Yangyang forgets his keys.
It’s not unusual. He’s always been a little scatterbrained—his thoughts moving faster than his body, ideas half-formed and already leaping to the next before he’s finished the last. Usually, the missing keys turn up under the couch cushions, or in the pocket of a jacket he doesn’t remember wearing, or sometimes still in the door. It’s never been something to worry about.
But tonight is different.
He stands outside the apartment building for five long minutes, patting down every pocket he can find, chest tightening with each sweep. His jeans, his coat, his hoodie—he even checks his tote bag twice before glancing down at his own hand. The keys are there. Curled tightly in his palm, imprinting their cold teeth into his skin.
A nervous, breathy laugh escapes him, echoing too loudly in the quiet hallway as he lets himself inside.
The apartment smells like burnt toast and citrus cleaner. The faint trail of a vanilla candle clings to the air—probably Donghyuck’s doing. There’s soft music playing in the background, something slow and dreamy drifting in from the kitchen speaker. A nostalgic tune, familiar but just out of reach, brushing against something in Yangyang’s chest he can’t quite name.
“Hyuck?” he calls, voice low and unsure.
No answer.
He drops his bag by the door, the motion automatic, and pads barefoot through the living room, peeking into the kitchen. The candle flickers gently on the windowsill, its flame bending in the faint draft from the cracked window. The speaker continues humming along to an instrumental ballad. On the counter sits a burnt piece of toast, blackened on one side and forgotten. No one’s home.
And then, slowly, the realization creeps in: he’s forgotten. Again.
They all had plans tonight. Drinks at Jeno’s place. A celebration for Jaemin’s promotion. He was supposed to bring the cake.
His gaze snaps to the fridge. The cake box is still there, unopened, its edges gathering condensation.
His phone buzzes in his back pocket. He jumps slightly.
Jaemin [8:42 PM]
hey u okay? u said you were on your way like 30 mins ago
Yangyang blinks. He doesn’t remember saying that. The last thing he recalls is getting up to find his shoes. That must’ve been... what? Seven? Eight?
He types quickly, his fingers clumsy on the screen.
Yangyang [8:43 PM]
sorry. forgot the cake. be there soon
He grabs the cake, finds his shoes tucked half-under the table, and bolts for the door. He makes it to the elevator before realizing—his phone is still on the kitchen counter.
No one says anything when he arrives late.
Jeno claps him on the back with a smile and takes the cake from his arms. Renjun rolls his eyes but accepts the box anyway. Donghyuck shifts on the couch to make room and hands him a drink without a word, offering a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Jaemin watches him. Not with anger. With something closer to worry.
The night carries on easily. They laugh about old teachers, embarrassing high school stories, bad haircuts, and that time Yangyang tried to ride a bike down a flight of stairs for a vlog. His cheeks ache from smiling, his head light from the drinks and the warmth of the people around him.
But later, in a lull between conversations, Jaemin speaks up.
“Remember when we all got matching bracelets in second year? The braided ones?”
Everyone nods.
Yangyang smiles, too.
But he doesn’t remember.
He nods along, hiding the sudden twist in his stomach. He should remember. He always remembers those things—birthdays, inside jokes, Jaemin’s ridiculous cow-print wallet. Or... he used to.
That night, walking home alone under the pale city streetlights, Yangyang pulls out his phone and opens the voice memo app. His thumb hovers for a moment before he presses record.
“Note to self,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “Second year. Braided bracelets. Ask Donghyuck. Don’t forget.”
His hand is shaking when he ends the recording.
He doesn’t know why.
Jaemin notices it in fragments.
First, Yangyang’s late more often. Which isn’t new, but this time it feels different. Not the kind of late caused by distraction or traffic. More like he thought it was Thursday when it was already Saturday. Then it’s the details—him blending old stories into new ones, forgetting the ending of a joke he’s told a dozen times. He calls Renjun “Jeno” twice in the span of ten minutes.
They all laugh it off. Renjun jokes about being forgettable. Yangyang laughs too, a little too loudly, his shoulders tight beneath his hoodie.
The next day, Jaemin gets the same TikTok four times in a row.
He doesn’t mention it.
Not yet.
It’s easy to blame stress. Deadlines. Lack of sleep. Anything but what it could really be.
But then one night they go out for ramen—their usual place near the station, the one with the mismatched stools and the grumpy cat that guards the back door like a bouncer. Yangyang stares at the menu for ten full minutes, brow furrowed like he’s trying to translate it.
“This place is new?” he asks.
Jaemin looks up, startled. “What?”
Yangyang points to the counter. “The ramen place. It’s new, right?”
Jaemin doesn’t answer at first. He just orders miso with extra corn, soft-boiled egg, no bamboo. Yangyang’s usual.
When the bowl arrives, Yangyang brightens. “Oh, this looks good.”
He’s ordered it every time for seven years.
Back at Jaemin’s apartment, Yangyang crashes on the couch like always. They used to joke that he could sniff out the softest blankets in any room. Tonight, Jaemin drapes one over him without saying a word.
Yangyang is already dozing, murmuring something about editing deadlines.
“Do you remember our bracelets?” Jaemin asks suddenly, voice low.
Yangyang blinks one eye open. “Huh?”
“In second year. Braided ones. We made them at Jeno’s. Yours was blue and yellow.”
There’s a beat. Then Yangyang nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
Too fast. Too light.
“Mine broke that summer,” Jaemin says. “Yours didn’t.”
Yangyang hums and closes his eyes again.
Jaemin doesn’t speak after that. He just sits beside him, watching the muted flicker of the TV.
That night, after Yangyang’s breathing evens out, Jaemin begins backing up their entire group chat. Every photo. Every meme. Every voice message. He scrolls back through years’ worth of memories, saving anything that might one day be needed.
He’s not sure what he’s trying to preserve.
But something in him says: Time is running out.
Renjun has never liked pretending.
He’s never been the type to let things slide just to keep the peace. He doesn’t do well with silence when it hums with tension, or with watching people he loves unravel while everyone around them insists things are fine. It's not about being confrontational—it's about truth. Honesty. About not lying to yourself when the truth is already screaming between the cracks.
And right now, Yangyang is not fine.
The signs have been piling up—too many to ignore, too sharp to smooth over. In one week, Yangyang forgets their plans three times. He shows up to a group dinner without shoes, just socks, confused and breathless and insisting he thought they said it was casual. He knocks on the door of Renjun’s old apartment, banging until a stranger opens it, squinting at him like he’s lost. Because he is.
The others still try to explain it away. Even Jaemin, who usually knows better, just watches Yangyang with that overly soft, too-careful look and asks how he’s feeling like it’s a question with a manageable answer. Like it’s something a nap or a day off could fix.
Renjun doesn’t know how to be soft about this. Not anymore.
It happens on a Tuesday. Cold and gray, the kind of rain that drizzles for hours without stopping. Renjun is walking home from work when he spots someone sitting alone on a bench near the corner market. There’s a hoodie pulled up over the figure’s head, sleeves soaked through, socks damp and dark with puddle water, sneakers kicked off and lying nearby like they’d been discarded mid-thought.
Something in Renjun’s chest clenches.
He rushes closer. “Yangyang?”
The boy looks up slowly, his eyes hazy and unfocused. “Hey,” he says weakly. Then he blinks, squinting at Renjun like he’s trying to place him in a photo that’s been water-damaged. “You’re… Jun, right?”
Renjun’s breath catches.
He nods. “Yeah. Renjun. What are you doing out here?”
Yangyang looks around like the question has never occurred to him. “I was going to the post office. Or the gym? I don’t know.”
“You don’t go to the gym.”
Yangyang lets out a hollow laugh. “Guess that’s why I got lost.”
Without another word, Renjun strips off his jacket and wraps it around Yangyang’s shoulders. The fabric clings to both of them, damp but warm.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asks, voice gentler now.
Yangyang’s mouth twists as he thinks. “…Wednesday?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
Yangyang closes his eyes.
Renjun doesn’t scold him. Doesn’t raise his voice. He just takes a slow breath and crouches beside the bench.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’re freezing. Let’s get you inside.”
Back at Renjun’s apartment, Yangyang curls up on the couch beneath a fleece throw, hair damp and clothes swapped out for an old oversized sweatshirt. He falls asleep almost instantly, body curled in on itself like he’s trying to disappear.
Renjun finds Yangyang’s phone half-slid off the coffee table, screen still lit. A voice memo is recording.
He listens.
“…Don’t forget Jun’s birthday,” Yangyang whispers, voice fragile. “He likes lemon cake. He hates being hugged but lets me do it anyway. Don’t forget that. Please don’t forget that.”
The recording ends in a faint crackle of static.
Renjun holds the phone in his lap, staring at the screen until it dims.
His fingers are trembling.
The next morning, he doesn’t wait. He calls Jaemin before breakfast.
“He’s not okay,” Renjun says, skipping pleasantries entirely. “We need to do something.”
There’s a pause. Then Jaemin, quiet as a sigh: “I know.”
Renjun glances toward the couch, where Yangyang sleeps curled like a comma beneath the blanket, one hand tucked under his cheek.
He lowers his voice. “Then let’s stop pretending.”
Jeno has always been the one who builds things.
There’s a comfort in process, in structure. He grew up with his hands in pieces of machines and code, learning how to take things apart and put them back together until they worked again. There’s always been something satisfying about tracing the root of a problem and fixing it—tightening the screws, adjusting the framework, rerouting the system.
But this isn’t something he can fix.
There’s no manual for watching your best friend disappear by degrees.
There’s just Yangyang—laughing and bright one moment, blank and distant the next.
It’s Jaemin who calls the emergency meeting. Donghyuck calls it that, at least, loud and sarcastic as always, cracking jokes as he passes out drinks like they’re here for a movie night. But his grip on the glass is white-knuckled, and he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
They gather at Jeno’s place, quiet and uneasy. Renjun paces. Jaemin sits too still. Yangyang hums to himself in the kitchen as he makes tea, completely unaware of the atmosphere around him.
“He forgot me,” Renjun says. There’s no emotion in his voice, which somehow makes it worse. “For like ten seconds. Just—blank. Nothing.”
Donghyuck’s face twists. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
Jeno opens his laptop, the familiar weight of it grounding him.
“I’ve been tracking the gaps,” he says. “Kind of. I made an app for him a few months ago—said it was to keep track of his shoot schedules, but it’s really been logging journal entries, voice memos, daily check-ins. I built it to notice patterns. Changes.”
He swallows. “It’s getting worse.”
Jaemin nods slowly, like he already knew but needed someone else to say it.
“I did some research,” Jeno continues. “There’s a condition—hereditary early-onset amnesia. Rare, but it fits. His mother had it. His grandmother too.”
No one speaks. The kettle whistles faintly from the kitchen.
Yangyang walks in, cradling a tray of mugs in both hands. His smile is as bright as ever.
“Why do you guys look like someone died?” he laughs, setting the tray down. “Did I miss a meme? Someone better tell me if Donghyuck cried again.”
Renjun looks away. Jaemin doesn’t even blink.
“Yangyang,” he says gently, “how long have you known?”
Yangyang freezes mid-step.
His smile falters, just slightly. “A while,” he says, so quiet they almost miss it.
Jeno feels something shift in his chest.
“I didn’t want to ruin anything,” Yangyang continues. “I thought if I ignored it, maybe it’d slow down. Or maybe you wouldn’t notice.”
“But we did,” Jeno replies softly.
Yangyang looks at him then, eyes glassy. “I know.”
No one moves. The silence is thick, heavy with everything they’ve never said.
Jeno takes a breath and turns his laptop toward Yangyang. The screen glows faintly.
“I’ve been working on something,” he says. “It’s still in progress, but... it’s kind of like a failsafe. A place to store memories. Notes, photos, voice memos. Stuff you can talk to.”
Yangyang blinks. “Like JARVIS?”
Jeno smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Kind of. But mine calls you dumbass if you forget your password.”
Yangyang snorts. Then his face twists, like he’s trying not to cry.
Jeno slides the laptop across the table. “Start saving things,” he says. “We’ll do it together.”
Yangyang nods, wiping at his cheeks.
And the rest of them sit there in silence, sipping tea that’s already gone cold, holding tightly to the pieces of their friend while they still can.
Donghyuck doesn’t do fear.
He’s the kind of person who lives in volume—bright, relentless, always in motion. If there’s tension in the room, he’ll crack a joke to break it. If someone’s sad, he’ll throw an arm around them and make a ridiculous face until they laugh, even if it’s through tears. He doesn’t like silence, doesn’t like stillness. He fills space before it can settle into something heavy.
But fear—the kind that creeps in when you’re alone, that sinks into your skin and makes your throat tighten—he doesn’t know what to do with that.
At first, it’s easy to brush off. Yangyang always forgets little things. A name, a date, where he left his keys. Everyone does it. Donghyuck forgets what day it is all the time, but nobody’s diagnosing him with anything. It’s just life. It’s just stress. That’s what he tells himself.
Until Yangyang calls him one night. Quiet. Breathless.
“I forgot my name,” he says.
Donghyuck freezes.
The phone nearly slips from his hand.
“What?” he asks, too fast. “What do you mean?”
“I looked in the mirror,” Yangyang whispers. “And I didn’t know who I was. Not just for a second. It was… gone.”
Donghyuck’s already pulling on shoes, grabbing his keys. “Where are you?”
“Home. I think. I don’t know.”
He finds him twenty minutes later, curled up in bed, blanket pulled up to his ears. His phone is face-down on the floor, screen cracked. There’s a mug of tea on the nightstand, untouched.
“I didn’t really forget,” Yangyang says when Donghyuck sits beside him. “Not all the way. But I didn’t recognize my face. It didn’t feel like mine.”
Donghyuck tries to smile, but it comes out wrong.
“You’re probably just tired,” Yangyang adds, too quickly. “Or maybe my blood sugar was low. I didn’t eat today.”
“Stop,” Donghyuck says. “Stop pretending.”
Yangyang blinks at him.
“You keep acting like this is nothing. Like it’s just some random thing that happens to everyone. But it’s not. You’re scared, Yangyang. I can see it. And it’s okay to be scared.”
Yangyang’s lips tremble. He doesn’t speak.
“I’m scared too,” Donghyuck says, quieter now. “But you don’t have to go through this alone.”
Yangyang curls into him, like a wave folding into the shore.
“I don’t want to forget you,” he says, voice cracking.
Donghyuck wraps his arms around him, tight enough to anchor.
“Then we’ll keep reminding you,” he says. “As many times as it takes.”
Later that night, Donghyuck starts compiling a video.
He pulls footage from every phone, every drive he can find—birthday dinners, random outings, drunken dance-offs, blurry selfies. Yangyang laughing. Yangyang teasing him. Yangyang hugging someone tight with his whole body. He overlays the clips with music and voiceovers, piecing together a version of his best friend that he refuses to lose.
“Hey,” he says into the mic, voice uncharacteristically soft. “This is for you, Yangyang. For later. In case you need a reminder. You’re not broken. You’re not fading. You’re still here. And we love you. Every version of you.”
He ends the video with a freeze-frame: the six of them, all tangled on Jaemin’s old couch, faces flushed with laughter. Yangyang’s eyes are closed, mouth wide in a grin. The moment looks like it could last forever.
Donghyuck adds one last message in white text against the still image.
Don’t say goodbye yet. We’re not done loving you.
Jaemin has never believed in preparing for storms.
He’s always been the kind of person who charges into life with both feet—reckless, confident, unwilling to waste time on fear. Optimism has always been his armor, denial his shield. He lives in the present, clings to the good things, and tells himself the bad will sort itself out eventually.
But now, watching Yangyang slowly unravel in real time, Jaemin understands there are some storms you can’t outrun. Some things you can’t just wait out.
He sees it in the small moments first. The blank pauses between words. The growing collection of sticky notes around the apartment. The way Yangyang’s voice falters mid-sentence, like he’s searching for something that used to be there and isn’t anymore.
He notices it the night Yangyang forgets his own birthday.
They’d planned a small dinner. Nothing fancy—just takeout and cake and the people who mattered. Yangyang showed up late, confused, empty-handed. He smiled when Jaemin pulled him into a hug, but when the others shouted surprise, his expression didn’t change.
Jaemin watched him sit down and laugh along. Pretend.
Later, after everyone else had left and the lights were low, Yangyang had stood at the window, cake plate untouched in his hands.
“I didn’t know,” he said softly.
Jaemin stepped up beside him. “It’s okay.”
Yangyang shook his head. “It’s not.”
Jaemin didn’t argue. He just took the plate, set it aside, and reached for his hand.
That night, he couldn’t sleep. He lay in the dark listening to Yangyang’s soft, even breathing from the next room and stared at the ceiling, wondering how much longer they had before even that slipped away.
The next morning, he started writing letters. One for every day. One for every version of Yangyang he might still meet.
To the Yangyang who wakes up afraid:
You are not alone.
To the Yangyang who doesn’t remember me:
I’ll fall in love with you again. As many times as it takes.
To the Yangyang who forgets his own name:
Let me carry it for you.
He tucks them into envelopes. Dates them. Labels them with careful notes: blue shirt day, ramen place memory, after Renjun’s gallery show.
He starts placing them where Yangyang will find them. Inside jacket pockets. Beneath his pillow. Between pages of sketchbooks and notebooks and shoeboxes.
Because he knows what’s coming.
And he knows Yangyang. Even if Yangyang forgets.
Because Jaemin’s not just preparing for the storm anymore.
He’s learning how to stand in the rain.
Yangyang wakes up in someone else’s clothes.
The hoodie draped over his shoulders is too big, the sleeves slipping past his wrists, and the drawstrings are chewed at the ends. His fingers move slowly, fumbling at the collar as he reads the faded tag stitched near the seam—JENO, printed in simple capital letters.
His heart skips.
The room is unfamiliar in the way something half-remembered is unfamiliar. He’s lying on his side in a bed that isn’t his, the scent of clean sheets and soft detergent lingering faintly in the air. There’s a dull orange glow filtering through the blinds—streetlight or early dawn, he can’t tell. His bag is on the floor near the wall, partially unzipped. A glass of water rests on the nightstand, beads of condensation slipping down its side.
And he has no idea how he got here.
He sits up slowly, his body stiff and groggy, as if he’s slept for years. His thoughts are scattered. The last clear memory he has is leaving the studio around six in the evening. He remembers working on a wedding video edit—headphones on, music playing softly in the background. He remembers thinking about meeting Jaemin afterward. Something about bubble tea. Or was it tacos?
But now it’s 2:11 a.m.
And he doesn’t remember anything after that.
His pulse quickens. He reaches for his phone instinctively, but it’s not in his pocket. A search around the room turns up nothing. Until he notices it—on the dresser, face down, screen dark.
He picks it up. Seventeen missed messages.
Jaemin [8:34 PM]
are you okay?
Jeno [9:50 PM]
got him. he’s safe. don’t worry.
Renjun [9:52 PM]
what happened?
Jeno [10:03 PM]
he didn’t know where he was. wandered into the convenience store down the block. clerk called me bc yangyang kept saying he lived in ‘the yellow house’ and didn’t remember his number.
Yangyang stares at the screen, nausea rising in his throat. He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and grips the frame tightly, grounding himself in the physical world. His fingers leave faint smudges on the screen as he sets the phone aside, hands shaking.
He stumbles out into the hallway. The apartment is quiet. Dim.
In the living room, Jeno is asleep on the couch, one arm cradling his laptop, the soft flicker of an idle screen saver casting dancing shadows across his face. The TV is still on—muted, playing an old cartoon rerun. Yangyang watches the rise and fall of his friend’s chest for a moment. Then he speaks.
“Jeno?”
Jeno stirs instantly, blinking awake. “Yang—?” His voice is hoarse. He sits up quickly, eyes scanning him. “Hey. You okay?”
Yangyang swallows. Nods.
Then, barely audible: “I don’t remember.”
Jeno doesn’t respond immediately. He pushes the laptop aside and shifts forward, hands poised like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how.
“I know,” he says gently.
“It’s not okay,” Yangyang says. His voice cracks. “I didn’t even know I was gone.”
Jeno’s jaw tightens. He looks down, then back up.
“If it happens again…” Yangyang begins, eyes brimming. “What if next time I don’t come back?”
Jeno finally moves. He stands, steps forward, and wraps his arms around Yangyang. The hug is strong, steady. An anchor in the dark.
“Then we’ll find you,” Jeno says. “Always.”
Yangyang doesn’t answer. He buries his face in Jeno’s shoulder, the tension in his body finally giving out.
And he lets himself cry.
Later that night, back in the same unfamiliar bed, Yangyang records a new voice memo.
His voice trembles.
“To the Yangyang who wakes up not knowing where he is: You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not broken. The boys love you. Even if you forget them, they’ll never forget you.”
He pauses. Swallows.
“You’re still you.”
The next morning is quiet in the way aftermaths often are.
Jeno insists Yangyang stay a while longer. “Just take the morning,” he says, sliding a plate of toast and eggs across the kitchen counter. “No rush. No pressure.”
Yangyang doesn’t argue. He feels like a ghost in his own body, limbs heavy, brain slow to catch up. The sunlight streaming through the kitchen window feels too bright, like it’s exposing all the cracks he’s trying so hard to keep covered.
Donghyuck drops by not long after. He doesn’t say anything at first—just walks in like he always does, flops into the armchair like it’s his own, and offers Yangyang a small smile.
“You look like shit,” he says eventually.
Yangyang huffs a laugh. “Thanks.”
“You hungry?”
“I ate.”
Donghyuck nods. He opens his bag and pulls out something wrapped in a tea towel.
Yangyang blinks. “What’s that?”
Donghyuck unfolds it gently. Inside is a simple wooden box—hand-painted in soft pastel colors, the lid adorned with a tiny, carved sun.
“It’s from Renjun,” he says. “We’ve all been working on it. Thought it was time you had it.”
Yangyang stares at it, uncertain.
“It’s a memory box,” Donghyuck explains, voice a little softer now. “Pictures, notes, drawings. Stuff you’ve said. Stuff we want you to remember. You don’t have to open it now.”
But Yangyang does.
Inside are polaroids labeled with shaky, familiar handwriting. “Jeno’s graduation.” “That cursed road trip to Busan.” “First apartment, fifth try.”
There’s a folded napkin with Donghyuck’s scrawl: ‘If you forget me, I’m still the funniest one.’
A crumpled receipt from their favorite café.
A scribbled comic Renjun drew of the six of them as superheroes.
A photo of Jaemin and Yangyang, pressed together in a grainy photobooth, eyes red from laughing.
Yangyang traces the edge of the photo slowly. His throat tightens.
He doesn’t speak for a long time.
Donghyuck doesn’t push. He just sits with him, patient and steady.
When Yangyang finally looks up, eyes glassy, he says, “I’m scared.”
Donghyuck reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.
“I know,” he says. “But you’re not alone.”
Yangyang holds onto that. He doesn’t know for how long. But in that moment, it’s enough.
They don’t talk about the memory box again.
But Yangyang starts carrying it with him.
Not all the time—not in any obvious way. But it’s there. Tucked safely in the corner of his bedroom, or nestled at the bottom of his tote bag when he heads to Jaemin’s. Some days, he doesn’t look at it at all. Other days, he opens the lid and sits there for an hour, holding a polaroid in one hand and one of Renjun’s drawings in the other like they’re lifelines.
He starts labeling things, too. Sticky notes in bright colors bloom around the apartment like confetti. “Fridge – cold food.” “Closet – jackets.” “Light switch – by the door.”
The others notice. No one says a word.
Jeno helps him set reminders on his phone. Donghyuck syncs them with a shared calendar. Jaemin slips him a list every morning—gentle little notes like “Take your meds,” “Eat something,” “You’re doing great.”
And Renjun draws him a map of the apartment. A literal, hand-drawn floor plan, annotated with jokes and little cartoon versions of each of them. “Donghyuck’s cave of chaos” is scribbled next to the linen closet. Yangyang tapes it beside his desk.
They build routines around him, carefully and quietly.
It’s not perfect. There are days when Yangyang’s panic still spikes without warning—when he forgets where he is mid-conversation, or stands frozen in front of the sink holding a spoon like it’s a foreign object. There are moments when he forgets names. Or birthdays. Or that someone moved out a year ago.
But then someone steps in. Someone reminds him.
And he comes back.
Every time, he comes back.
One night, they’re all together—crammed into Jaemin’s apartment, eating too much takeout and watching a bad movie they’ve already seen three times. It’s loud. Familiar. Warm.
Yangyang laughs so hard he nearly chokes on a piece of popcorn when Jeno throws a cushion at Donghyuck’s face mid-monologue.
For a while, it feels normal.
Like nothing’s wrong.
Like none of this is slipping away.
But then Jaemin says, “Remember when we tried to build that blanket fort in high school and it collapsed on Renjun?”
Everyone groans in fond unison.
Yangyang’s smile falters.
Because he doesn’t remember.
He nods anyway, but his hands go still.
Jaemin sees it. Jaemin always sees it.
After everyone else leaves, Jaemin finds him standing at the kitchen counter, holding a half-empty cup of water and staring at nothing.
“You okay?”
Yangyang hesitates.
Then, without looking up: “I didn’t remember the fort.”
Jaemin moves to stand beside him. “That’s okay.”
Yangyang’s voice wavers. “Is it?”
Jaemin takes the cup from his hands, sets it down, and pulls him in.
His hug is strong. Grounding.
“You don’t have to remember everything,” he says quietly. “You just have to remember that we’re here. That we love you.”
Yangyang leans into the warmth of him, eyes closed.
“I think I’m starting to forget how to hold on.”
Jaemin presses a kiss to his hair.
“Then let us hold you instead.”
The first time Yangyang forgets all of them, it happens quietly.
He wakes up in the shared apartment, sunlight spilling across the living room rug in wide golden stripes. There’s music playing from somewhere—soft and familiar, like something he’s heard a hundred times before but can’t name now. The scent of coffee drifts in from the kitchen, mixed with something sweet and citrusy. Someone is humming.
There are voices, too. Laughter. Someone calling a name he doesn’t recognize.
He sits up slowly. The blanket falls from his shoulders. There’s a mug on the table in front of him with his name on it— Yangyang —written in neat black letters. The name doesn’t mean anything to him.
His heart begins to pound.
He gets up. Walks toward the kitchen, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor.
There are four people inside.
They turn when they see him. Their smiles come easily, like this is normal, like they’ve been waiting for him.
“Morning,” one of them says—the tall one with kind eyes and a familiar voice. “You hungry?”
Yangyang stares at them. His fingers tremble.
“…Who are you?”
Silence follows.
The boy with silver hair flinches like he’s been struck. Another—tall, sharp-eyed, with a hoodie pulled over his head—goes very still, like he’s stopped breathing. One of them—Jaemin, he’ll learn again later—moves first, stepping forward with slow, careful movements like Yangyang is something delicate.
“It’s okay,” Jaemin says, voice quiet. “You’re safe.”
Yangyang shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t know where I am.”
Jaemin nods. “That’s okay too. You’re at home. We’re your friends. I’m Jaemin. That’s Jeno, Donghyuck, Renjun. You know us. We’ve known each other for years.”
Yangyang can only blink.
“I don’t remember any of that.”
Jaemin’s voice stays gentle. “That’s okay,” he says again. “We remember for you.”
He guides Yangyang to the couch. The others don’t speak, just hover nearby like shadows of memories he can’t access. There’s a weight in his chest, a rising panic he can’t put into words.
Jaemin presses a button on his phone. The speaker hums, then begins to play a voice—Yangyang’s own voice, recorded in a tone he barely recognizes.
“To the Yangyang who forgets—this is okay. It’s not your fault. It doesn’t mean you’re gone. They love you. You love them too. You always have.”
Jaemin looks at him.
“Do you believe him?”
Yangyang listens again. The voice in the speaker is quiet. Shaky.
He hears something crack inside him.
And then he nods.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I think I do.”
They start over.
Jaemin makes him tea and tells him the stories again—how they all met, the stupid things they used to do in high school, the night they stayed up until 4 a.m. building IKEA furniture and Renjun cried from laughter when Yangyang installed a drawer backwards.
Jeno shows him old photos, careful not to overwhelm him. He lays them out like puzzle pieces, watching Yangyang’s face for flickers of recognition. Sometimes there’s a spark. Sometimes there’s nothing. But Jeno never lets the silence stretch too long. He just smiles and says, “You looked good in that shirt,” or “We both hated that haircut, by the way.”
Donghyuck plays the memory video on the TV and narrates it like a movie—adding commentary, voicing over the clips with jokes and trivia, as if they’re watching a film they’ve both seen a dozen times. “Here’s where you dropped your ice cream and threatened to sue the sun,” he says, pointing at the screen. Yangyang laughs, even if he doesn’t remember it. Maybe especially because he doesn’t.
Renjun gives him a sketchbook.
The first page is a drawing of the six of them sitting in their usual spots—Yangyang in the center, arms flung over two shoulders, mouth wide in a grin. The others are scattered around him, laughing.
On the bottom of the page, in Renjun’s careful print, it reads: This is home.
Yangyang traces the lines with his fingertip, and for a moment, his chest loosens.
He starts writing things down again. Voice memos, notes, labels. He keeps the memory box close. He tucks Polaroids into books and pockets and pillowcases. He doesn’t know how much he’ll remember tomorrow—or next week, or next year.
But he knows this:
He is loved.
He is not alone.
He may forget their names. He may forget his own. He may wake up in rooms that don’t feel like his and see faces that feel like strangers.
But they will find him.
Again and again and again.
And when he forgets, they will remind him—softly, patiently, endlessly.
Because some things can’t be lost.
Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t need to be remembered to still be true.
And Yangyang, even at his most lost, will never be without it.
The morning is quiet.
Soft light spills in through the open curtains, casting long stripes across the wooden floor. The apartment hums gently with the familiar creaks of pipes, the tick of the wall clock, the faint whir of the kettle coming to a boil.
Jaemin moves through the kitchen with practiced ease—mug in one hand, his other reaching for the honey. He doesn’t have to think about it anymore. He knows how Yangyang likes his tea: two spoonfuls, just a dash of lemon. He stirs slowly, quietly, almost reverently.
The sound of footsteps—bare and hesitant—breaks the silence.
Jaemin turns.
Yangyang stands in the hallway, hair messy from sleep, eyes wide and uncertain. He clutches the edge of his oversized sweater like it’s armor. He looks younger in the mornings, softer. And today—Jaemin can see it already—today is one of the days he doesn’t remember.
Yangyang scans the room like it’s unfamiliar. His gaze lands on Jaemin, pauses there, confused. Guarded.
Jaemin doesn’t flinch.
He offers the mug with both hands, like it’s a gift.
“Hi,” he says, voice warm and steady. “I’m Jaemin.”
Yangyang doesn’t answer at first. His brow furrows. His lips part like he wants to ask something, but the words don’t come.
So Jaemin fills the space for him.
“We’re friends. You’ve known me for a long time.”
He smiles gently, holds the mug out further.
“You like your tea this way.”
Yangyang steps forward slowly, takes the mug. Their fingers brush.
He stares at the tea for a moment, then glances back up.
“Jaemin,” he repeats softly. Like it’s new. Like he’s trying it out.
Jaemin’s chest aches.
But he nods. “That’s me.”
Yangyang exhales, slow and shaky.
“…Okay,” he says. And sits down at the table.
Jaemin joins him.
And together, in the quiet hum of a new morning, they begin again.