It was 2:14 AM.

The kind of hour when the world felt like it had forgotten how to breathe.

The hallway stretched long and empty, bathed in a dull yellow glow that flickered every few seconds, like it was struggling to stay alive. The building, once loud with laughter and music and footsteps, had fallen into a silence so complete it almost felt unnatural. Even the air seemed still thick, unmoving, as if disturbed movement would break something fragile.

Only one set of footsteps echoed through it.

Slow. Measured.

Shownu.

He wasn’t supposed to be awake. Out of all of them, he was usually the first to fall asleep, the one who never lingered too long after practice, the one who always told the others to rest.

But tonight...

Something felt off.

It wasn’t loud. Not obvious. Just a quiet weight sitting in his chest, persistent enough that ignoring it became impossible.

A feeling he couldn’t explain.

So he followed it.

His steps were steady, but his mind wasn’t. The deeper he went down the hallway, the more that strange unease settled into something heavier.

And then he saw it. The practice room door.

Slightly open. Shownu stopped. That wasn’t normal.

They were careful about things like this. Locking doors. Turning off lights. Leaving everything the way it should be.

But now, The door stood ajar, like it had been left in a hurry. Or forgotten entirely. Then he heard it.

A beat. Soft. Repeating. Looping over and over again, worn thin at the edges. Like something refusing to stop. Shownu’s gaze hardened slightly. Without a word, he stepped forward and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked quietly.

The air inside was warm... too warm. Thick with sweat, with hours of effort, with something that felt… suffocating.

The speaker in the corner blinked faintly, the same track playing on loop. Again. And again. And again.

Shownu stepped in. The floor creaked beneath his weight. And then...He saw him.

Changkyun. Alone.

Right in the center of the room.

Sitting cross-legged, shoulders slightly slumped, like he no longer had the strength to hold himself upright. HIs head hung low, damp hair sticking to his forehead, his breathing shallow but steady.

Still.

Too still. His hoodie was tossed aside carelessly, crumpled against the floor. Nearby, a takeout container sat unopened, untouched like it had been forgotten the moment it was set down.

Shownu’s chest tightened.

“Changkyun.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried. No response. Changkyun didn’t move. Didn’t react.

His eyes were open, fixed on the mirror ahead of him but there was no focus in them. Just emptiness. Shownu followed his line of sight.

The mirror was fogged, clouded from heat and breath, the surface uneven and blurred.

But not enough to hide what was written there.

Three words. Messy. Faint. Written with a trembling hand.

“Sorry I exist.”

Shownu went still.

For a brief moment, even his breathing paused.

Something heavy settled deep in his chest slow, sinking, impossible to ignore.

He walked forward, steps quieter now, more careful. When he reached Changkyun, he lowered himself down in front of him without a sound.

The wooden floor pressed against his knees, but he didn’t notice. His attention was entirely on the boy in front of him.

Gently, he placed a hand on Changkyun’s knee.

Cold. The contrast made his brows knit slightly.

“You didn’t eat.”

It wasn’t a question. Changkyun blinked.

Slowly. Like he was pulling himself back from somewhere far away.

“Did you stay here all night?”

A pause.

Then a faint nod.

Shownu exhaled quietly through his nose, his gaze softening but the concern didn’t leave.

Up close, the signs were clearer.

Swollen eyes. Pale skin. Dry lips. And...His hands.

Shownu’s gaze dropped. Bruised knuckles.

Uneven, darkened marks across his skin. Some older. Some fresh. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Why didn’t you come back?” he asked.

His tone didn’t change.

Still calm.

Still steady.

But there was something underneath it now. Something heavier. Changkyun’s lips parted slightly. For a second, it seemed like no words would come.

Then—

“…didn’t think I’d be missed.”

Quiet.

Fragile.

Almost lost in the air.

Shownu didn’t respond immediately. He just looked at him. Really looked. And for once, he didn’t try to find the right words quickly.

Instead, his hand pressed slightly firmer against Changkyun’s knee not forceful, just… there. Grounding. Certain.

“You are.”

Simple.

Clear.

No hesitation.

His voice didn’t waver.

“More than you think.”

The room fell silent again. But this time It didn’t feel empty.

They called his name.

“IM Changkyun.”

The sound cut through the room like a sudden crack of thunder, sharp enough to silence everything else in an instant, and for a brief, suspended moment, it felt as though time itself had paused just to let those two words settle into his bones.

Changkyun blinked once, then again, as if his body needed confirmation that what he had just heard was real and not another cruel trick of anticipation, because his heart didn’t know how to react, caught somewhere between the fragile bloom of hope and the instinct to brace for disappointment.

The judges were smiling.

The cameras had already found him, lenses narrowing in, capturing every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, every hesitation, every breath he couldn’t quite steady, while the room filled with applause some loud, some half-hearted, some absent entirely, a scattered chorus that felt more obligatory than celebratory.

He rose to his feet slowly, as though his body carried a weight his mind hadn’t yet processed, his legs stiff, uncertain, like they weren’t fully convinced they were allowed to stand there.

He bowed, because that was what he was supposed to do.

He smiled, because that was what they expected to see.

But when he lifted his head, no one met his eyes.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

From the edge of the room, he could feel it the weight of their gazes, heavy and unmoving, pressing into his back like something solid, something undeniable, and he didn’t need to turn around to know exactly who it was.

Six of them.

Watching.

Not with joy.

Not with pride.

But with something quieter, sharper.

Something that lingered uncomfortably close to resentment.

Minhyuk stood frozen, his usual brightness dimmed into something unrecognizable, while Kihyun’s jaw was set tight, the tension in his expression barely restrained, and Jooheon avoided looking up altogether, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor as if it held more answers than the moment unfolding in front of him.

Shownu, as always, was harder to read, his face composed, almost neutral, but there was a stillness to him that didn’t feel calm, and Hyungwon blinked slowly, once, then again, like he was trying to process something that didn’t quite make sense yet.

Wonho didn’t look away.

He stared directly at Changkyun, his expression not hostile, not openly rejecting, but not warm either, and that absence of warmth carved deeper than anger ever could.

Changkyun swallowed, the motion tight and almost painful, his throat dry despite the noise around him, despite the applause that continued to echo, despite the voices calling his name as if it meant something.

Because it should have meant everything.

This moment.

This victory.

This proof that he was enough.

And yet

It felt hollow.

Because the people he wanted to share it with the most weren’t celebrating at all.

...°°°...

They called it fate.

They called it talent.

They called it luck, opportunity, destiny wrapped neatly into something admirable.

But none of them knew what it had taken for him to stand there.

None of them saw the years spent chasing something invisible, the quiet desperation of wanting to be acknowledged, to be chosen, to exist in a way that mattered to someone, anyone.

They didn’t know that for Changkyun, being seen had never been a given.

It had always been a fight.

...°°°...

That night, the dorm was louder than usual, but none of it reached him the way it should have.

Changkyun sat alone at the small kitchen table, the overhead light flickering faintly every few seconds, casting uneven shadows across the counter, across the walls, across him.

Someone had left a slice of cake there.

He wasn’t sure who.

It sat on a paper plate, slightly tilted, the frosting uneven from where it had been cut too quickly, a plastic fork placed beside it as an afterthought, and next to it, a small card decorated with careless handwriting.

Welcome.

His name was written underneath.

Spelled wrong.

Changkyun stared at it for a long moment before picking up the fork, his fingers slow, almost mechanical, as if he were following instructions rather than making a choice.

He took a bite.

It was sweet.

Too sweet.

Artificial.

It coated his tongue in a way that felt unpleasant, clinging rather than dissolving, and for a second, he considered the possibility that this was what celebration was supposed to taste like.

Empty.

From down the hallway, laughter echoed faintly, muffled by distance and closed doors, blending into something indistinct, something that didn’t quite belong to him, and he didn’t need to check to know where it was coming from.

The others.

His hyungs.

Celebrating.

Or maybe just moving on.

Either way, it didn’t include him.

He placed the fork back down.

The cake remained unfinished.

His gaze drifted upward, settling on the flickering light above the sink, watching as it dimmed and brightened again in an unsteady rhythm, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay on or give up entirely.

“IM Changkyun,” he murmured under his breath.

The name felt unfamiliar in his mouth.

Too clean.

Too polished.

Like it belonged to someone else.

Someone who hadn’t grown up in a place where silence was safer than speaking, where words were measured carefully because kindness was never guaranteed, where being unnoticed was easier than being unwanted.

He let the name sit there, lingering in the quiet.

Testing it.

As if waiting for it to feel like his.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

And maybe

Not ever.

Tbc ✨

Day one began without ceremony, without welcome, without anything that resembled the beginning of something new, and Changkyun found himself sitting at the edge of his bed with his suitcase still zipped shut at his feet, his fingers hovering just above the handle as if even the smallest decision whether to unpack or not required permission he didn’t have, because nothing in this space felt like it belonged to him yet, not the room, not the air, not even the quiet corner he had been given to exist in.

The dorm was louder than he expected, alive in a way that felt distant rather than inviting, filled with the sounds of movement and familiarity that he wasn’t a part of laughter spilling out from the living room in uneven bursts, footsteps rushing across the wooden floor, the sharp echo of a door slamming followed by another opening, voices overlapping, blending into something warm and lived-in, something that should have felt comforting but instead pressed against him like a reminder that he stood just outside of it all.

He stayed where he was, unmoving, listening.

Waiting.

But no one came.

No one called his name.

No one even paused long enough for silence to notice him.

The only acknowledgment he received came in passing, brief and almost incidental, when Shownu stepped into the hallway and their eyes met for a fraction of a second, offering nothing more than a small, quiet nod, the kind you would give a stranger in a shared space, polite but distant, enough to recognize presence but not enough to invite connection, and Changkyun returned it automatically, his body responding out of habit even as something inside him sank further.

Minhyuk walked by not long after, headphones covering his ears, his attention elsewhere, his steps light and careless as if the world had no reason to weigh him down, and he didn’t look in Changkyun’s direction even once, not out of cruelty, but out of simple indifference, as if there was nothing there worth noticing.

Kihyun passed next, slower, more aware, but his gaze only skimmed over Changkyun briefly before moving on, like acknowledging him any longer would require effort he wasn’t willing to give.

Changkyun told himself it was fine.

That it was normal.

That everyone was tired, overwhelmed, adjusting in their own ways, and that this this quiet distance, this lack of attention was just part of the process, something temporary, something that would soften with time.

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Maybe tomorrow someone would speak to him first.

Maybe tomorrow he would feel like he was actually there.

But when he finally gathered enough courage to step out of the room and make his way to the kitchen, drawn more by uncertainty than hunger, the sight that greeted him made something inside his chest tighten before he could stop it.

Six plates sat stacked neatly in the sink, remnants of a meal already finished, the faint smell of food lingering in the air, warm but fading, like evidence of something he had missed without even realizing it was happening.

No one had called him.

No one had waited.

No one had thought to.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the plates as if they might offer some kind of explanation, but they didn’t, and eventually, he turned away quietly, retreating back to his room without making a sound, as if even his presence in that space felt like an intrusion.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily.

Changkyun lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the thin crack that stretched along one corner, following its uneven path until it disappeared into shadow, and just beside it, a faint water stain spread outward in a shape that vaguely resembled a rabbit, something almost childlike, almost comforting, if he let himself believe it.

He tried to.

He really did.

But the longer he stared, the less it helped.

His stomach twisted quietly, a dull, persistent ache that reminded him he hadn’t eaten dinner, not out of intention but out of hesitation, because the fridge had been full when he opened it earlier containers neatly arranged, shelves occupied, everything clearly belonging to someone and he hadn’t known which part of it, if any, was meant for him.

And asking felt… wrong.

Like overstepping.

Like assuming he had a place he hadn’t earned.

So he closed it again.

And now the hunger sat with him in the dark, quiet but insistent.

The longer he stayed awake, the heavier the air around him seemed to become, pressing gently but steadily against his chest until breathing required more effort than it should have, each inhale shallow, each exhale slower than the last, as if even his body wasn’t fully convinced it was allowed to relax here.

And then

Without warning

The past slipped in.

Not loud.

Not sudden.

But familiar enough that it didn’t need to announce itself.

“You ruined everything.”

The voice was cold.

Distant.

Unchanging.

Changkyun was ten again, standing barefoot in the hallway of a house that never felt like home, his small hands clutching a crumpled report card, the paper wrinkled from being held too tightly for too long, his eyes fixed on the floor because looking up would only make it worse.

His father stood across from him, expression unreadable in the dim light, his disappointment heavier than anger, heavier than anything else.

In the living room, the television blared too loudly, laughter from some meaningless show filling the space where silence should have been, and his mother sat slouched against the sofa, a cigarette resting between her fingers, the smoke curling lazily upward as if it had nowhere better to go.

“You think this’ll make us love you?” she muttered, her voice flat, uninterested, as if the words carried no weight at all.

Then, quieter

“I should’ve aborted you.”

The sentence settled into him without resistance.

It didn’t need to be repeated.

It stayed.

It always stayed.

Over time, the memory didn’t fade.

It just changed.

Softened at the edges.

Sharpened at the center.

Until it became something he carried without noticing.

Something that followed him.

Something that sounded a little too familiar in moments like this.

Back in the dorm, Changkyun blinked, his eyes stinging as he forced himself back into the present, the ceiling coming back into focus above him, the crack still there, the rabbit shaped stain unchanged, as if nothing had happened at all.

He wasn’t ten anymore.

He wasn’t standing in that hallway.

He wasn’t that child.

He was here.

Now.

A member of Monsta X.

Chosen.

Selected.

Given a place that so many others had fought for.

So why?

Why did it still feel the same?

Why did it still feel like he didn’t belong?

From the living room, laughter broke through the quiet again, louder this time, freer, the kind of sound that came from comfort, from familiarity, from people who didn’t have to think twice about where they stood with each other.

Then a voice cut through it.

Clear enough to hear.

“It’s not fair, right? After all we did…”

The rest faded into murmurs, swallowed by walls and distance, but it didn’t matter.

It was enough.

Changkyun pulled the blanket tighter around himself, curling slightly onto his side, making himself smaller without realizing it, as if reducing his presence might make everything easier to bear.

The room felt colder.

Or maybe it was just him.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just lay there, listening to the fading echoes of voices that didn’t call for him.

And then, quietly, so quietly it almost didn’t exist at all, he whispered the words he had spent so long burying, the ones he had tried so hard not to let surface again.

“I don’t want to exist like this.”

The darkness didn’t respond.

It never did.

Tbc ✨