ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴛᴀɪɴꜱ| ateez

✭𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄✭

✭WOOYOUNG✭
TWO MONTHS LATER

The pregnancy was nearing its end, and each day felt heavier as the due date approached. Jihoon was lost in his world of recordings, interviews, and photoshoots, while I was immersed in a different reality: one of judgment and disdain.

Every time Jihoon's fans left comments, my heart tightened. Not all were cruel, but enough were, casting shadows over what should've been our happiest moments. We were two men expecting twins, and while our love was strong, society's acceptance was tentative at best.

Jihoon remained blissfully unaware of the vitriol. He didn't see the threatening gifts that appeared at our door or the vile messages that lurked in their depths. I often found myself sinking into the sofa, hands protectively cradling my belly, wondering how the world could wish harm upon our unborn twins.

I was an outsider to the limelight, always taking the back seat while Jihoon shone. But now, more than ever, I felt trapped by its harsh glare. The mounting threats were a heavy weight, and I struggled with how to navigate them. Stepping into the spotlight had never been my intention, but now, it seemed, the spotlight had found me.

His voice broke through my reverie, pulling me back to the present. "Hey," he began, his tone gentle yet probing, "I've been talking for the past 20 minutes. Where did you go?"

Emerging from the kitchen, every step he took was deliberate, closing the distance between us. The aroma of whatever he'd been cooking followed him, but it was his eyes I focused on-intense, searching.

"I'm sorry," I replied, voice barely above a whisper. I felt exposed, like he'd caught a glimpse of the internal storm I'd been navigating. I paused, collecting my thoughts. "It's just... a lot on my mind." I hoped he'd understand, but words often fell short in moments like these.

He settled beside me on the couch, turning slightly so he was facing me. There was a moment of silence, filled only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the wall clock. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the back of my hand, an unspoken invitation for connection.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his voice soft and void of any judgment. His eyes held mine, and in them, I saw a reflection of my own vulnerabilities and uncertainties.

I hesitated, the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me. Sharing meant confronting those feelings, but the safety of his presence made the idea less daunting. "It's just," I began, taking a deep breath, "Everything feels so overwhelming lately. The world outside, the responsibilities, the expectations-sometimes I just want to escape.

The room felt heavy with his observation. His voice, soft and tentative, had a hint of desperate concern. "You've been distant these past two months. I know the pregnancy is taking a toll, but there's something more, isn't there?"

A lump formed in my throat, making it difficult to respond. His words mirrored the fears I'd been wrestling with but had been too afraid to voice. I instinctively cradled my bump, fingers brushing over the gentle swell. The gesture was as much about comfort as it was about protection.

Turning my head, I avoided his gaze, afraid he'd see the raw vulnerability I was trying to mask. "It's not just the physical strain," I finally whispered, my voice barely audible. "It's the weight of the stares, the whispered comments, the not-so-silent judgments. I feel like I'm constantly on display, and every imperfection, every emotion, is up for scrutiny."