Chapter Text
Minho's voice carried through his and Jisung’s shared dorm room, low and careful at first, then slowly fraying around the edges.
"No, Sana, I already told you—I can't just skip practice. The coach will bench me."
He was sitting on his bed, phone pressed tight against his ear, trying to keep his tone even. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was stressed. Jisung, from his desk across the room, pretended to be absorbed in the half-finished paper in front of him, pencil hovering over messy notes of chords. He wasn't listening. Not really.
Except he was.
He always was.
Sana's voice was loud enough that Jisung didn't even need to strain to hear it. She wasn't screaming, but every word cut sharp, wrapped in that sing-song cheerleader tone. "It's one practice! Don't you care about spending time with me? God, Minho, you never make me a priority."
Jisung bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted metal. He knew this routine. The phone calls that left Minho deflated, tugging his hoodie strings loose and sighing until the whole room sagged with him. And still, Minho never saw it—never saw how he twisted himself up to please a girl who couldn't even let him breathe.
Doodling a treble clef so hard the pencil tip snapped, Jisung thought bitterly; She's captain of the squad, everyone adores her, she glitters even when she's tearing you apart. And you eat it up. You don't see it, but you deserve better. You deserve me.
Minho's voice rose. "I do make you a priority! I skipped last weekend's team dinner just to come to your showcase."
"Yeah, and you spent the whole night talking to your teammates. You didn't even sit with me when we got ice cream after!"
Jisung rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. He wanted to say, 'of course he sat with his teammates, Sana, Of course he talks to them, he's captain. Do you even understand him at all?'
But he stayed silent. Always silent. That was his role: the quiet roommate, the loner, the one Minho thought of as harmless, background noise.
Minho's shoulders slumped. "Fine. I'll see if I can talk to coach."
Of course he'd cave. Jisung wanted to grab him, shake him, shout: Don't you see? If only you could see that I'm the one who understands you...
Instead, he pressed his lips together and forced himself to write a few more notes on the page, though they came out jagged and wrong.
The call dragged another five minutes. Sana was relentless, tossing out complaints disguised as sweet giggles. When Minho finally hung up, the silence hit heavy. He flopped backward onto his bed, phone slipping from his hand. His arm dangled off the side like a discarded puppet.
"She's mad again," Minho muttered to the ceiling. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
Jisung stared at him, chest tight. Nothing. You're doing nothing wrong. She just doesn't get you. She never will.
Out loud, all he said was, "You're not doing anything wrong."
Minho turned his head toward him, eyes tired but soft. That was the worst part—the way Minho still smiled at him, even when his whole world was cracking. The way he made Jisung feel seen, in small flashes, when no one else bothered.
"You're a good roommate, Jisungie," Minho said. "You don't judge. Thanks for putting up with all that."
The words slid under Jisung's ribs like knives. I don't judge? Minho, I'm judging every second. Judging her, judging you, judging myself for wanting something I can't have.
He gave a small shrug, pretending his heart wasn't clawing at his throat. "Not my business."
Minho groaned, covering his face with a pillow. "I just... I don't want to fight with her anymore. I wish she could just... chill, you know?"
Jisung looked at him, at the strong line of his shoulders, at the boy who was good to everyone and couldn't see how good he deserved to have it back.
"Yeah," Jisung whispered, too quiet for Minho to hear. "I know."
The next morning, Jisung's hoodie smelled faintly of Minho's cologne, a lingering ghost that made breakfast taste like ash. He shoved a bagel into his mouth, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other fiddled with the strings of his guitar. His usual table by the library entrance was empty, save for a few regulars who barely noticed him. Perfect. Just how he liked it.
Until she walked by.
Sana. In full cheerleader regalia, her skirt swishing just so, pom-poms tucked under one arm, and a grin that made the sunlight jealous. Behind her, the rest of the squad trailed like a miniature army of perfection: Momo tossing her hair back, Nayeon giggling at some joke, Mina balancing her bag on her hip like it weighed nothing. They were a force field of popularity, a glittering barrier that Jisung could never, ever penetrate.
And right there, at the center, was Minho. Laughing at something Sana said, tossing his hand up in agreement, the kind of smile that should have belonged to someone who could see him—Jisung—waiting silently in the shadows.
Jisung's pencil hovered over his notebook. His chords blurred as his eyes followed Minho's every movement. She's on his arm, I'm invisible. And he doesn't see it.
He forced himself to look away, tried to concentrate on the music notes scribbled across the page. But every glance up betrayed him: Sana twirling, laughing, perfectly in sync with him; Minho's hand brushing hers; their heads tilting together like magnets.
From the far side of the quad, a group of students laughed at some football joke Minho had made, their laughter ringing out across the campus. Jisung's chest tightened.
He was so absorbed that he didn't notice Minho wandering over until he plopped down beside him on the bench.
"You okay, Jisung?" Minho asked casually, tossing his backpack onto the grass. He smelled faintly of sunscreen and sports drinks. So good. So unattainable.
"Yeah," Jisung murmured, voice barely above the rustle of the leaves. "Just... studying."
Minho laughed, easy and golden. "You always say that, but you barely touch the textbook. I've seen you doodling music notes for the past thirty minutes."
Jisung's throat tightened. "Notes are... important too."
"They are," Minho agreed, leaning back with his hands behind his head. "But you need to eat, Jisung. You can't survive on bagels alone."
Jisung wanted to argue, wanted to snap something sarcastic, wanted to... tell him. Tell him he didn't just need food—he needed him, in every way. But instead, he nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat.
The squad passed by again, Sana tossing him a bright, oblivious smile. Oblivious. That word gnawed at him. She didn't see him. She didn't care. And somehow, that made him ache even more.
"Hey, I saw your practice yesterday," Minho continued, completely unaware of how Jisung's heart was breaking in increments. "Your guitar skills are insane. You've got talent, man."
"Thanks," Jisung muttered, staring at his notebook. He wanted to say, I'm talented at understanding you, too. Isn't that worth noticing? But he didn't. He never did. Not yet.
Minho yawned, stretching in the morning sun. "Anyway, I gotta head to football practice. You coming to watch?"
Jisung's stomach flipped. Watching Minho meant seeing Sana too, and seeing them together hurt like a bruise that wouldn't heal. But of course he nodded. "Yeah... I'll come."
As Minho walked away, waving over his shoulder at the cheerleaders following behind him, Jisung scribbled one final line in his notebook:
He belongs with me.
It wasn't hope. It wasn't delusion. It was a fact, carved into every thought, every note, every beat of his lonely, aching heart.
The stadium smelled like grass, sweat, and something metallic in the air—the kind of sharp scent that made Jisung's stomach churn. He slouched in the top row of the bleachers, hoodie pulled low over his face, sneakers dangling, guitar case leaning against the bench beside him like a silent companion. Around him, the chatter of students, the blast of the marching band, and the occasional whistle from the coach made him feel like an outsider in his own skin.
Below him, Minho moved with effortless power, running drills, tossing the ball, his teammates following him like planets orbiting the sun. The sunlight caught on the back of his jersey, the number gleaming, hair sticking in damp strands to his forehead. Jisung's chest tightened. He had memorized every subtle movement over the past weeks: the way Minho shifted his weight before a pass, the way he laughed when someone on the team messed up, the way his eyes scanned the field with that unintentional charisma that drew everyone in.
And there she was. Sana. Pom-poms flashing, hair perfectly in place even when the wind tried to mess it up. Her cheer echoed across the stadium, just for him, Minho's perfect world encased in pink and gold. Every time Minho glanced up, smiled at her, laughed at her jokes, Jisung wanted to scream.
She wears short skirts, she cheers loud, she has him wrapped around her finger...
Jisung's fingers fidgeted against the bench, tapping out a rhythm as if his hands could make the world spin the right way. He had always been invisible, and now it stung more than usual. The golden boy, one of the few people kind to him, belonged to someone else—or at least thought he did.
Yet Minho still glanced up toward the bleachers, catching Jisung's hooded form. "Hey! You coming down after practice?"
Jisung's stomach flipped. "Uh... yeah... sure," he mumbled, pretending nonchalance. He wanted to shout: I'm here for you. I've always been here for you. But he didn't. He never did.
The cheerleaders spun around again, Sana calling his name, waving like a queen at her loyal subjects. Minho's smile broke, just for a second, and Jisung's heart thudded painfully. He deserves better than her. Better than all of this glittering nonsense. He deserves me.
As the practice wound down, Minho jogged toward the bleachers, wiping sweat off his brow. Jisung shifted awkwardly, trying to hide how much his pulse was betraying him. "You okay?" Minho asked, dropping next to him, sweaty and bright and blinding.
"Yeah... yeah, you?" Jisung muttered, voice cracking slightly despite his best effort.
"Good," Minho said, flashing that easy grin. "Thanks for coming. You're one of the only people who actually watches me without... I don't know, expecting something."
Jisung's chest clenched. Yes. I watch. I see. I see everything. And I know you belong with me.
He glanced at Sana, laughing with Minho's teammates, her perfect ponytail bouncing. His fists clenched into his hoodie pocket. Minho nudged him lightly. "Wanna walk back to the dorm together?"
Jisung's throat caught. "Sure," he said softly, forcing a smile he knew didn't reach his eyes. Every step behind Minho felt like a small betrayal of his own heart. He wanted to reach out, to pull Minho into the quiet of the music room, where the world made sense and no one was watching—but he didn't.
Because he wasn't supposed to. Not yet.
As they walked across campus, Sana and her squad waved at Minho. He waved back, oblivious, laughing. Jisung forced his gaze to the ground, pretending not to notice, pretending he didn't feel like his chest was being squeezed.
Jisung slipped into the music room like it was a sanctuary, the familiar scent of wood polish and old strings wrapping around him. He needed this—the silence, the instruments, the ability to breathe without someone's voice pulling him in a thousand directions. He dropped his backpack by the door and ran a hand over the drum kit, fingers itching to tap out something that wasn't coherent but at least was his.
He closed his eyes, strumming a chord on the guitar, letting it hum through the room. The notes carried his frustration, his longing, the small ache that had settled in his chest like a permanent bruise.
The sound of the door clicking made him tense. His stomach did that familiar flip—the one that had started the day he'd first met Minho, the one that had never gone away.
"Hey," Minho said, voice soft, carrying that careless charm that made Jisung want to collapse in frustration. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jisung strum silently. "I thought you might be here."
Jisung froze mid-chord, heart hammering. "Oh... hey," he managed, voice barely audible over the echoing strings. He wished he could disappear into the music, fade until Minho didn't see the way his hands shook.
Minho stepped further in, eyes scanning the instruments. "I didn't know you played all these." He gestured at the keyboards, the drum kit, the bass guitar stood proudly. "You're... amazing."
Jisung swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "It's nothing." Of course it wasn't. Nothing he did ever felt like enough.
"You know," Minho said, leaning casually on the edge of the piano bench, "you should play at the showcase next week. People would love it. I know I would."
Jisung's chest seized. His fingers hovered over the strings. You'd love it... you'd love me.
Instead, he whispered, "I don't know..." His words were weak, like everything he said to Minho, because the truth—the real, screaming truth—was too dangerous to speak. "I don't want to... make a scene."
Minho's smile softened. "You're not making a scene. You're just... you."
Jisung's heart lurched. You don't even know, do you? You don't know how much I've been here, how much I've wanted you... how much I've always known you belong with me, not Sana.
Minho leaned back, stretching, oblivious. "Thanks for... for always being around. You're one of the only people I don't feel like I have to impress. You get it, you know?"
The words cut deeper than anything else. Jisung wanted to reach out, grab him, shake him, confess everything he'd been holding in for weeks, months—years, maybe. But he couldn't. He was the quiet roommate, the invisible one, the one who loved from the shadows.
"Yeah," Jisung whispered, voice breaking. "I get it."
They sat there in silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft hum of the overhead lights. Jisung's fingers brushed the strings again, quietly strumming the melody of a song only he seemed to hear—the song of aching, of longing, of watching the one person you loved most belong to someone else.
Minho finally glanced at him. "I'm glad you're here," he said simply. "I really am."
Jisung wanted to scream. But he stayed silent, nodded, and kept strumming.
Because some truths couldn't be spoken. Not yet.
And in the quiet of the music room, Jisung let lyrics run through his head, over and over, a secret anthem for the way his heart ached.