the holidays had a way of making things feel both soft and sharp at the same time. this year, minghao felt that more than usual. change had always been something he believed in — the kind that grew quietly, naturally, like light shifting across a room. but lately, it seemed louder, less gentle. members packing bags for enlistment, others finding new homes, new routines, even new pieces of themselves. he was proud of them — truly — but there were moments, in the quiet between practices and late flights, where he noticed how still he felt in comparison. almost like he’d been standing in the same place for a very long time without meaning to.
in his studio, he didn’t paint answers. he painted motion — circles, patterns, things almost breaking apart but not quite. lines that wavered toward something unknown. he didn’t call it loneliness, because it wasn’t that. it was more like waiting. waiting for something he couldn’t name, something that felt close but not yet within reach. people called him calm, centered, zen, and maybe he was. but even calm water knows when it's been still too long.
he didn’t say any of it out loud, and maybe he didn’t need to. the year would turn over soon, and change would come whether he chased it or not. he just hoped, quietly, that when it did, he’d be ready to move with it — not just gracefully, but honestly.
