Next Door |•YEONGYU/BEOMJUN•|

~9~

"Crying, crying, cry-" His voice cracked as he sang the high note-splintering the melody. A rough cough tore out of him right after, sharp and unplanned, cutting the moment short.

He used a fist to cover his mouth.
The fans noticed the sudden change in his demeanor and wrote down comments of concern.

Oppa, are you okay?
Did something happen?
Are you sick, Beomgyu? 
Bro can't even do a single high note properly 😂.

Beomgyu frowned slightly, seeing the last comment. It was normal for his voice to crack sometimes, right? No one is perfect. He used a moment to calm down the tension growing inside of him and then said with a smile, "I'm sorry, I'll try again." He caressed the strings of his guitar and started playing again.
"Isegeuk epteun, fighting, bleeding, losing-"
He didn't make the same mistake again. But he did make the mistake of not paying attention to when the front door of the house opened and footsteps echoed from the hallway to his room.

"Beomgyu, what is all this noise-" His father's words stuck to his throat as he opened the door and saw Beomgyu singing and playing his guitar.

Not studying.

Distractions.

Beomgyu stared at his guitar on the floor, the strings still buzzing faintly. His chest tightened as he bent down and picked it up, only to slam it against the wall. The sound of cracking wood echoed through the room. He grabbed a drumstick from the floor and threw it at the door his father had just walked out of.
He quickly shut down his laptop, the device too expensive to break.

The fight drained out of him as quickly as it came. He sank onto the corner of his bed, pressing his palms against his knees, his face buried in his hands. He told himself not to cry. He couldn't—crying would mean weakness, and he didn't want to admit that his dreams had just taken another blow.

But his throat burned, and his eyes stung. He pressed his wrists against them, trying to hold everything back, but the ache only grew heavier. He hated himself for smashing the guitar, for letting his anger win. If his fans saw this side of him, the mess he'd become, he knew it would break him even more.

The walls felt suffocating. He needed to get out. His legs moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him down the stairs. His mother's voice caught him on the way.

"Beomgyu? Are you okay? Where are you—"

He didn't answer. He kept walking, eyes down, and slipped out the front door.

Outside, he grabbed his bike. His lip throbbed where it had split earlier, and when he wiped it with his hand, it came away streaked with red. He pedaled hard, faster than his thoughts, faster than the weight pressing on his chest. The air rushed past, pulling his hair back as if it wanted to take him with it.

His wheels caught on the uneven road, and suddenly he was down, the world tilting and slamming him into the pavement. For a second, he just lay there, breathless, staring up at the bright sky, mocking his sorrow. Blood dripped warm from his forehead.

And then, almost without meaning to, he let out a small laugh—quiet, shaky, and a little pathetic. It slipped out of him, the only thing he had left in that moment.