You gingerly sit in Jinki’s makeup chair, almost as if you’re afraid that somebody’s going to bust open the door and berate you for sitting in it. Out of everybody you’ve met, done hair for, done makeup on, dressed outfits for, Jinki might have been the most vulnerable.

But that doesn’t mean you wanted to see it.

You’ve been here for a few years, running in and out of doors, dying hair different colors and continuously running your hands through dry lifeless hair to shape them, mold them into something different. You see their real sides, their faces off-stage. You watch them fall asleep in their chairs as you carefully powder their face, making sure you don’t stab them in the eye.

Even if you had, they’d still be sleeping like the dead.

Out of every man and woman that has been in this room, the closest one you find yourself with is Jinki.

You became a stylist around the time SHINee debuted, at first awed by them on stage and interviews, but everything changes in time.

Everything.

You’ve never seen Jonghyun so moody after his break-up with Sekyung, Minho constantly hits on you because you’re a noona, Jinki is the friend you’ve always wanted, Taemin just smiles and nods and stays quiet, and Kibum just lets his ego grow bigger than the universe.

What used to be a lively bonding has now become something frozen and solidified into this maze, everyone in their own section with the hedges guarding them, sometimes finding their way to each others, sometimes going back to their area, their territory.

Your nose inhales Jinki’s scent over all the smell of chemicals, your hands gently rearranging the makeup in front of your so you can lean forward and bury your head into your crossed arms on the table. You’re tired, too. You hate seeing everybody so distant, so quiet, and sometimes, so real.

Jinki used to greet you warmly whenever they appeared in your makeup room. He’d talk about his life, his troubles, how he wants to go see his parents. You’d spend some free time texting him and urging him to get his sleep or doing his makeup and slowly passing your hand over his eyes, immediately closing and head falling to sleep.

But now it’s just uncomfortable silence and dead smiles, unanswered texts and bored fashion and broken bonds. You remember the first time he whispered to you as your drew the eyeliner around his almond eyes.

"I don’t know if I want to do this anymore."

Your hand shook and your bottom lip trembled, your voice cursing as you reach back and grab some makeup remover to redo the eyeliner.

"Sometimes," he breathed, “I don’t feel the same way about singing. About all this.”

You tell him to open his eyes and look up so you can do the bottom of his eye, but your voice is shaky and you’re trying not to break in front of him because friends are supposed to be strong for each other.

"Sometimes, I feel like I’m trapped in this world, forcing me to be fake and pretend that every time I sing, I enjoy it. And I don’t sometimes."

You fall asleep on the makeup table and you’re dreaming of that day.

"Noona…" his voice wavers and you know he’s about to cry. You run your hand through his hair as a comforting gesture and crack as his shoulders start to slightly heave.

"You can—"

"I can’t anymore," he hisses harshly, snapping his head up to look you in the eye. If it weren’t for the gravity of this situation, you’d laugh at the line the makeup liquid drew across the space between his eyebrow and eye lid.

You can feel the smoldering stares, but right now, it’s Jinki’s time. It’s always Jinki’s time for you.

"You have an interview to get to, Jinki," you remind him and dab at his tears, holding his chin so you can finish the eyeliner afterwards.

"We’ll talk later, arasso?" you ask with a broken smile and know he can see it, see that you’re cracking with him and he nods before getting up.

”__________-ah…”

You turn your head in your arms as if you’re having a restless nightmare, in which you are.

”_________-ah…”

Fingers are tapping on your arm as if they’re playing the piano and you groggily open your eyes and look in the mirror to see that Jinki is standing next you with his hand on your arm.

Your head shoots up and you scramble to get out of the seat, gently pushing him in your formal spot and grab the makeup remover to abolish all traces of oil on his face. “I’m sorry, Jinki-ssi,” the formality slipping off your tongue. That’s how un-close you two have become. He just nods and you can feel his darkening aura and it’s been a year since he told you he was tired of everything, singing, this lifestyle. His eyes are open and holding your gaze as you wipe the powder off his once unsullied face.

Jinki really is broken.

You go to the extent of washing out the hairspray, massaging the cotton towel through his hair and patting it back to its original disposition and when you’re done, everybody else is gone, the other stylists are off to get lunch, the other members filing into the van, and it’s just you two.

It’s too much with the tension in the air and you sob into the back of your hand, trying to quiet them as you walk to the back of the room and get his clothes that don’t suffocate him. He’s watching you, staring at you, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to understand why you’re crying in front of him, but then he gets up and grabs the clothes from you and you take this moment to wrap your arms around his skinnier waist.

You can feel him stiffen because he hasn’t spoken much to you since that day, but he hasn’t really spoken unless he’s required to. But then his arms move around your shoulder and you squeeze him tighter and brokenly whisper into his ear, "I’m so sorry…" With each word, his arms tighten around your upper frame and you realize that you two are just cracked together.

He knows why you’re sorry and is sorry, too.

And two minutes later, you get him to change and watch him slink out the door after he gives you that one glance that lets you know everything he’s thinking, everything he’s feeling, everything he’s putting up with now.

You turn and sit back down in his chair and fall asleep with nightmares of Jinki’s broken soul.