Minho

There are dozens of drafts in your notes that you never dare to send.
His voice is in your headphones. The same file, recorded six months ago.

Minho was always complicated. His love was as prickly as his jokes, but underneath it all was a tenderness he confided only to you. Now there's silence between you, broken only by a short audio message.
"Listen, I... well, you forgot your scarf at my place again. Don't you dare get sick, I'm not going to treat your cold. And... I'm expecting you this evening, come quickly."

You close your eyes, listening to the street noise and his quiet, almost imperceptible breathing against the background of his voice. That night, you broke up. A stupid argument, pride, words thrown at him—and now you're sitting in an empty room, pressing the phone to your ear so hard it feels like it'll help you feel the warmth of his palm.

My finger hovers over the microphone button, I just want to press it and simply whisper: “I still walk the streets where we used to walk.”
You remember the lyrics from the song—that you can't feel him around anymore—but the voice in the recording still seems so real.

The phone screen glows in the dark. You take a deep breath, feeling your fingers tremble, and instead of swiping away the notification again, you press and hold the record button.
-Minho..I..I still keep that message of yours and I miss you so much.

His heart skips a beat as his finger slips, and a blue "Sent" checkmark appears beneath the post. There's no turning back. A few seconds later, the cherished message lights up under his name: "Typing..."