The next few days turned into a blur of double lives.
In the daylight, Minjun still dragged himself to Starline's cramped practice rooms, sweat-soaked hoodie clinging to his back as he mirrored Jiwoo's spins and shouts. Jiwoo never noticed how Minjun's eyes kept drifting to the clock on the wall — counting down to the moment he'd slip away.
At night, after the last lights flickered out at Starline, Minjun would ride the bus across town to Orion's polished studio. Seojin kept him late, drilling him on rough choreography that felt sharper, more dangerous than Starline's safe bubblegum pop. Each move was a cut, each note a demand: Prove you're worth this risk.
He'd stumble home in the dawn hours, shower off the sweat, scribble lyrics that never made it into his Starline notebook — lyrics meant only for Orion's studio, locked behind the hush Seojin insisted on.
He told Jiwoo nothing.
Not about the contract hidden under his mattress. Not about Seojin's sly promises. Not about the sudden way his mother's face lit up when she thought the trainee fee had magically been covered — paid by a secret loan Minjun told her he'd "figured out."
Jiwoo just grinned at him as always. Pushed half his lunch onto Minjun's tray when he saw him zoning out. Teased him when he forgot steps. Wrapped an arm around his shoulders when they collapsed together on the practice room floor, panting and laughing.
"You're off these days," Jiwoo said one night, poking Minjun's cheek with a chopstick as they ate convenience store ramen side by side. "Your brain's on some rooftop, huh? Writing your angsty lyrics?"
Minjun forced a laugh. "Yeah. Just tired."
Jiwoo frowned, noodle halfway to his mouth. "You'd tell me if something was up, right?"
No, Minjun thought, but he nodded anyway. "Of course."
Jiwoo searched his eyes for a moment too long — then broke into a grin, shaking his head. "Man, you're weird lately. I kinda hate it. But also, I'd die without your weirdness. So whatever."
He draped his arm around Minjun's neck, pulling him in for a suffocating headlock until Minjun wheezed out a laugh that didn't reach his eyes.
Late that night, Minjun lay on his rooftop again, the stars smothered by city haze. The Orion folder glowed on his phone screen — legal jargon, the promise of a debut. No fees. Fast-track. Sub-unit. All it asked in return was the truth.
He tried to write a song — something about loyalty and betrayal — but the words turned sour in his mouth. He closed the notebook and lay there listening to the hum of traffic, the sound of his mother coughing in the apartment below, Jiwoo's voice echoing in his head: You'd tell me if something was up, right?
Days turned to weeks. Seojin's demands grew sharper. One evening, Minjun staggered into Orion's practice room, body screaming after six hours of Starline's vocal drills.
Seojin didn't even look up from his phone. "Don't look so dead, Rooftop Boy. I'm giving you a life people would sell their souls for."
Minjun bit his tongue until he tasted blood. He wanted to snap that he was selling something — his best friend, his old self, the only person who'd believed in him before Seojin did.
Instead, he danced until his knees gave out and Seojin finally told him to go home.
Jiwoo noticed. Of course he did. He always did.
One night after practice, Jiwoo cornered Minjun by the lockers. The room was empty except for the echo of the old AC rattling overhead.
"Hey," Jiwoo said, blocking the exit with his arm. He looked almost angry — which, for Jiwoo, was rare enough to make Minjun's stomach flip.
"What?" Minjun asked, trying to keep his voice light. He couldn't meet Jiwoo's eyes.
Jiwoo stepped closer. "What's going on with you, huh? You ghost me after practice, you don't answer your phone half the time, you keep zoning out when we're supposed to be working on our duet for the next trainee showcase—"
Minjun flinched. He'd almost forgotten about the showcase. Their song. Jiwoo's arrangement. His own half-finished lyrics that now belonged to Seojin's folder instead.
"Nothing's going on," Minjun lied, forcing a grin that felt like it might crack his teeth. "I'm just tired, Jiwoo. That's all."
Jiwoo stared at him, eyes dark. Hurt. Suspicion flickered there — then faded, smothered by the trust Jiwoo couldn't help but give so easily.
"Okay," Jiwoo said finally, voice flat. He stepped aside. "Okay. If you say so."
Minjun walked home alone that night, the city lights blurring in his eyes. The Orion folder weighed down his bag like a stone.
Back on the rooftop, he opened his notebook one more time. He wrote a single line:
I am the lie I told you.
Then he ripped the page out and let the wind carry it away.