trope: childhood friends (partners) - benefits - idol sunghoon
skatingpartner!reader x sunghoon
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the ice had always been yours and his. it wasn’t a claim you made out loud, not something either of you declared, but it lived in the way your skates carved familiar lines into the rink, in the way your laughter echoed off walls that smelled like frost and metal and sweat.
back then, the blades were too big for your feet. they slipped when you walked, ankles wobbling dangerously, and every time you fell, it was with a loud, graceless thud that had sunghoon doubling over with laughter. his own hands were small then, clumsy when he tried to haul you up, and half the time he ended up toppling beside you, the two of you tangled in limbs and skates. bruises bloomed like confetti across your knees, but neither of you cared. winter after winter, you returned.
the rink wasn’t glamorous. it was fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly, air so sharp it burned your lungs, locker rooms where condensation gathered in corners. but to you, it was magic. you’d huddle in the bleachers during breaks, gloves off, sharing bites of convenience store bread, fingers red with cold. sometimes he’d steal your drink, tilting his head back with a grin, and you’d shove at him with mittened hands, pretending to be annoyed.
there were times you’d sit side by side, breath clouding in front of your faces, watching the ice resurface between practice rounds. in those moments, with silence pressed gently between you, it always felt like the world had narrowed down to just two people, two kids who had found a place that belonged to them.
sunghoon was quick on the ice. quicker than you, always. his movements sharpened earlier than yours, his balance steadier. he could spin without wobbling, glide without stumbling. you’d chase him, trying to keep up, arms outstretched like maybe you could grab him by the sleeve and pull him back down to your level. sometimes he’d let you catch him, slowing just enough that your fingers brushed his jacket, and he’d laugh, cheeks pink, before taking off again.
the coaches noticed him early. they’d pull him aside, whisper about his talent, correct his form with a patience they didn’t always extend to you. you pretended not to mind, but every once in a while you’d skate circles on your own, letting the loneliness sting just a little before you pushed it back down.
still, he never let you drift too far. when practice ended, it was always you and him again, trudging home together in the dark, skates slung over shoulders, snow crunching under boots. sometimes your fingers brushed, sometimes he’d nudge your arm with his elbow just to see you stumble. once, when the wind was brutal and sharp enough to make your eyes water, he shoved his scarf into your hands, grumbling that you were too stupid to dress properly for the cold.
you wore it home, wool scratchy against your chin, and when you gave it back, it smelled faintly like him.
the years ticked by in seasons measured by frost. every winter brought new bruises, new inside jokes, new ways of moving across the ice. you grew taller, your skates fit better, and his hands got steadier when they reached for yours.
the first time you both entered a small-town competition, you froze on the ice. the crowd wasn’t even big, just a smattering of parents and neighbors, but your chest locked up, every practiced step slipping from memory. you stood there, rigid, cheeks flaming. and then you felt it: the brush of his hand against yours, hidden, quick, grounding. he didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at you, but the tension loosened enough for you to breathe. you stumbled through the routine, nowhere near perfect, but he never let go even when you were bowing.
after, you cried in the locker room, embarrassed. he found you with your face pressed to your knees and said, almost impatiently, “don’t hide them.” you looked up, startled. he was watching you, not unkind, not pitying, just… watching. like your tears were something worth noticing. and you hated that it calmed you.
you told yourself it was just sunghoon being sunghoon. blunt. unflinching. but that moment stuck, tucked into the back of your mind where it lingered like a bruise you kept pressing on.
childhood with him wasn’t always gentle. sometimes you fought. sometimes you tripped each other on the ice, shoved too hard in jest, ended up with scraped palms and bloody noses. once you didn’t speak for a week because he’d mocked your stumble in front of other skaters, and the humiliation had burned hotter than the rink’s fluorescent glare. but even that silence had cracked eventually, undone when he threw a chocolate bar into your lap without looking at you, muttering, “stop being dramatic.” you ate it anyway, and the fight dissolved like it had never existed.
it was always like that. messy, imperfect, but magnetic. you could never stay away.
when you weren’t skating, you were still together. afternoons spent sprawled in his living room, cartoons flickering while you both pretended to do homework. summer bike rides that ended in races you always lost. late evenings at convenience stores, hands sticky with melted popsicles. he was stitched into every memory, every season, every corner of your childhood.
and even when he started getting better—faster spins, sharper jumps, routines that made coaches nod in approval—he never let it create a distance between you. he’d slow down when you lagged behind, circle back when you fell. he’d tease you mercilessly, but his hand was always there when you needed it.
the rink became more than just a place to skate. it became a second home, a world where the two of you existed outside of school and family and all the noise of growing up. it was where you learned to fall without fear, because you knew he’d always be there to laugh, to reach out, to pull you back up.
you didn’t know then that things would change. that the ice would one day belong to only you, heavy and hollow in its silence. that laughter would fade into echoes, leaving nothing but the sound of your own skates scraping across a surface that had once felt endless.
back then, all you knew was that the ice had always been yours and his. and for a long time, that was enough.
by the time you were both teenagers, the rink didn’t feel as big anymore. maybe it was because you’d grown taller, maybe because you knew every inch of it by heart, but the walls didn’t seem so towering, and the ice no longer looked like something to conquer. it was just… familiar. home.
but everything else was starting to shift.
you noticed it first in your own body, how your limbs felt too long, too clumsy, how balance wasn’t as easy as it had been when you were small. you’d catch yourself in the reflection of the glass and cringe at the awkward tilt of your posture, at how much effort it took to look like you belonged there.
sunghoon, though. sunghoon looked like he was made for it.
he was sharper now. his spins cut clean, his jumps drew eyes. coaches leaned forward when he skated, voices low and approving. even the other skaters whispered about him sometimes, the kind of murmurs you pretended not to hear.
and you were proud, of course you were. you clapped the loudest when he landed something new, teased him when he flushed from the praise. but there was always a little sting, sharp and cold, at how easily he seemed to glide forward while you stumbled just trying to keep pace.
still, he never left you behind.
he’d skate next to you during warm-ups, circling lazily until you caught up. he’d make jokes under his breath during drills, the kind that had you biting your lip to keep from laughing when the coach’s back was turned. sometimes, when you fell, he didn’t even bother holding out his hand anymore—he’d just flop down beside you with a dramatic groan, lying flat on the ice until you were both wheezing with laughter.
but outside of those moments, you were starting to notice the differences.
his hair was longer now, sometimes falling into his eyes. he pushed it back with the heel of his palm when it got in the way, careless, and you’d catch yourself staring. his voice had dipped, not all the way, but enough that it caught you off guard when he said your name. his hands, once small and clumsy, had grown steadier, surer, when they brushed against yours on the ice.
and it made everything feel different. unfamiliar. like you were relearning him all over again.
the first time you really noticed the shift, it wasn’t even on the ice. it was after practice, the two of you sprawled on the bleachers, sweat cooling on your skin. the rink was mostly empty, just the hum of machines and the faint scrape of someone else’s skates in the distance.
you’d been talking about nothing—some stupid argument about snacks, maybe—and he leaned over suddenly, close enough that you could smell the clean, icy scent of his hoodie, and flicked your forehead.
“you’re so slow,” he said, grinning.
you were about to shove him back, but your hand stalled halfway. because his grin wasn’t the same as before. or maybe it was, but the way it hit you wasn’t. his teeth caught the light, his eyes curved, and there was something in your chest that twisted sharp, something you didn’t want to name.
you laughed it off anyway, because what else could you do? you shoved him with all the strength you had, and he tumbled backwards off the bench, landing with a curse (shibal guys!) that echoed through the empty rink.
you told yourself the heat in your face was just from the cold.
school made things more complicated.
there, he wasn’t just sunghoon who laughed with you until your ribs hurt. he was the boy people noticed. girls lingered in hallways, calling his name a little too sweetly. teachers mentioned his dedication with a kind of pride that made you shrink in your seat.
“he’s going to be someone,” you overheard once. “he’s got that… presence.”
you didn’t even know what presence meant at the time, but the word stuck.
he never seemed to care about the attention, not really. if anything, he brushed it off with an awkwardness that was almost funny. but you cared. you cared because it made you realize how other people saw him, how different their version of him was from the boy who shared bread with you on freezing bleachers, who once cried when he split his lip on the ice.
sometimes you wondered if you were the only one who knew that version. if you’d get to keep him that way, or if the world would eventually take him.
the first time you touched outside of skating didn’t even feel like a moment, but you remembered it anyway.
you’d both been walking home after practice, snow piled along the edges of the street, your breath puffing white into the night. he was talking about something—school, or a new move he was trying, you couldn’t even recall—when your hands brushed.
and then, without thinking, he hooked his pinky with yours.
he didn’t look at you, didn’t say anything. just kept walking like it was the most natural thing in the world.
your heart was a drum in your throat. you stared at the ground, at the way your boots crunched against snow, and tried not to let your hand tremble.
he let go at the next crosswalk, casual, careless. like it hadn’t meant anything.
you told yourself it didn’t. but the ghost of it lingered, warm against your skin long after it was gone.
the rink itself was changing too. practices ran longer, routines got harder, and coaches no longer treated you the same. you weren’t kids anymore, and the ice demanded more from you.
sometimes, you’d watch him spin, clean and sharp, and feel something ugly crawl up your throat. jealousy, maybe. or fear. fear that one day he’d skate too far ahead, and you wouldn’t be able to catch him.
but every time he slowed down to wait for you, every time he glanced over his shoulder with that grin, you told yourself you were safe.
because the ice had always been yours and his.
and you still believed, stupidly, desperately, that it always would be.
but late at night, when you lay awake replaying the brush of his pinky, the warmth of his scarf, the echo of his voice saying don’t hide them, you wondered if maybe things were already beginning to crack.
not enough to break. not yet. but enough that you felt it, small and sharp, every time you looked at him too long.
the older you got, the later practice seemed to run.
sometimes it was because the coaches demanded it—pushing you both to repeat the same steps until your bodies ached, until your heads spun. sometimes it was just the two of you staying behind, stubborn, skating long after everyone else had left.
the rink at night was different. quieter, almost eerie. the fluorescent lights cast long shadows, and the only sounds were the scrape of your blades and the steady hum of the machines that kept the ice alive. it should’ve felt lonely. it didn’t. not when he was there.
you’d race him sometimes, lungs burning as you pushed yourself harder, faster, knowing you’d never beat him but trying anyway. he’d always win, of course, turning back with that smirk that made you want to trip him just to wipe it off his face.
but when you collapsed onto the ice after, panting, he’d flop down beside you without hesitation, staring up at the ceiling with the kind of contentment that made your chest ache.
“we’re gonna get frostbite one day,” you muttered once, your cheek pressed against the cold surface.
“worth it,” he said easily.
and for some reason, the way he said it made your stomach twist.
the shifts were small at first.
brushing shoulders when you sat too close in the bleachers. his knee knocking against yours under tables. the way his hand sometimes lingered a fraction too long when he pulled you up from a fall.
little things. nothing worth naming.
except you noticed them. noticed how your breath caught, how your chest fluttered, how you hated yourself for replaying them later when you were alone.
you didn’t know if he noticed too. sometimes you thought he did—like when his eyes lingered a second too long on your face, or when he shoved his hands deep into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them. other times, he was just sunghoon, careless and unbothered, making you wonder if you were imagining it all.
it was late, later than usual. you’d both stayed behind after practice, chasing some half-formed goal of nailing a routine. your legs ached, your throat was raw, and when you finally gave up, you collapsed onto the bleachers together, too tired to even untie your skates.
it was quiet. the kind of quiet that made you hyper-aware of everything—the way your breath fogged the air, the faint hum of the lights, the sharp tang of cold in your nose.
he was sitting close, closer than he usually did. your knees brushed. his arm stretched along the back of the bench, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
you didn’t know who leaned in first. maybe it was you. maybe it was him. maybe it was both of you at once, pulled together by something neither of you had words for.
but suddenly, his lips were on yours.
it wasn’t graceful. it was clumsy, tentative, the kind of kiss that came from curiosity more than skill. his mouth was cold, chapped from the rink, and your nose bumped awkwardly against his.
and it was enough to leave your heart racing, your body trembling, your mind spinning so fast you could barely breathe.
he pulled back first, eyes wide, lips parted like he was about to say something. but nothing came.
you both sat there, frozen, staring at each other.
and then, as if the moment had never happened, he looked away. shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. muttered something about the time, about how you should head home.
you nodded, throat too tight to speak.
the walk home that night felt different. the air was sharp, your steps too loud in the silence. usually he filled the quiet with dumb commentary—complaints about practice, jokes about teachers, observations about the stars overhead.
that night, he said nothing.
after that, things changed in ways you couldn’t explain.
you didn’t talk about it. not once. but it lived between you anyway, buzzing under your skin every time your eyes met, every time your hands brushed.
sometimes, it felt like he was about to say something—like when you caught him staring too long, or when he lingered by your side after practice instead of hurrying off. but the words never came.
pretended nothing had shifted. pretended you were still just kids on the ice, bruising and laughing and falling together.
except you weren’t kids anymore. not really.
second time it wasn’t an accident.
it happened weeks later, after another late-night practice. you were both exhausted, sprawled on the floor of the locker room, your skates finally unlaced, your socks damp against the cold tiles.
you were laughing—about what, you couldn’t even remember. something stupid, something that didn’t matter. and then he looked at you, really looked, and the laughter caught in your throat.
his eyes were dark, steady. searching.
and before you could think, before you could stop yourself, you leaned in.
this time, he didn’t hesitate.
his hand found your cheek, firstly cold from the ice but then warm against your skin. the kiss was firmer, deeper, less clumsy. it sent a shiver down your spine, your hands clutching at his jacket like you’d fall apart without something to hold onto.
it was still messy, still uncertain, but it was more.
more than an accident. more than curiosity.
and when he pulled back, he didn’t look away. he didn’t laugh it off. he just stared, breathing hard, lips swollen, like he was trying to memorize your face.
you thought he might say something then. something that would make sense of it, something that would explain why it felt like your heart was cracking open.
instead, he leaned back, dragging a hand over his face, muttering, “we should go.”
and just like that, the moment was gone.
after that, the cracks only deepened.
you didn’t stop kissing. you didn’t stop touching. in fact, it happened more often—after practice, on long walks home, in quiet corners where no one could see.
but you never talked about it.
never called it anything.
it wasn’t friendship anymore, not really. but it wasn’t love either—not when the word felt too dangerous, too final, too much like stepping off the edge of the ice without knowing if he’d catch you.
so you lived in the in-between.
in the stolen moments, the lingering glances, the silence that followed every kiss.
and with every day that passed, the weight of it pressed harder against your chest.
because you knew, deep down, that the ice was starting to crack beneath you.
and you didn’t know if either of you would survive the fall.
it didn’t happen all at once. nothing ever did with him.
the shift from friends to something else wasn’t sharp, wasn’t clean—it was slow, creeping, like frost crawling up a window until one day you realized the glass was entirely covered.
at first, it was just kissing. hurried, hidden, always in the quiet spaces left over after practice. the back corner of the locker room. the empty bleachers when everyone had gone home. the alley by the convenience store on nights you stayed out too late.
your lips learned the shape of him like it was routine. the taste of his chapstick, the warmth of his breath fogging against your skin, the way his hands hesitated at first before finding your waist.
but kissing turned into touching.
the kind of touches that lingered, that pushed boundaries neither of you had the courage to name. his hand sliding under the hem of your sweater when he thought no one could see. your fingers tugging at his hair when the kiss turned desperate, messy.
and then touching turned into more.
into nights tangled under blankets, breathing too fast, hearts pounding like they’d never slow down. into whispered curses against your mouth, into the sound of your name torn from his throat.
you never called it anything. you never let yourself.
but the line between friendship and whatever this was had already blurred beyond recognition.
the first time it happened—really happened—was at his house.
it was late, later than you’d meant to stay. you’d spent hours sprawled across his bedroom floor, half-doing homework, half-teasing each other, your legs tangled as you passed snacks back and forth.
you should’ve gone home when the sky darkened, but the words never left your mouth. neither of you moved.
you’d ended up on his bed, lying side by side, staring at the ceiling like you were waiting for something. maybe you were.
when he leaned in, when his lips pressed against yours, there wasn’t hesitation this time. only heat. only hunger.
your hands found his shirt, clutched at the fabric. his slid beneath your sweater, fingertips skating across skin that burned under his touch.
it was clumsy, rushed, full of too much want.
but when you pulled away, breathless, he didn’t laugh. didn’t tease. he just looked at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark in a way that made your stomach twist.
and then he kissed you again.
after that, it became routine.
sometimes at your place, sometimes his. sometimes after practice when you were too tired to think straight, sometimes on weekends when you pretended you had nothing better to do.
it was always the same: the two of you tangled in blankets, lips pressed together until you forgot where one ended and the other began.
you learned the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his collarbone, the rhythm of his breathing when he hovered above you. he learned the sound of your gasps, the way your hands shook when he pushed just far enough.
he’d trail his fingers down your spine slowly, kiss your jaw like he had all the time in the world. he’d murmur your name like it meant something, like it was precious.
but other times, it wasn’t sweet at all.
other times, he was rough. his mouth hard against yours, his hands pinning you down. the kind of urgency that left bruises blooming along your skin, the kind that had you gasping, clinging, half-hating how much you wanted it.
and then there were the times in between. the times that broke you the most.
because sunghoon had this thing about your tears.
the first time he noticed, it was by accident.
you’d been frustrated. practice had been brutal, your body uncooperative, every stumble a humiliation. by the time you were in his room, the weight of it all spilled over. hot tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them.
“don’t hide them,” he whispered.
and when you looked up, his eyes weren’t pitying. they weren’t kind. they were hungry.
he tilted your chin, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, smearing the wetness. his mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something sharper.
and then he kissed you, slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to swallow the sound of your sobs.
you hated it. hated the way your body melted anyway, the way your chest tightened with something dangerously close to need.
but after that, it became a pattern.
sometimes he pushed you until you cried—out of frustration, out of desperation—and he always whispered the same thing.
and every time, you gave in. trembling, broken, undone beneath him.
and every time, you hated how much you wanted him to say it.
friends weren’t supposed to do this. friends weren’t supposed to kiss until their lips ached, touch until their hands shook, fall asleep tangled in sheets that smelled like sweat and each other.
but it didn’t feel wrong.
it felt inevitable. like this was always where you were heading.
and maybe that was why you didn’t fight it. why you let yourself sink deeper, even when you knew there was no safety net waiting at the bottom.
the rink faded into the background.
you still went. still laced your skates, still bruised your knees. but it wasn’t the center anymore. not when most of your memories were being rewritten in bedrooms, in late-night whispers, in the heat of his mouth against your throat.
sometimes, you wondered if he missed it. if he remembered how it used to be—the laughter, the clumsy falls, the way the ice felt like it belonged to you both.
but if he did, he never said.
and you didn’t ask. because maybe you didn’t want to hear the answer.
you told yourself it wasn’t love.
you repeated it like a mantra.
it wasn’t love when he texted nothing but can i come over?it wasn’t love when he pulled away without a word, leaving you cold in sheets that still smelled like him.
it wasn’t love when he never called you anything more than you.
but then there were the nights when he held you gently, when his lips pressed soft against your temple, when he looked at you like maybe—just maybe—you mattered.
and in those moments, you almost believed.
and those were the moments that broke you the most.
because love, whether you named it or not, had always been a little like skating.
and every time, you told yourself it would hurt less when you hit the ice.
when he told you, it felt like someone had cracked the ice beneath your feet.
“i got in,” he said, voice flat, eyes fixed on the table between you, fingers tapping the edge like the rhythm could steady him. “iland.”
you froze. the name echoed in your head: cameras, evaluations, strangers watching every move, every word, every mistake. the boy who had once held your hand on the ice, the one who caught you when you fell, was about to be broadcast for the world to dissect.
“you… you’re going to be a trainee...?” you asked, voice small, fragile. the words felt foreign in your own mouth, like you were learning to speak in someone else’s language.
he nodded, fingers tightening around the cup in front of him. “they want me there fulltime. dorms, training, evaluations… it’s going to be intense.”
you wanted to cheer. you should have cheered. but all you could feel was the hollow, like the space next to you had always been fragile, and now it was gone.
he looked at you then, eyes softened for a heartbeat, but it didn’t last. “i’ll be gone a lot. and… we can’t contact each other freely. phones are limited.”
the hollow in your chest grew. you swallowed, trying to shape your thoughts into words that could hold the weight. “i understand,” you said, because there was nothing else to say. you told yourself you were happy for him, proud even. it didn’t matter that your hands were trembling. it didn’t matter that your heart had started breaking already.
and then the months began.
his schedule became a map you couldn’t read. early mornings, late nights, back-to-back training, interviews with the mentors. photos leaked online; trailers from iland surfaced. each clip was a reminder that the world was watching him now. the boy who had been yours, whose laugh had filled frozen arenas, was being shaped into someone else.
texts that had once spilled over with jokes, confessions, and half-thoughts condensed into logistics: can i see you before they take my phone? or i’ll be exhausted, don’t wait up.
you went anyway, every time. always.
he would show up briefly, a shadow of himself, smelling faintly of sweat, the trainees dorm, and something you couldn’t name. he’d collapse onto the bed like he used to, hand reaching for yours, voice low with tiredness. you traced his face, memorized the angles, the way his eyes flickered with recognition and fatigue all at once.
sometimes, he was present in a way that made you ache—like when he whispered your name, or brushed hair out of your face. but other times, he was distant, consumed by the world that had begun to pull him apart. the weight of cameras and mentors and audiences pressed down on him, and sometimes you swore you could feel it too, like an echo in your chest.
the hollow grew, and the ice that had once been yours and his began to feel alien. you went to the rink sometimes, alone now, skates scraping against frozen surfaces that remembered every laugh, every fall, every hand-hold. but it wasn’t the same. the ice didn’t sing anymore. it just hummed with absence.
you watched him on your laptop sometimes. iland episodes streamed in bursts of high tension, harsh lighting, and judge critiques. his voice, filtered through cameras, sounded like someone else’s. he smiled, but the world smiled back at him, not you. your stomach twisted at the thought of strangers seeing him, analyzing him, loving a version of him that had nothing to do with the nights you’d spent pressed together under blankets, whispering until your throats hurt.
sometimes you wanted to call him. sometimes you wanted to scream through the phone, you’re mine! don’t forget! but the phone was a lifeline and a chain, and he didn’t belong to you anymore in any way that could be named.
and then the argument came, the first real one in months.
“you’re never here,” you said, voice cracking. “you’re always gone, and when you’re not, your mind isn’t even here!”
“i don’t have a choice,” he said, jaw tight, eyes dark. “this isn’t optional. every move i make is evaluated, every mistake counted. do you think i want this distance?”
“then why does it feel like i’m losing you?”
“because you are,” he said. the words were cruel, clean. he didn’t mean to hurt you, and yet they did. he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling like he was trying to squeeze air into a hollow space. “it’s not like i don’t care. i’m trying to do this for us, for later—so we have something after all this.”
“after all this,” you repeated, bitterness sharp on your tongue. “after all this, you’ll have everyone watching and i’ll have nothing. don’t tell me it’s for us if you mean yourself first.”
he flinched, silent for a long time. your room felt too small, too thin-walled. outside, the streets hummed, oblivious. he wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat like wires in a machine.
so you left the fight unresolved. you left it like so many other things—folded into silence, stacked under the weight of schedules and cameras and the bright, consuming lights of iland.
the night before he moved into the program’s dorms, you sat together in your room. the lights were dim, shadows pooling in corners. he kissed you, rougher than usual, as if he could press your warmth into himself for the months ahead. he murmured your name, and it felt like a spell meant to anchor him to you.
“you’ll be fine, right?” he asked, half-smile like always. a rehearsed expression for the part of him that still existed in your world.
the next morning, he left. the world would see him, call him a star-in-the-making. you would see fragments—brief appearances, edited clips, social media snapshots. the person who had held you in darkness and cold had become someone everyone could touch but not you.
you returned to the rink alone. skates tightened, ice beneath blades hollow. you fell once, twice, your body scraping against frozen ground, and you did not cry. there was no one there to watch, to tilt your chin, to whisper don’t hide them.
and as you skated in silence, you realized the ice was no longer yours. not yours, not his. it belonged to everyone who would see him before you ever could.
but still, you kept moving.
because the ice was the only place left where the echo of him still made sense, where you could trace the shape of him in the curves of the lines, even if the boy himself was already gone.
you didn’t see it coming.
at least, you told yourself you didn’t.
you’d spent months learning absence. learning how to stretch your own hands across a void and pretend that the other side could feel them. months of waiting for a text that never came, for a call that got pushed back again, for one small thing to make you feel like he still remembered you.
it was late at night, the kind of night that leaves streets empty and city lights flickering like distant fireflies. you were scrolling through your phone, trying to distract yourself from the ache in your chest, when it appeared. a headline. a photo. a video.
smiling. on stage. under bright lights. polished. shining. performing like the world belonged to him.
and that was when the sharp edge hit you: he hadn’t told you. not even once. no text, no call, no small message to brace you for the flood. nothing. you found out the way everyone else did—online, through screens and headlines and strangers’ cheers.
your stomach twisted. bile rose like molten metal. your hands shook, and the phone nearly slipped through your fingers. you could feel it, all at once—the absence, the distance, the betrayal. the boy who had held your hand through bruises and laughter, the boy who had pressed you under blankets and whispered don’t hide them when you cried.
he had left you behind entirely.
you stared at the screen, at the crowd screaming his name, at the cameras capturing every angle. the world was watching him first. everyone except you.
and the worst part was knowing he had thought about it, or maybe he hadn’t. maybe he had been too caught up in the bright, artificial orbit of the debut. maybe he had never considered you in those months of silence. either way, it felt like he had erased you. like the boy who had been yours, who had carved himself into your bones, had handed himself over to everyone else without so much as a backward glance.
you wanted to call him. to scream at him. to make him feel the hollow that had settled in your chest, the emptiness that had grown sharper with every can i come over? that had gone unanswered, every late-night text that had never arrived. but the phone lay heavy in your hands. you didn’t.
instead, you went to the rink.
the ice was cold under your blades, harsher than it had been in months. you traced circles, arcs, lines that had once been maps to him. now they were reminders of absence. you fell. more than once. scraped knees, burning palms, aching muscles. and still, you didn’t cry. there was no one there to watch, no one to tilt your chin or whisper that it was okay.
sometimes, when the lights hummed overhead and the machines groaned in their quiet rhythm, you could almost feel him beside you—brushing hair from your face, pressing his lips to your temple, murmuring your name like a spell. but the illusion broke every time you imagined the crowd, the lights, the cameras capturing him for the first time, everyone but you.
he had debuted. officially. 6th place. polished. smiling. professional. untouchable.
you remembered the first time he’d whispered your name under fluorescent lights, the first time he had pressed you against the bedroom wall, the nights tangled in blankets. memories burned sharper now, because they were private, intimate, and the world would never see them. they belonged to you. and yet, he had chosen—or allowed himself—to let the world see him first.
your phone buzzed with messages from friends. congratulations, so proud of him, did you see the performance? you scrolled through the texts, each one a tiny, jagged cut. strangers loved him. everyone loved him. and where were you? in the shadow, always, only allowed to watch.
anger followed grief like a tide. you wanted to text him, to demand why he hadn’t told you, why you had been left to discover this through strangers. you imagined every word, every sharp edge: how could you leave me like this? do you even remember? but your fingers hovered over the keyboard and faltered. maybe you didn’t want to hear his answer. maybe you didn’t want the explanation, because there wouldn’t be one that could undo this.
so the only thing you did instead for months was skating.
you pushed off harder than before, letting your body carry the weight of everything unsaid. your breath came in shallow gasps, your hands ached from gripping the laces, your legs burned from the effort. you fell, again and again, letting the ice scrape and bruise you like it had always been your teacher. but it wasn’t teaching you grace anymore—it was teaching you endurance. endurance of absence. endurance of betrayal. endurance of loving someone who had walked into the world and left you behind.
the rink hummed with quiet machinery, the lights flickered over your figure like an audience that would never cheer for you. you traced the familiar lines, the old arcs, the swooping turns. every glide reminded you of him, every scrape reminded you of the nights he had held you, every ache reminded you that he had chosen the world before you.
you remembered the way he had whispered when your tears spilled freely. the way he had held you through frustration and pain. the intimacy that had once defined you. and now it felt like a wound, raw and open, because he hadn’t even thought to tell you. you hadn’t been worthy of a word, a warning, a small bridge before the flood.
the world had him. the stage had him. cameras had him. strangers had him. you had nothing but memories and ice and the ache of absence pressing against your chest.
because what else could you do?
you traced lines over the cold surface, carving patterns that would be erased by the resurfacer tomorrow. it didn’t matter. the ice was yours, in some small way. it had always been yours. and while the world watched him first, and the crowds loved him before you, at least here, alone, in the cold and fluorescent hum, you could remember the boy who had been yours entirely.
the hollow didn’t leave. the betrayal didn’t fade. the ache didn’t soften.
but your blades cut through the ice, again and again, and you realized something small and bitter: you were still here.
and for now, that was enough.
he was everywhere. cameras, lights, magazines, fan chants that rolled over the globe like thunder. enhypen park sunghoon. idol, star, untouchable. the boy who had held your hand in the fluorescent cold of rinks, who had pressed you under blankets, who had whispered and ran his fingers through your hair while your tears fell freely. he belonged to everyone else now.
not once had he come back for you. not once had he sought you out, not even when visiting family. and that betrayal—it festered quietly, gnawed at you daily.
yeji, his sister, had become your only tether to him. she would text, careful and polite, updates filtered through distance: he’s smiling in rehearsal, he asked about you once, he mentioned skating today. once. one time. a word that felt like a jagged knife, slicing open old wounds you’d tried to stitch over years.
you’d learned to survive in the silence he left behind. you’d trained harder, pushed yourself, clawed your way onto the korea national team for singles. achievements once shared between the two of you were now solitary victories. but still, you wanted him there, to see, to remember, to care. just once.
and then came that evening.
en’oclock, episode twenty. a variety show featuring enhypen, playful segments, laughter, games. but your heart had stopped at the rink. the screen filled with ice under fluorescent lights, and there he was: sunghoon, gliding effortlessly, the apex of everything the world had trained him to be.
you bit your lip. his body was precise, movements sharp and clean, smiles that had been yours now distributed to millions. cameras circled him and his members, microphones captured every word, every breath. and then he told sunoo:
“this isnt even one-tenth of my prime.”
you scoffed, sharp and bitter through the screen. of course it wasn’t. it couldn’t be. he had pulled out from national reserves back then to become a trainee, while you—finally, finally—had earned a spot on the national team. the ice beneath your blades now held weight, authority, your hard-earned skill. and he… he was performing, polished, untouchable, for everyone but you.
your hands clenched. the memories came flooding back: the late nights in freezing arenas, him catching you when you fell, the warmth of his hand pressed against yours under blankets, the whispered encouragements that felt sacred because they were yours alone. and now? now the world was seeing them first. you weren’t even in the frame.
park yeji’s texts vibrated in your pocket, hesitant, careful: he asked about you today. that single phrase repeated like a cruel echo. it wasn’t a call, it wasn’t a visit. it was a reminder that he could reach out, but chose not to. that he had grown into a life you weren’t part of.
your eyes stung. you sat on the couch of your apartment, heart hammering, watching every glide, every turn, every smile polished for the camera. you wanted to scream, to shove your fist through the screen. you wanted him to know, to feel what you felt—the hollow, the grief, the ache of being left behind.
instead, you went to the rink the next morning. alone. the cold bit through your socks, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. the ice was yours now, sharp beneath the blades, alive in ways that reminded you of him—of the two of you racing, laughing, falling, rising.
you skated. hard. faster than you had in years. every push, every arc, every turn was a memory, a prayer, a confession. you fell, again and again,because of the speed and your very horrid balance due to emotions, letting the scrape of knees and palms remind you that you were still alive, still here, still capable.
you remembered the whispers, the late nights pressed together, the vulnerability you had once shared. the boy who had been yours entirely—gone. the world had him, the fans had him, the cameras had him. only fragments remained for you.
your chest ached, a deep, steady pulse of grief and rage. but the ice beneath your blades sang. and in that song, in that friction and cold, you found something small but sharp: resilience. endurance. survival.
he had never come back. he had never said the words, reached out, acknowledged the years you had spent waiting. and yet, here you were, skating through the echoes of the past, carving lines into the surface like you were marking your own territory, your own identity.
the television flickered in the back of your mind, his laughter, his words, the polished star that had been yours once, now claimed by everyone else. you let it wash over you. you let the anger and sorrow flow into the blades beneath your feet.
and when you finally stopped, chest heaving, legs trembling, tears streaking down your face unbidden, you realized something bitter, beautiful, essential: he had the world, and you had yourself.
the ice was yours. the memories were yours. the grief, the ache, the love—it was all yours, untouchable by anyone else.
and for now, that was enough.
because you were still here.
and in the end, that had to be enough.
your video wasn’t supposed to mean anything. it was just practice. another night on the ice, another routine that lived only in your body and your breath. you didn’t even know someone had filmed you until the next morning, when your phone buzzed so violently it slid off your nightstand.
by the time you picked it up, the clip had gone viral. tiktok. instagram. reels. strangers calling you ethereal, powerful, a star. your routine set perfectly to enhypen’s moonstruck.
but what cut deepest wasn’t the comments. it was what came after.
fans tagged him relentlessly. sunghoon-oppa, look at this!, she’s skating to your song!, it’s fate.
and then, impossibly, his weverse comment surfaced:
“wow… didn’t expect this.”
your chest twisted when you saw it. not an apology. not even recognition. just a shallow, public reaction—as if the years you spent together, the nights he held you under blankets, the mornings you laced skates side by side, had been erased into three meaningless words.
but what people didn’t know was that park sunghoon didn’t just see it once.
he watched it over and over. once. no, twice. no—maybe a thousand times. backstage, in hotel rooms, in airports. each replay dug deeper, memories he had buried clawing back up: your laugh, the way your tears slid down his fingers, the sound of your blades catching the ice as kids. he couldn’t stop.
so when his schedule cracked open, when his managers gave him two rare days off, he didn’t rest. he didn’t even tell yeji. he just went.
to the rink as if he knew you were going to be there.
and yes. there you were. skating like you were made of starlight and defiance, the ice bending to your will. he stood at the boards, hands in his pockets, breath fogging the glass.
and then you felt it. that gaze. the one you’d trained yourself to live without.
you slowed, spinning to a stop, and when you looked up—your heart stuttered.
older. sharper. every inch the idol the world worshiped, yet stripped raw in the cold rink air, watching you with the same unguarded intensity he once had when you were both children.
“you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen on the ice,” he said, voice low, trembling at the edges.
you froze. every wound he had left behind split open. and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, sharp, cutting.
“you didn’t even tell me you debuted.”
his mouth parted, a flicker of shame crossing his face. “i—”
“i had to find out online,” you snapped, your voice cracking. “like everyone else. like i was no one.” you skated closer to the side, the scrape of your blades like thunder in the silence. “after everything– we freaking grew up together, hoon. and you didn’t even think I deserved a text?”
his throat bobbed. “it wasn’t like that.”
“then what was it like?” you laughed bitterly, though it tasted like blood. “you used me until training got too heavy, until your career mattered more than anything else. then you left. you didn’t just leave. you erased me.”
“that’s not true.” his voice shook, but he stepped closer to the glass, eyes desperate. “i never erased you. i couldn’t.”
“bullshit,” you hissed. “you never came back. not once. not when you visited home. not when yeji still talked to me. not when you knew damn well i was still here, skating, bleeding for this. you couldn’t even look me in the eye.”
his fists curled in his pockets. “because i was scared.”
you blinked, heat flaring in your chest. “scared?”
“scared that if i saw you again, i wouldn’t leave,” he admitted, voice breaking. “scared that everything i built would collapse because one look at you and i’d want to give it all up.”
silence slammed down. your heart pounded against your ribs, throat burning with unshed tears.
“you don’t get to say that,” you whispered, trembling. “you don’t get to show up now, years later, after i’ve had to stitch myself back together, after i learned how to skate without your hand in mine–”
“but i’m here,” he cut in, desperate, his palm pressing flat to the glass as if he could reach you through it. “i’m here now.”
you stared at him. the boy who had been your world. the man who had left you behind. his eyes were glossy, frantic, like he was on the edge of collapse.
your blades shifted, carrying you backward, away from him.
“too late, sunghoon,” you said softly, voice trembling but steady. “the ice is only mine now.”
and with that, you pushed off, slicing into the rink, your figure disappearing into the hum of cold and light.
behind you, he stayed pressed to the boards, watching—just like before. only now, you weren’t skating for him. with him.
you were skating for yourself.
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