CHAPTER 1: THE LETTER THAT WASN'T MEANT TO BE
The practice room was unusually quiet that evening.
Jimin noticed it first—not the silence itself, but how wrong it felt. Hoseok was always noise. Laughter that bounced off walls, humming between steps, jokes slipped into moments that didn't need them. But today, the room felt hollow, like something had been taken out and not replaced.
Hoseok had left in a hurry.
"Be right back," he'd said with that same bright smile, already halfway out the door. No explanation. No teasing remark. Just urgency masked as cheerfulness.
Jimin stayed behind, stretching slowly, letting the minutes pass. Ten turned into twenty. Hoseok didn't return.
He was about to leave when he noticed the paper.
It lay near the bench, half-hidden under a jacket. Folded once. Careless. As if its owner never expected anyone else to be there.
Jimin hesitated.
He wasn't the type to pry. He knew where lines were supposed to be drawn. But something about the way the paper looked—forgotten, abandoned—made his chest tighten.
He picked it up.
It wasn't long. Just a single page. No name written at the top.
The handwriting, though, was unmistakable.
I don't know when I started pretending that smiling was enough.
Everyone thinks I'm okay because I laugh the loudest.
But some nights, it feels like I'm disappearing behind it.
Jimin's breath caught.
He read slower after that, as if the words might vanish if he rushed them.
I don't want to be a burden.
I don't want to explain feelings I barely understand myself.
So I keep it here. Unsent. Unspoken.
The page ended abruptly. No goodbye. No signature. Just a sentence scratched out so many times the paper had almost torn.
Jimin lowered the letter, his fingers trembling.
Hoseok never talked like this. Never admitted to cracks. His smiles were effortless, contagious—something people leaned on. Something Jimin himself leaned on.
And yet, this… this was heavy. Raw. Lonely.
The door creaked open.
Jimin turned just as Hoseok stepped back into the room, his smile already in place. Too quick. Too practiced.
Their eyes met.
Hoseok froze.
For a split second, the smile slipped.
It was barely noticeable—but Jimin saw it. The flicker of fear. The realization.
Silence stretched between them.
Hoseok's gaze dropped to the paper in Jimin's hand.
"Oh," he said softly.
Not angry. Not surprised.
Just… caught.
Jimin swallowed. "You forgot this."
Hoseok nodded once, slowly, as if bracing himself. "Yeah. I wasn't supposed to."
The air felt heavier now, charged with words neither of them were ready to say.
Jimin held the letter out. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," Hoseok interrupted, forcing a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "It's nothing important."
Jimin didn't let go.
Because it wasn't nothing.
And because, for the first time, the brightest smile he knew felt like a question he didn't know how to ask.