i love love love enhypen (ot7 forever), and i loveeeeee jay, jake, and jungwon! my favorite J's <33. I am a big fan of cortis and txt as well; luv me some beomgyu. I don't have many rules, just no smut (not yet at least..). I hope you like my works, as I mainly write for enha (I can write about cortis and txt but I haven’t thought of anything yet) i'm fairly new to writing so please support me. if you have any ideas in mind, i'm open to it (inbox always open), i don't have a tag-list yet (sorry sorry)
enjoy my tea! :3
🫖! masterlist
📝 i get inspired easily by lovey dovey things, so i write a lot (and I have way too much free time)
(reblogging is appreciated, but please don't copy my work.)
pairings: jay x reader | warnings: tbh idk, stranger 2 lovers, angst, bullying, fighting (between jay & reader). thats is basically. let me know if theres anything else.
wc!: 16.6 k
summary: in this world, scents aren't just smells. they're colors. everyone can see scents floating around like ribbons of colors. some scents are warm gold, some deep blue, some soft pink. people even describe personalities through scent colors. mates are said to have perfectly complementary colors. its one of the foundations of society. but there's only one problem. you can't see them. you were born scent blind. while everyone else raved about their mates and their colors, you spent your life pretending you could too. then one day you meet jay. and his scent has no color at all.
note: inspired by my jungwon colorblind fic cause i loved it so much. i lowkey don't like this (can you tell the end was rushed), and i kinda dont know how to write about soulmates... i need to work harder on my writing...i hope u enjoy tho. Not proofread btw
The first lie I told today happened at 8:14 in the morning.
“That guy’s scent is gorgeous.”
I didn’t even look up from my notebook. “Mm,” I agreed, tapping my pen against the margin. “It really is.”
Lie.
The girl beside me sighed dreamily. “I know right? That shade of amber is unreal.”
I nodded again. Another lie.
University had taught me many useful skills. How to write a ten-page essay in one night. How to survive on coffee and spite. How to look interested during a three-hour lecture about economics policy. But the most important skill I’d learned was how to lie without blinking.
I sat in the center row of the lecture hall, surrounded by nearly two hundred students. Voices bounced off the wall. Chairs scrapped against the floor. Bags zipped open and closed. And all around me, people talked about colors. It was always colors.
The girl beside me leaned closer. “Do you think amber and lavender go together?”
I almost laughed. Imagine asking a blind person if blue and green matched.
“Sure,” I said.
She groaned dramatically. “You only said that because you’re nice.”
“Or because I have excellent taste.”
She snorted, “Your taste is terrible.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “That was hurtful Maya.”
“You deserve it.”
I smiled. It looked genuine. That was another thing I’d gotten good at. Looking genuine.
Maya continued talking while I pretended to listen. She was describing some couple she’d seen near the student center. Apparently their scents complimented each other beautifully. Apparently his amber wrapped around her lavender, that it looked romantic, like destiny.
The professor entered the room, and conversations slowly died down. I stared at my notebook. Blank. The page. My expression. My thoughts. Blank. Because while Maya was talking about amber and lavender and everyone else was seeing rivers of color drifting through the romm…I saw absolutely nothing.
No amber. No lavender. No gold. No silver. No crimson. No blue. Nothing. Never had.
I was born scent blind. Which sounds impossible— in the same way being born without hearing music might sound impossible, or being born unable to recognize faces. People weren’t supposed to be scent blind, at least according to society— according to every doctor my parents had ever taken me to— according to every article I’d secretly searched at three A.M. while convincing myself I wasn’t broken.
The professor began speaking. I wasn’t listening, instead watching the students around me— a girl twirling her pencil, a boy sleeping with his head on his desk, someone scrolling through social media. Normal— they all looked normal. Yet somehow there was an entire layer of reality they could all see that I couldn’t. Sometimes I wondered what it felt like.
Did scents colors really float through the air?
Did they glow?
Were they beautiful?
Or had everyone collectively convinced themselves they were more important than they actually were?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t know— and that was the worst part.
Not the lying, the pretending, or the knowing.
The professor clicked to the next slide, and a graph appeared. I copied down the notes automatically. My hand moved while my thoughts wandered somewhere darker. Back to when I was six years old— back to the first time I realized I was wrong.
“Look!”
It was sunny outside, our backyard littered with little flowers everywhere, tall glasses of lemonade standing on the small table near the porch. My mother was crouched beside me, while my father stood a few feet back, “Do you see the butterflies around her scent?”
I remember blinking, looking around, seeing absolutely nothing. There was confusion, panic— the way I’d glanced at my mother and realized she expected an answer.
So I gave her one.
“Pretty.”
My first lie. I was six years old, and I had been telling them ever since.
The lecture dragged on, and by the time class ended, I felt like I’d aged several years. Several students started packing up, the room erupting into conversation finally being relieved of class.
Maya stood up beside me, “Want to get lunch?”
“Sure.”
As we headed toward the exit, a group of students passed us. One of them laughed, “Oh my God, did you see that Alpha from Chemistry?”
“The one with the blue scent?”
“No, the dark green one.”
“Oh he’s cute!”
“No, he’s terrifying.”
I rolled my eyes and Maya caught it immediately, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You rolled your eyes.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
She crossed her arms, “Why?”
I stepped out into the sunlight outside, the warm air brushed against my face. The campus was crowded, students moving like currents in every direction.
“You ever notice,” I started, “that people spend more time talking about scent colors than actual personalities?”
Maya turned her head confused. “Girl, that’s because they tell you about personality.”
“Do they?”
“Yes..?”
“How?”
“Well…” she hesitated.
I smiled. Got her.
“Exactly.”
She shoved my shoulder, “Oh, shut up.”
I laughed, a real laugh this time— and for a moment things felt easy. Then Maya pointed toward a passing student— “What color is his scent?”
My stomach dropped instantly, like missing a step on a staircase. I followed her gaze to a guy I had never seen before. No notes, no reference, nothing. This was bad. I forced a thoughtful expression, “Uh..”
Think. Think. Think!
Maya waited. The world seemed to narrow. Every second stretching longer and longer. What if she figured it out? What if everyone figured it out? What if—
“Purple,” I blurted.
The guy walked closer. Maya stared and then burst out laughing, “Oh my God!”
My face burned, “W-what?”
“His scent is literally bright orange!”
I covered my face with my hands, my face burning with embarrassment. I wanted the ground to just open up and eat me whole, no funeral required. Just toss me into a hole and leave me there.
Maya wiped tears from her eyes, “So…purple?”
“It looked purple from this angle…”
“What angle?”
“The…sun angle?”
“The sun angle?” She deadpanned.
“Yes. Very scientific.”
She laughed harder. And somehow, miraculously, she believed that was all it was. A mistake. A joke. Nothing suspicious. Meanwhile, my heart was still trying to escape through my ribs. We continued walking, Maya still giggling every few seconds—I laughed too. Because if I didn’t, I might’ve cried— because one day my luck would run out, one day someone would ask the wrong question— one day someone would realize I couldn’t see what everyone else saw.
And then what? Would they pity me? Treat me differently? Look at me the way people looked at damaged things? I didn’t know, but the thought followed me all afternoon. Like a shadow. Like a secret. Like a crack running right through the center of my life— invisible to everyone except me.
And as I sat alone that night in my dorm room, staring out the window at the city lights, I found myself wondering the same thing I always wondered.
What was I missing? What did the world look like through everyone else’s eyes? What was so beautiful about these colors that people built entire lives around them?
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Below me, students crossed the campus, laughing, talking, living, belonging…And for a moment I felt separated from all of them by something invisible. A wall nobody else could see, a distance nobody else could measure. I’ve spent my whole life pretending I can see something that isn’t there. And some days, I think the pretending hurts more than the blindness itself.
An hour later, I was standing in line at the campus cafe. The smell of coffee beans filled the air. Students crowded every table; someone was loudly complaining about a chemistry exam, someone else was crying over a laptop. Ah..University. The magical place where everyone’s sleep schedule went to die.
I found Maya waving both arms from a corner table. As if I might miss her, which honestly, was impossible. She dressed like she was competing with traffic cones—yesterday, her outfit was neon green, today, her outfit was a bright obnoxious yellow. I was terrified to discover what tomorrow was gonna be— possibly something reflective, like a mirror stapled to her chest. I snickered.
“Morning,” I said.
“You’re late.”
“I arrived three seconds ago…”
“Exactly.”
I sat down, and she pushed a coffee towards me. I stared, “You actually bought it?”
“I keep my promises.”
I narrowed my eyes, “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
She gasped dramatically, “I’m wounded!”
“Good.”
“I spent money on you!”
“You spent five dollars.”
“I’ll have you know that five dollars is practically an investment.”
I laughed despite myself. The tension from yesterday loosened slightly, because unfortunately, yesterday still existed. It was a close call— too close. The panic I felt was a reminder that I was constantly one wrong answer away from disaster. Maya must have noticed my quiet expression because all of sudden— “You’ve been weird.”
I choked on my coffee, stuttering, “W-What?”
“Weird. You’ve been acting weird.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Y/N— I’m saying you seem distracted lately.”
I looked away. Outside the cafe windows, students crossed the lawn, it was normal. And there was me— heart racing, thoughts wild— because this was how it happened. Questions. Observations. Tiny things— tiny things that became bigger things, tiny things that became dangerous.
I forced a shrug, face scrunching up, “I’m fine.”
Maya stared. I stared back.
It was a battle of wills, and like always, she had the persistence of an annoying, meddling, mosquito. Eventually she sighed, “You’re impossible.”
The rest of the morning passed quietly, until sociology, my least favorite class. It wasn’t my least favorite because of the professor or the coursework, but because sociology loved discussing scent dynamics. The students loved it, they were practically obsessed with it.
Professor Kim walked to the front of the room smiling. A smile that immediately made me suspicious. Teachers only smiled like that when they were about to ruin your day.
“Good morning, everyone.”
Everyone collectively groaned.
“Today, we’ll be discussing the influence of scent perception on interpersonal relationships.”
Of course we were. Why wouldn’t we be? The universe truly hated me, that was the only logical explanation. I slumped lower in my chair and so the lecture began. We talked about past studies, statistics, historical examples, all of it centered around scent colors— what they meant, how they influenced attraction, compatibility, social bonds, the list went on. I copied notes hastily, trying not to think too hard. I tried to not wonder if everyone in this room would look at me differently if they knew.
Then the professor clapped his hands, signaling a change in pace. My soul left my body immediately, I knew what that meant— group activity.
“Pair activity time, everyone get with a partner.”
Ah, there it was. The phrase every student feared, the academic equivalent of a jump scare you could say.
“Discuss with your partner how scent perception has affected your relationships.”
At this point, I considered faking my own death. It felt reasonable.
Beside me, a girl I’d probably spoken to maybe twice smiled.
“Hi.”
I smiled awkwardly, “Hi..”
“I’m Yuki.”
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you!”
You too—Oh god, please don’t ask me anything difficult. Please. Please. Please. Plea-
“So…”
Dammit.
“So?”
“Have scent colors ever changed the way you saw someone?”
My stomach twisted. It was such a simple question, it was normal and innocent, the kind everyone else could answer without thinking.
I smiled. I smiled because smiling bought time. Because smiling hid panic. Because smiling was easier than telling the truth.
“I guess.”
Yuki nodded. “Same.”
Relief flooded me— Thank god. Please continue talking. Please save me from this conversation.
Thankfully, and magically, she did. For ten straight minutes. I had never been more grateful for another human being’s inability to stop talking.
By the end of class, I’d contributed approximately three sentences. A personal record if I do say so myself.
Afterward, I escaped. I didn’t walk, I ran. Across campus, away from classrooms, conversations, questions. The sky overhead was a striking blue, the kind of blue people described in poems, the kind people fell in love under. Today should have felt beautiful. Instead, I felt tired. A deep sort of tiredness. The kind that settled beneath your bones.
I found myself climbing the stairs of an older campus building. One floor. Two floors. Three— then higher, until I reached a door I’d never noticed before. It was weathered and gray, hidden so only those who were really looking for it would see it. Curiosity got the better of me. Which was usually a terrible sign.
I pushed the door open and froze. It was the rooftop, empty and silent. Wind brushed against my hair, the city stretching beyond the campus. Clouds drifted lazily overhead— no students, no conversations, just quiet. For the first time all day, I exhaled. It came from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere hidden, a place no one knew about.
I walked to the edge and rested my arms against the railing, staring out at the horizon. It felt strange— how much easier breathing became when no one expected anything from me. No pretending, lying, guessing. No wondering if I was about to be exposed.
Just me.
For a moment, I imagined telling someone everything. The truth, the secret I had carried my entire life. The words felt impossible even in my imagination— Because what if they looked disappointed? What if they looked sorry for me? What if they looked relieved they weren’t me?
My chest tightened. I hated that possibility most of all— pity. I could survive judgement. I could survive rejection.
But pity? — Pity would destroy me.
The wind picked up, it was cool against my face. And standing there, alone, above the campus, I realized something I hadn’t before. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been completely honest with anyone. Not my parents. Not Maya. Not myself. The thoughts lingered heavy and uncomfortable.
And somewhere down below, faintly carried by the afternoon wind, I heard laughter from the courtyard. People were living their lives, belonging, seeing colors. I closed my eyes. And for the first time in a long while, loneliness felt less like a feeling and more like a place.
I started visiting the rooftop every day after that. Not because I had some deep, poetic connection to it, or because I was having a life-changing spiritual awakening— mostly because nobody else went there. And after spending years pretending to be normal, being alone felt suspiciously close to freedom.
It became part of my routine.
Wake up. Go to class. Lie repeatedly. Eat lunch. Lie some more. Visit rooftop. Try not to have an existential crisis. Sleep. Then repeat— a healthy lifestyle, really.
Three days later, I was sitting crossed-legged on the rooftop with a sandwich balanced on my knee when my phone buzzed.
mayaaa: where are u?
I stared at the message, then at the sky. Ignoring people wasn’t rude if you were enjoying yourself. I was fairly certain that was a law somewhere— The phone buzzed again.
mayaaa: Y/N.
Another buzz.
mayaaa: I KNOW UR ALIVE
I sighed finally opening the chat,
You: unfortunately. whats up?
Three dots appeared immediately.
mayaaa: Found her.
Get down here.
You: why???
mayaaa: emergency.
I frowned. Maya’s emergencies ranged from “I forgot my charger” to “I accidentally dyed my hair pink.” There was no way to know.
Ten minutes later, I found her outside the library. She was vibrating with excitement. Literally shaking. I didn’t know how that was physically possible, but she somehow achieved it.
“Hey, what happened?”
She grabbed my shoulders. “Okay.”
Whenever someone— mostly Maya— started a sentence with “okay,” nothing good followed.
“Okay…what?”
“You know that Alpha everyone keeps talking about?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, no I don’t.”
“Oh my God— the weird one.”
I paused. Because that basically narrowed down to absolutely nothing. University campuses were filled with weird people— I had once seen a guy arguing passionately with a vending machine for fuck’s sake— and losing!
I sighed, “Which weird one?”
“The colorless one.”
Something in me blanked. Just for a split second. The gossip from the library, the whispers, the rumors, the guy everyone seemed to know— a guy I had never actually seen.
“Oh.”
Maya nodded dramatically. “Yes, exactly. That weird one.”
“What about him?”
“He almost got into a fight.”
Now that surprised me. For some reason, my mind automatically imagined someone quiet. Maybe because people who got talked about constantly usually learned how to disappear.
“With who?”
“Some Alpha from the engineering department.”
I raised an eyebrow, “And?”
“And apparently Jay just stood there.”
“Jay?”
“The colorless guy.”
So he had a name. That felt important— less like a rumor, more like a person.
“Okay,” I said. “And?”
Maya looked disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm, “That’s it.”
Later that afternoon, I found myself thinking about him. Which was strange because I didn’t even know him. I didn’t know what he looked like, what he sounded like— didn’t know anything. Yet for some reason my brain kept circling back to him.
The colorless Alpha— the one everyone avoided, the one people whispered about, the one people looked at differently— I hated how familiar that felt.
Next week was worse— not because anything happened, but because nothing happened. Maya’s words sat inside me like a stone, it was heavy and constant. I thought about it when I woke up, when I slept. It was a nagging thought during every conversation.
I was sitting in genetics one afternoon when the professor casually mentioned—
“Certain scent abnormalities can significantly impact social development.”
The classroom continued as normal, pens scratched against paper, students taking notes, some of them yawning. My heart was hammering against my chest.
Abnormalities— such a simple word, yet it landed like a punch.
That’s what I was, wasn’t I?
An abnormality— a mistake, an exception, a flaw in the system— I stared at my notebook, the words blurring together into puddles of ink.
I thought back to when I was eight— standing in a doctor’s office, my parents sitting beside me. I thought he smiled too much; adults always smiled too much when something was wrong.
I remembered the questions, the tests, the confusion. The way my mother squeezed my hand. She thought I wouldn’t notice the worried look that painted her face. I remember the doctor saying:
“We may just need more time.”
More time.
That meant more tests. More waiting. More hoping. Eventually the appointments stopped, and nobody talked about it again. My parents pretended silence could solve it, pretending that something wasn’t broken magically fixed the issue.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Soft and humorless.
The student beside me glanced over. I looked down.
Great. Now I was laughing at traumatic childhood memories during class.
Very normal behavior, as if I wasn’t weird enough.
That evening, rain fell across the city. It wasn’t a storm, just a steady drizzle. Most students hurried indoors— I headed for the rooftop
I was committed to becoming a rooftop cryptid. The stairs echoed beneath my feet. One floor. Two floors. Three. Then the final door. I pushed it open— and froze.
Someone was already there. For a second, I thought I was dreaming. The rooftop was always empty—always. But a figure stood near the railing. He was tall, hands tucked into a dark jacket, looking out over the city. The rain dampened his black hair, the wind tugging at it lazily, he didn’t move— didn’t seem to notice me, or maybe he did, maybe he simply didn’t care.
I should leave.
That was the normal thing to do, find another place, and avoid awkward interaction— then continue my life—- instead, I found myself standing there, watching. It was strange, not dangerous like how people usually feel with strangers; it just felt lonely. The realization hit me before I could stop it.
Whoever he was, he looked lonely— it wasn’t obvious, not like the dramatic movie version, just the quiet kind. It was a type of loneliness that settled into your bones and posture, the kind that lived behind your eyes— then he turned, slowly.
And suddenly I understood why everyone remembered him. He had gray eyes, sharp features, the sort of face people noticed immediately. Not because he was handsome— although he certainly was— but because he looked out of reach. Like he existed half a step outside the rest of the world.
For a moment we simply stared at each other. The rain whispered around us, while the city glowed below. Neither of us spoke, then something flickered across his face— recognition.
I didn’t think he knew me, I think he just caught me staring. Oh God…
I wanted to throw myself off the building, not fatally, just enough to avoid the embarrassment. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and to my absolute horror, I realized I had been standing in the doorway for nearly thirty seconds like a deer in headlights.
I looked away, “I was leaving,” I blurted.
Why did I say that? I wasn’t leaving, I literally just came here. The stranger looked at me, his expression remaining completely blank— which made everything worse.
“Okay,” he said, voice low and calm, a little rough around the edges. For reasons I couldn’t explain—there’s a lot of things I can’t explain nowadays—my stomach did something strange. I didn’t get butterflies, it was more like my insides collectively tripped over themselves. I hated that. Attractive people have no right making basic conversations difficult.
I cleared my throat.
“Actually…”
Stop talking.
“I wasn’t actually going to leave…”
Please stop talking!
“I only said that because I got startled.”
Dear God. Please just shut up.
A beat of silence passed, then unexpectedly—
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. And that might have been worse than if he had laughed, because suddenly he looked less out of reach. Less untouchable, more human— more real.
“Okay,” he said again.
Standing there awkwardly in the rain, I had this ridiculous idea that my life had just slightly shifted off course. I didn’t know his name yet, didn’t know anything about him. But something told me this wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.
For another moment, neither of us moved. Rain tapped softly against the concrete, and despite there being an entire empty rooftop available, I had managed to trap myself in the most awkward possible situation.
I need to leave— Instead, I walked to the opposite side of the rooftop and sat down.
Okay, we’ve committed, no turning back now.
I pulled my backpack onto my lap and pretended to search for something. Anything would suffice; a notebook, a pencil, a new identity…
The stranger— the guy— had already turned back towards the city.
Thank God.
My social dignity had already suffered enough casualties for one day. For several minutes, silence settled between us. It was uncomfortable…just silent.
I stole a glance at him, then immediately looked away when I realized he was looking at me too. I was caught again. Fucking fantastic. Maybe I should just start carrying a sign around my neck: Hi, I’m Y/N. I have no social skills.
The thought nearly made me laugh—
“You come here a lot.”
I blinked.
His voice startled me enough that I almost dropped my phone. I recovered with what I had hoped was dignity.
“Uh…Yeah.”
He nodded once, as if that confirmed something.
I frowned, “Wait.”
His gaze shifted towards me.
“How do you know that?”
A pause. “I’ve seen you.”
“Oh.”
My brian immediately short circuited, that answer raised several new questions.
“You’ve seen me?”
“Mm.”
“Here?”
Another nod.
My embarrassment reached levels I previously thought impossible.
“How often?”
His expression remained annoyingly calm. “A few times.”
A few times? I buried my face in my hands.
—Of course.
The entire time I had been thinking this rooftop belonged to exclusively me, apparently there had been a witness— a witness to all my dramatic staring into the distance, my habit of talking to myself, and to the time I had dropped an entire sandwich, to which I had spent five full minutes mourning.
How wonderful.
I was actually going to have to transfer universities.
“There are normal ways to find this information out,” I informed him.
His eyebrows lifted, “Like what?”
“Like minding your own business.”
To my surprise, a quiet laugh escaped him. Not loud and dramatic, just brief, but it transformed his entire face. He didn’t look as intimidating anymore, he looked tired— human. And something about that tiny laugh made my chest feel strangely warm. Which was irritating, because I didn’t even know him.
The rain continued falling. A steady rhythm against the rooftop. Eventually, I had pulled my legs closer to my chest.
“You don’t seem bothered by it.” The words slipped out without thinking.
He glanced over. “The rain?”
“Yeah.”
Most people hated getting caught in it, he didn’t even seem to notice. His jacket was damp, strands of wet hair falling into his eyes, still, he shrugged.
“It’s quiet.”
I looked out at the city. At the blurred lights beyond the campus, at the roads shining beneath the rain.
Quiet.
I understood that, more than I wanted to admit.
“Yeah,” I said softly.
“It is.”
The simple agreement between us felt heavier than it should have been. It was like we had both admitted something without actually saying it.
Another silence settled over us, this time lasting a bit longer. I found myself wondering who he was, what his story was. Whether the rumors were true, if he knew people talked about him. The answer was probably yes— people weren’t really subtle about it. They treated gossip like a sport, and eventually curiosity won— as it usually did.
“So.”
His gaze slid towards me. “So.”
I pointed at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“The question.”
That was fair.
“Do people always talk about you?”
I didn’t stop myself fast enough. I wasn't trying to be rude, I wasn’t. I was just…curious.
His expression didn’t change, but something I couldn’t decipher flickered in his eyes, and it was gone almost instantly.
“Probably.”
The answer surprised me. He said it so casually, like he had accepted that fact a long time ago, as if he had gotten used to it. My stomach tightened. I knew that feeling. Not exactly, but it was close enough. I knew what it felt like to be observed, to be different, to be discussed like you weren’t even there, like you were invisible.
“You know they do, don’t you?”
The question slipped out quietly, and this time he didn’t answer right away. The silence was deafening— then quietly—
“Yeah.”
Hearing it— that soft affirmation, something about it hurt. He sounded so tired. So tired of carrying a weight without expecting to put down.
I looked away first.
I remembered every conversation I had ever overheard about myself. Every doctor appointment, every concerned look, every whispered discussion my parents thought I couldn’t hear.
A gust of wind swept across the roof, shivering, I pulled my arms closer. The rain eventually began to lighten, the sky growing darker as the night approached. I checked the time. Shit.
“What’s wrong?”
I looked up, standing up so fast I nearly tripped over my own backpack.
“I uh, I have a paper due—”
Although it certainly felt like it, his expression suggested this was not the end of the world.
“Well, it was actually due yesterday…”
That got his attention, and so I pointed at him, “See, that’s how you find out information. Not just silently watching.”
“You forgot your paper I’m assuming, since it’s late.”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it— because honestly? I had no clue. Existing mostly.
He seemed to realize this because the sound of his laugh filled the air. And I found myself smiling as well. I reached down to grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder.
I looked toward the door getting ready to leave when I hesitated. Leaving all of a sudden felt strange, felt like I was walking away from a conversation that hadn’t actually finished.
I pushed the feeling aside. We were strangers, we had probably exchanged maybe twenty sentences so far, that's practically nothing. Still though…
“See you around I guess.”
His gaze met mine, then he nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Something about the way he said it made my chest feel oddly light. I turned toward the stairwell, one hand on the door—- then paused.
I forgot—
“We never introduced ourselves.”
The man blinked as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him either, and for a moment the faintest hint of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“Jay.”
The name settled somewhere inside me.
Jay.
It fits.
“I’m Y/N.”
As soon as I said my name, it felt like we had just crossed an invisible line. We weren’t exactly friends yet, not even close, but we were no longer strangers.
And as I headed down the stairs, heart weirdly lighter than it had been all week, one thought kept repeating itself.
The colorless Alpha. The one everyone avoided like the plague, the one who everyone whispered about.
His name was Jay.
And for the first time in a while, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow.
The problem with looking forward to tomorrow is that eventually tomorrow arrives. And then you have to deal with it. I discovered that at approximately 7:03 A.M. when my alarm went off and I immediately regretted ever opening my eyes.
I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow. I told myself five more minutes. Five more minutes couldn’t hurt. And yet five minutes later, I woke up forty seven minutes later.
“Dammit!”
By some miracle, I made it to class on time, I was even wearing matching shoes. The bar was low today, but technically I was succeeding.
I slid into my seat just as the professor began taking attendance. Maya appeared beside me moments later, coffee in one hand, bagel in the other. She narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
She pointed at me. “What happened?”
My stomach dropped, “What do you mean?”
“You’re smiling. You never smile, especially this early in the morning.”
I blinked, “I smile.”
“Not voluntarily.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” I gasped, my hand over my heart, clutched in fake heartbreak.
“I’m serious.” Maya leaned closer, “You have the face.”
The face? What face? There was a face? I hadn’t been informed.
“What face?”
“The face people make when something happens.”
I stared and sighed, because well, she was right. Maya had known me for years, and lying to strangers was easy, but lying to Maya felt like trying to hide a fire under a blanket.
“It’s nothing.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not—”
“Oh my god.”
“Maya—”
“You met someone!”
I nearly choked, the noise that came out of me wasn’t even human. I sounded like a dying bird, several students looked over.
Maya pointed aggressively.
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did!”
“Okay fine, I spoke to a person.”
Her eyes widened. “A person…”
“Yes Maya, a person.”
“A real person.”
“Most people are.”
“Y/N.”
I buried my face in my hands. This was a mistake. By lunchtime, Maya had secretly somehow convinced herself I had secretly fallen in love. Which was absurd and completely unreasonable. I had spoken to Jay once— for like, less than an hour. That wasn’t enough time to develop feelings and it was barely enough time to learn his favorite colors. Well, actually, in Jay’s case, maybe he wasn’t the best example. The image of him smiling immediately popped into my head— I nearly walked into a lamp post.
After my last class ended, I found myself wandering toward the worn down building again. This time purely by accident, and entirely unrelated to a certain person— if anyone asked— except myself…repeatedtly.
Soon enough, the rooftop door appeared, weathered and familiar. I stopped and strangely felt stupid. What was I expecting? That Jay would just magically be there when I opened the door? That he just existed solely for dramatic timing? Life, or rather just my life, didn’t work like that. But still… my hand found the handle and the door creaked open.
The rooftop stretched before me, empty of course. An unfamiliar disappointment settled in my chest, the feeling small and unreasonable. I tried to ignore it for about three seconds, then sighed and went to sit near the railing. The wind brushed through my hair as I stood idly. Thoughts raced through my head, I was overthinking again. And through the haze of my thoughts, I kept drifting back to yesterday.
To Jay. To the way he understood the quiet.
Most people hated silence and rushed to fill it, but Jay…he had sat in it comfortably, as if he wasn’t afraid of being alone with his thoughts. I wondered what those thoughts looked like, what went on inside the quiet head of his.
I never really wondered about people, or cared what they thought because keeping my secret took too much energy, and there wasn’t usually enough left over for curiosity. But somehow— Jay made me curious.
A sound interrupted my thoughts, it was the rooftop door opening. I looked up, and there he was, Jay, the guy who had been occupying my thoughts for the past few days. He was standing in the doorway, looking just as surprised to see me.
It was quiet until I spoke. “You’re here.”
“...Yeah.”
Jay didn’t seem bothered by my lack of conversation skills, if anything, he looked amused.
“I come here sometimes.”
“I noticed.”
My face heated up, “Right…”
Because apparently he had been seeing me here for weeks. I’ll never recover from that.
He began walking toward the railing, stopping a bit closer than yesterday, it was a comfortable distance— the kind people left when they weren’t trying to escape. The thought made something warm flicker inside my chest.
For a while, we simply watched the campus below, then he spoke.
“Do you always eat lunch alone?”
The sudden question caught me off guard, but a truthful answer rose immediately.
It was easier this time. Nobody really gets me, and pretending was starting to get tiring.
Instead of lying, I shrugged. “Usually.”
His gaze lingered on me. Just long enough to make me think he thought I was lying. Then he looked away. A moment passed, and my chest felt lighter because nobody had asked that before. Not really at least, not in a way that sounded like they cared about the answer.
A burst of laughter drifted up from the courtyard below, drawing my attention. A group of students crossed by, their voices carrying through the open air as they laughed and talked over one another.
There was something infectious about their energy. One of them suddenly pointed at something in the distance, and in the process distracted the person beside them, making it so that they nearly walked straight into someone else. Another student, trying to see what all the excitement was about, caught their foot on the uneven pavement and stumbled forward with a startled yelp.
The reaction was immediate. Their friends burst into laughter, some doubling over while the unfortunate regained their balance and threw them an offended look that only made everyone laugh harder. A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
“That would’ve been me.”
Jay looked up from beside me and followed my gaze toward the courtyard, watching the scene unfold.
“The one tripping?” he asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice.
I shook my head. “No. The one causing the accident. I have a talent for being a public hazard without meaning to.”
To my surprise, that earned an actual laugh from him. It was quiet, more breath than sound, but it was unmistakably a laugh. The corner of his mouth lifted, and for a moment the reserved expression he wore so often gave way to something warmer.
A strange sense of satisfaction settled over me.
It was ridiculous, really. It wasn't as though I had achieved anything important. Jay had laughed. People laughed every day. It was one of the most ordinary things in the world. And yet it felt oddly significant.
Maybe because it happened so rarely. Or maybe because he seemed different when he laughed. Less guarded, less like someone who kept the rest of the world at arm’s length.
The change was subtle, but it softened the sharp edges of his usual composure and revealed a version of him I didn't get to see very often— probably because this was only our second time meeting. Whatever the reason, I found myself holding on to the moment long after it had passed, watching as the smile faded from his face and wondering why something so small felt unexpectedly precious.
Before I realized, the thought slipped out, “You don’t smile much, do you?”
Silence.
Immediately, I knew I had crossed over a dangerous line. The question was too personal. Too soon. I opened my mouth to apologize, then stopped. Jay didn’t look upset. He looked thoughtful, like nobody asked him that before.
“Maybe not.”
His voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the sounds of the wind.
The answer broke something in me. The familiar tone was nothing I haven’t heard before. I felt like he had understood something about me without realizing it, even if neither of us knew exactly what it was.
The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the campus in shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the walkways below, and the windows of distant buildings caught the fading light, reflecting it back in flashes of orange. Beyond the university grounds, the city seemed to glow beneath the evening sky. It was the kind of view that demanded attention without trying. The kind that made conversations trail off naturally, as if words suddenly felt unnecessary.
So ours did.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
We simply stood side by side, watching the day wind down around us as students drifted between buildings and the sky gradually deepened into warmer shades of orange and pink. The silence wasn't awkward, and it wasn't the strained kind that begged to be filled. It settled comfortably between us, easy and unforced.
I found myself relaxing into it.
Into the quiet. Into his company. And that was what unsettled me. Because it shouldn't have felt significant. Sitting beside someone in silence wasn't exactly a life-changing experience. Yet somehow, this was.
For years, silence had always carried a certain weight for me. Left alone with it, I usually became aware of every empty space, every thought I was trying to ignore. But standing there with Jay, watching the sunset bleed across the skyline, I didn't feel lonely.
Not even a little.
The realization hit harder than I expected. And if I was being honest with myself, it scared me. I didn't fully understand just how dangerous Jay had become until three days later. Not dangerous in any normal sense—He wasn't secretly plotting my demise or hiding bodies in a basement somewhere—-No, this was a different kind of danger entirely.
The sort that sneaks up on you. The sort you don't notice until it's already worked its way into your life. Because somehow, without either of us acknowledging it, we'd fallen into a routine. Every afternoon, sometime around four o'clock, one of us would end up on the rooftop. Then, inevitably, the other would appear. There had never been a conversation about it. No plans were made. We hadn't exchanged phone numbers or established a meeting time. Neither of us had suggested making it a regular thing.
And yet it kept happening. Day after day. Like a law of nature neither of us had agreed to but somehow obeyed anyway.
At first, I told myself it was a coincidence. By the fourth day, that explanation was becoming increasingly difficult to believe.
The walk to the rooftop felt familiar now. Familiar enough that my feet knew where they were going without much thought. Familiar enough that I stopped pretending I came here by accident. The realization was deeply annoying.
By the time I pushed open the door, the sun was already low in the sky.
And Jay was there. Of course he was. For some reason, that no longer surprised me.
He glanced up from where he was leaning against the railing.
"You're late."
I stopped, baffled, then narrowed my eyes.
"Did you just accuse me of being late?"
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"Maybe."
I pointed at him, "That's incredibly rude."
"You usually get here first."
I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again.
The worst part was that he was right. The absolute worst part was that he had noticed.
"I don't appreciate being perceived."
His shoulders moved slightly— a laugh. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. For a while, we stood in comfortable silence.
Then Jay spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Depends." I said, repeating his words from before.
"On?"
"The question."
For the first time, I saw him hesitate— only briefly, but it was there.
"You always look like you're waiting for something."
I blinked.
"What?"
His gaze remained on the campus below.
"Every time I see you,"
My stomach tightened unexpectedly.
"You stand here and look at everyone like you're searching for something."
I looked away, because the terrifying thing was— he wasn't entirely wrong.
"I think you're imagining things."
"Maybe."
But neither of us believed that.
The wind swept across the rooftop. Below us, students moved between buildings, laughing, talking, living lives that seemed uncomplicated from a distance.
"Do you ever feel..." I stopped.
The words felt dangerous.
Jay waited. I swallowed.
" — Like everyone else got instructions for life and somehow you missed the email?"
For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
"Yeah."
I looked over.
His expression hadn't changed. But something in my chest shifted anyway. Because that was the first time anyone had ever answered that question without asking what I meant.
A few weeks have passed, and Jay and I have only gotten closer. Somewhere along the way, we started seeing each other outside of our rooftop meetings. At first it was just simple study sessions; a spare chair that became Jay’s chair, his notes mixing with mine. There was the occasional, “Can you explain this passage?” which turned into entire afternoons spent over textbooks together. Then came the coffee. Jay started showing up with my order— memorized and everything— before I could ask. It became a habit that somehow formed after I complained once about long cafe lines in the morning.
“ — You’re spoiling me.”
Jay placed the cup in front of me.
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true.”
“And yet you still drink it.”
“Because,” I took a sip, “it's free.”
Jay rolled his eyes.
— The next day, he brought me coffee again. And the day after, then the day after that. Soon it became expected, a routine. One of those small things neither of us ever acknowledged but would notice immediately if it disappeared.
The walks home happened by accident. At first, one of us would leave class, and the other would happen to be heading in the same direction. Then suddenly we were taking the same route every evening. We talked about everything and nothing. Sometimes we talked about our future careers, sometimes arguing over movies, and sometimes we walked entire blocks in comfortable silence.
— One night, Jay stopped mid-conversation.
“What’s wrong?”
He glanced at me, “You know your apartment is the opposite direction from mine.”
“...Oh.”
Neither of us had mentioned that he’d been walking me home for weeks— or the fact that he had to walk the extra distance.
Our tiny moments accumulated one after another. Jay started saving seats beside him without thinking. I started stealing his food that he brought every once in a while when we’d have lunch on the rooftop. There were inside jokes nobody else but us understood. The late night texts and phone calls about assignments that somehow turned into conversations lasting until two in the morning.
And to my utter surprise, I started searching for him anytime I walked into a room, even though I had most of my classes without him. When we were together, his eyes would always find me first in the crowd. My occasional bad day would feel less smaller whenever he was around. And in turn, his smiles became easier around me. I don’t think either of us noticed when stuff like this happened— I mean, our friendship wasn’t dramatic; it wasn’t fireworks, or lightning strikes— it was smaller than that, softer.
It was a hundred ordinary moments that were stacked on top of each other. And one day during my sociology lecture, I realized that Jay was woven into every part of my life. And judging by the way he already knew my coffee order, my favorite songs, my worst habits, and exactly what mood I was in without even asking—
I thought I had become part of his too. Those tiny moments became my everything.
The rooftop was colder than usual. Not freezing, just enough that the wind occasionally slipped beneath your sleeves and made you pull your jacket tighter around yourself.
The campus was oddly quiet for a Friday night. Most dorm windows glowed softly in the darkness, while only a few students lingered on the street, their voices distant enough to blend into the night.
Beside you, Jay sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. It was just the two of you and the city lights. The conversation drifted naturally the way it always did, one topic leading into another, one memory unlocking ten more.
You learned that Jay used to collect rocks when he was eight, but they weren’t cool rocks, as he described them, just random rocks. Apparently, the uglier they were, the more determined he became to keep them.
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off the ledge.
“They were important.”
“They were rocks.”
“They had personalities. I even named a few of them.”
“They were rocks, Jay.”
“You’re being very judgemental right now.”
You wiped the tears from your eyes, “I’m judging you correctly— who would name a bunch of rocks?”
He shook his head, but he was smiling.
The sight made a warm feeling settle into your stomach, slightly warming you from the cold air. Jay smiled more these days— especially around you. The conversation between you and Jay continued. Childhood stories, embarrassing memories, dreams for the future. You talked about the places you wanted to visit, the life you hoped to build.
“When I’m older, and far away from this place, I want to live in the countryside. Maybe have a few animals, like a horse or something.”
You talked about the things that scared you. The things that kept you awake at night. At some point, the laughter faded. The mood softened and the night got later. The sky above stretched endlessly, the stars twinkling under the weight of dark. It was beautiful.
Jay leaned back against his hands, his gaze fixed on the stars.
“What were you afraid of when you were little?”
You thought about it. There was so much to be afraid of back then. Monsters under the bed. Spiders, snakes, nightmares— hell even the boogy monster.
“The ocean.”
His eyebrows lifted, “The ocean?”
“It’s terrifying.”
“It’s water?”
“Yeah but it’s endless water.”
“Fair enough.”
You pointed at him, “Your turn.”
Jay was quiet for a moment, then said—
“Being forgotten.”
Your heart squeezed. The answer came so quickly and so honestly. It seemed like he had never told anyone before. You turned towards him, the teasing smile that once sat on your face disappearing. Jay didn’t look at you, his eyes remaining fixed on the night sky.
“When I was younger, I used to think…” He hesitated then laughed softly, “Actually never mind.”
“No,” you nudged his shoulder, “You started it. Gotta finish it.”
His mouth twitched. “I used to think if nobody remembered me after I died, then my life wouldn’t matter.”
You stared. The vulnerability in his voice catches you completely off guard. He wasn’t usually like this, not in the short time you have known him, he wasn’t like this with other people— maybe not even with himself.
“You were a weird kid.”
The corner of his mouth lifted into a soft smile. “There she is.”
“I was getting emotional.” you argued.
“Pretty sure you were getting existential. Don't think too much into it.”
Silence settled over you. It was comfortable. You rested your chin on your knees, looking out towards the city. Beside you, Jay was unusually thoughtful. You could practically see the gears turning in his head.
“What are you thinking about?”
He hummed, “Can I ask you something strange?”
You immediately smiled, “Always.”
He paused again, this time longer, as if he was debating whether to say it.
“What color is my scent?”
You blinked.
“...What?”
Jay finally looked at you, a faint smile appearing. “I told you it was strange.”
You laughed. “No, I heard you. I just don’t understand what that means.”
He shrugged. “You’re a sociology major. Aren’t you guys always talking about scent colors?”
“I mean yeah…but…”
“But what? Yours is purple. Your purple is what dusk looks like when the sky is tired, but still wants to be beautiful— when the blue doesn’t fully want to let go and the red lingers like a secret it can’t stop telling. It looks like a velvet in low light, like something you’d only notice if you slowed down long enough to really see it.”
“When I’m with you, it feels like comfort, like a warm blanket. Sometimes it becomes darker, but I don’t really mind. I like your purple.”
You couldn’t speak. Nothing would’ve prepared you for what came out of his mouth.
“So…what color is my scent?”
You were still panicking. For years you lied about this specific thing. Now you have to lie to the one person you’ve never lied to— but you couldn’t. You can’t do that to him.
So you whisper,
“I can’t see scent colors.”
For a long moment, Jay says nothing. You didn’t expect to be pitied, to be ridiculed—- it was Jay, he would never do that to you. Instead—
That was the problem with it. Nothing ever announced itself as important. It just quietly rearranged your life while you were busy thinking about other things. You noticed immediately first in sociology, mostly because sociology was the kind of class where people thought they were being subtle when they absolutely weren’t.
You slid into your usual seat beside Jay in the one class you shared. It was literature, and you both only realized you shared the class after the first week of your casual hangouts. You dropped your bag under the desk with a soft thud and immediately fished out your notebook. The paper still smelled faintly like the coffee you had spilled on it two days ago. Jay was already there, of course. Leaning back in his chair like he had been waiting there since yesterday, pen rolling between his fingers in a lazy loop.
Except today, something was off in a way you couldn’t immediately name. You glanced sideways, and noticed the seat beside Jay wasn’t just empty but avoided. How come you’ve never noticed until now?
A girl two rows up, had started walking towards it, paused mid-step like she had hit an invisible wall, then quietly veered away and sat somewhere else without explanation. No eye contact, no acknowledgement, just a smooth reroute, like the space beside him had been marked “do not touch.”
You frowned, “....Did someone spill something there or something?” you muttered under your breath, half joking.
Jay didn’t look up from his textbook, “I don’t think so. We’re early, people wanna get seats by themselves before everyone else starts piling in. It makes sense they wouldn’t sit next to us if there’s other empty seats.”
It was weird though. No one sat there, like ever. The seat stayed empty like it had been erased from consideration entirely. You tried to ignore it, you really did. But awareness has a way of sticking once it attaches itself to something.
By the time the lecture ended, you had mostly convinced yourself you were imagining things— for the most part. You gathered your things, shoving your notebook into your bag and followed the usual flow of students spilling into the hallway. The building was loud in that end-of-class way— chairs scraping, backpacks zipping, overlapping conversations bouncing off walls too smooth to absorb anything.
Jay walked beside you without speaking, hands in his pockets, and gaze forward. Everything was normal. Almost. Except people didn’t collide with him in the way they collided with everyone else. It wasn’t obvious enough to call it out, just subtle adjustments— someone stepping slightly to the left instead of the right, someone suddenly interested in their phone, someone changing their walking speed by half a beat.
You realized you haven’t really been paying attention as of recently. With all of your time and focus being put into hanging out with Jay, you haven’t paid attention to anything else, let alone the other people around you. You caught the small adjustments of the people around you once. Then again. Then again.
Each time, it felt like noticing a glitch in something that was supposed to be seamless. Jay didn’t react, not outwardly at least. But his shoulders were a fraction more rigid than usual— like he noticed too, but had decided long ago that reacting wouldn’t change anything.
The cafe made it worse. It always smelled like roasted beans and sugar and exhaustion. The line snaked toward the counter in slow, irritated movements. You stood beside Jay, half leaning into him without thinking, scrolling through your phone while he stared at the menu like it had personally offended him. Behind you, voices lowered. Not fully silent, just dipped— like someone had turned a knob down without warning.
“That’s him, right?”
“Yeah, the colorless Alpha.”
Your fingers paused mid-scroll. That phrase again.
Jay didn’t turn— of course he didn’t. People said things. People always said things. That had always been true. But something about hearing it repeated so casually, like it was just another descriptor— like “tall” or “quiet” or “annoying” — made your stomach tighten.
The girl speaking leaned slightly, trying to peek past them.
“I heard being near him feels weird…Like physically weird.”
“Like something's missing?”
“Yeah, like that!”
You turned your head just enough to see them clearly, “Are you guys ordering or just narrating his existence at this point?” you coughed out flatly.
The two girls froze, one of them laughing too quickly and awkwardly, “Oh— sorry, we didn’t mean—”
Jay stepped forward in line.
“One iced coffee please,” he said.
No emotion. No acknowledgement. It was like he was cutting the conversation off at the root before it could grow teeth— before it could escalate. The barista blinked, then nodded and turned away quickly, clearly eager to move on from the sudden awkwardness.
You stared at him, “You’re just…not going to say anything?”
Jay didn’t look at you, “It’s a coffee line.”
“No, it’s not just a coffee line,” you said, lowering your voice as you moved forward. “It’s people acting like you’re— I don’t know—”
You struggled for a word that didn’t sound dramatic.
He supplied it for you without hesitation. “Contagious?”
That made you stop. “…Yeah.”
Jay finally looked at you, looking tired rather than offended. He sighed, “I’ve heard worse.”
That sentence landed heavier than you expected. Because it wasn’t bitterness. It was familiarity. Like he had catalogued every version of this response and stored them somewhere behind his eyes.
Outside, the air felt colder than it should have. You walked backwards in front of Jay for a few steps, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“Okay,” you started, “This is not normal.”
Blinking, he says, “It’s normal enough.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
You sighed, “Since when is people avoiding sitting next to you normal?”, you continued, “Yeah, I’ve noticed Jay, so don’t make any excuses for this.”
Jay adjusted his grip on his coffee. “Since always.”
That shut you up for half a second, hating that it did. There was nothing to counter that, there was only discomfort. Only that growing realization that you had somehow missed something everyone else already knew how to navigate.
“That’s just messed up,” you said finally.
He shrugged slightly, “It’s just how it is.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, “It shouldn’t be.”
He didn’t respond to that, and somehow that silence felt louder than anything he could’ve said.
It didn’t get better. It just got quieter in a worse way. Like the world had decided on a new setting and forgotten to tell them. Group projects filled faster. Not because people disliked Jay outright. But because when his name appeared, there was always a brief hesitation before someone said, “maybe we should pick someone else.”
Seats next to him disappeared first in every lecture. You started noticing you were getting the same treatment by association. At first, it was small. A girl who used to wave at you stopped doing it. A group that used to save you a seat suddenly didn’t have space anymore. Conversations you walked into would pause for half a second too long, then continue. But differently. Like you had changed the atmosphere just by being there. You didn’t mention it— not at first, because naming it made it real. And making it real meant admitting you couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Lunch was when it became undeniable. You carried your tray across the cafeteria, scanning for Maya, when you spotted an open seat at a table you used to sit at regularly. You walked toward it without thinking, set your tray down, and then— The girl across from you stood up. Too fast. Too clean.
“Oh—sorry,” she said quickly, not meeting your eyes, “I thought this table was free.”
You blinked, “No, it’s—”
But the girl was already gone. Just like that. As if the space itself had been reassigned. You stood there for a moment, tray in hand, staring at the empty chair like it had just betrayed you on principle. Behind you, you heard it again—whispers. Not loud. Never loud. That was the point.
“That’s her, right?”
“The one with him.”
“I heard she’s weird too.”
You slowly turned your head. A group immediately looked away. One of them suddenly became very interested in their sandwich. Another checked their phone like it was breaking news. You exhaled slowly through your nose.
“…Right,” you muttered to no one, “cool. Awesome. Love that for me.”
Then you turned and walked away before your brain could decide to do something stupid like confront them again.
Jay was on the rooftop when you found him—Of course he was.
The door creaked slightly as you pushed it open harder than necessary. Wind hits you immediately, sharp and cold, carrying the distant sound of campus life below them. He was leaning against the railing, sleeves pushed up, staring out like the skyline was something he understood better than people. You didn’t waste time walking over.
“You knew.”
Jay didn’t turn, “…Knew what?”
You stopped beside him, “The way people are acting.”
A pause. “Yes.”
That single word made something in your chest tighten.
“That’s it?” you asked.
Jay finally turned his head, “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” you snapped, then immediately lowered your voice, “not nothing?”
“They’ve always been like this.”
“Not to me.”
That made him pause, just barely. But you saw it.
Jay looked away again. “That changes.”
The way he said it wasn’t dramatic. It was resigned. It was like he had already accepted the direction everything was heading.
Shaking your head, you replied, “No. It doesn’t have to.”
“It does,” he said quietly.
The wind picked up around you, tugging at the edges of your hoodie. The whole situation was crazy. Ever since you came to this university, everyone around you treated you like a normal person, just another classmate— not some outcast they can’t stand to be around. And this sudden behavior from everyone was getting to you.
How was he so calm?
“I’m used to it,” he added.
“Yeah,” you shot back, “I’m not.”
That made him go still. Not angry— Just…quiet. Like he was recalculating something and didn’t like the result.
The breaking point didn’t announce itself. It just happened.
Literature lecture. Same room. Same noise. Same fluorescent lights humming above them like they were tired of existing too. You and Jay were walking to your usual spots when a voice came from behind.
“Hey.”
Jay didn’t stop walking, and neither did you
“What color is his scent today?”
A ripple of laughter, small and contained. But it was enough.
You stopped walking. The sound of it scratching paper and loud conversations vanished into silence you hadn’t agreed to.
Another voice, amused, “Still missing, I guess.” There was more laughter, it wasn't big enough to call attention to, but it also wasn’t small enough to ignore. You turned toward the group, feet screeching against the floor, the sound cutting through the room like a warning, every head turning toward the noise. Jay stopped walking. You didn’t look at him yet, instead looking at the room first— at all of them—at the people who could turn a person into a concept and still call it humor.
“Do you ever get tired?” you asked.
No one answered. You laughed once, sharp and humorless, “Of course you don’t.” The silence tightened. “You don’t even see him,” you said, voice shaking now but steady enough to hurt, “you just see something you can talk about when you’re bored.”
A chair shifted somewhere, someone coughing awkwardly. “We’re just joking,” someone said weakly. “No,” you replied immediately. “You’re not joking. You’re just safe enough to think it doesn’t matter.”
The room went still. Even the air felt paused. You tightened your grip around your bag, knuckles turning white in quiet rage. Although you were enraged, you couldn’t let them get to you. “I hope none of you ever find out what it feels like,” you added, quieter, “to be talked about like that while you’re standing right there.” And you walked out.
Jay caught up with you outside, the hallway was quiet, less echo, less eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said immediately. You turned towards him in disbelief. “Oh my God, are you serious right now?” Jay ran his hand through his hair. “Listen,” he sighed, “They’ll start on you too.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
That stopped you again. Taking a deep breath, you replied, “They already think nothing of me— I was just another person in the crowd— and you—”
Jay didn’t respond, at least not quickly enough, but that was all you needed. “You—” you continued, voice rising slightly, “Do I just let them say shit about you and do nothing?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?”
A long pause. “Y/N….I just didn’t want this to happen to you.”
Something in your expression softened for a moment, then immediately hardened, “Jay,” you said quietly, “this isn’t something you get to protect me from.”
“I’m trying to fix it,” he said.
“There’s nothing to fix… you just ignore everything.”
“There is.”
“No,” you stepped closer, “there isn’t. There’s just people being terrible and us deciding whether we stop living because of it.”
Silence.
Then Jay exhaled slowly. “It means I don’t think I can keep doing this if it keeps hurting you.”
You froze. “…Doing what?”
His eyes met yours. And for the first time since you met him— He looked like he was already halfway gone.
“This,” he said quietly. “Us.”
The word hit harder than anything else. It didn’t sound like rejection. It sounded like protection— and that was worse. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”
Jay didn’t answer. He just took a step back, not leaving yet— not fully. Just far enough that it felt like the beginning of it.
After that day, things didn’t fall apart in any way I could point to.
There was no dramatic ending. No final words that echoed long enough to justify what came after. Nothing sharp enough to explain the quiet that followed. It just… ended without announcing itself. Like realizing halfway through a conversation that the other person had stopped listening, but kept nodding anyway. Like a light slowly dimming while you’re still pretending the room looks the same.
The rooftop changed too.
Not in any way I could point at and say this is where it broke. Not dramatically. Not cleanly. Nothing about it ever gave me that kind of closure. The door still stuck a little when I pushed it open too fast. The metal railing was still cold enough to bite into my palms if I leaned too long. The wind still came in sharp bursts that pulled at my sleeves like it was impatient with me for standing still.
Everything was the same. That was the problem, because it wasn’t. It stopped being a routine. It stopped being the place where time softened at the edges, where I could sit for a while and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist beyond the stairs behind me. It became something else. Something I didn’t name at first, because naming it would’ve meant admitting I was hoping. Something I kept returning to out of habit more than anything else. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I’d climb the stairs anyway. Same rhythm. Same pace. Same moment of hesitation before I pushed the door open like I was bracing for impact. And then I’d sit there. Back against the railing, knees drawn up sometimes, sometimes stretched out just to pretend I was relaxed. My phone would be in my hand, screen open, thumb hovering over messages I never sent. Sometimes I’d type hey. Sometimes I’d type nothing at all and just stare at the blinking cursor like it might change my life if I waited long enough.
It never did. I’d delete it. Lock my phone. Unlock it again five minutes later like I hadn’t already decided the outcome. And I’d watch the door. Not because I thought anything would happen. Just because my eyes kept going there anyway. Like they didn’t get the memo that I was supposed to stop expecting things.
The door never opened for him— Not the next day, not the day after that, not the day after that either. I told myself it made sense. People got busy. People had lives. People didn’t revolve around rooftops and accidental routines that meant more to one person than the other. So I kept going. Same time. Same stairs. Same door. Same empty rooftop waiting for something that wasn’t coming. Every single afternoon, I showed up anyway. And every single afternoon, I left with the same feeling sitting behind my ribs—quiet, stubborn, and starting to feel permanent.
Two weeks passed like that. Not cleanly. Not in a way I could track properly. Just… blurred. Like the world had turned down the brightness and forgotten to turn it back up again. Mornings felt heavier. Afternoons passed too quickly. Even conversations didn’t land the same way anymore, like I was hearing them from slightly too far away. I stopped noticing small things the way I used to. I stopped laughing at things I probably would’ve found funny before. I stopped looking around rooms for someone without meaning to. At some point, I realized I was still functioning. Going to class. Taking notes. Eating when I remembered. Sleeping when I couldn’t avoid it anymore. But it felt like running on something low and fragile, like I was trying to conserve energy without knowing what I was saving it for.
On the third day of the fourth week, Maya noticed. Maya always noticed things before I was ready to admit they existed. I was sitting in the cafeteria, pretending my food was interesting enough to stare at instead of eat, when she slid into the seat across from me. No greeting, no teasing, just a look—that look—The one that meant I had already been figured out and just hadn’t been informed yet.
“…Okay,” she said slowly, drawing the word out like she was testing it for damage, “what is going on with you?”
I didn’t look up. “Nothing.” It came out too fast, too practiced.
Maya’s eyes narrowed immediately. “No,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “that wasn’t a nothing. That was a very specific nothing. The kind where something is happening and you’re actively pretending it isn’t.”
I stabbed a piece of lettuce harder than necessary. “I said nothing.”
She blinked once. Then pointed at me like she had just confirmed something. “You’re doing the thing.”
I frowned slightly. “What thing?”
“The thing where you act fine but you’re actually one minor inconvenience away from mentally combusting.”
“I’m not combusting.”
Maya leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. “Okay. Then explain why you’ve been walking around like a background character in your own life for the past few weeks.”
That made my fork stop mid-air. I didn’t answer immediately. Maya didn’t rush me, she just waited. That was the worst part about her. She always waited like she already knew I would break eventually. Finally, I let out a breath. “…I’m fine,” I started automatically.
Maya raised a hand immediately. “Don’t.”
I stopped. Just like that. Because she wasn’t joking anymore. Her voice softened, just slightly. “Just talk to me,” she said. And something in my chest gave in a little. Not dramatically. Just enough.
“He’s not there,” I said quietly.
Maya frowned. “Who’s not there?”
I hesitated. That hesitation said more than I wanted it to. “…Jay.”
The name changed the air between us instantly. Maya’s expression shifted—recognition first, then something more careful. “…Oh,” she said. That was it. Just that. But it felt like she understood more than she said. I gave a short laugh, but it came out wrong, thin and off.
“Yeah,” I said. “Oh.”
Maya studied me for a second longer. “Did something happen?”
My fingers tightened slightly around my fork. I looked down at my tray like it could answer for me. “It wasn’t even a fight,” I said finally. “Not really."
Maya stayed quiet. I kept going anyway. “It was just… he decided something without me.”
Her head tilted slightly. “About you?”
I nodded once.
“And you didn’t like it.”
The words should’ve been simple— they weren’t.
“I didn’t get a say,” I said. “He just… stepped back. Like that was the correct answer. Like I wouldn’t notice.”
Maya went quiet for a moment. Then carefully, like she was choosing each word: “That sounds like him trying to protect you.”
Something sharp moved through my chest at that. A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
“And that still made you mad.”
“It made me feel erased.” My voice came out quieter than I expected. Like saying it too loudly would make it real in a way I couldn’t undo. “Like I wasn’t part of my own life anymore,” I added. “Like I was something he could just… remove himself from without asking.”
Maya didn’t interrupt, didn’t correct me, didn’t try to fix it. Just listened. That somehow made it worse because it meant she understood why it hurt. After a while, she asked, softer: “And now?”
That should’ve been an easy question, and again it wasn't, because “now” was the worse part. Now was the rooftop every day. Now was checking the stairs before I even realized I was doing it. Now was pretending I wasn’t disappointed every time the door opened and stayed empty.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Maya watched me for a long moment, then sighed, leaning back. “You two are exhausting.”
I let out a weak smile.
“Thanks.”
“I mean it lovingly,” she added quickly. Then her tone shifted again. “But also—you need to talk to him.”
That made my stomach tighten. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he already decided—”
Maya cut in immediately, “He decided something while being emotionally dramatic and catastrophically noble,” she said flatly. “Which, unfortunately, is a very consistent male trait.” Despite everything, I huffed something that almost counted as a laugh.
“Maya…”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She leaned forward again, expression soft but firm now. “That doesn’t make it permanent.”
I looked away. Because that was the problem, it already felt permanent. Like a door that had quietly closed somewhere behind me and I hadn’t noticed until it was too late to stop it.
“…It feels permanent,” I admitted.
Maya stood up, grabbing her tray.
“That’s your issue,” she said simply.
I looked up at her.
She paused for a second, then added— “Stop letting it be permanent in your head before it even gets a chance to exist anywhere else.”
And then she walked away, leaving me sitting there with food I wasn’t eating, with a silence I couldn’t shut off, and with a rooftop I still couldn’t stop going back to.
The world didn’t pause for him. It never did. The hallways were still filled with the same rush of footsteps in the morning, the same low hum of voices bleeding into each other between classes, the same fluorescent lights that made everything feel slightly too sharp to be real.
He still went to class. Still arrived early enough that he had the same seat without thinking about it. Still sat down with the same quiet precision—bag placed beside the chair, notebook opened to the right page, pen already uncapped before the lecture even began. Still answered questions when called on. Still looked like nothing had changed.
If anything, to people who didn’t look too closely, he looked exactly the same. Calm. Composed. Detached in the way he always had been. But something had shifted anyway. Not in him, exactly. In the space around him.
People noticed it in the smallest ways first, the kind of things that didn’t feel important until they stacked up.
There was no familiar figure sliding into the seat beside him anymore. No soft movement in his peripheral vision when someone leaned over to whisper something under their breath. No second coffee was placed next to his on the desk with the quiet assumption that it would be taken. No quiet side comments during lectures that weren’t really about the lecture at all.
Just… space.
Too much of it.
At first, people filled it with assumption. Then with curiosity. Then with silence of their own. Because Jay didn’t explain anything—he never had. And now there was nothing around him that suggested an explanation was coming.
On the 15th day, someone finally asked.
It happened after class when the room had mostly emptied out, leaving behind the usual aftermath—chairs slightly out of place, notebooks shut too quickly, the faint scrape of bags being pulled over shoulders.
Jay stayed seated, not because he was waiting, but because he simply hadn’t stood yet. He was closing his notebook when he noticed someone lingering near his desk. A guy from his section. Standing just close enough to seem casual, but not quite relaxed enough to actually be casual.
“Hey,” the guy said.
Jay didn’t look up immediately.
He finished marking a line in his notes first. Neat. Controlled. Like always.
Then—
“…Yeah?”
The response came flat, neutral, unreadable.
The guy shifted his weight. “Uh,” he started, scratching the back of his neck like he was already regretting speaking, “I just—people were wondering…”
Jay’s pen stopped. Not dramatically, just enough that the air changed slightly.
“…People,” Jay repeated, not a question. Just a confirmation that he’d heard it.
The guy nodded quickly, encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t been dismissed yet.
“Yeah. People from class. They thought you and your friend were like… always together.”
A pause. Jay’s hand tightened slightly around the pen. Not visible unless you were looking for it.
Most people weren’t.
“…My friend,” he said again.
The guy nodded again, a little more uncertain now.
“Yeah. The girl. Y/N.”
At that, something shifted—not in Jay’s expression, but in the stillness of him.
Like a door had been touched but not opened. He closed his notebook slowly. Then set his pen down with deliberate care.
“She’s not my responsibility,” he said.
Calm. Even. Final.
The guy blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.
“Oh—no, I didn’t mean— I just meant like— you know, you two were always together. People assumed—”
Jay finally looked up. Properly this time, not sharply or aggressively, just directly.
And somehow that was worse. His expression was completely neutral, but there was something in it that made the guy feel like he had stepped into a conversation he wasn’t meant to interrupt.
“People assume a lot of things,” Jay said.
It was a simple sentence. No emotion added or an invitation to continue. The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic. It was just… complete.
The guy opened his mouth like he might try again, then stopped. He nodded awkwardly instead. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I'm just—curious, I guess.”
Jay had already looked back down, back to his notes, back to whatever existed before the conversation.
“Mm,” he replied. Not dismissive. Just finished.
The guy hesitated another second, then left. Chair legs scraped lightly against the floor. Footsteps faded. And then— nothing.
Jay sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the page without actually reading it. His pen remained untouched. The classroom was empty now. Too empty in a different way than it used to be. Before, silence had been something he didn’t think about. Now it had edges. He closed his notebook again. More slowly this time, and finally stood.
As he left the room, nothing about him looked different. Same pace. Same posture. Same expression. But the space around him followed him out more noticeably now.
Because even if he didn’t say it—even if he didn’t explain it—people could tell.
One afternoon, Maya found me. I didn’t even hear her come up.
The rooftop door creaked, closed, and I only noticed she was there because of the way the air shifted—like someone had stepped into a space that had gotten used to being empty. I was sitting on the ground this time. Back against the wall. Knees pulled in. Chin resting there like it weighed too much to hold up properly.
I wasn’t looking at anything in particular. Just… existing in a direction.
Maya didn’t say anything at first, she just stood there. For a few seconds, I felt her watching me. Not in a judgmental way. In that way she had when she already knew she wasn’t going to like what she found.
Then she walked over. Sat down beside me without a word. Close enough that I felt her presence, far enough that I didn’t feel trapped by it.
Silence stretched between us. The wind brushed my hair across my face. I didn’t move it away right away. Neither of us rushed the quiet. That was the thing about Maya. She never forced words out of me like they were supposed to be easy. She just waited until they gave up on staying inside.
My fingers flexed against my sleeves. Once. Twice. Like I was checking if I still had control over anything.
And then—
“…He’s not coming back.”
My voice surprised even me. It didn’t crack, it didn’t shake, it just came out flat— certain in a way I didn’t feel. Maya didn’t answer immediately.
I felt her turn toward me. I didn’t look back.
“Did he say that?” she asked finally.
I shook my head. “No.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, like she was stepping carefully around something fragile— “Then what makes you sure?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It didn’t feel like relief, it felt like losing something again. “Because if he wanted to…” I swallowed, “he would’ve.”
The moment I said it, I hated how final it sounded. It was like I was trying to turn uncertainty into something solid just so I wouldn’t have to keep waiting.
Maya shifted slightly beside me. Her voice softened. “That’s not how Jay thinks.”
That made me laugh once, short and empty. How would you know? It didn’t sound like me.
“Then how does he think?” I asked. My voice came out sharper than I meant it to.
Maya didn’t react to that, she just took a breath like she was deciding how honest she wanted to be with me.
And then she said— “I believe that he thinks if he removes himself from something that hurts you,” she said carefully, “then he’s doing the right thing.”
My chest tightened without permission.
She continued anyway. “Even if it destroys him too.”
The rooftop didn’t feel windy anymore. It felt still— too still. Like even the air was waiting for me to respond. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t decide which part of that hurt more. The idea that he thought I needed protecting… Or the idea that he thought leaving me was protection.
My throat felt tight.
“I hate that,” I said quietly. It came out smaller than I wanted. Less anger, more… something I didn’t want to name.
Maya exhaled. “Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”
Another silence, different this time. Heavier. Not empty. Just full of things neither of us wanted to touch directly. Then Maya bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. A small gesture. Grounding.
“You going to stay like this?” she asked.
I looked at her then. Really looked. “…Like what?”
She gestured vaguely at me. “Like someone waiting for a door that isn’t locked anymore.”
That sentence hit somewhere too precise and too personal. My eyes dropped almost immediately. She was right in a way I didn’t want her to be.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admitted.
And saying it out loud made it feel worse. Like admitting I’d been stuck without moving at all.
Maya stood up slowly. I looked up at her, confused. She dusted her hands off like she was shaking something off herself more than anything else.
“Then go tell him that,” she said simply.
No drama. No softness trying to hide the truth. Just straight through me. “Instead of sitting here like he already left you.”
Then she turned and walked back toward the door, leaving it open behind her, not forcing me to follow, just… not letting me stay exactly where I was.
The next day, I went to class like normal. Or what passed for normal nowI sat in my seat, opened my notebook, clicked my pen twice before writing anything. Acted like my thoughts weren’t somewhere else entirely, acted like I wasn’t counting the minutes between sentences. The lecture started, words filled the room, and I wrote them down without really seeing them. My hand moved because it knew how, not because I was paying attention.
Halfway through, I noticed something. A seat beside me— empty. Not avoided this time— or taken.
Just… empty.
Like it had been left there on purpose. Like someone had been sitting there for so long it forgot what it was supposed to be without them. My pen stopped. My fingers tightened slightly around it just enough to feel it.
The room kept moving around me.
People talked. Pages turned. The professor kept speaking like nothing had shifted at all. But I couldn’t stop looking at that space. And for the first time in days— I didn’t force myself to look away. I just stared at it. Until something inside me shifted. I closed my notebook, the sound feeling louder than it should’ve. And I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor. A few people glanced over. I didn’t stop.
The rooftop door felt heavier than I remembered, though I couldn’t tell if that was something physical or just the way my own hesitation had started to seep into everything I touched lately, as if even ordinary things were beginning to resist me in small, quiet ways that no one else would notice but I could feel in the slow drag of my hand against the metal handle.
I stood there for a long moment, longer than I meant to, staring at it like it might offer some kind of instruction for what I was supposed to do next, like it might suddenly decide to speak and tell me whether walking through it would fix anything or ruin everything, but it just stayed still, indifferent in that painfully familiar way, as if it had already seen too many versions of me come and go to care which one I was now.
Eventually, I climbed anyway, one floor at a time, then another, then another, and each step up the stairwell echoed in a way that felt too loud, too intentional, like the building itself had become aware of me in a way it never used to be, as though it had decided to record every hesitation in my movement and replay it back to me through the hollow sound of my footsteps against the walls.
By the time I reached the final landing, my hand had tightened around the strap of my bag so much that my fingers ached faintly, though I only noticed it when I stopped moving, because I had been holding myself so rigidly that my body had started to blur into the act of simply getting here instead of actually feeling anything at all.
I stopped in front of the door again, and this time I didn’t even pretend I was going to move immediately, because my breathing had turned uneven in a way that made me painfully aware of every inhale and exhale, like my body had forgotten how to perform something as simple and automatic as existing in a steady rhythm without turning it into something complicated.
Then, after a long moment that felt like it stretched far beyond what was reasonable, I finally pushed the door open.
The wind hit me instantly, cold and sharp and uninvited, slipping through my clothes and into my skin in a way that made me flinch slightly even though I should have been used to it by now, and yet somehow it still managed to feel familiar enough to tighten something deep inside my chest before I could even fully understand why.
And then I saw him.
Jay.
He was standing near the railing like he had never left that exact spot, like time had simply continued without bothering to inform me of it, like I had been the only one paused somewhere in between days while he had remained exactly where I last saw him, still and quiet and impossibly unchanged in a way that made my mind stutter before it could catch up.
For a second, I genuinely couldn’t process it, because there was something almost cruel about how normal he looked standing there, as if nothing had ever fractured between us, as if I hadn’t spent days learning what absence feels like when it starts to sound like a person’s name in your head at random moments when everything else is quiet.
And then he turned.
And he saw me.
But he didn’t look surprised.
There wasn’t even the smallest flicker of it, not in his eyes, not in his expression, nothing that suggested shock or confusion or even relief, just this steady, unreadable stillness that made it feel like he had already accounted for this moment somewhere in his mind long before I arrived, like he had been waiting for something inevitable instead of unexpected.
Neither of us moved closer.
Neither of us spoke immediately.
The space between us suddenly felt like it had become its own kind of object, something tangible and heavy and impossible to ignore, something that felt too small to avoid looking at but too large to cross without feeling like it would change everything irrevocably the moment either of us decided to step into it.
Finally, his voice broke through it, quiet and controlled in that same way I remembered but now understood a little differently, like it was being carefully held together on purpose.
“You’re here.”
It wasn’t a question, and that somehow made it heavier.
My throat tightened slightly before I could answer, and when I finally did, my voice came out softer than I expected, like I had to drag it up from somewhere deeper than speech.
“Yeah,” I said, and even that one word felt strange in the open air between us, like I hadn’t used it in a long time in a place where it mattered. “I am.”
A pause followed, long enough that the wind had time to pass through the rooftop again and curl around us like it was trying to remind us that the world kept moving even when we didn’t.
Then Jay exhaled slowly, almost carefully, like he had been holding something in place for far too long and wasn’t entirely sure how to let it go.
“I didn’t think you would come back up here,” he admitted, and there was something in his tone that wasn’t quite regret but wasn’t quite neutral either, something suspended in between.
A short laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, except it didn’t sound like amusement at all, more like something cracked trying to pass itself off as intact.
“I wasn’t sure I would either,” I said, and even as I said it, I realized how true it was in a way that made my chest feel strangely tight.
That was when I started walking.
Slowly at first, like my body was testing whether the distance between us would hold or collapse, and then a little faster once I realized it wasn’t going to disappear on its own, until I was standing just a few steps away from him and could see the way his gaze followed me carefully, as if he was still trying to figure out whether I was real or just another version of the silence he had been standing in.
“I don’t understand you,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt, though there was something fragile underneath it that I couldn’t fully hide. “You just left.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that, just enough for me to notice, just enough to make me realize that this wasn’t something easy for him either.
“I didn’t leave you,” he said, and there was an immediate tension in my chest at the distinction he was trying to make.
But I shook my head once, because I didn’t want careful definitions or softened versions of what had happened.
“You did,” I said more firmly now, the words landing heavier between us than I expected. “You just made it look like it wasn’t supposed to hurt.”
That made him look away for a moment, not in avoidance exactly, but like he needed to steady something inside himself before he could keep going, and when he finally spoke again, his voice had dropped slightly, losing some of its usual control.
“I thought I was making it easier for you,” he said, and the way he said it made it sound like he had rehearsed it in his head too many times without ever finding a version of it that didn’t hurt.
My stomach sank slightly.
“Easier for what?” I asked, though I already felt like I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.
He finally looked at me again, really looked at me this time, like he wasn’t just speaking to me but trying to make sure I understood exactly what he meant.
“For people to stop looking at you like you’re something they get to define,” he said quietly, each word measured but heavy, like he was afraid of breaking something by saying it wrong. “For them to stop attaching you to me like it makes you less… acceptable.”
The wind moved between us again, softer now but no less present, and for a moment I couldn’t respond because there was something deeply frustrating about how much I understood the fear behind his logic even while hating what it had done to us.
“No,” I said eventually, quieter than before but sharper in a way that came from somewhere deeper. “They didn’t stop. And you leaving didn’t fix anything.”
Silence followed again, but this time it wasn’t empty, it was full in a way that made it hard to breathe through, like every word we hadn’t said in the past days had finally caught up and was standing between us now, waiting to be acknowledged.
I stepped closer again without thinking about it, and this time there was no hesitation left in my movement, only something steady and unresolved.
“You don’t get to make choices like that for me,” I said, and I could feel my voice shaking slightly now even though I tried to hold it steady. “You don’t get to decide what I can survive without even asking me if I wanted you to stay.”
Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle but real, like those words had finally landed somewhere they couldn’t be ignored anymore.
“…I know,” he said after a moment, and this time it didn’t sound like defense, just truth. “I just didn’t want to be another thing that made it harder for you.”
That made something tight twist in my chest, because the intention didn’t change the outcome, and I think he knew that too.
“I’ve been surviving harder things than you disappearing,” I said, softer now but no less certain, and I saw the way his expression changed at that, like he was hearing me for the first time instead of the version of me he had been trying to protect from everything.
He exhaled slowly.
“…I missed you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world and also the only thing he could say that wouldn’t fall apart under its own weight.
And something in me broke in the quietest possible way.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice almost unsteady now, “I missed you too.”
The distance between us didn’t feel like distance anymore after that.
It just felt like something we had finally stopped pretending wasn’t affecting both of us at the same time.
And when I stepped closer again, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through the cold air, I realized I wasn’t afraid of it anymore.
Not him.
Not this.
Not us.
“Don’t leave again,” I said quietly, like it wasn’t a demand anymore but something I needed him to understand had already changed everything.
He nodded immediately, like there was no hesitation left in him either.
“I won’t,” he said. “Not because I should stay. Because I want to.”
That sentence lingered longer than anything else.
And then, finally, when neither of us spoke again, when the wind softened just slightly like it was giving us space on purpose, he reached for my hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was still afraid the world might interrupt him if he moved too fast.
But I didn’t pull away. And that was what changed everything.
Because when he stepped closer after that, closing the final space between us without hesitation now, it didn’t feel like uncertainty anymore.
It felt like a choice.
His forehead almost brushed mine before he paused, just for a second, just long enough for me to know he was still waiting without asking, and when I didn’t move away, he finally kissed me.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quiet in the way something real is quiet, like it didn’t need to prove anything to exist, like it had already been built long before either of us were brave enough to admit it.
And when he pulled back, just barely, still close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin, I realized something simple and terrifying and soft all at once— this wasn’t something I had to lose anymore.
But like idk who it should be- it’s giving Jay vibes but I lowkey want it to be about jake… it’s about fated mates and them finding each other other despite being different…ILL EXPAND MORE PROMISE and it’s lowkey inspired by my jungwon fic😀
I see your post about needing an inspiration🤤 maybe kinda basic but i have an idea... Jake was a nerd in middle school who was head over heels for reader, then they graduated and didn't see each other since then. But reader got transferred to same college as him and noticed that jake has changed and turned into a popular handsome guy but still follows reader everywhere. I DON'T KNOW IF ITS CORNY😭
no wait comeback this is cuteeeeee as fuckkkkk
I'm currently working on a story centered around fated mates (dont know who the love interest is yet tho) but I WILL get to this, i already have a plan in mind🙈
But like idk who it should be- it’s giving Jay vibes but I lowkey want it to be about jake… it’s about fated mates and them finding each other other despite being different…ILL EXPAND MORE PROMISE and it’s lowkey inspired by my jungwon fic😀
The third time that week, you received a text from your boyfriend.
jakey: i forgot my wallet
You stared at the message. Then at the coffee you had just bought. Then back at the message.
You: ur kidding.
jakey: i wish i wasss
You: where are u???
jakey: um im at the store
You: the one thats 10 min away from home??
jakey: unfortunately
You groaned dramatically, grabbed your keys, and headed back out.
When you arrived, Jake was already standing by the register looking completely unbothered.
“You know,” you said as you handed him his wallet, “most adults remember to bring this with them. It's like essential for everyday life…”
He blinked slowly. “I remembered it.”
“You clearly didn’t.”
“I remembered it existed.”
You rolled your eyes.
Jake grinned.
Fifteen minutes later, after a long discussion about the importance of wallets, you guys finally headed home.
Or you would have been.
Except Jake suddenly sat up right in the passenger seat.
“Oh no.”
You immediately knew.
“Oh my god, what did you forget now?”
“The groceries.”
You slammed your forehead against the steering wheel, while Jake smiled sheepishly beside you.
“Jake.”
“They’re still in the cart.”
“Jake.”
“We have to go back.”
“Jake.”
By the time you got home, the ice cream had already started to melt. You carried the bags inside while Jake followed behind you.
“I think,” you announce, “that you are physically incapable of functioning on your own.”
“That’s mean.”
“You forgot your wallet.”
“It was one time!”
You raised your eyebrows. “Three times this week actually.”
“Who’s counting?”
“I am.”
Jake set the grocery bags on the counter and walked over to you. Then wrapped his arms around your waist, his chest hitting your back softly. The annoyance on your face immediately weakened.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you distract me.”
“I’m not distracting you.”
“You are literally hugging me.”
“Maybe I just wanted a hug?”
You tried to stay annoyed, you really did. But Jake was warm, and familiar, and smiling in that way that always had your words faltering and losing the argument.
After a moment you sighed, “You are so inconvenient.”
“That’s not very nice— I thought we were having a romantic moment.”
“No, seriously.”
You turned around and poked his chest.
“You leave your hoodies everywhere. You steal my charger. You ask me to taste your food even though we ordered the exact same thing. You lose everything. You literally can’t find things that are directly in front of you.”
“The ketchup was hidden..”
“It was on the table.”
“It blended in.”
You laughed despite yourself, and Jake’s smile softened. For a second neither of you spoke. Then, Jake suddenly squeezed your hand.
“Sorry you had to come save me.”
You looked at him. At his messy hair. At his stupid grin that he was always trying to hide. At the same boy you’d spent years teasing and loving and rescuing from his own forgetfulness.
And suddenly the car ride, the wallet, the melted ice cream— none of it felt annoying anymore. Because if there was one thing you knew, it was this:
If Jake texted you tomorrow saying he had forgotten his wallet again, you’d probably complain. You’d definitely roll your eyes. Might even call him hopeless.
But then you’d grab your keys and go.
Every single time.
Jake tilted his head.
“What are you thinking about?”
You smiled and reached up to cup his cheeks to lay a soft kiss against them.
“Just that I’d love to be inconvenienced by you.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You rested your head against his chest.
“I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it.”
His smile grew wider.
“Thank god, I was starting to think you’ve grown sick of me.”
Not the kind of color-blindness where only certain colors blended together or looked wrong, like red and green— he couldn’t see color at all.
The world, as he described it, was made entirely of shadows. Everything he saw was either light gray or dark gray. Every tree, every flower, every sunset, every ocean, every painting— reduced to shades of the same dull, boring, and endless colorless spectrum.
As kids, I remember that he used to ask questions that nobody knew how to answer.
“What’s red?”
“What’s purple?”
“How come people love sunsets so much?”
“Why is that flower prettier than the other one?”
The adults always gave him the same answers. They were technical answers, scientific— answers that sounded correct to our little brains at the time, but never meant anything.
It was always the same. Red had a certain wavelength, blue had another, and green was somewhere in between (I never really understood that either).
Jungwon would nod politely because it was routine at that point, and then would turn to me and whisper, “I still don’t get it.”
And honestly?
I didn’t blame him.
Because how do you explain colors to someone who’s never seen them?
How do you explain something that you can’t hear, smell, or touch?
Something that simply just…exists?
It’s nearly impossible.
For years, neither of us knew. Until one afternoon when we were fifteen.
That day, I dragged him out of bed at six in the morning during summer break, and of course he complained the entire time. About how early it was, the scolding heat, and me. Mostly me.
“I can’t believe you woke me up at this ungodly hour..”
When we finally reached the hill that overlooked the entire town, the sun, being right on time, was beginning to rise. The star's golden light spilled across everything like a soft blanket— the grass, the rooftops, the clouds, the entire town looked like it had been dipped in a sweet honey.
And of course, Jungwon couldn't see it .
But he could feel the warmth, the absolute growing heat of the morning sun, the gentle breeze of the wind, and the feeling of the day beginning.
We sat on the grass near the small tree at the top, our legs touching each other and our hands almost grazing each other.
I remember looking at him as he gazed into the distance.
One quiet evening, while we were walking home together, his hands in his pockets, mine swinging loosely beside me. Jungwon suddenly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
I looked back at him in wonder, “Why’d you stop? Something wrong?”
He shook his head lightly.
“You know something?”
I, of course, after years of teasing, became immediately suspicious. Most of the time that tone never leads to anything good.
“...What?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
My brain stopped working.
Everything was completely quiet, except for the sound of passing cars and the gentle rustling of the wind flowing through the trees. The world seemed to freeze around me.
All I could focus on was Jungwon.
Jungwon, the guy who looked completely unaware of the damage he’d just caused— Or maybe he was aware and I was just too blind to see it.
“What?” I squeaked out.
The small smile on his face widened.
“I said—”
“No, I heard you.”
My face became instantly hot.
It was almost painful.
The warmth of my heating blood rushed into my cheeks so quickly it felt like my entire face had caught fire.
Jungwon laughed.
And that somehow made it worse.
“Your voice changed.”
“Please stop.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
“Jungwon.”
“I bet your heartbeat got faster too.”
“Won…”
The grin on his face became impossibly bigger.
Then suddenly, an idea hit me.
A terrible idea. One that made my stomach flip into knots.
— Slowly, I stepped closer.
Smile faltering, he said, “What are you doing?”
Without answering him, I reached both my hands towards his. My fingers trembled, I hope he didn’t notice, but he probably did. And gently, I guided his hand upward, then pressed his palms against my cheeks.
The moment his skin touched mine, I nearly blew up.
My face was burning.
I could feel the heat beneath my skin, the warmth flooding my cheeks— the embarrassment, the affection, the nervousness…everything.
For several long seconds, neither of us moved.
Jungwon froze, his hands remained sandwiched between my hands and my face.
The world seemed weirdly quiet, like it was only the two of us.
It certainly felt like it was.
Then softly, almost in a whisper, I asked:
“Do you feel that?”
His eyes searched mine even though he couldn’t see the pink spreading across my cheeks.
