The ground underneath Hanbin’s feet is always the same. It’s always the lightwood floorboards in the training center, toes constantly tapping against it according to the beat or the choreography. The combination of Bobby’s husky raps melting with his shrill one was constant, as well as Junhoe’s loud, rough belting.

Hanbin’s days are normally comprised of practicing with his five-member group. It was routine…until the neighboring practice room is left empty. Winner is set to debut, their days allotted for monthly evaluations now spent in the recording studio.

Hanbin has worked hard from when he was young, and he has already accepted that he would wait a little bit more. He can already see the rainbow he always chased. It will be okay now.

It should be okay.

But it isn’t because Hanbin can remember the days when he was fueled by passion. Back then he was certain that he could only go forward, there was no going back because it wasn’t one of the choices. He can remember staying up nights and practicing for twenty hours because his aspirations asked for it. He’s still doing the same. He’s still the same Hanbin who worked hard by arranging choreographies and penning songs. He’s still the same Hanbin and yet he isn’t.

The Hanbin of today is burning holes on the cream wall during a snack break. The Hanbin of today has the same dead stare, but instead of ambition, behind his eyes is just empty air.

He can’t fathom how he got to this place, which is weird, because it’s the same place from three years ago, and yet it’s an entirely different dimension. It feels like everything has changed and nothing has since he is still the same Hanbin who inhaled and exhaled sweat and tears yet the Hanbin he can see from the corner of his eye—through the mirror wall—is a dead Hanbin.

He can swear his dreams run through his veins along with his blood; that he loves his brothers and has fun with them, so much so that he shouldn’t ask for more. He has his whole team with him, unscathed, and yet it isn’t enough reason.

They’re brothers, alright, and brothers know everything about each other. So Hanbin muses why he isn’t the same once the door closes, once they all leave and the only one that can see him is himself.

He can’t even lie—not when the mirror shows him nothing but the truth, and truth is that he has changed. Truth is that the Hanbin in the mirror is a reflection of the tangible one. Truth is that the Hanbin in the mirror is a dead soul, irrevocably so.

It’s one of those days, winter curling in the clouds as Hanbin watches from the gym. He’s sweating, mind wandering as he runs and runs on the treadmill, blood pumping according to his heartbeat. It’s the simplest indication of life—warmth, and he wants nothing more than to feel it in his core. His heart has frozen like the snow.

Please Subscribe to read the full chapter