The day started like any other. The dorms were noisy, the members were half-asleep and half-energized, and the practice room smelled faintly of sweat, coffee, and dry shampoo. Joshua had come in earlier than usual, wanting some quiet before the chaos of practice. It was in those rare early moments sunlight barely filtering through the blinds, the silence of an untouched piano, and the creak of polished wooden floors that he felt most at peace.
But that peace was shattered when he noticed something strange wedged between the wall and the back of the mirror a thin, leather-bound book, worn at the edges. Curious, he pulled it out. It was old. Dust clung to its spine. There was no name on the cover, just a faded golden swirl, like a forgotten sigil.
The first page was blank. Then came the writing.
> “Today I watched them practice through the glass doors. I could’ve been one of them. I was supposed to be. But fate is cruel.”
The handwriting was delicate, a little shaky, but somehow familiar. Joshua frowned. He didn’t remember anyone ever mentioning a trainee like this. He read further, drawn into the haunting sadness laced between the lines. The entries spoke of dreams, of a burning desire to debut, of watching from the shadows. And then an entry that made his chest tighten.
> “They don’t remember me anymore. I don’t blame them. The universe resets every time. But I always remember them.”
Joshua stared at the page, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. He closed the diary, deciding to ask the others later. But that night, the dreams began.
In them, he wasn’t Joshua the idol. He was a trainee again, but in a different era. The dorms were older, the faces were younger, and he could hear someone calling his name Shua, over and over again. He’d wake up sweating, heart pounding. Then, the voices started in waking life soft whispers that echoed in empty hallways, ghost-like fragments of a life he couldn’t remember living.
At first, he thought he was losing his mind. But then, Mingyu dropped his chopsticks during dinner one night, staring at him like he’d seen a ghost.
“You… You were wearing the same shirt,” Mingyu whispered.
“What?”
“In my dream. You were crying. You were behind a glass wall, and I couldn’t reach you.”
Joshua froze. Because that same dream had plagued him too.
One by one, the others started remembering. Visions. Dreams. A laugh that sounded too familiar. A song they swore they’d heard before, hummed under Joshua’s breath. Seugcheol said he’d dreamed of holding Joshua’s hand while running from something a fire, maybe. Seungkwan broke down one afternoon, claiming he remembered Joshua dying, but he didn’t know how or when.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did. But the diary kept changing. New pages appeared, entries that Joshua never wrote, but felt like they came from his soul. He realized, slowly, that it was him. Another version. Another Joshua, from a timeline where he never made it, where something went terribly wrong. And in that life he had loved them all. And they had all loved him, but never told him. Never saved him.
The diary began guiding him. To old places, abandoned practice rooms, old trainee dorms. Each visit unlocked a memory not of this life, but of another. In one, he and Jeonghan were sitting on the rooftop, sharing a secret kiss under a sky full of stars. In another, he and Jun walked through a snowy street, fingers brushing but never quite touching.
The weight of the memories began to change them. The members, once started growing more careful around Joshua more protective, more gentle. Mingyu lingered during late-night practices. Woozi would sit silently beside him with headphones, offering music without words. Wonwoo began writing poems again, this time with no one else in mind but Joshua.
