𝘼𝙉𝙂𝙎𝙏𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙏𝙎 | 2𝙈𝙄𝙉 (𝙩𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚 & 𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧)

𝘿𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙎𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 ｡𖦹°‧

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙒𝙚 𝘾𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙃𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝘽𝙚𝙚𝙣 ༉‧₊˚. PT 2

Seungmin couldn't recognize himself anymore.

The mirror in the bathroom had become an enemy. Every glance at his reflection was a reminder of how much he had changed—sunken eyes, pale skin, and a frame that seemed smaller every day. His once-sharp focus was dulled, replaced by an endless fog. He barely ate anymore, convincing himself he wasn't hungry even as his stomach twisted in protest. The gnawing emptiness in his chest always seemed louder than the one in his gut.

The others were too busy to notice the changes at first. Life in the dorms was chaotic, and everyone had their own struggles to deal with. But even when they asked, Seungmin had learned to lie with a smile, the perfect shield to keep them from prying too much.

He had grown used to hiding things—his pain, his scars, and the quiet destruction he was inflicting on himself.

The blade he kept hidden in the back of his drawer felt like a lifeline some nights. It was a release, a way to quiet the storm inside when it became too much to bear. The sharp sting of metal against his skin was a distraction, a momentary escape from the ache in his chest that never seemed to go away.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ ๋࣭ ⭑ ؛ଓ 

The breaking point came one night after a particularly grueling rehearsal. Seungmin had stumbled back to the dorm, his body trembling with exhaustion. He hadn't eaten all day, too consumed by his thoughts to even think about food.

He was sitting on the floor of his room, staring at the blade in his hand, when the door suddenly opened. He stared, hesitated. Hesitated but not long enough. He lifted the blade and carefully pressed the cutting edge into his pale. Pressing deep enough to makes the wounds in his skin permanent, even after they heal.

"Seungmin, I—"

It was Chan. His sentence died in his throat as his eyes took in the scene before him—the blade, the endless stream of blood running Seungmin's arms, and the pain that seeped out of his friend's eyes in the form of tears.

"Seungmin..." Chan's voice was barely above a whisper, his expression a mix of shock, concern, and heartbreak.

Seungmin froze, his grip tightening around the blade. "Get out," he said, his voice cold and trembling.

"No," Chan said firmly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Seungmin looked away, tears blurring his vision. "You don't understand. You can't—"

"Then make me understand," Chan interrupted, his voice cracking. "Seungmin, please. Talk to me."

This didn't comfort Seungmin in the slightest. Full metal breakdown. Sobs he couldn't hold back, even thought he tried, he tried really hard. But like all things he attempts, he fails and gives up.

He couldn't breath. He was panicking but stated laughing. Pure hysteria. He thought he was dying. Not like he wanted to live anyways.

He dropped the blade, not paying attention to where it went. He couldn't focus on anything really. He wanted Chan to leave, but clearly, that wasn't happening.

He stumbled out of his bed, trying to get as far as possible.

For the first time in months, the walls Seungmin had so carefully built around himself began to crumble. He buried his face in his hands as sobs wracked his body.

"I can't do this anymore," he choked out. "I can't keep pretending I'm okay."

For one moment. Just one second. Seungmin looked into Chans eyes. Even through his blurred vision, already puffy, agitated eyes, he could see it. The look of fear.