Title: Empty Pages

Cha Eunwoo sat quietly in his room, the soft hum of the outside world muffled by the thick walls that separated him from the world he once knew. His fingers gently traced the cover of the notebook in front of him, the leather smooth but cold under his touch. It had been months since Moonbin was gone, months since his world had shifted into something he couldn't recognize anymore.

Moonbin had always been the loud one, the one who pulled him out of his shell, making him laugh when everything felt too heavy. They were more than just friends. They were brothers, partners in crime, two halves of a whole. But now, Moonbin's side of their shared world was an empty void, an unfillable space that Eunwoo couldn't bear to face.

The first day Eunwoo heard the news felt like the ground had opened up beneath him. It was a call that shattered everything, a voice on the other end of the line telling him the one person who had always understood him was gone. Eunwoo didn't know how to react. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. He could only hear the words echoing in his head, growing louder with every passing second: Moonbin's gone... Moonbin's gone...

It had been like living in a fog ever since. The days blended into one another, indistinguishable from each other. He would wake up each morning with a forced smile on his face, the one everyone expected of him, but it never reached his eyes. It never made it past the walls he'd built around his heart. The world saw Cha Eunwoo—the idol, the flawless performer, the shining star—but inside, he was just a boy missing his best friend, drowning in the silence Moonbin left behind.

Every month that passed, the pain grew heavier. Time moved on, but Eunwoo couldn't. The weight of the loss crushed him, and yet he had no choice but to keep moving forward. His agency, his fans, his fellow members—all of them expected him to keep smiling, to keep performing. But inside, he was breaking.

He bought the notebook as a way to hold onto Moonbin. It was a small thing, a simple gesture, but it was all he could do. He would write in it every night before bed, pouring out his thoughts and feelings, letting the ink stain the pages like the tears he couldn't shed. He wrote about everything: about their childhood memories, their late-night conversations, the laughter they shared.

But it was always the same thing that haunted him—the way Moonbin had left, the way he had chosen to end it all. Eunwoo couldn't make sense of it. He had always been there for Moonbin, had always tried to be the friend he needed. But in the end, it wasn't enough.

"I should've known," Eunwoo wrote on one page, his handwriting messy, as if the words themselves were fighting to escape him. "I should've seen the signs. Why didn't you talk to me, Moonbin? Why didn't you tell me? I was always here... I'm still here."

Each word felt like a weight he had to carry, the guilt gnawing at him. He wished he could have done something, anything, to stop it. He wished he could have been the one to save Moonbin, to pull him back from the edge before it was too late. But now, all he had were these pages—pages filled with words he couldn't say out loud.

As the months turned into a year, Eunwoo slowly started to heal. The pain didn't go away, but it became something he could live with, something he could carry. He began to find small pieces of himself again, the parts that had been lost in the wake of Moonbin's departure. He laughed a little more, smiled a little more, but the hole in his heart never fully closed.

He found himself sitting on their couch one evening, a cup of tea in his hands, looking at the space where Moonbin used to sit. He had left the couch untouched for months. Now, he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it. The thought of someone else sitting there, occupying Moonbin's space, felt like a betrayal. The silence that had once been comforting now felt like an ever-present reminder of the absence he couldn't escape.

A few weeks ago, Eunwoo had taken down all the photos of Moonbin from the walls of his room. He couldn't stand seeing the smiling face that now felt like a ghost. His heart would twist every time he caught sight of those pictures—Moonbin's laughter echoing in the back of his mind like an almost forgotten memory. He wanted to forget, but he couldn't. He didn't want to. He wanted to hold onto everything, even if it hurt.

One night, as he was writing in the notebook, his pen stopped moving for a moment as he read over the words he had just written: I miss you. I don't know how to keep going without you. I feel so empty, and no one understands. They keep telling me to move on, but how can I? How can I move on when it feels like part of me is gone forever?

He set the pen down, his hand trembling. He had been pretending for so long, trying to convince everyone—himself included—that he was fine. But the truth was, he was far from it. He wasn't fine. He wasn't okay. And maybe he never would be.

The tears came without warning, streaming down his face as he clutched the notebook to his chest. It was the first time in months that he allowed himself to cry, to truly feel the weight of his grief. He had been holding it all in, trying to be strong, trying to be what everyone expected him to be. But now, as the sobs wracked his body, Eunwoo allowed himself to let go. For a brief moment, he didn't have to be Cha Eunwoo—the idol, the star. He was just a boy who had lost his best friend, and he was allowed to mourn.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, crying into the pages of his notebook, but when he finally stopped, he felt drained. Empty. And yet, in some strange way, he also felt a little lighter. Maybe it was the release of the pain, the letting go of everything he had been holding inside. But the emptiness remained. Moonbin was still gone. The world had still moved on without him.

But there was something else now. A feeling, deep in his chest, that told him it was okay to miss Moonbin. It was okay to not have everything figured out. And it was okay to keep writing—to keep the memory of his best friend alive, even if it was only through the pages of this notebook.

"Every day I fake a smile," Eunwoo wrote on the last page of the notebook, the ink smudged from his tears. "But it's not the same. Nothing will ever be the same. I miss you so much, Moonbin. I always will."

And so, with each passing day, Eunwoo carried Moonbin with him, not just in his memories, but in every word he wrote, every thought he had. Moonbin's absence was a shadow that would never fade, but Eunwoo had come to realize that maybe that was okay. Because as long as he remembered, as long as he kept writing, Moonbin would never truly be gone.

There were times when he still felt like he could hear Moonbin's voice, calling out to him, teasing him like they used to. And when those moments came, Eunwoo would smile through the tears, holding onto the memory of his best friend. Because, in some strange way, it felt like Moonbin was still right there beside him—alive in the spaces between his words, in the memories that kept him going.

And as Eunwoo closed the notebook for the final time, he made a silent promise to himself: he would keep living. For Moonbin. For the memories they had shared. For the love that had never died, no matter how many empty pages filled with grief and longing remained in his heart.