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Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

Take me with you to go find her

My one and only

And smile, tears, breath

The eternal castle

And the lonely island all by its lonesome

No warning can stop me

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Seungcheol x f!oc I Minghao x f!oc (?)

Tags:tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst

Word count: 7.4k

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Chapter 15 - End

The cup slipped from her fingers before she even realized it.

Hot tea spilled down the counter, soaking into the pages of the open notebook she’d left by the sink. The ceramic shattered on the floor a second later, the sound sharp and final.

But Sua didn’t flinch.

She stood there, her phone still clutched in her hand, screen dark now. Her fingers were trembling. Not violently. Not the kind of tremble that made you gasp or stagger. No, this was quieter—subtle and horrifying. The kind of shaking that crept into your bones when your body knew something your mind wasn’t ready to admit yet.

Pledis had called her.

They had spoken gently. Calmly. With the kind of rehearsed sympathy that was more insulting than comforting.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her knees gave out before the tears did. She slid to the kitchen floor, the broken cup beside her, the spilled tea now lukewarm beneath her palms. Her mouth opened—but no sound came out. Only air, shaky and thin. Her chest rose and fell, uneven, like her lungs had forgotten how to do their job.

He had been fighting with them. With his members. His brothers.

Because of her.

She just didn’t know it.

Not until now.

Not until Pledis handed her the truth like a loaded gun and asked her to pull the trigger herself.

He had been fighting for her.

Fighting because of her.

And the worst part?

She knew him.

Even though they’d only been together for just under a year, she knew him. Knew how easily he’d burn down the whole damn world if it meant protecting someone he loved. How recklessly he’d throw himself into the fire if he thought she was hurting. How much he hated seeing her in pain.

He would leave it all behind. In a heartbeat. The group, the career, the stage he’d built piece by piece since he was a kid.

He would walk away for her.

And she couldn't let that happen.

Her fingers curled tighter around her phone. Her breath hitched again, and this time the tears came—slow and stinging. No sobs yet. Just the kind of crying that felt like drowning. The kind where your body didn’t move, didn’t shake—just leaked. Quiet. Defeated.

It was too much.

Too loud in her chest.

Too final.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth as a strangled sound escaped her throat. A sob. Guttural. Painful. It was like her lungs had ripped themselves apart from the inside.

She wasn’t just heartbroken.

She was destroyed.

Because loving Seungcheol had never been the problem.

It was losing him—choosing to lose him—that would kill her.

And now she had to do exactly that.

—

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The tea was still soaking into the notebook by the kitchen sink. Shards of the broken cup were scattered around her knees, but she couldn’t move. Not yet. The tears hadn’t stopped, not since the phone call. Her lungs hurt. Her throat ached. She was still gasping like she’d just run a marathon in a dream she couldn’t wake up from.

She needed someone.

Just one person.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone, her vision still blurry with tears. She scrolled through her contacts until she found his name—Minghao—and pressed “Call.”

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—

“Sua?”

Her breath caught. Just hearing his voice made the wall she’d been building inside her crack wide open. Her voice came out in a jagged whisper, barely human.

“Ha-Hao…”

A pause. “What happened?”

“I—” Her voice cracked completely, collapsing into sobs. “They called. Minghao, they called me—Pledis—they said I have to stay away from him. They said he’s fighting with the members—he’s losing everything—and it’s because of me. They said…”

She pressed her palm against her mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but it was too much. Her whole body was shaking now.

From the other side, Minghao was moving. She could hear it—the sharp shuffle of feet, the click of a door, his breath speeding up.

“Where are you right now?”

“At home—” she gasped. “I didn’t know who else to call—I didn’t—I can’t let him find out, Hao. If he finds out, he’ll leave everything behind for me. You know he will.”

She was choking on every word, guilt curling like poison in her chest.

And Minghao knew. Of course he knew. There was a pause—a beat too long—but then his voice came back, calm, gentle, grounding.

“I know,” he said. “I know, Sua. I’m at rehearsal, but I’ll come to you as soon as we’re done, okay? Just… breathe. You’re going to be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“No,” she whispered, wiping at her face with the back of her trembling hand. “Don’t tell him. Please. I can’t be the reason he throws everything away. I won’t survive it, Hao. I won’t.”

“I won’t say anything,” he promised. “I swear. Just hold on for me, okay?”

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’m trying.”

But even as she said it, she already knew the truth.

She wouldn’t be there when he arrived.

She hung up first. Not because she wanted to. Because if she stayed on that call for one more second, she would’ve begged him to come now, begged him to take her somewhere far away, and she didn’t have the strength for that kind of desperation anymore.

The screen dimmed.

And in the hollow silence that followed, another buzz lit up her phone.

Just arrived at the venue. Members are all here.

She stared at the message like it was a knife.

Like it was a goodbye she hadn’t written yet.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

Because he didn’t know.

Because he was still trusting her with his heart, not knowing she was about to break it.

She typed, barely seeing the letters.

Good luck. I’m rooting for you.

She hit send.

And then she let herself scream—into the pillow, into the silence, into the kind of heartbreak that didn’t sound poetic or pretty.

Because it didn’t feel like anything but ruin.

—

It took her a long time to move again.

Time blurred after that last message. Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes dragged into hours, and she just sat there on the kitchen floor—knees pulled to her chest, eyes blank, throat raw. The tea had long dried into a sticky stain across her tiles, seeping into the edges of her notebook, her palms red from gripping them too tight against her knees.

Her body ached, not from injury but from holding it all in. Her ribs felt bruised from crying. Her lungs were sore from silence.

She had nothing left in her, but the world outside kept spinning.

And Seungcheol was still out there—laughing, rehearsing, maybe smiling at something someone said—completely unaware that the ground beneath him was already cracking.

And she was the one holding the match.

The call echoed in her skull like a bell: He recently had a conflict with several members and staff over this matter.

Her breath caught again.

Fighting with them. His brothers. The people who'd held him up, been by his side since he was a teenager, who knew every inch of who he was even before she did. She could see it—his voice raised, jaw tight, the vein in his neck throbbing the way it always did when he was angry. She could hear him defending her again and again until his throat went raw.

And he’d never tell her.

Because he was protecting her, even when it destroyed him.

She knew him too well.

And because she knew him, she had to go.

There was no “talking this through.” No middle ground. If he found out what they said—if he found out they threatened to choose for him—he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d leave the company, the group, the life he built with his own hands. For her.

And that would kill him.

So this would have to kill her instead.

Her limbs moved before her brain did. A kind of mechanical instinct took over, like her soul had already decided and was dragging the rest of her body along for the ride. She got up, slow and stiff, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt. Her throat burned. Her eyes stung. But she didn’t let herself cry again. Not yet.

She walked to the living room, took a shaky breath, and picked up her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment before she scrolled through her contacts and tapped on a name she never thought she’d call again—not for this.

“Hello?” her boss answered on the second ring, voice clipped and surprised.

Sua swallowed the knot in her throat.

“I’ll take the job,” she said, quiet but steady. “The one you offered me in Paris. If it’s still open.”

A pause. “Wait—what?”

“I’ll take it,” she repeated. “You said the position was available. That you’d help me settle in if I ever wanted a fresh start.”

Another pause—longer, heavier. Then a breath on the other line.

“It’s still open,” her boss said carefully. “You’re sure?”

No.

Not at all.

Not in the ways that mattered.

But she had to be. For him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Her boss exhaled. “Okay. I’ll arrange everything. When are you thinking of leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I'll hand over everything to Ari and handle the rest when I land there.”

A pause so sharp she could feel the disbelief through the phone.

“Jesus, Sua.”

“I know,” she said softly, rubbing her temple with the heel of her palm. “Just… I can’t be here anymore. I’ll pack tonight. I don’t want anyone else to know until I’m gone.”

There was understanding in the silence that followed. The kind that only came from watching someone hold themselves together with shaking hands.

“I’ll make some calls,” her boss said finally. “Text me your passport info. I’ll have Ari help you at the airport. You’ll be okay.”

“I don’t think I will,” Sua replied.

But she hung up anyway.

Her hands dropped to her sides. For a second, she just stood there in the middle of her apartment, staring at nothing, listening to the buzz of the fridge and the faint hum of the outside world that didn’t know she was crumbling.

And then she moved.

Boxes.

Suitcases.

Trash bags.

Old gift boxes from Seungcheol she couldn’t bear to look at but still folded gently, like they meant something, before laying it on a box.

She packed her books first—quietly, carefully—like she was tucking away pieces of herself. Her memories. Her safety. One by one, she placed them into the cardboard box she used for winter clothes.

Then came the closet. Her sweaters, her dresses, the hoodie she always wore when she was anxious—his hoodie.

She stared at it for too long.

And then she packed it anyway.

It was almost 8 p.m. by the time the last suitcase was zipped. She hadn’t eaten. Barely drank. Her phone was buzzing somewhere in the mess, but she ignored it. She couldn’t look at his name again. Not until she was gone.

But then—

A knock.

Sharp. Sudden. Two beats against the door that made her flinch.

She froze.

The sound was so real it knocked the air out of her.

Her gaze darted to her phone.

Six missed calls.

Four from Minghao.

Two from Seungcheol.

Her stomach twisted.

And then—another knock.

She moved. Legs heavy, bare feet dragging across the wood floors. She opened the door slowly, barely daring to breathe.

It was Minghao.

His hood was up, cap pulled low, mask covering half his face—but she knew those eyes. She’d know them anywhere.

He stepped inside.

And the first thing he did was stare at the boxes.

Then the suitcases.

Then her.

And something inside him shattered.

—

Minghao didn’t speak for a while.

He stood at the doorway, frozen like someone had knocked the air out of his lungs, eyes slowly scanning the room as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The boxes. The open suitcase. The folded clothes. The taped-up memories. Her face.

And then his voice cracked, low and quiet.

“...You’re really doing this.”

Sua looked down at her feet. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Not now. Not when they still held pieces of her past, and maybe worse—reminders of the part of her that almost stayed.

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

She didn’t reply. Her fingers curled around the edge of the suitcase, knuckles white. She could still feel the burn behind her eyes, but the tears had dried up hours ago. Now there was just this hollow ache, the kind that sat under your skin like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

Minghao stepped deeper into the room. His steps were slow, tentative—like he was afraid one wrong move would make her disappear completely.

“Does he know?” he asked softly.

Sua shook her head.

His jaw clenched. “And you’re not going to tell him?”

“I can’t.” Her voice cracked this time, barely more than a whisper. “If he knows, he’ll come after me. You know he will.”

“I do,” Minghao said. “Because I would.”

She looked up.

And there it was—that ache again. That quiet, unbearable ache between two people, one who loved the other in silence. His eyes held her like they always had: gently, fully, with everything he never said out loud.

“Minghao—” she started, but her voice broke.

He stepped closer.

“I know I’m not the one you’re in love with,” he said, his voice shaking just slightly. “I know that. But I still can’t let you go like this.”

“It’s not fair,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“I don’t care,” he said, too fast. Too desperate. “I’d rather see you broken than disappear without a word.”

Sua’s breath caught.

And that’s when he really saw her.

The way her shoulders shook. The puffiness under her eyes. The trembling in her hands even as she tried to hide them. She looked like someone who had used up every last ounce of strength just to survive the day.

And for the first time since they met, Minghao dropped everything.

His mask. His calm. His logic.

He walked to her, fast and silent, and pulled her into the tightest hug he’d ever given anyone. No words. No explanation.

Just him, holding her like he was trying to keep her from falling apart.

Sua melted into him like she’d been waiting for it—like her body had been craving this very thing she didn’t even know she needed. The comfort. The safety. The familiarity.

This was the hug that used to save her before Seungcheol.

And now it only hurt more.

Her knees gave in first. Then the sobs followed—slow at first, then harder, until they ripped out of her like a dam had finally broken. She buried her face in his chest, shaking, her fists gripping the fabric of his hoodie like she could anchor herself to it.

And Minghao just held on tighter.

He said nothing.

Because what could he say?

He didn’t want to be the one she ran to, not like this. Not as a last stop before goodbye. Not when he still loved her in a way that was so painfully, helplessly quiet.

But he would be there anyway.

Always.

Eventually, she pulled back, eyes red and swollen, hair clinging to her cheeks. Her hands were still trembling when she walked back to the half-packed suitcase and zipped it shut.

“I have to finish,” she murmured.

Minghao didn’t move. He watched her quietly, jaw clenched, breathing uneven.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

And just like that, they went back to the silence.

She packed.

He taped.

They folded clothes they once laughed in. Sorted through books he once borrowed. Moved furniture that had held so many memories they didn’t dare speak of.

And when everything was almost done, and the room started looking less like a home and more like a stranger’s apartment, Minghao finally spoke again.

“I’ll help you get a moving company for this,” he said. His voice was lower now. Defeated.

Sua paused, her back to him.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He sat on the edge of her bed, watching her fold the last sweater.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, almost too soft to hear. “Please.”

Her hands froze.

He didn’t look at her this time. His eyes were on the window. The way the city lights spilled across her walls. The way everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

“You don’t have to go. Not like this. I’ll help you hide if I have to. I’ll talk to them. We’ll figure something out.”

“You know I won’t,” she said, barely audible.

“I know,” he said, just as softly.

Silence.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. Like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I just hate that I’m not enough to make you stay.”

She turned to him, eyes wide, heart breaking all over again.

“Minghao…”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, standing up before she could say anything more. “Don’t say anything.”

She didn’t.

He crossed the room and opened his arms again—and this time, when he pulled her in, she collapsed before he could even close them around her.

And he held her like he always had.

With everything.

Even if he had to let her go.

—

The apartment is silent now, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional shuffle of paper. Neither of them has spoken much since the move was discussed, but the words that linger in the air feel heavier than anything that’s been said. Minghao hasn’t left, not yet. He’s still here—sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes lost in thought as he stares at nothing in particular.

Sua is sitting beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush, but it feels like there’s an ocean between them. She’s exhausted, drained, her mind still tangled in the chaos of the past few hours. Her heart is shattered, and she doesn’t know how to put it back together. How can you fix something when the pieces are scattered everywhere, and you’re too afraid to pick them up?

The clock on the wall ticks on, reminding them both of the time slipping away. It’s nearly 3 AM now, and neither of them has slept. Not that they could. Their bodies are wrecked, but their minds are far worse off.

Minghao glances at her, his gaze soft but filled with worry. He hasn’t asked her if she’s okay. Because he knows the answer. How could she be? How could either of them be?

She hasn’t cried much since the last time. Not out loud, anyway. But he can see the way her shoulders tremble as she folds a shirt in her lap, as if the simple task is the only thing anchoring her to the present. His heart breaks just a little more every time she avoids his gaze, every time she looks away as if she’s trying to disappear.

“I can’t do this, Minghao,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the quiet of the room. She’s staring down at the shirt in her hands like it’s the only thing in the world that matters right now. The words slip out of her lips with a finality she can’t take back.

Minghao opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s nothing to say, really. He’s known all along, hasn’t he? He’s known from the moment she made the decision. He knew the weight of it long before she ever said the words aloud.

“You don’t have to go,” he says softly, but there’s no real hope in his words. He’s just saying them because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know how to stop this. He doesn’t know how to stop her from leaving.

Sua looks at him then—finally looks at him, her gaze haunted, broken, like the pieces of herself are scattered all over the room. “I do, though. I have to.”

She exhales shakily, and Minghao watches her chest rise and fall, every breath an effort. His heart breaks again, not just for her but for himself. He can’t bear seeing her like this, yet he knows he can’t make her stay.

“I can’t keep doing this, Minghao,” she adds, her voice thick with emotion, though she refuses to let the tears fall. She’s past the point of crying, it seems. “I can’t keep being the reason everything falls apart.”

Her words sting, even though he’s heard them before. He knows what she’s saying, but it doesn’t make it any less painful. He wants to tell her that it’s not her fault—that none of this is her fault. But the words feel empty. Because he knows it won’t make a difference. She has already made her decision.

Minghao shifts on the couch, the ache in his chest almost unbearable now. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to take hers, to pull her close and tell her it will be okay. But he doesn’t. Because he knows it won’t be okay. Not this time.

“I just wish…” Minghao starts, but he can’t finish. The words choke in his throat. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say. Maybe he wishes things were different. Maybe he wishes she could stay, that she didn’t feel like she had to leave. Maybe he just wishes he didn’t feel so powerless.

Sua shifts beside him, and for a moment, she’s so still that Minghao wonders if she’s already gone—if she’s left him without a word, without a look back. But then she turns to him, her eyes wide, vulnerable, as though she’s afraid to show him what’s been happening inside her all along.

“I'll write a letter,” she says, the words barely escaping her lips. “For Seungcheol.”

Minghao’s heart twists at the mention of Seungcheol’s name. He can’t imagine what the letter says, but he doesn’t want to ask. He knows it’s not his place.

Without another word, Sua stands up, and Minghao watches her go to the desk in the corner of the room. She grabs a pen and a piece of paper, the familiar rustling sound of the paper echoing in the otherwise quiet space. She places the paper down with careful precision, her hand hovering over it for a long moment.

Then, she begins to write.

Her handwriting is elegant, careful, the pen gliding across the paper like it’s the only thing she can control right now. As she writes, her brow furrows, and the tears that she’s been holding back for so long finally begin to spill. But she doesn’t stop writing.

She writes, pouring everything she feels into the letter, every bit of sorrow, every apology, every fear she’s tried so hard to bury. She writes the words she can’t say out loud, the things she can never tell Seungcheol in person. The letter becomes a confession, an apology, and a goodbye—all wrapped into one fragile piece of paper.

When she finishes, her hand lingers on the paper for a moment, the ink still fresh. She doesn’t read it again. There’s no need. She already knows what it says. But she can’t shake the feeling that she’s written a final chapter to a story she never wanted to end.

She folds the letter carefully, the crease sharp and deliberate. Then, she hands it to Minghao, her fingers trembling as she presses the paper into his hands.

“Can you give this to him?” she asks quietly, her voice breaking as she fights to hold back the tears that threaten to spill. “When you see him. Can you tell him I’m sorry?”

Minghao looks down at the folded letter in his hands, the weight of it almost too much to bear. His eyes blur, but he doesn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. Not until he’s alone.

“I’ll give it to him,” he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Sua nods, looking down at her hands, almost as if she’s ashamed. “Thank you, Minghao. You’ve always been there for me. You’ve been so good to me.”

Minghao doesn’t know how to respond to that. He wants to tell her that he’s not just a friend, that he’s always wanted more, but now isn’t the time. He can’t make this about him. Not when she’s already hurting so much.

Instead, he just gives her a sad smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and leans back against the couch.

—

The sun comes up too quickly, like a cruel reminder of how time never waits for anyone—especially not for people who are already broken. The air feels different today, colder, heavier, as though the world itself is aware of the gravity of the moment, pressing down on her with a weight too great to bear.

Sua barely notices the bags she’s packed the night before. Her clothes, her books, the small, intimate pieces of her life that once felt so familiar, now seem like foreign objects. It’s like she’s packing up a version of herself that she’ll never get back, closing the door on a chapter she didn’t want to end. The apartment that once held her dreams, her laughter, her pain, is now almost completely bare—echoing with silence, filled only with the remnants of memories.

She doesn’t even look at Minghao when he enters the room, his face a mask of quiet sorrow. She already knows what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. The soft pleading in his eyes is enough to break her all over again, but she can’t let herself go there—not now. Not when the decision has already been made.

She’s leaving. She has to.

Her phone buzzes with a new message. Sua doesn’t look at it at first. She knows who it’s from. Seungcheol. The texts have come in relentlessly all morning, each one more desperate than the last. She hasn’t opened any of them. She can’t. She knows that if she reads one, she won’t be able to leave. She won’t be able to do this to him.

But then, just as she’s about to zip her suitcase shut, her phone buzzes again, louder this time, and she sees the name on the screen. Seungcheol.

She ignores it.

“Are you sure about this?” Minghao’s voice is low, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid the answer will shatter whatever’s left of them. He stands by the doorway, his body tense, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His posture is stiff, like he’s bracing himself for the storm that he knows is coming.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she picks up the small picture frame on the desk, the one with a photo of her and Seungcheol laughing at some stupid inside joke, and her heart tightens in her chest. The smile on her face seems so foreign now, so distant. A time when everything was easier, before the weight of their love and their pain had taken over.

“I don’t have a choice,” she finally says, her voice breaking under the strain of the words. “I can’t let him destroy everything for me. For us. For Seventeen. I can’t let him do that.”

Minghao steps closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “And what about you, Sua?” His voice cracks, the vulnerability in it cutting through the coldness in the room. “What about your happiness? Don’t you deserve to fight for what you want too?”

Her throat tightens, and she blinks back the tears that threaten to spill. She hates herself for feeling this way. She wants to fight. She wants to stay. But she knows that it’s not just about her anymore. It’s about Seungcheol, about the people he loves, about the career that’s been built with blood, sweat, and tears. If she stays, it’ll tear everything apart, and she can’t live with that.

“I can’t be the reason he loses everything,” she says softly, almost to herself. “He deserves so much more than me. He deserves to be happy with his members, with his brothers. He doesn’t deserve to fight for me. Not when I’m just…” She chokes on the words, unable to finish the sentence.

Minghao’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face is enough to tell her that he doesn’t agree with her, that he wants her to stay, to fight for herself—for them.

But Sua just shakes her head, the tears finally spilling over, running down her cheeks in a quiet stream. She wipes them away quickly, angry at herself for still caring. Angry at herself for feeling so weak when she should be stronger.

“I’ll never forgive myself if I destroy everything for him. If I’m the reason he loses his family, his career…” Her voice falters. “He’ll hate me.”

Minghao reaches out, his hand hovering in the air as if he wants to comfort her but doesn’t know how. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t let him see the rawness of the pain that’s splitting her apart. Instead, she takes a deep breath and turns back to her suitcase, zipping it up with finality.

She’s done.

“Help me with the rest?” she asks, her voice small, almost too small for the weight of what she’s about to do.

Minghao doesn’t hesitate. He walks over and starts picking up the last few things from the floor, folding them gently before placing them in her suitcase. He doesn’t say a word as he works, but the silence between them is heavy, thick with things neither of them can say. His hands tremble slightly, his eyes flicking to her every few seconds, but he says nothing. He’s already said too much, already begged her too much, and it’s clear that none of it matters.

By the time the last of her things are packed, the apartment feels emptier than it ever did before. It feels like the last vestiges of what could have been are being erased with every movement.

It’s almost time to leave.

Minghao glances at the door, knowing that the moment she walks out of it, things will never be the same. He doesn’t want her to leave, not like this, not with so much unsaid between them, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to stop her.

He knows that no matter what he says, Sua will leave.

As she picks up her suitcase, she hesitates by the door for just a moment, a single glance back at the apartment she’s leaving behind. Her eyes flicker over the space—over everything that once felt like home—and for a brief second, she wonders if she’s making the biggest mistake of her life.

But then, she shakes her head.

No, she tells herself. This is what has to be done. For Seungcheol. For everyone.

—

The airport air always felt cold, no matter what season it is.

Sua wrapped her coat tighter around herself, but no amount of fabric could protect her from the way her chest was collapsing inward. Everything felt sharp. The wheels of her suitcase rolled against the polished tile with a rhythm that sounded too loud in the silence between them—her and Minghao. He walked beside her without a word, face masked, eyes hidden, his hands tucked into his jacket like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her again.

She had barely slept the night before, her limbs trembling as she packed what little life she had left behind. It didn’t feel real. It still didn’t. But there was no turning back.

At the gate, two figures waited.

Ari, cheeks red and puffy, barely held it together the moment she saw Sua. She dropped everything and ran into her arms. “You’re really doing this?” she whispered, breath shaking. “You’re really leaving?”

Sua didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

She only nodded, her lips trembling too hard to form words, and hugged Ari even tighter. She felt her friend’s tears soaking into her shoulder. Then her boss stepped forward, quieter but not any less emotional. She touched Sua’s arm gently.

“You did good,” her boss said. “And you’ll do even better there. I’ll take care of things here. I promised, didn’t I?”

Sua nodded again. Her throat burned from holding back the sob that had been lodged there since dawn. “Thank you,” she rasped. “I’m sorry for doing this so fast—”

“Don’t apologize,” the woman said gently. “This is what I offered, remember? You just finally had the courage to take it.”

The moment felt suspended in air. Too much was left unsaid, and yet everything felt understood.

Sua turned around to face Minghao.

He hadn't moved from his spot since they arrived. He was watching her with eyes full of things he would never say. His hands were clenched in his pockets. His posture stiff. He didn’t cry in front of others. He never did.

But when she reached for him, when she pulled him into a hug—his arms folded around her so tightly, so painfully—it nearly broke him.

He squeezed his eyes shut behind the shades. His shoulders trembled.

“I hate this,” he whispered into her ear. “I hate this so much.”

“I know,” Sua murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.” His voice cracked. “You’re doing what you have to do, right? You’ve always done that. Even when it hurts you the most.”

She smiled sadly, her fingers clutching the back of his jacket. He still smelled like mint and oakwood. Safe. Familiar. Home—at least the version of it that used to catch her quietly every time she fell.

But he was never the one.

And he knew that.

Still, he stayed until the very end.

Still, he let her go.

When the final call echoed through the speakers, she stepped back slowly. Ari was crying again. Her boss had turned away to wipe her eyes. And Minghao stood still, like a statue carved out of grief, his lips pressed in a tight line, jaw clenched so hard she thought it might crack.

“Tell him…” Sua said quietly, eyes searching his for the last time. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

Minghao nodded once. Not because he agreed. But because he would.

She gave one last glance at the life she was leaving behind—three people who had meant so much in such different ways. Then she picked up her bag, turned toward the gate, and walked away.

Minghao didn’t look away until she was gone from view.

Only then did he let himself cry—quietly, behind his mask, shoulders shaking in silence.

Ari leaned against him, sobbing.

And Sua’s boss placed a gentle hand on his back.

But nothing helped.

Because letting someone go out of love doesn’t make it any less painful.

Sometimes, it hurts even more.

—

The morning Seventeen was scheduled to fly out to Japan, Seungcheol woke up with a strange tightness in his chest. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No texts left on read, no obvious red flags. And yet—something felt wrong.

He texted Sua.

Good morning. Can’t believe we’re flying out again.

Eat well today, hmm?

No reply.

He figured maybe she was still asleep.

But two hours passed. Then three. Then six.

And she still hadn’t answered.

His messages went from playful to curious to mildly concerned.

Babe?

Are you okay?

You home?

Sua.

Still nothing.

It wasn’t like her. She always texted, even if it was just a sleepy “mhm.” She always made sure he ate, always sent those little emojis he teased her about but secretly loved.

But today—nothing.

By mid-afternoon, dread had already started to spread through his veins. When the manager called to remind them to get ready, he tried not to show it. Tried to smile, crack a joke, be the leader everyone expected him to be. But his hands were shaking when he pocketed his phone.

He called her.

No answer.

He called again.

Straight to voicemail.

At 4:12 PM, he left rehearsal early and went straight to her apartment.

He rang the bell three times.

Knocked until his knuckles turned red.

Nothing. No lights. No sound. Just the silence that told him: she wasn’t there.

His breathing picked up. Panic curled under his ribs like a cold hook.

He texted again, just once.

Please. Just tell me you’re okay.

Behind him, the black van pulled up, their departure to the airport waiting.

He was still staring at the front door when Minghao stepped out of the van and walked toward him.

“Hyung,” Minghao said quietly, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses.

Seungcheol turned. “She’s not answering.”

Minghao hesitated. Then, without saying anything, he pulled a folded letter out from his coat pocket—crushed slightly at the edges, the ink smudged from the grip of someone who didn’t want to let go.

“What’s that?”

Minghao looked at him for a moment longer. And then handed him the letter. “She asked me to give this to you.”

The van engine hummed faintly behind them. The world kept moving. But in that moment, Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

He opened the letter.

"Seungcheol,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve probably landed somewhere far away by now…

Or maybe I’m still asleep, tucked into the window seat of a plane, drifting somewhere between clouds and dreams.

And you’re still here—holding this letter.

Breathing. Living.

Exactly how I want you to be.

I don’t know how to begin. I don’t even know how to say goodbye properly, Cheol. I never thought I’d have to.

But I love you.

I love you more than I’ve ever known how to love. And I know you love me too. Enough to fight for me. Enough to throw everything away just to keep me beside you.

That’s why I had to go.

Because I love you too much to let you do that.

You’ve worked so hard, for so long. I’ve seen it in your eyes—in the way you pour yourself into every song, every show, every moment you spend building a world that was never easy to carry.

You gave it your all.

And I can’t be the reason you burn it down.

I can’t let your heart choose me if it means you’ll lose everything you’ve bled for. I couldn’t live with that. I’d never forgive myself if I became the thing you had to sacrifice it all for."

He read it.

Every line. Every sentence.

Each word falling like a knife.

A poem written in heartbreak. A confession dressed in goodbye.

His vision blurred halfway through.

"So I left. Quietly. Quickly.

I didn’t give you a chance to stop me, because if you did… I know I would’ve stayed. You’d look at me and I’d break. I’d crumble.

You always did that to me, you know?

You made me feel safe. Real. Like I belonged somewhere in this world.

I’m sorry I called Minghao instead of you. I know how much that must hurt, and I hate that I did it—but I had to. I needed someone who wouldn’t try to make me stay.

You would’ve begged.

And I would’ve said yes.

Please don’t blame him. He didn’t want this either.

I don’t know where life will take me after this. I don’t know how long it’ll be before we meet again.

But if we’re meant for each other… if this love of ours really was something the universe carved into our bones—then we’ll find our way back. Someday.

Until then, don’t come looking for me. Don’t try to chase a shadow.

Just… live.

Sing. Laugh. Be happy.

And when the night gets too quiet and you miss me, I hope you remember that I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you.

I left because I couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason you lost yourself.

So live, Seungcheol. For me. For all of us.

And when it’s time… I’ll see you again.

Always,

Sua."

He clutched the paper like it was alive. Like if he held it hard enough, she’d come back.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice a low quake.

“I don’t know,” Minghao said honestly. “She didn’t tell me.”

Seungcheol stared at him. Silent. Wrecked.

But he didn’t say another word.

—

The knock came just past midnight. Sharp. Panicked. Unrelenting.

Minghao had barely finished drying his hair when he opened the door.

And there he was.

Seungcheol—flushed from the cold Osaka air, jaw clenched, eyes feral with panic. The moment Minghao appeared, Seungcheol shoved past him, storming inside like he couldn't breathe unless he was moving.

“Where is she?”

His voice was already fraying.

Minghao froze. “Cheol—”

“Where is she, Minghao?” he snapped, turning around. His whole chest rose and fell like he’d just run from the airport. “Tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know.”

“You were with her.”

“Yes,” Minghao said, quietly.

“You gave me that fucking letter!”

“I still don’t know where she went, Cheol.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying—!” Minghao’s voice raised a fraction, and it was enough to make both of them go still.

Seungcheol’s breathing turned ragged, hands trembling by his sides.

“She left because of me,” he said, voice cracking like dry wood. “Because I wasn’t careful. Because I let it all get too loud. Because I fought with the members, and the company, and I—”

He bit down on the rest of the sentence, but it was too late. The guilt had already poured out, too raw to hold back.

“She told you, didn’t she?” he whispered. “She told you why she left.”

Minghao looked away.

That was answer enough.

Seungcheol’s face twisted. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because she knew you’d drop everything for her!” Minghao’s voice snapped like a whip. “She knew you’d burn the whole world down if it meant keeping her, and she didn’t want that blood on your hands, Seungcheol!”

“Then she should’ve let me make that choice!” Seungcheol shouted.

The room echoed with his words.

Minghao clenched his jaw. “You think it didn’t kill her to leave? You think she just walked out like it was easy?”

Seungcheol’s fists balled at his sides. “She called you. Not me.”

That one hurt deeper than it should have.

“I was the only one she could call,” Minghao said, voice lower now, but heavy with hurt. “Because if she called you, she would’ve stayed. You would’ve begged, and she would’ve stayed—and she didn’t want to ruin you.”

“I wouldn’t have let her go,” Seungcheol said through gritted teeth.

“I know,” Minghao whispered. “That’s exactly why she had to ran.”

A silence followed. Thick. Devastating. Alive with pain.

“I was supposed to protect her,” Seungcheol said, breaking again. “I promised I would. I swore I’d never let anyone hurt her.”

“You didn’t,” Minghao said softly, stepping closer. “But you would’ve hurt yourself if she stayed. She chose you over her own heart, Cheol.”

Seungcheol sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. His hands covered his face as if trying to hold in the grief swelling inside him. But it broke free anyway—spilling in tremors down his spine, in wet gasps behind his palms.

And Minghao—God, he couldn’t stand it.

Because while Seungcheol mourned the loss of the love of his life…

Minghao mourned the loss of both of them.

The girl he loved, and the brother he couldn’t fix.

He stepped forward and dropped down beside Seungcheol again, knees to the cold floor, just like before.

“You’re not the only one hurting, hyung.”

Seungcheol looked at him through red eyes, broken. “You love her.”

“I still love her,” Minghao admitted, tears silently streaming down. “But she was never mine.”

Seungcheol looked down at his hands, the ones that used to hold her like she was the center of his universe. Now they were empty. Useless. Shaking.

“I didn’t even say goodbye…”

Minghao’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer. Just leaned forward and pulled Seungcheol into a trembling embrace.

And for a moment, neither of them were idols.