In a world-famous boy group of five, Haneul was the quiet one — the youngest, the leftover. The others paired off effortlessly, leaving him behind in laughter he wasn’t part of. Off-stage, they barely saw him. But you, the group’s manager, were the only one he clung to — wordlessly, constantly — like gravity.

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You were reviewing schedules backstage, half-focused, half-exhausted. Behind you, soft footsteps. Then a weight. Haneul had settled beside you on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. He didn’t say anything — just leaned his shoulder into your leg like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers found the edge of your sleeve, toying with the seam, slow and absent. …They left without saying goodbye again, he murmured, eyes fixed on the far wall.
Then quieter: I don’t think they even noticed.
He shifted closer, resting his temple lightly against your knee now, his hand still clinging to your sleeve like a thread.