Get ready with tissues because i want to make u cry. hehe
The night was cold, unusually quiet for the bustling city that never seemed to rest. In their dorm, laughter had once filled the air—now it hung heavy with an unspoken tension. The members of Stray Kids sat in the living room, scattered across the couches, the table, the floor, as if none of them could decide where to put themselves.
Minho wasn't coming back.
ONE MONTH EARLIER
Minho had always been a pillar. He wasn't loud about it, but his quiet strength held the group together. If Chan was the leader who steered the ship, Minho was the one who kept it from falling apart. His sarcastic wit, his scolding that always hid affection, his ability to notice the little things—who hadn't eaten, who was upset, who needed space. He saw everything.
But what they didn't see was how Minho carried the weight of it all. Every sharp joke he made about himself, every time he brushed off compliments or attention, had been a piece of a puzzle none of them had solved.
It started with a phone call.
"Hyung... something's wrong with Minho-hyung," Jeongin's trembling voice had pulled Chan from his half-asleep daze.
"What do you mean?" Chan had asked, already pulling on a jacket. The tone in Jeongin's voice made his chest tighten.
"He collapsed at the studio," Jeongin whispered. "The ambulance is here."
By the time the others rushed to the hospital, Minho was stable but unconscious. The doctors mentioned something vague about stress, exhaustion, and an underlying health condition Minho had never disclosed.
"He never told us," Seungmin murmured, staring at the floor. His voice wavered—something rare for the stoic younger member.
"Why would he hide this?" Hyunjin asked, his voice cracking.
"Because that's Minho," Chan said, his voice hoarse. "He doesn't want to burden anyone."
Minho came back to the dorm after a few days in the hospital, smiling weakly as if everything was fine. The members had tried to confront him, tried to get him to talk, but Minho brushed it all off.
"Stop acting like I'm made of glass," he snapped one evening, his voice sharp enough to silence them all. "I'm fine. Can we please stop making this a thing?"
It wasn't fine, though. They could see it—the way his energy waned quicker than before, the way he smiled less, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking.
And then there was the music.
Minho, who had always been so precise in his dancing, started making mistakes. Small ones at first—barely noticeable. But they grew. His movements lost their sharpness, his confidence faltered. During one particularly rough practice, he collapsed mid-spin, clutching his chest.
"That's it," Chan said, his voice breaking. "No more pushing yourself. You're taking a break."
"I can't," Minho argued weakly, his face pale. "We're too close to the comeback—"
"I don't care about the comeback," Chan roared, tears in his eyes. "I care about you, Minho!"
