the next morning, hongjoong woke up alone in his bronx apartment with the taste of regret still on his tongue.

his head ached. not from the alcohol, but from the weight of everything he had said and everything he had not. the silence in his apartment was so loud he wanted to scream just to fill it.

he did not. instead, he curled into the couch in his too-big hoodie, a blanket draped over his legs, and hit play on the luke hemmings playlist he always came back to. 'a beautiful dream' drifted through the speakers, soft and aching. his chest tightened on instinct.

he let the music wash over him. it always knew what to say when he did not.

i see it all here in color
it's such a beautiful dream
you know that i'm just like a mother
except for you who i should be

hongjoong stared out the window. the sky outside was overcast, typical for april. grey light filtered through the glass, painting everything in a quiet, sorrowful hue.

his phone was face down on the coffee table. he had not touched it since he stumbled back home last night. after the door closed behind him, after seonghwa's voice faded into silence, he had walked the long blocks home, head bowed to the wind. he had not cried, not then. but now, in the stillness, it came easier.

his eyes burned. his throat ached.

he curled tighter into himself.

"you should've held onto him," he whispered aloud this time, like saying it would undo what he had done. but it did not. the words just sat there, sharp and hollow.

the song continued playing.

if it could go on forever
i guess we'll let it be
rushing to some kind of father
except for you who i should be
and nothing's gonna go right
ah-ah, ooh, ooh, woah
can't you just stay for a while?

his tears fell quietly. he did not sob, not loudly. it was the kind of crying that came from deep inside, the kind you can not stop once it starts. the kind that tastes like shame and loneliness and every missed chance that slips through your fingers.

seonghwa's face lingered behind his eyelids. soft. tired. kind, even in his hurt. and hongjoong hated himself for all the ways he had worn that kindness down.

he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

"why can't i ever just let myself be loved?"

his mind drifted to his childhood again, like it always did when he was left alone with music and silence. it wandered back to dim rooms and slammed doors, to the cold, biting voice of a father who never once looked at him with softness. a man who never offered warmth, only sharp words that pierced deeper than bruises ever could.

you're too sensitive.
you'll never be enough.
no one will ever love you.

he had heard it so often it started to echo inside him, long after his father stopped saying it out loud. long after he left. and yet, the damage stayed. the words lived in him like ghosts, whispering through every moment he tried to open his heart.

hongjoong hated that he let it sink in. hated that part of him still believed it. believed it enough to ruin good things. to push people away before they could leave him first. to love at arm's length. to shut down the second it got too close, too real.

can't you just stay, stay, stay, stay?
could you just stay, stay, stay, stay?

the song played softly through his headphones, and he felt it all; like a film reel of his life flickering behind his eyes. he thought of the quiet moments, when his mother brushed his hair back with gentle fingers and called him her beautiful boy. he thought of how hard she tried to shield him from the chaos. how her love was the only steady thing he ever had.

he wished he could be made only from her; the way she loved, the way she smiled even when life tried to wear her down. but he was not.

he was made from both of them. the softness and the cruelty. the nurturing and the neglect. the open arms of a mother, and the closed fists of a father.

and somewhere in between, he was still trying to figure out who that made him.

a memory pulled at him, sudden and vivid.

he was small again, around seven. the kitchen of their old apartment smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. his mom was humming under her breath, sleeves rolled up, guiding his little hands as they mixed the cookie dough together.

"like this, joongie. gentle, yeah? fold it in like a hug. see?"

he remembered giggling, cheeks dusted in flour. she kissed the top of his head and passed him a spoon to lick. the oven was warm and the windows were fogged up from the heat. it was the safest he had ever felt.

then the fire alarm blared.

just smoke, nothing serious. but it did not matter.

his father stormed in moments later, fists clenched, voice already at full volume.

"what the hell is going on in here?!"

his mom tried to explain, tried to calm him down.

"i told you two to stop this nonsense!" he roared, and before hongjoong could even blink, his father's hand was on her face.

the sound of the slap was louder than the alarm.

hongjoong froze.

his mother did not cry. she just stood there, silent, her cheek red. then she crouched and took hongjoong's flour-covered hands in hers.

but his father was not finished. he turned on hongjoong, eyes wild.

"you think anyone's gonna love you when you grow up, huh? some sad little boy who can't do anything right? nobody wants you. useless piece of shit, always causing trouble in this house."

hongjoong remembered the sting of those words more than anything else. remembered how he believed them. how he still believed them.

he sat up now, brushing the tears from his face with the back of his sleeve.

the memory clung to him like smoke.

and now, here he was, sitting in his quiet apartment, surrounded by unfinished dreams and a silence that did not leave room for love.

was he worthy of this pastry program?

was he worthy of trying again?

he stood up slowly, knees stiff from being curled too long. he walked into the kitchen, bare and cluttered with half-clean dishes and unopened mail. he looked at the oven. his hands shook.

he opened the cabinet. pulled out flour. sugar. eggs. a stick of butter.

just like that night.

and even though his hands trembled, he began.

he turned the oven on. let it preheat.

he cracked the eggs into a bowl, one at a time, like his mother had taught him. he mixed the sugar and butter together until it turned pale and fluffy. he added vanilla and lemon zest. the smell filled the kitchen, slow and warm.

it smelled like safety. like softness. like something worth saving.

he did not know if he would ever see seonghwa again or if he would be forgiven. he did not know if the program would be the start of something better, or just another failure waiting to happen.

but for now, he was trying.

as the oven ticked and the bars began to bake, hongjoong stood in his little kitchen, sleeves rolled up, flour on his cheek.

he folded the batter gently.

like a hug.