Everyone loved bangchan
He was warmth in human form. The boy with the soft eyes and softer voice. The one who remembered birthdays, noticed when someone looked off, and stayed late to help even if it meant missing his own dinner.
To the world, bangchan was dependable. Kind. Unshakable.
The boy who always knew what to say, who always smiled.
The boy who saved others—over and over again.
And so no one thought to ask if he ever needed saving.
---
There was a moment, just once, when he stood outside the classroom after walking a crying junior back to the dorms. Rain soaked through his thin shirt. His hands were freezing. He was holding his phone, staring at the empty message thread like it owed him something.
He wanted—desperately—to call someone.
But he didn’t.
Who would he call?
Everyone already believed he was okay. If he called now, they’d just say, “You’re strong, bangchan. You’ll get through it.”
They didn’t know he hadn’t really slept in three nights. That his chest had been tight for weeks. That his stomach churned every time he smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me.”
No one noticed that he was folding.
---
It built up in silence.
bangchan kept giving, more time, more energy, more of himself. A classmate needed help rehearsing. A friend wanted to vent. The group was tired, someone had to plan the event—of course it was chan.
He pushed down the nausea. The headaches. The exhaustion.
Because they needed him.
Because he was bangchan.
And chan saved people.
Not the other way around.
---
He collapsed in the hallway on a Thursday.
Not dramatically. Quietly. Slumped against the wall after dropping a stack of club materials he had stayed late printing. No one was around. The lights were dim. He rested his head back and closed his eyes.
He wondered, vaguely, if someone would notice if he didn’t come back.
His phone buzzed. A message from a classmate.
> “Hey, sorry to bother you. Are you free to help with something real quick?”
chan stared at the screen.
He didn’t reply.
---
The next morning, he showed up anyway.
He laughed at someone’s joke. He handed in notes he’d transcribed. He reminded someone to drink water.
No one asked why his hands were shaking.
No one noticed the dark circles.
No one heard the silent scream behind his eyes.
They only said,
“You’re amazing, chan.”
“You’re so selfless.”
“We don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He smiled.
---
And when he lay in bed that night, curled beneath a blanket that offered no warmth, he stared at the ceiling and whispered into the dark,
“Maybe I don’t know what to do with me, either.”
No one heard.
No one came.
---
Because he was always the saviour.
never the saved.
And no one thought the boy who lit up everyone else’s world
might be living in the dark.
