author’s note - happy late birthday jay ily and also the kids miss u so pls come home
@myjjongie this is dedicated to u btw i hope u like it
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The living room smells like pizza and someone’s perfume, it’s sweet, almost suffocating, and seems to be soaked into the couch cushions. Someone had put on a movie an hour ago and forgot about it, soft conversation floating through the room, a low hum through the speakers like background noise to everything you’re not saying.
Jay's across the room.
He’s not far. Just enough that he won’t have to interact directly with you unless you give him a reason to.
You don’t.
You sit on the floor, back pressed to the couch, hands clutching a plastic cup of something that you can barely even stomach, the taste of Sunghoon’s horrendous mixed drink burning your throat with every sip you take. You nod along to whatever conversation’s happening around you, laugh when someone makes a joke you half-heard, and pretend like your stomach doesn’t feel like it’s sinking into the floor every time he speaks or laughs at something.
The sound doesn’t make you smile anymore. It lands wrong. It’s like a bruise you keep pressing down on just to see if it still hurts.
You’re wearing your favorite shirt tonight. The one you wore the first time he kissed you. The one he’d unbuttoned that night, slow and careful, like he wanted to remember it. You remember the way his breath caught when his hands touched your skin, the way he had looked at you, like you were the only thing in the world that made sense to him.
You thought maybe he’d still look at you like that. But tonight, his eyes are elsewhere.
You force yourself to take a sip of your drink, letting the bitter taste fill your mouth so you don’t have to think. So you don’t have to watch the way he leans closer to Minseo, or Jiwon, or whatever her name is. You pretend you’re above it, as if ignoring the pain will make it go away.
Of course, it doesn’t go away, and you feel it, all of it. And yet you say nothing, because saying something would mean asking for more. And you already know how that conversation ends.
“Hey,” Jake says from beside you, tugging on your sleeve. “You okay?”
You smile and nod, giving some half-assed excuse about being tired from work.
Jay doesn’t even look at you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You still remember how it happened.
The room was dark, with the glow of the tv casting a soft glow over your faces. You hadn’t planned on staying late. You hadn’t planned on staying at all. But the group had thinned out, the music was still playing low, and Jay had looked at you like he didn’t want the night to end.
You were sitting on the floor. The same spot you’d always claimed. His thigh brushing against yours, constant and warm.
You don’t remember what he said that made you laugh, only that it came so easily, like it always did with him. You’d always liked that about him, he made things simple.
“Do you wanna stay for a bit?” he asked, voice casual, as if he hadn’t just asked you the question you’d been waiting to hear for months.
You said sure.
At that point of the night, everyone else had gone home, yelling dramatic goodbyes and promising to have another get-together soon.
The two of you were alone, and you felt nervous, but anticipation for what was to come. A glance that held too long. The slight shift of weight as he leaned closer. His fingers brushed against yours and didn’t pull away. You could’ve stopped it. Maybe. You didn’t want to.
So when he kissed you, you let him. You kissed him back.
It wasn’t rushed, or clumsy, or drunk. It was soft. Careful. Like it meant something to him. Like he cared. And when his hands found the buttons of your top, you didn’t flinch. You let him open you up, one layer at a time, and you let yourself believe it was more than just simply getting both of your needs met.
Because he was gentle. Because he held your face after. Because he whispered, “You’re beautiful.” Because he said, “Stay.”
Because when he looked at you, it felt like he saw you.
So you stayed. You fell asleep with your head on his chest and your hand curled over his heart, hoping maybe there was a place for you like this in his life.
And in the morning, when the sun was barely peeking through the blinds, you finally gathered the courage to ask,
“Do you like me?”
It came out soft. Barely a whisper. A small part of you hoped he hadn’t heard.
But he did.
He blinked. His mouth opened a little. “What?”
Your stomach dropped. You looked away.
“Nothing,” you said quickly. Too quickly. You pulled the blanket tighter around you like it could shield you from the shame already rising in your throat. “Forget it.”
And he did.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
A few days after your "encounter", you'd asked him to meet at a café off campus.
Somewhere quiet, somewhere you know you won’t run into any of your mutual friends. You got there early, of course. Sitting at a table by the window, and ordering an iced americano you won’t even touch.
Jay arrived 20 minutes late. A painful foreshadowing of how this would go, you would care too much, and he wouldn’t care at all.
He walked in like nothing’s wrong.
As he slid into the seat across from you, you forced yourself to meet his eyes.
“Thanks for coming,” you said, voice tight.
“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”
You remember hesitating. You hadn’t rehearsed what you wanted to say, you’d wanted it to sound normal, like you hadn’t been obsessively thinking about what happened. But now, sitting in front of him, it felt pathetic.
“I just…” You bit the inside of your cheek. “I wanted to talk about the other night.”
His face barely changed. Just a blink. A pause. “What about it?”
You blinked back at him. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to understand. Where your head’s at.”
He leaned back in his chair. His mouth twisting like he was uncomfortable. Or annoyed.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Y/N.”
You felt a weight settle firmly on your chest.
“It just happened,” he said, like that was supposed to explain it. “We hooked up. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal,” you repeated, “Okay.”
He sighed, clearly irritated but not wanting to upset you. “I’m not in a place for anything serious right now. I thought that was obvious.”
You nodded slowly. Your throat tight. “Right.”
“Didn’t mean to lead you on or anything.”
You’d wanted to laugh. Not because it was anything particularly funny, but because it was so absurd. The way he was talking like this was all some silly misunderstanding, as if he hadn’t looked at you like he meant it, as if you hadn’t fallen asleep in his arms.
“No, yeah. Totally,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “It’s fine.”
Jay looked relieved, clearly glad to be done discussing it. He offered you a small, apologetic smile.
You don’t finish your coffee, and you left before he can offer to walk you home.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Breaking you out of your thoughts of the past few weeks, Jay lets out a loud laugh at something that girl said, his head tilted back, hand brushing her arm, eyes soft and bright in a way you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.
And you stood there, in the kitchen you’d all been in a hundred times before, suddenly feeling like a stranger.
It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. It was more like a quiet recognition that it didn’t matter.
He hadn’t even looked your way. Not once the entire night.
You placed your half-full drink on the counter, and walked past the couch, past your friends, past Jay, who didn’t even notice you were leaving.
You didn’t say goodbye.
The cold outside had you shivering, as you’d left your jacket behind in your rush to escape the crushing weight of his presence, but you didn’t stop. You just kept walking, the night settling heavy in your bones.
The idea that you'd meant nothing to him hurts to fully process, but at least you know where you stand.
Picrew chain! Make yourself with this picrew and the most recent meme on your phone
Tags: @dracosleftarsecheek @yourlocalbadgerscales @forensic-b1tch-aiden @names-confuse-me @agathokakolog1cal @yourlocalxiaosimp and open tags! <33 have fun
author’s note - this might be terrible but idc here yall go 🙂↕️
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Every night, without fail, you find yourself standing by the thermostat, adjusting the dial, even though you know it won’t make a difference. The room will still be a few degrees too warm for you to sleep comfortably, but you turn it anyway, almost as if the motion itself will offer you some comfort, some sense of control. You can’t explain why you do it, knowing it won’t do anything to help you sleep, that you’ll still spend hours laying awake, unable to get a good night's rest.
Back when Jungwon was here, you used to hate how cold the apartment would get. He would always insist on blasting the air conditioner as low as it would go, claiming that if you got too cold, you could always rely on him to keep you warm. He'd pull his hoodie over your head, pulling you close, and you’d bury your face in the soft fabric of his sweats as he held you, his warmth enveloping you.
You miss those days. You miss the cold because it meant something deeper, something familiar. It meant the two of you could curl up together under the blankets, with him holding you so close that the world outside seemed to disappear. His warmth, his scent, the way he’d kiss the top of your head and make everything feel right. Even though it was cold, it was a kind of comfort, a kind of peace.
Now, the warm air in the room presses against your skin, and it feels suffocating in the silence. The hum of the broken air conditioner, the one you wanted to get fixed but had never gotten around to, fills the space, a quiet reminder of how things used to be different. Back when Jungwon was here, when the cool breeze was constant, and you could always rely on him for warmth when the chill in the apartment got too much to handle.
Now, the room is still too warm, and you're alone.
You let your fingers hover over the thermostat for a moment longer, but you know it won’t change anything. It never does. The temperature doesn’t shift, the room doesn’t cool down. And yet, you feel that odd sense of calm that comes with the ritual, as if in this small act of repetition, you can trick your mind into really thinking that everything is fine.
Your phone buzzes from the side of the couch, a notification lighting up the screen. It’s from one of your friends, checking in on you, asking how you're doing. You know you should respond, should be polite and assure them that you’re fine, that you're moving on, that you're doing better now. But the words feel stuck in your throat, and you’re unable to even type them.
Instead, you sit on the edge of the bed, the same bed where you used to lay together, your legs tangled with his, laughing at dumb movies and falling asleep together. Your heart clenches at the thought, and you try to force your mind away from the memories, back to the present.
But it’s hard not to remember. Hard not to think of how everything felt so natural back then. The way his head would slump against your shoulders when he’d fall asleep beside you, the gentle warmth of his body against yours, the way his voice would soothe your racing thoughts when the world felt too overwhelming.
Now, the apartment feels colder, even with the broken air conditioner, even with the thermostat that you keep adjusting in vain. It's a chill that has nothing to do with temperature, nothing to do with the room around you. It's the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, something you can’t change with the turn of a dial or the press of a button. A cold that only grew after Jungwon left.
Your heart feels caught in that moment, forever trapped between the words you never got to say, the apologies you never received. The broken promises that echo through the chamber of your mind.
You shake yourself of thoughts of him, exhaling slowly, and finally picking up your phone, tapping out a message to your friend. Something vague, something that doesn’t reveal how hollow you feel inside. You hit send without thinking twice, hoping that it’ll be enough to ease their concern.
The screen goes dark, and the room falls silent again. You lean back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. It’s just you now. Alone again.
The quiet stretches on, and your hand reaches for the throw blanket on the edge of the bed, pulling it over you despite the warmth of the room. You don’t care. The blanket doesn’t bring the comfort it once did, but it’s a habit, a way of tricking your mind into thinking you can still feel safe here.
You haven’t slept properly in months. It’s hard to even remember the last time you got a full night’s rest. Your body is exhausted, but the moment your head hits the pillow, the memories rush in, his voice, his touch, the way he’d smile at you like you were the only person in the world. Every time you close your eyes, you feel like you drown in a flood of regret and longing.
You can’t escape it.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. The room, once a place of peace, now feels like a prison. Your mind races with thoughts of him, of the fight, of the last time you saw him. The weight of his absence is almost physical, settling on your chest and preventing you from breathing.
Despite the pain, deep down, you don't want to move on. You don’t want to forget him. You don’t want to let go of the memories, the love, the life you shared. Because if you move on, it feels like erasing everything you had together. As if all that time, all that emotion, was for nothing. You can’t bring yourself to let go of the idea of him.
The phone buzzes again. Another message. You know your friends love you, but each worried text only serves as a reminder of how poignant your loss is.
They’re worried. They care. But you’re still here, stuck in the same place you were when he left. You don’t even know if you’re the same person, or if the pain you felt had twisted you, forcing you into becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.
You glance at the thermostat once more. Standing up and turning the dial, knowing it won’t really change anything, it won't bring him back.
The room is still too warm, and you're still alone.
genre/tags 𝟅𝟈 angst, lovers to exes, joshua hong x reader, fiance!joshua x reader
word count 𝟅𝟈 4.2k
part two
NOT PROOFREAD
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
It’s your freshman year of college. You’d taken the risk and moved across the country to go to UCLA. It was your first exam season and you were sorely regretting this choice, wishing you had your family and friends to lean on.
The library is dead silent except for the occasional rustle of pages and the distant hum of the air conditioner. Your head hurts from staring at your statistics textbook for too long, the numbers blurring together like they’re mocking you. You press your palms into your forehead, trying to focus, but it’s useless.
You’re on the verge of packing up and leaving when a voice interrupts your spiral.
“Mind if I sit here?”
You glance up, your eyes landing on a boy holding a tray with two coffees. He’s tall, with a warm smile and a slightly oversized UCLA hoodie that makes him look impossibly soft.
You nod, gesturing to the seat across from you. “Go ahead.”
As he sits down, he slides one of the cups toward you. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
You blink, taken aback. “What—how did you know I needed caffeine?”
He chuckles, the sound light and easy. “You’ve been glaring at that textbook for like ten minutes.”
You laugh despite yourself, the tension in your chest loosening. “Fair point. Thanks... I guess I owe you one now.”
“Nah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Think of it as my good deed for the day. I’m Joshua, by the way.”
“Y/N,” you reply, taking a cautious sip of the coffee. It’s just the way you like it—strong but not bitter. “This might actually save my grade.”
“Glad to be of service,” he says with a grin.
For the next hour, you pretend to study, but really, you’re watching him out of the corner of your eye. He’s quiet but not shy, the kind of person who makes you feel at ease without even trying. By the time you pack up your things to leave, you realize you don’t feel so alone anymore.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
Life after college had been better than you'd ever imagined. When you moved to California for college, you’d never expected to find more than just a degree. Joshua had been the anchor in a world that felt so foreign—your solace when homesickness hit you hard. By the time graduation rolled around, the two of you were inseparable.
Your careers had fallen into place perfectly. You landed a job in New York, but when Joshua asked if you’d stay in California with him, you didn’t hesitate. You turned down the offer, found a great position in LA, and never looked back. Being close to him felt worth every sacrifice.
The proposal had been perfect in its simplicity. One quiet evening in your shared apartment, he’d set the table with your favorite takeout, candles flickering between cartons of food. You’d laughed when he nervously fumbled with the ring box but cried when he asked, “Will you marry me?” The answer had been a resounding yes.
At first, Joshua was just as excited as you were. He’d scroll through the boards with you, offering opinions on everything from table settings to wedding bands. “Simple and elegant,” he’d said, his voice laced with warmth as he picked out a gold band that matched yours. He’d even gotten himself a matching engagement ring, claiming he wanted everyone to know he was spoken for.
But then work started picking up for him.
It was little things at first—missing a cake tasting or zoning out during a discussion about the guest list. “Whatever you think is best, babe,” he’d say with a tired smile. At first, you brushed it off. He was busy, and you didn’t want to add to his stress.
Then, he missed your appointment with the wedding planner. It was supposed to be a big one, the meeting where you’d decide on the venue. You’d picked out three options together, but sitting across from the planner with an empty chair beside you made your stomach twist uncomfortably.
You called him after the meeting. He answered on the third ring, his voice apologetic but distant. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. The meeting at work ran over, and I couldn’t get away. Did you pick something?”
You paused, the lump in your throat growing. “Yeah. I went with the vineyard. It felt right.”
“That sounds perfect,” he said quickly, relief evident in his tone. “I trust your judgment.”
You tried to smile, but it felt forced.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
By the time he missed the florist appointment a week later, it wasn’t a surprise. “Sorry, babe. Just go with whatever you like,” he said when you called him, his voice rushed. “I know you’ll make it beautiful.”
You hung up feeling a mix of frustration and sadness. It wasn’t just the missed appointments. It was the way he seemed to disengage completely, like the wedding was your project and not something you were supposed to be building together.
He still wore his ring, still kissed you goodnight and said, “Love you.” But his words felt like a habit, something automatic and unthinking. You told yourself he was just busy, that once the stress of work eased up, things would go back to the way they were.
But deep down, you couldn’t ignore the growing ache in your chest.
The phone feels heavy in your hand as you sit cross-legged on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. Joshua isn’t home yet—another late night at the office, or so he says. You’ve been scrolling aimlessly through your wedding Pinterest board, but even the dreamy photos of lace gowns and candlelit venues can’t shake the dull ache in your chest.
When the call connects, your mom’s warm voice cuts through the silence. “Sweetheart, how’s my favorite daughter?”
You manage a smile, even though she can’t see it. “Hi, Mom. I’m... okay.”
“Just okay?” she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.
You hesitate, unsure how much to say. “It’s just... I don’t know. I think I’m feeling a little lonely.”
“Lonely? What about Joshua? You two are practically glued together.”
Your throat tightens at the mention of his name. “He’s been so busy with work lately. And I don’t know, Mom, it’s like... I can’t really talk to him about how I’m feeling. I don’t want to add to his stress.”
“Sweetheart, you can always talk to me,” she says gently.
“I know.” You pause, picking at a thread on the couch cushion. “It’s just hard sometimes. All my friends here are his friends, you know? I can’t exactly call them and say, ‘Hey, I think Joshua’s pulling away from me.’”
There’s a soft sigh on the other end of the line. “Oh, honey. I wish I were closer. Are you sure everything’s okay between you two?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s... different. He’s not excited about the wedding anymore. He misses every appointment, and when I try to talk about it, he just says to do whatever I want. Like it doesn’t even matter to him.”
Your mom’s voice softens even more. “Sweetheart, planning a wedding is stressful for anyone, but it sounds like you’re taking on all the weight by yourself. That’s not fair.”
Tears sting your eyes as you blink rapidly, trying to keep them from falling. “I just miss you, Mom. I wish you were here.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll come see you next month, okay? We’ll spend some time together, just us girls. Sit tight until then.”
“Okay,” you murmur, even though next month feels like a lifetime away.
After you hang up, the apartment feels even quieter than before. You glance at the dining table, still set with the meal you’d made hours ago, untouched. The ache in your chest feels heavier now, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe.
You wonder, not for the first time, if this is what homesickness feels like—not just for a place, but for a version of your life that feels like it’s slipping away.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
“You really need to decide on your groomsmen soon, Josh,” you say, your voice soft but edged with the faintest hint of impatience. “I can’t finalize the bridesmaids until I know how many you’re having.”
It’s late, and he’s seated at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone while you try to bring up yet another wedding detail. His hair is tousled from work, and he looks tired, but you push forward. You’ve been asking him about this for weeks now.
He looks up briefly, his expression unreadable. “I know, Y/N. I’ll get to it, I promise.”
You pause, trying to keep your frustration in check. “It’s been two months, Josh. You haven’t even mentioned it to anyone yet.”
“I’ve just been busy,” he says with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ll figure it out soon. Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” you say, forcing a smile. “But you really need to. It’s not just about the numbers—it’s about including people who are important to you.”
He nods distractedly, his eyes already back on his phone.
That night, as you lie awake in bed, you replay the conversation over and over. It’s such a small thing—picking groomsmen. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, but somehow, it does.
It’s not the first time he’s brushed off something wedding-related. It’s not the first time he’s promised to “get to it.” And it’s certainly not the first time you’ve felt like you’re the only one putting real effort into planning the day that’s supposed to celebrate both of you.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
By the time another week rolls around, you’re still waiting. Another week of him saying, “I’ve been thinking about it,” without any actual decisions. Another week of you wondering if this is what the rest of your life is going to look like—waiting for Joshua to care about something as much as you do.
When you ask him again, gently but firmly, his response is the same. “I’ll get to it.”
But he doesn’t.
And as you sit at the dining table that night, staring at your wedding planner and a half-empty glass of wine, it hits you like a punch to the gut: he’s not avoiding the groomsmen because he’s busy. He’s avoiding it because it doesn’t matter to him.
Because maybe you don’t matter to him—not the way you used to.
The thought sends a chill down your spine. You push the wedding planner aside, get up, and walk to the bathroom. His ring is still on the counter, where it’s been more and more lately. You stare at it, the dull ache in your chest flaring into something sharper.
“Oh,” you whisper to yourself, the word heavy with realization.
You leave the ring where it is and head to bed, the sheets cold and uninviting. For the first time, you don’t wait up for him.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
The next morning feels heavy before it even starts. You wake up to an empty bed again, the sheets on his side rumpled but cold. You find him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and scrolling through emails on his phone, still wearing the same distracted expression you’ve come to know all too well.
“Hey,” you say softly as you pour yourself a cup. “We need to figure out the wedding party today. We’ve been putting it off too long.”
Joshua glances up, his brow furrowing. “I know. Let’s sit down after breakfast and go through it.”
You nod, hopeful for a moment. Maybe today will be different.
But before you can even finish your coffee, his phone buzzes on the counter. He picks it up, and you watch as his expression shifts from tired to tense.
“It’s my secretary,” he mutters, holding up a hand as he answers.
“Mr. Hong,” her voice is clear even from where you sit, “I’m so sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but the investors are furious about the delay. They’re demanding an emergency meeting.”
Joshua runs a hand through his hair, already moving toward the bedroom to grab his bag. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Thanks for letting me know.”
When he returns, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket and slipping on his shoes. “I’m so sorry, babe,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
You look up at him, frustration and sadness bubbling beneath the surface. “We were supposed to figure out the wedding party today, Josh.”
“I know,” he says, his voice rushed. “We’ll do it tomorrow. I promise.”
You glance at the counter as he heads for the door, and your stomach sinks. His ring is still there, sitting carelessly next to the fruit bowl.
The door closes behind him, and the apartment falls into silence.
You sit there for a long time, staring at the spot where his ring rests. Then, slowly, you slip your own ring off your finger. The weight of it has felt heavier these past few weeks, more a reminder of what’s slipping away than what’s supposed to be.
You carry it to your bedroom and place it gently in the jewelry box on your dresser, nestled between a pair of earrings your mom gave you and an old bracelet from college. It doesn’t feel right, taking it off—but it doesn’t feel wrong, either.
That night, you go to bed alone again, the silence in the apartment pressing down on you. You wonder, as you lie there staring at the ceiling, how many more nights will feel like this.
And for the first time, you don’t cry. You’re too tired to cry anymore.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
The next evening, Joshua finally comes home. It’s later than usual, but you’re still awake, sitting on the couch with your wedding planner open in front of you. You’re not really reading it, though. Instead, you’ve been staring at the untouched coffee cup you poured for him hours ago, now cold.
“Hey,” he says softly as he steps inside, setting his bag by the door. He glances at you, and his brow furrows slightly. “You’re still up?”
“Yeah,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “We need to talk.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Let me just—”
“Now, Josh,” you interrupt, standing and closing the planner with a soft thud.
He blinks at the sharpness in your tone but joins you in the living room. You sit on the edge of the couch, hands clasped tightly together, while he sinks into the armchair across from you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension in the room is palpable, stretching like a rubber band about to snap.
“Are you having an affair?” The words leave your mouth before you can second-guess them.
His eyes widen in shock, and his posture stiffens. “What? No! Y/N, how could you even think that?”
“Because you’ve been pulling away from me for months,” you say, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it even. “You miss every appointment, you don’t care about the wedding, and you keep leaving your ring on the counter like it doesn’t mean anything to you.”
Joshua’s face falls, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I swear, it’s not that. Work has just been—”
“Don’t,” you say, cutting him off. “Don’t blame this on work. Be honest with me, Joshua. Do you even want this anymore?”
His silence is deafening.
“I—” he starts, then stops, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know.”
You feel like the air has been knocked out of your lungs. “You don’t know?”
“We’re so young, Y/N,” he says finally, his voice quiet but firm. “I love you, I do, but... I don’t know if I’m ready for this. For marriage. For forever.”
You stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in like stones in your chest. “You don’t feel it anymore,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
He looks up at you, guilt written all over his face. "I don’t know what I feel anymore."
The tears sting, but you refuse to let them fall. "I stayed here for you, Josh," you say, the words breaking free before you can stop them. "I left everything—my family, my friends, my life—just to be with you. And now you’re telling me you don’t even want this anymore?"
Joshua’s expression falters. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His silence cuts deeper than any answer could.
“Then let’s break up,” you say firmly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.
“Y/N, I—”
“No,” you say, standing up. "If you don’t want this, then we’re done. I can’t keep fighting for both of us."
He opens his mouth again to speak, but the words don’t come. He just nods, looking down at his hands.
“I’ll move out,” he says after a long pause.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” you reply, your voice hollow, as if you’re already a stranger to him.
That night, he sleeps on the couch, and you lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, feeling the space between you grow wider by the second. The silence in your apartment is suffocating, and for the first time since you moved to California, you feel truly and deeply alone.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
The next morning, Joshua leaves for work as usual. His footsteps fade down the hallway, and the door clicks shut behind him. The apartment feels cold without his presence, but the tension, the weight of everything that’s happened, keeps you from feeling anything else.
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, and begin packing your things. You leave behind the little things—the pictures, the mementos from your time together that once meant so much. The engagement ring stays on the counter where he left it the night before, untouched. You gather your essentials—clothes, toiletries, a few items that remind you of who you were before all of this. You’re doing this for you.
As you pack, the tears come, and you can’t hold them back. The weight of it all—the loneliness, the heartbreak, the way he’d stopped caring—finally crashes over you. You grab your phone and dial your mom’s number.
“Mom,” you choke out, barely able to speak through the sobs. "I—I can't... I can't do this anymore. I... I’m so lost."
You hear her soothing voice on the other end, muffled but full of warmth and concern. "Sweetheart, what happened? Where are you?"
“I—I'm in California, but I don’t want to be here anymore. I can’t do this alone. I... I left. I left him. I don't know what to do, mom."
Her voice softens, and you hear her take a deep breath. "Don't worry. You don't have to do it alone. I’ll book your tickets, I’ll get you home, okay?"
The relief that floods through you is overwhelming, but it doesn't stop the tears. Your mom insists on getting the earliest flight available, even going the extra mile to make sure you’re on the next plane out.
You hang up with her, still a mess, but knowing that, at least for now, you won’t be alone. You finish packing quickly, making sure to leave everything behind except what’s truly necessary. You wipe your eyes, trying to pull yourself together.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
By the time you finish, it’s still a few hours before Joshua will come home. You take one last look around the apartment—the place that was once filled with shared moments, warmth, and love. It now feels like a shell of something that used to be, cold and unforgiving. You make sure your essentials are packed, then head out the door, locking it behind you.
When Joshua comes home later that evening, he expects to find you resting, taking the nap you often took after a long day at work. He quietly enters the apartment, shedding his coat and bag, and makes his way to your shared bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, frowning as he notices the emptiness of the room.
There’s no sound of you resting, no gentle hum of your music. The bed is neatly made. A sharp unease twists in his stomach.
He turns toward the dresser, his eyes catching something familiar—something that doesn’t belong there.
It’s the love letter he wrote you years ago, the one you’d always kept in your wallet. The edges are frayed now from years of being carried close to your heart. It’s placed on top of the dresser, in the spot where you used to keep it safe, along with the ring he’d given you.
He picks it up, his hands trembling slightly, and unfolds the letter. The words are still familiar, and yet, they now feel like they were written by someone else.
His eyes scan over the message, the sincerity in his writing that once made you feel loved, now leaving him cold. He puts the letter back down slowly, the full weight of the situation settling in.
Joshua’s gaze moves to the counter, where the engagement ring lies, cold and unclaimed. The reality of it all hits him like a brick wall. You’re gone.
The apartment feels like a vacuum now, empty and silent. His throat tightens, but no words come. All the things left unsaid, all the moments missed, hang heavily in the air around him.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
The plane ride feels like an eternity. You’re sitting by the window, watching the clouds drift by, but your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, doubts, and emotions that you can’t escape. It’s hard to breathe, to focus on anything other than the overwhelming emptiness that seems to have settled inside you.
Your phone buzzes constantly with messages, and you can’t help but check them. It’s Joshua.
Joshua: Where are you? Please, answer me. We need to talk.Joshua: Y/N, I’m sorry. Please come home. I can’t lose you.Joshua: I was wrong. I didn’t mean for it to end like this. Where are you?
Each message hits you like a punch to the stomach, but you know you can’t respond in the way he wants. You’ve made your decision, and no amount of begging can change the way you feel.
You almost find it funny, how little his words mean to you now that you had left.
You tap out a response, slow and deliberate, your hands trembling slightly as you type.
Y/N: I had to go. I’m sorry, Joshua. I wish you well. It's for the best.
You hit send and put the phone down, hoping he’ll respect your silence. The flight attendants come by, offering you a drink, but you don’t take it. You just keep your gaze fixed outside, the horizon blurring as you fight to keep it together.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
By the time you land and step off the plane, you can feel the weight of everything pressing down on you. You’re exhausted, emotionally drained, but there’s one thing you’re certain of: you made the right choice.
Your mom is waiting for you at the airport, her face full of worry and warmth. As soon as she sees you, she pulls you into a tight hug, and you collapse against her, tears streaming down your face. She doesn’t ask any questions. She just holds you, murmuring soft reassurances as she strokes your hair.
“I’m here, sweetheart. You’re home now. I’m here,” she whispers, and somehow, it makes everything feel a little less heavy.
The drive back to the house is quiet, the only sound being the hum of the tires on the road. You try to collect yourself, but the emotions keep rushing back, overwhelming you in waves. You know you’ll have to explain everything, but for now, all you want is to be wrapped in the comfort of your mom’s arms.
Once you’re home, she takes you straight to the living room and sits you down on the couch, making you a cup of tea. “Tell me what happened,” she says gently, her voice soft but insistent. “I’m listening.”
You take a deep breath, recounting everything—from moving to California, to the engagement, the wedding planning, and the slow unraveling of everything. You tell her about how Joshua had been pulling away, about how you tried to wait for him, tried to understand. You tell her about the ring left on the counter, the distance, the fighting, and finally, the breakdown of your relationship.
Your voice cracks as you speak, and she pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you. “Oh, baby,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t easy. But you did the right thing. You deserve someone who’s all in, who’s going to love you fully, just like you deserve.”
You nod, wiping your eyes. You’re still so raw, but her words give you the strength to keep going.
As the night wears on, she handles everything for you. She cancels the wedding bookings—everything that had been set up for the wedding is erased. The vendors are contacted, the plans are halted, and you don’t have to worry about any of it. Your mom handles it all, taking the burden from your shoulders as you sit there, just trying to breathe.
When she finally gets off the phone with the last vendor, she sits next to you again, her hand resting on yours. “You’ll heal, sweetheart. And when you’re ready, we’ll figure it all out. But for now, just rest. You’re safe here.”
You close your eyes, resting your head on her shoulder, feeling the weight in your chest finally start to ease, if only a little. The pain is still there, but at least for tonight, you’re home.
⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹
author's note 𝟅𝟈 lowkey wanna start a taylor swift songfic thing. i'm obsessed with this song so yk i had to write a fic based on it!
vaporwave
areudirty
kianamaiart
dededos
janainaart
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
dailybridgerton
