CHAPTER 2 : UNWANTED

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 ✨

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