Genre- ??? to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pinning, Jihoon is YEARNING
Synopsis(Pt.2) - You thought the hardest part was losing him. You were wrong. The hardest part was finding out the person who made you feel seen was someone you never truly knew.
Months after the late-night conversations, the convenience store lights, and the goodbye he never gave, he comes back with no excuses—only a promise to be honest this time. But forgiveness isn’t the same as forgetting, and love isn’t enough without trust.As he slowly lets you into the world he once hid from you, you have to decide if the boy you fell for was real… and if you’re willing to let him stay.
Word count - 5k+
Playlist - Who Knows(Daniel Caesar)
Pt.1(Can be read as a stand alone)
The first thing he noticed when he came home was that everything looked exactly the same.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The streets he had passed hundreds of times still looked familiar. The city lights still reflected against the windows of passing cars. The convenience stores still stayed open through the night, their bright signs glowing against the darkness like little reminders that somewhere, someone was still awake.
Everything was the same.
Except the one thing he wanted to find.
You.
He stood outside the convenience store, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he stared through the glass doors.
Three in the morning.
The same time.
The same place.
The same stupid routine he had built his entire life around without realizing it.
For a moment, he let himself believe that when he walked inside, you would be there. Maybe you would be sitting at the table outside with a drink in your hand, complaining about work like you always did. Maybe you would look up, roll your eyes, and ask where the hell he had been.
Maybe you would laugh.
Maybe you would forgive him.
But deep down, he already knew.
You wouldn’t.
Because he wasn’t the only person who had been waiting.
You had waited too.
And he had been the reason you stopped.
The bell above the door rang softly as he entered.
-
The convenience store looked exactly how he remembered it. The shelves were still lined with snacks neither of you ever bought, the lights were still far too bright for three in the morning, and the cashier still looked half asleep as they sat behind the counter. Everything about the place felt almost painfully familiar, like he could walk outside and see you sitting at the small table waiting for him like you always used to.
But when his eyes moved toward the corner, reality settled in.
The table was empty.
It was the same table where he had spent months learning every little thing about you. The table where he had laughed more than he had in years. The table where he had slowly forgotten about the pressure of being someone everyone else expected him to be.
It was the one place where he had been able to exist without pretending.
And now it was just a table.
His chest tightened at the realization, and he hated himself for being surprised. Deep down, he knew you weren’t going to wait forever. He knew that after disappearing without an explanation, after leaving you to wonder what happened, he didn’t deserve to walk back in and find you sitting there like nothing had changed.
Because if he was being honest, he had done the exact same thing to you.
He had left you waiting.
-
Before Jihoon met you, he thought he understood loneliness.
He thought loneliness was being surrounded by thousands of people and still feeling like nobody actually knew you. He thought it was standing in front of a crowd, hearing everyone call his name, and still feeling completely alone when the lights turned off.
He thought he had gotten used to it.
Then you came along.
Somehow, a random conversation at three in the morning with a stranger became the only time he felt normal. The irony was that you had no idea who he was. You didn’t know the name people screamed at concerts. You didn’t know the songs he spent months writing and rewriting. You didn’t know his face was on advertisements or that there were thousands of people who thought they knew him.
To you, he was just a tired guy in a hoodie who complained about the coffee being too bitter and always forgot to bring a spoon.
And he loved that.
More than he probably should have.
The first time someone asked him what his favourite thing about being famous was, he gave the answer everyone expected. He talked about performing, about music, about the fans who supported him, and he meant every word.
But when he thought about the moments that actually stayed with him, they weren’t the ones under bright stage lights.
They were the quiet moments sitting across from you at a cheap plastic table while you complained about your day. They were the nights where you laughed at something stupid he said. They were the moments when you looked at him and didn’t expect anything from him.
You didn’t need him to be perfect.
You didn’t need him to be anyone other than himself.
You just wanted him to show up.
And that was the one thing he failed to do.
-
He started coming back every night.
Not because he thought you would appear. He wasn’t that naïve. At least, he tried not to be.
He came because he didn’t know where else to go.
The table stayed empty, and the seat across from him remained untouched. The world kept moving around him, people walking in and out of the store without knowing that this place held the biggest mistake he had ever made.
And still, he kept coming back.
Because this was the last place where he felt close to you.
His members noticed, of course.
They always noticed.
“You’re going to that store again?”
He looked up from his phone to see Soonyoung standing in the doorway of the studio, arms crossed and clearly not buying his excuse.
He sighed. “It’s just a store.”
Vernon looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow.
“No. It’s the store.”
He didn’t answer because there was no point pretending otherwise.
It wasn’t just a store.
It was where he met someone who somehow became more important than he ever expected. Someone he never told the truth to. Someone he lost because he was too scared to let himself be known.
“You should talk to her.” Soonyoung said and Vernon nodded in quiet agreement.
Johoon’s fingers tightened around his phone.
“I don’t even know if she wants to see me.”
“Do you?”
He looked away, annoyed by how quickly he knew the answer.
“Yes.”
“Then go.” He pushed.
He let out a quiet breath.
“It’s not that simple.”
His friend’s expression softened slightly.
“No, it’s not.”
They paused before continuing.
“But avoiding it is exactly what got you here.” Vernon pitched in.
The words stayed with him long after the conversation ended.
Because they were right.
He had spent his entire life controlling every part of himself. His image. His emotions. His words. Every mistake was calculated, every action carefully thought out.
And somehow, the one person who never asked him to be anything was the person he couldn’t be honest with.
-
You found out about him on a random Tuesday.
Which honestly felt pretty fucking unfair.
You always imagined that if you ever discovered who he really was, it would be something dramatic. Something obvious. Something that made sense.
Not you sitting on your couch after work, eating dinner and barely paying attention to the television playing in the background.
A performance came on, and at first you ignored it.
Until you heard his voice.
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth.
You looked up.
The face on the screen was familiar, but somehow different. Not physically. It was still him. The same eyes. The same smile. The same expressions you had memorized without even realizing it.
But there was something else there.
Confidence.
A version of him that belonged to a world you didn’t know existed.
The crowd screaming his name felt distant, almost unreal.
Because you knew him.
You knew that voice.
You knew that smile.
You knew the tired expression he wore when he thought nobody was paying attention.
No.
Your mind rejected the thought immediately.
There was no way.
But then the screen showed his name.
And suddenly everything made sense.
The late nights.
The disappearing.
The way he avoided talking about himself.
The way he always seemed exhausted but never explained why.
You sat there frozen, trying to process the fact that the person who knew your coffee order, your worst coworker, and every tiny thing that annoyed you was someone you didn’t actually know.
You grabbed your phone and opened your messages.
Just to be hit with the same thing that happened last night, and the night before that, and the one before that.
You didn’t even have his number.
And that hurt more than you expected.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was an idol.
But because suddenly you questioned everything you thought you knew.
Were those nights real?
Did he actually look forward to seeing you?
Or were you just an escape from the life he actually cared about?
A small break from the pressure before he went back to being someone else?
The thought made your chest ache.
Because the worst part wasn’t the anger.
It was that you still missed him.
You hated that after everything, you still remembered the way he laughed. You still remembered how he looked at you when you spoke. You still remembered how the world felt quieter whenever he was around.
You hated that you cared.
-
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The convenience store continued around you, completely unaware of the tension sitting between two people who had once spent hours talking about everything and nothing. The refrigerators hummed softly in the background, cars passed outside, and the cashier continued scrolling on their phone like the world wasn’t currently falling apart at the small table in the corner.
He looked at you carefully, almost like he was trying to memorize every reaction on your face.
Like he was afraid you would disappear again.
And maybe that was the part that bothered you most.
Because you understood that look.
You had worn it too.
You had spent weeks staring at the entrance of this store, convincing yourself that every person who walked in could be him. You had checked the time. You had waited longer than you wanted to admit. You had pretended that you weren’t disappointed every time the bell rang and it wasn’t him.
So you stopped showing up.
But one day months later it was 3 AM and work had eaten you alive. So you stopped by, just for something small.
You skimmed through the noodles section like you had that night, then the bell above the door rung. But you knew better, you had waited until the sun rose and until your body had given up on you, falling asleep—cheek pressed against the cheap plastic tables.
You knew better than to turn around.
You knew better than to expect anything.
And yet you still, for some reason had hope… so you turned.
But as if fate was mocking you itself he was already looking at you, if you hadn’t been so sleep deprived you would have seen the way his breath hitched.
You hated that you still recognized the exhaustion in his eyes.
You hated that you noticed how tired he looked.
You hated that after everything, your first thought was still wondering if he was taking care of himself.
Because you still cared.
And that made being angry so much harder.
Before you knew it you found yourself sitting, like the day it all started.
“I should’ve told you.”
His voice was quiet.
You looked back at him.
“I should’ve told you everything.”
You crossed your arms, looking away.
“Yeah.”
The answer was simple, but the weight behind it wasn’t.
You weren’t trying to punish him. You weren’t trying to be cruel.
You were just tired of pretending that everything was okay.
“I should’ve told you my name,” he continued. “I should’ve told you what was happening. I should’ve trusted you enough to let you decide what you wanted to do.”
That made you look at him again.
Because that was the first time he admitted it.
Not that things got complicated.
Not that his schedule was busy.
That he chose.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t.”
Your voice was quieter now.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He looked down at his hands.
For once, he didn’t seem like someone who had an answer ready. He looked like someone who had replayed this conversation in his head a hundred times and still couldn’t find a version where he didn’t hurt you.
“I was scared.”
You let out a small breath.
“Of me?”
His eyes immediately lifted.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Never you.”
He paused.
“I was scared of what would happen after.”
You didn’t say anything, so he continued.
“Everyone already knows a version of me. The version they see on stage. The version that’s supposed to always be happy, always be confident, always know what he’s doing.”
He gave a small laugh, but there was no humor behind it.
“And then there was you.”
Your expression softened slightly.
“You knew nothing about me.”
He looked at you.
“And somehow, you knew me better than people who have known me for years.”
The words sat between you.
Because you understood what he meant.
You just weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
-
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You stared at him, almost unable to believe that was the reason he had given you. After everything, after months of wondering if those nights had meant anything to him, that was the explanation he had been carrying around this whole time.
“And instead, you decided for me.”
He went quiet, because he knew you were right. That was the part you hated most. You wanted him to argue. You wanted him to give you some explanation that would make everything hurt less, something that would allow you to believe maybe you had misunderstood him or maybe the situation was more complicated than it seemed.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there and accepted it.
“I know.”
His voice was barely above a whisper as he looked down at his hands.
“I know I took that choice away from you.”
The anger you had been holding onto for months suddenly felt heavier. It had been easier when you convinced yourself that he didn’t care, because then you had something simple to be angry at. It was easier to believe those nights had only mattered to you, that you had been nothing more than a temporary escape from the life he actually belonged to.
But seeing the guilt in his expression made it impossible to keep believing that.
And somehow, that hurt more.
“I spent months thinking I mattered to someone who didn’t even fucking trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
Your voice cracked slightly, and you immediately looked away because you hated that he could still affect you like this. You hated that even after everything, even after you had spent so long convincing yourself you were done caring, he could still make you feel like your heart was sitting right on the surface.
“I kept wondering if I was just some escape for you.”
His expression shifted instantly, and something about the way he looked at you made your anger falter. It was like the idea that you believed that hurt him more than your anger ever could.
“You weren’t.”
The answer came immediately.
“You were never that.”
You looked away, swallowing the ache in your chest.
“Then what was I?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He looked down like he was trying to find the right words, not because he didn’t know how he felt, but because he knew words weren’t enough anymore.
Then he finally looked back at you.
“You were the person I looked forward to seeing every day.”
Your chest tightened at the honesty in his voice.
“I don’t want you to say things just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not.”
The certainty in his response made you look at him again.
“I’m not saying this because I’m trying to fix what I did or because I want you to forgive me faster. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
And that was the hardest part.
You believed him.
-
You didn’t forgive him that night, and he didn’t ask you to.
That was the first thing he did differently.
Before, he would have tried to find the perfect words or the perfect apology, something that would erase the hurt and make everything go back to the way it was before. But he finally understood that you weren’t something he could fix with one conversation.
You weren’t a mistake he could apologize away.
You were someone he hurt.
And if he wanted any chance of being part of your life again, he needed to prove that he understood the difference.
So he started small.
The next night, you walked into the convenience store and saw him sitting outside at the same table. For a moment, you considered turning around and leaving because you weren’t sure if you were ready to deal with him again.
But then you noticed the second drink sitting across from him.
You stopped.
His eyes lifted, and you caught the brief look of uncertainty on his face.
“I didn’t know if you wanted one.”
You glanced at the drink before looking back at him.
“You remembered?”
A small smile appeared.
“Of course I remembered.”
It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. It was just a drink, something small and almost meaningless, but that was always how he had been. He remembered things you didn’t expect him to. Your favourite snack. The songs you hated. The little habits you didn’t even realize you had.
The smallest details that proved he was paying attention.
You sat down slowly, not because everything was okay and not because you had forgiven him, but because some part of you still wanted to hear what he had to say.
-
The weeks after that felt strange because you had to get to know him all over again. Not the version of him you thought you knew before, and not the idol everyone else saw, but just him.
This time, you asked questions.
And this time, he answered.
“What’s your favourite song you’ve written?”
He looked surprised, and you immediately noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked surprised.”
He smiled slightly.
“I guess I just wasn’t expecting that question.”
“Why?”
He looked down at his drink, thinking.
“Most people ask about the songs that did well or the ones everyone likes.”
His fingers traced the edge of the cup.
“Not many people ask which one means the most to me.”
You softened slightly.
“So?”
He thought for a moment.
“Probably the one I haven’t finished.”
You frowned.
“That’s such an annoying answer.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“Why?”
“Because it sounds like something someone says when they’re trying to be mysterious.”
He shook his head.
“I’m serious.”
You watched him carefully.
“Why isn’t it finished?”
His expression changed slightly, the playful look fading into something quieter.
“It’s about someone.”
The air shifted between you.
You looked away, pretending not to be affected.
“Someone important?”
His eyes stayed on you.
“Yes.”
You didn’t ask anymore, and he didn’t push.
Because he was learning.
This wasn’t about getting you back as quickly as possible.
It was about proving, slowly and consistently, that he could become someone you trusted again.
-
Little by little, he did.
Not through huge gestures or dramatic apologies, but through the small choices he made every day. If he was busy, he told you. If he couldn’t come, he didn’t disappear. If something was bothering him, he tried to talk about it instead of shutting you out.
And you noticed.
You tried not to.
But you did.
Because the version of him you remembered was still there. The quiet humor. The way he listened. The way he looked at you like every word you said mattered.
Slowly, the wall you had built around yourself started to come down.
Not all at once.
Not completely.
But enough.
-
The first time he showed up without hiding under a hoodie, you realized something you hadn’t expected.
He still looked like him.
That was the strange part. You had spent so much time building up this image in your head of the person he was hiding, that you expected seeing him without the disguise to feel like meeting someone completely different.
But it didn’t.
He was still the same person who complained about terrible songs on the radio, stayed awake far later than he should, and drank convenience store coffee at three in the morning like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The only difference was that now you understood.
You knew why he disappeared.
You knew why strangers recognized him.
You knew why there had always been this invisible distance between the life he lived and the life you knew.
And somehow, knowing the truth didn’t make him feel further away.
It made him feel more real.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up from your drink.
He was staring down at his hands, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the cup in front of him.
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“For making you feel like you only knew half of me.”
You didn’t answer immediately because, honestly, you didn’t know how to explain how accurate that was.
That was exactly what hurt.
The months you spent together weren’t fake. The conversations weren’t fake. The laughs, the late nights, the way he remembered every little thing about you—none of it felt like something someone could pretend.
But at the same time, it felt incomplete.
Like you had been given a piece of someone without ever knowing there was an entire world attached to it.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
His eyes lifted.
“Do what?”
You looked at him, trying to find the right words.
“Trust someone who has a whole life I don’t understand.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he nodded slowly.
“Then I’ll let you understand.”
-
For a while, neither of you talked about what would happen next.
You existed somewhere between what you had been and whatever you were becoming.
You weren’t strangers anymore, but you weren’t exactly the same either. There was still a distance between you, something neither of you wanted to acknowledge but both of you could feel.
Trust didn’t magically return just because you both wanted it to.
Some days, you still thought about those nights you waited for him.
You still remembered staring at the convenience store door every time the bell rang, wondering if maybe that would be the moment he finally walked back in.
Sometimes you wondered how someone could become such an important part of your life while still keeping such a huge part of themselves hidden.
But then he would show up.
Not because he expected anything from you.
Not because he thought one conversation would fix everything.
He just showed up because he said he would.
And slowly, that started to mean something.
-
You learned more about him in the months after that than you had during all the time you originally knew him.
Not because he suddenly decided to tell you everything.
Because this time, you asked.
And he answered.
You learned about the parts of his life that weren’t shown online. The exhaustion that came with constantly being watched. The pressure of knowing every mistake could affect more than just himself. The fear that came with disappointing people who depended on him.
You learned that sometimes he stayed late because music was the only way he knew how to organize his thoughts.
You learned that he wrote lyrics when he couldn’t sleep and kept unfinished songs because he hated forcing emotions before they were ready.
Sometimes he would sit alone with a notebook for hours, staring at words he couldn’t finish because the feelings behind them were still too complicated to explain.
One night, while the two of you sat outside the convenience store, you noticed the notebook beside him.
You nodded toward it.
“Is that another song you refuse to finish?”
He looked down at it before smiling slightly.
“Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“I’ve heard that before.”
You took a sip of your drink, glancing back at the notebook.
“Is it about the mysterious person again?”
His fingers stopped moving.
For a second, you thought you had made things awkward.
Then he looked at you.
“It’s about you.”
The words were simple, but they changed the atmosphere between you.
You had suspected it, in a way.
The way he remembered everything.
The way certain lyrics sounded familiar.
The way he sometimes looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment.
But hearing him actually say it was different.
“You wrote about me?”
He nodded.
“Not exactly.”
He looked down.
“I wrote about how I felt around you.”
Your expression softened.
“What’s the difference?”
He thought about the question for a while.
Then he answered honestly.
“I don’t know.”
A small smile appeared.
“I guess that’s why I couldn’t finish it.”
-
The closer you got to him, the more you started realizing something.
You had spent so much time focusing on the parts of him you didn’t know that you forgot about the parts you did.
You knew the person who always asked about your day, even when he was exhausted.
You knew the person who remembered when you had a bad meeting at work and checked in afterward.
You knew the person who could tell when you were pretending to be okay before you even admitted it yourself.
You knew the person who once told you your laugh was the first genuine thing he had heard after a terrible day.
That version of him was real.
And maybe that was what scared you.
Because if everything had been fake, if every moment had been an act, then moving on would have been easier.
But it wasn’t.
He was complicated.
He had made mistakes.
He had hurt you.
But he was also someone who was trying to become better because of them.
And as much as you hated admitting it, you could see that.
-
The conversation about his life finally happened on a night when the convenience store was quieter than usual. The rain tapped softly against the windows, and the two of you sat underneath the small awning outside, watching the streets blur as the water reflected the city lights.
“You know this isn’t going to be easy.”
You looked over at him, but he wasn’t looking back. Instead, his attention stayed on the rain as his fingers tapped lightly against the cup in his hands.
“What isn’t?”
He took a slow breath before answering.
“Whatever this is.”
You didn’t respond right away because you knew exactly what he meant. The feelings that had been growing between you, the closeness that had slowly returned, the thing neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge out loud.
“If we actually do this,” he continued quietly.
“But?”
His eyes finally moved toward you, and you noticed the uncertainty in his expression. It wasn’t the confidence people saw when he stood on stage, and it wasn’t the carefully controlled image he showed the world.
It was just him.
“But I don’t want to pretend it isn’t happening.”
You looked down at your hands.
“Your life is complicated.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“You’re an idol.”
Another quiet nod.
“And I’m not.”
The words came out softer than you intended. It wasn’t because you thought less of yourself, but because you understood the difference between your worlds. His life existed under bright lights, surrounded by thousands of people who knew his name.
Your life didn’t.
He studied you carefully.
“Does that bother you?”
You hesitated before answering. But after everything, after the months he spent proving that honesty mattered, you knew you couldn’t hide behind a lie anymore.
“Sometimes.”
He didn’t look offended.
He didn’t try to argue or convince you that you shouldn’t feel that way.
He just listened.
“I don’t know what dating someone like you would mean,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know if I could handle everyone knowing. I don’t know if I could handle strangers having opinions about me, or feeling like I’m sharing someone who was never really mine.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the hurt in his eyes.
Not because he thought you were blaming him.
Because he understood why you felt that way.
“You were never competing with anyone.”
His voice was calm.
“You never had to compete with my fans, my career, or anyone else.”
You looked back at him.
“But your whole life is built around other people.”
He nodded slowly.
“It is.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he looked at you.
“But the person I am with you isn’t.”
-
That was the thing you couldn’t stop thinking about.
Because when he was with you, he wasn’t an idol. He wasn’t someone thousands of people expected things from. He wasn’t someone who had to constantly worry about how he looked or what he said.
He was just the person who complained about terrible coffee and acted personally betrayed when his favourite snacks were sold out.
He was the person who got genuinely excited when he found a song he liked, who remembered small details about your day, and who looked happier when you noticed something about him.
He was the person who was scared you wouldn’t forgive him.
And maybe that was why you fell for him.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was talented.
Because he was human.
-
The confession didn’t happen dramatically.
There was no perfect moment or grand gesture. No carefully planned speech where everything suddenly became clear.
It happened the same way everything between you had started.
Three in the morning.
A convenience store.
Two people sitting across from each other, pretending their feelings weren’t the reason they kept coming back.
The rain had stopped sometime before, but the pavement was still wet, reflecting the convenience store lights in small puddles. The city felt quieter than usual, almost like the world had decided to give the two of you a moment where nobody else existed.
He was quieter than normal.
You noticed immediately.
“You’re thinking too much.”
His eyes lifted, and a small, surprised smile appeared.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
You leaned back slightly, studying him.
“You’re doing that thing.”
He tilted his head.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at your drink like it personally offended you because you’re trying to avoid saying something.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. It was small, but real.
“I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“You are.”
He shook his head slightly.
“You always notice everything.”
The words sounded simple, but there was something behind them that made your expression soften.
Because you did notice everything.
Even now.
Even after everything that happened.
You noticed when he was tired. You noticed when he was worried. You noticed when he was pretending he was okay.
And maybe that was the problem.
You still knew him.
-
He looked down at his hands, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You waited, not because you were impatient, but because you knew him. You knew if you interrupted, he might retreat into himself again.
And after everything, you knew how hard he had worked to stop doing that.
“I don’t know how to say this without making it sound like I’m trying to fix everything.”
Your eyebrows pulled together slightly.
“What do you mean?”
He looked up at you.
“I know saying sorry doesn’t erase what happened.”
Your expression softened.
“I know telling you how I feel doesn’t suddenly make everything okay.”
He paused, taking a breath.
“But I also know that if I keep avoiding this, then I’m doing the same thing I did before.”
Your chest tightened because he was right.
The old version of him would have avoided the conversation. He would have waited for the timing to be easier, for the fear to disappear, for everything to somehow solve itself.
But this time, he was sitting across from you, clearly terrified, and still choosing honesty.
“I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”
The words were quiet.
But somehow, they carried more weight than anything else he had said.
-
You looked down at your hands, trying to figure out how to explain everything you had been carrying around since the night he disappeared.
“Do you know how hard it was?”
His expression softened immediately.
“What?”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.
“When you left.”
The words sat between you, heavy with everything you had kept inside for months. He didn’t interrupt, and he didn’t try to defend himself. He just listened, letting you say everything you had never been able to tell him.
“I spent weeks trying to convince myself that I was being dramatic. That maybe I shouldn’t care because we weren’t technically anything.”
You let out a quiet breath, looking away.
“But I did care.”
His eyes stayed on you.
“And I hated that.”
There was a sadness in your voice that surprised even you.
“I hated that someone I wasn’t even supposed to miss was the only person I wanted to talk to.”
His expression fell slightly, and you could see how much your words affected him.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked back at him.
“I know.”
The answer seemed to catch him off guard because you weren’t saying it angrily. You weren’t trying to punish him or make him feel worse than he already did.
You were just tired.
“I know you’re sorry,” you continued. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you hurt me.”
He nodded slowly.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to disappear and then come back expecting everything to be the same.”
“I don’t.”
His response came immediately.
“I don’t expect that.”
You studied him carefully.
“Then what do you expect?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes moved back toward the street, like he was trying to find the courage to say something he had already known for a while.
Then he looked back at you.
“Nothing.”
You blinked.
“Nothing?”
He nodded.
“I’m not asking you to forget what happened. I’m not asking you to suddenly trust me again just because I’m sorry.”
His voice softened.
“I just want a chance to show you that I can become someone you trust again.”
And that was what made it harder.
Because he wasn’t asking you to forgive him because he felt guilty. He wasn’t trying to make you responsible for making him feel better.
He was just asking for the opportunity to prove that he meant what he said.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous.
Because part of you wanted to let him.
Part of you wanted to stop fighting the feelings you had spent so long trying to bury.
Part of you wanted to admit that you had missed him every single day.
But you were scared.
Not of him.
Not anymore.
You were scared of everything that came with him.
“You know this isn’t simple.”
His eyebrows pulled together slightly.
“What isn’t?”
“This.”
You gestured between the two of you.
“Whatever this is.”
He stayed quiet.
“You’re an idol.”
He nodded.
“And I’m just…”
You stopped yourself because you didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Just what?
Just someone normal?
Just someone who didn’t belong in his world?
He noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
“Don’t do that.”
You looked at him.
“Do what?”
“Make yourself smaller because my life is bigger.”
The words caught you off guard.
He leaned forward slightly, his expression serious.
“You are not less important because people don’t know your name.”
You looked away.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“It is.”
A small pause followed.
“Because I know what it feels like.”
You looked back at him.
“To be surrounded by people and still feel invisible.”
His voice became quieter.
“And you were the first person who didn’t make me feel like that.”
Your chest tightened because that was the thing you kept forgetting.
Everyone knew him.
Everyone knew the idol.
The performer.
The person under the stage lights.
But you knew the version of him nobody else got to see.
The tired one.
The quiet one.
The person who didn’t have to pretend.
“You really mean that?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I don’t think you understand how much.”
The honesty in his voice made you look away because, somehow, you did understand.
Maybe too much.
“I think I started falling for you before I even realized it.”
You froze.
His fingers moved slightly against the table as he looked down.
“I think it happened slowly.”
A small smile appeared.
“Like when you started bringing an extra drink because you knew I’d forget.”
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“I did that once.”
“You did it every time after.”
“Because you were always forgetting.”
“I know.”
His smile grew slightly.
“You always complained about it.”
“Because you were annoying.”
“Still am.”
“Very.”
For a moment, everything felt normal again.
Almost like you were back at the beginning, before the hurt and the distance and everything that had complicated things.
Then his expression softened.
“But I love that.”
The words were quieter.
“I love that you saw all of that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full.
You looked at him, really looked at him.
The person you thought you had lost.
The person who hurt you.
The person who had spent months trying to prove that the version of him you cared about was real.
“I’m still angry.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
You swallowed, your eyes dropping toward your drink.
“But I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t allowed himself to believe those words were possible.
“You don’t have to say that because you feel bad.”
“I’m not.”
Your voice was steadier this time.
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
For once, he didn’t have a response.
He just looked at you like he was trying to understand how he had gotten a second chance after everything.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
You looked down.
“I don’t know if I can handle everything that comes with you.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
You looked back up.
“Okay?”
A small smile appeared.
“Okay.”
You frowned slightly.
“That’s it?”
He laughed softly.
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe argue a little?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
His expression softened.
“I spent too long thinking I had to convince you to stay. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
The words settled between you.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
His thumb brushed lightly against the edge of his cup.
“But I’d rather deal with something difficult with you than go back to a life where I’m pretending I don’t feel anything.”
And that was when you finally understood.
He wasn’t choosing you because it was the easiest option.
He wasn’t choosing you because you were convenient.
He was choosing you because you mattered.
The next few weeks didn’t suddenly become perfect. You still had doubts, and he still had fears. There were still moments where his schedule got complicated, where the reality of his life reminded you that loving him would never be simple.
But the difference was that he didn’t disappear anymore.
He communicated.
He explained.
He let you into the parts of his life he once kept locked away.
And slowly, you stopped feeling like you were standing outside of his world.
You weren’t just the girl from the convenience store anymore.
You were someone he chose.
Someone he fought for.
Someone who saw him before the world did.
And when he finally finished the song he had been writing all those months ago, he didn’t show it to you immediately.
He waited.
Because he wanted you to know he wasn’t giving it to you as an apology.
He wasn’t trying to turn his feelings into a performance.
He was just sharing something that was always yours.
The song was simple.
No dramatic promises.
No perfect ending.
Just a story about two people who found each other at three in the morning when they were both lost.
And at the very end, the last lyric was the one thing he never got to say back then.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
And this time, he meant it
a/n - AHHHHH its finally done!! I really hope you all liked part 2. It's mentioned at the top of the post and I edited it onto part 1 as well but I personally think that you can read part 1 as a stand alone, but I was genuinely go grateful to see so many people like it and want a part 2. Thank you so much for reading and have a good day/night.✌️✌️
Genre- Strangers to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pinning
Synopsis- At three in the morning, the world feels a little quieter. For you, it’s the only time you can escape the exhaustion of your job and the expectations that come with the day. For him, it’s the only time he gets to exist without being watched.
Word Count- 3k
Playlist- Plastic Palm Trees(Tate McRae)
Pt.2 (Part 1 can be read as a stand alone)
The world was a bitch.
A bitch that poked, nagged, and worked new hires to the point where they could collapse from pure exhaustion.
It was around 2:40 AM when you finally looked up from your computer, only to be met with the sight of an office that was completely deserted and almost pitch black. Everyone had gone home hours ago, but for some ungodly reason, you—the new hire of only two weeks—had been left with the workload of three managers and a deadline that could honestly be considered workplace harassment.
You leaned back in your chair, letting your muscles finally relax after hours of being forced into the same uncomfortable position. Even then, they continued to scream in protest from the sheer physical strain they had been under.
Slowly, you stood from your desk and dragged yourself toward the break room, remembering the lunch you had brought with you that morning. A lunch you had packed with the foolish thought that you would actually have time to eat at some point during the day.
Your stomach ached with hunger, but even it seemed too exhausted to complain anymore.
Something else that should be mentioned was that the majority of your office—despite working for a high-end company that paid fairly well—were somehow the biggest group of cheapskates to ever grace an office building.
Which, of course, included the mysterious disappearance of anything remotely edible if you left it unattended.
And unfortunately, by the time that thought crossed your mind, it was already too late.
Your lunch was gone.
Along with whatever small amount of sanity you had left.
“Oh my god… this is it. This is where I die,” you whispered dramatically to yourself as you made your way back to your desk, grabbing your things and preparing to finally leave in a fit of anger.
The amount of rage running through your bloodstream was almost impressive. You were so annoyed that you barely even registered where your feet were taking you until you found yourself standing outside a convenience store at 3 AM, a few blocks away from your apartment.
The bright artificial lights of the store burned your tired eyes, almost as if they were mocking you.
You couldn’t even remember why you had come here in the first place.
Seriously, you should be at home sleeping. Resting. Recovering before waking up and doing the exact same thing all over again—only to get ignored when you asked if anyone knew where the stapler was.
You covered your face with your hands and let out a long, defeated sigh.
“What am I doing with my life?” you questioned out loud, staring at the glowing store in front of you.
You stared at the convenience store for a few more seconds, debating whether going inside was even worth it. The rational part of your brain reminded you that you had work in a few hours and that standing outside a convenience store at three in the morning while having an existential crisis probably wasn’t the healthiest use of your already limited sleep schedule.
But the louder part of your brain—the one that had just worked a fourteen-hour shift, survived purely on caffeine, and lost the only thing keeping it alive —won.
With a tired sigh, you pushed open the glass doors.
The small bell above the entrance chimed, and the warmth from inside immediately hit you. It wasn’t anything special, but after spending hours under the cold, lifeless office lights, the soft glow of the convenience store almost felt comforting. It was simple. Quiet. Normal. Something your day had been missing.
You dragged yourself toward the instant noodles, staring blankly at the options in front of you like choosing between different flavors was somehow the most difficult decision you had ever faced.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
The sudden voice made you freeze.
You turned around to see a guy standing a few feet away, a drink in one hand and a small look of amusement on his face. He had a hoodie pulled over his head, covering most of his face, but you could still see the tired expression in his eyes.
You blinked.
“Sorry?”
He gestured toward the shelves.
“You’ve been staring at those noodles for like five minutes.”
You glanced back at the noodles.
Then back at him.
Then back at the noodles again.
“Wow.”
You placed a hand over your chest dramatically.
“Not only am I sleep deprived, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“I didn’t say anything about judging.”
“Your eyes did.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“That’s impressive.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
For some reason, that made you laugh.
A real laugh.
The first one you’d had all day.
The guy looked slightly surprised, like he hadn’t expected to actually get one out of you. Maybe he wasn’t used to people laughing at his jokes, or maybe he just didn’t expect someone as exhausted as you to still have the energy to.
After a moment, his expression softened.
“You okay though?”
The question caught you off guard.
Not because someone asked.
Because nobody had.
Not your coworkers. Not your manager. Not even yourself.
You opened your mouth, ready to give the automatic response. The easy one everyone used when they didn’t want to explain how they were really feeling.
I’m fine.
But for some reason, under the bright lights of a random convenience store at three in the morning, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie.
“No.”
Your voice came out quieter than expected.
“No, actually. I’m really not.”
His expression changed slightly, becoming softer.
You immediately looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t usually trauma dump on random strangers.”
“You didn’t.”
He shrugged casually.
“Sometimes it’s easier to tell someone you’ll never see again.”
You looked back at him.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
There was a pause.
Then he nodded.
“Maybe.”
The two of you stood there in comfortable silence, and somehow, for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel heavy.
It felt peaceful.
A few minutes later, you found yourself sitting outside the store with a cup of ramen between your hands, the steam slowly disappearing into the cold night air. You didn’t even remember agreeing to sit with him. It just happened naturally, like the universe had decided you both needed a moment away from everything else.
“So,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Do you always come here at three in the morning?”
You looked at him.
“Are you asking because you’re judging me?”
“No.”
“Because you’re here too.”
That made him laugh softly.
“Fair.”
You smiled slightly.
“I guess we’re both losers who can’t sleep.”
He looked down at his drink.
“Maybe.”
The two of you didn’t exchange much personal information that night. Not names. Not jobs. Not anything that could make things complicated.
Just small things.
Favourite snacks.
Songs you hated.
Things that annoyed you.
Random thoughts that only made sense at three in the morning.
And somehow, it was enough.
When you finally stood up to leave, you realized you felt lighter.
Not fixed.
Just lighter.
The guy watched as you grabbed your bag.
“See you tomorrow?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You smiled.
“Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He immediately looked away.
“No.”
A small pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“See you tomorrow.”
And you did.
Every night.
-
It became a routine.
Three in the morning.
The same convenience store.
The same little table outside.
The same two people pretending they weren’t waiting for each other.
You learned little things about him.
That he liked quiet places.
That he worked late.
That he loved music.
That he hated talking about himself.
You never asked too much.
And he never offered.
It was strange.
You had known him for months, but you didn’t even know his full name. You didn’t know what he actually did, why his schedule was always so unpredictable, or why he sometimes disappeared for days without explanation.
You just knew that when three in the morning came around, you looked forward to seeing him.
Until one night, you waited.
And waited.
The clock on your phone changed from 3:15 to 3:30.
Then 4:00.
The convenience store lights stayed on, glowing the same way they always did. The doors opened and closed. People came and went.
But he never walked through them.
You told yourself he was probably busy.
Or tired.
Or maybe something had come up.
So you came back the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Each time convincing yourself it would be different. That eventually he would show up with that same tired expression and a drink in his hand, acting like he hadn’t made you worry.
But he didn’t.
The seat across from you stayed empty.
Slowly, you stopped looking at the door every time the bell rang.
You stopped checking the time.
You stopped buying two drinks.
Until one day, you realized you had finally stopped waiting.
And somehow, that hurt more than you expected.
-
The first thing he noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that felt heavy. The kind that only existed after everyone had left the studio and the only sound filling the room was the quiet hum of the computers still running. He stared at the screen in front of him, the same eight lines of lyrics sitting unfinished for the past hour while the melody played softly through his headphones. It was good, at least he thought it was, but something about it felt incomplete. Like there was a missing piece he couldn’t find.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes as he looked around the empty studio.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The other members had tried convincing him to leave too, telling him he was going to sleep in the studio again and that it wasn’t healthy. He remembered laughing it off, pretending it didn’t bother him, but the truth was that sometimes he didn’t even realize how late he stayed until everyone else was gone.
Everyone knew he worked late because he cared about music. They knew he pushed himself because he wanted everything to be perfect. They knew the version of him that stood on stage under bright lights and performed in front of thousands of people.
But knowing someone and understanding someone were two completely different things. Sometimes, after the lights turned off and the cheers faded, he was just tired. Not physically, but in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
His eyes returned to the lyrics on his screen, and he almost laughed when he realized what he had been writing. A love song. He hadn’t even noticed it at first. He had started with a simple idea—a late night, a quiet place, someone who made the world feel less overwhelming—and somehow it had turned into something else entirely.
He eventually closed his laptop and grabbed his things, deciding that staying any longer wouldn’t help. His phone buzzed beside him with another reminder about tomorrow’s schedule, another recording, another meeting, another thing he needed to do. His life was planned down to the minute, and sometimes he wondered if there was any part of it that belonged only to him.
Instead of going straight home, his feet carried him somewhere else.
A convenience store.
Three in the morning.
He didn’t know why he came there. Maybe it was because it was the only place still awake with him. Maybe because nobody looked at him twice. Here, he wasn’t an idol, a producer, or someone people expected things from. He was just a tired guy buying a drink in a store that was too bright for the middle of the night.
The bell above the door rang as he entered, and that was when he saw you.
You were standing in front of the instant noodles, staring at the shelves with the most exhausted expression he had ever seen. It looked like you were having a serious argument with them, and for some reason, it made him smile.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
You turned around, clearly caught off guard. “Sorry?”
He pointed toward the shelves. “You’ve been staring at them for a while.”
Your expression immediately changed. “You were watching me?”
He froze slightly.
“Wow,” you said, placing a hand over your chest dramatically. “Not only am I having the worst day of my life, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
He stared at you for a second before laughing quietly. He didn’t expect you to be funny. He didn’t expect you to make him laugh at all.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“Your eyes were.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “That’s impressive.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
He expected you to be offended, but instead you laughed. And something about that sound stayed with him.
Later, when the two of you sat outside the store eating ramen, he realized something strange. He didn’t feel completely exhausted anymore. The stress was still there, the schedules and expectations still existed, but for a little while, they felt far away.
You didn’t ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. You didn’t ask about his life or why he was awake at three in the morning. You just talked. About your awful day, your missing lunch, your coworkers, and all the little things that somehow felt important in the quiet of the night.
When you finally stood up to leave, he found himself asking without thinking, “See you tomorrow?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You looked back at him with a small smile. “Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“No.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
And then you left.
But the next night, he went back.
And you were there.
-
It became a habit.
Three in the morning. The same convenience store. The same little table outside. The same person waiting for him.
The girl from the convenience store.
He never understood how someone he barely knew could become such an important part of his life. You didn’t know about his schedules. You didn’t know why he sometimes disappeared for days. You didn’t know why his phone constantly went off or why he looked so tired.
You just knew him.
And somehow, that was the part that scared him.
Everyone else loved the version of him he showed them, the version that performed and smiled and always seemed to have everything together. But you liked the person he was when nobody was watching.
He started writing more after meeting you. At first, he told himself it was because he needed inspiration. Because he was a songwriter. Because music was what he did.
But eventually, he had to admit that every song somehow became about you.
The warmth of the convenience store lights at three in the morning. The sound of your laugh. The way you complained about everything but still smiled. The way you seemed less tired when you were with him.
He even started remembering small things, like your favourite drink and the snack you always bought.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
-
Then the announcement came.
Tour.
Months of schedules, different cities, different countries. Everyone congratulated him. Everyone was excited, and he was too. He loved performing. He loved music. But there was one thought he couldn’t get rid of.
You.
He sat in the studio after everyone had left again, but this time he wasn’t writing. He was thinking back to the last thing you said to him the night before.
“See you tomorrow night?”
His chest tightened.
He should tell you.
He knew that.
He should explain that he wasn’t just someone who worked late, that his life was more complicated than what you saw at three in the morning. But every time he tried, he didn’t know how.
How could he explain that the person you knew was only one part of him?
He told himself he would tell you the next night.
Then the next.
Until suddenly, there was no next night.
The day of the flight came too quickly. Everything moved at once—staff, members, luggage, schedules, cameras. Before he knew it, he was gone.
The first night away, he expected to miss the convenience store.
He didn’t expect it to feel like something was missing from him.
He looked at the time.
3:00 AM.
His first instinct was to grab his hoodie and leave. Find somewhere quiet. Go back to the place where everything felt normal.
But he couldn’t.
He was thousands of miles away.
And you were probably sitting at that little table.
Waiting.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He opened his phone and searched for your name, only to realize something painful.
He never asked for your number.
He knew your favourite snack. He knew your coffee order. He knew the name of the coworker who annoyed you most.
But he didn’t know how to reach you.
He had written songs about someone whose life he didn’t even have access to.
So he waited.
Thinking he would see you again.
Thinking he would explain.
Thinking there was still time.
Until he came home.
And when he finally returned to that convenience store…
The seat across from him was empty.
a/n - Life is unpredictable, enjoy everything you have in the moment to its fullest
Genre- ??? to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pinning, Jihoon is YEARNING
Synopsis(Pt.2) - You thought the hardest part was losing him. You were wrong. The hardest part was finding out the person who made you feel seen was someone you never truly knew.
Months after the late-night conversations, the convenience store lights, and the goodbye he never gave, he comes back with no excuses—only a promise to be honest this time. But forgiveness isn’t the same as forgetting, and love isn’t enough without trust.As he slowly lets you into the world he once hid from you, you have to decide if the boy you fell for was real… and if you’re willing to let him stay.
Word count - 5k+
Playlist - Who Knows(Daniel Caesar)
Pt.1(Can be read as a stand alone)
The first thing he noticed when he came home was that everything looked exactly the same.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The streets he had passed hundreds of times still looked familiar. The city lights still reflected against the windows of passing cars. The convenience stores still stayed open through the night, their bright signs glowing against the darkness like little reminders that somewhere, someone was still awake.
Everything was the same.
Except the one thing he wanted to find.
You.
He stood outside the convenience store, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he stared through the glass doors.
Three in the morning.
The same time.
The same place.
The same stupid routine he had built his entire life around without realizing it.
For a moment, he let himself believe that when he walked inside, you would be there. Maybe you would be sitting at the table outside with a drink in your hand, complaining about work like you always did. Maybe you would look up, roll your eyes, and ask where the hell he had been.
Maybe you would laugh.
Maybe you would forgive him.
But deep down, he already knew.
You wouldn’t.
Because he wasn’t the only person who had been waiting.
You had waited too.
And he had been the reason you stopped.
The bell above the door rang softly as he entered.
-
The convenience store looked exactly how he remembered it. The shelves were still lined with snacks neither of you ever bought, the lights were still far too bright for three in the morning, and the cashier still looked half asleep as they sat behind the counter. Everything about the place felt almost painfully familiar, like he could walk outside and see you sitting at the small table waiting for him like you always used to.
But when his eyes moved toward the corner, reality settled in.
The table was empty.
It was the same table where he had spent months learning every little thing about you. The table where he had laughed more than he had in years. The table where he had slowly forgotten about the pressure of being someone everyone else expected him to be.
It was the one place where he had been able to exist without pretending.
And now it was just a table.
His chest tightened at the realization, and he hated himself for being surprised. Deep down, he knew you weren’t going to wait forever. He knew that after disappearing without an explanation, after leaving you to wonder what happened, he didn’t deserve to walk back in and find you sitting there like nothing had changed.
Because if he was being honest, he had done the exact same thing to you.
He had left you waiting.
-
Before Jihoon met you, he thought he understood loneliness.
He thought loneliness was being surrounded by thousands of people and still feeling like nobody actually knew you. He thought it was standing in front of a crowd, hearing everyone call his name, and still feeling completely alone when the lights turned off.
He thought he had gotten used to it.
Then you came along.
Somehow, a random conversation at three in the morning with a stranger became the only time he felt normal. The irony was that you had no idea who he was. You didn’t know the name people screamed at concerts. You didn’t know the songs he spent months writing and rewriting. You didn’t know his face was on advertisements or that there were thousands of people who thought they knew him.
To you, he was just a tired guy in a hoodie who complained about the coffee being too bitter and always forgot to bring a spoon.
And he loved that.
More than he probably should have.
The first time someone asked him what his favourite thing about being famous was, he gave the answer everyone expected. He talked about performing, about music, about the fans who supported him, and he meant every word.
But when he thought about the moments that actually stayed with him, they weren’t the ones under bright stage lights.
They were the quiet moments sitting across from you at a cheap plastic table while you complained about your day. They were the nights where you laughed at something stupid he said. They were the moments when you looked at him and didn’t expect anything from him.
You didn’t need him to be perfect.
You didn’t need him to be anyone other than himself.
You just wanted him to show up.
And that was the one thing he failed to do.
-
He started coming back every night.
Not because he thought you would appear. He wasn’t that naïve. At least, he tried not to be.
He came because he didn’t know where else to go.
The table stayed empty, and the seat across from him remained untouched. The world kept moving around him, people walking in and out of the store without knowing that this place held the biggest mistake he had ever made.
And still, he kept coming back.
Because this was the last place where he felt close to you.
His members noticed, of course.
They always noticed.
“You’re going to that store again?”
He looked up from his phone to see Soonyoung standing in the doorway of the studio, arms crossed and clearly not buying his excuse.
He sighed. “It’s just a store.”
Vernon looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow.
“No. It’s the store.”
He didn’t answer because there was no point pretending otherwise.
It wasn’t just a store.
It was where he met someone who somehow became more important than he ever expected. Someone he never told the truth to. Someone he lost because he was too scared to let himself be known.
“You should talk to her.” Soonyoung said and Vernon nodded in quiet agreement.
Johoon’s fingers tightened around his phone.
“I don’t even know if she wants to see me.”
“Do you?”
He looked away, annoyed by how quickly he knew the answer.
“Yes.”
“Then go.” He pushed.
He let out a quiet breath.
“It’s not that simple.”
His friend’s expression softened slightly.
“No, it’s not.”
They paused before continuing.
“But avoiding it is exactly what got you here.” Vernon pitched in.
The words stayed with him long after the conversation ended.
Because they were right.
He had spent his entire life controlling every part of himself. His image. His emotions. His words. Every mistake was calculated, every action carefully thought out.
And somehow, the one person who never asked him to be anything was the person he couldn’t be honest with.
-
You found out about him on a random Tuesday.
Which honestly felt pretty fucking unfair.
You always imagined that if you ever discovered who he really was, it would be something dramatic. Something obvious. Something that made sense.
Not you sitting on your couch after work, eating dinner and barely paying attention to the television playing in the background.
A performance came on, and at first you ignored it.
Until you heard his voice.
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth.
You looked up.
The face on the screen was familiar, but somehow different. Not physically. It was still him. The same eyes. The same smile. The same expressions you had memorized without even realizing it.
But there was something else there.
Confidence.
A version of him that belonged to a world you didn’t know existed.
The crowd screaming his name felt distant, almost unreal.
Because you knew him.
You knew that voice.
You knew that smile.
You knew the tired expression he wore when he thought nobody was paying attention.
No.
Your mind rejected the thought immediately.
There was no way.
But then the screen showed his name.
And suddenly everything made sense.
The late nights.
The disappearing.
The way he avoided talking about himself.
The way he always seemed exhausted but never explained why.
You sat there frozen, trying to process the fact that the person who knew your coffee order, your worst coworker, and every tiny thing that annoyed you was someone you didn’t actually know.
You grabbed your phone and opened your messages.
Just to be hit with the same thing that happened last night, and the night before that, and the one before that.
You didn’t even have his number.
And that hurt more than you expected.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was an idol.
But because suddenly you questioned everything you thought you knew.
Were those nights real?
Did he actually look forward to seeing you?
Or were you just an escape from the life he actually cared about?
A small break from the pressure before he went back to being someone else?
The thought made your chest ache.
Because the worst part wasn’t the anger.
It was that you still missed him.
You hated that after everything, you still remembered the way he laughed. You still remembered how he looked at you when you spoke. You still remembered how the world felt quieter whenever he was around.
You hated that you cared.
-
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The convenience store continued around you, completely unaware of the tension sitting between two people who had once spent hours talking about everything and nothing. The refrigerators hummed softly in the background, cars passed outside, and the cashier continued scrolling on their phone like the world wasn’t currently falling apart at the small table in the corner.
He looked at you carefully, almost like he was trying to memorize every reaction on your face.
Like he was afraid you would disappear again.
And maybe that was the part that bothered you most.
Because you understood that look.
You had worn it too.
You had spent weeks staring at the entrance of this store, convincing yourself that every person who walked in could be him. You had checked the time. You had waited longer than you wanted to admit. You had pretended that you weren’t disappointed every time the bell rang and it wasn’t him.
So you stopped showing up.
But one day months later it was 3 AM and work had eaten you alive. So you stopped by, just for something small.
You skimmed through the noodles section like you had that night, then the bell above the door rung. But you knew better, you had waited until the sun rose and until your body had given up on you, falling asleep—cheek pressed against the cheap plastic tables.
You knew better than to turn around.
You knew better than to expect anything.
And yet you still, for some reason had hope… so you turned.
But as if fate was mocking you itself he was already looking at you, if you hadn’t been so sleep deprived you would have seen the way his breath hitched.
You hated that you still recognized the exhaustion in his eyes.
You hated that you noticed how tired he looked.
You hated that after everything, your first thought was still wondering if he was taking care of himself.
Because you still cared.
And that made being angry so much harder.
Before you knew it you found yourself sitting, like the day it all started.
“I should’ve told you.”
His voice was quiet.
You looked back at him.
“I should’ve told you everything.”
You crossed your arms, looking away.
“Yeah.”
The answer was simple, but the weight behind it wasn’t.
You weren’t trying to punish him. You weren’t trying to be cruel.
You were just tired of pretending that everything was okay.
“I should’ve told you my name,” he continued. “I should’ve told you what was happening. I should’ve trusted you enough to let you decide what you wanted to do.”
That made you look at him again.
Because that was the first time he admitted it.
Not that things got complicated.
Not that his schedule was busy.
That he chose.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t.”
Your voice was quieter now.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
He looked down at his hands.
For once, he didn’t seem like someone who had an answer ready. He looked like someone who had replayed this conversation in his head a hundred times and still couldn’t find a version where he didn’t hurt you.
“I was scared.”
You let out a small breath.
“Of me?”
His eyes immediately lifted.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Never you.”
He paused.
“I was scared of what would happen after.”
You didn’t say anything, so he continued.
“Everyone already knows a version of me. The version they see on stage. The version that’s supposed to always be happy, always be confident, always know what he’s doing.”
He gave a small laugh, but there was no humor behind it.
“And then there was you.”
Your expression softened slightly.
“You knew nothing about me.”
He looked at you.
“And somehow, you knew me better than people who have known me for years.”
The words sat between you.
Because you understood what he meant.
You just weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
-
“I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You stared at him, almost unable to believe that was the reason he had given you. After everything, after months of wondering if those nights had meant anything to him, that was the explanation he had been carrying around this whole time.
“And instead, you decided for me.”
He went quiet, because he knew you were right. That was the part you hated most. You wanted him to argue. You wanted him to give you some explanation that would make everything hurt less, something that would allow you to believe maybe you had misunderstood him or maybe the situation was more complicated than it seemed.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there and accepted it.
“I know.”
His voice was barely above a whisper as he looked down at his hands.
“I know I took that choice away from you.”
The anger you had been holding onto for months suddenly felt heavier. It had been easier when you convinced yourself that he didn’t care, because then you had something simple to be angry at. It was easier to believe those nights had only mattered to you, that you had been nothing more than a temporary escape from the life he actually belonged to.
But seeing the guilt in his expression made it impossible to keep believing that.
And somehow, that hurt more.
“I spent months thinking I mattered to someone who didn’t even fucking trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
Your voice cracked slightly, and you immediately looked away because you hated that he could still affect you like this. You hated that even after everything, even after you had spent so long convincing yourself you were done caring, he could still make you feel like your heart was sitting right on the surface.
“I kept wondering if I was just some escape for you.”
His expression shifted instantly, and something about the way he looked at you made your anger falter. It was like the idea that you believed that hurt him more than your anger ever could.
“You weren’t.”
The answer came immediately.
“You were never that.”
You looked away, swallowing the ache in your chest.
“Then what was I?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He looked down like he was trying to find the right words, not because he didn’t know how he felt, but because he knew words weren’t enough anymore.
Then he finally looked back at you.
“You were the person I looked forward to seeing every day.”
Your chest tightened at the honesty in his voice.
“I don’t want you to say things just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not.”
The certainty in his response made you look at him again.
“I’m not saying this because I’m trying to fix what I did or because I want you to forgive me faster. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
And that was the hardest part.
You believed him.
-
You didn’t forgive him that night, and he didn’t ask you to.
That was the first thing he did differently.
Before, he would have tried to find the perfect words or the perfect apology, something that would erase the hurt and make everything go back to the way it was before. But he finally understood that you weren’t something he could fix with one conversation.
You weren’t a mistake he could apologize away.
You were someone he hurt.
And if he wanted any chance of being part of your life again, he needed to prove that he understood the difference.
So he started small.
The next night, you walked into the convenience store and saw him sitting outside at the same table. For a moment, you considered turning around and leaving because you weren’t sure if you were ready to deal with him again.
But then you noticed the second drink sitting across from him.
You stopped.
His eyes lifted, and you caught the brief look of uncertainty on his face.
“I didn’t know if you wanted one.”
You glanced at the drink before looking back at him.
“You remembered?”
A small smile appeared.
“Of course I remembered.”
It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. It was just a drink, something small and almost meaningless, but that was always how he had been. He remembered things you didn’t expect him to. Your favourite snack. The songs you hated. The little habits you didn’t even realize you had.
The smallest details that proved he was paying attention.
You sat down slowly, not because everything was okay and not because you had forgiven him, but because some part of you still wanted to hear what he had to say.
-
The weeks after that felt strange because you had to get to know him all over again. Not the version of him you thought you knew before, and not the idol everyone else saw, but just him.
This time, you asked questions.
And this time, he answered.
“What’s your favourite song you’ve written?”
He looked surprised, and you immediately noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked surprised.”
He smiled slightly.
“I guess I just wasn’t expecting that question.”
“Why?”
He looked down at his drink, thinking.
“Most people ask about the songs that did well or the ones everyone likes.”
His fingers traced the edge of the cup.
“Not many people ask which one means the most to me.”
You softened slightly.
“So?”
He thought for a moment.
“Probably the one I haven’t finished.”
You frowned.
“That’s such an annoying answer.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“Why?”
“Because it sounds like something someone says when they’re trying to be mysterious.”
He shook his head.
“I’m serious.”
You watched him carefully.
“Why isn’t it finished?”
His expression changed slightly, the playful look fading into something quieter.
“It’s about someone.”
The air shifted between you.
You looked away, pretending not to be affected.
“Someone important?”
His eyes stayed on you.
“Yes.”
You didn’t ask anymore, and he didn’t push.
Because he was learning.
This wasn’t about getting you back as quickly as possible.
It was about proving, slowly and consistently, that he could become someone you trusted again.
-
Little by little, he did.
Not through huge gestures or dramatic apologies, but through the small choices he made every day. If he was busy, he told you. If he couldn’t come, he didn’t disappear. If something was bothering him, he tried to talk about it instead of shutting you out.
And you noticed.
You tried not to.
But you did.
Because the version of him you remembered was still there. The quiet humor. The way he listened. The way he looked at you like every word you said mattered.
Slowly, the wall you had built around yourself started to come down.
Not all at once.
Not completely.
But enough.
-
The first time he showed up without hiding under a hoodie, you realized something you hadn’t expected.
He still looked like him.
That was the strange part. You had spent so much time building up this image in your head of the person he was hiding, that you expected seeing him without the disguise to feel like meeting someone completely different.
But it didn’t.
He was still the same person who complained about terrible songs on the radio, stayed awake far later than he should, and drank convenience store coffee at three in the morning like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
The only difference was that now you understood.
You knew why he disappeared.
You knew why strangers recognized him.
You knew why there had always been this invisible distance between the life he lived and the life you knew.
And somehow, knowing the truth didn’t make him feel further away.
It made him feel more real.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked up from your drink.
He was staring down at his hands, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the cup in front of him.
“For what?”
He hesitated.
“For making you feel like you only knew half of me.”
You didn’t answer immediately because, honestly, you didn’t know how to explain how accurate that was.
That was exactly what hurt.
The months you spent together weren’t fake. The conversations weren’t fake. The laughs, the late nights, the way he remembered every little thing about you—none of it felt like something someone could pretend.
But at the same time, it felt incomplete.
Like you had been given a piece of someone without ever knowing there was an entire world attached to it.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
His eyes lifted.
“Do what?”
You looked at him, trying to find the right words.
“Trust someone who has a whole life I don’t understand.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he nodded slowly.
“Then I’ll let you understand.”
-
For a while, neither of you talked about what would happen next.
You existed somewhere between what you had been and whatever you were becoming.
You weren’t strangers anymore, but you weren’t exactly the same either. There was still a distance between you, something neither of you wanted to acknowledge but both of you could feel.
Trust didn’t magically return just because you both wanted it to.
Some days, you still thought about those nights you waited for him.
You still remembered staring at the convenience store door every time the bell rang, wondering if maybe that would be the moment he finally walked back in.
Sometimes you wondered how someone could become such an important part of your life while still keeping such a huge part of themselves hidden.
But then he would show up.
Not because he expected anything from you.
Not because he thought one conversation would fix everything.
He just showed up because he said he would.
And slowly, that started to mean something.
-
You learned more about him in the months after that than you had during all the time you originally knew him.
Not because he suddenly decided to tell you everything.
Because this time, you asked.
And he answered.
You learned about the parts of his life that weren’t shown online. The exhaustion that came with constantly being watched. The pressure of knowing every mistake could affect more than just himself. The fear that came with disappointing people who depended on him.
You learned that sometimes he stayed late because music was the only way he knew how to organize his thoughts.
You learned that he wrote lyrics when he couldn’t sleep and kept unfinished songs because he hated forcing emotions before they were ready.
Sometimes he would sit alone with a notebook for hours, staring at words he couldn’t finish because the feelings behind them were still too complicated to explain.
One night, while the two of you sat outside the convenience store, you noticed the notebook beside him.
You nodded toward it.
“Is that another song you refuse to finish?”
He looked down at it before smiling slightly.
“Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes.
“You’re impossible.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“I’ve heard that before.”
You took a sip of your drink, glancing back at the notebook.
“Is it about the mysterious person again?”
His fingers stopped moving.
For a second, you thought you had made things awkward.
Then he looked at you.
“It’s about you.”
The words were simple, but they changed the atmosphere between you.
You had suspected it, in a way.
The way he remembered everything.
The way certain lyrics sounded familiar.
The way he sometimes looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment.
But hearing him actually say it was different.
“You wrote about me?”
He nodded.
“Not exactly.”
He looked down.
“I wrote about how I felt around you.”
Your expression softened.
“What’s the difference?”
He thought about the question for a while.
Then he answered honestly.
“I don’t know.”
A small smile appeared.
“I guess that’s why I couldn’t finish it.”
-
The closer you got to him, the more you started realizing something.
You had spent so much time focusing on the parts of him you didn’t know that you forgot about the parts you did.
You knew the person who always asked about your day, even when he was exhausted.
You knew the person who remembered when you had a bad meeting at work and checked in afterward.
You knew the person who could tell when you were pretending to be okay before you even admitted it yourself.
You knew the person who once told you your laugh was the first genuine thing he had heard after a terrible day.
That version of him was real.
And maybe that was what scared you.
Because if everything had been fake, if every moment had been an act, then moving on would have been easier.
But it wasn’t.
He was complicated.
He had made mistakes.
He had hurt you.
But he was also someone who was trying to become better because of them.
And as much as you hated admitting it, you could see that.
-
The conversation about his life finally happened on a night when the convenience store was quieter than usual. The rain tapped softly against the windows, and the two of you sat underneath the small awning outside, watching the streets blur as the water reflected the city lights.
“You know this isn’t going to be easy.”
You looked over at him, but he wasn’t looking back. Instead, his attention stayed on the rain as his fingers tapped lightly against the cup in his hands.
“What isn’t?”
He took a slow breath before answering.
“Whatever this is.”
You didn’t respond right away because you knew exactly what he meant. The feelings that had been growing between you, the closeness that had slowly returned, the thing neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge out loud.
“If we actually do this,” he continued quietly.
“But?”
His eyes finally moved toward you, and you noticed the uncertainty in his expression. It wasn’t the confidence people saw when he stood on stage, and it wasn’t the carefully controlled image he showed the world.
It was just him.
“But I don’t want to pretend it isn’t happening.”
You looked down at your hands.
“Your life is complicated.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“You’re an idol.”
Another quiet nod.
“And I’m not.”
The words came out softer than you intended. It wasn’t because you thought less of yourself, but because you understood the difference between your worlds. His life existed under bright lights, surrounded by thousands of people who knew his name.
Your life didn’t.
He studied you carefully.
“Does that bother you?”
You hesitated before answering. But after everything, after the months he spent proving that honesty mattered, you knew you couldn’t hide behind a lie anymore.
“Sometimes.”
He didn’t look offended.
He didn’t try to argue or convince you that you shouldn’t feel that way.
He just listened.
“I don’t know what dating someone like you would mean,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t know if I could handle everyone knowing. I don’t know if I could handle strangers having opinions about me, or feeling like I’m sharing someone who was never really mine.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the hurt in his eyes.
Not because he thought you were blaming him.
Because he understood why you felt that way.
“You were never competing with anyone.”
His voice was calm.
“You never had to compete with my fans, my career, or anyone else.”
You looked back at him.
“But your whole life is built around other people.”
He nodded slowly.
“It is.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he looked at you.
“But the person I am with you isn’t.”
-
That was the thing you couldn’t stop thinking about.
Because when he was with you, he wasn’t an idol. He wasn’t someone thousands of people expected things from. He wasn’t someone who had to constantly worry about how he looked or what he said.
He was just the person who complained about terrible coffee and acted personally betrayed when his favourite snacks were sold out.
He was the person who got genuinely excited when he found a song he liked, who remembered small details about your day, and who looked happier when you noticed something about him.
He was the person who was scared you wouldn’t forgive him.
And maybe that was why you fell for him.
Not because he was famous.
Not because he was talented.
Because he was human.
-
The confession didn’t happen dramatically.
There was no perfect moment or grand gesture. No carefully planned speech where everything suddenly became clear.
It happened the same way everything between you had started.
Three in the morning.
A convenience store.
Two people sitting across from each other, pretending their feelings weren’t the reason they kept coming back.
The rain had stopped sometime before, but the pavement was still wet, reflecting the convenience store lights in small puddles. The city felt quieter than usual, almost like the world had decided to give the two of you a moment where nobody else existed.
He was quieter than normal.
You noticed immediately.
“You’re thinking too much.”
His eyes lifted, and a small, surprised smile appeared.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
You leaned back slightly, studying him.
“You’re doing that thing.”
He tilted his head.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you stare at your drink like it personally offended you because you’re trying to avoid saying something.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. It was small, but real.
“I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“You are.”
He shook his head slightly.
“You always notice everything.”
The words sounded simple, but there was something behind them that made your expression soften.
Because you did notice everything.
Even now.
Even after everything that happened.
You noticed when he was tired. You noticed when he was worried. You noticed when he was pretending he was okay.
And maybe that was the problem.
You still knew him.
-
He looked down at his hands, and for a while, neither of you said anything. You waited, not because you were impatient, but because you knew him. You knew if you interrupted, he might retreat into himself again.
And after everything, you knew how hard he had worked to stop doing that.
“I don’t know how to say this without making it sound like I’m trying to fix everything.”
Your eyebrows pulled together slightly.
“What do you mean?”
He looked up at you.
“I know saying sorry doesn’t erase what happened.”
Your expression softened.
“I know telling you how I feel doesn’t suddenly make everything okay.”
He paused, taking a breath.
“But I also know that if I keep avoiding this, then I’m doing the same thing I did before.”
Your chest tightened because he was right.
The old version of him would have avoided the conversation. He would have waited for the timing to be easier, for the fear to disappear, for everything to somehow solve itself.
But this time, he was sitting across from you, clearly terrified, and still choosing honesty.
“I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”
The words were quiet.
But somehow, they carried more weight than anything else he had said.
-
You looked down at your hands, trying to figure out how to explain everything you had been carrying around since the night he disappeared.
“Do you know how hard it was?”
His expression softened immediately.
“What?”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup.
“When you left.”
The words sat between you, heavy with everything you had kept inside for months. He didn’t interrupt, and he didn’t try to defend himself. He just listened, letting you say everything you had never been able to tell him.
“I spent weeks trying to convince myself that I was being dramatic. That maybe I shouldn’t care because we weren’t technically anything.”
You let out a quiet breath, looking away.
“But I did care.”
His eyes stayed on you.
“And I hated that.”
There was a sadness in your voice that surprised even you.
“I hated that someone I wasn’t even supposed to miss was the only person I wanted to talk to.”
His expression fell slightly, and you could see how much your words affected him.
“I’m sorry.”
You looked back at him.
“I know.”
The answer seemed to catch him off guard because you weren’t saying it angrily. You weren’t trying to punish him or make him feel worse than he already did.
You were just tired.
“I know you’re sorry,” you continued. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you hurt me.”
He nodded slowly.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to disappear and then come back expecting everything to be the same.”
“I don’t.”
His response came immediately.
“I don’t expect that.”
You studied him carefully.
“Then what do you expect?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes moved back toward the street, like he was trying to find the courage to say something he had already known for a while.
Then he looked back at you.
“Nothing.”
You blinked.
“Nothing?”
He nodded.
“I’m not asking you to forget what happened. I’m not asking you to suddenly trust me again just because I’m sorry.”
His voice softened.
“I just want a chance to show you that I can become someone you trust again.”
And that was what made it harder.
Because he wasn’t asking you to forgive him because he felt guilty. He wasn’t trying to make you responsible for making him feel better.
He was just asking for the opportunity to prove that he meant what he said.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous.
Because part of you wanted to let him.
Part of you wanted to stop fighting the feelings you had spent so long trying to bury.
Part of you wanted to admit that you had missed him every single day.
But you were scared.
Not of him.
Not anymore.
You were scared of everything that came with him.
“You know this isn’t simple.”
His eyebrows pulled together slightly.
“What isn’t?”
“This.”
You gestured between the two of you.
“Whatever this is.”
He stayed quiet.
“You’re an idol.”
He nodded.
“And I’m just…”
You stopped yourself because you didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Just what?
Just someone normal?
Just someone who didn’t belong in his world?
He noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
“Don’t do that.”
You looked at him.
“Do what?”
“Make yourself smaller because my life is bigger.”
The words caught you off guard.
He leaned forward slightly, his expression serious.
“You are not less important because people don’t know your name.”
You looked away.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“It is.”
A small pause followed.
“Because I know what it feels like.”
You looked back at him.
“To be surrounded by people and still feel invisible.”
His voice became quieter.
“And you were the first person who didn’t make me feel like that.”
Your chest tightened because that was the thing you kept forgetting.
Everyone knew him.
Everyone knew the idol.
The performer.
The person under the stage lights.
But you knew the version of him nobody else got to see.
The tired one.
The quiet one.
The person who didn’t have to pretend.
“You really mean that?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I don’t think you understand how much.”
The honesty in his voice made you look away because, somehow, you did understand.
Maybe too much.
“I think I started falling for you before I even realized it.”
You froze.
His fingers moved slightly against the table as he looked down.
“I think it happened slowly.”
A small smile appeared.
“Like when you started bringing an extra drink because you knew I’d forget.”
A quiet laugh escaped you.
“I did that once.”
“You did it every time after.”
“Because you were always forgetting.”
“I know.”
His smile grew slightly.
“You always complained about it.”
“Because you were annoying.”
“Still am.”
“Very.”
For a moment, everything felt normal again.
Almost like you were back at the beginning, before the hurt and the distance and everything that had complicated things.
Then his expression softened.
“But I love that.”
The words were quieter.
“I love that you saw all of that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full.
You looked at him, really looked at him.
The person you thought you had lost.
The person who hurt you.
The person who had spent months trying to prove that the version of him you cared about was real.
“I’m still angry.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I’m still scared.”
“I know.”
You swallowed, your eyes dropping toward your drink.
“But I don’t think I ever stopped loving you.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t allowed himself to believe those words were possible.
“You don’t have to say that because you feel bad.”
“I’m not.”
Your voice was steadier this time.
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
For once, he didn’t have a response.
He just looked at you like he was trying to understand how he had gotten a second chance after everything.
“I don’t know what happens next.”
You looked down.
“I don’t know if I can handle everything that comes with you.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
You looked back up.
“Okay?”
A small smile appeared.
“Okay.”
You frowned slightly.
“That’s it?”
He laughed softly.
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe argue a little?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
His expression softened.
“I spent too long thinking I had to convince you to stay. I don’t want to do that anymore.”
The words settled between you.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
His thumb brushed lightly against the edge of his cup.
“But I’d rather deal with something difficult with you than go back to a life where I’m pretending I don’t feel anything.”
And that was when you finally understood.
He wasn’t choosing you because it was the easiest option.
He wasn’t choosing you because you were convenient.
He was choosing you because you mattered.
The next few weeks didn’t suddenly become perfect. You still had doubts, and he still had fears. There were still moments where his schedule got complicated, where the reality of his life reminded you that loving him would never be simple.
But the difference was that he didn’t disappear anymore.
He communicated.
He explained.
He let you into the parts of his life he once kept locked away.
And slowly, you stopped feeling like you were standing outside of his world.
You weren’t just the girl from the convenience store anymore.
You were someone he chose.
Someone he fought for.
Someone who saw him before the world did.
And when he finally finished the song he had been writing all those months ago, he didn’t show it to you immediately.
He waited.
Because he wanted you to know he wasn’t giving it to you as an apology.
He wasn’t trying to turn his feelings into a performance.
He was just sharing something that was always yours.
The song was simple.
No dramatic promises.
No perfect ending.
Just a story about two people who found each other at three in the morning when they were both lost.
And at the very end, the last lyric was the one thing he never got to say back then.
I’ll see you tomorrow.
And this time, he meant it
a/n - AHHHHH its finally done!! I really hope you all liked part 2. It's mentioned at the top of the post and I edited it onto part 1 as well but I personally think that you can read part 1 as a stand alone, but I was genuinely go grateful to see so many people like it and want a part 2. Thank you so much for reading and have a good day/night.✌️✌️
The concept of the flag being on any shirt and considered Vintage is disgusting
Genuinely so disappointed Rn. One thing I do want to make apparent  though is the fact that they did in fact know that the shirt was bad(will it be after the shoot) and actively made sure that no content got out about it. I don’t know if that’s better or worse…
Genre- Strangers to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pinning
Synopsis- At three in the morning, the world feels a little quieter. For you, it’s the only time you can escape the exhaustion of your job and the expectations that come with the day. For him, it’s the only time he gets to exist without being watched.
Word Count- 3k
Playlist- Plastic Palm Trees(Tate McRae)
The world was a bitch.
A bitch that poked, nagged, and worked new hires to the point where they could collapse from pure exhaustion.
It was around 2:40 AM when you finally looked up from your computer, only to be met with the sight of an office that was completely deserted and almost pitch black. Everyone had gone home hours ago, but for some ungodly reason, you—the new hire of only two weeks—had been left with the workload of three managers and a deadline that could honestly be considered workplace harassment.
You leaned back in your chair, letting your muscles finally relax after hours of being forced into the same uncomfortable position. Even then, they continued to scream in protest from the sheer physical strain they had been under.
Slowly, you stood from your desk and dragged yourself toward the break room, remembering the lunch you had brought with you that morning. A lunch you had packed with the foolish thought that you would actually have time to eat at some point during the day.
Your stomach ached with hunger, but even it seemed too exhausted to complain anymore.
Something else that should be mentioned was that the majority of your office—despite working for a high-end company that paid fairly well—were somehow the biggest group of cheapskates to ever grace an office building.
Which, of course, included the mysterious disappearance of anything remotely edible if you left it unattended.
And unfortunately, by the time that thought crossed your mind, it was already too late.
Your lunch was gone.
Along with whatever small amount of sanity you had left.
“Oh my god… this is it. This is where I die,” you whispered dramatically to yourself as you made your way back to your desk, grabbing your things and preparing to finally leave in a fit of anger.
The amount of rage running through your bloodstream was almost impressive. You were so annoyed that you barely even registered where your feet were taking you until you found yourself standing outside a convenience store at 3 AM, a few blocks away from your apartment.
The bright artificial lights of the store burned your tired eyes, almost as if they were mocking you.
You couldn’t even remember why you had come here in the first place.
Seriously, you should be at home sleeping. Resting. Recovering before waking up and doing the exact same thing all over again—only to get ignored when you asked if anyone knew where the stapler was.
You covered your face with your hands and let out a long, defeated sigh.
“What am I doing with my life?” you questioned out loud, staring at the glowing store in front of you.
You stared at the convenience store for a few more seconds, debating whether going inside was even worth it. The rational part of your brain reminded you that you had work in a few hours and that standing outside a convenience store at three in the morning while having an existential crisis probably wasn’t the healthiest use of your already limited sleep schedule.
But the louder part of your brain—the one that had just worked a fourteen-hour shift, survived purely on caffeine, and lost the only thing keeping it alive —won.
With a tired sigh, you pushed open the glass doors.
The small bell above the entrance chimed, and the warmth from inside immediately hit you. It wasn’t anything special, but after spending hours under the cold, lifeless office lights, the soft glow of the convenience store almost felt comforting. It was simple. Quiet. Normal. Something your day had been missing.
You dragged yourself toward the instant noodles, staring blankly at the options in front of you like choosing between different flavors was somehow the most difficult decision you had ever faced.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
The sudden voice made you freeze.
You turned around to see a guy standing a few feet away, a drink in one hand and a small look of amusement on his face. He had a hoodie pulled over his head, covering most of his face, but you could still see the tired expression in his eyes.
You blinked.
“Sorry?”
He gestured toward the shelves.
“You’ve been staring at those noodles for like five minutes.”
You glanced back at the noodles.
Then back at him.
Then back at the noodles again.
“Wow.”
You placed a hand over your chest dramatically.
“Not only am I sleep deprived, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“I didn’t say anything about judging.”
“Your eyes did.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“That’s impressive.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
For some reason, that made you laugh.
A real laugh.
The first one you’d had all day.
The guy looked slightly surprised, like he hadn’t expected to actually get one out of you. Maybe he wasn’t used to people laughing at his jokes, or maybe he just didn’t expect someone as exhausted as you to still have the energy to.
After a moment, his expression softened.
“You okay though?”
The question caught you off guard.
Not because someone asked.
Because nobody had.
Not your coworkers. Not your manager. Not even yourself.
You opened your mouth, ready to give the automatic response. The easy one everyone used when they didn’t want to explain how they were really feeling.
I’m fine.
But for some reason, under the bright lights of a random convenience store at three in the morning, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie.
“No.”
Your voice came out quieter than expected.
“No, actually. I’m really not.”
His expression changed slightly, becoming softer.
You immediately looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t usually trauma dump on random strangers.”
“You didn’t.”
He shrugged casually.
“Sometimes it’s easier to tell someone you’ll never see again.”
You looked back at him.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
There was a pause.
Then he nodded.
“Maybe.”
The two of you stood there in comfortable silence, and somehow, for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel heavy.
It felt peaceful.
A few minutes later, you found yourself sitting outside the store with a cup of ramen between your hands, the steam slowly disappearing into the cold night air. You didn’t even remember agreeing to sit with him. It just happened naturally, like the universe had decided you both needed a moment away from everything else.
“So,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Do you always come here at three in the morning?”
You looked at him.
“Are you asking because you’re judging me?”
“No.”
“Because you’re here too.”
That made him laugh softly.
“Fair.”
You smiled slightly.
“I guess we’re both losers who can’t sleep.”
He looked down at his drink.
“Maybe.”
The two of you didn’t exchange much personal information that night. Not names. Not jobs. Not anything that could make things complicated.
Just small things.
Favourite snacks.
Songs you hated.
Things that annoyed you.
Random thoughts that only made sense at three in the morning.
And somehow, it was enough.
When you finally stood up to leave, you realized you felt lighter.
Not fixed.
Just lighter.
The guy watched as you grabbed your bag.
“See you tomorrow?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You smiled.
“Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He immediately looked away.
“No.”
A small pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“See you tomorrow.”
And you did.
Every night.
-
It became a routine.
Three in the morning.
The same convenience store.
The same little table outside.
The same two people pretending they weren’t waiting for each other.
You learned little things about him.
That he liked quiet places.
That he worked late.
That he loved music.
That he hated talking about himself.
You never asked too much.
And he never offered.
It was strange.
You had known him for months, but you didn’t even know his full name. You didn’t know what he actually did, why his schedule was always so unpredictable, or why he sometimes disappeared for days without explanation.
You just knew that when three in the morning came around, you looked forward to seeing him.
Until one night, you waited.
And waited.
The clock on your phone changed from 3:15 to 3:30.
Then 4:00.
The convenience store lights stayed on, glowing the same way they always did. The doors opened and closed. People came and went.
But he never walked through them.
You told yourself he was probably busy.
Or tired.
Or maybe something had come up.
So you came back the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Each time convincing yourself it would be different. That eventually he would show up with that same tired expression and a drink in his hand, acting like he hadn’t made you worry.
But he didn’t.
The seat across from you stayed empty.
Slowly, you stopped looking at the door every time the bell rang.
You stopped checking the time.
You stopped buying two drinks.
Until one day, you realized you had finally stopped waiting.
And somehow, that hurt more than you expected.
-
The first thing he noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that felt heavy. The kind that only existed after everyone had left the studio and the only sound filling the room was the quiet hum of the computers still running. He stared at the screen in front of him, the same eight lines of lyrics sitting unfinished for the past hour while the melody played softly through his headphones. It was good, at least he thought it was, but something about it felt incomplete. Like there was a missing piece he couldn’t find.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes as he looked around the empty studio.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The other members had tried convincing him to leave too, telling him he was going to sleep in the studio again and that it wasn’t healthy. He remembered laughing it off, pretending it didn’t bother him, but the truth was that sometimes he didn’t even realize how late he stayed until everyone else was gone.
Everyone knew he worked late because he cared about music. They knew he pushed himself because he wanted everything to be perfect. They knew the version of him that stood on stage under bright lights and performed in front of thousands of people.
But knowing someone and understanding someone were two completely different things. Sometimes, after the lights turned off and the cheers faded, he was just tired. Not physically, but in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
His eyes returned to the lyrics on his screen, and he almost laughed when he realized what he had been writing. A love song. He hadn’t even noticed it at first. He had started with a simple idea—a late night, a quiet place, someone who made the world feel less overwhelming—and somehow it had turned into something else entirely.
He eventually closed his laptop and grabbed his things, deciding that staying any longer wouldn’t help. His phone buzzed beside him with another reminder about tomorrow’s schedule, another recording, another meeting, another thing he needed to do. His life was planned down to the minute, and sometimes he wondered if there was any part of it that belonged only to him.
Instead of going straight home, his feet carried him somewhere else.
A convenience store.
Three in the morning.
He didn’t know why he came there. Maybe it was because it was the only place still awake with him. Maybe because nobody looked at him twice. Here, he wasn’t an idol, a producer, or someone people expected things from. He was just a tired guy buying a drink in a store that was too bright for the middle of the night.
The bell above the door rang as he entered, and that was when he saw you.
You were standing in front of the instant noodles, staring at the shelves with the most exhausted expression he had ever seen. It looked like you were having a serious argument with them, and for some reason, it made him smile.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
You turned around, clearly caught off guard. “Sorry?”
He pointed toward the shelves. “You’ve been staring at them for a while.”
Your expression immediately changed. “You were watching me?”
He froze slightly.
“Wow,” you said, placing a hand over your chest dramatically. “Not only am I having the worst day of my life, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
He stared at you for a second before laughing quietly. He didn’t expect you to be funny. He didn’t expect you to make him laugh at all.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“Your eyes were.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “That’s impressive.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
He expected you to be offended, but instead you laughed. And something about that sound stayed with him.
Later, when the two of you sat outside the store eating ramen, he realized something strange. He didn’t feel completely exhausted anymore. The stress was still there, the schedules and expectations still existed, but for a little while, they felt far away.
You didn’t ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. You didn’t ask about his life or why he was awake at three in the morning. You just talked. About your awful day, your missing lunch, your coworkers, and all the little things that somehow felt important in the quiet of the night.
When you finally stood up to leave, he found himself asking without thinking, “See you tomorrow?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You looked back at him with a small smile. “Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“No.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
And then you left.
But the next night, he went back.
And you were there.
-
It became a habit.
Three in the morning. The same convenience store. The same little table outside. The same person waiting for him.
The girl from the convenience store.
He never understood how someone he barely knew could become such an important part of his life. You didn’t know about his schedules. You didn’t know why he sometimes disappeared for days. You didn’t know why his phone constantly went off or why he looked so tired.
You just knew him.
And somehow, that was the part that scared him.
Everyone else loved the version of him he showed them, the version that performed and smiled and always seemed to have everything together. But you liked the person he was when nobody was watching.
He started writing more after meeting you. At first, he told himself it was because he needed inspiration. Because he was a songwriter. Because music was what he did.
But eventually, he had to admit that every song somehow became about you.
The warmth of the convenience store lights at three in the morning. The sound of your laugh. The way you complained about everything but still smiled. The way you seemed less tired when you were with him.
He even started remembering small things, like your favourite drink and the snack you always bought.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
-
Then the announcement came.
Tour.
Months of schedules, different cities, different countries. Everyone congratulated him. Everyone was excited, and he was too. He loved performing. He loved music. But there was one thought he couldn’t get rid of.
You.
He sat in the studio after everyone had left again, but this time he wasn’t writing. He was thinking back to the last thing you said to him the night before.
“See you tomorrow night?”
His chest tightened.
He should tell you.
He knew that.
He should explain that he wasn’t just someone who worked late, that his life was more complicated than what you saw at three in the morning. But every time he tried, he didn’t know how.
How could he explain that the person you knew was only one part of him?
He told himself he would tell you the next night.
Then the next.
Until suddenly, there was no next night.
The day of the flight came too quickly. Everything moved at once—staff, members, luggage, schedules, cameras. Before he knew it, he was gone.
The first night away, he expected to miss the convenience store.
He didn’t expect it to feel like something was missing from him.
He looked at the time.
3:00 AM.
His first instinct was to grab his hoodie and leave. Find somewhere quiet. Go back to the place where everything felt normal.
But he couldn’t.
He was thousands of miles away.
And you were probably sitting at that little table.
Waiting.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He opened his phone and searched for your name, only to realize something painful.
He never asked for your number.
He knew your favourite snack. He knew your coffee order. He knew the name of the coworker who annoyed you most.
But he didn’t know how to reach you.
He had written songs about someone whose life he didn’t even have access to.
So he waited.
Thinking he would see you again.
Thinking he would explain.
Thinking there was still time.
Until he came home.
And when he finally returned to that convenience store…
The seat across from him was empty.
a/n - Life is unpredictable, enjoy everything you have in the moment to its fullest
Genre- Strangers to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pinning
Synopsis- At three in the morning, the world feels a little quieter. For you, it’s the only time you can escape the exhaustion of your job and the expectations that come with the day. For him, it’s the only time he gets to exist without being watched.
Word Count- 3k
Playlist- Plastic Palm Trees(Tate McRae)
Pt.2 (Part 1 can be read as a stand alone)
The world was a bitch.
A bitch that poked, nagged, and worked new hires to the point where they could collapse from pure exhaustion.
It was around 2:40 AM when you finally looked up from your computer, only to be met with the sight of an office that was completely deserted and almost pitch black. Everyone had gone home hours ago, but for some ungodly reason, you—the new hire of only two weeks—had been left with the workload of three managers and a deadline that could honestly be considered workplace harassment.
You leaned back in your chair, letting your muscles finally relax after hours of being forced into the same uncomfortable position. Even then, they continued to scream in protest from the sheer physical strain they had been under.
Slowly, you stood from your desk and dragged yourself toward the break room, remembering the lunch you had brought with you that morning. A lunch you had packed with the foolish thought that you would actually have time to eat at some point during the day.
Your stomach ached with hunger, but even it seemed too exhausted to complain anymore.
Something else that should be mentioned was that the majority of your office—despite working for a high-end company that paid fairly well—were somehow the biggest group of cheapskates to ever grace an office building.
Which, of course, included the mysterious disappearance of anything remotely edible if you left it unattended.
And unfortunately, by the time that thought crossed your mind, it was already too late.
Your lunch was gone.
Along with whatever small amount of sanity you had left.
“Oh my god… this is it. This is where I die,” you whispered dramatically to yourself as you made your way back to your desk, grabbing your things and preparing to finally leave in a fit of anger.
The amount of rage running through your bloodstream was almost impressive. You were so annoyed that you barely even registered where your feet were taking you until you found yourself standing outside a convenience store at 3 AM, a few blocks away from your apartment.
The bright artificial lights of the store burned your tired eyes, almost as if they were mocking you.
You couldn’t even remember why you had come here in the first place.
Seriously, you should be at home sleeping. Resting. Recovering before waking up and doing the exact same thing all over again—only to get ignored when you asked if anyone knew where the stapler was.
You covered your face with your hands and let out a long, defeated sigh.
“What am I doing with my life?” you questioned out loud, staring at the glowing store in front of you.
You stared at the convenience store for a few more seconds, debating whether going inside was even worth it. The rational part of your brain reminded you that you had work in a few hours and that standing outside a convenience store at three in the morning while having an existential crisis probably wasn’t the healthiest use of your already limited sleep schedule.
But the louder part of your brain—the one that had just worked a fourteen-hour shift, survived purely on caffeine, and lost the only thing keeping it alive —won.
With a tired sigh, you pushed open the glass doors.
The small bell above the entrance chimed, and the warmth from inside immediately hit you. It wasn’t anything special, but after spending hours under the cold, lifeless office lights, the soft glow of the convenience store almost felt comforting. It was simple. Quiet. Normal. Something your day had been missing.
You dragged yourself toward the instant noodles, staring blankly at the options in front of you like choosing between different flavors was somehow the most difficult decision you had ever faced.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
The sudden voice made you freeze.
You turned around to see a guy standing a few feet away, a drink in one hand and a small look of amusement on his face. He had a hoodie pulled over his head, covering most of his face, but you could still see the tired expression in his eyes.
You blinked.
“Sorry?”
He gestured toward the shelves.
“You’ve been staring at those noodles for like five minutes.”
You glanced back at the noodles.
Then back at him.
Then back at the noodles again.
“Wow.”
You placed a hand over your chest dramatically.
“Not only am I sleep deprived, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“I didn’t say anything about judging.”
“Your eyes did.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“That’s impressive.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
For some reason, that made you laugh.
A real laugh.
The first one you’d had all day.
The guy looked slightly surprised, like he hadn’t expected to actually get one out of you. Maybe he wasn’t used to people laughing at his jokes, or maybe he just didn’t expect someone as exhausted as you to still have the energy to.
After a moment, his expression softened.
“You okay though?”
The question caught you off guard.
Not because someone asked.
Because nobody had.
Not your coworkers. Not your manager. Not even yourself.
You opened your mouth, ready to give the automatic response. The easy one everyone used when they didn’t want to explain how they were really feeling.
I’m fine.
But for some reason, under the bright lights of a random convenience store at three in the morning, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie.
“No.”
Your voice came out quieter than expected.
“No, actually. I’m really not.”
His expression changed slightly, becoming softer.
You immediately looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t usually trauma dump on random strangers.”
“You didn’t.”
He shrugged casually.
“Sometimes it’s easier to tell someone you’ll never see again.”
You looked back at him.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
There was a pause.
Then he nodded.
“Maybe.”
The two of you stood there in comfortable silence, and somehow, for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel heavy.
It felt peaceful.
A few minutes later, you found yourself sitting outside the store with a cup of ramen between your hands, the steam slowly disappearing into the cold night air. You didn’t even remember agreeing to sit with him. It just happened naturally, like the universe had decided you both needed a moment away from everything else.
“So,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Do you always come here at three in the morning?”
You looked at him.
“Are you asking because you’re judging me?”
“No.”
“Because you’re here too.”
That made him laugh softly.
“Fair.”
You smiled slightly.
“I guess we’re both losers who can’t sleep.”
He looked down at his drink.
“Maybe.”
The two of you didn’t exchange much personal information that night. Not names. Not jobs. Not anything that could make things complicated.
Just small things.
Favourite snacks.
Songs you hated.
Things that annoyed you.
Random thoughts that only made sense at three in the morning.
And somehow, it was enough.
When you finally stood up to leave, you realized you felt lighter.
Not fixed.
Just lighter.
The guy watched as you grabbed your bag.
“See you tomorrow?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You smiled.
“Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He immediately looked away.
“No.”
A small pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
“See you tomorrow.”
And you did.
Every night.
-
It became a routine.
Three in the morning.
The same convenience store.
The same little table outside.
The same two people pretending they weren’t waiting for each other.
You learned little things about him.
That he liked quiet places.
That he worked late.
That he loved music.
That he hated talking about himself.
You never asked too much.
And he never offered.
It was strange.
You had known him for months, but you didn’t even know his full name. You didn’t know what he actually did, why his schedule was always so unpredictable, or why he sometimes disappeared for days without explanation.
You just knew that when three in the morning came around, you looked forward to seeing him.
Until one night, you waited.
And waited.
The clock on your phone changed from 3:15 to 3:30.
Then 4:00.
The convenience store lights stayed on, glowing the same way they always did. The doors opened and closed. People came and went.
But he never walked through them.
You told yourself he was probably busy.
Or tired.
Or maybe something had come up.
So you came back the next night.
And the next.
And the next.
Each time convincing yourself it would be different. That eventually he would show up with that same tired expression and a drink in his hand, acting like he hadn’t made you worry.
But he didn’t.
The seat across from you stayed empty.
Slowly, you stopped looking at the door every time the bell rang.
You stopped checking the time.
You stopped buying two drinks.
Until one day, you realized you had finally stopped waiting.
And somehow, that hurt more than you expected.
-
The first thing he noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that felt heavy. The kind that only existed after everyone had left the studio and the only sound filling the room was the quiet hum of the computers still running. He stared at the screen in front of him, the same eight lines of lyrics sitting unfinished for the past hour while the melody played softly through his headphones. It was good, at least he thought it was, but something about it felt incomplete. Like there was a missing piece he couldn’t find.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes as he looked around the empty studio.
Everyone else had gone home hours ago. The other members had tried convincing him to leave too, telling him he was going to sleep in the studio again and that it wasn’t healthy. He remembered laughing it off, pretending it didn’t bother him, but the truth was that sometimes he didn’t even realize how late he stayed until everyone else was gone.
Everyone knew he worked late because he cared about music. They knew he pushed himself because he wanted everything to be perfect. They knew the version of him that stood on stage under bright lights and performed in front of thousands of people.
But knowing someone and understanding someone were two completely different things. Sometimes, after the lights turned off and the cheers faded, he was just tired. Not physically, but in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
His eyes returned to the lyrics on his screen, and he almost laughed when he realized what he had been writing. A love song. He hadn’t even noticed it at first. He had started with a simple idea—a late night, a quiet place, someone who made the world feel less overwhelming—and somehow it had turned into something else entirely.
He eventually closed his laptop and grabbed his things, deciding that staying any longer wouldn’t help. His phone buzzed beside him with another reminder about tomorrow’s schedule, another recording, another meeting, another thing he needed to do. His life was planned down to the minute, and sometimes he wondered if there was any part of it that belonged only to him.
Instead of going straight home, his feet carried him somewhere else.
A convenience store.
Three in the morning.
He didn’t know why he came there. Maybe it was because it was the only place still awake with him. Maybe because nobody looked at him twice. Here, he wasn’t an idol, a producer, or someone people expected things from. He was just a tired guy buying a drink in a store that was too bright for the middle of the night.
The bell above the door rang as he entered, and that was when he saw you.
You were standing in front of the instant noodles, staring at the shelves with the most exhausted expression he had ever seen. It looked like you were having a serious argument with them, and for some reason, it made him smile.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke.
“You look like you’re about to fight the ramen section.”
You turned around, clearly caught off guard. “Sorry?”
He pointed toward the shelves. “You’ve been staring at them for a while.”
Your expression immediately changed. “You were watching me?”
He froze slightly.
“Wow,” you said, placing a hand over your chest dramatically. “Not only am I having the worst day of my life, but now I’m being judged by a stranger at a convenience store.”
He stared at you for a second before laughing quietly. He didn’t expect you to be funny. He didn’t expect you to make him laugh at all.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“Your eyes were.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “That’s impressive.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Maybe a little.”
He expected you to be offended, but instead you laughed. And something about that sound stayed with him.
Later, when the two of you sat outside the store eating ramen, he realized something strange. He didn’t feel completely exhausted anymore. The stress was still there, the schedules and expectations still existed, but for a little while, they felt far away.
You didn’t ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. You didn’t ask about his life or why he was awake at three in the morning. You just talked. About your awful day, your missing lunch, your coworkers, and all the little things that somehow felt important in the quiet of the night.
When you finally stood up to leave, he found himself asking without thinking, “See you tomorrow?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You looked back at him with a small smile. “Are you saying you want to see me again?”
He looked away, suddenly embarrassed.
“No.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed.
And then you left.
But the next night, he went back.
And you were there.
-
It became a habit.
Three in the morning. The same convenience store. The same little table outside. The same person waiting for him.
The girl from the convenience store.
He never understood how someone he barely knew could become such an important part of his life. You didn’t know about his schedules. You didn’t know why he sometimes disappeared for days. You didn’t know why his phone constantly went off or why he looked so tired.
You just knew him.
And somehow, that was the part that scared him.
Everyone else loved the version of him he showed them, the version that performed and smiled and always seemed to have everything together. But you liked the person he was when nobody was watching.
He started writing more after meeting you. At first, he told himself it was because he needed inspiration. Because he was a songwriter. Because music was what he did.
But eventually, he had to admit that every song somehow became about you.
The warmth of the convenience store lights at three in the morning. The sound of your laugh. The way you complained about everything but still smiled. The way you seemed less tired when you were with him.
He even started remembering small things, like your favourite drink and the snack you always bought.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
-
Then the announcement came.
Tour.
Months of schedules, different cities, different countries. Everyone congratulated him. Everyone was excited, and he was too. He loved performing. He loved music. But there was one thought he couldn’t get rid of.
You.
He sat in the studio after everyone had left again, but this time he wasn’t writing. He was thinking back to the last thing you said to him the night before.
“See you tomorrow night?”
His chest tightened.
He should tell you.
He knew that.
He should explain that he wasn’t just someone who worked late, that his life was more complicated than what you saw at three in the morning. But every time he tried, he didn’t know how.
How could he explain that the person you knew was only one part of him?
He told himself he would tell you the next night.
Then the next.
Until suddenly, there was no next night.
The day of the flight came too quickly. Everything moved at once—staff, members, luggage, schedules, cameras. Before he knew it, he was gone.
The first night away, he expected to miss the convenience store.
He didn’t expect it to feel like something was missing from him.
He looked at the time.
3:00 AM.
His first instinct was to grab his hoodie and leave. Find somewhere quiet. Go back to the place where everything felt normal.
But he couldn’t.
He was thousands of miles away.
And you were probably sitting at that little table.
Waiting.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He opened his phone and searched for your name, only to realize something painful.
He never asked for your number.
He knew your favourite snack. He knew your coffee order. He knew the name of the coworker who annoyed you most.
But he didn’t know how to reach you.
He had written songs about someone whose life he didn’t even have access to.
So he waited.
Thinking he would see you again.
Thinking he would explain.
Thinking there was still time.
Until he came home.
And when he finally returned to that convenience store…
The seat across from him was empty.
a/n - Life is unpredictable, enjoy everything you have in the moment to its fullest
Hi, I’m Cherish and I got into k-pop back around 2023-2024. I’m a massive fan of seventeen, Nct, Ateez, and genuinely so many other groups😭 I’m a massive multistan and listen to almost everything. I also really enjoy artists like Tate Mcare, the neighborhood, and still woozy.
I’m also a big fan of both J-pop and anime, with Ado and Sheena Ringo as-well as XG being my favorites and as shows, I like Haikyu and One piece.
I’m definitely still improving with my writing style, but I hope that my work is still good🥹
I’m genuinely so inconsistent with my posting but with summer coming up I think I’ll be able to post a lot more. I seriously run out of writing ideas and so requests are always my favorite to write.
I hope that you all like my delusions packaged into words and enjoy your time on my blog!
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