kimchi @planetkiimchi - Tumblr Blog

May 5

ripped jeans, shattered dreams | l.jn

"filling up our lives with hollow-hearted lies like i love you" (series masterlist)

featuring: jeno x reader, highschool au ft. donghyuck, jaemin, chenle, wooyoung

word count: 13763

warnings: use of pet names (jeno calls reader “doll”, reader calls him “jen”), so much angst, alcohol consumption, swearing, mentions of blood

summary — jeno doesn’t like to look too closely at things. he’s better off observing distantly, dazedly, especially when it comes to your radiant glow and the joy you bring with you. but he’s got a bad habit of missing out on the small details, and he hates when other people point out that what he’s always wanted has never been his to have.

author’s note: : kimchi write a fic under 10k words challenge impossible… ever since “i knew it first” i haven’t been able to write shorter fics and be satisfied with them. anywho, i wrote this before reading “elevatory” by hana (@wqnwoos), but after reading that i feel like she encapsulated a lot of the emotions i would have wanted to convey, so do give that a read <3

“You came here alone?”

“Ew, how desperate can you get?”

Jeno was startled from his conversation by a body falling against him. It wasn’t the first time it had happened that night, but it was the first time that it was accompanied by such disconcerting jeering. He helped the stranger who had just fallen into their arms, but not before realising that it was someone he recognised.

“Y/n?”

“Jeno?”

It was his best friend from kindergarten, whom he had drifted apart from when they went to different elementary schools. He hadn’t spoken to you in years, and he hadn’t been expecting to see you at Donghyuck’s birthday party, which was honestly getting out of hand.

They were all only in middle school, but Jeno was fairly certain there were some people outside vaping, and he was just glad that there had been no alcohol taken out from any of the cupboards yet. He was sure there were some bottles somewhere, but Donghyuck was strict about not touching his parents' things.

“What are you doing alone? Where are your friends?” he asked in a low tone. You shook your head and mumbled something he didn’t quite catch.

He leaned in closer, eyebrows furrowing in concentration, and you repeated it louder. “They're all outside vaping. The smell of it makes me sick.”

“Jeno! Are you really dating Y/n?”

One of the boys from Jeno’s class, one that he didn’t really like because of his greasy hair and sleazy tone and the way he was disrespectful to the teachers, called out to Jeno. All concern dissipated from Jeno’s face as his expression hardened.

He wrapped his hand around your shoulder, pressing your head against his shoulder. You leaned into his touch almost reflexively.

“You have a problem with that?”

The boy knew better than to reply. At 172cm, Jeno was of average height, but he did boxing, which made him bigger and stronger than most, if not all of the others his age.

“No, not at all.” Said classmate timidly retreated, while you turned to face Jeno, staring at him with a steely gaze.

Jeno had always appreciated how straightforward you were. Even as a child, you had never been one to lie about how the food tasted, or the way you had been treated by a tour guide during your learning journey. Even then, your eyes said everything you needed to without you opening your mouth to speak.

“Thanks for your help,” you said, pushing yourself away from Jeno.

“Wait.” He grabbed your wrist just as you were turning away, releasing it almost immediately when you stopped in your tracks.

“What is it?”

“What class are you in?”

“Why do you care?”

The smirk on Jeno’s face was new. There was a sort of cocky confidence that he must have learnt from his time in elementary school, because he certainly had not had that same confidence when you first knew him. Another thing that was new was the way he moved forward, lessening the space between you. He had never been one for physical contact.

The third thing that was new—”We’re dating, aren’t we?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“That’s what you told them, isn’t it?” It wasn’t like Jeno to press for answers, but you supposed after being apart for so long, you couldn’t confidently say what Jeno was like anymore. “I'm not mad or anything. I played along, didn’t I? You can't reject me now.”

Oh. So that was what he meant. You’d been so confused. “I'm in 4.08.”

“The class next door, right?”

“Yeah.”

Jeno nodded. “I'll see you on Monday.”

“Okay.” You didn’t dare to ask what he meant by that.

—

Whispers filled the corridor as the bell rang, and your gaze lifted curiously, itching to know what was causing the commotion outside. The sight of a silhouette leaning against the wall of the classroom caught your eye, and you hurried out of the classroom as soon as your teacher had dismissed you.

There Jeno stood, back against the row of windows, phone in his hand. He looked up at you, lips curling into a smile as he tucked his phone into his pocket and straightened up.

”Jeno?” Your eyes widened as he stretched out his hand towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Give me your backpack.” You passed it to him without argument, and he clenched his fist around the strap. “Let’s go.”

Some of the crowd dispersed, a few of Jeno’s classmates pressing themselves against the lockers as Jeno walked past them, speaking quietly to each other behind their hands.

The sound of thunderous footsteps against the floor made Jeno stop in his tracks, rolling his eyes as he pulled you towards him. The strength in his hands frightened you—it was then that you realised that Jeno was no longer the weak, powerless child he had been in kindergarten.

A whirlwind of motion stumbled, and he would have crashed into you if Jeno hadn’t pulled you aside. “Nojam!” The stranger heaved out, panting heavily.

”Hyuck,” Jeno replied, deadpan.

”Why was I the last to know that you were dating? I heard about my best friend through the grapevine! The grapevine!”

“You weren’t the last to know, Hyuck. I haven’t asked Y/n out yet.” Two pairs of eyes turned to look at Jeno, confusion written on their faces. “In fact, you can be the first to know.”

“Can I be your boyfriend, Y/n?”

You would never know the giddy feeling Jeno felt when you nodded, following him out of school.

—

While it may have seemed trivial to you, it had been a monumental moment in Jeno’s life. Ever since you introduced yourself to him in kindergarten, he’d been helplessly drawn into your orbit. He gravitates to you like you’re a planet, and he’s an inconsequential moon whose only purpose is to adorn you.

Agreeing to be in a relationship with Jeno was like you giving him a glass of milk and telling him to take care of it, and he can’t bear to set it down even for a moment lest it shatter to the ground and break.

Milk can’t be left out for long. To keep it fresh, Jeno would have to set it down, to place it in the refrigerator to keep it cool. But Jeno can’t bear to part with it even for a second, to let it out of his sight even if he needs to in the long run. No, he’s afraid of what will happen when he can’t see it, and so he refuses to let go of you.

Cradled in his warm hands, it will quickly turn sour, sure to give him more than just an upset stomach. Sooner or later, Jeno’s habit of clinging onto things past their expiry date is only going to come back and bite him in the ass.

—

“They’re watching you.”

”What?” Jeno looks up from his tray, pausing as the food is still halfway to his mouth. He sets his spoon down as his best friend, Donghyuck, leans against him and smirks.

”Them,” Donghyuck repeats, jerking his head at the girls two tables away, who are staring obviously and shamelessly at Jeno, occasionally murmuring something to each other before giggling under their breaths.

”So? I’m dating Y/n.”

Donghyuck sighs, placing one arm around Jeno’s shoulder and turning Jeno to face him. Looking deeply into his eyes, Donghyuck says, “What’s so great about Y/n? I don’t see their appeal.”

“Good,” Jeno says drily. “They’re mine, so don’t even think about it.”

“Relax,” Donghyuck drawls. “I know, I know. You knew each other from childhood, met at my birthday party, rekindled the spark and are now happily in love. I’ve heard the tale before.” Jeno rolls his eyes and goes back to eating. What Donghyuck is saying is true; Jeno and you have only been dating since the start of high school, but the two of you have known each other longer than that. Ever since you could remember, even before that, actually—you have known Jeno; since kindergarten, even though you went to two different elementary schools.

You used to be close, but now Jeno hardly ever sees you at all, except when you pass him in the hallways with a disinterested “hello”.

Jeno’s not sure what changed.

“Jen?” Jeno looks up, breathless, because there’s only one person in the entire school that calls him that.

You.

His heart rate quickens as you place a brief kiss on his cheek, setting your tray down beside him. However, his happy mood is immediately soured when the rest of your friends join as well, all taking their seats around Jeno and his friends. His two friends, because unlike you, Jeno isn’t popular because he’s friendly. It’s the exact opposite, in fact. He’s popular precisely because he has very few friends, and people think that he’s intimidating because of it.

Jeno is… reticent, to say the least. People tolerate him out of respect for his boxing prowess; if he wasn’t as good as he was, everyone would hate him. They would think he was cold, aloof, or downright rude—not something that would make him popular among his peers.

You, however, are different. You’re popular because of your easygoing nature and your ready smile. It’s one of the things Jeno likes so much about you, the way your smile is as radiant as the golden glow of the setting sun, ochre-tinted, it makes you shine even in the darkest places. You stand out because even though you’re smart, you're never condescending, and you will always make time to explain a difficult concept to anyone who asks.

Jeno doesn’t really know how he got lucky enough to date you. He still thinks it’s amazing that you were even willing to be his friend in kindergarten, going up to approach him when no one else did.

“Hi! My name’s Y/n. What’s yours?”

Jeno looked up from the jigsaw puzzle he had been piecing together to see a child his age with the most resplendent smile he had ever seen in his life. At 6, he barely spoke to his classmates, too afraid to approach them. He had cried on his first day of school when his mother dropped him off, refusing to let go of her leg until she sternly told him to get used to it.

Since then, he mostly kept to himself. The teachers sometimes asked him to play with the other kids, but they would leave after he remained silent for longer than half an hour. The other kids didn’t have enough patience to accommodate him, not when he was a little quiet and different from the rest of them.

“Jeno,” he mumbled, and your eyebrows furrowed. The only thing Jeno could think of beyond the puzzle pieces he was still trying to fit into the bigger picture was how beautiful you were, the way your brows seemed perfectly symmetrical, just like one of the plastic dolls his older sister owned. She never let him play with them, but when she was in a good mood, she would hold his hand while teaching him how to brush their hair, carefully guiding him to braid the doll’s hair.

“Sorry?”

Jeno didn’t realise what you were apologising for until he had finally slotted the last piece into place, and was able to turn his full attention to you. His eyes locked with yours, and he couldn’t bear to tear them away, even if it was nerve-wracking to make eye contact with you for so long without speaking.

“I’m Jeno,” he repeated, slowly and clearly, until the smile made its way back onto your face as you nodded in understanding. He had only known you for a few minutes, but he found that smiles suited you far better than frowns.

“What’re you doing?”

Jeno would have told you that he was solving his puzzle, but since he had technically completed it, that wouldn’t be true anymore. He shrugged and looked away.

You waved a hand in front of him to call his attention back to you. “Want to play a game of tag?”

He looked past you to the small group of children, talking and laughing amongst themselves. He looked back down at the puzzle he had been working on for three days straight, gently adjusting it so the corner of the finished puzzle aligned with the edge of the table, then nodded, head remaining bowed.

“Hey!”

The sudden shout made the children look towards you, and Jeno found himself being scrutinised by a group of other 6-year-olds, while they assessed him from the way he looked and the curls in his hair and the shade of his eyes—which they probably couldn’t tell were brown, not black—before they all chorused some form of “yes”. You slipped your hand into his, and he felt his heartbeat quicken, which should have been impossible, given how fast it already was.

But he supposes that’s the kind of effect that you have on him. Whenever you’re around, his heart starts beating so quickly it feels like there’s air trapped in it instead of in his lungs, and it starts to float its way up into his esophagus until his throat gets constricted and his words get caught in his mouth.

“What is it, doll?” He has to refrain from letting out a sigh of relief, because he’s finally gotten better at speaking to you after more than a decade of knowing you. He rarely stutters anymore, which is good for his reputation, since he can’t exactly be respected as a boxer if he turns into a blushing, stammering mess whenever he sees you.

Jeno scoops a spoonful of rice and takes another bite out of his meat before you speak. “I don't know if I can make it to your match,” you tell him softly, in a tone so low even Donghyuck and Yeji, who are on his and your sides respectively, would have been unable to catch it.

Jeno swallows.

“Oh, the one next week?” he replies, as nonchalantly as he can. He tries not to let it show how much it gets to him, and he thinks it works, from the way you nod and look into his eyes.

“I’m really sorry, Jen. I'll go with you to the movies the week after to make up for it?”

Jeno debates declining your offer, because he honestly could not care less about the movies currently screening in the cinemas, especially when you’re the only one he cares about. It hurts that you’re not able to make it to his match, when you’ve always been there for every other one, always being the only one not moving in a crowd loudly jeering.

You’re his lucky charm, because the way you part the crowd like the Red Sea with just a glare and your confidence makes him feel empowered. It spurs him on, encouraging him to do his best for you. When he’s in the ring with you watching, he isn’t doing it for the recognition, or the trophy, or the prize money. He’s simply doing it to prove to himself that he’s capable of doing it, just like you believe he is.

“Sure.” He doesn’t know why his mouth betrays him, accepting your offer, and Jaemin turns to Jeno and raises both his eyebrows before turning back to his food.

“Great! How was the Chem practical?” you ask, already moving onto the next topic without a pause. It’s one thing Jeno has always admired about you, but at this moment, he wishes you would have let the awkward silence seep into the cracks of your relationship, so you would finally notice that Jeno misses the way the two of you used to be.

Alas, some things never change, and your ability to navigate your way through awkward situations is one of them. He finds himself speaking about the Chemistry practical instead of confronting you, and he’s honestly given up trying to ever go against you.

—

you: do you have plans today? my doll ❤️: i’m going out with my friends, sorry :( you: oh ok

The doorbell to Jeno’s house rings, and Jeno sighs deeply before setting his phone down on his desk and going to answer the door. There, Chenle stands with a basketball in hand, his sweaty hair tousled, eyes sparkling with the sort of joy Jeno hasn’t felt in a while.

Chenle’s smile drops when he sees Jeno in a hoodie and faded jeans, clearly not planning to leave the house.

”Where’s Y/n?”

Jeno shrugs. “They’re going out with their friends.”

Chenle does a double take. “Today? Do they not remember…?“

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence; Jeno knows. Chenle’s voice trails off in a question mark, and Jeno shakes his head dejectedly. ”They didn’t.”

They didn’t remember that it was their second anniversary, the day they had agreed upon two years ago. The day between the day that you declared yourself as Jeno’s partner and the day that he had actually asked you out.

Jeno shakes his head to clear it of his thoughts. Chenle jerks his head towards the door. “Forget it, let’s go play a game.”

“I’m not ready—“

“Just put on some socks and shoes, c’mon! No time to waste!”

That’s how Jeno gets dragged out to the basketball court, stumbling and almost crashing into Chenle when he comes to an abrupt halt.

Jeno waves weakly at his friends. Donghyuck’s eyes narrow when Jeno wordlessly takes the basketball from Chenle’s hands, running up to the hoop and executing a flawless layup.

”Why are you here?”

Jeno waves a hand dismissively. “What, I can’t even play a game of basketball with my friends now?”

Donghyuck’s frown deepens, the wrinkle in his forehead a clear expression of his disapproval, mixed with some confusion. “No, stop dribbling—“ Jeno stops dribbling between his legs, basketball tucked against his waist as he stares Donghyuck down—“Isn’t today your anniversary?”

Frustration lines Jeno’s skin, radiating off of him like steam, warping the air around him. His neck muscles are taut, corded flexors rippling through his forearm. It’s loud even without him speaking, even with no words exchanged, the tense set of his jaw as he grinds his teeth into each other.

With hooded eyes and eyebrows furrowed in irritation, Jeno slams the basketball into the ground. It bounces once before Chenle takes a step forward, the ball‘s trajectory leading it to fall perfectly into his arms.

”Why does everyone except them remember?”

The annoyance spills out of him, an explosion of sound and poorly-concealed fury—if he is even trying to conceal it—and it’s like the lid of a boiling pot has been lifted and all the invisible heat emanating from it has solidified into steam, deceivingly gentle in appearance. But Jaemin knows full well, especially from past experiences, that hot steam can scald.

He raises a hand as Donghyuck takes a step forward, pressing it into Donghyuck’s chest until Donghyuck inhales deeply and waits for Jeno to continue speaking.

Jeno cards a hand through his hair roughly, tearing a few strands from it with the action, spitting out words with the same bitter anger his movement conveys.

”I’m so fucking over it. Whatever. They deserve to have fun, right?”

Jaemin wisely decides not to answer. He takes Donghyuck, forcefully pulling him onto the court. Chenle takes the hint, running into the middle of the court with the ball.

”Forget it, Jeno. Come play with us.”

Chenle tosses the ball high into the air, and Jeno leaps for it instinctively, the feel of its rough texture against his palms dragging him back to earth. He tosses his phone to the side, muscle memory kicking into gear as he bounces the ball against the floor. The rhythmic sound of each bounce syncs up with his heartbeat, grounding him amidst the thoughts of you plaguing his mind.

—

Jeno wipes off the sweat dripping down his face with one sleeve, panting heavily. Body leaning forward, hands braced on bent knees, he fights to catch his breath. But it’s a good kind of breathless, heart pounding solidly in his chest, fingers and palms tingling from the rough surface of the ball.

He flicks his hair out of his face with a toss of his head, ridding himself of the sweat-soaked bangs obscuring his vision. Hand on the ball, Jaemin holds out a hand to stop Chenle, who’s been dedicatedly marking him since the game started. Confused, Chenle cocks his head, weight still on the balls of his feet, poised like a lion waiting to pounce.

“You good?”

Jeno nods out of habit, pauses, then shakes his head. “I'm gonna take a break, what time is it now?”

They’ve been playing since morning, and the noon sun is high in the sky, scorching and unrelentless. Jeno’s hoodie has long been discarded, haphazardly strewn across the mess of phones just outside the court lines. The tense frustration pumping through Jeno’s veins, the one that had his muscles seizing up at the thought of you, has long been sweated out of his system. Now, tired and satisfied after a good game, he barely remembers it’s your anniversary.

That is, until he steps off court and reaches for his phone to check the time. One glance at his phone informs him that it’s time for lunch, but his gaze trails to the glaring notification at the bottom of his screen.

my doll ❤️: fuck my doll ❤️: happy anniversary my doll ❤️: i'm so sorry, jen my doll ❤️: it slipped my mind, i should have kept tonight free my doll ❤: i'll cancel tonight’s plans?

Then, after the hurried influx of texts, almost as an afterthought, Jeno sees the [Missed call] notification.

my doll ❤️: call me when you see this?

Jeno doesn’t know whether to be happy or not. He runs his hand through his hair with a conflicted sigh, exasperation and relief expelled in a single breath. Tilting his head to the sky, he shields his eyes from the blinding light with one hand. His other hand, the one holding his phone, falls limply to his side.

“What’s up?” Donghyuck moves towards Jeno out of concern, but the latter simply meets his gaze and shakes his head.

“Nothing, I just—” he barks out a short, pained laugh, and the lines in Donghyuck’s forehead only grow more prominent.

“What did Y/n do now?”

Trust Donghyuck to see right through Jeno. He shrugs, holding out his phone for Donghyuck to see. His friend scans the texts, rolls his eyes, then turns away. His expression of disinterest is clear, but the disdain lining the corner of his frown is a more subtle thing Jeno has to look closely to notice.

Donghyuck raises his hand, and Jaemin tosses the ball to him. The ball sails from Donghyuck’s hands to the hoop in a perfect, mesmerising arc, swishing straight into the net from the three-point line.

Chenle, positioned close to the hoop, runs after the ball.

Donghyuck turns his head over his shoulder to look at Jeno. “I don’t like how Y/n’s treating you. Whatever they’re doing, it’s incredibly disrespectful to you and your relationship, but you don’t seem bothered by it.”

“Disrespectful?”

“Cancelling on going to your match, forgetting your anniversary, these little things might seem trivial, but they add up. Give grace for the first few times, but after a while you’re going to have to bring it up.”

Jeno sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’m—“

”Not confrontational, I know. But you’ve got to learn to stand up for yourself sometime.”

Jeno huffs noncommittally, finger hovering over the phone symbol in the top right corner before he musters up the courage to press it.

Heading to a corner of a court and leaving the rest of his friends to practice shooting hoops, he lifts his phone to his ear. He doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until the ringing dial tone turns to silence. He hears your voice and suddenly all the breath comes rushing out of him, and his next intake of oxygen has him feeling giddy.

”Jen?”

”Y/n.” It comes out almost like an exhale, natural and relieved. “Doll,” he corrects himself, “I saw your messages.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “Sorry for forgetting. It was in my calendar, I swear, I must have overlooked it or arranged this without checking, and I just haven’t seen this friend in so long, but I know that’s a shitty excuse, and I’ll cancel it if you want me to. I’m really, really sorry.”

Jeno wonders when the last time he’s heard you this flustered was. The words rush out of you like they’re tripping over themselves trying to run off your tongue, and it’s an unfamiliar experience. Usually, you’re confident and assured, words carefully measured. You usually speak like each word has been weighed and rolled around inside your mouth before being deemed worthy, your speech concise and fluent.

He’ll admit, he derives some satisfaction from your obvious discomfort. You deserve to be squirming a little, even if the initial anger he felt has mostly subsided.

”It is a terrible excuse, yeah. But we can arrange for another time.”

There’s an audible sigh on the other end, and you start thanking him, but Jeno presses on without acknowledging you.

”What works for you? Friday? We’d be staying out for dinner, so I wouldn’t want to have to rush to get you home on a school night.”

“Friday works for me. Sorry about this again.”

Jeno bristles. “Stop apologising.” I don’t want your empty promises, he adds silently. Prove to me with your actions. Please.

”Okay. Sor– See you on Friday then.”

“See you,” Jeno replies curtly before hanging up.

”I’m leaving,” he calls out to his friends. “Gotta head home for lunch.”

Donghyuck glances at the ball, then tosses it to Jaemin and rushes after Jeno, ignoring Jaemin and Chenle’s affronted shouts. “Wait up,” he yells, grabbing his phone and shrugging on his jacket.

Jeno pauses at the gate, waiting for Donghyuck to catch up and fall into step beside him. They don’t live in the same neighbourhood, so it’s not far before they have to part ways, Jeno heading to his block and Donghyuck to the bus stop.

”Just thought you should know, you’re a bloody catch, Nojam. Don’t let Y/n treat you otherwise.” Donghyuck punctuates his statement with a half-hearted punch to Jeno’s upper arm before waving, gone before Jeno has a chance to respond.

—

Jeno tosses his phone, one hand tapping impatiently against the table as he waits for you. He checks his phone for what feels like the millionth time. 6.32. You’re 17 minutes late, which is odd because you’ve always been punctual, somehow always hitting that sweet spot just a little bit earlier than the arranged meeting time, a balance Jeno struggles to achieve.

“Your date stood you up, handsome?” A waitress who’s been watching him too closely for comfort approaches Jeno, head tilted to the side. A coy smile plays on her lips, a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Jeno barely looks up, focused on the door, and the waitress is only a blur silhouette at the edge of his vision. “No,” he replies, self assured. “They'll be here.”

As if on cue, the door swings wide open, and you stand there with a bouquet in hand. A stray drop of sweat beads at your hairline, and Jeno stands up to wipe it away as you approach him.

“Thanks,” you say, partly breathless. “Sorry I'm late, I took longer to get ready than expected.” Jeno doesn’t miss the red hue adorning your lips and cheeks, or the scent you’ve sprayed that hangs in the air, leaving traces of you behind.

“It’s okay.” The waitress has the self-awareness to leave, and Jeno wipes the sweat from your forehead before sitting back down.

“Here, this is for you.” You pass Jeno the flowers, and he receives the bouquet with two hands, pausing to inhale the scent of freshly-cut flowers before setting it to the side.

Passing you the menu, he nods towards it. “I’ve already looked through it, let me know if there’s anything you want in particular and we can get that too.”

You smooth down the front of your clothes, casting a quick glance around the room, before settling into the seat and slowly reading through the menu.

Jeno watches you, fiddling with the ribbon holding the flowers and wrapper in place, recalling the first time he’d invited you out to dinner with his family.

—

“What do I say when I meet them?”

Jeno shrugged, adjusting his collar in the mirror. He didn’t miss your anxious expression when he cast a glance at his phone, propped up next to the mirror, but he didn’t know what to tell you.

”I promise my parents aren’t scary. They’re really nice, just a little stiff sometimes.”

“What do people like them even talk about? I don’t know anything about stocks or politics, and I’m sure they wouldn’t be interested in my daily schooling life or anything.”

Jeno’s lip curled up into a smile. “Of course they would, you’re my partner.”

There was that word again. Partner. A direct acknowledgement of your relationship. You’d never dared to call Jeno any form of it, be it “boyfriend”, “lover”, or “partner”, but Jeno never missed an opportunity to say it. You weren’t sure if it was intentional or not, but he always let it slip like it was nothing big, as if the word came to him as naturally as breathing did.

“Doll, please.” Jeno finally tore his gaze away from the mirror to look at you, separated from him only by the glass screen, turning all of his attention to you. “I promise my parents will love you, just like I do. And, even if in the unlikely event that they don’t, you’ve got plenty of time ahead to show them what’s worth loving about you.”

Before you could speak, Jeno shook his head. “Let me finish. Your personality is enough for them to like. You’re cheerful, talkative, bright—all the things I’m not. You’re all the things they wish I could be. So I promise, just go there and talk about yourself, and everything will work out just fine.”

“We’re leaving in five!” Your ears barely managed to pick up Jeno’s mum’s distant call. You glanced at the clock, then did the math quickly in your head: Jeno would be arriving in 20 minutes.

You twisted the bracelet around your wrist and stared at Jeno, whose reassuring gaze could be felt even through the screen. You could see him pleading with you to believe him, and it was all you could do to sigh.

”You’d better get going.”

“C’mon, doll, don’t ignore me.”

You sighed anxiously, looking away from Jeno. “Yeah, fine, I’ll just be myself. See you.”

“Love you.”

You hesitated before replying, but only for a fraction of a second. “Love you too, Jen.”

Your fears hadn’t been unfounded. Meeting Jeno’s parents had been scary, just not as much as you had been expecting. They held Jeno to high standards, and you had the feeling that they were holding you to equally high standards. Their line of questioning felt like an interview, as if they were interrogating you to determine whether you were a worthy partner for Jeno, but their tone of voice was soothing and reassuring.

The jarring contrast only left you more confused, but Jeno slipped his hand into yours in the backseat of the car, thumb rubbing circles into your hand to calm you down. You answered each question truthfully, glad that at the very least, they weren’t testing your knowledge of world affairs. They seemed to simply want to get to know you better, and you were happy to oblige.

Upon entering the restaurant, you found yourself mimicking Jeno’s every move, matching his pace as he walked. His head was tilted high, his shoulders drawn back. With his perfect posture, the air of athleticism around him only became more pronounced.

You, on the other hand, had to consciously watch your step so as not to trip over your own feet in your anxiety. Jeno’s grip tightened around yours, and you found yourself exhaling softly.

Each moment of the meal had felt excruciatingly long. You watched Jeno and his parents carefully to ensure you were using the right cutlery, chewing slowly and making sure to speak only once you had swallowed all the food and run your tongue over your teeth.

You sipped water slowly to buy you time to think, and cast quite a few helpless glances at Jeno. Thankfully, he helped you with all the questions that had you grasping for straws, and by the end of the meal you were completely exhausted.

The next day, you confided in Jeno that while the meal had been delicious, you would much rather never taste such delicacy again if it meant you never had to sit through such an interaction with his parents again.

Jeno had done his best to convince you that his parents had loved you, really, and that the fact that they hadn’t mentioned anything to him afterwards was a good sign, but you had been quite adamant in insisting the next time you met them would only be if your parents were present as well.

—

You seem more at ease this time, but Jeno notices that you keep fidgeting with your clothing. “You okay? We don’t have to eat here if you’d rather not.”

You shake your head. “You’ve already ordered the food and made the reservation, I wouldn’t want to waste your efforts.”

Resting your head on your fist, you gaze at Jeno. But he notes with a pang that your gaze is missing the joy that he’s grown accustomed to seeing. He recalls that even earlier, the happiness that used to accompany your flushed cheeks had been missing from your eyes.

Jeno wonders what this foreboding quiet could entail.

—

A boxing match always appears fast, with hooks and jabs thrown left, right and centre. If you were to blink, you would feel like you’d missed an important segment. Sometimes it seemed as if the match ended within moments, so you always made sure to keep your eyes on the match at hand.

But for Jeno, it’s a vastly different experience. Despite the swift movements trained over the course of months, sometimes even years, drilling speed and explosivity into his muscles, the adrenaline rushing through his brain always makes time slow down. The cheers and jeers of the crowd fade to a dull thrum, the sound of blood rushing to his brain combined with the heaving breaths he takes drowning out anything else. All he can hear is the steady pounding of his heartbeat that goes erratic at the same time as his breathing does when he fails to dodge an attack, or the brief reprieve from what feels like near-death when he successfully lands a blow.

It’s slow and agonising, especially when his opponent is good, because his tired feet start to drag instead of dart, and his arms get increasingly tiring to hold in good form.

This sparring session has been going on for too long, and Jeno knows this not because of the time but because of the way he slips up. His feet are one beat too slow, and then a fist makes contact with his shoulder, the impact reverberating through his body as he slumps to the ground.

His sparring partner, Wooyoung, quirks an eyebrow at him. “Need a break?” he asks, not unkindly. Jeno nods, barely out of breath, sweat dripping from his hair. He flicks his head in resigned frustration, reaching up to wipe away the sweat, and fumbles beside him for his water bottle.

He gulps it down, the speed at which he’s drinking matching the speed of his sharp, shallow breathing. He doesn’t stop until his parched mouth tastes less like sandpaper and more like his mouth, and his heart feels less like it’s about to jump out of his chest.

He shuts his eyes, tilting his head backwards as he leans against the corner of the boxing ring. When he shuts off his mind like this, all his senses are heightened, and he hears the sound of heavy breathing and the dull thud of leather making contact with skin, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.

If he listens closely enough, he might even hear the sound of footsteps approaching… Wait, that wasn’t right. His eyes sprang open, and as he sat upright and turned to look, his gaze landed on Jaemin. He let out an exhausted, long-suffering sigh.

“Come to tell me how stupid I am?”

Jaemin shrugs, coming to lean against the boxing ring. Jeno has to tilt his head up to look at him, an action that feels strange since Jaemin and Jeno are normally about the same height when they are both standing.

Wooyoung comes back before Jaemin can reply, and Jeno leaps to his feet, anxious to escape Jaemin’s piercing gaze. Jaemin, for his part, simply backs away into a corner, hands crossed over his chest. He watches Jeno with pursed lips and a light frown, and Jeno can’t shake the weight of the unspoken words hanging in the air between them.

As soon as the session ends, Jeno’s resolve has been weakened both by Jaemin’s unrelenting stare and Wooyoung’s unceasing attacks, and he is both physically and mentally drained.

He waves goodbye to Wooyoung, gently stepping out of the ring, gingerly massaging a knot in his shoulder. Jaemin, who’d been leaning against the wall while waiting for Jeno, stands upright and walks over. He hovers over Jeno while the latter unwraps his hands absently, muscle memory guiding his actions.

Neither of them speak until the wraps are completely off and Jeno is flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing through them again. Then, and only then, does Jaemin open his mouth.

”You know you can’t just keep doing this… thing,” Jaemin says, waving a hand vaguely at Jeno.

”What ‘thing’?” Jeno asks, only partially deflecting with his sarcasm. He’s too tired to come up with a better defense, and has resigned himself to whatever conversation is about to follow.

”This whole thing you do, where Donghyuck tells you something actually insightful and not just utter bullshit, for once, and you deflect because it’s the easiest thing to do. It’s easier to brush it off as a joke when Donghyuck’s the one saying it, but you and I both know he’s right.”

Jeno sighs, as if he’s exhausted from carrying the world on his shoulders, and sinks onto the floor. Back pressed against the wall, legs crossed, he tilts his head up to look at Jaemin before wincing and rubbing his neck. Looking in front of him, he pats the floor beside him, inviting Jaemin to take a seat.

Jaemin doesn’t hesitate, but his eyes never leave Jeno. Jeno drums his fingers against his thigh, the soft exhale of his breath whistling through his teeth.

Jaemin doesn’t press. He never has. He just peels back the band-aid Jeno’s haphazardly slapped onto a still-bleeding wound, forcing Jeno to acknowledge its presence without actively making it worse. It’s not like he’s digging his nails into old scabs, he’s just forcing Jeno to finally face the truth, to stop running away from realities he finds too difficult to accept.

“It’s just so stupid, we’ve known each other for so long, it’s crazy that fate brought us back together after almost a decade, just for– what? For us to break up over a small thing like forgetting anniversaries? That’s not what love is like, Jaem. Surely it means standing with your partner even when conflicts arise.”

“It’s more than a small conflict, Jeno, you’re downplaying it.”

“How? Tell me how I’m downplaying it.”

”You’re–“ Jaemin has to remind himself to breathe, to bite back the frustration creeping into his voice, to remind himself that Jeno is his friend. That Jeno is just as tired as he is, perhaps even more, and that what he needs isn’t someone angrily shouting at him, but someone to explain it to him, to work through his tangled emotions and to lay them out until the picture they paint is so clear Jeno can’t refuse to see it anymore.

What he needs to do is show Jeno the separated threads and let Jeno see for himself that what he’s been sweeping under the rug into a neglected mess of multi-coloured ends is hurting him more than he’s realised.

So he does just that. Tone measured, voice even, he says, “You love Y/n a lot, I know. We all know that. No one’s doubting you or saying that loving them is wrong. It’s fine! It’s good that you have someone you love. But it’s just that,” he hesitates, doing his best to phrase the sentence gently. “It’s just that maybe Y/n might not love you as much as you love them.”

Even with the word “might” in the sentence, Jaemin knows it’s a paltry attempt at softening the blow. Jeno takes it like a punch to his gut, all the air knocked out of his lungs. Winded as he is, he tries his best to suck in a breath, but it feels like he’s submerged in liquid, helplessly drowning, and no amount of breathing in gratifies him with the intake of oxygen he needs.

His breaths come in short, shallow spurts, and Jaemin reaches over to squeeze his hand tightly, and the pain registers in some part of his brain that hasn’t been struck dumb by the news. It grounds him, dragging him up to the surface, and as he breaches it he gasps for air, heaving, slumped forwards while he desperately inhales.

”Are you okay?” Jaemin asks, concerned.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Jeno shrugs helplessly, head halfway between a nod and a shake, and his fingers are trembling in Jaemin’s grasp.

”Take your time,” Jaemin assures him. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Jeno’s not too sure about that.

Jaemin almost regrets his words, wonders if there was a better way to phrase it, but it’s a painful truth he knows Jeno would avoid like the plague unless someone shoved it in his face. Slowly, hesitantly, he reaches for Jeno’s head. Jeno leans forward tiredly, and Jaemin tenderly brings his hand to the back of his head as Jeno leans into Jaemin’s shoulder.

The silent tears streaming down his face leave a wet stain on Jaemin’s shirt when Jeno finally pulls away, heartbeat having somewhat regulated, hands no longer trembling.

”Jeno,” Jaemin breathes, soft and relieved, and Jeno smiles sadly.

”Nana.”

Jaemin smiles wryly at the old nickname. “Sorry to break it to you like that. I know you love Y/n a lot, but you need to know when it’s enough, or you’re just going to hurt yourself.”

Jeno nods. He doesn’t know how to tell Jaemin he’s already in too deep, the thorns having sunk into his heart that to rip them out would be to bleed all over the carpet. Yet some quiet, irritating part of him reminds him that the earlier he digs out the sharp barbs, the earlier he can start to heal.

—

Jeno doesn’t go looking for conflict often, but sometimes it comes looking for him. This time it comes in the shape of a party he’s not invited to and an abrupt phone call while he’s sitting on his bed, homework forgotten, thumbs already poised to scroll. He glances at the contact name and his eyebrows furrow.

He picks up, naturally, but his mind is whirring. You’re not one to call him out of the blue, especially with how busy the two of you have been lately. Even if you’d wanted to call him, which was unusual, it would have been something scheduled, and Jeno knows it would have been in his calendar. There’s no way he would have forgotten to put it down, or miss it once it’d been scheduled.

He chalks it up to some kind of prank, probably, tone cautious when he asks, “Hello?”

“Heyy,” you reply, words slurred. Jeno’s frown only deepens. He hasn’t seen you drunk, since most of the parties you go to are the ones he’s not welcome at, but he’s pretty sure from the way you’re talking that you’ve had at least one drink. It is, in his opinion, one drink too many, but he doesn’t want to be controlling.

“Hey doll, what’s up?”

“Who’re you? Why’re you saved with a heart in my phone?” you mumble into the phone. There’s someone yelling “Shots! Shots! Shots!” in the background, and lots of clattering and loud music. Jeno’s head pounds just hearing it through the phone. He can’t imagine what a sensory disaster it must be in real life.

”I'm your boyfriend. Doll, how much did you drink?”

Someone yells your name loudly enough for you to hear. “Wait, gimme a minute,” you tell Jeno, words slurred.

There’s the absence of your voice for a few moments before he hears you say “God, no” with so much disgust he’s almost impressed, and then there’s some fast-paced, hushed dialogue that the microphone can’t catch. All of a sudden, there’s the sound of scuffling, someone falls to the floor, and Jeno hears shouting and struggling and the muffled sound of you saying “Get off me!”

”Doll? Doll, are you okay?” When there’s no answer, only the sound of the dial tone as you hang up, Jeno’s heart speeds into overdrive.

He exhales sharply through his teeth, grinding them together in annoyance. Scrolling to his contacts, he finds who he’s looking for and clicks on the number saved as “Uncle Park” in his phone.

He’s surprised Uncle Park picks up, honestly, since it’s past 10. The driver is just a bit older than his parents, and he’s been the Lee family’s chauffeur since Jeno was 5. Uncle Park is basically like family, and Jeno quickly explains the situation. Uncle Park agrees with much less resistance than Jeno had been preparing for, for which he’s grateful. It takes him a while to arrive, during which Jeno changes out of his sweatpants into a pair of faded ripped jeans he wore a couple days ago and a black T-shirt.

Grabbing his favourite leather jacket off the coat rack, he pulls it over his arms, making his way hurriedly to his parents’ bedroom. He’s relieved to see the lights are off, cautiously opening the door before slipping in. The drawer is a bit sticky, and he cringes at the sound it makes. His mother stirs, but otherwise makes no move to get up, so he sighs inwardly and grabs the car keys from the drawer, leaving before either of his parents wake

He waits for Uncle Park at the gate, which he’s unlocked to make it faster for Uncle Park to drive in on his motorcycle. He passes the car keys to Uncle Park and says, “Sorry, Uncle, I’m in kind of a rush.”

Uncle Park nods in understanding, no questions asked, not even when Jeno asks him not to let his parents know. He’s grateful for Uncle Park’s discreet way of doing things and how he’s always acted as if he were part of the family. As someone who grew up an only child, Uncle Park was one of Jeno’s oldest friends.

Jeno stares wistfully out the window, chin resting on his fist, and Uncle Park casts a quick glance at him when the car stops at a red light. The bright yellow-hued light of the streetlamps glinting off the waxy green leaves of the trees planted by the roadside is too blinding to look at directly, so Jeno settles for watching the shrubs pass by in a blur when the car starts up again.

Eyes fixed on the road once more, Uncle Park asks, “Who are we picking up?”

“My partner,” Jeno replies, heart twinging. “Y/n.”

Uncle Park hums softly, thinking. “The two of you have been dating for a while, yes?”

Jeno nods. “Two years.”

The sound of the blinker ticking as Uncle Park switches it on, turning left on a stretch of the road into an alleyway, fills the silence. Uncle Park glances at the GPS as the navigating app announces that they are 800 metres away from their destination.

When the car finally stops moving, having arrived at the party location, Jeno immediately unfastens the buckle, hands moving from the seatbelt to the door handle in one swift movement, exiting without a goodbye.

He all but runs up to the door, ringing the doorbell and tapping his foot anxiously. Lips downturned and brows furrowed, his expression deters whoever it is that opens the door from making any sort of conversation.

“What–” Jeno brushes past them without a word, fingers playing with his phone cover in his pocket, slightly overwhelmed by the sound and lights. The smell of alcohol is nauseating, but Jeno’s just grateful he doesn’t smell cigarette smoke.

“Nojam? What are you doing here?” Of course Donghyuck’s been invited to this party. Jeno has yet to hear of a party Donghyuck hasn’t been invited to, although obviously he doesn’t attend every single one of them.

“Looking for my partner,” Jeno grits out, quietly seething. Donghyuck seems to notice the fury in his eyes, because the uncertain smile immediately falls from his face, replaced by a more serious expression. Some semblance of sobriety returns to him, and despite how he’s swaying on his feet, his words are clear.

“Should be this way, they’re with some of their friends.”

Jeno jerks his head for Donghyuck to lead the way, and they squeeze past the dancing teenagers packing the hallway and living room. There you stand, then, in the kitchen. In fact, “stand” is a generous way to describe it, because you’re barely upright, head on someone else’s shoulder, fingers walking up your friend’s elbow dazedly as they prepare for their turn at beer pong.

Jeno’s absolutely floored. He stands there frozen to the spot, trying not to think about the reddish hue of your cheeks or your glistening lips, sparkling in the kitchen light. He briefly wonders how much you’ve drunk, since he’s pretty sure you have a decently high alcohol tolerance, and he doesn’t want you to damage your liver—trust him to be thinking about something like that at a time like this.

He clenches his hand to pull himself out of his thoughts, taking long strides towards you to peel you off your friend. You cling to them like an octopus, as if your limbs are covered in suction cups and removing them would hurt you grievously.

With difficulty, Jeno manages to wrangle you into a position resembling standing, your left arm slung over his left shoulder. His left arm keeps it there, his right arm tucked around your waist to support your weight.

”Sorry guys, my boyfriend’s here,” you slur. “Gotta go home now.” Everyone looks at Jeno, then a wide smile spreads across one of your friend’s faces, the one Jeno doesn’t really like; he thinks her name might be Min-jeong. He doesn’t suppose it matters.

Min-jeong smiles slyly, coming around the table to stand in front of Jeno. She’s shorter than him, and he looks down at her as she leans back against the table on her hands. “Leaving so soon? C’mon, you just arrived. At least give us a show.” She cocks her head to her side. “Gonna give Y/n a kiss?”

The crowd’s kind of tipsy and very riled up, and there are too many interested and curious eyes on Jeno for him to be comfortable. He glances around, wondering how quickly he can move with you barely conscious, wanting to leave as soon as possible.

”No, I don’t think I will,” he says slowly, carefully, each word measured while he backs away like a hunter who’s facing a deadly predator.

But before he can take his leave, the crowd starts chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” It starts out softly, growing in volume until Min-jeong adds to it, leaning in, the mischievous glint in her eye glittering.

Jeno casts a panicked look at you, but you don’t seem to be processing any of what is happening. He leans into you, brushing the hair sticking to your face and tucking it behind your ear with his free hand, lips brushing against your ear as he asks, “Do you want to?”

He’s aware that consent given while drunk is dubious at best, but he’ll admit that this is a desire he’s secretly harboured for a long time, so he figures it can’t hurt to ask.

To his surprise, you shake your head vehemently, so hard you almost puke, doubled over as a wave of nausea crashes over you. Jeno bites his lip to shove the hurt surging upwards aside, like tangled thread under a carpet, nodding instead to hide his feelings.

“Okay. Let’s go home then.” You nod, hands clutching onto whatever support Jeno provides you with as you leave. Min-jeong watches the two of you leave with an expression Jeno can’t decipher, and the crowd parts reluctantly to let you pass.

Donghyuck watches the two of you leave, seeing both of you to the door. He says nothing when Jeno steps outside, but he places a hand on Jeno’s shoulder with a look, and Jeno frowns and turns away.

He knows Donghyuck thinks he’s a fool. He’ll deal with that knowledge when he’s home. For now, all that matters is getting you home.

—

Having dropped you off, Uncle Park drops Jeno back off at home. Jeno waves goodbye to him, helping to close the gate and returning the car keys all in a daze, before he finally makes it to his room. He doesn’t even manage to get on the bed, simply stumbling into his room and shutting the door behind him before sinking down next to the door, back pressed against the wall.

He tilts his head up, shutting his eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over him. He thinks back to your reaction when he asked if you wanted a kiss, and the ache in his heart is so great that his only response is to laugh bitterly and drag a tired hand over his face.

His fingers reach for his phone before he can think any better of it, and he presses the call button next to Donghyuck’s contact subconsciously.

The phone rings once, twice, then Donghyuck picks up. “Nojam?”

A sigh of relief. Then: “Donghyuck.”

It’s said softly, with all his pain and exhaustion exhaled in the single declaration of Donghyuck’s name. Donghyuck hesitates before replying.

”You okay?”

Jeno murmurs vaguely.

”Okay, give me a couple minutes to say goodbye to everyone and then I’m leaving this party, do you want me to come find you?”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

”Do you want to stay on call with me while I say goodbye or would you rather I call you back?”

“Stay on call.”

“Okay.” Donghyuck doesn’t mute himself, so Jeno can hear the faraway sounds of farewell and talking as he removes himself from the function, and Donghyuck dictates what he’s doing as he connects his Bluetooth earbuds, slips his phone into his pocket, and gets on the bicycle to cycle home.

There’s a few minutes of silence before Donghyuck asks, “So what’s up?”

All Jeno really wants to do is sit in silence and let the thoughts wash over him, in complete and utter silence while he attempts to sort through the maze of his own thoughts, through the mess he can barely extricate himself from.

He imagines the steady rhythm of Donghyuck’s legs pumping as he cycles along the path, presses a finger to the pulse point on his wrist until he hears it, the sound of his own heart beating. It’s fighting so hard to keep him alive, and for a moment Jeno wonders why. He wonders what could possibly be worth it. Then Donghyuck speaks, soothing and cautious, like a balm on a sore, and Jeno permits himself to relax into the sound of Donghyuck’s voice.

”That was a pretty tame birthday party, as all things go,” Donghyuck’s saying, but Jeno’s only half-listening. The words are background noise to Jeno’s thoughts, and finally he finds his voice again.

”Hyuck,” he croaks out, then clears his throat. Donghyuck falls silent, patiently waiting for Jeno to continue.

”I… I don’t know where to start.”

“Usually people start from the beginning,” Donghyuck quips.

Jeno laughs weakly, then shakes his head. “That’s the thing. I just– I don’t even know when it started.”

He describes to Donghyuck how, when he took you home, he stood at your doorstep and waited while you fumbled with the keys and finally managed to unlock the door. When he moved in to give you a hug, you flinched away from him, as if his touch would scorch you.

He moved away hesitantly, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole way home, sifting through memories like sand through a sieve, trying to remember the last time you had been physically affectionate towards him. Perhaps once or twice at the beginning, but you only ever gave him brief side hugs, never even a kiss on the cheek, much less a kiss on the lips.

It hadn’t bothered him previously, not until you were actively avoiding physical contact like it would kill you to accept his touch. You had never wanted to get too physically intimate with Jeno, which he respected, and so had never pushed for it, but he was only now realising that it hurt him more than he cared to admit.

He doesn’t think you have ever loved him the way he’s loved you.

The confession barely makes it out of his mouth, hoarse and disbelieving, and he can hardly bring himself to believe what he is saying. It’s a coping mechanism, because if he were to admit the truth to himself, he would have to let go of the cup he’s been desperately clinging onto.

The milk in his hands has begun to sour, or, to be more precise, it has been in the process of souring for some time. Jeno was just too blind to notice it.

Donghyuck hops off his bicycle and lands softly on his feet, the sound muffled by his shoes. Jeno hears the clinking of metal chains as Donghyuck locks up the bicycle, walking towards his house.

The rustling of the wind suddenly disappears when Donghyuck enters the elevator, replaced by a stifling, suffocating emptiness.

When Donghyuck speaks, it sounds like he is tenderly approaching a wounded animal, attempting to coax it out with slow, measured syllables and kind words.

”Jeno… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising? It’s not your fault.”

“I feel sorry for you. I’m sorry that you had to experience this, to learn this lesson about love the painful way. I wish I could have spared you the heartbreak.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“No, I couldn’t.” A ‘ding’ sound. Donghyuck steps out of the elevator. “But I wish I had, all the same. I am proud of you for acknowledging your feelings and verbalising them. I think speaking them aloud is half the battle won.”

“What’s the other half?”

Donghyuck doesn’t speak, and Jeno pays attention instead to the sounds in the background. The sound of keys turning in the lock. The creaking of a hinge. The click of the light switch.

“Telling Y/n about it. They need to know how you feel. The two of you are the only ones who can do anything about this. I can listen to you, but there’s nothing I can do to fix it if the two of you just want to pretend like nothing’s wrong.”

The line goes silent for a few heartbeats.

Then, “I hate it when Jaem’s right.”

“About what?”

“The fact that you can give good advice, and how I always want to avoid taking it.”

Donghyuck laughs, tired but triumphant all the same. “Jaem’s always right.”

“… I know.”

“Go talk to Y/n.”

“I will. Good night, Hyuck.”

Jeno hangs up before Donghyuck can reply. “Night, Jeno,” he whispers into the phone before getting ready to sleep.

—

jen 🩵: we need to talk

You only see the text when you wake up the morning after.

you: …? you: about what, and when?

The reply comes almost instantly. The grey bubble appears as Jeno types, disappearing for a second before he sends you a text.

jen 🩵: later, my place, if it works? jen 🩵: i'll ask uncle park to pick you up

You shut your eyes, tilting your head back, the haze infringing on your peripheral vision threatening to creep across your eyelids like a parasite. The throbbing headache in the back of your mind doesn’t help, insistent and unrelenting, and you raise your hand to rub your temple. But it only intensifies the pain, and you wince, the tension in your temple increasing, and your hand falls to your side in annoyance.

Sighing, you type out an “ok” and plug your phone in. Pulling yourself to your feet, you head over to the kitchen. The kitchen is empty; your parents must have gone to drop your little brother off at some class. The almost-silent house is a stark contrast to last night, blurry and messy in your memories, a watercolour splash of noises and lights.

You open a window for some fresh air, relieved at the sound of birds chirping and the rustling of the leaves as a gentle breeze blows in. It feels grounding, dragging you out of your hangover stupor, quiet and real all at once.

You open a sachet of instant coffee powder, hoping your father won’t mind, pouring hot water into the mug and stirring it mindlessly. The bitter aroma of unsweetened coffee brew seeps into your nostrils, and you spoon copious amounts of sugar and so much milk into the coffee that it goes from almost-black to latte-light brown, holding the mug to your lips for a sip.

Satisfied with the taste, you hum softly as you begin putting away the sugar and milk. Running a hand through your hair, you sniff under your armpits and cringe. You hadn’t had the energy to shower the day before, so you’d just grabbed a pillow and wrapped it in a clean hoodie and slept on the floor.

Now you’re paying the price for that decision, the sweat from last night sticking to you, your clothes pressed uncomfortably to your skin. Rolling your head to get rid of the tension in your neck, you slowly head to the shower.

Uncle Park arrives at about the same time that you’ve changed out from the clothes from the night before, hair freshly and blow-dried, smelling like shampoo and fresh laundry. The tension in your shoulders has eased slightly, but the ache from sleeping on the floor is still there. You’re in as good of a mood as you can be, what with your hangover and the impending conversation hanging over your head.

You’re apprehensive but too busy trying to sift through the fuzzy memories from the previous night to actually sit with the sinking feeling deep in your stomach. The black pit hovers there, feather-light and not concrete enough for you to actually feel it in your heart.

The ride to Jeno’s house is quiet, with nothing but the sound of the radio and the air-conditioning as background noise. You take the time to look out the window, appreciating the view as it fades into a blur of green and pink and blue, much like the thoughts in your head, going too fast for you to actually take stock of them.

Jeno comes to greet you at the door. You hesitate when you notice the way his lips press together instead of speaking, the muscle in his jaw tense, and you hover in the doorway.

“Are you okay?” you ask carefully, gauging the situation.

The muscle in Jeno’s jaw ticks. His eyes, originally fixed on the door, flick to meet your own for a moment before he determinedly tears them away. In that split second, you catch hurt and anger written in his gaze, valiantly suppressed but poorly contained.

”Let’s go up to your room.” You reach out to pry his grip from the doorknob, but he shuts and locks the door too quickly for you to do so, turning his back on you, trapezii flexed and riding up to his ears.

The door to his room swings open and he catches it just in time before it slams against the doorstopper, as if remembering just in time that his parents are home.

”Sit,” he instructs, and you don’t fight him. He takes a seat on his chair, wheeling it over next to the bed, where you’re sitting.

You crack your knuckles nervously, the pop resounding in the empty room, and Jeno inhales deeply. “How’s the hangover?”

”Better,” you mutter. “I had some coffee this morning, so the headache’s gotten a lot better. Feels less like there’s construction going on inside my skull and drilling holes into my brain.”

”Good.” These are surprisingly few words even for Jeno, who’s always been notoriously quiet, especially when he sees you. Aside from the poorly concealed smiles he bestows upon you when he thinks you’re not looking—you usually aren’t, you’ve just happened to catch him enough times to surmise that this must be a common occurrence.

“But that’s not what you wanted to talk about,” you say, crossing your legs and leaning back slightly, just enough to rest your weight on your hands and tilt your neck up.

”Yes. I wanted to talk about– do you remember what happened yesterday?” he asks abruptly, cutting himself off. You shake your head in response. “Let me remind you. In summary, you, firstly, went to a party and got shit-faced drunk, so drunk that you could barely pronounce your own name, by the way. Secondly, you called me to ask why I was saved with a heart in your phone, and third, almost puked when I leaned in to ask if you were fine with me kissing you.”

”Jen–“

Jeno flinches. He flinches, eyes shut and eyelids pressed tightly together, the signature upside-down crescent of his closed eyes appearing, his body bracing against the sound of his name. You retract the hand you’d stretched out towards him, both hands instead finding rest on your knees, rubbing circles into the denim fabric.

“Please, let me finish.” His voice almost cracks, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “I promise I’ll hear you out after this, but you need to listen to my full perspective on the story first.”

You swallow the defensive words rising up in your throat, and nod resolutely.

“Everyone was chanting, ‘kiss, kiss, kiss’—” this much, at least, you do remember—“ and I asked if you were okay with it, and you shook your head so vehemently I was sure you were going to puke out the entire contents of your stomach. So obviously we didn’t kiss, but then Uncle Park drove us back to your place, and when I went to drop you off at the door you pulled away so quickly from me.”

Then his composure does fracture, finally, and Jeno’s voice properly cracks when he looks at you, gaze pleading. “Please, doll, tell me—why did you flinch away? Why is it that, for the 1 and a half years we’ve been dating, you’ve never said you want to kiss me, even when I see the longing way you watch kiss scenes in romcoms? Please,” he says, begging now, “tell me. I need to know.”

“I–” Words escape you. Tired already, you run a hand through your hair. “It just never came up, it’s not like I’m averse to the thought of kissing you. If this was a problem, why has it taken this long to come up?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno responds honestly. “I’m still… I don’t know, maybe I didn’t want to think about it, maybe I brushed off the thought whenever it came to the forefront of my mind, I don’t know!” His voice is shrill, having risen in volume and pitch, and normally you would reach forward to place your hands over his and ask him to calm down, but you get the feeling that now is really not the time.

“Jen… do you want a kiss?” He’s barely nodded before your hands are at the nape of his neck, pulling him gently in towards you, mouth fused against his. It’s harsh and breathless, and when Jeno tears away there are tears in his eyes, his cheeks are flushed, and he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut as he slams his palms on the bed, barely missing your thighs, and you’re startled at the fury radiating off him.

“You always do this! You don’t do something, and then I bring it up to you, and then you try to fix it, but by then it’s too late. Don’t you get it?”

“That’s how a relationship works, Jen, you tell me what you want and then I work to fix it–”

“Don’t call me that!”

There’s a pause, fraught and delicate, and then you speak to break the silence.

“Don’t call you Jen?”

He nods, chest heaving. “Just– don’t. Please,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Okay, then. Jeno. What would you prefer I do?”

“I want you to want it. It’s not about the doing so much as the wanting—I want you to want it as much as I do, to want to show me off and do nice things for me and show up to my matches and—I just want you to want me as much as I want you.”

“And how am I supposed to do that, Jen? Jeno,” you immediately correct yourself, before he has a chance to do it for you. “I can’t read your mind. I don’t magically know what you want.”

“I don’t magically know what you want either. But I watch, I pay attention, I notice, and whenever I see something that makes you happy I make a note of it and then I come back to it, to make you happy again and again, because that’s what makes me happy. But you’ve never actually looked at me longer than you had to, did you?”

You think you did. At the beginning, maybe, when the thought that Jeno Lee wanted you to date him and the idea of it was so intoxicating that you got drunk on just the idea of it. You used to watch him watch you with a sense of incredulity and unbelief, that this boy, all hard angles and unfeeling looks, would look at you with such tender awe in his eyes, that you could be attractive to someone like him.

It’s hard for you to admit that Jeno’s not the only one with a picturesque dream of high school sweethearts growing old and getting married. Maybe, despite the fact that you haven’t felt insecure since you became “popular”, you liked the fact that someone as attractive as Jeno liked you more than you liked him.

But maybe that was exactly what he was saying, that you were only ever in love with the idea of him rather than actually liking him for the person he was. Jeno knows so much about you. Yet, if you had to answer even one question about him you know you would be hard-pressed to come up with the correct answer.

“You could give everything to me, but it means nothing if your heart’s not in it.”

You’ve never been the one to give extravagant gifts or lovebomb—that’s Jeno’s job and you both know it. He’s the one with the money, with the means, with the intimidating presence and the intense, brooding allure of a man with nothing much to say. Yet, especially as of late, you’ve been spending an indeterminate proportion of your allowance paying for gifts to appease Jeno, after multiple instances of being late or forgetting appointments.

Jeno doesn’t want the gifts, you realise now. All he wanted was your heart.

Jeno’s always been scared to hurt you. You, with your bright light and your warmth, the light in your eyes that he refuses to see snuffed out, the way you pause when you’re thinking and he swears he can see the gears turning in your head.

But he should have protected himself instead. In trying to shield your light with a glass case, he didn’t even notice the frosted glass wall that you’d unknowingly erected, turning your flame away, disinterested in him.

“Let’s break up.”

You barely process what Jeno says, already feeling like you’re drowning, like the water’s muffling the sound of glass shattering, your perfect snowglobe of dreams dashed to pieces. Jeno’s quick to push you away before you can tip the glass of milk over. Of course there’s always saving it; you could if you really wanted to, but the niggling question “do you?” remains at the back of mind and Jeno decides to make that decision for you.

After all, it's easier if he lets the glass fall from his hands, crashing into the ground, deafening although it feels far away, like it’s happening to someone else and not you.

The meaningless lies come unravelling, the entire tapestry coming apart the moment that you admit to yourself that this whole relationship has been built on lies, that even though Jeno's been hopelessly in love with you from the start, your heart has never belonged to him.

All you have are endless “sorry”s spilling from your lips, said so much it’s completely lost its meaning. But the emotion welling up in your chest is hard to place and harder to name, and so the flimsy word is all you can offer.

“Stop apologising!” Jeno is taken aback by the volume of his own voice, louder than it’s ever been even with how much his volume has gone up. It’s a phrase he’s said often, but this time there’s anger and hurt in his voice, jagged and rough like his breathing, his fists clenched by his side.

Tears threaten to roll down your cheek, but you blink them back determinedly, biting your lip so hard it draws blood. Jeno wants to reach for your lips to wipe away the blood but he stops himself, digging his nails so hard into his palms that he knows they’ll leave reddish, crescent-shaped marks.

“I’m–” you falter as you bite back another apology. “It’s my fault,” you say instead. “I don’t– could we ever fix this?”

Jeno shakes his head, silent tears streaming down his face. “Even if we could,” he rasps, voice hoarse from the shouting, “I wouldn’t want to. I wouldn’t want to build this relationship on lies.”

You reach out to touch his face, and although something in his gaze flickers, like he’s just been stabbed, he doesn’t pull away, letting you brush your thumb across his cheek and wipe away his tears.

”Fuck, Jeno, I’m sorry for putting you through all this. I never should have let it turn out this way.”

He leans into your touch, like it’s the last time he’ll ever allow it, a welcome sensation that’s also a farewell, and you hold him as hard as you dare to. Fingers trembling, licking your lips and tasting the dried blood there, you hold Jeno for as long as he lets you, until the tears stop streaming down his eyes and he stands up, swiping viciously at his tears with his shirt sleeves, and you take that as your cue to leave.

”I won’t see you out,” he says stiffly, and you don’t push further. One hand on the door handle, you turn over your shoulder just to look at him, but Jeno doesn’t look away from the wall. You murmur a soft “goodbye” you’re not sure he catches, and then you walk out of Jeno’s life as suddenly as the day you walked into it, just like a hurricane.

—

“No, that’s the wrong book. It’s the wrong author, look!” A familiar voice dissolves into laughter, and Jeno looks up from his phone, heart stuttering to a stop.

There you stand, tucked among the shelves of a bookstore, a pop of colour against the neutral brown tones of the wooden shelves and dark blue hues of galaxy-themed book covers. You’ve always been like that, the lone sunflower in a field of wild grass, strikingly outstanding for reasons unfathomable to Jeno.

Your eyes are crinkled up like they always do whenever you smile genuinely, something that used to happen often, but something that Jeno hasn’t seen in months. Your touch is soft, gentle, Jeno could tell—not the careless way you hit people when you’re laughing wholeheartedly, but intentional and intimate. There is love in the way you hesitate for a fraction of a second before placing your hand on your companion’s wrist, guiding them away from the wrong shelf.

As you turn, your gaze goes past Jeno, and he can tell when is the exact moment that you make the realisation, tensing up ever-so-slightly as your eyes turn back to him. Your head never shifts, but your eyes flick towards him reflexively, finding his steady, unrelenting gaze watching you.

Those seconds seem to stretch forever, and Jeno hardly realises he’s holding his breath until you smile, easing the tension in the air.

“Jeno.” There’s a kind of peacefulness in the way you speak, a gentle touch to your movements. Your gaze rests on him comfortably, trailing down his body to take all of him in. You inhale softly, deeply, as if taking him in by sight is not enough; you have to breathe his scent in as well. When he calls your name, your heart shudders at the unfamiliarity.

It had been a long time since he last called your name. He used to call you “doll”, and after it ended, he never called you at all.

Jeno smiles, melancholy lining the creases formed by his eyes. “You found someone.”

You nod. “I did.”

“Someone you love?”

“Enough,” you respond. “I love him enough for it to be worth it. The late nights, putting down whatever is on hand, the cancelling or rescheduling of plans, all of it is worth it.”

“Was I ever worth it to you?”

It is your turn to smile then, a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, dampened by the sadness in your gaze. You nod, slowly, and Jeno swallows the lump in his throat as he awaits your reply.

“Always. You were always worth it to me. I don’t deal in losses, Jen.”

Jen. Jeno’s heart beats in trepidation, as if beating too fast might make it leap right out of his chest and into your hands. One word is enough to claw at the barely healed scars on his heart, the newly-formed skin that would tear apart with just one reminder of what the two of you used to be.

”I know that.” Jeno knows—knew—many things about you before the breakup, learned every habit of yours until he could recognise you in any crowd, pinpoint every habit and quirk you didn’t even know you had. Yet it wasn’t enough for you to stay. You claimed it had been worth it, but at the end of the day you had still left him.

“When did it stop being worth it?”

You hesitate this time before you reply. “I can’t say for sure,” when I fell out of love rests on the tip of your tongue, but the words are barbed and laced with poison, and you won’t ruin Jeno by speaking aloud the truth he already knows.

“Thank you. For– for everything.”

You’ve played this scene out countless times in your head ever since you got with your new partner. You’re sure Jeno has, too, but it’s never gone like this in the endless possible scenarios you’ve run through your mind while laying awake at night, eyes staring at the ceiling through the darkness. In some versions, he asks you to come back. In most versions, you decline. Of course, there are versions where you say yes. There are also versions where he doesn’t beg you to return. Instead, he’s cold and indifferent, the same thing you’ve always been afraid of when you watch him with other people.

But never in a million years had you imagined that he would thank you for, in his words, everything. The breakup broke you, but it shattered him, ripped apart the perfect life you had been witness to. Everything in his life, meticulously arranged and precariously balanced, with you as its shaky foundation. When that foundation was taken down, everything else came crashing down on him, the façade of his happiness brutally torn down.

So for him to be thanking you, he must have had to wipe up the milk spilt all over the floor, picked up the broken pieces of glass with trembling hands and wiped everything clean before the milk had time to sour and curdle.

”I’m glad you’re okay. I’m sorry to have left so abruptly.”

To your surprise, Jeno shakes his head. “No need to apologise.” A familiar refrain to you, one that was often repeated towards the end of your relationship. “What you did hurt me, but it worked out for the better. I wish you nothing but happiness.”

Your gut twists and turns. “I wish you happiness too.”

“This is our goodbye then. I’ll be leaving the city for university, and I don’t know if I’ll come back, or if I’ll ever see you again.”

He turns to leave, but you grab his hand. He freezes and you pull him into a tight embrace before he can push you away, and he stiffens further in your touch, if that’s even possible.

”Goodbye, Jeno Lee.”

Then you are gone, hand slipping easily in your companion’s, tears brimming in your eyes as you force a lighthearted smile and glance up at him.

”Who was that?” Jeno hears vaguely as you walk away.

”No one of importance anymore.”

—

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