The morning moved slowly, like time knew it was needed. You stayed wrapped in Chan's arms until the sun was high in the sky and reality started to knock again — suitcase by the door, flight reminder buzzing on your phone, the quiet ache already pressing at your chest.
He watched you move through the room, folding clothes, tucking small things into pockets. Not rushing, but not wanting to drag it out either.
"I wish you didn't have to go," he said from the bed, voice raw from sleep and something more.
You looked at him over your shoulder. "Me too."
He sat up, running a hand through his hair, then reached over and grabbed something from his jacket pocket. A small envelope — sealed, unmarked.
"What's that?" you asked.
"For later," he said, standing to place it in your hand. "Don't open it until you're in the air."
You blinked. "Are you trying to make me cry at 30,000 feet?"
He chuckled, pulling you into a soft hug. "If I can't be there to hold you, I'll settle for messing with your heart a little."
You buried your face in his chest. "You've already done that."
The drive to the airport was quiet, but full. His hand stayed on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles. Every red light felt like it held you there on purpose. The final turn into departures came too soon.
He stepped out with you, helped roll your suitcase to the door. When you turned to face him, the goodbye hit hard.
Not with panic.
Just weight.
A love that hadn't even been fully named yet, but had already rooted itself in something real.
He reached for you, brushing your hair behind your ear, cupping your face with both hands. "I meant what I said this morning," he whispered. "I want this. Whatever it looks like."
Your lips parted. "I want it too."
He kissed you — not rushed, not needy.
Just right.
And when he pulled back, his voice cracked on the last line: "Text me when you land. And let me know when I can see you again."
You nodded, throat tight. "I will."
And then you turned — one step, then another, not looking back until you were inside.
"The Weight of Almost"
You sat by the gate, legs curled beneath you, the weight of everything that had just happened sinking in slowly—like the body catching up to what the heart already knew.
The noise of the terminal faded into a muffled hum. People moved around you—boarding, chatting, checking phones—but you stayed still, clutching your carry-on like it could hold the pieces of him you were afraid to leave behind.
Your fingers brushed the edge of the envelope he'd slipped into your bag. You hadn't opened it yet.
Not because you didn't want to—but because some part of you knew that once you did, the moment would be real. The goodbye would stretch a little farther. The ache would settle a little deeper.
Still, you held it gently, like it was fragile. Sacred.
The final boarding call echoed overhead.
You stood, took a slow breath, and walked toward the gate—heart heavier, but also somehow...fuller
Hours later, with the plane humming beneath you, you opened the envelope.
Inside was a note, written in Chan's slanted handwriting:
"You brought something into my life I didn't know I was missing. Not spotlight, not excitement — but stillness.
You made me feel seen. You reminded me I'm not too much to be loved quietly.
So here's my promise. Whenever you're ready to stand in the crowd again — I'll be looking for you. And when you're done flying for everyone else...Fly back to me."— Chan
Tears slipped quietly down your cheeks.
But this time, they didn't feel like endings. They felt like the beginning of a long-distance, slow-burning, worth-it kind of love. And somehow, you knew—
You'd be back.
Chan's POV — The Space Between Goodbye and Grief
The car ride from the airport was nearly silent.
Chan sat in the back seat, elbow resting against the window, fingers lightly brushing his lips like they could still taste the last kiss you'd shared. The city blurred outside in streaks of gray and gold, but he didn't really see any of it. His thoughts were too loud, but his voice couldn't keep up.
The driver didn't ask questions—just played a soft playlist that hummed low beneath the weight in Chan's chest.
He replayed every moment of the past few days in his head like a song he couldn't stop listening to. The first time he saw you. The way your laugh settled into his bones. The curve of your smile in the morning light. The way you whispered "Don't stop" like you meant more than just the moment.
And now... the empty seat beside him felt too big. Too quiet.
He turned his head slightly and caught sight of the hoodie you'd worn on the plane. You'd left it draped over his bag by accident. Or maybe not.
He picked it up and pressed it to his chest, breathing you in like it could bring you back.
When the car finally pulled up to the hotel, he hesitated. Just for a second. As if walking inside would make the goodbye more permanent.
He stepped out, hoodie in hand, and quietly made his way through the lobby, head low beneath the brim of his hat. The weight of everything he hadn't said pressed into his spine with every step.
Then came the elevator. One floor. The same hallway. The same door.
But it didn't feel the same.
The hotel hallway was quiet when Chan stepped out of the elevator.
Too quiet.
The weight of the goodbye still clung to his shoulders, the phantom of your warmth still lingering in the creases of his hoodie. He'd barely spoken since the airport. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he wasn't sure if he'd break.
He pushed open the suite door—
And stopped cold.
All eight members were there. Waiting.
Felix sat cross-legged on the floor, gaze flicking up instantly. Seungmin leaned against the wall with his arms folded, but his posture wasn't casual—it was bracing, like he was holding something in for Chan's sake.
Lee Know looked up first, voice soft but steady. "Hey, mate."
Hyunjin didn't ask questions. Just shifted over and patted the cushion beside him. "Sit."
Chan didn't ask why they were all there.
He just moved—slowly, like his body had finally felt the full weight of goodbye. He lowered himself to the center of the room, elbows on his knees, head falling into his hands.
And for a moment, no one said a word.
The silence wasn't awkward. It was sacred. Held.
Then, gently, Felix spoke. "Did she... did she leave okay?"
Chan nodded, his head still bowed. "Yeah," he said quietly, voice raw. "I dropped her off and waited... I stayed until I couldn't see her anymore."
He paused, swallowing hard, the silence around him pressing in like gravity.
"When I could no longer see her I got back in the car, watching the doors. Hoping maybe she'd come back out. Or look back. Or... I don't know." He let out a shaky breath. "I didn't cry. Not then. I told myself I couldn't."
His voice wavered, breaking on the edges. "But the second she was gone—really gone—it felt like something just ripped out of me."
He looked up, eyes glassy and tired. "How do you go from holding someone like they're your whole world... to watching them disappear."
A long silence followed, until he finally whispered, "I didn't think it'd feel like this."
The room remained still. Listening.
"I thought maybe it'd be a whirlwind," he continued. "One of those memories you carry with you, smile about, but leave where it belongs—in the past."
Han's voice came in, quiet and careful. "But?"
Chan lifted his head slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed, lips trembling just slightly. "But it wasn't just a memory. She wasn't just a moment. She saw me. And now that she's gone, it's like—" his voice cracked—"the room's full but still empty."
Hyunjin reached out, hand steady on his shoulder. "You made her feel safe, hyung," he said. "That matters more than anything. That's something she'll carry with her. And so will you."
Lee Know leaned forward slightly, his voice uncharacteristically tender. "And you let yourself be seen. Really seen. That's brave."
Chan let out a short, bitter laugh, wiping at his eyes. "It's insane, isn't it? A few days—and I already..."
"Miss her like she's part of you," Felix finished softly.
Chan's throat worked around the lump forming there. He nodded.
"She told me she just wanted to be there for me," he whispered. "In the crowd. In the quiet. Wherever I needed her. And all I could think was—why does it feel like I already lost something I never even had the right to hold onto?"
"You didn't lose her," Seungmin said, voice gentler than usual. "She's just not next to you right now."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was filled with quiet breathing. The presence of people who loved him enough to not fill the ache with noise. Who knew some pain just needed space.
Chan leaned back against the couch, the hoodie she'd left behind still folded in his lap.
"I'm not done," he said after a long breath. "Not with her. Not with this."
And one by one, the members nodded—no hesitation.
Felix reached over, giving his leg a soft pat. "Then when she's ready... you know she'll find her way back."
And this time, Chan nodded too.
Because he finally let himself believe it.