“Do it scared” “do it alone” are all great tips, but my biggest takeaway from therapy is do it messy. This is especially true if you’re getting out of a burnout, which I experience often. Literally just do it messy. You don’t need to pick the perfect trail to walk, the perfect playlist to listen to, whatever the fuck it is. You don’t need to have a meticulous to do list and wake up at the exact time you planned and drink the exact amount of water you planned to drink. Like the biggest thing for people like me to remember is sometimes it’s okay to do it messy. Put on a random yt workout and just get it done in sweats. Do 5 minutes of a daunting task and go from there. Sometimes just getting up is a win during intense burnouts or depressive funks. Literally just do it messy.
Summary: Mingyu was preparing for a divorce when he began to sense that something was wrong with his wife.
Mingyu hadn’t been home since yesterday—or maybe since the day before that. He stopped counting after the fight, the kind that didn’t end with slammed doors but with silence, thickening the wall that had been building between you for over a year. He chose to stay in his humble studio, surrounded by paintings never meant for the world—only for him to face. Each canvas stared back in accusation, as if every unfinished stroke was cursing him.
You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.
Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.
And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.
His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.
“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”
He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.
You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.
“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.
He looked at you then, smiling softly.
“Her family didn’t let her.”
Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.
And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.
The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.
On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.
And there was no reason left to stay.
Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.
He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.
Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?
*
“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”
It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.
“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”
Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.
“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.
There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.
“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”
Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.
He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
Your parents had spoiled you too much.
Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.
Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.
Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.
The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.
They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.
He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.
Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.
He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.
“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.
He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.
He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.
“Ji Y/n…”
As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.
“Kim Mingyu..”
“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.
You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.
“I was just out for air.”
Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”
He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.
“Don’t yell at me.”
The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”
He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.
“Which home?”
He froze.
For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.
“Our home.” he said.
The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—
You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.
He cursed under his breath.
Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.
He called your mother and spoke quietly.
“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”
A pause.
“I’m taking her home.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.
Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.
*
Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.
You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.
He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.
But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.
He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.
“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.
“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.
“I’m just good.”
You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.
He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.
He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.
Since when had he started to hate your work?
It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.
The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.
He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.
However, none of that came.
Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.
“Morning.”
Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.
That was all it took to freeze him in place.
You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.
“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”
You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.
The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.
“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”
You looked at him for a moment, then down.
Your feet.
Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.
“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.
He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.
Your favorite.
He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.
Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.
“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”
You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.
“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”
The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.
Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”
You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”
He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.
That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.
“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.
Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”
He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.
“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”
You blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”
There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.
Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.
That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.
His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.
He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.
Your resignation.
You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.
The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.
Why would you give this up?
Was it for him?
For us?
The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.
You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”
The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.
Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.
Why now?
You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.
Then came the nervousness.
His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.
Was this your way of reaching out?
“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”
As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.
The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.
He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.
*
Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.
He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.
You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.
You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.
You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.
Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.
And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.
The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.
“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.
You looked up. “About what?”
“A kid.”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.
“No,” you said. Too quick.
Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.
“I don’t want one.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.
“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”
You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”
Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”
“I have thought about it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”
You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.
But you didn’t.
“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.
Mingyu blinked. “What?”
“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”
He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.
“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.
Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”
“It’s not just weight.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.
“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”
The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.
And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.
You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.
There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.
Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.
“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You didn’t turn immediately.
“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.
Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.
The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.
It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.
You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.
Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.
Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.
So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.
The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.
*
“What is this?”
Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.
His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?
A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.
Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.
And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.
Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.
Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.
Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.
“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.
And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.
“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.
“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”
Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.
“Aren’t we?”
The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.
You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.
Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.
“I’m tired, Y/n.”
The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”
There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.
“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”
The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.
“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”
Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.
“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Because at least that would make sense.”
But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.
“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”
The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.
“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”
He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.
“I can’t keep doing that.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.
That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.
“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”
A beat. Then, softer—
“I want a divorce.”
No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.
*
Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.
The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.
Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.
You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.
Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.
But it came out uneven. Shallow.
“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.
Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.
Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.
There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—
But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.
Because in your mind, you were still trying.
You drove to the gallery on autopilot.
The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.
You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.
Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.
But then—
Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.
Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.
“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”
You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.
“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.
The question threw you off more than it should have.
“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”
His brows furrowed.
“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”
A pause.
Then—
“It’s been a week since you resigned.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.
You stared at him.
“…What?”
Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.
“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”
Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
And that hesitation, that was worse.
“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s why you resigned.”
Something in your stomach dropped.
Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.
“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”
The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.
A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”
Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.
“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
They hung in the air—wrong.
Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.
Seungkwan froze.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.
“Again?” he asked quietly.
Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.
“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.
Again.
Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.
“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”
Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence—
it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.
Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.
“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”
The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.
Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”
But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.
A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.
A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.
It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.
“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”
Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.
“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”
The world tilted.
“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.
“No, that’s not—no.”
But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.
Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.
The word hit harder than anything else.
Miscarried.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.
“That’s not possible,” you whispered..
Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.
“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”
You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.
“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”
Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”
That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”
You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.
There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.
You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.
Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.
Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.
Patient Name: Y/n.
Date: two weeks ago.
Your breath caught. And then, there it was.
Miscarriage.
The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.
Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.
Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.
“…No.”
It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?
*
You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.
Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.
The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.
You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.
You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?
The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—
Mingyu.
Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.
You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.
Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.
Your throat tightened slightly.
“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”
There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.
“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.
Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.
“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”
The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.
“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”
The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.
Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.
You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.
The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.
Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.
A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.
The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.
A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.
Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.
The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.
Red.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.
Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.
Then silence.
A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.
Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Another shift.
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.
“Y/N!”
The world snapped back violently.
The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.
The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.
Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”
Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.
Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”
The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”
Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.
Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.
And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.
*
Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.
His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.
“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”
His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.
“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”
He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.
No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.
“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.
Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.
This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.
“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”
You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”
Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.
Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.
“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”
His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.
“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.
You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”
Mingyu froze.
“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”
But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?
His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?
His chest tightened.
“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”
You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”
Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.
But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.
And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.
“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”
The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.
“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”
And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.
Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”
Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”
Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.
“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”
Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.
“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”
Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.
“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.
You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.
Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.
“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”
That did it.
His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.
“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”
Your grip on him only tightened.
“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”
Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.
Again.
The words hit him harder than anything else had.
Again.
His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.
He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.
“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”
You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.
*
The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.
You were inside. Unconscious.
Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.
And just like that, you were gone.
The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?
Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.
Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.
“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.
Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.
“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.
Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.
Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”
Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.
“She’s had episodes like this before.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.
“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”
Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”
The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”
“She was assaulted.”
The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.
“…What?” The word barely left him.
Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”
Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.
“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”
Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.
“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”
“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.
Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.
“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.
Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”
Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.
And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.
His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.
“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”
Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.
Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.
His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.
Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.
“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”
“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”
Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”
Something in his chest dropped.
“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”
Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.
“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.
But days?
“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.
Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.
“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”
Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”
Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.
“I need space.”
The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.
“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”
Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”
Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.
“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”
Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.
Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.
It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.
“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”
Mingyu’s head snapped up.
“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”
His stomach dropped.
“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.
Mingyu froze.
“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.
His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.
Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.
“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”
Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”
Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.
Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.
And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.
*
You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.
You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.
It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.
Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.
At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.
And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.
So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.
Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.
And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.
You told yourself it was easier that way.
Safer.
If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.
But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.
You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.
You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.
The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.
Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.
You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.
And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.
*
Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.
“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.
The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.
You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?
“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”
She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.
You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.
“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”
The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.
“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.
Suji.
“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”
She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.
You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.
“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”
You paused mid-chew. You worked?
The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.
A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—
“Kim Mingyu.”
The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.
Suji froze slightly.
“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.
You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.
“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.
A small pause.
Then—
“My husband.”
The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.
Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.
Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.
My husband.
It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.
Name: Ji Y/N
Age: 56 years old
Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance
Guardian: —
Emergency Contact: —
Empty. All of it.
She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.
Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.
For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.
But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.
“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.
Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.
Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.
A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.
Suji went still.
“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.
Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.
She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.
Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.
And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.
Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.
Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.
Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.
Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.
Kim Mingyu.
*
The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.
And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.
Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.
Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.
He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.
Careless.
Cold.
He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.
“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.
You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.
“I know you,” you said softly.
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“My husband,” you added.
The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.
Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.
Mingyu swallowed.
“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.
You blinked.
“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—
A studio.
Raised voices.
His voice—
I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.
A paper in your hand.
The word divorce.
Your chest tightened—
And then it slipped.
Gone.
You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.
Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.
“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.
You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”
Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.
“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.
Mingyu stilled.
“What?” he asked.
Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.
I was scared.
I was hurting.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.
Your breathing faltered slightly.
“I—” you started.
Mingyu leaned forward just a little.
For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.
“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.
His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.
You tried.
God, you tried.
“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”
Your voice cracked.
Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.
But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”
Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.
“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.
The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.
You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.
“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”
The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.
You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.
“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.
Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.
The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.
“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.
“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”
The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.
“…I think I did,” you said softly.
And somehow, that hurt him more.
Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.
“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.
You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”
When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.
“Goodbye, Mingyu.”
He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.
However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .
Summary: Mingyu was preparing for a divorce when he began to sense that something was wrong with his wife.
Mingyu hadn’t been home since yesterday—or maybe since the day before that. He stopped counting after the fight, the kind that didn’t end with slammed doors but with silence, thickening the wall that had been building between you for over a year. He chose to stay in his humble studio, surrounded by paintings never meant for the world—only for him to face. Each canvas stared back in accusation, as if every unfinished stroke was cursing him.
You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.
Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.
And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.
His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.
“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”
He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.
You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.
“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.
He looked at you then, smiling softly.
“Her family didn’t let her.”
Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.
And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.
The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.
On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.
And there was no reason left to stay.
Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.
He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.
Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?
*
“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”
It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.
“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”
Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.
“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.
There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.
“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”
Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.
He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
Your parents had spoiled you too much.
Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.
Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.
Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.
The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.
They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.
He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.
Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.
He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.
“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.
He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.
He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.
“Ji Y/n…”
As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.
“Kim Mingyu..”
“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.
You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.
“I was just out for air.”
Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”
He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.
“Don’t yell at me.”
The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”
He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.
“Which home?”
He froze.
For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.
“Our home.” he said.
The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—
You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.
He cursed under his breath.
Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.
He called your mother and spoke quietly.
“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”
A pause.
“I’m taking her home.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.
Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.
*
Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.
You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.
He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.
But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.
He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.
“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.
“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.
“I’m just good.”
You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.
He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.
He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.
Since when had he started to hate your work?
It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.
The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.
He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.
However, none of that came.
Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.
“Morning.”
Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.
That was all it took to freeze him in place.
You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.
“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”
You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.
The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.
“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”
You looked at him for a moment, then down.
Your feet.
Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.
“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.
He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.
Your favorite.
He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.
Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.
“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”
You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.
“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”
The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.
Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”
You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”
He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.
That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.
“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.
Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”
He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.
“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”
You blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”
There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.
Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.
That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.
His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.
He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.
Your resignation.
You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.
The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.
Why would you give this up?
Was it for him?
For us?
The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.
You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”
The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.
Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.
Why now?
You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.
Then came the nervousness.
His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.
Was this your way of reaching out?
“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”
As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.
The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.
He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.
*
Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.
He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.
You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.
You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.
You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.
Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.
And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.
The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.
“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.
You looked up. “About what?”
“A kid.”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.
“No,” you said. Too quick.
Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.
“I don’t want one.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.
“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”
You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”
Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”
“I have thought about it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”
You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.
But you didn’t.
“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.
Mingyu blinked. “What?”
“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”
He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.
“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.
Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”
“It’s not just weight.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.
“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”
The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.
And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.
You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.
There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.
Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.
“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You didn’t turn immediately.
“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.
Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.
The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.
It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.
You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.
Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.
Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.
So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.
The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.
*
“What is this?”
Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.
His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?
A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.
Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.
And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.
Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.
Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.
Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.
“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.
And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.
“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.
“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”
Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.
“Aren’t we?”
The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.
You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.
Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.
“I’m tired, Y/n.”
The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”
There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.
“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”
The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.
“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”
Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.
“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Because at least that would make sense.”
But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.
“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”
The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.
“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”
He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.
“I can’t keep doing that.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.
That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.
“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”
A beat. Then, softer—
“I want a divorce.”
No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.
*
Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.
The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.
Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.
You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.
Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.
But it came out uneven. Shallow.
“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.
Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.
Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.
There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—
But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.
Because in your mind, you were still trying.
You drove to the gallery on autopilot.
The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.
You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.
Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.
But then—
Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.
Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.
“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”
You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.
“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.
The question threw you off more than it should have.
“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”
His brows furrowed.
“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”
A pause.
Then—
“It’s been a week since you resigned.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.
You stared at him.
“…What?”
Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.
“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”
Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
And that hesitation, that was worse.
“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s why you resigned.”
Something in your stomach dropped.
Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.
“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”
The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.
A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”
Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.
“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
They hung in the air—wrong.
Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.
Seungkwan froze.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.
“Again?” he asked quietly.
Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.
“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.
Again.
Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.
“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”
Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence—
it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.
Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.
“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”
The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.
Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”
But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.
A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.
A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.
It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.
“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”
Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.
“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”
The world tilted.
“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.
“No, that’s not—no.”
But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.
Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.
The word hit harder than anything else.
Miscarried.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.
“That’s not possible,” you whispered..
Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.
“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”
You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.
“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”
Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”
That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”
You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.
There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.
You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.
Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.
Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.
Patient Name: Y/n.
Date: two weeks ago.
Your breath caught. And then, there it was.
Miscarriage.
The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.
Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.
Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.
“…No.”
It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?
*
You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.
Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.
The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.
You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.
You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?
The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—
Mingyu.
Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.
You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.
Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.
Your throat tightened slightly.
“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”
There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.
“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.
Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.
“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”
The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.
“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”
The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.
Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.
You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.
The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.
Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.
A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.
The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.
A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.
Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.
The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.
Red.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.
Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.
Then silence.
A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.
Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Another shift.
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.
“Y/N!”
The world snapped back violently.
The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.
The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.
Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”
Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.
Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”
The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”
Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.
Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.
And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.
*
Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.
His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.
“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”
His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.
“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”
He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.
No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.
“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.
Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.
This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.
“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”
You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”
Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.
Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.
“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”
His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.
“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.
You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”
Mingyu froze.
“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”
But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?
His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?
His chest tightened.
“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”
You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”
Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.
But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.
And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.
“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”
The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.
“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”
And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.
Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”
Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”
Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.
“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”
Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.
“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”
Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.
“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.
You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.
Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.
“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”
That did it.
His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.
“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”
Your grip on him only tightened.
“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”
Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.
Again.
The words hit him harder than anything else had.
Again.
His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.
He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.
“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”
You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.
*
The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.
You were inside. Unconscious.
Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.
And just like that, you were gone.
The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?
Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.
Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.
“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.
Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.
“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.
Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.
Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”
Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.
“She’s had episodes like this before.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.
“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”
Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”
The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”
“She was assaulted.”
The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.
“…What?” The word barely left him.
Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”
Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.
“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”
Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.
“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”
“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.
Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.
“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.
Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”
Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.
And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.
His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.
“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”
Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.
Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.
His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.
Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.
“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”
“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”
Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”
Something in his chest dropped.
“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”
Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.
“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.
But days?
“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.
Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.
“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”
Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”
Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.
“I need space.”
The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.
“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”
Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”
Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.
“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”
Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.
Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.
It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.
“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”
Mingyu’s head snapped up.
“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”
His stomach dropped.
“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.
Mingyu froze.
“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.
His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.
Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.
“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”
Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”
Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.
Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.
And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.
*
You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.
You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.
It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.
Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.
At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.
And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.
So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.
Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.
And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.
You told yourself it was easier that way.
Safer.
If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.
But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.
You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.
You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.
The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.
Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.
You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.
And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.
*
Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.
“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.
The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.
You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?
“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”
She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.
You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.
“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”
The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.
“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.
Suji.
“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”
She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.
You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.
“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”
You paused mid-chew. You worked?
The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.
A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—
“Kim Mingyu.”
The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.
Suji froze slightly.
“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.
You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.
“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.
A small pause.
Then—
“My husband.”
The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.
Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.
Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.
My husband.
It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.
Name: Ji Y/N
Age: 56 years old
Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance
Guardian: —
Emergency Contact: —
Empty. All of it.
She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.
Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.
For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.
But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.
“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.
Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.
Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.
A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.
Suji went still.
“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.
Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.
She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.
Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.
And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.
Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.
Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.
Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.
Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.
Kim Mingyu.
*
The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.
And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.
Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.
Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.
He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.
Careless.
Cold.
He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.
“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.
You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.
“I know you,” you said softly.
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“My husband,” you added.
The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.
Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.
Mingyu swallowed.
“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.
You blinked.
“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—
A studio.
Raised voices.
His voice—
I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.
A paper in your hand.
The word divorce.
Your chest tightened—
And then it slipped.
Gone.
You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.
Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.
“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.
You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”
Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.
“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.
Mingyu stilled.
“What?” he asked.
Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.
I was scared.
I was hurting.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.
Your breathing faltered slightly.
“I—” you started.
Mingyu leaned forward just a little.
For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.
“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.
His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.
You tried.
God, you tried.
“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”
Your voice cracked.
Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.
But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”
Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.
“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.
The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.
You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.
“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”
The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.
You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.
“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.
Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.
The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.
“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.
“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”
The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.
“…I think I did,” you said softly.
And somehow, that hurt him more.
Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.
“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.
You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”
When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.
“Goodbye, Mingyu.”
He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.
However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .
— synopsis: you and wonwoo are bound by the radio waves of wireless fidelity — and lose each other to the ether, until you're both on opposite ends of the same state, and on opposite sides of where you need to be to belong to one another...even when something tells you that it was never supposed to be you and him forever.
– genre: estranged friends to ??? ; angst, suggestive, tiniest bit fluff.
— pairing: jeon wonwoo x fem!reader [feat. choi seungcheol.]
– word count: 6.8k
— rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
– warnings: long-distance situationship. lots of angst. mentions of sex and sexual acts but nothing happens? like the sex is described but its not a sex scene. mingyu mention hehehe. mentions of fraternities and everclear (yes they get a warning.) swearing. mentions of pregnancy and labor, nothing graphic. mentions of virginity loss, oral sex, marking, p in v sex. will tag smut just in case!
— what to listen to: facebook friends - niki ; on the drive home - niki ; the apartment we won't share - niki ; take a chance with me - niki ; oceans and engines - niki ; anaheim - niki ; man i need - olivia dean.
– author’s note: welcome back to haologram! this is a special segment i’ve created to give a quick thank you to all of my friends this holiday season, and this one is for the moomin to my snufkin @kkaetnipjeon. mj, you have truly shown me what it is like to be able to tolerate a gemini and i could never be more thankful for your presence in my life. you have shown me kindness and bestowed wisdom upon me that i would feel too worried to ask anyone else and yet, your ability to make me feel comfortable enough to ask questions has made you such a standout figure in my life. thank you for being around and i love you. happy haolidays, mj! i love you!
♫ NOW PLAYING: FACEBOOK FRIENDS - NIKI.
You'd met Jeon Wonwoo on a Reddit forum on Halloween.
It was years ago — you were both sixteen under the stupid r/Minecraft forum. You'd been looking for friends to play with, he'd been new to the game and asked the most basic questions, and you'd found it easy to tease u/GAM3BO1 (while still giving him the answers he was looking for) about not being as much as a 'game boy' as he thought. He'd wound up DMing you to join his server, and you did — eventually, building crafting tables in your shared pink wool cottage.
Eventually, the friendship fizzled out and long nights staying up playing together stopped. You were friends on Facebook, he wrote on your wall once and then, like the plethora of internet friends you'd made at that point — disappeared into the ether.
Until four years later, you were splayed across your dorm room bed with your cousin, eating a plate of stale cookies and comparing how long your lists of Facebook friends were. She had the odd hundred, you had kept yours small (and hadn't checked or updated your account in ages) — and she quickly pointed at Wonwoo's profile.
"Who is that?"
"Somebody I met on Reddit a handful of years ago. We played Minecraft together, he built me a pink house. It was pretty cute."
She gave you an odd look as you shoved the last cookie into your cheek, and proceeded to scroll through her list of friends, seeing no one with the same name. You clicked his profile, seeing an update from just six days back. He was bigger — broader, smiling brightly as he posed with a tagged friend: Kim Mingyu.
"He's cute," your cousin pointed at Mingyu, and you scoffed, turning your phone away. "Wait, what's his name? What if I find him?"
"Mina, if you do, have him." You rolled your eyes, tilting your phone closer to your face and scrolling a bit more. It seemed like he'd fully fleshed his life out — he was going to school for engineering, transferring from Rutgers on the East Coast and had lots of soccer posts. You remembered being on calls with him when you were sixteen, often hearing his choppy laugh through his shitty microphone whenever you asked about his soccer team. He said he'd been shit, but the more you scroll — he got a scholarship for soccer, and he was the UC Berkeley team captain.
You were at San Diego State, almost eight hours away by car — the closest you had ever been to one another. He'd grown up in the rainy streets New Jersey and cheeks pricked by brutal winter winds, your skin kissed by the warm sun of California's soft seasons, barely knowing what a thunderstorm was.
Mingyu seemingly posted on his wall, too — giving him song recommendations, telling him to call him back because he knew he was on his phone. You wound up clicking around and finding that Mingyu was also at Berkeley, and a brother of Alpha Sigma Phi — having roped Wonwoo into Jell-O wrestling at the house parties and you didn't see a single beer can or bottle along his profile.
He was smart.
"Says here Kim Mingyu is single." Your cousin sang, tapping the screen with her manicured nail, courtesy of you (after you both inhaled a shitload of monomer due to the fact that your dorm windows barely cracked and inch and your ceiling fan had broken two weeks prior. You gave her a pointed look, waving her off — not seeing her add him and send off a message request.
That was the beginning of the end, you think.
♫ NOW PLAYING: ON THE DRIVE HOME - NIKI.
Mina had managed to score a day to meet with Mingyu — the guy had been incredibly intrigued by her story of finding him through her cousin (you) and her cousin's (still you) old internet friend (Jeon Wonwoo.) Apparently, the trip up to San Francisco had been a lie — you were sat in her passenger seat after she'd gotten on the I-5 S, absolutely silent after she told you the truth. You weren't mad, you don't think — but you felt…invaded. You felt like your privacy was now held in someone else's hands, and that you had no choice but to stay in the car and go to Berkeley.
It was Halloween weekend, and you were missing several ragers that you'd been invited to (but weren't going to go to, anyway. You'd just gotten a new set of beads in the mail and you were absolutely going to spend all weekend making bracelets for your Student Council.
She told you when you cruised through Lost Hills that if you really didn't want to go, she'd take you to San Francisco and drop you off with your grandmother and go back on her own. She didn't want you to be there if you were uncomfortable — and you'd only argued that she should've asked you that before she used your life to weasel her way into Mingyu's good graces. She frowned, pulling into a 7-Eleven and getting you a cherry Slurpee, fruit snacks and a bag of Doritos as an apology.
You accepted them, but still turned your nose up at her as she continued up the interstate — the too-sweet taste of the artificial cherry reminding you of an odd situationship back in high school. Nothing serious, it didn't make you want to die at all — but free Slurpee is a free Slurpee, and you'd be damned to let it go to waste.
It wasn't until you saw UC Berkeley in all its glory that it hit you — how real this was becoming.
How real Jeon Wonwoo could be. Choppy laughed heard clear, his off-key renditions of 2NE1's I Am The Best and what he was potentially like with girls.
Did Wonwoo get girls?
Was he still glued to his computer? You remember him spending weekends talking to you on the phone, fiddling around with old computers while he let you tinker around on the BedRock server while his skin was idle. You remember chewing on your cheek as he cut in and out, his signal horrible in the attic that was his room. Sometimes it would fail and he'd call you back again, sounding clear for three minutes before the signal got shitty again.
You don't think you could handle the idea of Wonwoo being flirty. Much less, liking girls enough to come onto them. You don't know if Wonwoo drinks, if he's even ever had his first kiss — it wasn't any of your business when you were teenagers, and it certainly wasn't now.
You begged your cousin to take you to San Francisco as she parked her car in front of the fraternity house — her eyes wide as your panic became far too evident and she simply reached over and tugged on a strand of your hair to snap you out of it. You scowled, smacking the back of her head as she huffed, "you were going to ralph all over my center console if I didn't! Take a deep breath, man. Chances are that Wonwoo won't even be here."
She lied.
Well. She was wrong, but she was also still a liar — because the front door of the frat house swung open, the sound of Apink's Luv blasting through the air as the Jeon Wonwoo came barreling out. There was a boyish grin on his face as he ran down the hill, glancing over his shoulder once as he bolted past your cousin's car — Mingyu just a yard behind him. Rickety laughter was heard all throughout the parking lot and you glanced at Mina, whose eyes were wide when a bunch of other brothers followed, spitting their drinks out and pouring a bowl of punch into the bushes.
Mingyu gave up on catching Wonwoo, apparently — returning with a crushed cup in his hand and a grimace on his face. His lips were pursed as you and Mina gave each other confused glances, before one of the other fraternity brothers comes towards Mingyu.
"Did you catch him?" His thick brows are furrowed, lips pouty as Mingyu rolls his eyes.
"Obviously not, Cheol. If you wanna go—"
"Fuck no. God, here. Just get Jeonghan to run back down to the liquor store…I'm sorry, are you ladies looking for someone?"
The guy was holding a wad of cash in his hand, counting out what seem to be twenties as his eyes landed on you. His eyes shamelessly raked up your frame, stopping at the hem of your shorts. You scowled, and Mingyu rolled his eyes, shoving the guy and taking the money from his hand.
"They're here for me, dickwad." Mingyu scoffed, and Mina's cheeks flushed as she made eye contact with him. You rolled your eyes so hard you were sure they'd get stuck, but the boy with the brows — 'Cheol' — only smirked, "both of them are here for you? Isn't that a little greedy, Mingyu?"
"Uh, Mingyu. This is Y/N, my cousin. The one I told you about." Mina finally opens her historically big mouth, and you shook Mingyu's hand over the top of her 2009 Civic. He gave you a cute smile, before the boy with the brows rapped his knuckles on the hood of her car, "Mingyu, he's right there."
"Ladies, I'll be right back." He excused himself, and Wonwoo sprinted back across the lot the moment he saw Mingyu peeking at him. You aimlessly took a sip of your Slurpee as Mina introduced herself to the boy with the brows, before he extended his hand over to you.
"Seungcheol."
"Y/N. Nauseated to meet you."
"Chipper. I like it."
Mingyu caught Wonwoo by the shirt, tackling him on the grass moments later — only for Wonwoo to wiggle out of Mingyu's grasp and run around other side of Mina's car. He was sweaty and out of breath, but his eyes never left Mingyu as he adjusted his glasses.
"Just hear me out, Gyu…" he laughed as Mingyu lunged for him, and Seungcheol only leaned on the hood of the car as you nibbled on a fruit snack. He wiggled his brows at you as you offered him some, holding his hand out as Wonwoo dodged Mingyu's attempts at catching him, "I made money from it! I'll buy your shit to make the punch, I promise!"
"Someone paid you to put Everclear in the punch and you listened?!" Mingyu grabbed Wonwoo's arm but he twisted out again, giggling as he hid behind you, his hands on your arms as Mingyu scowled. You were trapped between the two of them, your eyes wide as Mina met them across the roof of her car. You glanced at Seungcheol, who stood up abruptly, ready to intervene if you needed it.
He was kind of cute.
"You wouldn't hit me now, would you? There's a girl here! Think of her…think of…I'm sorry, what's your name, Miss?" Wonwoo's hands pulled you back against him, your face burning hot as his eyes made contact with yours. His brows furrowed as he turned you, Mingyu face palming behind you, "Y/N?"
"Is this where you guys kiss? Because I'll be sick." Seungcheol piped up from his spot behind Wonwoo, and you snorted, "we're not gonna kiss."
"Oh my God, it is you!" Wonwoo exclaimed, "how have you been? Are you okay? Did you move here? I thought you would've gone to San Diego State?"
Surprisingly, Wonwoo did not forget about you.
He broke his phone and forgot his Facebook password for three years. By the time he'd gotten back in, you hadn't posted on your profile in ages — so like any loser, he decided not to message you. Mingyu was also witness to all of this, because he transferred out of Manhattan to Cherry Hill the same summer that you and Wonwoo stopped playing together.
Wonwoo wasn't staying for the weekend, he'd been dared to dump the Everclear into the punch and dash. He'd actually packed his car up to leave right after — to San Diego of all places, meeting his girlfriend at San Diego State for one of the many ragers you'd been invited to. He'd given you his number and a sweaty hug, begging to catch up soon — that he'd drive down or you could drive up or you'd figure something out.
No one noticed the way your heart sank to your stomach except Seungcheol — his eyes fixed on you as Wonwoo gave Mingyu half the money he'd gotten to repurchase punch materials. He offered his room for you to stay in, saying he'd room with Jeonghan down the hall while your cousin shacked up with Mingyu for the weekend — giving you privacy and a moment to realize that Wonwoo was a boyfriend to someone that went to school on your campus.
And enough time to make you realize that you might've gone up to Berkeley with the hopes of something blossoming between you both. You felt dumb, just a tad — and decidedly spent the weekend getting absolutely plastered.
And maybe just a bit too close to Seungcheol. Close enough that he danced with you all night while both absolutely sober, dragging his hands down your sides and holding your hips to his. Close enough that he pulled you upstairs with him, pinning you against the door of his bedroom as the reinforced wood muffled the sound of In The Dark by Dev playing throughout the house.
Close enough that he almost took your virginity that night, but stopped when things got too heated — saying he didn't want to do something you could regret. You'd raised a brow at him, glancing at the bulge in his pants that was pressed against your thigh, his hands cupping your chest under your top but over your bra. He'd climbed off you, but you cut him off before he could apologize — asking if he'd stay the night. He eagerly agreed, and far more intimate things ensued — a shower together in his small tub, tentative tongues wandering and curious fingers traveling wet skin enough that you ended up on your knees in front of him and he'd splayed your legs open on his sheets right after, burying his face between them.
You went home with Seungcheol's phone number, three hickeys blooming on your chest and the taste of his lips on yours.
And Wonwoo's number was long forgotten at the bottom of your contacts.
♫ NOW PLAYING: THE APARTMENT THAT WE WON'T SHARE - NIKI.
Your junior year of college came and went. You and Seungcheol alternated weekends driving up and down the bay of California. By the spring semester, you were his girlfriend and things felt serious — serious enough that he drove down to San Diego on June weekend to stay with you. He was meant to meet your other friends and some of your cousins you trusted not to rat to your parents — said parents had gone up to San Francisco for a week, turning their noses up at you for saying you didn't feel well enough to visit your aunts and gossip about people you didn't know anymore.
Gossip clearly made the world go round.
Unrelated to Seungcheol's trip, Wonwoo had also made a trip down. The two of you were on semi-speaking terms — talking more when you'd gone up every other weekend to see and spend time with Seungcheol, carpooling with your cousin who had successfully sunk her claws into Mingyu's honeyed shoulders. You spent Friday evenings talking to Wonwoo. Saturday morning was spent watching soccer practices and the afternoons watching games…and the evenings and all of Sunday spent getting Seungcheol's fingertips bruised into your hips as you took your weekly frustrations out on each other. He'd taken your virginity on a very sweet weekend, spent away from soccer and his stupid fraternity brothers, constantly telling you that things did not have to happen if you didn't want to.
Yosemite National Park was now a landmark in your relationship, and you remember the way he'd nervously told you about the cottage he'd booked and the way he practically forgot how to kiss you. You'd taken the reins, checking you both in and making sure you both enjoyed the trip.
Including the quiet night that you realized Seungcheol could be the love of your life — and how much it scared you to think that he was. Not because Seungcheol wasn't a good guy, he was absolutely great.
It just worried you that he wouldn't feel the same — so you kept it to yourself. You bit your tongue, you kissed his neck and held him close as his thumb circled your clit to ease the ache between your thighs.
And you whispered those three little words right back, after he let them fall first — the moment he thought you fell asleep, right into the skin of your shoulder as he pressed a lingering kiss to it.
I love you.
Seungcheol's week in your bed was only on it's second day when Wonwoo called you — saying he was in San Diego and stranded because he broke up with his girlfriend. You had looked at Seungcheol with a worried expression as Wonwoo meekly asked to stay with you for the time being, because he'd taken a flight instead of driving down to kill time.
"He's our friend," you'd told Seungcheol through gritted teeth as you drove the two of you back to his now ex-girlfriend's complex to pick him up. Seungcheol had tongued his cheek, "this is the only week I get to spend with you and we have to keep him until Sunday."
You'd made Seungcheol smile and laugh for the rest of the week, not wanting Wonwoo to wallow in his breakup. You argued with Seungcheol in your bedroom in hushed voices, Wonwoo just down the hall in the guest bedroom that you'd cozied up for him. This went on for two days, until Mingyu and your cousin made the trip down to meet her parents — and Wonwoo drove back up to Berkeley with them.
The trip down had been soured for you and Seungcheol, and he left your house with a sigh and a tick in his jaw. He pressed a kiss your lips, hard — like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to stake his claim.
Your senior year of college was hard. You and Seungcheol were slammed with coursework and couldn't make the drives to each other as much as you would have liked, opting for FaceTime calls and Seungcheol took one flight down to spend twelve hours in your bedroom with you before climbing out your window and going right back to the airport.
Winter break came around, and you meekly asked if he wanted to spend it with you and your family. Your mother had overheard too many FaceTime calls and you'd spilled the beans, and he had eagerly agreed — and you booked his flight to stay with you for a week, and you'd both fly up to Yosemite for the New Year. Your mother made him sleep in the guest bedroom, and your father quickly put him to work — clearing the gutters, mowing the lawn, polishing silver around your house. Seungcheol did it all happily…
Until Mingyu and Mina showed up at your door, yielding a drunk Wonwoo who was very clearly searching for you. You'd gaped as they explained that he'd made the trip down with them, wanting to spend his Christmas in San Diego with his best friend — only for them to get a few beers in him and realize that he meant you.
Seungcheol was furious, but he swallowed it and moved Wonwoo into the guest room for the night. You'd explained to your parents and they quickly agreed Seungcheol could sleep in your room — but your boyfriend of almost a year (come January third) turned away from you, marking right back down the stairs and sleeping on your couch.
You promise yourself you'll never love a man enough again to lay on the ground and hold his hand while he sleeps. You promise yourself you'll never, ever love a man enough again to let him peel open his eyes, tears brimming in them as he pulls his hand out of yours and tells you he doesn't think it'll keep working if this keeps happening.
You and Seungcheol boarded the flight to Yosemite with a fight brewing in your bellies, and it officially broke the moment the two of you stepped foot in the booked cottage. You started pacing around like caged animals — you called him insecure and he called you too available. You said he was overreacting and he accused you of disregarding his feelings.
And a part of you knew you were, but you didn't know why.
The fight continued throughout the week — wake up, eat breakfast and argue, then fuck all your pent up stress out until the sun went down. The nights were quiet, some full of tears — some his, some yours, but the thickness in your voices was unmistakable.
Your relationship would not survive the year, the distance, or Jeon Wonwoo.
Your flights flew out at different times and from different terminals. You said goodbye to Seungcheol with a kiss that broke him, tears spilling down his cheeks as he silently begged you to stay. To try, to fit him into your life the way he knew he did — but you knew you were haunted by what could've been.
He knew you were haunted by what could've been.
And he let you walk away from him, boarding your flight to San Diego on January 3rd and breaking his heart for the very first and last time.
♫ NOW PLAYING: TAKE A CHANCE WITH ME - NIKI.
You graduated university at the top of your class, and you cut contact with Wonwoo entirely. You deleted your Facebook profile, your Reddit account, and changed your number. You didn't speak to Mina all that often anymore, either — ignoring the hurt in her eyes when you'd cut conversations short or tell her you were too busy to hang out. You skipped her birthday party that year, spending that July weekend staring at your ceiling with a gaping hole in your chest that ached to call Seungcheol.
Yet, your mind wandered to Wonwoo.
Enough that you drove up to San Francisco, where you knew Mina was holding her birthday party — and walked in with an array of gifts. Puzzles, nail supplies, skincare she'd been talking about for ages but would never shell the money out to get…
And you made eye contact with Wonwoo as she pulled you into a crushing embrace, his face filling with surprise and your own with annoyance as you avoided him for the majority of the party — until he caught you outside, your phone in your hand with the urge to call Seungcheol.
"Y/N, please." Wonwoo begged, his hand gently splayed on your upper back as you sighed. "Just listen to me, I have to explain."
Explaining led you both to Wonwoo's car, parked at the end of the street and hidden from view by trees. Explaining led you both to the backseat of Wonwoo's car, his hands holding your thighs apart and his tongue working you over as you clapped your hand over your mouth.
Explaining led to you climbing into his lap and sinking on his cock with a muffled whimper, his thumb sucked into your mouth as his other hand palmed at your ass. It led to you letting him kiss your skin messily, sucking marks into it haphazardly and ripping the flimsy fabric of your bra. It led to him covering every inch of you that he could reach in him — your soft belly painted with his cum as he flipped you onto it in his backseat, your hips bruised with his fingertips and sharp smacks that made you push back against him marked across the swell of your ass in the form of his hand.
Explaining led to you going home with him to his place, leaving your car at your aunt's house as you both Irish Goodbye'd the party in favor of him practically ripping your dress off and pinning you to his mattress.
You both laid in said mattress with the realization that you couldn't even call it a drunken mistake, because you were both sober.
You agree to a date after Wonwoo begs you through teary kisses. You agree to a date after you tell him that he's ruining your life, that you wish you'd never met him on that stupid Minecraft forum — before you both laugh, because it's stupid. It's so stupid and you're both so young and dumb…and a part of you thinks you're in love.
And the other part knows.
One date turns to two, two dates turn to eight — and eventually, you're spending Christmas with his family in New Jersey. Eventually, you're undressed in his bedroom that he used to call you from, and the signal is still as shitty as it was then — check-in calls with your parents breaking up every few minutes to the point that you end up calling them from the Jeons' landline with an apologetic look on your face as your potential sister-in-law gives you a dirty look.
You're not his girlfriend until New Year's Eve, when he asks you two minutes before the ball drops. He's hold you close in the middle of Manhattan, his lips warm against the shell of your ear as you look at him through your lashes. He's got a gleam in his eyes that makes you want to say no, just to wonder if he'd pout. If he'd beg, if he'd plead.
You say yes ten seconds to the New Year, and you're already kissing each other when January 1st rings in.
January 3rd comes and goes, and you're back in San Diego when Wonwoo tells you that he could move down or you could move up to San Francisco.
You don't have the heart to tell him you hate San Francisco.
And you don't tell him that Seungcheol would've moved down as you decide to move up.
♫ NOW PLAYING: OCEANS AND ENGINES - NIKI.
Your relationship with Wonwoo gets to the three-year mark when you realize you want more out of life — you're just not sure what.
You're both twenty-five, spending your days in a sort of Groundhog Day rerun. You wake up, you eat breakfast together. You kiss in the doorway before going your separate ways to work — he goes downtown to the high school he's teaching Physics at, and you go uptown to the firm you're designing ad campaigns at. Wonwoo messages you twice — once before lunch, once twenty minutes before he gets off to ask what you might want for dinner.
You spend every Thursday together, roaming the streets of San Francisco. Wonwoo's hidden behind a camera, a hobby he'd picked up a year before the two of you reunited at Berkeley. He takes perfectly angled photos of you, he makes you feel like his muse.
Wonwoo is a good boyfriend. He holds you just right, he learned to cook, he pulls himself away from his computer and his desk to give you attention regularly. He plans date nights meticulously, he takes your anniversary very seriously.
So you don't understand the problem.
And you feel like a jerk as you slowly feel yourself start to pull away…not knowing he's doing the same.
It starts with Thursdays being scrapped. You'll go home, claiming a headache and he'll come to you — eventually, the migraine turns into period cramps, turn into vertigo, turn into whatever excuse you want and he takes it as a sign to leave you alone. He goes on his own, taking pictures of things he thought you'd like and showing them to you.
And you do like them. You love them, even — your hand smoothing over his mussed hair before you pull him into a kiss. A kiss that turns into your hand down his pants and his hips rutting into it, a kiss that turns into his fingers unclasping your bra expertly and sucking your nipple into his mouth. A kiss that was once a silly distraction turning into I'll do whatever I can to stop talking about this.
Wonwoo notices.
Wonwoo asks.
You don't answer directly. There's no one else and you're absolutely honest about that — even showing him all your phone records and credit card statements, your location long shared as the relationship progressed. But you can't tell him what it is, because you don't know.
Are you bored?
Are you tired?
Are you falling out of love?
You know Wonwoo hopes it's not the last, his eyes still full of stars and his heart telling him you hung each one of them.
He works harder to get you back. He plans more dates, he expands more on your interests — he takes you both to a pottery class, earning a bright smile from you as you carefully craft a couples' pair of mugs. He brings focus to you more during sex — forgoing the blowjobs to make you cry on his tongue, worshiping every inch of your body. He kisses you all over, dragging his lips up your calf and along the arch of your foot. He staves off his own orgasm, tracing shapes into your clit to make you crumble first before twisting you into any other position that could bring you there faster. He edges himself until you're at the brink, ruining your sheets as he pulls one last toe-curling orgasm from you.
He usually has to finish himself off, merely peppering kisses on your face as he checks in with you. His hand does all the work as he sweet talks you, kissing down your body and coating his knuckles in his release — only for you to lick his fingers clean and scold him about being wasteful.
And just like that, Wonwoo has you right back. Thursdays are spent together again, promotions are celebrated, you're enthusiastic about dinners in downtown….
Until you take a trip back down to San Diego with him, your parents asking the question every young couple dreads to hear.
Or at least, he thought it was a dreaded question.
You hadn't. You didn't.
You were excited for it.
"When are you two going to get married?" Your father had asked jokingly, and you'd smiled brightly as Wonwoo stiffened next to you. Your face didn't show it, but your eyes had quickly flamed as he quickly recovered, saying that you hadn't talked about it yet.
You had. Many times at this point — but it was never something you seemed to coincide on, and that night after the awkward dinner ended, you both proved it again. Marriage was a deciding factor of the near future of your relationship.
You wanted to get married. Wonwoo wasn't sure about the whole thing; he said it was just a piece of paper. That a piece of paper and a ring couldn't mean that much, and you argued that it meant almost everything if the two of you decided to start a family. That sparked another hushed argument — Wonwoo didn't understand why you had to be married to have kids. You spat back that children of married parents, happily married parents at that, had better quality of life. You rattled off how important it was that two parents were equally involved because it was important for the legalities of life with a partner, that marriage could decide whether or not he could be there when the kid was born, that marriage was important to you.
And couldn't that be enough?
The breakup was swift after that.
Thursdays crashed and burned. Dinner was silent until you got up and scraped your uneaten food into the garbage can and washed your plate. You went to bed three hours before he did, showering alone, and Wonwoo felt something in him sink when he heard the familiar buzzing through the door of your bedroom. The same buzzing that got you both through the few months of long distance before you moved up to San Francisco, and Wonwoo realizes.
You abandoned everything for him, and yet, built the world around him.
Without you, he wouldn't have gone on to be an engineer. Subconsciously, he would've never transferred with Mingyu to UC Berkeley. Without you, Mina and Mingyu wouldn't be getting married next year — a wedding you'd been made the Maid of Honor, and him the best man. Without you, that wedding would be incomplete…so Wonwoo sends in his RSVP saying I will not be attending.
You and Seungcheol broke up because of him, after he decided he had enough of being alone. You and Seungcheol fought after his ex-girlfriend in college asked who you were and dumped him when Wonwoo slipped up and said he thought you might be the love of his life.
Wonwoo didn't think.
Wonwoo knew.
And that's why he let you leave. He helped you pack, his eyes swollen from tears as you tongued your cheek. You looked nothing like him — your hair was clean and pulled back, your face even and even had a light layer of makeup spread across it, sparkling glitter on the high points as you loaded the boxes of your things into your car. You took one last look at Wonwoo, your hands trembling as you handed him your key.
Your eyes brimmed with tears as you pulled him into you, and he swore you were doing it on purpose. Leaving behind the smell of your perfume on his clothes as he lets his tears soak into your t-shirt, leaving behind the comforting weight of your arms around his shoulders.
Leaving him behind, again.
"You've ruined my life, Jeon Wonwoo." You whispered, sniffling as you pressed one last kiss to his lips, "and I'll never forgive you for it."
♫ NOW PLAYING: ANAHEIM - NIKI.
It's been six years since Wonwoo has seen or heard from you last.
He's moved on — or at least, he's tried to.
It's January 1st and he's living in Chula Vista — maybe three miles from your parents' house.
He moved three years after the breakup — submitting his photography to exhibits and blurring your face. He became hugely successful, his degree gathering dust in the basement of his new house on the hills. You don't live here anymore, he doesn't think — Mingyu had told him that he and Mina had helped you move out of your parents house to San Diego after the breakup. What was in San Diego for you, you didn't know.
Wonwoo spent his time wandering the streets, picking up things he thought you'd like subconsciously. He wrote down songs, made playlists, took photos.
All for safekeeping, he told himself. A part of him hoped you'd come back.
And the other knew you wouldn't. You'd never.
He'd taken a drive through the city, somehow crossing through Inglewood and landing in Santa Monica. He lingered on the infamous pier, taking photos of the horizon when he looks up. The pier had been quiet for a while — he'd gotten up early to catch the sunrise, arriving at the pier just minutes before they opened.
The footsteps are unstable. Small, pattering as a familiar voice calls out.
A familiar laugh rings out — rickety and it makes his heart sink as you look up, your left hand swiping at your hair. A white gold engagement ring is nestled on your hand, snugly followed by a wedding band. A hand wrapping around your shoulders showcases the same one, a doubled stack with your initials engraved so deeply he can see them from his spot across the pier.
A little girl with his eyebrows and your eyes, lashes that brush her cheeks with every blink just like his do. A little girl that has his surname, just like he calls it out when she gets a little too close to the edge, swiftly picking her up with one arm and hoisting her onto his shoulders. He's sure one day he'll convince her that he's a superhero.
"Choi this, Choi that. Her name is Minseo, in case you forgot." You roll your eyes, and Seungcheol sticks his tongue out at you, "I know my kid's name. I chose it, don't make me remind you."
"You chose it or you let my parents guilt you into taking that one because they liked it?" You raise a brow, and Seungcheol tongues his lip as he bumps your hip with his.
"Are you sure you want to move back to San Diego?" He asks gently, and you sigh, hooking your arm with his and leaning your head against your daughter's side. Grubby fingers pat your head, making you wrinkle your nose as she swipes your hair out of your face haphazardly. He chuckles, reaching up and helping her, "I know things got twisted for us out here back then. I don't want that to happen to us again."
"Babe, it won't. We are," you hold up your hand, a mischievous smile on your lips as his cheeks tinge pink, "married. And we've been married for years, mind you."
"Years, she says, but she took four years to say yes."
"I had to be sure you were the one."
"You knew I was the one the moment you met me, be so serious."
You laugh loudly, your hand swatting the backside of his jeans as he smiles, "at least, I knew you were."
"We've come a long way," you nod, cupping his face gently. Your thumb pinches his cheek carefully, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He shakes his head, your daughter squealing as birds fly overhead. He presses a quick kiss to your lips, "in the end, we ended up right where we were supposed to. We're married. We did it."
"You mean, I married you after you begged me."
"I mean you married me because you were so in love with me that you called me the moment that Mingyu called you telling you I was going to move to Barcelona."
"Can you imagine if I hadn't? Wouldn't have this little pumpkin," you grab your daughter's foot, making her squeal before you hold up your left hand, wiggling your ring finger, "or this. Or that tattoo between your shoulders."
"Are we ignoring the cherry tattoo you got for me? Because I vividly remember—"
"I didn't get it for you." You scoff, "I got it to commemorate the fact that I was the only kid that liked Wild Cherry Capri-Sun growing up."
Wonwoo remembers that. He'd been the only one, too.
He remembers thinking, at the tender age of sixteen — you were his soulmate.
"You got it for me, honey."
"…Okay, maybe I did but we're not telling Minseo that."
Your daughter pulls at Seungcheol's hair at the sound of her name, making him wince as you laugh, gently pulling her hands out of it and pulling her off his shoulders. You settle her on your hip, and Seungcheol slides up behind you, wrapping you both into his chest as the sun rises slowly.
Wonwoo can't be here.
He doesn't know when the tears started, but he knows he can't stop them.
His camera goes off silently in his fumble to put his things away, and the Polaroid floats down and onto the pier as he hoists his bag over his shoulder. He doesn't bother picking it up, giving curt smiles to other people now beginning to gather on the boardwalk — yielding fishing poles, warm waffles wrapped in wax paper, even excited dogs on leashes as he moves down the pier towards the parking lot.
He doesn't see your daughter wobble over and pick the picture up, Seungcheol's eyes immediately widening as you move to pluck it out of her hand — and he doesn't see the way you both still as you see the small black watermark on the edge of the custom Polaroid that has a perfect shot of your family facing the water, with pink marmoris against the waves as the sun rises carefully.
And you'll never know how he'd give anything to stop time, and go back to that day he'd driven you both to San Diego. How he'd stopped in Anaheim for a quick bite, leaving you at the diner that was next to a jewelry shop and perusing the engagement rings.
You'll never know how he'd give anything to stop time — and drive you around Anaheim at sundown one last time.
Maybe then he'd be the man you needed.
And maybe then, he'd be the man you wanted.
Until then — you've got Seungcheol. Your best friend and lover, all in one. Seungcheol, who you met organically, who smiled at you and stole your fruit snacks. Who gave you as much patience as he could, who gave you everything you wanted and more. And it was all Wonwoo's doing.
Summary: What is the best thing in the world? The three colored cat!
“Baba, that’s a cat.”
Anya’s tiny arms were looped tightly around Jun’s neck as he carried her from daycare toward the car. Her finger — small, chubby, and still sticky from afternoon snacks — pointed at a kitten crouched beside the rear tire, its tail flicking lazily under the warm after-school light.
“Mm, yes, that’s a cat,” Jun replied, amusement softening his voice. He slowed his steps so she could get a better look, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. Anya leaned forward, squinting with the seriousness only four-year-olds could muster.
“Ugly color!” she declared with complete confidence.
Jun sniffed back a laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“Nooo,” he drawled dramatically, pretending to be offended. “It’s a three-colored cat. There’s no such thing as an ugly-color cat.”
Anya tilted her head — her usual thinking pose — lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Then she released a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright. What color cat?”
“Three-colored cat,” Jun repeated, smiling as he shifted her higher on his hip.
“Oh!” Anya perked up instantly, kicking her legs in excitement. “It has orange! And black! And lots of white! Cute!”
Her joy burst out of her like sunlight — warm, bright, and impossible to contain. She wriggled in his arms as if ready to launch straight toward the kitten, and Jun tightened his hold with a soft grin, laughter slipping out before he could stop it.
“Can we bring it home, please?” she pleaded. “I’ll take care of it. Promise.” Her eyes grew round and glossy — the exact weapon she used whenever she wanted something. A tiny pout trembled at the corners of her mouth, just enough to make Jun’s heart clench in the helpless way only fathers understood.
“We need Mama’s permission for that,” he said gently, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His tone carried that soft responsibility — the kind meant to cushion disappointment without crushing hope.
Anya froze. Her pout deepened. “But Baba…”
“That’s the rule,” he reminded her, tapping the tip of her nose. “Big decisions need Mama’s yes.”
She slumped against his shoulder with dramatic defeat, letting out a sigh far too heavy for a four-year-old.
“Mama always says no…”
Jun smiled — quiet, helpless — because she wasn’t entirely wrong. “Well,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss her hair, “maybe she’ll say yes this time.”
Anya peeked up, hope flickering back into her eyes like a small spark relighting. “If I say ‘please’?”
“If you say please,” Jun whispered, “and… maybe if the kitty likes you back.”
As if summoned, the tricolor kitten let out a soft meow and turned its head toward them, its eyes curious and unafraid.
Anya’s mouth fell open in wonder. “Baba,” she whispered urgently, tugging at his shirt, “I think it likes me.”
She hesitated — a tiny, worried crease forming between her brows. “But what if Mama still says no?”
Jun shifted her closer, lowering his voice to something tender and steady. “I’ll find a way, baby,” he promised. “Anything for you.”
*
“No…”
You stared at the bathroom light switch like it personally betrayed you. One click. Nothing. Another click. Still darkness.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh and facepalmed. Of course. Of course he did. There was only one man in this house capable of creating chaos with the confidence of a movie villain, your husband, Jun.
First, the jar incident. Every lid tightened to the strength level of “Olympic gold medalist.” You’d nearly dislocated your shoulder trying to open the salt. And of course you had to call him over for help. Which was extra annoying because you two had just argued about the tricolor kitten Anya begged to adopt.
Second, the water spontaneously giving up on life while you were washing dishes. You’d been mid-scrubbing a plate when the faucet sputtered.
Cue you yelling, “Jun, the sink is having a breakdown.”
He “fixed” it and, very conveniently, took over dish duty with suspicious cheerfulness.
And now? The bathroom light. Sabotaged. You flicked the switch again — aggressively this time — just to make sure he heard.
Right on cue, Jun appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom like he’d been waiting backstage for his entrance.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, voice all soft innocence.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, giving him your best “I am onto you” stare.
“Why? What happened?” he said, mirroring your posture — leaning back on the wall, arms crossed, smile growing way too fast for someone who was supposedly concerned.
“Stop it,” you said flatly. “You know I don’t like cats anymore.”
Jun lifted his eyebrows as if you just accused him of murder.
“We’re done talking about the cat, babe,” he declared, hand on his chest like a man reciting wedding vows. “You said it was final. No cats. And I respect that.”
He said it so sweetly you almost believed him. Almost. Except for the tiny smug curl at the corner of his mouth.
You exhaled sharply and ran your fingers through your hair. “Then explain this,” you gestured wildly. “The jars. The water. And now—”
You flicked the switch again like you were summoning a ghost. “The light won’t even turn on.”
Jun walked toward you, humming thoughtfully, inspecting the light with all the seriousness of a man checking a potato.
“I’ll fix it, babe,” he said, patting your shoulder. “No need to get all worked up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, I am worked up. I’m fully worked. I’m premium worked.”
Jun bit back a laugh — badly. “Why would I sabotage the house?” he asked, as if the answer wasn’t four years old, chubby-cheeked, and currently plotting with crayons in the living room.
You crossed your arms tighter. “Because you and your daughter want a cat.”
Jun pressed his lips together. “Allegedly,” he corrected.
You threw your hands up. “Oh my God.”
He leaned closer, smiling like you just declared war. “Babe,” he whispered dramatically, “this is all a coincidence.” You stared at him. Another flick. Dark.
He stared back. “…Coincidence?” you repeated.
Jun nodded, eyes sparkling. “A very adorable coincidence.”
Jun tightened the last screw on the light fixture, stepped back with a flourish, and flicked the switch. The bathroom lit up instantly. He turned to you with both hands raised like he’d just completed a magic trick.
“Done. You may do your thing here, your majesty.”
You stared at him. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that usually came right before you chose patience over prison time.
Then you sighed. A deep, soul-drained sigh. “I don’t want to act childish,” you said slowly, “but you’re definitely doing one, Wen Junhui.”
Jun clutched his chest dramatically. “I didn’t do anything, babe…”
“Yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, “and I’m the Queen of England.”
You stepped into the shower, letting the water drown out your irritation. But the whole time, you could practically feel Jun smirking from outside — smug, confident, absolutely certain he’d win.
And annoyingly, he would.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, Jun was sprawled on the bed like he owned every inch of it. One arm behind his head, shirt riding up just enough to show the faint lines of his stomach — he always looked like this right after mischief, relaxed and very, very pleased with himself.
You grabbed your towel tighter. “Jun,” you called.
He hummed, eyes on you instantly.
You exhaled, defeated but strangely lighter. “Bring that cat,” you said. A pause. “Tomorrow.”
*
Anya had been talking nonstop since the moment Jun buckled her into her car seat.
The kitten — tiny, fluffy, and extremely confused — sat in the small carrier Jun had oh-so-mysteriously “already prepared,” right beside her. Every few seconds, a tiny paw poked through the bars, batting at the air.
“Mama, it likes fruit names,” Anya declared with the confidence of a CEO presenting a business proposal.
Jun tried — truly tried — to keep his eyes on the road, but his smile kept growing each time Anya babbled another name.
“Kiwi,” she repeated, leaning forward to stick her face against the carrier. “Do you like Kiwi? Blink if yes.”
The kitten blinked. Anya gasped dramatically. “Baba! It said yes!”
Jun laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not how blinking works, baby.”
“Yes it is,” she insisted, crossing her arms with a tiny huff. “Cats blink when they like you.”
You turned a little in your seat, raising a brow. “She’s not wrong,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.
Jun shot you a look — that soft, ridiculously fond look — the one that appeared any time you defended his daughter’s logic.
Anya wasn’t done. “Or Banana!” she chirped, tapping the cage lightly. “Banana is yellow. This cat has orange. Orange is ALMOST yellow. So Banana!”
The kitten meowed once, confused but cooperative.
Jun let out another quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled warmly through the car. “She’s really committed,” he said, glancing at you with a grin. “Kiwi or Banana, huh?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, curving up despite yourself.
“But… isn’t Kiwi Banana gonna be scared to go to the doctor?”
Anya’s voice was small but grave, the kind of seriousness only a four-year-old could summon over a tiny creature sitting in a pet carrier.
They were on the way to the vet, and the kitten — newly christened Kiwi Banana, thanks to Anya’s triumphant declaration of “Three colors, two names, one kitten!” — let out a soft mewl from inside the cage.
Jun glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “You think so, baby?”
“Yes,” she said immediately, clutching her stuffed bunny tighter. “Doctor means needles. And needles means… ouchie.”
She made a little face, scrunching her nose in sympathy toward the kitten.
You turned slightly in your seat. “Anya, the vet is a nice doctor. They help animals feel better so they can grow strong and healthy.”
Anya didn’t look convinced.
“But Baba, what if Kiwi Banana thinks we’re betraying it? We just met! What if it runs away from home and never forgives us and becomes—”
She paused dramatically.
“—a wild forest cat?”
Jun’s laugh slipped out before he could catch it. “A wild forest cat?” he echoed.
“Yes!” she said, pointing one finger into the air like she was explaining a legal clause. “Because if you feel betrayed… you go to forest.”
You pressed your lips together, holding back a laugh.
“Is that how it works?”
“Yes,” she said again, with absolute finality.
Jun shook his head with a smile. “Baby, Kiwi Banana won’t get scared. You know why?”
Anya leaned forward a little. “Why?”
“Because you’re going with it,” Jun said gently. “And Kiwi Banana already likes you.”
The kitten meowed right on cue, as if agreeing.
Anya gasped softly, eyes going wide.
“Baba… it said yes again.”
Jun shot you a look — proud, soft, slightly smug — and your heart dipped, warm, despite your earlier resistance.
You turned back to Anya. “And you can hold its paw while the doctor checks it, okay? That’ll make it feel safe.”
“Mama,” Anya said suddenly, her tone shifting into that quiet, suspicious softness children use right before exposing adult secrets.
“You seem to know a lot about cats.”
“I thought you don’t like cats,” she added, squinting at you like a tiny investigator.
You cleared your throat. “I don’t dislike cats,” you said carefully. “I just… don’t prefer them.”
Anya tilted her head. “But you said vet is nice doctor. And you held Kiwi Banana like he’s a fragile egg. And you said he needs warm towel and quiet place and also you wiped his eye—”
“Okay, okay, detective,” you cut in, holding up a hand. “I know basic things.”
Jun turned his head for a second, the movement small, almost hesitant—like he’d just said something he wasn’t sure he was supposed to.
“Mama used to have… ten cats,” he said quietly.
The words hung there, softer than before, slipping into the air the way old memories tend to resurface—uninvited, but gentle.
You didn’t respond right away.
Your gaze had drifted somewhere past the kitten, past the parking lot, past the afternoon light—somewhere Jun couldn’t follow. Not yet.
Anya, oblivious, perked up. “Ten? Mama, really?”
But Jun wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking at you. The way your fingers tightened slightly on the strap of your bag. The way your breath paused—just a moment.
The way your eyes stayed distant, even though your face tried to arrange itself into something casual. He’d heard the story before—briefly, vaguely. Ten cats. A busy little house. You, smiling in every memory.
You finally blinked, shaking yourself back. “That was… a long time ago,” you murmured, giving a small smile that didn’t sit the way your real smiles usually do.
Jun watched you for another second—really watched—before turning back to Anya.
“Yeah,” he said, gentle. “A long time ago.”
The tone settled over the three of you like a soft breeze—warm, but carrying something else in it. Something unspoken. But for now, he didn’t press.
For now, he just understood.
*
“We’re doing it together…”
“Don’t leave me!”
“Please…”
“Don’t—!”
You shot up with a broken gasp, air clawing its way into your lungs. Your chest heaved, fingers trembling against the sheets as the last echo of the nightmare clung to you like something alive.
Jun stirred immediately. He blinked awake, already reaching for you before he was fully conscious.
“Love?” His voice was soft, rough from sleep. “What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer—your breaths came short and sharp, sweat cooling along your temples. He pushed himself upright beside you, worry settling into his features the moment he saw your expression.
“Hey… hey.” Jun cupped the back of your head gently, guiding your forehead to his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just a dream.”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, as if needing proof that he was real—that he was here.
Jun wrapped an arm around you, firm and grounding, the kind of embrace that held you without trapping you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m right here.”
The room was dark and still, the only sound was your uneven breathing—slowly, slowly softening as his thumb traced steady circles on your arm, coaxing you back into the present.
“Is it the fire again?” Jun asked quietly, once your breathing began to steady.
You hesitated—then gave a small nod.
Jun didn’t press. He simply reached over to the nightstand, fingers closing around the glass of water he always left there for you before bed. Just in case.
“Here,” he murmured.
You took it with slightly trembling hands and brought it to your lips, sipping slowly. The cool water helped—grounding you, pulling you away from the lingering heat of the flames in your dream. Jun watched you with gentle eyes, his hand resting lightly against your back, steady and present.
When you lowered the glass, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
“You’re safe, love.”
The dream always came the same way— a fire swallowing your childhood home, flames crawling up the walls faster than your legs could run. And your cats— all ten of them— were trapped inside.
In the dream, you always tried. You always screamed for them. You always reached for the door even when the heat blistered your skin. And just like every time, you always failed.
Only one of them had survived in real life. It had escaped the fire by a miracle— bolting out through the back window just in time. You found it the next day, shaking so hard its small body rattled against your arms.
Life after losing the house was no kinder. You moved from place to place, your one surviving cat clutched to your chest, its terrified eyes mirroring your own. The only difference was that you’d become good at pretending you weren’t scared.
“We’re doing this together,” you used to whisper to it at night.
But even together wasn’t enough. It left you, too— not by choice, but by life’s cruelty. And the wound it carved into you never really healed.
You remembered crying over the tiny grave, hands shaking as you pressed the soil down. “I should’ve given you a home.”
That guilt settled in your bones. And from then on, you weren’t the same. You distanced yourself from cats— from the memories, from the attachment, from the possibility of losing something you loved that deeply again. Any cat was too close to the past. Too close to the fire. Too close to the pain you never let yourself revisit.
You ended up on the living room couch that night, legs curled beneath a blanket, the shadows quiet around you. Sleep wouldn’t come—not after the nightmare, not with your heart still unsteady.
Jun was already fast asleep in the bedroom, worn out from the day. And you— you didn’t want to show him this side of you again. Not tonight.
A tiny meow broke the silence.
You blinked, surprised. Kiwi Banana—somehow—was already padding across the floor, wobbling a little as it hurried toward you. You hadn’t even noticed Anya’s door was open a crack.
Before you could react, the kitten hopped onto the couch and plopped onto your lap, immediately purring. Its tiny paws kneaded at the blanket as it made itself comfortable, then finally rested its head on your thigh with a soft sigh.
A small smile tugged at your lips. The ache in your chest loosened. “You’re just like her,” you whispered. Your old tricolor cat. “Same color… same personality.”
Kiwi Banana answered with a muted little meow— whether in agreement or mild complaint, you couldn’t tell. You let out a tiny chuckle anyway. The fear you’d been carrying—of loving a cat again, of remembering—faded just a little.
“Tell me she’s okay…” you murmured, hand brushing gently over its tiny back. Kiwi Banana cracked one eye open, stared at you, meowed once— and then, in true cat fashion, turned around to present its butt to you before settling down again.
You snorted softly. “Rude,” you whispered, still smiling.
You leaned slowly against the couch’s armrest, your hand resting lightly on the kitten’s side. Kiwi Banana’s breathing grew slow, steady—warm against your leg.
And before you realized it, lulled by the soft purring and the quiet comfort, your eyes drifted shut. Sleep came easier this time.
*
You woke to the soft sound of someone whispering nearby—light, excited, and terribly close to your ear.
“Mama… Mamaaa, look…”
Your eyelids fluttered open, slow and heavy. Morning sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, warm and gold against your skin. The blanket had slipped halfway off, and curled right on top of your stomach was Kiwi Banana, purring like an engine.
Then you saw Anya. She was kneeling beside the couch in her pajama shorts, hair sticking in every direction, eyes wide with pure wonder.
“Mama, you’re soooo cute…” she whispered dramatically, as if she’d stumbled upon a rare forest creature. “Sleeping with Kiwi Banana… like best friends…”
You groaned softly, rubbing your face. Kiwi Banana stretched, tiny paws pressing into your shirt before settling again. “Anya… why are you awake this early?”
Though judging from the light, it wasn’t that early—just earlier than your usual waking time.
She puffed her cheeks. “I woke up and kitty wasn’t in my room! So I followed it. And then—” she pointed at you with all the intensity of a detective revealing a culprit— “I found this.”
You glanced down at the kitten sprawled on you like a warm, furry badge.
“Mama likes Kiwi Banana now?” Anya asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.
The kitten yawned—as if answering for you.
You exhaled, resigned. “…Maybe a little.”
Anya clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. It didn’t work. “BABA!!” she shrieked towards the hallway, “MAMA LOVES KIWI BANANA!!”
From the bedroom came Jun’s sleepy, confused voice, “What—already? It’s morning…”
You covered your face again. Too late. L The whole house already knew.
Kiwi Banana didn’t stay that tiny for long. Months passed, and somehow the kitten who once fit perfectly on your stomach grew into a round, spoiled ball of fur—with a belly that jiggled when it trotted and a face that had perfected the art of guilt-tripping you into extra treats.
Jun swore it wasn’t his fault. You swore it wasn’t yours. Anya didn’t swear anything—she openly blamed both of you.
“Mama, you love Kiwi Banana too much,” she complained one afternoon as the cat waddled proudly across the living room like a royal parade float.
You scooped the chunky creature into your arms anyway. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Kiwi Banana purred, melting into your embrace with the confidence of a cat who knew it was adored.
The fear you once held—the ache of old memories, the guilt, the trauma—had softened over time, replaced by something gentler. Something healing.
Jun wrapped an arm around your shoulders from behind, resting his chin lightly on your head as he watched the cat kneading your shirt with chubby paws.
“Told you,” he murmured with a smile, “you were always a cat person.”
You shot him a look. He kissed your cheek anyway. Kiwi Banana flopped dramatically in your arms, exposing its belly in complete trust.
And for the first time in a long, long while, loving a cat didn’t hurt. It felt like coming home. The home you built now—warm, noisy, messy, full of laughter. Full of Jun, full of Anya.
And full of one very fat, very loved Kiwi Banana.
End.
Footnote:
Grief lingers, but love does, too.
Two years ago, the fire took my home… and all the little lives I loved within it. The guilt clung to me like smoke, staining everything I touched. But my tricolor Simi — my brave girl — survived long enough to show me that even in ruin, love doesn’t burn out so easily.
Fly high, my baby.
I carry you in every quiet morning, every soft memory, every warm place my heart still knows how to hold.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: yoon jeonghan x afb.reader, choi seungcheol x afb.reader
when things fall apart he’s the one that always puts them back together.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): roommates to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst, and more angst, romance, smut
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): college au, nonidol
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.1k
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: asshole!seungcheol, he’s honestly a dick here, but he is trying to be better, insinuating that mc is passed around with her roommates, jealous seungcheol, mentions of protective/jealous jeonghan, jeonghan is quite literally the best boy here, lots of hurt and emotions in this one. best boy roommate joshua. Lots of confusion about feelings
𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, pussy whipped jeonghan, soft sweet vanilla sex, heated make out session, body worship, marking, showering together, hand job, oral (fem rec), cum play, creampie, p in v intercourse, cock warming?, nicknames: darling, baby (hers), hannie, baby (his)
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw
𝐚𝐧: this is not beta read (sorry for any errors). this is technically part two if a series called heaven/hell desperate measures a Seungcheol story. You can read this as a one shot tho. Thank you @aeristudios and @shinysobi for helping me figure out this series.
Jeonghan knows you like the back of his hand. Since the moment he met you he’s understood you like no one else. He can tell when you’re happy by the way your eyes light up. He can tell when you’re sad, even when you’re trying to pretend you aren’t.
Coming home from school he can immediately tell that something is off. He saw Seungcheol before he headed out. Seungcheol seemed more moody than normal. Joshua seems lost in his own world working on a song for his music production class.
The moment you walk out of your room dressed in a hoodie and pajama pants Jeonghan knows something is wrong. There is a look of sadness behind your eyes.
His eyes stay focused on you as he watches you walk off into the small kitchen. He drops his book bag by the door and follows you. He stops to lean against the door frame. He clears his throat, capturing your attention.
“Darling?”
Turning to face him, you don’t bother trying to put on a fake smile. His stomach drops at the sight of your watery eyes.
You feel dumb. Why are you sad that sex with Seungcheol didn’t lead to some romantic gestures? You don’t even have that strong of feelings for him.
“Hi, Hannie.” Your voice sounds meek.
“What’s wrong?” He steps closer to you.
“Nothing.” It’s a lie and you both know it.
The closer Jeonghan gets to you he notices something on your skin. He takes a slow deep breath realizing the mark that painting the skin on your delicate neck is a hickey. He knows logically that mark could have only been given to you by two men. One being Mingyu, the frat boy he knows has been pursuing you. Or the second option, the one that will make him mad, it’s from Seungcheol.
“What happened to your neck?” He’s trying to stay calm. He has no right to fully fly off the handle unless you didn’t want them to mark you. You aren’t Jeonghan’s by any means, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish you were.
“Jeonghan it’s nothing.” You sigh, reaching up to cover the mark.
“Was it Mingyu?”
“Hannie.” You step away from the counter. It’s clear you’re trying to get away from this conversation. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
He wants to push you until you tell him who it was, but he knows that will upset you. You’re upset and he doesn’t want to make you even more upset.
Without saying another word you walk past him straight out of the kitchen. You originally planned on watching a movie with Jeonghan and Joshua but you aren’t sure you can. You’ve never lied to either boy and you aren’t sure you can do it now.
Walking off to your room you close the door. Leaning against it you hear footsteps approaching, you know it’s Jeonghan.
There is this guilty feeling eating away at you. You made a mistake sleeping with Seungcheol. You hurt Jeonghan by being careless. You wait there silently for him to knock but he never does.
Pushing yourself away from the door you pull off your hoodie tossing it on the floor by the door. Going to your dresser you find your favorite shirt to sleep in. It’s a baggy shirt that you stole from Jeonghan a year ago. Glancing into the mirror you stare at the marks that line the skin of your lower neck and chest that Seungcheol left behind.
Laying on your bed you decide to spend the evening reading. Maybe that will help distract you from the millions of thoughts swirling around in your brain.
-
Jeonghan leans against your door feeling conflicted. He desperately wants to talk to you but he knows you clearly want space.
The front door opens and Seungcheol walks in. He glances over at your door and his eyes lock on Jeonghan’s.
Joshua looks up from his laptop. He must be able to feel the tension taking over the room.
Without saying a word Jeonghan walks towards Seungcheol towards the hallway near both their rooms.
“Can we talk?”
“Sure.” Seungcheol responds.
Walking into Seungcheol’s room Jeonghan knows he needs to stay calm. He can’t just outright accuse Seungcheol, he needs to get him to admit to whatever happened between the two of you.
“Do you know what happened with ___ today? When I got home from school she just seemed upset. She said nothing happened, but I know she’s not telling the truth. She just seems sad.”
Seungcheol walks over and sits on the edge of his bed. “Jeonghan, I don't know. I’m not close with her like you are. I don’t know how to read her thoughts like you.”
“Shua said she seemed upset after meeting up with Mingyu.” Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, he just stares at Jeonghan. “I also saw a hickey on her neck so I’m just worried something happened that upset her.”
A heavy sigh passes Seungcheol’s lips. “I don’t think she hooked up with Mingyu.”
“Who would she have hooked up with then?”
“Anyone is better than one of the frat boys. Aren’t you glad her and Mingyu are done?”
“They’re done?”
“I think he got jealous when he saw me and her talking today.” Jeonghan is already getting more information from his older roommate than he thought he would. “Just be happy I did your job for you.”
“My job?” Jeonghan knits his brows together as he crosses his arms.
“Yeah, your job is to scare any guy away from her. Just like you do at any party we go to.” Jeonghan stares at him, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh come on Jeonghan we all know how jealous you get of any male who just shows her attention. I’m shocked you didn’t put a stop on the whole Mingyu situation before he could even ask her out.” Jeonghan would be lying if he didn’t admit to glaring at any man who tried to flirt with you at a party. He’s never said anything to anyone if they tried to flirt with you. Normally he just glares at them long enough until they get the hint.
“Whatever happened today she's clearly upset.”
“We got into an argument in the car. She’s probably mad at me. I already apologized.”
“Are you kicking me out of my own apartment?” He cocks his brow at his younger roommate.
“No, I’m suggesting you just give her space tonight. I think you owe it to her.”
“Fine, I'll crash at Jihoon’s tonight.”
Seungcheol packs a backpack and heads out of his room. Jeonghan walks out behind him and finds Joshua sitting on the couch waiting for him.
“What happened?” Joshua asked.
“Darling and him got in a fight and I told him to give her space tonight.”
“Are you going to go talk to her or should I?”
He shakes his head. “No, I want to give her space for a few hours and then I’ll talk to her.”
-
It’s close to midnight when there is a knock on your door. You know that it’s either Jeonghan or Seungcheol. Maybe you’ll get lucky and it’s Joshua checking in on you.
“Come in.” You realize now that the hickies on your neck are visible.
The door slowly opens and Jeonghan pops in. He gently closes the door behind him. He stares there silently examining them for a long moment.
“Seungcheol went over to Jihoon’s. I don’t think he will be coming home to honest. Jihoon texted me and told me he’s pretty drunk and is crashing at his and Soonyoung’s place.”
Sitting your book down you slowly sit up. “Okay.”
“Cheol said you guys had a fight.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you guys do more than fight?” He doesn’t sound angry, because he’s not. Maybe that’s a lie, he is angry with Seungcheol. But he would never be mad at you for this.
“Hannie, why does it matter?”
“I just want to know.” He steps towards your bed. “I just want to know why you’re clearly upset.”
“Am I damaged goods if something more happened?” He doesn’t say anything, he just stares at you processing your question. “If something more happened, does that ruin whatever this whole thing is between us?”
“You’re not damaged goods, and it wouldn’t ruin anything.” He puts his knee on the bed.
“It was dumb. I was mad at him, he was being such an asshole. He ruined things with Mingyu.” You pause. You feel so embarrassed that he would even say anything this rude. Especially to someone you liked. “He made it seem like you two and Shua passed me around—” Your eyes water thinking about his rude comment. “We just got in an argument and next thing I knew we were kissing and then hooked up in his car.” Looking back this isn’t your proudest moment, you don’t regret sleeping with Seungcheol. You just wish you had gone about it differently.
“I’m going to punch him.” He’s trying to stay calm. He’s mad that Seungcheol would ever make a move on you.
“It’s my fault.”
He crawls onto your bed. He sits on his knees in front of you. “Don’t say that. It’s not your fault.”
“Hannie, I wanted it to happen.”
Reaching out he rests his hand on your cheek. “Why are you upset then?”
“Because it didn’t mean anything. Like Cheol said, we just fucked. I was nothing more to him, then one of those random girls that come and go through our front door.”
He drags his thumb gently across your cheek, capturing your full attention. “You are so much more than some random girl.”
“It doesn’t feel like that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you mean to Cheol. You mean so much to me.”
“Can we not talk about this anymore? I’m tired.”
He pulls his hand away from your face. “We don’t have to talk about it. I can leave if you would like.”
“Did you want to sit with me while I read?”
“Of course darling.” You’re pretty sure he’s called you darling more than he’s ever called you by your actual name. There’s something so sweet about the way he says darling.
He moves so he is sitting in the bed next to you. “Would you like to lean against me while you read?”
“Yes.”’
He puts his arm over your shoulder. Leaning in your rest most your body weight against him as you start to read. Being this close to him has always felt so natural. You're pressed up against him focusing on your book. He’s busy scrolling through his phone. Even while he’s on his phone, you are his full man focus.
You occasionally will glance up and find him giving you a gentle smile.
It takes about an hour before your eyes have grown too heavy. You fall asleep comfortably leaning against Jeonghan, holding on to your book.
He’s trying his hardest not to wake you as he attempts to lay you down so you can properly sleep.
“Hannie?” You’re barely awake, mumbling.
“Darling?”
“Are you leaving?” Your eyes are closed as you curl up closer to him.
“I can leave if you want me to.”
“Can you stay and hold my hand?”
“Yes.” Slowly he moves so you're both laying down on your bed. You’re basically spooning. Your head is resting on his arm while you hold his hand that is resting on your stomach.
It takes Jeonghan a second to fully relax. The moment you move so you’re pressed up against him. “Sweet dreams darling,” he whispers before kissing the top of your head.
Jeonghan has probably never gotten a better night's sleep than he did as he was able to hold you. He looks down at your sleepy form and can’t help but smile.
You look so peaceful, he slowly pulls his arm away from you. He needs some coffee and he wants to surprise you with coffee and breakfast.
“Are you leaving?” You mumble against the pillow.
“Just for a moment. I’ll be back.”
“Okay.” You mumble.
Slipping out of your room he heads off to the kitchen. He finds Joshua sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee and scrolling through his phone.
Joshua lays his phone down and glances up at Jeonghan as he starts making coffee. “Is she okay?” Joshua is very aware Jeonghan slept in your room. It’s clear you were upset last night and it’s not his place to comment on the situation. He knows that if it’s bad Jeonghan will let him know. When it comes to you Jeonghan always seems to know you best and knows how to comfort you.
“She will be.”
“Okay.” Joshua goes back to scrolling through his phone. “I’m going to head over to Kitten’s so you’ll have the place to yourself.”
Jeonghan’s goal for the day was to spend the day relaxing and hopefully cuddling with you.
-
It’s been two weeks. In that time you’ve barely seen Seungcheol. He hasn’t brought a single girl home, and he’s frequently out until he’s goes to bed. When he is home you’re normally locked away in either your room or Jeonghan. Sometimes if Jeonghan is at class, Joshua will steal you away if Seungcheol is in a common area of the house. Everyone seems to know what’s going on without directly talking to you about it. Joshua hasn’t mentioned anything about what is going on with you and the other two boys, but you can tell he knows something's up. He’s more gentle with you than normal. You’ve also noticed his best friend Kitten who is frequently over your place is extra gentle with you as well. From what you have gathered her and Joshua tend to share everything. You aren’t exactly shocked she knows something is up.
“Why does it feel like I’m going through a breakup?” You ask, sitting on Jeonghan’s bed. You’re hanging out with him studying for your test while he’s busy building legos.
He looks up from his legos he’s building and tilts his head to the side. “With Cheol?”
“Yeah.”
“Because he got your hopes up and hurt your feelings. It feels like the sting of going through a break up.” His gentle eyes roam your face. He recently got a hair cut and you can’t help but like how suddenly it’s brought out his beautiful cheek bones even more.
“Jeonghan, why are you so nice to me?” From the moment he met you, he’s always been so kind to you. The moment you met it was almost as if you instantly clicked.
“Because you mean a lot to me. You’re kind of my person.” He gives you a smile.
“I thought Joshua was your person?” It became very clear when you met Jeonghan that Joshua was his best friend. They were two peas in a pod.
“You’re my person in a different way. He’s my best friend, but you’re incredibly special to me.”
“You’re my person too.” Jeonghan means the world to you. You can’t imagine your life without him in it.
He stands up walking away from his legos. He crawls on to his bed. “Things will get better with Cheol. It’s good you’re getting space from him.” He moves so he’s sitting on his knees in front of you.
“I should tell you this now.” It’s been eating away at you that no matter how hard you try you can’t push the thought of Seungcheol out of your mind.
“What do you need to tell me?”
“Hannie I like you, but there is some part of me that can’t push away my feelings for Seungcheol. I know he treated me terribly and I shouldn’t like him. But I do have some feelings for him. I feel terrible, but I can’t kick my feelings for him fully. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you. I like you so much it hurts. This is just so complicated.”
“Darling?” His voice doesn’t have any anger or annoyance behind it. He still sounds gentle.
“Yeah?”
“That’s okay. I fully understand you having feelings for him.”
“What’s going on with us?” You ask as he pushes hair away from your face.
“What do you mean?” He gives you a gentle smile.
“Hannie, I don't want to play games right now.” You can’t keep questioning what is going on between you. You’ve had feelings for Jeonghan long before you had sex with Seungcheol. It might have just been a crush back then. Things feel different now. You feel things for Jeonghan you can’t quite explain.
His hand rests on your cheek. Gently he tilts up your face. “You’re so pretty.”
Closing your eyes you nuzzle your cheek against his hand. How do you explain how hard you’ve fallen for this man?
“You didn’t answer my question Hannie.” Looking up at him through your lashes.
“I like you darling. Is that what you want me to say?” He leans close to you. His nose is brushing against yours.
“Yes.” That is exactly what you want him to say.
“Do you like me darling?” He raises his eyes brows at you and smiles.
“Yes.” You practically sigh.
“Just a single word response?” He teases.
“I like you so much. I might like Cheol, but I also like you.”
“That’s good.” He drags his thumb across your bottom lip.
Slowly you pull back from him. “Are the boys home?”
“Shua is out, and I think I heard Cheol leave earlier.”
Crawling off the bed you this is your chance to be brave. You’ve laid your cards on the table. It’s clear you like him, and he likes you. “I should take a shower.”
He crawls off the bed and stands in front of you. He tilts his head confused by your sudden desire to take a shower. “Now?” You were clearly in the middle of an important conversation.
“Yeah, did you want to join me?”
He takes a moment to process what is happening. “Yes. Let me put this away and then I’ll join you.” He looks over at his legos he was working on. Something tells him that even if showering together stays innocent he’s going to end up spending the rest of of the night with you.
Walking off to the bathroom near your room you turn on the hot water. Your bathroom has a shower with a sliding glass door. Comfortably you can both shower in here and still have room.
Stripping off your clothes, you step into the shower before Jeonghan has even joined you.
The bathroom door clicks open and Jeonghan steps in locking the door behind him. He stands there for a moment watching your naked body through the steamed cover glass. He strips away his clothes and slides the glass down open.
The warm water is raining down on you. “You’re beautiful.” He breaks the silence.
“You’re beautiful too.” You turn around to face him. Taking a moment to take in the details of his bare body. “Hannie, I want you.” You give him a soft smile. For as long as you can remember you have been in awe of how beautiful he is.
“We’ve never even kissed.” He steps closer to you. He’s wanted to kiss you for so long. “I’ve watched you drunkenly kiss Joshua at a party. I always wondered what it would like to kiss you.” He’s not sure if this is real or if he’s dreaming. He’s praying that it isn't a dream.
“We’ve never kissed and yet you’re standing naked in the shower with me.” You reach for him to pull him closer to the water.
“Would you prefer I leave?” He teases you.
“Absolutely not.”
“Am I allowed to kiss you?” He prays you’ll say yes.
“Please.”
Wrapping your arms around his neck you lean. The moment your lips touch, a warmth takes over your body. Kissing Jeonghan is like coming home. You feel fuzzy as if your body is buzzing at this touch. His lips move against you and your fingers tangle in his hair. His fingers grip your hips holding you close to him.
His lips ascend from your mouth across your jaw. A soft moan passes your lips earning a smile from him. A trail of open mouth kisses are left on the delicate skin of your neck. “Can I leave a mark?”
Maybe it’s the territorial part of his brain speaking, but he wants nothing more than to see you wearing a mark left by him.
“Please.” You practically beg.
Without a second thought he sucks a mark into the side of your neck. He steps you both back, caging you in against the cold tile wall.
“I want you so bad, but I don’t want our first time to be in the shower. I want to worship you in my bed.”
Your fingers trail down the wet skin of his stomach. You want to touch him, and know what he looks like as pleasure takes over him. “Can I play with you in the shower first?”
He pulls back a little and looks down watching as your fingers play the well trimmed patch of hair above his already hardening length. “Is that what you want to do?”
“Yes, please.”
“You can do whatever you want, darling.”
Your hand circles his hardening length. One hand rests on his chest as the other pumps his hardened length. Your thumb drags across the vein that runs along the side of his length. “How do you like it?”
His lips part as a silent gasp passes his lips. “Focus on the head, baby.”
Your strokes are focused just on the sensitive pink colored head. The sweetest moans leave his lips as you pleasure him. Rubbing your thighs together you hope for some relief of your own. His eyes squeezed shut as he gets closer and closer to the edge.
“Fuck— so good—” His words are just broke moans.
“Hannie.” You can’t help but moan back. Seeing him like this is absolutely intoxicating.
His eyes open and he looks at you with nothing but desperation. Reaching up, you rest your hand on his jaw. Your thumb drags across his bottom lip. Your eyes are locked on his. “Please—”
You pick up your pace, pumping his length quicker and quicker. His stomach muscles tighten as he chases his release. Tugging his bottom lip with your thumb, he looks lost in a haze of lust. With one final moan he finds his high. His milky release paints your hand and his stomach. Without thinking you bring your hand up to your mouth. You lick up his release staring at him the whole time. Stepping away you hold your hand under the water.
“Holy fuck.” He’s absolutely dazed. He’s never come that hard from a hand job before.
“You taste good.” You give him an innocent smile.
“Back against the wall darling.” He doesn’t have time to come down from his high. He drops to his knees in front of you. The warm water is hitting his back.
The cold tile against your skin is a contrast compared to his warm touch, and the hot water. His hand spreads your legs. Looking up at you with his sweet warm eyes. You could get used to this view. Leaning forward he presses his lips to the top of your pussy for a gentle kiss.
“I have always wondered what you would look like when you fall apart.” He teases.
“Please touch me. I’m so wet.”
“Are you sure that’s not from the shower?” He arches his brow.
“No—“ you whine.
“Okay, baby.”
He helps guide your leg so it’s resting on his shoulder. “Hold the shelf, and if you feel like you’re going to fall, let me know.”
You don’t even have time to respond before he dives in. He’s practically making out with your pussy. Turns out Jeonghan excels at eating pussy. You would have never expected him to be a munch. Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, as he sucks on your clit.
Your eyes all but roll back in your head as he starts prodding his tongue at your entrance.
“Hannie.” You moan loudly. There is no point in trying to stay quiet. He practically laughs against your core. “Fuck.” At this point you aren’t sure if you can even form other words than a mixture of his name or swear words.
His nose keeps bumping your clit, as he thrust his tongue in you over and over. The coil in your stomach is so tight, it’s threatening to snap at any second.
“Fuck, I’m going to cum.” He doesn’t respond, he keeps up exactly what he’s doing. Your boy feels tense as your release is rapidly approaching. Your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks. Moaning his name like a prayer you fall apart.
He replaces his tongue with his long fingers. He pumps them in and out of you. Your walls contract around them.
“Oh my god.” He pulls away from your core wearing a smile. Bringing his fingers to his mouth he licks away all your release.
“You’re so responsive.”
Closing your eyes you lean your head back against the wall. That orgasm was crazy and he did that all with just his mouth and finished using his fingers to help you ride out your high.
“Darling, why don’t we move to my room.”
“Do you still want more Hannie?” Your eyes slowly open.
“I will take whatever you’re willing to give me.”
You turn off the water and Jeonghan helps you out of the shower. Grabbing a fluffy towel from under the counter. He takes his time, slowly drying you off making sure he takes care of you. You’re both wrapped in towels before he leads you off to his room. All of this doesn’t feel real. You’ve pined after him for as long as you can remember. You still remember meeting him and instantly having a crush on him. You’re pretty sure that crush never went away.
Laying in the middle of his bed he watches you with a look of adoration. He can’t fully wrap his head around how much he fully cares for you. He places one knee on the bed. He slowly crawls towards you. You spread your legs, fully exposing yourself to him.
“God you’re beautiful.” He stops sitting on his knees between your spread legs. “My beautiful girl.” His hand rests on your thigh.
“Hannie?” Your voice is light and airy.
“Yes, darling?”
“I want you.”
A smile tugs at his lips. He bites his bottom lip attempting to stop himself from grinning. “I want you too.”
“Can you please fuck me?” How could you possibly wait any longer?
He instantly tsk at your dirty mouth. “Such filthy language, darling.”
“Hannie, don't tease me.”
Tilting his head as your fingers dip between your wet folds. The sight of you spread out like this, is something he never wants to forget. “Move your hand, baby.”
Crawling over you, his body is pressed against yours. His nose rests against your before he kisses you like a man starved. “I need a condom.” He murmurs against your lips.
“I’m on birth control. I’ve never gone raw before.” You want to feel every single inch of him completely bare. “Baby are you sure?”
“Please.”
Reaching between you, he takes his length in his hand. He runs the rosy tip between your folds, collecting some of your release. His lips part as he slowly pushes into you. He moves excruciatingly slow. He’s being gentle, almost treating you as if you’re made of glass. This is literally the opposite of how Seungcheol treated you.
One of your hands tangles in his hair, while the other grips his cotton sheets below you. He bottoms out and gives you a moment to adjust. He’s definitely longer than average and the perfect width. He’s definitely not as big as Seungcheol but that’s okay. He feels as if he was made for you, or maybe you were actually made for him.
Leaning up you crash your lips into his, for a heated kiss. As your lips dance he starts at a slow but deep pace. His dick curves up slightly, so he’s brushing that spot inside of you, that has you seeing stars.
“Ugh.” You’re normally not loud in bed, but he’s managing to pull moans and whimpers from you, you’ve never heard before.
“Fuck—” he moans against your lips.
Your feet are resting on the bed, and your knees are spread wide. He’s practically plastered on top of you as he thrust into you over and over.
Rough hands roam his back as you hold him close to you. You never want to forget this moment. He’s making you feel so good that you’re on the verge of tears.
With each thrust the public hair that’s at his base is brushing your overly sensitive clit. You can’t help but cry out at the sensation.
“Hannie, close.” Your moans are echoing off the walls. You pray neither Joshua or Seungcheol are home. You would be mortified if they heard you moaning like a whore in heat and all but crying right now.
“You can cum baby.” The way he calls you baby, makes you feel like you’re going insane.
Flood gates break and your high hits you harder than even before. Your fingers scratch at his back, definitely leaving marks in their wake. “Hannie.”
“Go—d.” His own moans are broken and you can barely understand what he’s saying. His stutter as your walls squeeze his length over and over again. His thrust get sloppier as his own release is rapidly approaching. “Ugh.” He moans as his orgasm rocks him. He paints your walls with his milky release. His eyes stay locked on your lost in the feeling of ecstasy.
Lifting himself up slightly he looks down and finds a dazed smile plastered across your face. He can't believe he’s getting to see you like this. There’s a nasty voice in the back of his head telling him that Seungcheol has seen you the exact same way. Closing his eyes he pushes away those nasty thoughts.
Reaching to you push away his damp dark hair from his face. “You’re perfect,” you whisper.
“You’re the one who is perfect,” he smiles. “I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay like this.”
“You want to stay inside of me?” You can’t help but laugh a little at the idea of him not wanting to pull out.
“You feel so warm, you feel like you were made for me.” He leans down and gives you a gentle kiss.
“Maybe I was made for you.”
He pulls back and sits on his knees between your spread legs. He watches intently as his cum starts to leak out of you. He’s never had sex without a condom, but he definitely understands why someone would have a creampie kink. If he gets to see you like this all the time he might develop that kink himself.
Jumping off the bed he runs over to wear the towel are on the floor he cleans up the mess he made of you and helps you to the bathroom so you can pee. He tells he’s worried you’ll get a UTI.
Laying in bed together you can’t help but watch him carefully as he mindlessly scrolls through his phone. Neither of you have bothered getting dressed; you're laying there under the blankets comfortably naked with him.
Things with Jeonghan are easy, falling for him was the easiest thing you have ever done. You want something more with him, and you know he wants something more with you. The problem is you can’t push the thought of Seungcheol out of your mind.
-
It’s been two week since you and Jeonghan slept together. Thing between you are definitely different, but different in a good way. For all intensive purposes you’re together. He asked you one day if you wanted to label things, but you told him you felt guilty that you kept thinking about Seungcheol. It wasn’t necessarily in a romantic way, but you can’t seem to get him out of your mind, no matter how hard you try.
It’s been a long day to say the least. You spent the afternoon stuck at school taking a mid term. After getting out of class you stopped and got a coffee before heading back to the apartment. Your goal was to bundle up in your room and read a book before Jeonghan got home from school.
You’re in your room for a max of ten minutes before there is a knock on your door. You expect to find Joshua on the other side. “Um, can we talk?” Seungcheol catches you off guard. You didn’t know he was home.
“Sure.” You step aside.
He walks into your bedroom and awkwardly sits in your bed. “I wanted to apologize again. I’ve been an asshole.”
You didn’t expect for him to ever properly apologize. Since everything unfolded he seems to be avoiding you, and you aren’t shocked. You’re pretty sure Jeonghan told him to leave you alone. It’s not just Jeonghan though, Joshua seems extra protective of you as well.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was tossing you aside.” This has been eating away at Seungcheol since that day. He knows you’re still hurt even if you say you aren’t. “I’m an asshole, and I wish I was better at talking about my feelings. I wish that night I would have made an attempt to be something more.” That definitely isn’t what you thought he was going to say. You had really built this up in your head, that Seungcheol now wanted nothing to do with you.
“Cheol, this all feels really confusing.”
“I don’t know what’s going on with you and Jeonghan, but I feel like that’s probably making this more confusing.” Seungcheol isn’t blind he knows something is going on. He’s heard you in Jeonghan room many times now, and those noises he hears aren’t innocent.
“Seungcheol, you're confusing me. This whole situation is odd.”
“Sorry, I’ll let you be. I just wanted to apologize.”
The door click shuts leaning you alone with your own thoughts that are now eating away at you. This would be so much easier if you only liked Jeonghan. Your crush you had on Seungcheol won’t seem to go away, and now he’s clouding all your thoughts. You should hate him for how he treated you. This would be so much simpler if you hated him. You wish you could go on just ignoring each other, but unfortunately now that’s not an option.
The evening comes and finally Jeonghan is home from school. Without even thinking you cling to him. The moment he walks through the door, you’re by his side.
After dinner he totes you off to his room. These days you never sleep alone. Either Jeonghan is in your room, or you’re in his room every night. He can tell something is wrong right away, but he knows if you want to talk about it you’ll say something. He cares about you so deeply, and he’ll be whatever you want him to be.
Jeonghan is curled up next to you in bed. His head is resting on your chest as you play with his dark hair. You care for him so deeply, and you're pretty sure you’re in love with him. The issue is now you can’t stop thinking about Seungcheol. Stupid Seungcheol has managed to take away any clarity you had on what you wanted romantically.
“What’s on your mind?” He knows you well enough to know you’re in your head.
“Seungcheol talked to me earlier and apologized.”
Jeonghan stills, suddenly all of the oxygen feels like it’s been sucked out of his lungs. At this point he's not sure if he hates Seungcheol or not. He wishes he would have confessed his feelings to you, before Seungcheol could get his hands on you.
“Oh.” How is he even supposed to respond to that?
“I feel like such a shitty person.” This whole situation makes you feel terrible.
“Darling, it’s okay. I’m not mad, this whole thing is weird.” He takes your hand in his.
“Jeonghan I want you, I don’t want him. I just want to stop feeling something for him.” Everything would be so much easier if you could just turn off your feelings.
“I know. Hopefully soon you’ll be able to move on from him.” In a dream world Jeonghan wouldn’t have to wait for your feelings to disappear. He knows this isn’t a dream world. This is reality, and he’s willing to wait for you as long as he needs to. “Just know even if we haven’t labeled this, just know you mean everything to me.”
“You mean everything to me too.”
He moves so he’s hovering over you. Both of your clothes have been shed, and you’re both completely bare and exposed. Be kisses you like he’s trying to tell you he’s head over heels in love with you. Your body’s move together as one. His mouth is pressed to your muffling moans that are trying to pass your lips.
Your highs hit you together. It takes everything in Jeonghan right now not to tell you he loves you.
-
Seungcheol is at his breaking point watching Jeonghan and you fawn all over each other. He’s not sure if he’s going crazy or if Jeonghan is flaunting you in front of him. Seungcheol just got back from his shift at the restaurant he works at near the campus. To say he’s having a shitty day would be an understatement. It didn't help that on his lunch he was scrolling through instagram and saw Jeonghan posted a photo on his story, of him kissing you. On social media you both have no issue posting couple photos. Anyone with eyes could tell something is going on between you and Jeonghan.
Seungcheol was sitting in his room stewing in his own self pity. When he heard the front door open and the sounds of Jeonghan entering the living room. If he was smart he would have stayed in his room and not let his emotions get the best of him, but unfortunately he’s not a smart man today. For some reason whenever anything involves you, he loses all logical thoughts.
He sees Jeonghan head off into the kitchen and spots the hickey on the side of his neck. He instantly knows only one person could have given him that mark, and like a snap of his fingers his blood turns cold.
“What’s going on with you and (YN)?” Seungcheol walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, he’s pissed off and wants to know what the hell is going on. He’s at his breaking point when it comes to you.
“That’s none of your business Cheol?” Jeonghan turns around, setting his coffee on the counter that he was drinking.
“I think it is kind of my business since I have been involved with her.”
“Oh you’ve been involved with her?” He crosses his arms. He’s already annoyed with this conversation and Seungcheol has just started talking.
“Don’t act like she didn’t tell you. You and your precious darling don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“I’m just shocked you're owning up to it. Especially since that day when I asked you why she was upset and you danced around telling me.” Jeonghan lets out a sarcastic laugh. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation.
“Are you and her a couple now?”
“We haven’t exactly discussed that.” Seungcheol doesn’t need to know that you have indeed discussed that, you’re both well aware your feelings for Seungcheol are complicating everything.
“So she’s fair game?” Seungcheol is sporting a cocky smile. This whole interaction feels like a clashing of egos.
“Don’t talk about her like she’s one of your random ass conquests.”
“Does it bother you I’ve fucked her?” He’s officially snapped. Seungcheol steps closer. He knows Jeonghan won’t hit him, but he knows how to push Jeonghan until he snaps at him. He wants Jeonghan to be just as annoyed as he is.
“Can’t lie I’m not the biggest fan of that. But it doesn’t matter.” Jeonghan wishes he would have told you how he felt about you long before Seungcheol even had a chance to touch you.
“Well if she’s not your girlfriend. I’m going to try and win her over.” Seungcheol isn’t sure if he even has a shot in hell with you, but he’s will to try. He can’t stop thinking about you, and the idea of having to watch you and Jeonghan act like a couple is making him feel like he’s going insane.
Jeonghan barks out another laugh. “You know what Cheol?”
“What Hannie?”
“If you truly think you have a shot. Be my guest and try. I just want you to know that no matter how hard you try, she’s always going to be thinking of me. So go ahead flirt with her and ask her out. Just know I’ll always be in her bed. She likes me. I’m her person, and I like her so much it hurts. Go ahead and shoot your shot. Just so you know, Shua has a better chance of winning than you do.”
Seungcheol lets out a bitter laugh. “Game on Hannie
Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “She's not a fucking prize to be won.”
Seungcheol storms out of the kitchen and Jeonghan is left wondering what can even happen from here. It’s clear Seungcheol isn’t backing down, and he is well aware you harbor some sort of feelings for Seungcheol. Jeonghan feels sick at the idea of losing you just as he’s finally gotten you. Leaning back against the counter he pushes his fingers through his hair. He wants to run to you and beg you to pick him, but he knows he can’t. If you want to be with Seungcheol he can’t stop you, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to fight like hell to prove he loves you.
Crawling back to you 5 - A Life that Changed (Yoongi's backstory)
Pairing: Rapper!Yoongi X Fem!Reader ft. Seokjin
Type: Drabble series.
Theme: Break up au, pining, so much angst, exes to lovers.
W.C: 2.1k
Summary:
"It's sad to see you go
Sorta hoping that you'd stay"
Alternatively:
All the time you thought Yoongi was in love with you - he was in love with his best friend.
Warning: Mentions of accident, being admitted and treated at a hospital, heartbreak.
Based on Do I Wanna Know by Hoizer (Yes, the cover because that sounds more melancholic)
Series Masterlist | Masterlist (1) (2) | Patreon (For early access) Posting every Saturday
A/N: Yoongi's POV! Finally! but this is mostly about Yoongi and Inhye's relationship, why he prioritizes her so much and all that. Yoongi's POV will continue in the next part and it will be about reader and him then.
Min Yoongi’s name comes under one of those lists which expose celebrities for having a rather turbulent relationship with their parents.
They are not wrong.
When Yoongi was five, his parents forgot him at a grocery shop because they were fighting with each other over the price of mushrooms.
When Yoongi was ten, his father slapped him for the first time because he asked him to stop drinking.
When Yoongi was fifteen, his parents burned down the mivi machine he bought with his saved up lunch money.
When Yoongi was eighteen, he was kicked out of the home for applying to music school despite having a full scholarship.
He lost contact with them for a while then. It was only his brother who visited him at his campus from time to time and forced some pocket money inside his tightly clenched fists.
They contacted him after his debut - not out of pride, but to let him know that his first cousin successfully passed the civil service exams while he embarrassed himself at a stage wearing awfully cheap-looking clothing, spewing some bullshit he called music.
That was the moment Yoongi decided to stop expecting their validation. If he could chase and reach his dream alone, he could very well live through it too.
Although, he wasn’t completely alone for all these times. He had one protective presence that shielded him in every storm - he had Choi Inhye behind him, beside him through it all.
Yoongi’s life changed a little when he stepped in Seoul for good. The city was so big and his dreams fit right within. However, he was scared. He was lost as well. Nonetheless, determined to make it all work.
Yoongi’s life changed a little bit more when he met Inhye for the first time.
It was a rainy day and he had no umbrella to save himself from the angry downpour. He had no money to buy one, so opting for a convenience store shade was everything he could afford.
The rain had no sign of stopping anytime soon and Yoongi had to clock in to his part-time job. He was just sketching a mind-map of dashing under the rain just when he heard a jingle.
The door chimed signalling someone was coming out of the store. Yoongi stepped aside making sure he wasn’t blocking their way.
A girl came out. She looked around his age, tall and pretty (if he dared to add). The vest she was wearing signified that she worked in the convenience store - a part-timer just like him.
She pointedly stared at him for a moment and then extended her hand holding an umbrella towards him.
Yoongi stood still, unable to understand what was going on, why she was being kind and all as the girl opened her mouth.
“Take it. You look like you have somewhere to be. I will be here till midnight, you can return it later.” She spoke in a friendly manner, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
At first Yoongi struggled to figure out how she knew he had somewhere to be. But soon he realized, he was wearing his server uniform.
“Th-thanks. Thank you. I will make sure to return the umbrella before you clock out.” he grabbed the umbrella in a haste and made a run towards the bus stop.
Although he managed to clock-in in time, he stayed distracted till the rest of the time.
“I’m Min Yoongi, by the way.” He muttered that night while returning the umbrella to the kind girl.
“I know who you are. The star piano player.” she smiled.
“Oh” Yoongi was at a loss for words, “you go to the art school?”
“Yes. Choi Inhye, fashion department.” She extended her hand in a greeting and changed Yoongi’s life a lot more.
Falling for Inhye came as easily as breathing to Yoongi - for she never once left him alone since the first day they met.
During the first few days, Yoongi was awkward, shy and slightly annoyed with Inhye’s persistence. She would show up at his mock recitals, at the music room, at his table during lunch. She would smile at him apologetically whenever she saw him having a thin sandwich as the major meal of the day. She would cook a huge lunch and would say she did wrong measurements.
Yoongi wasn’t blind. He could see what she was doing. He could also see her expensive designer clothes, the black card in her wallet. He got to know quickly that she wasn’t an ordinary part-timer like him - it was her father’s one of the thirteen branches of convenience stores.
He didn’t understand whether she was only pitying him or genuinely wanted to be his friend.
But he didn’t say anything either. What could he do if it was plain pity? He was someone to be pitied indeed. Living in a dingy goshiwon, eating two meals a day, working two different part-time jobs to support his living expenses and purchasing his dream musical instruments - of course someone as privileged as Inhye would pity him, would do charity for him.
But the day his doubts were cleared, was also the day his feelings for Inhye took a romantic turn.
“You know I don’t pity you, right?” she said all of a sudden. Yoongi’s fingers halted before he could press the next key.
He only hummed. It was enough of an unconvincing answer.
“I-” she stood up, crossed the distance to stand right before the piano, making it the only thing that persisted between them, “You remind me of someone. Someone really dear to me. Someone I couldn’t protect. He was my first love, a lot like you, crazy for music, unsupportive parents. The pressure of inheriting a company pushed him towards death.” she sighed.
Yoongi could see the traces of tears in her brown eyes. His heart squeezed uncomfortably in his chest.
“Maybe you feel like I am too much, Yoongi, but trust me… all I want to do is to be there for you, to protect you from everything I can. Although I don’t know if I have the right.” Inhye looked down. Her voice trembled at the end of the sentence.
“You do. You have the right. But only if you let me be with you too, only if you let me have the same rights over you.” Yoongi’s voice was confident. He meant every single word he said.
When Inhye smiled, he felt his music found home finally.
“Forever.” she muttered.
“Forever” he replied silently.
If Yoongi thought after graduation life would be easier - he was a big fool.
He should have known he didn’t opt for a regular course that would guarantee him a 9 to 5 job at the end of university.
He chose music and the music industry was ruled by handsome looking idols mostly. Someone like him, who is rough on the edges, doesn't have a small face or big eyes with double eye-lids - would go nowhere with his musical talents.
He failed auditions after auditions. Producers liked his music but didn’t like how honest he was with his lyrics.
For a whole year after graduation, Yoongi struggled. And Inhye stood beside him offering him her shoulder.
It was May of 2015, when Inhye slid a sleek looking card on the metal table of the samgyeopsal restaurant.
At first she thought it’s her new card as she just got a promotion, while Yoongi still struggled with his part-time jobs. But as he looked closer, he found it was the card of Pdogg - one of the producers Yoongi adores.
His mouth fell open. Before he could form a question, Inhye answered him, “I kinda know him. Not on a personal level or something. I went to his agency for some work, came across him, talked about you. Sorry in advance but I also played Danger for him. He loved it, and asked you to contact him if you are interested.”
“Inhye-ah” Yoongi’s eyes blurred. He had so much to say but no words came out of his mouth.
“Don’t think it’s a favor.” she placed a hand on top of his, “you are extremely precious to me, Yoongi.” Her smile was a balm on Yoongi’s open wounds.
Yoongi fell a little more for her.
Winning over Pdogg pd was easier than Yoongi had anticipated.
He was impressed and already clapped him on his back twice while Yoongi played the recent songs for him. By the end of their meeting the older man said, “You will waste your rapping talents by being a producer! I can’t let that happen. Sign with us as a solo rapper.”
Yoongi signed with Bighit by the end of that same week and again Inhye was right beside him.
He blew up pretty quickly. While he didn’t do as good as the idol groups, his songs didn’t go unnoticed either.
The more people noticed him, the more his bank balance swelled, the more he got busy and the more he became who he currently is.
And each of every credit goes to Inhye - without her he would have been nowhere.
It was another rainy day just like the one when Yoongi met Inhye for the first time.
That fretful night was one of the rare ones where he was completely free - no recordings, no promotions, no brand deal, no shoots - so as naturally as ever, he showed up at Inhye’s place.
Inhye welcomed him with a hug of her own, something that felt like home to Yoongi. But that one time the hug didn’t actually relax him because he had an agenda.
That night, he decided to confess the words that had been sitting on his tongue for almost a decade now.
He wanted to be more than friends now that he could afford a better quality of life - one that Inhye deserved. It was nerve-wracking but he was determined. He was overconfident as well - he thought she felt the same.
But wrong. He was wrong.
“Yoongi.. I… I don’t-” Inhye didn’t finish those words but Yoongi knew anyway. His heart broke in multiple pieces.
“Oh” that was all he could say.
“And I am leaving for the UK tomorrow in the early morning. For a year. It’s a long-term project.” Inhye’s words stomped on his existence.
“You are telling me that now?” he was angrier than ever.
“I am sorry, Yoongi, but I didn’t want you to worry-”
“Worry? Or you didn’t want me to stop you? Or did you just want to run away from me because I am too much?”
Inhye glared at him, “you know that’s not true. And it’s only a year. By the time I come back, you will move on.”
“I have loved you for almost a decade, Inhye? And you think I can move on in a year?” his eyes started blurring.
“You should, Yoongi. Because now you know that I don’t feel the same.” she looked away.
Yoongi grabbed her shoulder and forced her to look at him, “why can’t you love me back? What is it that I lack? Why?” his voice was louder than ever, Inhye flinched, freed herself from his grip.
“Yoongi, you should go back.” she murmured, turning away from him.
“Yeah. right.” he replied before dashing out of her apartment.
The rain and his tears made things extra blurry. He couldn’t see anything. He didn’t know where he was going.
He took a left turn and crashed into something - maybe a poll. Whatever the object was, it broke and slashed right onto his car, damaging the roof, breaking the windows. A block of concrete fell on top of his shoulder and he blacked out.
The next time he opened his eyes was when he felt someone talking to him.
The voice seemed to come from underwater. The face of the person was unclear. But he was sure that it was a woman.
“Is it Inhye?” he thought through the haze of his mind.
But before he could know, the figure was retreating after telling him that she would bring someone or something.
He held her hand, and with a weak voice asked her to stay. Her skin felt comforting, grounding against his.
She squeezed back his hand and promised that she would be back - by then Yoongi could see a little clearer.
It wasn’t Inhye, it was a doctor. But oddly enough he trusted her.
Yoongi’s life changed a bit more when he met her. When he met you - a new chapter of his life began.
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