They had grown up together, bound by the kind of friendship that made neighbors whisper about how inseparable they were. Childhood had been full of laughter, mock fights, sarcasm-laced teasing, and the steady rhythm of feet hitting pavement whenever they found space to dance. For Hwan and her, movement was a language only they shared—something that started in backyards and school gyms but grew into polished performances on international stages.

But fate was cruel a few weeks ago. A misstep during practice had left her with an ankle injury, swollen and tender, her body trapped in a wheelchair for the month. Doctors had ordered strict rest, and she could do nothing but sit at the side of the studio, watching her group spin, leap, and glide without her. The smell of floor polish and sweat filled her nostrils, a familiar scent that now only reminded her of what she couldn't participate in.

She wasn't just any member—she was the female lead, the centerpiece that balanced Hwan's role as lead male dancer. Her absence left the team fractured, and the finals were closing in fast. The studio lights felt harsh on her skin as she watched the empty space where she used to stand beside Hwan.

It was Jin, the tall, sharp-tongued member of their group, who finally broke the silence one evening. “We can't afford to let this opportunity slip. We're finalists, for god's sake. If she can't dance, we need someone who can.” His voice cut through the tense atmosphere like a knife.

Minho, the youngest, frowned. “Replace her? That feels... wrong.”

“What's wrong,” Jin countered, “is losing because we're too sentimental. I know someone—Hanuel. She's good. Really good.”

After some debate, the group agreed. And the next day, Hanuel walked in. She was graceful from the first step, her movements sharp but fluid, her energy commanding the room. Even Hwan, usually reserved, broke into a grin as he partnered with her during practice. The sound of their synchronized movements echoed through the studio, a rhythm she could no longer be part of.

From her chair, she clapped politely, the sound hollow in her own ears. She told herself she was fine, that this was necessary. But each time she saw Hwan's hand brush against Hanuel's waist in a lift, or caught the way he laughed at her quick jokes, something twisted inside—a knot of jealousy she couldn't ignore.

It didn't help that everyone else seemed smitten too. Hana, Jin's soft-spoken younger sister whispered, “She's amazing, isn't she?” as they watched Hanuel land a perfect turn. Even Seojin, usually too shy to comment, murmured, “She fits right in.” Their words stung like tiny needles.

And then there was Hwan. He wasn't just impressed; he was animated around Hanuel in a way she had never seen before. He joked with her during water breaks, tossed in light flirtations that made Hanuel giggle, and sometimes leaned close to adjust her posture—touches so casual they burned into her memory. The air around them seemed to crackle with a chemistry she had never shared with Hwan, despite their years of friendship.

Sitting off to the side, she tried to keep her face neutral, but her eyes betrayed her. They followed every step Hwan took, every smile he shared with the new girl.

Kaito, one of the older boys, slid onto the bench beside her one evening as rehearsal wound down. He followed her gaze to the far corner, where Hwan and Hanuel were laughing over something on his phone.

“Don't look at them like you're about to murder someone,” Kaito said dryly, his tone teasing but kind.

Her head snapped toward him, but she said nothing, the wooden bench beneath her suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

Kaito raised his brows, leaning back casually. “Come on. You think no one notices? Everyone in the group knows how you feel about him. It's written all over you—the way your body tenses, the way your eyes track him like he's the only person in the room.”

Minho wandered over, towel slung around his neck. “Who knows what?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

“Her thing for Hwan,” Kaito replied without hesitation.

Her fingers tightened around the armrest of her wheelchair, the plastic cold beneath her palms, but still, she stayed silent.

On the floor, Hanuel twirled gracefully into Hwan's arms. His hand steadied her back, his grin wide as he whispered something that made her laugh again—a sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the quietening studio.

Kaito nudged her lightly with his elbow. “Listen, you've had a crush on him since we were kids. That's fine. But if you keep glaring at Hanuel like that, you'll scare the poor girl off.”

“Or,” Minho added with a sheepish smile, “you could just... you know, tell him how you feel. Before it's too late.”

Their words lingered heavy in the air, echoing louder than the music still pulsing faintly from the sound system. For the first time, she realized that her quiet devotion, the years of friendship and hidden longing, wasn't as invisible as she thought. And as she watched Hwan laugh with Hanuel again, her heart ached with both jealousy and fear—fear that maybe, just maybe, she was already too late.