ways you’ve gotten used to.

But it’s not the pain that takes your breath—it’s the sight in front of you.

Three figures. Yeosang sitting at your bedside, pale and silent, his hand loosely holding yours. And just beside him, Seonghwa and Wooyoung.

Seonghwa’s eyes meet yours first, full of something that looks like mourning. As if you're already gone. His lips press into a thin line.

But it's Wooyoung who crumbles. The moment he sees your eyes flutter open, he breaks. A sob escapes his throat, and he covers his mouth with his hand as tears stream down his cheeks.

His body shakes. He turns his face away, ashamed, but it’s too late—the dam is broken.

“Woo…” You whisper, your voice barely there.

He walks toward you like a storm—fast, trembling, desperate. Then he collapses to his knees by your bed, burying his face in the side of your blanket.

“You idiot…” He cries, voice muffled. “You absolute idiot… how could you hide this from us?! From me?!”

You don't answer right away. You can't. Your heart aches more than your body, watching him fall apart like that—loud and vulnerable, the way only Wooyoung ever is.

Yeosang says nothing, but his hand grips yours tighter.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” You murmur, your voice cracked like broken porcelain.

Wooyoung lifts his head just enough to look at you. His face is blotchy and red, eyes swollen, expression unreadable at first—until the grief turns into something else: anger.

“You think we care about that?!” He snaps, voice shaking. “You think I’ve known you since middle school just to not be there when you're going through this?!”

His voice rises, but Seonghwa gently places a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Wooyoung exhales hard and leans his head back against the bed, still crying quietly.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper.

And it’s the worst part. Not the illness. Not the bruises on your skin or the ache in your bones.

The worst part is seeing the people you love grieve you while you’re still alive.

Yeosang leans forward, pressing his forehead to your hand.

“No more hiding,” He says, voice hollow. “You don’t have to be strong alone anymore.”

You let out a shaky breath and close your eyes again—not from fatigue, but to keep the tears from spilling.

Because now it’s real.

And somehow… that makes it both more painful and more comforting at once.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next four days pass in soft, slow pieces—moments stitched together by the quiet devotion of those who now carry your secret.

Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Wooyoung take turns by your side like clockwork. They don’t ask for permission—they just do.

Wooyoung bathes you gently, humming old songs to distract you from the cold water on your sore skin.

Seonghwa brings you freshly cut fruit, sits by the window, and reads aloud to you with his warm, steady voice—something about the way he does it makes you forget your body is failing.

And Yeosang, always Yeosang, feeds you when you’re too tired to lift a spoon and whispers things like, “just one more bite for me, sweetheart,” as if you’re still the little sibling who used to follow him around in your pajamas.

They do all of this without complaint. Without hesitation. Without letting you see the weight they carry.

But you see it anyway.

You see it in how Seonghwa avoids your eyes when you ask about the company. How Wooyoung’s jokes come slower, quieter. How Yeosang never lets go of your hand, even when he thinks you’re asleep.

On the second day, you ask them for a notebook and some pens. There’s no ceremony to it—just a quiet request.

“I need to write some letters,” You say, voice raspy.

They don't ask what for. They don’t need to.

Wooyoung brings you a sketchbook with thick pages and a pouch of pens in every color.

“So you can make them beautiful,” He says with a sad smile.

Each letter you write feels like another piece of your soul laid bare. You try to make them lighthearted—full of warmth, small memories, little jokes.

But they always end the same: with the words you’ve never been brave enough to say aloud.

Goodbye.

—

Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the company is growing tenser by the day. You’re not there. You’re not answering messages. No one's said why.

The boss knows you're taking “medical rest,” and the production team was told it's just temporary.

But Hongjoong isn’t buying it.

You were supposed to finish the final arrangement of the last album track. The deadline is breathing down everyone’s neck. And you—the one who usually sleeps under the mixing desk with a cold coffee and a blanket—have disappeared.

He hears whispers. He sees Yeosang come in with dark circles under his eyes, sees Wooyoung miss rehearsals for the first time in months. Seonghwa walks around like he’s carrying glass in his chest.

But no one says a word.

“Where the hell is she?”

Hongjoong snaps one afternoon, slamming his phone on the table in the production room.

“Everyone’s working their asses off and she’s just—resting?”

Yeosang freezes at the doorway. Seonghwa looks away. Wooyoung’s jaw clenches so tight it trembles.

But they say nothing. Not because they want to keep your secret. Because you asked them to.

Because you begged, “Don’t tell him. Not yet. Please.”

And so they bite their tongues. They swallow the pain. They let Hongjoong’s words slice into them without defending you.

Because the truth would shatter him.

And you're not ready to break his heart.

⋆

Your phone vibrates weakly against the metal bedside table. The screen lights up in the quiet dark, just past midnight.

Hongjoong.

You stare at the name. Your thumb hovers.

It’s been a week.

A week of silence. A week of not answering, not checking messages, not daring to reach out first—hoping, just a little, that he’d miss you.

That he’d notice your absence. That he’d call not out of obligation, but out of care.

You told yourself you wouldn’t answer. But hope is cruel, and you're too tired to fight it tonight.

You slide your thumb across the screen and whisper, “Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Where the fuck are you?”

Your breath catches. No hi, no how are you, no I miss you. Just fury, sharp and cold.

You blink, heart sinking, already wishing you hadn’t picked up “Hongjoong…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m—I needed time. I’ve been—”

“Yeah, clearly. Taking a rest while the rest of us carry your weight?” He scoffs. “Do you think this is some kind of fucking vacation?!”

You flinch. The IV line tugs slightly against your arm as you instinctively curl in on yourself.

“I wasn’t—It’s not like that—”

“You still haven’t finished the last track. Do you know how unprofessional this is?”

He laughs bitterly, cruelly.

“If you don’t deliver by next week, I’ll tell the board you’re useless. Take a permanent rest from work. Let’s see how that feels.”

It hits like a knife.

You want to scream I’m dying. You want to scream I love you. You want to scream Please don’t do this to me—But you don’t.

Instead, your eyes blur as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then his voice softens—not with affection, but with venom too practiced.

“Stop being a burden and do your fucking work.”

Your heart cracks clean in half. The silence that follows is unbearable.

You don’t hang up. You don’t cry. You just let the line go dead when he ends it.

And then the quiet comes back. But it’s not peaceful anymore.

It’s the kind that echoes every horrible word back to you—again and again—until you’re left with nothing but the sound of your heart breaking… in a body already falling apart.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next morning, the sunlight sneaks through the pale hospital curtains, casting soft gold over your bed. You barely feel it. Your bones ache. Your chest is still tight from last night.

But you hide it.

Yeosang is gently spooning porridge toward your lips.

“Just a little more,” He says softly, eyes tired.

He hasn’t slept well. You know he cried again—his lashes are still a little wet. You don’t ask. You just open your mouth and obey, like a good patient.

When he finally packs up to leave for the company, brushing your hair with his fingers like he used to when you were little, you smile.

“I’ll be okay,” You lie.

He hesitates “Call the nurse if you need anything.”

“I will.”

You wait until the door clicks shut before you call for the doctor.

“I need to go out for a few hours,” You say, sitting upright, your voice steadier than it should be. “Please. Just a few hours. I’ll be with a nurse. I… have things to finish.”

The doctor stares at you for a long time. You don’t offer more. You just meet his gaze with quiet determination.

Finally, he sighs “Only for a few hours. The nurse goes with you the entire time. No arguments.”

You nod "No arguments."

—

Stop 1: The Watch Store.

The clerk greets you with a warm smile, not noticing the slight tremble in your legs as you step inside.

“I’d like to pay for the custom watch I ordered online,” You say, pulling the receipt from your pocket with careful hands.

“And can you have it delivered on June 15 to this address?” You slide Yeosang’s name and home address across the counter.

The clerk nods, typing it in “Anything else?”

You hesitate, then smile faintly “Can you write a note to go with it? ‘For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

—

Stop 2: The Bakery.

The scent of sugar and yeast hits you like a memory—birthday mornings, surprise celebrations, shared laughs in the break room.

“I’d like to order a cake for June 13th,” You tell the girl at the counter.

She types as you speak “Message on the cake?”

You nod “Congratulations on your comeback, I’m so proud of you.”

She smiles “That’s sweet! Where should it be delivered?”

“KQ Entertainment. Lobby.”

—

Stop 3: The Funeral Home.

The room is sterile. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

The woman speaks gently as you browse “Do you… know what you’re looking for?”

You nod. A simple white coffin. Lilies. Nothing overdone.

You hand her a photo—one from your last birthday. You look healthy in it. Radiant. It’s the version of yourself you want them to remember.

“If it happens… soon,” You say quietly, “please use this photo.”

The woman places her hand over yours. You don’t flinch, just nod.

—

Stop 4: KQ Building.

You step in quietly through the side entrance. The guards recognize you, but they don’t question your pale complexion, or the nurse at your side. One of them greets you with a smile.

“You’re back,” He says. “It’s been a while.”

“Just for a bit.”

You walk slowly to the studio. No one sees you, they’re all working.

You sit in the recording room, headphones on, and finish the track Hongjoong demanded.

The lyrics blur in your mind, but the melody comes through clearly, like it had always been there—waiting.

When it’s done, you transfer the final version to a small silver USB. You stare at it for a second, then scribble something on a post-it.

“Sorry for the burden.”

You place the USB gently on Hongjoong’s desk and slip away before anyone notices you were even there.

The nurse doesn’t ask anything. She just holds the door for you as you step out into the spring air.

For the first time in weeks, you feel light. Not because anything is better. But because the end is near.

And you’re doing everything you can to leave it all behind… quietly, beautifully, on your own terms.

—

The studio is dimly lit, the same soft blue LEDs casting lazy shadows over the mixing console and shelves lined with half-finished demo CDs.

Hongjoong walks in, a coffee in one hand, the girl clinging to his other arm. She's giggling, wearing his hoodie like it's hers. Maybe it is, now.

He sets the coffee down, sighs as he slumps into his chair "Finally," He mutters, spotting the silver USB on the edge of his desk.

The small, square post-it clings to it. Your handwriting is instantly familiar—even now, he knows it better than his own.

"Sorry for the burden."

He reads it once. Then again. But his face doesn’t change.

No flicker of concern. No softness. No guilt.

"About time," He mutters, peeling the note off and tossing it into the trash without a second glance.

The girl beside him leans over his shoulder “Is that the track you needed?”

He nods, plugging the USB in “Yeah. She finally sent it in.”

There’s no thank you. No message sent. No question of where you've been or how you are.

Just a press of the spacebar. Play. Adjust. Pause. Replay. Work, as usual.

And the girl? She curls up on the studio couch, pulling out her phone, completely unaware—or perhaps uninterested—that this is a song made by someone slowly dying. Someone he once said he loved.

He doesn’t mention you. Not once. Just hums along to the melody you spent the last of your strength finishing.

The very one that will help complete their comeback.

Without you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The hospital room is quiet, cloaked in the fading light of a late spring afternoon. The soft hum of machines fills the background, broken only by the gentle scratch of your pen against paper.

You’re finishing the last letter—the most difficult one. The one addressed to him.

‘To Hongjoong,’ You write, your hands trembling.

Tears blot the page before the ink can dry. You bite your lip to keep from sobbing, but it doesn’t help.

The words come slowly—not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts too much to say it.

When you finish it, you fold the letter slowly, tuck it into an envelope already addressed with your shaky handwriting. You place it on the small box next to your bed—all your letters, sealed and organized.

Wooyoung promised he’d deliver them if something happened. And you believe him.

The sun has dipped lower now, and Yeosang is gathering his things. He's dressed for filming, eyes tired, voice gentle.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks for the fifth time.

You nod, smiling “Yeah.” He lingers near the bed, hesitant. “Yeosang?”

“Hm?”

“…Thank you. For loving me. For staying. For making me feel like I wasn’t dying alone. You’ve been… everything.”

He frowns, stepping closer “Hey—hey, where’s that coming from?”

You reach for his hand, your grip so much weaker than it was even days ago “Just wanted to say it… in case.”

His throat bobs “You’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be scared.” You smile, tired but genuine. “Just remember that I love you. More than anyone in this life. You’ve made it beautiful, Yeosang.”

He bites his lip, eyes welling with emotion “You’re coming home. We’re going to beat this, okay?”

You nod, even though you both know it’s a lie.

He kisses your forehead gently, holding your hand longer than he should “I love you too,” He whispers, his voice cracking. “So much.”

Then he’s gone.

You watch the door close, and for the first time, the silence feels too big. You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of it all settle into your bones.

No more strength. No more words.

Just you.

You don't know how much time you spend looking at the ceiling, but you let out the softest breath like a whisper no one hears.

Your hand slips from the blanket.

The monitors slow… Then stop.

You die in that room—quiet, still, surrounded by goodbye letters and the sunlight you were always chasing. No one holds your hand. No one’s there to whisper your name.

And your biggest fear comes true.

You die alone.

⋆

"Okay, take a ten-minute break, everyone!" The director calls out after the choreography for the second verse wraps.

The room exhales all at once—a chorus of panting breaths, damp hair, and bodies sinking into the floor.

Some members collapse onto the ground, others shuffle to grab water bottles, sweat clinging to their skin.

Hongjoong claps his hands with a grin, voice laced with adrenaline “This is it, guys. This comeback... it’s going to be amazing.”

Everyone nods, smiling through their exhaustion, the air buzzing with the thrill of creation.

Until—

“Excuse me,” A staff member calls out gently, stepping into the rehearsal room, holding a phone in both hands.

Her voice wavers “I’m sorry to interrupt but… Yeosang-ssi, your phone’s been ringing nonstop since the last take.”

The room stills. Yeosang, who had been toweling the sweat from his neck, turns slowly. His brows draw together in immediate concern.

“From who?” He asks, walking toward her.

She hands the phone over, and he stares at the screen.

Six missed calls. All from an unknown number.

Seonghwa shifts on the floor, his stomach tightening. He and Wooyoung lock eyes.

They know something is wrong.

Yeosang doesn’t wait. He calls back with shaking fingers. The call connects after a single ring.

“Mr. Kang?” A voice answers gently—too gently. “We’re calling from Seoul National Hospital. I’m afraid we have… very difficult news.”

Everyone around him stops moving.

Yeosang’s throat tightens “W-What happened?”

“We tried—Mr. Kang, we tried everything, but… we couldn’t save her.”

The silence that follows isn’t quiet, it’s screaming.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.”

Yeosang’s knees buckle. He drops the phone mid-sentence, a choked sound tearing from his throat as if someone reached inside him and pulled out his soul. His body hits the floor with a dull thud, hands clawing at his chest.

“No… no—no, no, no, no,” He gasps. “She—no, she was okay this afternoon, I fed her—she smiled at me—she—”

“Yeosang?” Wooyoung is already by his side, falling to his knees, grabbing his friend’s shoulders as Yeosang sobs, broken and raw.

Seonghwa picks up the phone and listens numbly as the hospital confirms the worst. His face drains of color. He doesn’t speak—only slowly lowers the phone, trembling like a leaf.

“She’s dead?” Wooyoung whispers, his voice hollow.

Yeosang doesn’t answer. He can’t. He curls into himself, the wails coming now—full, loud, gut-wrenching. The kind of crying that tears your throat open, the kind that sounds like it shouldn’t come from a human being.

Everyone in the room freezes. Even Hongjoong goes pale, stepping forward slowly.

“What’s going on?”

Seonghwa finally turns to him, red-eyed and shaking “She’s gone,” He whispers.

“What?”

“She’s dead, Hongjoong.”

And that’s when it clicks.

The song. The way Yeosang had been acting like the world was ending. The way you had disappeared without telling him anything.

Hongjoong staggers back as if slapped. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even blink.

The words hang in the air like smoke: She’s dead.

They echo. They twist. But they don’t land.

He’s still standing in the center of the room, the choreography lights overhead casting long shadows down his face, but his eyes are unfocused, lost.

Yeosang is still crying—a broken, hoarse sound that scrapes at the walls. Wooyoung is holding him, whispering something against his temple. Seonghwa’s hands tremble at his sides as he stares at the floor.

But Hongjoong… He just blinks.

Dead? You can’t be dead.

You’re dramatic. Emotional. Reckless. But not dead.

He remembers the last call. The venom in his voice. The impatience. The threat.

He remembers not saying I love you back. Not once. Not even when you begged with silence.

He walks out of the studio like a ghost, no one stopping him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s raining.

Because of course it is. Not a torrential downpour—just the kind of quiet drizzle that clings to black umbrellas and feels like the sky is crying in your place.

The room is quiet. Almost too quiet for a funeral. Like no one dares speak in fear of breaking the spell.

The casket is closed. Sleek. White. Lined with the delicate flowers you chose yourself.

There’s a photo framed above it—the one from your last birthday. You look beautiful in it. Young. Alive. Eyes sparkling.

Too alive to be gone.

Yeosang stands beside your casket with swollen eyes and a hollow heart. He hasn’t left your side since the doors opened.

Seonghwa is next to him. Rigid. Pale. The type of grief that looks like discipline but is actually just survival.

And then there’s Wooyoung. His eyes are glassy but dry—because he’s been holding something more important than tears: A small box.

Your box.

Inside, letters.

One for each member. Sealed, with their names written in your delicate handwriting.

As the ceremony ends, he moves silently, one by one.

First to San. He presses the envelope into San’s hand and doesn’t say a word.

San reads your name on the letter and immediately breaks. His shoulders hunch forward, and he walks away before anyone sees the tears come.

Then to Mingi, who clutches the letter to his chest and nods, trying to swallow the sob threatening to escape.

To Jongho, whose eyes glisten but lips stay shut.

To Yunho, who takes it gently, fingers trembling, and whispers, “Thank you.”

To Seonghwa, who doesn’t even blink—he just holds it and whispers, “I’ll read it when I’m ready.”

To Yeosang, whose fingers brush yours one last time before taking the letter. He holds it to his lips. Doesn’t speak. Just cries again.

And finally—To Hongjoong.

Wooyoung walks up to him slowly, jaw clenched. He hesitates—just for a second—before holding the letter out.

Hongjoong doesn’t take it. He stares at the paper like it might burn him. His face remains blank.

“She wrote it for you,” Wooyoung says, quiet, almost cruel. “You should read it.”

Hongjoong lifts his eyes, slow and tired “I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

The envelope slips from Wooyoung’s hand into Hongjoong’s. And for a long moment, Hongjoong just stares at it.

Your handwriting. Your last words.

To him.

His fingers close around it. He doesn’t cry. But his jaw locks, and his throat moves in one hard swallow.

The only thing he says is a whisper: “…I’m sorry.”

—

Later that night, the funeral is over. The sky is still weeping.

Hongjoong sits alone in his studio.

Not working. Not writing. Just sitting.

The letter sits on the table in front of him, untouched for hours. He’s been staring at it, afraid to open it, afraid to feel.

But eventually, his hand reaches out, slow and almost hesitant—like touching it might make it all real.

He breaks the seal. Your scent hits him faintly—that soft perfume you always wore—and already he’s breathless.

The paper shakes in his hands as he begins to read.

“To my love, my HongJoongie…”

That’s still how I think of you. Even after everything. Even now, even as I’m writing this with trembling fingers and bruised lungs. You’re still my Joongie.

I think I always knew.

About her.

The way your messages got shorter. How your voice lost that warmth. The way your eyes wandered, even when I was speaking. The way you smiled… just not at me anymore.

But I never asked. I didn’t want to break what was already cracking. I didn’t want to hear you say it, because then I couldn’t pretend anymore.

So I chose love. I chose you. Even when it hurt.

Hongjoong’s chest caves in.

His eyes blur. He wipes at them, but the shaking won’t stop now. He keeps reading, slower.

You were supposed to be my person. My safe place. I would’ve given everything just to be loved by you a little longer. Even if it meant swallowing all the pain. I wanted to be with you until the end, Joongie.

But the truth is…

I think you were already gone before I ever left.

He chokes. His hand flies to his mouth, like it might stop the noise rising in his throat.

But it’s too late.

A sharp sob rips from him. He bends forward, clutching the paper like it’s your hand and he can still hold on somehow.

The words blur.

But he forces himself to keep going.

You know, I used to be afraid of storms. The thunder always made me cry when I was little. But I grew out of it eventually.

I wish I could say the same about the fear of dying alone.

That one never left.

And now… I can feel it, Joongie. I can feel the end coming closer. And it’s cold. It’s terrifying. Because I think I’ll be alone when it comes. And I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to die without you.

Hongjoong breaks.

Completely.

No more holding back. No more numbness. Just grief. Ugly, gut-wrenching grief.

He collapses onto the floor, letter crumpled to his chest, sobbing like a man being ripped apart. Because he was supposed to protect you.

He was supposed to love you, stay with you, be there—through the storms, through the end.

But he let someone else into his bed while you were writing goodbye letters and choosing coffins.

He let you die alone.

And now there’s no song, no track, no apology that can bring you back.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

One Month Later

The company building is alive with quiet celebration.

It’s the day of the long-awaited comeback—photos are being taken, staff buzzing with excitement, members preparing for interviews and performances.

There are smiles.

But none of them quite reach the eyes.

Your absence is still a wound, deep and unhealed.

They all feel it — the silence where your voice used to be, the space you once filled so brightly now left hollow.

Then, somewhere between conversations and flashing lights—

“Delivery for Kang Yeosang?” A courier calls from the entrance.

Yeosang, confused, steps forward and takes the small, neatly wrapped box. His name is written in your handwriting.

There’s no mistaking it. His hands tremble. He opens it slowly.

Inside is a custom-made silver watch, the exact model he once told you about in passing—the one he never expected anyone to remember. The dial engraved with tiny, delicate script:

"For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

He stares at it, unable to speak. His chest tightens painfully.

Tears gather. A quiet, broken sob slips from him. Seonghwa puts a hand on his shoulder—and they don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Across the building, another courier arrives.

“Delivery for KQ Entertainment – Congratulations Cake?”

The receptionist, puzzled, takes it.

It’s a beautiful cake—white and gold, elegant. The top reads in delicate frosting:

“Congratulations on your comeback. I’m so proud of you all.”

The members gather around it slowly, recognizing the handwriting on the card beside it before anyone speaks.

No one touches the cake. No one can move.

Wooyoung’s eyes well up first “...She planned all this,” he whispers. “Even when she knew she wouldn’t be here.”

Jongho’s jaw clenches. San turns his back to hide his tears. Mingi cries openly.

Hongjoong is the last to arrive, holding your letter in his pocket—worn and read a hundred times.

He sees the cake. He sees Yeosang clutching that watch like it’s the last thread of you left in the world.

And for the first time in days—He crumbles.

He sinks to his knees beside the table, staring at the cake, whispering your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak.

Because love this deep doesn’t disappear when you die.

You gave them all a part of you to keep.

Even him.

Even the one who broke you, and it’s only now that he realizes… You were the only light any of them ever needed.

And you were gone far too soon.

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