ᴘᴀʀᴀʟʟᴇʟ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ | 𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙽𝚊𝚛𝚊

The One with The Reflection 💕

But despite the fatigue in her limbs, her mind wasn’t slowing down.

The night kept replaying in fragments. Nathan’s exaggerated dramatics, Minhyuk’s relentless teasing, Kihyun snoring mid-conversation, Jooheon’s laugh loud enough to shake the soundproof walls. The warmth of the studio. The smell of food. The unexpected welcome she felt from people she barely knew.

And then—there was him.

Changkyun.

Soft-spoken. Observant. Almost invisible in a crowded room until you realized he’d seen everything you tried to hide.

She hadn’t meant to get comfortable so fast. Hadn’t expected that gentle tug toward someone who barely said ten words at a time.

And yet...

She pulled her hoodie tighter around herself, the weight of the night settling in.

How strange, she thought, to feel more seen in a thirty-minute cleanup than she had in four months of being in a relationship.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her phone, still warm from their text exchange earlier.

A four-month relationship... ended just a month ago.

It hadn’t ended with a bang. Just a quiet unraveling. A realization that she was giving too much and receiving too little—and worse, she hadn’t even noticed until she was empty.

She should’ve known better. Trainees didn’t get the luxury of balance, not when everything about their world was designed to tip them forward—onto a stage, into a spotlight, and into constant motion.

And now that she’s finally debuting, this was supposed to be her focus. Not flirting. Not feelings.

She closed her eyes for a moment, forehead resting against the window.

“Don’t get into another relationship that quick, Nana,” she whispered to herself under her breath, voice low enough to be lost beneath the taxi’s gentle hum. “It’s not the time.”

Her thoughts flashed to something BoA 선배님 had told her during a quiet mentoring session months ago. The words had stayed with her—sharp and sobering:

If you try to carry both now, one will fall.

Her chest tightened. Because BoA hadn’t said it with malice or warning—just truth. Cold, clear, and proven.

You couldn’t give your whole heart to both love and career when you were just starting. Not without risking both.

Nara sighed, dragging a hand up to rub her temple, massaging the growing pressure behind her eyes as though it would dull the tension building in her chest.

“This isn’t the time,” she repeated to herself. “You worked too hard to get here.”

And yet—despite all the logic she tried to arm herself with, she couldn’t quite silence the memory of his voice. Low and careful. Or the way he looked at her like he wasn’t in a rush to define her or pull her apart.

You make the quiet feel full, he’d said.

A part of her—small but persistent—wanted to believe that maybe that kind of connection didn’t have to be a distraction.

But another part—the one that remembered sleepless nights crying silently into her pillow so her roommate wouldn’t hear—knew that letting herself feel again too soon might cost her more than she was ready to lose.

“Don’t let Changkyun be a rebound,” she whispered. “Don’t make him a placeholder for something you haven’t healed from.”

She let her hand fall into her lap as her building came into view, lights glowing softly against the sidewalk. The cab slowed to a stop, and she paid quickly, murmuring a thank-you before stepping out into the quiet street.

The air was cool and damp. The kind that stuck to your skin, a whisper of tomorrow’s rain. She stood there for a second, letting the breeze lift the edge of her hoodie.

Tonight had been fun. More than that—it had been safe. A rare moment of laughter, belonging, and warmth.

But as she looked up at her building, then down at her phone again—Changkyun’s contact still opened, his last message still there—she reminded herself:

This wasn’t the time for softness.

Not yet.

With a slow breath, Nara walked inside, letting the door close gently behind her, the weight of her ambition still heavier than the ache of her heart.

But for just a moment, as she stood in the elevator alone, her thumb hovered over his name.

She didn’t text him again.

But she smiled.

And maybe, just maybe—someday—that would be enough to begin again.