it happens on one of those nights—those fleeting moments where laughter fills the air like smoke from a fading fire, curling and drifting away, leaving behind only the hollow echo of warmth that never quite stays. the music hums in the background, a soft soundtrack to tangled conversations and whispered jokes, the kind of night where everything moves effortlessly, and the people float through it as if they're part of the air itself. but soobin, ever the observer, isn't part of the air. he's somewhere on the edge, tucked into a shadowed corner, his eyes tracing every movement like a child watching something they can't touch. and at the center of it all is yeonjun—so effortlessly radiant, so full of life, his laughter like a melody that resonates with the room, his smile unburdened, untouched by the weight soobin has come to carry on his fragile shoulders.
soobin watches him as yeonjun moves through the group, effortless and warm, his laughter blending with the soft hum of conversation around him. he leans in close to a friend, a playful touch to a shoulder, a whisper into an ear. for a moment, soobin aches with the urge to reach out, to remind yeonjun he's here, somewhere in the corner, waiting—not just for his attention, but for his presence, to be seen. but the laughter rings out again, like a hammer against his ribs, and soobin's hand falls uselessly at his side, fingers curling into themselves, a sharp pang of jealousy tightening in his chest. it's the kind of jealousy that feels like sickness, a slow poison spreading through his veins until he can taste it on the back of his tongue. he tells himself it's normal. he tells himself yeonjun deserves this—that everyone deserves the joy of companionship, the ease of connections that don't carry the weight of someone else's desperate need, someone's fractured sense of self. soobin knows he can't ask yeonjun to be his alone, to bear the burden of his insatiable longing. but knowing doesn't ease the ache, doesn't silence the cruel voice inside that whispers, if he loved you enough, wouldn't you be enough? soobin watches again as yeonjun laughs, his head thrown back in that carefree, uninhibited way, his eyes crinkling with joy. with every shared smile, every casual brush of his hand against another's shoulder, soobin feels something break inside him. it's not a break he can explain—something intangible, something small but excruciating—something he can't voice aloud. it feels as if every laugh, every touch, every look yeonjun gives to someone else is another piece of him slipping through his fingers, another piece of their bond slipping away.
and then, for a brief moment, their gazes meet—yeonjun's eyes catch his, and there's a flicker, a softening, a brief shift in his expression that makes soobin's heart stutter. it's a glance filled with something real, something beyond the surface. a soft warmth that's almost enough to drown the turmoil swirling inside. and in that moment, soobin's breath catches in his chest, and he waits. he holds his breath like he's waiting for the world to shift, for yeonjun to cross the room, to come to him, to offer comfort, to remind him that he's seen. but then the moment is gone—flickered out by a friend's nudge, a whisper in yeonjun's ear, and just like that, the space between them widens again. yeonjun's smile returns, bright and unaffected, his laughter blending with the crowd's, and soobin is left with nothing but the heavy, suffocating silence of his own aching need.
the moment slips away, and so does yeonjun, just a little further from him than before. and soobin is left with the hollow emptiness in his chest, the kind that gnaws relentlessly. he tries to shove it down, to ignore it, to tell himself yeonjun has every right to enjoy this night, to laugh freely, to be surrounded by friends who need him as much as he needs them. but the words fall apart before they take shape. the truth is, he doesn't just want yeonjun to be happy. he wants to be the reason for that happiness. he wants to be the one yeonjun turns to, the one whose presence is the only one that matters. he wants to be the one who makes yeonjun laugh, the one who makes him whole.
soobin sinks further into the shadows, his gaze fixed on the floor, as if he can disappear there, make himself invisible in the dim light of the room. if he's invisible, maybe the yearning won't hurt so much. if he's invisible, maybe the constant ache in his chest will stop screaming. but it doesn't. the ache only grows, tightening and twisting like it's alive, feeding off the silence that envelops him.
by the time yeonjun finally makes his way over, the night has dimmed, and soobin can feel the weight of his own loneliness pressing down on him. yeonjun slides onto the couch beside him, his movements smooth, like everything in his world has already found its place. he doesn't seem to notice the quiet storm that's taken root inside soobin's chest. yeonjun's hand slips into his, and for a brief, fleeting moment, soobin lets himself believe it means something. that this touch, this small act of connection, will quiet the hurricane inside him. but even as yeonjun's hand envelops his, soobin feels it—the quiet jealousy still lingering beneath the surface, like a shadow that refuses to be dismissed. and as yeonjun looks at him with that soft, easy smile, the same smile he's offered everyone else tonight, soobin knows he can't ask for more. he can't tell yeonjun how badly he wants to be his everything, how badly he wants to be the one who makes him whole.
soobin doesn't speak. he can't. he's afraid that if he opens his mouth, the flood of words he's held back will swallow him whole. instead, he sits there, fingers interlaced with yeonjun's, clinging to the small comfort it provides. but even as he holds on, his heart aches, the weight of everything he'll never say crushing him, like stones piling up on his chest. he looks at yeonjun and wonders if he sees him at all—not just the shell of him, not just the boy sitting beside him in moments like this—but the desperate, fractured part that bleeds with the desire to be needed, to be enough.
and in that silence, in the weight of unspoken words, soobin is consumed by the gnawing thought that maybe he'll never be enough for yeonjun, not in the way he needs. that maybe yeonjun will never be his world the way soobin so desperately wishes him to be. and in the quiet agony of this realization, soobin squeezes yeonjun's hand a little tighter, hoping it will fill the aching emptiness, hoping the connection will stretch far enough to hold him together. but the pain doesn't stop. it never does.and as the night wears on, the distance between them remains—undisturbed, unacknowledged, but deepening all the same. soobin sits in the stillness of it, silently drowning in the flood of his own need, holding onto yeonjun's hand like it's the last lifeline he has left.
