It happened on a Wednesday — the kind of day that starts ordinary, pretending nothing is about to fracture.
The practice room smelled like stale sweat and the cheap mint spray they all used to keep from smelling like stale sweat. Jiwoo had dragged Minjun in early that morning, bouncing with the same stubborn energy he always carried, even when their eyes were rimmed red from too many sleepless nights.
"Come on, Rooftop Boy. One last run-through before the showcase," Jiwoo said, tossing Minjun his mic.
Minjun caught it, ignoring the knot in his stomach. The showcase. Their song. Except the version in his head now belonged to Seojin — remixed, repackaged, soon to be a debut single for someone else's stage.
Jiwoo launched into the first verse. His voice cracked here and there, but his grin never wavered. Minjun forced himself to sing his parts, his mouth shaping lines he'd written about standing side by side forever — words that felt like knives now.
After practice, Jiwoo practically dragged him to their favorite ramen cart near the station. Steam curled around them as they leaned against the plastic counter, the night chill biting at their wrists.
"You're gonna kill it tomorrow, you know that?" Jiwoo said through a mouthful of noodles. "The scouts are gonna fight over you."
Minjun's chest tightened. He almost told him then — about Orion, about the contract already signed and hidden under his pillow. About Seojin's promises. About the lie festering in his mouth every time he said us.
But he couldn't do it. He just nodded. "Yeah. We'll kill it."
Jiwoo stopped chewing. His eyes narrowed just slightly — that same spark of suspicion that had been flickering for days. "Minjun. Seriously. What's up with you lately? You got some side hustle I don't know about? A secret girlfriend?"
Minjun laughed — too loud, too fake. "Yeah, right. Me? No way."
Jiwoo stared. He didn't push it. He just slurped up the rest of his broth and nudged Minjun's shoulder. "Whatever, liar. As long as you're on that stage with me tomorrow, we're good."
Minjun looked away so Jiwoo wouldn't see the guilt in his eyes.
They walked back to the dorms side by side. Jiwoo kept talking about the future — the fans, the albums, the rooftop they'd trade for stadium lights. Minjun answered with nods, half-words that felt like paper burning in his throat.
It should've stayed buried. But secrets have a way of clawing through cracks.
The next morning, Jiwoo came early to Minjun's dorm room, waving a packet of instant coffee like a trophy. "Wake up, superstar! I bribed the manager for extra rehearsal time—"
He stopped when he saw the folder on Minjun's desk — the Orion logo staring back at him in bold silver letters.
Minjun shot up from his bed, half-dressed, throat dry. "Jiwoo, wait—"
But Jiwoo was already moving, snatching up the folder before Minjun could stop him. He flipped it open. Read the first page. Then the second. The contract. The payment statement. The training schedule that overlapped perfectly with the nights Minjun had disappeared.
Jiwoo didn't say anything for a moment. He just stood there, folder trembling in his hands.
"Jiwoo—"
"When were you gonna tell me?" Jiwoo's voice was too calm, too quiet.
Minjun stepped closer. "I was— I wanted to, I swear. I just— it wasn't the right time—"
Jiwoo laughed, but it was a sound like glass breaking. "Not the right time? Minjun, we're debuting together. We wrote these songs together. I trusted you."
Minjun reached out, but Jiwoo flinched back like he'd been burned.
"Jiwoo, please. This is bigger— it's fast-track. They're giving me a real debut. No fees. A real stage. I couldn't— I couldn't turn it down."
Jiwoo's eyes shimmered — anger and something worse underneath. Betrayal. "You could've told me. We could've figured it out together. But you didn't trust me enough to even try."
Minjun's breath caught. "It wasn't about trust—"
"Then what was it about?" Jiwoo's voice cracked. "Money? Fame? What?"
Minjun had no answer that wouldn't make him sound small and selfish — because maybe that's exactly what he was. The boy who'd promised they'd stand side by side but ran the second another door opened.
Jiwoo shoved the folder at his chest. "Congrats, Minjun. I hope it's worth it."
He turned and slammed the door behind him so hard the cheap dorm wall rattled. Minjun stood there, folder pressed against his chest, throat burning.
Later that night, the rooftop was empty when Minjun climbed the stairs. No Jiwoo waiting with two cups of convenience store coffee. No guitar balanced on his knee. Just cold wind and the echo of a promise that tasted like ash now.
Below, the city lights flickered — a million stages calling his name.
Above, the stars were hidden by clouds.