Synopsis: Y/N thought leaving was the only way to protect Jennie. Years later, with time lost and feelings still raw, one final encounter could either close the door for good or open the one they’ve both been too afraid to walk through.
English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.
♡ Enjoy! ♡
The hallway outside her apartment was sleek and quiet, the overhead lights humming softly, casting a glow across polished floors, too clean, too calm, like the stillness before a storm that knew exactly where to strike. Y/N hesitated with her hand on the doorknob, her knuckles pale against the metal. She told herself she was only catching her breath. But the truth was, she already knew who would be standing on the other side.
When she opened the door, the air shifted.
Jennie was there.
She looked like the version of herself the world never got to see. Her makeup had been scrubbed away, her skin clean but flushed, hair pulled back loosely with damp strands clinging to her temples. A hoodie hung open over her frame, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms, revealing hands clenched tightly at her sides. But nothing about her posture was relaxed.
Her body was still, but her eyes were alive.
Too alive.
There was a sharpness in them, a crackling intensity that bordered on fury, but didn’t quite fall into it. Not just anger, not even betrayal. It was something else, something deeper. Y/N saw it instantly, like the moment light catches a fracture in glass you hadn’t noticed before. It was pain. Old and familiar. The kind that had been carried too long to be softened by time.
Neither of them said anything.
The space between them pulsed with the weight of everything left unsaid. It wasn’t the silence of peace. It was the silence that formed when two people were standing on opposite ends of a memory neither of them could let go of.
Jennie didn’t step forward, didn’t cross the threshold, but she looked Y/N in the eye with such precision it felt like a challenge. Or maybe a plea, buried somewhere inside the wreckage.
When she spoke, her voice didn’t waver, but it carried the weight of someone who’d run out of ways to keep herself from breaking.
“Say it to my face.”
Y/N swallowed, but her throat was already tight, her chest aching with a familiar tension. She had been rehearsing excuses, quiet little sentences she thought might be enough.
But now? None of them came.
Jennie’s expression didn’t shift, not really, but her eyes were moving, searching, scanning Y/N’s face like she was trying to find proof of something, anything, she could still hold onto. Something that might make this hurt less.
And Y/N saw it, clear as day. That look she hadn’t seen in years, the one that came right before Jennie shattered. Not with tears, not with drama. Just silence. Just a kind of quiet that felt final.
Y/N stood there, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door, the wordless echo of Jennie’s voice still ringing in her chest.
She didn’t answer.
Not yet.
Y/N blinked, mouth parting, the start of a word catching on her tongue. “I—”
But Jennie didn’t let her hide in hesitation.
“No deflecting.” Her voice was sharp, but not loud, controlled in that way people sound when they’ve been rehearsing their pain too long to let it crack openly. “I read it. I want to hear it from you.”
Y/N’s breath stalled. Her throat tightened as the question settled into the space between them.
Too solid. Too heavy.
She stepped back just slightly, like instinct told her to get away from the heat. The hallway light slipped off her face, shadows rising to meet her like a shield.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said quietly, too quietly, like if she kept her voice low enough it wouldn’t count as a lie.
Jennie laughed under her breath, a disbelieving sound, brittle and bitter at the edges. She shook her head, slowly, like the motion itself was a warning.
“Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t shut down and pretend like it doesn’t matter. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have kept it. You wouldn’t have held onto it all these years. You wouldn’t have put it in the bag.”
Y/N didn’t speak.
She couldn’t. Her hands were trembling at her sides now, fingers curling in on themselves as if she could grip the silence and hold it back.
Jennie took a step forward.
“Say it.”
Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came.
Jennie didn’t look away. “Say it.”
“I can’t,” Y/N whispered.
Jennie’s jaw clenched. “Why not?”
Y/N exhaled through her nose, jaw tight. “Because it doesn’t change anything.”
Jennie’s eyes narrowed, like the words physically stung. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it was just a letter,” Y/N said, flatly now. “Something I wrote a long time ago. You read it. That’s enough.”
The lie hung in the air between them like smoke.
Jennie stepped forward, her voice rising, not louder, just sharper, like disbelief had finally turned into something closer to anger. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to throw it at me and pretend it meant nothing.”
Y/N’s lips twitched, almost a flinch, almost a smirk, but not quite either. Her voice was low. “Maybe it didn’t.”
Jennie’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes did. They flicked, just once, like she was trying to find the crack, the weak spot, the truth Y/N kept swallowing.
“I wrote it when I was—” Y/N started, but the words caught. She stopped herself mid sentence, her mouth snapping shut like she’d yanked the leash on her own heart.
Silence.
Jennie didn’t blink. Her voice dropped, steady and precise, aiming straight for the place Y/N had just tried to hide. “When you were what?” she asked. “Heartbroken? In love? Alone?”
Y/N didn’t answer. She didn’t look at her.
She didn’t need to.
Jennie’s voice cracked, quiet but cutting. “Go ahead. Say it. Because that’s what I read. That’s what you wrote. We were in love, and you left anyway.”
Still, Y/N didn’t speak.
Jennie shook her head, the hurt spreading through her like slow poison. “God, I thought maybe,”
She stopped herself, her voice faltering for the first time, then dropped lower, rougher.
“I thought maybe you’d changed.”
Y/N’s head lifted at that, eyes wide, mouth twitching toward something, maybe protest, maybe apology, but Jennie pushed through.
“I thought maybe,” she continued, voice unsteady now, “if I gave you one real chance, one last chance, you’d finally say what I never stopped needing to hear.”
“Jennie,” Y/N started, but her voice cracked on the name.
“No.” Jennie held up a hand, firm but trembling. “Don’t give me another almost. I’ve had enough of it.”
She inhaled sharply, breath catching in her chest before it left her in a slow, ragged exhale. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. She had cried already, long before. What was left was worse.
“I waited,” she said. “I waited for you to come back. To call, to fight. Every time I released a song, I wondered if you’d listen. Every city I toured, I hoped I’d see you in the crowd. I told myself you needed time. That maybe someday you’d be ready.”
She looked away for a moment, like the next part hurt too much to say while looking at her.
“I did all of this even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself.” Her voice dipped lower, the words quieter, slower. “I told myself I was over it. I tried dating, I tried moving on. But I always left first. Always found a reason to run.”
She looked back at Y/N, eyes glistening.
She blinked, and a tear finally slipped down, trailing fast down her cheek, as if it had been waiting for permission.
Jennie’s voice dropped to a whisper, the final strike laced in softness. “When Rosie told me you were there, when I realized you’d come all that way and still couldn’t face me. I thought maybe, maybe this was it.”
She let out a soft, bitter laugh, more breath than sound.
“I thought maybe you came because you still cared, because something in you finally cracked. And even after all this time, I wanted that to be true.”
She smiled then, but it was hollow, like muscle memory. “But it’s not. You’re still the same. Still not ready.”
Y/N’s chest heaved with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That’s not fair,” she said, voice raw. “You don’t know everything.”
Jennie’s eyes flared, and for the first time, there was real anger in her voice.
“Fair?” she repeated, the word bitter on her tongue. “You think any of this is fair?”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was a punishment.
Y/N didn’t move.
She couldn’t. Her legs were heavy, feet rooted to the ground like even her body was afraid of what would happen if she stepped forward. If she reached out.
Jennie stood still, watching Y/N like she was waiting for something, anything, to shift. A word. A hand reaching out. Even a breath that sounded like a beginning. But all she got was stillness, and the unbearable kind of silence that doesn’t settle, only thickens.
There was a flicker, the briefest parting of Y/N’s lips, like she might finally say something, might finally meet her in this awful, honest place, but the words didn’t come. Her shoulders stayed frozen, her hands useless at her sides, and whatever courage had brought her this far refused to move another inch forward.
Jennie’s hope broke quietly.
Not all at once, but gradually, like watching a light dim until there was nothing left. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm as she absorbed what had been in front of her this whole time, Y/N wasn’t going to fight. Not now, maybe not ever.
“I waited,” Jennie said softly, her voice no longer sharp but frayed, tired. “I waited for so long.”
Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on Jennie’s, but whatever was behind them stayed locked away.
Jennie let out a shaky breath, one that sounded more like surrender than anything else. “I thought if I saw you again, face to face, you’d finally say something real. That maybe something had changed.”
Her laugh was short, breathless, not really a laugh at all. “But nothing has, has it?”
Y/N stayed silent.
Jennie’s gaze dropped, her hand curling slightly at her side like she wanted to hold herself together. “You think you’re protecting me by staying quiet? You’re not. You’re just gone. You’ve been gone this whole time.”
Her voice cracked then, not with volume, but with weight, the exhaustion of years spent carrying what should’ve been shared. “And I can’t do it anymore.”
Y/N blinked hard. Her jaw clenched like she wanted to protest, to stop Jennie from slipping through her fingers, but the words never made it to her mouth.
“I’ll always love you,” Jennie said, and the ease in her voice was cruel in its honesty. “But I can’t keep waiting, chasing someone who never stays. I can’t keep loving a ghost.”
She paused, eyes shining now, tears held back by the thinnest thread of composure.
“God, I tried to stop,” she whispered. “I went on dates. I smiled through interviews. I told everyone I was fine. I almost believed it.”
Y/N looked like she wanted to speak, like her body was leaning toward her without permission, but it was too late. Jennie had already seen what she needed to see.
“I meant what I sang,” she said, steadier now.
And then she turned. Not in a rush, not out of anger, just because there was nothing left to wait for.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked away, soft but final, each one marking a little more distance, a little more absence, until all Y/N could hear was her own breath, shallow and uneven in the doorway.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Only when the silence fully returned, when Jennie was well and truly gone, did she whisper, almost involuntarily, like a reflex against the collapse inside her.
“Stay with me.”
But no one was there to hear it.
And she knew, this time, it was truly over.
Y/N remained frozen, her eyes stayed locked on the empty space where Jennie had just been, as if staring hard enough could bring her back. But there was only stillness now, no footsteps, no voice, no warmth lingering in the air. Just absence.
Her hand was still gripping the doorframe, fingers curled so tightly around the edge that her knuckles had gone white. She didn’t notice. Everything in her had gone quiet, like her body was bracing for impact that had already come and gone, leaving only the shock behind.
She felt it in waves.
First came the hollowness, an ache that didn’t have a name, just a shape. It opened wide in her chest, stretching out until it reached her fingertips, until even breathing felt like a lie. Then came the weight, heavy and suffocating, curling around her spine, pressing into her shoulders like grief had physical hands and was holding her still.
And then the unraveling.
It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t loud. It was small. Slow. A single thread pulled loose from the center of her.
Her knees gave out before she even realized she was falling.
She slid down the door, her back catching against it with a quiet thud, legs folding beneath her, arms wrapping around her torso as if she could hold herself together by force. Her breath stuttered, short and sharp, a choking sound that wasn’t quite a sob, not yet.
And then it broke.
A sound slipped from her throat, raw, ragged, involuntary. Not the kind of crying that’s meant to be heard, no. The kind that happens when everything inside you crumples at once and you can’t stop it, even if you tried.
She pressed her palms into her eyes, hard, as if she could push the tears back, could press the memory of Jennie’s voice out of her skull. But it didn’t work. Her shoulders shook, her chest ached with it, her whole body trembling from the effort of keeping quiet and still falling apart anyway.
Time stopped meaning anything.
There were no words, no thoughts. Just fragments. The sound of Jennie saying “I’ll always love you”. The way she had turned away. The echo of her steps.
Y/N’s breath came in ragged bursts, like each inhale was a question and each exhale was a loss. Her head dropped forward, forehead resting against her knees, hands still clenched, her whole body curling in on itself.
She didn’t know how long she stayed there.
Minutes. Hours maybe.
All she knew was the sound of her own breathing. Shaky, broken, trying to fill a space that Jennie had just emptied without looking back. That it hurt in places she didn’t even know were still alive.
Morning came like a mistake. Not with clarity or purpose, but with the dull, heavy persistence of time that refused to stop just because she had.
The sun poured in through the windows like it always did, lighting the apartment with gold she didn’t want. She lay in bed long after her alarm had gone off, watching dust drift through the air like it was all that mattered. Her body felt distant, like she’d sunk into the mattress in pieces.
She didn’t want to go, but she had to. Irene and Seulgi were counting on her, trusting her, with their music, their comeback. Just a few days ago, she’d been proud of the work they were doing. Now it all felt like a distant memory, something she’d dreamed but couldn’t touch anymore.
She got up slowly, not bothering with breakfast, barely touching her coffee. Her movements were quiet, efficient, hollow. She pulled on a hoodie that still smelled faintly of the studio and left the apartment without a sound.
At the company building, the familiar halls felt foreign. Too bright, too fast. Everyone around her moved with purpose, voices low, feet brisk, lives intact.
She arrived at the studio late. Not enough to raise alarms, but enough for Irene to glance at the clock and then back at her with something unreadable in her eyes.
Irene didn’t say anything. She just passed her a coffee, still warm, and gave her a look that lasted half a second too long. Not accusatory. Just watching.
Seulgi was already at the mic, headphones on, running a vocal warm-up with their engineer. She smiled when she saw Y/N, cheerful and grounding as ever, but even she looked carefully at her face before turning back to the booth.
Y/N felt it instantly. The way they both looked at her. The hesitation, the silent question between them, hovering in the air but never spoken aloud.
She didn’t blame them, she could feel it too.
She slid into the chair at the console, fingers landing on the knobs and sliders with muscle memory, but not intention. The screen in front of her lit up with layers of audio, harmonies, percussion, vocal takes she’d helped craft, and none of it meant anything.
She pressed play. Paused. Rewound. Nodded when Irene asked if a mix sounded balanced. Murmured a suggestion when Seulgi asked about reverb. But every word she spoke felt like it was coming from underwater, distant and muffled.
The music didn’t move through her like it used to. It didn’t pull at her chest or catch behind her ribs. It didn’t lift her or bury her or stir anything at all.
It was just sound, just work, just something to get through.
And in the moments where no one was speaking, where Irene was rerecording a harmony or Seulgi was reviewing her lyrics, Y/N let herself drift.
Not into thought, not into memory. Just into nothing.
Most nights, sleep didn’t come easily.
Y/N would lie in bed long after the city had gone quiet, the lights outside her window casting long, pale streaks across the ceiling. She’d watch them move, slow and aimless, like her thoughts. Her room was still, too still, the silence pressing against her like weight on her chest.
At some point, always later than she meant to, she would reach for her headphones. It has become a habit. A ritual. Muscle memory, as if her body knew where to go before her mind could stop it.
She unlocked her phone, opened the same playlist she swore she’d delete every morning. She told herself it was work related. That it was research, reference. But she hadn’t added anything new in days.
It was just Jennie.
Just Twin.
Her thumb hovered for a moment over the track, as if pausing could delay the inevitable.
Then she pressed play.
The first notes always landed the same way. Jennie’s voice rose like breath, not polished or pushed, but real. It didn’t matter how many times Y/N had heard it. It still caught her off guard, still tightened around her ribs. Still pulled her back to that night, to the look on Jennie’s face. To the sound of her footsteps as she walked away.
There was no production trick in the song, no vocal run or harmony that dulled the honesty of it. Jennie had stripped everything back. No filters. No armor.
Just the truth.
Y/N listened with her eyes open, staring into the dark like maybe she could summon Jennie’s face from memory if she focused hard enough. She didn’t cry anymore. That part of her felt dried out, emptied, like her body had used up its grief and left only the ache behind.
But the ache was always there.
She let the song finish.
Then started it again, and again.
It was the only way she could still feel Jennie, her voice in her ears, her breath in every line, her confessions wrapped in melody. Every word felt like something Y/N should have said first, but never had. And now it was too late. Jennie had put it all into the song instead, leaving it there like an echo Y/N couldn’t escape.
She wondered if Jennie knew what she’d done. If she understood how naked she sounded. If she knew what she’d left behind in the silence between verses.
More than once, Y/N had caught herself mouthing the words along with her, quietly, like a secret. Some nights, she pressed her hand to her chest without thinking, just to see if her heart was still there. Still beating, still breaking the same way.
Just the same song, again and again, until the sky outside turned a pale gray and her body gave in to sleep. Not from peace, but from exhaustion.
The knock came in one afternoon, just loud enough to cut through the music looping in Y/N’s headphones. She didn’t move at first, assuming it would go away. Packages got dropped off all the time.
But the knock came again, firmer this time.
Then a pause, and a voice.
“Y/N.”
She froze. The song was still playing, Jennie’s voice low and breathy in her ears, but suddenly, it felt too loud. Too close. She pulled the headphones off slowly, heart stuttering against her ribs.
Irene didn’t knock again. She used the spare key.
Y/N didn’t get up. She stayed where she was, on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a glass of water on the floor next to her, an untouched container of takeout beside it.
When the door opened, the light from the hallway sliced through the dimness. Irene stepped in, letting it close quietly behind her. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked.
Y/N hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday. Or maybe the day before that. She wasn’t sure anymore.
Irene’s eyes swept the room once, the duffel bag abandoned near the door, the takeout boxes lined up in a row of untouched attempts at pretending she was still functioning.
And then she looked at Y/N.
“You’ve had that song on repeat for days,” Irene said at last, not accusing, just stating it the way someone would describe the weather. Certain. Unavoidable.
Y/N didn’t answer, she didn’t have to.
Irene stepped further into the apartment, setting a paper coffee cup on the table, careful not to knock over the mess. She sat across from Y/N, legs crossed at the ankle, jacket still on, like she hadn’t planned to stay, but had already decided she would.
“You look like hell,” she added after a moment, her voice quieter now, but not exactly gentle. “Like you haven’t slept. Like you’re still waiting for her to walk back through that door.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath and stared down at the blanket in her lap. She didn’t want to cry. She’d done enough of that in the first few days, violent, breathless sobs that left her hoarse and aching. Now, there was just pressure. Like her body had stopped trying to release it and just let it calcify under her ribs.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, the words brittle and barely formed, like they’d been buried too long.
Irene leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped together. Her tone didn’t sharpen, but the softness disappeared. There was no room for that anymore.
“You’re doing nothing,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
Y/N’s eyes dropped further, her hands tightening around the edge of the blanket like she needed to anchor herself to something.
“She left,” she said, the words small but bitter. “I let her leave.”
“Yes,” Irene replied evenly. “You did. You stood there and watched it happen. And maybe that was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.” She paused, then leaned in slightly, her voice lower but heavier now.
“But this? Sitting here in the dark, hiding behind guilt like it somehow makes up for what you didn’t say? This is what you’ll regret. Not the moment she walked out, but every second since that you’ve done nothing to take it back.”
The words landed like weight. Y/N flinched, not visibly, but something inside her pulled away, then leaned in, like she knew she needed to hear it. Irene didn’t look away, her gaze was steady.
“Jennie loved you,” she said. “And I think, if she’s not already trying to forget how badly that hurt, maybe she still does. But she’s not going to wait forever. Not after you gave her every reason not to.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. Her lips parted like she might argue, but the words stuck, thick and useless in her mouth.
“She gave you a chance,” Irene continued. “More than one, and you stayed silent. Now she’s not here anymore, she’s not around the corner, she’s not waiting, she’s continents away. You think you’ve got time to figure this out? You don’t. She’s done waiting for you to show up.”
She let the silence stretch then, like she knew the next sentence had to fall all on its own.
“This is it. If you want her, really want her, then go. Stop hiding behind your fear. Stop pretending you don’t already know what she means to you.”
The room felt heavier for a second, like the air itself had thickened.
Irene sat back slowly, not looking away, not apologizing. She had said everything she came to say. Whether Y/N moved or stayed still, that was on her now.
Y/N didn’t speak right away. Her throat was tight, like the words were there but stuck somewhere behind everything she hadn’t said for too long. Her eyes drifted toward the window, to the narrow slip of sky visible between buildings. It was a flat, colorless blue, the kind that meant nothing, didn’t promise anything. Her gaze moved to the coffee table, to her phone still lying where she’d left it hours ago. The screen was dark, but she knew what would be there.
The playlist. Twin.
Jennie’s name, glowing in white text like it was waiting for her to finally stop pretending she didn’t care.
She didn’t know what changed in that moment. Maybe it was Irene’s voice, calm but unflinching, maybe it was the way she hadn’t begged or pleaded, hadn’t tried to cheer her up or lie about the stakes, maybe it was the quiet, brutal honesty of it all. Irene had walked in, looked around, and spoken like she knew exactly where the pain was buried.
Or maybe it was the ache itself, the one Y/N had carried for weeks now, the one that had settled into her ribs and refused to let go. The ache of a voice she only heard in headphones. A look she only saw in memories. A love that had stood right in front of her, asking her to speak, and she hadn’t.
Whatever it was, something shifted.
“I don’t know if she’ll take me back,” Y/N said at last, her voice quiet and frayed at the edges. It wasn’t a question. It was grief.
Irene didn’t hesitate. “Then find out.”
Y/N looked at her, eyes red, lips parted like she was already bracing for whatever came next. But Irene wasn’t done.
“Jennie tried,” she said, her voice still even. “You know that, right? She tried to let you go. She dated, she smiled through it, she played her part. But she never stayed with anyone. Because none of them were you.”
The words hit like a stone dropped into water, quiet, but unstoppable.
“You weren’t just the one that got away,” Irene added. “You were the one she couldn’t replace.”
Y/N inhaled sharply, her shoulders trembling with the effort of holding herself together.
“So if you don’t do something now,” Irene continued, “someone else will come along one day. Maybe not better, maybe not even close. But they’ll be there, and they’ll say the words you were too scared to. And Jennie won’t keep waiting for the one who left her more than once.”
That was it.
That was the cut that went straight to the center. Y/N didn’t cry, not then. But something inside her cracked open wide.
She exhaled for what felt like the first time in days.
Not clean, not steady.
But it was enough to begin.
Jennie’s days had become a blur of tightly scheduled hours and artificial focus, the kind of structure designed to hold someone together just long enough to keep from falling apart. Coachella was approaching fast, and the world around her treated it like a countdown, every minute filled, every moment measured. There wasn’t space to breathe, let alone feel.
She arrived at the rehearsal space before most of the team, her hair tucked under a black cap, sunglasses still on, coffee clutched in one hand like armor. People nodded when she walked in, some greeted her with half smiles, others with professional distance. But they all said the same thing, that she looked focused, that she was locked in. And she was, at least in the way everyone needed her to be.
The mornings bled into afternoons without pause. Rehearsals ran long, choreography, stage blocking, lighting adjustments, vocal warmups that turned into full set run throughs. Each movement drilled into her until her body responded on instinct. Every transition was tightened, every beat refined. She never asked for breaks. Never hesitated. If someone called for a reset, she was already back in place before they finished the sentence.
During short pauses, while dancers caught their breath or stylists flitted between fittings, Jennie sat quietly in the corner, her water bottle resting on her knee, her face turned toward the ceiling like she could escape into the light fixtures. She didn’t scroll through her phone. Didn’t speak unless someone asked her a direct question. She didn’t need distractions, she was already distracted, even when she moved like clockwork.
Her body kept up. Her mind didn’t.
When the music played, she moved like she always had, sharp, fluid, precise, but something inside her felt distant, unhooked. She wasn’t in the music, not really. She was watching herself perform, going through the motions, hitting the right steps with the wrong kind of energy. Nothing she did was technically wrong. Her vocals were clean, her form was flawless, her timing never slipped.
But it didn’t feel like hers.
And though no one said anything, she could sense the quiet glances from her team, the way her manager tilted her head like she might say something but never did. Everyone could feel something off, but no one named it.
Jennie didn’t either.
She didn’t think about Y/N while she worked.
Not deliberately. But in the quiet between verses, in the beat before a chorus hit, she felt it. The weight of what she’d walked away from. The truth that she hadn’t been enough to make her stay.
So she kept going.
One more take. One more day. One more routine done to perfection.
It was easier that way, but it hurt just the same.
One night, after another day that felt more like endurance than performance, Jennie returned to her apartment well past sunset. The city outside had already gone soft and blurred, the skyline dark against a hazy glow, headlights dragging across the pavement in slow motion.
Her key slipped into the lock with practiced ease, the door clicking shut behind her as she stepped into the stillness. She didn’t bother turning on the lights right away. The soft spill of streetlight through the windows was enough.
She dropped her bag by the entrance, the thud muffled by the carpet. Her jacket slid from her shoulders a moment later, landing in a careless heap that she didn’t bother fixing. Her shoes followed, kicked off with her toes, one after the other, until she was barefoot, moving on instinct alone.
She crossed to the kitchen and opened her food delivery app without really looking. Her thumb hovered, then tapped through the same order she always made when she didn’t have the energy to think, simple broth, rice, nothing heavy, nothing complicated. She didn’t read the confirmation, she didn’t need to.
Leaning against the counter, she let her head rest against the cabinet above, eyes slipping shut. Her whole body ached, not with pain, but with accumulation. Fatigue layered on fatigue. Not the kind sleep fixed, but the kind that lived in her bones now.
When the sound of the shower running finally filled the apartment, it was a relief. Not because she wanted to be clean, but because the water was noise, steady, unrelenting, something that could drown out the quiet around her for just a little while.
The water came down hotter than she meant it to, but she didn’t adjust it. Let it hit her shoulders, her neck, her back, burning enough to feel something. She stayed under the stream until her skin was flushed, until the fog on the glass blurred even her own reflection.
When she finally stepped out, she moved slowly, drying herself with methodical care, like routine could ground her. She opened the drawer for something to wear and pulled out a pair of old grey sweats and a shirt buried at the bottom, a faded black tee, oversized and worn soft by years of washes.
It was the one Y/N used to tease her about, calling it “her sleep uniform,” claiming she could win awards in it for being the most unbothered. Jennie had laughed then, told her to shut up, worn it again the next night anyway.
She hesitated for just a second.
Then pulled it over her head. It didn’t mean anything, not really.
She sat on the edge of the couch, phone resting beside her, half watching the screen, half lost in thought, the silence humming around her like a low, constant frequency. When the delivery notification buzzed, she didn’t check it. She knew what it said.
She didn't move right away. Her limbs were heavy in that comfortable, post shower kind of way, and the thought of walking to the door felt strangely far. Eventually, she stood, stretching slightly, and padded barefoot across the room.
Then the knock came.
Not forceful, not hurried.
Just two soft, measured raps against the door, followed by a pause, then the quiet chime of the bell.
Jennie frowned, just barely. That wasn’t the usual knock. Delivery drivers rarely waited long enough to press the bell. Still, she moved toward the door, rubbing a hand gently along the back of her neck, not thinking much of it. She assumed they were just being thorough.
Another knock.
The same rhythm.
She reached for the lock, voice low and casual as she called out, “Coming,” though her tone lacked urgency.
The door opened with the familiar clunk of the latch, and she pulled it halfway open, expecting a paper bag, maybe a mumbled greeting, something routine, forgettable.
But it wasn’t food.
It wasn’t a stranger.
It was Y/N.
Standing in the hallway, hoodie pulled up, head slightly lowered. Her face was tired in the way travel and sleeplessness made people look older, her features drawn tight, eyes rimmed red, skin pale under the cool hallway light. She looked like she hadn’t eaten, hadn’t rested, hadn’t known how to stop moving for days. And yet she was there, standing in front of Jennie like she had every right to be, like she hadn’t shattered everything just two weeks before.
Jennie’s breath caught in her throat. The door stayed frozen in her hand, only halfway open, and for a long, impossibly long second, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, two versions of the same memory, shaped by silence and regret.
Something tightened in Jennie’s chest, sharp and slow, like her heart didn’t know if it should leap or lock itself down.
Her voice, when it came, wasn’t cold. Just distant. Strained in a way she couldn’t help.
“I thought you were the food.”
Jennie stepped back without a word, her eyes unreadable, the tension in her shoulders still wound tight. She didn’t offer softness, didn’t pretend any of this was easy, but she opened the door a little wider, just enough for Y/N to understand she could step inside if she really wanted to.
It wasn’t forgiveness, it wasn’t welcome.
But it was something.
Y/N moved slowly, almost like she thought the floor might vanish under her feet. Every step forward felt like it could be a mistake, and yet she took it, carrying herself across the threshold with the kind of quiet hesitation reserved for sacred places.
When she looked up, Jennie had already walked into the living room. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, her body angled slightly away, not out of rejection, but out of self preservation. There was a kind of stillness to her, the kind that came after too many false starts, too many heartbreaks endured quietly. She wasn’t tense, she was guarded. Braced.
Neither of them sat.
The room, dimly lit by the soft glow of a floor lamp in the corner, felt heavier than it should have. The quiet between them wasn’t peaceful, it pulsed, almost alive, thick with everything left unsaid. They stood only a few feet apart, but the distance felt like a chasm.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d let me in,” Y/N said at last, her voice low and scratchy, like she hadn’t used it for anything real in days. Maybe weeks.
Jennie didn’t respond right away. She simply looked at her with the same expression she’d worn at the door, calm on the surface, unreadable underneath. Y/N couldn’t tell if she was trying not to feel or trying too hard not to show what she was feeling. Either way, the silence stretched long between them.
Y/N let out a breath that shook as it left her. Her eyes dropped to the floor, guilt flickering in her posture like a shadow cast across her chest.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Fair.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward, it was familiar, heavy, like they’d been here before, a hundred times, in a hundred different silences.
“I should’ve said something back then,” she continued, her words hesitant but steady, each one chosen carefully, as if she was trying not to fumble what little chance she had left. “That night at the concert, or when you came to my place. I should’ve said it all, but I didn’t. I just froze, I always freeze.”
Still, Jennie said nothing, but something in her eyes shifted, an almost imperceptible softening, or maybe it was just exhaustion.
Y/N looked up, met her gaze, and didn’t let go this time. “I left YG because I was scared,” she said, her voice beginning to shake again, but not faltering. “Not of us, not of how I felt about you. I was scared of what staying would cost you.”
Jennie’s brows drew together ever so slightly, not in anger, but like she was trying not to break before she understood the full truth.
“I knew how hard you fought for everything you had. I watched you work yourself past breaking, bend yourself into everything they needed you to be. You survived what would've crushed anyone else. And I knew, deep down, I knew, that if we got caught, if anything leaked, it wouldn’t be just me who paid the price. You would lose everything.”
Her voice caught in her throat, and she paused, breathing through it.
“I thought maybe if I left first, without explanation, maybe that was the one thing I could do for you. The only way I could protect you. Even if it meant losing you.”
Jennie still didn’t speak. She didn’t move either. Her arms were still folded, but her fingers had uncurled slightly, her knuckles no longer white. Her gaze hadn’t left Y/N’s face.
“I wasn’t built for that life,” Y/N said softly. “Not the cameras, not the lies, not the pressure. But you were. You were made for it Jennie, and I didn’t want to be the reason they took it away from you. So I told myself I was doing the right thing.”
She blinked hard, her vision blurring for a moment. “I wrote that letter after I left. Not because I wanted to explain, but because I needed to say it, even if you never read it, even if you never forgave me.”
She paused again, voice lowering, almost a whisper now. “I kept it. All those years, I held on to it like maybe, one day, I’d see you again. And maybe I’d find the words.”
Her chest rose and fell with effort, the emotion swelling under every word. “But I didn’t. When it mattered, I stood there and let you walk away.”
Jennie’s eyes flicked down for a moment, and her jaw tensed, a muscle tightening just beneath her cheekbone.
Y/N took a small step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to show she wasn’t running this time. “I should’ve fought for you, I should’ve said something, I should’ve come back sooner. But I was selfish. I let my fear win.”
She took a breath that sounded like it hurt. “I’ve been trying to live like it didn’t break me, but it did, you did. And not because you hurt me, but because I walked away from the one person I loved more than anything.”
Jennie’s eyes slowly lifted again.
Y/N didn’t look away. Not this time.
“I’m still in love with you.”
The words didn’t fall, they landed. Heavy. Irrefutable.
Jennie’s expression didn’t change, but her body stilled, like something in her stopped bracing. Like she finally let the blow land.
“You’re it for me,” Y/N said, her voice sure now, strong in the way things are when they’ve been held in too long. “You always have been. I tried to forget, I told myself it was better this way. But it wasn’t, it never was.”
She shook her head slightly, eyes glinting, shoulders curling in like the weight of it all was finally too much. “I’ve been running from this since the day I left. And I can’t do it anymore. Not if there’s even the smallest chance you’ll still let me say these things. Let me mean them.”
The room was so quiet, Y/N could hear her own heartbeat, racing, unsteady, loud in the stillness Jennie hadn’t yet broken.
She stood there, breathing through it, waiting, hoping, afraid to ask for more, but more desperate not to say less.
Jennie didn’t speak, not right away.
Her arms remained folded across her chest, elbows tucked in close like she was holding herself together out of sheer muscle memory, the way you do when your body still thinks it needs to protect your heart. Her weight shifted subtly from one foot to the other, her eyes no longer on Y/N but somewhere just past her, focused on a spot over her shoulder, far away, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet the moment directly.
It wasn’t anger keeping her quiet anymore. It wasn’t even doubt. It was something else. Something more fragile.
She was trying to breathe around the ache in her chest, trying to stay still while her entire world tilted again, quietly this time, without the shield of pride or the distraction of fury. Just the truth, settling over her like dust. Slow, relentless.
Her eyes glistened, a fine shimmer that caught the edge of the lamp light but never quite fell. She blinked once, slowly, but whatever emotion threatened to break through didn’t make it past the surface.
And yet she still didn’t say a word.
That silence, the kind that doesn’t push you away, but doesn’t pull you in either, landed squarely in Y/N’s chest. She felt it twist through her ribs, hollowing something out in her that had already been scraped raw from the inside.
Her breath caught, just barely, but it was enough.
She didn’t cry, she didn’t ask. She just nodded, once, and then again. Something in her gave way with that second nod, something she’d been holding up for far too long, and it fractured without ceremony.
“Okay,” she said softly, the word barely more than a breath. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t resignation. It was acceptance, spoken like someone who’d prepared for this before even knocking on the door.
Her body turned slightly, just enough to face the door, shoulders already tightening in anticipation of walking out again, one last time, she thought. The final time.
“I just needed you to know,” she said, her voice low and strained, like she was saying goodbye without actually using the word. “I don’t expect anything. I never did. I just—”
Her voice faltered, the thought trailing off before she could find an ending that wouldn’t shatter her. She swallowed hard and stepped forward, her gaze already fixed on the doorknob like it was the only thing in the room she could afford to look at.
And that’s when Jennie’s voice came, sudden and sharp, but not loud. Just hoarse and cracked at the edges, like it had been torn from somewhere deep inside her.
“Do not fucking leave.”
Y/N froze.
The room pulsed around her, everything slowing in the space between that sentence and the next breath she took. She turned, slowly, unsure if she’d imagined it.
Jennie was already moving.
The distance between them collapsed in a few uneven steps, fast, ungraceful, almost clumsy in the way urgency makes you forget how to carry your own body. Her arms weren’t reaching in warmth or apology. They were reaching in desperation. Her hand caught Y/N’s wrist, fingers curling tightly around it like she was terrified the moment might vanish if she didn’t hold on hard enough.
“Do not walk away from me again,” she said, and this time her voice was a whisper dragged across broken glass, raw, honest, stripped of every wall she’d ever learned to hide behind. “Not this time, please.”
Her other hand came up, cradling Y/N’s face with a tenderness that barely masked the tremble in her touch. She leaned in before Y/N could respond, before another silence could rise between them, before fear could come clawing back.
The kiss that followed wasn’t careful, it wasn’t composed.
It was everything that had been waiting between them, years of silence and guilt and longing compressed into a single, desperate collision. It was aching and unsteady and impossibly familiar. Their mouths met like they remembered exactly how to fit together, like time hadn’t passed at all. Like every breath they’d taken since their last kiss had been leading back to this one.
Jennie kissed her like she needed to remember. Y/N kissed her like she didn’t want to forget.
Neither of them held back.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling in the stillness that followed. Jennie’s eyes were closed, her lashes damp, her hands still holding on like she didn’t fully trust that Y/N was real, like letting go would undo the moment.
Her voice came soft, almost too quiet.
“You don’t get to come back and say all that and just leave,” she whispered, her words fraying at the edges. “You don’t.”
Y/N didn’t reply, not with words. Her fingers slid up to rest against Jennie’s wrist, anchoring them both in place. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away.
She didn’t have to say anything.
Later, they lay in the quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything. Not words. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, it was full. Full of everything they didn’t have to explain anymore.
The bedroom was dark, save for the soft glow bleeding in from the streetlamp outside Jennie’s window. The world outside moved on, cars passing below, distant music leaking from another apartment, the city pulsing like it always did, but none of it felt close. It all stayed outside.
Inside, it was still.
They hadn’t turned on the lights. They hadn’t spoken much after the kiss. No deep conversation, no declarations. Y/N’d changed out of jeans and into softer clothes, sweatpants, a long sleeve tee that still smelled faintly like detergent and a life lived alone. The distance between them, once vast, now barely existed at all.
Jennie lay on her side, facing Y/N, her hand finding hers in the dark like it had always known the way. Their fingers were threaded loosely together, resting between them on the sheets. Not tight, not possessive, just connected. A quiet tether, the kind you don’t think about until you realize how long you’ve needed it.
Y/N lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. Her other hand rested over her stomach, rising and falling slowly with each breath, her body more relaxed than it had been in years, even if she didn’t quite know what to do with the calm. Their legs brushed occasionally, knee to calf, foot to shin, just small, unspoken reminders that they were still here. Still touching, still real.
Their heads almost met in the dark. Close enough that if either of them breathed a little deeper, they’d collide.
For a long time, they didn’t speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time in what felt like forever, silence wasn’t something that needed to be filled. It wasn’t avoidance, it wasn’t fear. It was peace, permission. The space to simply exist without pressure, without pretending they weren’t still holding onto one another like it was the only thing that made sense anymore.
Jennie’s voice came so quietly it was almost part of the dark. “I was angry with you for a long time,” she said, and it wasn’t bitter or accusatory. Just honest, like naming it out loud was part of letting it go.
Y/N didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling, but her fingers curled a little tighter around Jennie’s. “I know,” she said, and there was no defense in it, no tension. Just the truth.
Jennie’s thumb moved gently over Y/N’s knuckles, slow and steady, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. “But I think what made it worse was that I never stopped loving you,” she continued, her voice still soft, still low, but shakier now. “Even when I tried, even when I told myself I should. Nothing worked, no one else ever felt like you.”
Y/N turned her head slightly, her eyes adjusting to the dark, until she could make out the curve of Jennie’s face, those lashes, that brow, the mouth she’d just kissed like it was home. Her forehead brushed lightly against Jennie’s, just enough to close the space between them. “Same,” she whispered, the word catching on something in her throat. “I thought I could move on. I tried. But it was always you. It was only you.”
Another pause.
Not heavy, just full. Full of the time they’d lost, full of the ache they’d carried alone, full of the tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late.
Y/N let out a breath that didn’t hurt, her eyes closing for a moment like she was finally allowing herself to feel the weight lifting off her chest. “We lost a lot of time,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sad. Just quiet, reflective. Like someone counting years not by calendars, but by the echoes they’d left behind.
Jennie nodded once, her eyes closed now, her body a little closer than before. “We did,” she said, and there was something in her voice that broke, just the smallest crack, like softness splitting through armor.
Their hands stayed linked, unmoving, and then Jennie gave the smallest squeeze, barely pressure, more like intention. When she spoke again, it was barely louder than the hum of the street outside, but the words still cut through the dark with perfect clarity.
“Let’s not waste another second.”
Y/N’s eyes opened again, blinking slowly at the ceiling that no longer felt like it was pressing down on her. Her body turned slightly, just enough to close the final distance between them, her head tilting to rest against Jennie’s, their noses brushing, breath shared in the space where everything else had finally quieted.
And in the softest voice she’d used all night, one that carried every ounce of certainty she’d been missing for years, Y/N whispered, “Okay.”
Morning arrived quietly, like it didn’t want to wake them.
Soft sunlight crept through the edges of the curtains, tracing slow golden lines across the sheets. The air was warm, still tinged with the comfort of sleep, the kind of hush that only came after long nights filled with too much truth and not enough time.
Jennie stirred first, her body shifting slightly beneath the weight of an unfamiliar warmth. Her eyes blinked open, not out of urgency, but from instinct, the natural pull of day meeting skin.
And the first thing she felt was arms around her.
Y/N’s arms, wrapped fully around her torso, holding her with a kind of quiet desperation, like even in sleep she couldn’t let go. Jennie’s back was pressed snugly against her chest, and Y/N’s face was tucked into the curve of her neck, her breath slow and warm against the skin there. Their legs were tangled beneath the covers, limbs woven in the kind of intimacy that came without thought.
Jennie didn’t move, not even a little.
Her eyes fluttered fully open, adjusting to the soft morning light, and the reality of it all began to settle, not as a question, not as something she might have dreamed, but as fact.
Y/N was here. Still here, still holding her.
And not gently, not loosely, but firmly. Like she didn’t want to risk the world taking her away again.
Jennie exhaled slowly, her body relaxing even further into the curve of Y/N’s hold. She didn’t feel the usual urgency of mornings, no pressure to check her phone, no sharp reminder of a schedule waiting to pull her apart.
Y/N shifted slightly behind her, her arms tightening for a moment as if she sensed something changing. A soft sound escaped her lips, not quite a word, not quite a sigh. Jennie felt it against her skin, and her heart ached with a tenderness so quiet it almost didn’t hurt.
She let her hand slide gently over Y/N’s forearm, brushing against the curve of her wrist, grounding herself in the touch.
A small smile tugged at her lips, not bright, not wide, but real. Soft, steady. The kind that doesn’t announce itself but lingers, because it finally has room to.
She stayed in that moment, body still, eyes half lidded, breath syncing with the one behind her. Y/N stayed wrapped around her, asleep but present, her hold saying more than any apology ever could.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
And Jennie, who had learned to live without hope, let herself believe it this time.
There was nothing to say, but it was clear in the way their bodies fit together beneath the morning light, in the way their chests rose and fell in tandem, in the way Y/N’s fingers curled just slightly tighter around her, even in sleep.
This time, they’d stayed.
And this time, they weren’t letting go.
Jennie closed her eyes, letting herself sink deeper into the warmth wrapped around her, her heart slowing, steady in a way it hadn’t been in years.
“So this is what it feels like,” she thought. “To finally come home.”
And with her cheek pressed against the pillow, her voice barely more than a whisper, she let the words fall into the quiet.
Synopsis: After leaving Jennie before their debut, Y/N never truly moved on. But when she hears Jennie’s latest song, old wounds resurface along with unanswered questions. Will they finally face the past they never truly left behind?
Requested by Anon
English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.
♡ Enjoy! ♡
The dim glow of the studio monitors cast long, flickering shadows across the empty room. The only sound was the soft hum of the speakers, filling the space with something hauntingly familiar. Y/N sat motionless before the mixing board, fingers resting against the cool metal fader, her other hand curled into a loose fist on her lap.
A slow inhale. A sharp exhale.
She had produced this track for an artist under SM, a rising soloist with a delicate voice, the kind that carried emotion effortlessly. But no matter how hard she tried to separate herself from it, the song was not theirs.
It was hers.
The chord progression, the way the notes stretched like fingertips reaching for something already gone, the way the vocalist’s voice wavered, just barely, on the high notes. It wasn’t just music. It was a memory.
The kind of song that felt like déjà vu, like standing in the middle of a dream where you already knew the ending but wished, desperately, that this time it would be different.
For a brief, fleeting moment, Y/N allowed herself to sink into it.
And then the chorus hit.
Her breath caught, the sound cutting through her like glass. The ache in the melody, it wasn’t just familiar. It was identical.
Identical to the way Jennie’s voice used to tremble at 2 AM when exhaustion pressed too heavily on her bones. Identical to the way she used to hum mindlessly between practice sessions, back when they were just kids chasing a dream too big for their hands.
Identical to the way she had sounded the night Y/N walked away. A phantom pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and unforgiving.
Jennie.
The name echoed through her mind like an unfinished lyric.
Before she could stop herself, Y/N’s fingers twitched against the console and pressed pause. The silence that followed was deafening. A deep, suffocating kind of silence, the kind that filled the spaces where words were never said.
The kind Jennie had left behind.
Y/N swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if it would push back the burn in her eyes. She had spent years perfecting the art of walking away, leaving the past where it belonged.
But some things, no matter how much time passed, never really left.
Y/N exhaled slowly, her pulse still uneven from the song that had been playing just moments ago. The weight in her chest hadn’t lifted, it had only settled deeper, like an anchor dragging her down.
Without thinking, she turned away from the soundboard, her gaze landing on the wooden desk drawer beside her. A familiar habit. A dangerous one.
Her fingers hesitated for only a second before curling around the handle.
The drawer creaked open.
Inside, a neat stack of envelopes lay in quiet confession. The edges were worn, yellowing slightly with age, some folded so many times the creases had nearly torn through the paper. A graveyard of words left unsaid.
Letters.
Dozens of them, written in moments of weakness. Moments when the silence was too loud. When she had wanted to reach out but couldn’t. When she had almost broken her promise to stay gone.
Her fingertips ghosted over the stack, tracing the curves of her own handwriting on the front of each envelope. Always addressed to the same person.
Back then, writing had been the only thing that kept her from drowning. Because if she wrote to Jennie, she could pretend, just for a little while, that Jennie was still listening.
Her hand wavered before settling on the letter at the very top.
The first one.
She had written it the night she left. Alone in a hotel room, the city lights blurring through the rain-streaked window, the world outside moving forward while she sat frozen in place.
She lifted the fragile paper, its corners slightly curled, the ink smudged in places where her hands had gripped it too tightly. Her handwriting was smaller than usual, hesitant. As if even the letters had known they weren’t meant to reach their destination.
But she didn’t need to open it. She already knew what it said.
Jennie,
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I need you to know. I never wanted to leave you…
Her chest tightened.
The words had felt like a confession then. Now, they felt like a wound that never fully healed.
She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the letter so tightly it crumpled slightly between her fingers. How pathetic was this? After all these years, Jennie’s name still had this power over her.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.
Y/N inhaled sharply, stuffing the letter back into the drawer, slamming it shut before turning around. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just been holding the past in her hands.
The knock had barely faded when the door creaked open.
“Y/N, you in here?”
Minhyuk stood in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, a takeout coffee in the other. His usual easygoing expression was tinged with something more hesitant today, like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.
“You didn’t answer my messages,” he said, stepping inside and placing the coffee on the desk. “Figured you were drowning in work again.”
Y/N forced a small smile. “Lost track of time.”
“Figured.” He gestured to the screens. “You working on the final mix for the new soloist?”
“Yeah, just tightening up the chorus.” She reached for the coffee, grateful for the excuse to keep her hands busy. The warmth seeped through the cup, grounding her.
Minhyuk hummed in approval, but then his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward the drawer she had shut only moments ago. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell he’d noticed her tension.
And then, just as she was about to steer the conversation back to work, he said it.
“Oh, have you heard? Jennie Kim is releasing an album.”
Y/N froze, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
Minhyuk didn’t notice, or maybe he did and chose to ignore it. “You must’ve heard about it. Everyone’s been talking about it since Mantra dropped. But there are rumors that the album includes a really personal song.”
Her stomach twisted.
She pressed her lips together, keeping her expression neutral. “Good for her.”
Minhyuk took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. “Looks like it’s gonna be a big one.”
Y/N nodded, forcing herself to appear indifferent. “She always does well.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, but there was something searching in his gaze, something cautious. “It’s just… a lot of people are saying it’s different this time. That it’s, like, deeply personal.” He paused, as if debating whether to say more. “Some fans think that one of the songs is about someone specific. Her ex to be exact.”
The words hit her somewhere deep, but she refused to let them show. Instead, she let out a small, dry laugh. “Fans say a lot of things.”
Minhyuk studied her for a moment longer before shaking his head with a smirk. “You really never crack, huh?”
She only shrugged.
Minhyuk hesitated but didn’t push further. Instead, he tapped his tablet against his palm. “Anyway, we have a meeting in twenty. Thought I’d remind you before you bury yourself in work again.”
“I’ll be there,” she assured him.
With that, he nodded and stepped back into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.
The room fell silent again.
Y/N let out a slow breath, turning back to the desk. Her gaze fell to the drawer, the one that held years of words she never said, years of pain she never let herself feel.
She didn’t reach for it this time.
Instead, she grabbed her headphones and pressed play on the track she had been working on. She drowned out the silence with music.
The track she had been working on filled the studio, soft yet aching, each note stretching like a half-formed memory. It was a good song, melancholic, intentional, but something about it felt unfinished. Like a letter that trailed off before the final words.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes flickering to the coffee Minhyuk had left behind. The steam had faded, but the scent still lingered, warm, familiar. It reminded her of another time, another studio.
A different cup of coffee, set beside a messy pile of lyric sheets. Fingers wrapped around hers, a quiet giggle in the dimly lit room.
"Here, try mine. You’ll like it better."
A decade had passed, but the memory was still sharp. Y/N let her eyes close, just for a moment, letting it pull her under.
And just like that, she was back.
The YG practice rooms were never truly quiet.
Even at 3 AM, the building still pulsed with life. Music drifted through the halls, some tracks half-finished, others playing on a loop as trainees pushed through exhaustion. Sneakers scuffed against polished floors. Distant voices hummed unfinished melodies, notes blending into the steady hum of the air conditioning.
Inside one of those rooms, Y/N sat with her back against the mirror, legs stretched out in front of her, damp strands of hair clinging to her skin. Her limbs were sore, but it was the kind of ache that felt good. The kind that reminded her she was getting closer.
Across from her, Jennie lay sprawled on the floor, arms stretched wide, her chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. She was still catching her breath from their last run-through, sweat glistening at her temples.
“We’re insane,” Y/N muttered, tilting her head against the cool glass. “It’s literally the middle of the night.”
Jennie turned her head, dark eyes glinting under the fluorescent lights. “So? You’re still here.”
Y/N huffed, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
“Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure you don’t pass out from overworking yourself.”
Jennie grinned, slow and lazy, rolling onto her side to face her. “That’s cute. You think you’re the responsible one.”
Y/N nudged her shin with the tip of her shoe. “Shut up.”
Jennie laughed, that soft, breathy sound that Y/N had grown to love. It wasn’t the polished laugh Jennie used for cameras, nor the teasing one she shared with their members in training. No, this was different, quieter, realer, something only meant for moments like this.
The room settled into silence, the kind that stretched without pressure.The track they had been practicing to had ended long ago, but neither of them moved to play another.
With Jennie, silence never felt empty. It wasn’t the kind that begged to be filled with meaningless words or restless movements. Instead, it settled around them like a familiar melody, unspoken, but understood.
Jennie shifted beside her, pushing herself up onto her elbows, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling.
"Do you ever think about it?"
Y/N turned her head slightly, studying the way Jennie’s expression softened in thought. "Think about what?"
Jennie let out a slow breath, her voice quieter now. "The future. What it’s going to be like when we debut."
Y/N smirked, tilting her head.
"When, huh? Not if?"
Jennie turned to her then, one brow arched, eyes sharp despite her exhaustion. "Are you planning to fail?"
Y/N chuckled, lifting her hands in mock surrender. "Fair point."
Jennie rolled her eyes but didn’t hide the small smile playing at her lips. "Come on, just humor me."
Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the mirror, pretending to think. “Alright. Let’s see… We debut, obviously. Become the biggest girl group in Korea. You’ll be the ace. Rap, vocals, visuals, everything. I’ll be the chaotic fan favorite.”
Jennie let out a quiet snort, shaking her head in amusement.
"Obviously."
Y/N’s grin widened. "We’ll travel the world, win Daesangs, perform at Coachella… make history." She said it like it was inevitable, like the universe had already carved their names into the stars.
Jennie’s smile softened, the teasing glint in her eyes fading into something quieter, something more fragile. She hesitated, just for a second, before murmuring, "Together?"
Y/N’s breath caught.
It was one word, simple, almost careless. But it wasn’t casual. Not when Jennie was looking at her like that, like the answer meant everything. Like Jennie was asking about more than just debuting.
Y/N swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. The air between them felt heavier, warmer, charged with something unspoken.
She wet her lips. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Together.”
Jennie held her gaze for a second longer before dropping her head back against the floor with a soft sigh.
“Good,” she whispered.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Their bodies were exhausted, but their hearts felt light. They were young, stupid, reckless, and completely convinced they could take on the world.
The countdown to debut should have been the most exciting time of their lives. Instead, it was suffocating.
Every morning began with a weigh-in. The number on the scale determined everything, how much they ate, how much they trained, how much they were worth in the eyes of the company. If it wasn’t low enough, there were consequences. Extra hours of cardio. Meals taken away. A warning that they were replaceable.
“Idols don’t have baby fat,” the trainers would sneer. “You either lose it, or you lose your spot.”
Y/N quickly learned how to quiet her hunger, how to sip on ice water until the gnawing in her stomach became something distant, something easier to ignore. Jennie was better at pretending it didn’t bother her, but Y/N saw the way she gripped the sink each morning, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Then came the rehearsals.
16-hour training days that stretched long into the night. Choreographers drilled them relentlessly, barking corrections that burned like lashes across their skin.
“Again. Again. Again.”
It didn’t matter if their legs shook from exhaustion, if their bodies screamed for rest, they weren’t allowed to stop. Mistakes weren’t tolerated. Trainees who couldn’t keep up disappeared without warning.
Evaluations were worse.
Every month, they stood in a cold, silent room while executives picked them apart like livestock at an auction. Their singing, their dancing, their faces, their bodies, everything was up for scrutiny.
“Your voice lacks color.”
“Your expressions are lifeless.”
“Your thighs are still too thick.”
Each critique carved into them, piece by piece, until they were hollow enough to be filled with whatever the company wanted them to be.
Privacy was a luxury they no longer had. Cameras watched their every move, managers monitored their diets, and every word they spoke felt like it could be overheard. They weren’t just trainees, they were investments, carefully molded into perfection. People stopped seeing them as girls with dreams and started seeing them as future idols, marketable and polished.
At first, Y/N convinced herself it was all part of the process. The exhaustion, the hunger, the bruises, just stepping stones on the path to success. Endure it now, and the reward will come later.
Jennie believed that, too.
“It’s just for now,” she’d murmur against Y/N’s temple in the quiet hours of the night, when the world outside the practice room ceased to exist. “Once we debut, it’ll get better.”
In those stolen moments, half-asleep, bodies aching, they allowed themselves to dream. They whispered about the future, about the world tours they’d conquer, the awards they’d win, the music they’d make together.
"Just a little longer," Jennie would say, fingers brushing against Y/N’s wrist, grounding them both. "We’re so close."
And Y/N wanted, desperately, to believe her.
But it didn’t get better.
The closer they got to debut, the worse it became. Training days stretched into sleepless nights, their bodies pushed beyond their limits, their minds fraying at the edges. Hunger settled in their bones, exhaustion blurred the weeks together, and there was no room to stop, no space to breathe.
Speaking out wasn’t an option. Complaining wasn’t tolerated. Refusing wasn’t allowed. Instead, they were met with the same cold reminder.
“Do you know how many girls would kill for this opportunity?”
So Y/N forced herself to keep going. She swallowed down her doubts, shoved away her exhaustion, ignored the nagging voice in her head that whispered, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
And then the rumors started.
Trainees gossiping in hushed voices, stolen glances from staff members, managers suddenly checking their phones more often when Jennie and Y/N were around.
At first, they ignored it.
Rumors were always circulating in YG. Someone was dating. Someone was getting kicked out. Someone had secretly undergone plastic surgery. It was just noise, the kind that came with living under constant surveillance.
But this time, the whispers followed them wherever they went.
“Did you hear?”
“I thought they were just close, but…”
“They’re reckless. Don’t they know how strict the company is?”
Jennie brushed it off, insisting it would pass. But Y/N saw the way she glanced over her shoulder more often, how her fingers hesitated before reaching for Y/N’s hand when no one was looking.
Then, the instructors started watching them more closely.
At first, it was just glances, lingering a second too long, a shift in tone, corrections that felt more like warnings. Then, it became something else. Their critiques grew sharper, no longer about technique but about image. Something had changed. Someone had been watching.
One night, as they were gathering their things after practice, a voice cut through the air.
"Jennie. Y/N. The executives want to see you."
A slow, sinking feeling settled in Y/N’s stomach, heavy and inescapable.
They knew.
The office was eerily silent when they stepped inside, the kind of silence that made it impossible to breathe. A long table stretched before them, lined with YG’s higher-ups, their faces blank, detached, impossible to read. The air was thick with something unspoken, pressing against Y/N’s ribs like a weight she couldn’t shake.
Jennie sat beside her, back rigid, hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to.
One of the executives leaned forward, threading his fingers together, his voice slow and measured, as if he were delivering nothing more than a routine business report. "We’ve been hearing things."
Y/N felt her pulse quicken, the cold weight in her stomach turning to ice.
"Things that cannot be tolerated."
The words were devoid of emotion, as if everything they had given, the sleepless nights, the injuries, the sacrifices, meant nothing in the face of company policy. It didn’t matter that they had spent years molding themselves into perfection, shaping every breath, every movement, every thought to fit into the carefully curated image of an idol.
As if they were disposable. As if they hadn’t bled for this dream.
"You know the rules."
No dating. No distractions. No personal lives. The meaning was clear. Idols belonged to the company. Not to themselves.
Jennie inhaled sharply beside her, the sound barely audible, but Y/N could feel the way she tensed, her fingers twitching slightly before curling into fists.
She already knew what they were going to say, but still, when the words came, they hit like a knife straight to the gut.
"End it."
Jennie didn’t move. She didn’t argue, didn’t beg, didn’t fight, not here, not in front of them, but Y/N could feel the way her body locked beside her, the way her breath turned unsteady, the way her silence screamed louder than any words ever could.
"If this continues, there will be consequences."
It wasn’t a warning. It was a command.
Silence stretched between them, suffocating, unyielding. Y/N forced herself to lift her gaze, to meet their eyes even as her throat burned with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.
Debut or love.
They weren’t allowed to have both.
The practice room was empty, yet the air felt thick, pressing down on them like a weight neither of them could shake. The mirrors stretched endlessly around them, reflecting back the ghosts of everything they had been, everything they were about to lose.
Jennie sat cross legged on the floor, her head bowed, strands of dark hair falling over her face like a curtain. Her hands were clasped in her lap, fingers curled too tightly, as if she were trying to hold herself together. Y/N stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around herself, but it did nothing to stop the unraveling.
It was almost cruel.
This room had been their sanctuary once. The place where late night practices blurred into whispered dreams, where exhaustion faded into laughter, where stolen moments made all the suffering feel worthwhile. Now, it would be the place where it all ended.
Jennie exhaled slowly, but Y/N could hear the tremble in it.
"Stay with me."
The words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.
Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to stay. God, she wanted to.
But she couldn’t.
She couldn’t keep starving, breaking, hiding. Couldn’t keep swallowing herself whole just to fit inside someone else’s mold. Couldn’t keep hoping for a future that had never really been theirs to begin with.
Jennie lifted her gaze then, eyes glossy, filled with something raw and desperate.
"Just a little longer."
Her voice cracked, splintering at the edges, and Y/N felt something inside her shatter along with it.
That was all Jennie had ever asked of her. Just a little longer. Just a little more pain. Just a little more sacrifice. Just a little more of herself.
But what was left of her to give?
Jennie was built for this world. Born to endure. Made to shine. She could withstand the pain, the hunger, the scrutiny, because she saw something beyond it, something worth all the suffering. Y/N didn’t. Not anymore.
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow, to breathe, to push past the ache clawing at her ribs.
"I can’t."
Jennie flinched, a sharp inhale, like she’d been struck.
Silence stretched between them, heavy, unbearable. Y/N’s body screamed at her to take it back, to say anything to ease the hurt in Jennie’s eyes, to promise that they would find a way to survive this.
But Jennie said nothing.
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to fight, to beg, to convince Y/N to hold on just a little longer, but the words never came. Slowly, her shoulders dropped, her fingers loosened, her posture crumbled just enough for Y/N to see the heartbreak bleeding through the cracks.
And Y/N knew.
Jennie would never beg. Not for this. Not even for her.
Even with unshed tears clinging to her lashes, Jennie was still Jennie Kim. Poised, composed, unshakable. The girl who was meant to stand beneath the brightest lights, adored by millions.
Y/N had never felt smaller. She took a step back. Then another.
Jennie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She wouldn’t stop her. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she loved her too much to make her stay.
At the door, Y/N hesitated. She looked back at the girl who had been her best friend, her first love, her home. She wanted to say something, anything, to make this hurt less.
But there was nothing.
So she turned and walked away. Jennie didn’t call after her.
The memory lived in the back of her mind, untouched for years, buried beneath time and distance. But some things never truly fade. Some moments linger, surfacing when least expected, like now, as she stood in her apartment, heart pounding, breath unsteady.
Y/N wasn’t running. Not really.
She told herself that over and over again as she threw a few essentials into a duffel bag, grabbed her headphones, and booked the earliest train out of the city. This wasn’t avoidance. It was just… space. A temporary retreat. A weekend to breathe.
But even as the train pulled out of Seoul Station, she could still feel it, the weight of the day pressing against her chest, the buzz of the city trailing after her like a shadow. It was inescapable.
Jennie Kim had finally released her first full-length solo album, and the world was losing its mind.
Seoul had been unbearable today, an electric storm of flashing billboards, trending hashtags, and endless conversations orbiting around one person. It didn’t matter where she went, studios, streets, every screen, every voice, every radio station played the same name on repeat.
Jennie. Jennie. Jennie.
The Jennie Kim. Global icon. Record breaking artist. The kind of star who didn’t just shine, she burned, leaving an imprint on everything she touched.
The album had dropped at midnight, and the industry had erupted.
Critics were already calling it a masterpiece, the kind of project that defined not just a career, but an era. Fans flooded social media, dissecting every track, every lyric, every hidden meaning buried in Jennie’s music. Industry giants were hailing it as one of the most important albums of the decade.
Y/N had spent years in the industry herself, just on the other side of it. She knew exactly what today meant.
And she wanted no part of it.
For years, she had kept her head down, working behind the scenes as a producer, crafting music for idols who still had stars in their eyes. She had built a name for herself in a different way, one that didn’t demand cameras flashing in her face, one that let her create without suffocating under the expectations that came with it.
She had done everything right. She had moved forward. She had left that life, that dream, that person behind.
And yet, no matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, some things never really let go.
So she left.
Booked a train ticket to Busan, let Seoul shrink behind her, let the rhythmic hum of the tracks drown out the noise in her head. Maybe, if she was lucky, a different sky, a different city would quiet the ache that still refused to fade.
The waves stretched lazily toward her feet before slipping away again, their rhythm steady, hypnotic. The scent of salt lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of grilled seafood and coffee drifting from the boardwalk behind her. Somewhere in the distance, the city hummed, soft, unobtrusive, distant enough to fade into the background.
Busan was quieter than Seoul, but even here, life pulsed on. Couples wandered along the shore, their laughter carried by the wind. A few kids chased each other near the water, their shrieks of joy rising over the waves.
Y/N stayed where she was, hoodie pulled low over her face, sneakers half buried in the cool sand. She had been sitting here for hours, watching the sky melt from soft blue to gold, then to dusky pink.
Her phone lay beside her, screen dim, playing through an old-school R&B playlist. The kind of music that had always been a comfort. Something soft. Something familiar. Something that didn’t hurt.
Ashanti’s voice drifted through her earbuds, blending seamlessly with the crash of the tide. She wasn’t really listening. The songs bled together, fading into the background, nothing more than a quiet hum to fill the silence.
She let her mind drift, let the wind pull at the loose strands of her hair, let herself breathe. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing pressing down on her chest.
And then.
"It’s like I’m writing a letter
And I put in a twelve-ounce bottle of Heineken…"
Y/N’s breath stilled.
A quiet tension gripped her muscles before her mind could even process why. Something about the voice, the melody, the way the words settled in the air around her, it struck like a presence she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for.
Then, recognition crashed into her, swift and unforgiving.
Jennie.
She jolted upright so fast that her hands slipped against the sand, sending grains spilling over her jeans. Her heart pounded as she fumbled for her phone, barely registering the cold metal beneath her fingers. The screen lit up in the dimming light, and there it was, staring back at her.
twin – JENNIE
The world tilted slightly.
Of all the songs in the world, of all the tracks that could have shuffled into her playlist, it had to be this one. Out of the millions of possibilities, it had to be her.
Jennie’s voice poured through the speakers, smooth and deliberate, carrying a weight that settled deep in Y/N’s chest. There was something sharp beneath it, something quiet and unrelenting, threading itself between her ribs like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.
"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya
When I’m bumping Ashanti, yeah, on the beach, yeah."
A slow, unsteady breath left Y/N’s lips, but it wasn’t enough to steady her. The air caught in her throat, tangled somewhere between disbelief and something heavier, something dangerous.
Her grip tightened around the phone, fingers pressing into the edges as if grounding herself would make a difference. But the truth was, it wouldn’t. Because this wasn’t just a song. It wasn’t some distant, abstract heartbreak ballad written for a faceless love lost to time.
It was them.
Every lyric, every pause, every aching note, it was a story, and she was in it. Jennie wasn’t just singing about the past. She wasn’t just weaving a melody out of old wounds and untold confessions.
She was remembering. She was reliving it.
And now, so was Y/N.
Y/N’s nails dug into her palm, the sharp bite of pain a desperate attempt to keep herself anchored, to keep the past from crashing into her all at once. It was a losing battle. The memories rose too fast, too strong, slipping through the cracks she had spent years sealing shut.
She had told herself that she won’t think about that night anymore, that time had softened it, blurred the edges, made it something distant, something she could acknowledge without feeling.
But music had a way of unearthing things.
And this wasn’t just music.
The practice room flickered to life behind her eyelids, the weight of silence pressing down like it had all those years ago. The air had been thick, stifling, full of things neither of them knew how to say. Jennie’s voice had been so small, so unlike her usual sharp confidence, just a whisper, but it had wrecked her.
Stay with me.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could erase the memory, as if she could unhear the way Jennie’s voice had cracked, as if she could unfeel the unbearable pull in her chest that had begged her to say yes.
But she hadn’t.
She had walked away.
And now, years later, sitting on a quiet beach miles away from the life she had once fought to escape, it didn’t matter how much distance she had put between them. The ache still lived inside her, dormant but never gone.
She had left Seoul to avoid this, to escape the inevitability of Jennie’s voice reaching her, pulling her back into a storm she had spent a decade outrunning.
And yet, here she was, sitting on the sand, staring at a name on her screen, heart breaking open like it was that night all over again.
The ocean stretched endlessly before her, waves lapping in a steady rhythm, unbothered, indifferent. She wished she could feel the same. But no amount of distance, no amount of salt air, could drown out the weight pressing against her ribs.
Two more days. That’s what she told herself. Just two more before she returned to Seoul, to reality, to the mess she had abandoned in her wake.
She should have known better.
Because the past had a way of finding her, no matter how far she ran.
The message came on an otherwise uneventful Tuesday, arriving with the kind of casual audacity that only Wendy and Irene could manage. Y/N had been lost in work, headphones slipping from her ears as she focused on layering harmonies, smoothing imperfections, and details only she would notice. It was muscle memory by now, adjust, refine, perfect. A process that left little room for distractions.
Her phone vibrated against the desk.
She ignored it at first, fingers still moving over the controls, mind still tethered to the track. But the messages kept coming, insistent, persistent. With a sigh, she reached for her phone, expecting nothing more than another dinner invite, another inside joke.
Group Chat.
Wendy: “Guess who has an extra VVIP pass for The Ruby Experience?”
Y/N frowned, the words not quite sinking in at first. The Ruby Experience. She had heard the name countless times in the past days, but never aloud, never in direct relation to herself. The realization settled slowly, creeping in at the edges before striking all at once.
Jennie’s concert.
The first solo concert. The one that had sold out in minutes. The one that was already being hailed as historic before the stage lights had even been tested. The one the entire industry had been waiting for.
A second message followed before she could even process the first.
Irene: “No excuses. You’re coming.”
Wendy: “It’s been years, Y/N.”
Years.
The word lingered longer than it should have, wrapping around her like an unwelcome echo.
She should say no. She wanted to say no. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, a response forming on instinct.
Y/N: “I don’t think,”
Another message cut her off.
Irene: “You owe me dinner if you decline.”
Wendy: “And drinks.”
Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Cowards. They weren’t even pretending this was about the concert itself. They weren’t pushing just because it was an event, they were pushing because of her.
Because no one had to say Jennie’s name for her presence to be felt. Because no matter how much time had passed, Jennie Kim’s name still carried weight in her chest, still felt dangerous in her mouth.
Like something sacred. Like something broken. Like something she had never really learned to live without.
Y/N: “Fine. But if it gets weird, I’m leaving.”
Her fingers hesitated for the briefest second before pressing send, but it was too late. The message was out, irreversible, the decision made. And yet, as the confirmation flashed on her screen, a sharp knot twisted in her stomach, the finality of it settling in too quickly, too heavily.
She told herself it was just an event. Just one night. A fleeting moment in a crowded venue, nothing more.
But deep down, she knew better.
Because the past had never been content to stay buried, especially not when Jennie Kim was a part of it.
The venue pulsed with energy, an undercurrent of anticipation vibrating through the walls. Even from the seclusion of the VIP lounge, Y/N could feel it, the unmistakable electricity of a sold-out arena, the collective breath of thousands waiting for one woman to take the stage.
Ruby’s signature red bathed the space in a warm glow, a stark contrast to the sleek black leather couches and glasses balanced on polished tables. The industry’s elite moved around her, exchanging handshakes and half-empty compliments, but Y/N barely heard them.
She tried to focus on Irene and Wendy’s conversation, nodding at the right moments, laughing when expected. It should have been easy, pretending, performing. She’d spent years perfecting the art.
But then, the sound of her name, spoken with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, made her shoulders stiffen.
"Y/N?"
She turned.
Rosé stood just a few feet away, a champagne flute hanging loosely from her fingers, forgotten. Her blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, and despite the dim lighting, there was no missing the flicker of recognition in her gaze.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Years.
That’s how long it had been since they had last stood face to face. Since they had last spoken without a stage, a screen, or a continent between them. But there was no hesitation in Rosé’s expression. No bitterness. Just quiet surprise.
"You’re here," she said, as if confirming it for herself.
Y/N swallowed, forcing a small, knowing smile. "So are you."
Rosé let out a breath, shaking her head with a quiet huff. "Flew in from LA yesterday. There was no way I’d miss this."
Of course not.
This was Jennie’s night, the kind of moment no one who had ever truly known her would dare to miss, and they both understood that without needing to say it.
Rosé studied her for a moment, head tilting slightly, something curious, maybe even cautious, flickering in her eyes.
"I didn’t know you’d come," she admitted, her voice softer now, like she was searching for something unspoken in Y/N’s expression.
There were countless ways she could answer, a hundred variations of the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, each one easier than the one before. But in the end, honesty slipped through before she could stop it.
"Neither did I."
Rosé stilled, lips parting just slightly, something shifting in her gaze, not quite surprise, not quite understanding, but something close to both. Y/N hadn’t planned to be here. She had spent years avoiding moments like this, convincing herself that distance was the only thing keeping her upright.
And yet, despite every reason not to, she had come anyway.
A beat passed, the noise around them fading into something distant, inconsequential. Then, as if remembering herself, Rosé straightened, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You know, I was going to say something smug about how you finally decided to show your face, but…" She hesitated, eyes softening. "I’m just glad to see you."
The sincerity in her voice caught Y/N off guard, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She exhaled, looking down briefly before meeting Rosé’s gaze again.
"Congratulations, by the way."
Rosé blinked, caught off guard for just a second.
"For Rosie," Y/N clarified, her voice even, measured. "And for APT."
For a moment, Rosé said nothing, but something flickered in her expression, first surprise, then warmth, settling into something quieter, something understanding.
"You kept up."
Y/N didn’t respond, but she didn’t have to. The silence between them spoke louder than any words could, carrying years of history, of distance, of things left unsaid.
Slowly, Rosé’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her voice light but edged with something fond. "You’re still terrible at pretending you don’t care."
Y/N exhaled, rolling her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. She shook her head, already regretting this conversation. "Shut up."
Rosé chuckled, and just like that, the years between them felt a little less heavy. There was still distance, still space carved out by time and choices, but in this moment, neither of them were looking at the past.
Only at what remained.
The moment the lights dimmed, the stadium roared to life. A wall of sound crashed over Y/N, the force of it rattling in her chest, reverberating in her bones. It wasn’t just excitement, it was worship. The kind of adoration reserved for legends.
Thousands of voices called her name.
"Jennie! Jennie! Jennie!"
The ground vibrated beneath her feet, the sheer magnitude of it swallowing the VIP lounge in its wake. And then a single note cut through the chaos.
Low. Resounding.
The stage bathed in red, and Jennie rose.
She emerged from the floor in a slow, deliberate ascent, bathed in crimson light, a vision against the darkness. The opening chords wove through the air like a spell, wrapping around the crowd, pulling them into her world.
The moment she lifted the mic to her lips, the stadium erupted again, the sound near deafening.
And still, she remained untouched by it.
Effortless. Untouchable. A force of nature.
From the lounge, Y/N sat frozen.
She had told herself she was prepared for this. That she was here as a producer, an industry professional watching a fellow artist perform. It was just a concert. Just music.
But as Jennie moved, fluid, commanding, every step measured, every glance deliberate, Y/N felt the slow, creeping realization settle deep in her stomach.
She wasn’t ready.
Not for this. Not for the way Jennie’s voice curled around the lyrics, each note rich and powerful, each song a declaration of who she had become. Not for the way she owned the stage like it had been built for her.
And certainly not for the way she still looked like the same girl Y/N had once loved.
And lost.
Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass in her hands. She forced herself to focus on the technicalities, the impeccable production, the seamless transitions, the live band swelling beneath Jennie’s vocals.
But it didn’t help.
Not when the stage lights cast shadows along Jennie’s face in a way that felt achingly familiar. Not when the rasp in her voice dragged up memories Y/N had spent years trying to bury.
Jennie was everywhere.
In the way the crowd moved in unison, hanging onto every syllable she uttered. In the way the cameras captured the curve of her smirk, the flicker of something dark and playful in her eyes. In the way she carried herself, not as an idol, not as a performer, but as someone who knew she had already won.
This was the Jennie Kim the world saw. Untouchable. Limitless. A star so bright it was impossible to look away.
But Y/N knew better.
She knew the Jennie behind closed doors. The one who had once held her hand like she was afraid to let go. The one who whispered secrets into the hollow of her throat late at night, voice small and uncertain. The one who had begged her to stay.
Y/N blinked, inhaling sharply, pushing the memory away before it could fully form.
She was fine. She had to be.
This was just music. Just a concert. Nothing more.
And yet, as Jennie’s voice carried through the air, wrapping around the stadium like something tangible, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, she had already lost all over again.
It should have been over.
The hardest part was over, song after song, each a reminder of everything Jennie had become, everything she had achieved. Y/N had watched from a distance, hands curled into fists beneath the table, heartbeat steady even when it shouldn’t have been. She had endured the spectacle, the flashing lights, the deafening cheers that followed Jennie’s every move.
She had made it through.
But then, the arena went dark.
A hush swept through the crowd, anticipation thick in the air. Even before the first note played, something inside Y/N twisted, coiling tight like a premonition she wasn’t ready to face. The silence stretched, unbearably long, until a single beam of light pierced through the darkness.
Jennie stood alone.
Gone was the grand production, the dancers, the elaborate staging that had framed her for the past hour. Now, it was just her, a lone figure bathed in silver, shadows stretching long behind her. No distractions. No escape.
Y/N barely had a moment to exhale, to convince herself that it was over, that she had made it through the night without falling apart.
But then, the first few notes filled the stadium.
Soft, slow, unmistakable.
Her entire body tensed, breath stalling in her chest as a sharp, invisible thread coiled tight around her ribs, pulling mercilessly. She knew this melody. She knew it in the way one knows an old scar, in the way a phantom pain lingers long after the wound has closed.
No.
Not this song.
Not the one that had been theirs before either of them had the words to admit it. Not the one that carried every memory she had tried to outrun.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails pressing hard against her palms, as if she could ground herself, as if she could stop the way the past was crashing over her like a tidal wave.
The crowd erupted in recognition, thousands of voices gasping, screaming, chanting Jennie’s name. But Y/N barely heard them. The first lyric was already slipping through the air, delicate yet devastating.
"It’s like I’m writing a letter…"
It hit like a fist to the ribs. Her nails dug into her palms.
Jennie’s voice carried through the vast arena, rich and aching, wrapping around every syllable like a confession. This wasn’t just a song. It never had been.
Y/N had spent the past week trying to avoid it, switching the radio station, leaving cafes when it played, pretending she didn’t recognize the melody. But here, now, there was no running.
Her lungs tightened, her body refusing to move, as if any small motion would shatter the fragile hold she had on herself.
Jennie stood beneath the spotlight, singing their story to an audience that would never understand what it meant. The lyrics unraveled between them, each word unearthing things Y/N had buried deep, late night conversations whispered between shared breaths, fingers laced together beneath trembling city lights, the weight of a promise that had never been kept.
"I didn’t leave ya, I still see ya..."
A flicker of something passed through Jennie’s expression.
She wasn’t just performing. She was remembering.
The weight of it hit Y/N all at once, a force so sudden and overwhelming that it felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs.
This wasn’t for the fans. It wasn’t for the press or the charts. No, this was something else entirely, something raw, something intimate, something meant for one person alone.
For her.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd, the lights, the thousands of eyes watching Jennie pour her heart into every note. A hand brushed against her arm, Wendy, a quiet attempt to steady her, but the touch barely registered. Y/N was already slipping, already spiraling, already being pulled back into a place she had sworn she would never go again.
The memories bled into her vision, sharp and vivid, slipping through the cracks she had tried so desperately to seal. Jennie laughing, head thrown back, warmth curling at the edges of her smile. Jennie whispering her name like it was something sacred. Jennie standing in the practice room, eyes wide, voice breaking on the words asking her to stay.
Her throat burned.
She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, but it was impossible when Jennie stood there, putting every ounce of herself into a song that had never stopped belonging to them.
The final chorus rose, a wave of sound crashing over the arena, but it was Jennie’s voice that cut through everything else. It wasn’t perfect, not in the way it usually was. There was something raw in it, a slight tremble hidden between the notes, a crack so faint that most wouldn’t notice. But Y/N did.
She felt it like a ripple in her chest, a pull deep in her ribs, as if the weight of Jennie’s voice alone was enough to unravel something she had fought to keep buried. It was in the way Jennie held herself, poised, effortless to anyone who wasn’t looking too closely, but Y/N saw the tension in her shoulders, the flicker of emotion in her gaze, the way her fingers curled ever so slightly around the microphone like she was holding on to something unseen.
And in that instant, every carefully constructed lie Y/N had told herself over the years began to crumble.
The distance she had put between them, the silence she had forced herself to accept, the belief that time would dull the ache, it had all been for nothing. Because no matter how far she had run, no matter how much she had tried to convince herself that she had moved on, the truth was right there, woven into every note Jennie sang.
Jennie Kim had never let her go.
The realization struck hard, pressing against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. Y/N’s fingers tightened in her lap, nails digging into her palm, as if grounding herself could stop the way her pulse pounded against her skin. The weight of it was suffocating, terrifying, undeniable.
And worst of all, it wasn’t one sided.
Because as much as she had wanted to believe otherwise, as much as she had tried to move forward, as much as she had convinced herself that she had done the right thing, her body betrayed her. Her heart, hammering against her chest. Her hands, trembling where they rested. Her eyes, locked on the woman she had spent years trying to forget.
She had never let Jennie go either.
And now, with the music still ringing in her ears, with the memories clawing their way back to the surface, she wasn’t sure she ever would.
Y/N sits stiffly on the couch, fingers curled around the glass in her hands, the condensation damp against her skin. The ice has melted, pooling around her fingertips, but she barely notices. Her grip is tight, almost too tight, as if the glass is the only thing anchoring her in place. Around her, the room hums with energy, laughter, clinking drinks, the lingering excitement that always follows a concert of this scale. Voices rise and fall in waves, but they feel muffled, like she’s submerged underwater, like she’s observing the scene from behind glass rather than truly existing in it.
Irene and Wendy are still buzzing, animated in their conversation, their voices threaded with unfiltered joy. They’re already making plans, talking about heading backstage, about their turn to go see Jennie, about how incredible she was tonight. Y/N should join in, should laugh along, should pretend that she belongs in this space. Pretend that being here doesn’t make her feel like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerously steep.
She should go with them.
She should walk into that room, lift her chin, and pretend that time hasn’t twisted things between them. That she isn’t haunted by the past. That Jennie’s name doesn’t taste like nostalgia and regret every time it passes through her lips.
But the thought of it, of stepping into the same space as Jennie, of seeing her up close, of hearing her voice directed at someone else, warm and familiar, like Y/N was never a part of it, makes something in her stomach twist so violently she feels almost sick.
“I’ll stay here,” she says, forcing a smile that feels too tight, too rehearsed. “You guys go ahead.”
Irene hesitates. Wendy’s brows knit together. They don’t buy it.
“You sure?” Irene asks, already glancing toward the entrance leading backstage. “I mean, we can all—”
“I’m fine,” Y/N cuts in, light and easy, as if this is nothing. As if she isn’t unraveling at the edges just thinking about what waits on the other side of that door. She waves them off before they can argue, pasting on a look that she hopes is convincing. “Really. Go.”
They exchange a look, clearly unconvinced, but eventually, they relent.
Y/N watches them disappear into the crowd, their excitement carrying them forward. She waits, stomach tight, pulse steady and controlled. She keeps her posture relaxed, keeps her gaze focused on the swirl of bodies moving around the lounge, keeps herself still just long enough to be sure they won’t turn back.
Backstage is alive with the high of the concert, the air electric with celebration. The energy is infectious, staff members exchanging high-fives, dancers still breathless and exhilarated, the lingering echoes of the final song reverberating in their bones. Jennie should be basking in it, soaking in the afterglow of another unforgettable night.
“Y/N was here.” Rosé’s voice is quiet, almost careful, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.
Jennie freezes.
The world around her distorts, the sounds, the movement, everything suddenly muffled as if she’s been thrown underwater. Her pulse slams against her ribs, erratic and unsteady.
The words take a moment to register, but when they do, they land like a punch to the gut.
“What?” The word barely makes it past her lips.
Rosé looks at her, gaze searching, cautious. “She was here,” she repeats, voice gentle but firm, as if she already knows the impact this is about to have. “I saw her at the lounge. She didn’t come backstage, though. I think she left.”
Left.
Jennie swallows hard, but her throat is suddenly dry, the weight in her chest pressing down with something sharp, something almost unbearable. Y/N was here. She was here, in the same crowd, in the same space, breathing the same air. And she left.
Y/N left.
Jennie doesn’t remember making the decision to move. One second, she’s standing there, frozen, heart stuttering in her chest. Next, she’s pushing past people, slipping through the sea of bodies with single minded determination. Someone calls her name, congratulatory and bright, but she barely hears it.
There are things she’s supposed to do, press photos, a post-show debrief, a room full of people waiting to celebrate. But none of it matters.
She doesn’t care. She needs to know.
Her body moves on instinct, urgency propelling her forward, past the dressing rooms, past the equipment cases, past the dimly lit hallways that stretch toward the exit. Every step feels too slow, every second a widening gap between her and the answer she’s chasing.
She doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t stop to consider what she’ll say, what she’ll do, if she even has the right.
She just runs.
The hallway is quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet, the kind that settles gently, that allows space to breathe. No, this quiet is sharp, heavy, pressing against Y/N’s skin like an unseen force, wrapping around her throat, making each breath feel just a little too shallow. The muffled hum of the arena lingers somewhere in the distance, but here, in this dimly lit corridor stretching toward the exit, there is nothing but the sound of her own footsteps.
She moves quickly, purposefully. One step, then another. Just a little further. She tells herself she won’t look back.
She almost makes it.
"And after all this time, you can’t even come say hi to me?"
The voice slices through the silence, smooth but edged, laced with something unmistakable, hurt, disbelief, something dangerously close to anger.
Y/N stops.
Her breath stutters, chest tightening as if invisible hands have reached inside, curling around her ribs. Her fingers twitch at her sides, a reflex, a tell.
Slowly, because she knows she has no choice, she turns.
Jennie stands a few feet away, still in her stage outfit, the remnants of performance clinging to her in the form of sweat-dampened hair and the subtle rise and fall of her breath. The stage lights may be gone, but they might as well still be shining on her, because she looks stunning, untouchable, every inch the Jennie Kim the world adores.
But Y/N doesn’t see the idol.
She sees the girl beneath it, the one whose eyes burn, dark and deep and brimming with something unspoken. The weight of that gaze settles over her like a storm, pressing against every carefully constructed barrier, seeping into the cracks she thought she had long since sealed shut.
The air between them is thick, charged, unstable. Years of silence, of distance, of unfinished conversations stretch out between them, coiling tight like a wire ready to snap.
Y/N swallows hard. Forces her spine to stay straight, her face unreadable. Tells herself to stay composed, to keep the past buried where it belongs.
But Jennie isn’t letting this go.
Not this time.
Y/N exhales sharply, pressing her nails into her palms as if the dull sting can ground her, keep her steady against the storm building in front of her. She forces herself to meet Jennie’s eyes, even as every instinct screams at her to look away.
"What do you want me to say?" she finally mutters, voice tight, brittle.
Jennie laughs, but there’s no warmth in it, just something hollow, something sharp enough to cut. "Maybe start with why you even came," she says, tilting her head, her expression unreadable. "If you were just going to leave again, why bother?"
"It was a mistake," Y/N blurts out, too quickly, too defensive. She hears it the moment it leaves her lips, the way it rings false, and from the flicker in Jennie’s gaze, she knows Jennie hears it too.
Jennie’s jaw tightens. "Right," she echoes, voice quieter now, but somehow heavier. "A mistake."
The word lingers between them, bitter and unforgiving.
Jennie shakes her head, her jaw tightening as something dark flickers across her face. “You always find a way to leave,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s something raw beneath it, something that cracks at the edges. “You show up just long enough to remind me you’re still out there, and then you disappear again like none of it ever mattered.”
Y/N flinches.
Because it’s not fair, but it’s not wrong either.
"It’s not like that," she says, but even she can hear the weakness in her own voice.
"Then tell me what it’s like," Jennie presses, stepping closer. The hallway feels smaller now, suffocating, as if the walls themselves are caving in. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like running away."
Silence.
Y/N’s breath shudders out of her. "I didn’t—"
"Coward."
The word is soft, almost a whisper. But it cuts deeper than any scream ever could.
Y/N’s chest tightens, a fresh wave of something painful curling in her stomach. She should leave. She should end this before it spirals into something neither of them can take back.
Jennie’s gaze shifts, just barely, something unreadable flickering in the depths of her eyes. And when she speaks again, her voice, her voice is different. Softer. Frayed at the edges, laced with something dangerously close to breaking.
"Do you know why none of my relationships ever worked out?"
Y/N doesn’t answer. She doesn’t think she can.
Jennie exhales sharply, shaking her head like she hates herself for saying it, like she already knows it’s too much, too late.
"Because none of them were you."
Y/N stops breathing.
Jennie lets out a quiet, shaky laugh, one that barely conceals the weight of the words that just shattered the last of the distance between them. "You’re my first love, Y/N. The one that still lingers in my heart. The one I never really let go of." Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop.
She can’t.
"Every time I tried, I just ended up leaving them. Because they weren’t you."
The confession settles between them like shattered glass, too sharp to step over, too painful to ignore.
Y/N’s throat closes, something clawing its way up her chest, something she doesn’t know how to contain.
Because this? This is what she always feared. This is what she never wanted to hear. Because there is no fixing this.
And they both know it.
Jennie isn’t done though.
She takes a step forward, and suddenly, the air shifts, crackling with something volatile, something just waiting to combust.
"You don’t even care, do you?" Jennie’s voice trembles, but not with sadness, this is something else. Something furious. "You stand there, acting like this is nothing to you. Like you didn’t just rip open a wound I’ve spent years trying to close."
Y/N swallows, but the lump in her throat refuses to go down. "I never wanted—"
"Don’t," Jennie cuts in, eyes burning. "Don’t tell me you never wanted to hurt me. You knew you would. You always knew. And you still left."
Y/N flinches, but Jennie presses on, the words tumbling out now, reckless and unrestrained. "Do you even feel anything, Y/N? Do you even care that I spent years wondering what the hell I did wrong? Why nothing was enough for you to stay?"
"Jennie"
"Do you know what it’s like to love someone who won’t even look at you?" Jennie’s voice breaks, but she doesn’t stop. She’s too far gone now. "To spend years convincing yourself they were just a dream, just a stupid, reckless mistake you were never meant to have?"
Y/N’s breath shudders out of her.
Because she does know. She knows all of it. She just never let herself say it.
"I looked at you," Y/N says, voice barely above a whisper. "More than you ever knew."
Jennie lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Right. And that’s supposed to mean something now? After everything?"
Y/N exhales, shaking her head. "I didn’t know how to stay."
Jennie’s eyes darken, disbelief flashing across her face, her frustration spilling over, unchecked. “Didn’t know how?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the space between them like a blade. “That’s bullshit. You knew how to leave. You knew how to disappear. You just never tried to stay.”
She takes a step closer, the weight of years pressing down on every word. “We could’ve found a way. We could’ve figured it out, been together without them knowing. But you never even gave us a chance.”
Y/N clenches her jaw, her own frustration rising to the surface, raw and messy. "You think it was easy for me?"
"You made it look easy," Jennie spits back, arms crossing over her chest, a poor shield for the way she’s unraveling. "You walked away like I was nothing. And now what? You show up after all these years and act like you’re some tragic ghost, like we’re just unfinished business and not a fucking disaster you caused?"
Silence.
Heavy. Unforgiving.
Y/N inhales sharply, hands shaking at her sides. She could say something cruel. She could end this right here, throw up every wall she’s spent years building. But none of that would be true.
Jennie exhales, some of the fight leaving her, but none of the fire. "Would you have stayed if I asked you to?"
The words cut through the tension, raw and unguarded.
For a second, Y/N almost lets herself lie. She almost reaches for something soft, something that could make this hurt less.
But there’s only one truth left to give.
"You did."
Jennie goes still. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to argue, like she needs to, but the answer is already there, carved into the silence between them.
She had asked and Y/N still left.
Jennie blinks, and for the first time since this confrontation started, the fight drains out of her. She looks at Y/N like she’s seeing her for the last time.
Maybe she is.
The silence between them is suffocating. Final. Jennie doesn’t stop her this time. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe she finally understands that Y/N won’t stay.
This time, she doesn’t even ask her to.
Y/N walks away, and Jennie doesn’t watch her go. She just stands there, rooted in place, listening to the quiet click of the door shutting behind Y/N, the finality of it settling into her bones like an ache she’s long since learned to live with.
The gift bags sit untouched in the corner of Jennie’s house, an afterthought amid the soft glow of the dimmed lights and the quiet hum of the city beyond her windows.
The night stretches on, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the spaces between her ribs, curling around the edges of her exhaustion. The adrenaline that had once surged through her veins, keeping her upright, keeping her moving, has long since faded. The roar of the crowd, the flashing stage lights, the euphoria of performing, it’s all nothing more than a distant echo now, swallowed by the vast, suffocating silence that fills the room.
And yet, despite the quiet, despite the stillness, something lingers, something she can’t shake. A weight in her chest, a dull ache that refuses to ease, a ghost of something she thought she had buried years ago.
She tells herself it’s nothing. That she’s just tired, that the concert drained her, that the remnants of the night are clinging to her skin like dust. She tells herself she won’t look inside the bags, that there’s nothing in it worth her attention, nothing worth losing sleep over. Just gifts. Just the usual things. Just meaningless tokens of appreciation, wrapped up in pretty paper and tied with silk ribbons.
And yet.
The hours drag on, the stillness stretching thin, fragile. She remains on the couch, motionless, her mind a battlefield of warring impulses. She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want to look. But the longer she sits there, the harder it becomes to ignore the way her gaze keeps drifting to that corner, to the forgotten bags sitting patiently in the shadows, waiting.
Eventually, she exhales, a slow, quiet surrender, and reaches for it.
Her fingers brush over the smooth edges, slipping past expensive perfumes, delicate jewelry, handwritten notes from friends who adore her. Everything feels distant, impersonal, nothing more than what she expected.
But then. Something different.
Not the weight of a designer box or the crispness of a formal letter. Something softer, thinner. Her brows knit together as her hand moves instinctively, fingers finding the texture of old paper tucked between folds of tissue. She freezes.
A thin envelope, barely noticeable, buried beneath the rest.
Her breath catches in her throat.
The handwriting, she recognizes it instantly.
A sharp, involuntary inhale.
Her chest tightens, her grip faltering as a tremor runs through her fingers. It feels impossible, like some cruel trick of the universe, like a fragment of the past has broken through time and landed in her hands.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares down at the letters scrawled across the front, her pulse pounding so loudly that it drowns out everything else. And for a long moment, she doesn’t dare touch it. Because she knows. She knows what this is. Knows who it’s from.
And she knows that whatever’s inside will change everything.
A wound that had never quite closed threatens to split open all over again. She tells herself to put it down, to forget she ever saw it, to leave it buried in the past where it belongs. But her body betrays her.
Her fingers tighten around the edges.
And, against every ounce of self-preservation left in her, she unfolds the paper.
Jennie reads it once.
Then again. And again.
Her eyes trace the familiar curves of the handwriting, the ink pressed into the page by a hand she once knew better than her own. The words blur together, not because she doesn’t understand them, but because she understands them too well. They pull her under, deeper and deeper, until she’s drowning in memory, past and present colliding so violently she can no longer tell them apart.
She grips the letter tighter, as if holding it firmly enough might stop the ache rising in her chest, might keep her from unraveling completely. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse.
Because this letter, it’s not just words on a page. It’s Y/N. It’s every unspoken conversation, every almost, every what if. It’s the version of them that never got the chance to exist, a piece of a love that never truly ended, just stretched thin over the years, frayed at the edges but never severed.
Her vision blurs, but one sentence stands out through the haze, clear and sharp as a blade. The last one.
"We will make up, make things right when we get older."
A promise. A belief that there would be more time, that eventually, one day, they would find their way back to each other. That what was broken could be fixed, that the love between them could withstand the years, the distance, the choices that pulled them apart.
Jennie’s breath shudders out of her, ragged and uneven, as if her body is struggling under the weight of the truth she’s tried so hard to avoid. Her fingers tremble, the delicate edges of the letter crinkling under her grip, but she doesn’t loosen her hold. She clutches it to her chest, pressing it against her heart like it’s the only thing keeping her together, like if she holds it tightly enough, she can stop herself from falling apart completely.
Like if she holds it tightly enough, maybe, just maybe, she won’t feel the empty space Y/N left behind. Maybe it won’t hurt so much. Maybe she’ll stop waiting for a door to open that was locked long ago.
But the truth settles in her bones, heavy and unyielding. There is no making up. No fixing things. No someday.
Only this. Only a letter written in a time when they still believed in second chances.
The night outside is still, heavy with the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. The city is alive somewhere in the distance, but in Jennie’s apartment, there is only silence.
Only the sound of her own breathing, uneven, too fast.
She sits on the edge of her couch, shoulders hunched forward, elbows pressing into her knees, the letter clutched so tightly in her hands that the paper is starting to curl beneath her fingers. The ink has smudged slightly from the heat of her grip, but it doesn’t matter. The words are already burned into her mind, impossible to forget.
A bitter laugh bubbles up in her throat, but it dies before it can escape.
Older was supposed to mean a future. A someday. A second chance waiting on the other side of all the things that had once stood between them. But the years had passed, the world had kept spinning, and Y/N had never come back.
Jennie had spent so long trying to forget, burying the ache beneath sold out shows, flashing cameras, voices calling her name. She had told herself it didn’t matter anymore, that some things are meant to be left behind.
But now, here it is. Unfolded in her hands. A wound torn back open, and Y/N is gone. Again.
Jennie exhales sharply, chest tightening as she stares down at the letter like it might suddenly rewrite itself, like it might change into something she can handle. But it doesn’t.
She feels sick.
Not because of what Y/N wrote. But because Y/N never said it. Never gave her a chance to fight. Never told her the truth when it mattered, when it could’ve changed things. She had just… left.
Like she always did.
Jennie squeezes her eyes shut, jaw locking, trying to breathe through the frustration clawing at her ribs. It doesn’t work. The silence is suffocating, pressing in on her, thick with all the words Y/N never said.
Then, before she can stop herself, before she can think, she grabs her phone. Her fingers move on instinct, opening her contacts, scrolling fast. She already knows what she’s looking for, who she’s looking for. But the moment she reaches the end of the list, her stomach drops.
Y/N’s name isn’t there.
Of course, it isn’t.
Jennie swallows against the lump in her throat, gripping her phone tighter. It shouldn’t surprise her, not after all these years. But somehow, it does. Somehow, the reality of it, the fact that Y/N is so far removed from her life that she doesn’t even have her number anymore, hits harder than she expects.
Her heart pounds in her ears, too loud, too much. She stares at her screen, fingers hesitating over the empty space, over nothing.
Then her jaw clenches.
Fine. There’s another way.
She flicks back to her contacts with renewed purpose, scrolling with intent. She stops at one name, barely even registers the hesitation before she presses call.
The line rings once.
Twice.
A rustling sound, then a groggy voice, hoarse with sleep, thick with confusion. “...Hello?”
Jennie doesn’t waste time. “Irene.” Her voice is sharp, controlled, but there’s a demand woven into it. A raw edge she can’t soften. “Give me Y/N’s address.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, Irene sighs, and Jennie can already hear the exhaustion in it. “Jennie, it’s late.”
“I don’t care.” She’s already standing, already grabbing her keys, yanking a hoodie over her head with jerky, impatient movements. She feels like she might combust if she stays still. “You knew, didn’t you? About the letter.”
Another pause. Irene doesn’t confirm it, but she doesn’t deny it either. That’s all Jennie needs to know.
She exhales harshly, fingers tightening around her phone. “Then you know I need to see her.”
A long silence stretches between them. Jennie waits, her pulse drumming against her ribs.
Then, finally, Irene speaks. Her voice is careful, slow. Like she’s bracing herself for what might happen next.
She gives Jennie the address, and Jennie doesn’t thank her. She doesn’t even say goodbye. She’s already moving, already shoving her feet into her shoes, already reaching for the door.
Outside, the city waits. But Jennie isn’t thinking about the streets stretching ahead of her, or the distance between them.
She’s only thinking about one thing.
This time, Y/N doesn’t get to run. This time, Jennie won’t let her.
Y/N stands by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the endless sprawl of the city. The lights shimmer below, stretching far beyond what her eyes can take in, a thousand lives moving at once, laughing, talking, living.
But inside this apartment, there is only silence.
She should feel lighter. Should feel relief. The letter is gone now, sitting in the hands it was meant for. The weight of it, the words she never had the courage to say out loud, should have lifted.
But it hasn’t.
If anything, it’s heavier now, sinking deep into her chest, pressing against her ribs like something clawing to get out. Because no matter how many times she tells herself she did the right thing, that she walked away so Jennie wouldn’t have to, so Jennie could move on, so Jennie could hate her and finally be free of this. It still feels like she’s suffocating.
Her gaze flickers toward the table, where her phone sits untouched, the screen dark. She hasn’t checked it in hours.
She could. She could pick it up, unlock it, see if there’s a message, a missed call, something.
But she doesn’t.
Maybe because she already knows the truth. That there won’t be anything there. That this is done. Or maybe, just maybe, because she’s afraid that there will be something.
That Jennie won’t let her go so easily.
She exhales sharply and turns away from the window, blinking against the burn in her eyes. Enough. She made her choice. She has to live with it.
Her feet move slowly, dragging across the wooden floor, each step heavier than the last. She is so, so tired.
But the night doesn’t stay silent for long.
The sharp, unrelenting knocks cut through the silence, sending a jolt straight down Y/N’s spine. The sound echoes through the apartment, rattling through the stillness, too loud, too sudden, too desperate.
She freezes.
The air shifts, thickens, pressing in on her from all sides. The walls feel smaller, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. Her heart lurches against her ribs, hammering so hard she can hear it in her ears, a frantic, uneven rhythm.
Another knock, louder this time, harder, shaking the door on its hinges. There is no hesitation in it, no patience left.
Her breath catches. She doesn’t need to check. Doesn’t need to move, doesn’t even need to think. She already knows who it is.
The knocking comes again, forceful, demanding, a silent refusal to be ignored.
And that’s when she hears it. A voice.
Low. Rough. Angry.
“Y/N.”
Not a question. Not a plea.
A demand.
Her breath catches, her fingers twitching at her sides. She could pretend she isn’t here. Let Jennie stand outside, let her knock until she gets tired, let this moment slip away like all the others.
But she knows Jennie. Jennie doesn’t let things go.
The space between them feels thin, like something fragile holding back the inevitable.
Y/N forces herself forward, each step slow, uncertain, the air growing heavier the closer she gets to the door. Her fingers wrap around the handle, tight, too tight. She hesitates. Just for a second.
Just long enough to wonder if she’s making another mistake.
She pulls it open, and there she is. Standing in the dim glow of the hallway, hoodie rumpled, hair messy, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her hands are clenched at her sides. Her eyes are dark, stormy, burning. But it’s not just anger.
It’s betrayal. It’s hurt. It’s something else, something deeper, something breaking wide open right in front of Y/N’s eyes.
Jennie swallows hard, her jaw tight, the muscles in her throat working like she’s trying to hold something back. Her breath is sharp, her hands shaking where they curl into fists.
For a long, stretched moment, neither of them speak. The air crackles, charged with everything unsaid, with every word that was written in ink instead of spoken aloud.
mmm any girl group would suffice! if it was something angsty for one idol, i think jennie would be perfect!
Destination: Auckland 📍
BLACKPINK [JENNIE]
Word Count: 3.1k
Genre: Angst
A/N: Apologies this took a while, but I wanted to play around with this idea so I wanted to make sure it was written well. I hope this suffices. Warnings: mentions illness (i dont want to go into heavy detail to not spoil anything but just be weary of that)
“…Meet me in Auckland, New Zealand.”
This was the fifth time Jennie had reread the letter you had sent her. She didn’t know how to react at first, she was in disbelief, and for a while she had denied it was from you— thinking someone else was playing some cruel joke on her.
It had been over a decade since she had heard from you, she was off to high school when she last saw you, and she still remembers the sad look in your eyes when you said goodbye to her at the airport. But after that day, there was nothing but radio silence on your end as she chased her dreams of becoming a singer.
So if she was having doubts on the authenticity of your letter, why was she on the first plane to New Zealand?
She didn’t know either.
All she could do was silently clutch on to the letter you had given her with her heart pounding madly against her chest as she looked outside the airplane window. You had given her instructions on what to do, your old address written at the very bottom of the letter, and she still couldn’t understand why she was following them.
Jennie had fond memories of you. You were her first friend in New Zealand, you had taught her how to speak English, and you were there with her until the last minute when she had to move back to Korea. Every moment in between, every day you spent together, and every lasting memory was ingrained in her mind.
The thoughts were bittersweet. You were like a fading image, lingering in the back of her mind every time she saw something that reminded her of you. Whether it was the storms that you feared so greatly, or the sunrise that you loved to stare at, or even the endless piles of books you used to gush about— Jennie never forgot about you.
Pieces of you were etched into her heart and although all she was carrying now was the person you were, she only hopes that you haven’t changed just as she has.
The flight to New Zealand from Korea was thirteen hours, and although Jennie was more than excited to see you, she had let herself drift off into her dreams. And in her dreams, she had relived some of her most treasured memories of you.
————
Jennie hid behind the teacher as she was being introduced to her classmates and they curiously eye the newcomer. It was difficult communicating with everyone else, Jennie not knowing how to talk to any of them since she had known next to nothing about the language, and everyone around her looked intimidating.
“Jennie, darling, go sit in that empty seat near the front.” The teacher said and she pointed at the seat in the second column. She merely nodded her head and did as she was told, silently walking to it and sitting down.
She didn’t make many friends that day and she hardly spoke to anyone, her own anxiety getting the best of her and causing her to hide into her shell.
Things had been like that for a while and it had been hard for her adjusting to a new environment.
That was until she met you.
“Hi, I’m Y/N!” You greeted, the smile on your lips still ingrained in her mind, and you offered your hand out to her. “You’re the new kid, right? It’s nice to finally meet you!”
Jennie didn’t answer. She merely looked at your hand, shyly fiddling with her own, and you cocked your head to the side as you eyed her curiously. “What’s the matter? You don’t have to be scared of me. I just wanna be friends.”
Her silence didn’t cause your determination to falter, instead it only fuelled it more, and you took it upon yourself to make friends with her. Putting your hand to your side, you sat down in front of her on the cafeteria table and she continued to quietly look at you.
“You’re not much of a talker, are ya?” You chirped happily, taking out your own food from your lunchbox and you place it in front of you. “That’s okay. Let me do all the talking instead.”
And with that, you continuously told the newcomer endless things about yourself. You were a fast talker and Jennie had a hard time following every single thing you were saying, she barely understood a thing you said with how quickly you had hopped from one topic to another, and although she wanted to chime in every now and again, she didn’t really know how to talk to you or how to insert herself in the conversation.
You had seemed to notice the confused look on her face and you stopped yourself mid-sentence. “Sorry, am I going too fast?”
Jennie nods her head and you chuckle nervously, scratching the back of your head as you smile at her. “I apologize. Talking quickly is a bad habit. I’m not annoying you, am I? If I am, I could just leave you alone so you can eat in peace."
She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to be left alone again.
So before you could hop out from the seat, she grabbed on to your hand and she shook her head. You looked at her curiously, you glanced down at how she had held your hand momentarily, then you looked up and smiled at her.
“Okay, I’ll stay.” You beamed. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Jennie.” She answers and the smile on your lips only grows as you hear her voice for the first time.
————
“Y/N, can I ask you something?” You looked over to your friend as you leaned against the tree and you glanced up from the book in your hand. “Yeah? What is it, Jen?”
She turns her head to you and she mimics your posture. “Why do you like it so much here? Aren’t you annoyed by the bugs?”
You shrug and you place the book down on the ground. “I don’t mind the bugs, they don’t bother me at all. And I like staying here because it has a clear view of the sunset. Don’t you like it here?”
“I do.” Jennie nods and she leans her head against your shoulder. “But I kind of prefer not having bugs nipping on my skin every now and again, don’t you?”
“You don’t have to stay here, you know?” You say with a chuckle. “I appreciate you being here though. But I want to put your comfort above anything else.”
“No, I’ll be okay here.” She insists and she wraps her arms around you. “If you like staying here, then I’ll stay here with you. I like spending time with you anyway.”
You smile, nodding your head appreciatively at her, and you encase her in a hug. “Then let’s just stay here for a little bit.”
Jennie hums happily and she nestles herself against you.
————
The thunder crashed outside heavily, causing you to quiver underneath the covers as you and Jennie sat around in the living room. You covered your ears in a pathetic attempt to block out the storm outside and tears had stained your cheeks as you tried to get yourself together.
“It’s okay, Y/N. Just let it out.” Jennie soothes, her hand gently rubbing circles against your back, and she pulls your head to her chest. “It’s just a storm. It can’t hurt you.”
You let out a loud whimper when another loud clap of thunder came crashing down and you pathetically hid yourself inside her arms even more. “Jen, make it stop. Please make it stop.”
She shushes you, her fingers interlaced with your locks as she brushes them across your scalp in an attempt to bring you comfort, and her grip on you tightens. “I wish I could make it stop for you, Y/N, but I can’t. All I can do is try and soothe you. I’m sorry, but I won’t leave you. I’m here for you.”
You merely nod your head, sobbing into her chest and holding on to her like a vice grip. The storm went on for a long time and all the while you were buried into Jennie, trying to block out the loud noises from the outside and she does her best to comfort you through the whole ordeal.
“Do you want me to read you a story?” She offers when the storm settles down outside. You look up at her, tears still staining your cheeks, and she gently wipes them away. “I can read you your favorite.”
“Will you, please?” You pleaded, voice quivering through your tears, and you forced a smile on your lips. “Thank you, Jen-jen. You’re the best.”
Jennie smiles and she brushes your hair back. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”
————
“Do you have to go?” The pain in your voice as you clung on to Jennie was enough to send waves of sadness through her and she only buried herself deeper into your shoulder.
She sobbed into your shirt, soaking it with her tears, and she squeezed you gently. “I’m sorry. I have to.”
You gently pulled away to look at her. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re not losing me. I promise.” She reassures you, cupping your cheek, and shaking her head. “If this whole dream of mine doesn’t work out, I promise I’ll come back.”
“And if it does?” You question with teary eyes.
“Then I’ll come visit, I swear.” Jennie says confidently with a smile. “You know there’s no way I’m leaving behind my favorite girl. You mean too much to me.”
You smile at her, pulling her close to you, and sobs continue to leave your lips. “I’m gonna miss you so much, Jen-jen.”
“I’ll miss you too, my Y/N.” She whispers into your ear.
“This is the final boarding call for passengers booked on flight 372A to South Korea. Please proceed to gate 3 immediately. The final checks are being completed and the captain will order for the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes time. I repeat: This is the final boarding call for passengers booked on flight 327A to South Korea. Thank you.” Your heart broke when the announcement came through the airport’s speakers and you hesitantly unwrapped yourself from Jennie.
She looked at you, hesitation in her movements as she picked up her bags, and she waved at you. “I have to go now. I’ll do my best to stay in touch!”
“I will too!” You exclaim, waving in return.
You watch with tears in your eyes as Jennie runs into the airport, chasing her dreams, and out of your life.
————
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Auckland Domestic Airport. Local time is 1:34 PM and the temperature is 21°C. On behalf of Auckland Domestic Airport and the entire crew, I’d like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day!” The announcement from the airport felt all too familiar to Jennie as she stepped out of the plane and went into the airport.
She had kept it low, covering herself in thick clothing so as to not be noticed by the public eye. Her entire trip was kept a secret from everyone, even her members, and no one but the agency had been made aware of her leave.
Jennie quickly took her things from the conveyor belt, lugging her baggage around, and she managed to leave the airport without gaining the attention of the public.
She had already rented a car in secret so she could freely traverse around without needing anyone to escort her, and although her company had heavily gone against it, she still fought for it, wanting her own privacy as she dealt with this entire situation.
After spotting the car she had rented in the parking lot, she lugged all her bags into the trunk, and she hopped into the driver’s seat. She drives away from the airport and she nervously drives her way to your home.
Jennie didn’t know what to expect, or what to do. The only thing she could think of was wrapping you in her arms in a long-awaited hug and finally seeing your face after a decade of not being with you. A mixture of excitement and anxiety bubbles up inside of her as she closes the distance between the two of you.
Worry lingers in the back of her mind as she racks her brain on how to interact with you, knowing that you had most probably changed throughout the years she was absent in your life, and apprehension starts to eat her up inside.
But Jennie was optimistic. She shrugged off that shaky feeling that had erupted inside of her and she tried to put on a brave face. Through all her racing thoughts, Jennie had decided to buy you a nice bouquet of flowers as a little gift and the smile on her lips never faltered as she excitedly eyed it from the passenger’s seat.
Minutes passed by and she had finally arrived at the address you had written on your letter. She hopped out of her car, bouquet in hand, and she stepped up to your front door.
Taking in a deep breath, she clutches on to the bouquet tightly, and she knocks on the door.
A few moments pass by before it swings open, revealing the figure of your mother, and she eyes the girl in front of her curiously. She squints, trying to figure out who the mystery girl is, and realization suddenly flashes on her face as she finally recognizes the sudden visitor.
“Jennie?” She asks as she steps out of the door. “Jennie, is that really you?”
“Hello, Mrs. L/N.” She greets with a smile and she shows the letter you had given. “Is— Is Y/N here? She sent me this letter and I was wondering if I could see her.”
The expression on your mother’s face suddenly falls and she steps aside to let Jennie in. “We have a lot to talk about, my dear. Come inside so you can wait for me for a bit and I’ll take you to her.”
Those words suddenly causes Jennie’s worry to spike, but she swallows the lump in her throat, nodding her head and she silently enters your home for the first time in over ten years.
————
“I’m here, Y/N.” Jennie stutters out. “I’m here now.”
She stood in front of you, tears in her eyes as her grip on the bouquet she had been carrying since she arrived at your house started to loosen. She grits her teeth and clenches her jaw in frustration; anger, pain, regret, and guilt mixing inside her.
She looks at your face, the weight in her heart doubling down as your smile haunts her mind, and it's enough to bring her to her knees. Your mother’s words had lingered in the back of her head, painfully stabbing at her chest, and her sobs crew louder.
“My daughter is gone, Jennie.” Your mother sobbed. “She passed away almost a year ago.”
Jennie hugged herself as the stinging feeling in her chest started to consume her and she brushed her hand over your gravestone. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry I never visited. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise. I’m so, so, sorry.”
Your mother had told her that you were suffering from a terminal illness and that it had chipped away from your health. There was nothing she or the rest of your family could do about it and they all had to watch idly by as you grew more and more sick. You had been bed-ridden for a good few years, not being able to move on your own, and it was agonizing for you to continue living on.
She had also told Jennie that in all those years, you had never stopped thinking or talking about her. You silently watched on the sidelines as Jennie fulfilled all of her dreams, and you always talked about how proud you were of her.
Jennie found out that you had passed away in your sleep. But even though you were in so much pain, you still had a smile on your face. And beside you on your deathbed were two letters addressed to her.
One was already delivered to her. The other was to be given by your mother when she arrived.
And as she clutched onto the piece of paper, her name scribbled shakily across the front, she didn’t have it in her to read what your final words were.
But she had to try, because she knew that’s what you would have wanted.
With shaky hands, she unfolds the piece of paper, and she’s met with the sight of your handwriting once more.
Dear Jennie,
I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping in contact with you like I promised I would, but I figured it would have been the best for both of us. You had a dream to chase and I had a life to live— and I knew that if I kept distracting you, neither of us would be able to move on with our lives.
I’m proud of you, Jen-jen. I’m proud of everything you’ve ever achieved and everything you’ve been able to do. You reached for the stars and you ended up becoming one yourself. Words can never express how truly happy I am for you.
I know that when you’re reading this— if you’re reading this— that I have already passed on. It’s been a tough battle, the last few years, but seeing you shine was one of the things that kept me going. I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you outright why I needed you to come home, but I didn’t have it in me to tell you myself. I needed mom to tell you for me. You deserved that much, at least.
So before you let me go and before you say good bye forever. Can you do me a favor, Jen-jen?
Can we watch the sunset together for one last time?
Sincerely,
Your Y/N
Jennie smiled bitterly and she looked at your picture. “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”
She wordlessly places the bouquet of flowers in front of you, sits beside your gravestone, and she leans her head against it.
The tears in Jennie’s eyes never stop from cascading down her cheeks, but she keeps her gaze on the raging orange sky, and she watches the sun descend over the horizon.
With a heavy heart, she lets out a shaky breath as she watches the fiery orange turn into a calm blue, and stars start to litter the vast sky.
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