Chapter 4: The First Crack
Y/N's morning started like any other—gray light filtering through the thin curtains of her one-room apartment, the distant hum of Seoul traffic already building. She sat at her small kitchen table with a lukewarm cup of instant coffee, scrolling mindlessly through her phone while her half-eaten toast grew cold. The usual notifications: spam emails from music labels, a few likes on her private lyrics account, and then the algorithm pushed something that stopped her cold.It was a tabloid article from one of those sleazy entertainment sites that thrived on celebrity gossip. The headline screamed in bold letters: ENHYPEN's Jay Spotted Getting Cozy with Rising Actress at Exclusive After-Party. Below it, a series of blurry but unmistakable photos. Jay, maskless in dim lighting, smiling that charming half-smile she had come to know so well. His hand resting casually on the waist of a beautiful actress known for her roles in recent dramas. They were laughing together, bodies angled close, the kind of proximity that screamed intimacy rather than professional networking.
Her stomach dropped like a stone. The coffee mug trembled in her hand as she zoomed in on the images, searching for any sign that it was photoshopped or misinterpreted. But the timestamps matched the night he had told her he was stuck in late rehearsals with the members. "Can't talk much, baby. Practice is brutal today. Miss you though," his text had said. She remembered it clearly because she had stayed up waiting, rereading it like a fool.
Tears blurred her vision as she kept scrolling through the comments. Fans defending him, calling it PR. Others speculating wildly. One comment stood out: "He always looks happier with girls from the industry." The words cut deeper than they should have.
Her phone buzzed with a new message, but it wasn't from Jay. It was a friend who had seen the article too.
Friend: Did you see this?? Is this the guy you've been talking about? Be careful...
Y/N didn't reply. Instead, her thumbs hovered over Jay's chat. The conversation history was filled with sweet nothings and promises that now felt like shards of glass in her chest. She typed, deleted, typed again, her breathing shallow and uneven.
Y/N: Is this true? The article and photos... it doesn't look like just PR. You told me you were at practice.
She hit send before she could overthink it, then immediately regretted the vulnerability. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Her mind spiraled: Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm overreacting like he always says. But why does this hurt so much already? I planned a future for two, and now it's cracking right in front of me.
Finally, her phone lit up.
Jay: Babe, it's all management stuff. They set these things up for buzz and visuals. You know how the industry works. I was thinking about you the whole time. Those photos are taken out of context. Trust me.
Y/N: Then why lie about where you were? I waited up for you.
Jay: I didn't want to worry you with the boring details. Come on, don't be like this. You're the only one who really knows me.
The excuses flowed so easily, wrapped in that smooth charm that had drawn her in from the beginning. She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the crack was there now, a hairline fracture spreading through the fragile foundation of their secret relationship. She stared at the photos again, zooming in on his hand placement, the way the actress leaned into him. It looked too comfortable. Too real.
An hour later, there was a knock at her door. Jay stood there in the hallway, hair slightly damp from the light drizzle outside, holding a small bouquet of white roses—her favorite. His eyes were pleading, that intense gaze that always made her knees weak.
"Y/N, please," he said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He closed the door behind him and pulled her into his arms before she could protest. "I hate that this is hurting you. Those articles are designed to create drama. It means nothing. You're my escape from all that fake shit."
She stiffened at first, but his warmth, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with rain, chipped away at her resolve. He tilted her chin up gently, kissing her forehead, then her cheeks, then her lips—deep and desperate, as if he could erase the doubt with physical closeness. For a moment, it worked. The kiss tasted like apologies and promises, his hands steady on her waist the same way they had been on the actress in the photo. The thought made her pull back slightly.
"Jay... I saw the way you looked at her."
He sighed, resting his forehead against hers. "It's acting. Part of the job. If I could tell the world about you, I would. But you know why I can't. My career, the fans, the company—they'd tear us apart. You're the real one. Don't let them ruin this."
They ended up on her worn couch, his arm around her shoulders as he showed her "proof"—old texts from his manager about PR schedules, blurred screenshots that could have meant anything. He spoke in that low, reassuring voice about the pressures of being an idol, how lonely it got despite the screaming crowds, how she was the only person who made him feel seen. She listened, nodding, tears drying on her face, but the unease lingered like a shadow in the corner of the room.
Later that night, after he left for another "schedule," she lay in bed alone, replaying the conversation. The flowers sat on her table, already starting to wilt at the edges. She opened the article again, the crack widening just a little more.
Y/N: I want to trust you. But it's getting harder.
Jay: I know, baby. I'll make it up to you. Soon. You're my priority.
The words should have comforted her. Instead, they echoed hollowly, mixing with the faint melody of Maggie Lindemann's song in her headphones: You always lie when it's convenient. She cried quietly into her pillow, the first real fracture in her heart now impossible to ignore. The spark that had felt so bright was beginning to dim, and she wondered how long she could keep pretending the fire wasn't burning her alive.
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