heeeey 🤪 i’m back from the dead on another profile 💅 i couldn’t access my account because i couldn’t remember my password but i got into my old laptop and it was saved so GOBLESSSSS
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Angst + Hopefulness | Seungmin x Reader
Summary: When a girl is born with the words "I'm sorry I forgot you" etched on her wrist, she fears her soulmate story will end in heartbreak. But after meeting Seungmin- a boy who feels oddly familiar- her world begins to shift. As they grow closer, buried memories resurface, revealing a forgotten childhood connection that changes everything. Maybe those words weren't an ending after all...but a long-awaited beginning.
The words had been on your wrist, you were born-etched like the final lines of a tragic love story: "I'm sorry I forgot you."
Everyone else seemed to have something simple. Sweet. Hopeful.
"Hi."
"Is this seat taken?"
"You dropped this."
But not you.
Your parents never said it out loud, but they were worried. And so were you. "I'm sorry I forgot you," sounded like heartbreak. Like loss. Like something that couldn't be undone.
You wore long sleeves for most of your life. Not because you were ashamed, but because you didn't want anyone to ask.
Not until you met him.
He was sitting by the fountain on campus, feeding crumbs to a brave little squirrel. His voice was soft as he hummed something under his breath. You hadn't meant to stop walking, but your legs did it for you. There was something strange in the air-familiarity, maybe. Like hearing a song you've only ever heard in your dreams.
You were still watching him when he turned and caught your eye.
"Are you okay?" He asked, tilting his head.
His voice was warm.
You nodded quickly, cheeks hot. "Y-Yeah. Sorry. You looked...familiar."
He smiled, dimples flashing. "You, too, actually. Have we met?"
You didn't know how to explain it, but his face felt like a memory you hadn't earned.
You introduced yourselves. His name was Seungmin.
. . .
You saw each other again.
And again.
And again.
Sometimes at the cafe near your dorm. Sometimes on the quad. Once in the library, where you reached for the same book and both laughed like it was scripted.
There was something right about it. The way you both fell into conversation. The way the silence between you was never awkward. The way your heart didn't feel like it had to sprint when he was around- it could just be.
You told him things you hadn't told anyone.
He did too.
But neither of you mentioned the words on your wrists.
. . .
The first time he touched your wrist- just a casual brush of his fingers- you tensed. He noticed.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
You pulled your sleeve down and nodded. "It's nothing."
It wasn't. It was everything.
. . .
It took you months to finally ask.
"Do you...believe in soulmates?"
You were together, walking in the park, your coffee cups steaming in the cold. Seungmin tilted his head thoughtfully.
"I think so. Or...I want to." He looked at you with a soft smile. "Why?"
You hesitated, then lifted your sleeve.
He froze when he saw it.
Those words.
His eyes flickered to your face, something unreadable stirring behind them.
"What does yours say?" You whispered.
He hesitated. Then slowly, he reached into his coat sleeve and turned his wrist.
"You're the one I kept dreaming about."
Her breath caught.
"That's...beautiful."
But he didn't smile.
. . .
A week passed. He didn't text.
Didn't answer.
You tried not to spiral, but the truth was loud in your head.
"I'm sorry I forgot you."
You stared at the words on your wrist like they might start bleeding.
. . .
Then one night, you heard a knock on your door.
When you opened it, Seungmin was standing there- rain in his hair, a look in his eyes that cracked you wide open.
"I remembered you," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
"I remembered you. From...before."
He stepped closer.
"We met when I was a kid. A trip to the beach with my family. You gave me a shell. Told me it was magic."
You blinked rapidly, a memory flickering in the back of your mind. A little boy with round cheeks and a shy smile. A pink shell in his palm.
"It was you?" You whispered.
He nodded. "But I forgot. I forgot everything until I saw the words on your wrist. That's why they say that. Because I promised you I wouldn't. And I did."
Tears filled your eyes. "Seungmin..."
"I'm sorry I forgot you." He reached for your hand, voice cracking. "But I remember now. And I won't forget again."
Your fingers closed around his like a puzzle piece finding home.
The words on your wrist didn't feel tragic anymore.
They felt like a beginning.
THE END.
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak it a but to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Fluff & Fate | Hyunjin x Reader
Summary: You've had a glowing, backwards name on your ribs since you were thirteen- Hyunjin, only visible in moonlight. Years later, a spontaneous boy crashed into your life (and your job), turning your quiet world into chaos and laughter. You don't expect it to be him, but the moonlight never lies.
The mark had always been there, faint and silvery across her ribs, like spilled moonlight frozen in cursive.
A name. Backwards.
One that could only be seen in moonlight.
You'd discovered it when you were thirteen, during a sleepover when someone dared you to lift your shirt and check for a soulmate mark.
"What if yours is backwards?" someone had teased.
It was. "N I J N U Y H"
. . .
You spent the next three years staring at it in the mirror, whispering the letters like a secret spell.
"Hyunjin."
You didn't know a Hyunjin.
Not yet.
. . .
Years passed, and the name became more of a quiet comfort than a looming mystery. Soulmate marks were rare- only a few people had them. The world didn't revolve around them anymore. But for you, that glowing reverse name was a strange sort of promise. One that lived in your bones.
You moved to the city for college. Got a job at a local stationery shop. It was quiet work- folding cards, restocking pens, dealing with people who had passionate opinions about envelope glue.
And then he crashed into your life. Literally.
. . .
A bell jingled as the door slammed open. A blur of paint-stained black hoodie and messy dark hair tied back with a green ribbon barreled in, arms full of sketchbooks and a backpack that looked like it had survived a war.
"I'm not late, right?" he blurted
You blinked. "Late for what?"
He froze. Looked around. "Wait. This isn't Room 204?"
"This is...a stationary shop."
He paused, then broke into laughter. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I was following my GPS and it said 'turn left,' and I thought this was a side entrance and- wow, I messed this up, didn't I?"
You smiled despite yourself. "Just a little."
He grinned, eyes sparkling like sunlight off water. "Okay, okay. I'll get out of your way, but- wait, do you sell highlighters? Like, the pastel ones?"
"Back wall. Next to the pens."
"Bless you," he said dramatically, and trotted off.
His name tag, half-hanging from his backpack, read: Hyunjin.
. . .
You watched him at the counter as he compared colors like it was a life- or - death decision.
Hyunjin.
Your ribs burned. Just faintly. Like a whisper. Was it him?
He finally made a decision and bounced over with a purple highlighter and a coffee-flavored milk he grabbed from the mini fridge near the front.
"Thanks for the help, stationary angel."
You laughed. "That's...a new one."
"I'm Hyunjin," he said, then winced. "Right. You saw the name tag. Man, I wanted to do a cool intro."
"You kind of already did. Wrong building and all."
He gave you a dramatic bow and left in a whirlwind of coffee scent and pure sunshine.
. . .
He started showing up more often after that.
Always with a new excuse.
"I needed washi tape. The good kind."
"Do you carry glitter pens? For serious note-taking?"
"I swear I had a dream about buying sticky notes here."
Eventually, he stopped pretending.
"Okay, I just like talking to you."
. . .
You spent slow hours behind the counter trading bad puns and worse snacks. Hyunjin had the kind of energy that turned boring days into surprise concerts. He'd sing to you when he thought no one else was around. He always offered half his snacks- even the last bite.
You never told him about the name on your ribs.
Not yet.
. . .
It happened on a quiet night.
He stayed past closing to help you rearrange the sticker shelf because "the glitter ferrets deserve top billing." (see what I did there?)
You both collapsed on the floor after, breathless from laughing.
The moonlight filtered through the store window, casting soft silver across your side, the faint light of the name burning through your thin shirt.
He started at it.
His expression changed.
"...Can I ask you something?"
You nodded.
He leaned in close. Not touching. Just there.
"There's something on your side," He whispered.
Your heart skipped.
"You see it?" you whispered
He nodded.
"Can you read it?"
He exhaled, like he already knew.
"Yeah. It says Hyunjin. Backwards."
You slowly lifted your shirt hem, enough to reveal the faint silver name across your ribs. It shimmered in the moonlight like magic.
"I didn't know how to tell you," You whispered.
Hyunjin blinked fast, like the moment was too big for words.
"You've had my name on you this whole time?" he asked, voice soft.
"Since I was thirteen."
He reached forward, fingertips just brushing the edge of the mark. "I don't have one," he said, almost apologetically.
"You don't need one," you replied. "I found you anyway."
Hyunjin looked at you like you'd just told him a secret the stars had kept.
Then he laughed- light and spontaneous and full of awe.
"So...soulmate glitter ferret shelf partners?" he asked
You grinned. "Forever."
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak it a but to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Emotional, slow-burn, music-driven | Chan x Reader
Summary: You spent your life hearing fragments of lyrics left behind on things people touched- echoes of emotion no one else can hear. But when a quiet stranger named Chris begins visiting the record store you work at, the words he leaves behind aren't just music- they're a map to something more. You've been hearing his soul sing. Now it's time to answer.
You worked in a secondhand record store tucked between an abandoned florist and a ramyeon shop that only opened after midnight. Most days were quiet, save for the occasional stray cat curled in the windowsill, happily in the flowers, or the hum of dust settling between vinyls.
But ever since you were a child, you'd had a secret.
If someone touched an object with strong emotion, it held a residue, faint, glowing for only moments.
And when you touched it next, it sang to you.
Not with a voice. Not with words. But with lyrics.
Incomplete. Raw. Fragmented.
Like someone's soul breaking into song.
. . .
You never told anyone. Not even your parents. Not even when you once picked up a friend's pencil and heard the aching words:
"No one believes in my passions."
You kept it buried. Copied the words in journals. Collected them like feathers from birds you'd never seen.
But everything changed the day he walked in.
. . .
The bell above the door jingled, lazy and soft.
He didn't look extraordinary- hood up, dark sweater, headphones hanging around his neck. But he paused at the threshold, gaze scanning the air like it meant something.
Then he smiled.
And it hit you like thunder.
Something was different.
He walked slowly through the aisles, fingers brushing along old records and stacks of forgotten sheet music. He didn't say a word.
You watched as he stopped in front of the piano near the back. One note was missing. The ivory chipped. He touched it gently, like it was a memory.
Then he left. No purchase. No conversation.
But the moment the door shut behind him, the store shifted.
Everything he'd touched...glowed.
You walked slowly towards the piano. Reached out. Touched the key he had pressed.
"I scream into silence, hoping you'll echo back."
"Even shadows hum when I think of you."
"I wrote a thousand songs for the face I've never seen."
Tears welled in your eyes before you understood why.
The words weren't just lyrics.
They were aching. Longing. Searching.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was a soulmate.
. . .
He came back the next week.
Bought nothing again.
Touched a stack of cassette tapes and the brass bell on the counter. Looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like you might glow.
Then left.
You touched the bell five minutes later.
"If I find you, will you know it's me?"
"I carved your name into songs I've never sung."
. . .
You began to expect him.
He always came in after the rain. Always brushed his fingers along the edges of the room like he was tuning it.
He never stayed long.
And you never said a word.
But every time he left, you found lyrics waiting for you in the warmth of what he'd touched. Some were sharp with pain. Others soft, filled with golden hours and drowsy hope.
You started compiling them into a journal.
Calling it The Echo Book.
Because that's what he was: an echo you hadn't yet traced to a voice.
. . .
One night, you stayed late.
Rain drummed low on the roof. A power outage left the shop lit only by candles and the blue glow of the moon.
He arrived just after closing.
You didn't stop him.
He looked at you longer than usual.
Said nothing.
But this time, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Set it gently on the counter.
Then he left.
Heart hammering, you unfolded the note.
Inside were the words:
"You feel like a song I've been trying to remember."
And beneath that, his name.
Chris.
Your breath caught.
You looked at your journal- The Echo Book - and saw the first lyric he ever left you.
"I scream into silence, hoping you'll echo back."
You closed the shop.
Ran into the street, soaking your shoes.
. . .
He hadn't gone far- just across the road, leaning under the yellow halo of a streetlamp. He looked up when you called his name.
And when you touched his hand for the first time, nothing glowed.
No lyrics.
No fragments.
No ache.
Just quiet.
And the sound of two heartbeats syncing for the first time.
. . .
"I've been hearing your songs," You whispered. "Everywhere you touched. They stayed behind."
He started, then smiled like he'd just found the missing line to a chorus.
"I left them behind, hoping you'd find them."
"I did," you whispered. "I wrote them all down."
"I know," he said softly. "That's why I kept coming back."
. . .
Together you stood in the dark, the city pulsing quietly around you. A boy who sang to the air in hope- and you, who heard him, long before he knew you were listening.
You were never strangers.
You had always been writing the same song.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak it a but to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Soft Angst, Slow Burn, Comfort | Lee Know x Reader
Summary: You and Minho have been inseparable since childhood, brushing off every shared bruise and strange ache as coincidence. But when you realize the calming scent of lavender that always surrounds him might be your soulmate marker, the pieces begin to fall into place– every pain, every look, every quiet moment. You weren’t just close. You were always meant to find each other.
The first time it happened, you were eight.
You fell on the playground. Your palms were scraped raw. As you tried not to cry, Minho, your best friend, winced beside you, clutching his hands like he’d been burned too.
“Sympathy pain,” his mom explained when you told her. “Sometimes people close to each other feel that way.”
You didn’t question it. You and Minho had always been close. You shared secrets, treats, even the same taste in entertainment.
But then it kept happening.
Minho would show up at your door after soccer practice, holding his knee, and your leg would throb hours later. You’d stub your toe getting out of bed, and he’d hiss in pain from his own house across town, muttering, “Not again.”
You laughed it off every time.
“Maybe we’re just cursed,” You joked once.
He grinned, leaned on your shoulder, and said, “At least I’m cursed with you.”
. . .
By the time you hit your late teens, the sympathy pain had become part of your normal. A thread between you two.
But the smell? That was newer.
It wasn’t overwhelming. Just subtle. Like something hiding at the edge of memory.
Whenever Minho was nearby – especially when things felt emotionally charged – you’d smell lavender.
Not perfume. Not anything he wore.
Just lavender.
Sometimes sharp like fresh stems. Other times like soft and powdery, like laundry and late spring air. It was always comforting. Always grounding. You never told him. It felt too personal. Like your brain had made a scent just for him.
It wasn’t until you were scrolling through an old soulmate forum – just for fun, you told yourself – that you saw it.
Some people don’t hear their soulmate. Some don’t see signs. Some people smell them. Unique scents only they can recognize. Soulmate markers come in all kinds of forms.
You stared at the post. Read it five times.
Lavender.
Minho.
All those years of bruises that weren’t yours, pain that echoed in your bones, the way your stomach twisted whenever he got hurt, even if he brushed it off with a laugh.
You hadn’t been cursed.
You’d been connected.
. . .
The realization didn’t come with fireworks.
It was quiet.
Like waking up and realizing the sky had changed color.
You didn’t know what to do with it at first. Minho had never talked about soulmates. Not seriously. He teased other people who brought it up. Called it fate-fluff.
You wondered if he felt the same pains. Smelled the same scents.
You started watching him closely. The way his eyes flicked to you when you rubbed a sore wrist or sucked in a sharp breath. How he always brought you water before you could ask. How he always seemed to know.
. . .
You were sitting on the kitchen counter one night, tossing popcorn into your mouth while Minho cleaned up the mess he’d made attempting a “simple” pasta dish.
“You smell like lavender,” you said, before your brain could catch up to your mouth.
He paused, mid-wipe of a dish.
“You okay?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“No, I mean–” You swallowed. “I always smell it. Around you. When you’re close. It’s not bad or anything. Just…calming. Familiar.”
Minho stared at you, a dish towel limp in his hands.
“You always have,” you added softly. “Since we were kids.”
He didn’t speak for a beat. Then another.
Then he said, “I smell rain.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“When you walk into a room,” he said, stepping closer, “I smell rain. Like the moment right before it pours. I never told you because I thought I was losing my mind.”
Your chest tightened.
“And the pain–”
“You felt it too?” You whispered.
He nodded.
You both stood there, years of shared mystery hanging between you like steam off the stovetop.
“So we’re soulmates,” you said. The words trembled out of you like a question.
Minho’s mouth twitched up. But it wasn’t a smirk.
It was something softer.
“I guess we are.”
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak it a but to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Long Distance Comfort and Fated Reunion
Summary: You spent your childhood moving across the world, finding comfort only in the messages mysteriously appearing on your skin– notes and doodles from a nameless soulmate you’ve never met. For years, he’s been your constant, your secret friend, your safe place. When you finally settle in Seoul for University, the messages fade – until one rainy afternoon, they return and everything changes.
It started with a doodle.
A chubby star with uneven arms, drawn in purple gel pen on the back of your hand when you were seven, bored during another flight across time zones.
The star blinked off your skin within an hour– but not before a new mark replaced it. This time, a messier one. A wobbly smiley face with too many teeth.
You blinked at it.
And it blinked back.
It was the first time you ever wrote on your skin with the hope someone might answer.
And someone did.
. . .
Your parents’ work kept you moving– from Seoul to Copenhagen to New York to Melbourne. You made very few friends, stayed quiet in new schools, and clung to your journals like they were anchors. But even when you were oceans apart from anything familiar, he was there.
Your mystery pen pal.
Your soulmate.
He never told you his name.
And you never gave yours.
At first, you thought it was just the rules of the game. But as the years stretched on, it felt more like reverence. A way to preserve the magic.
You called him Ink, secretly.
He called you Star.
You’d write on your arms when teachers weren’t looking. He’d write back in the margins of your wrists while you slept. Time zones didn’t matter. Neither did language. Somehow, you always understood each other.
He was funny, even when your homesickness made your bones ache.
You told him about museum trips and getting lost in train stations. He sent doodles of squirrels in sweaters and confessed he cried during animated movies.
When you broke your arm at eleven, he covered his entire forearm in silly jokes to distract you. When he failed his math test, you inked “You’ll get it next time (: “ across your palm, even though you were horrible at math too.
You grew up with him. Even if you never saw his face.
. . .
When you were sixteen, the marks slowed down.
Your family had moved again – this time permanently to Seoul – and you felt like you were finally settling. You told him everything about your new school, your new apartment, and your favorite cafe.
He didn’t say much.
When you asked if everything was okay, he simply wrote:
“I’m happy for you. Just don’t forget about me.”
Your chest hurt for days.
But you never stopped writing.
. . .
Senior year brought college applications, exhaustion, and way too many late-night snack runs. You couldn’t help but wonder if Ink was somewhere near now. Maybe even in the same city. You told yourself not to hope.
Then, on the morning of your university orientation, a message bloomed across your wrist like a sunrise.
“Are you nervous? You’re gonna crush it, Star.”
Your eyes filled with tears in the back of the lecture hall.
You pressed your pen to your wrist.
“Are you here?”
There was no reply.
. . .
You got used to Seoul in a different way now. The streets weren’t foreign. The food tasted like home. But still, you’d catch yourself glancing around every time a stranger rubbed their wrist or smiled at their palm.
Every note you left went unanswered. For two months.
Then one day, sitting at a cafe on a rainy Wednesday, your skin warmed again.
A single line of text appeared.
“Can I tell you something?”
Your heart leapt. You grabbed your pen, hands trembling.
“Anything.”
“I think I’ve seen you before. I think we’re at the same school now.”
You stared at your skin, pulse pounding in your ears.
“Where?”
“Today. Library. Third floor. You were curled up with a book on mythical creatures. You had headphones in. I didn’t say hi. I froze.”
You were silent. Then wrote.
“Brown hoodie?”
“Yeah.”
“You dropped your highlighter twice.”
“I panicked.”
You laughed. Out loud. People stared. You didn’t care.
“Next time,”
You wrote
“say hi.”
“Next time I will. Promise.”
. . .
You didn’t expect to see him that fast.
But that weekend, while wandering a campus festival with friends, someone tapped your shoulder. You turned – and there he was.
Brown hoodie. Tired eyes. Soft smile.
“I’m Jisung,” he said.
You looked at him like he was a miracle.
“Star,” You said.
He smiled bigger. “Yeah. I know.”
. . .
You talked for hours.
No pressure. No sudden confessions. Just shared stories, soft laughter, and late night banana milk.
When he finally held out his hand, you stared at it for a second.
Then took it.
It felt exactly like coming home.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Color Theory, Angst, Divorce Mentioned | Jeongin x Reader
Summary: You've always seen him in color, but he's never seen you the same way. After years of believing you were nothing more than a distant memory, he shows up again - only this time, the truth comes out, and it's far more complicated than you ever imagined.
You’ve always seen Jeongin in color.
The moment your tiny hands met in the sandbox, the world didn’t explode into hues or vibrancy, not like the books say it should. It was subtler than that. Softer. Like the muted tones of your childhood suddenly sharpened around him. His honey - brown eyes, the gentle pink of his cheeks after running too long, the warm tan of his skin in summer.
The rest of the world stayed gray. Cold and distant.
But Jeongin? He was color.
And you thought that meant something.
At first, it was easy. You were five. Soulmates were a fairytale, and it didn’t matter that he was the only thing painted in full, perfect clarity. You just liked how he always shared his snacks with you.
It got harder when you turned ten, leaning over to him during your gym class and whispering, “I can see you,” you’d confessed, heart thumping. “In color.”
Jeongin had blinked at you. Confused. Then, slowly, carefully, said, “You’re still black and white to me.”
You didn’t sleep much that night.
You didn’t tell anyone else about it after that.
. . .
By seventeen, the ache had settled into something familiar. You watched him grow up in color while he looked through you like a grayscale photo – someone nice, someone constant, but not someone meant for him.
You thought maybe fate had messed up. Or maybe you were just cursed with unrequited destiny.
And so you let go.
At least, you tried to.
. . .
The last time you saw him, you were twenty-one.
He had this look on his face, the kind of look people wear when they’re caught between wanting to say something and being too afraid to mean it. You’d run into each other at the University library. He’d laughed a little awkwardly, scratched the back of his neck.
“You still seeing the world in grayscale?” you’d asked lightly, teasing, but your heart sank when he nodded.
You hadn’t looked back.
Not until today.
. . .
You’re walking to the bus stop on your way home from work when someone calls your name.
The street is empty for this time of night, the lamplight bending over you, casting a yellow glow. You turn.
Jeongin.
Older now. Taller. There’s a little more definition in his jawline, but the same warmth in his eyes. He walked towards you slowly, as if checking that you’re real. You don’t realize that you’re holding your breath until he stops in front of you.
“I’ve been trying to find you,” he says softly.
You blink. “Why?”
A pause. His gaze drops to your hands, nervous, fidgeting.
“I lied.”
Your breath catches. “...About what?”
He glances around him, then gently guides you to the bus bench. You’re close enough now to see the speckles of color in his eyes, the faint tremble in his fingers.
“I’ve always seen you in color.”
Your heart stops.
“Since the day we met,” he says, voice low. “You wore those yellow overalls. Your shoelaces didn’t match. One red and the other blue. Your eyes were the first thing I ever saw that weren’t gray.”
You can’t speak.
“But I didn’t believe in soulmates,” he adds, more quietly now. “My parents were soulmates. Saw each other in color their whole lives. And still broke each other’s hearts.”
You swallow hard. “So you decided not to believe?”
“I was scared,” he admits. “That I’d hurt you. Or that you’d trust me just because of a string we couldn’t see. I thought if I ignored it…If I said it wasn’t real…I’d be doing you a favor.”
"But you weren't," you whisper.
"I know," he says. "And I'm sorry. You spent all those years thinking you were only halfway chosen. That must've hurt like hell."
You no slowly. "It did."
He closes his eyes for a second.
"I couldn't stop seeing you," he says, like a confession. "Even when we stopped talking. Even when I dated other people. The world was black and white, and then there was you."
You look at him - really look. And you realize he's trembling. His voice is steady, but his body is caught in the middle of years he can't take back.
"I'm not saying fate means we have to be together," he adds, eyes meeting yours. "But I want to be."
The silence between you is deep and careful.
"You should've told me," you finally say.
"I know."
"I could have helped you believe."
"I know that, too." His voice cracks just slightly. "I think part of me hoped you would give up. That maybe if you stopped loving me, I could stop seeing you. But you didn't. And I didn't."
You stare at him, feeling the years you spent doubting fall off your shoulders like a wet cloth.
And then you do something simple.
You reach for his hand.
His fingers twitch, then wrap gently around yours.
Warm. Familiar. Alive.
"I still see you," you whisper. "Every day. In color."
He smiles, shaky but real.
"I want to see the rest of the world with you," he says. "But only if you want that too."
You nod once, heart full and breaking all at once. "We'll figure it out. No fairytales. No fate excuses. Just us."
And for the first time in your life, the world begins to shift.
Color bleeds into the streetlamps, into the peeling petals in the flower shop window, into the pavement beneath your feet.
It's not sudden. It's slow.
Like healing.
Like hope.
Like love, finally finding its way back.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Angst and Longing | Felix x Reader
Summary: You've seen him your whole life- always in reflections, never in reach. A quiet presence in glass and shadow. But some connections refuse to stay behind the mirror forever.
You first see him when you're seven.
It's late, and you're brushing your teeth, leaning over the sink while your mom fusses in the hallway. When you glance up at the mirror, he's there, standing behind you.
You scream.
By the time your mother runs in, he's gone. Just your own reflection again. Just an empty bathroom and your pulse thundering in your ears.
You swear you weren't imagining him.
. . .
You learn the rules when you're older.
Soulmates can only see each other in mirrors. It's rare, older than red strings, and matching marks. A curse or a gift - depending on who you ask.
No one knows when it starts. Some say it happens the first time both souls reach the same point of awareness. Others say it happens when one finally needs the other.
All you know is: you see him. He sees you.
But only in reflections.
. . .
At first, it's terrifying.
You'll glance into a puddle on the street or a store window, and he's there- always in the background. Never quite looking directly at you, but close. Close enough to make your breath catch.
He has freckles. Wide eyes like warm honey and a quiet sadness tucked beneath them. Hair that changes color as the years pass, just like yours.
Sometimes he waves. Sometimes he watches you like he's trying to memorize you.
You try to talk to him once, through the mirror in your bedroom.
"Can you hear me?" you whisper, fingertips grazing the glass/
He presses his hand to the same spot. His lips move, but you can't hear the words.
Still, your hand warms at the touch.
It's enough.
. . .
Years pass.
You bring your soulmate everywhere without meaning to. He lingers in cafe windows, rearview mirrors, and reflections in train doors. You catch him smiling when you laugh. Frowning when you cry.
But he never appears when you expect him to.
It's like he's on his own schedule, popping into your world at the strangest times. Quiet, kind, never intrusive - but always there when you need him most.
Your friends think it's romantic.
You think it's cruel.
You love someone you've never touched.
. . .
One night, after a particularly brutal day, you slump in front of your vanity mirror and whisper, "What if we're never allowed to meet?"
He's already there. Sitting on the other side.
His eyes look sad. He doesn't speak - he never can - but his hand reaches up again, pressed to the glass like always.
You press yours back, and for a moment, it almost feels real. Almost.
He mouths something.
Not yet.
Then he's gone.
. . .
It's hard to explain the feeling of losing someone you've never really had.
You go months without seeing him.
You start to think maybe it's over. Maybe he's moved on, or maybe you have. You start dating someone. You stop checking mirrors so often. You try to stop believing.
But you still find yourself glancing at windows when you walk past.
And when the relationship ends, you find yourself whispering into the mirror again.
"I miss you."
This time, he's already waiting.
. . .
You're twenty-two, the day it happens.
You're at a vintage art gallery in the city- one of those quiet, overgrown places with more dust than light. You've just pulled an old candle holder off the shelf when something strange happens.
You look down at a full-length mirror placed near the staircase.
And he's not behind you.
He's beside you.
Next to you.
Not in the mirror.
In the room.
You freeze. Breath caught. Heart gone still.
He turns to face you, really face you, and smiles like he's known you forever.
And you realize he has.
. . .
"Hey," he says, voice softer than you imagined, but just as warm. "It's you."
You're too stunned to speak.
You stare, eyes flicking from his face to the mirror and back. He's still there in the reflection- but he's here too. Real.
You manage to whisper, "How?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. I was just...walking. And then I saw this place. I felt like I had to come in."
You both fall silent. The air around you feels thick with something unspoken, something ancient.
And then he laughs, a little nervously. "I'm Felix, by the way."
You don't know where to cry or collapse. "I know."
He smiles like that means everything.
. . .
You walk the city for hours, just talking. Learning. Catching up on a life you've only ever glimpsed in flickers of glass.
He tells you he's seen you since he was a kid. That he'd thought he was losing his mind. That he almost gave up on ever meeting you- until today.
And when the sky turns pink and the city hums around you, he stops walking and turns to face you.
"I used to think the mirrors were cruel," he says softly. "But now I think they were protecting us."
You blink. "From what?"
"From meeting before we were ready."
And when he leans in, you meet him halfway - no reflection between you this time.
Just him. Warm, real, alive.
And yours.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Soulmate AU | 1k Words | Platonic Relationship, Angst, and Domestic Argument mentioned | Changbin x Reader
Summary: Two lifelong neighbors navigate the quiet rhythm of growing up side by side- until a shared dream shifts everything they thought they understood about connection, fate, and what it really means to belong with someone.
You never thought twice about the dreams.
They were all small, familiar things —comforting flashes of a life lived in late-night ramyeon, hallway lights left on, and music humming softly from a cracked bedroom door. You figured they were your own memories. Maybe jumbled, maybe softened by time, but still yours.
It made sense. The house in those dreams? Yours. The dog? Yours. The sound of your mom singing in the kitchen, the broken porch light, even the faint creak of the floorboard outside the bathroom. All real.
And if a certain boy showed up in them more often than not, well...he was real too. Seo Changbin. Your next-door neighbor since you were both old enough to have memories. The boy who climbed trees like a squirrel, let you cheat off his math homework in middle school, and gave the best one-armed hugs in the universe. You spent so much of your lives in and out of each other's houses that it wasn't weird when his dreams felt like yours.
You didn't know they were his.
Until last night.
. . .
It was a Tuesday when it hit you.
In your dream, you were in a car - Changbins, based on the keychain swinging from the ignition. It was dark outside, and the streetlamps cast a pale yellow glow on his face. He was parked outside your house, engine off, staring up at your window. His jaw was clenched, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Not crying - but close.
"I should've said something," he whispered. "You're gonna leave."
You watched- you, in his body- as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. And suddenly, you knew.
This wasn't a memory.
This wasn't you.
It never had been.
You woke up breathless.
. . .
The knock on your door came at 8:12 AM. You hadn't even made it to breakfast yet. Your hands were still shaky. Your stomach tightened with the weight of everything you now understood.
Changbin stood on your porch in a baggy, well-worn sweatshirt, hair pushed back under a baseball cap, and one hand on the back of his neck.
"Hey," he said, eyes searching your face like a question he didn't know how to ask.
You stepped back. "Come in."
. . .
You sat across from each other in the kitchen. Just like always. Except not like always at all.
"I had a dream last night," you said first. "You were in it."
His mouth twitched into a smile. "You're in mine, like, every week."
"No. This one was...different." You looked down at your hands. "You were in your car. Outside my house. Saying you should've said something. And I wasn't me. I was you."
Changbin's smile vanished.
He nodded once. Slowly.
"I had one too," he said. "I was you. Sitting on your porch, the night my parents fought and slept in different rooms. You had headphones on, but you kept looking toward the house like you felt it."
Your throat tightened. That night, he hadn't told anyone for three days.
"So...soulmate dreams," you whisper.
"Looks like it."
. . .
Silence bloomed between you. Not awkward, but not easy, either. This was the kind of silence that shifted things. Like something cracked open in the air between you, and now neither of you knew what to do with it.
Changbin fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, pulling at a frayed string. "Do you feel different?"
You thought about it. Then shook your head. "No. Not really. I mean...I feel like I've always known you. This just...makes sense."
He looked at you then, really looked at you. The way he always had- like you were the only person in the room worth seeing.
"I think I expected it to be more dramatic," he said, laughing a little. "Fireworks. Light beams. One of us fainting."
You laughed. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Not disappointed," he says more quietly than before, but sincerely.
You both sat with that. Let it settle deep into your bones.
. . .
People always associated soulmates with romance. That destiny would shove you into a kiss, a confession, a first dance at a wedding with roses and stars.
But as you watched Changbin bite into a piece of the cinnamon buns you'd made, you realized the world hasn't just turned sideways. You didn't feel a surge of romantic clarity.
You felt seen. Fully. Finally.
Not because he was meant to be your lover.
Because he had already been your person.
. . .
"So...do we have to start dating now?" he asked, teasing but also curious. What did this mean?
You rolled your eyes, leaning over and nudging him playfully. "Only if you want to."
He grinned with a sense of relief, like a weight had been washed away. "Nah. I think I like this. Us."
You nodded, your own relief being lifted. "Me too."
Soulmates didn't have to fall in love. Sometimes, they were the friend who never left. The neighbor who waited outside your house with takeout ramyeon because he was hungry and knew you would be too. He knew your order and who you were before you'd even figured it out yourself.
He leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head. "Guess you're stuck with me forever now."
You bumped him again.
"I was already stuck with you," you said.
. . .
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe soulmates weren't always lovers.
Sometimes, they were just the one person who'd always been living next door, waiting to be recognized.
And loved- just like this.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
"You Forgot Me, But I Never Left" - BangChan (Part One?)
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Romance | Bangchan x Reader
Summary: When a tearful night reopens an old wound, a familiar stranger shows up at your door, claiming to be the imaginary friend you once loved and left behind. But he's not imaginary anymore...and he remembers everything.
You can't remember falling asleep.
However, you can remember crying. The kind of cry that comes in waves, like something deep in you cracking open after years of being carefully, precisely held together. The kind that makes you feel like a child again- helpless, unmoored, like no one in the world could possibly understand the ache sitting behind your ribs.
The already small apartment is quiet when you stir awake. Quiet in that strange, too-thick way- like the world itself is holding it's breath.
Then, a knock at the door.
Three unmistakable soft taps, rattling the floral reef hanging over your peephole, gifted by your mother when you'd moved out to be on your own.
You sit upright, blinking away the darkness. The clock on your bedside says 2:12 AM. You weren't expecting anyone, especially at this hour. You live alone. You should be terrified.
But somehow...you're not.
Somehow, your socked feet move to the door like they know who's waiting.
Turning the lock, you open it.
And he's standing there.
A man with dark curls, warm eyes, and a familiar smile- so painfully familiar it grips your stomach.
He's older now. Taller. Solid. Real.
But you know that face.
"Hi," he says softly. "You left the door open. Not this one-" he gestures to the apartment. "- that one."
He taps his fingers gently, hesitantly against your chest. Your heart thuds.
"I-do I know you?" you whisper.
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's sad.
"You used to."
. . .
He walks in like he's been here before, even though he hasn't. He knows where the light switch is. He kicks his shoes off like it's instinct. He turns to you with eyes that simmer gold for a second too long to be normal.
"You don't remember me," he says, not as a question.
"I..." Your voice catches. "You look like someone I used to imagine. When I was little. But that's not possible."
You sound crazy, and you know that.
But he laughs and nods slowly.
"Christopher."
The name falls from your lips like muscle memory.
"I called you that. You were my-" you laugh in disbelief, shaky. "My imaginary friend."
He smiles again, and it's devastating.
"I was never imaginary, not really," he spoke quietly. "You made me real. You believed so hard that you pulled me into existence. And then, one day...you stopped."
You take a step back, leaning on the wall for support before your wobbly knees give way.
"Wait, wait- are you saying that you're him? That's not- I was a child. I made you up. You can't be real."
He shrugs, pinching his own arm slightly.
"Yet here I am."
. . .
You sit across from him on the couch, clutching a pillow like a shield. He looks at you like you hung the stars.
"I used to talk to you every night," you mutter. "I told you all my secrets. You were my best friend."
"You used to dance with me in the hallway," he says fondly. "And you'd cry when it rained, so I'd make funny faces in the mirror until you laughed.
You sucked in a sharp breath.
"I forgot all of that."
"I didn't." His voice cracks, and that one crack hits harder than any thunderstorm could.
You can feel it now- memories blooming in the cracks of your mind like stubborn wildflowers. His voice, now deeper. His warmth. The way you used to beg him to stay when the lights went off.
And the night you said goodbye without realizing you did.
. . .
"I was getting older," You murmur. "My mom said I had to let go of childish things."
"I know," he says.
"I didn't mean to forget you."
"I know."
There's silence. The soft hum of your fridge making ice. Your heart cracking open like a window left ajar during a storm.
"I waited," he says finally. "Even when your voice faded. Even when your dreams stopped reaching me."
You look at him, tears pricking at your eyes.
"You stayed?"
"Of course I did," he says gently. "You were the first person who ever loved me. I didn't know how to leave you."
You cover your mouth, a sob escaping.
He moves without asking- kneels in front of you, his hands gentle on yours.
"I wasn't supposed to become real," he whispers. "But the moment you cried like that again, like the way you did when you were little- I felt it. That part of you that remembered me. That's all I needed."
. . .
He stays over. You're not sure how or why, but you let him.
You learn that time moves differently for him. That when you were laughing with friends in high school, he was still sitting in the corner of your childhood bedroom, waiting for you to remember. He built a small world from your memories and lived there.
And you ask the question that's been circling your mind since the moment he appeared.
"Why did you come back now?"
He looks up, eyes soft.
"Because you needed me again."
You blink. "How did you know?"
"That kind of loneliness?" he says, tilting his head. "I've felt it before. It calls like a lighthouse. And I never stopped watching the horizon."
. . .
Over the next few weeks, he doesn't leave.
He sleeps on your couch, but sometimes you find him watching the stars from your window, as if he's waiting for something to change again. You learn that he hums when he cooks, he still knows your favorite song from childhood, that he can remember every name you gave your stuffed animals.
You ask him one night, when the silence between you gets too warm:
"Did I...ever say I loved you? Back then?"
He doesn't meet your eyes.
"You didn't have to."
You sit beside him.
"Say it now," he murmurs, like a dare, like a prayer.
You don't.
Not yet.
But your hand finds his. And he doesn't pull away.
. . .
He takes you back to your childhood home one day. You haven't been here in years. The sight broke your already confused and fragile heart. It was abandoned, forgotten like him, with time.
"I want to show you something," he says.
You stand in your old bedroom. The wallpaper is now peeling. The closet door still creaks. And in the far corner, under the window, there's a scuffed-up piece of wood.
"That's where I used to sit," he says quietly. "When you'd talk to me. When you'd cry.
You kneel beside it, running your fingers over the faded wood. A chill creeps down your spine. You remember now.
"Don't go," your younger voice echoes in your mind.
"Promise you won't leave me."
"You're my best friend, Christopher. You always will be."
You turn to him, tears falling freely from your eyes.
"I'm so sorry I forgot."
He kneels beside you now.
"You didn't forget," he says softly. "You survived. That's different."
. . .
There's a shift after that.
You start looking at him differently. Like maybe he isn't just a piece of your past. Maybe he's something you could have now. For real. Fully present.
He starts sleeping in your bed- not because anything happens, but because it feels natural.
You wake up to him humming. You fall asleep to his heartbeat.
One night, you roll over to find him looking at you with something unreadable in his expression.
"Do you remember the stars?" he asks.
"What about them?"
"You used to say you'd put one in my pocket one someday. So I'd never be alone.
You bite your lip. "I was a dramatic kid."
"I liked that about you."
He touches your cheek, barely there.
"I still do."
. . .
You're sitting on the firescape, legs dangling, when he finally says it.
"I loved you," he says. "Even when you forgot me. Even when I was just a shadow."
You turn slowly.
"I think I've always loved you," you say, barely above a whisper. "I just didn't realize who I was missing."
He smiles.
Then he leans in and kisses you, soft and slow like something cherished. Like a dream finally allowed to be real.
And for the first time in a long, long while...you don't feel lonely at all.
. . .
Later, curled into him under the covers, you whisper:
"You're real, right?"
"As real as you believe I am," he murmurs.
"Then I believe in you," you say. "I believe so hard you'll never disappear again."
His arms tightened around you.
"Then I'll stay," he says, "for as long as you want me to."
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Angst, Longing and Bittersweet | Jisung x Reader
Summary: After years of silence, something you thought was long forgotten returns to your life- gentle, familiar, and quietly unraveling everything you'd thought you healed from.
When you were in first grade, you made a wish.
Not on a star or a birthday candle- on a page. A notebook you filled with dreams and secrets, sealed with a crayon-drawn star. You wished for someone who'd always understand you, someone who'd never leave.
You called him: Sunny.
You didn't know that your wish had rules. That love created with magic always comes with a clause.
You don't remember the exact moment he vanished. Just that one day, you stopped talking to thin air, and started pretending you'd never needed to.
. . .
You're twenty-four.
You work, you sleep, you get through. You don't cry as often as you used to, which must mean you're healing. But you don't laugh the way you once did either.
You go home to silence most nights. You pour cereal into your mouth like it's sustenance, not survival. You try not to think about how lonely your apartment feels, even when it's full of light.
You tell yourself you're fine.
Then one morning, your mirror fogs up after a shower, and a message appears in the steam.
"Clause invoked. I'm back."
You drop your towel in fear and shock.
. . .
You find him sitting on the counter as if he'd always been there.
Crazy brown swoops of hair, lopsided smile, sweet round eyes that remind you of simpler times- only this time, it hurts to look at him.
"Jisung?" you gasp. You haven't heard, let alone spoken, that name in years.
"You remembered," he says, soft and hopeful.
You don't know where to scream or run or cry.
"You're real?"
"I always was. But I had to leave when you stopped believing. That's the deal."
"What deal?"
He hops off the counter, onto his feet. He's taller now. Realer. Sadder.
"The clause: If the creator's heart breaks past a certain point, the companion may return. Once."
He offers a crooked smile.
"So...congrats, I guess?"
. . .
You let him stay.
What else can you do? He's Jisung- Sunny - the boy who used to read you stories and sing you to sleep in dreams. The boy who once sat beside you through the worst moments of your life, even if he only existed in your head.
Except now he's not just in your head.
He eats real food. He laughs at sitcoms. He wears your ex's old hoodie and makes it look better. He fills your apartment with life again- and it hurts.
Because you can't stop wondering how long "once" will last.
Because he looks at you like he remembers loving you...
...but maybe you forgot how.
. . .
"I missed you," he says one night, curled on the floor with a pillow under his chin. "Even when you forgot me."
"I didn't forget," you murmur into the air. "I just...put you away."
He nods. But his smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"It's okay. You had to."
There's a beat of silence.
"You were getting older. You needed real friends. Real love."
You say nothing. You stare at the ceiling fan spinning round and round. You don't tell him that the boy you loved after him never held your heart the way Jisung did- because Jisung wasn't supposed to be real.
But he is.
And it's getting harder to lie to yourself about how much that matters.
. . .
One night, he brings home ice cream and lets it melt between the two of you on the couch.
You're scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him. He's pretending not to watch you watch him.
Then he says, "You liked someone."
You glance over.
"When?" you ask, cautiously.
"A year ago. He broke your heart."
You look down at the spoon in your hand. Your appetite vanishes.
"I guess," you mutter. "Didn't matter anyway."
Jisung shrugs, voice light. Too light.
"You were always so easy to love. I had hoped someone else would figure it out."
You freeze.
He doesn't meet your eyes.
. . .
You almost kissed him one night.
You're both standing in the kitchen, laughing over some stupid video he made. He's grinning, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkled like he's happy here-happy with you.
And then he looks at you like he used to in your dreams.
Your breath catches. The air shifts.
You lean in just a little.
And he steps back.
Your heart stutters.
"I shouldn't," he whispers.
You nod, though your chest hurts.
Because deep down, you know why he stopped.
He's not meant to stay. And if he kisses you now, it'll hurt worse when he's gone.
. . .
He starts fading two weeks later.
It's small things at first. His reflection blinks slower than he does. His shadow starts flickering when he moves too fast.
He shrugs it off.
"Clause only gives me time until you don't need me anymore."
"But I do need you," you whispered.
"That's not how the magic works," he says gently.
You reach out, grab his wrist- warm, real. "Then let's rewrite it."
He smiles, but it's sad. "You can't rewrite something that lives inside your heart."
"You just have to feel it...and let it go."
. . .
You break first.
On a quiet morning, when he makes you a breakfast of eggs and pancakes and smiles like he doesn't feel himself fading, you finally crack.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" you ask, voice hoarse.
He pauses, mid pancake flip. "Tell you what?"
"That you loved me."
He looks at you, stunned. Like he'd given up on hearing those words.
You go on.
"All those years. All those dreams. All that time you stayed behind. I know you loved me. Why didn't you say it?"
He sets the pan down on a cool burner.
"Because it wasn't my job to be loved back," he says softly. "It was my job to keep you from breaking."
"But I did break," you whisper. "That's why you're here."
He nods.
"Then maybe this time...I'll get to say it before I go."
. . .
The night he starts to vanish for real, you wake up with a start.
He's sitting on the edge of your bed, his form glowing slightly, like a starlight wrapped in memory.
"I didn't want to leave without saying it," he says, voice low.
"Then don't leave."
He cups your cheek.
"I love you," he says, like a prayer. "I loved you when we were kids. I loved you when we were teens. I love you now."
Tears streak down your face.
"I love you, too," you choke. "I'm sorry it took me this long."
He pressed his forehead to yours.
"It was worth the wait."
. . .
In the morning, he's gone.
But the hoodie still smells like him.
The mirror still fogs with quiet warmth.
And your notebook- buried in a drawer- now had one new message in gold ink:
"If you ever break again, I'll be there. Love, Sunny."
You smile through your tears.
Because love like that?
It never really leaves.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Angst and Bittersweet | Changbin x Reader
Summary: When a stranger shows up with a forgotten childhood notebook, everything you once imagined comes rushing back- only this time, the magic might be real...and so might he.
You're expecting a takeout when the doorbell rings.
You're in your comfy Saturday clothes, nursing on a warm mug of tea and the vague memory of a dream you can't quite grasp- something with firelight, velvet cloaks, and stars that pulsed like drumbeats.
When you open the door, the man standing there is...broad. Hood up. A little out of breath, like he ran here.
And holding something painfully familiar in his hands.
"Is this yours?" he asks.
You stare at the faded green cover. Stickers. A horse with your childhood scrawl across it.
Your old notebook.
"Where did you get this?" you ask, instantly wary.
He exhales in relief. "Good. You recognize it."
You narrow your eyes. "Who are you?"
"Changbin," he says simply. "And you're the only one who can help me get home."
. . .
You don't invite him in.
He talks fast. Claims he found the notebook at a second-hand store outside the city. "It called to me," he says, like that explains anything.
You only half-listen as you flip through the pages, stunned. You thought this notebook was lost years ago, between moves when you were just a child.
It's filled with childhood doodles. Castles in clouds. Magic spells made up on the fly. A brave knight with a crooked grin and dark hair, you used to draw over and over again.
"Binnie," you whisper without thinking.
He lights up. "You do remember."
Your gaze sharpens.
"Okay. Either you're the most dedicated scammer I've ever met...or you're insane."
. . .
He follows you down the street the next day.
"I know it sounds wild," he says, jogging to match your pace. "But I'm not a stalker. I'm-"
"An imaginary friend," you snap. "From my notebook, I had when I was nine!"
He nods earnestly. "But I'm not imaginary. I'm exiled. You wrote me into your world to protect me, remember? The King was going to erase me."
You stop walking. "Okay, you seriously need help."
"You gave me sanctuary. I lived in your world for years. And now I need to rebuild my kingdom before the spell runs out."
"Spell?"
He leans in, eyes serious.
"The only magic left is your belief."
. . .
You open the notebook again during your lunch at work, flipping through half-laughing, half-weeping at the things you wrote as a kid.
But then you find it.
A new page.
Not your handwriting.
It's neater. Stronger. Etched in black ink that shimmers in the right lighting.
"You drew a castle on page 17. I buried the compass under the broken spire." -Changbin
You turn to page 17.
The castle is there- your old drawing- but now there's something new in the sketch. A hidden outline in the bricks. A spire that's cracked open.
You close the notebook and whisper, "No way."
. . .
You find him again.
In the park. Sitting in a tree with a smug smile like he knew you'd come.
"You were right," you say. "This is impossible."
He gives you a look. "But?"
You hand him the notebook.
He flips through until he lands on the drawing. Traces the ink with his thumb.
"I'm not supposed to be here this long," he murmurs. "My essence is still tied to the kingdom we created. The longer I stay exiled, the more I..." He pauses. "Fade."
You hate how your chest clenches.
"So what now?"
His smile is faint. "Now we start rebuilding."
. . .
You don't know how it works- but it does.
You redraw symbols you don't remember inventing, and they glow. You whisper old spells you made up at such a young age, and the wind answers you.
You follow the map in the notebook and find a rusted metal compass buried behind the old tree in your childhood backyard.
The world flickers when you touch it.
Changbin steadies you, hand on your shoulder.
"Your belief is a tether. Every piece we rebuild brings us closer to going back."
"You mean you going back."
He looks at you quietly.
"Not unless you're coming too."
. . .
The more time you spend with him, the more real he becomes.
Not just magic- him.
The way he laughs too hard at dumb jokes. The way he hunches into his coat when he's cold. The way he gets grumpy when your coffee order takes too long.
You don't know when the lines blurred between make-believe and memory, but one night, when he brushes your hand, the air sparks, you flinch.
Because this isn't a game anymore.
He otives/
"You're scared."
"Imm confused."
He nods. "Because you thought I wasn't real."
"And now I think I don't want you to leave."
. . .
Piece by piece, the kingdom rebuilds.
You draw it. Dream it. Speak it into form with Changbin beside you.
He helps you remember the tower of music that played lullabies. The hall of mirrors that showed your truest self. The library guarded by lions who purred when ready to.
It's beautiful. Bittersweet.
Because the more whole it becomes, the closer he is to leaving.
"You were always meant to rule," you say softly one night.
He looks over.
"Not alone."
You blink. "What?"
He steps closer.
"You gave me everything. A world. A name. A reason to survive exile."
He leans in closer.
"You think I'd leave without you?"
. . .
You stand at the edge of the threshold between the world you know and the one you made up.
Behind you, your apartment hums with the dull buzz of electricity and leftover cereal. In front of you, a gate made of stardust and steel hums with a memory.
"Last chance," Changbin says, voice low.
You take a breath.
"What happens if I go?"
"You stay," he says. "You reign beside me."
"And if I don't?"
He tried to smile. To give you a choice, you could be happy with either way, but he knew it wasn't possible.
"Then I fade again."
You step forward.
"I'm not letting you go twice."
He catches you in a kiss that feels like thunder and a childhood wish answered all at once.
. . .
Your old notebook sits on your desk.
Every now and then, it glows faintly. Sometimes when you laugh. Sometimes when he sings.
You kept the compass.
You framed the drawing of the castle.
You don't write in the notebook anymore.
Because now, you're living it.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Playful, Chaotic, and Flirty| Hyunjin x Reader
Summary: You never had an imaginary friend as a child, so why is a beautiful, chaotic stranger suddenly showing up at your job, insisting he's always belonged to you? He teases, he lingers, and he just might be exactly what you never knew you needed.
You're barely through your shift at the department store when chaos strolls in wearing tight pants, windswept hair, and an audacious amount of confidence.
He walks right up to the register, leans on it like he owns the place, and grins.
"There you are," he says like you've kept him waiting. "Finally clocked in on time, huh?"
You blink. "Do I...know you?"
He gasps. "Ouch. Wounding me on sight. Is this how you treat all your imaginary friends?"
You stare. "What?"
"Hyunjin," he says, tapping his chest. "You named me."
"I've never-" You lower your voice. "-had an imaginary friend."
"Well," he says, sliding a hand through his hair, "you do now."
. . .
You're convinced it's a joke.
One of your coworkers must've set it up. Some weird dare. A TikTok challenge, maybe?
But Hyunjin doesn't leave.
He follows you around the store, commenting on every single candle he picks up to smell with maddening curiosity and a running stream of snark.
"Do you remember your obsession with peaches? God, I thought you'd never grow out of it."
"This one's called romance sparkle, but it smells like garbage."
"Ooh, look, this one is your favorite color!"
You whirl around. "How do you know that?"
He winks. "Told you. Imaginary friend. Just...late to the party."
. . .
In the break room, you hide behind your sandwich.
Hyunjin props his feet on the table like he belongs there.
"Y'know," he muses, "most kids get imaginary friends when they're scared or lonely. You waited until your mid-twenties. Bold."
You groan. "I didn't ask for this."
"Sure you did," he says, tapping your forehead gently. "Right in here. Kept wishing someone would just get you. Talk to you. Stay."
You're quiet for a beat.
He shrugs. "Sorry for the delay. Cosmic paperwork."
You can't help it- you laugh.
"That was so lame."
"But effective," he beams.
. . .
Hyunjin doesn't eat, but he critiques your lunch like a MasterChef judge.
He doesn't clock in, but customers glance his way like they can see him.
You test it, just once- ask someone, "Did you see that guy by the shoes?"
They frown. "What guy?"
Hyunjin, smirking from the aisle, mouths: Told you so.
"I'm losing my mind," you mutter.
"You're welcoming your imagination," he corrects, appearing by your elbow.
You jump. "Do you have to do that?"
"Would you prefer I knock first? On your brain?"
You throw a pen at him. He catches it. Keeps it.
. . .
That night, you pace your apartment.
Hyunjin lounges on your couch, flipping through your old sketchbook. The private one.
"Where did you even come from?" you ask finally.
He looks up. "You."
"NO, seriously."
He sets the pad down.
"Okay. One day, you stopped trying to be 'normal' and started hoping someone out there would see you. Not your job title. Not your GPA. Not your polite small talk. You."
Your mouth dries.
"And in that hope, I was made."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Neither does iced coffee at midnight, but here we are."
You hate how he makes you smile.
. . .
The next day, he helps you rehang clothes that had fallen off the rack.
Sort of.
He straightens them on the hanger with a flick of his hand. You yelp. A customer sees a blouse settle itself.
You both duck behind the rack.
"I told you not to do that in public."
Hyunjin shrugs. "Maybe they just thought you had incredible speed."
You groan into your hands.
He chuckles. "You're cute when you're flustered."
You glance up. "Do you flirt with everyone whose brain you invade?"
"Only the ones I like," he says, voice softer.
You pretend you don't hear that.
He pretends you don't blush.
. . .
"You said imaginary friends come from need," you say that night, curled under your duvet.
Hyunjin sits down on your desk, legs dangling barely above the floor.
"So what happens when I don't need you anymore?"
He stills.
"You really want me to answer that?"
You nod.
His voice is quieter. "Then I'll disappear. Back into the spaces between memories."
"That sucks."
"Eh," he says, forcing a grin. "Better to be briefly real than eternally hypothetical."
You toss a pillow at him. "Stop making that sound poetic."
"You like it."
You kind of do.
. . .
You dream of him.
Not floating or flickering.
Just...sitting beside you. Real. Solid. Staring at the stars.
When you wake up, he's there.
Watching you.
"You dreamt of me," he says.
"You're in my head. Of course I did."
"No," he says. "You dreamt with me."
You blink. "What's the difference?"
His expression changes. Grows quieter.
"I think you're starting to believe I'm real."
You look away.
"I don't want to lose you," you whisper.
He leans in. "Then don't."
Your phone alarm goes off, interrupting everything.
When you look back, he's gone.
. . .
The next week is empty.
Hyunjin doesn't show up.
No teasing. No smirking. No floating merchandise.
The break room is dull. The apartment is quiet too.
You reread the sketchbook. Every page. Hoping to find him between the lines.
On the last page, there's something new.
A tiny drawing of a heart.
And a note:
I only go when you stop needing me.
But if you start wanting me instead...
I'll come back.
-H
. . .
You sit on the windowsill the next night.
Alone.
"I don't need you," you say softly. "I wanted to be okay on my own. I am okay."
The wind shifts.
"But that doesn't mean I don't want you."
A pause.
Then:
"I knew you'd figure it out."
You turn.
Hyunjin stands behind you, the same grin, but softer.
Less teasing. More true.
You laugh- relieved, confused, breathless.
He sits beside you.
"Took you long enough," he teases.
You lean into him.
"Took you longer."
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Angst, Romance and Bittersweet| Minho x Reader
TW: mentions of a near-death experience, memory loss, emotional themes (abandonment, longing), and bittersweet tone. please read with caution.
Summary: When a near-death experience pulls you into a world between life and dreams, someone from your past is waiting- older, real, and heartbreakingly familiar. But how do you hold onto someone you forgot...and who never stopped waiting?
You don't remember the crash.
You remember the feeling, though. The freefall. The silence. The cold bloom of air swallowing you whole.
And then-
"You're awake."
You gasp as if you haven't breathed in years. Your eyes sting. Your throat burns. Your head throbs like it's been cracked open and taped back together. You reach for something - someone - and your hand collides with warm fingers.
Familiar fingers.
You blink, vision watery, adjusting to the strange light above. The person in front of you shifts, stepping out of the shadow.
No.
Not possible.
"...Minho?"
He smiles- soft and sad. "Took you long enough."
You try and sit up, but your limbs are lead. "You're not real," you whisper, even though your fingers are still laced with his.
"I wasn't," he replies, voice calm. "Not until you died."
. . .
When you were six, Minho appeared.
He wasn't flashy. Not like the glowing-winged companions other kids claimed to see. He didn't wear armor or sparkle or arrive on a unicorn.
He showed up in your closet, curled into a blanket fort, and said, "You looked lonely."
And you were. Your parents argued most nights. You had maybe two friends. But Minho always made room for you in the blankets.
For five years, he was your best friend. He knew your favorite color changed every two weeks. He remembered which teachers made you cry and which ones handed out gummy bears. He'd hum lullabies to you when you couldn't sleep and gently shake you awake from nightmares.
You never told anyone about him.
You didn't want to share.
Then, on your eleventh birthday, he didn't show up. Not that night. Not the next. Not ever again.
You waited. You cried. You yelled into your empty closet of blankets like a fool.
But he never came back.
You told yourself he was just imaginary. That maybe you'd made him up, a crutch, a coping mechanism. You told yourself to forget.
And you did.
Mostly.
. . .
Now he sits beside you, older.
Not just taller, more defined. Sharper jaw. Leaner dream. Same warm eyes. The same hands that once held yours as you crossed imaginary lava rivers.
"You look the same," you murmur.
"You don't," he says, a touch of something unreadable in his voice. "You grew up without me."
You looked down. "You left."
He flinches. "I didn't want to."
You stare at him, feeling the weight of all those empty years settle in your chest. "Why did you disappear?"
Minho exhales and stands. He walks to the window- if it can even be called that. Outside is a strange violet sky, starlit but soft. "You stopped believing," he says finally.
"I was eleven."
"I know." He turns to you, hands in his pockets. "But belief is the only thing that keeps us...us."
You frown. "Us?"
"Imaginaries." He shrugs. "Made from memory, from emotion, from longing. When you stopped believing in me...I faded."
"So why are you here now?"
He looks at you, and the ache in his eyes guts you.
"You died."
. . .
You're not dead, not fully.
Minho explains it while pouring you a cup of something warm and golden. He says this place- the starlit in-between - only touches those whose souls teeter on the edge.
"I was only ever imaginary," he says, quietly. "But the moment your heart stopped, I became real."
"That's not fair."
"I know."
"You weren't real when I needed you."
"I was there," he says, voice cracking. "You just couldn't see me anymore."
Silence. Heavy and full of things neither of you wants to admit.
"I missed you," you whisper.
He closes his eyes like it hurts. "Don't say that."
"Why?"
"Because I never stopped missing you."
. . .
Days pass- or something like them.
There's no time here, not like the world you left. But every hour with Minho feels like unraveling an old favorite song. You remember his crooked smirk when you say something dumb. The way he frowns when he's thinking. The softness behind his sarcasm.
You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you're not looking. You pretend not to notice how close he always sits, how often he reaches out like he might touch you, then pulls back.
Finally, one night, you ask:
"What happens if I wake up?"
His eyes don't leave the stars. "You forget me again."
Your chest twists. "Completely?"
He nods.
"And if I don't?"
His throat bobs. "Then you stay."
You look at him, really look. "Would you want me to?"
His voice is barely a whisper. "More than anything."
. . .
He kisses you on the fourth night.
It's hesitant. Soft. Almost afraid.
You feel lit in your bones - how long he's wanted this. How long you've needed it.
You kiss him back, and the world around you glows brighter.
"I don't want to forget this," you breathe against his lips.
"You won't," he promises, forehead pressed to yours. "Even if you forget me."
. . .
But dreams always end.
The world begins to shake.
Light pours in like floodwater.
Minho grabs your hand. "No. Not yet."
You're crying. "Minho -!"
"You have to go."
"I don't want to!"
"If you stay, you die." His grip is tight, shaking. "And I'd rather you forget me again than lose you forever."
"But I love you," you sob. "Doesn't that matter?"
He kisses your knuckles, tears slipping down his face. "It's the only thing that ever did."
. . .
You wake up in a hospital bed.
The machines beep. The light is harsh. You're alive.
But your heart is breaking, and you don't know why.
. . .
You find the drawing three weeks into recovery.
Tucked in an old sketchbook from your childhood - pages yellowed, spine cracked.
It's him.
Minho.
He's not labeled. Not dated. Just sitting under a paper star sky, wearing that same bittersweet smile.
You trace the lines with your fingers, heart pounding.
You still don't remember his name.
But somehow, somehow, you still remember how it felt to love him.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Imaginary Friend AU | 2k Words | Fluff, Comfort Wholesome | Felix x Reader
Summary: A gentle, magical story about growing up, holding on, and the kind of love that feels like coming home.
You remember him with bunny ears.
Not literal ones, of course. Just- soft and silly, with cotton-candy hair and a tail made of yarn. In your childhood memories, he bounced around your room, climbing into forts, licking popsicles he said he "borrowed" from the moon.
You named him Lixie.
And for years, he was everything. Best friend, secret keeper, chaos gremlin.
And then he was gone.
You grew up, and imaginary friends always leave eventually.
. . .
Which is why it's insane when a guy shows up at your door at 7:42 AM holding a lopsided mug and a blue bag and says, "You remembered me wrong."
You blink. Still in your pajamas. Hair a mess. There's dried egg yolk on your arm from your failed attempt at a breakfast omelet.
"Excuse me?"
The guy blinks back at you with big eyes and a sweet smile. His voice is soft but playful. "The bunny ears? Really?"
"...What?"
"You drew me with ears. And a tail. And sometimes...glitter wings. I was a forest prince for three months straight."
Your mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.
He holds up the mug. I has your childhood name etched on the side- not the one you use now. The nicknamed only one person ever called you.
"Can I come in?" he asks sweetly. "I brought cookies."
. . .
You consider calling the police.
You do check for hidden cameras.
But you let him in anyway. Maybe it's the cookies (they smell like strawberry and chocolate). Maybe it's the way he smiles like he already knows every inch of your living room. Or maybe it's the tiny, ancient part of your heart that still dreams in blanket forts and jelly bean currency.
He flops onto your couch like he belongs there. "This is different," he hums, gazing around. "The couch used to be purple. And covered in glitter."
You blink at him. "That couch was imaginary."
"I was imaginary," he shoots back, teasing. "That never stopped you."
You sit on the armrest, still stunned. "Okay, wait. Are you saying you're Lixie?"
He brightens. "You do remember!"
"Barely," you mutter. "You were, like, a chaos bunny gremlin. With a soda addiction and weird dance moves."
Felix gasps. "First of all, that soda saved the Realm of Sour Patch once. Secondly, my dance moves were and still are elite."
"You also licked my door knob."
"One time!"
. . .
You talk for three hours.
He doesn't leave, and you don't ask him to. He tells you stories from your childhood- the things you half-remember and the you didn't know you'd forgotten. How you used to wear mismatched socks on purpose to "confuse the shadow monsters." How you once made him a birthday crown from foil and purple pipe cleaners.
"You cried when it ripped," he says softly. "I fixed it with duct tape and dragon scales."
"You told me glitter was dragon scales."
He beams. "Exactly."
His eyes light up every time you laugh. And yours sting a little every time he says something you didn't realize you missed.
"So...how are you here?" you ask eventually. "Aren't you supposed to be a figment of my brain or something?"
Felix shrugs. "You hit your head last week, didn't you?"
Your stomach drops. "How did you-?"
"Some imaginary friends vanish when their kids grow up. Some of us...stay sleeping." He leans closer. "Your brain shook loose the part of you that remembered me."
"So now you're back?"
"I guess?" He shrugs again. "Maybe not forever. But for now."
. . .
He stays.
Not permanently. Not officially. But he starts showing up at odd hours. Late at night when the power flickers. Early mornings when your coffee burns. Afternoons when your thoughts spiral and your apartment feels like a too - loud echo chamber.
Felix appears like a sugar in tea - quiet, warm, dissolving into ever corner of your space.
He brings old memories like gifts.
"Remember this?" he says, holding a band-aid with a glitter bumble bee. "You used to stick these on my face."
"You let me?"
"You were seven! You ruled the entire world. I was just the idiot prince following orders."
"Pretty sure you invented the glitter war."
"Touche."
. . .
He's different now- grown, yes, but still unmistakably him. The mischief in his smile. The sparkle in his gaze when you pout. The soft way he says your name when you're quiet for too long.
He dances in the kitchen while you cook. Tangles himself in your blankets on movie nights. Tries every single snack in your pantry and gives them star ratings out of five.
He doesn't sleep, but he hums lullabies when you do.
And sometimes, in the quiet between dreams, you swear you feel his hand brushing yours.
. . .
You start to draw him again.
No bunny ears this time. No glitter wings or neon swords.
Just him.
Soft sweaters. Dimples. Freckles. Smiles so warm they melt away your worst days.
"You got me wrong as a kid," he teases, looking over your shoulder. "But this version? I kinda like it."
It all bubbles up one rainy night.
You're curled up on the couch, watching the sky crack open in silver flashes. You're wrapped in two blankets, one of which Felix insists "smells like your childhood bedroom," whatever that means.
He's quiet. Has been all evening. You peek over at him and find him watching you.
"What?" you whisper.
His voice is gentle. "Do you know how long I waited to be seen again?"
Your heart breaks, you can feel it.
"I knew it wasn't your fault," he says, eyes shining. "Kids grow up. Brains protect themselves. But when you stopped believing- when you forgot - I felt it. Like vanishing in slow motion."
You swallow thickly. "I didn't mean to forget you."
"I know." He smiles, soft and sad. "But I remembered you. Every version. Every laugh. Every scraped knee and blanket fort and ugly drawing you stuck on the wall."
You blink fast.
"I used to think...if I ever came back, I'd be enough as I was." His voice wobbles. "But maybe I'm not real enough for you anymore."
You don't think. You just move.
You slide across the couch, cup his cheeks, and kiss him.
It's warm. Comforting. Like remembering your favorite song in a quiet room.
"I don't care if you're imaginary," you whisper against his lips. "You're mine."
He smiles, wide and teary, and kisses you again like he's been waiting a thousand years.
. . .
You fall asleep with your fingers tangle together.
And when you wake up, he's still there - messy- haired, sleepy - eyed, and absolutely real enough for you.
. . .
He stays.
Not because he had to. Not because you believe or harder or wish stronger.
But because something changed. Maybe love does that. Maybe realness isn't about biology or time or logic.
Maybe it's about holding someones hand at 3 a.m. and whispering, don't disappear this time.
And them whispering back, not without you.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Summary: He appeared when you were ten. He never left. He was never supposed to stay this long. But then...what happens when you fall in love with someone who was never real to begin with?
Seungmin showed up the day after your Dad moved out of your family home when you still weren't even sure what "divorce" meant.
He didn't knock. He didn't need to. One moment, you were sitting on the edge of your bed with your knees pulled to your chest, listening to the echo of the front door slamming- and the next, there he was.
A boy with soft brown eyes and a sweater too big for him sat cross-legged on your rug like he had been there the whole time. He blinked at you, head tilted.
"You look like you could use a friend," he said. "Lucky for you, I'm great at that."
You didn't scream. Didn't question. You just nodded and scooted over to make room for him.
That was fifteen years ago.
Now you're twenty-five, and Seungmin is still here.
. . .
"Okay. Tall guy at the end of the bar- third time he's looked over," Seungmin whispers, even though no one could hear him anyway. "Beige coat, bad posture. Definetely a sweater - under - jacket type. Thoughts?"
You glance over. Beige Coat Guy is, in fact, making eyes at you. He's got a kind face and an almost-shy smile. He looks a little like a golden retriever might, if reincarnated as a tax accountant.
"He's cute," You mumble into your drink.
"Cute in a 'texts you "u up?" and then ghosts you for three days' kind of way," Seungmin counters immediately. "Also, mismatched socks."
"He's sitting down. How would you even know that?"
"I know things," he says, smug.
You sigh, a familiar warmth settling into your chest. "You just don't want me to talk to him."
He doesn't deny it.
. . .
Your roommate, Jamie, thinks you're insane.
You don't blame them. It's not every day someone walks into the kitchen at 8 a.m. to find their roommate having a full-on argument with thin air over what cereal to eat.
"Look, I'm not trying to be rude," Jamie says one night, standing awkwardly in your doorway. "But...you know no one's there, right?"
You don't respond immediately.
Seungmin is sprawled on your bed with a bag of popcorn in his lap, throwing kernels in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.
You nod once, almost too slow. "Yeah, I know."
Jamie hesitates, watching you for a second too long. "Okay. Just...wanted to check."
After they leave, Seungmin makes a face. "They think you're crazy."
"They aren't wrong to wonder."
"They also aren't wrong about your taste in cereal," he adds, tossing a piece of popcorn at your face. "Plain Cheerios? Be serious."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. Always smiling when it's him.
. . .
You meet someone.
His name is Daniel, and he's tall and easy to talk to and doesn't mind the way you fidget when you're nervous. He has a warm laugh and a job that sounds like it means something.
He also can't see Seungmin.
That last part shouldn't matter. It never has before.
Except this time, Seungmin hates him.
"He wears loafers with no socks," Seungmin grits out as you get ready for your fourth date. "No socks."
"You wear mismatched ones."
"I'm not real."
You pause. The words slice too cleanly through the air. It hangs there, bleeding.
"I like him, Min."
There's a beat of silence. Then, quieter: "I know."
. . .
It gets worse the longer you date.
You bring Daniel home one night and find Seungmin sitting on the couch, arms crossed, eyes dark. He doesn't speak. Doesn't even look at you. Just disappears before Daniel can even step inside.
But he doesn't show up.
Not until Daniel kisses you for the first time.
You're still smiling when you walk through the door, cheeks warm, heart fluttering.
And he's already there.
Slouched in your desk chair, hoodie half-zipped, looking at you like you'd just shot him in the gut.
You hang your keys with your purse.
"Min-"
"You kissed him."
"I-yeah. He's my boyfriend."
He lets out a soft, breathless laugh. Like it hurts. "Right. Your boyfriend. The one with the Spotify tattoo."
You frown. "Don't do that."
"I'm not doing anything."
"Yes, you are! You've been doing this since the day I met him. Sabotaging. Judging. You act like you're some kind of...of relationship gatekeeper or something-"
"I'm not," he snaps. "I'm just trying to protect you."
"From what?!"
He doesn't answer.
So you say it.
The one thing you've never let yourself say.
"You're not real, Seungmin."
The words hit harder than you thought they would. You don't mean them- not really - but they come out sharp, cruel.
His face doesn't change. Not even a flicker.
"I know."
You're breathing too fast now. "I don't need you anymore. I'm twenty-five. I don't- I don't need an imaginary friend. I'm not ten."
Seungmin nods once. Slowly. Like he's been preparing for this moment for years.
"I know."
And then-
He vanishes.
Not like he usually does, slipping out of frame when someone walks in or blinking away for a dramatic exit. This time, it's immediate.
Sudden.
Gone.
You stand there alone in the doorway for a long time.
. . .
You try to move on.
Weeks pass. You keep dating Daniel. You keep waking up. You keep breathing. But everything feels quieter now. Lonelier.
No one's in the passenger seat when you're stuck in traffic.
No one's there to yell at the barista for spelling your name wrong.
No one tells you your date is going to ghost you after two weeks, even though- spoiler alert- he does.
Your apartment, although shared, still feels too big. Your bed, cold.
Jamie thinks you're better. "You've been, like...grounded lately," they say one day. "More here."
You nod. Smile. Lie.
You haven't been here at all.
. . .
You find a paper heart.
It's wedged into the corner of your bookshelf, tucked behind a photo of you at twelve, grinning, gap-toothed, with an empty space beside you that should have been too narrow for someone to sit in.
But in your memory, it isn't empty at all.
You sit on the floor that night and whisper into the dark like a fool.
"I didn't mean it."
You wait.
Nothing happens.
. . .
A week after he disappears, Daniel breaks up with you over text.
It's clean. Respectful. Says all the right things.
"You're great. I'm just not in a place to keep going."
"You deserve someone fully here."
"I hope we can still be friends."
You don't reply. Not because it hurts- thought it does- but because you already know this isn't the pain you've been bracing for.
You get dressed. Walk home in the rain like a cliche with a half-dead phone in your coat pocket and water in your shoes. You're not sad about Daniel, not really. You're sad about-
No.
You're not allowed to be.
. . .
Your apartment is too quiet. Again. Still.
There's an untouched granola bar on your nightstand. A stupid, small hope from a week ago. He never took it.
You collapsed on the couch, coat still wet, heart still open in all the wrong places. You don't cry. Not for Daniel.
But your voice cracks when you whisper, "I miss you."
No reply.
No soft voice from across the room. No sarcastic joke the break the tension. No footsteps. No warmth. Nothing.
He doesn't come back.
. . .
You start to forget what his voice sounded like.
Not all at once, but slowly. Cruelly.
The edges of his laugh blur first. Then the way he used to say your name- like it mattered. Like you mattered.
Some days, you see someone in a hoodie at the coffee shop, and your heart flutters. But it's never him. It's never going to be.
You stop checking the passenger seat. Stop setting out extra snacks. Stop waiting.
What are you even waiting for?
A ghost?
A dream?
A part of yourself you lost when you finally said out loud that he wasn't real.
. . .
Jamie says you've been doing better.
"You're more present lately," they say. "It's like you've finally...come back to earth."
You nod. Smile. Sip your drink.
They don't know you still whisper his name when you fall asleep.
. . .
You try to move forward.
New hobbies. New people. You learn to fill the space differently. But it never stops feeling like something's missing- like there's a shape beside you that no one else fits in.
You go on dates. You make small talk. You pretend.
No one ever feels like him.
Which is insane.
Because there was no him.
. . .
Months pass.
One morning, you find another paper heart behind your dresser while cleaning. It's wrinkled, yellowing at the edges, carefully folded from a granola bar wrapper.
You sit on the floor and hold it between your fingers like it might pulse with life. Like maybe it's a tether. A promise.
You wait.
But the room stays empty.
. . .
Years later, someone asks if you've ever been in love.
And you almost say yes.
Almost.
But you just smile and shake your head.
"No," you say,
Because how do you explain the kind of love that never existed outside your own mind?
How do you say: He wasn't real, but the ache was?
How do you admit: I still talk to him in my head.
You don't.
You just carry him quietly. Like a secret. Like a scar.
Because even if no one else remembers him-
You do.
You always will.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
Summary: He left when you were seventeen- no warning, no goodbye. Now you're twenty-one and he's back. But he's not quite the same. And neither are you.
You were thirteen the first time Jeongin showed up.
You don't remember wishing for anything. Not a friend, not a creature, not someone with a soft voice and moon-silver eyes who climbed into your windows like he lived there. But there he was- sitting cross-legged, hoodie up, cheeks full of your cereal like he'd been summoned from some chaotic, sugar-loving realm.
He grinned at you.
"I'm Jeongin. I'm kind of your imaginary friend."
You furrowed your brows. "But I didn't imagine you."
"Yeah," he said, scratching his head. "That's...part of the weird bit."
. . .
For years, he came and went.
You'd wake up and find him asleep in your laundry pile. Or hear his laugh in your ear while you studied. Sometimes he left for "meetings," which he never explained- but he'd always come back. Always.
He told you he came from a place that didn't quite exist. Not here. Not there. He called it the Fold, or sometimes home.
You stopped asking questions once you realized he never liked answering them.
He was Jeongin. Mischievous, kind, too sharp sometimes, but never cruel. His smile could shatter clouds. His hoodie smelled like pine needles and smoke. You kept it the summer he left it behind. You never gave it back.
. . .
Then he left and didn't come back...
You were seventeen. He'd been weird all day- quiet, hiding his face, hoodie drawn so tightly around him you couldn't see his eyes.
You remember sitting on your roof, side by side.
"You okay?" you asked.
He didn't answer at first, just picked at the frayed seam of his sleeve.
Finally: "If I ever go away...you won't wait for me, right?"
You frown at the mere thought. "What does that even mean?"
But he doesn't answer.
And the next morning, he was gone.
No goodbye. No note. No last laugh through your headphones. Just absence. As if he'd be your imagination after all.
. . .
It's been four years.
You're twenty-one now, and for the most part, you've moved on. Mostly.
You've stopped turning around when you think you hear footsteps in the woods. Stopped leaving the window unlocked. Stopped waiting.
But you never stopped dreaming of him.
And sometimes, you still wear his hoodie.
. . .
The day he finally comes back, it's raining- no pouring.
You're walking home from another one-person dinner when you hear someone call your name. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just like a secret, spoken into the wind.
You freeze, and the hair on your body sticks up, bumps rising to the surface of your skin.
Because the voice is his.
And when you turn around, he's there.
Same boy. Same clothes.
But not exactly.
Because now?
He has horns.
They curl back from his temples like softened bone. Elegant. Delicate. Real.
You don't trust your eyes, rubbing your palms against them.
"Jeongin...?"
He fidgets. Won't meet your gaze. His hair's longer now, falling over his forehead and half-obscuring one of the horns like he's trying to hide them.
"Hey," he mumbles.
You continue to stare.
Then-quietly: "You were gone a long time."
"I know."
"You left."
"I know."
It comes out sharper than you mean it to. "No note. No warning. No explanation...just gone."
"I didn't think you'd want one."
"That's...so stupid."
He looks up then, eyes wide and hurting. "I was ashamed."
You pause. The rain's picking up, wind pushing water down your back.
He looks like he's been walking for miles, soaked through and shivering.
You sigh. "Come on. We'll talk inside."
. . .
Once inside your apartment, he stands awkwardly in the bathroom, dripping on the tile. You shove a towel at him. He dabs at his horns like they're fragile.
"They started growing when I turned seventeen," he says softly. "It's...not supposed to happen."
You frown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, creatures like me- we don't always grow them. They're a mark. A sign of...growing up. Power. Responsibility." He sighs. "I wasn't supposed to get them."
You tilt your head. "So what? You panicked?"
"Not at first." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "At first, I thought they were just bruises. Then they started itching. Then I saw the points. I kept hiding it under my hood." A pause. "And then I realized what they were. And I couldn't- I didn't want you to see me like that."
You narrow your eyes. "Like what? Real?"
He flinches.
"You were real to me," you snap. "Every stupid, weird, impossible part of you. And you disappeared."
"I was scared," he says, voice cracking. "You're human. You grow up, you move on, you forget. I'm not supposed to stay that long. I already broke rules just by hanging around."
"Rules?"
"There's...more of us. From where I come from. A system. A hierarchy. The Fold watched us. Tracks our timelines. I was already under review for staying past your fifteenth birthday. We're supposed to fade by then. You're supposed to forget."
"I didn't."
"I know. That's what scared them."
The room's quiet now except for the patter of rain on the windows.
He looks at you. Really looks. For the first time in years.
You step closer. He doesn't move.
Then, softly: "I missed you."
He nods, throat tight. "I missed you every day."
. . .
He stays with you for a while.
Not forever. Just days that stretch like threads- quiet and strange and full of almosts.
You learn he's not quite human. Never was. You knew it, deep down, but now it's undeniable. His horns are warm to the touch. He doesn't sleep the way you do. Sometimes he forgets things, like gravity or time.
But he's still Jeongin.
He still puts too much syrup on waffles and laughs at your terrible jokes, and frowns when you stay up too late.
But there's a distance now, like something fragile sitting between you now.
And the horns are part of it.
He keeps trying to hide them.
"You're embarrassed," you say one night, watching him comb his hair forward like a curtain.
"Of course I am," he mutters. "They mark me. They make me...Other."
You frown. "They make you you."
He glances up. "You say that now."
You don't argue. Not because he's right, but because you don't know how to prove him wrong yet.
. . .
One night, he's gone again.
Not for long.
But long enough to leave that ache again in your chest- that silence that only he fills.
When he comes back, his hoodie is torn and his eyes are shadowed.
"What happened?"
He hesitates. "I had another meeting."
"With who?"
He doesn't answer.
"What did they say?"
He rubs his arms. "That I'm broken. That staying with you this long has warped the bond. That I shouldn't have come back."
You feel cold. "So...what? You're going to leave again?"
"I don't want to." He swallows. "But I might not have a choice."
You're crying before you realize it.
He moves to reach for you, then stops. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me," you whisper. "You left me."
. . .
The next day, you wake up and he's gone.
No hoodie. No candy wrappers. No trace.
Only a single curling horn rests on your pillow- crystal-like and soft at the base, sharp at the tip.
A gift. Or a goodbye.
You don't know which.
. . .
Weeks pass.
You keep the horn in your t-shirt drawer.
People ask how you're doing. You say you're fine.
But you're not waiting anymore.
You go on with your life. Learn to carry the ache with you.
Some nights, you talk to them empty air just in case. Just in case he's listening.
You don't expect an answer.
But you speak anyway.
. . .
Because the thing about Jeongin is-
He's not real.
He was real in every laugh. Every silent morning. Every time he looked at you like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
And that has to count for something.
Even if it's not forever.
Even if it was never meant to be.
THE END
A/N: With a little bit of help from an AI generator, I create my short stories, tweak them a bit to feel more human, and share them here with people I know will enjoy them. If you'd like a continuation of any of my stories, please leave me a private ask with the title and what you'd like to see. If you want to request a certain plot as well, please do the same.
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