the days that follow are a slow, inevitable unraveling—each moment pulling at the fragile thread of their existence, slowly fraying what was once whole. yeonjun's gaze still strays to soobin, but it's different now, more distant, as if the connection between them has weakened with every passing glance. soobin feels it, the absence in yeonjun's eyes, the way his attention drifts away, searching for something or someone else. the space between them grows, thick and heavy with the weight of things unsaid, a suffocating silence that clings to the air. it's not a peaceful quiet; it's the kind that comes when everything is falling apart.
soobin tells himself it's just a phase, that yeonjun is just tired, that this will pass. but with every day, the truth sinks deeper into him like a poison—yeonjun is slipping away. slowly, surely, he's pulling away, and soobin can feel the distance widening between them, like a chasm too deep to cross. he watches as yeonjun's hand—once so eager to touch his—starts to pull back, his grip loosening until it's barely a brush against his skin, fleeting and empty.
it's killing him, this silent retreat, this slow-motion abandonment. soobin wants to scream, to beg yeonjun to come back, to reach for him, but he can't. instead, he waits, waits for yeonjun to see him, to pull him back from the edge where he's teetering, where every breath feels like a struggle.
one evening, as they sit side by side, the air between them is too thick, the silence too suffocating. yeonjun is flipping through his phone, his face unreadable, his fingers moving across the screen with a mechanical detachment that makes soobin feel smaller with every passing second. his chest tightens, his hands shake, and before he can stop it, the words slip out. "you're slipping away," soobin whispers, his voice fragile, like it might break at any moment. the words hang there, a truth he already knows but doesn't want to face. they hover between them, sharp and heavy, like a blade waiting to fall. i'm not enough.
yeonjun glances at him, but there's something in his eyes that makes soobin's stomach twist—something distant, something too painful to name. yeonjun opens his mouth, but no words come out. he just exhales, a long, heavy breath, like he's carrying a weight too unbearable to speak about. "soobin..." yeonjun's voice is soft, trembling. "i'm not leaving, but i don't know how to do this anymore. i love you, i do, but every time i try to give you something, it's never enough. it feels like i'm drowning. drowning in you. i don't know how to breathe in this."
soobin feels the floor crack open beneath him, the ground disappearing, leaving him with nothing but the bitter truth. drowning in me? the words hit him like a physical blow, like someone just ripped open his chest and let the air out. his breath catches, and for a moment, he thinks he might suffocate on the pain. a strangled laugh rises in his chest, but it dies before it can escape. his hands tremble, and the world around him feels like it's collapsing into pieces. he can hardly breathe.
"what do you want from me?" soobin whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he's holding back. "do you want me to stop? do you want me to stop needing you? because i can't, yeonjun. i can't. i can't stop needing you." yeonjun's eyes soften, but there's no comfort in them. only pity, pity that cuts soobin to the core. "it's not about stopping, soobin," yeonjun says quietly, his voice thick with something soobin can't place. "i don't want you to stop needing me. but i can't keep filling the emptiness. i can't be the one to make you whole. i'm not enough for that. no one is."
each word pierces soobin like a knife, deep and sharp, leaving him raw. the reality of it cuts him open, and he can't breathe, can't think, can't move. his hands shake, his heart pounds in his chest, and he looks at yeonjun, but all he sees is the distance in his eyes. the sorrow. the quiet resignation that his love—his being—is no longer enough.
"you can't leave me," soobin says, his voice breaking, cracking under the weight of his own desperation. his hands shake violently, and before he even knows what he's doing, he's grabbing yeonjun's wrist, his grip tight, far too tight, desperate. "please... please don't leave me like this. don't leave me alone. i can't be alone. i can't—" yeonjun flinches, pulls his wrist away with a gentleness that shatters something inside soobin, the last thread between them snapping. the space between them widens, vast and empty. yeonjun's gaze is distant, sad, filled with something else soobin can't quite name, but it doesn't matter. soobin doesn't want his sorrow. he wants his love. he wants to be enough.
"i'm not leaving you, soobin," yeonjun says, his voice drained, empty. "but i'm not staying because i love you, either. i'm staying because i don't know how to leave you like this. because it's easier to be here than to walk away."
the words hit soobin like a cold wave, each syllable like a blade to his chest. it's not love. it's obligation. it's pity. it's something that soobin can't escape, no matter how much he wants to.yeonjun stands up, his body stiff, his eyes never meeting soobin's as he walks to the door. "i can't fix this, soobin. i don't even know how to make you feel better anymore. but i can't leave you."soobin watches him, his heart sinking deeper, the ache in his chest unbearable. his mind races, his body trembling with an empty, hopeless need. "i don't want you to stay out of pity. i don't want to be a duty to you," he whispers, his voice barely audible, cracking under the truth.but yeonjun doesn't answer. he just turns, his footsteps echoing in the room as he leaves. the door clicks shut, and soobin is left in the silence, the emptiness, the hollow ache that gnaws at him relentlessly. yeonjun is still there, still present, but it's not enough. it will never be enough. the love is gone. only duty remains.
soobin sits there, his chest tight, the silence pressing against him like a weight he can't shake. he doesn't know what to do with the emptiness inside him. he just knows that the presence of yeonjun—now a shadow of what it used to be—is all that's left to fill it. and that's all he can do now. hold on. hold on to the one thing that's left. even if it isn't enough. even if it never will be.
END.
