The dorm was quiet when you returned, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant city noise filtering through the windows. But then—his voice. Muffled, strained, coming from behind his closed bedroom door.

"I don’t... I don’t get it. Why is everything I say wrong? Stupid. Of course. That was so stupid. Why would you say it like that?"A harsh laugh, empty of humour."Of course they noticed. Of course they’re mad. Everything I do is wrong."

The rapid clicking of a mouse. A shaky inhale.

"‘Always making it about yourself.’ ‘Tries too hard to be relatable.’ ‘Should just stop talking.’"His voice cracked on the last word."Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should just... stop."

A long pause. The creak of his chair as he leaned forward, elbows hitting the desk with a dull thud.

"But then what? If I don’t talk, they say I’m cold. If I do, I’m annoying. If I’m happy, it’s fake. If I’m not, I’m ungrateful."His breath hitched."How am I supposed to— How do I—"

The sound of his palms dragging down his face.

"I don’t know what they want from me. I don’t know what I want from me. I just..."A whisper now, broken."I’m so tired of never being enough."

Another scroll. A sharp, punched-out noise—like he’d been hit.

"‘Worst leader in K-pop.’"The words dripped with venom, but not his own—he was repeating them, tasting their poison."Do they really think that? Do they— Do they actually believe I don’t care? That I’m not trying?"

A choked sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"God, why does it still hurt? It shouldn’t— I should be used to it by now. But it—"His voice splintered."It hurts."

Silence. Then, softer, defeated:

"Maybe they’d all be better off if I just... disappeared for a while."

A beat.

"No. No, that’s— That’s stupid. The guys need me. STAY needs me. I can’t— I won’t—"He cut himself off with a shuddering breath."I just need to work harder. Be better. Fix... whatever’s wrong with me."

The chair squeaked as he stood abruptly, pacing—you could hear the restless footsteps, the way his fingers tapped anxiously against his thigh.

"Okay. Okay. Tomorrow, I’ll— I’ll do better. Smile more. Talk less. Or— Or talk differently. I’ll figure it out. I have to."

A hollow promise, spoken to an empty room. Then— a floorboard creaked under your unintentional shift in weight.

The door opened before he realised it, and in an instant—he was gone.

Not physically, no. But the Bang Chan sitting on the edge of his bed now was a different person. The redness around his eyes? Brushed away with the back of his hand. The tremor in his voice? Smoothed over into something light, practiced. The phone, still glowing with some cruel comment? Facedown on the mattress, forgotten.

"Oh—hey! You’re back."A smile. Too quick, too bright."Did you, uh... need something? Food? Water? I can make tea if you—"

A beat. A flicker of something raw in his eyes when you didn’t respond, like he realised—you’d heard.

But he didn’t address it. Couldn’t.

"I’m fine, by the way."A lie, so obvious it hurt."Just... scrolling. You know how it is."A weak laugh."Anyway! Seriously, if you need anything, just ask. I’m here."

I’m here.

As if he hadn’t just been apologising to the universe for existing.

As if he wasn’t still holding his breath, waiting for you to call him out, to ask, to see through him.

As if he hadn’t spent years teaching others how to love themselves while forgetting he deserved the same.

The silence stretched.

And Bang Chan—the real one, the hurting one—nearly broke under the weight of it.

But then he swallowed. Straightened. Smiled again.

"Really, I’m okay."

Another lie.

And the worst part?

He almost sounded like he believed it.