Chapter 15: Hate

The silence in her room was suffocating, almost like the air itself had become too thick to breathe. Hayoon sat still on her bed, the blankets tangled around her body like a cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. Her hands rested on her knees, her fingers pale and trembling. She hadn't eaten in hours, maybe days, and she barely even noticed the gnawing emptiness in her stomach anymore. The pain was too familiar, too comforting. She had learned to live with it.

The sound of her phone buzzing on the desk was the only thing breaking the stillness, but she didn't have the energy to reach for it. She couldn't bring herself to read the messages, couldn't face the constant reminder of her shortcomings, the voices in her head that told her she wasn't enough.

You're not good enough. You'll never be enough.

It was a loop, endless and consuming. It was the same self-doubt, the same voice, over and over, reverberating in her mind.

A knock at the door broke the pattern of thought, a soft rap that interrupted her spiraling.

"Hayoon," Minseo's voice drifted from behind the door, hesitant but firm. "It's time to get up. We have a concert today. The schedule's packed."

Hayoon didn't move. She didn't want to face the world. She didn't want to put on a mask, to pretend that everything was fine. The idea of standing on stage, performing for thousands of people while feeling this broken—it was too much to bear.

Another knock. This time, the door creaked open, and Minseo stepped inside. When she saw Hayoon's unmoving form, a soft frown tugged at the corners of her lips. But there was no time for sympathy. There was no time for kindness.

"You have to get ready, Hae," Minseo said gently, though the firmness was still in her voice. "We're going to need you at your best. For the fans. For the group."

Hayoon's chest tightened, and her throat constricted. She didn't feel like she had anything left to give. She didn't know how to be "her best" anymore. She didn't know how to smile or dance or sing when all she could feel was exhaustion, pain, and doubt. She felt like a hollow shell, a fragile thing that would shatter if anyone looked too closely.

But Minseo wasn't about to give up. She walked over and placed a gentle hand on Hayoon's shoulder, urging her up from the bed.

"You're not alone," she whispered.

Reluctantly, Hayoon pushed herself to her feet, her body unsteady, the muscles in her legs weak from lack of food and sleep. She felt dizzy, her vision blurred, but she fought to stay upright. She couldn't afford to fall apart now.

The concert venue was already buzzing with anticipation when they arrived. The lights were blinding, the air thick with excitement. Hayoon's stomach flipped as they made their way backstage. She felt the familiar weight of the stage clothes settle onto her body, but the clothes didn't feel like they belonged to her. They were just another thing she had to wear, another thing that didn't fit her perfectly, just like her place in the world.

The other girls were adjusting their makeup and hair, laughing and chatting with the stylists, but Hayoon couldn't bring herself to join them. She stood at the edge, her hands trembling at her sides. Her heart raced as the anticipation built. The lights, the cameras, the eyes of the audience—it all felt suffocating. She couldn't breathe, couldn't focus.

And then, the music started.

The beat thumped through the floor, and the lights exploded in a burst of color. The crowd screamed, the energy of the fans flooding the air. The other girls stepped forward, taking their places on stage, but Hayoon stood frozen, her heart pounding. She had to move. She had to keep up. But her body felt heavy, and every step felt like a struggle.

When the music reached its peak, she took a step forward, and her foot slipped on the stage, her leg buckling beneath her. The world seemed to slow down as she fell forward, her arms flailing for balance. She caught herself, her hands scraping against the stage floor, but the audience had already seen. The gasp from the crowd was deafening.

For a split second, time stood still.

Hayoon's breath hitched, her chest tight with embarrassment. She could feel her face flush with heat, the sting of humiliation crawling up her neck. Her body ached, her limbs felt like lead, but she forced herself to push through it. She got back up and stumbled back into the choreography, her movements clumsy, uneven.

It didn't stop. One misstep after another. Her body refused to keep up with the beat, each movement a struggle, her legs trembling beneath her. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't dance. She couldn't sing.

When it was time for her to sing her line, the microphone felt too heavy in her hand. The crowd's cheers seemed to echo from miles away. Hayoon's voice cracked as she began the verse, strained and fragile. The words came out in a whisper, but it wasn't the soft kind of whisper. It was raw. It was pained.

She could hear the weakness in her voice, the tremor in every note. She could feel the tears building behind her eyes, but she couldn't stop singing. She couldn't stop performing. The music kept playing, the lights kept flashing, and she had to keep moving. She had to pretend she was fine.

The chorus came, and Hayoon tried to push through it, but the words caught in her throat. Her chest tightened as she sang, and she could feel the tears falling, even though she tried to hide them. They slipped down her face, hot against her cold skin, but she kept singing. She didn't stop.

She had to keep going.

The final note of the song hung in the air, and the audience erupted into applause. The other girls smiled, laughing and basking in the afterglow of the performance, but Hayoon couldn't bring herself to smile. She felt numb, empty, as though she had given everything and received nothing in return.

But the night wasn't over. She had one more performance to give.

The cover of Billie Eilish's TV was next. The song's haunting melody was something Hayoon had always loved, something she'd felt an unspoken connection to. But tonight, singing it felt like a confession. It was as though she was pouring out every inch of her soul, every inch of the pain she had been carrying.

As the instrumental began, she took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. She closed her eyes, steadying herself as she stood alone in the spotlight, the world outside fading away.

"I don't wanna talk right now..."

The words left her lips in a whisper, so quiet it was almost as though she was afraid someone would hear the tremor in her voice. She didn't have the energy to project, to make the song sound perfect. She didn't care about perfection. She cared about this song, this moment. She needed it.

Her voice was raw. It cracked in places, the emotion overwhelming. She could feel the tears building in her eyes, threatening to spill, but she couldn't stop. Not now. Not when everything felt so suffocating, so heavy. The lyrics felt like they were written for her, a song about falling apart, about being trapped in a world that didn't make sense.

"I just wanna watch TV..."

Her voice wavered as she sang, and the pain was clear. It was all there—raw, unfiltered. She felt the words seep into her chest, the weight of them breaking her from the inside out. The tears started to fall, but she didn't wipe them away. She didn't care anymore. She was too far gone.

By the end of the song, she was trembling. Her voice had faltered, but it had still been beautiful. Still, it had carried the weight of every unspoken feeling she had ever felt. The song ended, but Hayoon stood there, motionless, her heart beating erratically in her chest.

The silence stretched on, the audience waiting for her to move, to acknowledge the performance. But she couldn't. She just stood there, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that had been released in the space of a few minutes.

The night after the concert, Hayoon's phone was filled with notifications. Messages poured in from fans and the internet, all wondering the same thing—what had happened to her? Why had her performance been so different, so off? They'd seen the way she struggled on stage, the way her voice cracked, and they were concerned. But the concern didn't feel like comfort. Instead, it felt like an unbearable weight, another reminder of how far she had fallen from the image of perfection she had once tried so desperately to maintain.

Fans speculated, offered their sympathy, and even some of the crueler comments started to creep in, questioning her professionalism, her talent, her worth. The questions—what was wrong with her? Why had she been so distant?—all kept circling in her mind like a swarm of angry bees, relentless and stinging. She couldn't escape it.

She couldn't look at herself in the mirror without hearing the cruel voices. You're weak. You're not good enough. You're not an idol anymore.

Hayoon locked her phone and tossed it aside. The weight of the world pressed against her chest. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to curl up in her bed and never leave, to not face anyone. She had to be strong for the fans, for the group, for everyone who was watching, but right now, there was nothing left. She was empty.

Minutes turned into hours, and she stayed in her room, staring blankly at the wall, her mind a mess of conflicting thoughts. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She didn't want to face the world outside, not when everything felt so heavy, so dark.

But then, there was a knock on her door.

Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she thought maybe it was just her imagination. But then, the knock came again, this time louder, more urgent.

"Hayoon, it's me. Ni-ki."

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn't hide from him. Not anymore.

With a sigh, she pushed herself off the bed and dragged her feet to the door. She opened it slowly, almost reluctantly, and saw Ni-ki standing in the hallway. His usual smile wasn't there. His eyes were filled with concern, and his lips were set in a line, like he was unsure of how to approach her.

"Can I come in?" he asked gently, but there was an unspoken urgency in his voice.

Hayoon hesitated. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. But there was something in his eyes—something that made her feel like maybe he could help, or maybe he was just the person she needed to see right now.

With a small nod, she stepped aside to let him in.

He entered quietly, standing in the middle of her room for a moment, his gaze scanning her face for any sign of what was really going on. Hayoon could feel his eyes on her, his concern palpable. But she didn't want to deal with it. She didn't want to talk about how broken she felt, how everything seemed to be falling apart. She wanted him to just leave, to stop looking at her like that.

Ni-ki took a slow step toward her, his voice low but steady. "Hayoon... what's going on? You've been off lately. Everyone's noticed. You haven't been yourself."

Hayoon forced a smile, but it felt fake, even to her. "I'm fine. Everything's fine, Ni-ki. Don't worry about me."

He frowned, clearly not buying her words. "You're not fine, Hayoon. I know something's wrong. Please, just talk to me."

She shook her head, her hands trembling. "There's nothing to talk about, Ni-ki. Everything is fine."

But Ni-ki wouldn't let it go. He stepped closer to her, his presence gentle but insistent. "Hayoon, I know you're lying to me. You don't have to pretend. You can talk to me. You don't have to go through this alone."

For a brief moment, Hayoon's walls cracked, and the emotion she'd been holding back threatened to spill over. Her eyes burned with the weight of all the unspoken things she'd been carrying, the pain, the exhaustion, the fear. But she couldn't let it out. She couldn't burden him with her struggles.

"I said I'm fine," she repeated, her voice firm this time, though it wavered at the edges.

Ni-ki's expression softened, but his determination didn't waver. "I don't believe you. If you're fine, then why have you been avoiding me? Why won't you talk to me?"

She took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. "Because it's none of your business," she snapped, the words coming out harsher than she intended. She could feel the anger bubbling inside her, a mixture of frustration, sadness, and a deep sense of self-loathing. "You don't understand, Ni-ki. No one does. So please, just leave me alone."

The words stung as they left her mouth, but once they were out, she couldn't take them back. She watched as Ni-ki's face fell, his eyes full of hurt, but still, he didn't move. He stood there, staring at her, searching for a way to reach her.

"Hayoon," he said quietly, his voice a soft whisper of concern, "please don't shut me out. I care about you. I want to help."

But Hayoon didn't want help. She didn't want to be seen like this, didn't want to show how broken she felt, didn't want anyone to know how much she was struggling. She wanted to stay in her isolation, in the dark place she had made for herself.

With a shaky breath, she pushed past him, heading toward the door. "I need to be alone. Please, Ni-ki. Just leave."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her one last time before he turned and left without another word.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Hayoon slumped against the wall, her chest heaving with the weight of the emotions she couldn't seem to control. She felt the tears come, hot and heavy, but she didn't wipe them away. She let herself cry, letting the overwhelming flood of pain consume her.

She had pushed him away, pushed everyone away, and now she was completely alone.

But maybe that was better. Maybe it was better this way.

That night, Ni-ki sat on the couch in the ENHYPEN dorm, staring at his phone. His messages to Hayoon still sat unanswered, each one like a weight pressing down on his chest. He had tried everything: asking if she was okay, sending silly pictures, even a few heart emojis that he hoped would make her smile. But nothing. It was as though she had disappeared from his life entirely, leaving only silence in her wake.

The other members were scattered around the dorm, quietly watching him. They didn't say much, but Ni-ki could feel their concern. Sunoo sat beside him, nudging his shoulder.

"She's going through something," Sunoo said softly. "I know it's hard, but you can't take it personally. Sometimes people need space."

Ni-ki clenched his jaw, staring at the blank screen of his phone. "I don't want to give her space. She's hurting, and I can't just sit here and do nothing."

He rubbed his temples, frustration bubbling in his chest. Every memory of her played on a loop in his mind—the way her laughter used to echo in their stolen moments, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the things she loved. But now, all of that seemed so far away, unreachable.

"I'm worried about her," he admitted after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. "She looked so... lost during that concert. I've never seen her like that. It's not just the hate, it's... something else. She's not eating, she's not smiling, she's not—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "It's like she's disappearing right in front of me."

Jungwon, sitting across the room, nodded thoughtfully. "She probably feels trapped. The rumors, the pressure, the expectations... it's a lot for anyone to handle. You care about her, right?"

Ni-ki didn't hesitate. "Of course I do."

"Then show her that," Jungwon said. "Not through messages or waiting for her to reach out. Go to her. Make her see that she's not alone, even if she tries to push you away."

The idea lingered in Ni-ki's mind long after the conversation ended. He knew the others were right—he couldn't just wait for Hayoon to come to him. She needed someone to remind her that she wasn't alone, even if she didn't want to admit it.

So, the next day, after rehearsals, he grabbed his jacket and headed to her dorm. He didn't tell the others where he was going, didn't stop to think about whether this was a good idea. All he knew was that he needed to see her, to tell her that he was there for her no matter what.

When he arrived, he knocked on her door, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no response at first, but he knocked again, more insistently.

Finally, the door opened, and there she was. Hayoon looked smaller than ever, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She didn't even seem surprised to see him—just tired, as though the weight of the world was dragging her down.

Ni-ki made a silent promise to himself that night: he would be there for Hayoon, no matter what it took. She might not see it now, but she wasn't alone. And he would do everything in his power to make her believe that.