Archive of Our Own

It was a day like any other—or so it seemed.

Jisung woke up in his room and lay there staring at the ceiling for a couple of seconds longer than necessary, as if he were haggling with his own body to get up, but in the end he did what he always did: stretch lazily, grumble under his breath, and roll out of bed as if that counted as enough effort for the day.

He grabbed his phone without thinking too much and put on his favorite playlist, letting the music start to fill the apartment as he shuffled to the bathroom, still half-asleep. He wasn’t in a hurry—not really—so he took his time, moving from one spot to another with that carefree calm that had come so naturally to him lately, as if everything were exactly where it was supposed to be.

Minho was already gone. It wasn’t a surprise either; he was always ahead of the game, going out for a run, doing his thing, and then disappearing into his schedule as a responsible adult with deadlines and important meetings. Jisung snorted a little at the thought, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Busy old man…” he muttered to himself, half amused.

The apartment was silent, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just… empty. So, without thinking too much about it, he started gathering a couple of things, tidying up the few things that were out of place. It wasn’t like there was much to do—between the two of them, they kept everything pretty tidy—so he was done in no time.

He crossed his arms, surveying the place with a small, satisfied smile.

“Perfect, I’m amazing,” he said under his breath, as if someone might hear him.

Then he went back to what he was doing.

He finished getting ready, grabbed what he needed, and headed out just as the company car was already waiting for him outside. Today was the day to film a 2 Kids Room episode, and he’d been paired with Hyunjin. They picked him up first.

-“Did you sleep?” -Hyunjin asked as soon as he got in.

-“Of course not,” -Jisung replied without hesitation, slumping into the seat, -“but I’ll survive, as always.”

Hyunjin let out a laugh, and that was enough to get the conversation flowing on its own. They talked about anything and everything—silliness, random ideas for the recording, comments that led nowhere but filled the time—trying to think of something interesting to say to Stay without taking it too seriously.

When they arrived at the company, the atmosphere shifted just enough. The set, the cameras, the whole setting worked its magic, and when they sat down in front of them, it was like putting on a comfortable suit they already knew well.

They talked about a little bit of everything, laughing, interrupting each other, reminiscing, letting the conversation flow without structure, as always, until at some point, without anyone forcing it, they ended up on the topic of pre-debut.

.“Wow, we really did argue way too much…” -Hyunjin said with a laugh. -“I’m glad we’ve grown so much, but sometimes I wish we’d gotten off to a better start.”

Jisung let out a little laugh too, tilting his head.

-“Come on, do you want to rewrite history or something?” -he joked. -“That’s already in the past.”

But he continued anyway, shrugging. -“Still… we’ve changed a lot. Me especially.”

-“A lot is an understatement,” -Hyunjin replied. -“I really did want to strangle you back then.”

-“Before?” -Jisung widened his eyes, feigning surprise. -“And now you don’t?”

-“Now I think twice… all those little things made you who you are,” -Hyunjin finished, shrugging.

The joke drew an immediate laugh from Jisung, who leaned forward slightly.

-“Wow, what progress. Thanks for not killing me,” -he replied with a smile. -“I appreciate it.”

-“You’re welcome. It took some effort,” -Hyunjin replied without hesitation.

Jisung let out another laugh, shaking his head.

-“Still…” -he added, scratching the back of his neck lightly, -“I wish I’d improved sooner, but I guess it was inevitable.”

-“You would have saved us a lot of headaches.”

-“Yah!” -Jisung protested immediately, raising his fist as if to punch him, without any real intention. -“It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

-“It was.”

-“Over the top.”

-“Troublesome.”

-“Dramatic.”

They both fell silent for a second and then laughed again, letting the moment remain lighthearted, as always, as if all of that were just material for a joke now, something they’d moved past, something that no longer carried any real weight.

And in a way, it was. Jisung knew that.

Hyunjin wasn’t saying anything with bad intentions; none of them were when they talked about that time. They’d all gone through complicated things, they’d all grown up, changed, learned to get along better with each other. It was normal to remember it that way, with laughter, taking the edge off.

Still… something stuck with him.

Not enough to ruin the moment, but enough to be a little pebble in his shoe—the kind that doesn’t hurt at first but you know is there. Because hearing those things out loud, even as a joke, made him remember more than he expected. Back then, he didn’t understand anything.

He didn’t understand why he got so frustrated, why the slightest thing could set him off, why he suddenly needed to disappear, shut himself away, and distance himself from everyone as if it were the only way to breathe normally again. He didn’t know how to put a name to what was happening to him; he just knew it was too much, too fast, too intense, as if everything were overwhelming him without warning.

Now he understood. Now it all made sense. And maybe that’s why hearing those jokes felt… weird.

-“...Sung! Hello? Earth calling Jisung?” -Hyunjin’s voice snapped him out of it, accompanied by a hand waving in front of his face.

Jisung blinked several times, as if returning from a place farther away than he should have been, and let out a small laugh, settling back into his seat.

-“I’m here, I’m here,” -he said, raising his hand. -“Relax.”

-“You zoned out again,” -Hyunjin retorted. -“You left me talking to myself, you idiot.”

-“It’s just that you talk a lot,” -he replied without missing a beat, nudging him lightly with his shoulder.

Hyunjin clicked his tongue, but smiled. Everything fell back into place quickly, as always.

No one made a big deal out of it.

Jisung had always been like that—always getting a little lost in his thoughts, always zoning out for a moment—but it was never anything serious, never anything to worry about. In fact, lately he’d been making a point of repeating it whenever he could: that he was fine, that he was at his best, that he felt calm and happy, free from that constant weight that used to weigh him down.

And in his voice, it sounded real. Convincing.

When they were done, they went out to join the others for lunch. The atmosphere changed again—more relaxed, noisier, more of a group vibe—and when they sat down at the table, they immediately noticed that two people were missing.

-“What about Minho hyung?” -asked Jisung, slumping into his seat.

-“And Felix,” -added Hyunjin.

-“They’re still busy with their own stuff,” -Chan replied. -“They had outside commitments.”

Jisung nodded, grabbing whatever was closest to him and starting to eat without giving it much thought.

-“Busy people,” he muttered, half-amused.

Amid the food and the clatter of cutlery, the conversation flowed effortlessly, jumping from one topic to another, talking about daily life, the preparations for the comeback, simple, almost automatic things—the kind that fill the time without asking for too much—until, as expected, someone mentioned the 2 Kids Room and everything returned, once again, to that point.

Chan let out a long sigh, leaning slightly on the table, with a weary smile that Jisung found too tempting to let pass.

-“What? It wasn’t that baaaad…” -he said, drawing out the words with a half-smile, -“he was just being a little rebellious.”

-“What do you mean, no?” -Seungmin jumped in instantly, not letting him finish. -“We had to watch everything we said because if you didn’t like something, you’d yell at us.”

-“It was out of love,” -Jisung replied without missing a beat.

-“No, love is what I have for you now,” -Seungmin retorted, drawing a few laughs from those around them, -“but before we debuted, I wanted to rip your head off. I couldn’t even get close to you when you looked upset.”

Jisung grimaced, wrinkling his nose slightly as he looked down at his plate, as if that could hide the small pang of embarrassment that crossed his chest.

-“It wasn’t all that bad…” -Chan tried to add, raising his voice a little, trying to lighten the mood.

-“You shut up,” -Jeongin interrupted him right away, poking him with his fork, clearly amused. -“You said you learned to think before you speak thanks to Jisung, because you wanted to be a good leader, but he’d drive you crazy sometimes. When the two of you started arguing, I had to call Minho hyung because he was the only one who could reason with him.”

Chan let out another sigh, this time accompanied by a more relaxed laugh, nodding without arguing too much.

-“But I learned a lot.”

-“Uh… yeah, we all learned a lot, but eat more and talk less,” -Changbin interjected, barely looking up from his plate, clearly more interested in the food than in digging up more memories.

-“Yeah, take a cue from hyung,” -Jisung jumped in immediately, pointing at him with his chopsticks and winking. -“He has no issues with my old self, so he loves me a lot. You guys should do the same.”

Laughter returned, softer, more natural, as if the atmosphere had settled again, but Changbin looked up just enough not to let it slip by so easily.

-“I don’t want to drag this out,” -he said, -“but don’t make me remind you of the times we’d argue in the studio and you’d end up disappearing for hours, throwing a tantrum until someone went to look for you… and it was almost always me.”

This time there was no immediate laughter. Not like before.

The comment wasn’t aggressive, not even entirely serious, but it landed differently, with a clearer, more direct weight, and Jisung felt it immediately, as if something were tightening inside his chest without warning.

Around them, some were still smiling, others simply continued eating, taking it as just another anecdote, something that no longer had any edge, something that belonged entirely to the past.

For them, it was. For Jisung… not so much.

Because even though everything was fine now, even though he could joke, respond, move lightly among those words, he couldn’t help but remember how he really felt back then, how difficult it had been even for himself, how little he understood what was happening to him, how easy it was to lose control and disappear without knowing how to come back.

Nothing like now. Now was different. He had grown up and learned. He knew that.

And yet, hearing all that spoken aloud left a small trace, something that didn’t linger long enough to ruin the moment, but long enough not to disappear entirely. The conversation carried on without pause, shifting topics naturally, as they always did, and little by little the atmosphere returned to its light, everyday tone, until they finished eating and everyone began to get up, returning to their own tasks as if nothing had really happened.

Jisung decided to head home without giving it much thought. He had nothing else to do that day—or the next, for that matter—so there was no rush, no pending tasks, nothing pushing him forward. Minho had left him a message saying he’d be running late, and Jisung simply replied with a quick “ok” before putting his phone away and going on his way.

He tossed his things down carelessly and flopped onto the couch with a long sigh, stretching as if he could finally let go of the day’s weight, even though it hadn’t really been that heavy. He turned on the TV, picked any anime without thinking too much about it, and let it play—more to have some background noise than to actually pay attention—and then, almost on impulse, he went to get a beer.

The hours passed without him noticing. It wasn’t something he did often. But today he could.

He returned to the couch, opened the can, and took a sip while the light from the screen illuminated the room, shifting colors with every scene, with every movement, filling the space with a gentle companionship that demanded nothing. He settled in more comfortably, resting his head, letting his body sink little by little into the cushions, completely relaxed, without thinking about schedules, rehearsals, or anything.

Time began to pass without him noticing. One episode, then another, and yet another.

The beer ran out at some point he didn’t register, and his body began to feel heavier, slower, as if someone had turned down the volume on everything around him. Jisung had never been good with alcohol; it didn’t take much for sleep to catch up with him, and this time was no exception.

Tiredness enveloped him gently, without abruptness, like a blanket that adjusts itself, while his mind, no longer putting up much resistance, began to let go as well. And then it came back—not all at once, not as a clear memory, but in fragments: the words. The laughter. The memories. The past.

But there, in that state between waking and sleeping, everything sounded different, closer, more present, as if it weren’t something from the past but something that was still happening somewhere. Jisung frowned slightly, barely, without opening his eyes all the way; a thought slipped in, soft, diffuse, as if it had no weight…

If only I could go back.
Do it better.
Fix everything.

The thought passed as gently as it had come, weightless, without real intent, almost like a whisper lost in the midst of the sleep that was already pulling him in completely. His breathing slowed and his body finally gave in; the screen continued to illuminate the empty room. And in that brief moment when everything fell silent… without realizing it, he had just made the worst wish possible.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

Something didn't feel right.

Jisung opened his eyes slowly, his body still heavy with sleep, feeling that thick lethargy that comes from falling asleep on the couch. For a second, everything was normal—the exhaustion, the foggy mind, that clumsy feeling of not quite being able to orient himself… until he blinked again and his brow furrowed without him even thinking about it.

The ceiling. It wasn’t the same. He stared at it for a few more seconds, waiting for his mind to catch up, as if that were all it took, as if waking up fully would put everything back in its place. He blinked several times, even squinting, but nothing changed. It was still a different one.

He sat up slowly, propping himself up on his elbows, letting his gaze drift downward, scanning the room more carefully, a strange sensation beginning to form in the pit of his chest.

The sofa. The table. The way the light came in. Everything was… wrong. Or worse. Too right. Too familiar.

Jisung stayed still, completely still, as if moving would make something worse that he still didn’t understand, while that silence began to feel different, heavier, more closed in—nothing like the one in the apartment he shared with Minho. That silence wasn’t comfortable; it didn’t invite him to stay. It was one that seemed to fill everything, leaving no space.

-“What…?”

His voice came out low, rough, still trapped in sleep.

He sat up fully, running a hand through his hair, trying to clear his head, but all he managed was to feel that faint throbbing in his head, as if last night’s beer were still there, lingering somewhere.

-“I slept terribly,” -he thought. Or so he wanted to think.

Because it was easier that way, because there had to be a simple explanation, something logical, something that fit with the reality he knew, but the more he tried, the less sense it made, and that uncomfortable feeling began to settle in little by little, without making a sound, without exploding, just growing.

He heard footsteps. From another room. Quick. Heavy and all too familiar.

Jisung tensed without realizing it, his body reacting before his mind, turning slightly toward the sound, as if something inside him already knew what was coming even before it happened, and just at that moment—

-“¡Han Jisung!”

The door burst open. And there was Hyunjin. But not the Hyunjin of today; there was something different about him, something younger, sharper, more intense—a version Jisung hadn’t seen in years but still recognized instantly, without a shadow of a doubt, as if he had never really left.

-“Are you going to keep sleeping? We’re late because of you again,” -he snapped, irritated, unfiltered, with that abrupt naturalness that barely existed anymore.

Jisung looked at him, didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because at that moment it wasn’t just Hyunjin walking through the door, it wasn’t just his voice, his expression, or the way he spoke—it was everything together: the place, the tone, the moment—fitting all too well with something that shouldn’t be happening, and that squeezed his chest suddenly, hard, as if he’d fallen into a place where he didn’t belong.

Hyunjin frowned, clearly confused by the lack of reaction, and took another step toward him.

-“...What’s wrong with you?”

But Jisung kept staring at him without moving, as if what stood before him didn’t quite fit with anything real, as if he were seeing a ghost or something worse—something too close, too recognizable, a memory that shouldn’t be there.

-“This is…” -he murmured, almost voicelessly, more to himself than to Hyunjin, and before thinking twice, he jumped to his feet, ignoring the slight unsteadiness in his legs, walking straight toward the nearest mirror as if he needed to verify it with his own eyes, as if seeing it would give him a clear answer.

But there was none. The moment his reflection looked back at him, he was left breathless.

It was him, yes, there was no doubt of that, but not entirely; his face was there but younger, cleaner, without that subtle wear and tear that time had left, without the small invisible marks that only he knew, even his expression was different, rawer, more open, less restrained, more him… before.

-“No…” -he whispered, barely shaking his head, bringing a hand to his chest as if he needed to check that everything was still in place, that nothing had really changed, but his breathing was no longer entirely steady—a little faster, a little shallower.

-“Are you ignoring everything again? Seriously, Jisung!” -Hyunjin’s voice cut in again, more annoyed now, more impatient.

Jisung slowly turned his head toward him, and in that moment, as if a piece had finally fallen into the worst possible place, he understood everything—the apartment, Hyunjin, the atmosphere, that feeling in the air… pre-debut—and his stomach sank suddenly, as if he’d missed a step he hadn’t seen coming. Panic tried to rise, fast, automatic, but it didn’t quite break through because something else stopped it first—an absurd, dangerous… but comforting thought.

I’m dreaming.

He held onto that thought, as if it were the only thing that remained steady amid all that chaos, as if repeating it in his head were enough to make it true, and little by little his breathing began to settle, finding a more stable, calmer rhythm. Of course, that made sense; after everything he’d been thinking about before falling asleep, after remembering all that, his mind was simply playing tricks on him.

A strange dream. Too real, but a dream after all.

He let out a small laugh, still incredulous, running a hand through his hair.

-“Wow… this feels way too real.”

Hyunjin looked at him as if he didn’t know how to react.

-“Something’s definitely wrong with you.”

Jisung exhaled slowly and ran both hands over his face, as if that might help him fully wake up, but it didn’t; nothing changed. Everything was still there—too vivid, too coherent—and yet he decided not to think about it anymore because if it was a dream, then it wasn’t worth racking his brain trying to understand it. He looked back at Hyunjin, who was still standing in front of him with a frown, clearly losing patience, and this time he did react, finally moving.

-“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” -he said, in a lighter tone, almost automatically, as if everything were fine.

Hyunjin looked at him for a few more seconds, sizing him up, as if something didn’t quite add up, but in the end he just clicked him tongue and turned away.

-“Hurry up,” -he muttered before leaving the room.

Jisung waited for the door to close before letting out a small chuckle under his breath, shaking his head as he turned toward the closet. Everything was there too, exactly as he remembered it—the clothes, the semi-organized mess, even that feeling of having nothing to wear even though he clearly had everything. He pulled out the first thing that looked familiar and started getting dressed without thinking too much, moving quickly, letting himself be carried along by momentum, as if his body remembered better than he did what he had to do.

As he changed, he couldn’t help but glance at himself in the mirror again. He was still that Jisung, the one from before, the one who didn’t know much yet, the one who hadn’t gone through everything that was to come… and yet he did know. That thought brought a small smile to his lips.

-“How crazy…” -he murmured, adjusting his T-shirt.

He finished getting ready in no time, grabbing what he needed before leaving the room and following the noise of the others. The atmosphere was exactly as he remembered it—constant movement, overlapping voices, that organized chaos that had always existed before the debut—and for a moment he stood still in the hallway, observing it all as if it were the first time.

Or as if it were the last.

-“Are you going to stand there all day?” -Changbin’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Jisung turned his head and smiled when he saw him.

-“I’m taking in the view.”

-“You idiot, move it,” -he replied, nudging him lightly as he passed.

Jisung let out a laugh and started walking with them, letting himself be swept along by the group’s rhythm, without thinking too much, without questioning anything else. If this was a dream, then the best thing he could do was go with it, see how far it took him, even enjoy it.

The walk to the company felt quick, filled with back-and-forth conversations, jokes, complaints about being tired—exactly as it had always been. Jisung joined in effortlessly, responding, laughing, fitting in perfectly—perhaps too perfectly—because every word, every reaction, every moment felt familiar to the point where he could anticipate them.

When they arrived, the atmosphere shifted as it always did—more focused, more serious, but just as intense. They walked in together, greeting the staff, moving with that energy that always propelled them forward, and Jisung couldn’t help but look around with a small sparkle in his eyes, recognizing every corner, every detail, every sensation.

He had been there before and had lived through all of this, but even so… it felt new, like a second chance.

The music filled the room as always, loud, steady, setting the rhythm for everything else, and for the first time since he woke up there, Jisung stopped thinking so much and simply went with it. He took his position, exchanged a quick glance with the others, and when the count began, his body responded almost on its own, the steps coming out clean, measured, too natural for what that moment in his life was supposed to be, but this time he didn’t let himself get carried away completely; he maintained control, adjusted the intensity, let a few details slip by, just enough to fit in, to not stand out.

They rehearsed once, then again, and again, repeating sections, correcting their positions, listening to Chan pause the music every now and then to make an adjustment, to ask for more energy, more precision, and it all felt… normal. Strangely normal. Hyunjin complained about being tired, Changbin made comments during breaks, Seungmin offered the occasional remark, Jeongin chuckled softly when someone made a mistake, and Jisung was right there in the middle of it all, responding, laughing, keeping up with the rhythm without a hitch, as if he’d never left that spot.

At one point, as they caught their breath, Jisung rested his hands on his knees and let out a short laugh.

-“I really didn’t miss this,” -he muttered.

-“Of course you did,” -Changbin replied without looking at him, -“you’re the first to complain when we don’t rehearse.”

-“That’s different,” -Jisung retorted, sitting up. -“Complaining is part of the process, too.”

Hyunjin snorted beside him.

-“Just don’t disappear again.”

The comment was quick, almost automatic, but Jisung registered it anyway. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

-“I’m behaving myself today, aren’t I?” -he replied with a slight smile.

-“That’s exactly why it’s scary,” -Seungmin added from the other side.

There were a couple of laughs, nothing more, and the music started playing again, dragging them back into the same cycle—steps, repetitions, corrections—until exhaustion really started to set in and they finally called it a day.

The ride back was quieter. The noise of the day began to fade little by little, and the conversations—which just a few hours earlier had been all over the place—became scattered and soft, swept up in that kind of fatigue that doesn’t quite overwhelm you, but does force you to speak less and move more slowly. Jisung slumped into the van seat and rested his head against the window, watching the city lights blur on the glass while the others talked among themselves. He listened halfheartedly, offering a reply when someone asked him a question, and then drifted back into the scenery, letting the murmur of their voices envelop him.

Everything still felt the same. Too much the same.

When they arrived at the apartment, the atmosphere changed immediately, as it always did. The tension from work eased the moment they walked through the door, and the place was once again filled with that familiar chaos that seemed disorderly to anyone else, but which had its own order to them. Backpacks were tossed into every corner, someone opened the fridge in search of food, another flopped onto the couch without even taking off their shoes, and, in a matter of seconds, the apartment felt like home again.

Jisung stood for a moment in the doorway, watching them in silence. The scene was so familiar, so deeply his own, that he felt the need to stay there a little longer, as if he wanted to make sure it was still real and that nothing would disappear if he blinked.

-“Are you going to stand there again?” -Hyunjin asked from inside.

Jisung let out a small laugh and finally closed the door behind him.

-“I’m contemplating life.”

-“You’re weird.”

-“I always have been.”

No one bothered to argue.

The afternoon wore on amid scattered conversations and lazy movements, until Chan’s voice rang out from the kitchen with the usual authority of someone who’d been trying to keep seven people functional for far too long.

-“Han Jisung! I told you to clean up your mess and get everything ready yesterday.”

There was nothing extraordinary about the comment. It was the kind of complaint that was frequently repeated in those years and that, almost always, ended with Jisung responding reluctantly, rolling his eyes, or pretending he hadn’t heard until the tension escalated on its own.

But this time it wasn’t like that.

Jisung froze for a second, feeling the familiar impulse form in his chest. The automatic response was already there, ready to come out with the same defensive tone as always. He knew it all too well. It was almost a reflex.

His fingers tensed ever so slightly. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed.

Hyunjin looked up instantly. Seungmin stopped what he was doing. Changbin looked up from his phone. It was a learned mechanism, a collective reaction to a scene they’d all witnessed far too many times.

Jisung inhaled slowly, letting the air fill his lungs. And, instead of responding as he always did, he said with a calmness that even he found strange:

-“I’m sorry.”

Silence fell immediately.

Chan poked his head out from the kitchen and blinked, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

-“…What?”

Jisung avoided looking at him directly. He bent down to pick up a few things that had been left out of place and began tidying them up with calm movements.

-“I should have done it yesterday. I forgot.”

His voice came out calm, without a trace of irritation.

The change in the atmosphere was almost tangible. Hyunjin stopped moving entirely. Seungmin frowned slightly. Changbin looked up completely, watching him with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion.

Because that didn’t fit.

-“Are you okay?” -Chan asked, now more confused than annoyed.

Jisung nodded, still focused on what he was picking up.

-“Yeah. I just… don’t want to bother you guys.”

The words felt strange in his own mouth, but not unpleasant. They were different, measured, chosen with a care that hadn’t existed before. He continued organizing the mess with almost calculated precision, as if he knew by heart the exact points where everything could break and was determined not to touch them.

And he knew it. Because he’d been there before.

Behind him, their eyes met in silence. No one said anything, but they all sensed the same thing. It wasn’t impossible for Jisung to give in, but it was unusual to see him do so so easily, without insisting, without raising his voice, without letting the argument escalate to the point of pushing him to withdraw into himself.

Hyunjin was the first to approach.

-“You’re acting weird. You’ve been acting weird all day.”

Jisung let out a light, almost automatic laugh.

-“Me? Not at all.”

And he went back to what he was doing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

However, as he folded a T-shirt he didn’t even remember leaving there, a small, indescribable feeling settled in his chest. It wasn’t guilt. Nor was it relief. It was something more ambiguous, like the sense of having done the right thing, but not exactly the way he should have.

The feeling lasted barely a moment before fading away.

And Jisung let it go.

Because, if all of that had been a dream, there was no reason to worry. And if he had the chance to do things better this time, why not take it?

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

When it was finally time to sleep, the noise gradually faded away until the apartment was enveloped in that shared silence that is never quite silence—always with some distant breathing, some faint movement, the constant sensation that you are not alone, and Jisung let himself fall onto the bed with a soft sigh, staring at the ceiling that no longer felt as alien as it had that morning, as if his mind, tired of resisting, had decided to accept it without fighting any longer. He closed his eyes easily, even with a sense of relief, because there lay the logic of it all, the natural conclusion: sleeping and waking up in his real life, in his apartment, in his present, with Minho arriving late as always, probably complaining about something trivial, with that routine that now felt distant yet secure, tangible, his own.

-“It was just a dream.”

The thought settled firmly, sufficiently, almost comfortingly, and he fell asleep clinging to it, as if there were no other option. But when he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The same ceiling, the same room, and the same air.

Jisung didn’t move right away; he blinked once, then again, hoping the world would readjust on its own, that something would give way, that the illusion would shatter as it was supposed to, but it didn’t happen. His breathing stopped for just a second, almost imperceptibly, as if his body had understood first what his mind still refused to accept, and little by little he sat up in bed, looking around more carefully, more intently, as if this time he needed to find a crack, a mistake, any sign that would confirm to him that this wasn’t real.

There wasn’t one. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Everything… was still the past.

A sound in the hallway snapped him out of that standstill—soft, shuffling footsteps, the kind of noise you barely notice but that, in that silence, carries more weight than it should—and before he could fully process it, the door opened without a touch. It was Minho, and for a moment Jisung felt something inside him react almost reflexively, as if he were expecting relief, as if his body had already decided that safety lay there… but it stopped halfway, because this wasn’t the Minho he knew now, not the one he’d learned to read without words, not the one who knew exactly when to get close and when to let him breathe; this one was younger, more serious, with that neutral expression that used to not so much calm him as put everything on pause, as if he were always evaluating something he didn’t say.

-“Are you up already?” -he asked, leaning lightly against the doorframe, observing him without much depth, with a calmness that fell short of being warmth.

Jisung looked at him, and for the first time since it had all begun, he didn’t have an automatic response; there was no joke, no lightheartedness, just that small, uncomfortable void where everything had once flowed so easily.

-“Yeah…” -he replied finally, slower than usual, as if even his voice needed permission to come out.

Minho nodded without another word, without pausing, without noticing anything beyond the obvious.

-“Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”

And he left.

Just like that, without lingering, without asking, without that “Are you okay?” that Jisung had once taken for granted in another time, in another version of them, and the door closed softly, but the silence it left behind wasn’t the same as before; this one was colder, emptier, as if something important had just shifted out of place.

Jisung looked down at his hands and clenched them slightly, just enough to feel himself, to anchor himself to something tangible, because in that brief moment everything finally fell into place inside him—not like a blow, not like a dramatic revelation, but like an uncomfortable certainty that simply appeared and wouldn’t go away. This wasn’t a brief dream; it wasn’t something that would end when he opened his eyes, and Minho… wasn’t going to be his refuge here, not yet, not in this version where everything they had built later still didn’t exist.

He swallowed slowly, feeling how that calm he’d held onto since waking began to loosen just a little, enough for something else to seep in—something he’d avoided facing head-on from the start. If this was real, then he couldn’t wait for it to pass, he couldn’t stand still, he had to keep going, keep acting, keep getting better, keep correcting every mistake as if he had a second chance that no one else knew existed, even if that meant doing it without the support he’d already grown accustomed to.

He let out a low, almost inaudible sigh and stood up with a slow movement, as if he were settling himself on the inside at the same time as on the outside.

-“All right…” -he murmured, more as a decision than as a consolation.

If he wasn’t going to wake up, then he would make the most of every second; this time he would do it perfectly, without flaws, without repeating the same thing… though deep down, very deep down, something was beginning to whisper, barely audible, how long he could keep that up before breaking.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

The days began to pile up on top of one another until they became a single blurred line where Jisung could no longer tell clearly where one ended and the next began, because everything felt like a slightly altered repetition of something he knew all too well—the same routine, the same spaces, the same voices, but experienced from a different place, one where he didn’t react but held on, held on to a version of himself that he couldn’t let go of for even a second. At first it was easy, almost natural, to get up and decide that today, too, he would do better, that he wouldn’t argue, that he would listen before responding, that he would stay calm even when something touched his pride, that he would be that version of himself that had saved him so many problems in the past, but keeping it up started to feel different, like holding air in his lungs for too long, a constant pressure that didn’t explode but didn’t go away either, something that was always there, pushing from within.

There were small, almost insignificant moments when he had to remind himself that he couldn’t be too perfect, that he couldn’t do everything right because that wasn’t believable—not to them, not at this stage— so he started forcing mistakes, letting out a complaint, rolling his eyes at just the right moment, even arguing with Hyunjin over trivial things, meaningless comments, easy excuses, just so that everything felt… right within the wrong. And every time he did it, every time he let out that edge he knew so well, something inside him tensed immediately, an automatic guilt that came before any other emotion because now he truly understood, now he could clearly see what he hadn’t seen before—the effect he had on others, the wear and tear he caused, the silence he left behind— but even so, he had to do it; he had to balance that corrected version with small glimpses of the past so as not to arouse suspicion, and that mix began to wear him out more than any actual argument.

Hyunjin was the one who noticed it most, not because he could pinpoint exactly what was wrong, but because something about Jisung no longer quite fit, even when they argued, even when they exchanged comments that would have previously escalated out of control—now there was an invisible limit, a line that Jisung wouldn’t cross, as if he knew exactly how far to push and when to stop, and that, far from being reassuring, felt strange, because the naturalness of before—even in the chaos—was gone; there was something measured, restrained, almost calculated.

At the company, everything was getting more complicated, because it wasn’t just about attitude but about decisions, creativity, and time, and Jisung was constantly walking a fine line between what he knew would work and what he had to pretend he was still figuring out. Writing songs became a labyrinth with no clear exit; his mind was already filled with melodies, lyrics, and ideas that had once been important, that had marked stages, that had defined who he was as an artist, and the temptation to bring them forward was there, constant, like a half-open door he could walk through whenever he wanted, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did, he didn’t know what he would break, what would change, what would cease to exist if he moved a single piece before its time, so he held back, forcing himself to write from scratch, to doubt, to make mistakes, to search as if he didn’t know, and that was much harder than creating, because it meant taking a step back, limiting himself, feigning uncertainty when in reality he already knew the way.

And then there were them. His classmates, his friends, his home… but not yet.

There were moments when he looked at them and something tugged at his chest so hard it almost hurt, an impulse to approach them without thinking, to hug them, to lean on them with the ease he’d built up over the years, to joke without holding back, to be more open, louder, freer, just as he was in his present, but that Jisung didn’t fit in here; that Jisung didn’t exist for them yet, and every attempt to get a little closer was accompanied by a pause, an almost immediate correction, a necessary step back so as not to seem strange. He couldn’t hug them too much, he couldn’t seek constant contact, he couldn’t say things they hadn’t yet experienced together, he couldn’t laugh with the same ease because there wasn’t enough history yet to sustain it, and that felt strange, like having shared memories that only he could see, like being ahead in a conversation that the others were just beginning.

With Chan and Changbin, it became even more obvious, because he wanted to talk, he wanted to sit down with them without rushing, to go deeper, to say things he knew had brought them together in the future, to share from a more honest, more mature place, but at that moment everything revolved around a single thing: making their debut, doing it well, not failing, and there was no room for that kind of conversation, for that connection that is built over time and with stability, something they didn’t have yet, so he stayed on the surface, in the practical, in the necessary, and every time he stepped away from those moments, he felt an uneasiness hard to explain, as if he were losing something he’d already had, as if he were forced to walk the same path again without being able to take the emotional shortcuts he already knew.

And Minho… Minho was the hardest part of it all, not because of what he did but because of everything Jisung already knew he would become, because of that version that existed in his memory with almost painful clarity—the way he looked at him, how he understood even what wasn’t said, how he stayed without asking for explanations, how he had become that fixed point to which he could always return without thinking too much about it, but here that didn’t exist yet; here Minho was more distant, more closed off, more reserved, and Jisung couldn’t force it, couldn’t get close to him the way he did in his present, couldn’t lean on him without feeling out of place, almost invasive, as if he were taking something that didn’t yet belong to him. Sometimes he found himself looking for him without realizing it, waiting for a reaction that never came, a closeness that wasn’t there yet, a connection that this Minho didn’t know how to make yet, and then he had to stop himself, correct himself, remind himself over and over again that none of that existed yet, that he was starting from scratch, that what he had in the future wasn’t a guarantee but something that had been built step by step, with time, with mistakes, with patience—something he now had to redo as if it had never happened.

And that was what weighed on him the most—not the past or the mistakes he’d so desperately wanted to correct, but the fact that he couldn’t skip anything, that even though he knew the outcome, he had to go through the entire process again, build every bond, every trust, every little moment as if it were the first time, as if he hadn’t been walking that same path for years, as if he didn’t know exactly how much it cost to get there. And the more he tried to make it perfect, the more he held back, the more he adjusted his reactions, the more he corrected every detail, the more evident the wear and tear became—not on the outside, because he kept functioning, kept being “better,” kept fitting in, but on the inside something was beginning to tense up constantly, to tire without rest, to silently wonder how long he could sustain an edited version of himself without losing something in the process, because it was no longer just about changing the past but about remaking his entire life from the beginning without being able to fully be who he already was and without any certainty that, in the end, he would manage to reach the same place again.

At first it was so subtle that it almost slipped by amid everything else—a slight uneasiness, a weariness that didn’t quite fit with what he was doing, as if his body were a step behind itself— but he let it slide, put it in the same bag as everything else from that phase—the effort, the pressure, the absurd pace of the pre-debut period where nothing was really easy, where everything demanded more than usual—so he kept going, kept moving forward, making adjustments, holding onto that improved version of himself as if it were enough. Except it wasn’t, not entirely, because the days kept piling up one on top of the other and that feeling didn’t go away; on the contrary, it began to linger, to settle in his chest in a denser, more constant way, as if something inside him were gradually falling out of alignment without making a sound. He slept but didn’t rest, ate without being truly hungry, spoke less—not because he wanted to, but because his mind filled up too quickly and needed space so as not to overflow—and then signs began to appear that he knew all too well, too late to ignore but early enough that it hurt to recognize them.

Breathing was the first thing—small interruptions, moments when the air didn’t come in fully, as if something were closing just enough to be uncomfortable without stopping it—and then came the noise, the voices, the music; everything began to feel louder, closer, as if he couldn’t filter anything out and everything was hitting him at once, without order, without space, saturating him from within. He got distracted more easily, but not like before—not out of disinterest or laziness, but out of excess, from having too many things happening inside at the same time. And yet he kept functioning, kept responding well, kept up that controlled version of himself he’d decided to be ever since he woke up there, in that place that no longer felt like a dream but like something much more solid, more dangerous.

It was during a break, sitting on the studio floor with his back against the wall, sweat still clinging to his skin and the noise of the others fading into the background, when he remembered it—not as a new idea but as something that had always been there waiting to be named: the medication, the diagnosis, the reason why, in his present, he could sustain all of that without breaking. The air caught in his throat for a second—brief but long enough—and the realization hit him with brutal discomfort.

Of course. That’s why everything felt that way. That’s why every day felt a little heavier. Because here, he had none of that. Because back then, he didn’t even know what was wrong with him. And now he did. And there was nothing he could do.

He looked around almost by reflex, as if someone might notice what he had just realized, as if that thought were visible, but everyone was going about their business, talking, laughing, practicing, oblivious to that small, silent collapse happening inside her. He lowered his gaze, clasping his hands tighter than necessary, trying to regulate his breathing as he had learned over the years, counting, focusing, telling himself he was okay, that he could handle it, that he had done it before, but the difference was all too clear.

Before, he had help. Now he didn’t. And he couldn’t ask for it.

He couldn’t sit down in front of the company and explain that he had anxiety, that he’d been diagnosed, that he needed medication, because back then that didn’t exist, because bringing it up would raise questions, arouse suspicion, jeopardize the debut, turn him into a problem before he’d even started, and that thought was what really made him tense, more than any symptom, more than any shortness of breath. He couldn’t fail. But he couldn’t ignore it either, because his body wouldn’t let him.

The days that followed grew heavier and longer, as if each passing day added a new layer of exhaustion on top of the last. Nothing changed drastically, and yet everything felt a little harder. Every interaction took more energy, every smile required a conscious effort, and every attempt to stay steady felt less natural, more forced, as if he were holding up a structure that was beginning to crumble from within. Little by little, small cracks began to appear: moments when he needed to step away for a few seconds longer than usual, to remain silent with his gaze fixed on some random point, or to avoid eye contact because he had the constant feeling that, if someone stopped to observe him closely enough, they would discover that something wasn’t right, even if he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The idea of seeking help kept coming back, insistent, almost desperate, but it always hit the same wall. He couldn’t do it the right way. He couldn’t sit down in front of the company and explain something that, at that time, didn’t even have a name for anyone. He couldn’t ask for a diagnosis that didn’t yet exist in his medical history, nor could he risk his debut for a truth that no one would understand. Then his mind began to drift toward a more practical and far more dangerous place: options, shortcuts, ways to stay on his feet without having to explain himself. The word appeared with brutal clarity.

Anxiolytics.

Jisung ran a hand over his face and closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to quiet the noise in his head without anyone noticing. He had to do even that in silence, carefully, hiding it behind smiles and automatic responses, because in that place and at that moment there was no room to show weakness. Not when the debut was so close, not when everyone was betting everything on it. He took a deep breath, in the controlled way he’d learned years later, and let out a barely audible whisper.

“It’s okay…”

But it wasn’t true, and he knew it. He felt it in his chest, in the exhaustion that wouldn’t go away, in the constant pressure behind his ribs, in that increasingly uncomfortable certainty that, if he didn’t find a way to hold himself together soon, everything he was trying to fix would start to fall apart again—only this time he would be fully aware of every crack.

That night, instead of resting, he searched. With his phone’s brightness turned down to the lowest setting and the sheets pulled up to his chest, he scrolled from one page to the next with silent anxiety, jumping from forums to articles, from absurd theories to empty explanations. He typed the same questions over and over: how to wake up from a dream, how to tell if you’re dreaming, how to return to reality. Each result was more frustrating than the last. None resembled what he was experiencing, and none offered him a way out. He tried everything he found. He pinched his arm until it left a red mark, counted his fingers, checked the time several times, and tried to find flaws in his surroundings—some inconsistency, any sign that this couldn’t be real. But everything responded with impeccable normality, too perfect, as if that world stubbornly refused to crumble.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

There were two days left until the debut.

The number kept spinning around in his mind all night long, repeating itself over and over as he lay there with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, unable to really sleep. Because he knew exactly what was coming. He knew what those two days meant. He knew the nerves of the first stage, the trembling of his hands before going out, the dizziness of hearing his name chanted for the first time, and he also knew what would come next: the first fans, the first awards, the ever-larger stages, the world tours, the festivals, the campaigns with luxury brands, millions of people singing lyrics that had been born on nights like that. He knew it was all worth it, that every sacrifice had brought them there, and that he wouldn’t trade that future for anything in the world.

And yet, with that certainty lodged in his chest, he understood something that made him shut his eyes tight. He didn’t want to go through it all again.

He didn’t want to start from scratch again. He didn’t want to go through every wound, every argument, every night of uncertainty, and every fear he had already survived once more. He didn’t want to slowly rebuild what already existed in his present, nor did he want to earn back the place he already had. Because that was what hurt the most. Not the work. Not the pressure. Not the exhaustion. But the absence. The invisible distance separating him from the people he loved most. Having them close and, at the same time, feeling them far away. Knowing the depth of those bonds and not being able to reach them in the same way. Knowing exactly who they were to him and not being able to take refuge in them as he did in his real life.

Jisung brought a hand to his chest as his breathing became ragged again. This time it wasn’t a brief startle or a fleeting moment of distress, but a raw, insistent need that squeezed his entire body until it hurt.

“I want to go back…” he whispered, his voice breaking.

It wasn’t a nostalgic wish or a passing thought, but a plea. Because he no longer wanted to fix anything, he no longer wanted to do better, and he no longer wanted to correct the past. He just wanted his life, his present, his home, and his family. He wanted to wake up in his apartment, hear Minho come home late, see the others as he knew them now, and simply be Han Jisung again.

But with each passing day, that possibility seemed to slip a little further away. He felt more lost, more exhausted, and more mired in a reality he didn’t know how to stop. He realized with terrifying clarity that he was reaching his limit, that he couldn’t hold on much longer, and that if he didn’t find a way out of there soon, he was going to truly break.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

They debuted.

And, despite the hell he had been dragging inside his head for weeks, that was one of the happiest days of Jisung's entire life.

Being on that stage for the second time was so overwhelming that for a moment, everything else ceased to matter. The lights, the nerves, the trembling in the hands, the sound of their own breaths mingling behind the stage, the looks of the members filled with fear and excitement, everything was exactly as they remembered and, at the same time, much more intense. Because now he knew what that moment meant. And when they were up there, when the cameras turned on and the music began, Jisung felt something he hadn't felt since he woke up in that past. Hope.

For a few minutes, he stopped thinking about the anxiety, the exhaustion, the desperation to return. he smiled for real. He sang with his heart beating so hard that he thot it was going to explode. He looked at the others and felt an immense pride that almost hurt. He looked at them all and knew, once again, that every sacrifice had been worth it. That nite he cried, he cried in silence, lying in his bed, with one hand over his mouth to avoid waking anyone, as the tears slid onto the pillow.

They did it. They had done it again, for a moment, he thot that maybe he could endure it a little longer. But...happiness didn't heal anything. Anxiety was still there, lurking like a shadow clinging to his ribs, waiting for the right moment to devour him again.

There was a day, shortly after the debut, when everything seemed to align in the worst possible way. Nothing extraordinary happened. There was no tragedy, no devastating news, no irreparable mistake. On paper, it was a completely normal day: rehearsals, tight schedules, interviews, run-throughs, little rest. The same as always. And yet, from the moment he opened his eyes, Jisung felt that something inside him was barely held together by threads too thin.

Breathing was difficult, his chest hurt, the noise was unbearable, and the voices overlapped each other, forming a constant murmur that wouldn't let him think. His head didn't rest for a second, the worst part was that he had nowhere to go. He couldn't take refuge in Minho as he did in the present. He couldn't curl up next to him and admit, with the calmness of the years, that he was having a bad day. He couldn't ask for medication. He couldn't say that he needed a moment. He couldn't do anything without feeling that everyone was watching him, hoping he would turn back into the difficult, temperamental, and unpredictable Han Jisung who had given them so many headaches.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He continued. He smiled when appropriate. He joked just enough. He breathed as best he could. And he kept going until he couldn't anymore.

It was during a rehearsal, on one of those days when everyone was tired, sweaty, and with their patience much shorter than usual. They had been repeating the same choreography for hours, and Chan didn't let a single detail slip by. Félix was going over a sequence that included a complicated position change and, for the third or fourth time, ended up entering a fraction of a second late.

It wasn't something serious, it wasn't even an important mistake.

But Jisung was already too exhausted to measure the tone with which he spoke.

—You're coming in late on the bill —he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Félix looked up immediately.

—I'm doing it just like you.

Jisung shook his head, more brusque than he intended.

—No, you're not.

Félix repeated the movement almost instantly, counting with his hand.

—Yes, yes I am. Look.

Normally, the argument would have ended there. One of them would have huffed, maybe they would have exchanged an annoyed glance, and then each would go back to their own business. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that day Jisung no longer had space to hold anything, his chest felt tight since he had woken up, his head was buzzing, his whole body was functioning on pure inertia, and every correction, no matter how small, seemed to scrape his raw nerves.

Félix repeated the step again.

—See? I'm doing it the same way.

And something in Jisung broke.

—Then keep doing it wrong. I don't know why you ask.

The silence fell abruptly.

Even the music seemed to become heavier.

Félix stared at him, incredulous.

—What's wrong?

Jisung held his gaze, although inside he felt everything was swaying.

—Nothing. I'm just telling the truth.

—You don't have to talk to me like that.

—Then just do it right and that's it.

Chan reacted instantly.

—Jisung.

The warning came too late. All the tension that had been building up for weeks finally found a crack to escape thru.

"I'm tired of repeating the same thing!" he exploded, raising his voice without being able to stop. Not everything revolves around you!

Félix stepped forward. His expression changed completely. He didn't seem hurt. He seemed genuinely fed up.

—And not everything revolves around your mood swings.

The phrase hit him with brutal precision, Jisung felt something inside him break.

—Excuse me?

Félix no longer backed down.

—We all have to put up with it when you decide to mistreat others. You're not the only one who's tired.

Chan stepped between the two, raising his hands.

—Enough already. Both of you.

But none of them listened to him.

"You have no idea what I'm going through," Jisung said, his voice breaking between anger and exhaustion.

—Then stop unloading on me.

—I'm not downloading anything for you!

—Of course!

The voices overlapped, each word came out faster than the previous one, and the air in the studio became unbreathable. Jisung stepped back abruptly, trying to move away, and forcefully pushed the metal chair behind him. The chair slid with a violent screech and the edge grazed Félix's arm.

The sound was dry. Brief, but enough. A thin red line appeared on the skin. It wasn't a serious wound, just a superficial cut, and yet the world seemed to stop. Jisung stood still. His heart seemed to stop beating for a second.

Félix looked down at his arm and then looked back at him. There was no anger in his expression, only disappointment, a silent and deep disappointment that hurt much more than any shout.

"Incredible," he murmured.

He didn't say anything else, turned around, and left the studio.

Jisung remained rooted in the same spot, with trembling hands and his chest tightening more and more. Chan ran a hand over his face with evident frustration. Hyunjin seemed to not know what to say. Seungmin remained stiff. Jeongin looked down. Changbin looked at him with a hardness that Jisung immediately recognized.

He couldn't stand it, so he left the study before anyone could try to stop him and locked himself in the nearest bathroom. He leaned over the sink with both hands and tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come in properly. He felt his heart pounding in her throat, tears falling uncontrollably, and the unbearable certainty that he wasn't fixing the past.

He was destroying him, that had never happened in his real life. Never with Félix, that was what finally broke him.

Later, when they returned to the apartment, Minho looked for him several times. He sat down next to him on the sofa and watched him in silence for a few seconds before asking him, with that dry frankness that had always characterized him, what was going on. He told him that he couldn't go on like this. Jisung wanted to speak. He wanted to tell him that he was exhausted, that he felt it was getting harder to hold on each day, that no matter how much he tried, he still felt out of place, as if he were occupying a space that didn't belong to him. He wanted to confess that he was afraid of breaking down in front of everyone and not knowing how to pull himself together. But every time he opened his mouth, the words got stuck in his throat and everything sounded absurd, impossible to explain. In the end, he just shook his head and murmured that he was fine, that he was just tired.

Minho was not convinced. The worry remained on his expression, tense and silent, as if he knew there was something much deeper behind that erratic behavior. But he also couldn't find a way to break thru the wall that Jisung had built around himself.

After that day, the coexistence began to crack with alarming ease. Arguments arose over anything, sometimes in low voices, sometimes charged with such dense tension that it seemed to cut thru the air. The debut was still too recent. They were all exhausted, subjected to constant pressure, learning to adapt to a life they were just beginning to understand. And Jisung, who had already reached his limit long before the others, was unable to keep holding up the controlled version of himself that he had built since he woke up in the past.

Changbin was the first to stop treating him with caution. He didn't stop loving him, but his concern turned into a harshness that Jisung couldn't bear. He confronted him when he disappeared without notice, scolded him when he lost control, and forced him to listen to truths that no one else dared to utter. I kept telling him that he needed to control his temper, that he couldn't keep hurting the people around him, and that now that they had finally debuted, they needed to stick together more than ever.

Changbin spoke out of concern, but Jisung only heard reproaches. Because Changbin didn't know what was happening inside him. He didn't know that he was trapped in a growing anxiety that was consuming him little by little, that every day was a silent struggle not to break, that there were entire nites when he could barely breathe without feeling the fear crushing his chest. He only saw his mistakes and, with the brutal honesty of someone who believes they are helping, pointed them out without softening them.

And that ended up being the cruelest part of it all. Not having gone back to the past. Not having to relive the pain. But to discover that, even knowing the outcome of the story, even wishing with all their might to do better this time, there were wounds that seemed destined to reopen.

As he watched the bonds he loved most begin to strain once again before his eyes, Jisung felt a cold terror settle in his chest as he realized that, perhaps, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to return home.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

The studio was silent, except for the repetitive sound of the track and the intermittent tapping of Changbin's pencil against the table. It was late, too late for anyone to keep functioning normally, and yet both continued hunched over their notebooks, surrounded by cables, empty cups, and the accumulated fatigue of entire weeks. Since the debut, nites like that had become frequent. They slept little, worked more than their bodies could handle, and lived under constant pressure that left no room for mistakes.

Jisung had his eyes fixed on the computer screen, but he had been reading the same line for several minutes without understanding it. The words jumbled in front of his eyes, the ideas clashed with each other, and his mind felt saturated, like a room too small where everything was lit at the same time. He rubbed his face with one hand and tried to concentrate, but exhaustion dragged him down with a weight that was increasingly difficult to ignore.

—Jisung.

Changbin's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

He slowly raised his gaze.

Changbin was observing the lyrics he had just written, with a slight frown.

—You're not focused.

Jisung took a moment to respond.

—I'm sorry, I...

—Don't ask me for forgiveness, just focus. Focus.

The tone was not cruel. It was the same as always when they worked together: straightforward, demanding, no beating around the bush. At any other time, Jisung would have accepted it without any problem. But that nite, he could barely stand.

He lowered his gaze to the notebook and tried to focus again. He gripped the pencil between his fingers so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Changbin sighed and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

—You've been like this for days. Distracted, irritable, with your head somewhere else. If something's wrong, say it. If not, stop acting like we all have to adapt to your mood.

The phrase was not said with malice. Changbin was tired, frustrated, and worried, but he chose his words with the usual bluntness he used when he felt someone needed to react. However, for Jisung, that hit exactly where it hurt the most. He swallowed hard and lowered his head even further, trying to maintain his composure.

"I'm trying..." —he murmured with a broken voice.

Changbin leaned forward.

—Then try harder.

Jisung felt something inside him tighten unbearably. He brought a hand to his face and turned slightly to hide.

Changbin interpreted the gesture with frustration.

—You can't shut down every time someone tells you something you don't want to hear.

Jisung shook his head, unable to explain himself.

—It's not that... —he managed to say.

But Changbin was already too irritated to stop.

—Then stop acting like everything is a personal attack. You always do the same thing. They tell you something, you take it worse than it is, and you end up distancing yourself from everyone.

Each word fell with a disproportionate weight.

Jisung pressed a hand against his chest and breathed with difficulty.

—I can't...

—Yes, you can. You just have to stop acting like you're the only one going thru a tough time.

Jisung looked up. His eyes shone with a mix of exhaustion, desperation, and a rage held in for too long.

—You have no idea what's happening to me!

The phrase came out stronger than I expected.

Changbin stood still for a second, surprised.

—Then explain it.

Jisung opened his mouth, but no words came out, he couldn't tell him the truth. He couldn't tell him that he was trapped in a time that didn't belong to him, that he was reliving wounds that no one else remembered, and that every day he felt more clearly that, despite all his efforts, he was losing control of everything again.

I couldn't explain anything to him, the silence between us became unbearable.

Jisung opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn't tell the truth.

Her vision blurred and the pain in her chest intensified until it became unbearable. The only thing he could do was shake his head as the tears fell uncontrollably and his breathing became increasingly erratic.

Changbin took a step back. He remained frustrated, convinced that this was another disproportionate reaction from Jisung, one of those times when emotions seemed to completely overwhelm him.

—When you're ready to act like an adult, we'll talk.

He took his jacket and left the studio. The door closed with a sharp bang.

Jisung was left alone. For a few seconds, he tried to convince himself that he could control it. He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward, struggling to catch his breath. But it was already too late. The tremor spread throughout her body, her chest burned, and the tears kept falling without her being able to stop them.

He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Maybe it was several minutes. Maybe just a few moments. The door opened again.

Minho walked in with a frown, probably looking for something he had forgotten, but he stopped dead in his tracks upon seeing him. Jisung was huddled by the table, trembling from head to toe, with his breath ragged and his face completely soaked in tears.

—Jisung.

Minho's voice changed immediately, he approached without wasting a second and knelt in front of him.

—Look at me.

Jisung shook his head, unable to obey.

—I can't...

—Yes, you can.

Minho took her hands firmly and moved them away from his chest.

—Listen to me. Breathe with me.

Jisung tried, but the air kept escaping in short gasps.

—I can't breathe.

—Yes, you are breathing. Look at me.

Minho waited patiently until, thru tears, Jisung managed to focus his gaze on him.

—That's it. Inhale... slowly.

I guided him over and over again, with unexpected calmness, holding him firmly and not allowing him to hide again. I didn't fully understand what was happening, but I did understand something essential: this was not a tantrum, it was not drama, it was not an exaggerated reaction.

Something was really wrong. Little by little, Jisung's breathing began to stabilize. The sobs persisted for a few more minutes, growing weaker and weaker, until he finally collapsed forward and Minho held him without saying a single word.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Minho remained there, with a hand on his back, waiting for the trembling to completely subside, when Jisung managed to breathe with some normalcy, Minho spoke in a low voice.

—Since when has this been happening to you?

Jisung closed his eyes tightly. He didn't know what to say, that silence was enough for Minho to understand that this wasn't recent, Jisung had been facing it alone for a long time.

Later, when they returned to the apartment, Minho looked for him several times. He sat down next to him on the sofa and watched him in silence for a few seconds before asking him, with that dry frankness that had always characterized him, what was going on. He told him that he couldn't go on like this. Jisung wanted to speak. He wanted to tell him that he was exhausted, that he felt it was getting harder to hold on every day, that no matter how much he tried, he still felt out of place, as if he were occupying a space that didn't belong to him. He wanted to confess that he was afraid of breaking down in front of everyone and not knowing how to pull himself together. But every time he opened his mouth, the words got stuck in his throat and everything sounded absurd, impossible to explain. In the end, he just shook his head and murmured that he was fine, that he was just tired.

Minho was not convinced. The worry remained on his expression, tense and silent, as if he knew there was something much deeper behind that erratic behavior. But he also couldn't find a way to break thru the wall that Jisung had built around himself.

After that day, the coexistence began to crack with alarming ease. Arguments arose over anything, sometimes in low voices, sometimes charged with such dense tension that it seemed to cut thru the air. The debut was still too recent. They were all exhausted, subjected to constant pressure, learning to adapt to a life they were just beginning to understand. And Jisung, who had already reached his limit long before the others, was unable to keep holding up the controlled version of himself that he had built since he woke up in the past.

Changbin was the first to stop treating him with caution. He didn't stop loving him, but his concern turned into a harshness that Jisung couldn't bear. He confronted him when he disappeared without warning, scolded him when he lost control, and forced him to listen to truths that no one else dared to utter. I kept telling him that he needed to control his temper, that he couldn't keep hurting the people around him, and that now that they had finally debuted, they needed to stick together more than ever.

Changbin spoke out of concern, but Jisung only heard reproaches. Because Changbin didn't know what was happening inside him. He didn't know that he was trapped in a growing anxiety that was consuming him little by little, that every day was a silent struggle not to break, that there were entire nites when he could barely breathe without feeling the fear crushing his chest. He only saw his mistakes and, with the brutal honesty of someone who believes they are helping, pointed them out without softening them. As he watched the bonds he loved most begin to strain once again before his eyes, Jisung felt a cold terror settle in his chest as he realized that, no matter how hard he tried, he might never be able to return home.

Jisung wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the exact moment he stopped feeling capable of holding himself up. It didn't happen all at once, nor with a specific event that marked a before and after. It was a slow, silent wear, as if something inside him was eroding a little more each day. Anxiety, which at first appeared in brief waves, ended up settling in permanently. Breathing became difficult. Sleeping no longer repaired him. And thinking, even about the simplest things, required an energy he barely had left. The days followed one another without pause between rehearsals, recordings, interviews, and rehearsed smiles, while he made an ever-greater effort to pretend that everything was still under control.

For a while, he tried to hide it. He forced himself to act as usual, to joke when appropriate, and to respond with the same energy as before. But the fatigue eventually wore down even that facade. He began to fall silent for long periods, to isolate himself without explanations, and to lose concentration with a ease he had never experienced before. The others noticed. It was reflected in the discreet glances, in the awkward pauses after each argument, and in the way they watched him when he disappeared for a few minutes to catch his breath. Even so, no one brought the situation to the company. The debut was still too recent, and everything they had achieved felt so fragile that mentioning a problem like that seemed unthinkable.

Despite everything, there were still moments of light. Some hours in which he managed to forget, even if only for a little while, the weight he carried on his chest. Then the same old Jisung would reappear: the one who made absurd jokes, exaggerated every gesture, and turned any conversation into an excuse to make others laugh. In those moments, the atmosphere would relax, and everyone seemed to convince themselves that nothing had changed.

Minho was the one who got closest.

Not thru grand confessions or decisive conversations, but thru small gestures that were repeated with an almost imperceptible consistency. He started sitting next to him more often, looking for him with his eyes, and staying close when he noticed he was too quiet. Jisung perceived each of those attentions and felt a painful nostalgia. In front of him was the younger version of the person who, years later, would become his refuge, his home, the place where he could always find rest. He had him close, he could hear him, touch him, share the same space, and yet he missed him with an intensity that was hard to bear.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

When December arrived, Jisung barely noticed it. There was no new collapse or dramatic confession that marked the change. From the outside, he was still the same in many moments: he laughed when it was time, improvised ridiculous dances, and managed to elicit laughter with the same ease as always. But those moments of lightness became increasingly brief, like small patches of sunlight before the clouds closed in again.

Minho continued watching him with discreet but constant attention. Chan also knew that something was not right. It was evident in the sidelong glances, in the questions he never got to ask, and in the silent worry he carried while trying to hold the group and the weight of the debut. The others shared that unease, but none wanted to jeopardize what they had just achieved.

By then, Jisung had stopped searching for answers. He no longer tried to figure out how to wake up nor clung to impossible theories to explain what was happening. The idea of having to live those years again stopped being a hypothesis and began to feel like a sentence. What would be happening in her real life? Was his body still asleep? Would Minho be looking for him? What if he never came back?

At first, those questions consumed him. Then, he simply stopped chasing them, not because he had found peace, but because he no longer had the strength to keep fighting.

It was on one of those gray days, with a overcast sky and dull light filtering thru the window, when her body finally stopped responding. He hadn't slept at all. He had spent the entire nite with his eyes open, trapped in a thick fog where thoughts no longer had shape. When the alarm began to ring, he heard it clearly. He knew perfectly well what it meant. He had to get up, He had to shower, get dressed, hurry so as not to delay others. But he didn't move. He remained lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with his eyes open, feeling his body so heavy that even breathing seemed to require more effort than usual. The alarm kept ringing until it stopped. For a few seconds, silence returned. Then it started again. And another one. And another one.

I didn't know how much time had passed when the door opened and Jeongin peeked in with that usual mix of sleepiness and youthful energy.

—Hyung, get up. The alarm has been ringing for a long time. We're going to be late.

Jisung listened to it. A part of him registered every word. But the information seemed to get stuck halfway, as if his mind were covered by a thick layer of cotton. He didn't respond. He didn't even turn his head. He continued looking at the gray light filtering thru the curtains, vaguely wondering if it was cloudy or if his eyes simply no longer focused well.

Jeongin let out a small laugh and playfully threw a pillow at him.

—Yeah, stop acting. Move.

The pillow fell onto his chest and slid to the side. Jisung barely blinked. Jeongin's smile faded.

—Hyung…

He moved a little closer, hoping for at least a protest, a growl, any sign of life. He got nothing. Just a slight contraction on Jisung's face, an almost imperceptible grimace, as if even reacting was too much for him.

Jeongin left the room and returned a few seconds later with Chan. The leader approached quickly, still adjusting his clothes, with disheveled hair and exhaustion etched on his face.

—Jisung. Come on, get up. We have to go out.

Nothing.

Chan sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

—Hey. Look at me.

Jisung's eyes were still open. He was there. Chan could see it. But it was as if something essential had turned off behind that gaze.

Hyunjin appeared at the door and, trying to downplay the situation, approached with a smile.

—Is he pretending again? Let me be.

He took him by the arm with the intention of forcing him to sit up, expecting Jisung to react with an exaggerated complaint or a shove back. But his body barely allowed itself to be moved a few centimeters before falling heavily back onto the mattress.

Hyunjin's smile disappeared immediately. The atmosphere changed in an instant, no one made jokes after that. Minho was the last to approach. He didn't say anything at first. He sat on the other side of the bed and watched Jisung for several long seconds, as if trying to find something behind that unusual stillness.

—Jisung.

His voice was low, firm, much softer than usual.

For the first time, Jisung's eyes slowly moved toward him. It took a moment for him to focus on his face. Minho was there, very close, with that serious expression that only appeared when he was truly worried.

Jisung parted his lips slightly, but all that came out was a hoarse and almost childlike murmur.

—I'm sleepy.

That was it. There was no anger. There was no drama. There were no tears.

Just an exhaustion so deep that it seemed to have emptied everything else. Chan exchanged a glance with Minho. Hyunjin remained motionless next to the bed. Jeongin had remained completely silent. Outside, the rest of the dormitory continued with their usual routine, but inside that room, time seemed to have stopped.

Jisung slowly closed his eyes. The voices around him began to blend into a distant, indistinct murmur. He no longer wanted to think, he didn't want to explain anything. He just wanted them to stop talking, for the noise to disappear, for them to let him sleep a little longer.

Chan was the first to react. Although he tried to stay calm so as not to alarm the others any further, the weight on his chest did not disappear for a second. He took his phone and called the company from the kitchen, speaking in a low voice while constantly glancing toward the room. He explained that Jisung wasn't feeling well, that he seemed exhausted, that he hadn't been able to get up, and that he was probably coming down with the flu or dragging the accumulated fatigue of the past few weeks. On the other end, they didn't ask too many questions. They had just debuted, the schedules were full, and the pace was brutal; it was not uncommon for someone to end up completely drained. After a few minutes, the answer was simple: Jisung could stay resting, but the rest had to attend the meeting and stick to the scheduled time. It was important and they couldn't miss it.

The explanation turned out to be logical enough for everyone to want to cling to it. That must be it. Exhaustion, lack of sleep. A cold starting and nothing more. With a few hours of rest, he would probably be the same as always, making ridiculous jokes and talking too fast as if nothing had happened. Chan returned to the room and conveyed the decision to them. No one protested. In a way, everyone needed to believe that the situation was less serious than it had felt just a few minutes earlier.

Jisung remained lying down, with his eyes closed and breathing deeply, oblivious to the murmur of voices around him. Minho adjusted the blanket over his shoulders and continued to watch him for a few seconds longer than necessary. There was something in his sleeping expression that didn't give him peace. He didn't just seem tired. He seemed... absent, as if he had retreated to a place none of them could follow him to.

Before leaving, Chan took a small piece of paper and quickly wrote a note that he left on the kitchen counter, right where Jisung would see it upon waking up.

"Rest a lot." We'll be back at nite. Don't worry about anything. Call us if you need anything.

The words were simple, but the slightly tight stroke betrayed the unease behind them.

The apartment was filling up with the usual sounds of backpacks, zippers, hurried footsteps, and last-minute reminders. However, that morning no one was really focused on the meeting that awaited them. Even Hyunjin, who always found something to comment on, remained unusually quiet. Jeongin looked toward the room several times before putting on his shoes. Seungmin and Changbin exchanged a couple of quiet comments, trying to convince themselves that everything would be resolved with a few hours of sleep.

When they finally left and the door closed, Chan and Minho walked together in silence toward the elevator. The leader had his hands in his pockets and a distant look, repeatedly going over the image of Jisung motionless in bed.

"I didn't like how it was," he finally said, in a tone lower than usual.

Minho took a few seconds to respond.

—Me neither.

The elevator doors opened with a metallic sound, and they both entered without looking at each other.

—Lately, he's been acting very strange —continued Chan, resting his head against the wall for a moment—. I thot it was stress, that he was tired, but... this was different.

Minho kept his gaze fixed ahead, with his jaw slightly tense.

—He's not sleeping well. And every time I try to ask him, he says he's fine.

Chan let out a heavy sigh.

—I hope he just needs to rest.

Minho didn't respond immediately. The image of Jisung murmuring "I'm sleepy" with that empty voice was still stuck in his mind.

"I hope so," he said in the end.

Neither of them was convinced by their own words, but they didn't have time to stay. Outside, the world continued moving at its usual pace. The schedules didn't stop. The cameras, the rehearsals, and the meetings continued regardless of how they felt inside.

They did the only thing they could do at that moment: they left Jisung sleeping, trusted that the rest would be enough, and left for the company with a silent unease lodged in their chest, that kind of gray premonition that has no concrete shape but follows each step like a shadow stuck to their heels.

Jisung didn't get up.

Not even the need to go to the bathroom could get him out of bed. He remained there as the hours slowly slipped by, enveloped in a strange state between sleep and wakefulness. At times he would fall asleep for a few minutes, sinking into a heavy and restless darkness, and then he would open his eyes again with the same feeling of exhaustion, as if he hadn't slept at all. He shifted from side to side, getting tangled in the sheets, watching as the light coming thru the window changed color and intensity, how the morning gray turned into an opaque white and then into an increasingly faint orange hue. The day was progressing and he remained exactly in the same place. He knew perfectly well what was happening.

He recognized it with the brutal clarity of someone who had already been thru it, who had learned to name it, to understand it, and, over time, to control it. Never, not even the first time he experienced it, had he reached that point so quickly. In his original timeline, things had been different. Minho hadn't left him alone. Changbin, far from getting annoyed with him, had been one of the first to notice that something was off. He had insisted, he had observed him with that harsh yet genuinely concerned frankness, and when the symptoms began to mix with deep sadness, when anxiety stopped being just irritability and transformed into apathy, isolation, and hopelessness, it was precisely Changbin who ended up pushing him toward the help he needed. From there came the consultations, the diagnosis, the treatment, the medication, the tools to hold on. Here, everything was different.

A single variation, a single out-of-place argument with Félix, had disrupted the delicate balance of events. Changbin had distanced himself instead of getting closer. Minho kept trying to understand him, but Jisung had hidden too much from him. Chan was worried, yes, but the weight of leadership and the stress of debut barely left him room to hold himself together. And Jisung, while watching the sunset light slowly slide down the wall, understood with a cold clarity that he had made a huge mistake.

He had waited too long. He had let the anxiety progress untreated to a dangerously high point, and now his body and mind were beginning to collapse at the same time. It was no longer just about fatigue or stress. He knew, because years later the doctors had explained it to him in detail and because he had experienced it himself, that when anxiety persists for weeks or months, the body can become deeply and devastatingly exhausted. The nervous system remains in a constant state of alert, like an engine revved up that never turns off. The brain continues to interpret everything as a threat, cortisol and adrenaline levels remain elevated for too long, and gradually, basic functions such as sleeping, eating, concentrating, and regulating emotions begin to deteriorate. The body keeps moving, but it does so as if it were trapped in a permanent emergency.

And when that state is prolonged, something eventually gives.

It doesn't always happen dramatically. Sometimes there isn't an exact moment when everything breaks. It simply reaches a point where the body can no longer hold itself up. A fatigue appears that does not improve with rest, a physical heaviness that makes it difficult even to move the arms or sit up in bed. Thinking clearly becomes complicated. The simplest decisions seem impossible. The mind is shrouded in a thick fog and emotions begin to fade. Some people cry easily; others stop reacting almost completely. Activities as basic as showering, eating, or getting out of bed can feel as demanding as running a marathon.

Depression doesn't always present itself as obvious sadness.

Sometimes it appears exactly like that, like a silent blackout. As if the brain, after spending too much time surviving in overload, reduced all its functions to the bare minimum to keep going.

Jisung recognized each of those signs. The lack of energy that couldn't be resolved with sleep. The feeling of observing the world from very far away. The loss of interest even in what I loved the most. The heavy body. The slow thoughts. The difficulty in responding when someone spoke to him. The almost desperate impulse to hide and cease to exist for a few hours.

Lying in bed, feeling his limbs so heavy that he could barely move them, he understood with brutal clarity that depression had fully caught up with him.

And not like the first time.

This time, it had come accompanied by the exact knowledge of what it meant. He knew it wasn't about laziness, weakness, or lack of willpower. He knew his brain was exhausted, that the anxiety was trembling. He was sinking.

When they returned to the apartment, it was already completely dark. The journey back was much quieter than usual. Although during the meeting they tried to focus on the upcoming events, the schedules, and everything they still had ahead of them, the image of Jisung motionless on the bed had not left any of their minds. Chan was the first to open the door and, as soon as he crossed the threshold, he felt something tighten painfully in his chest.

Everything was exactly the same.

The room remained dim, silent, untouched. There were no lights on, no glasses out of place, no signs that anyone had been thru the kitchen. The note was still on the counter, carefully folded, exactly where he had left it that morning. Chan approached almost instinctively and picked it up between his fingers. The paper was cold, untouchable, as if the hours had passed around it without anyone touching it.

Jisung hadn't even gotten up.

I hadn't eaten. He hadn't read the message. He probably hadn't left the room all day.

Guilt hit him hard. He stood for a second staring at the note, squeezing it between his fingers, and had to clench his jaw to hold back the bitter feeling rising in his throat.

—It's still the same —he murmured softly.

There was no need to say anything else. The silence that followed was laden with the same worry that everyone had been trying to hide since the morning. Chan moved quickly toward the room, and the rest followed almost silently, as if any sudden noise could worsen something that already felt fragile.

The door was ajar. The hallway light slipped inside and revealed Jisung exactly in the same position they had left him, tangled in the blankets, with disheveled hair, a pale face, and eyes open but lost, fixed on some point that seemed very far away.

It looked worse.

He didn't look like someone who had rested. He looked bone-tired, as if sleep had offered him no relief and, on the contrary, had dragged him down even further. There was something in his expression, in the way he remained still, that made Chan's chest tighten even more.

He approached immediately and crouched beside the bed, seeking her gaze with an almost instinctive delicacy.

—Jisung.

Jisung's eyes slowly moved toward him. It took several seconds for him to focus on his face, and when he did, Chan felt a painful knot in his throat. There was no anger or shame in that gaze. Just a weariness so profound that it was difficult to bear.

—Hey —he said with a much softer voice, unable to completely hide the concern—. Have you eaten something?

Jisung barely shook his head.

—Did you at least get up?

Another small denial.

Chan closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly, as if trying to sort out his own thoughts before succumbing to fear.

That was enough.

He could no longer convince himself that it was just exhaustion. He could no longer keep telling himself that a few hours of sleep would make everything return to normal. Jisung was not resting. He was fading in front of them, and everyone had seen it without knowing how to stop it.

He stood up and looked at the rest with a serene, firm determination, the same one he used every time he made a decision that affected everyone.

—This is no longer normal.

No one argued. It wasn't necessary. Felix lowered his gaze with a face full of guilt. Jeongin bit his lip, clearly distressed. Seungmin remained silent, tense. Hyunjin watched Jisung with bright eyes, unable to hide how worried he was.

Chan took a deep breath and softened his tone a bit.

—Step outside for a moment, okay? Give them a little space.

Jeongin hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, but ended up nodding. Felix gave Jisung one last look full of remorse before leaving in silence. Seungmin followed them, Changbin and Hyunjin stayed a few more seconds before leaving as well.

—We're going to help you, okay? —he murmured tenderly.

Jisung didn't respond, but his eyes barely moistened.

When Hyunjin left, Chan turned his gaze toward Minho. There was no need to exchange words. They both understood the same thing at the same time.

They had to take care of him.

"We're going to help you get up," said Minho, sitting on the edge of the bed with an unusual softness in his voice.

Jisung closed his eyes, as if even understanding those words required an enormous effort. For a moment, he seemed to be suspended between sleep and reality, too exhausted to react, but in the end, he barely nodded. He didn't protest. He didn't say he could do it alone. He didn't try to downplay it. He simply accepted that, this time, he didn't have the strength to hold himself up.

Chan and Minho helped him sit up carefully, moving him slowly, as if they feared he might break. His body was warm, weak, with that strange weight that appears when someone has been fighting in silence for too long. He barely set his feet on the ground, his knees immediately faltered, and his body instinctively leaned toward Minho, seeking support without even thinking about it.

Minho wrapped his arms firmly around his waist, pulling him closer to his chest for better support.

"Slowly," he murmured, holding him close, with a steady hand on his side.

Jisung let his forehead fall on his shoulder for a moment. The simple act of standing seemed to consume all the energy he had left, and Minho, feeling that weight resting against him, barely tightened his arm around him, as if he wanted to silently convey that he didn't have to exert more effort than necessary.

Between the two of them, they took him to the bathroom and helped him shower with a touching naturalness, without awkward comments, without making him feel embarrassed. Chan adjusted the water temperature and prepared everything with the same attention he gave to every detail of the group. Minho stayed by his side at all times, a firm hand on his back, another ready to catch him if he lost his balance. Jisung, still trapped in a thick fog, let himself be guided in silence. There was a faint blush of embarrassment on his cheeks, but the fatigue was so deep that he didn't even have the strength to hide it.

Meanwhile, in the rest of the apartment, everyone was trying to turn their worry into something useful.

Felix was the first to react.

"I'm going to prepare something to eat," he said quietly, as if speaking too loudly could shatter the fragile balance of the nite.

Seungmin nodded and followed him to the kitchen without asking questions. Between them, they prepared rice and a light soup, something simple, warm, easy to digest. Felix stirred the pot in silence, with a tight chest and guilt still lodged in some painful corner of his throat, while Seungmin stayed by his side, attentive, accompanying him without the need for words.

In the room, Changbin sat next to Hyunjin with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands intertwined so tightly that his knuckles paled. The harshness with which he had treated Jisung over the past few weeks had completely crumbled, and in its place, only worry and a bitter weight remained that he didn't know how to relieve. Hyunjin kept looking down the hallway, restless, as if he were waiting to hear at any moment that Jisung was finally better.

"Do you think they need help?" he asked in a whisper.

Changbin shook his head, but the tension in his jaw betrayed how much he wanted to go in, see him, say something, anything.

Jeongin remained near the door, unsure, too young to fully understand what was happening and, at the same time, sensitive enough to feel the fear that hung in the air. He looked at his hyungs in silence, hoping that one of them would have an answer that none of them actually possessed.

The nite seemed to hang in that state of shared worry, as if the entire apartment was breathing cautiously.

When Chan and Minho finally helped Jisung out of the bathroom and sat him back on the bed with clean clothes and still damp hair, his appearance had improved just enough to more clearly reveal the extent of his exhaustion. He was still pale, with slow movements and reddened eyes, but he no longer seemed so distant. There was something vulnerable in the way he let himself be arranged among the pillows, something that made everyone's heart ache.

Felix entered with the plate in his hands and carefully placed it on the nightstand. He avoided holding her gaze for too long, but his voice came out soft, laden with shy tenderness.

"Let's eat a little, okay?"

Jisung looked up at him. For a moment, they looked at each other in silence, with everything that had remained unresolved floating between them, but there was no resentment or reproaches. Only concern. Just fear. Just the silent relief of having him there.

Jisung nodded weakly.

Later, when everyone gathered in the room again, the space filled with a dense, expectant stillness. Chan sat in front of him. Minho remained by his side, so close that their shoulders almost touched, as if to hold him until he found the strength to speak.

No one knew for sure what was happening. But everyone understood the same thing. They could no longer keep ignoring it.

Chan rested his forearms on his knees and spoke with the calmest and warmest voice he could muster.

—Jisung… we need you to tell us what's going on.

The question hung in the air, heavy and final.

And so the nite continued, filled with silences, restless glances, and a clumsy yet immense love, the kind of love that doesn't always know what to do, but stays anyway, determined to hold you until you find the strength to speak.

✯•´*¨`*•✿ 　　✿•*`¨*•✯

The conversation did not happen that same nite.

Several days passed before Jisung gathered the necessary strength to put into words something he hadn't been able to fully explain even in his first timeline. At first, everything was awkward and intermittent, with long silences and incomplete answers. The members did not pressure him. After finding him practically motionless in bed and spending hours helping him shower, eat, and simply be present, none of them believed it was just fatigue anymore.

The apartment changed subtly, as if everyone had adjusted their orbit to revolve a little closer to him. Chan began to observe him more closely, paying attention to how much he slept, how much he ate, and those moments when he became too quiet. Minho became a constant presence, appearing by his side with the naturalness of someone who doesn't need explanations to stay. If Jisung took refuge in the living room, Minho would end up there too, reviewing choreographies, folding clothes, or simply sharing the silence. Hyunjin resumed his habit of dragging him into absurd conversations, determined to get at least a fleeting smile out of him. Seungmin started leaving him water, snacks, and dry but well-intentioned reminders so he wouldn't skip meals. Félix approached cautiously at first, still affected by the fight, although the distance between them never lasted too long; little by little, they began to share brief conversations, shy smiles, and that familiar warmth that always found a way to return. Jeongin remained nearby with a silent concern, as if he didn't quite know what to do, but wanted to be available whenever they needed him. Even Changbin, despite the tension that still existed between them, stopped limiting himself to harsh corrections. He remained direct and demanding, but behind every word, there was something impossible to ignore: concern.

It was Chan who finally said out loud what everyone had been thinking.

It happened one nite when they returned late from the company. The rest dispersed around the apartment, exhausted, while Jisung remained seated at the table with a now-cold cup of tea in his hands and his gaze lost at some undefined point. Chan sat down in front of him and waited in silence, without rushing him and without hiding the concern in his eyes.

—I need you to tell me what's going on.

Jisung lowered his gaze to his fingers, observing the slight tremor that had been with him for weeks.

—I don't know how to explain it.

—Do it however you can.

For a moment, he thot about resorting to a simple excuse, reducing everything to stress or fatigue, but he was too exhausted to keep up that facade.

—I have anxiety.

The words hung in the air, small and enormous at the same time.

Chan didn't seem surprised. He nodded slowly, as if he had finally found the missing piece.

—How long have you been feeling this way?

Jisung let out a brief laugh, without humor.

—For a long time.

There was no need to explain anything else. They had all seen the sleepless nights, the difficulty concentrating, the irregular appetite, the exhaustion that clung to his body, and that way he sometimes seemed to lose himself even when surrounded by them.

Chan remained silent for a few seconds before responding with serene firmness.

—You don't have to go thru this alone.

The conversation stretched on for hours. It started with Chan, but little by little the others began to approach, some sitting on the floor, others leaning against the wall, all too tired to pretend that it didn't hurt. Jisung explained the essentials: that sometimes he felt like he couldn't breathe, that his mind wouldn't stop, that he was exhausted, and that he no longer knew how to keep holding on.

It wasn't the whole truth, but it was the part they needed to know the most.

The reaction was neither judgmental nor uncomfortable.

It was painful.

Félix was the first to apologize for thinking that everything was just a matter of bad mood. Jisung immediately denied it, with a broken voice, and ended up apologizing as well for the fight and the wound. Félix hugged him without hesitation, squeezing him so tightly that tears began to burn in his eyes again. Hyunjin joined almost instantly, murmuring thru contained tears that he should have realized sooner. Jeongin ended up clinging to them somewhat awkwardly, still unsure of where to place his hands. Seungmin, after calling him an idiot for carrying everything alone, brushed the hair from his forehead with a gentleness that completely belied the dry tone.

Changbin remained silent longer than the others.

When he finally spoke, his voice sounded lower than usual.

—I thot that if I was tough on you, you would react.

Jisung looked up.

Changbin pressed his lips together, frustrated with himself.

—I didn't know you were going thru this.

It wasn't an elaborate speech nor a perfect confession. It wasn't necessary. In that simple admission, there was more affection than Changbin usually expressed with words. Jisung felt something inside him give way and started crying again, this time without trying to hide it.

The company was informed shortly after.

Chan se encargó de hablar con los managers y, para alivio de todos, la respuesta fue mucho mejor de lo que Jisung había imaginado. Las responsabilidades no desaparecieron y el ritmo exigente de su nueva vida como idol continuó siendo el mismo, pero comenzaron a hacer ajustes. Redujeron algunas cargas cuando fue posible, establecieron espacios de descanso más claros y organizaron evaluaciones médicas para entender mejor lo que estaba ocurriendo.

It wasn't an immediate solution.

Anxiety didn't disappear overnight, and there were difficult days even after asking for help. However, since he woke up in that past, it was the first time Jisung didn't feel like he had to carry everything on his own.

The improvement came slowly, like the faint light that seeps thru the window before dawn. He started sleeping a few hours in a row more frequently. He started eating more regularly again. During practice, he still had moments when everything became too much, but now he could step away for a few minutes without feeling like he was letting others down. The most important thing was that he stopped draining every fragment of her energy pretending to be okay.

The fear, however, did not disappear.

I still didn't know how long I would stay there. He still didn't know if he would ever return to the present. I didn't know if I had altered history too much or if, despite everything, time continued to move toward the same destination.

Little by little, those questions stopped occupying everything. He continued to feel disoriented. He continued dragging a deep fatigue. He continued wishing to go back home. But I was no longer falling alone.

The weeks began to find a more stable rhythm. The weight on Jisung's chest didn't disappear completely, but it stopped feeling like an endless fall. The anxiety was still there, discreet but persistent, like a constant buzzing under the skin. The difference was that he no longer had to face it in silence. Now it had a name, an explanation, and people capable of recognizing it without confusing it with bad mood or tiredness.

Over time, he stopped obsessively monitoring every difference between that timeline and the one he remembered. He no longer counted precisely what had changed nor tried to measure each word before uttering it. Existing was still exhausting, but he began to accept an idea as uncomfortable as it was liberating: he had never had absolute control.

Life was not a perfect choreography capable of being executed without mistakes.

It didn't matter how much he tried to anticipate every stumble. The only thing truly in his hands was to move forward with honesty, allow herself to be cared for, and trust that the bonds he loved were stronger than he had always believed.

That understanding did not come as a dramatic revelation, but as an unexpected calm that settled in after weeks of exhaustion. He began to look at others with less desperation and more gratitude. He no longer thot of them as something he had to reclaim at all costs, but as people who, even in the midst of uncertainty, continued to choose to stay.

Every time that certainty took root, the need to correct everything lost a little more strength.

It was on an especially quiet nite when Minho finished occupying a place that Jisung knew all too well, even tho it didn't have a name at that moment. They had returned late from the company. One by one, the others left until the apartment was almost silent. Jisung wasn't sleepy, so he settled in the living room with a blanket over his legs and the TV on at low volume, more for company than for true interest. He remained there, watching images he barely registered, with an unusually serene mind.

He heard footsteps approaching and, without needing to look, he knew who it was. Minho appeared with a bottle of water in his hand and watched him for a moment.

Aren't you going to sleep?

Jisung shrugged.

—Not yet.

Minho nodded as if that answer was enough and, instead of returning to his room, he sat down beside him. He didn't add anything else. He settled in naturally, leaving barely a small space between them that, as the minutes passed, disappeared when their shoulders ended up brushing against each other.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It never was with Minho.

Jisung felt a familiar pressure in his chest, although this time it had nothing to do with anxiety. It was nostalgia. A deep longing for everything he knew they would one day build and that, sitting there, seemed both distant and surprisingly close.

"Thank you," he murmured after a while.

Minho turned his gaze away from the television.

—Why?

Jisung fiddled with the edge of the blanket.

—For staying.

Minho held his gaze for a few seconds, as if trying to read everything Jisung didn't dare to say out loud. In the end, he let out a soft sigh and settled a bit more into the sofa.

—You don't have to thank me for that.

The response was simple, almost casual, but the tenderness contained in those words hit Jisung with such force that he had to look away to contain his emotion.

The silence settled between them again and, at some point, almost without realizing it, Jisung leaned slightly toward him. Minho didn't move away. He simply adjusted the blanket over both of them and allowed Jisung's weight to rest on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jisung closed his eyes and focused on the small details: Minho's calm breathing, the constant warmth of his body, the silent firmness with which he remained by his side without demanding explanations or answers.

With that closeness came a serene understanding. Even at that stage, when they were not yet inseparable and many things still had no name, Minho was already doing the same thing he would do over and over again throughout their lives: staying.

That was the truth he had been searching for since he woke up in the past; he didn't need to run desperately toward the future to reclaim what he loved. Some things didn't have to be forced. They simply found their way back.

Jisung let out a long sigh and felt the tension accumulated over weeks begin to ease. Time, mistakes, and the uncertainty about his return stopped occupying every corner of his mind. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to do just one thing: to stay there, leaning on the person who would one day become his safest refuge.

Sleep began to envelop him with an unknown softness and, just before falling asleep, a tranquil certainty settled deep within him. No matter how much the path deviated, Minho would always end up finding him.

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