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The Break
Part 6
Two weeks.
That was how long you had.
Fourteen days between the announcement of another tour and the moment Seonghwa would once again stand in an airport with a suitcase beside him.
Fourteen days to fix something neither of you could properly explain.
Fourteen days to return to normal.
So, naturally, you both pretended you had fourteen days to do exactly that.
The first few days were almost peaceful.
You didn't bring up the argument.
He didn't bring up the way you had looked at him at the airport.
You went to work.
He went to rehearsals.
You ate dinner together.
You watched movies.
You slept in the same bed.
Sometimes you held hands.
Sometimes you kissed.
Sometimes you even laughed the way you used to.
But the tension was still there.
A quiet, invisible third person living in your apartment.
It sat between you at dinner.
It followed you into bed.
It stood beside you whenever either of you opened a calendar.
You both knew it.
Neither of you said anything.
One evening, you returned home later than expected.
Your camera bag hung heavily from your shoulder.
You had spent the day filming a collaboration with a Korean tourism board.
It was an exciting opportunity.
The kind of opportunity you had dreamed about before you had even met Seonghwa.
When you entered the apartment, you found him sitting on the couch.
The television was on.
But he wasn't watching it.
He looked up immediately.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You said you'd be home at seven."
You glanced at the time.
"Right."
It was nearly ten.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"What happened?"
"The shoot ran late."
"You could've texted."
Your shoulders tightened.
"I know."
He looked away.
You put your bag down.
"Are you angry?"
"No."
You closed your eyes.
"Seonghwa."
"What?"
"Please don't."
His expression hardened.
"I'm not angry."
"Then what are you?"
"Tired."
"Of course."
He looked at you.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"No. Say it."
You laughed quietly.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"You're tired. I'm tired. We keep having the same conversation. I don't think either of us even knows what we're arguing about anymore."
He stared at you.
"Maybe you don't."
"What does that mean?"
"Maybe I do."
You felt your chest tighten.
"Okay."
He stood.
"You want to know what I think?"
"Not particularly."
"Too bad."
You looked at him.
He was hurt.
You could see it.
And suddenly, you were angry that he kept making you feel guilty for not knowing how to fix it.
"I think you don't want to admit that this relationship is harder for you than you thought it would be."
The room went silent.
You stared at him.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, I heard you."
"You love your life."
"Yes."
"You love traveling."
"Yes."
"You love being independent."
"Yes."
"And I think sometimes being in a relationship feels like something you have to fit around all of that."
Your expression changed.
"That is what a relationship is."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"Because I don't want to be something you fit in when you have time."
Your heart began to pound.
"That's not what you are."
"Then what am I?"
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
He laughed bitterly.
"Exactly."
You turned away.
"You're being unfair."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you are acting like I don't make time for you."
"You make time when it fits."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"Yes."
"When was the last time you changed your plans for me?"
You froze.
The question was unfair.
You knew it was.
Because you had changed plans.
You had stayed home.
You had shortened trips.
You had rearranged your schedule.
But suddenly, you couldn't remember a single example.
And he saw your silence.
His face fell.
"That's what I thought."
Your anger flared.
"Do you know how unfair this is?"
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep doing this!"
"Doing what?"
"Making me defend my love for you!"
His eyes flashed.
"Because I don't feel it!"
The words echoed through the apartment.
You both went still.
He looked horrified.
You felt something inside you crack.
"Then maybe that's the problem."
His face changed.
"What?"
"Maybe you don't feel loved by me."
"Yura."
"And maybe I don't feel trusted by you."
He didn't speak.
You continued.
"I have spent months trying to convince you that I love you. That I miss you. That I care about you."
"I never asked you to convince me."
"You did."
"No."
"You did."
"I asked you to understand me."
"And I have tried."
"So have I."
"Have you?"
The question stopped him.
You were crying now.
You hadn't even noticed when it started.
"Have you tried to understand me?"
His eyes softened.
"Of course."
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Because I don't feel understood either."
He took a step toward you.
You stepped back.
That stopped him.
"I don't want to stay home and wait for you."
"I know."
"I don't want to give up my work because you are uncomfortable with the fact that I can be happy without you."
His expression twisted.
"I am not uncomfortable with you being happy."
"Then what is this?"
"I don't know!"
"Exactly!"
You wiped at your face.
"That's the problem, Seonghwa. We keep hurting each other over something neither of us can fix."
He looked at you.
"Then what are you saying?"
You didn't answer.
Because you knew.
And he knew.
And neither of you wanted to say it.
The apartment became painfully quiet.
The city outside continued moving.
Cars passed.
People laughed somewhere below.
Life continued.
You stared at the man you loved.
Three years.
Three years of airports.
Three years of late-night calls.
Three years of shared calendars and packed suitcases.
Three years of making it work.
And suddenly, you wondered if making something work had become the only reason you were still trying.
"Maybe..." you started.
Your voice broke.
You looked away.
"Maybe what?"
You swallowed.
"Maybe we want different things."
Seonghwa went completely still.
You hated him for not denying it.
You hated yourself for saying it.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
The word destroyed you.
You stared at him.
"That's it?"
His expression tightened.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know."
"Of course."
The bitterness in his voice made you flinch.
He immediately looked regretful.
But you were too tired to fight about it.
"Maybe we should take a break."
He stared at you.
"A break?"
"I don't know."
"Do you want to break up?"
The question was so direct that you couldn't breathe.
You looked at him.
He was waiting.
Not fighting.
Not pleading.
Just waiting.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything.
"I don't know."
He nodded slowly.
"Okay."
Your heart stopped.
"Okay?"
"I don't want to keep hurting you."
"So that's it?"
His eyes turned red.
"No."
"Then why aren't you saying anything?"
"Because I don't know what to say."
"Fight for me."
The words escaped before you could stop them.
His expression broke.
You immediately regretted it.
"Yura."
"Please."
"I am fighting."
"No, you're not."
"I have been fighting for months."
"Not now."
He looked down.
"I don't know how to fight for someone who thinks being with me is something she has to sacrifice for."
You felt the tears fall.
"That's not what I said."
"But it's what I feel."
Silence.
You both stood there.
Two people who loved each other.
Two people who had somehow reached the end of the road anyway.
He packed that night.
Not everything.
Just a bag.
He was supposed to stay with the members for a few days before tour anyway.
You watched him move through the apartment.
He took clothes from the closet.
Toiletries from the bathroom.
His favorite hoodie from the chair.
Every movement felt like something being removed from your life.
"You're really leaving."
He stopped.
"I think we need space."
You laughed weakly.
"We've had space for months."
His eyes closed.
"Don't."
"Sorry."
He continued packing.
You sat on the edge of the bed.
The room looked exactly the same.
His books.
Your journals.
His collectibles.
Your camera equipment.
A life that still looked intact.
"Do you still love me?" you asked.
He stopped moving.
"Yes."
"Then why are we doing this?"
He looked at you.
"Because I don't think love is enough right now."
You looked down.
That was the most honest thing either of you had said in months.
At the front door, he stopped.
You stood several feet away.
Neither of you knew what to do.
A hug felt too final.
A kiss felt too intimate.
A handshake would have been absurd.
So you just looked at each other.
"I'll call you," he said.
You nodded.
"Okay."
"Yura."
"Yeah?"
He took a breath.
"Don't stop traveling."
Your eyes filled again.
"Don't stop touring."
He smiled sadly.
"I won't."
You nodded.
He opened the door.
Then looked back.
For one second, you saw the old Seonghwa.
The one who used to make you coffee.
The one who left Polaroids in your passport.
The one who kissed your forehead at airports.
You wanted to run to him.
You wanted to tell him you had changed your mind.
You wanted to say you would stay.
You wanted him to say he would stop touring.
Neither of you did.
He left.
The door closed.
And you stood in the silence of the apartment you had built together.
Two weeks later, Seonghwa left for tour.
You didn't go to the airport.
You told yourself it was because you had work.
Because he was leaving anyway.
Because you were no longer together.
But the truth was that you couldn't stand the idea of saying goodbye when you didn't know if there would be another hello.
He looked for you anyway.
He knew you wouldn't be there.
He still looked.
Three weeks after that, you sat in your apartment surrounded by open suitcases.
You had accepted a long-term partnership in Europe.
It wasn't permanent.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You would relocate to Amsterdam for a year.
Maybe longer.
Your blog was growing.
The opportunity was too good to refuse.
You had told your manager yes before you had even fully thought about it.
Now, sitting among your belongings, you wondered if part of you had accepted because it was far away.
Far from Seoul.
Far from the apartment.
Far from him.
You picked up the Polaroid from your passport holder.
The one from the airport.
Come home safe.
You stared at it.
Then placed it inside a box.
Not thrown away.
Not kept with you.
Just...
Put somewhere you wouldn't have to see it every day.
Your flight left on a rainy morning.
You sat by the window.
Seoul disappeared beneath the clouds.
You didn't cry until the city was gone.
And even then, you didn't cry because you thought you were making the wrong decision.
You cried because you knew you were making the right decision for the wrong reasons.
Thousands of miles away, Seonghwa sat backstage in another country.
The concert was in two hours.
His phone was in his hand.
He opened your chat.
The last message from you had been sent three days earlier.
You ❤️
I hope your show goes well tonight.
He had replied:
Hwa ❤️
Thank you. Have a safe flight tomorrow.
He hadn't known that the flight was to Amsterdam.
Not until he saw the post.
A photo of your suitcase.
A boarding pass.
A caption:
"Sometimes the only way forward is to go somewhere you've never been before."
He stared at the screen.
Amsterdam.
He knew you were leaving.
He knew you were going.
He just hadn't realized you were going that far.
Or that you were taking the version of your life that had once included him with you.
He locked his phone.
Then unlocked it again.
He typed:
I love you.
He stared at the words.
He deleted them.
Because you were already gone.
And he had been the one who told you he didn't know how to fight for someone who thought being with him was a sacrifice.
The next morning, Amsterdam welcomed you with gray skies and cold wind.
You stood outside your new apartment with two suitcases, one camera bag, and a life that suddenly felt entirely your own.
You looked up at the unfamiliar buildings.
A new country.
A new chapter.
A new version of yourself.
Your phone buzzed.
A notification.
Yura In Transit has reached 1.5 million followers.
You stared at the screen.
Then smiled.
It was a real smile.
You were proud of yourself.
You were excited.
You were terrified.
And somewhere deep inside you...
You missed him.
You just didn't know yet that you would continue missing him for years.
Previous Y.I.T. Next
The World Is Watching
This is a continuation of one shot, Barcelona. But can be read alone
The first thing you hear when you wake up is the sound of someone arguing with a television.
Not arguing at the television.
With it.
“¡No, no, no! ¡Eso era falta!” Lamine shouts from somewhere in the living room.
You open one eye.
A second later, you hear him again.
“¡Árbitro!”
You smile into your pillow.
Of course.
The World Cup had turned your boyfriend into an even more dramatic version of himself.
You roll over, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. The time is barely past nine in the morning, but the apartment is already full of sunlight. Outside, the American city is alive with World Cup energy. Flags hang from balconies. Fans in jerseys wander through the streets. Every restaurant, bar, and public square seems to have turned into a football-watching zone.
And somewhere in the living room, Lamine is apparently personally offended by a replay.
You pull on one of his oversized Spain shirts and leave the bedroom.
The moment you enter the living room, he looks over.
His expression changes instantly.
“Buenos días, mi amor.” (Good morning, my love.)
You smile. “Buenos días.”
He stares at you.
“What?”
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
You look down at the red and yellow jersey.
“You gave it to me.”
“I know.” He grins. “But now you’re wearing it.”
You roll your eyes and walk over to him. “You’re playing in a World Cup and this is what you’re focusing on?”
“Yes.”
“Priorities.”
“Exactly.”
He catches your hand as you pass him and pulls you down onto the sofa beside him. You barely have time to sit before he wraps an arm around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
On the television, a replay of Spain's previous match plays.
You know this side of Lamine better than most people do.
The player who can walk onto a pitch in front of millions of people and look completely fearless.
The player who can make defenders panic with a single movement.
The player who can score a goal and celebrate like the entire world is watching.
But here?
Here, he is barefoot on the sofa, eating cereal straight from the box, complaining about referees and stealing your snacks.
You lean your head against his.
“You nervous?”
He goes quiet.
Only for a second.
Then he shrugs.
“Maybe.”
You turn to look at him.
He avoids your eyes.
“Lamine.”
“What?”
“You’re allowed to be nervous.”
“I know.”
“You’re also allowed to be excited.”
“I know.”
“And terrified.”
“I know.”
You smile softly. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
That finally makes him look at you.
For a moment, the noise of the television fades into the background.
Then he smiles.
“I know.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek.
“Good.”
His smile grows.
Then he suddenly looks toward the television again.
“Wait. That was definitely a foul.”
You laugh.
The days leading up to the final pass in a blur.
Training.
Media.
Recovery.
More training.
You spend most of your time in the United States with him, just as you had promised you would.
You are used to being the footballer everyone recognizes.
The Barcelona Femení player.
The Champions League winner.
The woman who has spent years being asked about pressure, expectations, competition, and what it means to represent one of the biggest clubs in the world.
But here, you are mostly known as Lamine Yamal's girlfriend.
And you don't mind.
Not when you see how his face changes whenever he spots you in the stands.
Not when he looks up after a good play and searches for you automatically.
Not when you know that despite the millions of people watching him, he still looks for one person first.
You.
And, apparently, your brother.
Because Hongjoong has been sending you messages throughout the entire tournament.
Hongjoong: Did you eat?
You: Yes.
Hongjoong: Did Lamine eat?
You: Oppa.
Hongjoong: This is important.
You: He is a professional athlete.
Hongjoong: Exactly. He needs food.
You send him a picture of Lamine eating.
Hongjoong immediately responds.
Hongjoong: Good. Take care of him.
You laugh.
Lamine looks over.
“Who is it?”
“Your second father.”
He stares at you.
“Your brother?”
“Exactly.”
He groans.
“Why does he ask if I eat?”
“Because he loves you.”
Lamine smiles at that.
Then he steals your phone.
“Hey!”
He holds it above your head.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m replying.”
“Lamine.”
He types.
You manage to snatch it back.
You look at the screen.
Lamine: I ate. She is taking care of me. You can relax, cuñado.
You stare at him.
“Did you just call my brother your brother-in-law?”
Lamine grins.
“Maybe.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Pero me quieres.” (But you love me.)
You try not to smile.
You fail.
“Unfortunately.”
He leans closer.
“Fortunately.”
The final is in three days when you receive a message from Hongjoong.
Hongjoong: Are you busy?
You narrow your eyes.
That is never a good question.
You: Why?
Hongjoong: Just answer.
You: Yes.
Hongjoong: Doing what?
You: Why?
Hongjoong: Y/N.
You: Hongjoong.
There is a long pause.
Then:
Hongjoong: I miss you.
Your expression softens.
You immediately call him.
He answers after two rings.
“Hey.”
“Hi, oppa.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
“Oppa.”
“What?”
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m your brother.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m also your favorite.”
“You are absolutely not my favorite.”
He gasps dramatically.
You laugh.
For several minutes, you talk about nothing important.
You tell him about the city.
He tells you about the members.
You ask how everyone is doing.
He says Wooyoung is being annoying.
Wooyoung immediately shouts something in the background.
Hongjoong covers the phone.
“See?”
You laugh.
You don't think anything of it.
Not then.
The day of the final arrives.
The entire city seems to be holding its breath.
You wake up beside Lamine.
For once, he isn't already awake.
His hair is messy.
His face is relaxed.
You watch him for a moment.
The world knows him as a footballer.
A prodigy.
A star.
But you know him as the person who leaves his socks in the wrong place and insists that he isn't tired before falling asleep halfway through a movie.
You reach over and gently brush his hair away from his face.
His eyes open.
“You’re staring.”
“You’re cute.”
He immediately closes his eyes again.
“Say it again.”
You laugh. “No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Mi amor.”
“No.”
He opens one eye.
“I'm playing in the World Cup final today.”
“Yes.”
“I deserve to hear that I'm cute.”
“You deserve to hear that you're talented.”
“I already know that.”
You stare at him.
He grins.
You sigh.
“Fine. You're cute.”
He smiles sleepily.
“Gracias.”
You lean over and kiss his forehead.
“Come on. Big day.”
He catches your hand before you can get up.
For a second, he doesn't say anything.
Then he looks at you.
“Will you be there?”
You blink.
“Of course I will.”
His thumb brushes over your fingers.
“I just wanted to hear you say it.”
Your expression softens.
You lean closer.
“I'll be there.”
He smiles.
“Good.”
You arrive at the stadium hours before kickoff.
The atmosphere is already insane.
Fans are everywhere.
Spanish flags.
Face paint.
Scarves.
Songs.
People chanting in the streets.
You walk through the stadium with security, wearing a Spain shirt with Lamine's number on the back.
Your phone buzzes.
Hongjoong: Where are you?
You smile.
You: At the stadium.
Hongjoong: Good.
You: Why?
Hongjoong: No reason.
You frown at the message.
Something is strange.
You don't have time to think about it.
Because the moment you enter the section where you will be watching the match, you hear someone shout your name.
“Y/N!”
You turn.
And freeze.
Standing several rows behind your seat are eight very familiar faces.
For one second, your brain doesn't process what you're seeing.
Then Hongjoong grins.
“Surprise.”
You stare at him.
“No.”
He laughs.
“Yes.”
“No!”
You run toward him.
“Oppa!”
He catches you in a hug, laughing as you nearly knock him over.
“You're here!”
“I told you I missed you.”
“You didn't say you were coming!”
“That was the point.”
You pull back, staring at him.
Then you look behind him.
ATEEZ are all there.
All eight of them.
Seonghwa is smiling warmly.
Yunho is already waving a Spanish flag.
Yeosang looks suspiciously comfortable in his seat.
San is holding a giant Spain scarf.
Mingi is wearing sunglasses.
Wooyoung is filming your reaction.
Jongho is calmly eating something.
You point at him.
“You knew?”
Jongho shrugs.
“Your brother told us not to tell you.”
“You all knew?”
“Everyone knew,” Wooyoung says.
You turn to Hongjoong.
“You planned this?”
He smiles proudly.
“I wanted to be here.”
Your expression softens.
“You flew all the way here?”
“Of course.”
“You have schedules.”
“We made it work.”
You stare at him for another second before throwing your arms around him again.
“Oppa.”
He hugs you tightly.
“I'm not missing this.”
You pull back.
“Lamine knows?”
Hongjoong's expression turns mischievous.
“No.”
You immediately start laughing.
“Oh my god.”
“He has no idea.”
“Oppa.”
“What?”
“You're evil.”
“I am an excellent brother.”
Behind you, San raises his scarf.
“¡Vamos, España!” (Let's go, Spain!)
Yunho joins him.
“¡Vamos!”
Soon, everyone is shouting.
You laugh so hard that you have to hold onto Hongjoong's arm.
And then the players walk onto the pitch.
The noise changes.
Your heart pounds.
There he is.
Lamine.
The moment he steps onto the field, he looks toward the stands.
You know exactly what he is looking for.
You stand.
He spots you.
His entire face lights up.
Then he sees the people standing beside you.
His expression freezes.
You wave.
Hongjoong waves too.
Lamine's eyes widen.
Even from this distance, you can tell exactly what he says.
“No way.”
You laugh.
Hongjoong looks at you.
“Did he see us?”
“He definitely saw you.”
“Good.”
The match begins.
And immediately, the world becomes chaos.
Spain dominates possession.
The opposition presses hard.
Every tackle makes the stadium gasp.
Every Spanish attack brings thousands of people to their feet.
You watch Lamine carefully.
Not because you doubt him.
Because you know him.
You know when he is confident.
You know when he is frustrated.
You know when he is starting to overthink.
And you know the exact moment he sees an opening.
He receives the ball near the edge of the box.
One defender approaches.
Then another.
You rise from your seat.
“Come on.”
Lamine shifts his weight.
The first defender moves.
Lamine moves faster.
The crowd erupts.
“¡Vamos, Lamine!” (Let's go, Lamine!)
You shout until your voice hurts.
Beside you, Hongjoong is completely losing his mind.
“GO! GO! GO!”
Wooyoung is screaming.
San has both hands on his head.
Mingi is shouting something in English.
Seonghwa is clapping so hard that his hands must hurt.
Lamine sends the ball across the box.
A teammate gets a foot to it.
The shot—
Saved.
The entire stadium groans.
You drop back into your seat.
Hongjoong grabs your shoulders.
“THAT WAS SO CLOSE!”
“I KNOW!”
“He almost—”
“I KNOW!”
He looks at you.
Then suddenly laughs.
“You're just as bad as him.”
You point toward the pitch.
“I'm a footballer.”
“That doesn't make you less dramatic.”
“You're one to talk.”
The first half ends goalless.
Lamine returns to the locker room.
You sit with ATEEZ.
Hongjoong hands you a bottle of water.
“You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're nervous.”
“I'm not.”
“You're biting your nails.”
You immediately stop.
He smiles.
“Thought so.”
You glare at him.
“Don't start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You're annoying.”
“You missed me.”
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs.
Then his expression softens.
“You look happy.”
You look toward the pitch.
“I am.”
“With him?”
You smile.
“With him.”
Hongjoong nods.
Then he looks toward the locker room tunnel.
“Good.”
You look at him.
“What?”
He shrugs.
“Nothing.”
But you know your brother.
You know exactly what he means.
And you know exactly how much he has come to love Lamine too.
The second half begins.
Spain scores first.
The stadium explodes.
You jump so quickly that you nearly lose your balance.
ATEEZ goes completely insane.
San is hugging Yunho.
Wooyoung is screaming into his phone.
Mingi is chanting.
Jongho is standing and clapping.
Hongjoong has both hands over his mouth.
You look at him.
“Oppa!”
He points toward the pitch.
“WE'RE WINNING!”
“It's one goal!”
“WE'RE WINNING!”
You laugh.
The match continues.
The opposition equalizes.
The stadium goes silent.
For several terrifying minutes, Spain struggles.
Lamine takes a hard tackle.
You stand immediately.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
He gets up.
He's fine.
You let out a breath.
Hongjoong notices.
“He's okay.”
“I know.”
“You looked like you were about to run onto the pitch.”
“I would.”
He nods.
“Yeah.”
Then, with less than ten minutes left on the clock, Lamine gets the ball.
The stadium rises.
You know.
You don't know how.
You simply know.
He turns.
One defender.
Then another.
The crowd begins to roar before he even reaches the box.
“Lamine!”
You are screaming now.
Everyone around you is screaming.
Lamine takes one final touch.
And shoots.
The ball flies.
The goalkeeper dives.
For one impossible second, everything stops.
Then the net moves.
The stadium explodes.
“¡GOOOOOOOL!”
You scream.
You don't even realize you are crying until Hongjoong grabs you and pulls you into a hug.
“HE SCORED!”
“HE SCORED!”
“He scored!”
ATEEZ is completely out of control.
San is jumping.
Wooyoung is screaming.
Yunho is waving the flag.
Mingi is yelling Lamine's name.
Seonghwa is laughing.
Jongho is clapping.
And Hongjoong?
Hongjoong looks like the proudest brother in the world.
On the pitch, Lamine turns.
He looks straight toward the stands.
Straight at you.
You point at him.
He points back.
Then he kisses his fingers and gestures toward you.
Your heart nearly stops.
Hongjoong sees it.
He turns toward you.
“Did he just—”
“Yes.”
“He just did that?”
“Yes.”
Hongjoong grabs his head.
“I'm going to cry.”
“You cry at everything.”
“I do not!”
You look at him.
He pauses.
“Okay, maybe.”
The final minutes feel endless.
Spain holds the lead.
The opposition attacks.
The clock moves painfully slowly.
You barely breathe.
Then the referee raises the whistle.
The final whistle blows.
Spain are World Cup champions.
For a moment, you don't move.
Neither does anyone else.
Then the entire stadium erupts.
You scream.
Hongjoong screams.
ATEEZ screams.
The Spanish players collapse onto the pitch.
Lamine drops to his knees.
His hands cover his face.
You are crying before you even realize you are moving.
You run toward the edge of the stands.
He looks up.
And then he sees you.
You are separated by security and the barriers, but it doesn't matter.
He runs toward you.
You reach for him.
He grabs your hands.
“Lo hicimos.” (We did it.)
You laugh through your tears.
“You did it.”
He shakes his head.
“No. We.”
You smile.
Then he pulls you into a hug.
The stadium continues to roar around you.
Spain has won the World Cup.
And Lamine is holding you like you're the only person in the world.
Behind you, Hongjoong shouts.
“HEY!”
You and Lamine both turn.
Hongjoong points at him.
“You better take care of my sister!”
Lamine laughs.
“I do!”
Hongjoong narrows his eyes.
“Good!”
You cover your face.
“Oppa!”
“What? I'm being supportive!”
Lamine laughs harder.
Then Hongjoong turns toward the other members.
“Did everyone hear that?”
Wooyoung nods seriously.
“Very important.”
San raises his scarf.
“¡Familia!” (Family!)
And somehow, that becomes the word everyone starts shouting.
“Familia!”
You look at Lamine.
He smiles.
You look at Hongjoong.
He is still holding the Spanish flag.
Your brother had crossed an ocean to stand beside you.
Your boyfriend had just won the World Cup.
And somehow, the two worlds that had collided years ago in Barcelona now stood together in a stadium halfway across the world.
Music.
Football.
Family.
Love.
And the biggest trophy in the sport.
Later, when the celebrations have become a blur of confetti, photographs, shouting, and champagne sprays, you find Lamine again.
He is still wearing his medal.
Still smiling.
Still looking like he hasn't fully processed what happened.
You walk up behind him.
“World champion.”
He turns.
His face immediately softens.
“Mi campeona.” (My champion.)
You laugh.
“You're the one who won the World Cup.”
“And you won the Champions League.”
“That's different.”
“No.”
He takes your hand.
“You're my champion.”
You smile.
Before you can respond, someone shouts from behind you.
“GROUP PHOTO!”
You turn.
ATEEZ is standing there.
Hongjoong is holding the Spanish flag.
Wooyoung has his phone ready.
San is already pulling people into position.
Lamine looks at you.
“Your brother.”
“Unfortunately.”
Hongjoong points at both of you.
“Get over here!”
You and Lamine walk over.
Hongjoong immediately puts an arm around you.
Then he looks at Lamine.
After a moment, he puts his other arm around him too.
Lamine laughs.
“Is this okay?”
Hongjoong looks offended.
“You just won the World Cup. You're family now.”
You stare at him.
“Oppa.”
“What?”
“You can't just adopt my boyfriend.”
Hongjoong looks at Lamine.
Lamine looks back.
They both shrug.
“Too late,” Hongjoong says.
You groan.
Everyone laughs.
The photo is taken.
You stand between your brother and your boyfriend, surrounded by seven other people who had flown across the world just to cheer.
Behind you, the stadium lights shine over the celebrations.
In front of you, Lamine's World Cup medal glitters.
And somewhere in the chaos, Hongjoong is still shouting about how he had personally helped Spain win by cheering loudly enough.
You lean into Lamine.
He leans back.
And as the world celebrates Spain's victory, you realize something.
You had once brought a footballer and a group of idols together.
Now, somehow, they had become family.
And judging by the way Hongjoong was already telling Lamine that he needed to visit Korea next—
you were never going to hear the end of it.
“Oppa.”
“Yes?”
“Stop adopting my boyfriend.”
“No.”
Lamine laughs.
You sigh.
The World Cup champions celebrate around you.
And you smile.
Because, honestly?
You wouldn't have it any other way.
Author note. This was obviously written before they had won the World Cup . So it's not accurate to the game played.
Critical Hit
The first mistake you made was asking Bang Chan what his favorite female game character was.
The second mistake was actually listening to the answer.
Because now, three months later, you were standing in front of your bedroom mirror wearing a painfully accurate Katarina cosplay from League of Legends, wondering if this counted as flirting or psychological warfare.
“Maybe I should cancel,” you muttered to yourself.
Your reflection looked devastatingly convincing.
Red wig. Leather armor. Twin daggers strapped to your thighs. Sharp eyeliner. Confidence you absolutely did not possess naturally somehow materializing through the power of cosplay and panic.
Unfortunately, the person you planned to surprise was Bang Chan.
Your best friend.
Your gaming duo partner.
The man you had been hopelessly in love with for over two years.
And the man who once paused mid-ranked match just to rant for fifteen straight minutes about how “Katarina’s design is actually insane.”
At the time, you’d laughed.
Now you were suffering the consequences.
Your phone buzzed.
Chan:
u still coming over tonight?
Chan:
felix already stole my good chair btw
Chan:
if u dont get here soon i’m making him sit on the floor
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
On my way
You stared at the message for another moment before grabbing your coat.
No backing out now.
—
Chan opened the door without looking up from his phone.
“Finally—”
Then he looked up.
And froze.
Completely froze.
The kind of freeze where his entire operating system visibly crashed.
You leaned against the doorway casually, trying very hard not to combust under his stare.
“Hi.”
Chan blinked once.
Twice.
His eyes dragged slowly from the red wig to the armor to the daggers and back to your face.
“…holy shit.”
Your heart skipped.
From somewhere deeper in the apartment, you heard Felix yell, “Did she bring snacks?!”
Chan didn’t answer.
He was still staring at you like he’d just witnessed divine intervention.
You swallowed hard. “You said Katarina was your favorite.”
“I did,” he said faintly.
His voice sounded broken.
You stepped inside carefully. “Too much?”
“Too much?” Chan repeated like the words themselves offended him. “You walked into my apartment dressed like Katarina and you’re asking if it’s too much?”
His ears were turning red.
Dangerously red.
That alone nearly killed you.
Felix appeared around the corner holding a bag of chips.
“Oh, hey—”
He stopped.
Then immediately looked between the two of you with the expression of someone witnessing live ammunition being handed to an unstable person.
“Oh,” Felix said slowly. “Oh, this is evil.”
“Thank you,” you said.
“No, like genuinely evil.”
Chan finally seemed to regain partial brain function.
“You actually did the daggers too,” he said weakly.
“I committed to the bit.”
“You committed crimes against my sanity.”
Felix started cackling.
“You guys are disgusting already and you’re not even dating.”
Both of you snapped your heads toward him instantly.
“We’re not—”
“Nothing’s—”
Felix grinned.
“Sure.”
—
Game night became impossible after that.
Not because anyone refused to play.
Because Chan physically could not focus.
You’d sit beside him and he’d miss cues.
You’d lean over slightly and he’d forget what champion he locked in.
At one point, he walked directly into a turret because you adjusted the wig.
“You good there, Christopher?” you asked sweetly.
“No,” he answered immediately.
Felix nearly fell off the couch laughing.
“You’re getting nerfed in real time.”
Chan threw a pillow at him without looking away from you.
And that was the problem.
He wouldn’t stop looking at you.
Not casually.
Not jokingly.
He looked at you like you’d climbed directly out of one of his daydreams.
Which honestly only made your crush worse.
By midnight, the others had mostly filtered out of the apartment.
Changbin and Hyunjin left for food.
Jeongin claimed exhaustion dramatically.
Felix announced he was “giving the sexual tension privacy” before running away while Chan yelled after him in outrage.
And then suddenly it was just you and Chan.
Alone.
Quiet.
Dangerous.
You sat cross-legged on his couch, adjusting one of the fake straps on your costume.
Chan sat beside you strangely stiff.
“You know,” he said carefully, “you never told me you cosplayed.”
“I don’t really.”
His brows lifted.
“You made all this for one night?”
Your face warmed.
“When you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”
“No,” he said instantly. “It sounds… really sweet.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly undid you.
You looked away first.
“That’s worse.”
Chan laughed softly.
God, that laugh.
Warm and low and unfairly attractive.
“You spent actual money to emotionally destroy me.”
“You survived.”
“Debatable.”
Silence settled again.
Comfortable.
But charged.
Chan glanced at you before speaking quieter.
“You look really pretty.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
The teasing tone was gone.
This was just Chan.
Honest Chan.
The one that always said things like he meant every word.
You tried to laugh it off.
“It’s mostly makeup.”
“No,” he said. “I mean you.”
Your breath caught.
Chan leaned back against the couch, suddenly looking nervous himself.
Which was rare.
You’d seen this man perform in front of stadiums.
Yet somehow a compliment toward you made him anxious.
“You know,” he said slowly, “this might sound stupid…”
“It probably will.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me anyway.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
Both of you froze.
Your brain immediately began planning your funeral.
Chan stared at you.
Then his mouth tilted upward slightly.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Your heartbeat became catastrophic.
You looked down quickly. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
His voice stayed gentle.
“But I do.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
You could feel the weight of his gaze again.
Careful now.
Tentative.
Like he was waiting to see if you’d run.
Instead, you whispered, “Since when?”
Chan laughed quietly under his breath.
“Honestly?”
You nodded.
“A long time.”
Your chest tightened.
“How long?”
“Long enough that the guys are tired of hearing about you.”
You stared at him.
“The members know?”
“Felix threatened to lock us in a room together last month.”
“That sounds like Felix.”
“It absolutely sounds like Felix.”
You laughed nervously.
Chan smiled at the sound before growing serious again.
“I didn’t say anything because…” He hesitated. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
Your expression softened immediately.
Because you understood.
God, you understood.
Every late-night gaming session.
Every lingering glance.
Every accidental brush of hands you both pretended not to notice.
You’d both been stuck in the exact same place.
“I thought I imagined things sometimes,” you admitted quietly.
Chan looked genuinely shocked.
“How?”
You gestured vaguely at him.
“You’re you.”
“That explains literally nothing.”
“You’re attractive, talented, nice, emotionally intelligent—”
“Okay, stop before my ego gets unbearable.”
You snorted.
“But seriously,” you continued softly, “I didn’t think you’d actually like me back.”
Chan stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head in disbelief.
“You dressed as Katarina because you thought I didn’t like you back?”
“When you say it out loud it sounds insane.”
“It is insane.”
You groaned dramatically, covering your face.
“I’m leaving.”
Before you could move, Chan caught your wrist gently.
The touch instantly stole your breath.
“You’re not leaving.”
His voice had gone quieter.
Softer.
You lowered your hands slowly.
Chan’s thumb brushed lightly against your wrist.
And suddenly neither of you were joking anymore.
His gaze dropped briefly to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
The fact he asked nearly melted your entire nervous system.
You nodded immediately.
Chan moved closer carefully, like he was still giving you room to change your mind.
You didn’t.
The second his lips touched yours, every ounce of tension that had built over years snapped at once.
Soft at first.
Tentative.
Then suddenly stronger when you kissed him back.
Chan made a quiet sound against your lips that nearly ruined you.
One hand slid carefully to your waist, pulling you closer without disturbing the cosplay armor too much.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you looked equally stunned.
“Well,” you breathed.
Chan blinked.
“Yeah.”
Then he started laughing.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“I just—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I cannot believe my crush kissed me while dressed as Katarina.”
You burst out laughing too.
“That’s your takeaway?”
“It’s a strong visual.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re still wearing daggers.”
You looked down.
“Oh my god, I am.”
Chan grinned.
“It’s kinda hot.”
“Christopher.”
“What? I’m right.”
You shoved him lightly while trying not to smile.
Chan caught your hand again easily.
This time he didn’t let go.
“You know,” he said, voice quieter now, “there’s something incredibly unfair about this.”
“What?”
“You figured out my weakness.”
You smirked slightly.
“Women?”
“Katarina specifically.”
“That’s manageable.”
“No,” he corrected softly, squeezing your hand once, “you specifically.”
That stupid fluttering feeling returned full force.
You looked away before he could see how affected you were.
Too late.
Chan noticed everything.
His smile softened.
“Cute.”
“Don’t start.”
“Can’t help it.”
You groaned dramatically again, but leaned closer anyway until your shoulder rested against his.
Chan immediately relaxed into you like it was instinct.
Comfortable.
Natural.
Like this had always been waiting to happen.
After a moment, he glanced at your cosplay again.
“You know what’s crazy?”
“What?”
“If you had shown up dressed normally, I still would’ve fallen for you.”
You snorted.
“Pretty sure you already did.”
Chan smiled softly.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I definitely already did.”
Pride
Part 5
The problem with surviving a fight was that surviving it did not mean you had solved anything.
Sometimes, you simply stopped talking loudly.
Sometimes, you apologized.
Sometimes, you kissed each other goodnight and decided that because nobody had left, everything was fine.
And sometimes, the argument ended...
but the feeling remained.
The first few days after Seonghwa left for tour were almost normal.
Almost.
You worked from home.
You edited footage from Portugal.
You answered emails.
You wrote a piece about a small café in Lisbon where the owner remembered every customer's order but never wrote anything down.
You posted a photo of the two of you.
Not an obvious one.
Just his hand resting on your knee beneath the table at a restaurant.
The caption was about finding comfort in familiar places.
Your followers loved it.
You didn't tell Seonghwa about the post.
You didn't have to.
He saw it.
He always saw everything.
His first message came at 2:17 AM your time.
Hwa ❤️
Did you sleep?
You were still awake.
You had been editing.
You ❤️
Not yet.
The reply came a minute later.
Hwa ❤️
You should.
You smiled faintly.
You ❤️
You should too.
Hwa ❤️
I'm trying.
I miss you.
Your fingers hovered over the screen.
You stared at the words.
They should have made you feel warm.
Instead, you felt something twist.
Not because you didn't miss him.
You did.
But because now, every time he said it, you wondered what answer he expected.
You ❤️
I miss you too.
You sent it.
Then put your phone down.
The conversation ended there.
You hated that.
You hated that something as simple as I miss you too had become complicated.
You hated that you now wondered if it sounded sincere enough.
You hated that you had started measuring your own emotions by how they might be received.
So you did what you always did when something became too complicated.
You worked.
By the time ATEEZ returned to Seoul, you had already left for Mexico.
The timing had been planned for months.
You had told him.
You had sent him the itinerary.
You had even made sure your schedules overlapped for four days before your flight.
You had thought that would be enough.
Apparently, it wasn't.
He arrived home on a Thursday morning.
You left Friday night.
For one day.
One single day.
You were both in the same city.
But Seonghwa slept most of it away after the flight.
You spent the afternoon packing.
That evening, you had dinner together.
The apartment felt strangely quiet.
"How was the flight?" you asked.
"Long."
"Did you sleep?"
"A little."
You nodded.
He picked at his food.
You noticed.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
You put your chopsticks down.
"Don't."
His eyes lifted.
"Don't what?"
"Say you're okay when you're not."
He looked away.
You felt something inside you close.
"I am okay."
"Seonghwa."
"What do you want me to say?"
The question was sharper than necessary.
You stared at him.
"I don't know."
"Exactly."
There it was again.
That word.
The word that had started appearing everywhere.
Between you.
Inside conversations.
At the end of sentences.
You didn't know.
He didn't know.
And somehow, both of you were becoming increasingly certain that the other person should.
"I thought you'd be happier I was home," he said.
You blinked.
"I am."
"You don't seem like it."
You stared at him.
"You're exhausted."
"I'm not that exhausted."
"You literally slept for twelve hours."
"Because I was tired."
"Exactly."
His jaw tightened.
"Right."
You pushed your chair back slightly.
"Seonghwa."
"No, it's fine."
"Again."
He looked at you.
"What?"
"You're doing it again."
"I said it's fine."
"You didn't mean it."
"Maybe I did."
"Then why are you saying it like that?"
He laughed once.
"Because apparently I can't say anything correctly."
Your chest tightened.
"That's not fair."
"Neither is this."
"What isn't?"
"You leaving tomorrow."
There it was.
You had known it was coming.
You had known since you landed.
And somehow, you still felt blindsided.
"I told you about Mexico."
"I know."
"Months ago."
"I know."
"Then what is the problem?"
His eyes met yours.
"I just thought you'd stay."
The room went silent.
You stared at him.
"Why?"
He looked away.
"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I don't know how to explain it."
"You don't need to explain it. I understand."
His expression softened.
"Then you understand?"
"Yes."
You stood from the table.
"You want me to stay."
He didn't answer.
"Because you're home."
"Yura."
"No. It's okay."
You gave a small laugh.
"You want me to stay because you're home."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
"I don't want you to cancel your trip."
"Then what do you want?"
He stood too.
"I want you to want to cancel it."
You stared at him.
That was worse.
Much worse.
"You want me to want to give up something I've been planning for months?"
"No."
"But that's what you're saying."
"I am not."
"Then what are you saying?"
He ran a hand through his hair.
"I don't know."
You let out a frustrated breath.
"Of course."
His expression changed.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I'm tired."
"So am I."
"No, you're tired from tour."
"And you're tired from traveling."
"Yes."
"Then we're both tired."
"That's not the same thing."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't ask you to stop touring when I'm home."
His face fell.
You knew immediately that you had hit something.
But the truth was already out.
"You don't have to ask," he said quietly.
"What?"
"You don't have to ask me to stop."
"Seonghwa."
"Because I know you wouldn't."
You stared at him.
"Then why are you asking me to?"
"I am not."
"You are."
"I just want to feel like you want to be here."
"I do."
"Then stay."
The words were so simple.
So impossible.
You felt something inside you snap.
"Why should I?"
He went still.
You continued before you could stop yourself.
"Why should I stay home just because you happen to be home?"
His face hardened.
"Because I'm your boyfriend."
"And I'm your girlfriend. Not your waiting room."
The words echoed.
Neither of you moved.
You could see the hurt cross his face.
You hated yourself for it.
But you were hurt too.
"I never said you were."
"You don't have to say it."
His eyes narrowed.
"That's my line."
"Then maybe you should understand how frustrating it is."
"Maybe I do."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then stop asking me to prove that I love you by giving things up."
His expression changed.
"I never asked you to give up your career."
"But you are asking me to give up this trip."
"Just this one."
"Why?"
"Because I'm home."
"That isn't a reason."
"It is to me."
You shook your head.
"No. It isn't.
The next morning, you left.
He drove you to the airport.
Neither of you mentioned the argument.
The car was silent.
Not comfortable silence.
Not the kind you had shared for years.
This was the kind that had edges.
You watched Seoul pass outside the window.
He kept both hands on the steering wheel.
At the airport, he took your suitcase from the trunk.
"You have your passport?"
"Yes."
"Power bank?"
"Yes."
"Adapter?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
The old routine.
The familiar questions.
You almost laughed.
Instead, you looked at him.
"Seonghwa."
"Yeah?"
"I'm not leaving because I don't want to be with you."
His expression tightened.
"I know."
"I don't think you do."
He looked away.
You swallowed.
"I love you."
"I know."
There it was again.
The same answer.
The same words.
But this time, they didn't feel reassuring.
You hugged him.
He held you.
But both of you were aware of something neither wanted to admit.
The hug felt like an apology.
Not a goodbye.
Not yet.
But an apology.
Mexico was beautiful.
Of course it was.
You saw colors everywhere.
Markets filled with fruit and flowers.
Street musicians.
Old buildings painted in shades that seemed too bright to be real.
A woman in Oaxaca taught you how to make mole.
A little boy showed you his favorite football field.
An elderly man told you stories about a town you had never heard of.
You filmed everything.
You smiled.
You laughed.
You worked.
And every night, when you returned to your room, you checked your phone.
Seonghwa messaged.
You answered.
Sometimes quickly.
Sometimes hours later.
You never fought.
That was almost worse.
One night, you called him.
He answered from the practice room.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
He smiled faintly.
"You sound tired."
"So do you."
"Long day."
"Same."
You both fell silent.
There was a time when silence between you had been easy.
Now, it felt like something you had to navigate.
"I saw your post," he said.
"Which one?"
"The market."
"Oh."
"You looked happy."
The words were innocent.
You knew that.
But your chest tightened anyway.
"Is that bad?"
His expression changed.
"No."
"It sounded like it."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
He sighed.
"Yura."
"What?"
"I don't want to fight."
"Neither do I."
"Then don't make everything a fight."
You went completely still
"I make everything a fight?"
"That's not what I said."
"It is what you said."
"No, I said—"
"You're the one who keeps bringing this up."
"Because you don't listen."
Your heart began to pound.
"To what?"
"To me."
"I have listened."
"No, you hear me and then explain why I shouldn't feel that way."
You stared at the screen.
"Because I don't understand what you want."
"I want you to care."
Your expression changed.
"I care."
"Then why does it feel like this?"
"I don't know!"
The words came out louder than you intended.
Both of you froze.
The call was silent.
You pressed your fingers to your forehead.
"Sorry."
He looked down.
"I don't want to fight."
"You said that already."
"Because I mean it."
"Then what do we do?"
He didn't answer.
You waited.
Eventually, he said:
"I don't know."
You closed your eyes.
There it was.
Again.
The call ended shortly after.
You sat alone in the hotel room.
The city outside was loud.
Alive.
Beautiful.
You should have been out.
You should have been exploring.
Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at your phone.
A message appeared.
Hwa ❤️
I'm sorry.
You didn't answer immediately.
You ❤️
Me too.
A minute later:
Hwa ❤️
I love you.
Your heart hurt.
You ❤️
I love you too.
And that was it.
The argument ended.
But nothing was fixed.
When you returned to Seoul three weeks later, Seonghwa was already home.
He met you at the airport.
He smiled when he saw you.
You smiled too.
He took your suitcase.
You kissed him.
He asked about your trip.
You told him stories.
He showed you photos from rehearsals.
You listened.
You laughed.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
But something had.
You had both become careful.
That night, you lay in bed facing opposite directions.
His back was warm against yours.
You could feel his breathing.
He could feel yours.
Neither of you slept.
You wanted to reach for him.
You wanted him to reach for you.
Neither moved.
Pride was a strange thing.
It didn't always look like anger.
Sometimes it looked like waiting.
Waiting for the other person to apologize first.
Waiting for the other person to ask.
Waiting for the other person to prove they cared enough to cross the distance.
You had both spent so long insisting that neither of you should have to prove your love.
Now, somehow, you were both waiting for proof.
In the morning, you woke up before him.
You watched him sleep.
His face was soft.
Unprotected.
Familiar.
You loved him.
That was the worst part.
You loved him so much.
And somehow, you had started feeling like loving each other was becoming difficult.
You quietly got out of bed.
In the kitchen, you made coffee.
Two cups.
One for you.
One for him.
When he appeared twenty minutes later, hair messy and eyes half-open, he smiled at the sight.
"You made coffee."
"Don't get used to it."
He laughed softly.
"I won't."
You handed him his cup.
Your fingers brushed.
Neither of you pulled away immediately.
For a second, it felt like before.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from management.
Another schedule.
Another departure.
He looked at the screen.
You looked at the calendar.
The next tour started in two weeks.
And suddenly, neither of you could pretend the problem was going to disappear simply because he had come home.
Because this time...
You were both already counting down to the next goodbye.
Previous Y.I.T. Next
Father Status: Activated
Youngjae had said it clearly.
“I’m not getting another dog.”
Not after Coco.
He’d said it while standing too still in the hallway of your apartment, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie like he could physically hold himself together that way. His voice had been calm, almost casual—but you’d known him long enough to hear the fracture underneath it.
Coco’s leash still hung by the door.
Neither of you had touched it in weeks.
So you didn’t argue. You just nodded and said, “Okay.”
Because some kinds of grief don’t need to be negotiated with.
Three weeks later, everything changed because of a cardboard box.
You came home to find it on your couch.
Inside it was a puppy so small it looked like it had been assembled incorrectly. It was curled into a trembling ball of cream-colored fur, with paws too big for its body and ears that kept folding in on themselves like it hadn’t decided what shape it wanted to be yet.
And standing over it—absolutely, unmistakably serious—was Youngjae.
He was wearing a baby sling.
A literal baby sling.
“You’re back early,” he said.
You blinked. “Why do you have that.”
He looked down at the puppy like it was self-explanatory. “He gets scared if I carry him with my hands too much. So I looked it up.”
“You looked it up,” you repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
Then, quieter: “He needs constant contact.”
The puppy sneezed.
Youngjae immediately whispered, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
You stared at him. “You said you didn’t want another dog.”
“I don’t,” he said instantly.
The puppy yawned.
Youngjae adjusted the sling with absurd care. “This is different.”
“How is it different?”
He looked offended by the question, like you were being intentionally dense. “He’s small.”
“That’s not a category.”
“He fits in my hands.”
“So did Coco when she was a puppy.”
A silence dropped in.
The name landed between you both like something fragile placed on a table.
Youngjae’s fingers stilled on the sling strap.
“I know,” he said finally. “But Coco was… Coco.”
His voice softened in a way that made your chest tighten.
Then, as if he needed to repair the moment immediately, he looked down at the puppy again and added, “This one is more… portable.”
You exhaled through your nose. “Portable.”
“Yes.”
The puppy sneezed again.
Youngjae nodded firmly. “See? He agrees.”
It took exactly forty-eight hours for him to start calling himself “Dad.”
It started small.
“Dad is making dinner, so don’t step on Dad’s feet.”
“Dad says you can’t chew that.”
“Dad is currently emotionally unavailable because Dad is cleaning a paw.”
You tried not to react.
You really did.
But on the third “Dad,” you finally stopped him in the kitchen.
“You’re not his dad,” you said.
He didn’t even look up from the puppy, who was now sitting in a dish towel like a burrito. “I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
The puppy barked—more like a confused squeak, really.
Youngjae nodded at it seriously. “He agrees with me.”
“He cannot form opinions yet.”
“He has eyes.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Youngjae finally looked at you. “So what am I, then?”
You hesitated.
That was the problem.
Because you could see it too.
The way he followed the puppy around the apartment like it was made of glass. The way he slept on the couch with one arm hanging off the edge so the puppy could curl into it. The way he flinched every time it made a sound like he was bracing for loss again.
You softened slightly. “You’re… taking care of him.”
“That’s what a dad is.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
The puppy sneezed into the towel.
Youngjae immediately gasped. “Bless you.”
You gave up.
The first time he took the puppy outside, it went badly.
Not dangerous. Just chaotic.
The puppy saw a leaf move and decided it was a threat to civilization. It bolted in a direction that was physically not forward, dragging Youngjae halfway across the sidewalk before he managed to scoop it up.
You arrived at the scene to find him sitting on a bench, hair disheveled, hoodie half-twisted, puppy tucked under his chin like a distressed loaf.
He looked up at you.
“I think he tried to run away,” he said solemnly.
“It’s a leaf,” you said.
“He was afraid of it.”
“It’s a leaf.”
Youngjae nodded slowly. “So he’s cautious.”
You sat down beside him. “He’s tiny.”
“Yes.”
“And dramatic.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re calling yourself his dad.”
Youngjae didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The puppy yawned in agreement.
You sighed, leaning back slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
He adjusted the puppy in his arms, gentler now. “You didn’t stop me.”
“I tried.”
“You didn’t try hard enough.”
You glanced at him.
He was smiling faintly now, but it didn’t reach the tired parts of his eyes. Those parts were still somewhere else—somewhere older, somewhere quieter.
Then he added, almost lightly, “Besides, I think he needed me.”
That sentence did something to you.
Because it wasn’t really about the puppy.
So you said, softer, “And what about you?”
Youngjae blinked at you.
The puppy snored once, like it was contributing to the conversation.
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
You didn’t respond.
He shifted, gaze dropping to the puppy again. “He helps.”
“I know,” you said.
A pause.
Then, quieter: “Me too.”
After that, the apartment changed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not suddenly brighter or louder.
Just… occupied differently.
There were tiny toys under the couch now. A blanket permanently stationed in the living room. A water bowl that got refilled more carefully than your own glasses.
And Youngjae—Youngjae—started sleeping lighter.
Like he was waiting for something to need him.
The puppy, of course, needed him constantly.
It cried when it couldn’t see him.
It followed him from room to room like a confused shadow.
It fell asleep on his foot and woke up angry when he moved.
And every time, Youngjae reacted like it was the most important thing happening in the world.
“You abandoned me for three minutes,” he told it once.
The puppy sneezed.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he added.
You leaned against the doorway. “That sounds unhealthy.”
He didn’t look away from the puppy. “It’s called love.”
“It’s called dependency.”
“It’s called bonding.”
“It’s called both of you being dramatic.”
The puppy barked.
Youngjae nodded. “He agrees again.”
The turning point came at 2:17 a.m.
You woke up to silence.
Not normal silence—the kind where something missing makes itself known.
The bed was empty beside you.
You found them in the living room.
Youngjae was on the floor, back against the couch, the puppy asleep on his chest. One hand rested over its tiny body like he was making sure it stayed real.
The TV was off.
No lights except the soft glow from the streetlamp outside.
He didn’t notice you at first.
You stood there for a moment before speaking quietly. “You okay?”
He exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
But his voice didn’t match the word.
You stepped closer, lowering yourself beside him.
The puppy shifted slightly, but didn’t wake.
Youngjae stared at it like it was something he didn’t fully trust the universe to keep giving him.
“I keep thinking,” he said, barely audible, “what if I fall asleep and it’s gone.”
Your chest tightened.
He swallowed. “Stupid, right?”
“No,” you said immediately.
That made him look at you.
You weren’t sure what expression you had, but it made his shoulders loosen slightly.
He nodded once, like he needed permission to feel what he was already feeling.
“I know it’s not Coco,” he said. “But sometimes my brain doesn’t—”
He stopped.
The rest didn’t need finishing.
You understood anyway.
So you shifted closer until your shoulder brushed his. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
A pause.
Then, quieter: “I’m trying.”
That was the first time he didn’t call himself Dad.
Just Youngjae.
And somehow, that felt more honest.
You reached over carefully, letting your fingers rest lightly over his wrist.
The puppy snored again, oblivious.
“I think,” you said softly, “he’s already home.”
Youngjae closed his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them, the tension didn’t disappear—but it shifted. Became something bearable.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think so too.”
Morning came too fast after that.
The puppy woke up energetic enough to challenge physics. It immediately attempted to climb Youngjae’s face.
He groaned. “Dad is under attack.”
You didn’t even look up from your mug. “You were doing so well.”
“I am still Dad.”
“You lost that privilege at 2 a.m.”
The puppy barked.
Youngjae pointed at it. “He disagrees.”
You sighed. “Of course he does.”
But when you looked over, he was smiling again.
Not the careful kind.
The real one.
The one that looked like it had been gone for a while and finally remembered its way back.
And as the puppy wriggled in his arms and he adjusted the sling again—because yes, he still used it—you realized something simple:
He hadn’t replaced Coco.
He had just learned how to keep loving something new without letting go of what he lost.
And for now, that was enough.
Read Receipts
Taehyun didn’t realize he’d leaked his number until the fourth vibration interrupted his sentence.
He blinked at the camera.
Then his phone buzzed again.
And again.
Behind him, Beomgyu’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway. “Why does it sound like your phone is dying?”
Taehyun frowned, glancing down at the screen sitting beside the keyboard.
Unknown Number.
Unknown Number.
Unknown Number.
His stomach dropped.
The livestream chat started moving faster.
TAEHYUN CHECK YOUR PHONE
YOU SHOWED SOMETHING
THE NUMBER—
OH MY GOD TURN IT OFF
RIP TAEHYUN’S PHONE
“Wait.”
He replayed the last few seconds in his head.
The notes app.
The delivery order.
His contact info.
Three full seconds.
Three seconds was all it took.
“Ah.”
That was all he said before calmly reaching forward and ending the stream.
The silence afterward felt violent.
Then the phone exploded.
Messages flooded so fast the screen lagged.
Hi oppa!!!
Marry me
I love you
PLEASE ANSWER
Is this really you??
Taehyun please notice me
Calls started immediately after.
His entire notification bar became unreadable.
“Hyung,” he called weakly.
Beomgyu walked in holding chips. “What did you break now?”
Taehyun silently turned the screen toward him.
Beomgyu stared.
Then burst into hysterical laughter.
“Oh my god.”
“Please stop laughing.”
“You leaked your actual number?”
“It was an accident.”
“You’re finished.”
“I know.”
Another incoming call interrupted them.
Then another.
Then six texts arrived at once.
Beomgyu collapsed onto the couch wheezing. “This is the funniest thing that’s happened all month.”
Taehyun rubbed his face.
Usually, he handled stressful situations well. Better than most people expected.
But there was something uniquely overwhelming about thousands of strangers suddenly having direct access to him.
The phone vibrated nonstop in his hand.
A headache started building behind his eyes.
“Can’t you just change the number?” Beomgyu asked.
“Eventually.”
“But?”
“But all my accounts are attached to this one.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to spend six hours fixing everything tonight.”
Beomgyu snorted.
Taehyun dropped back against the couch.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
The screen became a blur of names and numbers.
He muted calls.
Muted texts.
Muted everything.
Still, the notifications kept stacking.
Then one message appeared between the chaos.
You should probably turn airplane mode on.
That was it.
No emojis.
No screaming.
No “oppa.”
No declarations of love.
Just practical advice.
Taehyun stared at it.
Then, despite himself, laughed quietly.
He typed back before thinking.
I forgot that existed.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
That’s concerning.
He smiled.
For some reason, that made the panic in his chest loosen a little.
You’re very calm about illegally acquiring my number.
I didn’t acquire it. You launched it into the public yourself.
Fair point.
Then:
Anyway, seriously. Airplane mode.
He glanced at the screen filled with chaos.
You might’ve just saved my life.
You’re welcome.
There was a pause after that.
He should’ve stopped replying.
He knew that.
Idols weren’t supposed to casually text strangers.
Management would probably faint.
But compared to the tidal wave of messages suffocating his phone, yours felt… normal.
Grounded.
Human.
So when another text appeared ten minutes later, he answered again.
Did the phone survive?
Barely.
RIP.
He huffed out another laugh.
And somehow, against all logic, the conversation kept going.
—
You didn’t ask him for selfies.
You didn’t ask personal questions.
You didn’t even mention being a fan.
Mostly, you talked to him like he was just some guy who accidentally embarrassed himself online.
Which, technically, he was.
By midnight, he’d learned three things about you.
One: you hated raisins with genuine passion.
Two: you worked late hours.
Three: your humor was painfully dry.
You’d learned less about him.
Mostly because he kept dodging questions instinctively.
Not intentionally rude.
Just trained.
Still, you never pushed.
At one point, you sent:
Your typing speed is kind of terrifying.
Occupational hazard.
What occupation requires aggressive texting?
Customer service.
That explains the emotional exhaustion.
Exactly.
He found himself smiling at the screen again.
It was strange.
Usually, conversations with strangers exhausted him.
They expected things.
Attention.
Charm.
Energy.
You expected absolutely nothing.
At 1:13 a.m., he finally sent:
I should sleep.
Probably.
You sound like someone who says that while continuing to stay awake.
You know me so well already.
Dangerous.
Then:
Goodnight, accidental phone leak victim.
Goodnight, random citizen.
He stared at the last message longer than necessary before locking his phone.
The room felt oddly quiet afterward.
—
The next morning, his manager changed the number.
Efficient.
Immediate.
No discussion.
“You’re lucky nothing worse happened,” his manager muttered while helping transfer accounts.
“I know.”
“Did anyone weird contact you?”
Taehyun hesitated.
“Mostly spam.”
Mostly.
Because before the SIM card changed, he copied one number into his notes app.
Just one.
He wasn’t entirely sure why.
Maybe curiosity.
Maybe boredom.
Maybe because the thought of never talking to you again felt unexpectedly disappointing.
By evening, he stared at the copied number for almost five full minutes.
Then texted.
New number.
Your response came thirty seconds later.
Wow. I feel chosen.
Don’t make this weird.
Too late. This is already the start of a psychological thriller.
He laughed out loud in the practice room.
Yeonjun looked up from across the floor. “Why are you smiling at your phone like that?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“It’s literally nothing.”
Yeonjun narrowed his eyes.
Taehyun ignored him and looked back down.
You survived the number change?
Barely.
Did your company confiscate your soul too?
Only on weekdays.
Reasonable.
The conversation continued.
Then continued again the next day.
And the next.
It slipped into his routine so naturally he barely noticed when he started looking for your messages.
During makeup.
In vans.
Between schedules.
Late at night when the dorm finally quieted down.
You became a strange pocket of calm inside his increasingly loud life.
You never overwhelmed him.
Sometimes you vanished for hours because you were working.
Sometimes he disappeared because schedules swallowed him whole.
Neither of you apologized for it.
You just… resumed.
Like no time had passed.
—
One rainy night, he found himself sitting alone in the studio at nearly 2 a.m.
Everyone else had gone home hours earlier.
His head hurt.
The song wasn’t working.
Nothing sounded right.
He dropped his forehead against the desk dramatically.
Then his phone lit up.
Still alive?
Barely.
That bad?
I’ve listened to the same ten seconds of audio for an hour.
Oof.
That single word somehow felt more sympathetic than most people trying too hard to comfort him.
You know what the worst part is?
What?
I can’t even tell if it’s actually bad anymore.
Creative brain rot.
Exactly.
A pause.
Then:
For what it’s worth, maybe your brain’s tired instead of the song being bad.
He stared at the screen.
Simple advice.
Obvious advice.
But somehow it cut through the noise in his head immediately.
Maybe.
Definitely.
You always sound very certain.
Someone has to.
He smiled faintly.
Then your next message arrived.
Also you’ve been awake for like nineteen hours. Even water would sound emotionally devastating at that point.
He laughed loudly enough that the producer in the next room poked his head in.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sound possessed.”
“Sorry.”
The producer disappeared again.
Taehyun looked back at the screen.
Thanks.
For?
Talking.
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Anytime.
Something about that reply sat warm in his chest long after the conversation ended.
The First Real Fight
Part 4
The first real fight didn't happen over the phone.
That would have been too easy.
Too convenient.
You could have hung up.
He could have said he was tired.
One of you could have pretended the connection was bad and let the call end.
Instead, it happened in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon in Seoul, with you sitting on the floor of your shared apartment and Seonghwa standing in front of the kitchen counter, both of you too tired to keep pretending the problem would disappear if you were gentle enough with it.
You had been home for four days.
Seonghwa had been home for six.
In theory, that should have meant everything was fine.
You had slept in the same bed.
You had eaten together.
You had gone grocery shopping.
He had watched you edit photos at the dining table while you listened to him talk about tour.
You had laughed.
You had kissed.
You had even had one of those quiet evenings where you did absolutely nothing together.
But something had changed.
Not dramatically.
There was no obvious moment you could point to.
No single sentence that had shattered anything.
Just a constant awareness.
A strange carefulness.
You noticed when he looked at your phone.
He noticed when you checked your schedule.
You both noticed when the other one went quiet.
And neither of you knew how to ask why.
"You have another trip next month."
You looked up from your laptop.
Seonghwa stood near the kitchen island, scrolling through your shared calendar.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Mexico."
His thumb stopped moving.
"For how long?"
"Three weeks."
He nodded.
You waited.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"That thing where you say nothing but clearly mean something."
His expression tightened.
"I don't clearly mean something."
"You do."
"Yura."
"What?"
He sighed and put his phone down.
"I just didn't know you were going again."
You blinked.
"I told you."
"When?"
"Last week."
"You said you were looking at opportunities."
"I said the trip was confirmed."
"You said you were considering it."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
You stared at each other.
It was a stupid argument.
You knew that.
The kind of argument that should have lasted thirty seconds.
But it didn't.
Because neither of you were actually talking about Mexico.
"Okay," you said finally. "I probably mentioned it when you were busy."
His eyes flickered.
"That's not fair."
"What isn't?"
"You make it sound like I don't listen to you."
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"I said you were busy."
"I am busy."
"Exactly."
The word came out before you could stop it.
His face changed.
You saw it immediately.
"Right."
Your stomach dropped.
"Seonghwa—"
"No, it's fine."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't suddenly act like I said something terrible and then tell me it's fine."
His laugh was short.
"You're the one who said I'm too busy to listen to you."
"I said you were busy. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You closed your laptop.
The room had suddenly become too warm.
"Yes."
"Because it doesn't feel like it."
You stared at him.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He looked away.
For a moment, you thought he might let it go.
You almost wished he had.
Instead, he said:
"It feels like you don't really need me anymore."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Complete.
You could hear the refrigerator humming.
A car passing outside.
The faint sound of traffic below.
"What?"
His eyes closed briefly.
"I shouldn't have said that."
"No."
You stood.
"Say it again."
"Yura."
"No. Say it again."
He looked at you.
"It feels like you don't need me anymore."
Your chest tightened.
"And that is a problem?"
"That's not what I mean."
"It sounds like it."
"I don't want you to need me because you can't function without me."
"Then what are you talking about?"
He took a step toward you.
"I want to feel important to you."
The anger in your chest faltered.
Because that was different.
"I never said you weren't."
"You don't have to say it."
"Then how am I supposed to know what you're thinking?"
"I don't know."
"Exactly."
You laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"That's the problem, Seonghwa. You expect me to know what you need without telling me."
"I am telling you now."
"After weeks of acting like I'm doing something wrong."
"I never said you were doing something wrong."
"You said you don't think I miss you."
"I said I want to feel missed."
"What's the difference?"
He didn't answer.
You felt the frustration rising again.
"Do you know how unfair that is?"
His brow furrowed.
"Unfair?"
"Yes."
"How is it unfair for me to tell you how I feel?"
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
You dragged a hand through your hair.
"You are on tour. You travel for your job. You leave for weeks at a time."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do."
His expression hardened.
"I know exactly what my job is."
"Then you know what mine is too."
"Of course I do."
"Do you?"
The question hit harder than you intended.
He went still.
You took a breath.
"I have worked for years to build this. Years. I started with a camera and a blog nobody read. I slept in cheap hostels. I edited photos in train stations. I worked three jobs so I could afford to travel."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Because sometimes it feels like the second you're gone, my entire life is supposed to stop."
"I have never asked you to stop."
"Maybe not directly."
His jaw clenched.
"Then what am I asking?"
You looked at him.
You didn't have an answer.
That was the problem.
He moved closer.
"I don't want you to stop traveling."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to miss me."
"I do."
"Then why don't I feel it?"
You stared at him.
The words came out before you could soften them.
"Because I don't perform it for you."
He went quiet.
You immediately regretted it.
But you were angry now.
And hurt.
And tired of feeling as though you had to prove something that you had never thought needed proving.
"I don't post myself crying in hotel rooms," you continued. "I don't make every trip about how much I wish you were there. I don't sit at home waiting for you to come back."
"I don't want you to."
"Then what do you want?"
His voice became quieter.
"I want to feel like you would choose to stay."
Your heart stopped.
There it was.
The thing beneath everything.
You looked at him.
"Stay where?"
"Home."
"You mean Seoul."
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm there."
You let out a breath.
"Seonghwa."
"What?"
"I am not going to stop living my life every time you leave."
"I didn't ask you to."
"But you want me to feel like I would."
His eyes flashed.
"Why is that so terrible?"
"Because you wouldn't."
The words landed.
His face went blank.
"You don't stay home when I'm gone."
"Because I am working."
"And i ain't?"
"You are."
"Then why is your work different from mine?"
"It isn't."
"Then why am I the only one expected to understand?"
Your anger disappeared.
"What?"
"You want me to understand that your work matters. That your dreams matter. That you can't just stop because I'm away."
"Yes."
"Then why don't you understand that I want the same thing?"
His expression shifted.
"I do understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
He had no answer.
Neither did you.
The argument became quieter after that.
Which somehow made it worse.
You both sat on opposite sides of the living room.
The distance between you was only a few meters.
It felt like an ocean.
"I don't want you to give up your career," he said eventually.
"I know."
"I don't want you to be less independent."
"I know."
"I don't want you to stop traveling."
"Then what do you want from me?"
He looked down at his hands.
"I don't know how to say it."
"Try."
He swallowed.
"I want to feel like I'm part of your life even when I'm not physically there."
You stared at him.
"Seonghwa."
"I know you text me. I know you call me. I know you love me."
"Then what—"
"But sometimes it feels like you don't miss me."
You closed your eyes.
"Why?"
"Because you're always okay."
The words were so quiet you almost didn't hear them.
You opened your eyes.
"I'm supposed to be miserable?"
"No."
"Then what are you asking for?"
"I don't know."
"You keep saying that."
"Because I don't know how to explain it."
"Then how am I supposed to fix it?"
"I don't know."
You stood again.
"Then maybe this isn't something I can fix."
He looked up sharply.
"What does that mean?"
"It means maybe you're asking me to become someone I'm not."
"I am not asking you to change."
"You are asking me to prove that I miss you in a way that feels acceptable to you."
His face fell.
"That's not what I mean."
"But that's what you're saying."
The silence stretched.
You could feel the argument moving toward somewhere neither of you wanted it to go.
So you tried to stop it.
"We're tired."
He laughed bitterly.
"That's your solution?"
"No."
"Because every time we talk about this, you say we're tired."
"Because we are."
"Maybe we're tired of each other."
The sentence cut through the room.
You both froze.
Seonghwa's eyes widened.
You knew immediately he hadn't meant to say it.
You also knew it was too late.
"Don't."
"I didn't mean—"
"Don't."
"Yura."
"No."
You grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"You're leaving?"
"I need air."
"We're not finished."
"I know."
"Then don't leave."
You turned toward him.
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
Your eyes burned.
"Why should I stay?"
"Because I love you."
The words were immediate.
Instinctive.
You looked away.
"Then stop making me feel like loving you means I have to prove that I'm miserable without you."
His expression broke.
You regretted the words the second they left you.
But this time...
You didn't take them back.
You left for three hours.
You walked aimlessly through Seoul.
Past restaurants.
Past shops.
Past couples holding hands.
You didn't cry.
That almost made you angrier.
You had expected the pain to be obvious.
Instead, it sat inside your chest like something heavy and immovable.
When you finally returned home, the apartment was dark.
Seonghwa was sitting on the balcony.
You almost turned around.
Instead, you walked toward him.
He looked up.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then you sat beside him.
The city glowed below.
"I don't want to fight with you," you said.
"I know."
"I don't want you to feel like I don't care."
"I know."
"I do miss you."
His eyes moved toward you.
"I know."
"But I don't know what you want me to do with that."
He looked down.
"I don't know either."
You sighed.
"That's not good."
"No."
You laughed softly despite yourself.
He smiled faintly.
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then he reached for your hand.
You let him take it.
His fingers curled around yours.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
And for a little while, that was enough.
Two weeks later, ATEEZ left again.
Another tour.
Another airport.
Another goodbye.
This time, when Seonghwa hugged you, he held on longer.
You noticed.
This time, when you told him you loved him, he searched your face.
You noticed that too.
You kissed him.
"I'll call you when I land."
He nodded.
"Okay."
"You'll call me too."
"I will."
You smiled.
"Good."
He looked like he wanted to say something else.
You waited.
But eventually, he only kissed your forehead.
"Be safe."
"You too."
Then he walked away.
You watched him disappear into the crowd.
For the first time since you had started traveling during his tours, you didn't immediately open your itinerary.
You stood there.
Still.
Watching the space where he had been.
And somewhere on the other side of security, Seonghwa looked back once.
Neither of you saw the other.
That night, you were back home.
Not traveling.
Not working.
Not because you had to.
Because the next trip wasn't for another week.
You sat on the couch with your laptop open.
A blank blog draft waited on the screen.
The title came easily.
The Difference Between Being Alone and Being Lonely
You stared at it for a long time.
Then began to write.
Some people think loneliness is the absence of another person.
I don't think that's true.
Sometimes you can be surrounded by people and feel completely alone.
Sometimes you can be thousands of miles from the person you love and still feel held by them.
And sometimes...
You can love someone deeply and still fail to make them feel loved.
You stopped.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Then you deleted the last line.
You couldn't publish that.
Not yet.
Across the world, Seonghwa sat in a hotel room in Dallas.
His phone was open to your latest story.
You had posted a picture of the night sky over Seoul.
No caption.
Just the city lights.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he opened your chat.
Typed:
I miss you.
He stared at the words.
Deleted them.
Typed again:
I wish you were here.
Deleted that too.
Finally, he locked his phone.
Because somehow, saying he missed you had started to feel like asking you to prove that you missed him too.
And neither of you understood yet...
That love was never supposed to be a test.
Previous Y.I.T. Next
Boyfriend Agenda
The first time Zhong Chenle called you his girlfriend, it was because you stole his fries.
“You said you didn’t want any,” he complained dramatically from across the practice room floor, staring at the empty carton in your hands like you’d personally betrayed him.
“You left them unattended,” you replied. “That’s basically consent.”
Jaemin snorted from the couch beside you, barely looking up from his phone. “That’s on you, Chenle.”
Chenle narrowed his eyes. Then, suddenly, like a switch flipped in his brain, his expression brightened with dangerous amusement.
“You guys see this?” he announced loudly to the room. “My girlfriend keeps stealing my food.”
The room went silent for exactly one second before Mark burst into laughter.
“Your what?”
You nearly choked on a fry. “I am not—”
“My girlfriend,” Chenle repeated, completely serious now. “We’ve been together for months.”
Renjun looked exhausted immediately. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” Chenle said. “I’m just speaking my truth.”
“You literally met her because of Jaemin,” Jeno pointed out.
“Love works in mysterious ways.”
“Chenle!”
He grinned at your horrified expression, visibly delighted by how pink your face had gone.
And unfortunately for you, once Zhong Chenle found something funny, he committed to it with terrifying dedication.
—
It should’ve died after that day.
Normal jokes faded naturally. People moved on.
But Chenle apparently woke up every morning and decided to make your life harder for sport.
Three days later, he handed you an iced americano before rehearsal.
You blinked. “You got my order?”
“Obviously,” he said. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Jaemin accepted his own drink beside you without blinking. “Thanks.”
“You’re encouraging him,” you muttered.
“Because your reactions are funny.”
Traitor.
The worst part was that the members joined in almost immediately.
Not because they believed him.
Because watching you malfunction every single time was genuinely entertaining.
“Your boyfriend’s calling,” Mark would say whenever Chenle FaceTimed.
“Are you bringing your boyfriend to dinner?” Jeno asked once.
“Did you two fight?” Haechan asked after seeing you ignore Chenle for an entire hour following an especially dramatic teasing session.
And Chenle—
Chenle acted like he’d been cast as the male lead in a romance drama nobody approved of.
He’d sling an arm over your shoulders in public and sigh dreamily.
“Couple photos,” he’d announce whenever he opened his camera.
He started sitting beside you automatically during group meals.
Then came the matching drinks.
Which technically wasn’t his fault.
“You both ordered strawberry ade again,” Jisung noticed one afternoon.
Chenle gasped. “Couple telepathy.”
You covered your face. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you love us,” Jaemin corrected.
“No, I specifically hate Chenle.”
Chenle leaned closer with a grin. “That’s not what you said last night.”
“WHAT?!”
The room exploded.
You stared at him in genuine betrayal while he doubled over laughing.
“You’re evil.”
“And yet,” he said smugly, “you still hang out with me every day.”
Unfortunately true.
Because beneath all the teasing and chaos, Chenle had somehow become one of your favorite people.
Which was deeply inconvenient.
—
The “anniversary” started as an accident.
You were eating together in the dorm kitchen when Chenle suddenly checked the date on his phone.
His eyes widened theatrically.
“Baby.”
You didn’t even react to the nickname anymore, which honestly said something concerning about your current state.
“What?”
“It’s our anniversary.”
Renjun, who was trying to make tea in peace, physically paused.
“Anniversary of what?”
“The day Jaemin introduced us.”
Jaemin looked up from the table immediately. “Wait, that was today?”
“You remember?” Chenle gasped.
“Unfortunately.”
Chenle placed a hand over his chest. “Three years together. We’ve overcome so much.”
“You’re insane,” you told him.
But then he smiled at you—
warm and bright and so stupidly fond—
and something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because it was a joke.
It had always been a joke.
So why did it suddenly feel dangerously close to something else?
—
“Do you think they know they’re basically dating already?”
You froze outside the practice room doorway.
Inside, Jeno laughed quietly. “No way.”
“They act married,” Haechan argued.
“Chenle acts married,” Mark corrected.
“Same difference.”
You should’ve walked away.
Instead, you stayed rooted to the spot like an idiot.
“Honestly,” Jaemin said casually, “I think they’d actually work.”
Your heart skipped.
Haechan made a dramatic noise. “Finally. The best friend approves.”
“I approved years ago.”
“Then why haven’t they dated?”
Jaemin shrugged. “Probably because they’re dumb.”
“Fair.”
You slipped away before they could continue, cheeks burning.
You told yourself it didn’t matter.
That Chenle flirted with everyone.
That he liked reactions.
That this was just another one of his games.
Except…
He remembered everything about you.
Not in a casual way.
In a terrifyingly specific way.
He remembered how you hated cucumbers but only when they were warm.
He knew exactly which convenience store ramen you bought after bad days.
He could tell when your social battery died without you saying a word.
He noticed when you switched shampoos.
He bought an extra portable charger because you always forgot yours.
One night after filming ran late, he wordlessly draped his jacket over your shoulders in the parking lot because you looked cold.
You stared at him.
“What?”
“You’re being nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You literally bullied me for forty minutes on livestream yesterday.”
“That was content.”
You laughed despite yourself.
And Chenle looked at you for a second too long afterward.
The kind of look that lingered.
The kind that made your stomach flip unexpectedly.
He glanced away first.
—
The livestream couple arguments became a fan favorite somehow.
“You never listen to me,” Chenle declared dramatically during one broadcast.
“That’s because everything you say is stupid.”
Gasps erupted from the staff behind the cameras.
Chenle clutched his chest. “This is emotional abuse.”
“You started it.”
“You knew I was sensitive when we got together.”
Jisung nearly fell off his chair laughing.
Comments flooded the screen so quickly even you could see them.
THEY’RE SO REAL
JUST DATE ALREADY
THIS CAN’T STILL BE A JOKE
You looked away from the monitor too quickly.
Chenle noticed.
Of course he did.
His teasing softened for the rest of the livestream after that.
Not gone.
Just gentler.
Like he realized something had shifted and didn’t want to push too hard.
Which somehow affected you more than the jokes themselves.
—
Then came Shanghai.
“You’re bringing her home?” Renjun repeated.
Chenle blinked. “Yeah?”
“To your parents.”
“Yeah?”
“…Why?”
Chenle looked genuinely confused by the question. “Because she’s my friend.”
Then he grinned.
“And my girlfriend.”
You threw a pillow at him.
But somehow you still ended up in Shanghai three weeks later.
His parents adored you instantly.
Which honestly explained a lot about Chenle.
His mother fussed over whether you’d eaten enough within thirty minutes of meeting you.
His father laughed at every sarcastic comment you made like you were the funniest person alive.
And Chenle—
Chenle looked strangely soft the entire trip.
Not performative.
Not teasing.
Just… happy.
One night, unable to sleep, you wandered into the kitchen of his family home to get water and found him already there.
He looked up from his phone.
“Jet lag?”
“Yeah.”
He hummed softly.
The apartment was quiet around you.
Shanghai lights glowed beyond the windows.
“You fit here weirdly well,” he said suddenly.
“With your family?”
“With me.”
Your breath caught slightly.
Chenle leaned against the counter, studying you with an unreadable expression.
“You know,” he said lightly, “my mom asked if we were actually dating.”
Your heart immediately started misbehaving.
“What did you say?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
His gaze held yours.
“Whether you wanted me to say yes.”
The air shifted.
Something delicate.
Dangerous.
You looked away first.
Chenle didn’t push.
He just smiled faintly and changed the subject.
But after that night, the joke stopped feeling simple.
—
The problem with fake dating for years was that eventually, nobody remembered where the line had originally been.
Including you.
Including Chenle.
Especially Chenle.
Because he still teased you constantly, yes.
But now he also unconsciously reached for your hand in crowded places.
He saved you seats automatically.
He called you first whenever something good happened.
Or bad.
You started sleeping with his hoodies because they smelled familiar and comforting.
Which was objectively pathetic.
And Jaemin—
Jaemin watched all of this unfold with increasing amusement.
“You know,” he said one evening while the two of you waited for Chenle to finish recording, “I really can’t tell if you guys are still pretending anymore.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Mhm.”
“We’re not!”
Jaemin smiled into his drink. “Then why do you look disappointed every time he flirts with someone else?”
You went completely still.
“That’s not true.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t—”
“Okay.”
You glared at him. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re in denial.”
Before you could argue, the studio door opened.
Chenle emerged immediately scanning the hallway until his eyes landed on you.
His entire face brightened.
The reaction was instant.
Natural.
Like finding you was the first thing he wanted after a long day.
Jaemin saw it too.
Judging by his smug expression, he absolutely planned to make it your problem later.
—
It finally happened because of Jisung.
Which honestly made sense.
Jisung had a talent for asking questions everyone else avoided.
The seven of you were eating takeout in the dorm living room after practice, half watching a movie nobody was paying attention to.
You were stealing shrimp from Chenle’s bowl.
He complained without real annoyance.
Standard behavior.
Then Jisung, completely unprompted, looked up and asked:
“So when are you guys actually dating?”
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not joking.
Not playful.
Your hand froze halfway to the bowl.
Chenle stopped moving beside you.
Jisung blinked. “What?”
“No, continue,” Haechan said immediately, sitting up with interest.
“I just mean…” Jisung gestured vaguely between you and Chenle. “You already act like a couple. So.”
You opened your mouth automatically.
Nothing came out.
Because suddenly—
horrifyingly—
you didn’t know the answer.
You glanced at Chenle.
He was already looking at you.
And for the first time since this stupid joke started years ago, neither of you smiled.
The realization hit all at once.
Too many late-night calls.
Too many instinctive touches.
Too many moments that stopped being pretend without either of you noticing.
Your chest tightened.
Chenle looked almost startled by the realization himself.
Like he’d finally reached the end of a joke and discovered something real waiting underneath it.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Nobody in the room spoke.
Even Haechan looked emotionally invested now.
Then Chenle laughed softly once, running a hand through his hair.
“This is kind of bad timing,” he admitted.
“Why?” Mark asked carefully.
Chenle didn’t look away from you.
“Because I think I’m actually in love with her.”
Your heart stopped.
Absolutely stopped.
Somewhere beside you, Jaemin muttered, “Finally.”
You barely heard him.
Chenle still wasn’t joking.
There was no teasing in his face.
No smugness.
Just nervous honesty laid completely bare.
And suddenly every fake anniversary, every “my girlfriend” joke, every matching drink and dramatic livestream argument replayed in your head differently.
Not fake.
Never fully fake.
“Oh,” you whispered back.
His expression softened instantly.
The room disappeared.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, for once sounding uncertain. “I just— I think somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Because the terrifying thing was—
so had you.
You laughed shakily. “You brought me to Shanghai.”
“In my defense, my parents really liked you.”
“You called me your girlfriend for three years.”
“You were cute when you got flustered.”
“I hate you.”
His smile turned familiar again. Warm. Fond. Home.
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately—
completely disastrously—
he was right.
Jisung looked between both of you. “So… did I just accidentally confess for you?”
“Yes,” six voices answered simultaneously.
Chenle ignored them.
Still watching you carefully, like you were something precious.
Something he didn’t want to scare away.
“So,” he said softly, “can I finally call you my girlfriend for real now?”
Your face burned instantly.
The members erupted before you could answer.
Haechan screamed.
Mark started clapping.
Renjun looked like he’d been waiting for this day since birth.
Jaemin simply looked satisfied with himself.
And Chenle—
Chenle laughed as you hid your face in your hands, then gently tugged your wrists down just enough to see your expression.
His own smile faded into something smaller.
Softer.
Real.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
You looked at him.
At the boy who turned a joke into years of loving you accidentally.
At the person who somehow became part of every important thing in your life before either of you realized what was happening.
Then you smiled.
“Only if you stop stealing my fries.”
Chenle gasped. “Those were my fries.”
“Boyfriend privileges aren’t active yet.”
He stared at you for exactly one second before breaking into the brightest grin you’d ever seen.
And honestly?
Maybe the line between pretending and real feelings had disappeared a long time ago.
But sitting there with Chenle’s hand slipping naturally into yours while your friends yelled around you—
it didn’t feel confusing anymore.
It just felt right.
Static
The first voice note arrives at 2:07 a.m. on a Thursday.
You almost ignore it.
You’re halfway through brushing your teeth, exhausted after a double shift at the publishing office, when your phone buzzes across the bathroom counter. Unknown number. A three-minute audio file.
Normally, that would be enough to delete it immediately.
Instead, curiosity wins.
You rinse your mouth, tap play, and nearly choke on toothpaste.
“Okay, so either I’m losing my mind or this song hates me personally.”
A deep voice crackles through your speaker—warm, rough around the edges, exhausted in a strangely charming way.
“I’ve rewritten this chorus seventeen times. Seventeen. At this point the song should legally qualify as emotional abuse.”
You stare at your phone.
The voice keeps rambling.
“There’s this melody in my head and I know it’s supposed to mean something, but every lyric sounds fake. Like I’m trying too hard.” A sigh. Rustling fabric. “Maybe I should just sleep.”
Pause.
Then quieter:
“Anyway, sorry. Wrong person.”
The message ends.
You blink once.
Twice.
Then you replay it.
By the third listen, you’re smiling.
Whoever this man is, he sounds catastrophically dramatic.
You should ignore it.
Instead, you hit record.
“Hi. Random stranger here.”
You sit on the edge of your bathtub, grinning despite yourself.
“First of all, your song probably doesn’t hate you personally. Second, maybe the lyrics sound fake because you’re trying to write what sounds good instead of what’s true.”
You hesitate.
Then continue softly.
“And third… sleep before you make artistic decisions. Everything feels worse at 2 a.m.”
You send it before you can reconsider.
Two minutes later, your phone buzzes again.
“OH MY GOD.”
You laugh instantly.
“I AM SO SORRY.”
His voice sounds horrified now.
“You were not supposed to hear that. I meant to send it to my producer.”
Another pause.
“…But your advice was annoyingly insightful.”
Then:
“You have a nice voice, by the way.”
Your stomach flips unexpectedly.
—
That should’ve been the end of it.
Instead, the next night another message arrives.
This one is only thirty seconds.
“I slept,” he says solemnly. “You were right. The chorus still sucks, but at least now I’m rested.”
You send back:
“Progress.”
He replies immediately.
“Wow. Cold.”
And somehow, after that, it becomes a thing.
—
You learn his name three days later.
“Well,” he says in another voice note, “since you’re apparently my unofficial therapist now, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Chanyeol.”
The name rings a bell immediately.
You freeze in your kitchen.
Park Chanyeol.
The Park Chanyeol.
Idol. Producer. Musician. Giant human being with impossibly deep dimples.
You nearly drop your spoon.
You send back exactly one sentence.
“You should maybe lead with that information next time.”
His reply comes with audible laughter.
“I wanted unbiased emotional support.”
“You tricked me.”
“No,” he says. “I strategically omitted details.”
—
The strange thing is that after the initial shock wears off, he becomes… normal.
Or as normal as someone internationally famous can be.
He sends voice notes while walking home from the studio.
While eating ramen at 1 a.m.
While sitting in traffic.
Sometimes he complains dramatically about lyrics.
Sometimes he sends snippets of unfinished songs.
Sometimes he just talks.
And slowly, without meaning to, you start waiting for them.
Your favorite messages are the sleepy ones.
The ones where his voice drops lower, softer, rough with exhaustion.
“Do you ever feel,” he murmurs one night, “like everyone sees a version of you that stopped existing years ago?”
You stare at your ceiling in the dark.
Then press record.
“Yes.”
Silence on the line after you send it.
Then another notification.
“I knew you’d understand.”
—
Weeks pass.
Then months.
Your friends think you’re insane.
“You talk to him every night?” your coworker Yejin demands over lunch.
“Not every night.”
She narrows her eyes.
“How many nights this week?”
You pause.
“…Six?”
Yejin drops her chopsticks.
“You’re emotionally dating Park Chanyeol.”
“We’re friends.”
“Mm-hm.”
“He sends everyone voice notes.”
“Does he hum unfinished love songs to everyone too?”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Because unfortunately, she has a point.
—
One night at 2:14 a.m., your phone buzzes with a twenty-second recording.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just Chanyeol humming softly.
The melody is slow and unfinished, warm around the edges like candlelight.
You listen three times before realizing he’s smiling while singing.
You can hear it.
Then his voice finally cuts in.
“I couldn’t figure out what was missing.”
A pause.
“Then I thought maybe your voice would make the song sound less lonely.”
Your heart stutters painfully.
You don’t answer for five whole minutes.
When you finally do, your voice comes out quieter than expected.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say to someone at 2 a.m.”
His reply is immediate.
“Good thing I’m reckless.”
You spend the rest of the night staring at your ceiling instead of sleeping.
—
It gets worse after that.
Or better.
Depending on how honest you’re being.
The messages become woven into your life so naturally you stop noticing how dependent you are on them.
You listen to his voice while commuting.
While grocery shopping.
While lying awake after difficult days.
And Chanyeol—
Chanyeol starts needing you in ways neither of you acknowledge out loud.
“You know what my manager said today?” he says one evening.
“What?”
“He said he can tell when I’ve talked to you because I stop looking stressed.”
Your chest aches.
“That sounds fake.”
“I’m serious.”
You hear him shifting around, probably sprawled across some studio couch.
“You make things quieter.”
The confession settles heavily between you.
You whisper before thinking.
“You do that for me too.”
Silence.
Long enough to become dangerous.
Then softly:
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His next laugh sounds small and helpless.
Like you matter too much already.
—
You never video call.
Not once.
It becomes an accidental rule.
Voice notes only.
You know the sound of his laugh better than his face.
You know when he’s smiling.
When he’s exhausted.
When he’s lonely.
You know the exact tone his voice takes right before he admits something vulnerable.
And maybe that makes everything more intimate.
Because you imagine each other instead of seeing reality.
No schedules.
No cameras.
No fame.
Just voices in the dark.
—
The first time he disappears, it’s only for one night.
You don’t realize how much it affects you until you’re checking your phone every fifteen minutes.
Nothing.
No messages.
No sleepy recordings.
No random humming.
You tell yourself he’s busy.
That’s normal.
He’s an idol.
A producer.
A public figure with an actual life.
Still, your chest feels strange all evening.
At 1:43 a.m., a notification finally appears.
You answer so quickly it’s embarrassing.
His voice comes through quieter than usual.
“Sorry.”
Your shoulders relax instantly.
“You disappeared.”
“I know.”
He sounds exhausted.
“Schedules ran late.”
Then after a pause:
“…I missed talking to you.”
The honesty in his voice wrecks you completely.
You sit on your bedroom floor and smile into the darkness like an idiot.
“I missed you too.”
You hear his sharp inhale.
As though neither of you expected you to say it out loud.
—
After that, something shifts.
Not visibly.
Not officially.
But the air changes.
The pauses become softer.
The silences become comfortable.
And every conversation starts sounding dangerously close to something more.
—
“Describe your apartment,” he says randomly one night.
You blink.
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“You’ve never asked before.”
“I know.”
His voice lowers.
“I think about you there.”
Your heart nearly stops.
You swallow hard.
“Well… there’s too many books everywhere.”
“Expected.”
“My couch is ugly.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And my upstairs neighbor plays terrible techno music at midnight.”
He laughs loudly at that.
Then says quietly:
“I can picture it.”
You shouldn’t ask what he imagines.
You do anyway.
“What about me?”
The silence afterward feels enormous.
Then:
“You’re usually sitting by the window.”
Your breath catches.
“How do you know I have a window?”
“I don’t,” he admits. “I just…”
A small laugh.
“That’s where I imagine you.”
The image settles painfully deep in your chest because he’s right.
That is exactly where you sit when you listen to him.
—
The second time he disappears, it lasts three days.
At first you try not to panic.
He’s busy.
Tour rehearsals.
Recordings.
Interviews.
You know how chaotic his schedule gets.
Still—
Three days feels wrong.
You replay old voice notes while pretending not to.
You fall asleep listening to the recording of him humming unfinished melodies.
You hate yourself a little for how empty the silence feels.
By day four, you finally send a message.
Not a voice note.
A text.
Are you okay?
Hours pass.
No response.
Your stomach twists painfully.
You convince yourself not to spiral.
Then your apartment buzzer rings at 11:52 p.m.
You frown.
No one visits this late.
The buzzer rings again.
You pad toward the intercom in oversized pajamas.
“Hello?”
Static crackles.
Then—
“Uh.”
Your entire body freezes.
“Hi.”
Chanyeol.
Not through a recording.
Not through a speaker.
Real.
Low and nervous and directly downstairs.
Your brain completely shorts out.
“What?”
“I think,” he says carefully, “I might be outside your building.”
You stare blankly at the wall.
“…What?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but apparently disappearing for three days was emotionally devastating, so now I feel guilty.”
Your mouth falls open.
“You—”
“I can explain.”
“You’re HERE?”
“Technically yes.”
“You flew across the country?!”
“I had four days off.”
“As a surprise?!”
“You sound upset.”
“I sound INSANE.”
He laughs nervously.
“Fair.”
You press both hands against your face.
Your heart is beating so hard it physically hurts.
“Why would you do that?”
Silence.
Then softly:
“Because I missed you.”
Every thought in your head disappears.
Completely.
Gone.
You close your eyes.
“Chanyeol…”
“I know this is crazy.”
His voice turns quieter.
“But I think I’ve been a little in love with you for a while.”
Your knees almost give out.
Downstairs, through the crackling speaker, you hear him exhale shakily.
“And I needed to know if this feels real in person too.”
Something inside you breaks open all at once.
Because the terrifying thing is—
You already know the answer.
—
You nearly trip down the apartment stairs.
By the time you shove open the building door, you’re breathless.
And there he is.
Park Chanyeol.
Standing under the dim yellow streetlight in a black hoodie and baseball cap, one hand gripping a duffel bag.
He’s taller than you imagined somehow.
Broader too.
Real in a way your brain can barely process.
For a second neither of you move.
He looks nervous.
Actually nervous.
Then his eyes meet yours fully and his entire expression softens into something unbearably fond.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
Your heart flips violently.
“What?”
“You’re real too.”
You laugh helplessly.
And suddenly he’s laughing too.
The tension snaps instantly.
You walk toward him slowly, stopping only inches away.
Up close, he looks exhausted.
Like he came straight from the airport.
Like maybe he really did cross the country carrying feelings too big to keep inside voice notes anymore.
“You’re insane,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“You scared me.”
“I know.” Genuine regret flashes across his face. “I’m sorry.”
You look at him for one long second.
Then throw your arms around him.
He makes a startled sound before hugging you back immediately—tight, warm, overwhelming.
And somehow—
Somehow he feels exactly like his voice.
Safe.
His face presses briefly into your hair as he exhales shakily.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Your chest aches so hard it’s almost unbearable.
When you finally pull back, he’s smiling down at you softly.
Then he says:
“Your voice sounds the same in person.”
You grin despite yourself.
“So does yours.”
His eyes crinkle.
“Good.”
Neither of you let go completely.
—
Later, you sit together on your ugly couch while your upstairs neighbor blasts terrible techno music.
Chanyeol listens carefully for a moment.
Then bursts into helpless laughter.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
“I told you.”
“This is criminal.”
You laugh too, warm and giddy and disbelieving.
For a while, everything feels strangely natural.
Like he belongs here.
Like maybe he’s belonged here for months already.
Then eventually he glances toward your window.
The one where you always sit.
A soft smile appears on his face.
“I knew it.”
You blink.
“Knew what?”
He nods toward the chair beside the window.
“That’s your spot.”
Your breath catches.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you.”
The room goes painfully quiet.
Outside, rain taps softly against the glass.
Inside, Chanyeol looks at you with the same voice he’s always used at 2 a.m.
Open.
Honest.
A little afraid.
“I think,” he says carefully, “I fell in love with you before I even saw your face.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“You idiot,” you whisper.
His mouth curves upward.
“Yeah?”
You lean forward before you can lose your nerve and kiss him softly.
For one stunned second he freezes.
Then his hands slide gently against your jaw as he kisses you back like he’s been holding this in for months.
Maybe he has.
The kiss tastes like relief.
Like exhaustion.
Like finally arriving somewhere after being lost for a very long time.
When you pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, smiling helplessly.
“You know,” he murmurs, “this is way better than voice notes.”
You laugh quietly.
“Debatable.”
“Debatable?”
“I still like hearing you ramble at 2 a.m.”
His grin turns impossibly soft.
“Good.”
Then he kisses you again while terrible techno music shakes the ceiling overhead, and for the first time in months, neither of you feels lonely at all.
Hi! I really love reading your ateez fics they bring so much comfort and I always look forward to reading them!
I was wondering if I could maybe request a fic if that's possible? It's okay if you don't want to!
My request is ot8 reacting to y/ns family mistreating the reader or not being very nice and what ot8s reactions would be to witnessing that.
They Witness Your Family Mistreating You
Hi sweetheart, of course, you may request a fic. And I'm happy you like them so much. Hope this is what you had in mind. Have a wonderful day. ❤️
Hongjoong
Hongjoong had noticed little things before. The way you apologized for existing. The hesitation before speaking around your family.
But hearing it firsthand was different.
You had invited him to dinner, hoping things would go smoothly.
Instead...
"Why can't you be more like your cousin?"
"You've always been so difficult."
"We expected more from you."
You quietly stared at your plate, not arguing.
Hongjoong couldn't.
"...I think she's doing incredibly well."
The table went silent.
Your parents looked surprised.
"She's one of the kindest, hardest-working people I've ever met. Maybe instead of criticizing her every chance you get...you should tell her you're proud."
After leaving, he wrapped both arms around you.
"You deserved better than that growing up."
And from then on, he'd constantly remind you how proud he was.
Seonghwa
Seonghwa's heart shattered.
Your mother criticized everything.
Your clothes.
Your job.
Your appearance.
Even the meal you'd helped cook.
You simply smiled through it.
Like it was normal.
The second you both got into the car, Seonghwa pulled over.
"You don't have to smile when they're hurting you."
You finally broke down.
He immediately hugged you.
"I'm so sorry."
He stroked your hair while you cried.
"You've spent your whole life trying to earn love that should've been given freely."
After that, he'd become your safe place.
A home you never had.
Yunho
Yunho was normally cheerful.
Until he watched your older sibling mock you for nearly everything you said.
Every joke.
Every opinion.
Every achievement.
Your family laughed along.
You just laughed awkwardly too.
Yunho didn't.
"I thought it was funny the first time."
Everyone looked at him.
"But now it just sounds mean."
Silence.
On the drive home...
"You know none of what they said is true...right?"
You shrugged.
"I've heard it my whole life."
His smile completely disappeared.
"...Not anymore."
He'd spend every day replacing those cruel words with genuine encouragement.
Yeosang
Yeosang stayed quiet throughout the visit.
Watching.
Listening.
Analyzing.
He noticed how everyone interrupted you.
Ignored your opinions.
Asked everyone else questions but barely acknowledged you.
By the end, he'd had enough.
When someone interrupted you again...
"She was talking."
His calm voice froze everyone.
He looked directly at them.
"I'd like to hear what she has to say."
For the rest of the evening, he'd intentionally keep bringing the conversation back to you.
Later...
"You deserve people who actually listen."
And he always would.
San
San was furious.
Not loudly.
Quietly.
Dangerously.
Your father grabbed your wrist too hard while scolding you over something insignificant.
San was beside you instantly.
He gently removed your father's hand.
"Please don't touch her like that."
His voice stayed respectful.
But firm.
The tension was unbearable.
After leaving...
He checked your wrist.
"...Does this happen often?"
When you admitted it wasn't unusual...
San's eyes filled with tears.
"I'm so sorry."
From then on, he'd never let you visit alone again.
Mingi
Mingi couldn't understand it.
How could anyone speak to you like that?
Your family constantly made jokes at your expense.
"You've always been the embarrassing one."
Everyone laughed.
Except Mingi.
He looked confused.
"I don't get it."
"...What?"
"The joke."
Silence.
"She's amazing."
Nobody knew what to say.
Afterward...
"You laughed."
You nodded.
"I always do."
"...You shouldn't have to."
He'd spend the rest of the night making you genuinely laugh instead.
Wooyoung
Wooyoung lasted exactly fifteen minutes.
Fifteen.
Your family dismissed everything you said.
Then your mother criticized your weight.
That was enough.
"Excuse me?"
The room went silent.
"I think she looks beautiful."
Your mother frowned.
Wooyoung smiled politely.
"And even if she didn't, it's not your place to comment."
The atmosphere became awkward.
He didn't care.
Once outside...
He held your hand.
"You don't owe anyone your silence."
He'd happily become the "rude boyfriend" if it meant protecting you.
Jongho
Jongho remained respectful throughout dinner.
Even while your family belittled your accomplishments.
"So you still haven't figured out your life?"
You quietly looked down.
Jongho answered instead.
"Actually..."
He calmly listed everything you'd achieved.
Your career.
Your kindness.
Your perseverance.
Every accomplishment.
"I think she's someone to admire."
Nobody interrupted him.
His confidence made it impossible.
Later...
"I know hearing those comments repeatedly makes them feel true."
He gently squeezed your hand.
"But they're wrong."
"And I'll remind you of that as many times as you need."
Static
Part 3
The strange thing about missing someone was that it wasn't always dramatic.
Sometimes it wasn't crying into their old hoodie.
Sometimes it wasn't staring at old photos for hours.
Sometimes it was something much quieter.
A pause.
A silence.
A moment where you reached for your phone to tell them something, then remembered they were sleeping.
Or awake.
Or rehearsing.
Or flying.
Or living an entirely different day than you were.
By the time you reached Vienna, your schedule had become a blur.
Wake up.
Explore.
Film.
Write.
Edit.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Your readers loved the consistency.
Your team loved the growth.
And you loved it too.
You had built this.
Years of saving money.
Years of writing posts nobody read.
Years of carrying a camera everywhere because you were convinced one day someone would care about the stories you wanted to tell.
Now they did.
Your name appeared in travel magazines.
Tourism companies emailed you.
People recognized you in airports.
"You're Yura In Transit, right?"
It still felt surreal.
But there was one thing you never posted.
The empty hotel rooms.
The quiet dinners.
The moments after the excitement faded.
Because those belonged to you.
And because you didn't feel lonely.
You were busy.
There was a difference.
Seoul.
11:48 PM.
Seonghwa stared at his phone.
The last message between you sat unanswered for nearly four hours.
Not because you were ignoring him.
He knew that.
Your schedule was insane.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
He typed.
Hwa ❤️
Are you still awake?
Deleted.
Typed again.
How was your day?
Deleted.
He hated that he was overthinking a simple text.
You had never been the clingy type.
Neither had he.
That was part of why it worked.
You trusted each other.
At least...
You used to.
The next morning, you woke up to three missed calls.
Your stomach dropped.
You immediately called back.
He answered on the second ring.
"Hey."
His voice sounded tired.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Sorry. I fell asleep."
"No, it's okay."
"You called three times."
"I know."
"I just wanted to hear your voice."
Your expression softened.
"I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
But something about the way he said it made you hesitate.
"Seonghwa."
"I'm fine."
You knew him.
You knew that tone.
The one where he said he was fine because explaining that he wasn't felt harder.
That night, you finally managed to line up your schedules for a proper video call.
You sat on your hotel bed in Vienna.
He sat in his dressing room after rehearsal.
Two screens.
Two time zones.
Two exhausted people trying.
"How was rehearsal?" you asked.
"Good."
"Good?"
He smiled slightly.
"You always say that."
"Because it's always good."
"That's not an answer."
He laughed quietly.
"You sound like my members."
"You spend too much time with them."
"Probably."
The conversation moved naturally.
You told him about a museum.
He told you about a funny thing Wooyoung said.
You showed him the view from your hotel window.
He showed you the tiny snack drawer he'd made in his room.
For a moment...
It felt normal.
Like you were back home.
Then he said it.
Quietly.
Almost accidentally.
"You look happy."
You smiled.
"I am."
The second the words left your mouth, you noticed his expression change.
Barely.
But you noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"No, what?"
He looked away.
"I don't know."
"Seonghwa."
He sighed.
"It's just..."
The call froze for a second.
A bad connection.
Static.
Then his voice returned.
"Never mind."
Your eyebrows pulled together.
"No. Say it."
He was quiet.
Then:
"I guess I just thought you'd miss me more."
The words hung there.
Neither of you spoke.
The internet connection crackled between you.
Static.
A strange metaphor for everything you weren't saying.
"What does that mean?"
He rubbed his face.
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
"I just..."
He looked tired.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
"I see your posts and you're always somewhere amazing. You're always doing something. Meeting people. Seeing things."
Your chest tightened.
"And?"
"And sometimes I wonder if you even notice I'm gone."
The sentence hurt.
Not because he meant to hurt you.
Because he sounded like he believed it.
"Seonghwa..."
"No, I'm not blaming you."
"It sounds like you are."
"I'm not."
"Then what are you saying?"
He looked down.
"I just want to feel missed."
You stared at him.
Because suddenly you understood the problem.
But you didn't agree with the solution.
"Do you think I don't miss you because I continue living?"
His eyes lifted.
"That's not what I said."
"But that's what it sounds like."
"No."
"Seonghwa, I can't stop existing when you're away."
"I don't want you to."
"Do you?"
The question came out sharper than you intended.
Silence.
"I don't want you sitting at home crying waiting for me."
"Then why does it feel like that's what you want?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because sometimes I want to feel like you'd choose me."
Your heart ached.
"I do choose you."
"Then why does it feel like everyone else gets the version of you that has all your energy?"
That one landed.
Because you knew what he meant.
Your followers got your adventures.
Your readers got your words.
Your camera got your smiles.
But he got the tired version.
The exhausted version.
The person who crawled into bed after twelve hours of work and said, "Sorry, I'm too tired to talk."
You swallowed.
"I love you."
"I know."
"But?"
He didn't answer.
And somehow that hurt more.
The call ended twenty minutes later.
No screaming.
No accusations.
Just exhaustion.
You placed your phone beside you.
For the first time in months...
The hotel room felt too quiet.
A week later, you were in Prague.
You stood on the Charles Bridge before sunrise.
The city was beautiful.
The kind of beautiful you would normally run toward.
But today, you found yourself staring at your phone.
A message from Seonghwa.
Hwa ❤️
Sorry about the other night.
You read it.
Again.
And again.
Then typed:
It's okay.
Deleted.
Typed:
I understand.
Deleted.
Finally:
You ❤️
I miss you. I hope you know that.
His reply came quickly.
Hwa ❤️
I know.
But there was a hesitation.
You felt it.
Even through the screen.
The distance between you wasn't measured in miles anymore.
It was measured in everything you weren't saying.
That evening, you posted a photo.
The sunrise over Prague.
Caption:
"Sometimes the hardest distance isn't between two places. It's between two people trying to reach each other."
Your followers called it beautiful.
Poetic.
Deep.
Only two people knew it wasn't about travel at all.
One of them saved the post.
The other one wrote it.
Previous Y.I.T. Next
They Realize They're Your Emergency Contact
Hongjoong
Hongjoong found out completely by accident.
You had been filling out paperwork for something—nothing particularly exciting, just one of those forms that required an emergency contact.
Hongjoong was sitting beside you, half-listening while working on something on his phone.
“What's your address again?” you asked.
He looked up.
“Why?”
“For the form.”
“You don't know your own address?”
“I know my address. I need yours ”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you moved the last time I visited.”
Hongjoong stared at you.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You're confusing me with yourself.”
“You have three apartments.”
“I have one apartment.”
“Then why have I been to three?”
“Because you keep getting lost.”
You rolled your eyes and continued filling in the form.
Name.
Phone number.
Relationship.
You paused for a second.
Hongjoong glanced over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You wrote something down.
He didn't think anything of it.
Not until a few minutes later when he happened to glance at the form.
And saw his own name.
Emergency Contact: Kim Hongjoong.
He blinked.
Then looked at you.
Then back at the form.
“Y/N.”
“Hm?”
“Why am I your emergency contact?”
You looked up.
“Because .”
“That not an answer.”
“It's my answer.”
Hongjoong stared at you.
“You could've put your parents.”
“They live far away.”
“Your sister?”
“She panics.”
“Your friends?”
“You're my friend.”
“I'm aware.”
“You're also responsible.”
He slowly looked back at the paper.
“You trust me?”
You blinked at him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I'm just asking.”
“You're my best friend, Hongjoong.”
His expression softened.
“And?”
“And if something happened, I'd want you to know.”
That was all.
You said it so casually.
Like it was obvious.
Like there was no other possible answer.
Hongjoong went quiet.
You continued filling out the form.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“No.”
“Then why are you staring at the paper?”
He looked down again.
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Hongjoong.”
He suddenly reached over and stole your pen.
“Hey!”
“You shouldn't be allowed to fill out important paperwork.”
“Give me my pen!”
“No.”
“Hongjoong!”
He smiled, but his expression was softer than usual.
Because you had just given him something without realizing it.
Trust.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the kind that needed to be announced.
Just the quiet kind.
The kind that said:
If something happens to me, I want you to be the person who knows what to do.
And Hongjoong would take that responsibility incredibly seriously.
He would memorize your important information.
Your allergies.
Your family's numbers.
Your doctor's contact details.
Anything you might need.
You'd never even know he did it.
Until one day, you casually mentioned something and he immediately knew the answer.
You'd stare at him.
“How do you know that?”
Hongjoong would shrug.
“I'm your emergency contact.”
And when you laughed, he would smile.
Because he knew exactly what that meant.
Seonghwa
Seonghwa found out because he was helping you organize your phone.
You had been complaining for nearly an hour.
“I have too many contacts.”
“You have 847 contacts.”
“I don't know 847 people.”
“Apparently you do.”
“I don't.”
“You have someone saved as ‘Guy From That One Café.’”
“He knows who he is.”
Seonghwa sighed.
You handed him your phone.
“Fix it.”
“Why me?”
“Because you're organized.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It's absolutely a reason.”
He began sorting through your contacts.
And then he saw his name.
Not just his name.
Your emergency contact information.
Seonghwa paused.
“Y/N.”
“Hm?”
“Why am I listed as your emergency contact?”
You didn't even look up from the food you were eating.
“Because you're my emergency contact.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
Seonghwa went completely still.
You finally looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
He quickly looked back at the phone.
“No, I'm not.”
“You are.”
He wasn't sure why the answer affected him so much.
It wasn't like he didn't know you trusted him.
You had been best friends for years.
You had called him at three in the morning.
You had trusted him with secrets you hadn't told anyone else.
You had sat beside him in silence when neither of you felt like talking.
He knew.
He knew you trusted him.
But seeing his name written there?
That was different.
It was official.
Practical.
Important.
If something happens to Y/N, call Seonghwa.
He swallowed.
“You should probably have someone else too.”
“Why?”
“Just in case.”
“Like who?”
“Your family.”
“They'll panic.”
“Your other friends?”
“They'll panic too.”
Seonghwa stared at you.
“You think I won't panic?”
You finally smiled.
“You'll panic quietly.”
He looked offended.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
You laughed.
And Seonghwa looked at you.
His expression becoming softer.
“You really trust me that much?”
The question came out quieter than he intended.
Your smile faded slightly.
“Of course I do.”
Seonghwa looked away.
You didn't seem to understand how much that meant to him.
You didn't understand that Seonghwa spent so much of his life worrying about whether he was doing enough.
Whether he was reliable enough.
Whether the people he cared about felt safe around him.
And you?
You had simply chosen him.
Without hesitation.
Because to you, he was home in the form of a person.
He would never make a big deal out of it.
But from then on, whenever you were traveling alone, Seonghwa would always make sure he knew where you were going.
Not because he wanted to control you.
Because he was your emergency contact.
And he took the job very seriously.
Yunho
Yunho found out when you were filling out a registration form.
He was sitting next to you, eating snacks and watching you struggle.
“Why are you making that face?”
“I'm thinking.”
“You look like you're fighting the form.”
“It has too many questions.”
“It's a form.”
“It asks for emergency contact information.”
“Put me.”
You looked at him.
Yunho froze.
“What?”
“You said that really quickly.”
“I mean—”
“You volunteered?”
“I'm your best friend.”
“So?”
“So obviously you'd put me.”
You stared at him.
Yunho stared back.
Then you calmly wrote his name down.
His smile immediately disappeared.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You actually put me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me to.”
“That is not a good enough reason.”
You shrugged.
“Because I trust you.”
Yunho went quiet.
You continued filling out the form.
He stared at your handwriting.
His name.
His number.
His relationship to you.
Best friend.
He pointed at the paper.
“You wrote best friend.”
“Yes.”
“You could've written friend.”
“You're my best friend.”
Yunho's face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly.
His smile softened.
“You really trust me?”
You turned toward him.
“Yunho.”
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you asking weird questions?”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
He smiled.
“I'm just happy.”
You blinked.
“Why?”
“Because I'm your emergency contact.”
You stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
“That's what you're happy about?”
“Yes!”
“Yunho, it's literally just a form.”
“No, it's important.”
“You're being dramatic.”
“I'm responsible for you now.”
“You were already responsible for me.”
Yunho paused.
Then smiled.
“Exactly.”
From then on, he treated the title like an official position.
He would introduce himself jokingly as:
“Yunho. Best friend. Emergency contact.”
You'd groan every single time.
But secretly?
You loved it.
Because Yunho knew.
He knew that you hadn't picked him because he was the closest person physically.
You picked him because you knew he would come.
No matter what.
And Yunho would always come.
Yeosang
Yeosang found out quietly.
You were both sitting in a waiting room.
You were filling out paperwork.
Yeosang was sitting beside you, quietly scrolling on his phone.
You finished the form and placed it on the table.
He wasn't trying to look.
He genuinely wasn't.
But his eyes happened to land on the page.
And then he saw his name.
He stared.
You noticed.
“What?”
Yeosang pointed at the paper.
“Why am I there?”
You looked at the form.
“Oh.”
“You put me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You looked at him.
“Because you're my emergency contact.”
He continued staring at you.
You tilted your head.
“What?”
“You trust me?”
You blinked.
“Obviously.”
Yeosang looked away.
He wasn't sure why that made something in his chest feel so warm.
You trusted him.
You.
The person who usually tried to handle everything yourself.
The person who rarely asked for help.
The person who would rather struggle silently than inconvenience someone.
And yet, when asked who should be contacted if something happened to you?
You chose him.
Without hesitation.
Yeosang looked back at you.
“Why me?”
“Because you're calm.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I panic.”
“You panic internally.”
He considered that.
“True.”
You smiled.
“And because you'll actually listen.”
That made him quiet.
You didn't choose him because he was the loudest.
Or the most outwardly protective.
You chose him because you knew he would listen.
You knew he would remember.
You knew he would stay.
Yeosang looked down at the paper again.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I'll do it.”
You frowned.
“Do what?”
“Be your emergency contact.”
You laughed.
“You don't get to accept the position.”
“I just did.”
And that was it.
Yeosang never brought it up again.
But he saved your emergency information in his own phone.
Just in case.
San
San found out and immediately became emotional.
You were filling out some paperwork while he was sitting next to you.
“Why are you taking so long?”
“Because I'm reading.”
“You don't need to read everything.”
“That is terrible advice.”
“I'm a terrible influence.”
“You are.”
You reached the emergency contact section.
San leaned over.
“Put me.”
You looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because I'm your best friend.”
“You're very confident.”
“I know you better than anyone.”
You stared at him.
Then wrote his name down.
San froze.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You actually put me?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“I'm your emergency contact?”
“Yes, San.”
He stared at you.
You looked over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you're about to cry.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not!”
“You absolutely are.”
San pressed his lips together.
Then pointed at the paper.
“You trust me?”
You stared at him.
“San.”
“What?”
“Of course I trust you.”
His eyes immediately went shiny.
“Oh my god.”
“Don't cry.”
“I'm not crying.”
“Your eyes are literally watering.”
“It's allergies.”
“You're indoors.”
“Indoor allergies.”
You started laughing.
San dramatically wiped his eyes.
But the truth was, he was genuinely touched.
Because he knew how independent you were.
He knew you didn't like relying on people.
He knew that if you chose someone as your emergency contact, it meant something.
And you had chosen him.
You trusted him to be the person who would show up when things were bad.
So, naturally, San immediately made it his responsibility to ensure you never needed him.
He would remind you to charge your phone.
He would check whether you got home safely.
He would make sure you had eaten.
He would text you:
Did you drink water?
You would reply:
You're not my mother.
And he would say:
No. I'm your emergency contact.
Mingi
Mingi found out because he was helping you fill out a form.
You were struggling with one section.
“What's your emergency contact?”
“I don't know.”
Mingi immediately raised his hand.
“Me!”
You looked at him.
“You're volunteering?”
“Of course.”
“You don't even know my blood type.”
“Neither do you!”
“That is not reassuring.”
Mingi thought about it.
“Okay, but I know your favorite food.”
“That doesn't help in an emergency.”
“I know your coffee order.”
“Mingi.”
“I know what you do when you're stressed.”
You paused.
He was right.
He knew.
He knew when you were lying about being fine.
He knew when you needed to talk.
He knew when you needed to be left alone.
He knew when you were about to cry but pretending you weren't.
You sighed and wrote his name down.
Mingi stared.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You actually picked me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you're my best friend.”
He looked genuinely stunned.
You laughed.
“You're making it weird.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Mingi looked at your name next to his.
Then smiled.
A big, warm, slightly emotional smile.
“You know I'd come, right?”
You looked at him.
“Yeah.”
That was the part that got him.
You didn't say:
I hope you would.
You said:
I know you would.
Mingi looked away quickly.
Because suddenly his eyes were getting suspiciously wet.
You noticed.
“Mingi.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're crying.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“I'm just very proud of myself.”
You laughed.
And Mingi smiled.
Because he would come.
You knew that.
He knew that.
And that was enough.
Wooyoung
Wooyoung found out because he saw you put his name down and immediately made it everyone's business.
“YOU PUT ME?”
You jumped.
“Why are you shouting?”
“YOU PUT ME!”
“Wooyoung!”
He grabbed the form.
“You put me as your emergency contact!”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because you're my best friend!”
He froze.
You immediately realized what you had said.
Wooyoung stared at you.
“What?”
“You said I'm your best friend.”
“You are.”
He looked genuinely stunned.
“You've never said that.”
“I say it all the time.”
“No, you don't.”
“Yes, I do.”
“When?”
“You just don't listen.”
Wooyoung was still staring at the paper.
Your name.
His name.
His phone number.
Emergency contact.
He looked at you.
“You trust me?”
You sighed.
“Yes.”
“More than everyone else?”
You paused.
Then nodded.
Wooyoung immediately threw himself dramatically onto the couch.
“Oh my god.”
“What are you doing?”
“She trusts me.”
“You knew that.”
“No, I didn't know this much!”
You rolled your eyes.
Wooyoung grabbed your hand.
“I'll protect you.”
“Wooyoung.”
“I will.”
“I know.”
“No, seriously.”
You looked at him.
And suddenly, he was completely serious.
You had chosen him.
Not because he was the calmest.
Not because he was the most organized.
Not because he was always sensible.
But because you knew him.
You knew his heart.
You knew that if something happened to you, Wooyoung would be there before anyone could even finish explaining what happened.
He would be loud.
He would be stressed.
He would probably yell at someone.
But he would come.
Every time.
You smiled.
“I know you will.”
Wooyoung went quiet.
Then immediately hugged you.
“Don't ever scare me.”
You laughed into his shoulder.
“I'm not planning on it.”
“Good.”
He pulled away.
“Also, I'm saving your emergency contact information.”
“Why?”
“So I can call myself if something happens.”
You stared at him.
“That's not how that works.”
“I'll figure it out.”
Jongho
Jongho found out because you told him.
You were filling out some paperwork and casually said:
“I'm putting you as my emergency contact.”
Jongho looked up.
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
He blinked.
That was it.
That was the entire reason.
No hesitation.
No list.
No explanation.
Just:
I trust you.
Jongho looked back at the form.
“You could put your family.”
“They'd panic.”
“Your other friends?”
“They'd panic too.”
“I would panic.”
“You'd be useful while panicking.”
He stared at you.
Then smiled slightly.
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is.”
Jongho looked at your name.
Then his.
He understood what it meant.
You trusted him enough to call him when things were serious.
You trusted him to make decisions.
You trusted him to know what to do.
And more than that?
You trusted him to be the person who would be there.
Jongho didn't need to make a big deal out of it.
He simply nodded.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I'll be your emergency contact.”
You laughed.
“You don't get to accept the role.”
“I already did.”
“Jongho.”
“I'll do a good job.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
And that was all he needed.
Because Jongho knew you trusted him.
And you knew he would never give you a reason not to.
They Realize They're Your Emergency Contact
Bangchan
Chan found out completely by accident.
It was during a schedule when one of the staff members needed to update some information for you.
“Who should we contact in case of an emergency?”
You didn't even hesitate.
“Chan.”
The staff member paused.
“Not your family?”
“No Chan.”
“Not your manager?”
“No Chan.”
Chan, who had been sitting only a few feet away, slowly looked up from his phone.
“...Me?”
You turned toward him, completely confused by his reaction.
“Yeah?”
“I'm your emergency contact?”
“Obviously?”
There was something about the way you said it that made him go completely quiet.
Not obviously because you're my best friend and I happen to have your number.
No.
It was the kind of obvious that meant you had never even considered anyone else.
Chan stared at you.
“You trust me that much?”
You blinked.
“Chris, you've literally been the person I call when I don't know what to do since we met.”
That hit him harder than expected.
Because Chan knew he was the person everyone came to.
The members.
His family.
His friends.
People who needed advice, comfort, help, reassurance.
But you?
You trusted him.
Not the leader.
Not the idol.
Not the person who was supposed to have all the answers.
Just him.
His eyes softened.
“You know you can call me for anything, right?”
You gave him a look.
“That's why you're my emergency contact.”
He immediately pulled you into a hug.
A long one.
The kind where his chin rested on top of your head and his arms wrapped securely around you.
“I'm never changing my number,” he mumbled.
“You better not.”
“And if you ever get hurt—”
“Chan.”
“—or you're scared—”
“Chan.”
“—or something happens and you need me—”
“Chris.”
He finally stopped.
You smiled.
“I know.”
And that was the thing.
You did.
You knew he would come.
No matter what.
Minho
Minho discovered it while filling out paperwork.
He wasn't even supposed to be looking.
You had left your phone on the table while you went to get coffee, and when it started ringing, he glanced at the screen.
Emergency Contact: Lee Minho
He stared.
Then he looked at the phone.
Then at the empty space where you had disappeared.
Then back at the phone.
When you returned, he was sitting exactly where you left him.
“Why am I your emergency contact?”
You froze.
“...What?”
“Your emergency contact.”
You stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
“Your phone told me.”
“You went through my phone?”
“It rang.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“Didn't go through it.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He simply held up the phone.
“Why me?”
You looked genuinely confused.
“Because you're my best friend.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“It does.”
“No, it doesn't.”
You sighed.
“Minho, if something happened to me, you're the person I would want to know.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But you knew him well enough to notice.
The teasing disappeared.
“You trust me more than anyone?”
You shrugged, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Yeah.”
Minho looked away.
For once, he didn't immediately make a joke.
Because he knew what you meant.
You didn't trust him because he was the loudest person in the room.
Or the most comforting.
Or because he was always sweet about it.
You trusted him because he was steady.
Because if everything went wrong, Minho would be the person who stayed.
The person who would figure out what to do.
The person who would quietly sit beside you afterward and make sure you ate something.
He looked back at you.
“Good choice.”
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
“I'm very reliable.”
“You once forgot where you parked your car.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
“Still reliable.”
You laughed.
Minho smiled faintly.
Then, after a moment, he reached over and flicked your forehead.
“Don't make me use the emergency contact status.”
Changbin
Changbin found out because you were filling out a form together.
He was leaning over your shoulder, mostly because he was nosy.
Then he saw his name.
“WAIT.”
You immediately knew.
“Don't.”
“IS THAT MY NAME?”
“Changbin.”
“AM I YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT?”
You tried to hide the form.
He snatched it away.
“You are!”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You stared at him.
“Because you're my best friend?”
His face changed instantly.
The excitement turned into something softer.
“Oh.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You trust me?”
You laughed.
“Obviously.”
“No, but like—”
He suddenly became very serious.
“Like, if something actually happened?”
“Changbin.”
“You'd want me to be the one they called?”
“Yes.”
His entire expression melted.
Then he put the form down.
“Come here.”
You knew exactly what was happening.
“No.”
“Come here.”
“Absolutely not.”
He grabbed you anyway.
You were pulled into a massive hug, his arms wrapping around you so tightly that your feet almost left the ground.
“Changbin!”
“You trust me!”
“Yes, I do!”
“You trust me more than anyone!”
“Put me down!”
“No!”
He finally released you, but only after squeezing you one more time.
Then he looked at you with complete sincerity.
“I'll always come.”
You paused.
He smiled.
“Seriously. If you're scared, if you need help, if something happens... call me.”
“You're literally my emergency contact.”
“I know!”
“You don't need to remind me.”
“I like hearing it.”
You rolled your eyes.
He grinned.
And from that day forward, Changbin became incredibly proud of his status.
Someone asked you who your emergency contact was?
“Changbin.”
He was immediately appearing from somewhere nearby.
“That's me!”
Hyunjin
Hyunjin discovered it in the most dramatic way possible.
You were traveling together and filling out the emergency information for your hotel.
He glanced at your form.
Then froze.
“...Why am I here?”
You looked up.
“Where?”
“Here.”
He pointed at his name.
You stared at him.
“Because you're my emergency contact.”
His eyes widened.
“You chose me?”
“Hyunjin.”
“You trust me?”
“Obviously.”
He continued staring at the form.
You could practically see the emotions moving across his face.
Confusion.
Surprise.
Then something deeply touched.
“You trust me more than anyone?”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
Hyunjin went quiet.
Because you were one of the very few people who knew him without the performance.
You knew when he was overwhelmed.
When he was pretending to be fine.
When he needed space.
When he needed someone to sit beside him without saying anything.
And apparently, he was that person for you too.
He slowly smiled.
“I'm honored.”
You laughed.
“It's not an award.”
“It is to me.”
“Hyunjin.”
“No, seriously.”
He carefully folded the form.
“I'll take care of it.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Take care of what?”
“Being your emergency contact.”
“You're not going to frame the form.”
“...I wasn't going to.”
“You absolutely were.”
He smiled.
Then, much more quietly, he added,
“You know I'd come, right?”
You looked at him.
“Yeah.”
“Even if it was the middle of the night?”
“Yeah.”
“Even if you called me crying and couldn't explain what happened?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled softly.
“Good.”
And then he pulled you into a hug.
No dramatic speech.
No teasing.
Just the quiet understanding that you had chosen each other as the people you could call when everything else felt uncertain.
Jisung
Jisung found out and immediately panicked.
“WHY AM I YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT?”
You looked up from your phone.
“Why are you yelling?”
“WHY AM I YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT?”
“Because you're my best friend?”
He stared at you.
“That's it?”
“Yes?”
“You trust me with your life?”
You paused.
“...That sounds dramatic.”
“DO YOU?”
You sighed.
“Yes, Jisung.”
He froze.
You continued scrolling.
He continued staring.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“You actually trust me?”
You put your phone down.
“Jisung.”
“No, because sometimes I feel like you're just pretending I'm responsible.”
You burst out laughing.
“Why would I put you as my emergency contact if I didn't trust you?”
“I don't know! Maybe you accidentally clicked my name!”
“It's not a multiple-choice question.”
He sat down beside you.
“So if something happened...”
“Yeah?”
“You'd want me to know?”
“Yes.”
“You'd call me?”
“Yes.”
“Before anyone else?”
You smiled.
“Probably.”
His eyes widened.
“Probably?”
“Okay. Yes.”
Jisung went completely silent.
Then he suddenly covered his face.
“I'm going to cry.”
You immediately laughed.
“Don't cry!”
“You trust me!”
“Yes!”
“More than anyone!”
“Yes!”
He lowered his hands.
“That's so much pressure.”
You stared at him.
“Jisung.”
“I'm serious! What if something happens and I have to be responsible?”
“You're my emergency contact, not my emergency responder.”
“Still!”
You leaned your head against his shoulder.
“That's why I chose you.”
He went quiet.
You continued.
“Because I know you'd come.”
His expression softened.
You knew Jisung.
You knew the chaotic, clumsy, loud version of him.
But you also knew the person underneath.
The person who would answer at three in the morning.
The person who would panic alongside you but still stay.
The person who would make you laugh when you were scared.
He gently rested his head against yours.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“I would.”
Felix
Felix found out when you were filling out medical information for an event.
He wasn't really paying attention.
Until he heard the staff member ask,
“Emergency contact?”
You immediately answered.
“Felix.”
Felix looked up.
“Me?”
You turned around.
“Yeah?”
He smiled.
But then he realized what it meant.
“Wait.”
He came closer.
“You put me as your emergency contact?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You looked at him like the answer was obvious.
“Because you're my best friend.”
His smile became softer.
“And you trust me?”
You nodded.
“More than anyone.”
Felix immediately looked emotional.
You knew that look.
“Oh no.”
“I'm okay.”
“You're going to cry.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
He pulled you into a hug.
You laughed into his shoulder.
“Felix.”
“You trust me.”
“Yes.”
“More than anyone.”
“Yes, Felix.”
He squeezed you tighter.
“You know I'd come, right?”
“I know.”
“Anywhere.”
“I know.”
“Even if you called me and didn't say anything?”
“I know.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You really know?”
You smiled.
“Yeah.”
And that seemed to be what got him.
Because he wasn't the emergency contact because you expected him to fix everything.
You chose him because he made you feel safe enough to call.
That meant everything to him.
He gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
You smiled.
“Always.”
Felix smiled back.
Then immediately added,
“But if you ever call me at three in the morning, I'm bringing snacks.”
You laughed.
“Of course you are.”
Seungmin
Seungmin found out because he was helping you fill out a form.
He read the information.
Then paused.
“Why am I your emergency contact?”
You didn't even look up.
“Because you're my best friend.”
“That isn't a sufficient explanation.”
“It is to me.”
Seungmin stared at you.
Then looked back at the form.
“Not your family?”
“No.”
“Your manager?”
“No.”
“Someone else?”
“No.”
“Me?”
You finally looked at him.
“Yes, Seungmin.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he asked,
“You trust me that much?”
Your expression softened.
“Yeah.”
He didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he looked back down at the paper.
You watched him carefully.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You look weird.”
“I don't look weird.”
“You do.”
He gave you a look.
Then, after a moment, he said,
“I didn't know.”
“Didn't know what?”
“That you trusted me like that.”
You smiled.
“Why wouldn't I?”
Seungmin looked at you.
Because, honestly, he knew you trusted him.
You told him things you didn't tell other people.
Called him when you needed advice.
Asked for his opinion.
Let him see you when you weren't perfectly put together.
But being your emergency contact was different.
That meant that if something happened, he was the person you wanted there.
He took that seriously.
Very seriously.
“You should probably put someone more responsible.”
You stared.
“Seungmin.”
“I'm joking.”
“Are you?”
He smiled slightly.
Then his voice softened.
“I'm glad it's me.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
“And if you ever need me—”
“I know.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
Then he picked up the form again.
“I'm keeping this.”
“Why?”
“Proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That you have excellent judgment.”
You laughed.
And Seungmin smiled.
Jeongin
Jeongin found out when he saw your emergency information.
His first reaction was confusion.
“Why am I here?”
You looked at the form.
“Because you're my emergency contact?”
He stared at you.
“You chose me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You smiled.
“Because you're my best friend.”
He became quiet.
Then pointed at the paper.
“But... me?”
You laughed softly.
“Yes, you.”
“Not someone older?”
“Jeongin.”
“Someone more experienced?”
“Jeongin.”
“Someone who knows what to do?”
You gave him a look.
“Are you saying you don't know what to do?”
He immediately straightened.
“I know exactly what to do.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
He looked back at the form.
Then, more quietly, asked,
“You trust me?”
You nodded.
“More than anyone?”
You nodded again.
Jeongin looked genuinely touched.
Because he knew how much you trusted him.
But he didn't realize it went that far.
“You'd want me to be the one they called?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled.
Then looked away, suddenly shy.
“That's... nice.”
You laughed.
“Nice?”
“I don't know what I'm supposed to say.”
“You could say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
He nodded.
Then suddenly became serious.
“But you know you can call me whenever, right?”
You smiled.
“Even if it's not an emergency?”
“Especially if it's not an emergency.”
You leaned against him.
“Good.”
He smiled.
And from then on, whenever someone asked you who your emergency contact was, Jeongin would pretend not to care.
But he absolutely cared.
Because you had chosen him.
Not because he was the oldest.
Not because he was the most experienced.
Not because he had all the answers.
You had chosen him because he was your person.
And that meant more to him than he would ever admit.
Barcelona Sunrise
Part 2
The first week apart always felt the easiest.
Not because you missed each other less.
Because you were still running on leftovers.
The warmth of the last hug.
The scent of his hoodie folded inside your suitcase.
The Polaroid tucked safely between your passport and boarding pass.
Those little pieces of home lasted longer than either of you liked to admit.
Three weeks into your European trip, you arrived in Barcelona just before dawn.
The city hadn't quite woken up yet.
The streets were quiet except for the sound of someone dragging chairs onto a café terrace.
You loved this hour.
No crowds.
No influencers posing in front of landmarks.
Just the city, breathing.
You lifted your camera and snapped a photo of the orange sky melting over the rooftops.
A local baker smiled at you as he unlocked his shop.
"Buenos días."
"Buenos días," you answered with a grin.
He handed you a warm croissant without asking for payment.
"For luck," he said in broken English.
You thanked him, making a mental note to write about him later.
Moments like this were why you traveled.
Not for famous attractions.
For people.
For stories.
Meanwhile, halfway across the world...
Los Angeles.
Seonghwa rubbed his eyes as another stylist dabbed concealer beneath them.
"Didn't sleep?" Yunho asked from the chair beside him.
"Couple of hours."
"You've been like that all week."
"I'm okay."
Yunho didn't look convinced.
"You sure?"
Seonghwa only smiled.
"I'll sleep after tour."
Everyone knew that was a lie.
After rehearsal, the members collapsed backstage with takeout boxes balanced on their laps.
Wooyoung scrolled through Instagram between bites.
"Oh."
"What?" Mingi asked.
"Yura's in Spain now."
Seonghwa looked up before he could stop himself.
Wooyoung immediately noticed.
"You want to see?"
"I'm eating."
"You can look while eating."
"I'm fine."
Wooyoung shrugged and held the phone toward San instead.
"Dude, these photos are insane."
San whistled.
"It doesn't even look real."
Despite himself, Seonghwa glanced over.
There you were.
Standing on a rooftop with the sunrise painting the city gold behind you.
Your hair danced in the morning breeze.
You looked...
Free.
Happy.
Beautiful.
The caption read:
"Every sunrise belongs to someone.
Today Barcelona let me borrow hers."
Nearly half a million likes.
Thousands of comments.
"You're glowing."
"You make me want to travel."
"Yura In Transit never misses."
Seonghwa quietly returned to his food.
He smiled.
He really did feel proud.
But somewhere beneath that pride...
Something unfamiliar twisted in his chest.
That night, after the concert, his phone buzzed.
You ❤️
Look what I found!
A photo arrived.
A tiny bookstore tucked into an alleyway.
The shelves overflowed with secondhand novels.
There was even a little reading cat asleep in the window.
His face softened instantly.
Hwa ❤️
You found my dream shop.
Was the cat friendly?
Almost immediately—
You ❤️
No. He judged me.
He laughed out loud.
Jongho looked over.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You smiled."
"So?"
"You've got the lovesick smile."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
The members laughed.
Seonghwa rolled his eyes but couldn't hide it.
A week later...
Another city.
Another airport.
Another hotel.
Your schedule barely stopped moving.
Train to Madrid.
Flight to Lisbon.
Night bus to Porto.
You loved it.
It was exhausting.
It was everything you'd worked for.
That evening you uploaded a blog entry.
Yura In Transit
"Cities don't ask you who you used to be.
They simply hand you a map and let you become someone new."
The comments poured in.
Your audience loved your writing because it never felt like a guidebook.
It felt like a conversation.
Your phone buzzed again.
Video call.
Hwa ❤️
You smiled and answered.
His face appeared instantly.
Hair damp from the shower.
Still wearing the hoodie he'd stolen from you months ago.
"There you are."
"There you are."
"You look tired."
"You look sunburned."
"I am."
"You forgot sunscreen."
"I did."
"I knew you would."
You laughed.
"I packed yours."
"I know."
Silence settled comfortably between you.
It wasn't awkward.
Just... quiet.
"I wish you could've seen this café today," you said.
"It had shelves filled with old vinyl records."
"You would've stayed for hours."
"I definitely would've."
"I bought you something."
"You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
He smiled softly.
"I miss you."
"I miss you too."
Neither of you noticed...
His words came quicker.
Yours came naturally.
But not instinctively.
Two days later, ATEEZ arrived in Dallas.
Another airport.
Another hotel.
Another stage.
While waiting backstage, Seonghwa opened Instagram without thinking.
Your newest story loaded automatically.
You were laughing with an elderly Portuguese woman while learning how to bake pastel de nata.
The woman pinched your cheek affectionately.
You both burst into laughter.
Next story.
A tram climbing steep hills.
Next.
You dancing badly to live street music.
Next.
A quiet sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.
He watched every single one.
Again.
Then one more time.
A staff member called his name.
"Coming."
He locked his phone.
His chest felt strangely heavy.
Not because you were traveling.
He loved that you were.
Not because you looked happy.
He wanted you to be.
But...
There wasn't a single photo where you looked lonely.
Not one moment where it seemed like something—or someone—was missing.
He hated himself for thinking it.
That night, after another sold-out show, he lay awake in his hotel bed.
The room was dark except for the glow of his phone.
Your latest post appeared again.
Hundreds of thousands of people telling you how inspiring you were.
How brave.
How adventurous.
He agreed with every comment.
He just wished...
Someone would ask if you ever missed home.
Because he wasn't sure anymore if home still meant him.
Back in Portugal, you sat on your apartment balcony overlooking the river.
Laptop balanced on your knees.
You smiled as another email arrived.
Subject: Partnership Opportunity
Another tourism board.
Another invitation.
Your career was growing faster than you had ever imagined.
You looked up at the stars.
"I wish you were here," you whispered.
No one heard it.
Not your followers.
Not your readers.
And certainly not Seonghwa, who was falling asleep thousands of miles away, wondering why he couldn't stop feeling like he was slowly disappearing from your life—even though you had never loved him any less.
Previous Y.I.T. Next
Their Child Creates A Very Questionable Makeover For Them
Hongjoong
You walk into the living room and pause.
Hongjoong is sitting perfectly still, blinking like he’s trying to stay professional while his son proudly circles him with a makeup brush that looks suspiciously like a marker.
His “makeover” includes sharply drawn lightning bolts on his cheeks, glitter… everywhere… and what looks like eyeliner that definitely wasn’t meant to be eyeliner.
He looks at you once.
Then at the mirror.
“…This is performance art,” he says slowly, as if convincing himself.
His son beams. “Dad is a rockstar villain!”
Hongjoong sighs through his nose, already accepting that this is now part of his identity.
You can tell he’s going to let it stay like that for at least an hour before fixing anything.
Seonghwa
You find him in front of the mirror, completely still.
Too still.
His daughter has given him soft pink blush in uneven circles, glossy lips that are very glossy, and… tiny drawn hearts under his eyes.
He looks like a porcelain doll that lost a negotiation.
When you appear, he turns slowly.
“…She said I look ‘prettier than you,’” he says calmly.
From behind him, his daughter nods very seriously. “You do.”
Seonghwa just closes his eyes for a second like he’s accepting a peaceful defeat.
“I need emotional recovery time,” he murmurs.
But he doesn’t wipe any of it off yet.
Yunho
Yunho is laughing.
That’s your first clue something has gone terribly wrong.
His son has given him bright blue eyebrows, uneven contour, and what appears to be foundation applied with absolute chaos energy.
Yunho keeps trying to act impressed.
“It’s… very bold,” he says, nodding seriously.
His son spins him around. “You look like a superhero!”
Yunho immediately flexes.
“Superhero it is.”
You leave them alone for two minutes and suddenly he’s posing in the mirror like he’s about to save the world and walk a runway at the same time.
Yeosang
Silence.
That’s what worries you.
You find Yeosang sitting perfectly straight while his son applies something… aggressively uneven… across his face.
One eyebrow is sharply defined. The other has completely disappeared.
There are faint green smudges on his cheekbones.
He looks at you.
“…Is this abstract?” he asks quietly.
His son nods proudly. “Yes. Nature inspired.”
Yeosang slowly turns back to the mirror.
“I understand,” he says, even though he absolutely does not.
And somehow… he still looks like he could be in a high-fashion campaign.
San
You hear laughter before you see anything.
San is sitting dramatically in a chair while his daughter is fully committed to her vision: bold red lipstick slightly outside the lips, dramatic eyeliner wings that go in two different directions, and sparkles on literally everything.
He looks at you like he’s proud of this betrayal.
“She said I needed more ‘main character energy,’” he tells you.
His daughter claps. “Now he looks like a drama prince!”
San leans back. “I agree.”
You don’t even argue anymore. This is clearly their shared project.
Mingi
You stop in the doorway.
Mingi has glitter in his hair. Not subtle glitter. Committed glitter.
His daughter has drawn little stars on his cheeks and attempted contour that looks more like friendly shading from a coloring book.
He stares at his reflection.
“…Why do I look like a pop idol from another universe?” he asks.
His daughter grins. “Because you are one!”
Mingi points at her. “She’s dangerous. She’s too good at this.”
But he doesn’t move away from the mirror.
He’s kind of enjoying it.
Wooyoung
This is not a makeover.
This is a full transformation event.
Wooyoung has neon pink blush, mismatched lip color, and stickers everywhere—face, neck, even his ears.
His daughter is laughing so hard she can barely hold the makeup brush.
He gasps when he sees you.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says dramatically. “I am ART.”
“You look like a chaotic strawberry,” you reply.
“Exactly,” he says proudly. “Premium edition.”
His daughter high-fives him like they’ve just completed a mission.
Jongho
Jongho sits very still.
Too still.
His son has taken this makeover extremely seriously—carefully applied foundation that’s slightly too light, sharp eyeliner attempts, and… a very bold attempt at lipstick that is mostly outside the lines.
Jongho stares at his reflection.
Then at his son.
“…You did this with intention,” he says slowly.
His son nods. “Precision.”
A pause.
Jongho exhales through his nose.
“I respect your dedication.”
He looks at you. “I need a towel. And possibly therapy.”
But he still ruffles his son’s hair like none of this is a problem.
If you want, I can do �a “you walk in and they all refuse to take it off” continuation or �a group chaos version where they compare makeovers 😂
Their Child Creates A Very Questionable Makeover For Them
Bangchan
You walk into the living room and stop. Chan is sitting perfectly still… while your daughter proudly applies what looks like three different blushes at once.
“Why do I feel… orange?” he asks slowly.
Your daughter beams. “It’s sun-kissed AND strawberry AND drama!”
He looks at you helplessly. “Love… I think I’ve been color graded in real life.”
You’re trying not to laugh as he ends up with uneven brows, glossy lips, and hair clips shaped like stars. He still thanks her like she’s a professional stylist.
“You did amazing, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft. Then he whispers to you, “Please help me fix this later.”
Minho
Minho is sitting rigidly in a chair, already suspicious.
Your son proudly announces, “We’re doing a ‘chaotic fashion villain’ look!”
Minho sighs. “I already am a fashion villain. I don’t need assistance.”
Five minutes later: he’s wearing mismatched eyeshadow, a glitter mustache your son insisted was “artistic,” and at least four hair clips shaped like cats.
He stares at his reflection. “…If I post this, I will lose custody of my own image.”
But then your son looks nervous, so Minho just pats his head. “It’s… committed. I respect commitment.”
He absolutely refuses to be seen by anyone else until it’s washed off.
Changbin
“Daddy, don’t move,” your daughter warns.
Changbin is already laughing. “That’s a dangerous sentence.”
Halfway through the makeover, he’s got neon lipstick slightly outside the lines, dramatic blush circles, and stickers all over his jawline.
He looks in the mirror and gasps. “I look like a powerful strawberry.”
Your daughter nods seriously. “Yes. A strawberry CEO.”
He immediately stands up like he’s on a runway. “Then I will accept my role.”
He spends the rest of the evening introducing himself as “CEO Strawberry Changbin” and refusing to wash his face.
Hyunjin
Hyunjin is already nervous before it starts.
“Do I… survive this?” he asks quietly.
Your daughter gently places him in a chair like he’s a delicate art project.
By the end, his hair is pinned in three directions, there are glitter freckles on his cheeks, and she has insisted on drawing tiny hearts near his eyes.
He stares at himself. “…I look like a tragic fairy prince.”
He turns to you dramatically. “Do I still have dignity?”
You hesitate.
“…I understand,” he sighs.
But then your daughter hugs him proudly, and he immediately softens. “Okay. Worth it.”
Jisung
Jisung is fully encouraging it at first.
“Oh wow, we’re going extreme? Say less.”
Ten minutes later, your son has given him uneven eyeliner, three different lip colors, and attempted to “contour” with markers.
He squints in the mirror. “Why do I look like I survived a creative explosion?”
Your son proudly says, “Because you did.”
Jisung laughs so hard he almost ruins it himself. “Okay, this is actually kind of iconic though.”
He takes selfies immediately and sets one as his profile picture before you can intervene.
Felix
Felix is gently holding still while your daughter whispers, “Trust me.”
You come back to find him with pastel cheeks, sparkly stickers on his nose, and two tiny braids tied with ribbons that don’t match at all.
He looks in the mirror and gasps softly. “Oh… I look like a fairy dessert.”
Your daughter beams. “YES.”
He turns to you. “I feel… magical.”
Then he immediately poses like he’s in a fantasy photoshoot, completely committed to the aesthetic.
You don’t have the heart to tell him there’s glitter in his eyebrows.
Seungmin
Seungmin sits down already resigned. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”
Your son takes that as a challenge.
By the end, Seungmin has uneven bangs pinned back, bright blush circles, and lip gloss that is absolutely not subtle.
He stares at himself for a long moment.
“…I look like I lost a bet.”
Your son nods proudly. “You did. To creativity.”
Seungmin turns to you. “Please don’t take photos.”
You already took photos.
He sighs. “I knew it.”
Jeongin
Jeongin tries to escape twice. He fails twice.
Your son announces, “We’re going for bold experimental chaos.”
Jeongin ends up with uneven eyeliner, stickers on his cheeks, and hair gel that is very aggressively applied.
He looks in the mirror and just pauses.
“…Why do I look like a confused pop star?”
Your son nods. “Exactly.”
Jeongin slowly turns to you. “Hyung… please tell me this washes out.”
You’re still laughing too hard to answer immediately.
He sighs dramatically. “I’m never trusting family creativity again.”
(He absolutely does again the next week.)