I’ve got a lot of fingers pointing “unfair”…

Minhyun peered outside the window of the cafeteria and was pleasantly surprised by the first blossoms sprouting on the cherry blossom tree—its branches waving as if greeting Minhyun through the glass. He allowed himself a slight smile before he returned to pushing his food around on his tray. The diets given to the trainees were strict enough that most of the time, he felt like he could buy out an entire convenience store, but from time to time he’d sporadically lose his appetite and wish for nothing more than the comfort of home-cooked food.

He hadn’t seen his family in a very long time, especially during his overseas promotions with Nu’est, but for some absurd reason, he missed them now more than ever.

“What’s wrong?”

A figure slid into the seat across the table from him, and Minhyun took a moment to shake himself out of his idle reverie. He was met with a slightly concerned, trayless Dongho. It was evident that he’d eaten lunch already—probably with his team members—and had caught sight of Minhyun sitting alone.

They had been careful not to stick together, cautious of the rumors that whirlwinded around them the moment they had stepped into the sound studio for the infamous audition. The other trainees had been polite enough to greet them before falling into hushed whispers and stolen glances, but it wasn’t like the room didn’t echo. He’d heard or seen most of the comments already—all of them had.

—failed idols—not fair—what happened—shouldn’t be given a second chance—isn’t this kind of embarrassing—

They’d resolutely ignored them during the audition, and it had been easy enough with the four of them sitting close together—a semblance of what had been of Nu’est before they became Pledis trainees again. But after the Me, It’s Me training had ended and the group missions began, it was like they had come to a wordless agreement to distance themselves from each other.

There was still friendly greetings, playful shoves, slips of sarcastic tongue—everything that had become habit and too difficult to file away—but they never sat together during meal time, never had extended conversations with each other, never sought each other out after lights were turned off and other trainees snuck out of their designated rooms to chat with their best friends—old or new.

They played by the rules like they had been ingrained in their bones—practice, smile, don’t show you’re hurting, eat, practice, greet the coaches, hug a fellow trainee, don’t let the smile fall off your face. Even though the constant dance and vocal practice was physically exhausting, Minhyun welcomed the singlemindedness that would come with the activities—an anesthetic for the gnawing frustration and pain in his chest.

So when Dongho materialized in front of him, as if he’d seen the rain clouds floating about in Minhyun’s mind like he always did, it took Minhyun a second to recode his brain and figure out how to react.

“Nothing,” he blurted out a little harshly, and he caught the small slip of Dongho’s expression. “Just tired,” he quickly added, schooling his tone into something more casual.

The look on Dongho’s face morphed into sympathy lined with fatigue that Minhyun’s own visage probably mirrored.

“I feel you bro,” he said. “But hang in there Hwang Minhyun.”

Dongho grinned, and Minhyun felt the world reverse in time—

—Hi, you’re Hwang Minhyun, right? Heh, Hwang Minhyun… I like how that sounds. I think I’m going to call you that from now on.

… Okay but that’s my name.

I know, but Hwang Minhyun. What a great name.

Kang Dongho isn’t bad either.

A flash of a grin.

Yeah, you think so? —

“At least you have Jonghyun with you,” Dongho was saying when Minhyun jerked himself back into the present—plastic cafeteria seat, cold cafeteria food, Dongho grabbing the spoon from his loose grip and shoveling a bit of rice into his mouth.

Minhyun felt his mouth twitch when Dongho pulled a face and immediately dropped the spoon.

“Blegh, leave it to you to let your food get cold. Please treasure your rations, we are only given so much,” Dongho scolded, shaking his head and pushing his chair back.

He reached across the table and clasped Minhyun’s shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.

“You can do it, Hwang Minhyun.”

And with that, Minhyun watched the disappearing backside of Dongho as he raced to catch up with his team members who were hanging by the door, waiting for him. There was a little twinge of jealousy in Minhyun’s heart, but more so than that, he felt relief.

The first couple days had been rough—full of awkward tension and unfamiliarity—but somehow, the four of them managed to become friends with the other trainees, gaining their acknowledgment and respect individually. The program hadn’t quite smoothed over—there were still little bumps, and then huge bumps, in the road—but Minhyun was glad for the company he had. His heart which initially only had room for Jonghyun, Youngmin, Dongho, and Minki eventually grew to allow names upon names upon names.

Most of the time, he could surround himself with these kids whom he genuinely cared for and loved, seek out the motherly fussing of Jisung, the overwhelming affection of Seonho, the calm sarcasm of Jaehwan, and the never-ending comic relief of Seungwoo. But on some days, when the bright weather of Seoul spring didn’t quite match the weather in his head, he wanted soft, gentle eyes and the sunshine hidden in the curve of Jonghyun’s smile.

He wanted to wrap himself in Jonghyun’s warmth and close his eyes to take his long overdue nap, but when his eyes finally fell on the slight tilt of lips his heart ached for, he did nothing but gather up his uneaten lunch and fell into step with Jonghyun. There is half a foot of space between the two of them as they exited the cafeteria, but Minhyun told himself that familiarity would not just be a relic of the past, but a promise of the future as well.