Chapter 74 — Shadows Between Frames
9:23 PM — Somewhere Far from the Cameras
Location: Undisclosed. Private. Silent.
The screen was paused.
A frame from the live broadcast.
Jaeheon, seated on the floor. Backlit by the low dorm lights. Eyes focused somewhere far beyond what the camera could reach.
He looked like a still from a painting again.
And Anastasia was staring at that frame.
Unblinking.
Her AI assistant hovered silently nearby, awaiting instruction. It had compiled every segment of the broadcast where Jaeheon appeared, filtered for micro-expressions, keyword clusters, and attention spikes from fans.
She didn't need any of it.
She just wanted to see him.
And she had.
For exactly thirteen seconds.
That was how long her gaze had lingered on the screen before she clicked away the first time.
That had been thirteen hours ago.
Now the screen was frozen.
And her expression hadn't changed.
Blank, unreadable, but locked—so intensely locked—on his face that even the AI paused its gentle algorithm.
Inside Her Mind
She remembered the garden.
The conversation.
His voice—low, reverent, trembling only once.
She had walked away that night with the certainty that he would never say any of it again.
But he had.
Every time he stood on stage.
Every lyric. Every pause.
Every heartbeat between syllables.
He had been speaking to her. Still was.
"He hasn't moved on."
The realization was not surprising.
What surprised her was how steady her pulse remained.
Her heart wasn't racing.
Her breath didn't catch.
Instead, there was… gravity.
Not emotional, but inevitable.
Like orbit.
She closed the screen.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't move.
The silence was not awkward. It never was with her.
But it felt heavier now.
Like it, too, knew what had changed.
AI Assistant:
"Would you like me to log this broadcast in priority memory?"
Her gaze flicked toward the interface.
Then back to the now-black screen.
"No."
Elsewhere — 9:32 PM
AUREUS Dorm — Bedroom Cam
Jaeheon stood alone in the small bedroom, phone in hand again.
Unread.
Still unread.
But it didn't matter.
He didn't write tonight.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because saying too much now might break whatever invisible line held her near.
He simply closed his eyes.
And smiled—once.
Faint, exhausted, but genuine.
And the world kept watching.
Unaware that something in their golden illusion had just shifted.
Not for them.
Not for views.
Not for drama.
But for two people who had once stood in a hidden garden under a chandelier of moonlight.
And spoke the kind of truths that never needed to be repeated aloud.