Reasons Why I Hate You || Boo Seungkwan x You
pairings: idol!Seungkwan x creative director!reader, second chance romance, documentary, inspired by our beloved summer
“From first love to forever — they found their way back, and built a life worth remembering."
They were each other’s first love — inseparable in high school until the pressures of chasing a dream tore them apart. Years later, a reunion documentary brings them face-to-face again, stirring up old wounds, lingering feelings, and the truth behind why she walked away. Through anger, regret, and unspoken love, they find their way back to each other — proving that some loves don’t fade with time; they simply wait to be found again.
You were halfway through a mind-numbing meeting when your phone buzzed.
The client’s voice droned on about font hierarchies and "branding synergy," but the unknown number on your screen was far more intriguing — and slightly alarming. You never answered calls from unknown numbers. Still, something about this one made your thumb hesitate.
You excused yourself quietly, slipping into the hallway of your office building, sleek and cold under the late afternoon light.
“Y/N-ssi?” A woman’s voice, polite and practiced. “This is Kim Hyejin from KBC Productions. I’m calling about a new documentary project we’re producing—”
You cut her off automatically. “I’m not interested.”
She hesitated. “I haven’t explained what it is yet.”
“I’m still not interested,” you said, softer this time but firm. “I don’t do interviews. I don’t—”
“It’s a follow-up to Youth in Bloom,” she interjected quickly, as if ripping off a bandage.
The title hit like a physical blow. Youth in Bloom.
A ten-part documentary filmed during your senior year of high school. What was supposed to be a small, local project about "ordinary students" had gone unexpectedly viral, thanks to its central, unplanned focus: the bickering, undeniable chemistry between you and Boo Seungkwan.
The world had loved you two. "High school sweethearts," they’d called you. "Opposites attract." You had been everywhere — memes, fan edits, late-night variety shows reminiscing about your dynamic.
And then, just months after filming ended, you broke up. Publicly? No. Brutally? Absolutely.
You drew in a shaky breath. “I… don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“We want to revisit the original cast, see how everyone’s lives have changed in the last ten years,” Hyejin pressed gently. “The audience still remembers you. They’d love to see where you and Boo Seungkwan are now.”
You almost laughed at that. Where we are now?
You were a creative director at a mid-sized design firm, working long hours in a windowless office. He was one of the most recognizable idols in the country, adored by millions.
Worlds apart. Exactly as you’d intended when you ended things.
“I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice clipped. “But I have no interest in reopening that part of my life.”
She didn’t argue further, "
Across the city, Seungkwan stared at his reflection in the practise room mirror, frustrated with himself for not being able to get this one dance move right.
But nothing could prepare him for what his manager casually said while scrolling on his tablet, "KBC wants you for a Youth in Bloom reunion, nostalgia, first love... the fans will eat it up,"
"No," Seungkwan replied without hesitation.
His manager blinked, "It could be good PR--"
"I said no," Seungkwan repeated, voice like steel.
When the manager left, Seungkwan slumped against the mirror onto the floor, eyes closed and face buried in his hands. The frustration from both the dancing and having to think of all the things he's been through with you was too much. He told himself he didn't care. Told himself he'd forgotten you.
But later when he's all alone on his bed, scrolling through old clips and photos, tears rolled down without him even realising.
"Yah, can I borrow your notes? Seungkwan asked, leaning over your desk with a cheeky smile.
"No," you replied flatly.
He pouted dramatically, and you rolled your eyes. He's always been a loud one, while you were quiet, focused on grades and determined to stay out of trouble. You didn't like him at first, but somehow he grew onto you.
Later that day, Seungkwan found a neatly photocopied set of notes in his locker and he grinned like he'd won a battle.
Daily life with him slowly became routine. He'd walk you to class, steal your snacks and chase you around the library, which ends up with detention for the both of you. He was like a ray of sunshine in your life and you didn't know exactly when it stopped being annoying but when he held an umbrella over you even when he was soaked one rainy afternoon. You swore you felt your heart skip a beat.
And that's how you started, for 1321 days.
The studio felt suffocating when he walked in.
Time had done something to him — broadened his shoulders, sharpened his features, wrapped him in the effortless confidence of a man who had the world’s applause at his feet. But when his eyes found yours, for just a heartbeat, you saw the boy you used to love.
"Y/n-ssi," he greeted you with a small nod, voice polite.
"Seungkwan-ssi," you replied, matching his tone.
The director grinned. “Great! Let’s start with some catch-up shots. How long’s it been since you’ve seen each other?”
“Nine,” Seungkwan corrected without looking at you.
Your chest tightened. He remembered.
"I don't love you anymore, Seungkwan"
Despite the countless times you practised these five words in front of the mirror, they still felt like acid in your mouth but you said them anyway.
He stood on his porch, stunned, rain pouring on both of you, "What are you talking about?"
"I just don't", you kept your arms wrapped around yourself, nails digging into your palms to keep yourself from breaking and showing any sign of hesitation.
His breath caught, like you'd struck him, "That's not true."
"It is," You forced the words out, "You're debuting soon and I-- I just can't do this anymore,"
He stepped closer, desperate. "But you're the only thing that's kept me going--"
"Stop," you cut him off, voice cracking, "Please, just...stop. I'm done,"
For a moment, he just stared at you, rain sliding down his face, unsure if it was water or tears. Then, quietly:
"If you walk away right now...I won't come after you."
Your heart shattered and you looked up to meet his eyes one last time before turning away.
That was the last reason out of five for why he hates you.
The lists goes on, and Seungkwan keeps a little note of that on his phone. It made him feel better to pretend there were reasons to hate you instead of love you—though, more often than not, he caught himself erasing the hate and replacing it with things that only made him love you more.
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When other classmates asked for your notes you would refuse every time, even to him. But you would always stuff a brand new copy into his locker and explain it slowly to him if he didn't understand.
2. She picks fights too easily.
“Yah! Don’t think I’m scared of you just because you’re older!” you shouted at the three seniors, your voice sharp enough to make the entire hallway go silent.
One of them sneered. “And don’t think I won’t hit you just because you’re a girl.”
Your blood boiled. You took a step forward—only for a firm arm to stop you.
“Y/N,” Seungkwan said, sliding in front of you, shielding you with his body. His tone was calm but urgent. “Hey, baby, it’s okay. Look at me. Let’s not do this here, alright?”
He kept his eyes on you, not the seniors, as if reminding you that they weren’t worth it.
Only later did he learn that you was defending him from their trash talk.
His thumb paused on the line, and despite the ache in his chest, he let out a quiet, bittersweet laugh, remembering how fiercely you’d defended him that day.
But the cherry blossoms are the prettiest this time of year," Seungkwan whined.
"We can go next year. I’m busy today," you said apologetically.
He sighed quietly. It was always next year.
But that night, as you walked home together, you suddenly pulled out a handful of pink paper confetti you’d cut yourself and tossed it over his head.
“They’re not as pretty as the real thing,” you said shyly, “but I didn’t want you to miss them.”
Seungkwan looked at you then, eyes wide, heart light. He didn’t think he’d ever been happier.
4. She only shows her soft side to me.
"Y/N," Seungkwan repeated calmly to his friend, who still looked unconvinced.
"But why her? I mean, she’s cute, sure, but she’s rude. I don’t get it."
Seungkwan’s expression softened, a small, almost private smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t know her like I do,” he said quietly. “You’ve never seen how kind she can be when no one’s looking.”
He'd lost count of how many times he'd defended you, but it only made him fall harder -- because only he ever got to see that soft, unguarded side of you.
And finally, reason five.
He hated that you made him fall so deeply in love… only to leave when he loved you the most.
He locked his phone and dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion and longing weighing him down. No matter how many reasons he wrote, he could never make himself stop loving you.
Filming continued the next day at the old town library where you used to have late night study sessions, it hasn't changed one bit. Same creaky floors, same sunlight slanting through the tall windows.
He’s already seated when you walk in. For a moment, it’s like being seventeen again — him slouched over textbooks, you scolding him for doodling in the margins.
“Y/N-ssi,” he greets coolly.
You take the chair beside him because the director tells you to. His cologne is subtle but warm, and it unsettles you more than you want to admit.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter as you open a random book for the camera.
He smirks faintly. “You still hate being told what to do.”
Your eyes flick to his. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything,” he says simply, not looking up.
Your pulse stutters and you excused yourself to step out for air.
The next location was the school rooftop. You couldnt help but smile as a fond memory of stolen kisses and secret hugs between classes flickered through your min. The same rusted fence, the same peeling paint, and the same endless sky stretched above you, untouched by time.
You stand side by side for the cameras, pretending not to feel the weight of his presence.
“This place hasn’t changed,” you murmur.
The director prompts for “memories of this spot.”
Seungkwan’s voice is even. “I remember that she never believed in me.”
It’s like a punch to the gut.
The crew chuckles awkwardly, thinking it’s a joke. You know it isn’t.
Later, when you find him by the stairwell, you whisper, “You didn’t have to say that.”
“Isn’t it true?” he asks, eyes cold. “You left when I needed you most. Told me I wasn’t worth waiting for.”
“You didn’t have to,” he cuts in, voice low. “You walked away like I didn’t matter.”
And then he’s gone, leaving you trembling in the echo of his anger… and your own regret.
That night, Seungkwan opens his phone and adds to his list:
6. I hate that no matter how much I try to resent her...I still want her to look at me the way she used to.
He turned off the screen, but sleep never came.
The next day’s filming brought you to your curated art exhibition — a space that felt nothing like the high school memories they’d been dredging up. Here, everything was deliberate: the soft wash of warm light against white walls, the quiet hum of strings playing in the background, the polished wood floors that clicked softly beneath every step.
Seungkwan entered with the crew, his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the room without expression. He wasn’t sure what he expected — minimalistic modern pieces, maybe. Something detached, like how you’d seemed when you first met again.
Tucked in the center of the gallery, given its own spotlight, was a painting that stopped him in his tracks.
A couple under an umbrella in the rain.
The strokes were soft yet heavy, textured with layers of gray and muted blues. The boy’s face was angled toward the girl, not fully detailed but unmistakably tender — eyes warm, lips parted as if he were about to say something. The girl’s face was hidden beneath the curve of the umbrella, but her hand — small, pale — clutched the sleeve of his jacket desperately, like letting go might break her.
Seungkwan’s heart slammed against his ribs. He didn’t have to guess what night this was. He knew it. That night. The night you told him you didn’t love him and walked away in the rain while he stood there, feeling like the world had ended.
He stepped closer, and that’s when he noticed the small placard beside the frame.
“Untitled — Selected by curator Y/N.”
You hadn’t just painted this — you’d chosen to display it. Out of all the pieces in this gallery, you’d given this one the centerpiece, the light, the space.
He stared at it for a long time, the buzz of the crew fading into nothing.
Maybe she did love me, a thought whispered, unbidden. Maybe she always did.
He turned away when a camera operator called for him, but the image of the painting stayed burned behind his eyes. Even at night, he kept replaying the painting in his mind, almost reaching for his phone to ask what you meant. Almost.
7. I hate that she still finds a way to hold me even when she’s not here.
Morning came and so with the noise.
Filming moved to a music show, crowded with artists and staff. Among the lineup was Haeri, the rookie idol who had recently been vocal about admiring Seungkwan.
He greeted her politely, gave her the same warm professionalism he gave any junior. But she lingered near him often, beaming when cameras swung her way. He didn’t think anything of it—until the articles dropped that evening:
“Haeri and Boo Seungkwan: Secretly Close?”
“‘He’s My Ideal Type,’ Haeri Gushes — Sparks Fly on Set!”
The next day on location, you avoided him completely. No small talk. No accidental glances. Just distance, thick and cold.
The shoot ran long. As Seungkwan left the set, heading toward the back corridor, he caught voices up ahead — two staff members speaking in low tones near the stairwell.
“…I felt so bad for her back then,” one was saying. “She broke up with him right before his debut. Everyone thought she was heartless, but… you know why she did it, right?”
The other sighed. “Yeah. She came to us crying, said she didn’t want to hold him back. Said he deserved to chase his dream without feeling guilty for leaving her behind. She asked us not to tell him because… she wanted him to go without hesitation.”
“God,” the first murmured. “He never knew. Must’ve hated her all this time, thinking she just dumped him. Poor guy.”
The words sank deep, each one cutting and healing all at once. His throat tightened, vision blurring as realization hit him like a tidal wave:
She loved me. She always loved me.
All the anger, the resentment, the “reasons” he’d kept as armor crumbled in an instant. And all that remained was longing — raw, overwhelming, undeniable.
He walked out of the building without a word, his feet carrying him on instinct through familiar streets until he reached a tiny Japanese sukiyaki restaurant.
The spot that belonged to the both of you.
It smelled of simmering broth and soy, of comfort and familiarity. The low hum of conversation filled the small space, but Seungkwan heard none of it. He sat in your old booth, shoulders hunched, staring at the condensation running down his glass of soju.
The staff’s voices still echoed in his head.
She didn’t want to hold him back.
She asked us not to tell him.
She loved him enough to let him go.
His chest ached so fiercely he almost laughed. All those years he’d convinced himself he hated you — when the truth was, you’d loved him harder than he’d ever understood.
The bell above the door jingled softly.
“Found you,” came your voice, soft, almost uncertain.
He looked up, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and his eyes glistening with tears, almost like he's silently asking how did you find me?.
You stood in the doorway, hair slightly damp from the night air, breathing hard like you’d been searching everywhere. The moment your eyes met, the room seemed to shrink down to just the two of you — no crew, no cameras, no years between.
“Why are you here?” you asked gently, stepping closer.
He swallowed hard, fingers curling against the table. “Because… this was ours,” he said, voice rough. “And I didn’t know where else to go.”
You slid into the seat across from him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air was heavy — thick with years of silence, hurt, and unspoken words pressing down on both of you.
He didn’t look at you right away, just stared at the small bottle of soju on the table like it held the answers to everything he couldn’t say. His fingers tapped once against the glass, a nervous habit you remembered all too well.
To break the suffocating quiet, you reached for the bottle and poured yourself a shot. The liquid shimmered under the warm light as you lifted it with both hands, more for courage than thirst, and took a slow sip. It burned all the way down, but steadied you enough to speak.
“You missed filming,” you said finally, voice soft, careful. “They were worried.”
He didn’t look at you right away. Just reached for the soju, poured himself a shot, and downed it in one go. Then he poured another, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink. “I couldn’t do it,” he admitted finally. His voice was low, rough. “Not after what I heard.”
Your brows furrowed. “What… what do you mean?”
He exhaled shakily and finally looked at you — really looked at you. “I know why you left.” His words were barely above a whisper, but they cut through you like thunder. “I heard the staff talking. You didn’t want to hold me back. You… you loved me enough to walk away so I could chase my dream.”
Your breath caught. The glass in your hand trembled.
“And I hated you for it,” he went on, his voice beginning to crack despite his effort to hold it steady. “I told myself you were selfish, cold. I made lists on my phone — stupid lists of reasons to hate you because it was easier than admitting I was still in love with you. All this time, Y/N… I’ve been angry at you for loving me in a way I was too blind to see.”
You blinked rapidly as tears welled and spilled over. “I thought you’d hate me if I told you the truth,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I thought… if you stayed because of me, you’d resent me one day. I couldn’t be the reason you gave up everything.”
He let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Everything?” His gaze locked on you, unwavering, raw. “Y/N, you were everything. I would’ve given up the world for you, and I still would.”
The words hung there, trembling in the space between you, and for a long moment neither of you moved.
Then he reached across the table, his hand finding yours — warm, steady, trembling just slightly as though he was afraid you’d pull away. “Don’t leave again,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “If you still love me… don’t you dare leave me again. Keep loving me. Please.”
You gripped his hand tightly, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now. “I never stopped,” you whispered, voice fierce through the softness. “Not for a single day.”
Something in him shattered — the walls he’d built, the bitterness he’d clung to, all of it crumbling as he leaned forward and captured your lips in a kiss.
It was tentative at first, almost unsure, but quickly deepened, desperate and aching, carrying every word you’d both left unsaid for years. The taste of soju lingered between you, warm and bittersweet, but it didn’t matter.
Outside, the world kept moving — rain tapping gently against the windows, strangers laughing over their meals — but here, in this small booth, time stilled.
When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “This was always home,” he whispered, voice raw. “You. It’s always been you.”
And for the first time in years, you didn’t walk away.
Final Interview – For the Documentary
The cameras were smaller this time, the crew quieter — just a simple one-on-one wrap-up interview for Youth in Bloom. The room was softly lit, decorated with small props from the shoot: a stack of worn textbooks, a tiny potted cherry blossom, and a photo of the old school rooftop.
Seungkwan sat across from the interviewer, wearing a cream knit sweater, his hair styled simply. He looked comfortable — but there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there at the start of filming.
“Looking back,” the interviewer began, “what’s the biggest thing you’ve taken from this experience?”
He hesitated for a moment, then smiled — a small, genuine smile. “That some things… never really leave you,” he said softly. “People, memories… sometimes they stay with you, even when you think you’ve let them go.”
The interviewer tilted her head. “Do you mean Y/N?”
He chuckled lightly, not flustered like he might’ve been weeks ago. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I think… I learned that when something matters that much to you, it’s worth holding onto. Even if it takes time to find it again.”
“Do you have any regrets?”
He shook his head, gaze dropping briefly to his hands before meeting the camera. “Only that I didn’t say what I felt sooner. But… I’ve said it now. And that’s enough.”
The interviewer smiled knowingly but didn’t press further. “Any last words for the viewers who’ve followed this story since the beginning?”
Seungkwan’s smile softened even more, the kind that crinkled his eyes. “Thank you for remembering who we were back then,” he said. “And for letting us be who we are now.”
They wrapped filming soon after. As the crew packed up, he glanced to the side of the room where you stood just out of frame, leaning casually against the wall, watching him.
When your eyes met, he gave you a tiny, almost imperceptible nod — we did it.
You smiled back, your heart so full you could hardly breathe.
Epilogue – Some Time After
The documentary had been out for three weeks.
Three weeks of online buzz, nostalgic edits, and comments about “how much they’ve both grown.” Some fans guessed; others just called it “the ending they deserved.”
But here, in your apartment on a lazy Sunday morning, none of that mattered.
You sat cross-legged on the couch in one of his old T-shirts, flipping idly through your phone while Seungkwan knelt by the coffee table, trying to assemble the shelf you’d been meaning to put together for months.
“Didn’t know world-famous idols did their own furniture assembly,” you teased.
He glanced up, smirking. “Didn’t know my girlfriend would just sit there and make fun of me instead of helping.”
You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest as you watched him. After a while, you joined him on the floor, handing him his coffee exactly how he liked it.
“Seungkwan,” you said quietly.
“Why did you say yes to filming the documentary?”
He paused, gaze lingering on you, soft and unguarded. “Honestly? Because I wanted to see if I could find you again. And I did. Not just in the filming, but… here.” He gestured around — to the apartment, to you, to everything you’d built back together.
You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I’m glad I found you too. I always do.”
He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, his voice low but certain. “And I’ll always be right here to find.”
Outside, the world moved on. Inside, with crooked shelves and shared mornings, you had what mattered most.
Little Bonus : Ten years later ~
The camera opened on a bright, sunlit living room. Toys scattered across the floor, little sneakers by the door, and a faint melody of children’s laughter coming from somewhere down the hall.
“Mr. and Mrs. Boo, thank you for letting us film this,” the producer said warmly from behind the camera.
Seungkwan appeared first, holding one of the twins — a sleepy little boy with his same dark eyes. He was dressed simply in a soft gray sweater and sweatpants, hair slightly tousled, but the way he looked down at the child in his arms made it impossible to mistake him for anyone other than a man deeply, happily in love with his life.
“It’s strange,” he admitted, glancing at the camera with a smile. “Ten years ago, we did something like this. Back then, it was… complicated. Painful, even. Now?” He glanced toward the hallway. “Now it’s just… home.”
As if on cue, you entered carrying the other twin — a little girl with your nose and his cheeks. She babbled happily as you adjusted her on your hip and came to sit beside him on the couch.
“Do you ever think about that first documentary?” the producer asked.
You and Seungkwan shared a look — one of those silent exchanges only long-time partners can have. He chuckled.
“All the time,” he said. “It’s funny… that was supposed to be a story about two kids who grew up together and drifted apart. But really? It ended up being about finding each other again. And everything that came after.”
The little boy in his arms stirred, and Seungkwan kissed the top of his head gently.
“What do you hope people see in this one?” the producer asked.
“That we made it,” you answered softly. “Through everything. And that… love can change shape, but it doesn’t have to end. Not if you take care of it.”
Seungkwan’s hand found yours, squeezing gently.
The camera lingered as the twins wriggled in your laps, giggling when Seungkwan made a silly face. You leaned against his shoulder, and he kissed your temple without thinking, completely unposed.
The screen faded to black as his voice — recorded later in the interview — played over the final shot:
“People used to ask me what home felt like. It’s not a place. It’s not even a moment. It’s them. It’s us. Always us.”
