Mira Hayashi sat on the floor of her tiny apartment, her back pressed against the side of her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The late afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting dappled patterns on the hardwood floor, but the warmth did little to ease the chill that had settled in her bones. Her phone lay beside her, the screen glowing with a notification from Kael Min's official social media account—a notification that had shattered her world in a single sentence. The post from his agency was cold and impersonal, the words seared into her mind: "Kael Min will be taking an indefinite hiatus from all activities, effective immediately. We appreciate your understanding and support during this time."
No explanation, no timeline, no reassurance. Just… gone. Mira's breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat as she stared at the screen, willing the words to change, to reveal themselves as a cruel joke. But they didn't. Kael was gone, and with him, the fragile thread of hope that had been holding her together. She'd always thought of him as a best friend, even if he didn't know her—his music, his voice, the way he seemed to understand her pain through his lyrics had made her feel less alone. But now, it felt like that friend had abandoned her, leaving her to face the darkness alone once more.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as she buried her face in her knees. "Why, Kael?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Why now? I needed you…" Her sobs echoed in the small space, a raw, aching sound that seemed to fill every corner of the room. She'd come to love him—not just as an idol, but as a presence in her life, a beacon of light in the storm of her medical school struggles. His songs had been her refuge, his interviews a window into a world where she felt seen, and her daily messages to him a ritual that kept her grounded. But now, with his hiatus, it felt like a part of her had been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole she didn't know how to fill.
Mira's mind replayed every moment she'd spent with Kael's music, every message she'd sent, every hope she'd pinned on the idea that he might one day see her words. She thought of the last message she'd sent, just yesterday, after a particularly grueling hospital shift: "Dear Kael, I had a rough day today. I made a mistake during rounds, and I felt so useless. But I listened to Fading Light on my way home, and it reminded me to keep going. You always make me feel stronger, even when I'm falling apart. I hope you're okay, wherever you are." The message, like all the others, had gone unread—or so she believed. Now, with his hiatus, it felt like those words had been swallowed by a void, pointless and unheard.
She reached for her phone, her fingers trembling as she opened the fan message board one last time. Her thumb hovered over the compose button, a part of her aching to write to him, to beg him to come back, to tell him how much she needed him. But the weight of her devastation crushed that impulse, replacing it with a bitter realization: it had all been pointless. He'd never seen her messages, never known how much he meant to her. She'd been pouring her heart into a void, and now that void had grown even darker. With a shaky breath, she closed the app and set her phone face down, a silent vow to stop messaging him, to stop hoping for something that would never come.
---
Meanwhile, in a secluded cabin nestled in the mountains of jeju , Kael Min sat by a crackling fireplace, the warmth of the flames doing little to ease the restlessness in his heart. He'd left korea in a rush, the decision to take a hiatus born from a desperate need to escape the suffocating weight of his schedule, the endless demands of his career, and the hollow ache that had been growing inside him for months. His agency had handled the announcement, a curt notice that left no room for questions, and Kael had retreated to this isolated sanctuary, hoping to find the peace he'd lost somewhere along the way.
He sat on a worn leather couch, a steaming mug of tea untouched on the table beside him, his phone resting in his lap. The cabin was quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves outside, a stark contrast to the chaos of his life in the city. He'd told himself he needed this break to rediscover his music, to reconnect with the passion that had once driven him, but a part of him knew there was more to it. He was running from the loneliness that had become his constant companion, a loneliness that MiraH's messages had briefly alleviated.
Kael opened his phone, navigating to the fan message board with a familiar ache in his chest. He'd been reading MiraH's messages for weeks now, her words a quiet source of courage in his darkest moments. Her latest message, sent just before his hiatus was announced, had stayed with him, her confession of feeling useless echoing his own insecurities. He'd wanted to reply, to tell her how much her support meant to him, but the rules of his world—and now his absence—kept him silent. He refreshed the board, hoping for a new message, but the screen remained unchanged, MiraH's name absent for the first time in weeks.
A pang of unease settled in his stomach, a quiet worry that he couldn't shake. Why had she stopped? Had his hiatus announcement hurt her, made her feel abandoned? He didn't know her, not really, but her words had become a part of him, a thread of connection in a life that often felt hollow. He leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes as he let her messages replay in his mind, each one a reminder of the girl who had reached out to him across the distance, her heart bared in a way that made him feel seen.
---
Back in korea, Mira's days blurred into a mechanical routine, a cycle of study, sleep, and repeat that left little room for the emotions she'd buried deep inside. She sat at her desk each morning, her textbooks open but her mind distant, her fingers no longer reaching for her phone to message Kael. She went to her hospital shifts, her movements robotic as she checked charts and administered meds, her smiles forced and fleeting. At night, she collapsed into bed, her earbuds untouched, Kael's music now a painful reminder of what she'd lost.
She felt alone again, the spark of hope she'd clung to extinguished by his absence. She told herself it was for the best, that she needed to move on, to focus on her studies and her future, but the emptiness lingered, a hollow space where Kael's presence had once been. She didn't know that he was thinking of her too, that her silence had left a void in his own heart, a quiet ache that mirrored her own.
As Mira drifted into a restless sleep, a thin red thread—invisible to her eyes—shimmered faintly in the air, its crimson strands stretching across the miles, connecting her heart to Kael's in a bond that neither could yet see, but both could feel.