Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

09

@beomnote:
what's your deal? seriously.

@yawnjun:
deal? you mean how you hijacked my spotlight without even trying? bold move, princess. respect.

@beomnote:
oh my god. for the last time stop calling me that.

@yawnjun:
then stop acting like one.

@beomnote:
???

@yawnjun:
you know. mysterious. dramatic.
refuses interviews. refuses collabs.
refuses... basic interaction.
and yet somehow trends every time you breathe. iconic behavior tbh.

@beomnote:
delete your account.

@yawnjun:
can't. people need me. unlike someone whose fans are starving for content.
seriously, you didn't even go private after the blow-up?
kinda says you like the attention.

@beomnote:
i don't.

@yawnjun:
sure.

@beomnote:
don't "sure" me.

@yawnjun:
if you hate it so much, why not disappear? deactivate? poof. easy fix.

(Pause. No reply. For a full minute.)

Yeonjun smirks, thumbs flying again:

@yawnjun:
or maybe you like being seen.
even if you won't admit it.

Beomgyu stares at the screen like it personally slapped him.
His pulse jumps, hot and ugly, because the words dig where they shouldn't.
Like being seen?
He wants to throw the phone. Wants to scream that Yeonjun doesn't know shit—that visibility isn't power, it's teeth. That he learned that lesson in the worst way.

Instead, he types with fingers shaking from anger, not fear.

@beomnote:
you talk too much for someone whose only personality trait is hip thrusts.

(Delivered. Read. Almost instantly.)

The typing bubble pops up.
Then disappears.
Then pops up again.

When the reply lands, Beomgyu wishes it didn't make his stomach drop.

@yawnjun:
and yet here you are. talking to me.

He locks the screen so hard it nearly cracks.
Somewhere across campus, Yeonjun grins like a man who just started a war—and knows he's already winning.

"This is kidnapping," Beomgyu mutters as Kai drags him by the wrist down the hallway like a man with zero respect for personal boundaries.

"Correction," Kai chirps, grinning over his shoulder, "this is manifesting vibes."

"I hate you," Beomgyu deadpans, hoodie strings pulled tight like maybe strangling himself is the lesser evil.

"Love you too, Princess."

"Don't—"

"Shut up," Taehyun says from behind them, scrolling his phone like this is a casual Starbucks run instead of an ambush. "You're going. Stop whining."

Beomgyu shoots him a look sharp enough to slice cables. "Et tu, Hyun?"

"Me," Taehyun says, pocketing his phone with all the smug grace of a man who knows he's untouchable. "Consider this... exposure therapy."

"Exposure to what? Public humiliation?"

"Fun," Taehyun says simply.

The band room yawns open before them, bigger than Beomgyu remembers. The gear gleams like bait under fluorescent lights—amps, pedals, drums glinting at the back like they're laughing at him.