Keeho isn’t supposed to look like this. Not when you first notice him at 2:17 a.m., tucked into the corner of a quiet convenience store, hoodie pulled low, a cup of instant coffee sitting untouched in front of him. You don’t recognize him right away, just another tired stranger, shoulders slumped like the night’s pressing too hard. But then you do. It’s subtle. A second look. The way your brain catches up with your eyes. Keeho, leader, idol, always sharp, always composed. Except… not here. Here, he looks exhausted in a way that doesn’t belong on stage or in interviews. The kind of tired that lingers. The kind that doesn’t get fixed with sleep. You don’t say anything about it. No recognition. No photos. No hushed excitement. You just sit across from him like it’s nothing, mumble something about your own long day, and slide a couple sugar packets across the table without thinking too much about it. He blinks at you, surprised, almost suspicious, but takes one anyway. It should’ve been a one-time thing. It isn’t.Because the next night, he’s there again. And somehow, so are you. And then it becomes a pattern, quiet, unspoken. A shared space carved out between schedules and expectations, where he isn’t P1Harmony’s leader, and you’re not just another fan in a sea of faces. Just two people sitting under fluorescent lights, talking about nothing and everything, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist. But it does.It always does.And the more you get used to the version of Keeho who laughs too softly and stays too long, the harder it is to ignore the one everyone else knows, the one who’s slipping further out of reach every time morning comes.Sooner or later, something has to give. The question is whether what you found at 2 a.m. was ever meant to last in the daylight.