“Honey I don't know
How he let you go
He's crazy
Diamond girl
He let me steal you like a thief in the night.”
⋯∴𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰;
Love is a tricky mother fucker that controlled everything in sight, for people couldn't avoid if they had a red string around their finger guiding them to the one they where supposed to stay with forever.
Sometimes, they didn't listen.
Sometimes, you got hurt because of it.
Han Jisung understood that feeling far to well, for he ignored his soulmates on multiple occasion just because he was hurt far to many times because, even if he denied it, he was a lover boy. But for his very dismay, his soulmates where stubborn and they wanted to prove to their precious diamond that live was worth the shot.
everything that i write just comes out wrong, i'm tired, i'm exhausted, life is miserable and horrible and im jobless, my last path of my career is just consuming me and i wanna jump off my balcony, mental health is just declining in rapid speed.
In all good honesty, thinking is just wrong and i wanna sleep with like hundred years, I wanna cry and scream but that is just wrong and I have better thing and I need to get back to therapy.
After gods know how long, I am finally writing chapter twenty three of “Hello, Lover.”
In all honesty I have had a big, MASSIVE, writers block and nothing seems to get me out of it, and I'm worried because the last writers block I had lasted a good few couple of years.
Even with lore heavy stories, I had OS and short forms ones I could diviet to when needed and even so, I haven't been able to even finish “Innie's Guide to the Supernatural: Boyfriend edition” and that is a showy form story or even finish the last OS for another series.
I had moved from my small town to the capitol of my state dude to school reasons, I also have more responsibilities due to my major and today I was gonna go look for a job, as said in my bio, in from 04, aka I'm 22, life got a lot more serious since I started writing again and it suck.
I want to be able to write my usual 10k o more then a few words before it all static, I want to indulge in fandom again and feel like there is something there, I haven't been able to watch the latest skzcode or even be the weird little fan girl in line like I was.
I'm an adult, to a degree and all I want right now is feel the joy I once felt when I started writing again a few years ago bc of Stray Kids. I feel like I need to pause my stories. All of them and see if I can get more inspiration that way without feeling overwhelmed.
— painter!hwang hyunjin x art student!fem reader in which, hwang hyunjin, a young and famous painter has been suffering for prosopagnosia (face blindness) since his childhood, disables him to recognize someone's face. He is well-known in the art's world because of his scenery paintings but most of all his faceless portraits. But one day, meeting you was like a catalyst he had been waiting all through his unique life because for some reason, he can see your face clearly. And for the first time, his portrait paintings are not faceless anymore.
content warnings: fluff, strangers to lovers trope, humor, inaccurate depiction of prosopagnosia, profanities mentioned, slowburn, probably ooc, little to no angst, generally cute and romantic stuffs mentioned ahead.
a/n: YEY WE ARE STARTING THIS TODAY. I was actually supposed to start this on hyunjin's birthday but it wasn't really finished yet that day so it was delayed for a week. but hey! it's not late for happy hyunjin's day! i hope you guys love this one as much s you did for YCMH with channie. i really really loved how this fic turned out! so let's goooo < 3
word count: 5k words
series masterlist — previous — next
The invitation was carved in embossed letters that read, "Where Faces Go." The words alone were enough to pull a quiet smile from Hyunjin, wider than he had expected, softer too, as if it had been waiting for a moment like this. His fingers lingered over the raised patterns, tracing each curve with care, as he drew in a slow, steady breath, trying to settle the restless rhythm in his chest.
He stood at the farthest corner of the gallery, his posture still, almost hesitant, as he faced the painting he had created now hanging upon the wall. The room remained empty, save for the faint hum of overhead lights and the delicate, papery shifts of canvases settling into place, as though the space itself was quietly preparing for what was to come.
It was his hearing that grounded him in moments like this. While others relied on sight, his ears became his anchor, attuned to the smallest details: the whisper of movement, the echo of footsteps yet to arrive, the distant murmur of voices beyond the walls. Sound, more than anything, guided him through spaces like these, especially when his vision had never been the most reliable storyteller.
"Hyunjin."
At the sound of his name, Hyunjin turned toward the voice, already knowing who it belonged to before he fully faced him. It was a presence he could recognize anywhere, familiar in a way that settled something quiet within him. Even without relying on his sight, he could picture him clearly: the small, rounded face, the softly pronounced cheeks that gave him a distinct charm, and the way his lips curved into a heart-like shape whenever he smiled. And then there was his voice—gentle, warm, softer than anyone else Hyunjin knew.
"Jisung? You're early today. That's new," Hyunjin teased, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Jisung let out a bright, unrestrained laugh, the sound filling the otherwise quiet space with an easy, familiar warmth.
"Of course I'd be early. It's your art exhibition." Jisung's laugh was quiet but steady, warm enough to anchor Hyunjin in a way that no face ever could.
Faces were unreliable. Blurs that rearranged themselves every time he tried to focus, eyes drifting, mouths slipping into unfamiliar curves, expressions that belonged to strangers one moment and friends the next. A single glance could betray him, turning familiarity into confusion in an instant. But sounds, that stayed. It held him in place, clear and constant, cutting through the haze of uncertainty that had always followed him.
Even from childhood, Hyunjin had never been good at recognizing faces, he simply couldn't. Some people might have been curious about why, or how, this happened, but he had no desire to dig into the traumas and memories that shaped him. Those fragments of the past were heavy, fragile things, better left buried than brought to the surface.
Because of it, the world had always been a blur of shifting features. Strangers could become friends in a single glance, and friends could vanish into unfamiliarity just as quickly. Names became lifelines, voices became anchors, and every subtle sound, footsteps approaching, the cadence of a laugh, the soft inflection of someone's tone, was a signal he clung to. He had learned to read the world not through eyes, but through ears, through intuition, through the quiet vibrations that others overlooked.
And now, standing in the gallery, it all came together. The hum of the lights, the soft rustle of canvas settling into hooks, the distant echo of approaching footsteps, they all told him more than faces ever could. Among them, Jisung's voice cut through the space like a tether, pulling him from the blur into clarity. In a world of fleeting, unreliable faces, that single, familiar sound was enough to make everything feel grounded, tangible, and real.
"How about the others? They're not here yet?" Jisung asked, taking a slow sip from his canned coffee. His gaze drifted around the gallery, lingering on the familiar pieces he had seen Hyunjin labor over, each brushstroke now immortalized on canvas. There was a quiet reverence in the way he looked, as if trying to trace the artist's presence in every line and color.
"You're an hour early, Ji," Hyunjin replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. "They'll be here later."
By the time the gallery opened, the room was alive with sound. Shoes clicked against the polished floors, soft murmurs drifted through the air, and the occasional laugh rang out, too bright at first, then shrinking into embarrassed whispers. Hyunjin's eyes moved over the crowd, scanning the paintings, the visitors, the subtle ways people moved through the space. Faces were there, visible and vivid, but some of them felt fleeting, almost unfamiliar in ways he couldn't always explain.
He stayed near the edge of the room, just as he had planned, letting Jisung and Felix, who had arrived only twenty minutes earlier, orbit him like familiar constellations in the noise. Their movements, their laughter, even the tilt of their heads or the way they shifted weight from foot to foot, anchored him. Amid the flow of strangers, their presence gave him a sense of steadiness, a tether he could rely on while the rest of the room swirled with half-familiar faces.
"They keep stopping by the third wall," Chan said, standing beside him, his eyes scanning the visitors as they moved through the gallery. "The faceless one."
Hyunjin turned to look at him. As usual, Chan's face seemed slightly... off. The features didn't always line up the way he expected, eyes that looked too far apart, a jawline that felt sharper than memory insisted, expressions that seemed to shift the instant he tried to focus. It was never that he couldn't see; he could. Everything was there in front of him, bright and detailed. It was just that faces were unreliable.
But then there were the details he learned to trust. The thickness of Chan's lips. The raspy timbre of his voice. The faint tilt of his head when he spoke. Those small, consistent cues were enough to anchor him, enough to say: yes, this is Chan.
"Maybe they find it fascinating? It's nothing compared to the art pieces I've seen before."
This time, it was Changbin speaking. Hyunjin didn't need to study his face, trying to decide if he recognized him correctly. Changbin was unmistakable, the broad sweep of his forearms, the way his voice carried across the gallery, bold and commanding, the subtle rhythm in his movements that made him immediately familiar. Those traits alone were enough to confirm, giving him a clear sense of who was near, even as the rest of the room buzzed with shifting faces and soft, overlapping conversations.
"I've seen a lot of abstract portrait paintings before," Changbin said, leaning a little closer. "Remember that art museum we visited in France? The one with all those twisted faces and chaotic colors? This... is different."
The thought stayed with Hyunjin. It was strange, and a little fascinating, that he could look at a painted face and see it perfectly. Every line, every shadow, every expression was clear and unchanging. But when he looked at a real person, the features sometimes seemed to shift or twist before his eyes. Faces that should have been familiar could feel strange, like moving puzzles. Painted faces were predictable. Living ones were not.
It made him wonder about perception and memory. Why did something so simple for everyone else feel like a quiet, constant challenge for him? How could the same human face be so reliable on a canvas, yet so unstable in reality? The contrast tugged at his mind as he looked around the gallery, thinking about the strange ways people's features could change in an instant.
Hyunjin's thoughts were cut short when a woman made her way toward where they were standing. She wore a white dress that fell just below her knees, paired with simple white sandals that added a quiet elegance to her movement. Her hair was tied neatly in a bun, giving her a clean, composed appearance that seemed to glow softly under the gallery lights.
"You're the painter, right?" she asked, her voice gentle, and Hyunjin noticed the warm curve of her smile as she spoke.
He returned the smile and nodded, a small gesture of acknowledgment.
"Do you mind if I ask a very silly question?" she added, tilting her head slightly, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
"There's no such thing as a silly question if it involves art. What is it?"
The woman's hand drifted toward the faceless painting of a woman Hyunjin had displayed on the wall, delicate fingers pausing just above the frame. She leaned slightly forward, tilting her head, as if drawing the painting closer to herself—not physically, but with her attention.
"She's supposed to be faceless?"
Hyunjin stiffened slightly at the question, then stepped forward, guiding her gently closer to the canvas. He noticed the way her eyes followed his movements, steady and intent, as if she wanted to understand him before even understanding the painting.
"I could say it's intentional," he began, his voice low, "but that would imply I had another option."
She straightened subtly, the bun of her hair catching a soft glimmer from the gallery lights. Her shoulders were relaxed but alert, her weight shifting just a fraction to keep herself engaged, hanging on every word.
"What do you mean?"
Hyunjin drew in a slow breath. He had practiced this explanation countless times, but rehearsed words always felt fragile compared to speaking them for real.
"I have something called face blindness," he said quietly. "I don't recognize faces—not even my own, sometimes. They don't stay consistent for me. They... dissolve."
She didn't interrupt. Instead, she leaned in slightly, eyes widening just enough to show she was absorbing every syllable. Her hands folded loosely in front of her, fingertips brushing together, a small unconscious gesture of focus. The soft tilt of her head made her seem almost suspended in the space between curiosity and understanding.
"So when I paint people," he continued, his gaze flicking from her eyes to the painting, "I paint what doesn't disappear. The way someone leans when they're tired. The space they take up. The feeling of them standing in a room. The fact that they're there."
Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes softened. She tilted her head again, slower this time, as if letting each phrase settle like a note of music reverberating between them. The pause that followed wasn't empty; it was charged with quiet understanding, the kind that lingers longer than words.
"That's... kind of beautiful," she said finally, her voice gentle, reverent. Her gaze lingered on him, almost studying the way he held himself, the subtle tension in his shoulders, and the honesty in his eyes. She let a small smile play at the corner of her lips, warm and unassuming, a reflection of the sincerity she felt in his words.
Hyunjin realized he'd been holding his breath. A small, honest smile tugged at his lips as he murmured,
"Thank you."
She nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment that he had been seen—not just the painting, not just the face, but the reasoning, the feeling, and the presence behind it. Her posture relaxed, and she let a quiet awe settle in her stance, hands resting loosely by her sides as her eyes drifted back to the faceless portrait of a woman.
“Is this the venue?” you asked, your voice barely containing your excitement as you clung to Hannah’s arm, the two of you slowing to take in the sight before you.
The art gallery rose ahead like something out of a dream—its tall glass panels glowing warmly from within, spilling soft light onto the pavement. Through the windows, you could already catch glimpses of elegant interiors and silhouettes of guests drifting from one exhibit to another. A quiet buzz of conversation and laughter lingered in the air, just enough to make your heart race with anticipation.
Just beyond the entrance stood a reception desk, neatly arranged and attended by staff collecting invitations from each arriving guest. The line moved steadily, yet you hardly noticed the wait, too busy taking everything in—the atmosphere, the beauty, the feeling that you were about to step into something special.
Unable to hide your eagerness, you quickly reached into your bag and pulled out your invitation, holding it a little tighter than necessary as a bright smile spread across your face.
“Excited?” Hannah asked, turning to you with a wide, playful smile. It looked exactly like her older brother’s, the same curve of her lips, the same dimples, the same teasing glint in her eyes, and it made you cringe a little at how eerily similar they were.
You let out a small laugh, but it quickly melted into a bright grin.
“Very! You know how much I love Mr. Hwang’s paintings,” you said, your voice rising with excitement. Your grip on her arm tightened as the reality of it all started to sink in. “Am I really going to meet him inside? Oh my god, Hannah—I’m actually going to meet him.”
The thought alone sent a rush through you. You couldn’t help but bounce slightly on your feet, barely able to stay still as your excitement bubbled over. “I’m so excited!” you added, almost breathless, your eyes shining as you glanced toward the glowing gallery entrance again.
Hannah let out a soft cackle, clearly amused by your reaction. She shook her head, nudging you lightly. “You know you don’t have to call him Mr. Hwang,” she teased, her tone warm but playful. “He’s literally the same age as you, girl.”
She crossed her arms, still smiling as she looked at you. “And of course you’re coming. You’re just lucky he happens to be close friends with Chan-oppa,” she added, raising a brow as if to emphasize your good fortune.
Her words only made your heart race faster, the excitement settling deeper in your chest as the moment you’d been dreaming about felt closer than ever.
“Let’s go?” Hannah said, glancing at you with a small, knowing smile.
You nodded eagerly, a little too quickly, your excitement still bubbling over. Without another word, the two of you stepped forward and made your way toward the front desk.
As you approached, you could feel your heart beating faster. The soft murmur of voices, the warm lights, and the quiet elegance of the gallery all seemed to close in around you. When it was finally your turn, you carefully handed over the invitation you’d been holding, your fingers tightening slightly before letting it go.
The moment your invitation was accepted, you and Hannah stepped inside.
A soft hush seemed to fall over you as the doors closed behind you, the outside world fading into nothing. The gallery felt even more breathtaking from within—high ceilings stretching above, warm lights casting a gentle glow over the space, and polished floors reflecting the quiet movement of guests drifting from one piece to another.
For a second, you forgot to move.
Paintings lined the walls, each one carefully placed and lit as if it held its own story waiting to be told. The colors felt richer up close, the brushstrokes more alive than you had ever imagined. You stepped forward slowly, almost hesitant, your eyes drawn from one piece to the next as you tried to take everything in.
Then, one painting made you stop completely.
It was a portrait, but something about it felt different. The figure stood in soft, muted tones, the details of the clothing and posture so precise, so full of life… and yet, the face was missing. No features, no expression, just a smooth, empty space where a face should have been.
You stared at it, unable to look away.
There was something strangely powerful about it. Without a face to guide you, the emotions felt… open, almost personal. It was as if the painting was waiting for you to fill in the missing pieces yourself, pulling something deeper from within you.
Your chest tightened slightly, a quiet breath leaving your lips as you took a step closer. The longer you looked, the more it felt like the faceless figure was saying something—something you couldn’t quite explain, but could feel all the same.
“This is… incredible,” you whispered, almost unconsciously.
The world around you seemed to blur, the soft chatter and footsteps fading into the background. All that mattered was the painting in front of you, the quiet intensity it carried, and the overwhelming feeling of finally seeing something so beautiful, so haunting, up close.
And in that moment, you knew, this was the one you wouldn’t forget.
You were still lingering in front of the faceless portrait when a gentle nudge brought you back to reality.
“Hey, come on,” Hannah said, looping her arm through yours. “It’s time I introduced you to someone.”
Following her through the gallery, your eyes kept darting to the paintings, the colors, the way the light played across the canvases, but anticipation tugged at you more than any artwork. The murmurs of guests faded into the background as you approached a small group near a vibrant landscape painting.
There you saw Chan together with the center of this exhibition, the painter Hwang Hyunjin who you have been admiring ever since he debuted as a painter. Your breath hitched as you walk towards they way, lips pressed together as you grip the strap of your bag.
“Oppa!” Hannah called out, waving her hands energetically and immediately catching the attention of the two gentlemen deep in conversation.
Your stomach did a little flip when your eyes met Hyunjin’s. He was… wow. Far more striking in person than any picture or blog post you had seen. The sharp lines of his face, the calm confidence in his stance, the way his eyes seemed to study everything around him—it all made your heart skip a beat.
Then Chan turned toward you, a wide grin spreading across his face, dimples popping out as he leaned slightly forward in his usual teasing way.
“Hey there, Shy girl. Been a while, yeah?” he said, his tone playful, the kind that always made you both groan and laugh at the same time.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile creeping across your face betrayed you. “I told you to stop calling me Shy girl,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing spectacularly.
Chan laughed, a warm, familiar sound that filled the space around you. Even in the midst of all the elegance of the gallery, with the muted chatter of other guests and the soft glow of the lights, it felt… personal. Like this little corner of the world was just for the four of you, and the rest of the evening hadn’t even started yet.
Hyunjin glanced between you and Chan, his expression calm but his eyes curious, as if he were quietly noting every detail.
And then his eyes landed on your face again.
A small gasp, barely audible, escaped his lips. His eyebrows drew together, a crease of confusion forming as he blinked rapidly. Hyunjin could swear to every god and goddess he knew—he could see your face. Not a blur, not a jumble of features like he usually experienced. For the first time, it was clear, sharp, and vivid, as if it had been etched into his memory in an instant.
He took a careful step closer, almost afraid that moving might break the clarity of what he was seeing. His usual calm composure wavered for the briefest moment. Faces had always been unreliable, fleeting, frustrating, but yours… yours seemed impossible to misread.
“Hyunjin...?” Chan called for him when caught him staring.
Hyunjin's head tilted slightly, studying you with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Every detail, the curve of your smile, the way your eyes caught the light, the subtle expressions that played across your face, was vivid, familiar, and impossible to forget.
You caught the way he was looking at you, and a flutter of something warm and electric ran through your chest. There was curiosity in his gaze, yes, but also something deeper, something unspoken that made the air between you feel charged.
For a moment, the gallery faded around you. The chatter of guests, the soft glow of lights on paintings, even Hannah’s playful teasing—all of it dimmed into the background. It was just the two of you, standing there, as if time itself had paused to let him finally see.
“Hyunjin, bro. You okay?” Chan asked again, lightly shaking him and pulling his attention away from you.
As soon as Hyunjin’s gaze landed on Chan, the world shifted back to its usual blur—faces dissolving into smudges, outlines twisting and fading. His pulse quickened, a reminder of how unpredictable his condition could be. But the moment he turned his eyes back to you, everything snapped into focus again, your face crisp, vivid, unmistakable.
He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself. “Yeah… I’m okay. Sorry,” he said, forcing a calm smile. Then, extending his hand toward you, his expression softened in a way it hadn’t with any of the other guests who had approached him during the exhibition. It was warmer, genuine, inviting.
“Hwang Hyunjin,” he introduced himself, his tone carrying a quiet confidence.
You shook his hand gladly, still feeling a little buzz from the surreal clarity of the moment. “Y/N,” you said, your grin widening until it felt unstoppable. “I’m a very big fan of yours.”
After a few more minutes of conversation, you and Hannah shared a quiet, knowing glance, the hum of voices and the soft shuffle of feet around you fading into the background.
“Let’s go take a closer look at some of the paintings,” Hannah suggested, looping her arm through yours. Her fingers brushed yours lightly, warm and familiar. “I know you've been dying to look at those all day.”
“Yeah, sounds perfect,” you replied, still riding the thrill of meeting Hyunjin. You gave a small wave as you drifted away, letting the soft glow of gallery lights wash over you, the scent of old paint and polished wood mingling in the air. Every brushstroke on the walls seemed to beckon, inviting you to linger, to lose yourself in color and shadow.
Meanwhile, back with Chan, Hyunjin’s expression had hardened, shifting from casual curiosity to something far more intense. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Chan-hyung… I think I can see her face,” he said, disbelief and wonder threading every syllable, as if speaking any louder would shatter the vision. His eyes still at your walking figure, his forehead furrowed, even him surprised at what is happening.
Chan arched an eyebrow, skepticism evident on his face, and slightly tilting his head to the side. “Are you sure, Hyunjin? Maybe you’re just exhausted. You’ve been wandering this exhibition for hours. Maybe you… imagined it.”
“No,” Hyunjin said, shaking his head with quiet insistence. “It’s real. I can see her face. Just now.”
He dug into his bag and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. For a heartbeat, his hand hovered over a blank page, steadying, focusing. Then, almost instinctively, he began to sketch.
Lines flowed with a strange, deliberate grace, confident yet meticulous. The curve of her smile, the subtle tilt of her chin, the way her hair tumbled and framed her face, it all emerged with uncanny fidelity. Each stroke seemed alive, capturing not just her features, but the faint essence of her presence. Within minutes, a portrait had taken shape, so true it could have been conjured from memory itself.
Chan leaned closer, his breath catching. “No way… That’s her. That’s exactly how she looks.”
Hyunjin exhaled, relief and awe washing over his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I don’t know why… but I can see her. This is so weird. Am I just tired?"
Chan shook his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like you finally met someone your brain actually wants to cooperate with.”
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
