“Hyung, have you asked Soul already?”
The question echoed through the living room at the exact moment the front door was pushed open, cold air sneaking inside for a split second before it shut again. Several heads turned at once. The boys, sprawled across the couch in lazy positions, barely looked away from the flickering TV screen—but their attention sharpened the moment Soul’s name was mentioned.
For Taeyong, it was impossible not to tense up. The sound of her name always did that to him lately. It was no longer just a name—it had become a quiet reminder of responsibility, fear, and something dangerously close to guilt.
“No, I haven’t yet,” Taeyong replied, his eyes technically fixed on the TV—but his thoughts were nowhere near the movie playing in front of them.
“Whyyyy?” Chenle dragged the word out dramatically, throwing his head back against the couch as if the situation was utterly unbearable. “Then I’ll go ask her myself!”
Taeyong’s heart skipped, a sharp jolt of alarm shooting through him before he even consciously reacted.
“You stay here, my friend,” Taeyong said immediately, his voice firmer than intended.
He reached out instinctively, gripping Chenle’s sleeve before the younger boy could even fully rise from the couch. The gesture wasn’t harsh—but it was protective, almost reflexive. The kind of reaction that came from someone who had spent years learning the hard way what happened when you let your guard down for even a second.
“Why?” Chenle protested, lips pushed into a dramatic pout. “It’s boring without her…”
The words were innocent. Childish. But they stabbed deeper than Chenle could possibly know.
Taeyong swallowed.
“Chenle,” Taeyong said more gently now. “Soul isn’t feeling well. She’s sleeping. Let her rest.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully—not just for Chenle, but for himself too.
“When she wakes up and feels better, you can ask her again. We’ll tell you, or we’ll call you, okay? But for now, you let her rest.” His voice softened, but the concern behind it only grew stronger. “Or do you want her to be sick the whole weekend… and not be able to do anything with you at all?”
The room grew quiet.
Taeyong hated how familiar this feeling was—explaining pain to kids who shouldn’t have to think about it yet.
Silence settled over the room, thick but not uncomfortable. The boys exchanged glances, wordlessly accepting the explanation. Chenle hesitated for a second longer, then turned toward the door again.
“Bye, hyung!” he called out brightly, already over it, already moving on—something Taeyong both admired and envied.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
A few of the boys chuckled, shaking their heads, and the movie resumed—but Taeyong stood up instead. Slowly, almost absently, he walked over to the large window overlooking the yard.
Outside, the youngest were already laughing again, a ball flying wildly between them, their voices loud and carefree as they chased each other across the grass.
“Sometimes… I wish I could live a life like them…” Taeyong whispered, so quietly it barely sounded real.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass—older than the boys outside, heavier somehow. He wasn’t sure if anyone behind him heard it. He hoped they didn’t.
