The door clicked shut behind him. And for a moment, all Mark could hear was the echo of it in his ears.
He followed Haechan down the hallway in silence, the weight of the session still pressing against his chest like an invisible hand. He could still feel the air in the studio—tight, humid, charged with every word Lexie never said and every word he didn't dare speak.
Haechan finally glanced sideways as they turned the corner. "You good?"
Mark gave a weak nod, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. "Yeah."
Haechan slowed his steps. "You sure?"
He wasn't. But he nodded anyway. "Just tired."
The lie sat there between them, unconvincing and obvious.
They walked in silence for a few more steps before Haechan stopped entirely and turned to face him.
"You really gonna pretend that wasn't the hardest thirty minutes of your life?"
Mark exhaled through his nose, looking down at the bottle in his hands like it might have the right words for him.
"It's not that simple," he said eventually.
"Never is." Haechan leaned back against the wall. "You should talk about it."
Mark didn't reply.
"You gonna tell me, or do I have to keep pretending not to know what that entire session was screaming?"
He glanced away. His hand flexed slightly, thumb brushing the edge of the bottle label. "You already know."
"I know you ghosted someone who clearly didn't deserve it," Haechan said bluntly, "but I also know you're not that kind of guy unless something messed you up first."
Mark's eyes met his.
So Haechan waited.
And finally—finally—Mark sank to the floor, back against the cool wall, knees bent, arms resting atop them.
"I didn't mean to disappear."
Haechan stayed quiet.
"It was never my choice."
* * *
Ten Years Ago — Vancouver
He was fourteen when he auditioned. Fifteen when they signed him. That year, he'd been flying back and forth between Korea and Canada so often it felt like he lived in airports more than classrooms.
He'd wanted to tell her—Lexie, the girl next door with a voice like sunlight and thoughts that came out as poems. She was his safe place. The reason music made sense. The reason he made sense.
He remembered the first time they met.
She was ten, same as him. Their families had moved into the complex around the same time. He'd noticed her trying to tie her shoelaces with too much concentration and offered to help. She refused with a stubborn glare and did it herself.
He was hooked.
It wasn't just the music. It was her.
When she talked, she meant it.
When she laughed, he always looked up.
And when she started calling his lyrics cheesy, that's when he knew he liked her.
But then everything changed.
The contract was strict. Silence about training, about traveling, about the company. He wasn't allowed to tell anyone—not even her. He thought maybe he'd sneak it in before leaving, a quick note, a message. Something.
But there was no chance. No goodbye.
He left for Seoul without warning, planning to reach out eventually.
But "eventually" became months. Then years.
By the time he was fully based in Korea, he figured it was too late.
He'd already done the damage.
He tried once—he searched her socials, typed messages he never sent, watched her disappear from Vancouver. Rumors reached him later that she moved to the Philippines for school.
He didn't sleep the night he found that out.
* * *
And then, seven months ago, she returned.
For real this time.
His parents had asked her to renovate their old house. They spoke of her like she was still family. Mark said nothing, but inside, everything unraveled. Knowing she'd be there, in and out of the same space. Breathing the same air. Carrying the same name she did all those years ago.
They never spoke.
Not directly.
But there were moments. Almosts.
On the first day, he came home late from practice, half-asleep on the couch. He woke up briefly to someone taking off his glasses and tucking a blanket over him. He thought it was his brother—until he smelled something like her. Familiar, citrus and something warm.
He pretended to stay asleep.
* * *
Another time, just a few weeks back—
She had returned to Vancouver in a rush, barely a text, no warning. Mark only heard about it in passing from his older brother, who muttered something about Lexie catching the next flight home because of an emergency.
Mark had barely slept in the days since Lexie rushed back to Vancouver. Her sudden disappearance left an ache in his chest he couldn't quiet, and even without answers, he found himself clinging to every unread notification, every possible sign that she was safe.
The call came in the break of dawn—confirmation that she'd arrived but not in good shape. Mark had already been awake, waiting. Restless.
He remembered standing by the door when his brother finally pulled into the garage, headlights cutting through the early morning fog. The car hadn't even fully stopped when his brother stepped out and motioned to the passenger seat. Mark's heart dropped at the sight—Lexie, slumped against the window, motionless. Pale. Worn down in a way that told of more than just physical exhaustion.
Without a word, he opened the door, catching her weight as gently as he could. She didn't stir. Her skin was cool, lips dry, lashes clumped together like she hadn't properly rested in days. Whatever had pulled her out of Korea so suddenly—this was the aftermath.
Even after all the time that had passed, after all the silence between them, he still knew. Still recognized that look on her face. It wasn't just fatigue. It was pain. Emotional and buried. The kind she would never let show unless it broke through on its own.
He held her steady with the other, leading her inside and into the spare room. She didn't protest. Didn't wake. Just let herself be carried—something she never would've allowed if she'd been even half-conscious.
He helped settle her into bed, pulling the covers over her slight frame. For a while, he didn't move. Just stood there, staring at her sleeping form like she might disappear again the second he looked away.
Eventually, he sank to the floor beside her. Not out of obligation, not even out of instinct—but because he couldn't walk away. Couldn't leave her alone. Not like this. The weight of worry, the ache of unspoken years, the confusion of it all pressed down on him.
He stayed there the entire night, sleepless, his back against the bedframe, head tilted toward her just to listen to the steadiness of her breath. She was here. Close, but distant. And somehow, that hurt more than if she'd never come back at all.
* * *
Back in the hallway, Haechan slowly sat down beside him, knees bumping his. The silence between them now wasn't uncomfortable—just waiting.
"You ever think about telling her?" Haechan asked, not unkind.
Mark let out a breath. "Every day."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because she deserves more than an apology after all this time," Mark said, voice quiet. "She deserved honesty back then. Not an explanation now."
Haechan nodded slowly. "But maybe she deserves both."
Mark didn't answer.
He just looked up at the ceiling, fists clenched on his knees, and let himself feel it fully—for once, without pushing it aside.
She was the first person who ever made him feel seen. And now, she was the one person he was most afraid to face.