(no) Strings Attached

Cracks in the Mask

Hongjoong wasn't sure when he started paying closer attention.

He'd kept telling himself, over and over, that Seonghwa wasn't someone worth his attention. That Seonghwa was a person who discarded everyone else, who believed himself better than anyone.

Like he had on that Saturday in the cafeteria, when San openly confronted Seonghwa about why he acted like none of them existed.

They'd spent most of their late high school days together and a good part of their first university year, too.

But then came the second semester, and Seonghwa was someone else.

Seonghwa, who used to laugh easily, now sat alone, distant. He gave off the impression that he needed no one, that he was content with being his perfect little self.

It wasn't just the physical distance either—it was the emotional one. He was untouchable. He floated just out of reach, always just a little bit removed from the group, as if he were better than them. Or perhaps more accurately—he thought himself unworthy of their attention.

And Hongjoong hated that.

Or, at least, he kept telling himself he did.

But lately, despite his own resolve, Hongjoong found his attention always drawn back to the taller boy. The more he ignored it, the more it bothered him.

He cursed a lot at San, who had started calling him obsessed, but he couldn't lie to himself anymore. He couldn't deny that, no matter what, his eyes always seemed to find Seonghwa in a room.

And, somewhere along the way, Hongjoong started noticing things about Seonghwa.

Subtle things. Things that shouldn't have mattered, yet now they did.

It was like a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, growing stronger as he watched the older boy's every movement. Seonghwa, the ever-perfect image he showed to the world—always polished, always composed—had cracks, small and barely perceptible, but cracks nonetheless.

Maybe it was always there, in the periphery of his vision, buried beneath layers of other distractions—the noise of their friend group, the parties, the late-night study sessions where exhaustion blurred everything together.

But at some point, those small, almost imperceptible things about Seonghwa started to stand out.

Like how he always showed up with a perfectly put-together demeanor, hair styled neatly, uniform pristine, but there was always something just a little off.

The way he smoothed his sleeves over his wrists, tugging once, twice—like an anxious habit he wasn't even aware of. The way his grip on his phone seemed just a little too tight, like he was holding it together through sheer force of will.

Then there were the smiles.

At first glance, they were the same as always—polite, effortless, perfect. But Hongjoong had spent years around Seonghwa, and now, he was starting to notice the difference.

The real ones—the ones that reached his eyes—were rare. Almost nonexistent. Most of the time, they were just careful imitations, placed there for the benefit of everyone else.

The realization hit Hongjoong harder than he expected.

Because suddenly, he started seeing it everywhere.

Like that one afternoon in the cafeteria, when the others were laughing at some joke San had made, and Seonghwa had laughed too—but a beat too late, the sound just slightly off. Like he had to remind himself to do it.