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They Stayed — SEVENTEEN

we drew a circle with time, and in its center remain our smiles, our tears, and all that we couldn’t say: thank you, and I love you.

✦ 📼 › summary :: a three-part reflection through the eyes of a nameless narrator who once found a lifeline in thirteen boys on a screen. from birthday candles to exam scores to goodbye bus rides and late-night livestreams—this is a memory-laced thank you to a group that never knew your name, but still made you feel like you belonged.

✦ 📼 › genre :: idol au (?), prose, reflective slice of life, soft hurt/comfort, character study-ish

✦ 📼 › pairings:: ot13 × reader

✦ 📼 › content :: growth & grief, leaving & longing, the ache of healing, music as memory, parasocial solace, found family [unspoken], one-sided devotion that doesn’t ask to be returned but is returned, comfort in chaos, healing through music, full-circle moment, real life is the slowest burn. not quite fiction, not quite journal, emotional time capsule, being seen without being known, fandom as sanctuary, home isn’t always a place

✦ 📼 › content warnings :: mentions of loneliness, parental tension, academic burnout, mental exhaustion, but nothing explicit; mild angst if you look at it sideways. lots of tears,

✦ 📼 › a/n :: very different from how i usually write but ig you should know, this piece is stitched from the folds of my own past; the process of growing up, breaking down, and somehow still being here and surviving. low-key inspired by Encircle, high-key inspired by the way Going Seventeen episodes have healed more wounds than they’ll ever know. thank you to the past me who first watched exclusive fairytale and cause of old habits—decided to do some research on the leads [we see you, jun !! ] thank you to svt for staying, happy 10th year anniversary [and happy first svt anniversary to me]. p.s. written entirely during insomnia hours. forgive any typos; this one came from the heart.

✦ 📼 › word count :: 3123 words

You're back home, but it's raining. A soft drizzle that smears the city lights into watercolor blurs on your window. For some reason you can’t quite name, but a strange wave of sadness rolls over you; oddly nostalgic, too. Life’s been moving, not good or bad, just… moving. You're surviving, drifting along the current. Nothing’s exactly wrong, but still, it all feels a little off. Work has been relentless in that it makes your limbs heavy and your mind on autopilot. You haven’t had the time or the energy to indulge in the things that made you feel alive. The books, the playlists, the variety shows, golden hours that used to belong to you alone, they've all gathered dust somewhere in the background.

You drag yourself into the kitchen, feet padding softly against the floor. You open the fridge, the cold light spilling out across your tired face, and reach in and pull out a nearly empty milk carton, flipping the cap off with a weary thumb. You bring it to your nose, inhale cautiously. You pause, and your fingers tighten around the carton, brows furrowed slightly. It smells… okay. Technically expired, maybe, but nothing alarming. Nothing sour or offensive, just passable — like everything else lately. You shrug to yourself and reach for the instant coffee.

The kettle hums in the background as you move through the motions: spooning in the powder, adding the water, stirring slowly. It’s the kind of routine you could do with your eyes closed. You haven't had time to go grocery shopping in days. Every evening after work, you came home and collapsed straight into bed, but not to sleep, just to lie there. Too tired to even scroll, you defaulted to YouTube shorts, letting the algorithm numb you while time slipped through your fingers. But today is at least a little different; it's May 26th.

The rain still taps softly against the windowpane, you sit curled on the floor, the edges of your half-empty coffee mug cooling beside you. From the corner, a Spotify playlist running on your phone. A familiar intro filters through the room. It’s a song you haven't heard in what feels like forever; not because you forgot it, but because life got in the way. The melody drifts toward you like an old friend, that once patched the broken seams of your heart without asking for anything in return. You close your eyes, and suddenly, you're with SEVENTEEN again.

Lost, tired, clinging to hope with both hands even when it felt like hope didn’t want to stay. Alone in your bedroom, staring up at the ceiling and imagining a life that didn’t ache so much. Back then, you didn’t have the words to describe it. You couldn’t explain why some days felt impossibly heavy, or why it seemed like the world had been built for everyone else but you. But out there, somewhere, in a language you barely understood, a constellation of thirteen voices reached you. They didn’t know your name or anything, but they made space for you anyway. They wrapped their songs around your weary soul like a soft blanket and told you without ever saying, it is okay to simply exist.

You draw your knees in closer to your chest and smile. Funny, isn’t it? How music, how people, can find you even when you’re convinced you’re invisible.

You smile softly, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and draw in a breath. With one hand, you reach down to the floor beside your bed, fingers brushing the edge of the bedsheet that drapes loosely over the side. You gather the fabric, lifting and folding it back over the mattress in one fluid motion. Then, leaning forward, you shift your weight onto one arm, shoulder dipping low as you reach under the bed, fingers sweeping through dust and forgotten corners until they close around a small box.

You pull it out carefully and settle back, legs crossed beneath you, the box resting in your lap. It's old — edges softened and corners dulled by time. The lid sticks for a moment, then gives way with a soft creak. You open it slowly; reminisce and look back.

On top lies a battered diary, its pages filled with half-scrawled thoughts, song lyrics, small promises you made to yourself in your darker days. Beneath it, a photo which seems to be slightly crinkled, the ink starting to fade; a printed photo from a concert livestream. You remember it instantly: your bedroom was dark except for the blue-white glow of the screen, the warmth you felt despite being physically alone, your heart seemingly beating in sync with the cheering crowd you could only hear through your speakers.

You laugh a bit, remembering how you scrambled across Twitter that night, switching from one link to another each time one got taken down. Desperate, determined — as if that concert, streamed illegally from thousands of miles away, was the only thing tethering you to sanity… which it was.

It's their tenth anniversary today. Ten whole years.

You weren’t there from the beginning, not when they first debuted or when the world barely knew their name, but they were always there for you when you wanted; from the very start of your story. Through sleepless nights, forgotten birthdays, and the crushing loneliness of growing up; they were there. In your ears, in your heart, in the margins of your school notebooks and the playlists that carried you home.

Life pulled you away, as it always does — busier and lonelier. You haven’t been able to keep up like you used to. The new songs, the live streams, the celebrations, passed in a blur. For more than a year now, you’ve watched from a distance, always meaning to catch up, always too tired to try, but they… never truly left you. Even when your hands were too full to reach back, they stayed in the corners of your heart.

You run your thumb across the old photo, a small laugh slipping from your throat. You’ll celebrate with them tonight. For the music that once held your shaking hands, for the voices that wrapped around your silence, for the comfort that arrived through glowing screens from a world away. You close your eyes, and for a second, you’re that younger version of yourself again; heart full, hands empty, but never alone. And when you open them, the feeling remains. Happy anniversary, you think. Thank you for finding me.

Snapshot One: First Winter

You were sixteen, standing at the edge of yet another argument at home, feeling so small it hurt to breathe. You hovered by the living room doorway, arms folded across your chest, eyes burning not from tears, but from exhaustion.

“Why can’t you be more like your cousins?” your mother snapped, slamming a stack of papers onto the table. “They know what they’re doing. They don’t sit around wasting time with K-pop boys and drawing and all these… distractions!”

“I’m not them,” you muttered, your voice shaking.

“Exactly!” your father’s voice cut in. “You’re not them. You don’t even try to be better. You’re always hiding in your room, listening to that nonsense, wasting your time online. What will that get you?”

You stared at the floor. You didn’t want to shout, but if you spoke louder, you were afraid your voice would crack, so instead, you clenched your fists behind your back. “I’m doing my best.”

“Your best?” your mother scoffed with an eye roll. “Your best isn’t enough. You don’t study like you should. You’re not focused. Every time we ask you to do something, you act like we’re attacking you. We’re trying to help, and all you do is shut down!”

“I’m tired,” escaped your mouth. “You never listen when I say I’m tired.”

“Tired of what?” your father barked. “You don’t even have responsibilities yet. What do you know about being tired?”

Something in you snapped then, but it was like a crack running through glass. “I’m tired of never being enough for you.”

The silence that followed was sharp and awkward. Your mother’s mouth opened, then closed. Your father turned away, muttering something under his breath, maybe about respect, maybe about how you were being irrelevant again.

You didn’t wait for more though. You turned on your heel and walked to your room, closing the door behind you with trembling hands. The moment the latch clicked, you sank to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest. Shoving your earbuds in, you scrolled desperately through your playlist, looking for anything that could drown it all out. The opening notes played, familiar and comforting. No need to rush, you're doing fine. Just stay as you are.

You didn’t understand the whole lyric back then. Korean wasn’t your first language, and you hadn’t looked up the full translation. But somehow, those words felt like enough. Like a hand reaching out in the dark. You clutched the buds tighter, turned the volume up higher, and let the voices blur into warmth. You believed them, because you had to.

Snapshot Two: A Lonely Birthday

You hadn’t planned to cry on your seventeenth birthday.

You woke up to silence. No messages or knocks on your door were in sight. Just the soft ping of your phone as Google Calendar politely reminded you: It's your birthday today – 17 years. You stared at the screen for a moment, then turned it face down on your pillow. It wasn’t that you expected anything grand, but maybe a text. A voice from the other side of your bedroom door hurried “oh, right��it’s today?” from someone in the kitchen, but there was nothing. Just the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the clink of dishes being washed downstairs. You were being paranoid again.

So you went through the motions. You brushed your hair, tied it into a low ponytail, threw on your hoodie, which still smelled faintly like fabric softener. You grabbed your wallet and slipped out quietly, telling yourself you just needed fresh air.

At the convenience store, you stood in front of the dessert fridge longer than necessary. Rows of cakes stared back at you with too-bright frosting and cheerful little decorations. You chose the smallest slice—chocolate with a thin curl of cream on top, and added a single candle from the counter display. The cashier didn’t say anything, just rang it up and handed it over with a practiced smile.

By the time you climbed to the rooftop of your building, the sky had already begun to dim. The city below pulsed with life, but up here, it was quiet and empty. You sat cross-legged near the edge, placing the slice of cake on the concrete beside you. It wobbled a little in its plastic container. You lit the candle with a matchstick, shielding the tiny flame with your hand from the cool breeze. And then, as the sun dipped further, you pressed play on your phone.

The opening chords drifted into your ears, the familiar harmony of thirteen voices. Singing about dreams, about holding on, about the promise to stay together even when everything changes. You looked at the candle. No party hats, no wrapped presents, no one saying your name out loud; still, you blew it out.

You sat there for a long while after that, watching the smoke curl into the air. Picking at the cake with a plastic spoon, eating small bites between the ache in your throat and the music in your ears. And for a moment, it didn’t feel so heavy, because even though you didn’t have anyone sitting in front of you, even though the world seemed to forget you for a day, you weren’t really alone. You closed your eyes.

The city was still buzzing below, but here, in your ears, they were singing only to you. 'Cause I'm your home, home, home, home. A place you can come to, a place you can come to. And that was enough for now.

Snapshot Three: Leaving Home

Your suitcase was too small to fit everything. Not just your clothes and books, but the things that weighed heavier: your past, your fears, your entire heart. You tried, though. Folded the memories into corners, zipped up regrets between sweaters, tucked silent hopes beneath a faded hoodie that still smelled like home. But the suitcase clicked shut anyway, bulging slightly at the sides.

The bus station was a place that hummed with goodbyes and beginnings. You found your seat by the window and sank into it slowly, your backpack in your lap. The driver announced something over the intercom, but you barely heard it, and the city began to move.

It slid past in streaks of color, neon signs flashing in the rain, buildings reduced to shadows, everything growing softer the further you went. You leaned your forehead against the cool window, watching as the places you once knew blurred into the distance. You told yourself not to cry, but a song started in your headphones, and as if on cue, that one line whispered through: Whenever and wherever we are; even if we are not together, just like always; our smile flowers will bloom. That was it. The tears came faster than expected, slipping down your cheeks and pooling beneath your chin. You pressed harder into the glass, as if you could anchor yourself to something that was already gone. Behind you was everything you’d known. Every mistake, and every version of you that had tried and failed and tried again. Every reason you once thought you should give up, but here you were; moving forward.

Because somewhere, through voices that never saw your face, in lyrics sung across languages and oceans, someone made you believe you could. And so, you did.

-

Your laptop rests on your thighs, the weight of it barely noticeable. You're half-sitting, half-slouched on your worn-out mattress, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, a thin blanket bunched around your waist. The screen glows softly in the dim room, lighting up your face with shifting colors as the 10th anniversary weverse live plays. Their voices rise and fall with familiar laughter, yelling, sudden quiet. You don’t catch most of what they’re saying. You don't have a subscription to keep up properly anyway, with how things are right now. Bills first, always. Still, you watch even though you aren't understanding. You can always watch the subtitled version on YouTube.

Seventeen has always been a beautiful contradiction. A band of fools who never cared about the rules of being ‘idols.’ They’d bicker on camera like siblings at war, then turn around and say something that leaves your heart cracked open. There was no pretense, no illusion, just thirteen people being utterly, stupidly, heartbreakingly themselves. It always made you laugh, and… known.

You lift the cup of buldak ramen to your lips, careful not to spill. It's too spicy, your eyes water a little. You slurp another mouthful, noodles slipping from your chopsticks, your fingers, clumsy and red from the heat. The spice lingers on your tongue, and you wipe your nose with the back of your hand, sniffling without any grace.

On the screen, they suddenly break into chaos—Mingyu falls off his chair, Dokyeom screams laughing. You snort, typical. You laugh, mouth full, and then, just like that, you remember memories.

The flood of years behind you. Crying into your pillow over failed exams, walking home in the rain after another silent dinner full of tension, arguing with your parents and hearing your voice echo back at you, friends who stopped calling, plans that never came to be. All the tiny moments that once broke your heart. But through it all, they were there. Not physically, not even knowingly, but they were there. And when your world felt like it was closing in, their world opened up to you; welcoming, chaotic, oddly healing.

Time passed, and you grew up. You started calling yourself things like “adult” and “tired.” The little joys you once clung to became luxuries. The friends who once promised ‘forever’ faded into profiles you rarely tapped on anymore. Dreams turned into ‘practical decisions.’ And yet, Seventeen’s comfort never left. You think of the nights when Going Seventeen played, your laughter echoing into your quiet room. You think of their dumb jokes, their games, their little skits that made you forget the weight pressing on your chest. You remember feeling okay; maybe even happy.

The numbers on the calendar flew by, the seasons changed, and so did you. But the warmth Seventeen gave you, the tiny circle they once carefully drew around your heart with their fingers, stayed.

You take another bite of ramen, swallow it slowly. No matter how much changed, that gratitude never did, and neither did they.

Now, when life grows heavy and unbearable, when your chest feels hollow and your room echoes too loudly with absence, you find yourself reaching back, but with your heart instead of your hands, remembering those moments, those melodies, those words, those silly goofy antics that once held you together when no one else knew how. The world had been too sharp then. People passed you by like shadows, and your voice felt too small to be heard, but their voices—thirteen of them, laughing and stumbling and singing; wrapped around you like warmth on a cold winter night. You didn’t understand how or why it worked; only that it did. That when you thought you’d break, they held you in the space between verses and refrains.

You press play on ‘Encircle’ again. The first note hits, and it’s like unlocking a door you didn’t realize was still closed. Suddenly, you’re there back in the past again—shoulders shaking while the glow from your laptop screen shone, tears slipping down your cheeks, heart aching but beating. You remember the laughter that pulled you back from the edge. The tears that became a little lighter because of a lyric. The nights you didn’t think you’d make it through… but did, because somehow, without ever realizing it, they stayed.

A thought bubbles up: I never got to tell them thank you properly... but I hope somehow, they know. Because it was never about being noticed by them, but being held. Being seen in the invisibility. It was love, that was gentle, selfless, one-sided but whole. It’s a love that asked for nothing in return; a full-circle healing between you, between Carats like you, and the boys who never even knew your name, yet saved you anyway.

-

> Some memories never fade, even when you leave. Some songs keep you going, even when you forget how to speak. To thirteen boys who once reminded us how to stay.