Hyunjin's Vigil

The sterile scent of the hospital clung to Hyunjin like a second skin, a constant reminder of Felix’s fragile state. He traced the faint blue veins on the back of Felix’s hand, a hand that once commanded stages with effortless grace, now so pale and thin. Felix’s breathing was shallow, a whisper against the hum of the machines that kept him tethered to this world. Outside, the city pulsed with life, a distant symphony Hyunjin could only imagine Felix yearning to rejoin.

Hyunjin had learned to become a phantom presence, a whisper in the wind that carried Felix’s name. He’d perfected the art of deflection, of subtly redirecting every conversation, every interview, every fan interaction back to the missing piece of their puzzle. When the cameras rolled, and the bright lights of the studio became his solitary stage, he’d carry Felix with him. He’d talk about their shared beginnings, the cramped practice rooms, the silly jokes that only they understood, the dreams they’d woven together like threads of starlight.

“You know,” Hyunjin said, his voice soft, a lullaby in the quiet room, “remember that time we tried to choreograph a dance to a cat meowing? It was… an experience.” He chuckled, a small, dry sound. Felix’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smile.