YURA

The press room smells like burnt lights and too much foundation. That artificial heat clings to the walls, bouncing off the polished floor and camera flashes like everything here was made to sweat pretty. 

I’m standing near the back, behind the camera crew, beside a tower of unused tripods. My badge says Creative Director—VELVET:NOVA: Stardust Era. The lanyard is digging into my neck. I haven’t adjusted it. I haven’t breathed properly since Junseo walked onto that stage.

He looks perfect, of course. They all do. Their stylists followed the visual board I sent three months ago to the millimeter. Off-white suits. Minimal sparkle. Junseo’s jacket is slightly open, revealing the silver chain I picked from a vintage shop in Euljiro. His eyeliner’s smudged just enough to look tired. Raw. Real.

I did that. I did all of this.

He used to wink at me, subtly, right before a showcase started. We’d make eye contact for half a second and I’d know we were okay, no matter how insane things got. Today, he doesn’t even glance my way.

There’s a question from the floor. Something about relationships.

“The members have matured so much. Will we ever see more of your personal sides, especially when it comes to love?”

They laugh, the way idols are trained to. Smile, deflect, smile again. Hyunwoo leans in like he’s about to take the lead, but Junseo speaks first.

“I guess this is a good time to clear something up.”

My heart stumbles. 

He doesn’t look nervous. He doesn’t even blink.

“Yura and I are no longer together.”

The entire room freezes. Microphones don’t even pick up the shock in the air—it’s that quiet.

“We broke up months ago. It was mutual.” 

My throat closes. There’s a ringing in my ear, like a fire alarm someone muted by mistake. 

“I’ll always be grateful for the time we spent together. But in the end, we weren’t growing anymore. Relationships like that... they hold you back.”

He says it so gently. Like it’s wisdom. Like it’s truth.

My mouth tastes like the lipstick I bit off earlier backstage. The cherry blossom one he bought me for my birthday last year. I used it without thinking.

Someone’s looking at me. I feel it before I see it.
Haoran, standing near the side curtain, half-hidden. His face is pale. His jaw clenched. Like he’s trying so hard not to move. Not to rush toward me.

Don’t.

Please don’t.

If he touches me now, I’ll fall apart.

And Junseo?
He’s already smiling again. Laughing at something Daeun said.

Like I was never real at all.

A PA cracks. There’s a shift in the crowd, people adjusting tripods and clipboards, pretending they didn’t just witness someone’s personal history sliced open and served cold under fluorescent lighting.

I stay still.

If I move, I think my knees might give out.

Behind me, someone whispers, “Wasn’t that his long-term girlfriend?”
Another voice answers, “I thought she was part of the team.”
And then—soft, like a laugh barely choked down—
“Yikes.”

The word hits harder than anything he said.

I blink, finally. The air is thick, hot, gluey. I need to get out of here.
I need to leave before someone points a camera in my face. Before someone posts about the “girl in the back who looked like she was gonna cry.”

Haoran is gone.

He must’ve disappeared the second Junseo started talking.
Or maybe he’s waiting somewhere outside, fists clenched, pacing like he does when he can’t sit still.
I don’t know what would hurt more—him leaving, or him staying.

I duck my head and walk. Past the light rigs, the PA team, the interns holding sparkling water bottles. I try not to look like I’m running. I try not to look like I’m breaking.

I make it halfway down the hallway before I hear it.

Footsteps behind me. Fast. Familiar.

I stop. I don’t want it to be him. I don’t want it to be him now.

“Yura.”

His voice is low. Not cold. Not kind. Just… calm.

Like nothing happened. Like we’re having a normal post-event check-in.

I turn. Slowly.

Junseo’s standing a few feet away, hair still perfectly in place, jacket collar still turned the way I styled it.

“You weren’t supposed to be surprised,” he says. “I thought you knew.”

I laugh. It’s not a nice sound.

“Knew what? That you'd dump me in 4K?”

His expression twitches—just a flicker—and then resets.

“I didn’t dump you. We ended. Quietly. Months ago.”

“You stopped texting back. That’s not the same thing.”

The silence stretches. People pass by, too polite—or too scared—to stare.

He folds his arms. “You wanted a big moment? A dramatic ending? That’s not me.”

“But a press conference is?”

My voice cracks on the last word. My pride dies a little in that hallway.

Junseo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Just shrugs. “I didn’t mention your name.”

“Everyone knows, unless you’re with someone else,” I spat.

“Calm down, they were going to find out eventually.”

There it is again. That gentle cruelty he perfected. The way he makes everything sound reasonable—like the world’s just catching up to his logic. Like I should be thanking him for finally being honest.

“You know what hurts?” I say. My voice is quieter now, but steadier. “It’s not the breakup. It’s that I loved you enough to keep everything private. And you loved me enough to make it content.”

He says nothing.

I nod. That’s it. I get it now. I finally, finally get it.

I turn and walk.

This time, he doesn’t follow.