JUNSEO

The moment the words left my mouth, I felt the air crack. The cameras kept flashing, the reporters kept scribbling, but inside, everything slowed as Yura walked away. 

It wasn’t a mistake. I had to do it.

For months, I’d rehearsed this moment in my head, framing it like a carefully choreographed scene, where I finally set us both free.

But it still hurt like hell.

I stared out into the sea of faces, the lenses pointed like tiny suns, burning into my skin. The truth was clear: I wasn’t in love with Yura anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time.

Love isn’t always fireworks and pink light filters. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s cold coffee in the morning and silent drives home.

The others—my “brothers”—stood behind me, expressions unreadable.
Hyunwoo, our leader, stepped closer. He whispered, “You sure about this?”

I nodded. “It’s time.”

He exhaled sharply, like he was bracing for impact.

“You know this is going to blow up, right? The fans, the media—they live for drama. You just handed them the biggest headline of the year.”

I shrugged, the familiar mask sliding back into place. “Better me than someone else.”

Hyunwoo’s eyes flicked to the side, like he was weighing whether to push further.

“Are you worried about her?”

The question hung in the air heavier than I expected.

I looked away. “No.”

Truth was, I was terrified. Not of Yura, but of what comes next. The silence after the storm.

Hyunwoo clapped a hand on my shoulder, a rare gesture of solidarity. “You’ll need us all. We’ve got your back.”

I swallowed. Did I believe that? Could I trust any of this?

Because somewhere deep down, the part of me that still remembered what love felt like was breaking into pieces.

And I hated it.

I hated that I felt anything.

The second the press was over, I shoved off Hyunwoo’s hand and stormed down the hallway, past the assistants who flinched like I might bite.
They parted like curtains, and I didn’t say a word—not “excuse me,” not “thank you,” not even a look.

Because if I opened my mouth, I was going to scream.

The lounge door slammed behind me. I paced like a caged thing—like the leather couch and the pastel interior weren’t already crawling under my skin.

“Stupid. Idiot. God, I’m so—”

I kicked the side of the ottoman. It slid a full meter. Someone gasped from the hallway, but I didn’t care.

“She made me look weak.”

I spat the words like venom, even though I knew they weren’t true.

Hyunwoo stepped in without knocking, face unreadable, arms crossed. “Junseo—”

“Don’t ‘Junseo’ me right now.”

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.
Hyunwoo was always composed. Always calm.
The perfect leader.

I hated that about him, too.

“You should’ve backed me up out there.”

“I did.” he replied smoothly. “Like I always do.”

“Not enough.”

“Then maybe you should’ve told me what the hell you were about to do.”

I turned sharply. “What, you needed a calendar invite for me to dump someone who wasn’t even supposed to be backstage?”

That one landed hard. Even I felt it.

Hyunwoo blinked, slow and surgical. “You are unbelievable.”

“You think I’m the bad guy now?”

“No,” he said. “I think you’re a coward.”

Silence.

He let the word hang.

“You dragged her into this life,” he continued. “Into our schedules, our rooms, our stage crew—and now you think throwing her out in the cold in front of the nation is bravery?”

“She was holding me back.”

The words came out low. I hated how fragile they sounded.

“No,” Hyunwoo said. “She was your mirror. You just didn’t like what you saw anymore.”

I wanted to punch something. I wanted to throw a lamp. I wanted—

“You think I didn’t see the way Haoran looked at her?” I snapped suddenly, voice rising. “How you all tiptoed around her like she was some sacred thing I didn’t deserve?”

Hyunwoo’s eyes sharpened. “That’s what this is about?”

I laughed, loud and hollow. “Of course not. Of course it’s not. But tell me you didn’t notice it. Tell me the entire damn group didn’t start acting like I was the villain months ago.”

“You are the villain now, Jun.”

His voice was quiet. Final. Like a door slamming in my face.

I froze.

Hyunwoo stared for a second longer, then turned and walked out.

The door clicked behind him, soft as silk.

I sank onto the couch like something had been knocked out of me.

My hands were shaking. My pulse pounded like bass in my throat. I looked down at them and thought about hers—how small they were, how they used to fix my necklaces before events, how they’d cup my jaw when I couldn’t sleep—no.

I closed my fists. Buried my face in them.
And for the first time in years, I wished I was someone else.

I don’t know how long I sat there—could’ve been minutes or hours. The leather under me was warm, sticking to my arms like sweat.

Outside the door, the voices started stacking. Fast, low-pitched, nervous.

First a knock.
Then two.
Then a “Hyunwoo-hyung, is he in there?”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe.

Then Hyunwoo again. Calm. Stern.

“He needs a minute.”

Too late. The swarm was already coming.

Manager Cho barged in with a tablet under one arm and his phone still pressed to his ear. “Junseo, what the hell was that?” he hissed, shutting the door like paparazzi were about to break through it. “You couldn’t wait an hour?! You couldn’t talk to literally anyone?”

I said nothing. Just leaned my head back, eyes on the ceiling tiles. They were spinning a little.

Then—another knock.

“Please don’t be—”

Yura’s voice cut through the air like a dagger dipped in sugar.

“I just want to talk to him. That’s all.”

The silence was nuclear.

The kind that chokes.

My spine straightened without thinking.

Hyunwoo was already out in the hallway, arms raised, blocking her like some kind of PR bouncer. “Yura… maybe not right now.”

“Why? Because it’s messy? Because he made a spectacle out of me?” Her voice wavered. “I’m not here to cry, Hyunwoo. I just want to talk to him like an adult.”

“She’s already cried,” I muttered.

Riki—gum popping—leaned in the doorway now. “Bro.” He gave me a look that felt like a slap. “You sound like a villain in a dating sim. You know that, right?”

“Shut up, Riki.”

“I’m serious. What the hell did you even do that for?” he asked, tossing a pack of gum at me. “She’s been backstage since the beginning. You humiliate her on air? Like—what kind of male lead arc is this?”

I stared at the gum. Didn’t touch it.

Behind him, staff buzzed like a hive. Our stylist was crying. Our sound guy looked like he aged ten years in an hour. Someone was frantically rescheduling a shoot we hadn’t even filmed yet.

“This is a disaster,” Manager Cho muttered, typing on his phone like he was tweeting it live. “An actual disaster. I’m going to have to spin this like you’re going through an ‘emotional transformation era.’”

Then—

Daeun walked in.

The youngest. In his weird patchy hoodie. Hair still damp from the stage.

He looked around at the chaos, blinked slowly, then said—

“Okay, so like… who wants ice cream?”

Everyone froze.

Daeun pulled a pint of mint chocolate chip from behind his back, like it was a holy offering.

“Because this energy?” He waved vaguely at all of us. “Is foul. And I’m not emotionally built for group implosions today.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
A sharp, dry exhale through my nose—but it was something.

Hyunwoo turned to him, blinking. “Daeun, how did you even—”

“Minimart. Had a feeling.”
He sat on the edge of the coffee table and unwrapped a plastic spoon. “Let’s not act like this hasn’t been coming. We’ve all felt it.”

Hyunwoo rubbed his temples. “You’re the maknae. You’re supposed to be the oblivious one.”

Daeun took a bite. “Yeah, well. Loyalty over everything, right?”

Riki barked a laugh. “He did post that last week.”

And just like that, something cracked—not the group, but the ice on top of us.

I looked at Yura still standing just beyond the doorframe. She hadn’t said anything since Hyunwoo stopped her.

She met my eyes. I didn’t say a word.
She didn’t need me to.
The whole world was watching now.
And I had already burned the bridge.

But maybe… maybe not everyone was ready to watch it sink.

Yura left before I could flinch. She didn’t slam the door or cry or throw anything. She just walked off, cool and unreadable, like I was a stranger she’d passed in a crowd. And that hit harder than anything else.

I sat back, letting my jaw slack a little, finally noticing how hot the room was. Or maybe I was just boiling inside my skin.

Hyunwoo leaned against the wall next to me, arms crossed, watching the chaos drain out one by one.

Staff peeled themselves off the floor. The sound tech sighed and mumbled something about charging double. Riki popped his gum loud enough to make a stylist flinch, then wandered off in the direction of a vending machine, muttering something about this being “a full K-drama and a half.”

Manager Cho stood in the doorway, his tablet now tucked under one arm, the phone finally off his ear. He gave me a long, bitter stare like he was rethinking every career decision he ever made.

“We’ll fix it,” he said. “But next time, Junseo, I swear—don’t pull something this stupid without warning me first. I can’t protect you from yourself.”

Then he walked out. No goodbye, no plan. Just gone.

Hyunwoo stayed.

Of course he did.

His leader mode didn’t short-circuit easily, even if his eyes said he wanted to be anywhere else. He looked at me like I was the last Jenga block keeping the group from toppling.

“You done?” he asked finally, voice low.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Are you?”

He didn’t respond. Just pressed his thumb against his temple and sat down beside me, mirroring my position.

“You know I can’t even be mad at you,” he said after a while. “You’ve been running on fumes since April. I should’ve noticed it. I just didn’t think you’d actually… combust. Publicly.”

“Well,” I muttered, “at least now I’m trending.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

I looked over at him. He was staring at the ground, tapping his fingers against his knee in that way he always did when he was holding back a lecture. His lips were thin, his expression tighter than usual. The weight of eight comebacks, six fan meetings, and now this all sitting on his shoulders like bricks.

“I didn’t mean to take it out on everyone,” I said, quieter this time. “I just—she was there. I lost it.”

Hyunwoo didn’t speak. He just let the silence stretch until it hurt.

Then he pushed up from the couch with a groan like he’d aged thirty years in the last twenty minutes.

“I need air,” he muttered, brushing his hair out of his face.

“Hyung—” I started, but he held up a hand.

“I’m not mad. I just… I need to not be your leader for a second.”

Then he walked out.

I stared after him, stomach sinking.

So that was it, then.

Yura was gone. Hyunwoo was gone. Riki was chewing his way through his own stress in the hallway, and Daeun was probably spoon-deep in mint chip therapy.

And me?

I was sitting in the center of a storm I’d made, hands still shaking and heart still doing this stupid thing where it beat too fast, like it wanted to leap out and run away without me.

I pulled out my phone. 14 missed calls. 30 unread messages. One from Yura, timestamped 23 minutes ago.

“You didn’t have to make me the villain.”

I didn’t answer.

Because maybe I already was.