Y/n sat alone in the corner, back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. The phone in her hand was still warm from the call that had just ended — the one that started with accusations and ended with Minho's voice dropping low and dismissive, the way it always did when he was tired of explaining himself. He always said the same things these days. It's nothing. She's just a friend. You're being dramatic.

The tears came before she could stop them. Quick, hot, and shameful. She wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, careful not to smudge the eyeliner she'd carefully applied that morning. The door creaked.

James stepped in, casual as ever, his black hair falling in perfect disarray over his forehead. He wore a vintage band tee — some obscure indie group she didn't recognize — and carried his messenger bag slung low across his body. He didn't look at her directly. Instead, he walked toward the corner of the room where the music stands were stacked, pretending to rummage through a pile of forgotten items.

Then he crouched down, picked up a pair of black headphones from under a chair, and stood. He turned to leave. But before he reached the door, he paused. Without a word, he walked to the table near her corner and set something down. A small carton of strawberry milk — her favorite, the one brand Minho always forgot. Then he slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Ten minutes passed. The sun dipped lower. Y/n stared at the strawberry milk, the cool condensation beading on the carton. She didn't know why that made her chest ache more than the phone call had. Her phone buzzed. An Instagram notification. She unlocked it, thumb swiping to her Notes feed. There, at the top, was James's name. A small text bubble beneath it.

— I wish you knew that not every "sorry" is worth it.