You check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time today, willing it to light up with a message—any message—from Y/N. But all you see is an empty screen staring back at you. It's been a week since the calls and texts from her dried up, silence filling the space where her words used to be. You hate this quiet; it eats at you, burrowing into the corners of your mind with every hour that ticks by without a sign from her. You know she's hurting, that this press storm around your relationship has dragged her life out from the shadows and into a spotlight that she never wanted.

Being forced to leave her back on Jeju like that, in the middle of all this, gnaws at you. When the scandal broke, you barely had time to catch your breath before your management pulled you back to Seoul. You were summoned to a meeting with all the higher-ups, each one looking at you like you'd done something wrong, something irresponsible. "You have to be more careful, Bada," one of the execs had scolded, frustration simmering in her voice. "You think this only affects you? There are consequences—people rely on you." She didn't have to say it outright, but you knew she meant BEBE.

And she's right. Your team doesn't deserve to deal with the fallout of this mess. Every member of BEBE has worked tirelessly to get where they are, and now, because of this, they're at risk of becoming the collateral damage in your personal life. You should've been more careful, should've considered how easily someone could catch you and Y/N out together. But at the time, it felt safe, like the two of you could have that moment. A normal date, nothing big, nothing scandalous. Now, you're paying for that illusion of privacy.

Your phone buzzes with a new message, and your heart jumps, only to sink when you realise it's another PR text from management. They want a plan, a way to redirect this story—"shift the narrative," they keep saying. But you don't care about the narrative; you care about her. You care about how she's handling all of this, or how she isn't. The worry gnaws at you.

She's probably dealing with the cameras, the endless hounding from the press. You can almost picture her there, trying to go about her life, trying to be strong even as her world is turned upside down. And now, the guilt sits heavy in your chest, pressing down harder every time you think about how you haven't been able to protect her from this.

As you sit in that sterile meeting room, nodding along to management's "damage control" strategies, your mind drifts back to Y/N's laugh, the way she'd brush her hair back when she was talking about something she loved, the warmth in her voice when she called you. You miss her, and more than that, you need to know she's okay. This mess, the scrutiny, the constant whispers in the industry and in the press—it's nothing compared to the ache of not knowing if she's safe, if she's coping, if she still wants this, if she's holding on.

And so, you sit there, phone clutched in your hand, waiting for the one thing that could ease your mind—a message from her, some sign that she's still there, still with you.