YURA

The rain hit the dorm window in soft, steady taps.

Two weeks.

That’s how long it had been since Junseo ended me.

And I don’t mean “broke up with me” or “left the group chat” or “ghosted me on Bubble.” I mean he walked into a live taping, looked at me with eyes I used to dream about, and made me feel like the girl who stayed behind in every fairytale. The one who never got her ending.

The agency let me crash in one of the side dorms. Technically it belonged to an old girl group that disbanded, so everything inside was like a pastel time capsule—pink walls, lavender curtains, someone’s expired protein powder still in the cabinet.

I didn’t cry right away.

Not the first night. Not even the second. I just sat there in that stiff twin bed, legs pulled up, fingers twitching like they still remembered choreography. Like my body hadn’t caught up to my heart.

But tonight—tonight I cracked.

I don’t even remember unlocking the door.

I just remember the knock, low and half-hearted. And when I opened it, Riki stood there in a black hoodie with the strings yanked out, holding a 7-Eleven bag and chewing gum like it was the only thing keeping his mouth from saying something reckless.

“Let me in,” he said.

I moved.

He walked in like he lived there.

Tossed the bag on the bed, sat cross-legged on the floor.

“I got you honey butter chips and banana milk,” he said. “You’re legally required to cry while eating them. K-drama law.”

I stared at the food, then at him.

And then I just folded.

I dropped to my knees like my body finally gave up pretending it was fine.

My shoulders shook before the tears even came. I pressed my sleeves to my face. Ugly crying. No cute sniffles, no single tear—just full-on, collapsed baby-mode crying.

“I hate him,” I whispered. “I hate him so much.”

Riki didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He just moved in close and wrapped his hoodie-covered arms around me. Tight. Protective. Not awkward. Just real.

And when I buried my face into his shoulder, he let me.

“You know what?” he murmured, voice rough from holding it back. “I hate him too.”

I laughed through the sobs. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

He pulled back, face serious now. “Yura. He humiliated you. In front of cameras. In front of fans. In front of us. What do you want me to say? That it was fine? That he’s confused? He’s not. He’s a coward.”

I blinked at him, breathing uneven. “Riki…”

“And you,” he added, softer now. “You’re still showing up. Still working. Still you. That’s more than he ever did for you.”

I grabbed the banana milk and took a long sip just to give my mouth something to do other than collapse again. “You’re gonna get in trouble for this,” I mumbled.

“For what? Crying with my best friend?” he muttered. “Sue me.”

He wiped his nose with his sleeve—casually, like he wasn’t also quietly crying. It was just the way Riki did things. Loud when no one wanted noise, and silent when silence was needed most.

“Why does it still hurt?” I asked, voice tiny.

“Because he mattered.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Now he’s gone. And we’re still here.”

We sat like that for a while. Chips opened, gum swapped, milk half-spilled. No cameras. No mics. Just two twenty-somethings on a candy-colored floor in a ghost dorm from a dead girl group, mourning the end of something that once felt like forever.

And somewhere between the second chip bag and the slow fade of tears, Riki whispered something I almost missed.

“He never deserved you.”

I didn’t answer.

But I didn’t cry anymore either.

Riki stood up first.

He dusted his jeans off, stretched like he hadn’t just emotionally gutted himself on the floor, and casually tossed me the last banana milk like it was some healing potion from a video game.

“You good for, like, thirty more minutes of functioning?” he asked.

I blinked. “What?”

“I invited the guys over.”

I choked. “You—what?!”

“Minus Junseo,” he clarified quickly, raising both hands. “Relax. I’m not about to ambush you with your ex-boyfriend-slash-main-vocalist. I have, like, three remaining brain cells, but even they said no.”

“You invited them here?” I repeated, dazed.

Riki nodded. “Yeah. Hyunwoo needs a break from holding the group together with duct tape. Daeun’s been making the dorm feel like a haunted crypt with those weird poems he keeps posting. Haoran’s been too quiet, and you—” He gestured vaguely at my face. “—need to not be alone in a Barbie horror movie set.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but a knock came at the door like fate had timed it with a slow clap.

“I also may have texted Seohye.”

“Wait—Seohye as in my Seohye? Makeup unit Seohye? Glitter-blast-in-a-human-body Seohye?!”

“Yeah, the one who screams when her brush touches the floor,” he said. “She said, quote, ‘If Yura’s crying, I’m bringing the full face beat and a knife’”

I scrambled to grab my reflection in the wall mirror. “You’re mean.”

Riki grinned. “Thanks.”

The door opened a crack.

Hyunwoo was first, ducking his head in like he wasn’t sure if this counted as trespassing. He looked tired—his under-eyes deeper than usual, a black ball cap pressed too low—but when he saw me, he smiled.

“Yura,” he said gently. “Hey.”

Then came Daeun, carrying a box of strawberry mochi like he’d personally handcrafted them from his emotions. He shot me a small thumbs-up and dropped onto the bed without saying a word.

Haoran followed right after.

He paused in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he should be here. His soft eyes found mine almost instantly, and for a second, I swore I saw something else—something that flickered, then vanished as fast as it came.

“Hey,” he said. Voice warm, soft, cautious. “You okay?”

No, I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

Then came Seohye.

Bursting in like she was kicking down a runway, red lipstick in one hand, crystals in the other. She dropped both on the desk and yanked me into a hug that smelled like grapefruit and chaos.

“I’m gonna ruin his next press appearance,” she whispered in my ear. “We’re doing revenge highlight. Bronzer like betrayal. Brows so sharp he’ll cry.”

The dorm room became full, loud, and glowing with noise. Riki threw a blanket on the floor. Daeun set up a Bluetooth speaker and played something soft, lo-fi, and a little sad. Seohye started rummaging through her kit, muttering about shimmer palettes and “healing with sparkle.”

Haoran helped clear off the dresser, catching my eye every so often, like he was checking if I was still breathing.

Hyunwoo sat next to me on the edge of the bed and rested his hand near mine. “You don’t have to talk,” he said. “But we’re not going anywhere.”

Something in me unclenched.

This wasn’t a press conference. This wasn’t a fake apology livestream or an industry pity post. It was just them. My people. Not perfect, not unbreakable—but real. Mine.

And Junseo?

He wasn’t here.

And for the first time since that stupid, cruel moment on stage… I didn’t feel like I needed him to be.

I didn’t realize I was crying again until Seohye softly wiped the corner of my eye with the edge of her sleeve.

“Diva tears only,” she said, not unkindly. “Next time you cry, it’s gonna be because you dropped your trophy off a balcony or some guy proposed to you with a six-carat ring and a yacht. Not this.”

Riki had made a nest of blankets and snacks on the floor, half-lounging like a lazy cat with a sour candy dangling from his mouth. “Daeun, you got that dumb rom-com movie you love on your phone? The one where the guy fakes a marriage and they fall in love?”

“You mean ‘Love Contract: Seoul Edition’?” Daeun said with reverence, unlocking his phone with the speed of a surgeon. “Say no more.”

He angled the screen toward the group, and within seconds, we were all huddled together like mismatched puzzle pieces—snacks in one hand, heartbreak in the other.

Hyunwoo stayed quiet, sitting near the edge of the bed. Every so often, he glanced at his phone like the world was still waiting on him to solve its problems. I caught him checking the group chat once. Still no Junseo.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “If he doesn’t show up by morning, I’m texting Manager Cho. I’m done playing tag with his emo phase.”

Riki groaned. “I say we leave him wherever he is and change the locks.”

Daeun looked up. “He’s still our hyung.”

“Yeah, and Yura was still our noona,” Riki shot back, tone sharp. “Didn’t stop him from throwing her under the bus in front of every camera in South Korea.”

Silence.

The rom-com kept playing. I think the fake-husband just confessed he had real feelings.

Haoran—quiet the whole time—tugged his hoodie sleeves over his hands and finally looked at me. “If you want us to stop talking about him,” he said, voice soft, “just say the word.”

“No,” I said. “You’re allowed to be mad. I’m not gonna protect him.”

Seohye cheered quietly. “That’s my girl.”

The mood softened again.

Riki passed me a peach jelly and muttered something about how I always liked that brand. Daeun leaned against Hyunwoo, half-asleep and humming along to the movie’s background track. Seohye started painting glitter across my knuckles for no reason except “emotional manicure.” Haoran held his hot pack between us like he wasn’t sure if I’d want to share.

I didn’t say anything. I just took it.

And he didn’t say anything either. But his hand brushed mine.

Outside the dorm, Seoul kept humming—cars, lights, late-night broadcasts playing reruns of things I never wanted to see again. But inside, we were wrapped in this weird, messy peace. Like something sacred was happening in our sadness. Like we were building something again. Just slower.

Hyunwoo’s voice broke the quiet. “You don’t have to decide anything yet, Yura. But whatever you do next…”

“We’re behind you,” Daeun whispered.

“Completely,” Haoran added.

“Unless it’s texting Junseo back,” Riki said, dramatically rolling onto his side. “Then I’m deleting your number.”

We laughed. Tired, cracked, but real.

For one night—just this one—there were no stages, no fans, no managers breathing down our necks. No heartbreak, not really.

Just us.

And I realized something.

I wasn’t healing yet. But I wasn’t broken alone anymore.

The movie had faded into credits, the final swell of string music casting a dreamy haze over the room. Daeun had long since passed out on Hyunwoo’s shoulder, mouth open slightly, hands curled into his hoodie like a kid clinging to safety. Seohye was laying flat on her stomach, one cheek pressed into the couch cushion, glitter from my hand smeared across hers like some chaotic war paint.

I blinked slowly.

There was something soothing in the stillness, in the shared silence that wasn’t awkward—just thick with exhaustion and something like love. The kind that doesn’t always say itself out loud, but builds with every sour candy passed wordlessly and every tear wiped away with someone else’s sleeve.

I shifted slightly, curling tighter against Riki’s side. He didn’t flinch. Just reached over and gently tugged the blanket higher over my shoulder, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You cried in the middle of a rom-com,” I whispered, a ghost of a tease.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, cheeks pink even in the low light, “you cried louder.”

I laughed quietly.

From the corner, Haoran stirred. He wasn’t asleep—he never really was when emotions filled a room like this. His hoodie sleeves were pulled down over his palms, fingers twitching like he wanted to do something but didn’t know what was okay.

His voice came quiet. “Do you… want tea?”

“Haoran,” Hyunwoo murmured from the edge of the couch, voice rough with sleep. “It’s three a.m.”

“So?” Haoran shrugged. “Emotional healing tea doesn’t follow your capitalist clock.”

Seohye snorted into her pillow. “God, I missed you.”

Riki didn’t move, but his eyes opened just a sliver. “Don’t make me love you again, sunshine boy.”

But Haoran was already getting up, brushing the wrinkles from his sweatpants, padding barefoot into the small kitchenette.

I watched him move. Deliberate. Soft. Like he had to touch things gently or they’d break. And maybe that’s why I always felt safe when he was around—even when I didn’t realize it.

Hyunwoo, still cradling Daeun’s sleeping weight like a big brother with no idea how he ended up in charge of an entire emotional trauma ward, met my gaze across the room.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “Better.”

“You want Junseo to rot or just suffer a little?”

I hesitated, thinking about it. Then: “Just enough to know I didn’t deserve that.”

“Good.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there. “I can live with that.”

Haoran returned minutes later, tea cups in both hands. He gave one to me first—peach chrysanthemum, my favorite—and handed the other to Hyunwoo, who took a grateful sip and immediately made a face.

“What the hell is this?”

“Love,” Haoran said, too tired to joke properly. “And regret. And maybe a bit of honey.”

“I’m never trusting you again.”

“Liar.”

I sipped the tea and let the warmth curl around the hollow parts of my chest. Riki’s hand was still near mine under the blanket. Daeun mumbled something about loyalty in his sleep. Seohye exhaled deeply and sank further into the couch. Hyunwoo finally leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.

And Haoran—he just sat beside me, quiet and close, the warmth of his tea and presence settling like morning light over a sleepless night.

We were still hurt. Still aching.

But for now—just now—we had each other.

And sometimes, that was enough