Page 6 of Tell Me Where It Ends

We were seventeen, running on nothing but adrenaline, hormones, and the hunger for something real after years of strict training and suffocating rules.

It started with stolen glances and stifled smiles. Then we were paired for a debutant duet dance, instantly earning the nickname “The Hottest K-pop Newbies.” Secret texts followed, along withwhispered late-night meet-ups in each other’s dorms.

Everything felt careful and clumsy, a high-stakes, forbidden game. It was dangerous. And utterly thrilling. We weren’t allowed to be a couple—it was written in our contracts, a non-negotiable clause. But that made it all the more intoxicating. Knowing we were breaking a rule just by existing together was a very adult kind of aphrodisiac, even back then.

At twenty, we lost our virginity to each other.

First love. First kiss. First everything.

There were no candles, no gentle music, no whispered promises of forever. Just two kids, aching for something—anything—that made them feel alive and wanted. We didn’t talk about it. Not really. We just kept moving forward like nothing had changed, except everything had.

Suho and I had no anniversary dinners. No matching rings like normal couples. But we had memories. Hundreds of them, stitched into whispers behind practice rooms, burnt ramyeon at 3 a.m., laughter spilling over the bathroom sink.

We had late-night songs hummed into each other’s skin. Fights in stairwells that ended in kisses.Makeup sex we were too young to understand, too reckless to regret.

We kept sneaking around—after rehearsals, in van rides with curtains drawn, during overseas tours when we could disappear into the same hotel room for a night. Always looking over our shoulders. Always pretending we were just “colleagues.” The secrecy was part of the pull, too—the fact that it was ours. That no one else could touch it.

But like everything I’ve ever had, it couldn’t last. We started fighting more.

It began with little things—stupid things, really. Who replied too late to a text, who seemed distant during rehearsals, who was caught smiling with someone else during a variety show taping.

Then a blurry photo appeared online: us arguing outside his dorm. That was when everything exploded.

We were twenty-four. At the peak of our careers. We were beloved, watched, and completely unprepared for the tidal wave that came next.

It was the first time I realized how brutal netizens could be. The hate comments from theStarshippers—his fanbase—poured in like venom. Myown fans weren’t much kinder. Because female idols are expected to be innocent and pure—yet somehow sexy and desirable. Just nottoosexy. Not too real. And definitely not caught arguing with a fellow male idol late at night outside his dorm.

Somesasaengs(obsessive fans) even started camping outside our dorms and the agency building, holding signs of protest like we’d personally betrayed them. It got so bad that the tension in my girl group, Jellypop, became unbearable. One of the members, Aerin, even threatened to leave altogether.

We were backed into a corner. Management forced us to put out a statement denying our relationship.

I thought that was the end of our story.

But like magnets, we kept finding our way back to each other.

Once we moved out of the dorms and into our own places, we sometimes wouldn’t see each other for months. Other times, we’d spend nights at each other’s apartments—quieter, less clumsy than before. Those nights felt like a strange mix of comfort and uncertainty. Exciting, yet always temporary.

Now, two days after the smoking scandal breaks—cigarette or weed, no one seems to care about the difference—I’m holed up in my apartment with my manager, Kang Shin. He’s practically moved in, quietly taking over my couch, my kettle, and what little sanity I have left.

Then, finally, a message comes through that isn’t from my agency or the legal team. It’s from Suho:Meet me in the parking ground in 20 minutes.

No emojis. No punctuation. Just that.

I stare at it like it’s a cursed object. He still calls it the “parking ground.” Like we’re twenty again, sneaking off after Music Bank tapings. Like the years in between haven’t carved sharp edges into us. Like we aren’t both haunted by everything we never said.

My thumb hovers over the screen like it’s about to catch fire. I read the message again. Once. Twice. Three times. That old adrenaline slams into me like a slap. My breath catches. My palms go damp. My chest tightens in that awful, electric way only he can trigger.

I glance up. Shin is at the kitchen table, typing on his laptop. His brows are drawn in that quiet,unreadable way he gets when he’s worried but doesn’t want me to know. His phone buzzes faintly, the vibration echoing in the silence. I know he’s handling the agency and the lawyer, preparing for when the police summons comes—but he does it all quietly, never wanting to add to my stress.

He looks up. Catches me staring.

“You okay?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah. Just tired,” I lie. Too fast.

He nods, but his gaze lingers. Checking. Reassuring. Then he turns back to his screen, like he’s reading between the lines but trusting me anyway.

I flip my phone face-down, but the message still burns behind my eyelids.