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Jiwoong sits in the corner of the practice room, watching the others as they goof off and laugh. Sweat beads on their foreheads after a long practice. He watches them and feels the same disbelief—he’s here. Part of Zerobaseone. Sometimes, he wonders how he got this far, how he fooled everyone into thinking he deserved it.
His face is the immediate answer— and so he hates it. Even before the show, people stared. They liked how he looked. Jawline, nose, body, eyes. He hasn't earned any of it. It’s just there. He wonders if that’s why he makes it every time. Maybe his face took the spot from someone who worked harder.
Maybe it should have been Jay, or Junyeon. They had the fire. They didn't fake it like he does all the damn time. Every time he stood on the stage, he felt it. No matter how much, how hard he worked, he still thinks he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn't deserve any of it. The cameras loved his face, of course. The entire show ran on the focus on his face, his fucking oh-so-perfect face. He resents it.
He also learns to use it like a mask.
He dreamt of all of this, afterall. But now that it’s real, and so it feels fake. He isn’t supposed to be here. Other trainees must have felt it too—when he got the high scores, when people praised his looks, his body and his sexiness- whatever that means, he didn't understand why any of it mattered. He saw the admiration. He also saw jealousy in their eyes, because Jiwoong was hogging it all. He didn't deserve it.
He gets it. He felt it too.
On Boys planet, people start to admire him, again. They call him a natural leader. But he knows it’s not real. But he is an actor. He learns how to make it look real. Years of practice plays through.
He hides thoughts, fear, cracks. It becomes a skill. When they call him charismatic, he smiles and bows. Inside, he feels nothing. It’s just another role. It will pass over.
He remembered when the facade started to feel like a chore.
It was early in the show. Jungwoo kissed him on the lips, on camera. It was fast—too short—just a simple peck. And yet, his mind went blank. Memories slammed into him like a freight truck. Things he had tried so hard to forget—hands that weren’t gentle, touches that lingered too long, breath that smelled like smoke and lies.
But the cameras were rolling.
So he did what he was trained to do. He pretended. He couldn’t break. Not on tape. Not in front of the world. He smiled like always, lips curved just enough to sell the moment. He gave Jungwoo that look—the one the producers always asked for. The one that screamed chemistry. The one that would get clips trending and viewers invested. The one that would make Jiwoong known.
He heard the cheers. Felt the weight of eyes on him, imagined them watching through glass screens with popcorn in their laps. He played the part to perfection. And inside, something small and fragile cracked even deeper.
He thought, just for a second—what if his family saw this? A boy kissing another boy. On national television, for everyone they knew to see. He knew what they would think. Shame. Disgust. Silence sharp enough to slice skin.
He remembered the last time.
The messages. The screaming. The sound of the phone going dead. And then nothing. A wall of quiet that stretched on for years.
Still, some twisted part of him hoped this kiss might stir something. Maybe they would throw him a bone, they didn't of course but maybe. Maybe they’d finally call. Maybe yell. He’d take it. It would hurt like hell, but at least it would be real. Something. Anything. Better than that endless void of not being seen.
The thought turned his stomach.
Why did he still crave their attention—especially when it came wrapped in cruelty? He hated it.
But the ache never left. It rooted itself deeper and deeper until his lungs were choked.
So he smiled wider. Gave more of what they wanted.
Because if he stopped pretending—if he let even one crack show—it would all come spilling out.
And Jiwoong wasn’t sure he’d survive that.
Sometimes during rest hours though, he feels like he’s watching himself. Like someone else is living his life. That version of Jiwoong—the one people love—he lets him take over. That Jiwoong knows how to command a room. He lets him lead.
But at night, when no one watches, the real Jiwoong comes crashing against the sheet. Dull, boring and just there. The one who doesn’t get why he’s still here. Who looks in the mirror and sees a stranger.
He hates himself for it. For staying. For trying. Still trying. Didn't he already lose three times? Why is he still here?
He thinks about quitting all the time. But he doesn’t. The small group of the team challenge members count on him. Fans expect him to be strong. To be the face. And the truth is, he doesn’t know who he is without the mask. He doesn’t think he survives without it.
It's too much, too many and Jiwoong will break if he thinks about who is what.
Everyone loved the charming Jiwoong, after all. The one who flirts, teases, leads. But inside, he feels like a thief. Maybe he was, always will be. Stealing from someone else.
Still, years of practice and now he has learnt how to take the things he wants—praise, trust, love, want, jealously, endless affection or maybe it's stupid lust—without even meaning to. A flicker of eyelashes, a little more lip outs.
He fears the day they see the truth. That he didn't belong here. That he is just desperately trying to survive.
So he keeps going. Because it’s all he knows. Because he doesn’t know how to be anything else. Because if he stops, maybe there’s nothing left.
Jiwoong never escaped the bitter humor that follows him everywhere though. The cosmic joke of the world.
He felt it the first time he saw Hanbin walk into the practice room during Boys Planet.
It hit fast like lightning. There was something about Hanbin, the very moment he stepped on the stage center. A born star.
He filled the room without trying. Jiwoong had learned to fake that kind of charm. He had spent years learning it. Every move, every look. But Hanbin didn’t fake it. He just had it.
Jiwoong watched from the side. He saw Hanbin laugh, and the sound was that of a siren, he drew people in. Everyone went to him. It felt unfair. Jiwoong fought for every bit of attention. Hanbin didn’t fight. He just shone.
A star, Jiwoong thought. Korea’s next golden boy.
It hurt more than he expected, of course. To see someone so effortlessly become what he worked so hard to be. Jealousy. It is easy, it is real and Jiwoong knew he had it. Still does maybe. It was there, even if he hated it. When Hanbin performed, the crowd watched with their watch glasses, they followed every movement of his limbs, traced patterns on the shining boy with their eyes. Jiwoong felt like a shadow. Maybe not even that, just a speck of dust in the eternal light.
Over time, the jealousy faded. Because Sung Hanbin is love and love and pure love. It is almost impossible to hate that guy.
It turned into something else. Admiration, maybe, Jiwoong isn't sure yet. Hanbin wasn’t just lucky. He was smart. He knew how to work the system, something that took the elder so much of time. He made it look easy. And that got to Jiwoong.
He started to see more, wanted to see more, be bathed in the golden light. How Hanbin spoke, how he moved. Hanbin knew what he was doing. He handled pressure with calm. He was young, but mature. Jiwoong envied that. He was most definitely not that when he was Hanbin's age.
Jiwoong learned all that the hard way. He had practiced charm, repeated it until it became automatic. But for Hanbin, it was natural. Jiwoong hated and admired that.
Loathing. With a tint of something he didn’t ever want to admit. Admitting meant defeat.
Of course, then there was Zhang Hao.
The one no one saw coming, the global center.
He entered the show quietly. And everything changed. Exactly like the world wrote, Jiwoong simply wasn’t part of it maybe.
Hao didn’t try to stand out. But over time, Hao rose. Because that was what he was meant to do His talent showed and his already extraordinary skills got better and better. Even the experienced trainees started to notice. Fans loved him—the foreigner who seemed like he was here to change everything. He stood on stage with a quiet focus that spoke louder than anything else.
The moment the violin came out, Jiwoong knew it was over.
Jiwoong saw it all, because he observes. He saw how Hao moved, how he never wasted energy, how he knew what he wanted and how to get it. Hao didn’t act like the others. He didn’t fight for attention or try to charm the camera. He just did what he was good at—singing, playing violin, dancing, simply being—and it worked. It was enough.
Hao reminded Jiwoong of Hanbin. Both were talented. Both worked hard. But there was something different between them—something Jiwoong couldn’t explain. If Hanbin was a star, loud and bright, Hao was the moon—quiet and steady, shining in his own way. They were similar, but different. And Jiwoong didn’t know which one unsettled him more.
So, he stays away from both.
He watches and notes and observes them from a distance, never stepping too close. Because that would mean acknowledging the lump in his chest, and acknowledgment is defeat.
There’s something too perfect, too far away about them that he doesn't want to orbit it. They can be whatever, as long as they don't pull him in. He just wants to see. He can’t shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong near them, afterall. They’re everything he’s not. Loved. Talented. Untainted. They deserve it all.
Still, he can’t help it. He’s drawn to them. Even when he tells himself not to care, his eyes still drift their way. Maybe it's rage at why. Why them and not him, at first. So during practice, he watches how they move, how they talk, how they seem to understand each other without even speaking. It’s like they live in a Yet, despite himself, Jiwoong couldn’t help but be drawn to them. They were like magnets, pulling him in even as he tried to keep his distance.
He found himself seeking them out during practice, watching the way they moved, the way they interacted, the way they seemed to understand each other without words. It was almost like they existed in their own world, a place that Jiwoong couldn’t reach no matter how hard he tried. They were the golden boys—the ones everyone loved, the ones everyone wanted to be.
They joked about it sometimes—about being soulmates, about how alike they are, how they can read each other’s minds without saying a word. Jiwoong watched them laugh, bump their shoulders, tease each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
It is beautiful. It is absolutely humiliating. Hurts to watch. He knows how it looks to everyone else: two halves of the same whole.
But Jiwoong doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t believe in soulmates. Not anymore. A folklore. Not after everything he’s seen—how people lie, how good they are at pretending.
Still, sometimes he wondered. Maybe they really are in love. Or maybe it’s just another act, like everything else around here.
It's a show afterall. Whatever sells.
He catches the little things though—things no one else seemed to notice. Like how Hao’s smile slipped sometimes when Hanbin touches his wrist. Or how Hanbin looked at Hao when Hao wasn’t watching. Jiwoong saw the cracks. Small moments where something real slipped out.
But Jiwoong doesn't want to be the one to find out. He doesn't want to get involved in whatever complicated mess lay beneath their smiles. So he stays where he is—just far enough to watch, never close enough to interfere.
And yet he keeps watching. Too curious for he can’t stop. He wonders if that’s what draws them together—how similar they are, how perfectly they reflect each other. But it won’t last, he thinks. It never does when two people are too alike. They need contrast. They need tension. Someone or something has to stand as a mediator or they break the mirrors eventually.
He thinks they are parallel lines. That’s what they are. Running side by side, never touching. Otherwise the axis will tilt and everything will fall part on the seams.
Sometimes, Hanbin brought Matthew along. Like he was trying to put space between them. Jiwoong noticed. Matthew didn't. The canadian is kind, open, warm—but clueless. He didn't feel the tension in the room, didn't notice everything unsaid.
Hanbin doesn’t want to hurt Matthew, Jiwoong thinks, of course, Matthew is Hanbin's best friend.
A cruel part of him says, Hanbin doesn't act like that though.
And Matthew doesn’t know enough to be hurt, even unknowingly. Or maybe he does, maybe even the shorter man is playing a part, the clueless one who knows it all. But nothing changes, so Jiwoong decides maybe not. Hanbin and Hao stay what they’ve always been. Two lines, afraid to cross. Afraid of what? Jiwoong doesn't understand.
And then one night, the shift begin.
He pushes open the door to the laundry room, and freezes. The scene is unexpected—Hanbin and Hao are on opposite sides of the room, the air thick with a tension that makes it hard to breathe. Hanbin, leaning against the wall, his shoulders slumped and eyes trained on Hao with an expression caught between longing and frustration. Hao, on the other side, is curled in on himself, arms hugging his knees like a shield, his face hidden. Jiwoong can see the tremble in Hao's hands, clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, and he knows immediately that whatever has happened is deeper than just an argument. It’s as if the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter.
They both look up at once. Jiwoong almost laughs. Of course they do—always in sync. Their eyes find his, wide with surprise, a flicker of fear. Hao looks ready to defend himself. Hanbin tries to smile, because of course he does always the—mediator, but Jiwoong sees the worry beneath it. He’s calculating—trying to figure out how much Jiwoong saw. What Jiwoong will do.
Ah, fuck it.
Jiwoong doesn’t say anything. He just nods once, walks in, and starts loading his clothes into the machine. Slow. Unbothered. He can feel them watching him, nerves high, but he doesn’t look up.
He’s not here for answers, for himself, for anyone, he just happens to be here.
When he’s done, he slides down to sit on the floor, back against the machine, eyes closed. He’s not here to talk. If they want to speak, they can. If they don’t, he won’t force it. He’s not here to pretend he understands. He doesn't, doesn't want to even.
The machines hum. The silence stretches. They are still studying him. The classic should we, shouldn't we thing.
He hears Hao shift. Fabric moves softly against he machines, Jiwoong watches the white duvet roll around from the transparent window. Hanbin’s breathing stays steady, but Jiwoong can tell he’s tense. No one speaks still. The quiet fills the space like fog.
Jiwoong’s mind drifts once again, because silence has always been dumb and too much for his brain. He thinks of parallel lines again. Two people, running close but never touching. Maybe one of them will stop someday. Maybe they’ll get tired. Maybe that day is today, right here int he show that is trying to milk them for all their worth.
They complete each other. Maybe even need each other. But maybe that’s the problem. Mirrors can’t hold each other. They only reflect. Reflect and reflect and keep repeating until eventually it will fill the space and break.
Maybe they’re already broken, Jiwoong thinks. Maybe no one else sees it but him.
He spent his life hiding his own cracks, after all. Still is, will probably be forever.
It is the kind of thought that would usually make him laugh. But tonight, it just leaves him hollow.
Maybe he is hurting for them.
Suddenly, he reminded of triangles, the three sides, three points, each one keeping the others steady. Definitely a scalar one, or maybe isosceles, because Hao and Hanbin can be same, Jiwoong is not, can't be. It feels right. He laughs softly to himself, realizing he’s part of it now for whatever reason. Somehow. Caught between them. Not quite a friend, not quite a stranger.
The thought fades as fast as he comes. But the feeling lingers.
It's stupid and dumb and that makes them human, he supposes.
Still, his heart thuds in his chest and a lump develops in his throat. Because Jiwoong will overthink everything to death.
A rustle of fabric pulls Jiwoong back. He opens his eyes to find Hao watching him—pale, drawn, eyes blank and tired. Jiwoong meets that gaze without flinching. He doesn’t look away, even as the silence between them thickens like fog. Hanbin’s eyes are on him too now, flicking nervously between him and Hao, searching Jiwoong’s face for something. Some answer. Some peace offering.
But Jiwoong gives them nothing.
He just sits there, arms slung over his knees, staring back with steady calm. Unmoving. He doesn’t know what they want from him. Doesn’t know what they expect. He isn’t part of their perfect little orbit. He’s just Jiwoong—the outsider. All he can do is watch.
The washing machine beeps, breaking the tension like glass cracking. Jiwoong moves, slow and deliberate, transferring clothes to the dryer. He doesn’t glance towards them, doesn’t say a word. When he is done, he once again sits back down against the closed door and closes his eyes. Let them figure it out. He’s too tired to be a mediator. Too hollow to play therapist to two people who might not even want his help.
Jiwoong isn’t sure how long, but time passes. The dryer hums low in the background, the pipes groan now and then, and he wonders—have they spoken while his eyes were shut? Maybe. Maybe they reach some unspoken understanding. Maybe they talk in looks. They could do that. Soulmate bonds and all.
Then, without warning, something warm presses against his right side. Jiwoong turns his head just slightly—doesn't want to acknowledge still—Hanbin. Sitting beside him, leaning in like it’s most natural. Like this isn't their maybe first interaction except for shoots. Jiwoong freezes for a second. His body stiffens.
Then comes another warmth. Hao, settling on his other side, hand gently resting on Jiwoong’s forearm. Jiwoong doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He just sits there, caught between them, feeling the heat of their bodies, their silence, their whatever it is. Jiwoong doesn't know, he is not part of their connection. Shouldn't be, doesn't know. Doesn't know if he even wants to be. Maybe.
He is probably lying, a part of him supplies.
The room seems smaller now. The air thicker. His thoughts start spiraling again. And the triangle theory is back. Each one holding the other side up. Isn’t that them? A strange, crooked triangle, him holding the ends together when they can’t face each other directly. Ridiculous. Absurd. And yet, for all absurdity of it all, somehow works. Since when? he doesn't know.
But triangles don’t last forever. They shift and collapse with time. Fold if the balance tips even a bit. Jiwoong wonders if that’s where this is headed—if this fragile peace will vanish once daylight returns.
Hao and Hanbin—HaoandHanbin, there should be no space for a third—mirroring each other too perfectly to ever truly connect. Always side by side, never crossing. And yet, here they are, both leaning on him. Like he’s the bridge. The thread. The piece of paper slid between two mirrors to stop the endless reflections.
A buffer. A barrier. A placeholder. Definitely not the endgame, of course.
He realizes—somewhere between aching silence and shared breath—that maybe there’s something beautiful in being that line. The one who intersects. The one who helps them breathe without breaking. He feels their fears pressing into him, their doubts seeping through skin. They don’t say it, but he knows—they need something from him. Reassurance. Steadiness. Something he isn’t even sure he has.
Still, the fact that they’re here, in this quiet space together—it feels like something. Like a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.
He feels Hanbin’s head shift, just slightly, and then the damp warmth of tears. Silent, desperate tears soaking into Jiwoong’s shirt. Hao’s hand tightens around his arm, trembling. And Jiwoong finds himself wondering—how are they leaning on someone who doesn’t even know how to fix himself?
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t speak. Just sits still, for once not thinking too hard, letting the silence hold all three of them.
He focuses on their warmth. On the weight of Hanbin’s head against his shoulder, Hao’s fingers wrapped gently around his wrist.
And then, unexpectedly, Jiwoong lets out a soft chuckle. Too soft, too low. The absurdity of it all. His overthinking. His metaphors. His way of surviving, maybe. Another laugh bubbles up his throat. God, Seobin was so right in calling him idiot or whatever.
Hanbin stirs at the sound, looking up with a confused, tear-dampened gaze. Hao lifts his head too, brows furrowed.
“Sorry,” Jiwoong lets put between another giggle, “Just...thinking about something stupid.”
Hanbin makes a little noise of protest and presses his face back into Jiwoong’s shoulder. Hao hesitates, then slowly rests his head on the other one.
Jiwoong lets them. Lets the warmth anchor him. Lets the moment hold.
For the first time in what feels like forever, he just lets himself be. Can't relate anything to his stupid joke, stupid analogy or whatever.
Maybe the metaphors will matter in the morning, when they are back to being competitors, having to fight for affection from people over a scree, have to pretend and smile and whatever. Maybe he’ll go back to thinking about dumb angles and dumber geometry and dumbly what it all means. But tonight—in the quiet laundry room, with two maybe just as broken boys leaning on him—Jiwoong decides to let all that go.