Guyssss I’m trying to find a fic based on the Community Center SKZ Code episode!
The story is about a female reader who’s a single mom with a little son, and somehow they end up participating in the SKZ Code/community center activities. During the whole thing, the son gets super attached to Lee Know and basically stays by his side the entire time 😭
Lee Know is really soft and caring with him, the kid absolutely adores him, and slowly Lee Know and the reader start falling for each other 🥹
I can’t remember the title or author and it’s driving me insane. If anyone knows this fic or has a link, please tell me 🙏
You'd known for months that you were leaving—a few months back to your family in your home country. Your parents needed you. And though Seungmin understood, you felt the knot in your stomach tightening. The thoughts of saying goodbye, of distance, of living in different time zones…
It broke you.
And Seungmin?
He didn't say much. Not because it didn't bother him. But because he didn't have the words to make it any easier.
Instead… he was gentler. Quieter eyes, longer hugs. Hands that lingered on yours a little longer. An extra sweater on your bed. Little things.
"I know you have to go," he'd said the night before your flight. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready to miss you."
You couldn't say anything. You just rested your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes, your breathing matching his.
~
Now here you were.
Airport. Gate 26. Boarding in 20 minutes.
Your suitcase was checked in. Your passport was in your jacket pocket. Everything was taken care of. Everything except your heart.
Seungmin stood opposite you, his hood pulled low over his head, sunglasses on, mask half off. Yet you recognized every inch of him. His eyes. His silences. His silent love.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
You shrugged. “Not really.”
He nodded slowly. His hands were in his jacket pockets. He looked at your shoes.
“Did you bring the book?” he asked.
You smiled weakly. “Yes. And the playlist. And that one note you slipped in my notebook.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “Don’t read during takeoff. You’ll cry.”
“Then I’ll cry anyway.”
He laughed softly, but it sounded hollow. His eyes shone. Not with tears. But with suppressed emotion.
“You know I’m going to miss you, right?” you said, reaching out your hand.
He took it immediately. Warmly. Firmly.
“I know,” he said. “And I know I have to let you go. But… that doesn’t mean I want to.”
You swallowed. The ground beneath your feet felt thinner.
“I’ll be back,” you whispered.
He nodded. “I’ll wait.”
You looked at the clock. 1:42 PM.
“I really need to—”
“I know.”
He let go of your hand, but stepped closer. His arms wrapped around you. Not fleetingly. Not gently. But completely. As if he was taking you in. As if he was absorbing you.
You felt his head on your shoulder. His breath on your neck.
“Don’t forget who you are there,” he whispered.
“I’m yours,” you said.
He pulled back slightly. His eyes looked into yours, soft and sharp at the same time. And then, without saying anything, he leaned forward.
His lips touched yours.
Not rushed. Not uncertain. But genuine. Warm. Quiet.
A kiss filled with everything he didn’t dare say. Everything he gave you, without saying it aloud.
When he slowly pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Come back,” he whispered.
“Always.”
And then… the announcement of your flight.
You stepped back. One step, then another. He stood there. His hands in his pockets. His gaze on you.
You turned around.
Walked to the gate.
And at the last moment, just before boarding, you looked back.
synopsis: he thought a proposal could fix what he broke. but you weren’t looking for a future, you were just trying to survive the present.
warnings: angst, emotional neglect, depiction of grief, abandonment, and quiet heartbreak. no happy ending.
wc: 3885
It started in laughter.
Not the polite kind, not the rehearsed kind you use to soften a blow or fill the quiet in a crowded room. But the raw, sudden, belly-deep laughter that left both of you breathless, sometimes over nothing at all. You remember the way Jeongin used to smile with his whole face, eyes disappearing into crescents, that dimple digging deep into his cheek like it had never known loneliness. Back then, your world was wrapped in the comfort of shared routines, weekend grocery trips, late-night ramen in front of the TV, brushing your teeth side-by-side in the cramped bathroom of your small apartment.
He used to come home and call your name before the door even closed behind him. It was a habit, like saying “I’m here” without the words. You’d reply from wherever you were kitchen, couch, sometimes half-asleep in bed and he'd find you, arms already opening like instinct. You were his place to land. And for a while, that was enough.
But then, the quiet started sneaking in.
It wasn’t sudden, which made it harder to notice. At first, you blamed it on the stress. He was always working, schedule packed with rehearsals, photoshoots, interviews, practice till midnight and up again before sunrise. You understood. You always had. You learned to make peace with the way love had to share space with ambition. His world was big, and you never expected to be the center of it. You just wanted to be his home base.
And for a time, he let you be.
But something changed. Gradually, subtly, like the slow shifting of tectonic plates beneath your feet. One day, he stopped calling out your name when he came home. You thought maybe he was just tired. Then he stopped coming home at all some nights, crashing at the dorm instead, with vague explanations over text: “Too late to drive back,” or, “Don’t wait up, early shoot tomorrow.” Still, you waited. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Love had to be flexible. You weren’t the kind of partner who demanded too much.
You told yourself it was just a phase.
You started noticing the silences at dinner. Long stretches where your words hung in the air and fell flat, unanswered. He would nod along half-heartedly while scrolling through his phone, eyes glazed with something far away. You made his favorite dishes, kimchi stew just the way he liked it, grilled mackerel, even that ridiculous peach-flavored soda he used to beg for like a kid. He ate, but didn’t react. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say thank you.
You started filling the silences yourself. Talking more than usual, recounting your day in exaggerated detail, laughing at your own jokes in hopes of drawing something, anything out of him. Sometimes, he’d offer a tired smile. Sometimes, not even that.
You knew better than to confront him. You convinced yourself it would pass. That bringing it up would only make it worse. That real love meant riding out the ebbs and flows, even if it meant swallowing your own needs in the process.
After all, love didn’t have to hurt to be real. But sometimes, silence feels like a scream.
You remember the night it hit you, really hit you that something had changed and might never return to the way it was.
It was raining. One of those heavy, relentless storms that seemed to soak through everything. You were curled on the couch with a blanket and an untouched cup of tea, watching the rain streak down the windows. It was late. He was supposed to be home by now.
You checked your phone, no message. You called him, and it rang twice before going to voicemail.
You didn’t panic. You were past panic by then. You just sat there, waiting. The thunder echoed the hollowness inside your chest.
When the door finally opened sometime after 2 a.m., he didn’t even look surprised to see you awake. He just kicked off his shoes and muttered, “Long day,” before disappearing into the bathroom.
You stared at the empty space where he had stood. The way he didn’t apologize. The way he didn’t ask why you looked so tired. The way he didn’t offer even a small, guilty hug. It told you everything you needed to know.
He’d already begun to leave you, long before the door opened that night.
The unraveling wasn’t dramatic. There were no explosive fights, no slammed doors, no cruel words. It was quiet, excruciatingly quiet. A steady fading, like colors leeching out of a photograph until all that’s left is grayscale.
He started talking less. Touching less. Coming home less. And when he was there, it felt like he wasn’t.
You found yourself shrinking in his presence, afraid to say the wrong thing, to push too hard, to ask too much. You stopped trying to kiss him goodnight. You stopped waiting up. You told yourself it was easier that way.
But it wasn’t.
You missed him. God, you missed him even when he was sitting right next to you. You missed the way he used to hold your hand during movies. You missed the way he’d fall asleep mid-sentence, head heavy on your shoulder. You missed the random texts during the day “Thought of you,” “Look at this dumb meme,” “Miss you.”
Now, your phone stayed silent most of the day.
And still, you held on.
Because what was the alternative? To leave? To admit that something so beautiful could fall apart without warning, without a fight? You weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to mourn someone who hadn’t even said goodbye.
You told yourself that maybe this was what love looked like after a while routine, quiet, worn in like an old sweater. Maybe you were just being dramatic. Overly sensitive. Clingy.
You gaslighted yourself before he ever had to.
But deep down, you knew.
You knew when he stopped asking about your day. You knew when he forgot the anniversary of the night you met. You knew when his hugs became perfunctory, when his kisses were brief, distracted, obligatory.
You knew when his eyes stopped lighting up when he saw you.
The final straw wasn’t even a fight.
It was another silent dinner, another meal eaten to the sound of clinking forks and a TV playing quietly in the background. You’d made japchae, his mother’s recipe, the one she taught you when you visited Busan together. He barely touched it.
You asked, softly, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t look up. Just shrugged. “Fine.”
You tried again. “Are we okay?”
He paused for a second. Long enough to give you hope. Then he said, “Yeah, just tired.”
Just tired.
Two words that had become a shield. A mask. A lie.
You nodded and said nothing more. But inside, something broke.
Later that night, while he slept beside you, turned away, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. The sound of his breathing, once comforting, now felt foreign. Like sharing a bed with a stranger.
You didn’t cry. You just let the silence fill the space between your ribs until it hurt to breathe.
You knew you couldn’t keep pretending forever. That love, even real love, can’t survive on memories alone.
But you weren’t ready to let go.
So you stayed. Stayed through the cold mornings and the long, empty nights. Stayed through the quiet birthdays and forgotten anniversaries. Stayed through the ache, the numbness, the slow erosion of everything you once held sacred.
You stayed because you loved him.
You stayed because you remembered who he used to be. Because part of you still hoped he’d come back to that version. That one day, he’d walk through the door and call your name like he used to. That he’d look at you and see you again.
But that day never came.
And one morning, you woke up and realized: you couldn’t even remember the last time he said I love you.
Not because you didn’t believe he once did, but because it had been so long that the words felt foreign now like a language you no longer spoke.
That’s the thing about slow heartbreak, it doesn’t shatter you all at once. It chips away, little by little, until one day, you’re standing in the ruins wondering how you ever called it home.
You still haven’t left. Not physically. But inside, you're already halfway gone.
You still cook him dinner, even though he barely eats. You still wait for his messages, even though you’ve stopped expecting them. You still whisper “goodnight” into the darkness, even though he doesn’t answer.
You’re grieving something that isn’t even over yet.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.
You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to leave him.
It wasn’t some dramatic outburst or a single moment of heartbreak. There was no suitcase slammed shut, no tear-streaked goodbye at the door. The decision came in fragments quiet, deliberate, almost invisible. You began by withdrawing in small ways, ways he wouldn’t notice. That was the point.
You started by doing the laundry less often. Then you stopped washing his clothes altogether. When he asked where his hoodie was, the one you used to fold and tuck into his drawer with his favorite lavender sachets, you shrugged. “Probably in the basket.” You didn’t offer to find it. You didn’t care enough to.
He didn’t notice.
Next, you stopped buying the snacks he liked. Not to punish him, but because you couldn’t remember the last time he actually thanked you for them. You would wander the aisles of the store, basket in hand, staring at the shelves and wondering if there was even a point to choosing his favorite yogurt anymore.
You didn’t stop loving him overnight. You just stopped hoping he’d love you back the same way.
You began packing in quiet gestures, removing small bits of yourself from the apartment. Your favorite mug disappeared first. Then your books, slowly, one by one, tucked into a box in the back of the closet. Clothes that never left the drawers before now sat in a zipped-up suitcase under the bed. You deleted photos from your phone, but kept the hard drive hidden in the desk drawer, just in case.
You thought maybe he’d notice. Maybe he’d ask, Where’s your book? Where’s that silly sweatshirt you wore every weekend? Why do the shelves look so empty? But he didn’t.
Because Jeongin, for all his sweetness, had grown used to your presence. He had mistaken your silence for stability, your patience for permanence.
And so, you started leaving before you were really gone.
You remember the little moments where you waited achingly, hopefully for him to realize.
There was the day you waited for him at your favorite coffee shop. He’d said he’d meet you after his rehearsal. You waited an hour. Your tea went cold, and so did your hands. You texted once: Still coming?
No reply.
You walked home in the rain, your umbrella broken in the wind. When you got back to the apartment, you found him asleep on the couch, mouth open slightly, the TV still playing some game show on mute. Your soaked shoes squelched on the floor, but he didn’t stir.
You changed into dry clothes, dried your own hair, and curled up in bed alone.
The next morning, he didn’t even ask where you’d gone.
Another time, it was your anniversary.
Not your official one, not the kind you posted about on Instagram. It was the anniversary of the night he first told you he loved you. You’d made dinner, tried to recreate the dumplings you ate that night, even lit the exact same cinnamon candle he once said reminded him of you.
He didn’t come home until 11 p.m. Said he was out with the guys. You hadn’t heard from him all day.
You didn’t remind him. You just blew out the candle, scraped your uneaten dumplings into the trash, and nodded when he asked if you were okay.
And you were. Because by then, you’d stopped expecting him to show up for you.
But somewhere inside, some soft, desperate part of you still hoped. Every ignored message, every missed call, every quiet dinner felt like a question hanging in the air. Will this be the time he notices? Will this be the moment he remembers how to love me?
The answer was always no.
-
What you didn’t know, couldn’t know was that Jeongin had started to notice.
Too late, maybe. But he did.
It was something small at first. He came home one evening, late again, and reached for the charger you used to leave on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. He checked the drawer. Empty.
Then he noticed your hairbrush was gone from the bathroom counter. Your slippers, those ugly fuzzy ones with bunny ears weren’t by the door. The closet still had your coats, but the scent of your perfume, the little Post-it notes you used to leave him, the books stacked by the bed, gone.
He stood in the center of the apartment and felt something he hadn’t in a long time.
Alone.
Panic crept up his spine, but he told himself maybe you were just reorganizing. Maybe you took things to your studio or your friend's place. Maybe he was imagining it. Still, he found himself checking the calendar, the messages, the photos.
He scrolled through your chat history. Saw how many times you had texted first. Saw how many messages he left on read.
He scrolled and scrolled, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he initiated a conversation. Couldn’t remember the last time he asked you how you were feeling, not just how your day was.
And then, one afternoon, while searching for an extra charger in the back of the hallway cabinet, he found something that stopped him cold.
A small box. Light blue. Tied with a ribbon that had slightly unraveled.
He opened it and found a silver keychain inside. It was engraved.
“Come home safe.”
A gift.
One he never received. One you must have bought weeks, maybe months ago. He knew your handwriting on the small note tucked underneath: Happy comeback. I’m proud of you.
His throat closed.
You had waited for the right moment to give it to him. He had never given you that moment.
Jeongin sat on the floor of the hallway for a long time, holding the keychain in his palm like it might burn through him. All the missed chances, the ignored texts, the silence, your silence it all made sense now.
He hadn’t just neglected you.
He had left you waiting with love in your hands, and now you had nothing left to hold.
That night, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t sleep.
He watched you as you curled away from him, your breathing slow and steady. You didn’t reach for him. He didn’t reach for you. There was a canyon between your backs, and neither of you had tried to build a bridge.
He whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”
But you were already gone, even if your body still shared his bed.
Jeongin didn’t tell anyone. Not his members. Not his manager. He started working later, pretending nothing had changed, but everything had. The guilt chewed through his chest.
He realized he wanted to fix it. Needed to.
He thought about all the things you used to say, all the little details you remembered about him his coffee order, his fears, how he always hummed when he was anxious. You knew him. Loved him even when he made it hard.
He didn’t want to lose that.
So he made a plan.
He didn’t want anything flashy. That wasn’t you. He remembered how you once said that proposals shouldn’t be performative. That love should feel like coming home.
So, Jeongin quietly went to a small jewelry shop in Itaewon, one you once walked past together on a rainy afternoon. He remembered you paused at the window, admiring a ring with a quiet smile, then moved on without saying anything.
He bought that ring.
He planned to propose at home. Your home. Your couch. With takeout from your favorite place and maybe candles, if he could find the ones you liked.
He imagined it all: you crying, laughing, calling him an idiot, saying yes. He imagined holding your face in his hands and promising to do better. Promising to love you the way you deserved.
But what he hadn’t accounted for was the timing.
Because while he was planning to start again, you had already begun to end it.
-
You didn’t expect him to be home.
You were coming back from the store, arms full of a few essentials: toothpaste, ramen, some oranges. You debated buying more things but stopped yourself. You’d already packed up most of what mattered. The rest wasn’t worth carrying.
The sky was dusky, the air thick with humidity. Another Seoul summer pressing down on your skin. The quiet of the apartment hallway felt heavier than usual as you walked toward the door. You weren’t ready to be in the same space again, not tonight, not with all the thoughts swirling in your head.
But when you reached the door, your heart stumbled.
His shoes were there.
Neatly placed by the wall, laces untied just like always. His keychain, the one you never got to give him, the one that said Come home safe sat in the tray by the door. You stared at it for a second too long.
Once, that sight would’ve made your breath catch in your throat with joy. Once, you would’ve dropped your bags and rushed into his arms, pressing kisses to his cheek, wrapping around him like gravity.
But now?
You just felt tired.
You stepped in, locking the door behind you softly, but then froze. There was… music.
Not from the TV. Not background noise. It was soft, intimate, warm. A quiet jazz melody played in the air like a sigh. The lights were dimmed. Candles glowed on the coffee table. Fairy lights sparkled faintly above the window.
You blinked.
The apartment, your shared apartment looked different. Romantic. Like something out of a drama. The couch had throw pillows arranged just so, a small table was set with your favorite wine, takeout containers opened and plated as if he’d tried.
The scent of vanilla and something floral lingered in the air. The cinnamon candle you used to light on cozy nights was burning again. You hadn’t lit it in months.
Then, him.
Jeongin stepped into view, emerging from the hallway.
Dressed neatly. Crisp button-up. Nervous smile. That same dimple you used to love, peeking through the hesitation on his face.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”
You didn’t answer. You just stood there, keys clenched in your hand, eyes moving over the room, trying to catch up with what was happening.
“What is this?” you asked, voice distant.
He stepped closer. “I wanted to surprise you.”
You shook your head slightly. “Why?”
He paused.
Then, slowly, with trembling fingers, he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.
“I… I was going to ask you something.”
Your chest caved in.
No. No, no, no, not like this.
“I know I’ve been distant,” he continued quickly, sensing your retreat. “I know I messed up. I didn’t see how far we were drifting, but I do now. I see it. And I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve held on tighter. I know you’ve been holding us together alone.”
You didn’t move.
“I found the gift,” he added, voice softening. “The keychain. I found it, and it broke me. I didn’t even realize you were trying so hard, and I was just… coasting. Pretending everything was fine.”
Tears pooled in his eyes, and still he dropped to one knee.
“I don’t want to coast anymore,” he whispered, holding up the ring box, lid slowly opening to reveal the simple, delicate band you once admired in a rainy shop window. “I want to come home to you. I want to choose you. Every day. Forever.”
His voice cracked.
“Will you marry me?”
The words hung in the air, trembling.
And you, your mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because your chest was collapsing. Your throat was raw. And you couldn’t, you couldn’t lie to him.
“Jeongin…”
The look in his eyes faltered.
You stepped back. Just once. Just enough to shatter him.
“I can’t,” you whispered.
He blinked. “What?”
“I can’t say yes.”
His hands dropped. The ring remained in the box, suddenly heavy. “W-Why?”
You swallowed hard. “Because I don’t think I love you like that anymore.”
Silence.
You could hear his breath hitch. He stood slowly, clutching the ring box like it was a lifeline.
“No. Don’t say that.”
You looked at him, really looked and he was already breaking. Eyes shining, lips trembling, fists clenched at his sides.
“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t say that. Not now. Not when I’m finally trying.”
Your heart cracked in two.
“You were trying to give me forever,” you said, your voice hollow. “I was just trying to survive the day.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything you had ever known.
Jeongin stood there, stunned, a soft gasp leaving his lips.
You continued, because if you didn’t now, you never would.
“I waited for you. I waited every night. I waited for texts that never came, for you to walk through that door and look at me the way you used to. I cooked, I planned, I held onto memories like they could build a future. But you weren’t there. You stopped seeing me, Jeongin.”
He flinched.
“I kept hoping it was just a phase. That if I stayed patient long enough, you’d come back to me. But you didn’t. You were in the same room, but I was alone. For months.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he choked out. “I didn’t know how far gone we were—”
“I know,” you said softly. “That’s the saddest part. You didn’t even notice me slipping away.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks now. Quiet. Controlled. But real.
“I started packing. Little by little. I started detaching because it was the only way to survive you forgetting how to love me.”
He stepped forward. “Then stay. Let me fix it. Please, let me try—”
“You’re too late,” you said, voice shaking. “I already left you. A long time ago. I just… hadn’t walked out yet.”
He sank onto the couch, face in his hands.
The ring box fell onto the table with a soft, final sound.
You stood for a while, unmoving. Memorizing the moment. This strange, beautiful, terrible goodbye.
Then, you turned.
As you walked toward the door, he looked up. Tear-streaked. Shaking.
“I thought we still had time,” he said, barely a whisper.
“I know,” you replied.
You placed your keys gently on the counter beside the ring.
“I thought so too.”
You closed the door softly behind you.
And left.
The music kept playing in the empty apartment, soft and slow. A romantic song for no one. The ring sat untouched, the candles flickering in a room full of things left unsaid.
//
masterlist.
[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]
synopsis/request: when jisung forgets your birthday and pushes you away during a moment of vulnerability, silent tension fills the days that follow. as he scrambles to make amends, he realizes the real damage wasn't forgetting the date, but making you feel like a burden.
The rain had been falling all day. A slow, steady rhythm tapping against the windows, so soft it could almost be soothing, if not for the storm quietly brewing inside you.
The week had been uneventful in most ways. Jisung had been more or less locked in his little creative bubble, something you'd always admired about him. He could get consumed by music, swallowed whole by a single lyric he couldn't quite get right, or a melody that refused to sit still. You loved that about him. Loved the way his eyes got glassy and far away when his brain started spinning faster than he could talk.
But lately, it wasn’t just that.
He’d been distant. Not unkind. Just… elsewhere. Every conversation felt like you were knocking on a door he no longer heard you through.
You chalked it up to work, because it was work. He’d been spending long hours writing, recording, tweaking things late into the night, and barely looking up from his laptop when you came in. You were used to it, in a way. This was Jisung. He went hard when inspiration struck. He burned hot, fast, and completely.
Still, it stung in a way you didn’t want to admit.
Especially with your birthday just a few days away.
You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d made a quiet decision not to bring it up. Part of you thought it would be sweet if he remembered on his own, if he had something planned, something thoughtful, even small. Jisung wasn’t extravagant. He didn’t do grand gestures. But he knew you. He always knew you.
So you waited.
And waited.
Each day passed without a mention. No little comments. No suspicious texts. No asking if you were free. Just his head down, pen scratching across paper, headphones on, a world away.
But today, Tuesday, you couldn’t take the silence anymore. You weren’t going to outright ask him if he remembered. That would be pathetic, you thought. That would make it worse if he didn’t. But you could be subtle. Casual. Just ask if he had Friday off. Plant the seed. Give him a chance.
It was late afternoon when you walked into his studio. You could hear the low hum of a beat looping in the background, his fingers moving fast over his keyboard, pausing every so often to scribble something into his notebook. His back was to you, hunched slightly, hoodie pulled up over his head.
He didn’t hear you come in.
You walked over quietly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek lightly against his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away.
Yet.
"Hey, baby," you said softly, your voice almost lost in the music. "Do you have Friday off?"
You didn’t mention why. You didn’t want it to sound like a trap.
He didn’t turn around. Just shrugged, his fingers still moving.
"I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a lot going on right now."
You blinked. Pulled back a little. That was it? No follow-up? No “why do you ask?” Not even curiosity?
You bit your lip and tried again, stepping around him this time so you were facing him. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy from staring at the screen too long. You leaned down, gently trying to kiss his cheek, but he shifted just as you did, and your lips landed awkwardly at the corner of his jaw.
You let it slide. Forced a smile.
"Really no plans this weekend? Not even a day off?"
He finally looked up. Annoyed. The kind of look you’d only seen when he was dealing with customer service or slow Wi-Fi.
"Can you not right now?" he snapped, rubbing his temple. "I’m in the middle of something."
You blinked. Stunned for a second.
"I was just asking—"
"Yeah, and I said I don’t know." He exhaled hard, clearly irritated. "Why are you pressing me about this? I’m busy."
That one landed like a slap. You took a step back, arms folding tightly over your chest. You felt like you were shrinking.
"Sorry for bothering you," you said coldly, the tightness in your throat giving you away. "God forbid I ask my boyfriend a simple question."
You turned before he could say anything else, before the anger on your face melted into something worse. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want him to know.
The door slammed behind you harder than you intended. The echo rang down the hallway like a warning bell.
You stood there, frozen, in the hallway. Alone.
And that's when it hit you.
He’d forgotten.
He really, truly had forgotten.
Your birthday was in three days.
And Jisung, the boy who once remembered the exact day you first cried in front of him, the boy who had surprised you with ramen at 1AM because you offhandedly said you missed home, had forgotten.
Your chest burned.
You didn’t cry right away. You refused to. Crying meant giving it weight. It meant making it real. And maybe, maybe this was still salvageable. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe this was just a bad moment, a bad hour.
But the more you thought about it, the more the silence over the past week screamed in your ears.
Not one hint. Not one look. Nothing.
-
The house was quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that felt like tension stretched too thin. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavier.
You’d noticed it growing for a while now, the slow fade of warmth, like a candle burning down to its last inch of wick. Jisung had been lost in his work lately, immersed in melodies and metaphors, his mind trapped in the small studio tucked at the end of the hall.
He’d always done this. You knew his process. He dove headfirst into his music, sometimes forgetting meals, forgetting sleep. You’d loved him for that. For how deeply he loved creating. For how earnestly he got caught up in the things that mattered to him.
But this time… something was different.
This time, you felt like a stranger to him while he buried himself in lyrics.
And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.
Your birthday was in just a few days.
That tiny fact sat in the back of your mind like a needle under the skin. Small. Sharp. Unshakable.
You didn’t need much. You weren’t the type to demand gifts or parties or posts with long, poetic captions. What you wanted, what you hoped for was that he’d remember. That he’d do something meaningful, something that showed he still saw you.
You had convinced yourself that he did.
Even after the way he snapped earlier that day, the way he brushed you off when you asked if he had Friday free, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.
You had to. Because if he had forgotten, if he truly wasn’t planning anything… then what did that say about the two of you? About how far you’d drifted without realizing it?
That evening, the house remained mostly silent.
You moved around the bedroom without saying much, folding laundry you didn’t have the energy to care about, rechecking a calendar you’d already memorized. You hadn’t seen him much since the argument. He stayed locked away in his studio, headphones on, music leaking faintly through the door like a barrier between you.
You had hoped stupidly, maybe that he’d come out and say something. Apologize, even a little. Ask what was wrong. Notice that you’d been quiet too. That you didn’t eat dinner. That you didn’t sit on the couch like usual waiting for him to finish work.
But none of that happened.
It was nearly midnight when he finally came into the room. You were already in bed, the blanket pulled up to your chest, your body curled to one side, eyes closed. You weren’t asleep, not even close.
He moved quietly, but you heard every step. The rustle of his hoodie dropping to the floor. The faint creak of the mattress as he slipped in beside you.
You waited.
Your heart thudded.
Then, slowly, you inched toward him.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t push your luck with words this time. You just slid closer and gently wrapped your arm around his waist, your face nestling near his shoulder. A quiet attempt at truce. A silent please let’s forget the fight.
But before you could even settle into the comfort you craved, he flinched.
And then he sighed. Loudly.
“Seriously?”
The word hit you like a slap.
Your body stilled. “...What?”
“When I’m working, I really need you to not be all over me,” he said, voice flat, frustrated. “It throws me off. I was just about to write something important earlier and you came in, touching me, kissing me and I completely lost the line I had in my head.”
You pulled back slowly, staring at him in the dim lighting. His profile was hard. Tired. Detached.
You blinked once. Twice. Trying to process what he’d just said.
“I distracted you…?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He didn’t answer right away. Just let out another sigh and turned his back to you.
“I just… I’d appreciate it if you could give me space when I’m in work mode. That’s all.”
You didn’t speak.
You couldn’t.
You lay there, staring at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath.
There was something hollow in your chest. A yawning emptiness where warmth used to live.
All day, you had been convincing yourself that this was just stress. That he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean to be cold or distant. That it wasn’t personal.
But this, this wasn’t just stress.
This was dismissal.
And that, somehow, hurt more than him forgetting your birthday.
Because this wasn’t about one day.
This was about being made to feel like you were in the way. Like your affection was an inconvenience. Like loving him gently, quietly, earnestly was a problem.
You blinked away the heat in your eyes and rolled onto your other side, facing the wall.
You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t touch him again. You didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Lying there in the dark, you played the moment over and over in your head.
You weren’t sure what stung more: That he hadn’t tried to fix the argument. That he’d called your love distracting. Or that he didn’t even realize he’d hurt you.
You thought about how he used to pull you into bed and kiss you like he couldn’t wait to tell you everything he’d written. You thought about the nights when he would bring his lyric notebook to the couch just to be next to you. You thought about the quiet way he used to hold your hand while working, like even in silence, he wanted to be tethered to you.
Now… you were a distraction. And worse, someone who made you feel too much for wanting to be close.
You clutched the edge of the blanket and closed your eyes.
You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to give it that power.
But the tears came anyway silent and slow, soaking into your pillow like an open secret.
In that moment, you realized something heartbreaking:
It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday.
It was that, lately, he’d forgotten you.
-
You woke up the next morning feeling like you hadn't slept at all.
Your eyes were sore, your body heavy from the weight of unshed words and smothered cries. There was a dull ache behind your ribs that hadn’t gone away since last night, since he turned away from you after telling you that your love was distracting. Since you’d reached out for comfort and got a complaint instead.
You lay still in bed, watching the gray morning light bleed into the room. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood floor. The clink of a mug. A spoon against a bowl.
Your heart didn’t race. It slowed. Because nothing felt worse than knowing he was acting like everything was fine.
And it was then that the decision made itself: You wouldn’t say a word. Not out of pettiness. Not out of spite. But because you had said enough. And he had heard nothing.
Let him feel the silence he gave you. Let him hear it this time.
You walked into the kitchen wrapped in a hoodie, your face blank, your mouth a hard line. He was standing by the stove, eating cereal straight out of the bowl, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up briefly.
"Morning," he said, like nothing had happened.
You nodded once, tight, and opened the fridge. You could feel his eyes linger on you for a second too long like he was waiting for you to say more. But when you didn’t, he just turned back to his screen.
You didn’t speak. Didn’t ask about his schedule. Didn’t try to sit close.
You took your yogurt and left the kitchen, eating alone in the living room with the TV off and your thoughts screaming.
The silence grew louder as the hours passed.
He didn’t notice it at first. You were usually quiet in the mornings anyway. He probably assumed you'd snap out of it, give him a kiss on the cheek, ask how the lyrics were going, sit beside him with your head on his shoulder.
But you didn’t.
And by mid-afternoon, it had become clear that this wasn’t just a quiet morning.
You walked past him in the hallway when he emerged for coffee. He smiled faintly and said, “I think I figured out that chorus.” You gave a nod that didn’t reach your eyes. No follow-up. You didn’t even glance at him.
He paused. Just for a second. And then kept walking.
By evening, you heard the subtle tone in his voice shift. A flicker of unease.
He called from the kitchen, “Hey… you want me to make pasta or something?”
You didn’t respond.
“...Y/N?” he tried again.
You were in the bedroom, folding the same shirt over and over just to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted.
He peeked into the room, holding the bag of pasta in his hand. You didn’t look at him.
“I’m making something to eat,” he said slowly, carefully. “Do you want any?”
Still, you said nothing. You didn’t even shrug.
He exhaled sharply, clearly irritated now. “Okay. I’ll just leave you alone then.”
And he did.
The rest of the day passed the same way. Cold. Wordless. Wide.
You were in the same rooms but worlds apart. He started watching you more carefully. Furtively. He asked small things throughout the day "Did you do the laundry already?" or "Hey, have you seen my hoodie?" Each question met with nothing but the silence you were buried in.
You saw confusion start to shift in his face. His brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled taut. He’d ask something, and when you didn’t answer, his eyes would narrow slightly like he was starting to notice that something was wrong but still couldn’t connect the dots.
And that hurt more than anything.
Because to you, the answer was obvious. You were bleeding right in front of him, and he was asking why the floor looked red.
You were brushing your teeth late that night when he leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.
"Are you gonna stay mad forever?"
You blinked once and spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiped your mouth without answering.
He waited.
"I seriously don’t know what I did," he said, his voice cracking a little with frustration. "If you’re not gonna tell me, how am I supposed to fix it?"
You turned off the bathroom light and walked past him.
The door didn’t slam this time. It clicked shut, soft and final.
By the time Thursday night arrived, he looked exhausted. You couldn’t tell if it was from the studio or from trying to figure out what had changed. Probably both.
You sat on the couch with your arms crossed, the TV playing something you weren’t even watching.
He stood in the doorway for a while, watching you with an unreadable expression.
Then finally, he said it. “I’m gonna go to the practice room for a bit.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.
“Maybe you just need space or something,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep bothering you.”
You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.
Space?
That’s what he thought this was about?
He thought you were ignoring him because you needed air? Not because he’d forgotten the one day you were silently hoping he’d remember? Not because he’d made you feel like loving him was a chore? Like your affection was an obstacle?
You blinked at the screen, your eyes glassy. The show kept playing. You didn’t even know what episode you were on.
He waited a moment longer.
Then the door shut.
And suddenly you were alone. Again.
The tears finally came, thick and hot, as soon as his footsteps faded. They weren’t quiet this time. You choked on them, the kind that made your chest heave and your throat close. Your hands shook.
Because you were tired.
Tired of giving the benefit of the doubt. Tired of excuses. Tired of being too scared to say it’s my birthday tomorrow and you’ve done nothing. Tired of hoping he would see you, without you having to beg for it.
How could he not know?
How could he be so oblivious?
And still… you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.
Because wasn’t that the whole point?
You wanted to be chosen. Not reminded.
You wanted him to remember, not be told.
And tomorrow…
Tomorrow, when you woke up…
It would be your birthday.
And you had no idea if he would know it.
The practice room lights were dim, buzzing faintly overhead like the last nerve in Jisung’s mind, frayed and twitching. He stepped inside without much thought, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his whole body. His legs gave out near the far wall, slumping down onto the cold wooden floor beside Hyunjin, who looked like he’d just finished drowning in sweat and choreography.
Jeongin was sitting criss-cross at the center of the room, stretching lazily with one earbud still dangling from his hoodie. Felix lay flat on his back beside him, chest heaving with tired breaths, while Minho scrolled through his phone like he hadn’t just danced for two hours straight.
The energy in the room was comfortable. Familiar. But the second Jisung sat down, it shifted.
Hyunjin glanced at him sideways. “What are you doing here?”
Felix sat up halfway, his brow scrunched. “Don’t you usually spend your days off with Y/N?”
“Wait—yeah,” Jeongin chimed in, tossing his head back. “Isn’t this, like, a once-in-a-blue-moon thing for you to be here on a day off?”
Jisung didn’t respond at first.
He exhaled hard and let his head fall back against the mirror. “She’s not talking to me.”
That caught their attention.
“What?” Hyunjin blinked.
“Like... ignoring you ignoring you?” Felix asked, scooting closer.
“Yeah. Since yesterday. Full-on silent treatment. Not even a shrug. Just—blank face. No words.” Jisung pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And I swear to God it’s driving me insane.”
“Damn,” Jeongin muttered under his breath.
Minho looked up from his phone. “Did you do something?”
Jisung shook his head instantly. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? I don’t know.”
Jeongin snorted. “That’s not convincing.”
“I didn’t, though!” he snapped. “Like—okay, yeah, maybe I was kind of short with her the other night, but I was working. She came into the studio while I was trying to get this chorus down and I got frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t say anything bad.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“She tried talking to me a couple times that day and I just—I asked for space. I was in the zone.” Jisung rubbed his temples, groaning. “She knows how I get when I’m writing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“And then she just stopped talking to you?” Hyunjin asked, skeptical.
“Yeah. Didn’t even respond when I asked what she wanted for dinner. Hasn’t said a single word in two days. Like, is that normal?”
Felix frowned. “Sounds like she’s hurt.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get why,” Jisung said, his voice raising without him meaning to. “I didn’t yell at her, I didn’t say anything cruel, I just... I was working! I asked for space!”
Jeongin gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Okay, but did you look at her?”
Jisung paused. “What?”
“I mean... when she came to see you, when she tried talking to you—did you actually look at her? Like—her face? Her energy? The way she was holding herself?”
Jisung frowned, caught off guard. “I mean... not really? I was focused.”
Felix leaned forward, soft but serious. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Silence fell for a moment. The kind that starts to crawl into your chest when people say things you aren’t ready to hear.
“You probably said something you didn’t even notice,” Hyunjin said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You do that when you’re in work mode. You push people away without meaning to.”
“I was just trying to finish my song,” Jisung muttered. But even he could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
Minho finally chimed in. “Then maybe ask yourself what’s more important—your music, or the way you treat the person who’s always there supporting it.”
The words hit harder than Jisung expected. They weren’t said harshly. Just plainly. Truthfully.
And they made his stomach twist.
He hated the idea that he had done something careless. That while he was focused on not forgetting a lyric, he might’ve forgotten her. Forgotten how hard she tried to love him even when he was too preoccupied to notice.
Jisung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together tightly.
“She looked so blank,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize how... quiet she really was. I thought she just needed space.”
Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe she was waiting for you to realize something.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Jisung blinked down at the floor, the thought nagging at him like a weight on his back. He hated the way it made his chest feel tight. The way guilt started to form like smoke in his lungs.
And then..
Hyunjin, ever the emotional antenna in the room, turned to him with an almost casual question.
“So, anyway—what do you have planned for her birthday tomorrow?”
Jisung laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not tomorrow. It’s next week or something. The—uh—the 11th, right?”
“Tomorrow is the 11th,” Jeongin deadpanned.
Jisung froze.
His hands went numb.
He instinctively pulled out his phone, thumbing the lock screen, eyes scanning the date like it had betrayed him.
Thursday, July 10th.
Tomorrow: Friday, July 11th.
His world tilted.
“No…” he breathed. “No way.”
Felix’s face fell as realization hit him too. “You didn’t…?”
Hyunjin stared at him in disbelief. “You forgot her birthday.”
“I—” Jisung's voice caught in his throat. “No—I didn’t—I just—I thought—shit—”
The words splintered into chaos. He dropped his phone. His mind was spinning.
It wasn’t just the date. It was everything. The way she came to him asking if he was free Friday. The way she tried to kiss him, twice. The way she’d softened into his side that night in bed, begging silently for him to hold her. The way she hadn’t said a word since.
The way she hadn’t cried. Not where he could see. But oh god, she had cried, hadn’t she?
He missed all of it.
He missed her.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
Minho stared at him, arms folded. “Now do you get it?”
“She was trying to see if I remembered,” Jisung muttered, like he was trying to convince himself the sky was blue. “She didn’t even say it out loud. She just… asked if I had Friday off.”
“That’s the worst part,” Felix said gently. “She didn’t want to remind you. She wanted you to care enough to remember.”
A punch to the gut wouldn’t have hurt as much.
Jisung buried his face in his hands.
“I fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Jeongin muttered. “Kinda bad.”
He didn't even argue.
Because he could see it now, all of it. Her silence wasn’t punishment. It was heartbreak. It was the sound of someone giving up.
And tomorrow, her birthday, she’d wake up in a house full of silence, thinking the person she loved most in the world didn’t remember or care enough to say a single word.
The second the realization hit, Jisung couldn’t sit still.
He shot to his feet like the floor had burned him, nearly tripping over Felix’s outstretched legs. The others barely had time to register his panic before he was already moving, storming out of the practice room, heart pounding in his chest, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.
He barely heard Jeongin’s “Hey—where are you going?” Didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t even breathe.
He’d forgotten.
Your birthday.
Tomorrow.
No, today. It was past midnight now.
He had forgotten your birthday.
The one day he was supposed to remember. The one day you never reminded him of because you always wanted to be seen without having to ask.
And instead of showing you love, he’d brushed you off. Pushed you away. Told you that your affection, your literal presence was a distraction.
It made him sick to think of your face in that moment now. The softness of your voice when you asked him if he was free. The way you leaned in, tried to kiss him. How your touch lingered on his shoulder like you were silently begging him not to let go.
And he had.
Without a second thought.
He hurt you.
The company doors banged shut behind him as he ran into the cool night air.
The streets were mostly empty, the last few buses rumbling past. He tugged his hood up and darted toward the only place that made sense, the only place he could think of at a time like this:
Your favorite bakery.
Even though he knew it was close to closing. Even though the odds were against him.
He didn’t care. He had to try.
He arrived, chest heaving, legs burning, and nearly slammed into the glass door.
Inside, the lights were still on. But barely.
The workers were already cleaning up, putting chairs on tables, wiping down the counters. Their eyes shifted to him the second he pushed the door open.
He could see it on their faces. That “please don’t walk in” expression masked with tired politeness.
“Can I get a cake?” he blurted, breathless.
One of the girls forced a smile. “We’re just closing up, I’m sorry—”
“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t be here this late unless it was an emergency. I forgot something really important. Someone’s birthday. Someone I love.”
Something in his voice must’ve hit them.
Because after a beat, the girl sighed, glanced at the display case, and muttered, “I think we have one left. Lucky night, I guess.”
Jisung’s heart flipped.
She returned a second later with a small cake box in hand.
Your favorite flavor.
He could’ve cried.
He ran the whole way home. The cake safely in his arms. Careful. Intentional.
When he got back, the apartment was dark. Quiet. You were already asleep.
He peeked into the bedroom, you were curled up, turned away from the door, your shoulders tense even in rest. You looked… small. Worn out.
The guilt twisted inside him like a knife.
He closed the door gently. Didn’t make a sound.
Then he stared at the living room and kitchen like they were a blank canvas.
And he got to work.
He didn’t sleep.
He blew up balloons some crooked, some lopsided. He taped pictures of the two of you on the walls, printed ones he’d taken in secret during your late-night snack runs, your beach trip, even that one where you were brushing your teeth with a scowl.
He strung up a makeshift “Happy Birthday” banner, cut by hand with scraps of colored paper. He’d messed up the “R” three times. It still looked wrong.
He pulled out the small gifts he’d forgotten he had been meaning to give you, the lyrics he’d scribbled in the back of a notebook weeks ago, inspired by something you said while laughing. A hair clip you pointed at in a store once. He wrapped them in old sheet music.
He wrote a letter. Messy. Panicked. Honest. Full of crossed-out words and a giant smudge where he wiped his eyes.
He arranged it all by the time the clock hit 1:00 a.m.
And then he collapsed on the couch mid-balloon. One still half-inflated in his hands.
He didn’t hear the bedroom door creak open.
Didn’t feel the light of the hallway hit his face.
But the moment you moved, He did.
His body shot up like he was jolted back to life.
There you were.
Standing in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, the expression on your face carefully blank, but your eyes spoke volumes.
You were still upset.
Rightfully.
You hadn’t forgotten. You hadn’t forgiven.
But he didn’t care if you hated him for another hour, another day, a week he had to show you something real now.
“Wait—don’t look yet!” he rushed, nearly tripping over a balloon.
You blinked slowly, unimpressed.
He walked up to you, gently reaching his hands to cover your eyes. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t soften, either.
He felt the chill in your posture. The hurt still lingering in your shoulders.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just... let me try.”
He guided you, quietly. Carefully.
His hands shook.
He stopped you in front of the living room, heart pounding against his ribs.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Now.”
He removed his hands from your eyes.
The lights were low. The table was covered in flickering tea candles. The little cake, topped with your favorite frosting. Photos taped to balloons hovered above.
Your name was scrawled across the banner in bright colors. The gifts sat nearby. His letter peeking out from under them.
He stepped in front of you.
“Happy birthday,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I know this doesn’t fix it, but I needed you to know, I know now. And I’m not going to forget again.”
You stared.
Expression unreadable. Chest tight.
He could see your jaw twitch like you were trying not to smile. But your eyes were glassy. The corners of your mouth shifted ever so slightly. You nearly cracked.
Nearly.
But the silence remained.
Because what he hurt wasn’t something decorations could patch up.
And still, you stood there.
Looking at him.
Looking at the effort.
The mess.
The truth.
And for the first time in days,
You didn’t look away.
The soft flicker of candlelight painted the room in warm hues, casting shadows over the clumsy decorations, the carefully placed gifts, the melting frosting on your cake.
It should have felt special. Thoughtful. Sweet.
But it didn’t.
Not yet.
Jisung stood just in front of you, his breathing uneven. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked nervous. Not in the cute, shy way he usually did when he surprised you, but the kind that made his whole frame feel like it was waiting to collapse.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t move.
Your arms remained crossed, your expression unreadable, carefully neutral, but your eyes were fixed on him. Not the decorations. Not the cake. Not the pictures or the presents.
Just him.
And that silence, heavier than any door slam or raised voice, pierced deeper than either of you were ready to admit.
He finally swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night working on this.”
You blinked slowly. Once.
“I ran all the way to the bakery before they closed,” he added, as if that explained anything. “They only had one cake left. I—I begged them.”
Still nothing.
He shifted on his feet, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something, anything to tell him he was getting through. That he hadn’t completely shattered the fragile thread between you.
But your face remained calm. Distant.
“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”
You finally moved. Not toward him.
Just your head, tilting slightly.
Your eyes flicked over the decorations. The half-deflated balloon on the couch. The misspelled banner. The crumpled wrapping paper around a small box. The cake. The candles, now half-melted.
And then back to him.
A beat passed.
And then your voice quiet, hoarse, deliberate cut through the air.
“You didn’t mean to forget,” you echoed, almost to yourself. “But you did.”
Jisung flinched.
Because hearing it said out loud like that made it feel real all over again.
You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse. You didn’t cry.
You just told the truth.
And somehow, that hurt more.
“I know,” he whispered, guilt tightening in his chest like a fist.
You finally stepped forward, walking past him, not bothering to ask if you could. You stood before the table, staring down at the small cake in the center. Your favorite flavor.
It looked perfect.
But it felt... wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Artificial.
You were quiet for a long time before you spoke again.
“You know what hurt the most?” you asked, eyes still on the table.
Jisung slowly turned to face you, but didn’t interrupt.
“It wasn’t that you forgot the date,” you said, voice trembling just enough to betray your restraint. “It’s that I came to you, twice, and you didn’t even look at me.”
He said nothing.
“I asked if you were free,” you continued, quieter. “And you brushed me off. I tried to kiss you, and you called me a distraction. You said you almost forgot your lyrics like I was in the way.”
The words cut like glass.
“And then you came to bed,” you said bitterly, shaking your head, “and instead of pulling me close, you scolded me again. You didn’t notice that I didn’t say anything back. You didn’t ask why I turned away.”
Jisung’s voice caught. “I didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,” you snapped suddenly, turning to face him now, arms still crossed but your chest rising fast, “because you didn’t care to know. You were too wrapped up in your music to notice that I was hurting. That I was right there in front of you, trying everything I could to be seen.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
“I didn’t want cake,” you said, softer now. “I didn’t want decorations or balloons or even a gift.”
Your voice cracked just slightly.
“I wanted you to remember me.”
A silence fell over the room that made even the candles seem to quiet.
Jisung’s heart felt like it had dropped out of his body.
Because now he saw it.
All of it.
This wasn’t about a forgotten birthday.
It was about what that forgetfulness meant to you.
That in the middle of his chaotic, music-fueled mind, you had fallen out of focus. And not just the date, you. Your presence. Your love. Your place beside him.
And the worst part?
You hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t begged.
You’d just gotten quiet.
And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, but it sounded so small now. So empty in the shadow of everything you’d just said.
You looked at him for a long, long moment.
There was something raw in your expression now. Not anger. Not even sadness.
Just tiredness.
And then you gave a faint shrug.
“I know you are,” you said. “But I’m still hurt.”
You turned back toward the hallway slowly.
And before you walked away, you added one final thing,
“I don’t need grand gestures, Jisung.”
You paused.
“I just need to know I matter without having to remind you.”
And then you left him standing there.
Alone in a room full of balloons.
-
Morning came heavy.
The early light filtered in through the curtains in faded strips, casting muted patterns across the floor and walls. You were already awake, had been for hours. Lying still in bed, eyes on the ceiling, a dull ache stretching across your chest.
You hadn’t slept much.
Even after he decorated the night before. Even after the surprise. The effort.
The reminder that he cared, but only after he realized he’d forgotten.
There was something deeply hollow in the pit of your stomach. Something disappointment couldn’t fully name.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love you.
It was that he didn’t see you when you needed him to.
And you weren’t sure a cake at 1:00 a.m. was going to fix that.
When you finally got up, you didn’t say a word.
You padded into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the decorations still up. They felt… false. Like remnants of something built on guilt rather than intention.
Jisung was already awake, curled up on the couch, eyes half-lidded and red from lack of sleep.
He sat up immediately when he heard you.
"Morning," he said, softly cautiously.
You didn’t respond. Not even a glance in his direction.
He frowned but didn’t push.
You passed him, quiet as ever, and walked to the kitchen. The clatter of a mug on the counter was the loudest sound in the apartment. You poured yourself water. That was it. No breakfast.
He stood a minute later, stretching awkwardly. He hovered, just a few steps behind. Like he wanted to be close but didn’t know if he had permission anymore.
The silence between you was crushing.
He trailed you throughout the day, always within sight. Always trying to stay near you like he could fix the damage just by being close.
He didn’t go to practice. Didn’t write. Didn’t open his laptop or touch his notebook.
Instead, he lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hovering.
When you sat on the floor to organize a drawer you didn’t really need to organize, he sat a few feet away, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to you. Quietly hopeful. Painfully anxious.
You didn’t speak.
When you changed rooms, he followed.
Not in an overbearing way just enough to make it known he was still there. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how.
By the time afternoon crept in, you were still silent.
You didn’t eat.
Not out of pettiness, but because your emotions were so knotted, so close to the surface, that even chewing felt like a chore. Food would make this real. Food would be you accepting the day.
And right now, you weren’t ready.
Jisung noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything.
He just... watched you.
With a kind of quiet panic in his eyes that made it clear he was spiraling inside.
By late evening, the tension had become a third person in the room breathing heavily, sitting between you on the couch, pressing against your sides.
You were scrolling absently on your phone. You hadn’t spoken in hours.
He was next to you, knees pulled to his chest, a small cushion hugged against his stomach. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. He looked miserable, but kept pretending to be calm.
Then, in the quiet, your stomach growled.
Loudly.
Painfully loud in the dead silence.
You immediately stilled, eyes widening.
Jisung’s head whipped toward you.
There was a pause.
A long, too-long beat where his mouth twitched, like he was fighting it.
And then he laughed.
Not obnoxiously. Not teasingly.
But a soft, breathless, startled kind of laugh. Like the kind that slips out when the universe plays a joke on you.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he knew he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.
And for just one second, you cracked.
Your face twisted as you tried to stay stern. Tried to keep the front up. But the ridiculousness of it all, the dead silence, your growling stomach, the haunted look on his face, broke something loose.
You choked on your own breath, and suddenly a small laugh escaped you.
Not a big one. Not even a full sound. But enough.
His eyes softened instantly.
The tension snapped not fully, but just enough for the room to breathe again.
He stood, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might still bite. Then walked toward you, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.
"Hey," he said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "Look, I know you’re still pissed. And you should be."
You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.
“I’ll apologize as many times as you want. I’ll keep groveling for the rest of the year if I have to,” he said, gently, kneeling in front of you now. His hands rested on the couch cushion beside your legs, not touching you. Just near.
“But right now… I need to celebrate you. Just a little. Just today. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t let yourself breathe. And I know I ruined the start of your day, but I’m begging you, please let me try to salvage the end of it.”
You blinked at him. Slow. Guarded.
“I know I messed up,” he said again, voice shaking. “But you don’t deserve to be hungry on your birthday. You don’t deserve to sit here feeling invisible. You deserve cake and your favorite food and someone telling you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”
His throat bobbed.
“I’m that someone. I swear I am.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. But your lip quivered.
And he saw it.
He saw that flicker. That tiny unraveling.
So he slowly reached out his fingers brushing yours, tentative, waiting for rejection.
But you didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
He let out a shaky breath, and his grip tightened slightly around your hand.
“I’m ordering your favorite,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting you lift a finger tonight. You’re going to eat, and if you want, we’ll sit in silence. Or we’ll watch that show you love. Or I’ll leave after. Whatever you want. Just… let me be here for you. Like I should have been from the start.”
Another pause.
Then, barely audible
“Please.”
The air between you had shifted, slightly, like clouds parting just enough for a patch of sun to warm the skin. Still cloudy. Still heavy. But there was warmth now. And that was a start.
You watched him as he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the food delivery app. “Your usual?” he asked gently, cautious but hopeful.
You nodded.
But just before he tapped the screen, you spoke, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
“…Add a brown sugar bubble tea.”
He looked up at you, surprised.
Your eyes met his briefly.
A small corner of his mouth lifted, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if a smile was allowed, but when you didn’t pull away, it widened with quiet relief. That moment, tiny as it was, cracked something in both of you.
He tapped a few buttons and said, “Large brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, 50% sugar, less ice. Right?”
You nodded again.
“…Thank you,” you added softly.
His eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. “It’ll be here soon,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table.
Then he moved slowly like approaching a fragile edge of ice.
He sat beside you, close enough to feel his warmth again, but not crowding you. Not forcing anything.
And then, gently, he leaned his head on your shoulder. Slowly tilted further down until he was lying across the couch, his legs curled and head tucked carefully against your side. One arm draped loosely across your lap, his grip feather-light. His face pressed into the hem of your hoodie.
“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against you. “God, I’m so sorry.”
The words were hoarse. Choked.
Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just real.
Repeated again, like a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You ran your fingers through the sleeve hem of your hoodie for a moment, eyes staring past him, before you finally said, “I know.”
He turned his face a little, just enough to glance up at you.
“I forgive you,” you murmured, after a beat. “But I need you to know that you really, really hurt me.”
His breath hitched, but he nodded slowly.
You kept your voice steady. Firm but not harsh.
“I wasn’t even upset about the birthday anymore,” you said quietly. “You know I’ve never cared about birthdays that much.”
You paused.
“But when I asked if you had Friday off, you barely looked at me. And then I tried again, and you told me I was distracting you. Like I was bothering you. Like I was some kind of obstacle in your way.”
Jisung’s eyes dropped. His fingers curled tighter against your lap. He stayed completely still.
“That’s what hurt,” you said, voice finally cracking slightly. “Not the forgetting. But the pushing away. Like I was too much. Like I was getting in the way of your real priorities.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed, I should’ve stopped and seen you.”
“You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking to you,” you added, looking down at him. “I was right there. And you didn’t even ask.”
His chest rose sharply, his lips pressing into a thin, broken line.
“I’ve been kicking myself for that for two days,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking, ‘Why is she being so cold?’ And I didn’t even consider that it was because I had gone cold first. I made you feel like a burden when you were just trying to love me.”
You didn’t say anything, but your eyes softened at that.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“You’re not a burden. You’re my peace. My home. And I treated you like you were noise.”
That hit something in you. Hard.
Because that was the truth you had no words for until now. You hadn’t wanted flowers or presents, you’d wanted to be met. To be held in mind and heart like you always did for him. You were asking to be cherished, just for a moment. And he hadn’t shown up.
But now, here he was.
Curled around you like an apology with a heartbeat.
You let your hand fall gently to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands.
And you finally said, “Just… don’t let me feel like that again.”
“I won’t,” he said immediately, his voice thick. “I swear, I won’t.”
You tilted down slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were red. Teary. He looked so small, so ashamed, but so present.
“I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even when I’m stupid. Especially then.”
You gave him a small, tired smile.
“You are stupid,” you whispered.
He exhaled a breath of a laugh. And then looked at you again, this time with a question in his eyes.
You didn’t answer with words.
You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently, and kissed him.
Not soft.
Not dramatic.
But real. Lingering. Quietly desperate.
His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer, holding you like something he thought he’d lost. He kissed you back like he was still apologizing through every movement like he didn’t deserve you, but would spend the rest of his life making it up.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered, barely audible.
You closed your eyes.
And for the first time all day, you smiled.
“I still want that bubble tea,” you whispered.
He laughed into your shoulder, voice warm now, full of the relief he hadn’t dared hope for hours ago.
“You’re getting it,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll buy you ten. I’ll buy the whole damn shop.”
“You better,” you muttered, resting your hand over his.
And for the first time in days, the silence between you didn’t ache.
It simply held.
//
a/n: for 🌺 anon.
masterlist.
[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]
Summary: You hated Felix. You hated how he was successful and how you weren't. You hated how is voice echoed on every radio. You hated how he forgot about you when he got a taste of fame. When Stray Kids rents out the American themed diner you work at for a music video, repressed feelings bubble back up.
Are you up for having anon mutuals? I don't know if you have any already. I'm new to K-pop and writing for it and I'd love some mutuals
Absolutely!! 🥹💗 I’d love to be anon mutuals!! Welcome to the K-pop and writing side of Tumblr — I’m so excited for you!! Feel free to pop in anytime 🌟💬
I LOVE it!!!! Thank you so much! This was so pure, I could feel just how peaceful and fun their day was!
Aahh I’m so happy you loved it!! 🥹💖 That means so much to me, thank you!! I had the best time writing it and I’m so glad the calm and fun vibes came through!! 🐾✨
This might be a really stupid question, I've seen a lot of people put it in their fics as a pairing, what does it mean when it's ot8?
Hi, no studio question at all. OT8 stands for "One True 8", and it signifies fans who support all eight members of a group, without favoring any member. In my fics I use OT8 where the members are friends with the reader. So no romance involved🥰
Hello! I love your 9th member fics so much!! Can I request ot8 x 9th member where the reader's family owns an animal sanctuary? And the reader is an animal lover who loves taking her members to see the animals and take cute pics/vids for Stay! Imagine: Jeongin holding a fennec fox, Chan petting a wolf, Han with a quokka, etc!
Hi, thank you so much! I hope you like it 😊
🐾Safe Haven
OT8 x 9th member
| Slice-of-life, post-tour | setting: animal shelter | no romance, just friendship and warmth
| Summary: After an intense world tour, the 9th member of Stray Kids invites the boys to her family’s animal sanctuary — a peaceful place filled with love, healing, and second-chance animals. What starts as a simple outing grows into an unforgettable day filled with warm friendships, precious moments, and spontaneous content for Stay.
The morning sun slid like honey across the grass as you opened the wooden gate to the compound and stepped onto the gravel path. The smell of hay, earth, and lavender filled your lungs—familiar, soothing, home. After weeks of tour buses, planes, and hotel rooms, it felt like you could finally breathe again.
Your family’s animal shelter wasn’t a commercial zoo. It was a small, loving place where abused or neglected animals were given a second chance. Many Stays already knew you were from here—you’d shared subtle photos on your group account, without the exact location. But today was different. Today you’d invited all the members. Not for a performance, not for a schedule, but just… to be.
You heard the rumble of a van in the driveway and your heart skipped a beat. The door opened before the vehicle had even stopped.
“Wow,” Jeongin said, stretching. “This is really… super green.”
“And quiet,” Seungmin added, eyes half-closed from the sunlight.
“And smells like animals,” Changbin grinned, though he was secretly looking around curiously.
You laughed, opening the gate all the way and waving them in. “Welcome to Safe Haven Sanctuary.”
~
The tour started off calmly. You showed the boys the rabbit pasture, the bird enclosure, the small stable for goats and pigs, and of course the cages for the special animals — like the fennec fox, the wolf, and the ferrets. They were impressed, you could tell right away. Chan in particular showed his admiration openly.
“How many animals live here?” he asked, his hand protectively on the back of a puppy that jumped against his leg.
“Around sixty,” you said. “Some stay their whole lives. Others are placed elsewhere after rehabilitation.”
He nodded slowly, visibly impressed. “You save lives.”
You smiled and wanted to say something back, but were interrupted by a high-pitched scream — from Han.
“I WANT TO TAKE THIS ANIMAL HOME WITH ME!”
You all turned around at once. Han was crouched by the quokka enclosure, his phone already in selfie mode as the mischievous creature shamelessly licked his finger.
“You can’t steal a quokka,” Hyunjin said dryly.
“It’s not theft if the animal chooses,” Han defended himself. “Look at him. He’s smiling at me!”
~
You split the group in two, so that everyone could spend time with the animals you thought were right for them. You knew them well, after all. And the animals too.
Felix was given a soft yellow chick that had just hatched, and you had never seen anyone move so carefully.
“He… he’s breathing,” he whispered almost sacredly.
“Chickens do that, yes,” you said, smiling.
He let the animal sleep in the palm of his hand and took a few pictures, but only after he had sat and watched for ten minutes. “Stay’s going to faint,” he finally muttered.
~
In the enclosure next to Felix was Seungmin, with a young dog who was so excited his ears were constantly flapping.
“His name is Rookie,” you said. “He was brought here after he got stuck in a box on the side of the road.”
Seungmin paused. The dog jumped against his leg, wagging his tail, tongue hanging out.
“Can I keep him?” he asked seriously. You shook your head.
“No, but you can take him for a walk.” Seungmin sighed deeply. “I want this dog more than I ever wanted to win an award.”
~
Lee Know sat on a bench with a white rabbit on his lap, his hand gently stroking the fur. You were surprised at how still he sat.
“You know I’m not a ‘soft guy’, right?” he mumbled.
You shrugged. “Nobody says that. But the rabbit chooses you.”
He nodded. “Would be a good Stay.”
~
Hyunjin practically begged you to let him play with the ferrets. As soon as he stepped into the enclosure, three of them climbed on him at once. One nearly disappeared under his oversized sweater.
“Wait—what’s he doing?!”
“Searching for warmth,” you grinned. “They like tunnels.”
Hyunjin laughed, arms wide as the ferret crawled over his shoulders like it was a scarf. “I feel like a ferret king with a… marsupial.”
~
Jeongin, as promised, got to meet the fennec fox. He sat quietly on the ground, his legs crossed, watching as the fox with its gigantic ears cautiously trotted towards him.
“He looks like me,” he whispered. “Small face, fox eyes.”
“Do you want to put him on your head?” you asked with a grin.
“Can you?!”
Ten minutes later he was outside, the fox calmly on his head while Hyunjin took pictures and Felix shot videos. “STAY MUST SEE THIS,” they shouted in union.
~
Chan sat on a tree stump near the wolf enclosure, his hand tentatively extended toward an older wolf with a graying muzzle. You kept your distance; he needed time, you could tell.
“His name is Ghost,” you said softly. “Found at an abandoned circus.”
Chan nodded, his fingers still in the air, just out of reach.
Ghost sniffed. And then—slowly, carefully—he pressed his muzzle against Chan’s hand.
You swallowed. So did Chan.
“What an honor,” he finally said.
~
Changbin… was a different story. You had taken him to the pig pen, not knowing that the little black and white pig named Mocha had an intense fixation on shoe.
“No! Mocha! Not my shoelaces!”
The piglet chased after him as he ran through the pasture. Everyone roared with laughter.
“Why did this animal choose me?!” he shouted in panic.
“Maybe you smell like apple,” you said, tears of laughter in your eyes.
~
After the first two hours, you were sitting on picnic blankets in the shade of a large tree. The animals were back in their enclosures or sleeping against you. Rookie had his head on Seungmin’s foot. The baby chick was napping in Felix’s hood. And Han… was still trying to take selfies with the quokka, who was completely ignoring him now.
You looked around and felt a strange kind of calm. Not the stillness of exhaustion after a tour, but the calm that comes when people are in their place.
“What if we do this every year?” Chan said suddenly. “Post-tour, animal shelter, detox.”
“Yeah!” Jeongin shouted. “And then you call it the Stay Recovery Retreat.”
“Or: Project Paw-sitivity.” Hyunjin added.
“I hate your puns.” Seungmin muttered, but he laughed.
~
Later that afternoon, they helped you feed the animals. You let Han mix the quokka food, Felix give water to the chicks, and even Changbin got the honor of bringing Mocha’s snacks (“If he attacks me again, I’ll sue him”).
Hyunjin gave the ferrets toys and Lee Know brushed the rabbit. You and Chan gathered hay from the barn together, and you exchanged silent looks of contentment. No words needed.
~
As the sun slowly set, you sat on the fence by the horse pasture. You in the middle. OT8 around you. The sky turned gold, and somewhere in the distance, Rookie barked.
“This is my favorite day since… I don’t even know when,” Felix said softly.
“Same,” Jeongin said.
“Thank you for sharing this with us,” Chan said.
You smiled. “Thank you for taking this seriously. Not everyone understands.”
“Animals often understand us better than people do,” Lee Know said suddenly.
Everyone nodded. No joke, no comment. Just silent agreement.
~
And later, when the bus drove away and you stayed behind at the gate for a moment, you looked at the freshly cut paths, the feeding buckets, the empty water bottles and the many photos on your phone. One by one you had saved them in a special folder.
Not for publication. Not for the cameras. But just — for yourself.
A memory of a day when everything was right. A reminder that home is not always a place. Sometimes it is a feeling.
Bang Chan x Female Reader | Ninth member/Hyunjin's sister
Stray Kids OT8 | Angst, Romance, Drama, Fluff
(Trigger warnings: emotional conflict between family, stress from secrecy, no physical aggression)
If someone had told you that falling in love with Bang Chan would be so intense, so… all-consuming, you might have protected your heart a little more.
But you weren't just anyone. You were his member. His friend. His girlfriend.
And—last but not least—you were Hyunjin's twin sister.
You had always thought that you and Hyunjin couldn't keep secrets from each other. You were practically each other's shadows. But now it felt like you had to lie every single day. And not about something small. Not about an outfit or a snack. But about love. True love.
You walked quietly through the hotel, just like you had been doing for the past three nights.
You were on tour in South America. Chan was sleeping one floor up. You had even gone so far as to leave your phone on your nightstand so that Hyunjin—who occasionally sneaked a peek at your screen—wouldn't have a reason to get suspicious.
Chan was already waiting for you at the door. Grin. Messy hair. Oversized shirt. Everything about him felt like home.
"You're here," he whispered, gently pulling you inside before anyone could see you.
You fell into his arms like you belonged there. And you did. Only… no one was supposed to know.
~
You're lying in bed with Chan, your arms around him, head on his chest.
"What if we just tell him this?" Chan asked softly, resting his chin on your head.
"No," you sighed. "Not now. Not on tour. Not to Hyunjin."
He paused. You felt him holding his breath.
"Are you afraid of what he'll do?"
"I'm afraid of what he'll think," you answered honestly. "He still sees me as his little sister. We do everything together. But this… he doesn't see this coming.''
"I love you, you know that?"
You nodded, tears stinging behind your eyes.
"And I love you."
~
The next morning, you sat next to Hyunjin on the bus, Airpods in, head against the window. He was filing his nails — something that always irritated you slightly, but you didn't say anything. You felt guilty. Because you still had Chan's hoodie in your bag. And it still smells like him.
Hyunjin didn't notice anything.
You thought.
~
Things went wrong on day four.
You had just gotten back to the hotel, and the manager had canceled a team meeting. Most of you went to shower or play games. You said you were going downstairs for ice cream.
But Hyunjin had followed you.
You hadn’t noticed. Too busy knocking on Chan’s door. Too distracted by the fact that you had butterflies in your stomach—even after months together.
He had seen you. Not just together. But kissing. With his arm around your waist. Your hands in his hair.
And then… the door opened. And there he was.
Hyunjin.
Eyes wide. Jaw tensed. Disbelieving look.
“What the hell is this?” he asked. Quiet. Menacingly quiet.
“Hyunjin…” Chan began.
“No. No. No.” He pointed at you. "YOU. My sister. My TWIN sister. And you—" His finger was now pointed at Chan. "My leader."
You had never heard anyone breathe so much with anger.
"How long?"
You didn't dare answer.
"HOW LONG?"
Chan swallowed. "Seven months."
It felt like your brother had been hit without being hurt. His whole face changed.
"Seven months… seven months of lying. Behind my back. When I've ALWAYS trusted you."
"I'm sorry," you whispered. But that made it worse.
"You're sorry?" He laughed coldly. "You deserve each other. Really. Perfect pair of traitors."
And then he turned and walked away.
You tried to follow him, but he slammed the door to his room before you could explain anything.
That night you didn't sleep at Chan's.
That night you didn't sleep at all.
~
The next day, Hyunjin didn’t talk to you. Not on the bus. Not at dinner. Not during rehearsal. Not even when you were in the elevator together — something that always involved inside jokes and lame dances.
You broke down.
That night, crying in the bathroom of your hotel room, you wrote a letter. Not a text. Not a voice memo. A real letter. On paper. You explained everything.
How scared you had been. How serious it was with Chan. How you didn’t want to lose him — neither of you.
And you ended with:
“I’m your sister. Your twin. And I still love you just as much as I ever did.
Even though I did something stupid. Please forgive me.”
You slid it under his door. And waited.
~
Nothing came.
No response.
The next day was hard. Chan tried to keep his distance so as not to anger Hyunjin even more, but that only made it harder for you.
You felt torn. Lost between love and family.
Until that night.
You knocked on Hyunjin's door. He didn't open.
"I know you're there."
Nothing.
"Hyunjin, please… let me explain."
Silence.
"You're my best friend. My brother. You know me better than anyone. You know I wouldn't date anyone unless it was real."
Still nothing.
You sighed, slumped your back against the door, and slowly slid down.
"I miss you," you whispered. "And I know I messed up. But Chan makes me happy. He treats me well. He loves me. He protects me. Like you always did."
And then you heard the click of the lock.
The door opened slowly.
Hyunjin stood there. Eyes red. Lips stiff.
And then—without saying anything—he pulled you close. And hugged you.
So hard you could barely breathe.
"I hate it," he said hoarsely. "I hate that I feel betrayed. But I hate even more that I can't forgive you. Because I don't want to lose you."
You started to cry. "I'm so sorry."
"Chan… Chan is good. I know that. I was just—" He sighed. "Overwhelmed."
"Can I still call you my brother?" you whispered.
He nodded slowly. "Always."
~
A week later, at the airport back to Korea, you sat between Chan and Hyunjin. The atmosphere was better. Not like before — not yet — but hopeful.
Hyunjin whispered to Chan, "If you make her cry even once…"
Chan laughed softly. "I know. You'll break my legs."
"I'll break your soul."
You slapped your hand against the back of Hyunjin's head. "Oh my god...Hyunjin"
Both of you laughed.
It wasn't a perfect situation. But real love — and real family — were rarely perfect.
And as the plane took off, Chan took your hand. Openly. For all to see.
So I've had an idea and decided to slide into your requests!
What about idolverse SKZ with a female ninth member reader, and they're looking at how member versions of an album (yk like the accordion or jewel case versions) are sold a lot, but only reader's don't sell well :( how would SKZ react? All of them?
So this would be hurt/comfort, I guess.
Hope you're having a nice weekend 💞
Hi, thank you for the request!
💿 Left Behind
Stray Kids OT8 × 9th Member!Reader (female)
🖤 Angst – Comfort – Found Family
📎 No romance | ±8100 words | Inspired by your idea
You sat on the floor of the practice room, your back against the mirror, your legs drawn up. The laptop on your lap burned like an open wound. You shouldn’t have opened this file. You knew it would sting. But you had to see it, in black and white. Just once. For confirmation.
Four. Four orders. In twenty-four hours. And underneath it said: 3,276 in stock. The highest remaining stock of anyone. Your hand trembled on your trackpad. You clicked away the tab as if it could disappear. As if you could make the pain invisible by closing the screen.
You stayed seated. Quiet. In a room where laughter and music had previously been heard, all you could hear now was your breathing. And the ticking of the clock.
The door creaked. You instinctively slid your laptop under a bag.
"Here you are." Minho's voice was low. He looked at you with his head tilted slightly. "Why are you still here?"
You shrugged.
He sat down next to you, his back also against the mirror, legs stretched out. "You don't have to say anything, but… I know something's up."
You swallowed. "It's nothing."
"You're lying."
He said it without judgment. Just an observation.
"You're sad." He looked straight ahead, not at you. "I saw it in your eyes yesterday. And you've been sitting alone on the right side of the dorm table for three weeks. Like you're avoiding something."
You said nothing. Neither did Minho.
After a long silence: "Is this about your version?"
Your body went rigid. That was it.
He sighed. “I saw it, you know. The spreadsheet.”
“Why were you looking…”
“Because I was wondering why you were getting quieter. You’re my teammate. My family.”
His words broke something open inside you. You felt it snap, somewhere under your chest. The silent crack of hope.
“It hurts,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said. “And I think it’s unfair.”
You took a deep breath. It felt like you’d been living on one breath for weeks.
“It feels like no one chooses me,” you said. “I can see it in those numbers. And in the fan signs. Everyone loves you guys. And I… I’m just there. In the background.”
Minho turned his head toward you now. “You’re not a prop.”
“But I feel like one.”
He put his hand on your knee. No words. Just presence. And right when you needed it.
“You know what’s weird?” he asked. “I have your jewel case version at home. Three of them, actually. And I think it’s the prettiest of them all.”
You bit your lip. “You’re lying.”
“I'm not. And Felix has one in his wallet.”
You snorted softly. “That won’t fit at all.”
“He had the mini-mini version printed.”
You laughed a little. It felt strange in your throat, like you were relearning something.
“Let me know if you need space,” Minho said. “Or silence. Or someone being angry for you.”
“You would be mad on my behalf?”
“I’m already mad on your behalf.”
You looked at him. He meant it. It was in his gaze, in the tense line of his jaw.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“Always.”
That night, you lay in bed, but your thoughts wouldn’t let you rest. Every number on the spreadsheet bleeped through your head. Every difference in sales felt like a judgment. Like a voice saying: you don’t belong. You tried to sleep, but your brain whispered: You’re not someone’s bias. You’re not someone’s favorite. You’re optional.
The next morning, you were quiet. Too quiet. Seungmin poured you coffee and glanced up. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“I’m fine.”
“Lie number one of the day,” he said dryly.
Jeongin whistled softly. “Ouch. The morning quiz has started.”
Felix walked to the table, his hair messy and a blanket around his shoulders. “Leave her alone. Not everyone needs to wake up with full battery.”
“She’s been acting like everything’s okay for weeks,” Seungmin said. “But her eyes are tired. And her voice too.”
Han looked up from his cereal. “Maybe we should stop guessing and just ask: what do you need?”
You looked up. Eight pairs of eyes on you. You felt yourself grow warm. Not from love. From shame.
“It’s nothing,” you said quickly.
Seungmin raised one eyebrow. “Then you’re lying for the second time today.”
No one pushed you. That was the worst part. They gave you silence. Understanding. But that made it harder.
You stood up.
“Aren’t you eating?” Jeongin asked.
“Not hungry.”
You walked to your room, closed the door and leaned your back against it. Your chest moved quickly. As if you had just run, when in fact you were just running away from something you couldn’t say.
That afternoon you walked past two staff members in the hallway.
“…still high stock. Maybe no more solo version.”
“Or just a different cover. Something with a bit more spice.”
Your feet kept walking, but your heart stayed behind. In pieces. You said nothing. You were nothing. Just air, at that moment. Invisible to the people who were supposed to support you.
You felt it. Something breaking. Quietly. But definitely.
You turned. Walked outside, past security, hood over your head. No message. No note. Just your jewel case — which you put on the table in the lounge, near the coffee machine. For whoever found it.
You walked. You didn’t know where. Only that you had to leave. Just for a moment. To breathe somewhere else. To lose something that no one seemed to see.
The wind was sharp as you stepped outside. You felt it pull through your sleeves, down your neck, into your lungs. Like it wanted to clean up there too. Like it could feel you draining.
You walked without a purpose. The city was noisy, but to you everything sounded dull. Every sound was behind a wall. You crossed a street. Sat down on a bench. You looked down at your shoes. And you waited. For nothing. For everything.
Your phone vibrated. Once. Then twice.
Chris 🐺: hey, where are you?
Chris 🐺: it's okay if you need space, but let me know
You turned your phone upside down. You had no words. Just silence.
In the lounge, Felix found the jewel case first. He was about to get coffee when his eyes fell on the case. He bent down, held it like it was made of glass, and read your name on the side.
He called for Minho.
“It was here,” he said softly. “Just… just like that. No note.”
Minho’s eyes narrowed. “She’s gone.”
“I thought she was in the practice room.”
Han came over. Took the box from Felix’s hand. “This… doesn’t feel right.”
Felix: “Do you think—”
“Don’t think,” Minho said sharply. “Act.”
Changbin stood in the doorway. His face was tight. “Call her.”
“I just texted her,” Chan said. “No response.”
“Let’s split up,” Han said immediately. “I’m going to the park. She goes there sometimes when she wants to think.”
“Studios” Seungmin said. “She feels safer there than at home.”
“The cafe by the canal,” Hyunjin said. “We sometimes draw there—she likes the quiet there.”
Chan nodded. “No one comes back without her. Okay?”
Felix was still holding the jewel case. His fingers were clenched around it as if he didn’t dare let go.
“I’m taking this,” he whispered. “If she wants it back… she has to be here.”
Felix walked around the city looking for you. He had his hoodie on, walking along the edge of a parking lot where no one ever went—unless they really wanted to get away. And there you were. On a curb. Knees up. Arms around you. Eyes focused on nothing.
“Hey,” he said, not too softly, not too sharply.
You didn’t look up.
He sat down next to you.
After a long silence: “You left something behind.”
Your eyes darted to his hand. There was the case. Your jewel case. Slightly damaged on the corner. Like you. Inconspicuous. But visible, if you really looked.
“I just wanted to… disappear,” you whispered.
“I know that.”
“It felt like no one would miss me.”
“I know that too.”
You finally looked at him. His gaze was wet. But he wasn’t crying. He was feeling.
“We need you,” he said. “Not as an artist. As a person.”
Your lip trembled. “But they… they don’t want me. The world doesn’t.”
“Then the world is making a mistake.”
He put the jewel case next to you. “You decide what happens to it. Keep it. Destroy it. Forget it. But we—we keep you. Regardless.”
You took a deep breath. A deep breath. And said nothing. But your hand slowly moved toward the case. You didn’t push it away. You didn’t grab it. But you let it be.
That was enough.
When you walked back with him, the air felt different. Not lighter. But less heavy.
At home, they were all sitting. Silent. Chaotically silent. You heard Jisung jump up from the couch. “There you are.”
You nodded. No words yet. But you looked at everyone. One by one. And that was all they needed.
Chan stood up. “We’ve discussed it.”
You frowned.
Changbin: “We all want to buy your jewel case.”
Your eyes widened.
Hyunjin: “Not symbolically. Real. Physically. One by one. Until they’re sold out.”
You wanted to protest, but Minho raised his hand.
“This isn’t out of pity,” he said. “This is what we do for family.”
You looked down at the case in your hand. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a failure. But like something real. Something yours. Something worth holding on to.
And you did.
You were sitting on the balcony. The sky was pink and orange. You held the jewel case in your hands as if it were something precious. You looked at it like you never had before — not critically, but just… present. You saw your own eyes on the cover. Your smile. It had been real, then. Even if you couldn’t feel it now.
You heard some commotion inside. You turned your head and saw Jeongin opening boxes in the living room. Felix was helping him. One by one, he pulled out the jewel cases. Your version. Only your version.
“Are you serious?” you asked.
Jeongin grinned. “We got a group discount.”
Chan joined in. “We give them to staff, backup dancers, our parents…”
Seungmin jumped in. “I’ll send one to JYP. For his desk. Let him look at it.”
Everyone laughed.
Minho handed you a stack of markers. “You have some catching up to do.”
You looked at the pile of jewel cases. And for the first time, you didn’t think: no one wants these. You thought: they’re mine. And that’s enough.
That night, you were all sitting in the living room. You on the couch, feet on Felix’s lap. Hyunjin was lying on the floor with a pillow under his head. Jisung was playing softly on his phone. Chan was writing something in his notebook. Changbin looked up every now and then, as if to check if you were still breathing.
You were breathing.
You were still there.
And somewhere, in the silence, you felt it. Not just that they needed you. But that you felt her again — the version of yourself that once shone. Not perfectly. Not without doubts. But really.
The next day, a new order had come in. Someone had bought your version. One copy. Maybe by accident. Maybe out of curiosity. Maybe because they really wanted you.
And that was enough to get you started again.
You opened your phone. You set your alarm for tomorrow's rehearsal. You posted a selfie on Bubble, captioned:
I'm still here. And I'm staying.
Then you looked at the jewel case on your nightstand. You tapped the plastic softly.
Only 1 week left until I see Stray Kids live for the first time and I'm SO excited 😭💚 my outfit + their vibe + my whole soul = ready for the best night ever 🫶 Now I’m really starting to count down the days...
Bang Chan × 9th Member!Reader (Hyunjin's twin sister)
👀 Secret Relationship · Fluff · Light Angst · Group Dynamic
📏 ±1900 words
Masterlist
Requests are open!
There was an unwritten rule in Stray Kids:
“No dating in the group.”
Not because anyone forbade it, but… it felt like a risky leap. Too close, too vulnerable. Too much room for drama or hurt feelings.
But you and Chan had fallen before you knew it.
First glances.
Then late-night conversations on the rooftop of the dorm.
Then his hand on yours, and you not letting go.
You weren’t just any member.
You were Hyunjin’s twin sister.
Same age. Same intensity on stage. But where he was dramatic and poetic, you were more… down-to-earth. Quiet when you had to be, fierce when you could be.
And Chan?
He saw in you exactly what he needed when the world got to be too much.
So it happened.
Secretly.
Softly.
Seriously yet playfully.
The relationship had been going on for three months now. No one knew. Or… you thought so.
Because that morning, Hyunjin stared at you a little too long during breakfast.
“Why are you suddenly sitting on the other side of the dorm table?” he asked suddenly.
You almost choked on your yogurt.
Chan looked up from his coffee, perfectly neutral.
“Excuse me?” you said, deliberately slow.
Hyunjin narrowed his eyes. “I can feel things.”
Jeongin whispered to Felix, “What is he feeling now?”
“Betrayal,” Hyunjin answered serious.
You rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re just hungry.”
But Hyunjin really felt things.
He saw the little things.
Like how Chan touched your back for a moment when you left the dance studio.
Or how you lowered your voice when you spoke to him.
Or how you and Chan were always paired up for games, like it was a coincidence.
It was a regular Tuesday night. Everyone was in the dorm. You were sitting on the couch with a blanket. Chan was sitting diagonally next to you — not next to you, of course not. But just close enough to touch your pinky with his, hidden under the blanket.
You thought no one was watching.
But Hyunjin was always watching.
“Chan?”
Chan looked up. “Hm?”
“If you hurt her, I’ll ruin your career. Get it?”
Silence.
Chan’s eyebrow rose. “What… do you mean?”
Hyunjin pointed his chopsticks at you.
“My. Twin. Sister.”
You were shocked. “Wait a minute—”
“You guys are so bad at sneaking around,” Hyunjin sighed. “I literally grew up with her. I can tell by her eyebrows.”
Felix: “What can you tell by someone’s eyebrows?”
Jisung mumbled, “When they're in love, apparently.”
You felt your heart pound.
But Hyunjin looked straight at you, serious but calm.
“I’m not angry,” he said softly. “I just want you to be happy. And for him to respect you.”
You looked at Chan, who was now sitting right next to you. His hand found yours under the blanket — openly.
“I do,” he said. “Always.”
Hyunjin nodded slowly. “Then it’s okay. But still, one mistake and I’ll publish your old rap lyrics from 2013.”
Chan groaned. “Why are you so creepy?”
“Family instinct” Hyunjin said proudly.
You were sitting alone on the balcony when Chan joined you. No words, just the sound of the city.
“He’s not as scary as he acts,” you said.
Chan leaned against you. “You can be, if you have to.”
You smiled.
“We don’t have to do it secretly anymore.”
Chan looked at you, serious and soft at the same time.
“No. But I thought the secret thing was exciting too.”
“Then we’ll have to find new ways to make your heart race.”
hi! i saw you were taking requests and decided to send a little something! if it's okay with you, may i request stray kids ot8 x 9th member!reader? i was thinking of something that starts angsty but ends in fluff, like reader getting lost in the airport because of fans mobbing and only being found later after a lot of emotional distress and being pushed and shoved.
You knew airports could be busy.
You knew fans would show up.
But you weren’t prepared for this.
The instructions were simple: hood up, sunglasses off, stay close together. The staff had reminded you of this when you got off the plane. And you had stuck to them — at first. You walked quietly behind Chan and next to Seungmin. The boys looked as exhausted as you felt. After a long flight back from Japan and barely any sleep, everyone was tired, but you were used to it.
You thought: just hang in there. In fifteen minutes we’ll be in the car and it will be quiet again.
What you didn’t know: those fifteen minutes would change everything.
It started with a few distant voices.
Then screams.
And then — a wall of sound.
Flashing lights, shouting, running steps. Security sprang into action, but too late: the fans had already slipped between you. You felt someone slide past your shoulder, another hand against your arm. Your backpack was pulled back, you jumped and lost your balance. You turned around, instinctively.
And that’s where it went wrong.
Instead of Chan or Seungmin, you were faced with strangers. Cameras. Questions in languages you couldn’t immediately process. Flashes. People getting too close.
You tried to step back. Searched for a face you knew.
“Hyung?”
“Chan?!”
But your voice was drowned out. No one answered. Not a limb in sight. Just arms, bags and cameras. You pushed your way back toward the nearest pillar and panicked when your phone wasn’t there—it was in Hyunjin’s bag. You’d put it there just before boarding.
Now you were out of service. Out of contact.
You knew you shouldn’t run. But your legs moved on instinct.
And then you got lost.
You don’t know how long you’ve been walking. Not long. But you can feel it in your chest—your breathing is faster than it should be. Your hand shakes as you slide it along the cold pillar at Gate 34. No one here. Or at least, no one you know.
You pull your hood up a little further and sink to the ground. Your heart pounds in your throat. You try to keep your shoulders still, but they tremble slightly. You’re not hurt. But you’re not okay either.
You rub your arm and try to count your breaths. Feel something normal.
But everything feels so far away. Like you and your body are separated for a moment.
I’m lost.
They’re lost to me.
Maybe they think I’ve gotten ahead of them. Or that I’ve already reached the bus.
The thought is even more terrifying than the silence.
“Hold on,” Chan says, his voice sharp. “Where’s Y/N?”
Heads turn. Movement stops. Felix frowns. “Was just with Seungmin…”
“Don’t panic,” Minho says, but his gaze is anything but calm.
Jisung is already stepping back. “Maybe they got pushed the other way. Or got stuck somewhere.”
“They would never do that on purpose,” Jeongin says softly.
Hyunjin mumbles, “They didn’t have a phone with them…”
That’s when Chan uses his authority. “Staff! Everyone stops. We’re splitting up. Gates 20 to 40. Security calls central cameras right away.”
He looks at the boys.
“We don’t leave anyone behind. You hear me?”
“Always,” Changbin says. “There are nine of us.”
You think of stupid things.
If the bus has already left.
If someone is worried.
What if they think you did it on purpose?
Then—footsteps. Faster than the rest.
A voice:
“Y/N…?”
You look up, eyes blurry.
Hyunjin.
He sees you. His eyes widen.
“They’re here!” he shouts.
Within seconds, you see familiar silhouettes.
Felix first. His face tense, mask half off. Seungmin with a frown of pure relief. Han with a hand over his chest as if he’s just daring to breathe again.
And then: Chan.
He immediately kneels down in front of you.
“Are you hurt?”
You shake your head, barely visible.
“Are you in pain?”
“Was there someone you—”
Your lip trembles. Your shoulders too.
“Okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You don’t have to say anything for now.”
Hyunjin sinks down next to you. Felix slumps to his knees behind you. A warm hand touches your back. Han sits quietly on your other side, his eyes red with tension.
Jeongin wordlessly takes your hand. You feel him squeeze gently. Not forcefully. Just: I’m here.
You sit in the middle, Chan next to you. His arm doesn’t rest on you, but just behind you—so you know he’s there. The car drives softly. The windows are fogged up from the difference between the outside air and the air conditioning.
No one forces you to talk.
Minho hands you a bottle of water. “For when you’re ready.”
You nod. Seungmin tucks a blanket around your shoulders. His gaze is cautious, almost apologetic. “We should never have let you out of our sight.”
“It was chaos,” you say hoarsely. “Not your fault.”
“Maybe not,” Changbin says, “but we do worry. Because we love you.”
The silence that follows is warm, not awkward.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything,” you whisper. “I didn’t know how…”
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Chan says softly. “You were scared. That’s okay. We’re here now.”
You’re sitting on the couch in your dorm, wearing a hoodie, a bowl of warm soup in your hands.
Jisung is sitting across from you, distractedly scrolling through his phone. Minho is in the kitchen making tea. Felix is lying on the couch next to you like a limp cat, gently nuzzling you.
You feel… not better right away. But calmer. Heavier in a good way like your breathing is slowing down to where it should be.
Hyunjin sits down next to you with a notebook. “I’ll write it down,” he says. “For later. So we can remember how we never want to lose each other again.”
You smile weakly. “Dramatically.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but sincerely.”
You lie under your covers. You hear a few more sounds in the dorm, a drawer, a soft laugh, the hum of the kettle.
Then: a knock on your door.
You say nothing, but the door opens softly.
Chan.
He doesn’t come in, just stands in the doorway.
“Just checking. Are you okay?”
You nod.
“Not okay-okay. But… safe.”
His face relaxes. “That’s enough for now.”
Then he turns over. “Sleep well, y/n.”
You close your eyes.
You’re not lost.
You’re found.
And in the chaos of the world outside, you have eight people who will always come back.
Always.
A little update I recently got an extra (summer) job at my old internship, so I'm a bit less online than usual. I still want to keep posting fanfics and content (my head is full of ideas), but it might be a bit less regular for the next while.
I'll stay active where I can, and if you have a request: send it in! It might take a bit longer sometimes, but I read everything 💌
Thank you for your patience and reading my posts so far 🫶
I was wondering if you could right a story where a fan is staying at the same hotel as skz cause she’s on vacation with her friends and there is a massive power outage at the hotel and she ends up getting stuck in an elevator with one or more of the members you can choose which one but can you make kinda of fluff filled and comedic
If not that is perfectly fine just thought I’d ask thank you
Thanks for the request! 🌸
As long as the power goes out (I'm good)
Han Jisung × reader
☁️ Fluff · Comedy ·
📏 ± 3,200 words
Masterlist
Requests are open!
You’ve never been one for luxury, but when you booked this vacation to Jeju with your three best friends and saw a four-star hotel had a last-minute deal, you couldn’t resist. The hotel was way too fancy for your budget, but hey, you only live once. And how often do you get to have breakfast next to a courtyard with a fountain and soft jazz music?
What you didn’t know: that jazz music would be the only soft part of this day. Because even though you were just heading to the eighth floor with a bag of soft drinks and candy from 7-Eleven, everything would change completely in a minute.
You step into the elevator, alone, and press button 8. The doors slowly slide shut—and just in time, someone else slides in between.
Black hoodie. Hat. Earplugs. Sunglasses in hand.
You glance up briefly. Boy, about your age. Asian. Hat low over his forehead. He presses floor 9. You quickly look away.
But something in your gut says: I know this boy. Not personally. But… I’ve seen his face before.
Then it happens.
A dull thud.
Flash of light.
The elevator jerks and comes to a stop.
“Uh…” you say.
“Wait… no,” he says, a slight panic in his voice.
Y’all look at the screen above the doors. Black. No more numbers. The lights change to soft red emergency light. No buzzing. No movement.
“Did the power just go out?” you ask softly.
He nods slowly, presses the buttons a few times, but nothing happens. He tries the alarm signal. No sound. Then he picks up his phone.
“No signal,” he mumbles, half to himself.
You look at you're phone. “Same.”
He sighs deeply, takes off his hat and looks at you.
And that’s the moment you know.
Han Jisung.
From Stray Kids.
In the same elevator as you.
You blink a few times.
He sees your gaze and sighs.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s me.”
You: “Seriously?”
Him: “I’d rather be someone else right now.”
After the first few minutes of shared discomfort, you both sink to the elevator floor. Him on the left, and you on the right. You place the bag of drinks between you as a kind of neutral ground.
He looks at the bottles and candy. “Store?”
“Snacks and drinks for my room. My friends were thirsty.”
He grins. “You deserve a medal. Or a fan.”
“Or a working elevator.”
He laughs out loud. “Touché.”
“You sound surprisingly relaxed for someone stuck with a stranger.”
“Well, you don’t seem like a serial killer to me. And I didn’t feel like taking the stairs.”
You smile. He smiles back.
Time crawls.
The air in the elevator is getting warmer. His hat is now on the floor, his earbuds are hanging around his neck and he wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Okay,” he says, “if we sit here for another twenty minutes, I’m going to rap my entire mixtape for you.”
“Don’t bother,” you say dryly. “Then I’ll press every button until we’re catapulted out of here.”
He laughs out loud. “You’re different from most people I meet.”
“Thanks?”
“No, really. You’re being sarcastic. That feels… normal.”
There’s a moment of silence. Not awkward. Just silence.
“Why are you in Jeju?” he asks suddenly.
You pull your knees up. “Vacation. I needed some rest. Away from everything.”
“Same reason.”
You look up. “You’re a world-famous idol.”
He shrugs. “And yet this is the first time in months that no one talks to me as if I’m on a stage.”
He starts doing weird things out of boredom. Makes noises like he’s imitating elevator music. Taps on the walls like he’s trying to send Morse code. Then looks at you expectantly.
You shake your head. “I won’t pay attention to this behavior.”
“I’m bored,” he says dramatically. “And you’re my only audience.”
“Then you’re out of luck. I give bad reviews.”
He pretends to faint from sadness. You roll your eyes, but you have to try hard not to laugh.
It’s weird, but also fun.
And somehow… you don’t want the elevator to start moving again.
After about 35 minutes, something starts buzzing.
You both look up at the same time.
The screen lights up. The numbers appear. The elevator hums.
“I think we…” you begin.
PING.
The doors slowly slide open on floor 9.
You remain seated for a moment.
Jisung is the first to stand up. He grabs his hat, his bottle of water and looks at you.
“Hey,” he says. “This may sound weird, but… if we ever see each other again in this hotel…”
“…you’ll take the stairs?” You joke.
He laughs softly. “Maybe. But I’d rather meet outside the elevator.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “Yeah. That seems… less claustrophobic.”
He slides his hand into his hoodie and pulls out a small notepad from a side pocket.
“I can’t give you my number here, but…”
He writes something down.
Fold it in half.
Hold it out to you.
You take it.
“Check it when you’re alone,” he says. “Or not. Your choice.”
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
He steps out of the elevator and turns around one more time.
“See you later, elevator girl.”
Then the doors disappear.
You stand there for a moment. Bag of Powerade in one hand. Fold in the other.
You open it slowly.
The note reads:
“I liked being stuck with you. Seriously. Instagram: @__
If you ever want to get stuck again — I’m available.”
You smile.
And for the first time since the power went out…
you’re glad he did.
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