• sofi •

[aissa-1009]

I'm so disappointed and disgusted with engenes

I'm soooo disgusted

Why you hating on a girl who only want an interaction with two members you hating on her until she died and when she died you act like you feel bad for her and blame ni-ki for her death when it's you who killed her

[doeuls]

im so SICK of you parasocial fans. it actually makes me so disgusted to be a kpop fan in general sometimes but mainly i hate to be a part of this fandom when these times come across.

first of all, rest in peace, mina. you didn't deserve all of what happened to you and i hope you find love and happiness in heaven. i offer my condolences to your friends and family for the loss they shouldn't have had.

second of all, i cannot believe you all harassed a poor girl to the point where she unal*ved herself. all over the fact that she was disappointed that sunoo picked up the bouquet she bought for ni-ki (her bias) and posed w it instead of ni-ki.

it will never be understandable the need to bully a girl and make up things about her despite her apologizing and clearing up the situation for multiple days over such a small thing like this.

then the fact that you guys thought ni-ki was talking about her in his live and used that to harass her even more. what makes it worse is that 1) he had made it clear what kind of people he was referring to and 2) even if he was referring to her, there's no need to cyberbully people like this even when they have cleared the situation up and apologized.

this extends to the people who are hating on the female lead in enhypen's new album teasers. she is doing her JOB. same goes to people who hated on the female dancers from bite me, you guys ruined an amazing choreography.

you parasocial fans need to step away and realize that enhypen do not belong to you. they are humans and are allowed to interact with both men and women. they are not our puppet dolls.

additionally not everything a fan does is for their idol's attention. i hope you realize that you parasocial fans are projecting your incredulous desires of being noticed by your idols onto the rest of us regular fans who simply just want to show appreciation for our idols and the hard work they put in.

i hope everyone involved in this poor girl's suffering reflect on your actions and realize how deeply horrible you have been. you both may be behind screens but that doesn't mean your words do not have an impact. i hope you understand how your words affected this girl and unlearn your parasocial relationships and cruel ways to become kinder people in the future.

[pinkhoodi]

let's get to know each other + cure the boredom a little

hair color:

favorite color:

favorite drink:

one thing you love about yourself:

if you could be any animal, what would you be?

dream place to visit:

what's one thing you're looking forward to right now?

your biggest dream:

song that's permanently on your repeat:

10 people i'd like to get to know better tag game

• hair color — brownish-ish black. still fading from when I died it a deep red

• favorite color — pink, light blue, and black !!

• favorite drink — passion fruit/mango lemonade is literally my kryptonite

• one thing you love about yourself — the way I think about and process things.

• if you could be any animal, what would you be ? AN OTTER. they’re so freaking cuteeeee ☹️☹️

• dream place to visit — italy or countryside of france

• what's one thing you're looking forward to right now? MY MF BDAYYYYYY (which is today 😋)

• your biggest dream — to find pure happiness and hold onto it, and be rich asf

• song that's permanently on your repeat — too many to say. imma do a top 3 of just this week alone

follow me x rochelle jordan

rent free x sailorrr

I just died x amerie

TAGS <3 ( no pressure ! ) :: @prettysouled @girlnamedkash @neighbourscat @amourflores @h3avenlyglory @httpjoints @arervoir @rosariesandangels

[mcwexlher]

Thanks for the tag @thecatcherlntherye !!

Hair color: brown 👍

Favorite color: I don't really have a *favorite* favorite but if I had to pick it'd be fuschia

Favorite drink: pink lemonade 😋

One thing you love about yourself: I'm always cooking up some sad gay little story

If you could he any animal, what would you be?: WOLF. WOLF WOLF WOLF NO QUESTION

Dream place to visit: Vietnam but like specifically Hanoi... I probably would NOTTTT be able to handle the heat though lol

What's one thing you're looking forward to right now?: Weezer Gold Album drop 💔💔

Your biggest dream: become an established and respected storyteller 😌

Song that's permanently on repeat: I switch favorite songs like every other week but at the moment it's the drum by Car Seat Headrest

No pressure tags!!: @tori-toledo @r0adkill13 @theendingofdramaminee @parkthatcardreamofme @autisdick @mangoflavouredjuice @sophrestinpieces + anyone else I forgot!!

[mangoflavouredjuice]

holy FUCK ive been tagged !!!!!

hair colour: dark blue and black :]

favourite colour: evergreen 😼

favourite drink: uhh probably uhh idk prolly mango uhhh idk prolly mangoflavouredjuice idk prolly

one thing you love about yourself: my cd collection 😋

if you could be any animal: stoat!!! i fucking love stoats my furry ass

dream place to visit: i wanna move to canada 😋im built for da cold

looking forward to: mcr5........ csh album in the works.......

biggest dream: go to one milion bajillion concerts and have fun wiht my friends :3

song on repeat: rn its tears dont fall by bullet for my valentine :D

ouh idk if i even know 10 people hold on

tags: @present-in-past-tense @anomaloc4ris @rottenlittlerats @geoffmuckley @votherelle @m0zone @florithenerd @ludwigbutcooler @planetdesperation @acicadahumsitsplea @strangersinourworld + open tags!!!

[present-in-past-tense]

ty for the tag :3

hair colour: blue and pink

favourite colour: hot pink

favourite drink: cream soda 🤤

one thing you love about yourself: my curiosity

if you could be any animal: shark!!!!

dream place to visit: poland (or really anywhere my friends live)

looking forward to: brownie im gonna eat after dinner 🤤

biggest dream: hmmmm ig just having lots and lots of fun with people i love nothing specific

song on repeat: moving by kate bush

i do NOT have 10 ppl to tag 😭

@ratbuffoon @joblesssmonday @dzzydream3r (no pressure ofc moots)

[ratbuffoon]

hair: brown and red

fav colour: red

fav drink: lemonade

love about myself: the way I talk to myself in my head

animal: rat

place: also where my moots live [happy]

looking forward to: goofing around

biggest dream: ending all bigotry

song on repeat: Ailleurs c'est ici by Eths

TAGSSSS: @emilythestrangest @i-am-cursed-with-emotion @alienfromthedeepsea @mumus-candied-bonezzz @homo-without-the-sexual @cookiess-and-creamm @writer-that-never-writes @unadornedbureauologist @zparklezatan @p01s0n3d-h34rt + anyone else & no pressure :3

[writer-that-never-writes]

Awww thanks for tagging <33333

Hair colour: light brown/dark blonde

Fav colour: pink

Fav drink: water (then milk, then lemonade?)

Thing i love about myself: I was going to say my hair but I realise its not about that right now, so.... my compassion?

If i could be an animal: my friends said I was like a panda/red panda, so that???

Dream place to visit: um idk. I'd just like to go travelling for a few years, work on charter boats and just kinda. Explore

Looking forward to: lowkey? The miraculous ladybug season 6 finale (today and friday)

Biggest dream: never having to worry about money/bombing/evil politicians/evil rich people ever again

Song on repeat: bro it changes ahhhhhhh.... currently Real Man by beabadoobe

Tags (no pressure! And open!!) @cheezeynoodles @alannah-xxx @tweetybaby @jazzylicious8 @emeowwwww @normalaboutjungkook @mayawithany @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta @icedchailattewithsoy

[ozzysoatsolivesandpasta]

Tysm!

Hair colour: light brown

Fave colour: purple

Fave drink: dr pepper or lemonade

Thing I love abt myself: uh idk my passion for hobbies

If I could be an animal: a cat specifically with a good home

Dream place to visit: South Korea cuz kpop or whatever or New York cuz broadway

Looking forward to: PIWON CONCERT

Biggest dream: Donald trump dying

Song on repeat: it changes but Tarmac by Cavetown and hot by seventeen (because of the meme)

Tags: @b33brained @daisieswithdaydreams @sillyseob @nichozzystuffs @pinkessencehorror @hamsterslayer99 @cherryyberry1 @ivelvette

[nichozzystuffs]

OMG THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR TAGGING!!!! @ozzysoatsolivesandpasta

hair color: dark brown

favorite color: black

favorite drink: strawberry milkshake

one thing i love about myself: i genuinely tried so hard to think something but yeah i cant think of anything😭

if i could be any animal, what would i be?: a black cat

dream place to visit: japan!

what's one thing im looking forward to right now? : night

my biggest dream: to work for the entertainment industry

song that's permanently on my repeat: these days its nally-na by treasure

tags: @yumangel @jongst4rs @junifi3d @loviesevol @sunmoonnie @wanyangii (no pressure!!)

[yumangel]

yippee thanks for the tag!!

hair color: brown

favorite color: burgundy

favorite drink: peach iced tea

one thing i love about myself: my nose

if i could be any animal, what would i be?: a cat

dream place to visit: korea

what’s one thing i’m looking forward to right now: ampers&one concert !!

my biggest dream: being happy in life

a song that’s on repeat: the cure by olivia rodrigo!

tags; @lunenet @woonhakfeet @mxriitaesz @7yataki @junifi3d @wenoismm @drkbl00d

[woonhakfeet]

hair colour: rn its purple 💀☔️

favourite colour: pink?? i dont have one these days.

favourite drink: lately i've been into teas a lot. so i'd say iced coffee.

one thing i love about myself: i dont have one specific thing i love over everything else so im gonna break the rules and give u three: mental strength/humour/creativity.

if i could be any animal, what would it be?: idk much about animals so im gonna pick the coolest thing i can think of and say a dragon😭🙏

dream place to visit: hawaii

one thing im looking forward to: finishing my exams and submissions so i can finally write more aggressively. although that wont be until February

my biggest dream: i used to want to become the president.

a song that's on repeat: daisies by justin bieber, overflow by evan and mhm by santos bravos 😮‍💨

tags: @jellyluvsjihoon @cinnamorollhyuka @taestulipss @jakey1115 @niceguyfreshguyofthenight @mvlszn @moesthinking

[jakey1115]

hair color: black, but i'll change it soon hehe (it will be my first time lol)

favorite color: i don't really have one, but i'd say ocean blue and dark grey.

favorite drink: iced coffee and water.

one thing you love about yourself: this one kinda hard honestly, maybe i can easily put myself in someone else's shoes (?)

if you could be any animal, what would you be?: i wanna be a pet cat so that i don't have to do things and only sleep lol.

dream place to visit: finland, swiss or somewhere green-ish

what's one thing you're looking forward to right now?: i am looking forward to next weekend, i will go to swim next weekend yeay!

your biggest dream: financially freedom and can do anything that i love also the government here is really suck i hope i can topple the regime.

song that's permanently on your repeat: it changes all the time. i will put the top 3 song that currently on repeat. stupid song by olivia rodrigo, bad by ateez, acai by cortis (i'm suprised)

tags : @gigisnextdoor @shaxyzstuff @bywons @simjakedly

[simjakedly]

thank you @jakey1115 🫶🏼

hair colour: black

favourite colour: pink and brown 🩷🤎

favourite drink: chocolate avocado shake

one thing i love about myself: that i am an empath and i feel things deeply :)

if your could be any animal, what would you be?: an orange kitten

dream place to visit: turkïye, italy, greece 🫶🏼

what’s one thing you’re looking forward to right now?: definitely enhypen’s comeback aaaanddd blood saga in jakarta!!!

your biggest dream: one day i wanna release a book (hopefully)

song that’s permanently on your repeat: still monster - enhypen, stupid song - olivia rodrigo, hit the wall - gracie abrams, set fire to the rain - adele

tagging, but not limited to: @twocupsofsuga @stwryun @xoxo-seraphine @aloveminsalade only if you want to!

[twocupsofsuga]

thank you cutieee 💕💕

hair colour: black

favourite colour: purple!

favourite drink: peach iced tea

one thing i love about myself: my creativity in crafts!

if your could be any animal, what would you be?: a ferret

dream place to visit: japan!

what’s one thing you’re looking forward to right now?: going to visit my home country in a few weeks and meeting up with all my cousins :)

your biggest dream: to get paid LMAOO

song that’s permanently on your repeat: singasong -the8 + vernon, dreamville - jewels, swan lake - natalya swan

tagging: @fics-lovebot, @miercherie, @cherryw0n, @byunfirstlady (only if u want to! ❤️)

[miercherie]

Thank you for mentioning me, @twocupsofsuga 💕!

hair color: black-brownish ( i died it twice but it’s fading now :< )

favourite color: pink! 🩷 (my number one), any colors that looks aesthetically pleasing in my eyes!

favourite drink: milk tea! 🧡

one thing i love about myself: i become passionate when it comes to things i love🫶🏼! (etc., anime, kpop)

if you could be an animal, what would you be?: maybe a cat🐱, or a sea lion🦭! (totally random)

dream place to visit: the uk🇬🇧, switzerland🇨🇭, japan🇯🇵!

what’s one thing you’re looking forward to right now?: enhypen comeback! (CAN’T WAIT!!)

your biggest dream: hmm, to be rich, to travel around the world, achieving a master degree, to treat my family to whatever they want!

song that’s permanently on your repeat: it changes everytime, it’s mostly kpop🎧! (etc., illit, enhypen, cortis)

tagging (if you want to!) : @hyuneskkami @dazedinadream @cherry-lala 🤍

[hiophile]

all headers by me, don't repost without credits! ♡ ໒꒱ . . inspo: @i-chooseyou ! Ꮺ

[miercherie]

@hiophile

[isapallet]

kiiikiii 🐞 lockscreens !!

[fairytopea]

♡ ۪ ◌⃘ ˳ ₊ pink ⠀͜ ⟡.⠀⁺⠀⊹⠀⋆ lemonade 𓈒͜❀

[sheepsgf]

i feel like i've died and come back again

[withlovemark]

pairing: na jaemin x reader, slight! lee jeno x reader | genre: slice of life | words: 20k+

synopsis -> ruin the friendship - taylor swift

playlist -> orange.

warnings: angst!!! guaranteed to rip your heart out. use of nickname: tiger, will they, won’t they? jealousy, misunderstandings, terminal illness (not specified bcs i didn’t want inaccuracies and tbh i was too lazy to research — call it lazy writing but the fact that i even finished this at all is enough for me), character death!, grief, grab the tissues.

an: i cried my eyes out writing this. i know angst is not my general audience’s cup of tea but i hope you give this one a chance. as sad as it is, writing it was really fun. very very much inspired by love, rosie but…worse. orange - c.

jaemin is the warmth in my coffee cup

that’s how it starts. 

the story, the memory — whatever this is. 

if someone asked you to describe him, you’d probably say that. 

he is the warmth you reach for in the morning. the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn, just seeps in slowly, gently, until you don’t realize how cold you used to be. 

he is the comfort held in both palms, the chipped mug you never replace because it has learned the shape of you. a sweetness waiting at the bottom, surprising you just when you think the moment has ended. 

he is the calm in the noise, the weekends between weekdays. the reason the air feels lighter, the reason you exhale without thinking. 

he is laughter that finds you on the brink of tears, bubbling up like a secret spring. he is late night drives with windows cracked open to a sky that listens, the kind of company that doesn’t need words to fill the quiet. 

with him, life feels less like surviving and more like living. 

he is home in a heartbeat. that instant sense of belonging, of safety. the kind of home that isn’t built of walls but of glances, of small smiles, of hands brushing in passing.

and if you’re honest, you can’t remember a time before him. because once someone like jaemin crashes into your life, the world before him feels black and white. 

and he — 

he is orange. 

the tender blush of dawn across a kitchen floor, the first sip of sunlight through curtains,  the shade of hope you didn’t realize you were allowed to keep. 

yes. if someone asked you to describe him, that’s what you’d say. 

year i. freshman year - eight years ago.

you were running late.

the kind of late where every sound feels louder, every hallway longer and every second heavier than the one before. your arms were full of books, hair rebelling whatever attempt you’d made that morning to tame it, shoelaces barely knotted, flapping with each frantic step.

the universe, it seemed, had chosen you as its punchline that day. 

you rounded the corner too quickly — 

and crashed. 

a collision. sudden, sharp, inevitable. 

the impact should’ve sent you sprawling, your books should have flown, pages fluttering ike startled birds, your knees should have burned, your pride should have splintered on the polished floor. 

you braced for it. ready to hit the ground. ready for the blow, the embarrassment, the inevitable chorus of laughter. 

but the fall…never came. 

instead, a hand caught you.

a steady arm slipped around your back, halting the world in one smooth motion. and then — warmth. not from him. not at first. but from the coffee seeping between you, dark and staining across both uniforms like an unspoken truce. 

both of you stilled. a held breath suspended between two strangers.

you looked up, ready to apologize, to spill every flustered syllable that tripped over your tongue — and then you met his eyes. soft. brown. steady. like someone had melted sunlight into them.

your apology curled in your throat, unspoken. 

then…he laughed. not mocking. not sharp with annoyance or frustration. but something light, unbothered. the kind of laugh that makes the edges of a day soften. 

“you look like a tiger,” he said, eyes glinting with amusement. 

you blinked, cheeks blooming with embarrassment, “excuse me?”

“fierce,” he clarified, smile growing as if it had been waiting for this moment, “chaotic. cute. and ready to pounce.”

you stared, caught somewhere between offense and confusion, “you don’t even know me.”

his smile shifted, gentler, “yet.”

just one word. small. but somehow it opened a door neither of you had noticed until then.

and that was it. 

the beginning.

you didn’t recognize it at the time – how coffee-stained fabric and a laugh you weren’t prepared for would thread itself through the years that followed. 

how a silly nickname would echo in your memory long after the stain faded from the uniform. how a moment you wished you could redo would become the moment you’d never trade. 

the beginning of something you had no language for then — something tender, something inevitable. 

the beginning of you and him. 

the beginning of  na jaemin. 

and maybe the universe wasn’t conspiring against you. maybe, just this once, it was holding your shoulders, turning you around and nudging you toward exactly where you needed to be. 

year ii. sophomore year. seven years ago.

by the time sophomore year rolled around, jaemin had become the constant in your life — your chaos and your calm. 

he was the first person you looked for in a crowded hallway and the last voice you heard before you fell asleep. he’d grown into your rhythm, somehow —harmless at first, comforting later, and before you realized it…essential. 

inside jokes were traded in whispers between classes, half-stolen lunches shared on stairwells, the quiet of his presence settling beside you when words felt too heavy to cary. 

he was home, even when everything else felt temporary.

it happened during P.E. — the pacer test, of all things. 

the gym smelled like sweat and echoing sneakers, the sound of the beeping machine bouncing off the walls, followed by the most cursed piece of background music ever made sounding something between the gates of hell and a funeral song for teenagers’ dignity. everyone was groaning by the seventh round — except jaemin. grinning from ear to ear, determined to keep pace with mark, chenle and jeno like he was training for the olympics instead of surviving tenth-grade gym class. his hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink and still he kept going. 

“jaem, you’re gonna overdo it!” you called, half-laughing, half serious, because you’d learned to read him by then. you knew when the spark in his eyes meant something more fragile beneath. 

“relax, tiger,” he threw back between breaths, chin lifted like a challenge to the universe, “i’ve got this.”

spoiler alert: he did not. 

one second, he was sprinting. the next — he wasn’t.

you saw it happen in slow motion. his foot faltering, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the gym floor, then the sickening sound of his body collapsing across the glossy floor. for a moment everything went silent. the beeps stopped. the laughter stopped. everything stopped. 

and you — you were already running.

“jaemin!”

his name ripped out of your throat before you even knew you were moving. the world blurred around you — shouts, gasps, the teacher calling for help. but all you saw was him. you hit your knees on the floor beside him, hands shaking as you reached for his face. his skin was cold, clammy, pale. his lashes fluttered once, then stilled. 

“jaem, hey–come on, this isn’t funny–wake up,” you whispered, voice trembling. you could feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm but it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t steady. 

you followed as they carried him down the echoing hallway, past wide-eyed classmates and through the doors that led to the nurse’s office. your legs felt numb, your hands wouldn’t stop trembling but you kept close. you sat beside him while they checked his pulse, took his temperature, placed a cool cloth on his forehead. you didn’t move. you couldn’t move. 

the nurse asked you to return to class, twice, but you only shook your head, “i’m not leaving him.”

so you stayed. hands clenched around the sleeve of his jacket like it was th only thing keeping you grounded. the bright lights blurred your vision. the smell of antiseptic stung your nose. yet you counted each rise of his chest, matched your breathing to his as if you could keep him tethered just by being there. minutes stretched and the clock ticked too loudly, like it mocked your heartbeat.

when his lashes fluttered — brown eyes blinking open, hazy, confused — your relief came all at once, crushing your ribs from the inside. and then, you were scolding him. 

“idiot,” you whispered, tears burning your throat, “you scared the hell out of me.”

he gave a weak smile, finger brushing yours, a touch so gentle you could’ve mistaken it for a dream, “sorry, tiger,” he rasped.

you didn’t smile back. fear still clung to you, stubborn and shaking.

“don’t tiger me,” you muttered, arms  crossing in defense of the ache in your chest, “you collapsed, jaemin. you—god, what were you thinking?”

he chuckled softly, wincing as he tried to sit up and you immediately pressed a hand to his shoulder, pinning him gently to the pillow. 

“hey,” he murmured, his voice small now, “it’s fine. it’s just…my heart.”

your anger faltered, “your heart?”

he hesitated, exhaling slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. then, quietly, he said, “it’s always been kind of…weak, i guess.”

you blinked, “what do you mean?”

“ever since i was a kid,” he starts, “i used to get tired really easily. mom used to keep me inside when the other kids played outside. said my heart couldn’t take too much,” he laughed faintly, like he’d practiced making it sound small, like he’d learned early how to minimize his pain so others wouldn’t carry it.

for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. because now you understood – the caution in his mother’s lingering glances, the way he pushed himself too hard, too often, as if trying to outrun the body that betrayed him, watching others live louder because he couldn’t. 

so you said the first thing that came to mind – soft but certain. a promise.

“guess i’ll just have to be stronger for the both of us.”

his head turned toward you, eyes wide, and then…he smiled. not the teasing grin he always wore, not the mischievous spark that came before a sarcastic remark, but something gentler. something real. 

that was the moment. 

the moment jaemin’s heart stuttered for a completely different reason. because you were sitting there with your messy hair and your trembling hands, still refusing to leave him, still looking at him like that. like you were holding all the warmth in the world and offering it to him without hesitation. 

and for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of how weak his heart was because he knew exactly what, or who, had stolen its rhythm. 

year iii. junior year. six years ago. 

prom night. 

the night was supposed to feel like magic — all glitter and promises and slow dances under neon lights. but instead, you were standing outside the gymnasium, dress wrinkled, plastering fake smiles while your heart was sitting somewhere heavy and quiet in your chest. 

your date, lee haechan, had stood you up. no call. no text. just silence and the faint humiliation of watching everyone else arrive hand-in-hand while you stood alone under the flickering hallway light, pretending it didn’t sting.

you were seconds away from leaving. from slipping out the side doors, ditching the glitter and noise and disappointment — when you heard his voice. 

“there you are, tiger.” 

you turned. jaemin was standing there in a black suit and a crooked tie, his hair a little messier than usual, a shy, hesitant smile tugging at his lips like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to find you here. his eyes scanned your face, then the empty space beside you, “you look like you could use a dance.”

you laughed weakly, a sound caught somewhere between relief and heartbreak, “go back to your date, jaemin.”

“eh,” he shrugged, “she’s having a lot of fun with jeno.” 

then he held out his hand — palm open, waiting. 

“come on,” he said softly, his tone threaded with warmth, “you’re not getting away that easily.”

you hesitated, your breath trembling as you looked at him – at the boy who was your safe space. then, slowly, you placed your hand in his. he pulled you up gently, the movement natural, careful. 

his eyes flickered briefly to your wrist, where a corsage should’ve been. you saw the way his expression changed. the way his smile faltered just a little before he wrapped his arms around you, tight and certain, holding you close enough for your head to rest against his shoulder. 

you didn’t need to tell him what happened. he didn’t ask. he just held you. and that was more than enough. 

the noise of the gym bled through the walls — muffled laughter, bass trembling through the floorboards but in that small space between you, everything was still. 

you pulled away first, blinking fast, trying to keep your tears at bay. and then he was reaching into his pocket, “wasn’t sure what color your dress was gonna be,” he said quietly, holding something out between you, “but i took a guess.”

an orange corsage. peonies. 

it wasn’t perfect — a little wilted, petals slightly bruised from being shoved into his jacket, but it was beautiful. because it was him. and it matched your cream colored dress perfectly.

you stared at it, throat tight, “jaem, you didn’t have to–”

but he was already slipping it gently around your wrist, his fingers brushing your skin just long enough to make your heart stutter. he smiled, that soft, boyish kind of smile that could undo you in a heartbeat, “can’t have you going to prom without one, tiger.”

you looked up at him then. the boy who always showed up when no one else did, who always knew when to be gentle and when to make you laugh. and for the first time that night, you smiled.

he smiled back. that quiet, unspoken kind that reached his eyes. then, with your corsage now circling your wrist and your fingers tangled with his, he led you inside. 

the gym was a blur of cheap lights and pastel balloons. the air smelled faintly of floor wax and vanilla body spray. the shiny wooden floor squeaked under your heels as the dj switched songs without rhythm or mercy. the disco ball hanging overhead spun lazily, scattering fractured light that somehow made everything look cheaper but somehow, softer too. 

it shouldn’t have felt special. but with jaemin beside you, it did. 

you danced like idiots at first, laughing through songs that didn’t deserve slow movements — songs that were too loud, too fast, too 2000s. he dipped you dramatically to baby, spun you off-beat to teenage dream, almost tripping over someone’s forgotten purse, both of you laughing so hard your sides hurt. and when the dj, in all his questionable wisdom, played candy shop by 50 cent, you both just froze. then, in perfect unison, both of your burst out laughing.

“no way,” you said, your hand pressed to your mouth.

“this is so romantic,” jaemin said with mock seriousness, straightening his tie like he wasn’t seconds from cracking up.

you shoved his shoulder, bubbles of laughter pouring out of you. 

“slow dance with me, tiger.”

and so you did. you slow danced beneath that ridiculous disco ball, to a song that made no sense for the moment, to a rhythm that wasn’t really there. his hand found your waist, yours found his shoulder, and despite everything — the cheap lighting, the sweaty gym, the noise — it felt perfect. 

it shouldn’t have worked. but it did. 

you looked up at him, the lights flickering gold in his eyes and for a moment, the world fell quiet. 

he smelled faintly of citrus and fabric softener – clean, familiar. safe. his thumb brushed against your hip, slow and absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. you could feel your pulse everywhere, loud and nervous. maybe it was the music, or the warmth, or the ache of wanting something you didn’t understand yet, but your heart stumbled as he leaned in. 

just a little closer.

your breath caught. 

the laughter, the lights, the chaos — all of it blurred until there was only him. 

for a heartbeat, you could see it — the maybe of it all. 

the what if. 

the almost. 

and then—

“I’LL TAKE YOU TO THE CANDY SHOP!”

chenle’s ridiculous voice shattered the air, breaking whatever fragile spell had been holding you both still. he jumped between you, completely oblivious, grabbing one of your hands and one of jaemin’s swinging them wildly. before you could react, mark and jeno joined in, laughing, shouting, turning the moment into a clumsy group dance that had no rhythm, no grace and entirely too much noise. 

you laughed too, a little too hard, a little too fast, like laughter could undo what almost happened. like if you laughed enough, maybe your heart would stop racing. 

jaemin laughed with you, but when your eyes met through the blur of spinning friends and terrible music, his expression softened.

just for a second.

it was that look, tender and fleeting, the kind that said maybe someday. 

but not tonight. 

the rest of the night was full of laughter and cheap music and friends who didn’t know they’d interrupted something fragile. and later, when you looked back, you’d remember that fleeting second before the noise returned — when the world had gone still and his eyes were all you could see. 

year iv. senior year. five years ago. 

the end was coming. 

you could feel it in the air, thick and heavy, like the quiet before a storm. it clung to the walls of the school, to the murmurs between classes, to the glances you shared with friends who all pretended not to be terrified. it was in the way teachers started speaking softer, in how every conversation seemed to circle back to the future, in how laughter in the hallways carried an edge of goodbye. 

everyone was talking about college, about plans, about leaving. and even when you smiled and nodded along, your chest felt tight, like there was a clock ticking somewhere inside you, one only you could hear. 

the pressure came in waves – the weight of choices, the blur of expectations, the whisper that everything you knew – the laughter, the classrooms, the crowded hallways, him — was all about to change. 

you woke up tired, no matter how much you slept. the ache behind your eyes pulsed quietly, steady as a heartbeat and your body felt heavier with each passing day. the exhaustion, the nerves, the endless current of what now and what if wrapped around you until it was hard to breathe.

you brushed it off, the way you brushed off most things. everyone’s tired. everyone’s anxious. everyone’s body complained sometimes. 

so you pushed through the tiredness, forced laughter into your voice and yourself to hold on until graduation. just a few more months, you thought. then everything would feel lighter. then the weight in your chest would fade. 

by then, you’d know what path to take. what college to go to. 

by then, you would accept that change was inevitable. 

by then, it would all be a little clearer. 

but right now….

right now….

you broke. 

the room was quiet except for the sound of rain against your window, a soft steady rhythm that filled the spaces between your shallow breaths. you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, textbooks and crumpled notes scattered like wreckage around you, the glow from your desk lamp flickering faintly against the walls. 

your hands were pressed against your temples, eyes burning, chest tight. you didn’t even realize you were crying until the tears began to blur the words on the page in front of you. 

you didn’t want to call anyone. didn’t want to explain. you just wanted the noise — in your head, in your heart – to stop. 

then came the soft knock. 

“tiger?”

his voice. gentle. familiar. you forgot he was coming over today to help you study for literature. you tried your best to wipe the tears away before he could see. but it didn’t matter. jaemin took one look at you — your red eyes, trembling hands, the exhaustion carved into your face and his expression softened instantly. he crossed the room in three steps and sat beside you on the bed. he didn’t ask what’s wrong, didn’t push. just waited. quietly. 

your voice came out small, shaking, “i can’t do it jaem,” you were barely whispering, “everyone’s talking about the future and i don’t even know what i want. i feel like—like i’m falling behind, like there’s this clock ticking inside me and i can’t keep up.”

the words came out in pieces, scattered, uneven, raw. all the things you’d been holding in. the pressure, the fear, the loneliness. and when you couldn’t speak anymore, you just cried. quiet, helpless tears that soaked through his shirt as your buried your face in his chest. 

jaemin didn’t try to fix it. he just wrapped his arms around you, one hand gently threading through your hair, the other tracing slow, steady circles across your back.

“i’m scared,” you whispered into him, “i don’t want everything to change.”

he sighed softly, his chin resting on your head, “hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady, “it’s okay to be scared.”

“it doesn’t feel okay.”

“i know,” his words were a hum against your skin. calm. unshakable, “but we’ll figure it out. like we always do.”

you lifted your head slightly, eyes glassy, “you promise?”

he smiled, small and sure, “i promise.”

for a long time, neither of you spoke. the rain kept tapping at your window, your breathing finally slowing, syncing with his. his heartbeat was steady against your ear, grounding and constant. and somewhere in that stillness — that fragile kind of peace that only existed when it was the two of you — you found a new kind of quiet.

“let’s have a word,” you murmured, voice thick from crying, “something that means…no matter how many things change, i’m here for you.”

he was quiet for a second, thinking. then, softly, he said, “orange.”

you sniffled, blinking, “orange?”

“yeah,” his voice was gentle, a faint smile curving his lips, “it’s warm. and bright. and kind of messy. like us.”

you let out a shaky laugh, the smallest hint of smile tugging at your mouth, “okay. orange.”

he brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering just long enough to make your heart ache.

“orange.” he repeated. 

it became your word — the one that didn’t need explanation. whenever the world felt too loud, or life too heavy, or silence too long, orange meant i’ve got you.

it meant you’re not alone. 

it meant i love you, even if neither of you said it out loud. 

you fell asleep like that — your breath finally even, your body relaxing against him. jaemin stayed still, not daring to move. he watched the way your lashes brushed your cheeks, the faint furrow between your brows slowly fading as sleep found you. you looked so peaceful, so calm. like the storm that had been living inside you had finally gone quiet. his heart ached in that sweet, unbearable way — full of everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. 

he brushed his thumb lightly over your wrist, right where your pulse fluttered and whispered into the quiet, “orange, tiger.”

it almost slipped out then — the other thing. the heavier truth sitting on the edge of his tongue. 

but you were asleep. 

so he smiled softly, his hand resting over yours and thought —

it can wait a little longer. 

year v. the summer before college. four years ago. 

it was the perfect summer. one last breath before the real world began. before dorm rooms and degrees and distance. before everyone scattered. 

you told yourself it was just a trip to the beach. just five friends. one car. and too many playlists. but deep down, you knew it was a goodbye wearing a prettier name. 

the air was thick with salt and sunlight as the car tore down the coastal highway, windows down, wind catching your hair. jaemin sat in the passenger seat with his arm dangling out the window, sunglasses reflecting the blue horizon. chenle was on your left, a bag of chips in hand, enjoying the summer air. mark sat to your right, flipping through the playlist, insisting on finding the perfect song for the drive. and jeno — steady, calm, unshakable, jeno — had one hand on the wheel, humming softly to the song playing. 

it should have felt simple. it should have felt like any other road trip. the kind that would end with photos and laughter and sand still stuck in your shoes weeks later. but your chest was heavy. 

because just yesterday, everything had changed. 

the doctor’s office had smelled like disinfectant and rain — clean, sterile, unfeeling. you remembered nodding, smiling, thanking them for their time like it was some kind of meeting you were late for. 

the word terminal sat quietly in the corner of your mind, heavy and patient, waiting for you to stop pretending you didn’t hear it. but you didn’t stop pretending. not today. not in this car. not with them laughing beside you, singing badly to old songs and taking turns to stick their heads out the window like overgrown children. 

you weren’t going to ruin this. 

you weren’t going to let the end make its way into something that still felt like forever. 

the airbnb was small but warm. the kind of place that smalled like salt, sunscreen and cheap detergent. the walls were off-white and peeling in places, the furniture mismatched, but no one cared. 

jeno was the first to claim a room, quietly slipping inside. mark began strumming his guitar almost instantly. jaemin filmed snippets on his camera — the view from the balcony, your laugh in the background — his voice teasing you from behind the lens. chenle wandered through the small kitchen, quietly checking if there was enough food for everyone.

you smiled, half-present, half-somewhere else. 

by sunset, the five of you were gathered on the beach, the sky bleeding orange into pink. the bonfire crackled softly, shadows dancing across your faces as the tide whispered against the shore. 

it felt almost cinematic — five teenagers caught in a perfect snapshot of time. all pretending they weren’t growing up too fast. mark strummed his guitar lazily, the melody sure and warm. chenle sat beside him, humming along, his voice soft, carried away by the ocean breeze. the scent of salt and smoke wrapped around everything, clinging to your clothes, your hair, your memory.

“so,” jeno said, grinning, “what’s everyone’s plan after this summer?”

chenle perked up immediately, marshmallow stick in hand, “mark and i got into the same music program!,” he said beaming, “i’m gonna sing, he’s gonna write the songs. we’re gonna be famous, you’ll see.”

mark laughed in the middle of strumming his guitar, shaking his head, “yeah, right. we’ll be broke artists eating ramen in a shoebox apartment, but sure, famous.”

chenle gasped dramatically, tossing a marshmallow at him, “optimism, hyung!”

everyone laughed — even jaemin, who was poking at the fire with a stick, his face glowing orange in the light. the sound was soft and fleeting, carried away by the waves before you could hold onto it.

when the laughter died down jaemin’s voice slipped through the quiet, calm and sure, “i got into a program overseas, english literature.”

it wasn’t a surprise to you. you’d been there for every step of it — every late-night draft, every half-crumpled essay, every version of his personal statement that he swore he hated until you convinced him otherwise. you’d sat beside him in cafés, coaxing him through his panic when he said he wasn’t good enough, when he said there were a thousand better writers than him. you’d stayed up with him the night he hit submit, both of you wide-eyed and giddy, a little scared but full of hope.

you remembered the morning the acceptance email came — how he’d burst into your room, his hair a mess, phone in hand, shouting your name like he’d just been given the universe. how you’d cried harder than he did, throwing your arms around him, the two of you laughing through the tears.

you’d cried again later, but for a different reason — happy, because he was finally going to chase the thing that made him light up in a way few things did. sad, because he was going to do it without you. you’d spent days pretending you were fine, telling him how proud you were, how excited. you meant it, you did, but the truth sat quietly beneath all that joy, heavy and secret.

and now, sitting there on the sand, with the fire painting him in gold and shadow, it hit you all over again. this was real. he was really leaving. but the ache in your chest felt different this time.

you looked at him — the curve of his smile, the way the flames flickered in his eyes — and instead of sadness, you felt something close to relief.

relief that he figured it out. relief that he was going somewhere better, somewhere full of stories and chances and tomorrows. relief that he didn’t have to stay here long enough to see what was coming for you.

he didn’t have to watch you fade.

jeno turned toward him, surprised, “overseas?”

jaemin nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “yeah, i figured…i’ve always wanted to write. maybe it’s time i tried.”

chenle smile, soft and fond, “that’s really cool, hyung. what’s next, jeno starting a company and becoming a ceo?”

jeno chuckled from where he sat across from you, leaning back on his hands, “i actually am staying here. got accepted for a business course. my parents want me to help with the family stuff eventually.”

“classic,” mark said with a grin, nudging him lightly with his foot, “the responsible one never leaves.”

then, all eyes turned to you. 

you hesitated, fingers tugging at the end of your sleeve, the firelight flickering against your face, “i’m… not going anywhere,” you said, your voice smaller than you intended.

chenle tilted his head, “what do you mean?”

“i’m taking a year off,” you said quietly, watching the fire sway, “i don’t really know what i want yet. everyone else seems to have it figured out and i just…don’t.”

the words came out softer than you meant and for a moment, you regretted saying them at all. but then jaemin looked at you — that familiar, gentle look and said, “that’s okay, tiger,” he said softly, his voice steady, certain, “you don’t have to know right now. you have all the time in the world.”

you met his eyes. and you wanted to break. scream into the void. get on your knees and beg whoever was in charge out there to change your prophecy. but you didn’t. you just smiled. 

the others went back to talking — about dorm life, roommates, concerts they’d attend together. the freedom they couldn’t wait for. you watched them. their faces lit by firelight, laughter spilling into the salty air and your chest ached. you wished you could freeze this. this warmth. this noise. this feeling of belonging. 

you wished time would stop just long enough for you to catch your breath. 

you sat quietly, listening to their voices fade into the waves and for a second, you almost believed you could outrun what was coming. 

the sunset bled orange over the ocean that night. you sat there for a long while, watching the sky burn and fade. it looked endless — that kind of endless that hurt to look at. you pressed a hand against your chest, felt the faint, uneven rhythm there, and wondered if you’d ever see a sunset like this again. 

you were so, so tired. 

later that night, the house was alive with laughter. the boys were in the living room, arguing over cards and snacks, their voices echoing against the walls. jaemin’s laugh was the loudest — that familiar, unrestrained sound that could pull a smile out of anyone.

you laughed too, for a while. but it didn’t last.

the ache in your stomach had been growing for days, twisting deep and sharp. and when the dizziness came again, sudden and suffocating, you excused yourself quietly, smiling so no one would follow. the moment the bathroom door closed, your knees hit the tile. the dizziness worsened. then the nausea. then, without warning, the taste of iron filled your mouth. the sound of it, soft, wet, terrible, echoed in the small room, painting the porcelain red. 

blood. 

your vision swam. the room tilted. you clutched the edge of the toilet and tried to steady your breath, but panic clawed it’s way up your throat. you hadn’t wanted a reminder. you hadn’t wanted proof that maybe the reason why it was so hard to imagine a future was because you weren’t going to have one. not right now. not yet. not when you were still pretending everything was okay.

the door creaked open. 

“y/n?”

you froze. jeno’s voice. calm, steady — always steady. 

before you could warn him, he was already inside. his face went still — eyes wide, lips parting in shock as he took in the scene. the blood. your trembling hands. the fear you hadn’t had time to hide. 

“dont–” you rasped, your voice breaking, “don’t call anyone.”

he didn’t listen at first. he moved toward you, grabbed a towel, crouched down, “what the hell–you need to go to a hospital–”

“i’ve been,” you said, voice shaking, “yesterday.”

the world went very quiet then. the only sound was the sea outside, waves rolling somewhere beyond the walls. 

he looked at you, really looked, and the horror in his eyes nearly undid you. 

“what do you mean?” he whispered.

you swallowed, the words barely coming out, “i’m sick, jeno.”

you couldn’t say dying. you couldn’t make it real like that. but the way his breath hitched told you he understood anyway.

you looked down at your shaking hands, “they said it’s terminal. i don’t know how long…maybe years, maybe less. i didn’t want to tell anyone. i can’t. not yet.”

“y/n…” his voice cracked, breaking on your name, “you weren’t going to tell us?”

“please,” you said, meeting his eyes, desperate, “don’t tell them. not jaemin. not anyone. i just need this summer. i just need to feel normal for a little while longer.”

jeno exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. his jaw clenched — his eyes glassy. and then, finally, he nodded.

“okay.”

you blinked, unsure you heard right, “okay?”

“i won’t tell them,” he said quietly. “not if you don’t want me to. but you’re not going through this alone, you hear me?”

you nodded weakly, the tears coming before you could stop them. he didn’t say anything else. just helped you up, steadied you when your knees wobbled, wiped the blood from your chin with careful hands.

from that night on, jeno stayed closer. 

not in a way that drew attention — just soft, invisible gestures.

he carried your bag without being asked. found excuses to sit beside you — he noticed things. the moments you winced, the way you’d go quiet in between jokes, the way you’d clutch your side when you thought no one was looking. he didn’t say much. just made sure you ate. that you rested. that you smiled, even when it was hard. 

he didn’t tell anyone. 

jaemin noticed. 

he just didn’t see the truth. not the way jeno did. 

he saw the way jeno started lingering beside you. how jeno always seemed to know what you needed before you asked. how the two of you would sometimes slip away from the group, speaking in whispers, sharing quiet glances he wasn’t a part of. how you leaned into him sometimes, subtle, fleeting — the way you lean into him.

and jaemin, who’d always been so good at reading you — suddenly found that he couldn’t.

he didn’t ask about it. he couldn’t. because some part of him already knew the answer he didn’t want to hear. so he smiled. he teased you. and then he buried it. 

buried the ache. the questions. the almosts. 

he buried the memory of you asleep on his chest whispering orange. 

he buried the memory of the disco ball scattering silver across your face. 

he buried the way his heart skipped every time you laughed, every time you looked up at him like he was sunlight. 

he buried everything that came with that coffee stain. 

because maybe, he thought, maybe you were already someone else’s orange now. 

year v. the airport. four years ago.

the day came faster than you thought it would.

airports always smelled like beginnings but that morning it smelled like endings. like coffee and jet fuel and all the things you couldn’t say. 

the drive there was quiet — jaemin humming softly along the radio, his suitcase tucked neatly in the back, your hand resting limp in your lap. the city blurred past in streaks of gray and gold. every few minutes he’d glance at you, like he wanted to say something but didn’t. you’d do the same. but neither of you did. 

the silence was gentle, almost fragile. neither of you wanted to break it. 

when you finally pulled up to the airport, the clock on the dashboard read 9:51 AM. you stared at it for a moment, like you could freeze time if you looked long enough. 

you wanted to tell him then. you wanted to say that the world had given you an expiration date. that every heartbeat felt heavier now. that each breath was something you’d started counting. 

but you couldn’t. 

he was chasing something beautiful. and you couldn’t be the one to turn that into a burden. so instead, you forced a smile as you stepped out of the car.

“need help with your bag?”

he laughed softly, shaking his head, “you? you’d drop it in two seconds.”

you rolled your eyes, “rude. i’m stronger than i look.”

“i know,” he said quietly, that familiar gentleness threading through his one, “you’re the strongest person i know.”

inside the terminal, everything felt too bright, too cold. the kind of place where goodbyes were meant to be quick. but you couldn’t seem to make yours small. you walked beside him in silence. fingers brushing occasionally, both of you pretending not to notice. his flight number blinked in bold letters on the overhead screen. 

departure: 11:15

every minute felt like a countdown. 

at the gate, he turned to you, his eyes a little too shiny, “i can’t believe i’m really leaving.”

you tried to smile, but your throat was already closing up, “you’ll be amazing, jaem. you always are.”

he exhaled, his breath shaky, “i don’t know how to do this without you.”

and just like that, the dam broke.

you didn’t remember who reached first — only that your arms were around each other, clinging like the world would crumble if you let go. his face pressed into your shoulder, your tears hot against his neck. 

it wasn’t the kind of hug you gave a friend. it was the kind that said please don’t forget me. 

it was the first time in five years that you’d have to say goodbye. the first time you wouldn’t be able to call him up when the world got too loud. the first time he wouldn’t be a short drive away. you pulled back just slightly, enough to look at him — his eyes red, his cheeks damp, his lips trembling with the same words you were afraid to say. 

and then, without thinking — you kissed him. 

it wasn’t planned. it wasn’t perfect. it was soft and trembling and full of every unspoken thing between you — every late-night almost, every look that lingered too long, every heartbeat you’d both tried to ignore. 

he kissed you back. gently at first. then with that desperate, aching kind of tenderness that came from knowing this was goodbye. 

when you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless — your forehead resting against his, your tears mixing with his. you smiled through it, a quiet, trembling smile, and whispered, “orange.”

his lips curved faintly, breaking into something halfway between a laugh and a sob, “orange.”

you took a step back, wiped your eyes, and nudged him toward the gate. “go. before you miss your flight.”

he hesitated, eyes locked on yours, like walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever do. then, slowly, he turned. you stood there, heart pounding, a hand to your aching chest, watching as he handed over his ticket and started toward the jet bridge.

he looked back once. you waved, tears already streaking your cheeks. he smiled — that same soft, boyish smile that had ruined you from the start — and kept walking.

but with every step he took, you broke a little more.

and then, just before he disappeared through the gate, he stopped. 

turned.

and suddenly, he was running — back down the corridor, through the murmurs of strangers, his bag swinging wildly behind him.

you barely had time to breathe before you were in his arms again, holding you like he never meant to let go.

“i’ll be back soon, okay?” he whispered against your hair, his voice cracking on the last word.

you nodded into his chest, your hands fisting in his jacket. “okay.”

you didn’t tell him that soon wasn’t a promise you could keep. you didn’t tell him that by the time he came back, it might already be too late. you just held him tighter, memorizing the warmth of him, the sound of his heartbeat, the scent of his cologne — everything you’d ever loved about him condensed into one impossible moment.

and then he was gone.

the last thing you saw was the back of his head as he disappeared past the gate — the boy you loved walking into a future you wouldn’t be part of.

year vi. the first year of college. three years ago.

the clock on jaemin’s desk read 11:37 PM. the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the radiator and the sound of rain tapping against his dorm window. his phone sat in front of of him, screen glowing softly — your contact name lit up like a ghost he couldn’t reach.

call it again? it asked. 

he did. for the fifth time that week. 

it had become a habit. something he couldn’t unlearn. every sunday, no matter how hectic classes were, no matter how late it got, or he was out with his new friends — he’d call you. 

it was your promise before he left. same time, every week. 

you’d talk about everything and nothing. for months, your voice had filled the quiet corners of his dorm room — soft, teasing, familiar. the one constant in the blur of essays, time zones and homesickness. you’d tell him about the latest movie you’d watched, about jeno’s new obsession with mint ice cream, about chenle’s new song, about how quiet the world felt without him in it. 

and he’d tell you about the new city. the cobblestone streets, the little cafe that reminded him of home. his new friends, renjun and jisung, who he’d met in the library. sometimes he’d even read you things he’d written — soft, clumsy, words that he’ never dare to show anyone else. 

you’d listen. always.

he’d hear your quiet laugh through the speaker and everything would feel right again. 

but then you missed one sunday.

then another.

at first, he tried to be rational. he told himself you were probably busy, probably tired. maybe you were out with friends, maybe your phone had died, maybe time zones were just cruel. he replayed your last message over and over like a prayer. 

tiger 🧡🍊: talk to you soon, promise. 

but as the second week passed with nothing — no texts, no calls, not even a read receipt. something inside him started to twist. 

it wasn’t like you. 

you always answered. even if it was just a sleepy voice at 3AM saying five minutes, jaem i’m awake. 

you were the one who reminded him when he forgot, the one who said orange at the end of every call, soft and sure, like a promise that no ocean could drown. and he knew, better than anyone, that when you went quiet, it wasn’t because you didn’t have anything to say. it was because you were hiding something. 

he’d seen that version of you before — the one that smiled when you were breaking. the one that insisted everything was fine when it wasn’t.

and god, he hated being so far away.

so that night, with rain spilling down the window and his essay abandoned, half-finished on his desk, he called again. 

the ringtone buzzed once. twice. three times. then finally—

click.

“y/n?” he said quickly, sitting upright, relief spilling through him like oxygen.

but it wasn’t your voice that answered. 

there was a pause — the faint shuffle of someone adjusting the phone, and then, quietly, “hey, jaem…it’s jeno.”

his stomach dropped. for a second, he thought he’d misheard, “jeno?”

“yeah.”

the sound of waves came faintly through the line — that same low hum of the sea near your place. you’d always called him from there when you couldn’t sleep. he’ picture you sitting on the boardwalk, legs dangling over the edge, phone pressed to your ear. 

but you weren’t there on the other end of this call.

“where’s y/n?” jaemin asked, trying not to sound panicked, “is she okay?”

“she’s asleep,” jeno said after a pause, “didn’t mean to pick up — her phone kept buzzing. figured i’d answer before it woke her.”

“asleep?” jaemin tried to sound casual, but the unease in his voice betrayed him, “it’s morning there.”

“she’s been tired lately.”

tired.

the word lingered. jeno’s tone was gentle, cautious, too practiced for comfort. 

jaemin forced a laugh that came out brittle, “you’ve been hanging out with her a lot, huh?”

jeno didn’t answer right away. then, quietly, “yeah, just keeping her company. things have been…rough.”

that word — rough — made something twist deep in jaemin’s gut. he couldn’t tell if it was worry or something uglier. he hated not knowing things. especially when those things were about you.

he sank back into his chair, trying to keep his voice even, “rough, how?”

“she just…has a lot going on. you know how she is. always acting like she’s fine.”

he did know. that was what scared him most. 

silence hummed on the line for a beat too long. jaemin swallowed hard, “you sound close,” he said finally, the words slipping out before he could stop them. 

jeno gave a short, almost weary laugh, “we’ve always been close, jaem. you know that.”

jaemin nodded, even though jeno couldn’t see it, “yeah, yeah, i know.”

but something about the way jeno said it — that quiet steadiness, that easy warmth — made jaemin’s chest ache. 

for a moment, he didn’t trust himself to speak. he wanted to ask if you ever talk about him. if you mention your calls or the inside jokes or the stupid word orange.

if you ever thought about the airport. 

the kiss. 

the one thing neither of you had talked about since it happened. it wasn’t even that it was awkward — it was just…unspoken.

you both had cried, you both had clung too tightly, and in the blur of goodbyes and flight calls and tears, your lips had found each other. it was desperate and trembling and full of everything you’d never said out loud. and then, when you pulled away, both of you just smiled through it — breathless, eyes glassy, pretending. 

you whispered orange. he whispered it back. like a coward — always hiding behind that one word. 

and that was it. 

no explanations. no labels. just a quiet, mutual understanding that it happened because tensions were high and hearts were weak and goodbyes were hard. 

at least, that’s what he told himself. 

but some nights, when the world went still, he’d still feel the ghost of our lips and wonder if you were pretending as much as he was. 

“anyway,” jeno said, snapping him out of it, “i’ll tell her you called.”

jaemin forced a small smile that didn’t reach his voice, “yeah. please do.”

“she’ll call soon,” jeno added after a beat, “don’t worry so much.”. 

but jaemin could hear it — the faint sigh behind the reassurance. the softness in his tone. the kind of softness that belonged to someone who cared too much. he swallowed, his voice catching on the question that had been sitting in his throat since summer, “are you…and her…?”

jeno exhaled, a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, “you’re asking if there’s something between us?”

“i’m not—i mean,” jaemin stopped himself, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. this wasn’t his place. “forget it.”

“it’s okay,” jeno said, voice quiet, “you’re not the first person to wonder.”

that didn’t help. 

jaemin stared at the floor, his pulse loud in his ears, “and?”

another pause. and then, softly, carefully, “she’s important to me, jaem.”

something in the way he said it made jaemin’s grip on his phone tighten, his voice coming out smaller than he meant, “yeah, well…she’s important to a lot of people.”

jeno hummed, low, noncommittal, “you should get some sleep. it’s late over there.”

“tell her i—,” he stopped himself before the words miss her could leave his mouth. 

“tell her i’ll call again next sunday.”

“i will,” jeno said. 

and then the line went quiet. 

jaemin stared at his phone long after the call ended. the reflection of his own face stared back — eyes tired, mouth drawn tight. 

he should've felt relieved. you were okay. you were home. you had people looking out for you. but all he could feel was the hollow ache of distance. you were there, with jeno. and he was here, an ocean away, holding onto promises that suddenly felt like memories. 

he shut his phone off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to shake the feeling off. but he couldn’t. because it wasn’t just worry anymore. it was jealousy — raw, unexpected, ugly. 

and he hated himself for it.  

he needed to get out. the walls of his dorm felt too small, too suffocating, too full of memories that didn’t belong here. so he grabbed his jacket, shoved his phone in his pocket, and left. 

the rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time he stepped outside. the campus glowed under streetlights, puddles reflecting fractured light like broken glass. the nearest pub was only a few blocks away — a student favorite. loud, warm and messy enough to drown out his thoughts. 

that’s all he wanted — noise. something to blur you out. he walked there half-numb. half-hoping the rain would wash the ache out of him. it didn’t.

the pub was crowded — laughter spilling over the music, glasses clinking, the air thick with cheap beer and perfume. he slid into a corner booth, ordered whatever the bartender recommended and stared at the condensation dripping down the glass. 

he wasn’t used to this — the emptiness that came after missing someone. it wasn’t dramatic, just…quiet. a slow, dull ache that settled behind his ribs and refused to leave.

he didn’t notice her at first. 

not until she was standing beside his table, holding her drink with one hand and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with the other. 

“is this seat taken?”

he looked up. she had dark hair, sharp eyes softened by the dim amber light and a smile that looked like it knew more than it let on.

“uh—no,” jaemin said, clearing his throat, motioning to the seat across from him, “go ahead.”

“thanks,” she slid in, her glass clinking soflty against the table, “you look like you’re trying to forget something.”

he blinked, “what?”

she tilted her head, smiling faintly, “you’ve been staring at your drink for ten minutes. that’s either heartbreak or a failed exam. maybe both?”

a reluctant laugh escaped him, small, startled, “something like that.”

“i’m giselle,” she said, leaning forward, extending her hand.

her smile was light, easy — and for a moment, the ache in his heart didn’t feel so unbearable. 

across the world, you sat in the back of jeno’s car. 

the trunk propped open to face the sea, a blanket draped around your shoulders, the night air blowing cool against your cheek. the sea breeze made it easier to breathe — or maybe it just made you feel like you still could. 

the phone buzzed again on the space between you.

jaemin 🍊🧡calling…

you looked at it for a long moment before whispering, “answer it.”

jeno turned to you, brow furrowed, “you sure?”

you nodded, tightening the blanket around yourself, “if you dont…he’ll keep calling.”

he hesitated, his eyes flickering from the screen to your face — pale and drawn, your lips slightly cracked, your breaths too shallow. you’d gotten worse these past few weeks, though you’d stopped saying it out loud. it was in the way you moved slower now. the way you winced when you thought he wasn’t looking. 

“just don’t tell him, okay?” you murmured, “please, jeno.”

jeno exhaled through his nose, quiet, resigned, before picking up the call.

you closed your eyes as soon as you hear jaemin’s voice on the other end — rushed, anxious, full of something that twisted painfully in your chest. you could hear him asking for you, his voice frayed around the edges. 

jeno’s hand brushed lightly against your knee — a silent reminder to breathe. 

“she’s been tired lately,” jeno said carefully, eyes on you the whole time. 

that word. tired. you almost laughed. it was too small, too human a word for what you felt now. for the way your body betrayed you more each day. for the way your vision sometimes blurred into static when you stood too fast. 

jeno’s thumbed brushed against your knuckles as he continued, “you know how she is. always pretending she’s fine.”

you could picture jaemin on the other end — sitting somewhere in his dorm room, his brow furrowed, his voice softening in that way he always did when it came to you. and you missed him so much your chest ached. 

jeno tried to keep the call steady — a short, harmless conversation that wouldn’t raise alarms. but jaemin’s voice wavered with something else — jealousy, confusion, lonelines. 

“you’ve been spending a lot of time with her,” he said. 

jeno froze for half a second, “yeah,” he said quietly, “just making sure she’s okay. things have been…rough.”

that word too. rough. your eyes burned but you didn’t look away from the ocean. the waves were easier to face than the thought of jaemin sitting miles away, wondering why you weren’t picking up. 

when the call finally ended, the silence in the car felt heavier than before. you sat there, staring at the waves, trying to blink the tears out of your eyes before they fell. 

jeno set the phone down gently beside him, “he’s gonna worry more now.”

you pulled the blanket tighter, “he already does.”

he turned to you then, his gaze soft, full of soemthing heavy and unspoken, “you should tell him.”

you shook your head, “i can’t.”

“y/n—“

“i can’t jeno,” your voice cracked this time, “he’s happy. he’s doing what he loves. i can’t take that from him. if he knew, he’d come home. he’d give it all up.”

jeno didn’t argue. he just sighed, his breath fogging in the cool air. after a moment, he reached over and gently tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders, making sure it covered you completely. his fingers brushed your jaw when he pulled a strand of hair away from your face. 

“you’re freezing,” he muttered. 

you smiled faintly, your voice teasing, “you know he’s gonna kill you, right?”

jeno blinked, then let out a quiet laugh, “yeah, probably."

“thanks for covering for me.”

he looked at you, really looked at you — at the hollow beneath your eyes, the faint tremor in your hands. his voice was low when he spoke, “you don’t have to thank me, just…don’t make me lie to him forever, okay?”

you nodded, though both of you knew it was a promise you might not get the chance to keep. 

and then sunday rolled around once again. 

and for the first time in weeks, you were the one who called. the phone rang twice before he picked up, his voice sharp with surprise, almost breathless.

“tiger?”

you smiled into the call, pretending not to hear the relief in his tone, “hey, jaem.”

there was a pause — short, but full of meaning. you could almost see him, hand running through his hair, the corner of his mouth lifting like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“you finally remembered me,” he teased lightly, but his voice cracked on the last word. 

“please, i could never forget you,” you said, keeping your tone light, steady. it took everything in you not to cough mid-sentence, “you’re my sunday night ritual, remember?”

he let out a small laugh, that familiar sound you hadn’t realied you’d been starving for, “yeah, well, you broke our streak. i was starting to think i’d have to file a missing person’s report.”

“sorry,” you murmured, “things have just been…a lot.”

he hummed sofltly, “jeno said.”

you froze, just for a second, “oh?”

“he said you’ve been tired lately,” his voice softened, careful now, “you okay?”

you forced a small chukcle, “i’m fine. just burnt out, maybe. you know how it is.”

you said it like it was nothing — like your body wasn’t turning against you, like your lungs weren’t tightening more each day. like you weren’t terrified of what tomorrow would bring. 

jaemin sighed, that soft, concerned sound you’d memorized, “you sure?”

“positive.”

another pause. you could hear him settle into his chair — the faint creak of it, the rustle of paper. “okay,” he said finally, deciding to believe you. or maybe just pretending to.

“anyway,” you said quickly, changing the subject, “tell me about you. how’s school? still romanticizing libraries and late-night coffee?”

he laughed, “you make me sound like i’m in a movie.”

“you basically are.”

“fine, then. let’s see… classes are good. the city’s colder now. oh, and—” his tone shifted slightly, lighter now, “i met someone.”

your heart stilled, “someone?”

“yeah.” you could hear the small smile in his voice. “her name’s giselle.”

you gripped the edge of your blanket, keeping your voice even. “giselle.”

“mhm. she’s in my literature seminar. we met at this pub a few blocks from campus,” he laughed softly, almost sheepish, “she called me out for staring at my drink too long, said i looked like someone who came to forget.”

you smiled faintly, your chest tightening in that quiet, painful way, “sounds like she’s bold.”

“she is. in a good way, though. she’s… easy to talk to. feels kind of like i’ve known her longer than i have.”

you nodded, though he couldn’t see you, “she makes you smile.”

he hesitated, then laughed again, softer this time, “yeah, i guess she does.”

you wanted to be happy for him. you were happy for him. but underneath that, something else lingered — a small, sharp ache. because for the first time since that airport goodbye, it felt like he was moving on.

and you couldn’t.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing your voice to stay steady, “she sounds lovely, jaem.”

“she is,” he said, then quickly added, “but she’s not you, tiger.”

the words hung between you — warm, aching, dangerous.

you smiled into the silence, blinking back the tears burning behind your eyes, “i’m glad you’re doing okay.”

he hummed softly, “i’m not, really. but I’m trying.”

“good,” you whispered, “keep trying.”

he was quiet for a moment, then said gently, “you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

you hesitated, your heart breaking at how sincere he sounded.

“of course,” you lied.

he sighed in relief, like he’d been holding his breath, “okay. i just… worry about you.”

“i know.”

“orange?” he said softly.

you smiled, the tears finally falling, “orange.”

the call ended a few minutes later, but you kept the phone pressed to your ear long after the line went silent — listening to the faint hum, pretending it was still his voice.

across the ocean, jaemin stared at his ceiling, your word still echoing in his chest. he didn’t know why it hurt this much to hear it this time.

and you sat on the boardwalk alone this time, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead of you, whispering to no one at all—

“orange.”

but this time, it didn’t mean i’m here.

it meant i’m trying to be.

year vii. the second year of college. two years ago.

one year.

and somehow, you were still here.

maybe the universe was still giving you time for honesty.

you’d gotten used to measuring time differently — not in semesters or seasons but in checkups, prescriptions and quiet victories. the new medication helped, at least for now. your body still ached, still betrayed you, but you could walk longer, breathe deeper, laugh without feeling like it might be the last time.

you told yourself it was enough — enough to keep pretending, enough to keep living. 

so after countless times of jaemin inviting you to visit, and a hesitant go signal from your doctor — you finally said yes.

the city was different from how he described it — louder, colder but beautiful in the way foreign places are when you’re seeing them through the eyes of someone you love. the air was sharp with autumn, the streets glittering faintly with rain. you’d never been this far from home, but the thought of seeing him again steadied you. 

you spotted him before he saw you — his hair a little longer, his shoulders broader, a camera slung around his neck. he looke exactly like you remembered and nothing like you remembered, all at once. 

“tiger!”

and there it was — that grin. that too-wide, boyish grin that never quite grew up. 

you smiled before you could help it, the sound of that word loosening something tight in your chest. he ran toward you through the crowd, all ungraceful excitement and hugged you before you could even drop your bag. 

it startled you at first — the warmth, the familiarity, the way he still smelled faintly like citrus and clean laundry. he hugged you so tightly you could barely breathe though you didn’t dare tell him that, not when you could feel his heartbeat against your cheek for the first time in years.

he pulled back, hands still on your shoulders, eyes scanning your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. 

“you’re really here,” he said softly, pulling back to look at you. 

you’ve tried to look like the girl he used to know — brushed your hair the same, wore the kind of sweater he once said was very you. but there were some things you couldn’t hide. like how thin your wrists have gotten or how every shirt now hung off your frame like it didn’t belong. or how your smile didn’t reach quite as far as it used to. 

but as always, he didn’t ask questions. 

he only said, “god, i missed you.”

you laughed softly, a little relieved, “we called every week.”

“yeah,” he said, his grin faltering just a little, “but it’s not the same.”

you wanted to tell him you knew — that you’d missed him in a way that screens couldn’t fix, that your body had memorized the absence of him. but instead, you just smiled.

“lets go,” he said, taking your bags before you could protest, “you’ve got so much to see.”

you met her that afternoon.

giselle. 

she was cool, polite, effortlessly charming — the kind of girl who didn’t need to try to be liked, because the world already wanted to love her. she hugged you tightly like you’d known each for years. her perfume was soft, expensive, a little vanilla, a little smoke. 

“its so nice to finally meet you,” she said brightly, “jaemin talks about all the time.”

you smiled, unsure what to say, “he does?”

“are you kidding?” she laughed, “i practically know your entire life story. high school besties, him spilling coffee all over your shirt, junior prom — he told me about the orange corsage, by the way, that’s adorable."

you glanced at jaemin, who stood by the counter pretending to busy himself with mugs. he shot you a sheepish grin. giselle didn’t notice. she was already talking again, offering to show you around campus, pointing out cafe’s she thought you’d like. she laughed at your jokes, asked about the beach trips, about jeno.

and the worst part was, you liked her. 

she fit into jaemin’s world the way you never could. she knew the professors he talked about, the cafe’s he loved, the rhythm of the life he’d built without you. she laughed at all the right moments, touched his arm when she teased him, finished his sentences like she’d known him a lifetime.

you couldn’t even be mad about it.

because she wasn’t trying to take your place. 

she already had her own. 

you nodded and smiled in all the right places, but you could feel it, that quiet, invisible space growing between you. he was building a life. a beautiful one. and you — you were just visiting. 

so this — this is what it feels like to come back home and realize it’s not yours anymore. 

on the second night, his apartment was full — warm light spilling from the kitchen, laughter echoing down the narrow hallway, the faint scent of takeout and cheap wine hanging in the air. you sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, half-listening, half-floating. 

renjun was perched on the arm of the couch, gesturing wildly as he retold the story of his disastrous poetry reading. the one where he’d accidentally read the wrong piece and gotten halfway through before realizing it was a breakup letter. jisung couldn’t stop laughing, practically wheezing into a pillow, while jaemin kept refilling everyone’s glasses, eyes bright and crinkled with joy. 

he looked so, so happy. 

it should’ve made you happy too. 

but it didn’t.

you laughed when you were supposed to, smiled when eyes were on you. you even clinked glasses with jisung and pretended that this was exactly what you wanted — to see him thriving, surrounded by light, surrounded by people who understood the version of him you no longer knew how to reach. 

but underneath it all, your heart ached in that quiet, suffocating way that came when you realized how much had changed without you. 

you sat there, a ghost in the corner of the life he’d built and tried not to think about how far away you felt, even while sitting right next to him. 

and then came his teasing on the third night. 

you were all seated in the boy’s shared living room again — the same couch, the same lazy laughter, the same city hum pressing faintly through the windows. giselle was sitting comfortable on jaemin’s lap, her hand curled loosely around his wrist, the two of them so effortless together it hurt to look at. 

“so,” jaemin said, leaning back againsts the couch, smirking in that way that used to mean trouble, “how’s jeno?”

you raised an eyebrow, “he’s fine, i guess. why?”

“come on,” he said, leaning forward to nudge your knee playfully, “you two still do that thing where you act like you’re just friends but everyone knows you’re pining for each other?”

you blinked, caught off guard, how could he have possibly been so wrong?

“what?”

renjun snorted. jisung laughed. giselle giggled behind her glass. 

and you almost scoffed. they’d never even met jeno. 

but jaemin just kept smiling, completely oblivious to the weight behind his words, “you can tell me, tiger. when are you two finally going to confess? we all know it’s bound to happen eventually.”

you forced a laugh, your throat tightening, “you’re ridiculous.”

he shrugged,that teasing glint still in his eyes, “hey, i’m just calling it like i see it.”

you wanted to tell him he was wrong. that what he saw wasn’t love.

that it was jeno sitting on the floor beside your bed, steadying your breathing when the pain got too sharp. that it was jeno holding your hand during checkups you couldn’t face alone. that it was jeno promising he wouldn’t tell as he wiped the blood from your lips quietly, gently, like it didn’t scare him — like he’d already accepted the ending you refused to say out loud. 

but how could you tell jaemin any of that?

how could you ruin this version of you that existed in his head — whole, steady, alive?

so you smiled. you let him tease. you let everyone laugh, even as your chest burned. and you told yourself maybe it was better that he thought that. maybe it was kinder to let him believe you were loved in some other, simpler way. 

later that night, when giselle finally left, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, whispering something that made him smile and the boys had drifted off to their separate rooms — it was just the two of you. 

the apartment was quieter now. softer. the kind of silence that felt heavy, like it knew what was coming. you sat by the window, the city lights spilling through the glass. he was cleaning up bottles, humming softly under his breath, the shuffle of his slippers against the tile.

when he came back, he looked tired but content, “you okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorway. 

you nodded, “yeah. just…tired.”

he smiled faintly, that same worried crease between his brows, “you always say that.”

you looked at him then — really looked. the soft mess of his hair, the way the city light from the window halos his silhouette, the way his eyes found yours like they always did, even after all this time. 

and for a moment, you forgot how much it hurt to be here. you forgot how far gone you already were. because right then, sitting in the warmth of the life he built without you, you could almost believe you still belonged in it. 

the night felt like it was holding its breath. 

“hey,” you said quietly.

jaemin turned from where he was stacking dishes in the sink, eyes soft, “yeah?”

you hesitated, fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve, ”can we….hang out tomorrow?” you asked, “just us?”

he paused, straightening slowly, towel still in his hands, “just us?”

you nodded, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve, “yeah, like old times.”

something in his face shifted then — something small but sharp. 

“y/n,” he said after a moment, voice careful, “you’ve met my girlfriend, my friends…you know we’re all planning to take you out to that pub tomorrow?— and now you want it to be…just us?”

the air between you thinned. 

you opened your mouth, then shut it, “it’s not like that,” you said, voice trembling despite your best effort, “i just…miss you. that’s all.”

he let out a laugh — not cruel, but tired, heavy in a way that told you he’d been holding back a lot more than he let on, “you haven’t changed at all, huh?”

you froze, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling like it hurt, “you still hold on too tightly. to things. to people. to how life used to be.”

your chest tightened, “i just wanted one day, jaem.”

“one day won’t change the fact that things are different now,” he said, a quiet frustration slipping into his voice, “we’re not kids anymore. change isn’t bad.”

your throat burned, “you think i don’t know that?”

he shook his head, “then stop fighting it. this world is bigger than us, y/n. it can’t just always be me and you.”

that did it. 

something inside you broke completely — quiet, invisible, but deep enough that you felt the pieces shift.

you blinked fast, your voice small, “you’re right. it can’t.”

before he could say anything else, you grabbed you coat and left. 

he called after you — your name, your nickname, something broken in between — but you didn’t stop. you ran down the stairwell, your chest aching, lungs burning, until the night air hit your face — cold and sharp. the kind of cold that bit at your skin, like it was trying to remind you that you were still here. still alive. 

you didn’t know where you were going. you just needed somewhere to breathe, somewhere to fall apart. somewhere he couldn’t see. 

the city was quiet in that strange, faraway way cities get after midnight — too big to sleep, too bright to rest. you didn’t know how long you’d been walking, only that the cold air stung your cheeks and your chest ached in that deep, familiar way that had nothing to do with the weather or the heartbreak. 

by the time you found yourself in the small park a few blocks from jaemin’s apartment, your legs were trembling, your lungs raw, your vision swimming. you sank down onto a wooden bench beneath the flickering lamppost, clutching your coat tighter around you, trying to stop the shaking. 

it wasn’t even anger anymore — you didn’t have time for that. 

it was simply just exhaustion. 

at yourself. at him. at the truth sitting heavy in your chest, beating weaker with every breath you took. 

you told yourself you’d just sit for a bit, that you’d go back soon. you’d apologize. you always did. but the world kept spinning quietly around you — the hum of the city, the whisper of passing cars, the faint sound of rain starting to fall again. 

and then, footsteps. 

“god, tiger,” a voice breathed out, half exasperated, half relieved, “i can’t believe you walked this far.” 

you turned.

jaemin stood a few feet away, hair damp from the drizzle, chest rising and falling as if he’d been running the whole way. his eyes — those soft, familiar eyes, searched your face, the corners crinkling with worry.

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head, “why did you run? we don’t do that. we talk about it”

you looked away, blinking fast, “things change.”

he sighed and stepped closer, his voice gentler now, “i didn’t mean it like that.”

you didn’t say anything, you just stared at the wet pavement, tracing circles on your knee with your thumb, trying to hold yourself together. the rain fell heavier now, tapping rhythmically against your coat. 

after a long silence, he spoke again, softer this time, “i’m sorry. for what i said. “

you looked up, surprised by the crack in his voice. 

“i shouldn’t have—,” he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling, “—said it like that. i just…they all cancelled schedules to hang out with us tomorrow and,” he shakes his head, “—it doesn’t matter.”

you swallowed, your throat tight. 

he took another step closer, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, “tomorrow,” he said, almost pleading, “it’ll be just us, okay? no giselle, no plans. just…me and you.”

you nodded faintly, eyes stinging. 

he smiled then — that same smile you’d know since you were fifteen, soft and steady and unfairly kind. the same one that used to fix everything. 

and suddenly, you couldn’t take it anymore. 

the way he was looking at you — like you were still his world, like he’d never meant the words this world is bigger than us. the way your heart still fluttered even when you knew better. the way everything hurt, all at once, and yet, he was the only thing that made you feel alive. 

you reached out, fingers trembling, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. 

“tiger…” he murmured, his voice low, confused,

and for once — just once — you wanted to take instead of give. to be selfish instead of selfless. to hold on, even it it was only for a heartbeat. 

you leaned in. 

and he didn’t move. 

not at first. 

your lips found his — soft, hesitant, desperate — and for a single, suspended second, the world went quiet. like it always did with him.

it felt like every missed call, every unsent message, every almost between you collapsed into that one moment. his breath hitched, his hand brushed your jaw and for that fraction of a second, he kissed you back.

for a heartbeat, he was yours.

and then he froze. 

he pulled back suddenly, breath uneven, eyes wide. 

“tiger—” his voice cracked, “i—we can’t. i have a girlfriend.”

the words sliced through the night, through you.

you blinked, stunned at your own impulsiveness, your chest hollowing out as the rain started to fall harder. you nodded quickly, stepping back, pretending it didn’t matter. pretending your heart hadn’t splintered into a thousand irretrievable pieces. 

“i-i’m sorry” you whispered. 

jeamin reached for you, then stopped halfway. his hand dropped to his side. only only one word falling from his lips — small, fragile, heavy. the word that became his armor. 

“orange?”

i’m still here for you. nothing has changed. i love you but not in that way.

and god, it hurt.

but you said it back anyway. 

the morning came too quickly. you hadn’t slept. you’d spent the night sitting on the edge of the bed in the guest room — the one jaemin had so carefully prepared for you with extra blankets, a mug for tea, a vase of peonies by the window. the city was just beginning to wake, a pale light slipping through the curtains, quiet and unforgiving. 

every time you closed your eyes, you saw it again — the look on his face after the kiss. the shock. the confusion. the guilt. the pity. you’d known instantly what that look meant. and now, you couldn’t stand to see it again. 

you moved quietly, folding the blanket you’d slept under and placing it back on the bed. the air smelled faintly like rain and the detergent he used —  something clean. something familiar. it made your chest ache worse. 

your suitcase sat by the door. you zipped it up slowly, careful not to make a sound. every click of the metal teeth felt final, like you were stitching something closed.

you checked the time. 4:58 AM.

the sun wasn’t fully up yet. the streets outside were still gray and half-asleep. 

you slipped on your shoes and tiptoed down the hallway. the apartment was silent except for the steady hum of the refrigerator. you passed by his door — it was slightly ajar. you could see the faint outline of him inside, half-buried in his blanket, his arm hanging off the bed. 

you paused there for a long time. just looking. he looked peaceful in sleep. young again, almost. like the boy who spilled that warm coffee. the one who gave you a nickname just because he thought you looked cute when you were startled. 

for a moment, you wanted to wake him. to tell him you were sorry. to tell him that you loved him — but not to keep him, just so he would know. 

but then you remembered his words from the night before. 

this world is bigger than us. 

and you realized — he’d been right. 

you’d spent years trying to hold onto something that wasn’t meant to be yours anymore. and now, holding on just hurt both of you. 

so instead, you whispered the only thing you could. 

“orange.”

quiet. barely audible. meant for no one but yourself. 

this time, it didn’t mean i’m here. 

it meant i’m setting you free. 

you reached for the doorknob, heart trembling in your chest and slipped out. 

the hallway was cold. your steps echoed softly as you made your way down the stairwell, your hand brushing the railing for balance when the world tilted for a moment — the side effects, the exhaustion, all of it catching up to you. by the time you stepped outside, the city was just beginning to stir. a few cars passed, a street vendor setting up shop, the autumn leaves swaying in the breeze, the faint hum of life waking up around you. 

you stood there for a second, letting the morning air hit your face. it was cold, sharp, grounding. you wanted to cry but the tears didn’t come. you were too tired for that now. 

you hailed a cab, the sound of tires on wet asphalt echoing like a goodbye. 

no note. no message. no goodbye. 

because you’d already taken too much. because you didn’t want him to wake up and feel like he had to chase after you again. 

because leaving was the strongest thing you could do for him. 

year ix. present day. 

it was 2:13 A.M. when jaemin’s phone rang.

he almost didn’t pick up. he’d been staring blankly at the ceiling for over an hour, insomnia gnawing at the edges of his mind, that familiar restlessness pressing against his ribs. the city outside was silent, his apartment dim except for the faint blue glow of his laptop screen.

the sound of his ringtone cut through the quiet — sharp, jarring, wrong somehow.

jeno.

he frowned. jeno never called at this hour. not once in all the years they’d known each other.

something cold unfurled in his chest.

he answered immediately, voice low and rough, “jeno?”

there was no greeting. no easy laugh, no casual hey, man. just breathing — heavy, uneven, breaking.

“jaemin…” jeno’s voice sounded scraped raw, as if he’d swallowed gravel. it cracked on the second syllable.

jaemin’s body tensed. he pushed himself upright, blankets pooling around his waist, heart kicking painfully against his ribs, “what’s wrong?”

silence. not the comfortable kind – the suffocating kind, thick and trembling on the line. then a sharp inhale.

“jaemin, i— i’m not supposed to tell you.”

the sound of it — the way his voice trembled, the way it broke halfway through — it sent a chill through jaemin’s body. something in his chest pulled tight, tightening further with every beat, he pressed the phone closer to his ear, his voice tightening. 

“tell me what?” his voice came out sharper then he intended, strained at the edges. 

jeno didn’t answer right away. all jaemin could hear was the sound of him crying — quiet, muffled, the kind of crying you only did when you were trying too hard not to.

“jeno,” jaemin said again, firmer this time, though his throat had gone dry. “tell me.”

seconds stretched, long and merciless. then jeno exhaled, like the words hurt to hold in—

“it’s y/n.”

everything inside jaemin stilled. 

your name hadn’t been spoken to him in two years. not by friends. not by family. it hit him like an impact – sharp, wind-knocking, disorienting. 

his tiger.

the ache bloomed fast — old, remembered pain cracking open like it had only been yesterday.

you had disappeared on him. just— gone. no call. no message. no explanation.

he could still see that morning as if it were preserved in ice. the sun was shining brightly, soft light bleeding into the apartment when he walked toward the guest room. he’d expected to find you half-asleep, hair messy, drooling on his pillow the way you always did. instead, the room was empty. your suitcase gone. the blanket folded neatly at the foot of his bed. his front door slightly ajar, as if it had been closed gently behind you but not enough to catch. 

he remembered standing there, in the doorway, still half-dreaming, waiting for you to come back in, laughing, saying you just stepped out for coffee or fresh air or anything that made sense — until the minutes bled into hours, and hours into days.

he remembered calling. again. again. again. his voice growing smaller with every voicemail, his hands shaking as he typed message after message you never opened. he emailed. he reached out to your friends, to your mom, to anyone who might have known why you suddenly hated him enough to vanish. 

but no one gave him answers. everyone chose silence.

he checked your accounts every day like a habit, like a prayer. waiting for something. a sign. a clue. anything that said you missed him even half as much as he missed you. 

but all he found were photos.

photos of you and jeno —

you, laughing beside him at a cafe, sunlight catching in your hair.

you, on the beach, chin on your knees, the waves brushing at your feet.

you, grinning up at the camera, jeno’s arm slung loosely around your shoulders, matching your expression in a way that looked easy. familiar. like he belonged there.

you looked happy. free. like someone who’d finally accepted change. 

and maybe that should’ve been enough. maybe seeing you smile should have softened the bruise in his chest. 

but it didn’t. 

it just made his chest hurt in that deep, wordless way that no one talks about — the kind that feels like nostalgia and jealousy and loss all tangled in one unbearable knot. 

because the night he lost you, that night on the park bench, was the night he realized he’d never stopped loving you. 

he could still feel it with haunting clarity — rain dripping from his hair, your trembling fingers brushing his cheek, the soft press of you lips against his, his heart hammering wildly against the cage of his ribs, your voice cracking as you whispered, orange.

he’d tucked you in that night, wrapped you in a blanket, watched your eyelids flutter closed. and something inside him had snapped free. he couldn't do it anymore. couldn't lie to himself. couldn’t lie to anyone. 

he left his apartment at 2 AM, the sky still weeping, rain clinging to him like guilt and he went to giselle’s. he ended things. no fights. no apologies. just the truth, plain and quiet and cruel. 

“she’s the one,” he’d told her quietly, “she’s always been the one.”

and giselle, too kind, too understanding, had only nodded, eyes glistening, “i know,” she said softly, “i’ve always known.”

when he returned, it was close to four. the world felt different, lighter, terrifying, brand-new. he had stood at your doorway, watching you sleep, committing the sight of you to memory like a promise. 

he was ready. ready to choose you, finally. ready to tell you everything he had held back for years. 

but when morning came —

you were gone. 

and you never came back.

for weeks, months, years, he cycled through emotions like storms — confusions, heartbreak, then anger. angry at you for leaving like that. angry that you could. angry that you made him feel disposable. temporary. angry for being so selfish. 

and for the next two years, he filled that silence with stories he made up himself – stories where you’d moved on, where you’d fallen for someone else, where you'd decided he wasn’t worth the chaos. 

and maybe those stories were easier to live with than the truth. 

but now… hearing your name again, after all this time — those stories shattered.

because whatever came next — the way jeno’s breath hitched, the way his voice cracked, jaemin felt something colder than anger. 

fear. 

he swallowed hard, his voice barely steady. “what about her?”

a breath. not steady — shaken loose, like jeno was barely holding himself together.

then he said it — the words jaemin would replay in his head for years after.

“she’s dying, jaem…”

for a split second, jaemin didn’t react. not because he hadn’t heard but because his mind refused to process a sentence where you and dying existed together. the room around him seemed to mute itself – the hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of his laptop, the city beyond his window — all of it fading to a dull, suffocating quiet. 

he blinked once. twice. the air felt too thin. 

“no,” he whispered, the word barely formed, “no that—that doesn’t—what do you mean she’s dying?”

he heard shuffling on the other end, fabric brushing, like jeno was pacing or shaking or both. 

“she—it got bad,” jeno forced out, voice cracking on every syllable, “it’s been bad for a while. we tried—she tried—jaemin—,” his voice cracked again, choked, desperate, “please…please come home.”

and just like that, the silence shattered. and suddenly, everything inside jaemin surged at once — confusion, panic, denial, anger — colliding so fast he felt physically nauseous. 

it didn’t feel real.

it couldn’t be real.

he could still see you — laughing on the beach, rolling your eyes in the school hallways, hugging him tightly at the airport, whispering orange like it meant everything in the world.

he could still feel the ghost of that kiss — soft, unsure, the rain between you.

and now—

now you were dying.

what kind of cruel, twisted joke was this? 

he pressed the phone back to his ear, his voice breaking, “where is she?”

a broken inhale. then jeno gave him the name of the hospital, the city, the floor number — all in a rush as if speaking quickly would make it hurt less. 

jaemin didn’t say goodbye. didn’t think. didn’t breathe. he stood abruptly, feet hitting the floor, hands trembling as he searched for his keys, his passport, his bag, anything. everything was a blur in his periphery while his mind replayed the words with merciless clarity—

“she’s dying, jaem.”

each repetition sliced deeper, colder. like punishment. like consequence. like fate laughing at him for being too late. 

he didn’t remember locking his apartment. didn’t remember the elevator ride, the drive, the airport security lines, or the plane boarding. his memory stored nothing but fragments — flashes of movement, fluorescent lights, the sterile chill of transit spaces. 

all he could remember was his knee bouncing relentlessly through the flight. his fingers shaking as he gripped the armrest. his chest tight enough to hurt with every breath. 

outside the window, the sky was black — moon tucked behind clouds, stars swallowed whole. the world looked like it was holding its breath with him. he whispered your name once – so softly, the sound barely left his lips. as if saying it too loud might break whatever thread still tethered you to the world. 

the moment the plane touched down, jaemin was already unbuckling. the seatbelt sign was still lit, but he didn’t care. the click of the buckle releasing sounded too loud in the quiet cabin. he stood before the wheels finished rolling, earning a few startled looks, but he didn’t register any of them.

his heart was a drum—loud, hard, constant.

she’s dying.

she’s dying.

she’s dying.

the words marched with every beat of his pulse. he was the first off the plane. first through the jet bridge. first to the immigration line — shifting weight from foot to foot as if still mid-run. 

every minute felt like something was being stolen from him. 

the airport was too bright, too noisy, too slow. people walked with coffees and suitcases like the world wasn’t ending. a child laughed. a couple argued quietly. a man yawned into his palm. jaemin wanted to shake all of them and scream—

don’t you know she’s dying?

don’t you understand i’m too late?

but his mouth only stayed in a tight, thin line as he moved—fast, mechanical. he grabbed a cab, forced out the hospital name, and told the driver to go—please, faster, faster.

streetlights streaked past the window in long, yellow smears. the city looked half-asleep, unaware that the most important person he had ever loved was slipping away inside it.

he pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum, trying to breathe through the sharp, splitting ache spreading there. the drive felt endless. his leg bounced the entire time, fingers twitching like they needed something to hold, to break, to anchor him.

when the cab finally pulled up to the hospital, he shoved bills into the driver’s hand without looking and ran.

the glass doors parted with a soft whoosh that felt too gentle for what was happening. inside, the air was cold, sterile, laced with antiseptic. the floor gleamed. the lights were harsh. everything felt wrong. his voice barely came out, scraped raw from hours of silence and fear.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” he gasped to the nurse at the counter, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. “where— where is she?”

the nurse’s expression shifted—just slightly, but enough to tell him everything was already bad. before she could answer—

“jaemin!”

he spun around.

jeno stood there — eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaked with dried tears, shoulders slumped as if the night had drained the strength from him. mark hovered beside him, jaw clenched tight, eyes swollen. chenle sat rigid in one of the waiting chairs, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.

the sight of them—all wrecked—made something inside jaemin lurch.

but he didn’t slow.

didn’t greet.

didn’t breathe.

the world tilted. his knees nearly gave out.

but still, he moved forward — forcing his feet to take him closer, hoping, praying he was wrong.

jeno stepped toward him, wordless. his face crumpled as he reached for him, pulling him into a hug so tight it hurt. and through that broken, breathless quiet, jaemin managed to ask —

“where is she?”

no one answered.

mark’s gaze dropped to the floor. chenle squeezed his eyes shut. jeno stepped back, lips parted, but no words came out. 

“jeno,” he said again, barely holding himself upright, “where. is she.”

jeno’s face crumpled. he shook his head once, small, helpless, and the tears returned, spilling over.

“jaem…” his voice was broken whisper, “she’s gone. she died thirteen minutes ago.”

the sentence didn’t land all at once—it struck in pieces, sharp edges catching in jaemin’s chest. 

no. 

not you. 

not the girl who always had a smile on her face. not the girl who promised to stay strong for him.

gone.

died.

thirteen minutes.

minutes.

not days.

not weeks.

he was thirteen minutes too late.

something inside him broke open so suddenly he thought he might collapse. but his body moved before the grief could swallow him whole. he ran. through the hall. past nurses calling after him. past rooms and signs and the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his head.

he needed to see you. needed to prove them wrong. needed to undo something—anything—

until suddenly—he stopped.

your room.

he stood frozen in the doorway. the lights in your room were dim, softened to a low glow that painted everything in muted, gentle shades. curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a sliver of dawn—the sky outside still a washed-out grey-blue, caught somewhere between night and morning.

it felt too quiet. too calm. too peaceful for what he was about to see. his breath stuttered as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.

and there you were.

the world fell silent.

you were lying there, so still, so small against the hospital bed. the machines beside you were quiet now, their steady beeping replaced by the low hum of the air conditioner.

your body lay still against the white hospital sheets, the blanket tucked neatly around you. your hair framed your face softly, as if someone had brushed it with care. your skin looked pale under the muted light—almost translucent, unreal.

you looked like you were sleeping.

like if he whispered your name, you’d stir. if he nudged your shoulder gently, you’d groan and tell him to let you rest. if he sat beside you with that worried crease on his brow, you’d tease him for looking like a mess after a red-eye flight.

for a second — just one — he let himself believe that.

his throat tightened painfully. he stumbled forward, his hands shaking violently as he reached for you. his voice broke as it left him, so quiet the room nearly swallowed it.

“tiger,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. “hey.”

you didn’t move.

he sat on the edge of your bed, his hands trembling as they found yours — cold. too cold.

he let out a choked laugh — raw and helpless, tinged with disbelief and horror. “okay,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as if he could coax life back into them, “this—this isn’t funny. you can stop now.”

he rubbed your hand between his palms, trying to warm it, trying to pretend the world hadn’t already stolen you.

“come on, tiger,” he breathed, voice cracking, “you always loved dramatic entrances, but this—this is cruel.”

still nothing.

no stir.

no soft exhale.

no hand squeezing his back in reassurance.

his vision blurred. tears slipped down his cheeks, but he didn’t bother wiping them. he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking.

“wake up,” he begged, the plea breaking as it spilled out of him. “please… wake up.”

but you didn’t.

you never would.

he stayed like that for a long time. he didn’t know how long — time losing meaning in the dim room. all he knew was the feel of your hand in his, cooling, unresponsive, slipping away from what he remembered.

he lifted his head, eyes tracing your face — committing you to memory the way you had looked when he loved you, when you loved him, when life still had more time to give.

the gym. the airport. the park. your whispered orange.

his chest caved in. 

“orange,” he choked out, the word breaking in his mouth. it felt like saying goodbye with the wrong language.

it used to mean i’m here for you.

but here, in this room, holding your hand that would never warm again, it only meant one thing—

i love you.

he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead—soft, lingering—as if trying to seal something back into you. his tears fell onto your skin, sliding down your temple, and he whispered against your unmoving warmth—

“orange, tiger. i’m here.”

even though, this time…you weren’t. 

the silence in the room was unbearable.

jaemin couldn’t look at you anymore — not like this. not when every memory of you was alive, and this was anything but.

your hand had gone slack in his, your fingers still cold despite how long he’d been holding them. his thumb brushed against your knuckles one last time before he let go, but the moment he did, the air around him felt wrong. too empty. too final.

he stood up, dizzy, his vision blurring with tears he couldn’t blink away. he turned sharply and stumbled out of the room, his breath coming in uneven, broken gasps.

and as he walked down that hallway — sterile, white, endless — the world started replaying itself.

every memory. every moment.

your laugh echoing through the gym.

your fingers clutching his sleeve the day you first met.

your voice saying orange through tears, through laughter, through years of growing up together.

he saw the prom lights again.

he saw your orange corsage dangling loose on your wrist.

he saw you crying in your bedroom senior year, whispering you were scared of the future — and he’d said we’ll figure it out, like we always do.

except he hadn’t.

he saw the wind blowing your hair at the beach.

he saw your eyes when you kissed him at the airport.

he saw the night in the park — your trembling hands brushing his hair back, your lips touching his, the rain between you, and how he’d pulled away.

he heard himself saying this world is bigger than us like a fool.

and now, standing here in this hospital hallway, he realized — the world hadn’t been bigger than you.

it had been you.

and you were gone.

he couldn’t breathe. he shoved open the door, stumbling into the hallway, as if the floor had tilted beneath him. his vision tunneled, breath ragged, chest tight enough to burst. the hallway outside felt too bright, too awake, too wrong. voices blurred. a nurse said something, but he couldn’t hear. couldn’t think. couldn’t feel anything. 

then he saw them — chenle. mark. jeno.

standing. waiting. crying. 

and something inside him snapped. 

he didn’t stop. he didn’t think. 

it all made sense now. he finally sees the full picture. 

“you knew.”

the words came out low at first, dangerous, cracked open from somwhere feral.

jeno stepped forward carefully, “jaemin–”

but jaemin was already moving. in two strides, he was in front of jeno, hands fisting into his shirt as he slammed him into the wall so hard the frame rattled. mark jerked forward—shocked—but froze when he saw jaemin’s face.

“you fucking knew!” jaemin’s voice ripped out of him, raw and hoarse, shaking with something between grief and rage–

“you knew she was dying and you didn’t tell me?!”

jeno gasped at the impact but didn’t didn’t fight back. he didn’t even raise his hands. his eyes were wet, his voice breaking as he said, “she—she made me promise—”

jaemin slammed him again, harder, voice shattering, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR PROMISES!”

his fist drew back — mark grabbed his arm just in time, “jaemin—stop—”

“LET GO!” jaemin snarled, yanking free with a violent jerk. his fist hit the wall right beside jeno’s head, knuckles splitting on impact. pain shot up his arm, sharp and bright, but he barely felt it. 

“you let me show up thirteen minutes too late,” he spat, chest heaving, “THIRTEEN MINUTES.”

jeno’s eyes filled, his voice shaking, “i–i didn’t want to hurt you—”

“hurt me? you think THIS–” jaemin’s voice cracked, wild and broken all at once, “this is better? not knowing? missing her last breath? do you have ANY idea what you just took from me?!”

jeno’s own anger flared through his grief, sudden and pained, “you think i had a choice?! she begged me, jaem! SHE BEGGED–”

jaemin shoved him again, voices rising, grief colliding with grief like fire to gasoline.

“when someone’s life is on the line, you DON’T GET TO KEEP SECRETS LIKE THAT!”

“SHE WAS DYING!” jeno choked, voice breaking on the word, his own tears spilled faster now, “you think knowing would’ve made it easier?! you think i didn’t want help?!” he shouted back, his voice cracking, shaking under the weight of his own guilt.

“you think watching the girl you love die slowly would’ve hurt less just because you knew?!”

jaemin froze — chest heaving, breath tore from him like he’d been punched.

jeno’s voice broke completely then, trembling as he whispered, “you think i don’t know what that’s like, jaem? watching someone i love fade right in front of me and pretending i don’t? holding her when she couldn’t stand? lying every day because she just wanted to feel normal? you think that’s easy?”

jaemin’s hands loosened. his eyes widened.

“she was dying,” jeno repeated, his voice barely a whisper now, “and all she ever worried about was you.”

the fury in jaemin’s chest twisted—splintering, collapsing under its own weight.

his hands dropped.

his knees gave out.

he hit the floor hard, palms scraping against the tile, breath ripping unevenly out of him. he bent forward, shoulders shaking, and a sound tore from his chest—half-scream, half-sob, all devastation.

jeno sank down with him, reaching—but not touching—not unless jaemin let him.

chenle covered his mouth, eyes red, body shaking. mark stood frozen, tears sliding silently down his cheeks.

jaemin pressed his forehead to the cold floor, fists clenched, voice breaking open in a whisper that sounded like it hurt to exist—

“i didn’t get to say goodbye.”

jeno squeezed his eyes shut, tears falling onto the floor between them.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, “i’m so, so sorry.”

and in that hallway—bright, sterile, too alive for what had just died—jaemin cried with the kind of grief that didn’t soften over time. the kind that stayed. brutal. permanent.

he should’ve asked the questions

he should’ve demanded the answers 

maybe then…

maybe then he wouldn’t be here…on his knees…surrounded by grief and love and all the words he’d never get to say.

two weeks later

the  sky was gray that morning—not the soft, rainy kind, but the heavy kind that just sat over the city like a weight. unmoving. colorless. the sort of gray that pressed on your lungs when you breathed, like the world itself had gone quiet for you.

the church was full but quiet. rows of black coats filled the pews, heads bowed, tissues crumpled in shaking hands. people spoke only in whispers, like their voices might disturb something sacred. the air smelled of lilies and incense—sweet, cloying, suffocating—and beneath it all, something colder, sharper.

something like finality. 

jaemin stood at the back for a long time before he could make himself walk in. his fingers clenched around the orange peony he brought. the same kind he tied around your wrist at prom, the night he thought you’d remember forever. the petals were vivid against the black of his coat, almost wrong in their brightness. too alive for a room that held your absence. his shoes scuffed softly against the marble aisle as he made his way forward.

and there you were.

surrounded by flowers—white, ivory, pale pink, gentle colors people choose when they want to pretend death is soft. a framed photograph sat beside your coffin of you, frozen mid-laugh, hair tousled by the wind, sunlight warming your cheek, that familiar glint in your eyes, like you were seconds from teasing him about something.

for a moment, jaemin couldn’t move.

his breath caught halfway up his throat. that picture wasn’t fair. it made you look too alive—like you were just late to your own funeral. like any second, you’d walk in, breathless, apologizing because you overslept.

god, it hurt.

he took one step closer. then another. your photo stared back at him with a smile he could still hear. his chest burned with the kind of ache that didn’t fade—it sharpened.

you were right there. and impossibly far away.

“jaemin.”

he turned.

jeno stood a few feet away—eyes swollen, dark crescents beneath them, his black tie crooked like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after crying in the car. his hands trembled slightly as he held something out.

a small, worn notebook.

bound in fading orange leather.

edges frayed. corners bent. a ribbon poking out from between the pages.

“she wanted you to have this,” jeno said quietly.

jaemin stared at it, at the frayed binding touched so many times your fingerprints were practically a part of it. his voice barely came out, “what…what is it?”

“her journal,” jeno said. his voice cracked. “she’s been writing in it since that day after the beach — you remember? the summer before college.”

the words hit like a blow. jaemin’s heart stuttered. he remembers that day so clearly. the bonfire. your laughter. the salt wind. 

so all this time — you knew this day was coming. and he had been in the dark. 

jeno continued quietly, eyes glassy, as if each memory hurt to touch, “she said she didn’t want to lose the memories. that she wanted to keep all of us with her, even when things got bad.”

jaeemin reached out slowly, hands shaking, and took the journal. the leather was worn soft from use. a few pages looked slightly warped, like they’d been touched by tears. there were indentations across the front — deep grooves from your handwriting, pressed too hard into the page, the way you always did when the emotions didn’t fit inside the lines.

his breath hitched. he held it tighter. then tighter still. like if he loosened his grip, someone would take it from him too.

his vision blurred, tears gathering despite how many he’d already shed. he pressed the journal to his chest, right over his heart, as if it could hold him together, anchor him to the floor, keep him from collapsing all over again.

because right now, everything else felt like it was slipping out of his hands.

he couldn’t open it. not yet.

the words inside would be too heavy. too real. too you.

if he read it, it would make your death feel irreversible.

so he tucked the journal carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, close to his heart, the same way he had once tucked your hand into his jacket on cold nights. and he stood there, beside your coffin, surrounded by flowers and silence and everything he never got to say, holding onto that journal like a lifeline.

because it was all he had left.

of you.

of the future he thought he’d have with you.

of the version of himself that only existed when you were still here.

his heart hurt — god, it hurt— his stupid heart that had always beaten too hard for you, too fast, too reckless. that same heart that failed him when it needed to be brave, when it needed to choose you sooner.

maybe that’s why you got sick, he thought. bitter. broken. because you were always the strong one. always holding everything together until your body couldn’t anymore.

a sound escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob, sharp enough to cut. he covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“god, tiger,” he whispered, voice trembling, cracking. “you really left me nothing but your words, huh?”

he closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the journal against his chest—light, but unbearable.

“orange,” he murmured, so soft it barely reached the air.

the word trembled like a confession. like a promise he didn’t know how to keep without you.

one and a half year later.

the graveyard was quiet. the kind of quiet that didn’t feel lonely anymore — but a still, settled kind. a quiet that felt…lived-in. familiar. like grief had pulled up a chair beside him and finally stopped trying to drown him.

early spring softened the air. the sky was pale gray, clouds stretched thin, like the world was just waking up. the trees were dusted with new leaves, shy and young. a breeze moved lazily through the grass, cool enough to raise goosebumps, gentle enough not to sting.

jaemin knelt down in front of your gravestone, jeans brushing damp grass, his breath forming the faintest fog as he exhaled. a few leaves had gathered at the base, carried here by wind and time. he brushed them away with careful fingers, as if clearing dust off a photograph. he traced his thumb over your name, slow, deliberate, letting the letters settle beneath his skin. he touched it the way you used to touch his hand when he was anxious, thumb brushing over his knuckles in quiet reassurance.

“hey, tiger,” he murmured.

his voice didn’t break this time.

there had been days, so many days, when standing here felt like being skinned alive. days where he couldn’t form words because the air itself hurt to breathe. days where he clung to your gravestone like it was the last piece of you he could hold, chest heaving, begging the universe, god, fate, anyone, to rewind time and give you back.

he had screamed here. sobbed here. collapsed here. he had cursed at the sky until his throat felt scraped raw. cursed at you for leaving him, at himself for being too late, at life for being so relentlessly cruel.

but grief changes shape when you start learning how to carry it.

now, the visits were softer. not painless — but quieter. quieter in the way healed wounds still ache when it rains.

today, though, wasn’t like the others. today, he brought something he had been too afraid to open for a year and a half.

your journal. the once-orange leather had deepened to a muted, weather-touched brown. the corners were worn soft, edges curling like petals drying at the end of their bloom. a thin elastic band held it closed, stretched loose from how often he held it—but never opened it. he didn’t go anywhere without it. he kept it tucked into his coat, on his bedside table, beside his coffee cup in the mornings. sometimes, he fell asleep with his hand resting on it, like holding onto your words might keep them from fading.

but he hadn’t read a single page.

not until now.

because a year and a half later, his heart finally felt steady enough to break again.

he exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing the indentation on the front—the faint ridges left from your handwriting pressed too hard against the cover, like your words wanted to bleed through.

“okay,” he whispered to himself, as if preparing for impact.

he opened the journal.

the first line didn’t just hit him—

it pulled him back in time.

jaemin is the warmth in my coffee cup.

the laugh that slipped from him was small, shaky, but real. his eyes stung.

“you really started with that, huh?” he said, huffing a breath that was almost a smile. he flipped slowly, carefully—like the pages were fragile bones that might snap under too much pressure. his hands trembled at first, then steadied, as if your voice in the ink was guiding him.

every page was you — your voice scrawled in messy handwriting. your heart tucked between sentences. your world captured in run-on thoughts and half-scribbles. there were doodles in the margins—tiny suns, coffee mugs, waves, little tiger paws. some pages were tear-stained. some wrinkled like they’d been clutched too tightly. some had music lyrics half-written, half-erased.

you wrote about school, the boys, prom night, fears about the future, the sunset on the beach that one night, the airport, the flickering lamp post at the park and—

him.

he saw himself everywhere.

not the version he thought he was. not the flawed, terrified, overly-careful boy who couldn’t choose love until it was too late.

but the way you saw him.

warmth.

comfort.

home.

his vision blurred. he blinked hard, but the tears kept forming. still—he kept reading. he read until his heart felt full and hollow all at once.

and then he reached the last entry.

the handwriting was different—shakier, thinner. letters leaning into each other like they needed support. like your hands had trembled while writing.

at the top, you had written:

for jaemin,

he swallowed hard, his chest tightening as he began to read.

i don’t really know where to start. there’s no version of this that feels right, and i’ve rewritten it so many times that the ink started bleeding through the page. maybe that’s fitting. maybe love is supposed to spill a little.

i think the simplest way to begin is with the truth….i’m sorry. i’m sorry for keeping this from you. i’m sorry for not telling you when i should have. i’m sorry for leaving the way i did. you didn’t deserve that. you never did. not then. not now. not ever.

i need you to know this. none of it was because i loved you any less. if anything, it was because i loved you too much. in that big, terrifying, once-in-a-lifetime way — the kind that makes you want to shield the other person from every ugly thing in the world, even if that ugly thing was me.

you’ve always been the best kind of person, jaem. the kind who makes the world softer just by being in it. you don’t even notice when you do it…you just breathe, and suddenly everything hurts a little less. i didn’t want to dim that light. not with hospitals and iv drips and the kind of exhaustion you can’t sleep off. i wanted you to keep your warmth. the same warmth that carried me through every laugh, every sleepless night, every heartbeat that hurt too much to hold alone.

i left because i was running out of time. and i was terrified that if you saw me breaking, you would break with me. i couldn’t bear the thought of your last memory of me being in a hospital room and a goodbye i wasn’t strong enough to say out loud.

if there is one thing i regret more than anything, it’s not giving you the chance to choose for yourself. i thought i was protecting you. maybe that was selfish. maybe it was cowardly. maybe it was both.

but please…go easy on jeno. he only kept my secret because i asked him to. begged, really. i didn’t want your eyes — the ones i loved more than anything — to look at me with pity, or fear, or that kind of sadness that never leaves a person. i wanted our last memory to stay warm, untouched, still blooming with all the possibilities we never got to live through. i wanted our last goodnight to feel like love, not like an ending.

you once told me that the world was bigger than us. and you were right. the world is bigger than us. and it should be. we weren’t meant to fit in just one place, or one moment, or one version of a future. but still…i hope, somewhere in that big world, i still take up a little space in your heart. not as a wound. not as the thing that broke you. just as someone you once loved.

and i hope when you think of me, you think of laughter. the kind that made your shoulders shake. sunlight on the beach. a sparkling disco ball. autumn leaves. and the smell of coffee in the early mornings.

i hope you remember the warmth.

i hope you remember the beginning more than the ending.

jaemin paused, jaw clenched, breath shaking. he swallowed, but it didn’t go down smoothly. he turned the page. the last lines were smaller. slower. like you had traced each word with care. like you were afraid to write your last one.

i often wonder…

if i’d kissed you that nigh at prom…would things be different?

i used to replay that moment over and over again in my head. the music, the lights, the way your hand kept brushing mine like you were waiting for a sign. i remember thinking, if i just take one step closer, everything in my life will change.

but here’s the truth i finally made peace with–

no.

i don’t think it would have changed anything.

i think no matter what happened that night, in every version of my life, i would have loved you exactly the same. the timeline didn’t matter. the kiss didn’t matter. the universe had already picked you for me.

so let’s throw that silly word away, huh, na jaemin?

no more hiding behind colors.

no more metaphors because i was too scared to say how i really felt.

no more oranges.

just the truth. the truth i should’ve said sooner, louder, clearer — while i still had time.

just….

i love you.

i love you in every lifetime i won’t get to live. i love you in every version of the future we never reached. i love you in the mornings we lost, the nights we missed, the years we won’t get. and if love has any echo after this life…if it lingers in places or people or memories…then i hope mine finds you every time the sky turns that soft, familiar shade of orange.

if that happens…

you’ll know it’s me.

the page blurred beyond recognition. his chest didn’t cave in this time. it expanded—painfully, beautifully, as if the words had finally given his grief a place to rest. he closed the journal slowly, letting his palm settle against the cover. the he pressed it to his heart.

for the first time in months, he smiled. a small, tired, honest smile. the kind that comes after surviving something you weren't sure you would.

“i love you too, tiger,” he whispered, voice steady. “always.”

a breeze passed through the cemetery then — gentle, warm, carrying the faint scent of lilies and rain. the clouds shifted, just enough for a break in the gray, and a soft spill of sunlight touched the grass, your gravestone, his hand.

it wasn’t bright.

but it was orange.

he exhaled, a soft, breathless laugh slipping out, tears sliding down his cheeks—not like collapse this time, but release.

he stayed there a while longer. one hand resting against your name. the other holding your journal—your words, your love, your forever.

and for the first time since you left, jaemin didn’t feel like you were gone.

he just felt you.

everywhere.

[i-kyujin]

゛ ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ find it hard to say,

𓎟𓎟 ‎‎ ‎ 🪩𓈒⊹ ‎ i know that i’m alright

[jaeyun-ie]

[jaeyun-ie]

260711

[inked-chaconne]

to the girl who is always the lesson but never the one

pairing: non-idol!jungwon x fem!reader

warnings: angst with happy ending, fluff, y/n is an overthinker and has lots of insecurities, heartbreak, jungwon somehow giving mixed signals, slow burn, did i miss anything?? hopefully not.

premise: y/n has always been the lesson, never the one. so when jungwon, the boy who is kind to everyone, begins caring for her in ways that feel a little too intentional to ignore, she convinces herself it’s just his nature. but as her feelings grow, she reminds herself how relationships always end. now, she must decide whether believing in him is worth the risk of being temporary again.

word count: 21,660

***

dear, y/n,

in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. sad to say, you're the latter.

​there is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes with being someone’s stepping stone.

you spend months, sometimes years smoothing out their rough edges, teaching them how to love properly, how to listen, and how to stay. and then, once they’ve finally learned the lesson, they leave to go be with someone else.

at this point, you've become an expert at the curriculum. but you were never the one who got to keep the degree.

the cafe was loud, a chaotic symphony of clinking ceramic cups and the low hum of afternoon chatter, but it all faded into white noise the moment the image loaded on your feed.

​it was a simple photo. a sunlit afternoon, two matching gold rings, and a caption that felt like a quiet slap to my face: soobin, your ex, his hands on another girl’s waist while he kisses her cheek.

thank you for teaching me how to love properly, the caption said.

​two years.

​you stared at the photo, my thumb hovering over the screen. he was with you for two years and he couldn’t say those words to you, even in your anniversary. the whole time in your relationship, he was reckless, emotionally distant, and entirely unpolished. you spent a year settling for what you had because you thought it was love.

but the day he sent you a text saying it was over, he told you he just wasn't ready for commitment. now you realize he was ready, he just needed two years of your patience to learn how to be the man a girl deserved.

then there was jaemin, a senior from high school, your first…you wouldn’t say boyfriend but a fling. it was simple, you liked him and he liked you back. but only because you liked him that he liked you back.

then when he met a girl from his club where he really, really liked, your fling was over.

and even before all of them, there was the ultimate what if: park jongseong.

he was your childhood friend, the boy who lived just doors down, whose laughter was the soundtrack to your earliest memories. you had loved him since you were six years old, a silly, innocent crush that somehow managed to grow up right alongside you. as the years bled into high school, that fondness turned into something heavy and terrifying. you spent months practicing confessions in front of your bedroom mirror, your heart hammering against your ribs, only to swallow the words every time you saw him smile at you. he was your safe haven. the risk of speaking up and ruining the one steady friendship you had was a price you couldn't bear to pay.

until, he took an interest in your cousin, karina. you watched frozen as he confessed to her in the school field during lunch. he told you that day that he would confess, breaking your illusion of anything happening between the both of you. what you didn’t expect was he fell for someone you also knew for years, let alone a family member.

then months later, he admitted that he liked you back. but you were still just children then. his definition of love was too small, too cautious to risk breaking the fragile, beautiful friendship you had built. he didn’t know how to hold a girl’s hand while holding her history at the same time. but thanks to you, he knew what real love was. you gave him a lesson he’d forever treasure.

just not with you.

the worst part, you never got to tell him how you felt. you just quietly stepped aside, becoming the supportive best friend who helped him figure out what to say to her.

​"y/n? hey, are you even listening to me?"

wonhee, ​your roommate snapped the thread of my thoughts. she was sitting across you, a half-eaten plate of pasta between us, looking at me with a mixture of concern and mild annoyance.

​you locked my phone, the screen going mercifully black, and forced a practiced smile onto my face. "yeah. sorry. just... an internship notification. what were you saying?”

"i was saying about the drama I just overheard by the counter while getting our drinks."

she leaned in closer across the small table, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "you know jisu from the department next to ours? apparently, she and sunghoon just made it official on their feeds. like, matching profile pictures, public couple status, the whole nine yards."

wonhee shook her head, taking a slow sip of her drink. "everyone is losing their minds because sunghoon used to be notorious for being completely uncatchable. he’d date a girl for a month, get bored, and leave them with enough character development to write a novel. but look at him now—completely whipped. i guess some girls are just born to be the final destination, while the rest of us are just the rest stops along the highway."

you gave wonhee a weak smile, “tell me about it.”

just when you were about to mope on your feelings, your boss from your internship messaged that you interns are needed tomorrow for an urgent shoot. luckily, you had no classes tomorrow so you have time while still catching up with some tasks for school.

tomorrow has finally arrived and you came to the building of the prestige building of véra, a magazine known for its sleek minimalism and its legendary ability to turn underground creators into overnight icons. it was a place where trends didn't just get covered—they were born.

"no, absolutely not. the lighting is completely flat, and the silk looks like cardboard under these gels. look at the monitor!"

"i’m tracking the ambient light, okay? but if you want that raw, overcast mood you specifically asked for in the mood board, we need to shift the reflectors. now."

the sharp, overlapping voices echoed across the massive concrete studio space the moment you pushed past the heavy double doors. the atmosphere inside was thick with tension, a frantic ballet of production assistants rushing past with garment bags, makeup artists adjusting their kits under blinding vanity lights, and the distant, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a high-end camera shutter.

in the center of the chaos stood the creative director, kang jiah, pinching the bridge of her nose in sheer frustration, while the lead photographer, oh minseok adjusted a massive lens on his tripod.

as a makeup artist student, your brain automatically began calculating the fix before anyone even asked you to. you could see the problem from ten feet away: the model had a gorgeous, warm skin tone, but the current lighting was clashing with the undertone of her foundation, making the high-shine finish look chaotic instead of seamless.

you gripped the handles of your professional makeup train case a little tighter, swallowing down your nervousness. you were just a standby intern here to clean brushes, prep skin, or rush to the makeup artist’s bag for products they need, but the thick tension in the room made your heart hammer against your ribs.

“excuse me,” a calm, clear voice suddenly broke the thick tension in the room. "if i may offer a small suggestion? what if we change the polarization instead?"

from the shadows behind the main monitor setup, a boy who seemed to be around your age stepped forward. he was dressed simply in a loose black sweater and clean trousers, a professional light meter slung casually around his neck.

"if we drop a linear polarizer onto the lens and tilt the key light down by just five degrees, the camera should cut the greasy reflection from the strobe while keeping the model's natural skin texture completely intact. director kang gets her soft, glass-skin look on the monitor, and you won't lose your highlights, sir. It should take less than two minutes to adjust."

the studio went quiet for a beat. photographer oh peered over his shoulder, checking the math on the monitor, before a slow, appreciative nod broke across his face. he stepped up to his own rig, quickly adjusting the polarization filter to test the student's theory.

"he's right. the polarization math checks out," photographer oh announced to the room, looking thoroughly impressed. "good eye…what’s your name?”

“jungwon, sir. yang jungwon.”

“good eye, jungwon.” director kang told jungwon with her stern voice but the look of amusement on her face did not leave.

yang jungwon.

everyone at the university knew who he was. he wasn't just talented; he was the golden boy and a prodigy. he was the type of student who's friends with everyone, the student whose photography portfolios were already being archived by professors as future curriculum benchmarks.

he possessed a rare, effortless blend of sharp academic intelligence and raw artistic intuition. he was brilliant, celebrated, and completely out of reach.

a boy existing in a flawless, sunlit orbit that a guarded, cynical standby intern like you had no business crossing.

jungwon wiped a stray lock of hair from his forehead, offering a small, dimpled smile to a stressed-out production assistant who had just dropped a roll of gaffer tape near his feet. he bent down, picked it up, and handed it back to her with a gentle, "here you go. don't worry, we have plenty of time."

you swallowed hard, averting your eyes.

he was brilliant, he was elite, and he was universally kind. the ultimate hazard sign.

it would be a lie if you said you didn't find him cute the first time you saw him in the building.

​"y/n, go in and touch up the nose and jawline," the head makeup artist, hyeji called out, waving a hand toward the vanity. "matte it down just a bit so the polarization works properly."

​you blinked, snapping out of your thoughts, and quickly grabbed your powder puff and a translucent setting powder.

​walking onto a live set always felt like stepping into a spotlight. your heart did a nervous little flutter as you approached the model, consciously keeping your eyes glued to her face and away from the monitor station where jungwon was standing.

​"excuse me," you whispered politely to the model, stepping into her personal space.

​you raised your hand, your fingers stabilizing against her jaw as you gently tapped the powder puff onto her skin. this was your comfort zone. the familiar scent of cosmetics and the meticulous, rhythmic tapping usually calmed your nerves.

​until you felt a presence shift right behind you.

​"ah, wait a second please," a quiet voice murmured.

​you froze, your hand hovering inches from the model’s cheek. jungwon had stepped up right next to you, leaning in slightly to look at the model's face through the small space between you two. he was close enough that you could catch the subtle, clean scent of his fabric softener—like fresh laundry and cold winter air.

​he wasn't looking at you. his sharp, focused eyes were entirely on how the studio lights hit the model's skin finish. he raised a hand, using his thumb to gently mimic the angle of the key light.

​"if she tilts her chin up just a fraction when y/n finishes dusting the powder," jungwon said softly, addressing the photographer while subconsciously using your name, "the shadow under the jaw will clean up perfectly."

​your breath hitched in your throat. y/n. he didn't even know you, yet hearing your name leave his lips in that calm, casual tone felt like a sudden spike of electricity.

this feeling was familiar, you said.

​as soon as the thought crossed your mind, a cold wave of reality washed over you, dousing the spark before it could even catch fire. you quickly finished the last few taps of powder, stepped back, and offered a hurried, polite bow to the model and jungwon before retreating to the dark edges of the studio.

​your chest felt tight. you're doing it again, you scolded yourself, your fingers gripping the plastic handle of your powder compact so hard your knuckles turned white.

​you felt pathetic. you felt completely, utterly cursed.

​it was always like this. one soft glance, one polite gesture, a boy simply using your name and your heart was already trying to sprint ahead. you fell fast, hopelessly fast, like a script that had already been written for you a hundred times before. you were the girl who romanticized the bare minimum, the girl who mistook a photographer's technical focus for something personal.

​you closed your eyes for a brief second, forcing your breathing to steady.

​if you let yourself look at yang jungwon, you knew exactly how this story would end. he would smile, he would be kind, he would inadvertently teach you how to love a little deeper—and then he would hand his heart to someone else, leaving you behind with nothing but a notebook full of character development.

​you weren't going to be the rest stop on his highway. not this time.

​"y/n? can you clean the brushes from the morning prep?" the senior makeup artist's voice called out from the vanity room.

​"coming," you replied, your voice dropping back into its practiced, neutral tone. you pulled your shoulders back and walked away from the lit set, determined to keep yourself distracted from whatever feelings that are rising.

***

dear, y/n,

sometimes, old habits die hard. you recognized the electricity today, didn't you? it’s the exact same current that left you in the dark three times before. he is a walking hazard sign with a dimpled smile, and you are already stepping over the yellow tape. the truth is, you missed the way a single voice could make the room tilt, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt kind of beautiful to feel everything all at once again.

the train ride home was the worst part of the day. it gave you too much time to think, the rhythmic, metallic hum of the carriage matching the uneasy beat of your heart as the train rattled through the city.

​sitting crushed between tired commuters, you pulled out your phone. your thumbs moved on pure instinct, opening the app and typing his name into the search bar before your logical brain could even try to stop you.

​@jw_209

​you swallowed hard as his profile loaded. no private account lock. no gatekeeping. just a blue checkmark, a massive follower count, and a grid that looked exactly like a highly curated digital museum.

your eyes scanned his feed, and that familiar flutter settled deep in your chest.

he liked taking photos of landscapes with ethereal vibes. misty horizons, soft pastel sunrises over quiet shorelines, and ancient trees swallowed by a dreamlike haze. he captured the world in a way that made ordinary things look completely breathtaking.

​he was incredibly talented, yet his captions were entirely humble. just a single camera emoji or a word or phrases about the fleeting nature of everyday moments, or how softly a quiet afternoon can pass you by.

​then, you scrolled down a bit further and hit the real hazard zone: his tagged photos.

​there were countless pictures of him posted by other people. jungwon sitting at a university cafe surrounded by a huge group of friends, all of them leaning into him. jungwon smiling broadly, showing off those deep, clear dimples as he held up a peace sign next to girls from the dance club, the cheer squad, the student council. every single person in his tagged photos looked happy just to be standing near him.

​he was tagged in sweet birthday posts, late-night study group sessions, and celebratory dinner collages. he wasn't just liked. he was cherished by everyone who crossed his path.

though he doesn't post photos of people in his social media. you guessed he likes to keep the people in his life private or he just likes taking photos of landscapes than people.

on the way back home, you were pulled right out of your thoughts by the familiar chimes of the convenience store down the street from your dorm.

​the door swung open, and a boy stepped out into the humid night air, a small plastic bag dangling from his fingers. your footsteps completely faltered on the pavement.

​it was yang jungwon.

​he was dressed down even more than he had been at the studio, his hair slightly damp and a pair of simple slippers on his feet. he stopped under the warm, buzzing glow of the storefront sign, completely breaking the distant, untouchable image you had just been staring at on your phone. he was right here. in your neighborhood.

​before you could even think about hiding or turning around, he raised his head. his sharp eyes blinked in surprise, and then, those deep, familiar dimples cut into his cheeks as he caught sight of you.

​"oh? y/n, right?"

“j-jungwon!”

damn it, you really had to stutter and raise your voice.

“you just got home?”

​"yeah, the head artist wanted the foundation brushes sanitized tonight because the morning crew needs them fresh, and then i had to sort the sponge bins and double-check the inventory list for the next shoot since we won't even be there on friday, so it just took way longer than expected."

it felt like you couldn’t breathe after that. why did you have to overexplain? he had asked a simple four-word question, and you had handed him a full logistical breakdown of your internship duties like a nervous suspect under interrogation.

​jungwon blinked softly, taking in your breathless ramble. for a horrifying second, you thought he might find you completely weird—but then, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and that deep, gentle dimple appeared on his cheek.

​"ah, so that's why you're so late," he murmured, his voice incredibly soft in the quiet night air. "you worked really hard today.”

“t-thank you. it was just part of the job, really. i’m still just a standby intern, so i have to do my best not to get in anyone's way."

​jungwon tilted his head slightly, his gaze warm. "you didn't get in anyone's way. your skin prep made the polarization adjustment work perfectly."

the fact that he remembered that brought your heart into a sudden, breathless flutter, the erratic rhythm pounding so loud against your ribs you were terrified he could hear it in the midnight quiet. it was that exact same jolt of electricity from the studio, only this time, it felt twice as loud under the quiet streetlights. your heart was doing dangerous, hopeful flips, completely ignoring every single warning you had just given yourself.

​jungwon shifted his weight, his plastic bag rustling softly against his sweatpants. he looked down at the street for a second, a small, polite smile lingering on his lips before he looked back up at you.

​"well, it's getting pretty late," he said softly, gesturing slightly with his head toward the direction of the apartment blocks. "i should probably head back home before the ice cream i bought completely melts."

​you blinked, forcing your brain to kick back into gear. "oh! right, yeah. of course. go ahead."

​"get home safely, y/ni," he murmured, stepping past you with a gentle nod. "see you at the studio on friday."

​"goodnight," you whispered to his retreating back.

​you stood frozen on the pavement, watching his tall, relaxed figure disappear into the shadows of the street. the subtle scent of his fabric softener still lingered faintly in the humid night air, a cruel reminder that he had actually been standing right there.

​you let out a long, shaky exhale, finally allowing your shoulders to drop. you were supposed to be building walls. you were supposed to be guarding your heart against the ultimate hazard sign.

​but as you turned the key to your dorm room, your heart was still stubbornly replaying the exact way his dimples looked under the convenience store light.

the quiet hum of your desk lamp was the only sound in the room. you had been staring at your color theory assignment for the past hour, but the lines of text were starting to blur together. your brain was entirely fried.

​just a five-minute break, you promised yourself.

​it was a lie, and you knew it. your fingers moved on pure autopilot, unlocking your phone and opening the app before your conscience could stage an intervention. you had explicitly told yourself to stop looking. you had promised yourself on the train, and again at the door of your dorm, that you wouldn't feed the curse.

​but as you clicked on his profile, a little red circle illuminated his profile picture.

​new post • 2 min. ago

​your breath caught. you tapped it.

​it wasn't an ethereal landscape or a misty sunrise. it was a shot taken from a low angle, capturing the wet asphalt of the pavement reflecting the warm, buzzing neon glow of the convenience store sign down your street. in the distance, the blurry silhouette of the quiet neighborhood stretched into the dark, looking incredibly nostalgic and soft through his lens.

​it was the exact spot where you had been standing together just an hour ago.

​he had captured the ordinary street and turned it into something poetic. your heart did that dangerous, breathless stumble all over again as your eyes drifted down to the caption.

​he wrote: daylight.

***

dear y/n,

how are you supposed to know which signs are real and which ones are just the universe playing a cruel joke? when you spend your whole life guarding your heart against a curse, you start to see warnings everywhere. you read caution tape in a polite smile. you read danger in a dimple. but when a boy posts a picture of a midnight street and labels it daylight, what are you supposed to believe? is it a green light, or just another beautiful hazard sign?

​you and jungwon have the same elective of visual media color theory. though you never noticed him fully until yesterday’s studio shoot, you now vividly remember seeing his name printed right above yours on the attendance sheet every single week.

​today, you sat right in the middle of the classroom just to get a better view, since you could barely see the slides when you were seated at the sides of the room.

​what you didn't expect was looking up to see the dimpled boy sliding into the empty seat right next to you, greeting you with a soft smile.

​“hey, y/n.”

​“h-hi! jungwon.”

the syllable felt heavy on your tongue, entirely too loud for the quiet buzz of the classroom before the professor walked in. you quickly looked down at your desk, blindly organizing your highlighters just to keep your hands from shaking.

he set his laptop down on the wooden desk, the plastic convenience store bag from last night nowhere to be seen, replaced now by the clean, sharp scent of his usual cologne. out of the corner of your eye, you watched him lean back in his chair, his long legs stretching out comfortably under the desk.

"you usually sit by the windows, don't you?" he asked, his voice low and conversational as he adjusted his screen.

your hands froze on your pencil case. you turned your head to look at him, your chest tightening. "y-yes. how did you know?"

jungwon paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. he turned his head to meet your gaze, those deep dimples faintly tracing his cheeks as a soft, easy smile broke across his face. "i sit a few rows back. it's kind of hard not to notice when you're always dropping your pens under the chairs."

a mortified heat rushed straight to your face. you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. all this time, you thought you were completely invisible, a nameless face in a hundred-person lecture hall. but he hadn't just seen you yesterday—he had been watching your clumsy morning routines for weeks.

"i don't drop them that often," you muttered defensively, though your voice lacked any real bite because your heart was currently trying to escape your ribs.

"hm, if you say so," he amusedly replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. he leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder almost brushing against yours. "but since you moved to the middle today, i figured i'd move too. the view is better here anyway."

the professor finally walked into the room, clapping his hands to start the lecture, but your brain had already completely short-circuited.

the view is better here anyway.

you didn't say it out loud, but you completely, wholeheartedly agreed.

the view from the middle of the room really was so much better, especially when it included the sharp line of his jawline and the soft way his hair fell over his forehead as he looked back down at his laptop screen. you couldn't help the small, satisfied smile that tugged at your lips. you had originally just wanted to see the lesson clearly, but sitting right next to yang jungwon was an undeniable upgrade.

as the professor finally walked in and the slides changed to color wheel harmonies, you leaned back in your chair, feeling a warm, victorious rush of giddiness settling deep in your chest.

throughout the whole lecture, jungwon noticed how you were having a hard time catching up with the professor’s fast pacing. without a word, he simply slid his notebook toward the center of the desk, his clean, neat handwriting perfectly capturing everything you had missed.

you blinked, giving him a questioning look that clearly said, what about you?

he just leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he murmured, “it’s okay. i have photographic memory anyway.”

a quiet laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it, though you quickly clamped a hand over your mouth so the rest of the lecture hall wouldn't hear.

and when class ended, one of your elective mates came to jungwon and thanked him for lending him his notes from last week’s session.

you froze, your fingers tightening around your pen. a cold splash of reality hit you right in the face. you had almost fallen for it. you had almost convinced yourself jungwon only did that gesture for you.

but he was just like that with everyone else.

***

dear y/n,

sometimes, it would be easier to just pull back completely and build your walls so high that no dimpled smile can reach you. it is easy to tell yourself to keep your distance when you think you are just another face in his crowded room. you can convince your mind that his kindness is a warning sign, a trap designed to make you stumble.

but what are you supposed to do when the universe refuses to cooperate with your defenses? how do you run away when every detour somehow leads you straight back into his path? it feels like the world is intentionally shrinking, forcing your orbits to cross whether you are ready for it or not.

if every sudden encounter keeps pushing you closer, maybe the real danger isn't his casual charm. maybe the real hazard is how badly you want to stop running. you are standing on the edge of the hazard zone, and you are starting to realize you don't want to step back.

but the universe, it seemed, hadn't gotten the memo.

"y/n, thank goodness you're here early," the head stylist breathed, rushing past you with an armful of garment bags the moment you stepped into the studio. "the model for the second layout just called in sick, and the concept director is losing her mind. since you have the closest features to our model, could you maybe stand in for her today? don’t worry, i won’t make you add extra work. just be a model for today.”

your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around the strap of your makeup kit. "me? a model?"

"yes, please! the lighting is already set up for your skin profile anyway," she pleaded, gently nudging you toward the center of the dark studio before rushing off to coordinate with the wardrobe team.

even though you were nervous, you felt flattered by the sudden shift from being the one holding the brushes to being the one everyone was rushing to get ready.

seconds later, you were pressed into the leather chair, staring at your own reflection framed by bright, blinding vanity bulbs. as the senior makeup artist began sweeping a fluffy brush across your cheekbones, your eyes instinctively drifted to the mirror's reflection, scanning the dark background of the studio.

there he was.

jungwon was standing by the equipment table, a light meter slung around his neck as he manually adjusted a camera lens. but as you watched him through the glass, his hands suddenly slowed down. without turning his head, his gaze quietly shifted upward, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the mirror.

your heart did a violent, dangerous skip. for a split second, you were entirely breathless, caught in a silent, cross-room stare through a sheet of glass.

but then, jungwon blinked, casually turning away to say something to a lighting crew member as if nothing had happened.

you quickly looked down at your lap, your cheeks burning under the heavy layer of setting powder. you're tripping, you firmly told yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. you are completely hallucinating. he was a photographer; he was probably just looking at the vanity lights or checking the ambient glare in the room. he wasn't looking at you. he couldn't be.

"all done, sweetheart! step onto the backdrop for me," the artist said, giving your shoulder a reassuring pat.

your feet felt heavy, practically glued to the floorboards as you finally stepped onto the seamless backdrop. the harsh studio lights cut through the shadows, illuminating the space and making you feel incredibly exposed.

at the center of the set, jungwon was now waiting by the tripod. when you took your place, he slowly lowered the camera body from his face. the casual, easygoing expression he always wore vanished. he didn't smile, and he didn't drop a playful comment like he did in the classroom. he just stared, his dark eyes tracking you with that exact same quiet, unreadable intensity you thought you had imagined in the mirror.

you fixed your posture, forcing your face into a neutral, professional mask. you had to remember the lesson from yesterday. you weren't special.

“whenever you're ready, jungwon,” director kang said, her voice sharp but steady as she reviewed the digital monitor from the sidelines.

jungwon blinked, the director's voice hitting him like a sudden splash of cold water, snapping him out of his trance. his jaw tightened slightly as he quickly looked away from you, slowly raising the camera back to his eye to hide his face behind the lens.

"right," his voice came out a little rougher than usual, echoing slightly in the quiet studio. "let's... let's start with the profile shots. look slightly to the left, please."

you did as he asked, turning your chin toward the shadows and focusing your eyes on a random spot on the studio wall. at first, your limbs felt stiff, every muscle in your neck tight with the lingering anxiety of being just a temporary replacement. you were acutely aware of the lens pointed at you, and even more aware of the boy behind it.

click.

the flash illuminated the dark studio for a microsecond.

"good," jungwon’s voice drifted over from the tripod, lower now, carrying a calm, steady rhythm that instantly cut through your panic. "just like that. now drop your shoulders a bit, y/n. take a deep breath in... and let it out."

you followed his voice, exhaling slowly. as your shoulders relaxed, something shifted inside you. you looked down at the structured, high-fashion wardrobe they had styled you in, felt the perfect weight of the makeup on your skin, and realized something liberating: you weren't a mistake or a technical hitch. you were a cosmetology student who understood exactly how angles, textures, and lighting worked. you knew your face. you knew your undertones.

and suddenly, you didn't feel like a hiding substitute anymore. you felt powerful.

"perfect. keep that exact expression," jungwon murmured. click. "tilt your head up just a fraction. let the key light hit the high points of your cheekbones."

his guidance was effortless. he wasn't treating you like a standard, disposable model, nor was he acting like the casual classmate who shared notes. behind the camera, yang jungwon was a complete professional. he gave commands with a quiet, grounding confidence that made you feel completely safe to move, to experiment, to own the space under the lights.

click. click.

"bring your hands up toward your collarbone," he instructed softly, the lens tracking your movements. "soft fingers. look right into the lens this time."

you didn't hesitate. you turned your head back toward the center, lifting your chin, and looked directly down the barrel of his camera lens. you locked eyes with him through the glass, no longer trying to hide behind a neutral mask. you let your confidence show—letting him see that you were completely present, commanding the set just as much as he was.

from behind the camera, you heard the faint, sharp intake of jungwon's breath. but the camera didn't stutter.

"beautiful," he whispered, the word carrying a raw, genuine weight that sent a different kind of thrill straight down your spine. click. "stay right there. don't move."

beautiful.

he just said it so casually, so effortlessly, but the word felt entirely too heavy as it hung in the space between you. he didn't lower the lens, keeping his gaze locked onto yours through the camera glass as if he were trying to capture something far deeper than just a standard lighting test.

"and... cut!" director kang's voice suddenly cut through the air, breaking the spell. "excellent work, everyone. let's check the monitor."

the blinding studio lights dimmed slightly as the crew immediately swarmed around the main digital display. you stepped off the seamless backdrop, your knees feeling a little weak now that the adrenaline was fading. you tentatively walked over to the edge of the crowd, peeking over a stylist's shoulder to look at the screen.

a small gasp escaped your lips. the images looking back at you didn't look like a nervous, last-minute substitute at all. the lighting caught the crisp edges of your jawline, the makeup looked flawless under the exposure, and your eyes held a sharp, captivating confidence.

"wow, y/n, look at your facial symmetry," one of the senior stylists praised, clapping her hands together. "the textures are so clean. you look incredible!"

"honestly, you saved us today," director kang agreed, nodding dynamic approval as she scrolled through the burst shots. "the mood is exactly what we needed for the editorial pitch. you're a natural."

your chest swelled with a warm, triumphant rush of pride. all your hours studying skin prep and facial angles had paid off, and hearing the professional crew validate your work made you feel completely on top of the world.

"i'm completely satisfied with how these turned out," a quiet, familiar voice spoke up from behind you.

you turned around to find jungwon standing there, his camera now resting against his hip. he wasn't looking at the monitor anymore; his dark eyes were fixed directly on you, a soft, genuine smile touching his lips.

"the lighting and the textures hit perfectly," he added, his voice low and private amidst the loud chatter of the crew. "i'm really glad y/n stepped in today."

your heart gave a violent, unruly thud against your ribs.

the crew was still talking loudly around you, debating layout designs and background colors, but your selective hearing had already locked the world out. i'm really glad y/n stepped in today. his words replayed in a dizzying loop, sweet and terrifyingly sincere.

he might have sounded like a good coworker but as you looked at the faint trace of his dimples, you knew your defenses were in serious trouble.

after changing your outfit from the shoot, you stopped in your tracks when you saw jungwon clearing up the equipment by himself. the heavy studio lights were mostly shut off, leaving only the dim, warm overheads casting long shadows across the empty room. he looked completely different now. his jacket discarded, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows as he reached up to untighten a massive softbox modifier from its stand.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting your tote bag down on a nearby stool. you walked over, your sneakers squeaking quietly against the concrete floor.

"need a hand?" you asked, reaching out to stabilize the heavy metal base of the C-stand before it could tilt forward.

jungwon blinked, looking down at you from his height. a look of surprise crossed his face, followed quickly by that familiar, easy smile. "oh, y/n. you're still here? it's okay, i've got it. you should head home, it's getting late."

"i want to help," you replied, your voice steady despite the quiet thumping in your chest. you didn't let go of the metal stand. "besides, you're the one who did all the heavy lifting during the shoot. consider it payback for the notes."

jungwon let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "alright. if you insist."

for the next twenty minutes, the studio was quiet except for the rustle of velcro, the clinking of metal stands, and the low, easy hum of casual conversation. you helped him coil the heavy black extension cords while he carefully packed his camera body and lenses into his padded backpack. without the pressure of the crew or the blinding lights, the stiff walls you had painstakingly built after yesterday's lecture began to feel entirely useless.

"all set," jungwon finally said, zipping his bag closed and swinging it over one shoulder. he turned off the remaining studio switch, plunging the room into darkness except for the green exit light by the door. "let's go?"

you nodded, walking out into the cool evening air together.

the walk to the transit station was surprisingly peaceful. the streets of the city were buzzing with the usual nighttime traffic, but between the two of you, there was a comfortable, easy rhythm. you talked about the concept director’s hectic energy, your favorite color theories, and how relieving it was to finally finish a long week of classes.

when you finally reached your stop, you turned to wave goodbye, but jungwon didn't stay on the platform. instead, he quietly stepped off the train right behind you.

"wait, jungwon," you blinked, looking around the familiar street corner near your neighborhood. "your place isn't around here, is it?"

jungwon adjusted the strap of his heavy camera bag, looking down at you under the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp. his dimples showed faintly as he smiled, his hands slipping into his pockets.

"it's not," he admitted casually, his voice low and incredibly grounding in the quiet night. "but it's dark out, and you worked hard today. i wanted to make sure you got home safe."

your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.

there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of kilig slammed right into your chest, loud enough to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.

for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.

but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes—the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.

he was just being a good guy. that was all.

"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."

jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.

"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."

your breath hitched, your fingers tightly gripping the straps of your tote bag.

there it was again. that dangerous, dizzying rush of warmth slammed right into your chest, a sudden flutter so loud it threatened to drown out the distant hum of the evening traffic. i wanted to make sure you got home safe. the words hung in the space between you, illuminated by the warm, amber glow of the streetlamp.

for a terrifying second, you wanted to believe it. you wanted to believe that this detour, this long train ride out of his way, was for you.

but then the memory of the classroom flashed behind your eyes. the classmate thanking him for the notes, the realization that yang jungwon was just effortlessly, universally good. of course he was walking you home. you had stayed late to help him lift heavy equipment; he probably just felt standard, polite responsibility as a coworker to make sure you didn't walk the dark streets alone. he would have done the exact same thing for director kang, or the senior stylist, or anyone else.

he was just being a good guy. that was all.

"you really didn't have to, jungwon," you said, forcing a small, polite smile to your face as you stepped backward toward your gate, desperately trying to keep the distance between you. "but... thank you. for the walk. and for today."

jungwon didn't move, his hands still tucked into his pockets as he watched you step away. the easy smile on his lips faded into something quiet and slightly intense, his eyes tracking your defensive posture with an unreadable look.

"anytime, y/n," he murmured softly. "get some rest."

“thank you, jungwon.” you gave him one last polite nod, turning around to finally press the unlock button on your gate. your hands were shaking slightly, and you were desperate to get inside the safety of your house before your face completely gave you away.

“y/n?”

his voice called out, stopping you right in your tracks. your fingers froze against the cold iron of the latch. you took a quiet, steadying breath before slowly looking back over your shoulder.

“yes?”

jungwon was still standing under the amber streetlamp, his hands deeply embedded in his jacket pockets. he tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that completely bypassed your professional walls. the softest, most genuine trace of a smile appeared on his lips, causing his dimples to faintly show in the shadows.

“you looked pretty today.”

***

dear y/n,

sometimes, the universe doesn’t just nudge you; it completely corners you. you try to write off his kindness as a collective luxury, a universal trait he hands out to anyone who asks, because believing you are special is a luxury you simply cannot afford. but how do you categorize a quiet detour under an amber streetlamp? how do you rationalize a parting line that wasn't meant for a coworker, a classmate, or a crowd, but uniquely, devastatingly, for you?

you couldn’t reply.

the moment the word left his lips, your brain completely short-circuited, leaving you entirely breathless under the dim streetlamp. you practically threw yourself through the gate, shutting the iron latch behind you with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet neighborhood. your heart was hammering violently against your ribs as you sprinted up the steps, not daring to look back to see if he was still standing there watching you run.

it was only when you were locked safely inside the dark sanctuary of your bedroom that you finally collapsed against the mattress, pulling a pillow over your face to smother a helpless, frustrated groan.

you looked pretty today.

the phrase replayed in a dizzying, echoing loop, vibrating straight down to your fingertips. you tightly closed your eyes, desperately trying to summon the cold reality check from the lecture hall. he is just nice. he is just a naturally attentive guy who knows how to make people feel comfortable on a set.

but as you turned over and stared at the dark ceiling, your fingers tracing the edges of your blanket, a quiet, terrifying truth settled in your chest. no matter how high you built your walls, yang jungwon didn't even have to try and scale them.

he was effortlessly dismantling them, brick by single brick, and you were completely running out of places to hide.

the next morning brought a blinding, unapologetic sunlight that did absolutely nothing to clear the fog in your head. you woke up with your limbs tangled in your sheets, your phone still clutched tightly in your palm as if you had been guarding it in your sleep.

when you dragged yourself out of bed and walked over to the bathroom sink, you actively avoided looking at your reflection for the first five minutes. you splashed ice-cold water onto your face, hoping the shock of it would finally scrub the lingering warmth out of your cheeks and snap you back into reality.

it was just studio adrenaline, you reasoned with yourself, aggressively rubbing a fluffy towel against your skin. people say fleeting things when they’re tired after a long shoot. he was probably just riding the high of a successful layout.

but the moment you sat down at your vanity to start your morning skincare routine, your hands froze.

you picked up your daily moisturizer, but your eyes involuntarily drifted to your own reflection in the glass. suddenly, you weren't looking at your bedroom walls anymore. you were seeing the dark studio mirror. you were seeing the way his dark eyes had pierced right through the reflection, tracking your every move while the makeup brush swept across your skin.

you looked down at your hands, your chest tightening. your fingertips automatically brushed against your collarbone, tracing the exact spot where he had told you to place your hands.

"beautiful," his whispered voice echoed in your ears, so clear it made you flinch.

you let out a shaky breath, forcing your hands down into your lap. it was terrifying how a single night could completely alter the space around you. your bedroom, your vanity, your own face—everything felt entirely compromised by him. you couldn't even apply your makeup without wondering if your features really did look the way he implied.

unable to handle the loud silence of your thoughts, you decided to escape your room. you spent the rest of the morning trying to drown out his voice with mundane tasks—cleaning your desk, organizing your elective binders, and making a mental checklist of your upcoming assignments.

by saturday afternoon, your eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, your mind completely exhausted from the non-stop mental gymnastics. you had finally managed to calm your heart rate down, sitting at your desk and staring blankly at a textbook.

ding.

the sharp vibration of your phone against the wooden desk made you flinch.

your hands shook slightly as you picked it up, your breath instantly catching when you saw his name illuminated on the lock screen.

jungwon: [1 file attached]

jungwon: finished compiling the raw layouts for director kang. thought i’d send you your edit first.

you swallowed hard, your thumb hovering over the glass. you tapped the file, waiting a few agonizing seconds for the high-resolution image to clear.

when the details finally rendered, the air left your lungs completely.

it wasn’t just a well-shot photo. he hadn't used the sharp, cool commercial lighting the director usually preferred for editorial pitches. instead, the coloring was incredibly soft, almost romantic, warming up your skin profile in a way that made you look like you were glowing from the inside out.

but it was the lighting on your eyes that made your chest completely constrict. he had meticulously adjusted the shadows so that the tiny, glittering reflection of the studio lights caught the exact center of your pupils. your gaze looked impossibly deep, intense, and vulnerable.

he had spent hours looking at your face in high-definition. he had zoomed in on your features, balanced your undertones, cleaned up the lines, and perfected the exposure.

you stared at the screen, your heart racing. a normal photographer would have just dropped the files into the shared studio google drive or handed them over on monday. but yang jungwon had edited yours personally, isolated it from the rest of the layout, and sent it directly to your private inbox on a saturday afternoon.

you slowly leaned back against your chair, the cold wood pressing into your spine as you stared at the beautiful, terrifying image of yourself.

you could try to convince yourself that he was just a gentleman under the streetlamp. you could pretend he was just being polite when he called you pretty. but looking at this photo, you realized something that terrified you to your core: through the lens of his camera, yang jungwon looked at you like you were the only thing on the set that mattered.

your phone buzzed again in your palm, making you jump.

jungwon: do you like them? y/n: i love them, jungwon! you did an amazing job with the lighting and the textures. it doesn't even look like me. jungwon: it looks exactly like you. i just captured what was already there.

your phone slipped an inch in your hand. you squeezed your eyes shut, a soft, helpless groan escaping your lips as you buried your face in your arms on the desk.

he was doing it again. he was effortlessly throwing lines that completely bypassed your defenses, speaking with a terrifying sincerity that left you absolutely no room to hide.

a week later, director kang officially approved the editorial pitch, and the official shoot layouts were finally uploaded to the department's public portfolio. you felt a quiet sense of relief, thinking the excitement from that chaotic friday had finally settled down.

until later that evening, when your phone notification panel lit up with a tag.

yang_jw tagged you in a post.

your thumb practically smashed against the screen to open the app.

it was a carousel post titled simply: bts 📸

the first slide was a moody shot of an overhead key light piercing through the dark studio. the second was a close-up of a heavy black camera cable coiled neatly over a metal stand. the third was the empty grey seamless backdrop.

and then, you swiped to the fourth slide.

the breath caught in your throat.

it was you.

it wasn’t one of the polished, perfectly posed files he had sent to director kang. it was a candid, behind-the-scenes frame captured right in the middle of the shoot. you were sitting in the leather vanity chair, the bright, blinding bulbs framing your silhouette, your chin turned slightly over your shoulder. your expression wasn't a professional mask; it was soft, slightly dazed, caught in the exact microsecond you had instinctively looked into the mirror to search for his reflection in the dark background.

he had captured the exact moment you were looking for him.

you swiped to the fifth and sixth slides: more inanimate props, a discarded lens cap, the digital monitor from a distance.

you swiped back to the fourth slide, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently it felt loud in the quiet of your room.

​you stared at the screen, your eyes tracing the soft edge of your own silhouette under the bright vanity bulbs. anyone else scrolling through his feed would just see a cool, atmospheric behind-the-scenes shot of a makeup student on set. they wouldn't notice the way the light caught the exact, vulnerable curve of your shoulder. they wouldn't know that the slight daze in your eyes was because you had been looking for him in the dark studio mirrors.

​but you knew. and more terrifyingly, jungwon knew too.

​your thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed by the sheer weight of what this meant. you could rationalize notes. you could rationalize a long walk home in the dark as standard gentlemanly politeness. you could even convince yourself that a personal photo edit was just him being a meticulous, dedicated photographer.

​but this? breaking his own years-long aesthetic grid just to drop a candid frame of your face into the world?

​there were no olympic-level mental gymnastics left to save you. you couldn't hide behind the "good classmate" excuse anymore.

​with a trembling thumb, you tapped the little heart icon below the post, watching it turn red.

​almost instantly, a new notification slid down from the top of your screen, making you gasp softly in the quiet room.

​yang_jw: you're awake?

shit, shit, shit!

you scrambled backward against your headboard, nearly dropping the device straight onto your face. you had liked the post less than thirty seconds after he uploaded it. there was absolutely no playing the "i just happened to see it on my feed" card—you were actively lurking, and your lightning-fast double-tap had completely exposed you.

​your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting three different responses while your chest squeezed with a frantic, dizzying heat.

​y/n: yeah, just finishing up some reading.

​you pressed send, holding your breath as the single gray checkmark turned blue. almost immediately, the three typing dots appeared.

​yang_jw: reading? at 1 AM?

yang_jw: or were you just waiting for my post?

​you let out a helpless, strangled sound into the empty space of your bedroom, burying your burning face straight into your pillows. he was shameless. he was entirely, utterly shameless, and the worst part was that he was exactly right.

​before you could even think of a defensive lie to protect your dignity, your phone buzzed again in your palm.

​yang_jw: do you like the fourth slide?

​your breath hitched. he wasn't dancing around it. he knew exactly what he did when he put that candid photo of you in the middle of his grid, and he was deliberately forcing you to acknowledge it.

​you sat up, biting your lower lip until it turned white. you couldn't keep running. if he was going to be this bold, you had to find a way to stabilize your own footing before you completely dissolved under his pace.

​y/n: the lighting was nice. but i thought your feed was strictly landscapes.

​you stared at the screen, your heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against your ribs as you waited. seconds ticked by like hours until the screen lit up with his reply.

yang_jw: you keep tabs on my feed?

shit.

but ​before you could even think of a lie to salvage yourself, the next bubble popped up.

​yang_jw: but yes, it is. yang_jw: but you looked too pretty in that mirror to leave you in a hidden folder.

you completely froze in your spot.

the air left your lungs, leaving you staring blankly at the glowing screen as the world around you fell entirely silent. you couldn't move. you couldn't blink. your fingers remained locked stiffly around the edges of your phone, your eyes glued to the word pretty.

when you finally found the strength to move, it was only to let out a shaky, breathless exhale. then you rolled onto your bed, your stomach flat on the mattress, and let out a muffled scream into your pillow.

***

dear, y/n,

it is a completely strange but nice feeling to realize you aren't trying to pull away anymore. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing it's okay to just let someone in without making everything so complicated.

you find yourself looking forward to see and hear from him again, no longer finding the shield to protect your composure.

the next morning arrived. you walked onto campus with a lighter step, the lingering echo of jungwon’s late-night words crawling in your mind like he planned to occupy every single corner of your head.

you spotted him almost immediately near the entrance of the lecture hall, leaning against the hallway wall with his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he chatted with a few classmates. the exact moment you stepped into view, his eyes instinctively separated from the crowd, tracking your approach with that same soft, unwavering focus that had defined the studio mirrors.

as you drew closer, the conversation around him seemed to fade into a quiet blur, leaving just the steady ground between the two of you.

"morning, y/n," jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a softer, private register meant only for you as a genuine, dimpled smile broke across his face.

your heart gave a familiar, dangerous thump, but instead of panicking, you found yourself returning his smile. "morning, jungwon."

he stepped away from the wall, naturally falling into step right beside you as you walked through the threshold of the lecture hall. the sudden shift from the chaotic, noisy hallway to the relative quiet of the classroom felt seamless with him next to you. without even asking, he guided you toward the middle row, pulling out the chair right next to the one where his laptop and notebook were already neatly set up.

he had saved you a seat.

"you look awake for someone who was reading at 1 AM," he teased quietly, sliding into his chair and leaning his chin in his hand as he looked over at you, his eyes glinting with a familiar, playful mischief.

you felt a sudden rush of warmth in your cheeks, but you managed to look right back at him. "i told you, i had things to finish."

"right," he hummed, the corners of his lips twitching as the professor walked up to the podium and the lecture hall began to quiet down. jungwon opened his notebook, but before he focused on the board, he leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice a low, comforting murmur against the background noise of opening laptops. "we're getting dinner after this, by the way. i found a really good place nearby."

it wasn't even a question. it was an inivitation that you would spend your evening with him, and the terrifying part was that you didn't even want to object.

by the time the late-afternoon elective finally wrapped up, the sun was already dipping below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the campus pathways. you followed jungwon through the bustling streets just outside the university gates, the humid evening air a stark contrast to the air-conditioned lecture hall.

he led you down a quieter alley, stopping in front of a small, cozy restaurant with warm, low-hanging yellow lights glowing behind a tinted glass pane. inside, the space was small and intimate, filled with the soft chatter of other students and the rich, savory aroma of hot food.

"two?" the server asked, and jungwon nodded, naturally guiding you toward a booth tucked away in the back corner, away from the main walkway.

as you slipped into the leather seat, the soft ambient lighting washed over his features, throwing the sharp angles of his jawline and the deep set of his eyes into beautiful, soft relief. it felt completely different from the high-stakes pressure of the studio or the crowded campus. here, stripped of cameras and portfolios, it was just the two of you.

"order whatever you want," jungwon said, sliding the menu across the dark wooden table toward you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting second that left a trail of static on your skin. "my treat today. to celebrate your successful photoshoot."

you looked up from the menu, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "you give me too much credit. you did good too, you know."

jungwon let out a low, amused huff, leaning back against the leather booth as he looked at you through the warm, dim lighting of the restaurant. "is that so? i guess we make a pretty good team then."

your cheeks burned, “i guess we do.”

and as the weeks bled into a comfortable rhythm, you realized you really did.

that quiet dinner quickly transformed from a one-time celebration into a regular part of your routine. it happened so gradually that you didn't even notice the shift at first. one day you were just elective mates, then interns working on a shoot, and the next, he was naturally weaving you into every single part of his day, making it easy for you to navigate the lively, chaotic orbit of his massive social circle.

because jungwon was the type of guy who belonged to everyone, hanging out with him meant automatically being pulled into his circle. you became a familiar face at the crowded university cafeteria tables, sharing loud, overlapping conversations with his friends who welcomed you without a single second of hesitation. you watched him handle the campus attention with an easy, effortless charm, throwing bright smiles to passing students and keeping everyone laughing.

but the real magic always happened when the noise of the crowd finally thinned out. no matter how many people were vying for his attention during the day, the late evenings always distilled down to just the two of you, sitting across from each other at that same dark wooden table under the warm, low-hanging yellow lights.

"you're staring," jungwon murmured one rainy tuesday evening, a soft, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he set his chopsticks down.

you blinked, tearing your gaze away from the sharp line of his jaw to look down at your half-empty bowl. "i am not. i was just thinking."

"about what?" he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the physical distance between you just enough to make the ambient chatter of the restaurant fade into the background.

"just... how you manage to keep up with everyone," you admitted honestly, gesturing vaguely toward the window where a group of students from his department had just waved at him through the glass. "you're always surrounded by people."

jungwon looked out the window for a brief second, then turned his focus back to you, his dark eyes softening into that intense, private expression he only ever used when the two of you were alone. "it's easy to talk to everyone, y/n. but that doesn't mean i want to spend my quiet hours with just anyone."

before you could even process the sudden, breathless skip of your heart, a confident, unfamiliar voice interrupted the space between you.

"hey, jungwon, right? i thought that was you."

you blinked, turning your head toward the edge of the booth. yoonchae from your class was standing there, looking effortlessly chic in a cropped leather jacket, a bright, confident smile fixed entirely on jungwon. she didn't even glance your way, completely erasing your presence from the table.

"i saw your latest photography feature on the department page," she continued smoothly, leaning slightly against the wooden partition of your booth. "it was amazing. i was actually wondering if you had time to collaborate on a editorial project next month? can i get your instagram or phone number?"

your chest tightened instantly. your mind, always looking for a reason to retreat, immediately clouded over with that familiar, suffocating insecurity. here it is, a bitter voice whispered in your head. this is his actual world. this girl was confident, stylish, and fit perfectly into the creative orbit he ran in. you were just the girl he casually helped out, the lesson he learned along the way to becoming a better photographer. you were a placeholder in his quiet hours until someone who actually belonged in his grid stepped up.

you lowered your eyes to your lap, your fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt as you prepared for him to give his usual, friendly campus smile and type his number into her phone.

"sorry, i can't," jungwon said.

his voice wasn't just polite; it was incredibly flat, completely stripped of the warm, universal charm he usually gave out so freely.

the girl blinked, caught off guard. "oh? are you too busy with the elective portfolio?"

jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he casually shifted in his seat, his hand moving across the table until his knuckles lightly brushed against your arm, drawing a firm, undeniable boundary in front of the stranger.

"no," jungwon said softly, his eyes dropping to you for a brief, reassuring second before he looked back up at the girl. "my girlfriend is right here. i don't take private project numbers."

your lungs completely locked up.

for a single, terrifying second, your heart fluttered so violently against your ribs it felt deafening. girlfriend. hearing the word leave his lips, spoken with such heavy, calm authority in his low voice, sent a sudden, dizzying rush of heat straight to your face.

but almost as fast as the thrill arrived, the cold weight of reality crashed right back down, pulling the warmth straight out of your chest.

yoonchae mumbled a quick, embarrassed apology and quickly retreated, but your mind had already clouded over, spiraling back into that familiar, suffocating insecurity.

you were just a prop.

the thought settled heavy and bitter in your stomach. because a guy like yang jungwon: a universally loved, constantly surrounded by people, and utterly effortless doesn't do serious relationships. he didn't need to. he was just a naturally attentive, overly nice guy who treated everyone with a baseline level of casual intimacy. he was smooth because it was his default setting, not because he was trying to win you over.

he didn't mean the word girlfriend. he had just used you as a convenient, safe shield to get out of an awkward conversation because he knew you wouldn't make a scene.

"sorry about that," jungwon murmured, turning his full attention back to you, his expression softening as if he hadn't just completely shattered your internal world. "she can be a bit persistent."

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a small, tight smile to your lips as your walls slammed shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

"t-tell me about it," you said, forcing a small, hollow laugh as you poked at your food. "good strategy though. i make a pretty believable prop, don't i?"

you tried to look up and give him a funny, conspiratorial wink—anything to bury the suffocating weight crashing down on your chest. but your smile didn't reach your eyes, and your voice cracked just a fraction too much on the last word.

and jungwon, being the observant person he was, didn't laugh.

the easy, playful expression completely melted off his face, replaced by a quiet, piercing focus that made you want to look away. he slowly set his glass down on the table, his dark eyes tracking the slight tremor in your fingers before locking onto yours.

“you okay, y/n?” he asked softly, bending down to look at your eyes. but you quickly avoided him.

“y-yeah. just got something in my eye is all. listen, i still have some projects to finish so i need to go.”

“let me take you home–”

"no!" you quickly interrupted, scrambling to grab your bag. "i mean, wouldn't want to overstep." and just like that, you ran out of the restaurant before he could even reach for the bill.

what you didn’t know was jungwon felt his own chest tighten.

***

dear, y/n,

this is exactly why you should’ve kept your walls up.

it is a painful, heavy thing to realize how quickly you can fall back into the habit of building walls. you are slowly getting used to the feeling again, realizing that the only way to keep your heart safe from someone who belongs to the world is to completely remove yourself from the equation.

you tell yourself it’s safer to just be distant again. it’s way easier to pretend you don't care than to risk believing you actually matter to someone like him.

a week has passed since that day.

today, the morning arrived with a gray, overcast sky that seemed to match the cold numbness settling back into your chest. you walked onto campus with a heavy, deliberate step, your eyes strictly fixed on the concrete pathways to avoid scanning the crowds for a familiar shock of dark hair. you had your oversized jacket pulled tightly around you like armor, determined to slip back into the quiet anonymity of being just another student in the department.

you managed to avoid the main lecture hall entrance entirely, slipping through the side doors and taking a seat in the very last row, tucked far away from the middle rows where you had spent the last few weeks.

"y/n."

your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag at the sound of his voice.

jungwon was standing at the end of the row, looking completely exhausted. the usual easy, universal charm was entirely missing from his face, his dark eyes shadowed with a quiet, desperate intensity as he looked down at you. he didn't care that a few passing classmates were glancing over at his unusually tense posture; his focus was entirely locked onto you.

"you didn't answer my texts," he said softly, his voice dropping into that private register, though this time it sounded raw, carrying a heavy weight that made your chest ache. "i kept calling you."

you swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing your expression to remain perfectly flat as you looked up at him, refusing to let him see how much you were hurting. "i told you, jungwon. i had projects to finish. you don't need to check up on me."

jungwon took a step closer into the row, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of the empty chair in front of you. "you’re not a prop. at the restaurant. i’m sorry i hurt you."

you looked down at your hands, refusing to meet his eyes because you knew your expression would crumble.

"it's fine, jungwon," you whispered, trying to force your voice to sound completely detached. "it was just a joke. you don't have to apologize for something petty."

"it wasn't a joke to me," he cut in, his voice dropping even lower, thick with a frustration you had never heard from him before. he slid into the empty seat right next to you, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small space in the back row. "i didn't say it just to make her leave, y/n. i said it because... because it didn't feel entirely like a lie to me."

your breath hitched, your eyes snapping up to look at him.

jungwon was leaning in close, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered. he looked vulnerable, almost fragile, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of the warmth you used to give him so easily.

"there's actually someone i really like right now," he murmured, the confession slipping into the quiet space between you like a heavy secret. "and seeing her stand there, asking for my number...it just made me realize how much i only want to focus on one person."

he was looking at you with so much quiet intensity, his lips slightly parted as if he was waiting for you to understand, waiting for you to realize exactly who he was talking about.

but your brain, completely clouded by a week of suffocating insecurity, didn't see the love in his eyes. it only saw a devastating confirmation of your worst fear.

he likes someone else.

the words echoed like a physical blow inside your head. you were the practice run. the lesson.

"oh," you forced out, the word tasting like lead on your tongue. you managed to pull a tight, completely empty smile onto your face, even as your chest felt like it was physically breaking. "i... i didn't know. she's really lucky, jungwon. i hope it works out for you."

before he could even react to the sudden, freezing distance in your voice, you stood up, grabbing your bag and stepping past his frozen frame into the aisle, running away before the tears blinding your vision could finally fall.

“you.”

you didn't move. you couldn't breathe. for a second, you thought you were hallucinating.

slowly, you turned around.

jungwon was already standing up. his shoulders tense as he stared straight at you.

"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."

she would feel an absolute, dizzying rush of cognitive dissonance—like the ground had suddenly been pulled out from under her boots. after a whole week of meticulously convincing herself that she was completely invisible and just a temporary "lesson" in his life, his sudden confession completely short-circuits her brain.

her walls are still up, but they are cracking violently. she is caught between a desperate, fluttering spark of hope and the terrifying urge to protect herself from a cruel joke.

"it's you, y/n," he said, his voice cracking slightly on your name as he closed the small distance between you in two long steps, stopping just close enough that you could feel the sudden warmth radiating off him. "the girl i like. the only person i want to focus on. it's been you this entire time."

your brain completely short-circuited.

you stared at him, your chest heaving as you tried to find a catch, a punchline, anything to make reality align with your insecurities again. but jungwon’s face was completely raw, his lower lip slightly trembling as he waited for you to say something.

“w-what?” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper as you took a small, panicked step back. “when? why?”

the questions tumbled out of you in a frantic, unpolished rush, stripping away all the cold, distant armor you had tried so hard to build.

"what do you mean why?" jungwon asked, a breathless, incredulous laugh escaping his lips as he took a step forward to close the gap you had just made. he reached out, his fingers gently captured your wrist, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse.

he let out a low, shaky exhale, his thumb moving in a slow, comforting circle against your skin, trying to ground you through your panic.

"i fell for you on our very first day as interns," he murmured, his dark eyes softening completely as he brought you back to the beginning. "remember that chaotic first shoot? everyone was running around, but i couldn't take my eyes off you. you were so shy, yet you were completely locked in. i loved how focused you were, how much heart you put into every single task. you were radiant, y/n. in a room full of people trying to stand out, you stood out to me just by being you."

he took a small step closer, his voice dropping into that intense, private register that belonged only to you.

"i did everything because i wanted an excuse to be near you," he whispered. "it's been you since that exact day. how could you think it was anyone else?"

“i was…i was never the one,” you whispered. “i was never the one that people think i’m worth staying for.”

jungwon let out a sharp, ragged breath, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to keep you anchored as your words physically pained him. the easy, polite campus favorite completely disappeared, replaced by a boy who looked entirely devastated that the girl he loved felt so invisible.

he didn't hesitate. he took that final step, closing the remaining distance between you until he was gently framing your face with his hands, his thumbs carefully wiping away the tears on your cheeks.

"i'm not going anywhere, y/n. i'm staying right here. with you."

***

dear, y/n,

it turns out that rewriting the script in your head is a slow, terrifying process.

for a long time, you were completely sure you were just the type of girl guys date before finding the one they actually want to settle down with. you really believed you were just a temporary phase. but now, jungwon is completely focused on you, and he isn't looking for anyone else.

you're still really anxious, though. every time your phone lights up, a part of you still expects him to text you saying he changed his mind or made a mistake. but he doesn't. instead, he just keeps showing up and proving you wrong.

nothing is official yet. you didn't suddenly become his girlfriend overnight. but even without a label, everything between you two feels completely different now.

on a tuesday morning, you didn't sit in the back row.

you had tried to, out of habit. your fingers pulling the strap of your oversized bag tight against your shoulder as you entered the side door. but jungwon was already there, sitting in the middle row right where you two used to be. the moment the door clicked, his head snapped up, his dark eyes instantly finding yours in the crowd.

he didn't wave or make a scene, but a small, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips. he casually lifted his laptop sleeve off the empty plastic chair beside him, claiming the space before anyone else could even think to take it.

your heart did that familiar, breathless flutter as you walked down the steps.

"hey," he murmured softly as you slid into the seat, his voice dropping into that private register that still made your face flush. he didn't slide his hand over yours or push your boundaries, but he reached into his jacket pocket and slid a small, familiar plastic bottle across the desk.

it was a fresh bottle of the exact soothing eye drops you always used when your eyes got tired from staring at editing screens.

"since you had something in your eye last week," jungwon said, his eyes crinkling slightly with a gentle, teasing warmth that completely lacked any judgment. "just in case."

you stared at the bottle, the lump in your throat returning, but this time it wasn't from sadness. "jungwon, you didn't have to—"

"i wanted to," he interrupted softly, leaning his elbow on the desk so he could look at you properly.

and then he did the one thing that always sent your heart into an absolute frenzy.

he leaned his elbow on the desk, tilting his head as he intentionally closed the distance between you. jungwon brought his face so close you could trace the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scent of his laundry detergent instantly filling your senses. his dark eyes locked onto yours, completely invading your personal space in that quiet, effortless way only he could pull off.

“j-jungwon?” you stammered, your voice coming out as a tiny, embarrassed squeak as you tried to press your back against the hard plastic of your chair to gain an inch of safety.

“mhm?” he murmured, not moving back even a fraction of a millimeter. instead, a tiny, knowing smirk began to pull at the corner of his lips, clearly enjoying how easily he could throw you off balance.

“y-you’re too close,” you whispered frantically, your hands gripping your desk as you looked around to see if anyone was watching. “mr. lee just entered the room.”

jungwon didn't panic. instead, his smirk widened just a fraction, his dark eyes brimming with amusement at your flustered reaction.

slowly, casually, he leaned back into his own space just as the professor set his briefcase on the podium. but right before he completely pulled away, jungwon leaned in one last inch, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper right against your ear.

"mr. lee can wait," he murmured, his tone dripping with a quiet, playful confidence. "but fine. i'll let you focus on the lecture. for now."

he straightened up in his seat, opening his notebook with perfect poise as if he hadn't just completely set your nerve endings on fire. but as he picked up his pen, he deliberately shifted his notebook just an inch closer to yours, his shoulder lightly brushing against your arm—a constant, warm reminder that he wasn't going anywhere.

now that you and jungwon are now aware of feelings towards each other, he has become flirtier each day. but with boundaries. he still asks if it’s okay to hold your hand, place his arm around your shoulder when walking, always checking in with a quiet, questioning look before stepping an inch closer into your space.

and every time he notices you second guessing if you want something, he takes the initiative of doing it. so in days that you do want to hold his hand but too shy to ask, he gently places his hand under yours and locks your fingers. and of course, it sent your heart into overdrive.

on friday afternoon, as the campus was emptying out, jungwon slung his backpack over one shoulder and leaned against the edge of your desk.

"a few of my seniors are holding a small wrap-up gallery in the department studio tonight," he said, tilting his head to catch your eyes. "then we’ll have an after party. just some music, drinks, and looking over the final print layouts. i want you to come with me."

your fingers paused on your notebook. the familiar, anxious tightening returned to your chest, your mind instantly telling you that you didn't belong in a room full of talented, confident upperclassmen who already knew him so well.

“is it alright?” you whispered, looking up at him uncertainty. “i don't want to intrude.”

jungwon’s expression softened instantly. he didn't laugh or dismiss your worry. instead, he stepped closer, blocking out the rest of the noisy hallway so it was just the two of you.

"you're not intruding, y/n," he said softly, his voice steady and completely serious as he reached down to gently tap the back of your hand. "i'm the one asking you. i want you to be there. with me."

then the night of the gallery came.

the studio was packed, filled with the low hum of indie music, the clinking of plastic cups, and the bright, warm glow of track lighting illuminating the rows of framed photographs along the walls. jungwon had been caught by a group of design seniors the moment you walked through the door. you had gently nudged his shoulder, giving him a small smile to let him know you didn't mind, before slipping away into the crowd to look around on your own.

the talent in the room was undeniable, but as you wandered down the final row of the exhibition, your steps slowed to a complete halt in front of a small, dedicated corner panel.

your breath caught in your throat.

the first frame was a candid shot from your very first day as interns. it was the chaotic studio set, cluttered with stray wires and half-assembled lighting rigs, but the camera hadn’t focused on the set. it was focused entirely on you. you sat on a crate with your face angled away, completely locked into adjusting a camera lens.

the second frame was the campus lecture hall taken from a low angle. it captured the stark, geometric lines of the plastic desks, but the focus was trained on the middle rows where you two always used to sit. a soft, natural light filtered through the gray windows, hitting the exact spot where his notebook usually brushed against yours.

and the final photograph made your heart do a sudden, breathless flip.

it was the outside of the restaurant from a week ago, taken through the glass window under a heavy, overcast sky. the frame captured the exact table where everything had boiled over, the blurry reflection of the street lights casting a quiet, moody atmosphere over the empty chairs.

the photos were the places you had been with him.

beneath the triptych of photos was a small, white card printed with a simple title:

paying attention.

"i didn't put your face on blast, i promise," a soft voice murmured right behind your ear.

​you turned around to find jungwon right behind you, his hands in his pockets as he smiled down at you.

"i asked the professor if i could keep the subject anonymous on the final prints," he explained softly, stepping a little closer into your space. "i wanted to show you how i see you, but... is this okay? if it makes you uncomfortable, i can take them down right now. seriously."

"no," you whispered, a genuine smile finally breaking through the remnants of your anxiety. "don't take them down. they're... really beautiful."

without second guessing, you threw your arms around jungwon.

you felt a deep, grounding warmth expand in your chest—the realization that you were someone worth paying attention to.

after five hours, the after-party finally started. the room was alive with everyone cheering, laughing, and clinking their beer glasses together in celebration.

​“congrats to us!” jungwon's senior, lee chan, toasted, raising his glass high into the air.

after taking a sip, chan’s eyes flicked over to you, a warm smile breaking across his face. "and thanks for coming, y/n! jungwon was practically talking about it for days.”

​your face flushed a sudden crimson, your eyes darting over to jungwon.

​jungwon just let out a soft laugh, completely unbothered by his senior exposing him. he casually slung an arm around your shoulder, bringing you securely into the circle. "ignore him," he murmured down to you, his thumb lightly rubbing against your arm. "but he's not entirely wrong."

“jungwon, hey!”

yoonchae was there again. you remembered that she was probably only around because her brother was in the same department as jungwon, a detail he had mentioned to you weeks ago.

​“yoonchae, hi.”

​“so, i heard from my brother that you and y/n aren't actually dating," she started, pulling her phone out of her bag and extending it toward him with a hopeful smile. "so… i was thinking if i can maybe, you know? come on, it's not like you're taken, right?”

​“yoonchae, i've already told you before that i am interested in someone.” jungwon didn't hesitate for a single second. he reached down, deliberately capturing your hand and locking his fingers tightly with yours. “she's right here. dating or not, y/n is the only girl i like.”

yoonchae’s jaw dropped slightly. she stared at jungwon, entirely speechless at how effortlessly and publicly he had rejected her.

​she looked at you, then back at jungwon. without uttering another syllable, she gave a stiff, embarrassed nod and quickly slipped away into the crowd.

the night continued with you and jungwon completely melting into the crowd. almost everyone couldn't help but tease him, laughing at how he looked like a total lovesick puppy and constantly joking about how he had finally found his muse.

​eventually, the party wound down, and the two of you walked home together through the quiet streets. your hand was wrapped in his, his fingers locked firmly in yours.

​“wasn't that too harsh?” you asked softly, breaking the silence as you looked down at your joined hands.

​“not if she completely ignored your presence,” jungwon replied without a shred of regret, his grip on your hand tightening just a fraction.

​you bit your inner lip, your heart doing a small flutter as you built up the courage to ask the question that had been looping in your head. “but... were you serious? about what you said?”

​jungwon looked down at you with a slow, knowing smirk. he knew exactly what you meant, but he wanted to hear you say it. “which part?”

​your eyes grew wide, but you tried your absolute best to maintain your composure. “you know... the part where you said... you like me.” the last few words came out as a quiet mumble, your face burning.

​“what's that?” he teased, tilting his head closer to yours. “didn't quite catch that.”

​“jungwon,” you whined, pulling slightly on his hand.

​“what? come on, say it clearly,” he laughed.

​“jungwon!” you whined again, hiding your face slightly behind your free hand.

​but then, the teasing look in his eyes began to shift. his laughter quieted down, replaced by a soft, intense focus that made the breath hitch in your throat. the ambient hum of the streetlights overhead suddenly felt incredibly loud as he stopped walking, causing you to pause right along with him.

​“you are,” jungwon murmured, his voice dropping into a gentle, low register. he lifted your hand, his thumb softly tracing the knuckles before he let go of the tight grip to hold just your fingertips, his skin warm against yours. “i really like you, y/n.”

​the sheer sincerity in his dark eyes stripped away all of your remaining defense mechanisms. the anxiety that usually kept you trapped in your own head completely evaporated, leaving only the honest, racing beat of your heart.

​“i-i really like you too,” you whispered back, your voice small but steady.

​jungwon took a slow step closer, completely closing the distance between you. his free hand came up, his fingers brushing light as a feather against your jawline before his thumb settled right at the corner of your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction. he didn't rush. he just stood there for a breathless second, his gaze flicking down to your lips before locking back onto your wide eyes, waiting patiently for you to adjust to how close he was.

​“can i kiss you?” he asked softly, his thumb giving your cheek a reassuring, tender stroke.

​“please,” you whispered, the word leaving your lips like a breathless plea.

​a soft smile broke across jungwon’s face at your response. he didn't wait another second. his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he leaned down and finally pressed his lips to yours, sweet and slow.

​it made your heart do a dizzying, breathless flip. his lips were incredibly soft, parting slightly as he pulled you just a fraction closer against his chest. your fingers instinctively gripped the fabric of his jacket, your whole body melting into the touch as a warm, electric flutter rushed from your chest straight down to your toes.

as both of you pulled away from the kiss, jungwon let his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you back in for a quick, tight hug. he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a second, letting out a soft hum of satisfaction that made your heart do another dizzying flip.

​“does this mean we're… boyfriend and girlfriend?” you asked shyly, your fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his jacket.

​jungwon let out a soft giggle against your skin, the vibration tickling your neck before he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes full of warmth. “yes. yes, i'd love that.”

***

​dear y/n,

​it is a beautiful thing indeed to be able to find someone. you are incredibly, genuinely happy, and your heart doesn't feel like it's constantly bracing for impact anymore.

​but being with jungwon has also taught you that a real relationship isn't all cupcakes and rainbows. there are still days when your old insecurities and tendencies to overthink flare up out of nowhere, making you quiet and distant.

​loving someone isn't a magical cure for anxiety. it doesn't fix the pieces of you that feel broken.

you and jungwon had a date today. it's been weeks since you have been girlfriend and boyfriend. and it was the happiest you've felt in a while.

a knock startled you out of your thoughts as you checked your outfit one more time. you had opted for a classic combination: a warm cream cardigan layered over a simple tee, paired with structured wide-leg trousers that made you feel completely put-together yet comfortable.

wonhee was grinning brightly at you, stepping right into the entryway the moment the door swung open. without a word, she reached forward to gently adjust the collar of your tee and smooth down the shoulder of your cream cardigan. "there. perfect. you look so effortlessly pretty today! are you ready for your date?”

​“a bit nervous,” you admitted, feeling a sudden jolt of nervous electricity running through your system.

“hey,” wonhee placed her hand kn your shoulder, “you got this. and if jungwon doesn't see how incredibly lucky he is to have you, just let me know. i will personally make sure every single senior in his department knows he’s an absolute fool, and his pristine reputation will be completely ruined by tomorrow morning.”

“wonhee,” you taunt.

“i'm just saying.” wonhee giggled, gently grabbing your shoulders and turning you toward the door. she gave you a playful nudge forward. "now stop stalling and go. he’s probably already waiting outside, and you shouldn't keep your boyfriend waiting."

boyfriend.

on cue, a knock came again, and this time, you answered it.

​when the door swung open, jungwon was standing there, looking effortlessly handsome in a simple jacket. the moment his eyes landed on you, his breath hitched slightly, his gaze sweeping over your cream cardigan and wide-leg trousers with a look of pure, unadulterated admiration.

​“hi,” you murmured, your heart doing a familiar flutter.

​“hi,” he replied softly, a warm smile breaking across his face as if he couldn't help himself. “you look beautiful.”

​“you ready?” he asked, his voice low and comforting.

​you nodded your head, the last of your nervous jitters completely melting away. jungwon offered his arm, and you gladly looped yours through it, stepping out into the hallway as he gently pressed your arm closer to his side, making you feel completely secure before you even left the building.

jungwon takes you out to a beautiful, open-air city square where the evening breeze carries the distant chatter of people and the soft glow of fairy lights tangled in the trees. walking arm-in-arm, he effortlessly shields you from the busier walkways, pointing out little shops or laughing at the synchronized fountains, making the wide, bright world feel incredibly small and private just for the two of you.

​you smiled, the warmth in your chest blooming beautifully. but as you stepped past a brightly lit clothing storefront, the air in your lungs suddenly turned to ice.

​“jungwon, is that actually you?”

​the soft, bright voice called out from the restaurant entrance. jungwon paused, turning his head, and you felt his entire posture straighten up in surprise. walking toward your table was a girl with an effortless, radiant smile and a polished grace that made the entire room feel a little brighter.

​“minji!” jungwon’s face lit up with immediate, genuine recognition as he stood up to greet her. “wow, it’s been so long. what are you doing back here?”

​“my family just moved back to the area,” she laughed, her voice carrying a familiar, easy warmth. jungwon immediately turned to you, his hand reaching for yours to introduce you.

“minji, this is y/n. my girlfriend.”

“omg, hi! finally, jungwon has gotten himself a girlfriend.”

​she was completely lovely. she didn't do a single thing wrong. but as she chatted with jungwon for a few minutes about their old neighborhood before waving goodbye, a suffocating wave of anxiety washed over you.

​she was stunning. her hair sat perfectly, her laugh was effortless, and she possessed a kind of glowing, unbothered confidence that you felt miles away from. sitting across from jungwon again, your cream cardigan suddenly felt suffocating, and your wide-leg trousers felt like a clumsy attempt at looking put-together. the food on your plate suddenly looked unappetizing as the old, familiar voice whispered that you were completely out of your league.

​“y/n? hey, you’re getting quiet on me,” jungwon murmured softly, leaning across the table, his dark eyes full of immediate concern. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”

​you stared down at your fingers, tracing the edge of the napkin to keep your voice steady. “she’s… really pretty, jungwon.”

​“she’s an old friend,” he replied instantly, a gentle, reassuring smile breaking across his face. “i promise that's all.”

​you swallowed past the lump in your throat, the overthinking brain refusing to let go of the bone. “did anything… ever happen between you two? back then?”

​“no, never,” jungwon said easily, shaking his head. “we were just kids who grew up on the same block. we played video games and rode bikes. that was literally it.”

​you looked up, your eyes searching his face, silent and unconvinced. jungwon sighed softly, a tiny, amused but fond smile tugging at his lips as he realized he couldn't hide anything from you. he reached across the table, covering your cold hand with his warm one.

​“okay, fine,” he gave in gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. “the only thing that ever happened was that our parents used to tease us. when we were around ten, our moms joked around a lot about how we’d probably end up getting married because we were inseparable. but it was just a silly parents' joke.”

​he meant it as a reassuring confession to show how ridiculous the history was, but inside your chest, the words landed with a heavy, deafening thud.

​married.

​“baby,” jungwon murmured, his hands coming up to gently hold your fingers. he looked down at you, his eyes completely honest. “i'm sorry. i shouldn't have brought that up so carelessly. when we were kids, maybe there was a silly, innocent part of me that had a crush on her back then. but i swear to you, those feelings are completely gone. they've been gone for years.”

​when you wouldn't look at him, your eyes still trained on the ground as you tried to process the heavy spiral in your chest, jungwon didn't get frustrated or tell you that you were overreacting.

​instead, he patiently guided your cold hands up, cupping them securely against his warm cheeks and leaning his face into your soft touch. he tilted his head just enough so that you were forced to see the absolute sincerity in his gaze.

​“our parents made jokes about the past, but i'm looking at my future right now,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your wrist, his heartbeat steady and grounding beneath your palms. “it's only you, y/n. it's always just been you.”

“how sure are you about that?”

​“how sure are you about that?” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of your own mind. you hated how small you sounded, hated that even with his face leaning so trustingly into your hands, the ugly, loud voice of your anxiety was still trying to convince you that you were a second choice.

​jungwon didn't blink. he didn't sigh in frustration, and he didn't let go of your hands. instead, he just closed his eyes for a brief second, absorbing the raw vulnerability of your question, before looking right back at you with a gaze so steady it felt like an anchor.

​“because when i was ten, i didn't know what loving someone actually meant,” he said softly, his voice incredibly quiet but unshakeable. “i thought it was just sharing toys and living on the same block. but with you? i know exactly what it is.”

​he kissed the palm of your right hand, his lips warm against your cold skin.

​“i'm sure because when something good happens, you're the first person i want to call. i'm sure because even when you get quiet and distant like this, i don't want to be anywhere else in the world except right here, waiting it out with you. minji is a part of a childhood scrapbook, y/n. but you are my real life. you are my today, and you're the only one i want for tomorrow.”

you let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding, the heavy knot in your chest finally loosening under the steady, unshakeable warmth of his words. the ugly, loud whispers of your overthinking brain slowly faded into silence, replaced entirely by the sound of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

​he was right. she was the past, but you were his right now.

​“okay,” you whispered, a small, watery but genuine smile finally breaking across your lips. “i believe you.”

​jungwon smiled back, a look of pure relief crossing his handsome face. he kissed the palm of your hand one more time before lowering your hands, locking his fingers tightly with yours as the two of you began walking down the glowing, tree-lined street once again. the anxiety hadn't completely vanished from your system—it rarely ever did—but with his side pressed warmly against yours, the world felt safe again.

​but your worries did not disappear overnight.

months have passed since that evening of your first date, filled with shared laughter and a love that grew steadier with each passing day. jungwon had proven his words true over and over again, never letting you drift when the overthinking got too loud.

​yet, the mind is a stubborn thing.

jungwon was and is serious about you. every small gesture, every patient reassurance when you got quiet, and every look he gave you proved that you weren't just a passing chapter in his life. so, he decided that it was finally time for his parents to meet you. he wanted you to meet the people who mattered most to him, completely missing the way your stomach instantly dropped in panic.

“my son!”

as soon as the door opened to jungwon’s condo, his mom gave him a tight hug, immediately stepping past him to look at you with a wide, welcoming smile. jungwon laughed softly, wrapping an arm around his mom's shoulders before gently pulling you into the space alongside them.

“mom, let me breathe first,” he teased gently, though his eyes were bright with happiness as he looked between the two of you.

“but i miss my baby!”

this was the first time you can genuinely see jungwon embarrassed, but it was adorable. his cheeks flushed a faint, endearing pink as he cleared his throat, trying to regain his usual cool composure while his dad just chuckled behind them, carrying a small box of side dishes into the kitchen.

all was going well. the conversation flowed effortlessly over the sound of clinking chopsticks and quiet laughter.

“you know, y/n, jungwon has been smiling so much more lately,” his mom mentioned softly, reaching over to squeeze your wrist. “whenever we call him on the weekends, he’s always in a good mood because he’s either on his way to see you or just got back from a date. you’ve been such a wonderful influence on him.”

“thank you, mrs. yang,” you murmured softly, using the title she had warmly insisted on earlier. you felt a genuine sense of relief wash over you.

but that relief was cut short when his father set down his glass, looking between the two of you with a reflective nod. “it’s just so interesting seeing jungwon with someone so quiet and gentle,” his father noted with a thoughtful, friendly smile. “you know, his mother and i always assumed he’d end up with someone loud and full of energy, like minji. they grew up together, so we were just so used to that specific dynamic. but it’s good that he’s learning to appreciate a different kind of presence now.”

learning to appreciate.

your stomach completely dropped. they weren't trying to be mean at all. it was just a casual comment. but hearing his dad say that made your worst fear feel real. to them, minji was the standard: the girl who naturally fit into his life.

suddenly, that creeping feeling was crawling back into your system and into your head.

this option focuses on him noticing y/n's discomfort right away and stepping in to protect her peace.

jungwon, who had been watching you the entire time, saw the exact moment your face went rigid. without a second thought, his hand reached under the table, finding your ice-cold fingers and squeezing them tightly.

“that was a completely different time, dad,” jungwon cut in smoothly, his voice calm but incredibly firm as he looked directly at his father. “who i was when i was ten years old doesn't matter. y/n is my present, and she’s exactly who i like.”

his mother’s eyes widened slightly at jungwon's serious tone, her expression shifting into immediate regret. she looked at you, her face full of genuine worry.

“oh, dear, i’m so sorry,” his mom said softly, reaching across the table to gently touch your arm. “your father didn't mean it that way at all. we are so happy you’re here with him.”

“yes, please forgive an old man's clumsy words, y/n,” his dad added quickly, looking incredibly apologetic. “i only meant that we are glad to see how happy and grounded jungwon is with you. we really didn't mean to compare you.”

you managed to nod politely, offering his parents a tight, small smile. “it’s okay, mrs. yang. mr. yang, really. don’t worry about it.”

you forced yourself to get through the rest of the dinner. you chewed your food without tasting it, laughed at the right moments, and politely helped clear the plates. you didn't storm out, but your anxiety made you want to disappear.

the second the front door clicked shut and his parents finally left, the fake smile dropped from your face. your breath hitched, and the hot tears you had been holding back for the last hour finally slipped down your cheeks.

jungwon turned around immediately, his face full of pain as he stepped toward you. “y/n, baby, hey—”

“jungwon, please,” you whispered, stepping back, your hands trembling as you wrapped them around yourself. you couldn't take his comfort right now. the ugly thoughts were too loud. “i just… i think i need to go home.”

“y/n, look at me. you heard what i told them. she’s not like that to me. why are you pushing me away?”

“because they look at me and they see a lesson!” your voice finally broke, a sharp, painful sob escaping your throat. “they look at me and see someone who is helping you grow up, jungwon. what if that’s all i am to you? what if i’m just the person you’re with until you’re ready to go back to someone like her?”

jungwon flinched as if you had physically struck him. a heavy, painful silence fell over the apartment. he took a slow breath, his dark eyes brimming with a mix of deep hurt and sheer frustration that he couldn't seem to break through the walls of your anxiety.

“is that really all you think of me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet, raw whisper. “after all these months, you still think i’m just using you as a placeholder?”

he stepped forward, refusing to let you shrink away this time, his hands gently but firmly capturing your trembling wrists.

“i am not your ex, i’m not your fling, and i’m not jongseong, y/n,” he said, his voice shaking slightly with emotion as he looked directly into your tear-filled eyes. “i don't need a lesson, and i don't need to practice how to love someone. i love you. i chose you, and i am pouring everything i have into us. it hurts so bad that you’re letting a careless comment throw away everything we’ve built.”

you stared at him through a blur of hot tears, his grip on your wrists feeling less like an anchor and more like a trap you desperately needed to escape. you heard his words. he loves youand he isn't your ex. but the chaotic noise inside your head was just too loud. you were completely emotionally exhausted.

“jungwon, please,” you choked out, pulling your wrists back out of his hold. you couldn't look him in the eye, unable to bear the heavy hurt radiating from him. “i can’t… i can’t do this right now. i just really need to go home.”

jungwon stood perfectly still, his hands hanging empty in the space between you. he looked at your trembling shoulders, realizing that no matter what he said right now, your mind was miles away, trapped in a past he hadn't created.

he let out a long, heavy breath, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up at you with soft, tired eyes.

“okay,” he whispered quietly, his voice thick with unvoiced exhaustion. he didn't fight you, and he didn't force you to stay. instead, he reached for his car keys on the counter. “i’ll drive you.”

“no,” you said quickly, stepping back toward the door before he could even take a step toward you. “no, jungwon, please don't.”

jungwon froze, his fingers tightening around his car keys. “y/n, it’s late. i’m not letting you go out there alone like this.”

“i’ll book a ride. i just… if i get in the car with you right now, i feel like i won't be able to breathe,” you confessed, your voice dropping to a desperate, raw whisper. you hated hurting him, but the walls of the apartment already felt like they were crashing down on you. “i need to be completely alone. please.”

the word please seemed to deflate whatever fight jungwon had left in him. he looked at you, seeing the genuine panic in your eyes, and realized that forcing himself to accompany you would only make your spiral worse. it broke his heart, but he put his car keys back down on the counter.

“okay,” he whispered softly, his voice heavy with defeat. “i won't force you. but let me book your ride. let me at least do that so i know you're in a safe car.”

you didn't have the energy to argue. you just stood by the door, hugging yourself tightly as jungwon quietly pulled out his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he booked a ride to your apartment.

when the app showed the driver was outside, he walked over and opened the door for you. he didn't try to hug you or touch you, completely respecting the distance you asked for.

“text me when you get inside your room,” jungwon said, his dark eyes brimming with so much quiet love and unspoken hurt as he watched you step out into the hallway. “even if you don't want to talk to me, just send a dot. please. just let me know you're safe.”

you nodded your head and closed the door. as you walked down the hallway and headed toward the car, you finally let your tears fall, not caring if the receptionist in the lobby or the driver saw you.

***

dear y/n,

you thought you were completely past this after all these months of quiet, steady happiness.

he is good to you, and he has done absolutely nothing wrong. your heart knows he isn't the one who hurt you, but the fear of history repeating itself is paralyzing. you ran away tonight because the walls were closing in, and you are so terrified of ruining something beautiful.

you are standing at a crossroads now, completely exhausted from fighting your own mind. you want to believe you deserve this love, but the urge to protect yourself is pulling you backward. the storm inside you is loud, but will you still find the strength to trust and give it a try?

you texted jungwon that you needed space. you told him you just needed to make sure history wasn't repeating itself.

it took a few long, agonizing minutes before your phone buzzed in your hand.

jungwon: i understand. take all the time you need, y/n. i’m not going anywhere, and i’m not letting go of us. please just rest well tonight.

staring at the glowing screen, a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. he was giving you the exact reassurance you desperately needed, yet the heavy, unresolved space between you felt wider than ever.

days turned into weeks and the space between you only grew heavier. neither of you reached out, the silence lingering like an unspoken question that you were both too afraid to answer.

you had thought that having this time to yourself would help clear your head and make you feel safe again. instead, the endless quiet only proved that the ghost of your past wasn’t something he was creating—it was something you were still carrying all on your own. missing him had become a constant, dull ache in your chest, making you realize that the walls you built to protect yourself were only keeping you trapped in your own loneliness.

the realization hit you fully when you found yourself staring at an old photo of the two of you, his bright, genuine smile a stark contrast to the hollow ache currently sitting in your chest. you had spent so much time trying to make sure history wasn't repeating itself that you hadn't noticed you were the one sabotaging your own present. it was finally time to stop letting your fear dictate your future, even if your hands were still shaking at the thought of making things right.

but you were too scared. maybe you didn’t deserve that second chance when all he did was be so nice and gentle, giving you the love you had been searching for all along.

on cue, your phone lit up with an unexpected video call notification. you slid the button to answer, clearing your throat before speaking. “jongseong, hey!”

“hey, y/n,” jongseong replied, his face appearing on the screen. he gave you a small wave, looking totally relaxed but a bit curious. “i’m only calling because a few really sad heartbreak tweets popped up on my timeline today, and i noticed you liked one of them. it just felt a little out of character for you. are you doing okay? any problems between you and jungwon?”

you froze, the heavy silence of your room suddenly feeling magnified through the speaker. your throat felt completely tight, and your mind scrambled for a safe lie, a polite excuse, or any regular answer to cover up the mess inside your head. but looking at jongseong’s kind, expectant face on the screen, the wall you had built over the past few weeks finally crumbled.

you let out a shaky breath, looking down at your lap because you couldn't bear to hold his gaze anymore.

“do you know that there are two types of people in the world?” you murmured, your voice cracking slightly as the tears threatened to spill over again. “the lesson and the one. sadly, i’m the lesson.”

“okay…” he said slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned closer to the camera. “i’m not following. what do you mean by that, y/n?”

“i mean… some people only enter a person’s life to teach them how to love, how to grow, or how to be better for the next person,” you whispered, a single tear finally slipping down your cheek. “they’re just a temporary chapter. they're the lesson. and then there are the people who get to stay forever. they’re the one.”

you finally looked up at the screen, your eyes completely raw and vulnerable as you stared at him.

“his parents think i'm just a phase, jongseong. they think i'm just someone he's with until he's ready to go back to a blueprint that naturally fits his world. and the worst part is… i’m starting to think they’re right.”

you let out a tired, shaky sigh, pulling your knees up to your chest.

“you know my history, jongseong. you’ve seen firsthand how many times i’ve been left behind, and how much it took for me to piece myself back together,” you murmured, your voice dropping to a soft, exhausted whisper. “i already know exactly how it feels to be the lesson that helps a man grow up for someone else. i’ve been that girl my entire life, and i just… i don’t think i have the strength to go through that all over again with him.”

jongseong went completely quiet on the other end of the line, his expression softening as your words settled over him. he rubbed the back of his neck, looking down for a brief second as if carrying a quiet weight of his own before fixing his steady, grounded gaze back on you.

“y/n, look at me,” he said softly, his voice dropping into that deep, comforting tone. “i know your history. i know exactly how much you've been through, and i'm not going to sit here and tell you that your fears aren’t valid. but you are completely wrong about one thing.”

he leaned a little closer to the camera. “i don't know the guy personally, but i know you. and from everything you’ve ever told me about him, from the way your face lights up when you mention his name, he isn't the type to treat you like a phase. his parents don't get to decide who his 'one' is, y/n. he already chose you, so don't let their words choose his ending for him.”

you looked away from the screen, your bottom lip trembling as his words cut right through your defenses. you wanted so desperately to believe he was right, but the heavy weight in your chest made it so hard to breathe.

“but what if they’re right, jongseong?” you whispered, a fresh tear spilling over as you brought your knees closer to your chest. “it’s so easy to say he chose me now, but choosing someone gets a lot harder when the whole world is pulling you in the opposite direction. i'm just so tired of being the only one who ends up broken when the choice gets too heavy.”

“you told me once, he’s different. you said he was the first person who made you feel safe enough to lower your guard. don't take away his chance to be the one who stays just because everyone else before him left.”

you let out a shaky breath, wiping the dampness from your cheeks with the back of your hand. his words hit a little too close to home, reminding you of the girl who used to be so certain about the boy she loved.

“i did say that, didn't i?” you whispered, a small, incredibly tired smile touching your lips for a split second. you looked back up at the screen, trying to clear the thick emotion from your throat. “i'm sorry for dumping all of this on you out of nowhere. let's not talk about my mess anymore. how are things with you and karina?”

jongseong chuckled softly, the heavy atmosphere completely lifting as he leaned back in his desk chair. “speaking of the devil,” he murmured, just as the sound of a fridge door closing echoed through the speaker, followed by the soft padding of footsteps.

a second later, karina leaned into the frame, damp hair wrapped in a towel and a plate of sliced fruit in her hand. “tell her i say hi! and tell her you haven't washed the dishes from breakfast yet,” she teased, popping a piece of apple into her mouth before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head and walking back to the living room.

jongseong rolled his eyes fondly, watching her leave before fixing his gaze back on you. “see? we’re surviving, even if we’re constantly stressed about finals and rent. our parents definitely had their doubts about us moving in together so early, but we just decided to figure it out as we go. it’s not perfect, but it’s real. you and jungwon can figure it out too, if you just give him the chance to try.”

“thanks, jongseong,” you murmured, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally unravelling into a sudden, desperate wave of clarity.

“anytime, buddy,” he replied with a warm, final nod.

and with that, you both ended the call.

before the fear could creep back in, you immediately grabbed a coat from the chair and shoved your feet into your crocs. you unlocked the deadbolt with trembling fingers and swung the door open, but what you didn’t expect was jungwon standing right there, catching his breath with his hair sweaty, probably from running all the way to you.

“h-hi.”

“hi.”

a breathless, fragile silence settled over the hallway. jungwon looked down, his gaze lingering on your feet tucked into your crocs, and then you looked at his messy, sweat-dampened hair. despite the heavy heartbreak that had been hovering over you both for weeks, a tiny, incredibly watery laugh slipped past your lips.

jungwon’s lips twitched into a faint, exhausted smile, though his eyes stayed completely soft and intense.

“where were you going in such a hurry?” he asked softly, his voice still a little breathless.

“i was… i was going to you,” you confessed, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, blurring your vision.

jungwon’s eyes softened completely, his hand moving from your wrist to gently cup your cheek, his thumb catching the tear before it could fall. “to me? why?”

“because i’m so tired of being the girl who only exists to teach good men how to love someone else,” you choked out, your hands anchoring onto the fabric of his jacket because your knees felt weak. “i don’t want you to be my temporary chapter, jungwon. i don’t want this to be another heartbreaking lesson. i know you’re the one. i know it. and it terrifies me, but i was running to tell you that i don’t want to let you go.”

jungwon stared at you, completely frozen as his usual composure totally shattered. a glassy sheen quickly took over his sharp eyes, his bottom lip trembling just a fraction as the heavy unshed tears made him look incredibly vulnerable in the dim hallway light. he looked so profoundly undone by your confession that he couldn't even find his voice to speak.

seeing him look at you like that suddenly made a wave of intense self-consciousness rush over you.

you let out a wet, breathless laugh, instantly dropping your gaze to his chest as your cheeks flushed deep red. “oh god,” you muttered, your voice cracking as you weakly hid your face against his jacket. “i can’t believe i sound so silly saying that. it sounded so cringe, i'm sorry—”

jungwon wasted no time in closing the gap between the two of you and crashed his lips onto yours. compared to your first kiss, this one was full of pure yearning and a desperate, breathless relief that made your knees give out completely.

he kissed you until the lingering taste of your tears melted away, his hands moving up to cup your face so tightly, as if he were physically anchoring you to him. when he finally pulled back just a fraction, his forehead remained rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in hot, uneven puffs in the quiet hallway.

“it’s not silly,” jungwon whispered fiercely, his voice raspy and thick with the tears he was trying not to spill. he blinked, a stray drop finally escaping and trailing down his flushed cheek as he looked deep into your eyes. “i ran all the way here because i felt like i was suffocating without you. i ran to tell you that i don't want to lose you. i'm not letting you go.”

you could only nod as a fresh wave of tears blurred your vision. your fingers gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles turned white.

jungwon smiled weakly, his thumbs gently wiping away the new tears on your cheeks before leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, right at your hairline. he kept his arms securely locked around you, anchoring you against his warm chest until your breathing finally synced up with his.

“i mean it, y/n,” he murmured into your hair, his voice steadier now but still filled with that fierce determination. “no more lessons. we're figuring this out together.”

***

dear, y/n,

in this world, there are two types of people: the one and the lesson. you were the latter. but right now, you’re the first.

you spent so much time convincing yourself that you were only built to be a temporary chapter, a stepping stone for someone else's perfect blueprint. but you don't have to stay broken just to teach a good man how to love. you can be the one who gets to stay, too. and you finally found your 'the one'—the boy who ran all the way to your door in the middle of the night just to prove he was never going to let you go.

three months later.

“jungwon, if you don't turn that stove down right now, we are going to set the fire alarm off for the third time this month,” you laughed, leaning against the counter of your apartment as you watched him frantically wave a kitchen towel in front of a smoking pan.

“i have it completely under control!” he insisted, though his cheeks were flushed a soft pink and his sharp eyes were wide with adorable panic. he quickly slid the pan off the burner, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief before turning around to face you. his hair was slightly messy, a soft contrast to the structured, neat look he usually wore around his family, and he was wearing an super oversized hoodie that you were pretty sure actually belonged to you.

you walked over, entirely unable to hide the fond smile on your face as you reached up to fix a stray strand of hair falling over his forehead. “you’re supposed to be the responsible college student, remember? what happened to the planner jungwon?”

“the plan got complicated,” jungwon murmured, his tone instantly softening the second your fingers brushed against his skin. without missing a beat, his hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him with that effortless, natural familiarity that had become your favorite part of every single day. “besides, i was distracted looking at you.”

“so cringe,” you teased, echoing the exact words from the night he ran to you, but your heart still did that familiar, happy flip against your ribs.

jungwon chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated against your chest as he leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. “i told you three months ago,” he whispered against your lips, his thumbs gently rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your shirt. “it’s not cringe if it’s real. now kiss me before the smoke alarm actually goes off.”

you didn't miss a beat. you leaned up, capturing his lips in a slow, deep kiss that carried all the quiet certainty of the past three months. the heavy anxiety, the cruel comments from his parents, and the ghosts of your past heartbreaks were completely gone. there were no more lessons left to learn. there was only jungwon, holding you tight in a smoky kitchen, proving every single day that he was here to stay.

[kissued]

UNSCRIPTED ᢉ𐭩 NISHIMURA RIKI

PROMPT ⋮ SHOW YOU OFF #XOXOVALENTINES2026

SYNOPSIS ⋮ when the cameras stop rolling and the lights dim, some things are supposed to fade with them. you’re not supposed to fall in love with your co-star. your co-star isn’t supposed to care about you the way he does. unfortunately, neither of you have ever been very good at following the script.

GENRE ⌗ PAIRING ⋮ fluff. kdrama actor!riki x actress!reader. written + smau

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ SFW. KDRAMA ACTOR!AU. toxic industry, angst, eventual comfort/fluff, riki is a YEARNER, skinship, kissing, fem!reader, reader stars as han seri, nishimura riki as haruto marukami. parallels. miscommunication.

AN ⋮ whew it’s finally here. i didn’t mean for this to be 15k words i’m sorry.. i’m like two weeks late to valentines but i hope this still brings the romance vibe regardless. thank you @dollhoonki for hosting this with me! ur the sweetest ever <3333 also this is BARELY proofread because i was in such a rush to upload this asap, sorry… haha. Enjoy it Anyway Ok?

PLAYING ⋮ in the dark — venturing, bedsheets — illusion hills, about you — the 1975, basically any yearner song you can think of

WC ⋮ 15k

NISHIMURA RIKI was the love of your life. there wasn’t any question to it.

perhaps it took you a little over sixteen episodes to realise this—but when you did, oh—the feeling came full force, tugging, pushing at every heart string until you could no longer remember a single line of yours until he was off set.

the producers always found it odd. director kim thought there was a particularly niche charm behind it: made the chemistry ten times realer, and a hundred times more beautiful. he remembers when riki would stand in the rain, as the scene had called for, and you’d jumble up your words so horribly that they’d need at least six takes. six.

“y/n, dear god, are you sure you even went to hanlim?”

and you’d shrugged it off, as anyone else would.

but by the time episode five had aired, you’d watched yourself back on the premiere and almost peeled your skin off at how utterly lovestruck you looked in 4k resolution.

did you dream up hanlim, or did nishimura riki just have that effect on everyone?

what seemed even more puzzling was the fact that he was so understanding, weirdly kind about it all—telling you that it’s okay if you need twenty takes for a simple hallway-brush-of-fingers scene, or if you take a little too long to remember a line half-way into filming.

“it’s okay, y/n, really. we’re still on schedule, right?”

he’ll pass you a water bottle. wrap your blanket around you a little tighter because the set was, for some reason, planted in the middle of snowy seoul. you’re shivering and nishimura riki’s smiling at you, gentle and fuzzy like he doesn’t know he’s warmed you up more than the sweet coffee the makeup artists offered you earlier in the morning.

and there was those evenings when the cameras rolled a little too far past schedule—the sun bleeding into your hair, golden, soaking your skin in something he can’t quite replicate with a script.

it’s exactly why director kim just tells him to go with his gut. there’s nothing that a script-writer could pen and flesh out that’ll capture the way nishimura riki looks into your eyes—the way his hands reach for the small of your back, pulling you into his faux fur winter coat—dropping his head into your neck, small pecks against your forehead before the scripted goodbye.

“goodnight, seri.”

and though he mutters an entirely different name, production (and literally the entire cast) knows just who he’s referring to.

─────────────────────────

WHEN DO YOU REALISE YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON YOUR CO-STAR?

it’s after episode four.

the restaurant is tiny with the smell of oil and salt clinging to the walls—a hum of conversation buzzes around you, soft enough that it feels like the world has paused or turned it’s volume down.

you’re both exhausted. makeup’s smudged in places you don’t, can’t even care about, and your clothes are sticking to skin from hours under studio lights. the day has been eighteen hours of lights, cameras, endless retakes, and you can feel every second of it pressing down.

especially now.

riki sits across from you, stirring his drink absentmindedly, eyes never leaving your face. he’s looking at the way you desperately slurp your noodles, almost snickering at how you don’t even take a second glance at him once your noodles arrived.

“you like it?”

you’re nothing like what you post on instagram. he knows because he checks it every few days, even if he’s not allowed to follow you.

“fuck, this is amazing,” you mumble between slurps, chopsticks moving at lightning speed as they meet your lips. “you should’ve brought me here sooner!”

riki smiles softly, cheeks turning a light pink—the steam and your pure hunger blinds you to it, though. thankfully.

he leans into the leather seat, the booth suddenly feeling a little too warm for his liking. he’s not sure if it’s just in his head or if it’s all you.

regardless, riki blames it on the way you’re laughing through your noodles—the way his ears automatically pick up on every huff and giggle of yours. it’s making him feel all fuzzy.

nishimura riki needs to be up at seven tomorrow. you do too. so why are you kicking each other’s feet under the table at two in the morning, in some random ramen place?

and then his phone dings—it’s a reminder for 5 hours from now, which is the time he has to be up and ready to go on his morning run.

he continues to watch your hands move, noodles slipping from your grasp, chopsticks wobbling clumsily between your fingers, and he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

“you’re… fast,” he says quietly, voice soft, almost drowned out by the low hum of the restaurant.

you pause, mid-slurp, finally glancing up. “excuse me?”

your eyebrows raise, questioning, and he tilts his head. “fast eater,” he clarifies, chuckling under his breath. “hungry girl.”

heat crawls up your neck and spreads over your cheeks like spice powder. or maybe you’ve just put too much of it in your broth.

you’re not sure why this feeling in your stomach is specific to nishimura riki. you’ve heard of actors falling in love with each other—it’s what the crazy production schedules and close proximity does to you. the shared ambitions, the romance that they make you imitate on screen… it’s not special.

and yet.

there’s something in the way he says it. something in the soft lift of his lips, the warmth that flickers in his eyes, the patient way he watches you devour your noodles without a hint of judgment. not like the other co-stars, not like the crew, not like anyone who’s ever stared at you expecting a performance.

he sees you.

all of you.

and for the first time that week, maybe even that month, you feel… comfortable. like you could put down that annoyingly tight mask and not fear the world crumbling.

“full?” his eyes flicker momentarily to your emptying bowl, about three quarters done now. he takes another slow sip of his drink, his posture visibly relaxing at the warm liquid that glides down his throat.

“mhm,” you hum and then sigh, peering into your bowl to see a bowl licked clean of any soupy remains and lost noodles. “very.”

the warmth blooming in your chest feels more dizzying than the lack of sleep. your fingers place your chopsticks on your bowl, resting across it’s rim, chest still hammering like it wanted your heart out of it’s bony cage.

riki looks awfully casual, but his eyes never leave you. they glimmer in the warm light above your heads and the quiet focus in his gaze is intoxicating, like he’s taking you all in.

“what?” riki asks, not expecting any answer in particular; it’s more to tell you that he acknowledges the way you’re looking at him right now, and that he thinks it’s cute.

you can’t tell if it’s nerves, exhaustion, or something else entirely—all you know is that you want to keep looking back at him. over and over.

“do you always bring your coworkers out to dinner?”

riki chuckles, the blonde streak in his hair falling over his forehead. his nose scrunches as he laughs at your seemingly hilarious question—you can only stare blankly at him, anyway.

“hey,” you say, half-offended, half-curious. “it’s a valid question.”

riki shakes his head, still smiling. “no,” he says easily. “i don’t.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “so what, i’m special?”

it’s meant to be teasing, but he doesn’t answer immediately. the lag registers even in your extremely exhausted brain.

instead, riki’s just looking at you—strict, sharp eyebrows pinching in a way you’ve become familiar with. he does it when he’s not sure it what he’s going to say should even be said at all.

why is he looking at you like that, anyway?

“i just thought you’d like it,” he says finally, softer, like it doesn’t mean much. “you looked like you needed something real. that shit they were giving during filming had to be poison. even i couldn’t finish it.”

and it’s odd how true yet unequivocally false that reason is. yes, riki saw you visibly grimace at the thought of relying on energy drinks for fuel—and while he was also deathly worried that your heart might spontaneously combust, his reason for bringing you here is actually quite selfish.

he hates the way you act.

no; don’t get him wrong. he thinks you’re a brilliant actor. he’s watched every drama you’ve starred in as preparation for this one—he thinks the emotions you bring, the characters you wear, the words you spill are breathtaking. unmatched by anyone else.

correction: the acting he hates is the face you put on in front of everyone else, even if the cameras stop rolling.

the polite smile, the effortless charm, the perfectly curated instagram posts—he knows it’s a mask. he knows the real you is tucked somewhere under the exhaustion, the stubborn pride, the stress of everyone expecting you to be untouchable.

you falter. sometimes.

it’s in moments like when a shoot finally ends and your posture loosens, and immediately straightens again. or when you fall asleep on that grey couch in the makeup room, or when you think for a minute before declining a sweet treat from a staff member.

“you’re a little too observant for my liking,” you smile—and it’s like the world just stops for the man in front of you at a little flash of teeth.

“what kind of co-star would i be if i wasn’t?”

and maybe it’s the way the warm light hits his face. or it’s the faint scent of his cologne lingering, or the way his eyes crinkle when he actually smiles at you that gets your heart rate all sputtery and jumpy. you don’t really care.

your chest flutters, small and traitorous, and your fingers curl slightly into your palms—your nails sink into the flesh, like the pain is the only thing keeping you from leaning across the table and closing that distance.

“aren’t you scared someone’s gonna see us together?”

riki tilts his head, eyes catching yours with a faint gleam, like he’s intrigued that you’d even ask such a thing. “i know the owner. plus, even if someone did see us—i don’t think that’d be so bad.”

you let a short huff escape your nose, the sound barely registering above the hum of the restaurant, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck and to your ears.

it’s ridiculous. absurd, even. and yet you can’t deny the tiny pulse of thrill that runs through your chest. or maybe it’s just the tiny, demonic voices of your PR team telling you to get the hell out of there.

you glance down at your noodles, pretending to be distracted, but you’re acutely aware of him—the tilt of his shoulders, the quiet certainty in his voice, the fact that he sees you and doesn’t want to blink. just in case you’ll vanish.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

riki leans back slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and your stomach twists at the way it feels like he’s reading every thought you haven’t dared speak.

“meaaans,” he says slowly, lowering his head as if weighing the right words, “i am really good at handling PR matters. have you seen my insta—“

“riki!”

and then, you’re laughing in this tiny booth with him at two in the morning, acting like you’re anyone but the two people who have a week’s worth of activities crammed into a single day tomorrow—lips curling upwards, cheeks flushed in something unapologetically real.

but now riki’s looking at you with a calm so unfazed it makes you want to stop feeling altogether. the electricity in your veins is too loud, too sharp, and it makes zero sense—this isn’t supposed to happen now. it’s supposed to be that thick collection of paper that makes it romantic; the production. editing. soundtrack. where the hell are the cameras?

still, here he is, just sitting there. watching you like the world has narrowed down to this booth, this laugh, this stolen slice of time that he’s personally dragged you away for.

no slow love song. no slow motions or directed touches. just the two of you.

you can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything but feel it all.

has he always looked this good?

─────────────────────────

HE CALLS YOU CUTE IN THIS EPISODE.

seri is once again sacrificing precious hours of sleep to finish a dumb project with her involuntarily chosen partner—it’s two in the morning and he’s slumped over the coffee table, staring straight into her eyes, cheek smushed against his forearm as he counts the stars in her sparkly irises.

“i appreciate it, you know,” riki, or rather haruto, mumbles, and you almost snicker at the way the pen falls from between his fingers, spinning abruptly stopped. you’re not sure if that was part of his lines. “i was falling asleep in that lecture. i’m incredibly blessed to have you as my partner.”

“am i supposed to believe you?”

your pen scratches against the thick notebook paper, your mind scrambling to remember just what happens next—you’re doing great so far, writing everything the script had detailed, neatly, fitting everything into a single row. “anyway, this isn’t free, y’know. just cause you were sleeping, doesn’t mean i have to catch you up on everything.”

riki holds his knee close to his chest, tucked tight as his arm leans against the wood. he props his head up, lazily, like he was going to knock out cold any moment now.

the camera’s are panning towards him, close-ups, focusing on the way his eyes linger on your face. partially obscured by your hair, your irises peek through your locks, jumping around as you read the textbook that’s splayed open between the two of you. some random mathematical theorem nonsense the crew borrowed from a local library.

“oh?”

you know he’s watching. you know that this is what’s supposed to happen. you also know there’s at least thirty people watching you two do this—but that’s never been an issue. this is literally your job. you’ve been paid to do this for years, and so has riki; but it doesn’t make the pounding in your chest subside.

you’re about ten cues away from that damn line. you’re not sure why you’re counting, actually—you just know that it’s not out of your own volition.

you couldn’t help yourself when you saw it: riki’s line, a single, meaningless thing that was printed in thick ink on your scripts.

you had to restart with every run. you’d somehow jumble up all your words once you got to it. it is up to the heavens now that you remember all your lines, all your movements, all your memorised expressions once it happens.

“so, what do i owe you, my dear partner?” riki smiles, wide, easy. like he really means it—like the camera’s aren’t rolling right now, catching every faint glimmer in your eyes as you turn towards him, just as expected. your hair falls away from your face, your face glowing under the warm light cast overhead. “i think that this is enough. my presence is a gift.”

“you’re funny, haruto,” you scoff, and while it was truly humorous—enough for you to burst into a fit of laughter—you weren’t trying to film an entire scene again. your head turns back to your laptop, fingers mashing away, before you remember just what’s about to happen:

“and you’re. . .” he pauses. you wince. “cute. like, you know—”

cut!

the director’s voice slices through the set from behind the camera. he crosses his right leg over his left, a soft smile settling on his weathered face as he lets out a measured sigh.

there are two sides to the coin director kim seems to value so much: on one, the kind of electric chemistry you can’t manufacture between just any two co-leads; on the other, the inevitability that one of you will ruin a take the second the proximity gets too real.

riki bites down on his bottom lip, worrying the skin raw before squeezing his eyes shut, as if that might shield him from the camera crew’s stares—and from the co-stars lingering just beyond the set.

this is bad. humiliating, even.

it’s one line. one stupid line that a fifth grader in a school play could deliver without blinking, and he’s tripping over it like he only decided to become an actor yesterday.

what the hell is wrong with him?

he knows the line. he’s memorized the entire script front to back, could probably recite your dialogue along with his if someone shook him awake at three in the morning. this scene isn’t heavy. it isn’t layered with subtext or grief or some grand emotional crescendo.

“you okay?”

your voice brings him back to this plane of reality embarrassingly fast. he opens his eyes before laughing dryly, scratching at the back of his neck in an attempt to play it off.

“yeah,” he replies, “i’m good.”

your eyebrow lifts, unconvinced, but you don’t press. instead, you turn toward the crew clustered behind the cameras and lighting rigs. the set hums back to life—indistinct chatter, footsteps shuffling across the floor, the click of equipment being adjusted.

“i’m so sorry!” he calls out to the staff, bowing his head slightly. there’s a beat, then a ripple of easy laughter.

it’s your damn face that’s ruining his ability to act. it just brings him back to that night—the one where you had soup on your chin and a feverish hunger in your eyes, when your face was bare from makeup swiping micellar water all over your face after filming.

damn this stupid scene. damn your pretty, bare face that keeps stealing all his focus.

and damn his lack of discipline.

a few quiet minutes pass as everyone resets. light technicians adjust the angles overhead; the cinematographer reviews the last clip in low murmurs. cables are checked, marks retaped, continuity confirmed.

director kim straightens in his foldable chair, posture sharpening with renewed focus. he rubs his chin once, contemplative, then looks back toward the monitor.

riki leans lightly against the couch prop pressing against his back, waiting for the cue. he stares at nothing in particular, jaw strung tight, anything to negate your presence next to him.

he feels like a little kid next to his crush.

a makeup artist steps in to reapply balm to his lips—he’s chewed most of it off without realizing earlier.

“stop biting.” she mutters gently, disposable applicator dabbing away at his lips. her gaze is oddly judgmental, like she knows exactly what’s going on.  is he being that obvious?

he gives her a sheepish nod. you can’t help but snicker at that—smiling at the way his ears flush a pretty peach hue when he realises you’re staring.

“can we test the mics one more time?” the sound engineer calls.

the boom dips. the red indicator light blinks on.

“haruto, give me a line, will you?”

riki swallows. “and you’re. . .” his voice catches for half a breath—his eyes flick up. it’s the wrong move. you’re still watching. “cute.”

it’s barely audible on their end. his mic must have shifted around while filming the previous scenes.

“have i lost my hearing?” the engineer frowns. “someone fix his mic—“

riki swallows, jaw tight, and instinctively fiddles with the collar where it—the mic—should’ve been sitting. it’s true it’s shifted, now upside down and barely clinging to the thin fabric inside his shirt, but he doesn’t exactly do a great job fixing it himself.

and you. being the angel you are, and maybe the devil whispering in his ear, step in.

“hold on,” you murmur, tugging the fabric aside and pressing the wire flat against his collarbone. your fingers brush his bare, warm skin for just a second, and he freezes while you readjust the audio device. “there. don’t move.”

nishimura riki thinks he’ll go into cardiac arrest—and while he is probably one of the best actors in the industry right now, most people on set could argue that there was nothing that could be done to hide the furious blush on his face… and the ways his eyes softened as your fingers grazed his skin.

he swallows trying to pull in a steadying breath, but his chest feels like it’s vibrating with a rhythm that doesn’t belong to his body. riki’s hands twitch at his sides, searching for something to direct his electrifying nerves to; the mic rests against his collarbone, perfectly adjusted thanks to you.

“thanks,” he mumbles when you pull away. you don’t reply, but the curl on the right corner of your lips speaks loud enough.

the crew murmurs while they adjust the lights, cameras, cables. it’s nothing to him, at least in this very moment—nishimura riki doesn’t notice when his name crackles through the earpiece, instead focusing on the odd suspension of time that floats around you: your eyelashes fluttering slowly, your movements that drag just behind everyone else’s.

“rolling!”

the red light flicks on.

it’s especially when the cameras start moving that he finds himself wishing—desperately—that there was a script for something like this.

─────────────────────────

THE MEDIA HAD IT’S FIELD DAY.

as usual.

it started small—harmless, almost predictable. every actor goes through this shit. it’s a promotional instagram story from riki: he always posts something from set. expensive sunglasses that he has no business wearing indoors. a blurry mirror selfie after hair and makeup, peace sign and all with a caption that means absolutely nothing.

you do the same. a quick snap in the dressing room mirror. a close-up of a prop you think is adorable. a behind-the-scenes shot of the couch from the confession scene. nothing incriminating. nothing meaningful.

and then the netizens begin.

they do their thing: zoom. crop. enhance. hell, there’s ship edits where you two aren’t even in the same frame.

it’s nothing you two aren’t used to. it’s never been new in this industry—you’ve lived through it all before, with different co-stars, different dramas, with less substantial “evidence”.

yet, with nishimura riki, you can barely keep it together.

it’s mostly because of the way you’re positioned conveniently in the corner of riki’s 19:6 story frame, half-hidden yet unmistakably you—with those winter boots and that painfully recognisable phonecase.

the way your laugh can be heard faintly in the background of one of his few stories.

the way your name somehow appears under almost every post he makes—tagged, mentioned, or simply standing two feet to his left.

but someone always has to notice the coffee, huh?

screenshots circulate within minutes. it’s two cups on the table. riki’s usual order written with his initials in black marker. and next to it, another cup with yours scribbled along the side.

next, someone replays that clip of him staring at you with a furious blush on his face—stunned, in all his glory, hands clawing at the fur carpet beneath you two like he needs something physical to remind himself this is real. it’s slowed down, zoomed in, sharpened to an almost criminal percentage. ‘so high school’ plays at half-volume over the edit, the chorus swelling right as your fingers brush his collarbone while fixing his mic, and the caption boldly justifies it by saying that co-stars don’t lose their voice over a simple, friendly interaction like that. be serious.

you tell yourself it’s ridiculous.

edits are manipulative by design. anyone can make a moment look bigger than it was.

still, you were there, and even without the slow motion or the corny music—you remember the way his breath hitched, the way nishimura riki’s throat bobbed before he forced out that soft, trembling “cute.”

watching it now, replayed for roughly 1.2 million people, your stomach does that same traitorous flip.

rikilover1234: does he know theres cameras

↳ jakrling127: i dont think he gaf tbh

it’s saturday. the episode aired five hours ago. you’ve been scrolling for two, refreshing your timeline like it personally owes you new information. every reload brings another slowed clip, another zoomed screenshot, another thread dissecting the exact millisecond his composure cracked.

it’s for a moment—just a fleeting, insignificant moment—you wonder if nishimura riki’s doing the same.

the thought lodges itself in your brain like a marble in a tin can, loud and impossible to ignore. is he seeing this? is he watching the same edits? does he know people are counting how many times he looked at you versus literally anythingelse in the room?

your thumb keeps swiping. your own face fills the screen again and again, interview snippets praising your performance, captions about how you “outdid yourself.”

yes! you should be focused on that.

and still, as if the fbi agent in your phone suddenly possessed mind-reading skills, your phone decided that riki’s clips need to keep slipping in between.

fans rambling about how different the atmosphere seemed when he was on set. how there was a glow on his face. how he wouldn’t stop smiling for nine out of ten minutes of the vlog. how he kept leaning toward you like you had your own orbit, and he was the moon.

someone stitches together every moment he laughs at something you say. another overlays heart graphics every time his eyes flick in your direction.

“my god,” you groan, feet kicking into the cushions on your sofa as you sink further in. a glass of wine sits on the edge of your glass table, still full from your distracted doomscroll.

you continue anyway.

scroll, scroll, scroll—and then, there’s something new.

it’s a past interview from when you first started filming together—around eight months ago. he’s wearing one of those expensive hoodies you can never pronounce, dark fabric swallowing his frame, sunglasses folded neatly on the table in front of him. the microphone looks obnoxiously huge against his face, headphones snug over his hair. it’s a radio show you’ve been on countless times before for different promotions.

the edit zooms mostly on him. the two hosts are cropped into smaller frames at the top so everyone stays visible. they bring you up, of course—how it’s like working with such a beloved actress, whether you’re still as kind and shy as you were during your first drama.

you snicker at your screen, cringing at the memory: you had been sweating bullets that day, barely able to form full sentences. absolutely stunned that anyone thought you deserved a talk show invite after one project.

“yeah! i remember she was stammering back then!” one of the hosts laughs, lighthearted.

and yet, riki doesn’t laugh with him.

he straightens instead, adjusts his posture. his hand slides off the table and folds neatly in his lap, like he’s bracing himself to answer something serious. the smile on his face softens—like he’s aware that they’re just teasing, and that he’s proud of the fact that if they saw you now, they’d never do it again.

he’s choosing his words.

“she’s amazing… incredibly talented. never worked with anyone like her,” nishimura riki replies, his voice crisp and clean through the obscenely expensive microphone pushed toward his mouth.

“i forget my words sometimes. everyone does,” he continues, fingers brushing the edge of the table before stilling. he tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing whether he should say the next part at all.

he says it anyway.

“but when i look at her while filming, it all comes back to me. even if it’s not exactly the correct words, it just feels right.”

one of the hosts lets out a low, impressed hum. the other raises their brows, before looking towards the camera. “oh?”

riki only shrugs in response. like what he said wouldn’t fuel the endless ship edits to come in the months following.

and watching it now, eons later, you feel something shift uneasily in your chest—because at the time, you remember brushing it off, chalking it up to good media training. it’s co-star courtesy and polite admiration that was totally normal between two colleagues.

totally.

so why the hell are you blushing?

your nails clack against your screen as you click on the comments.

ericsohnsdirtysock: my parents… what do you mean it just feels right.?????

↳ xxjamesalphademoncoolxx: he is in love ill die on this y/nriki shaped hill

you laugh nervously, shaking your head. you bundle up into the woven blanket laid across your body, an odd idea considering the heat on your face just refuses to let up—perhaps it’s to hide your embarrassingly flushed face to whoever may be watching.

yes. it’s definitely that. your ancestors are shaking their heads, and you feel it.

your thumb moves almost without thinking. it’s a light tap: a stupidly, absurdly light amount of pressure that you think even an ant could outdo.

fuck.

the heart pops up anyway, and as fast as it does, your stomach plummets thirty floors down. splat, right on the concrete pavement below your complex.

your fingers freeze over your screen. your whole body has gone cold—this is catastrophic. an actress, liking a ship edit of her and her colleague. you might as well sign your contract termination.

oh, your agency is going to kill you.

─────────────────────────

IT’S NEARING MIDNIGHT.

the night is quiet, save for the steady rumble of riki’s car—he’s parked outside, not quite ready to roll into his garage just yet.

the gate to his house is tall in all it’s wooden glory. his house is humongous and dim from the lack of life in it, and he wonders for a moment if his dog is asleep yet, or waiting up for him. again.

still, he sinks further into the plush seat, pulling his phone out from his glovebox, refusing to let himself inside his own home.

the day had worn him out. endless shoots, modelling for brands that his manager insisted on promoting. it was five hours of posing with inconspicuous items that drained most of his energy, if tolerating that snobby photographer wasn’t the main cause.

well, at least the shots were good. nothing less expected from him.

the device feels heavy in his hands. it’s heavy, or perhaps he’s just too exhausted to be doing this. either way, it unlocks with one glance—and he’s opening instagram up. 

his other hand runs through his hair. some of the gel from this morning sticks to his fingers, but all he can do is sigh and scroll, looking for nothing in particular (lie), typing no one’s name into the search bar (lie), and clicking on a very unfamiliar profile (lie).

who is he kidding?

it’s your post from the evening after your last dinner together. you’re holding a cup of coffee, sunlight spilling over your face, eyes crinkled in a laugh at something off-camera. the warmth of it makes his chest tighten, a quiet, familiar ache he’s been trying to ignore.

nishimura riki leans back in the seat, the leather pressing against him, and suddenly the exhaustion of the day feels almost inconsequential—all he can see is you.

the tilt of your head, the subtle way your fingers wrap around the cup, the ease of a laugh that he’s learnt to memorise the pitch of.

and the truth registers then: like the slow turn of a key in a lock, or something he’s been waiting to even think about when he’s not busy smiling for a camera.

riki’s been thinking about you all damn day—between flashes and camera clicks, posing for shots that demanded every ounce of energy he had.

it’s not the exhaustion that weighs on him.

no—it’s you. it’s all fucking you.

why isn’t he switching to his burner account is beyond him. he’s playing with fire as his thumb swipes mindlessly, each meeting of his finger with the screen a silent dare to his image.

he continues through the endless feed, fatigue pressing into his bones, when something sharp catches his eye: a post from one of those gossip pages.

it’s like there really are government agents in his phone. sunghoon will receive a call about this, he notes.

the thumbnail makes him pause. there it is—your name, your face, and the tiny heart you’d left on a fan edit, now blown up for anyone to see. the caption teases, something about “who’s really behind these likes?” and it’s simply ridiculous how he can’t help the rush of warmth that hits his cheeks.

a grown man, smiling at his screen in his car. his elderly neighbour is going to have a stroke.

and then he’s opening the comments, the air leaving his lungs instantaneously: the comments are vicious, casual in their cruelty, dissecting your actions, judging, speculating with what little they had. like usual.

he’s officially lost it.

nishimura riki is worried. for you. his co-star. his colleague.

the comments only get worse the more he scrolls. he knows this pattern like the back of his hand: he’s seen it before with other leads, people who could shrug it off, people who didn’t matter—people who he’s never thought twice about.

riki tenses up again, chest tight, fingers curling around the phone like he can hold onto you through it.

they know nothing about you. nothing about how kind you are when no one’s watching, how your shyness blooms around people who mean well, how your laugh—a little too loud by nature—can melt the tension on set faster than anyone else’s words ever could.

they don’t see how beautiful you are when the only light he can focus on is the soft glow in your eyes, or the warm yellow halo above your head. they don’t see the stubborn streak that keeps you moving forward when everything else tells you to turn back—nor the quiet, meticulous persistence that makes you fix every detail until it’s just right.

oh my god.

when did this even start?

perhaps the sweat on his palms is imaginary. his heart isn’t racing. he’s not biting back a smile while scrolling through your instagram again, and he’s definitely not replaying your highlights from when you were on vacation in japan—eyes zeroed on your adorable face, your laugh booming through the speakers as you fall backward into some random stretch of snow.

your arms are wide, moving up and down enthusiastically, like that was the entire point of the trip.

his jaw tightens.

the weather’s getting colder now. he wonders if you’re bundling up properly. if you remembered the thicker coat you always forget until someone reminds you, or if you’re in bed right now—tangled in too many blankets and sneezing into your sleeves because you refused to dry your hair completely. or maybe you’re by the window with a cup of tea, blowing gently across the rim before taking a careful sip.

nishimura riki shouldn’t want to know these things. shouldn’t think about them, shouldn’t care. shouldn’t even spare a single minute in his already insanely cramped schedule to have you running through his mind.

but he does care, and you do run through his mind. beautifully, might he add. he swears the image of you pops up in his head at least twice a day.

thrice, if he counts staring at your profile picture on his phone.

[NISHIMURA RIKI]: do you wanna get dinner tomorrow? after filming  23:58

[NISHIMURA RIKI]: ramen is good in this weather yknowww  23:59

the message looks deceptively casual, almost careless—like it didn’t take him five full minutes to decide whether or not to add the last sentence. he checks the time twice before sending it, as if the hour could reveal how much he’s been thinking about you.

the answer is all fucking day.

it’s this feeling that has him locked in his own car, clothes clinging to his skin, heart beating at the wrong pace, wrong rhythm.

riki drops his head back against the seat, staring at the dark ceiling of the car. the streetlight outside spills through the windshield in a muted gold, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his throat.

ramen is good in this weather.

is he in middle school? what the fuck kind of excuse is that?

─────────────────────────

RIKI LOVED THIS PLACE.

if the food didn’t do it for him, it was the atmosphere. the air barely shifts when he strolls in—that bell above his head rings, and all he gets is a ‘welcome back’ from the head chef through that tiny window in the kitchen.

some celebrities say their home is the only place they can truly strip themselves of the lies they’ve worn throughout the day; the mask cracks once they’re enveloped by their familiar abode.

for riki, it’s that tiny booth seat at the back of this restaurant that does him in.

the leather is cracked and slightly stained with god knows what—the wooden table is chipped at the edges from years of accidental elbow nudges, and riki swears he sweats a little when he sinks all the way into the corner seat.

it’s ridiculous that he keeps returning here despite it all. his friends dine at michelin, fine-dining restaurants with four figure courses, while he slurps noodles at the back of a hole-in-the-wall that reminds him of his hometown.

and it’s enough that the food is equivalent to a flight back home—but nobody here knows who he is, or knows enough to care. there was once the bartender asked him what he did for work and riki responded with ‘to look pretty’.

it’s an hour to midnight and the snow is unforgiving, thick flakes collecting on the shoulders of your coat before you can even brush them off. you were the one who brought it up—how you were so hungry and needed a proper meal before heading home.

filming had wrapped earlier than expected, and while a few eyebrows were raised at the way both you and riki declined the after-party beers a little too quickly, the part where you slipped away from the group was even quicker.

it’s harmless. just food. together. away from everyone else like it was a secret that needed to be kept.

still, you keep your head down as you walk, scarf pulled higher over your mouth. your breath fogs into the night air and riki’s eyes can’t help but to catch the way you scrunch your nose in the cold—his fingers twitch, involuntarily, when yours rub together.

the city feels quieter under snow, softer, less busy, as if to make room for the both of you.

riki’s a step behind you at first, hands tucked into his coat pockets, matching your pace without saying much. you can feel him there without looking—the familiarity of it settling into your bones in a way that’s become routine.

they’ve started saying ‘welcome back’ to you, too.

“you’re the one who said you were starving,” he says lightly, as you turn the corner. same teasing edge that still gets on your nerves, but never enough to bite back. “i can hear your stomach already.”

“i am,” you reply. “don’t act like you weren’t waiting for me to say it.”

a faint laugh escapes him, warm against the cold. “i didn’t confirm that.”

but he doesn’t deny it, either.

the bell above the restaurant door rings when nishimura riki pushes it open for you, and the warmth hits instantly: humid, fragrant, sesame oil wafting through the air like it was a signature smell. the chef calls out his usual greeting—now smiling at the both of you—and that small, strange feeling begins to swell in your chest. again.

that booth.

no one else has sat there since you two last came. it’s nice to know that this spot has only ever belonged to him, and then to you, and the two of you together.

like it remembers, like it’s been waiting for you just as much as you’ve been waiting for it.

“back again?” someone calls out from the kitchen, and riki only smiles in response before his fingers find yours. he leads you toward the table with an ease that feels practiced, your fingers hooked loosely around his as if they’ve always known where to settle. there’s no hesitation in his grip, no glance over his shoulder to check if you’re still there.

like this is normal.

you can tell yourself that it is. the way you instinctively say ‘hello’, or the way your feet move before your brain does—towards that same booth, seats practically sunken in from the weight of both of you pressing down from frequent late nights.

you can tell yourself that this is like any other place, any other restaurant, any other spot—but the truth lingers in the smallest behaviours: your finger brushing his when he makes you try his bowl, your hearty laugh when riki lets you in on an inside joke between him and the owner, or your eyes softening when he tells you that this is your place as much as it is his.

is it, though?

the thought lodges itself into your chest. it never leaves, not until your boots scrape against the concrete outside and you’re peering back in through the windows. your bowls are still there, uncleared, licked clean. as always.

you’re waiting for a taxi. he’s waiting for yours to pick you up, so he can call his own.

“did you mean to like it?”

you’re counting the slabs on the floor. contemplate about it’s arrangement like it’ll tell you what to say to him.

riki’s scarf is covering most of his face. his face is scrunched up, looking towards the road.

“it’s fucking hilarious,” he mutters. “what they’re saying about us.”

riki’s voice is quiet enough that it almost gets swallowed by the wind. you hear it all, anyway—can’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about.

the snow crunches faintly beneath your boots as you shift your weight. your taxi hasn’t turned the corner yet. the streetlight casts him in this soft glow, diffused, bright enough to see the worry sown into his face.

“it was just a tap,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. “my thumb. it slips sometimes.”

“your thumb,” he repeats, like he’s testing the logic of it. it’s not like he could disprove it, anyway. “yeah, sure.”

you finally glance at him. he’s standing closer than necessary, hands tucked into his coat pockets again, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. snow gathers in his hair. he doesn’t brush it away.

“if it didn’t mean anything,” riki continues carefully, “you could just say that.”

there’s barely any accusation in the words he chooses—his voice low, calm, everything that you aren’t. you sniffle once, blinking slowly as you reconsider your options carefully:

one, you tell him that it didn’t mean anything, or

two, you don’t respond.

or three, you tell the truth—admit that you watched it through, thought about him, wondered if the algorithm had been cruel enough to place the same video on his feed. confess that you thought of him at all.

“it didn’t.”

the lie leaves too easily.

and it’s odd how quickly you wish you could take it back—the ache blooming in your chest almost instantly, your stomach sinking in a way only regret can trigger. you know exactly why you said it. you know exactly what you’re protecting.

isn’t this cruel?

the last time a rumor attached itself to your name, it took months to untangle. articles dissecting your expressions. fans choosing sides. strangers building narratives out of nothing.

but that’s just it—nishimura riki is far from nothing.

your mind goes back to him. always. and so do your eyes, when your head involuntarily (debatable) turns towards his direction—just for a second.

nishimura riki only stares on. silent as the howl of this cold city, sharp nose peeking over the fabric of his dark scarf. snow settles on his lashes and he blinks once, twice, brushing it away without lifting a hand.

“well,” he mumbles, but his voice is a little muffled from where you’re standing. “i’ll see you tomorrow, won’t i?”

he will.

the low hum of passing motorbikes and cars nearly swallows the faint unsteadiness in his voice. he’s trying to keep it normal, to let you retreat with dignity, to pretend tomorrow will reset whatever just shifted tonight.

“yeah.”

so, when your head ducks and the warmth of this unfamiliar car finally graces you, it feels less like relief and more like retreat.

“goodnight, y/n.”

the door shuts with a muted thud, sealing you off from the cold—and from him. the heater hums to life almost immediately, dry warmth brushing against your cheeks, thawing skin that had gone numb in the snow. you murmur the address to the driver with a voice steady enough, and sink back into the seat as the car pulls away from the curb.

and though you know not to look, you still do.

through the fogging window, you catch him still standing there, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. he hasn’t moved.

the streetlight halos him in something almost cinematic, snow drifting lazily around him as if the world has time has suspended itself around him.

your reflection overlays riki’s figure as the car turns, your face ghosting over his body until he disappears completely from view. for a brief second, the two of you exist in the same frame: superimposed and inseparable before the angle breaks, and he’s gone.

no one is watching. no one has their phone shoved in your face demanding answers you can’t even begin to formulate. no one is zooming in on the space between you and him, slowing it down frame by frame, building a narrative out of a glance.

no one knows about this—whatever this is.

the car glides past intersections glazed in white, streetlights streaking across the window in soft, passing lines. it would be so easy to keep it that way. to let this exist only in late-night restaurants and snow-muted sidewalks, in conversations that never leave the air between the two of you.

the night moves like a silent black and white movie. blurry, choppy, muted as you punch in the code to your door.

you shower, slip into pajamas, sink into bed, and scroll, landing on nishimura riki’s page. again.

his latest post was just two hours ago—uploaded while you were juggling ten million side dishes, chopsticks flying, noodles disappearing faster than you realized. the first photo is his dog, curled up in sunlight, then a few casual shots of his outfits, his breakfast, a cup of coffee steaming in the morning light.

and then, you.

the frame catches you mid-laugh on set, a streak of paint smeared across your cheek, sunlight glinting off your hair. your eyes crinkle at the corners, wide and carefree, probably a little too much so.

even through the chaos of crew members, lights, cameras, and cables, every pixel seems to pause on you. the focus is undeniable. the photographer had his intentions.

and you can almost hear the echo of laughter, the soft scrape of your sneakers against the studio floor, everything.

even the way riki’s heart skips a beat at the shutter click.

─────────────────────────

NISHIMURA RIKI DENIES LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.

okay—maybe not his life. yours.

it’s mostly because he can already imagine it: the screenshots, the headlines, the instagram posts dissecting your accidental like like it was a signed confession. he can picture the way your smile would tighten along with the way your shoulders would lift defensively, the humiliation of being turned into a trending topic for something you didn’t even mean to do.

and the comments—the endless stream of slightly insane netizens making you seem like you’re delusional, crazy, desperate or all of the above.

riki hates it. he especially hates how he can’t reply to these comments themselves and tell them to run off the nearest cliff.

you see, usually, he’d mind his business. let agencies handle it. the managers can draft statements and spin barely believable narratives that won’t hurt as bad as those nasty comments.

after all, that’s what they’re paid for. he’s paid to act, promote, smile, and go home.

so why does it feel entirely different now?

riki’s sitting beside you in a brightly lit studio, ridiculous knit hat perched on his head because the segment demanded “fun accessories”.

the cameras are rolling, the host is laughing, and you’re holding a fairy wand with a plastic crown on your head. comments are streaming up the monitor like a waterfall of chaos, and he keeps looking at you—far more often than necessary.

you’re nervous. riki can see it even if you do it with your right hand instead of your left, further out of everyone’s sight. your fingers press into your thighs beneath the table, nails digging into fabric like you’re trying not to lose your composure at the 20th are-you-dating-eachother question.

your smile flickers half a second too late between questions. you nod a little too eagerly when the host jokes. you don’t do that thing where you clap or slam the table when something’s truly funny, riki notices, because nothing is truly worth the fake joy right now.

“sooo,” the host says brightly, glancing at the screen, “everyone wants to know—after that viral like—are you two actually together?”

and you grit your teeth because you just know from the way the crew behind set start to stare, just a little harder than before, that this is what it’s all been about.

you and riki received the invite on late-notice.

you should’ve known from the first question that this was another stupid interview that they’ll clip out of context, and soon after editing, be uploaded with an absurd thumbnail: faces cropped inches apart, added blush, a few added sweat effects.

oh, and the bold text in neon: CONFESSION?!

“uh…” riki mutters, eyes flickering towards you for just a moment—and it eats at you. the guilt of dragging him into this, the humiliation of him having to answer it at all; and even if he laughs it off, if he distances himself too clearly, if he makes it obvious this is ridiculous… everyone will see it.

riki straightens.

“no,” he says, firm. leaving no room for anyone to pry. “we’re not together.”

“we’re coworkers. we promote together. that’s it,” smiling politely, riki nods, eyes drifting towards you again. “the like was probably an accident. fans are creative.”

you forget you’re on camera. the fake smile you plaster on lags a little too obviously, and still—no one dares to push.

your nails dig into your thighs again under the table. you nod when the camera turns to you. “yes, it was nothing,” you add on, keeping your voice as even and unemotional as you can manage. “now, um—i just remembered my answer to the fifth question!”

nishimura riki knows when you’re acting, and he knows when you’re not. that’s the problem.

it’s months of standing inches apart under hot lights that trained him to catalogue you instinctively—the hitch in your breath before a line, the way your eyes can never stay on his when you’re lying about how much sleep you got, the way you overcompensate with cheerfulness when you’re getting yelled at by an assistant director.

he’s memorized you in ways scripts could never capture.

it’s all because of those late nights running scenes until sunrise, sharing a blanket when the outdoor shoot felt like a freezer. your fingers are threading through his during that confession scene in episode six and all riki can think about is how he wishes this was real—how he silently begs for everyone else to vanish.

or how he pleads, to no one in particular, that you’d be more than what a contract can outline.

though, right now, that’s all you are.

“oh my god,” riki exhales, a short, incredulous laugh slipping out before he can stop it. it isn’t mocking—it’s almost defensive. like he’s trying to shield you from how transparent this is.

he turns toward the host instead of you.

“she’s really competitive about those questions,” riki says lightly. a deliberate attempt at steering it away that just rubs salt in all your little papercuts. “if she thinks she got one wrong, she’ll think about it all day.”

the crew laughs, the host bites. the conversation swerves and riki never looks at you a second time.

─────────────────────────

IT’S JUST A KISS.

you’ve done it before—different co-stars, different sets, different plots with a different set of eyes glued onto you.

and still, the lights are glaring, the chatter is too loud, and the busy shuffle of shoes across the pavement is making you go crazy.

they’re still adjusting the lighting: warm, diffused, just enough to look real under the streetlamp. this corner of the park’s been closed off for filming, instead swarming with staff and management that have no business looking so stressed on a sunday night. air leaves you in a cold exhale, the vapour of your warm breath condensing in the chill.

riki’s sitting on a bench, sipping slowly from a coffee cup that’s become a signature now. there’s a few people talking to him—probably running through the scene again, due to the fact that he has way more lines than you this time—all while he nods, eyes fixated on the ground, or somewhere distant. you don’t know. you can barely see before makeup pulls at your hair.

you blink fast as you try to recalibrate. your reflection in the portable mirror feels foreign.

tonight, you are seri. you’ve always been seri.

and tonight, riki—or haruto—kisses you.

haruto marukami confesses his feelings to han seri after he breaks her heart.

in the script, he chooses ambition over love. he pushes seri away to protect her from the fallout of his scholarship scandal: coaches frown at missed routines, professors shake their heads at distracted focus, his discipline crumbling under the weight of his own heart.

he denies it when confronted—but everyone sees it.

how he wants you more than he wants that coveted spot in the rankings. how he wants you more than anything he could ever need from anyone and anything else.

it’s true—haruto never needed seri.

it’s just that tonight… when the script places seri’s teary face in front of him, haruto has to say what his heart begs him to.

“action!”

you step into the frame like this is who you are—it’s a little odd how you don’t have to try as hard to get the tears to flow. your boots scrape against the concrete, body moving, hitting every beat like this is choreography you’ve memorised to a T.

the cue comes.

riki steps closer, and even in character, the air between you feels thicker. it’s heavy, hanging with the weight of every emotion that seri and haruto’s shared, and even if none of it is real—your heart races and the tears prick your skin.

light snow falls on top of your heads. they fall on riki’s lashes, melting soon after, and he’s blinking like he’s unsure what this all means.

it’s just a kiss. a fake one. that’s what it means.

it’s his eyes that get you. thoughtful, like he can’t stand seeing you cry—they’re lingering, searching for something you’re not quite sure you can let be seen on camera.

you tilt your chin. your pulse is thudding hard, blood rushing everywhere; cars zoom past and the quiet sound of snow crunching underneath the tires makes none of this easier to avoid. you have nowhere to look except him.

every rustle of the crew behind the cameras fades. the world shrinks to the soft glow of the streetlamp and the space between your bodies.

his hand brushes yours—accidentally, or maybe not—before trailing up, fingers cupping your jaw with a softness that feels impossible on a set like this. riki holds you like you’re fragile porcelain, like any more pressure and you might shatter under his touch.

“pause… three, two.”

your breath catches, the countdown fading behind the rush of awareness, the tight coil of something electric between you.

“now.”

his lips press against yours. warmth blooms instantly, a fuzzy, dangerous sweetness crawling through your chest, sinking low into your stomach. it spreads, slow and intoxicating, like poison that seeps into every muscle until you’ve gone numb.

it’s technical. just a kiss. practiced and controlled like he’d run through it thousands of times before.

and then it isn’t.

there’s a tremor in his body, like his knees have just gone weak—it’s subtle when he shifts closer—he’s bringing your frame closer to his, desperate to hold onto you like this is the only time he, or you, won’t get punished for it.

nishimura riki’s hands move down: looping around your waist, keeping you flush against him—and no matter how much he fights to remember the next line and cue, he can’t seem to care.

your own fingers twitch, searching, remembering the last time you shared a touch that wasn’t under a lens. you’re not sure if this counts.

the director’s voice cuts through faintly in the distance, but it doesn’t reach you. the cameras, the lights, the crew—all of it melts away.

and when you pull slightly apart, the air between you is thick with something unspoken.

riki’s eyes meet yours: raw, slightly red from tears that he fought to keep in. your hands are trembling against his skin, and riki can feel every shaky breath that you try to draw.

“cut. fucking perfect.”

neither of you move.

“what are we doing?” riki whispers, low and hesitant, like any louder and he might lose control and take it all back.

your hands stay frozen against him, pulse hammering. your breath hitches, and you feel a lump in your throat beginning to clog every word you can think of saying.

“i don’t know.” you admit, the words bitter on your tongue, tangling with something raw and unspoken between you.

and you wish—desperately—that you could kiss him again. just for a second. without the cameras. without the crew. without every eye dissecting you like you’re a spectacle to be consumed.

without a care that the world is watching.

it feels insane. every celebrity craves that moment of security, that stolen privacy that never comes. you’ve always told yourself you’re the same—that you can navigate the glare, the gossip, the scrutiny.

and yet, here and now, in the middle of it all—you still want to be his. in front of the lights, the cameras, the industry that would personally strangle you both.

“okay.”

he pulls away—ten seconds too late. everyone behind set stares as if he’s lost his mind. his hands fall to his sides. a few steps back and he turns on his feet completely, muttering to the nearest staff member that he needs to get going. family emergency.

she looks at him like he’s gone crazy.

you’re left standing there, cold, the phantom heat of his body still pressing against yours.

“thank you for the hard work everyone,” director kim exclaims, and a burst of applause quick erupts in this corner of the park. “please rest well tonight!”

your eyes flick back to where riki had run off to. he’s nowhere to be seen: disappeared completely with the image of his back turned on you burned into your retinas, like a cruel joke.

it’s only when you get into your car that you realise his is already gone, and even later when you curl up into bed—waiting for a text that never comes.

─────────────────────────

THE WEEKS THAT PASS ARE BLURRY.

initially, filming was slightly less than torturous—everything remained the same, but the two of you never did. every tiny thing felt like it was nudged off its axis, subtle enough that no one else noticed, but sharp enough that you did.

you told this is how it has always been. that this is the chemistry everyone keeps praising in interviews, the spark directors lean forward for behind their monitors. this is what makes the acting believable.

your throat still tightened every time you saw him.

five weeks later and the lights tonight are dim, warm and yellow, softer than the harsh studio glare you’ve been used to the past few months. they cast you in something forgiving, highlighting the careful brushstrokes of makeup the staff spent an hour perfecting. bookcases line the walls, filled with worn spines and quiet color. the space is small. intimate. almost domestic.

when you walked in, you expected a full production: towering cameras, boom mics suspended overhead, assistants darting around with clipboards. you expected a host with a polished grin and rehearsed questions designed to bait headlines—to measure every word, to survive another week of clipped edits and trending speculation that had nothing meaningful to say.

instead, your shoes meet wooden floorboards. there’s a low table. three chairs. two cups of hot tea already waiting. your weight sinks into the chair, the tension in your spine already undoing itself at the lack of glaring lights and busy shuffle behind the cameras.

it’s like you’re the only people here.

the host greets you gently. her voice is steady, unhurried. her eyes don’t linger on you any longer than they do on riki.

“should we get started, then?”

riki sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. he doesn’t look nervous, god, he never does—but his ears perk at your voice, involuntarily attentive to the shift of your weight and the soft ruffle of your clothes against skin.

“please welcome our guests, everyone.”

the first few questions are easy. favorite scenes. hardest shoots. what you learned about yourselves during filming, and what you wish you could’ve redone.

riki’s leaning back into his chair, toying with a tiny dice between his fingers. he answers everything with ease, voice low and steady, that familiar depth settling into the room and making it feel smaller than it is. you can already picture the comments that will flood in later:

how good he looks tonight.

how much quieter he seems when he’s seated next to you.

how his gaze softens every time you start speaking.

how he looks at you like you’ve strung the constellations into place yourself and decided, just for him, to let the world keep spinning.

you try not to look back at him for too long. the camera may be discreet, the setting intimate—but you’re not naive. angles can be manipulated. expressions can still be slowed down. meaning can still be assigned where you never meant to leave it, or where you never intended to reveal.

so you focus on the tea in your hands instead, on the warmth seeping into your palms, on the steady cadence of nishimura riki’s voice as the host nods along to his answers. but even without turning, you hear it—the soft hitch of his breath when you say his name again, and again, and again.

“so,” she speaks. her voice is crisp and clear in the way all talk show hosts somehow are. “how do you both feel, now that it’s over? haruto and seri got their happy ending, but what about you?”

riki’s leg stops bouncing mindlessly on the floor.

“the media’s been talking a lot about your dynamic,” she says gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “i’ve seen it for myself. what you two have is truly beautiful. i mean, every scene feels like we’re right there witnessing something real. do you think it’ll be difficult to manage after it’s all said and done?”

her hands settle quietly in her lap, a soft, knowing smile resting on her face as she clarifies what she means—though she doesn’t really need to. you and the man beside you understand perfectly.

it’s hard not to, after all this time.

chemistry is a funny thing. it doesn’t announce itself when it arrives. it doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in. it seeps—into glances that last a second too long, into laughter that feels too easy, into silences that don’t need filling.

and most of all, it bleeds.

bleeds, into rehearsals and interviews and late-night dinners, into the spaces between scripted lines until you can’t quite remember which moments were written and which ones weren’t.

it bleeds into your veins when you touch him—when director kim calls “cut” and neither of you pull away just yet, suspended in that fragile space between performance and something almost instinctual.

it bleeds into the way he says your name off-camera, softer than necessary, like it belongs somewhere closer to his chest than paper. like it belongs on his lips.

and now, under these warm yellow lights, with the host waiting patiently and the microphones catching every hesitant, heavy breath: you wonder if it’s bleeding here too.

your shoulders angle toward him without thinking, and the quiet steadiness in his gaze lingers on his hands just before he turns to look at you before answering. just to make sure you’re okay with this, as if the question isn’t something he’s perfectly capable of responding to alone.

riki shifts slightly beside you, the faint sound of the dice clicking once against the wooden table before going still in his palm. when he finally speaks, his voice is even, hushed.

“well,” riki starts, then stops, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly like he’s reconsidering how honest he’s allowed to be. he looks past the cameras, past the glass and into the eyes of the recording crew. “i think we’ll just have to live with it. it’s been an honour to work with someone like her—and i agree, i don’t think i’ve ever felt such excitement for a project before.”

he breathes. draws in a long, full breath like everything he’s saying costs something. “but most times, it’s never just about the project.”

the room stills.

“i’ve worked on good scripts before. i’ve had great co-stars. but . . .”

your throat tightens.

“she challenges me,” riki says more quietly. “she notices things. cares about details no one else pays attention to—and when you work that closely with someone, and you spend that many hours together, it’s hard not to let that affect you.”

you chew at your cheek as if that’d somehow bring some answers to the questions swirling in your mind.

“it’s been wonderful,” you finally exhale, eyes tracing the suddenly interesting wood patterns on the coffee table in front of you. “anyone who works with him is extremely lucky. it’d be hard for me to forget all the memories.”

the look he gives you is what you’d imagine a hole in the heart would feel like. eyes soft, glistening, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly; refusing to speak up as if he knows that’ll only bury you both six feet deeper.

the rest of the show passes on in a blur of tears that refuse to fall, accompanied by the pounding of your heart in your ears—it’s all you can feel.

it’s when the cameras finally stop rolling and the host’s voice fading into polite chatter that you sit back. your hands are resting limply in your lap, and the realization washes over you that the room feels impossibly still.

riki doesn’t move either; he just watches, quiet, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. outside, the city carries on, oblivious to what’s happening in this tiny studio—but you know. he knows.

here, in this moment, you know you love nishimura riki.

and he knows he loves you, too.

“thank you for today!”

it’s after the lights finally dim and the ‘on-air’ finally shuts off that riki starts packing his belongings and notes into his bag, folding them with methodical care. he glances up at you without much thought, voice casual as you’re putting your coat back on. “you hungry?”

you hesitate, caught off guard by how ordinary the question feels after everything that’s just passed. even so, the answer slips out before you can stop it.

“i am.”

─────────────────────────

THE RESTAURANT IS QUIETER THAN USUAL.

not empty, but rather muted. the dinner rush has passed, leaving behind the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic against wood. the windows are fogged slightly from the warmth inside, blurring the city lights into soft halos. your eyes extend past the glass and melted-snow-turned-water-droplets, following the crowd of people that refuse to shop during the day.

your gaze lingers on a couple: their fingers are intertwined, and the woman holds a cup of coffee that looks like it’s made with more milk than anything caffeinated. the man next to her holds her purse. she talks his ears off, and he just smiles, listening.

“you okay?”

nishimura riki’s voice makes you jolt. when your head finally turns in his direction, you realise both of you have barely eaten anything out of your bowls.

he looks good tonight, like he always does—infuriatingly so. his hair falls in soft, deliberate strands against his forehead, those black-rimmed glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose. hoodie hanging loose at the collar, secured with small safety pins that glint faintly under the overhead light, the fabric bunching around his neck.

riki’s collarbone catches the yellow glow in sharp relief, broad shoulders sinking back against the cracked leather booth like he’s always belonged there. like you’ve always been meant to sit across from him, watching.

“yeah.”

it’s automatic.

he studies you for half a second longer than necessary before finally picking up his chopsticks at your reassurance—however unconvincing it sounds.

the restaurant feels altered tonight. like it just knows. there’s no music humming through the speakers, no usual crowd filling the corners with noise—even the kitchen sounds muted, distant. the absence of it all only sharpens everything else: the soft drag of ceramic against wood, the faint rustle of his sleeve when he moves, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

in the same way, you’re certain—certain that he can see the way you refuse to meet his eyes and settle for peeks through your eyelashes.

“how have you been?” riki asks, gentle as ever, the sound of his chopsticks clanging against the bowl being the only thing you hear under his voice.

filming ended weeks ago.

it shouldn’t feel like you’ve crossed timelines just to sit across from him again.

“busy,” you answer, twirling noodles you don’t eat. “interviews, some brand meetings. i flew back for a few days.”

riki exhales softly, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. he remembers seeing it on his timeline—purposeful or accidental, he doesn’t know. “i know.”

your head lifts slightly at the offhand way he says it.

“you posted,” riki clarifies, offering a faint shrug—as though it was only incidental, like he hadn’t noticed the exact time it went up. “i saw.”

a quiet thought settles in before you can brush it aside: is this what the two of you are going to be now?

without shared call times and cramped dressing rooms and the convenience of always existing in the same frame—will it just be this?

nishimura riki, keeping up with you the way everyone else does: through posts, through highlights looping endlessly, through moments edited for millions?

will he have to watch you?

across the table, riki finds his mind unravelling in a similar fashion—because how is he supposed to reduce you to something public, when he’s already known you in private? he’s seen the unguarded pauses between takes, the way your expression shifts when you’re concentrating, the small habits no camera has ever captured.

how does he rewrite all of that?

“right,” you say, the word softer than you intend.

a beat passes. the steam between you thins, curling, fading into the warm air above the table.

“you?” you ask, lifting your gaze just enough to meet his.

he holds your gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before leaning back slightly, fingers tapping once against the side of his bowl.

“same,” he says. “work. meetings. a lot more work.”

you hum, unconvinced. “that’s it?”

riki’s smiling at you like you’ve been caught in a lie. “what were you expecting?”

“i don’t know.” you twirl your chopsticks through broth that’s starting to get cold. “something more specific.”

“like?”

like do you think about me, or do you check my page before bed?

like, do you miss it?

alas—you don’t say any of it. you know it’ll only lead to answers that you can’t stomach.

“are you sleeping well?” you settle on instead.

riki’s brow lifts slightly, fingers feeding a tiny piece of seaweed into his mouth. “i sleep.”

“that’s not what i meant, riki.”

“i know.”

the words eat away at you.

he shifts forward again, forearms resting on the table now. close enough to watch the faint crease of worry in your expression.

“i’ve been fine,” riki continues, voice a little more firm if only for the sake of reassuring you—still, there’s something restrained about it. “just adjusting.”

you sigh, finally accepting his answer, though your curiosity doesn’t fail to peek through. “to?”

“not seeing you every day,” riki mumbles, gaze fixed somewhere between the table and your untouched bowl. “i miss it.”

the words don’t echo, but they might as well.

the restaurant is almost empty now. it’s strange—barely midnight, and yet the place feels like it’s already folding in on itself. chairs scrape softly against the floor in the distance. dishes rattle faintly in the kitchen, out of sight, detached from whatever is happening in this booth.

for a split second, you wish you were one of them.

a plate. a bowl. a cup. something ceramic and uncomplicated and non-sentient, able to exist in the same space as him without having to interpret the weight of his voice.

or a tree outside the window—rooted, steady, immune to the way your pulse keeps climbing higher with every passing second. just missing a pulse at all.

or, maybe, that couple from earlier.

you’d be clinging to riki’s arm, laughing because the heels you insisted on wearing don’t quite fit right. you’d stumble, and he’d steady you without thinking. it would be easy. instinctive. unquestioned, missing a million different cameras behind you.

“i miss it too.”

i miss you, you think.

─────────────────────────

THE BILL COMES. neither of you reach for it at the same time this time—there’s an absence of playful bickering and forced normalcy. after a long meal, you both managed to finish up your food, though under much quieter circumstances.

the restaurant door swings open and the cold greets you instantly, sharper than you expected. your breath fogs in front of you. the pavement is still damp from melted snow, reflecting the streetlights in fractured gold streaks—nishimura riki’s fingers twitch as he walks next to you, your pinky brushing against his as you make way for the passerby’s walking in the opposite direction.

it’s a short walk to where your taxi pick-up location is set. your boots scrape against the wet concrete, the dull clunk of its heel the only thing you hear, accompanied by the soft, steady thud of riki’s shoes just behind you.

it’s still snowing. fine flakes drift in the air and disappear the moment they touch the ground.

it’s been a few weeks since you were last here. back then, you ran—or drove away, to be more specific. you remember it all, though it serves no real purpose, because it’s all in the past and nothing can be done now; not when production has wrapped and there’s no real reason to mend, sew, or stitch things back up.

your feet stop at the pick-up point. a bright red pin signals that the driver is ten minutes away.

ten minutes.

you half-expect nishimura to turn on his heel and make his own way home. it would be much easier, cleaner—it would be an unspoken understanding that this was just dinner, and that this is where the night, or you, end.

but you know him, don’t you?

always known him to stay, that is.

the ice-cold air of tonight freezes your lungs—or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s standing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, silent in a way that feels heavier than anything he’s said all evening.

unbeknownst to you, riki is fighting every instinct in him to reach for your hand: to lace his fingers through yours in front of the handful of strangers passing by, to stop pretending this is something casual and temporary. he wants everyone to see that this is how he feels, and god, it can’t change. no matter how much he’s tried.

“ten minutes?” riki asks, glancing over at your screen. his hands stay tucked into the pockets of his brown coat, scarf pulled high enough to cover half his face.

you nod.

ever since the last episode aired, his followers have almost doubled. the numbers climb in ways neither of you can really control anymore. the scarf does its job for you too—hiding, shielding—but it only adds to the distance.

you can’t help but wonder what he looks like right now.

is he biting the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s thinking too hard?

are his lips pursed into that smile you’ve started to forget?

“you should be heading home too,” you mumble, fingers gripping tighter at your cell. anything to anchor yourself to this moment. “it’s getting late.”

your gaze drifts across the street as the last word slips off your tongue.

two high school students cut through the crowd. the boy looks uncannily like nishimura—dark hair, tall frame, that same absentminded way of walking like the world will move around him. the girl trails half a step behind, fingers hooked into the strap of his bag as they navigate the pavement together.

she trips over a half-hidden tree branch, and he turns immediately.

nishimura riki definitely has his ways of bleeding into your life—even in the form of parallels and what-if’s and should’ve, could’ve, would’ves that won’t leave you alone.

“i really did miss you,” riki says, voice laced with exhaustion—like he’s been carrying the sentence around for weeks, weighing it, rehearsing it, nearly swallowing it down a dozen times before deciding he’d hate himself if he didn’t let it out. “y/n.”

if this is the last time, he can’t let you go like this.

you bite your bottom lip hard enough that the skin breaks before you draw a breath. “i really missed you too.”

cars honk. life moves past you like it’s in a sped-up timelapse, and nishimura and you are the only ones moving in slow motion. the lights are blaring and you can’t help but squint at the vehicles that pass by you two. the soft crunch of ice under the wheels pull you out of it, if only for a moment.

snow gathers briefly on his lashes before melting away. riki exhales slowly, like he’s about to say something reckless—in which he is. very, very reckless.

“remember that time someone asked us if we’d ever date each other?” riki breathes, voice as gentle as the day you met him. he used to bow so low just upon seeing your face.

but now, he just smiles.

your heart stumbles. you remember: the press junket, the flashing cameras, the way you’d both laughed it off like it was the most absurd thing in the world—and to be fairly honest, it was.

“we said no,” you murmur.

“we said it’d ruin the dynamic,” he adds. a faint, self-aware huff leaves him. “that we were just friends. that it’d be unprofessional.”

snow lands on the edge of his scarf. he doesn’t notice, and even if he does, riki only stares on—into the road, at the passing cars that have no idea what his heart is spilling.

“i answered it like it was hypothetical,” he continues, eyes steady on yours. “like it wasn’t something i’d already thought about.”

“but, y/n,” riki pauses before turning to look at you. you don’t realise that you’ve been staring at him, all this time—from the faint glimmer in his eyes and the reflection of seoul’s lights in them, to the sharp bridge of his nose. “i thought about it. i’ve thought about it so much that it’s driven me fucking crazy.”

you swallow. “riki—“

“i wonder if you’re doing okay when i can’t see you,” his voice shakes. “i know i’m being selfish.”

nishimura riki is not exactly sure when he’d fallen so hard. episode one, episode four, episode ten or sixteen—god, it doesn’t matter anymore—he just knows that he can’t crawl back from this, from you, from all the feelings you’ve dug up and run away from.

he’s spent majority of his life under these lights, in this world that’s been so cruel and utterly exhausting to move through—it’s only when you walk in, with bright eyes and hair so perfect it makes him stop breathing—that he finally understands that this normalcy is what he’s been chasing.

and for the very first time in years, what nishimura riki wants isn’t big, or shiny, or polished to perfection with his name inscribed in it.

it’s this.

standing in the cold, waiting for a taxi, worrying about whether you’re warm enough, or anticipating your order because you never stray from what you’re familiar with.

it’s walking someone home. it’s slowing his pace so they don’t stumble, and it’s memorising the way they take their coffee—it’s making sure they’re eating well. it’s making sure they’re sleeping.

it’s you.

“fuck,” he curses, muffled through the woven red fabric. “even now, i don’t care if someone sees us. i don’t care about it at all.”

“ki.” your brows pull together, and this time you don’t miss it—the unmistakable shine at his waterline, the way his lashes clump slightly from the cold and something heavier than snow. “why are you crying?”

and it’s almost instinctual—the way you turn fully toward him, closing the distance without hesitation. your hands come up to his face like they remember the shape of it on their own. your thumb brushes over the small mole beneath his left eye.

his cheeks are warm despite the cold around you.

“tell me you’ll run away again,” his voice breaks under your touch, and your thumb wipes away a tear that slides down his cheek. “tell me that this was just dinner, and i’m just your co-star. tell me that you can’t—“

the weight of your hands resting against his scarf make the fabric sink down. it falls under his chin, tucked under the sharp turn of his jawline, his full face now illuminated by the dim saturday moon.

his breath shudders against your wrist, turning to vapour in the cold—thin, fractured clouds that disappear almost as quickly as they form. he leans into your touch without thinking, like it’s instinct, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the wet ground.

“i can’t do this again.”

it took you a little over sixteen episodes to get you here.

sixteen episodes of scripted longing and controlled proximity. sixteen episodes of pretending that the way your heart reacted to nishimura riki was temporary—occupational hazard, emotional bleed-through, something that would dissolve once the cameras stopped.

it did not dissolve.

if anything, it rooted deeper.

you can’t move on from him. not in the clean, professional way you told yourself you would.

and judging by the way he’s trembling under your hands, neither can he.

it’s cold. it’s so, so cold, and your feet hurt from standing so long in these ridiculously expensive yet uncomfortable boots. your scarf itches against your skin, you think, but it’s only an excuse for you to pull it downwards.

the wind brushes against your lips.

“i love you, ki.”

the world seems quieter. it always seems that way when you’re this close to him, noses touching, leaning in to feel your lips press together—and it has yet to sink in that anyone and everyone could snap a picture, and it’d be a media disaster.

it’s unfortunate that you don’t care anymore.

nishimura riki’s hands find your waist without much thought. you’re rising to your tiptoes, chest flush against his as he pulls you in to fill space that doesn’t exist; desperate, like he’s finally found his salvation.

you fit perfectly against him, he notices. it’s not something he wanted to ponder on, in case he sent himself into some crazy, delusional chain of thought that encouraged his already lovesick brain.

but god—you’re made for him.

your height against his chest. your hands fisted into his coat. the way your breath syncs with his after only a few seconds. a little bit like inevitability.

“say it again,” he mumbles between kisses, breath warm and uneven against your lips. his voice is hoarse now, stripped of all composure. his fingers tighten at your waist the longer you hesitate, desperate to hear it one more time. “please.”

you almost laugh through the tears still clinging to your lashes.

“i love you.”

your phone vibrates in the back pocket of your jeans. you forgot when you even shoved it in there, but you don’t bother to reach for it—he could appear in two seconds for all you care. you’d still choose this.

“i love you, too,” riki whispers back.

his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing faintly as the snow continues to fall around you. riki’s grip loosens only slightly, enough to trace his thumb along your side like he’s memorising the shape of you there. as if he doesn’t already know it just by breathing this close to you.

you’re not sure when you fell this hard.

maybe it was gradual. it was definitely inevitable.

or perhaps, it was the first time he turned back to make sure you were okay.

but it’s after a little confrontation and a lot of running—sixteen episodes and five weeks later that you know this for certain:

you love ramen.

you hate itchy scarves.

you love nishimura riki.

nishimura riki loves you.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

[a11100]

ONLY YOU, MY GIRL, ONLY YOU - lee heeseung

summary. grief was a weird thing. it pulled tears from some, rage from others - but from heeseung, it took everything. his voice. his light. his grip on what was real. he’s haunted by childhood memories, whispered promises about the future, and a ring that never made it down the aisle. he spirals into the belief that she’ll come back… unaware that some losses aren’t meant to be survived. pairing. fiancée!heeseung x reader. mentions. angst, death, grief, slight drive to insanity, details of trauma and hospitals, insomnia, some fluff if you blink.

heeseung used to think that if he could rewind his life far enough, every important moment in his twenty-five years of living would lead to her.

he was eight when it had all started.

the afternoon sun had been way too bright for a september afternoon. it gleamed off the windows, harsh enough to make you squint as it warmed the air and shone down on the school streets. heeseung sat alone outside of his elementary school gates as he waited for his older brother to pick him up. he had his knees pulled up, chin resting on them as his backpack leaned lazily against the wall beside him.

he was humming again - it was a song he heard his older brother blasting in his room last night - although he didn’t really remember the lyrics, only the tune, the beat, the rhythm of it. he always hummed when he felt small, or alone, or when his chest ached and he didn’t know what else to do. it relaxed him in a way he didn’t know why.

just as he continued staring off at a stray leaf by the pavement, a voice cut through his internal silence.

“you sound like a sad hamster.”

his humming stopped mid-note. his head snapped up to the voice.

a girl stood in front of him. she had her hands in the pockets of her puffy jacket and a pink backpack slouching against her back. her dark hair was tied into two braids at either side of her face, loose strands sticking out and a faint streak of pink on her cheek caught the light - chalk dust, maybe, or crayon from art class. heeseung’s cheeks instantly reddened at the newfound attention he wasn’t used to.

“i’m not sad.” he mumbled softly, and he wondered if the girl even heard him from where she stood, even though there was no one else on the street besides them.

instead, she let out a tiny laugh.

“you are. like this!” she said and puffed her cheeks out dramatically, frowning exaggeratedly.

heeseung blinked up at her. he didn’t know how to answer. the girl huffed and plopped down beside him without asking, swinging her legs like it was the most natural thing in the world. she sat close to him, practically shoulder to shoulder, as if she had no awareness of personal space. heeseung didn’t say anything but his eyes turned to look at her anyway.

“you’re in my class. you sit by the window and stare outside like you’re waiting for aliens.”

“i am not.”

“you are!” she insisted, grinning, “i watch people. you’re… easy to watch. you don’t do much.”

again, he didn’t know how to respond to that. no one had ever watched him like that before, he was used to being so invisible. he was used to staying by himself, not speaking unless spoken to, especially at home - which is why he just assumed it was like that at school too. even now, he stayed silent, stayed fiddling with a loose thread on his black school pants and frowning to himself silently.

“i’m y/n.” the girl introduced when she saw how quiet he got once again. her face leaned forward to catch his eyes and she grinned from ear to ear when she saw his dark eyes meet hers. she held out her hand with a confident tilt of her chin, like this was a very serious, very official introduction.

he stared at it for a second, then shook it carefully, his much colder hand wrapping around her warmer one, “i’m heeseung.”

her smile widened, “lee heeseung. see? i know things.”

“how did you know?”

“you answer roll call like you’ve never heard your name before.” she said matter-of-factly. his ears instantly tinged pink before he could stop the embarrassment from flooding him.

she didn’t really notice as she leaned even closer, eyes squinting, “you do look like a hamster, though.”

he stiffened, “what?”

“not a bad one!” y/n said quickly, waving her hands about, “a cute one. like, a fluffy one that stores snacks in its cheeks!”

“i don’t look like a hamster.” he muttered.

y/n gasped and placed a hand over her heart, “you totally do! especially when you’re concentrating.”

she mimicked his furrowed brow, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes like she was a tiny, energetic yet dramatic critic. heeseung wondered how she was able to imitate expressions so well, and why she loved doing it so much. he wondered if that was just her way of expressing herself, or expressing that she noticed things. he didn’t know.

he should’ve been annoyed. she was disrupting his alone time, she was calling him sad and accusing him of being a hamster.

instead, a warm feeling spread through his chest.

she didn’t treat him like he was invisible. she didn’t treat him like he was fragile either, the way some teachers or his parents did. she just… approached him without thinking he was weird for being alone or having no friends.

she just talked to him.

and from that day on, she never really stopped.

every morning, y/n started sitting beside him. if someone else tried to sit next to him, she appeared out of nowhere and said, “sorry, that seat is taken.”

she started borrowing his colouring pencils without asking. she doodled tiny stars and planets in the margins of his notebook because she was interested in space and astronomy, as she’d told him. once, she drew a tiny hamster with messy hair and wrote lee hee-hamster underneath. he pretended to be annoyed, pretended to rip the page out and throw it to the side.

he stuffed the wrinkled paper into his backpack later on when she wasn’t looking.

in music class, when the teacher asked for volunteers to sing a solo, the room would go silent. heeseung felt his throat tighten. he loved singing - he sang at home, on walks, in the shower, at night in bed - but infront of people? that was an opening door he wasn’t ready to open. his hand itched to raise but he forced it down, shrunk himself further in his seat.

beside him, y/n chewed at her bottom lip in thought. her eyes subtly drifted to the boy beside her and her eyes lit up, as if this was the perfect opportunity.

her hand shot up instantly as she announced, “i’m volunteering him!” she pointed to heeseung.

his head whipped toward her, “what are you doing?!”

she leaned close, whispering with a smile, “you sing to yourself at recess. i hear you all the time.”

“you weren’t supposed to-”

“i hear everything.” she puffed her chest out proudly and heeseung deflated. his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might leap out from behind his ribs in that moment.

y/n ignored his tiny frown and the crease between his brows. she grabbed his sleeve gently, “just pretend it’s me! pretend i’m your only audience.”

with another look of hesitation, heeseung stepped up anyway. his eyes stayed locked on her the entire time, his one audience, as he started singing the song they’d been practicing. his voice was small at first but when he saw the encouragement, the pride shining in her eyes, he grew more confident. his tone adjusted, his hand tightened on the mic.

and she smiled like he was already a superstar. she clapped louder than anyone else in the room when he finished.

later on at lunch, the two of them sat on the swings together. their feet mindlessly swung in perfect sync and that’s when y/n nudged him with her shoulder. she had a tiny, proud smile on her lips.

“see? i told you you could do it. my star!”

heeseung looked down at his shoes, smiling shyly.

“you’re not allowed to stop singing.” she added on seriously and the boy looked at her, “ever. even when you’re old and wrinkly.”

“why would i be wrinkly?”

“because everyone gets wrinkly when they’re old, hamster.”

“i’m not a hamster.”

y/n laughed so loudly it echoed in their tiny section of the playground, scattering some of the birds in the trees nearby.

they both talked about the future in the dreamy ways only children could: with the stars in their eyes and dramatic aspirations heavy in their innocent hearts.

one afternoon, sunlight streamed through the tall windows of their art class, catching the dust motes in the air like tiny floating stars. most of the class was busy painting crooked houses with tiny crooked chimneys, their brushes wobbling and hands smudged with reds and yellows. heeseung sat beside y/n as he carefully filled in the roof of his own little house, trying to stay within the lines.

he was so concentrated, he didn’t even realise y/n reaching over until her elbow warmly brushed his and her voice rang out in his personal little bubble.

“when i get married, i want white roses.” she said softly, eyes completely serious.

he blinked at her, tilting his head, “why?”

“they’re pretty. they look simple and they’re not too loud.” y/n replied, gesturing with her paintbrush as if the movement could make her statement more true, “and they smell soft.”

“how can something smell… soft?” heeseung frowned as he tried to picture it, but the idea made absolutely no sense to him.

“some flowers smell loud! like fireworks!” her eyes widened as she stretched her hands out to signify how loud something could be, “but white roses smell soft and quiet. they look gentle like they’re whispering.”

he didn’t understand exactly what she meant, but he nodded anyway because he trusted her explanations - even the ones that didn’t make sense. that’s when he looked down to her painting for a second and noticed the tiny white flowers she’d drawn on the outside of her house - they were messy, mixed with tiny stems of green and brown, but they were undoubtedly white roses.

maybe they’re her favourite flower, he thought.

he smiled to himself, hidden and soft. she nudged his shoulder to grab his attention again, “what about you? what kind of wedding do you want?”

he shrugged, a little embarrassed, cheeks warming, “i… i don’t know.”

she tapped her chin with a finger and pretended to think deeply. heeseung watched her as he waited for her answer, waited for her to magically create a scene in his head, to suggest her thoughts without him asking.

“you’d look good in a black suit!” she said finally, tilting her head thoughtfully, “but not a boring one… one with shiny shoes! and a tiny flower in your pocket! did you know my appa also wore a black suit with a flower in his wedding? eomma showed me their wedding photos! they looked so young.. now they’re old and eomma doesn’t have long hair anymore… i hope i can keep my long hair after my wedding!”

“i don’t care about weddings…” heeseung muttered, feeling his ears burn and his heart twist in guilt at ruining her happy rant with his sour statement.

y/n didn’t mind. instead, she beamed happily and nudged her elbow against his in encouragement, “that’s okay! you will one day… when someone makes you nervous.”

“who would make me nervous?”

she shrugged in the most dramatic way possible, leaning her chin on her hand with the kind of cheeky grin every eight year old possessed, “maybe me.”

then she giggled - a small, airy sound that jumped out of her like bubbles, all contagious and bright - and heeseung felt it twist his stomach and swell his chest all at once. he looked at her as she continued her painting and for a moment, the paintbrush in his hand felt heavy; the colours on the page blurring and his lashes fluttering in quiet shock.

because suddenly, all he could think about were white roses.

he thought about them for the rest of the day, imagining how soft they must smell and how small, bright moments like this could somehow feel bigger than anything else in the world.

•••

by middle school, they were already known as a pair.

if someone saw y/n in the crowded hallway, heeseung wouldn’t be far behind. she moved through the hallways like she owned the place, bouncing from locker to locker with that same fearless energy she possessed when they were younger. she’d stopped braiding her hair into two pigtails and now opted for a ponytail, her long hair cascading down her back in dark waves as tiny hairs stuck out at the front.

heeseung would follow behind quietly, shoulders slightly slouched, hands in his pockets, humming under his breath - the faintest tune that he thought went unnoticed - as he watched her laugh and communicate with everyone like she was sunlight.

she noticed, of course. she noticed everything about him ever since they first met.

“you do it when you’re tired too.” she said one day, sidling up to him as he leaned against the locker beside hers, his backpack dangling loosely from one shoulder.

“do what?” heeseung glanced at her briefly. his tone was calm, casual, soft like it always was when he felt a little exposed under her gaze.

“hum.” she tilted her head, “it gets lower when you’re sad.”

he froze, “how… how can you tell?”

y/n shrugged because she really didn’t know how to answer his question. she didn’t know how she could tell either but she’d been with him for so long, she just naturally could differentiate between his normal humming and when something sounded off.

she brushed a loose strand of hair from her face and smirked like it was no big deal, “i just know. you’re loud even when you think you’re quiet.”

he wanted to argue but the words caught in his chest. he should’ve known, long ago, that her eyes had never left him. that her mind had a tiny file full of him, probably labelled as ‘hamster’ in which she stored all of his tiny habits, his mannerisms, his thoughts that she could read from just his expressions alone. even when he wanted to stay invisible, she’d always seen him.

later that week, heeseung finally told her something he’d been keeping a secret, something he was almost too scared to even think about.

“i-i want to audition to become a trainee.” his voice was small, hesitant, unsure of how she’d react.

he doesn’t know why he expected her to laugh or to tilt her head and call him silly for even dreaming about something like that.

instead, she went unusually quiet. her normal energy dimmed into a thoughtful stillness that made anxiety crawl up his neck. he fiddled with his fingers as he waited for her answer, his heart beating louder than usual in his chest as if her following words might kill him on the spot if they weren’t what he was hoping. it was as if his own body knew he cared about her thoughts, her feelings, craved her support.

after a long pause, she said simply, firmly: “you have to.”

“what?” he blinked and his mouth stuttered random non-words until he finally said properly, “what if i’m not good enough?”

her brows furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing as if trying to hold the right words in her hands, “that’s not how it works.”

“how does it work then?”

“you try.” she reached forward to place a supporting hand on his arm, “and if you fail, you try again. you just… keep trying.”

he chewed on that, uncertainty and insecurity still tugging at the edges of his stomach, “w-what if i embarrass myself?”

she leaned closer and poked his forehead gently with one finger, completely mischievous and affectionate at the same time, “then i’ll still be your fan. i was your fan first, remember?”

he stared at her even as she added on happily, “you’ll debut. i know you will, and when you do, don’t forget that i knew you before you were cool.”

he couldn’t help the small, incredulous smile that tugged at his lips at her words. her confidence and the way she said things like it was absolute fact, made even the impossible seem possible. like the world might actually bend itself just to fit her belief in him. like just her support alone could make him invincible enough to conquer anything.

and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe.

because she noticed. always. and she believed. always.

•••

high school had changed heeseung.

he grew taller. his shoulders broadened, stretching the collars of his uniforms and t-shirts. his voice had deepened into something richer, steadier, resonant in a way that made people turn their heads. his hands had grown longer, gentle enough to glide over piano keys and strum guitar strings melodically.

people started noticing him more.

girls whispered when he walked past. they lingered too long when they spoke to him randomly, tossing their hair back or laughing a little too bright. some of the boys in his class were a little wary of his unusual popularity - the way he seemed like such a quiet, soft-spoken boy yet had heads turning to eye him everywhere he went - they were unsure how to deal with him, but most of the time they just stared.

y/n noticed everything.

one afternoon, as they stood by the lockers inbetween classes with chatter buzzing around them and teens shouting and knocking shoulders, she noticed the way a small group of girls in their year eyed him. she saw the way heeseung offered them a polite smile before looking away, watched them giggle and gush over how perfect his hair was or how dreamy his smile was.

it was humorous. she nudged him softly, teasingly, with her elbow as a grin spread across her lips, “look at you, heartbreaker.”

“i’m not breaking anyones heart.” he replied sternly, almost smirking.

“not yet.” she teased, pushing past him to grab her books from her locker, “but you will.”

heeseung only rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips twitched. deep down, all the new attention made him feel awkward and a little exposed. y/n, on the other hand, hadn’t changed at all. she was still bright, still animated, still talking with her hands as if the air itself might understand her. she still tugged on his sleeve when she wanted him to follow her somewhere, never mind if he was late to class or tired from a long morning.

high school also brought longer days. heeseung’s mornings started with the rush to catch the bus, still halfway to tying his tie or putting his blazer on, and sometimes a hurried breakfast he barely tasted. then came the evenings at the training centre, where he practiced for hours - singing, dancing, learning choreography, learning professionalism and repeating movements until his muscles ached, his voice cracked and his hands were raw from piano keys and dumbbells.

he never complained about this sudden change in his lifestyle.

yet y/n still saw it all: his stiff shoulders, how he looked like he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday.

whenever he stayed late at the training centre, she would wait for him on the concrete steps outside, leaning against the railing with a small plastic bag of convenience store snacks.

“you forgot to eat again.” she would scold as her eyes scanned his tired face.

“i was busy.” he would murmur, tugging at the straps of his backpack.

“busy becoming famous doesn’t mean you stop being human.” she says, shoving a sandwich in his hands before he could protest. she would stand there with that stern look in her eyes she got when she wasn’t joking for once, waiting until he finally took a bit like it was the most important thing in the world. sometimes she didn’t even speak at all - just watched, thoughtful, tilting her head as she studied him.

“what?” he asked one time as they walked to his house together. he noticed her staring at him out the corner of his eye as he scarfed down a rice cake, cheeks suddenly reddening under her intense gaze.

“you don’t look like a hamster anymore.” y/n stated softly, almost to herself.

he blinked, “what do i look like then?”

“i don’t know.” she shrugged, smiling tenderly, “you’re still cute, though.”

he nearly choked on the rice cake and y/n laughed at him - the sound bubbled up like it always did, warm and happy and infectious - and it brought a tiny smile to his own lips.

winter nights were the best. they were cold but quiet as the streets dusted with white and the streetlights cast long, soft shadows over the cloud-like piles of snow. heeseung and y/n would still walk to each other’s houses together, their shoulders brushing and breath misting in little wisps of air. the world reduced to the crunch of snow beneath their shoes and the faint sound of distant traffic when it was just them.

“promise me something.” she said one night as they walked through a park near her house. her tone had gone serious beneath her usual spark - quiet like she was thinking and feeling a million things at once.

“what?”

“even if you fly really high one day, don’t disappear.” she said finally, a hint of something fragile and emotional in her voice.

heeseung frowned to himself. confusion tightened in his chest because he didn’t know why she thought that way, why she thought that he would ever want to separate them. he didn’t realise just how stern the industry he was going into was. he didn’t realise that there could be moments where she won’t always be there for him, or where she won’t physically be able to support him.

“why would i disappear?”

“because some stars get far away.” she said simply.

he looked at her. really looked at her. the streetlight caught the dots of snowflakes in her dark hair, in her lashes and in the fluffy blue scarf she had wrapped around her neck. he could see the dust of pink on her nose from the cold, the way her eyes shone like they had little lanterns in them, the way her pretty lips smiled up at him emotionally.

for the first time in a long time, he felt the weight of everything - the rehearsals, the long hours, the exhaustion - fall away.

“i’ll always look back.” he replied quietly, low but certain.

“why?”

he swallowed. the answer was simple, even if his chest felt impossibly full: because you’re my home. because you were there before anyone else. because every version of me started with you.

instead, he just said, “because you’ll always be my first fan. my first supporter.”

she smiled, satisfied.

and neither of them knew yet that all those tiny, seemingly insignificant moments would settle into his memory like seeds. they would grow there quietly, stubbornly, until years later he would hold onto them so tightly that the line between love and longing, joy and ache, would blur impossibly.

even then, amid the awkward hallways, the long nights of practice and the endless juggling of school work and training and dreams of his future, one thing remained unshakeable.

before she was his girlfriend, before she was his fiancée, she was the girl who chose him. not because he asked, not because it was convenient, not because she felt pity that he had no friends or that he kept to himself. but because, somehow, she decided he wasn’t allowed to be alone.

and he had never, not for a single second, tried to escape that choice.

•••

the start of the after.

heeseung didn’t remember when the world stopped making sense.

was it the moment his phone rang, sharp and intrusive, against the coffee table? was it the way the voice on the other end kept repeating her name, too carefully, too gently, stretching each syllable like he might break? maybe it had begun earlier on - in those invisible seconds between screeching tires and blinding headlights on a random road downtown?

or was it when she stepped out of their front door and the universe decided she wouldn’t step back in?

heeseung became quiet after that - not the kind of quiet that came with bowed heads and folded hands or with fragile sobs. if he wasn’t already quiet, he was now vacant. it was as if something essential had been scooped out of him and replaced with air.

with nothingness.

he moved through their apartment like a ghost haunting his own life. the same apartment they had signed for with shaking hands and ridiculous excitement three years ago, when she’d just gotten her first real job after graduation and he was just settling further into his idol life. the same apartment where they’d argued for forty minutes about whether beige or white curtains looked better, where they burned garlic so badly the smoke alarm screamed and they ended up eating takeaway on the kitchen floor, laughing until they teared up.

the same apartment where she used to fall asleep on the couch, curled under her favourite blanket, waiting for him to come home from practice - insisting she wasn’t tired, insisting she’d stay up even as her eyes betrayed her and he had to carry her to their bedroom.

that apartment that felt like their own little bubble of love and security and happiness… now felt like a museum.

preserved. frozen mid-life.

he didn’t throw anything away.

her shoes still sat by the door, slightly angled inwards the way she always kicked them off. there was a faint scuff on the heel of her favourite pair of sneakers - he remembered teasing her about it. she only rolled her eyes and said she’d buy a new pair next month.

next month never came.

her hair tie was still looped around the bathroom faucet, stretched from overuse. a few strands of her hair were caught in the bristles of her brush. her skincare bottles stood in perfect, deliberate order on her side of the sink, the labels facing forward like soldiers standing at attention - he recognised some of the bottles from when she’d beg to do his skincare. he hadn’t touched them. dust started to collect at the edges but he refused to wipe it away.

in the wardrobe, her clothes hung exactly as she’d left them. when he opened it, the faint scent of her perfume drifted out - something floral, soft and warm, his favourite scent in the entire world. her scent. it hit him like a physical blow everytime. sometimes he would press his face into her sweaters and inhale until his lungs burned and his eyes stung with tears, as if he could breathe her back into existence.

he stopped turning on the lights most nights.

darkness felt more honest. darkness made him feel like he didn’t have to face the empty space, or look at the reminders of her.

he would sit on the living room floor with his back against the couch, staring at the outline of furniture in the dim glow of the city outside. the refrigerator hummed. the sink pipes clicked. the traffic outside beeped lowly.

and in the quiet, he listened.

sometimes he could hear her.

he swore he heard footsteps in the hallway once - they were soft, tiny pads of her feet as she sauntered towards the living room. his head snapped in the direction of the hallway and his frantic eyes searched for her in the darkness, his heart practically in his throat. he heard the subtle creak in the loose floorboard just outside their bedroom. he heard a gentle click of the door closing. sometimes a faint rustle from the kitchen, like someone opening a cabinet.

his heart would lurch so violently it hurt. sometimes it would physically pain him so bad he had to clutch his fingers over his shirt, curl his body inward and take deep breaths as if that could ease the pain. it never did. because this pain wasn’t something on the surface - it was something ugly and hostile that had settled in the deep depths of his heart, right where she used to be.

he would be sitting on that cold floor with his head thrown back against the edge. his eyes would be hooded, heavy with unwanted sleep and his lips parted as he breathed shallow breaths, huffing through the ache. he couldn’t register anything as the dreadful silence pinned in on his ears, except that one voice that would call out to him.

“heeseung.” it’s merely a whisper. barely a murmur. but it’s there - her playful voice, a little scolding in it and his head would turn toward the sound so fast his vision blurred, “why are you still awake?”

“i’m here.” he’d whisper back, voice cracking, “i’m right here.”

he’d look around the living room but there was no reply. he’d wait for her laugh, wait for her scolding, but the apartment never answered back. instead, silence would stretch, merciless and heavy.

but he was certain she was there. he was certain she hadn’t fully left. because if she wasn’t-

if she truly wasn’t-

he didn’t even want to say the word because then that meant she was gone in a way that could never be undone. his mind refused to survive that truth.

heeseung was thinner now, painfully so. his collarbones jutted out sharply beneath his skin, his cheeks had hollowed, shadows pooling under his eyes next to his dried tears like bruises that never faded. the red lining his waterline had become permanent, as if sleep had abandoned him entirely - because it had.

when he did drift off, it lasted barely minutes. maybe an hour. then he would jolt awake, disoriented, heart racing, reaching for her side of the bed or reaching for her pillow. her side was always cold and he never washed the sheets no matter what. it was disgusting but he didn’t care - he couldn’t lose the scent from her pillow any more than he’d already lost.

he barely ate. food tasted like ash. he lost his appetite long ago, lost the motivation to do anything nevermind do something as mundane as eat. whenever he was able to put something together, he’d stare at it until the edges blurred, until that one bite he had started to feel like bile in his throat and a luxury he didn’t deserve to have. he’d push it away, untouched and unwanted. sometimes he forgot what day it was. sometimes he’d sit in the same position for hours, unmoving, until the sun rose and set without him noticing.

the world outside the apartment felt obscene.

cars still drove by. neighbours still laughed in the hallway. the café downstairs still opened at eight sharp. people still went to work, still fell in love, still met up with friends, still complained about trivial things.

how dare the world continue? how dare it breathe when she couldn’t? how dare he still be able to wake up and live another day when she was stripped of that?

people said grief softened overtime. that it would dull and become manageable. that it would settle slowly and you learned to live with it.

for heeseung, it didn’t soften.

it sharpened. it was a blade he carried in his chest, twisting deeper each night he lived without her. every time he had to take a deep breath, every time he had to move from one room to another, everytime he looked down at his finger and saw his engagement ring, he had to press a palm against his sternum as if something was leaking out. like he physically couldn’t hold it together.

and everytime he closed his eyes, he was back in that moment.

•••

3 and a half months ago.

heeseung had come home angry.

not at her. at everything else.

practice had been relentless lately as he and his group prepared for their upcoming comeback - everything just seemed to strip him down to bone. his voice cracked twice during a high note he tried to record. the choreography somehow refused to sit right in his body lately. the management had been giving him tight, clipped, dissatisfied expressions everytime he messed something up. every correction felt like a small failure carved into his skin and he doesn’t know why - why nothing was going right, why his mind was so distracted lately, why he had this weird sinking feeling in his stomach everytime he was away from the apartment.

he chose to ignore it and focus on his work. by the time he reached home, the pressure had wrapped so tightly around his ribs that even breathing felt optional.

when he opened the door, she was there.

warm lamplight caught in her hair, cascading the living room in a pretty, cozy shade of white. she had a hand curled over her stomach whilst the other held a book across her lap. the second she heard that familiar beep of their lock, her head snapped up and her entire face softened.

“you’re home!” she said happily, like it was the best part of her day.

heeseung dropped his bag harder than he meant to. the thud echoed, wrong and cold and he kicked his shoes off.

“yeah.”

her smile didn’t waver when she heard his harsh tone. she marked her page carefully and set the book aside as she stood up and walked over to him slowly, gently, like she could see the storm clouding behind his eyes. he noticed then that she was dressed in one of his hoodies and sweatpants sets, the one he absolutely adored her in but right now, he couldn’t find it within him to care.

“did you eat dinner?” y/n asked him, voice already laced with worry when she stopped in front of him.

he took off his jacket and hung it up, “i’m not hungry.”

“you didn’t eat lunch either.” it wasn’t an accusation. just a fact. softly delivered.

“i said i’m not hungry.”

the sharpness in his tone startled even him.

her happy smile wavered just a bit - just for a second like a crack in porcelain. but she didn’t retreat. she knew how hard he’d been working lately and she knew he was just stressed, tired, that he was overwhelmed and didn’t really mean to take it out on her. she understood, which is why she didn’t react. instead, her fingers tenderly reached for his wrist as she warmly brushed her thumb over his pulse - the way she always did when she wanted to ground him but not overwhelm him from affection.

“eat, please. just a little.” she coaxed, eyes staring up into his as she pleaded, “i made soup. it’s still warm.”

that’s when he registered the smell - something savoury, delicious. garlic and herbs. something she’d spent time on for them both to enjoy together, something she’d purposely kept warm for him when she realised he wasn’t coming home on time. on a normal day, he would’ve melted on the spot, would’ve hugged her and pressed a kiss to her lips while begging for two bowls and extra rice.

but today wasn’t a normal day. nothing was normal. and nothing ever would be.

“i don’t want soup.” he snapped instantly and ripped his wrist out of her grasp. the exhaustion curling around him started to turn into irritation, “can you just- not tonight?”

the sentence fractured in the middle, but the damage was already done. his words didn’t need to echo loudly. they landed between them like porcelain slipping from a table’s edge - a suspended second before impact - and then shattered in the quiet space of their living room.

y/n stilled. she wasn’t angry, or offended or dramatically annoyed. she just went quiet. her hand dropped to her side, just a soft retreat like something wounded curling inward and for a second, she looked smaller. she looked hurt at the rejected touch, almost disappointed that he came home in such a mood but she covered it anyway.

“i’m just trying to help, baby.” she replied softly, completely opposing his harsh tone.

heeseung exhaled sharply at the loving nickname. he dragged a hand through his hair until the strands stuck up evenly. his scalp hurt from how tightly he’d been clenching his jaw all day, from how much he’d ran his fingers through the strands, from the loud echoes of their choreographer shouting at them again and again.

“i know.” he muttered as his eyes finally dropped to her much lighter, much expectant ones, “i’m just tired.”

tired didn’t even begin to cover it.

she studied him then. not with hurt - though it was already there, faint around the edges - but with something deeper. something thoughtful. there was a glow in her eyes that night. it was subtle, almost trembling beneath the surface like she was holding a secret so fragile she was afraid even her own heartbeat might crack it.

on the coffee table, tucked somewhere inside her book, was a folded sheet of paper. a printed appointment confirmation with the clinic’s logo at the top, a date circled lightly in red pen. she had stared at it for atleast five minutes that evening, rehearsing again and again how she’d tell him.

maybe after dinner. maybe once he’d eaten. maybe when he was smiling again.

she had imagined the way his face would change with disbelief, with tears. the way he would laugh and cry at the same time and his cheeks would puff out like the cute hamster he was. she imagined him kneeling infront of her, pressing his ear to her stomach even though it was far too early for anything to hear.

she had imagined him saying, “we’re going to be three.”

he hadn’t noticed any of it.

hadn’t seen the way her fingers lingered over her abdomen that afternoon before he left for work. hadn’t seen the way her smile trembled with anticipation. hadn’t seen the future quietly blooming inside their living room. instead, he’d shrugged her touch off and went to go cool off on the couch.

y/n stayed standing where she was by the door, still facing where he’d just been stood. her heart rate spiked in her chest but she took a deep breath, shut her eyes for a second and calmed herself down.

it’s okay, she thought to herself, he’s tired. i can tell him tomorrow.

instead, she plastered a loving smile on her lips and turned around to face him, “i’ll be back.” her voice felt steadier than her heart felt. heeseung sighed and lazily looked up to see her grabbing her coat from the hook by the door.

“where are you going?” he frowned slightly.

“you like that bakery downtown.” she slipped her arms through the sleeves. the fabric rustled softly in the tense silence of the air between them, “they restock your favourite pastries at night. i thought… maybe sugar therapy?”

her smile was small. careful. hopeful. like she was offering him something fragile and praying he wouldn’t drop it. his heart should’ve warmed, he should’ve smiled and thanked her as he told her it’s too dark for her to be driving alone. he might’ve even went with her if he was in the mood.

he almost told her to forget it. the words hovered on his tongue.

he almost stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, almost buried his face in her shoulder the way he did when he was tired and overwhelmed. he almost said i’m sorry for snapping. almost said i love you. almost said stay, we’ll sit and eat together instead. he almost chose softness.

but pride and exhaustion glued him to that couch. there was a stubborn part of him that didn’t want to admit he needed comfort, didn’t want to be seen unraveling.

“fine. whatever.” he muttered in reply and the words felt so dismissive and uncomfortable on his tongue as they aimed at her.

y/n didn’t flinch. she stepped closer to him before reaching for the door, her fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve as she passed. it wasn’t accidental. it lingered - warm and real and loving. she didn’t lean down to kiss him like she did everytime she left the house and that sparked something in him, but he ignored it.

he could’ve caught her hand.

could’ve turned his wrist and intertwined their fingers.

could’ve stopped everything with one movement.

“i won’t be long, baby.” she promised softly with one last mumble of his favourite nickname.

he nodded without looking at her. he didn’t kiss her goodbye. he didn’t press his forehead to hers like he usually did. he didn’t say i love you.

the door opened with a soft click, then closed just as gently. the apartment instantly shifted in the new silence that followed - like it had exhaled. he stayed in the corner of the couch, staring at the door after she left and something tugged at him. a flicker of unease. an urge to call her name and tell her to wait.

to tell her didn’t need fucking pastries.

that he just needed her.

but he didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t chase the feeling. he let the moment pass.

and that was the last time he saw her standing.

his phone rang 47 minutes later.

he knew because he glanced at the screen with mild annoyance. 10:47pm. y/n’s name flashed across the screen and he took a deep breath, wanting to calm down before answering. the second he picked up his phone, something dreadful curled in his chest.

“hello?”

“is this lee heeseung?” a male’s voice called out to him. it was very faint, as if he was standing under the shower of heavy rain and distant voices.

heeseung furrowed his brows and hesitantly replied, “yes.”

there was a pause. he could hear the crackle of rain and the whirring of wind and chatter. his brows furrowed deeper as he listened, waited, confusion trickling into his bones.

“there’s been an accident.”

that sentence itself split his world clean in half.

“i-im sorry- what?”

“the owner of this phone was involved in a collision about ten minutes ago. a truck ran a red light. it’s raining heavily. she’s been taken to-”

the rest of it came in pieces. words that refused to assemble into reality.

rain. intersection. truck. critical. hospital. critical. head injury. car crash. critical.

“no.” he said immediately, “no- that’s not- she just left. she went to- she’s fine- she just…”

“sir, are you her partner?”

“yes.”

“please come right away.”

the call ended. or maybe the guy on the other end hung up. he didn’t remember.

his body moved before his mind could even register he was moving. he grabbed his keys with shaking hands, nearly dropping them twice. the apartment door slammed against the frame behind him - louder than it ever had before. he didn’t even know if he locked it, he didn’t care. the hallway to the elevator felt longer than usual, the elevator too slow as he jabbed the button repeatedly like violence could make it arrive faster.

his heart was beating so hard it hurt - literally. physically. a brutal, painful pounding against his ribs right next to the guilt that was slowly starting to bloom.

this isn’t real.

this isn’t happening.

she said she wouldn’t be long.

the drive to the hospital was a blur of red lights and slick roads. rain hammered against the windshield, wipers struggling to keep up. every intersection made his stomach lurch. every truck that passed him felt like a threat and he wondered how she’d managed to drive in this weather, why he even let her drive in this weather. alone. maybe sad. maybe disappointed at his sour mood.

he didn’t remember parking or shutting off the engine. he didn’t remember running inside and shouting at the poor receptionist, demanding to know where she was. he didn’t remember them forcing him to sit outside the surgical department on those plastic chairs as all kinds of nurses and patients walked past, some giving him glared and some sad eyes.

he felt like his skin didn’t fit. like he was vibrating inside his own body. his cold hands wouldn’t stop shaking as he pressed them against his thighs to steady himself and he realised they were damp with sweat. the crude smell of antiseptic and metal and something faintly sterile didn’t help the situation either - the sound of machines beeping and rubber shoes squeaking against floor made his stomach turn.

everyone looked urgent.

no one looked panicked.

why wasn’t anyone panicking?

“she’s in surgery.” one of the assisting doctors had told him when he intercepted him in the corridor and asked who he was here for. heeseung stared hesitantly as the doctor continued with a fixed tone, like he’d practiced this, like this was regular protocol for him, “she’s been in a car accident. the impact was severe.”

severe.

the word burrowed into his skull.

“how severe?”

“well, she’s had significant internal bleeding and head trauma. it appears to have been a high speed collision. right now, our priority is stabilising her.”

he had muttered some other medical terms heeseung didn’t know the meaning of and quite frankly, didn’t care to listen to. once he was gone, his knees weakened. he stepped back against the wall and let his body fall limp, sliding to the cold tile, palms scraping lightly against the floor.

she’s in there… she’s behind those doors and he doesn’t know how she is. what she’s feeling. what she’s thinking about. what she’s dreaming about. what she felt in that moment. did she think about him? did she think about how much a fucking dick her fiancée is for leaving her out in the dark like that?

none of this would’ve happened if he wasn’t in such a bitter fucking mood. none of this would’ve happened if he just separated work and home. none of this would’ve happened if he just kissed her the way he usually did, hugged her and allowed just her presence, her touch to calm him down. she left because she wanted to cheer him up. she left with the sole thought of bringing a smile to his lips. she left with him on her mind.

she left for him.

and now he didn’t know if she would ever return.

the guilt curled around his heart so crudely he wanted to sob.

heeseung’s head fell into his palms.

that’s when he decided to call jungwon with shaky hands and a cracked voice.

“hyung?” jungwon’s voice was thick with confusion, “it’s late. are you okay? what’s up?”

“y/n…” he breathed out, sticking his phone to his ear like jungwon could magically bring her back through the screen, “hos- she’s in the hospital.”

silence. jungwon’s brows furrowed as he sat up in bed instantly when he heard heeseung’s sharp gasps like he was struggling to breathe, like he was holding back the tears. he jumped out of bed and reached for his jacket whilst mumbling, “i’m coming. stay where you are.”

within the next twenty minutes, three pairs of footsteps were rushing toward him and he looked up from where he had his eyes shut against his hands. sunghoon and jay had come with jungwon but he didn’t spare any of them a glance as jungwon dropped to his knees infront of his older brother, gripping his shoulders like he was trying to hold him together.

heeseung’s tears returned almost on instinct.

“she’ll be okay.” jungwon said. he didn’t ask what happened, didn’t pester him for details because he knew he wouldn’t be able to speak about it.

he just held him while his hands shook, while he nodded too fast and mumbled, “she has to be.”

because the alternative didn’t exist.

time stopped behaving normally.

seconds stretched until they hurt. the clock on the wall ticked so loudly he thought he might lose his mind. everytime the surgical doors swung open, every time a doctor rushed out or a nurse walked past with a file, his heart skipped violently - only to crash when it wasn’t for them.

he prayed. he hadn’t prayed in years, but now he was.

take my voice.

take my career.

take years off my life.

please just let her be okay. let her live.

finally, the doors opened.

the sound was soft - just the mechanical sigh of hinges - but it sliced through him like a blade. a doctor stepped out, mask lowered, indentations pressed deep into his cheeks from hours of wear. his eyes looked more hooded, heavier from when he last saw him and before he even spoke, heeseung knew.

he knew because of the eye contact they instantly made, because of the deep inhale he took before walking over. he sprang out of his seat, startling his three friends in the process as they also joined him, offering a small nod in greeting to the doctor.

there was a look in his eyes - one that all doctors carry when they’ve done everything they can and it still wasn’t enough.

“she’s conscious.” he spoke gently, “you can see her. but please one at a time, she’s still in a state of shock and post-surgery. seeing so many familiar faces can be overwhelming and might trigger her.”

conscious.

the word rises into his lungs like oxygen after drowning.

alive.

she’s alive.

heeseung has never let out a sigh as big as he did then, as if he’d been holding his breath since the second he got that phone call. sunghoon placed his hands on his knees as he exhaled in relief, jay nodded in gratitude to himself and jungwon faintly smiled, patting heeseung on the back in encouragement.

“she’s asking for you.” the doctor said to heeseung, who was instantly nodding and walking into the department without a second glance at anyone or anything else - she was the only thing on his mind.

the hallway stretched endlessly before him as he walked. each step felt like his legs were detached from his body, like he was watching himself move from somewhere above. he reached the door and pushed it open without another thought.

the small room was too bright. too quiet. his teary eyes instantly moved to the bed in the middle where she lay, looking small and defeated. the sheets swallowed her frame completely. her skin was pale - not her usual bubbly warmth but a fragile, waxy white beneath harsh lights. bruises and red scratches bloomed dark and angry along her temple and collarbone, dried blood near her hairline and small bandages and stitches lining her cheek.

an oxygen mask covered half of her face, fogging faintly with each shallow breath she struggled to take. his eyes drifted from the mask down to the wires clipped up to her chest and wrists. machines surrounded her, humming and beeping rhythmically as if technology alone was forcing her body to continue.

for a second, he didn’t move. he couldn’t.

she looked breakable, like glass, and he wondered if he even had the right to see her after everything.

still, heeseung approached her slowly, afraid that even the sound of his footsteps might hurt her. y/n’s eyes fluttered open at the noise - heavy, struggling, dimmed - and then she saw him.

and she smiled.

it was faint. weak. barely there. but it was hers, nonetheless. the same soft curve that used to greet him at the door, that kissed against his cheek in the night and made him feel better when he was down.

“i’m okay.” she whispered out to him. her words were distorted by the mask, her breath thin and uneven but he could make it out.

heeseung dropped to his knees and grabbed her hand like he was afraid someone might take her again, “i’m here.” he choked out, “i’m here. i’m right here.”

he felt her fingers curl just the tiniest bit against his, weak but alive.

“hee…” she breathed.

he leaned closer, pressing his forehead gently against her bruised knuckles. he kissed each finger with such tenderness, such care like he was apologising in every way that he could. he kissed just above her ring, covered in specks of dried blood, like it was sacred.

“i’m sorry.” he whispered, “i’m so sorry, i shouldn’t have- i should’ve-”

the monitor beside her bed made a strange sound, some sort of stutter but he didn’t notice it. he was too focused on her face, on taking in every feature he fell in love with, on memorising every beautiful detail of her from the curve of her lashes to the tiny dimple on her chin.

“i was-” y/n tried again.

the line on the monitor jerked sharply. heeseung furrowed his brows when he saw her lips part as if she wanted to say more but the words lodged her throat. he saw her breath fog up the mask one last time.

and then the machine flatlined.

a single, endless tone that followed as he watched the light leave her eyes.

his entire world snapped in half.

“no-” he breathed.

a nurse who had been stood right outside rushed in when she heard the machine, two doctors following behind her, and another two running in with some sort of medical equipment. hands were grabbing his shoulders, wrapping around his chest and pulling him out of the way but heeseung could only stare at her limp hand in his with his lips parted and his breath stuttering as it left him in shallow breaths.

“step back!”

“charge to-”

“wait- no- she was just talki- she was talking!” heeseung cried out loud as one of the nurses pulled him back and her hand dropped out of his grip.

“clear.”

he watched her body jolt violently under the defibrillator.

he screamed her name.

“again.”

“charge it to-”

“go higher.”

another jolt. he screamed her name again as he got pulled away even further.

her head lolled slightly to the side. the line on the machine did not change, just kept buzzing a straight line like it had no more energy to keep her alive.

“clear.”

“time of death-”

the scream that tore out of him then was raw, almost animalistic, rippling through his body until it burned and took his voice with it. he lunged forward again but this time, rougher arms held him back, locking around his shoulders.

“hyung- please-”

heeseung couldn’t hear anything. not jungwon’s voice. not sunghoon’s silent cries. not jay’s mumbled sniffles into his hands. not the incessant beeping of that godforesaken machine. nothing. his entire world had numbed the second she took her last breath.

“please!” he sobbed, “she’s right there- she’s right there-”

the room blurred around him. voices overlapped. medical terms he couldn’t process were thrown around. equipment was being packed away. all he could see was her hand as he was dragged out of the room - it now sat still against the sheets. her fingers had slipped from his like they no longer had any meaning, like they no longer had any right to be placed within his - like the ring he’d placed on her finger meant nothing now.

seconds ago they had been warm. alive.

now they were cooling. already distant.

gone.

heeseung didn’t remember being forced into the hallway, or his knees buckling and his body slamming into the tile, or jungwon catching him as he staggered forward with teary vision and a body that felt like it didn’t even belong to him anymore.

“she was just here.” heeseung cried- sobbed into jungwon’s jacket, fists clutching desperately at the fabric and his voice cracking with fresh shock and disbelief, “she- she smiled- she was just with me-”

his body shook violently. his lungs couldn’t pull enough air. each breath was jagged, painful, insufficient and his friends didn’t even know what to do as they stood beside him, crying their own eyes out at the sight of their older sister in that bed.

a nurse approached the group slowly, hesitantly. she had tiny tears in her eyes too as if she couldn’t hold them back at the scene infront of her. she held a thin file against her chest like it weighed a thousand pounds - her eyes scanned the three boys beside heeseung before landing on him.

they all looked up when she stopped in front of them, heeseung being the last to look up after a gentle, supportive pat from jay on his shoulder. his eyes were already swelling from tears, red lining his waterline, his cheeks hollowed and mind completely unfocused.

“lee heeseung? there’s something you should know.” she said gently.

he sniffled, nodding for her to continue. she took a deep breath.

“she was pregnant.”

the hallway fell silent. everything - the buzzing lights, the distant footsteps, the screams in his mind, the pain in his heart - everything muffled. all of it vanished as his mind droned into what the nurse had just said.

pregnant.

just that one word stole his breath.

“what?”

“very early.” she continued softly, “only three weeks. we discovered it during some examinations.”

pregnant.

his lips parted in shock. his eyes fluttered and his thoughts instantly went back to her hand absentmindedly resting over her stomach that morning. he remembered the quick flash of happiness glowing in her eyes, the way she smiled to herself like she was excited to share it with him.

pregnant.

he felt something in his chest physically collapse - like a structure caving in.

two heartbeats.

there had been two.

and both had flatlined in the same room.

the nurse extended the file toward him and he stared at it blankly like it wasn’t real. it didn’t look real. it looked like paper but felt like a coffin and he didn’t reach for it, he physically couldn’t - he could barely breathe.

because inside that folder was proof that he had almost been a father. proof that she had been carrying their future. proof that the last words he gave her were irritation.

fine. whatever.

not i love you.

not drive safe.

the hallway began to tilt.

at first, he thought it was his imagination. maybe he was also dying, maybe he was also slowly losing himself so he let it happen. he let his mind swirl and his breathing stutter and his arms drop to his sides. the harsh lights above blurred into blank, white streaks. the floor felt unsteady beneath his knees. the sound of his own heartbeat roared loudly in his ears, drowning everything else out.

“heeseung.” jay’s voice sounded like he was stood a mile away.

“heeseung hyung.” more panicked voices followed but he didn’t know what to do.

he tried to inhale but the air wouldn’t come.

his vision tunnelled, narrowing into a thin, shrinking circle.

the file slipped from the nurse’s hands and the papers scattered around him. he reached out blindly for something, anything, but his fingers grasped nothing but air. she was the only thing on his mind when his vision darkened. her smile was the only thing he could see when his body crumpled forward. her scent was the only thing he could smell when his eyes slid shut. her hand in his was the only thing he could feel as he fell to the floor and his head hit the tile.

•••

“you look like a groom already.” y/n teased as her eyes ran over the suit he’d just tried on and shyly stepped out to show her. she had gasped dramatically, clapping her hands together like she couldn’t contain her happiness. heeseung giggled under his breath as she joyfully stepped over to him and started straightening the lapels of the blazer.

she looked so excited, like her dream was finally coming true.

“my groom.”

she smoothed her hands down his chest, gaze full of adoration and love as she stared up into his doe eyes, “all mine.”

the same fabric now pressed stiffly against his shoulders as he stood at her funeral instead.

the irony was cruel. the suit meant for vows and lifelong promises and her walking toward him - alive, glowing, smiling - was now witnessing her forever absence. he adjusted the cufflinks with trembling fingers. he brushed the pads of his thumb over her initials engraved into the metal, remembering how she’d once said she wanted to see him cry on their wedding day because “men who love deeply cry beautifully.”

what would she say now, seeing him unable to cry at all?

when he stepped into the funeral hall, the scent struck him immediately.

white roses. hundreds of them.

they lined the aisle in perfect symmetry, soft petals layered like clouds against polished floors. they framed her portrait at the front - a candid picture he had taken of her when they went on vacation together. she was laughing in that familiar, bright way she laughed, with her head tilted slightly and eyes crinkling mid-laugh like nothing could hurt her in that moment. her coffin was covered in white blooms so delicately arranged it looked less like a casket and more like a bridal bed.

“some flowers smell loud! like fireworks!” he remembered her vivid, eight-year old voice echo in his mind, “but white roses smell soft and quiet. they look gentle like they’re whispering.”

now they were everywhere.

a sea of white.

a bed of gentle whispers.

a wedding she never got.

he finally knew what she meant now. they did smell soft - exactly as she’d described - but they felt a little suffocating too, wrapping around his lungs and tightening with every breath. it clung to him, settled into his suit, into his hair. he would carry that scent home and it would no longer mean beginnings.

it would mean this.

guests filled the seats in hushed waves of black attire. condolences drifted toward him like distant echoes.

“she was such a light.”

“i’m so sorry for your loss.”

“she loved you so much.”

“if you need anything-”

he bowed automatically.

thank you. thank you. thank you. thank-

he didn’t hear most of what he was replying. the words bounced off something solid inside him, never quite reaching his mind.

his members stood close by, all dressed in black suits, faces pale and eyes red-rimmed. all six of them looked smaller somehow - not in stature, but in spirit. y/n had been more than just his girlfriend to them. she had been the one who cooked too much food and scolded them for skipping meals, she was the one who stayed up to watch their livestreams, who invited them all over for dinner from time to time, who brought cake to the practice room and had little nicknames for each of them.

she was their older sister as much as heeseung was their older brother. she was their family in every way that mattered.

because she was heeseung’s family before he had become their family.

jungwon’s composure shattered first. he tried to hold it in with a tight jaw and squared shoulders but all he could think about was heeseung in that hospital room - all that haunted him was his screams, the way he’d fainted, the way jungwon had sobbed as they tried to wake him back up. sunghoon turned his face away from her portrait, wiping at his eyes angrily as if frustrated by his own tears.

jay stood stiff and silent. his hands shook no matter how much he tried to clasp them together or press his fingers to his sides. jake’s lips quivered even as he wiped at his eyes with a crumpled up piece of tissue. sunoo, ever the empath and probably the closest one to y/n out of all of them, was openly crying. his sleeve was wrinkled with dried patches of tears and he couldn’t stop the tears from falling even more as he turned around to wipe them away. ni-ki tried comforting him with a hand to his back but even he looked lost and disturbed.

they weren’t just mourning her. they were mourning the future dinners, the teasing nicknames, the steady presence she brought all of them.

they were mourning their eldest hyung, who they knew would never be the same after this.

at the centre of it all, he stood still.

too still.

he stared at the flowers and thought, absurdly, that she would complain about the excess.

“this is too dramatic.” she would whisper, nudging his arm, “are you trying to make it look like a royal wedding?”

for a fraction of a second, the ghost of a smile reached his lips.

it shattered before it could even exist - because she wasn’t beside him. she wasn’t squeezing his fingers or whispering that she loved him or kissing his cheek excessively.

she wasn’t here. not truly anyway.

when it was time for heeseung to step forward, the aisle felt impossibly long. white petals brushed against his “shiny shoes” with every step. the suit - his wedding suit - felt heavier with each movement, like it understood the betrayal of the moment. this wasn’t where he was supposed to wear it. he was supposed to be standing at the end of the aisle waiting for her to walk toward him, not the other way around.

he wasn’t supposed to be the one walking to her coffin.

it looked too small. too simple. too final.

he stopped in front of it and the world narrowed to the polished wood reflecting the soft lights above. this box held her laughter, her sleepy morning voice, the way she curled into him at night, the way she pressed her cold feet against his legs just to hear him yelp, the way she would say his name. it held their childhood together - her endless support when he wanted to become an idol, her cheers when he sang, her patience when he had to be on a reality tv show for months, her pride when he debuted.

but alongside all of that, there was something else in there too.

their baby. merely a few weeks old, never having heard their fathers voice or their mothers beautiful laugh. heeseung had a whole life ahead of him that he never even got to enjoy. he will never be able to experience touching her belly and speaking to the baby, never experience their tiny kicks, never experience his members fighting over who was the better uncle, never experience their first steps or first words or first cry.

his hand lifted slowly, shaking heavily, and he pressed his palm against the surface.

it was cold. there was no warmth. no rise and fall of breathing. no heartbeat answering to his touch.

he leaned closer, voice barely existing between just the two of them.

“you were all mine.” he whispered, the words crackling halfway in his throat, “and i was yours.”

his shoulders trembled but he still didn’t cry.

“we were supposed to grow old. you promised.” the memory of her laughing, telling him she would out-live him just to annoy him, pierced through his chest like something unforgiving, “we were supposed to grow old and wrinkly together so i could keep singing for you.”

“you’re not allowed to stop singing.” she added on seriously and the boy looked at her, “ever. even when you’re old and wrinkly.”

“why would i be wrinkly?”

“because everyone gets wrinkly when they’re old, hamster.”

his forehead almost touched the coffin.

“come home.”

come home so i can scold you for driving alone. come home so i can hold you and tell you i’m not angry anymore. come home so we can eat together and i can tell you how much i love your food. come home so i can marry you in this suit like we planned. come home so i dont have to exist without you.

silence answered.

beside him, one of y/n’s family members sobbed loudly. someone broke down completely, someone went to hold them. sunoo cried in the corner and jake muttered tiny words to soothe him. the sound of grief rippled through the entire hall in waves - raw and uncontrollable.

but heeseung remained still because if he allowed himself to break, he wasn’t sure he could ever stop.

he stood there in his wedding suit and shiny shoes as the world buried away the only person who had ever truly felt like home, the first person who had ever supported him and believed in him and stayed by his side.

she was his first everything.

his first friend, his first crush, his first girlfriend, his first time, his first supporter, his first fan.

and when the last of the white petals she and their baby were buried beneath disappeared under the soil, something inside his chest was lowered with her.

heeseung didn’t cry.

but the part of him that knew how to live without her was buried that day too.

•••

heeseung took a 3 month hiatus after that.

the announcement was phrased carefully by his team’s management - they’d said it was for personal time, rest, health. the words were polished and gentle enough for the public, enough for the fans to understand and send their sympathy and approval his way.

but behind closed doors, it hadn’t been that simple. jungwon had argued in a low, steady voice that barely hid his own fear. he’d been seated with a few members of the management team at a long, conference table, speaking out, not only as the groups leader but also as a friend, as a sibling.

both to heeseung and y/n.

“heeseung hyung shouldn’t be alone.” his voice was firm. his hands were clasped tightly in front of him, knuckles pale, “especially right now. everything is still so fresh. this is unfair to him and all the members. we’re worried for him.”

he kept his tone respectful, he always did, but there was something underneath it. a tremor. not of anger but of fear. the higher-ups had mentioned giving heeseung space, allowing him privacy to grieve, how public scedhules can be adjusted and statements released.

“sometimes isolation helps with healing.” one of them had said.

“being alone can help with reflection and acceptance.” another suggested.

jungwon’s jaw tightened, “that’s not what he needs. he shouldn’t go through this by himself.”

all eyes turned to heeseung, who had been sitting there beside jungwon the entire time - a shell of himself. he hadn’t spoken once, not even a small greeting when they walked in. he sat with his hands folded in his lap, posture straight and his droopy, empty gaze fixed on a slab of wood on the other end of the room as if it required his intense concentration. his expression was composed - the kind of stillness that wasn’t strength but suppression.

he was there physically, but mentally and emotionally, he was somewhere else.

it was like the conversation wasn’t about him at all.

when someone asked him directly what he would prefer, he blinked slowly, as if surfacing from whichever memory he was living in.

“i’m going home.”

his voice was quiet but clear.

not the dorm.

home. their apartment. the one he hadn’t been to since he’d ran out that night to rush to the hospital. the one he never wanted to abandon because leaving would mean accepting she wasn’t coming back. it would mean folding her clothes, washing the sheets and letting her fade from the walls. it would mean admitting home wasn’t his home anymore.

he’d already made up his mind.

he wasn’t choosing solitude but he was choosing to live where she still felt close enough to touch.

•••

the first click of the front door echoed too loudly in the empty hallway. heeseung’s hand stayed on the handle long after the door had already opened, his knuckles turning white, breath shallow and for a second - just for a split second - it felt like second nature for him to expect her voice to travel from the inside.

“you’re home?”

silence answered him.

the apartment was still the way they both left it that night. the lamp was still on, cascading the room in white light that felt almost irritating now that she wasn’t under it to soften the glare. the curtains were still drawn from the last morning they’d woken up together. the air felt stale, untouched, faintly floral.

her mother had come by to drop off some bouquets of white roses from the funeral. she hadn’t been there for too long - afraid that if she even touched anything that belonged to her late daughter, she would start sobbing. heeseung now looked at the multiple vases of flowers that sat by the kitchen counter. their scent had soaked into everything: into the fabric of the sofa, the rugs, the walls.

it clung to the air like something that refused to leave.

like her.

heeseung didn’t change anything in the apartment. the blanket she was sitting with on the couch was still there, but now folded. her slippers still sat by the door as if waiting for her to return home and slip back into. her book that she was reading still sat on the coffee table, still marked from that night - never to be read again. her hand cream sat on her nightstand, the cap slightly crooked like she’d been in a hurry to tighten it.

he touched it once.

then pulled his hands back like it burned.

on the second night, he moved to her side of the bed.

she had always slept closer to the wall, claiming it made her feel safe. heeseung teased her for it endlessly, wrapping an arm around her waist and whispering against her lips, “you’re safe because i’m here.”

now he slid into her spot and faced the wall she used to face. he pressed his face into her pillow and inhaled until his lungs burned. the scent was fading - he could tell - but it was still there. still soft. still his.

“you’re all mine.” he had whispered into her hair one time when she was half-asleep, “god, i’m so lucky to call you all mine.”

grief had a way of replaying what you miss the most. it would loop until it feels almost real, almost palpable, almost close enough for you to touch.

the first time heeseung heard her voice he was laying on the sheets of their bed, staring up at the ceiling. his fists were tightly clutching the duvet instinctively, as if anchoring him to this world - that’s when he heard it.

like he was teetering between the edge of this world and the afterlife .

“heeseung.”

it was so soft and so close, he could practically feel the brush of breath against the shell of his ear. his heart slammed so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. he shot upright, eyes wide, scanning the empty room.

“i’m here.” he answered immediately, the first thing he’d said in a while out loud. his voice didn’t even shake, as if he was certain it was her. as if he didn’t want to greet her again with shaky breaths and a dull tone.

silence followed but something in his chest loosened instead of tightening… because if he could hear her, she had to be somewhere near, right?

one night, as he sat with her favourite blanket thrown over his lap and her faint perfume lingering from the corners, he heard it: a careful, familiar humming, like she had never left. it was her favourite song and it was drifting out of their bedroom.

hope, as always, clung to his chest and he followed the sound instinctively. it drew him into the room, toward her bedside drawer that sat slightly ajar. he hesitated before pulling it open further and his breath instantly caught in his throat.

beneath the old, piled up receipts and a small notebook, lay a pregnancy test with two faint pink lines visibly drawn across the middle. heeseung felt his entire world tilt off its axis. he opened the wardrobe with trembling fingers, afraid of what else he might find, and just as he expected: there was a tiny onesie folded just behind a pile of vitamins and medications.

he pulled it out slowly. the fabric was thick yet plush against his cold, numb fingertips and he opened it up, the size of it delicate enough to fit in his palm.

there was an embroidered hamster in the middle with another tiny hamster just beside it. heeseung’s eyes softened and tears blurred his vison when he ran his fingers over the threaded piece of art and the little bold letters that sat just under: surprise, daddy!

his knees buckled. she’d been planning it. planning a future.

three weeks - only three weeks had passed, but in that short time, their child had existed. the laughter they had been hearing in the quiet apartment felt closer now, more haunting, more ghostly. he clutched the onesie to his chest and rocked slightly as if his child was there with him, in his arms, alive and healthy. tears, scalding and aching against his cheeks, finally broke free.

“come home.” he whispered to no one in particular, his voice more than already raw and broken. the apartment, once again, remained silent but heeseung heard her again. in his mind. in his heart. she was calling out to him, gentle, encouraging, telling him to let go.

somewhere, between memory and madness, grief and denial, heeseung finally shattered completely.

everything became easier after that moment.

he started talking to her.

at first, they were just whispers in the night, small murmurs as he lay in the darkness of their bedroom. he muttered something about how the night didn’t feel as lonely anymore, or how he liked sleeping on her side of the bed, or reminisced on something silly she said to him one time.

then, he started talking in normal conversation. in a way, it gave him motivation to do things around the house because he felt like she was watching him, or that she was with him, communicating with him. it allowed him to eat, to shower, to do his skin care because he’d talk to her through it all - just the way he used to when she was still here.

he’d stand in the kitchen, chopping vegetables as he tried to make a meal for himself. mid-way through his work, he’d randomly stop and look up at nothing in particular, “you’d say i’m doing this wrong, wouldn’t you?”

he paused, tilted his head slightly like he was listening for a response. then he’d nod, satisfied, a tiny smile on his chapped lips, “yeah, okay. i’ll fix it.”

he began setting her a plate at dinner, at her usual seat right beside his own. he always hated when she sat opposite to him on dates or events - he claimed she was too far and he couldn’t touch her. he loved having her beside him where he could easily talk to her, hold her, protect her.

he’d set two bowls of rice, two glasses of water, chopsticks and utensils placed neatly beside each plate.

he started buying her favourite snacks again - the strawberry milk she liked, the overly sweet cookies she always defended even though they made him grimace. he reached for them automatically at the store, like muscle memory was stronger than reality. he would smile in anticipation as if excited to see her reaction and excited to share them with her.

“you don’t have to stay mad.” he would murmur while leaning against the counter after doing the dishes, “i know i snapped that night. i was tired. i swear, i didn’t mean it.”

in his mind, she wasn’t dead.

she left because she had to - this was the alternative his grief had made him believe.

if she left because she was upset, she could forgive him. if she left because she needed space, he could wait. if she left because he failed her-

his thoughts cut off there all the time, sharp and immediate. his mind never let him finish that sentence.

what if she’s fine and it’s his mind that’s wrong? what if she’s happy and alive somewhere and it’s just his mind that’s making up all these fake implications about her?

she’s not dead.

sometimes in the quietest hours of the night, heeseung felt the mattress dip beside him because that was what his mind convinced him to feel. it was never a violent or obvious shift - just a subtle change in weight. a warmth brushed against his arm once, light as a feather, and he held his breath, afraid to open his eyes. it wasn’t there when he did but the sensation lingered in his chest.

“i knew you’d come back.” the words were barely audible yet they felt like a tether, a small proof that she still might be near.

he would hum an old tune, a random song she liked, because he knew how much she liked his humming. he didn’t want her to think he was hurting or in pain so he always made sure he sounded normal… she knew his humming very well.

after nights like those, he slept a little better. he slept as if the world outside his fantasy could wait a few more hours as he imagined her presence beside him.

during the day, he carried a quiet change.

he smiled faintly, a fragile curve that didn’t reach his eyes. he answered unheard questions with gentle nods, paused mid-sentence as though someone invisible had interrupted him to ask him something. the members all noticed this - especially when they did group facetime calls. they noticed the way he smiled off into the distance, muttered small phrases to the air beside him as if he was talking to someone.

and when he wasn’t doing any of that, then he was distracted, staring off into nothing as he thought about everything. the members noticed this too. his silence.

one day, using the spare key, they had let themselves in.

the apartment was dim despite the early hour, curtains half-drawn, air thick and unmoving. it felt almost ghostly. shadows clung to corners and the faint, lingering scent of her perfume hung in the air like a fragile memory. all six of them piled in with furrowed brows and heavy hearts, yet when they saw heeseung in the kitchen, their heavy hearts felt like they could completely sink any moment.

he looked smaller. thinner. cheekbones sharper, collarbones more defined beneath the t-shirt hanging off his frame. dark circles hollowed out his eyes and his hair fell in unkempt strands against his forehead. yet, somehow, he was smiling… a soft, distant smile that barely curved around the stubble on his chin and the hollowness of his eyes.

beside all that, he still wore his ring. the matching one he had with her. they all saw it.

on the table were two plates already placed perfectly. one plate had food half-eaten, which they guessed was his, meanwhile the other plate was pristine and untouched.

jungwon’s chest tightened painfully.

“hyung.” he called out carefully.

heeseung looked up, as if mildly surprised to see them there. he looked completely out of it, like he’d lost his mind being here by himself for the past month. he gave them all a welcoming smile, as if it wasn’t their first time visiting since everything that happened.

“oh! you’re all early!”

“early?” jay couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice as his eyes travelled from the dining table to heeseung’s worn out frame.

“for dinner!” heeseung replied simply, eyes shifting toward the empty chair beside him, “she just stepped out.”

the apartment went completely still.

jake swallowed hard, sunghoon’s gaze locked onto the second pair of dishes as if it might shatter or vanish if he blinked, ni-ki furrowed his brows and sunoo felt the tears already brimming his lashes as he took in the scene before him.

at the man before him.

because that was not his heeseung hyung, and he knew it.

jungwon took a careful step forward, each movement hesitant, as though approaching someone already balanced on the edge of a cliff. when he spoke, his voice was soft and understanding, as if wanting heeseung to see reason, to see past his delusions, to see his reality.

“she’s not here, hyung.”

heeseung’s smile didn’t falter, “she will be.”

the certainty in his tone was unnerving - calm, steady and unshaken. this wasn’t denial or grief. it was something else entirely, something cruel and wicked that had curled itself into his mind and messed with his healing process. it unnerved the members more than tears or rage or shouting ever could.

“hyung…” sunghoon started, raw and unsteady, “she-”

“she just needed space.” heeseung interrupted and snapped his head from jungwon to sunghoon, his words sounding gentle yet strewn on simmering anger, “you know how she gets when i overwork myself. she was worried. i told her i’d rest.”

his eyes flickered toward the hallway where their bedroom sat, expectant and waiting.

the members exchanged terrified, helpless glances, as if silently acknowledging that what they were witnessing was no longer grief - it was something that was breaking him from the inside out. something that was handling him in slow, deliberate increments. something inside him that had shifted beyond repair.

heeseung reached for the extra glass of water and adjusted it so that it aligned perfectly with the plate infront of the empty chair, “she doesn’t like it when things are messy.”

jungwon’s vision blurred.

the man standing before them all - the same hyung who once filled their practice room with laughter and stupid jokes, who once sang like the world itself resided in his chest - looked like a shadow stretched thin over bones.

he suddenly felt an overwhelming amount of regret. regret for not arguing more in that meeting, regret for not pressuring him to stay with the rest of the members. he knows it would’ve sounded rude or selfish at the time but at least they could’ve avoided this - whatever this was. at least they could’ve helped him grieve, at least he wouldn’t have been couped up alone in the silence of his loss.

at least it wouldn’t have driven him to madness.

“she’ll come home. she only stepped out for a bit.” heeseung smiled fondly, “she won’t be long.”

he wasn’t speaking directly to them anymore.

he was speaking to himself. convincing himself.

and in the way he said it - all patient, loving, utterly certain - it was clear. he wasn’t waiting anymore. he was living in a world where she had never truly left and somewhere between the untouched sheets and the phantom voice in the darkness of his mind, heeseung had long since stepped past grief.

he had crossed the line.

past sorrow. past mourning. past bargaining and acceptance and all the stages people had made up. he’d moved past the fragile remnants of the person he had once been.

heeseung wasn’t grieving anymore. he was existing in a world built entirely around her absence - a world that had room for absolutely no one else.

[maknaeontop143]

I'M CRYING OML 😭😭😭 I aspire to have this level of whimsy and delusion. They're literally all frolicking in the fields of their minds bro. Just sunshine, rainbows, puppy dogs and EnhyPENIS7. Nothing else. Because anything else would break through their delusions and they wouldn't be frolicking in the fields anymores.

TS is actually funny to me 🤣 Like I can't take it seriously anymore 😔✌🏾

[jesusagrees]

It's time you guys are honest with yourselves

This is going to be directed towards ENGENES, because I think there's something they have to confront within themselves and it's that they were never fans of ENHYPEN to begin with.

Now, I am not aiming this at all of them, some have been great in this and have been mature and supportive from the start. Real fans and not the parasocail weirdos(You know who you are).

"ENHYPEN is 7!", "I know Jungwon and he was forced by the company!", "I'm still going to do the ot7 fanchant I don't care!", "No Heeseung! No ENHYPEN!", "He's kicking us out of the fandom!" I can go on and on with comments you OT7 people have been saying. Haven't you any shame?

It's very clear by your crashouts none of you had any respect for ENHYPEN from the beginning and didn't actually support them. I see comments how some people haven't been able to listen to their music since Heeseung left and that's fine, you're upset, cool...but don't go raging on social media demanding Heeseung comes back because YOU feel the need to dictate these human beings and everyone must cater to your needs.

If you guys truly supported and trusted(keyword: trusted) your Artists it wouldn't have come down to this. From the very beginning you should have listened. Since that day on March 10. Kept your theories to yourself and send both Heeseung and ENHYPEN SUPPORTIVE MESSAGES! Be upset, be sad, but understand them as people and just send them supportive messages.

You all have been insanely spoiled as a fandom and don't understand what it's like having an Artist set a boundary with you hence why you're crashing out so bad...and it's honestly embarassing. It shows a lot about who you are as a person and your character if you are raging about people you do not know. I say this with all the disrespect.

I saw a comment where someone was saying how Jungwon should understand where the fans are coming from because they're "hurting" and honestly if you think like this I'm going to be straight with you: suck it up. How do you think ENHYPEN feels? Every single crashout, every single comment you make reminding them of everything; does that not hurt ENHYPEN too? They are getting harassed and 2 members have had to tell you to knock it off! So you knock it off! ENHYPEN are trying their best to pick up the pieces and none of you guys are helping with your selfishness.

Grow up!

Jungwon was very clear in his message that ENHYPEN is 6 and they are trying to move on as 6. You need to let them if you had any respect for them. Heeseung was a part of ENHYPEN, he's no longer a member and has started his new chapter finding his Artistry and that's amazing. We should be cheering for him because what he did was not easy and absolutely terrifying. You need to be proud of him and be proud of ENHYPEN too. ENHYPEN then was important and the new ENHYPEN is just as important.

If you cannot do this, if you cannot respect their wishes and support them as they are now then like Jungwon said you will not be considered fans and you need to take your exit. Be honest with yourselves here.

ENHYPEN doesn't need 'fans' like you if you cannot simply respect them. That is all they ask and it's not hard. It's not hard to just flood their comments with, "You did a good job! Don't forget to eat and rest well! We love you!" It's really that easy. Trust me.

PS: I understand BeLift handled this situation poorly, but this is about ENHYPEN and Heeseung now. Stop using BeLift as your excuse and blaming them for everything. Focus on the Artists and know how you need to move forward from here. Also, if this offends you then know it was directed at you! :)

[maknaeontop143]

Why in the world am I seeing people hating on Jungwon???

Like are we actually being serious right now?? 💀

God forbid a member calls out bad behavior, like are we kiddingg?

I've seen so many comments and posts about how Jungwon was throwing shade at Heeseung (he literally didn't say Heeseung's name once), about how Jungwon betrayed Engenes by betraying OT7ers delusions (poor people 🥺. I feel so bad that they were called out for literally boycotting, spamming, protesting, and ignoring Enhypen's wishes. Aww so sad for them...), and about how rude Jungwon was for "forgetting 6 years of memories" (btw he NEVER said anything about forgetting Heeseung or any memories of the past 6 years. He literally just wants us to support the 6 of them without bringing Heeseung into everything. He wants us to understand that Enhypen is 6 now, regardless of if it was 7 in the past.)

Also I've seen WAYYY too many people talk about how Jungwon was "definitely forced to say all of that. The staff was probably behind him with a script.".

The delusions are killing me. It's like they only have autonomy and freedom of speech if it's something you want to hear or see. But everything else was forced by the staff or company. Mind you Jungwon literally said, (summarized) "even though I know a lot of y'all will think this, the company isn't forcing me to say this. I'm speaking on behalf of my members and myself. Please do not misunderstand me or misinterpret my words. Honestly those who misunderstand and continue saying Enhypen is 7 are just causing drama and fights in the fandom and I don't consider people like that true fans."

And yet, people are still saying he was forced and that staff were behind the camera with a script. If Jungwon were to go on live and start saying Enhypen is 7, people would believe it without a doubt and all of a sudden, there's no staff behind the camera and he's not behind held at g*npoint.

I think that people really need to start listening to what the members have to say instead of coming up with random theories and delusions because it can be really damaging to the members.

Also sorry if I sound mad, it's just that people are straight up disrespecting Jungwon and the members atp and it's really upsetting to see.

No hate to anyone.