kimchi

could any uttered apology ever be enough? kimchi. s!her. adult. writer. tracking #orderforkimchi

[planetkiimchi]

just updated my carrd. some basic things:

will no longer be writing for nct after agtlr, no longer writing for stray kids after my felix wip

will be incredibly inactive. life is very busy right now and i only anticipate it to get worse. going to get more into reading probably, since that's just easier for me

hope everyone is doing well <3 [prev pinned]

[achillesinhighheels]

sorry i never replied. everyday is blending together and i'm losing sense of time

[imsobadatnicknames2]

I know I already made a post to this effect but it's so baffling to me when someone defends the fact that headphone jacks are slowly but surely getting phased out by smartphone manufacturers with some variations of "wireless headphones are more convenient anyway" bc like. If we're talking about convenience what I like about wired headphones is that they conveniently have a single plug that makes the same damn pair of headphones universally compatible with every single audio-output-capable device I own, from my phone and my computer to my fucking gameboy and my casette player, it doesn't get any more convenient than that.

[planetkiimchi]

the first drops of rain | k.mg

summary — mingyu's your first love. your first date with him could be described as fairytale like, at least until it begins raining. even then, maybe the rain is a paid actor, teaching you to slow down in your fast-paced student life.

featuring: mingyu x gn!reader, highschool au

word count: 2729 words

a/n: first seventeen work! kinda thought my first svt work would be seokmin or minghao but HAHA we’re here instead with a mingyu work. it’s based off a very precious memory of mine, and i felt like mingyu’s personality was the most similar to the guy i went out with <3

mingyu: we’re meeting at the start of the trail at 9, right?

You react to his message with a thumbs up, pulling up your shoes and glancing outside. The start of the trail is only a few hundred metres away from your house, so you’re not in a rush.

Mingyu asked you out on this date a few months ago, but you were overseas during the winter break, and weren’t able to go out with him. After a few months of discussing where to go, you finally settled on going cycling with him.

The sun rose quite a while ago, and the temperature is rather warm, but you figure that it’ll all be fine.

You check the time again and head downstairs, cycling over to the subway station to meet Mingyu.

You’re a few minutes late, so you expect to see Mingyu waiting there when you arrive, an apology already on the tip of your tongue, but you’re surprised when he’s not.

In fact, you have to wait another ten minutes before he finally arrives, a little out of breath and completely lost, without a bicycle. He smiles sheepishly at you, tucking his hands into his pockets.

He mumbles a “sorry”, curly hair falling in his eyes as he looks earnestly at you, shoulders raised in his nervousness.

Your annoyance at his tardiness dissipates once you see him in this state, genuinely apologetic and well-meaning. You let a soft sigh escape your lips. It’s okay.

Mingyu raises his phone and hesitantly says he needs to pick up his bike.

You’re about to reply when an old lady comes up to you, one hand clutching her grocery stroller. She politely asks if you know where the Flower Market is?

You nod. It’s right next to your apartment block, and you often go there to buy groceries yourself. You point the lady in the direction of the market, turning back to Mingyu.

Once again, before you can speak, Mingyu jerks his head at the stairs that the old lady has to climb up to get out of the subway station and onto the pavement. She lifts up the grocery stroller, and you rush to help her with it.

She smiles at you. Thank you.

You smile back. No problem.

Tilting your head towards the stairs, you beckon Mingyu to follow. The bicycles are located at the lowest level of the apartment block directly opposite yours, so you’re heading in the same direction as the lady anyway.

Once you’ve helped the old lady get her stroller up to the top of the stairs, you wave goodbye to her, prepared to head back down the flight of stairs to get your bicycle.

Fortunately for you, you don’t have to. Mingyu holds your bicycle in his hands, setting it down at the top of the stairs, and your heart warms, just a little.

It takes a longer time to figure out how the bike sharing system works than you thought it would. Mingyu scans the QR code on the back of the bicycle, frowning as he navigates the app, trying to figure out how the payment works. You stand to the side, holding on to your bicycle’s handlebars, watching his eyebrows knit themselves into a knot, before the wrinkles in his forehead slowly iron out when he finally gets the app to work.

All set? you ask.

Mingyu nods. All set.

You climb onto your bicycle, eager to head off, and Mingyu follows behind.

With the sun beating down on your backs, the two of you start off on the trail, figuring out a pace that works for both of you. You haven’t cycled in a long time, and you can’t go too slow, or you’ll be too unsteady for both of you to ride side-by-side on the narrow path.

The greenery on both sides of the trail helps to keep the temperature down, and you’re grateful for the shade it provides in the heat of summer. Next to you, Mingyu asks how school has been. You reply with one of those blasé “school is good” type of answers, but he doesn’t accept that.

Mingyu keeps prodding.

And, with your feet pedalling hard underneath you and the glare of the blue sky overhead, you find yourself opening up.

It’s started drizzling slightly when you reach the bicycle racks, so you chain your bicycles up and head to the nearby subway station to seek shelter. While you’re standing there, you ask Mingyu where he wants to go.

Originally, you wanted to go to watch a movie, but since the date was so impromptu, you didn’t check the movie timings out beforehand, so now you realise that none of the timings are convenient for you.

It’s fine, Mingyu insists. He’ll figure something out.

It doesn’t take long before he’s dragging you down another path you didn’t notice earlier, one that leads to a train station that’s no longer in use. Two carriages of the trains are left on the tracks as a memorial to the old train station, and despite the red tape covering the doors, Mingyu climbs up into the carriage.

You’re standing on the edges of the train tracks, watching him grin at you from inside. He leaps from the seat with a yelp, almost knocking his head, and he quickly exits the carriage.

What’s wrong? you ask.

He lifts his hand to show you that the seat was wet.

You laugh whole-heartedly and he pouts, but the joy in his eyes betrays him. His poorly-concealed excitement only grows when he looks ahead to see a bridge, breaking out into a run towards it.

You attempt to follow him, still balancing on the edges of the train tracks, quickly giving up when he doesn’t show any signs of waiting for you.

He turns around at the start of the bridge, and you grin at him as you step up onto the train tracks. He steps onto the edge next to yours, your feet moving in sync along those parallel metal lines drawn across the wooden tiles, his arms waving wildly as he fails to keep his balance.

Mingyu shakes his head out when he’s fallen three times, running his hand through his hair, glancing at you with the widest smile you’ve ever seen.

Your sunshine. That’s what he is, walking alongside you as you tread across the train tracks, hands carefully tucked into his pockets, watching your every step.

He speeds up when you hop off the tracks, and you follow him into a neighbourhood with two-story houses. Plants line the sidewalks, with overgrown creepers crawling up the walls and trees overhead shading you from the sun.

He points at the sign and tells you he came here once before, after his mother scolded him. It’s dangerously close to his home, a place that contains memories you can’t be a part of, a place you’re not sure you’re ready to intrude into.

You do anyway.

Mingyu leads you to the playground he’s only been to once before, when he was running away from his mother, and you pass by the empty basketball court.

You love basketball, you tell him, your steps slowing down. He whirls on his heel, looking up at the hoops, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand. Really?

Really, you say. You tell him how you used to play basketball during your half-hour long recess in elementary school instead of eating. Even though you were really bad and only played with a group of 5-6 other friends, it was still fun.

He understands.

You teach him how to climb onto the roof of the playground, your hands and feet making holds out of the railings and slides. You show him a view of the world that you loved as a kid, a view that makes you feel like you’re on top of the world. Like you’re unbeatable, invincible, and that the moment will last forever.

Slithering off the roof, you discreetly pull out your phone, but Mingyu spots you quickly enough. Don't film me, he pouts, eyebrows in a knot as his foot staggers around for a foothold.

You laugh and keep your camera pointed at him.

He hops down—ungracefully, you’d like to add; you think you were pretty graceful when jumping down yourself—and beckons you over with his hand.

Mingyu leads you to a sheltered area where the playground floor and gravel gives way to grass and soil, the trees overhead casting so much shade you get the impression that you’re in a rainforest. You can barely see past the crowns of the trees to the sky, which you’re sure is a shade of blue-grey. You can tell that it’s not raining, or the playground would be getting wet, but it isn’t quite sunny yet either.

The creak of a red swing brings your attention back to Mingyu. He smiles at you in warm invitation, and you take it, stepping up onto the swing. Your legs are on the left of his, your knees a fist’s width away from his. Opposite you, Mingyu lifts his eyes to yours and begins to speak.

How’s school, how’s life, how’s that toxic friend group in your dance club? he asks.

Stressful, interesting, shitty as ever, you reply.

He asks things like why, tell me more, is that leadership position working out for you?

You reply with much longer answers than you thought you would. The words flow from you like air leaking from a balloon with a hole. There’s so much pent-up frustration, bottled-up confusion, anxiety, envy, and even sadness you didn’t notice you were suppressing. They find their way out of your mouth in words you're surprised are coherent enough for him to understand, but somehow he manages it.

You’re not the only one telling stories, though. You ask Mingyu questions too, stuff like how’s being drama club president, do you like your juniors, what do you want to do at university?

And he, too, replies with amazing, I love them, I don't know but I’d like to be a counsellor someday.

And you learn.

From his smiles and nervous fidgeting and “um”s, you learn that he’s nervous. From the way he leans forward to talk to you and nods when you speak, you learn that his interest in you is genuine. From the tone of his voice and the smile in his eyes, you learn about his habits of joy and excitement. You pick apart his every move to learn something from it, absorbing a little more knowledge about him each time.

An hour or two passes. As it starts to drizzle again and lunch hour approaches, Mingyu gets up from the swing, not forgetting to hold it while you step off, and goes to the bench to get his tote bag before his things are drenched in the rain.

With a hand above your heads shielding you from the drizzle, the two of you half run-half walk to the mall nearby for lunch, raucous laughter echoing in your ears.

Mingyu offers to pay for your lunch thrice, and you refuse each time, reluctant to let him take money out of his allowance to pay for your meal. He insists you should let him pay for it, telling you that his father will give him more money. Still, you decline.

When he goes to visit the restroom, you quickly take your chance to buy your food before he gets back.

You take a seat successfully and wait for him to return, and he does—not without him trying to slide the bill into your bag first. After a while, he finally gives in, and the two of you settle down for lunch.

Lunch ends at around the same time the sky clears, and the two of you are rushing to climb onto your bicycles and leave before the rain starts up again. The weather has been unpredictable that morning, and you’re unwilling to take your chances. Instead of lingering around the mall, you’re unlocking your bicycle, fiddling with the stubborn lock, and Mingyu waits patiently beside you.

All set? he asks for the second time that day.

You reply the same way, All set.

Then you’re off, legs pedalling furiously, your balance miles better when you’re moving fast. In the morning, you had to keep swerving to avoid knocking into Mingyu at the slow pace you were going, but now you’re just trying to get home before it rains again. Your curfew is pretty early, and if you dally any longer, you’re definitely going to get an earful when you’re home.

Mingyu easily keeps pace with you, following your lead. From time to time, he’ll catch up and ride beside you for a stretch, and then you’ll pedal faster and he’ll fall behind again.

You feel the drizzle beginning when you ring your bell, bypassing yet another jogger on the trail. Cursing, you pick up speed, and Mingyu doesn’t question you as he follows behind.

The rain grows heavier more quickly than you’d expected, and soon there’s a steady stream of water raining down. You wipe futilely at your forehead from time to time, glasses sprayed with raindrops, and Mingyu calls out after you, laughing.

I’m not supposed to cycle in the rain, you tell him. My mum is going to kill me!

He seems to get it, but when you seek shelter under an overhead bridge to wipe your face with the remaining dry part of your T-shirt, he’s laughing at you.

You roll your eyes and point out the bits of water on his face, but he shrugs. You’re going to be cycling through the rain again anyway, so he doesn’t see the need to dry his face.

You clench your jaw, resolved to get home as soon as possible. The two of you climb back onto the bicycle, and start cycling home.

As if trying to deliberately annoy you, the downpour only gets heavier on your way home. It keeps coming down, and you fight to keep your balance and not skid on the watery path. You’re forced to slow down a little, your legs no longer pedalling as fast.

Your anxious heart begins to slow, and Mingyu's calm, sure voice carries over to you, despite the rain falling steadily around you. The sun is still high in the sky, and you wonder if there'll be a rainbow. That would be befitting for Mingyu, you think.

The whole way back, your mind is occupied by Mingyu's questions, his curiosity warming your heart. He genuinely cares about you, and this care distracts you from your fear of reaching home late. All thoughts of what your mother will say go out the window, until he's returned his bicycle and you've parked yours near the subway station, heading to the toilet to change into a new, dry shirt.

Mingyu didn't think to bring change, so he waits for you outside. He offers to help carry your bag, but you insist you can do it yourself. Just the thought that he's there, waiting outside, comforts you.

The two of you walk alongside each other on the way back to your home. You won't stop him from walking you home, especially not when you enjoy his company so much. He mentions something about his future family and you stiffen, afraid that he's jumping the gun. Your commitment issues start to resurface, your mind whirring as your heart jumps into panic mode, but you force yourself to take a few deep breaths and laugh.

He seems too happy to notice how forced your laugh is. Instead, he's asking for your mother's name, repeating it the whole way to make sure he's got it right.

Mrs? he asks.

Aunty, you correct.

Aunty, he repeats, and you nod your head. He asks for your father's, too, and he's still mumbling their names when you come up to the door. You ring the doorbell, and your mother comes to open the door, greeting Mingyu with a warm smile and a hearty welcome.

Come on in, she says. Mingyu shakes his head bashfully.

I've got to be going, he says. See you, Aunty.

You step into the house and wave at him until he's out of sight, your mother watching his retreating figure with you.

He seems like a nice boy, she says.

Oh, he is.

[planetkiimchi]

everyone knows | nanqiu

featuring: ruan nanzhu x lin qiushi

word count: 874

author’s note: thank you @icyminghao for recommending this to me in 2024… it’s the big 2026 and i spent the entire 2025 hols rereading this and now i’m writing fics i guess? this is book!canon because i don’t care what anyone says the changes they made in the show are stupid and i refuse to acknowledge anything that happened there.

Ruan Nanzhu only ever looks vulnerable in sleep—face relaxed, breathing slow, heartbeat steady. When awake he is a force to be reckoned with, the hard-cut lines of his jaw and the emotionless set of his eyebrows rendering him completely and utterly unapproachable. He is the type of person Lin Qiushi would admire from afar, watching his slender fingers as he picks locks with ease, moving with such fluidity and grace that his real gender would never be exposed.

Qiushi is nothing like Nanzhu. He’s plain, normal-looking, with an unremarkable face and nothing of value. Besides his cooking abilities, the only time Qiushi has ever felt seen was when Nanzhu first looked at him, dark eyes peering at him beneath fluttering eyelashes, snow softly drifting down the well-trodden, cobbled path, picking him apart with his eyes like a predator stalking its prey.

Ruan Nanzhu is dangerous. His quick, sharp tongue can get him out of and someone else into trouble with just a few simple words. His lean, clean-cut silhouette looks deceivingly fragile, but he can end a fight in two moves, swift and efficient. He scares Lin Qiushi, which is why Lin Qiushi would have preferred to maintain a distance from someone like him. But it is hard to ignore him, with that slow, seductive smile of his, the weighted comments he throws around so flippantly—”I need you”, “You’re an exception”, “We are fated partners”.

Qiushi wants to tell him to stop, to tell him to swallow his words like a bitter pill instead of releasing them as a cold, sharp breath, one that leaves him winded each time. But despite knowing how dangerous he is, how quickly he can make a decision to abandon Qiushi and leave him for dead, and how soon Qiushi would be gone if that ever were to happen, Qiushi doesn’t seem to care. He hangs on to Nanzhu’s every word like it’s a lifeline and he is drowning, because he is. Drowning under the weight of iron-leaden words that look—deceivingly—like they would float, gasping for air, clutching onto the only thing of familiarity.

Ruan Nanzhu is far from Lin Qiushi’s type. Cold, aloof, capable, he exists in a completely different world from Lin Qiushi’s. He lives in a world where death is commonplace and betrayal lies in wait around shady corners like a panther prowling the plains at night, silent, soft-footed, and lethal. Ruan Nanzhu trades information for safety, experience for money, and others’ lives for his own. In his world, competence comes first, because the cost of being wrong is your life. Constantly going into the door world isn’t a livelihood, it’s his life.

Qiushi knows nothing of what that’s like. He’s lived 26 long, uneventful years without the presence of the doors. With no family to speak of and hardly any friends, he’s gotten used to a life of solitude, where the only thing that helps him keep track of the time is the work he does for a living. His life is boring, but at least it’s safe—nothing like the world Nanzhu is accustomed to.

Ruan Nanzhu has known nothing but the door world. Ever since the age of eighteen, since his fateful first door, he has never had the experience of a normal life. Whatever semblance of a loving family he might have had was cruelly stripped away from him, forcing him to grow up before he had a chance to live out his youth, and now the only remaining sliver of it is the way his eyes light up when he sees Lin Qiushi.

Qiushi barely knows what he brings out of Nanzhu. His first impression of Nanzhu was the flirtatious girl lacking decorum or a sense of propriety, subtly hinting that she knew more than she let on, yet so stunningly elegant and cold. It took him weeks to realise that Nanzhu was only ever that flirtatious towards him, that Qiushi was the sole exception.

Ruan Nanzhu is a pillar of strength. For Obsidian, for the people who are now his family, he has to be. Stoic, strong, unshakeable, Ruan Nanzhu is the foundation on which Obsidian stands. His roots run deep, immovable and almost permanently joined with the group, as steady in the wind as a tower built to weather earthquakes.

And irrational though it may be, Qiushi wants to be that for Nanzhu—his pillar of strength, his place of comfort, a quiet place for Nanzhu to rest his tired head, a place where he can sink into sleep without worrying what will become of his family. Qiushi wants to be the only one that Nanzhu relies on, for the ever-independent, detached leader to be his to protect.

Ruan Nanzhu would let him. This everyone knows, except maybe Lin Qiushi. But on the nights when it gets really bad, when the nightmares plague his vision as he tries valiantly to sleep, when Ruan Nanzhu crawls into Lin Qiushi’s bed in the real world and pulls the covers over them, reaching over Lin Qiushi to pull his waist towards him, when the familiarity gets so overwhelmingly sweet Qiushi can scarcely breathe, Lin Qiushi learns that Ruan Nanzhu wants him just as badly, if not perhaps even more, than he wants him.

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[planetkiimchi]

the language of flowers | l.jn

featuring: film director!jeno x artist!reader (no gendered terms), jaemin, chenle and jisung cameos

summary — jeno doesn't speak of his affection in words. instead, he teaches you that the letter "L", in his love language of flowers, is for lavender lozenges, lily of the valleys, lockets and love.

author's note: damn the stars rlly aligned for me to post this one... originally was just gonna let it rot in my drafts but here i am posting it for @strxbrymochi 's bday. happy belated bday ki !! muah ily. also, this is part of the “and they were roommates” universe.

You should have been prepared for Jeno to be constantly busy when you started dating him four months ago. But it still comes as a shock to you when Jeno sits you down on a Saturday afternoon, a plate of violet cookies placed in front of you.

"I'm sorry," he begins. The moment the words escape his lips, you know what this is all about. Even so, you keep quiet, allowing him to continue with the apology he's prepared.

"I've been signed on to do a short film, and they want us to do the shooting overseas."

Although you knew it was coming, it still comes as a punch to your gut. Being away from Jeno is hard for you, and you don’t want to let him go.

"Where to?" you ask, the words coming out before you can stop them. It's too late now to tell him to stay, and you curse your brain for being two steps behind your stupid, ever-running mouth.

"London. It's a Victorian era film, they said, about flowers."

You permit yourself a small smile. "You love flowers."

Jeno looks down, nodding once. "Yep."

You reach over, tilting his chin up. "Look at me."

He does, eyes quivering anxiously while he waits for you to speak. You’re always the one talking—rambling—and now that you’re silent, it must scare him. You touch your forehead to his, and you feel him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Don't be sorry. Go, and enjoy yourself. Pour your soul into it. I'll wait for you to come back, okay? Don't forget me when you're busy working with everyone else."

Jeno lifts up his hand, and you press your palm against his, fingers interlocking with his. "Won't forget you," Jeno mumbles. "I couldn't ever forget you."

You grin, kissing his nose. "I know you wouldn't, silly boy."

—

As Jeno wheels his luggage over the smooth airport floor, he turns to look over at you, shuffling your feet and staring at the ground. He leans over, whispering in your ear, "Blue salvia."

Think of me. It's one of the first flowers that Jeno gave you before you started dating, a secret confession you only learnt about when he finally told you what it meant. Now, it serves as encouragement for you, something to accompany you when Jeno can't.

You smile at him, eyes wide and pensive. "Have a safe flight."

Jeno wraps you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. He doesn't know when he'll get to see you again, and he's not sure if he can survive these months without you. But for both of your sakes, he'll try.

"See you later, alligator."

"In a while, crocodile," you reply, the familiar words a promise between the two of you to weather this storm together.

—

Jeno sits in his seat, flipping his phone in his hand as he waits impatiently for the plane to take off. He tries his best not to look at the time, trying not to count down the seconds in his mind, trying not to keep track of how long it's been since he last saw your face.

An announcement starts to play, asking all passengers on the flight to turn their attention to the flight attendants as they begin the safety briefing. Jeno looks at the flight attendant, but doesn't process the words he's hearing, his mind too focused on the thought of you.

He slips his hand into his pocket, his fingers finding purchase. The plastic crinkles in his palm as he draws the object out, realising that it's a sweet. You told him once that you always have to bring sweets when you’re flying, to suck on in order to prevent your ears from getting blocked.

Jeno has packed the mints you asked him to, but they're in his bag. He swiped the lavender lozenges from your stash that morning, a keepsake to remember you by on the trip. As the pilot announces that the plane is taking off, Jeno pops the sweet into his mouth, the taste of sugar and lavender dissolving on his tongue.

He misses you.

—

Jeno is rudely awakened from his sleep by Jaemin shaking his shoulder. "Good morning," the elder says in a singsong voice, and Jeno's eyes spring open. He casts Jaemin a dirty look, but the latter just grins back at him.

Jeno sighs irritably, getting to his feet and hauling himself out of the bed. His heart's not in it—not in this trip, and maybe not even in the film—and Jaemin knows it.

However, it's not like either of them has a choice. Jaemin liked the script for this film, and Jeno did too. He had plenty of ideas for the film. Despite it being a small project, Jeno believes it can turn out much better than people are expecting it to.

The only issue is that it's not in Korea. It's far away from you, and Jeno needs you in more ways than one. You are his source of comfort and his pillar of strength, but most importantly, you are his muse. Without you, he finds himself unable to function, not knowing which step to take next. Because all he wants to do is find the path that leads back to you, even if it's the worst or stupidest decision he could possibly make.

Longing gnaws at him every day, carving a giant you-sized hole in his chest. He snatches his copy of the script off the table, and Jaemin takes a sweeping glance over the room.

"You've surprisingly tidy for someone who looks like he has zero motivation to keep things organised."

"That's because all of my shit is in my suitcase, so I'm prepared to go back at the shortest notice."

Jaemin rolls his eyes at Jeno's retort, clapping his hands together. "Alright, smartass. Get moving so you won't be the last one to arrive again."

Jeno tugs on his shoes, slipping his hands into his coat and taking an umbrella before getting out of the door.

—

Your takeout arrives earlier than expected, and you suddenly recall that you haven’t checked your mailbox in almost a week. Usually, Jeno's the one who does it, collecting mail while waiting for the elevator to arrive. When Jeno had just left, you had made a conscious effort to check the mailbox every day, but now that it's been almost a month, you’re starting to forget again.

You pick up the takeout box and place the food on the table before exiting again and heading downstairs to check the mailbox.

As per usual, the mailbox is full of bills, although usually the number of letters is much fewer. You mindlessly flip through the envelopes, not paying much attention, until one of the letters catches your eye.

It's sealed with wax, which strikes you as odd—who even uses wax to seal envelopes in this day and age?—and you place it on top of the other letters to examine later.

Upstairs, you neatly place the letters on the dining table for you to settle later on. Then, you turn your attention back to the sleek, cream-coloured envelope, intrigued.

You take a closer look at the wax seal, realising that it's a stamp of a flower bouquet. Could it be from Jeno? you wonder.

It doesn't seem very likely, however. Jeno has never been one for dramatic flair, and the simple yet elegant letter practically screams dramatic. There's only one person you knows that's this dramatic, and it's…

"Donghyuck," you breathe out. One of Jeno's college friends, Donghyuck is the definition of dramatic. He loves to exaggerate and make a big fuss out of everything, and it's entertaining to say the least. Donghyuck is also chattier than most, similar to yourself, and the two of you had hit it off when you first met at one of Jeno's college roommate's place.

Donghyuck is essentially your key to Jeno's past. Jeno has been a solitary creature for all the time you’ve known him, and he doesn't talk much about his life before he met you. Besides Jaemin and Donghyuck, Jeno doesn't initiate much interaction with his old friends either. His friends respect that, so you don’t know much about what Jeno was like in the past.

However, Donghyuck is different. He loves to bring up embarrassing memories, inside jokes, and tell people old stories about his friends. You have always loved to listen to Donghyuck talk about Jeno in college, or even his first impression of Jeno when he saw him around in high school.

If it weren't for Donghyuck, you might not even have known about Jeno's friends' whereabouts now, nor have gotten to know about them.

Remembering the letter in your hand, you hurriedly get a hairdryer to heat up the seal, gingerly removing it and opening up the letter.

Dear Jeno and Y/n, you are cordially invited to Lee Donghyuck and Ha Yeon-seok's wedding...

Wait, what? You read the first line again, your heart stopping when you see the word “wedding”. Wedding? It takes you a few seconds to remember that you’re 24 now, which is almost a reasonable age to get married at. Since neither you nor Jeno had dated anyone for a while before you got together, sometimes you forget that other people have been dating for years now.

You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself, and continue reading.

The wedding is to be held in London, and it briefly crosses your mind that Yean-seok is half British. Once you’ve processed that information, you do a double take and check the date. It's in six months from now, and you have to get presentable clothes that fit the colour scheme within that time period.

While you’re wondering now to get the clothes in time, your phone dings.

jeno: hey, y/n you: hello jeno: i have... news.

Jeno calls to inform you that, regrettably, there has been a complication with some of the scenes. For one scene in particular, they had arranged for a horse carriage to be used during the filming. However, due to a miscommunication, the horse has been sold to someone else instead.

The screenwriter insists on having the horse be a specific breed for stylistic reasons, but the budget for the project makes it infeasible for the team to find a suitable horse in a short span of time.

Jaemin wants to postpone the project so he can discuss the details with the screenwriter, and clarify everything to ensure there will be no more hiccups in the production. The rest of the team will either fly back to Korea, or stay in London, whichever is more convenient for them. Since editing can be done remotely, there is little incentive for them to all have to renew their visas.

However, Jaemin has asked Jeno to stay in London so all of the important members of the team can be physically present, to ensure everybody is on the same page.

When you ask Jeno when he will return, he shrugs and says, "In two months, or half a year—I have no clue."

Although you’re upset and annoyed with his lack of a reaction, you understand that Jeno is upset too. He's suppressing his emotions, which is a bad habit of his. But you aren’t going to lash out and make him feel more demoralised, so you just mutter a quick "love you" and hang up.

After hanging up, you belatedly realise you haven’t told him about the wedding invitation yet. Still reeling from his indifferent attitude, you decide to tell him after both of you have cooled down.

—

Days turn into weeks, that turn into months, and somehow you haven’t been able to address the issue of Donghyuck's wedding. You have been through your closet countless times, and after rummaging and filtering through both of your clothes, you’ve prepared a suitable ensemble for both of them.

You’ve sent an RSVP to Donghyuck to let him know that you and Jeno would be attending, and an excited Donghyuck had sent you a video of Yeon-seok and himself clapping happily.

You have also booked a flight for a week before the date of the wedding, to give yourself time to adjust to the time difference, and you plan to stay after the wedding to spend time with your and Jeno's friends as well.

Despite having settled almost everything, you’ve left one very important detail out—you haven’t discussed it with Jeno yet.

Jeno knows that there's a wedding, of course. Donghyuck had announced it in the group chat when he and Yeon-seok first got engaged, and Yeon-seok had sent an update once the details of the wedding were confirmed.

When Jeno told you about the wedding, you told him about the invitation, and you both laughed over how excessive it was.

But if you said any more about the wedding, you’d have to bring up the elephant in the room and ask if Jeno would still be working on "Chamomile Tea" during the time period, if he'd be busy, or if he'd return to Korea before that. And that, even after all the time that had passed, remained a sore spot for both of you.

So even as the date loomed closer, your conversations with Jeno never went too far in the direction of the wedding. Instead, you tiptoed around the upcoming event like shattered glass was sprinkled over it, and you didn't know what the consequences of stepping on it would be.

Arriving in London is a dream. It always has been, since you learnt that their universities look like castles and their winter consists of dreary, rainy mornings that are perfect for staying in and cuddling while cheesy rom-coms play on the TV. But it's never been your dream to land in London alone, with no one to pick you up from the airport, standing starstruck in the middle of the polished floors while people hurry by.

Some lady you don't recognise waves at you. When you frown, squinting to see if it's a familiar face, the lady walks up to you and grins, "Hi! I'm Soyeon."

You cock your head in contusion.

"I'm the screenwriter for 'Chamomile Tea', the short film Jaemin's overseeing. He wasn't able to come because he's busy trying to keep Jeno out of trouble, he said."

You let out a short laugh. That does, in fact, sound like Jaemin's job most of the time. Soyeon hands you a ticket, folding your fingers around it before you can protest.

"Jeno wanted all three of us to go to an art museum to get inspiration, but I've already finished my part for this project. All that's left for me is to give input, not come up with more ideas. Jaemin suggested that I give my ticket to you, so here it is." Taking a closer look at the ticket, you realise that it's an exhibition meant to celebrate the changing of season from summer to autumn.

"Leaves turning brown," you read aloud. "Petals fall and colours fade, yet many are enraptured by the cooling season that is autumn. Artist Hwang Yeji explores textures, colours and more in this vibrant display."

Soyeon smiles encouragingly at you. "I've known Jeno only for a few months, and he's always been extremely cold towards everyone, but his face lights up whenever he receives a text from you. And when you order takeout for him? That's the only time I see him enjoy his meals."

Your lips tremble as Soyeon continues, "Jeno's mind is a complex place. I'd hate for all that creative potential to be wasted just because he's busy moping. That's why I offered to pick you up instead of Jaemin—I was interested to know who could be the only one to make Jeno truly smile."

You close the distance between yourself and Soyeon, wrapping your arms around the latter. Even if you have only just met her, Soyeon seems so sweet and genuine. Her honest words caught you off guard, but you are touched that she dared to say them.

Soyeon pats your hair comfortingly. "Let me know if you need any more help."

You discreetly blink back tears, ignoring the stinging sensation in your nose, and force a smile. "Thanks, Soyeon."

"You're very welcome."

—

You climb out of the taxi with a sunflower in hand and your suitcase in the other. The exhibition is held in a building with windows as wide as you are tall, the stained glass illuminated by the sunlight.

The lady at the entrance scans your ticket and waves you through with a smile, and you return it before heading on inside.

Panels upon panels of stained glass line the corridors, angled in a way that pictures of light are projected on the ground, weaving between the paintings, casting an angelic glow on each artwork.

Jaemin catches your eye before you can get stuck at any of the paintings, and shushes you with a finger on his lips as you speed up.

"Hi, jagiya," he says lowly, wrapping you in a quick hug. "Jeno's busy and I didn't tell him you were coming, so the rest is up to you. I'll leave the two of you alone, okay? Call me if you need me."

You nod, squeezing his shoulder gratefully.

—

You tuck your sunflower behind your back and wheel your suitcase to the side, silently approaching Jeno. He's completely absorbed in studying the details of the painting, so you gently rest your chin on his shoulder.

"Hey, baby." Jeno turns, coming face-to-face with you. Your noses touch, and from the corners of your eyes, you see Jeno's cheeks flush red-hot. You raise your hand to cool his cheek, but he grabs your wrist first, eyes locked on your face. His pupils dart from side to side, scouring your face as if he's afraid you’re just a figment of his imagination.

You stay in that position, Jeno’s fingers curled around your wrist, until he's convinced that you’re real, at which point his face floods with exhaustion and relief.

He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nuzzling into the space between your chin and collarbone. His hands come to rest naturally around your waist, and his hand brushes against the sunflower.

He moves back suddenly, surprised, and you awkwardly manoeuvre your arms around him. This allows you to present the sunflower you bought at a nearby florist to your boyfriend, and you’re delighted by the grin spreading across his lips.

"Have I ever told you that I love you?" He asks.

"No, but you've given me red camellias, and I think that’s basically the same thìng."

Jeno chuckles. "Basically.”

Jeno reaches for your suitcase, holding tightly onto the sunflower you’ve just given him. He turns to you, raising his eyebrows expectantly. "Well? I'll take you back to your hotel."

You frown, pulling back in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you tired?"

You wave his concern off flippantly. "I'll be just fine. I'll crash later, and the jetlag will hit me like a truck, but I've already allocated a week for getting used to it."

Jeno snorts. "As expected."

You wave your ticket. "Hey, Soyeon's already passed up her chance to see this exhibition so I could go, okay? I'm not planning to waste it."

Jeno nods hastily in an attempt to placate you. "Okay! Let's go then."

He trails behind you obediently until you see a piece that catches your fancy, stopping to take a look. The painting depicts several lilies of the valley in a vase. Behind the vase, there are two mountains painted in grey, but the small patch of grass that the lilies sit on is several vibrant shades of green.

You stay in front of that painting for a while, impressed by the details and texture on the canvas. A shutter sound catches your attention, and you blink a few times before turning to see Jeno holding up his camera and smiling sheepishly.

He rubs the back of his neck and says, "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. You looked too good standing there, I just had to get a shot of you."

"It's okay." You look back at the canvas, eyebrows knitting together. 

"Don't you think the art style looks familiar?"

"I don't know much about paintings, so I can't say... " Jeno's reply dies on his lips, and he, too, stares at the painting with interest. "You're right, it does look familiar."

The two of you hum in concentration, Jeno resting his chin on top of your head while you wrack your brain for an answer. You tilt your head this way and that, and then it hits you.

"Park Jisung," you say at the same time Jeno does. "How did you–"

Jeno points at a small square of text. "It says right here. Park Jisung, 24, oil on canvas." You mentally slap your forehead. How could you forget that museums put up a description of each artwork and its artist? You must be too tired from the flight.

"That's right, " you say. "That's why it looks so familiar. Contrasting colours was one of the most defining aspects of his style."

You met Jisung at a kids' art camp when you were in university, and the two of you had learnt a lot from each other while teaching the kids. You were surprised to find out that he was two years your senior in a different university, despite being the same age as you.

You lost contact with him after that, and were very, very shocked to see him at Jeno's college reunion. Although you don't speak much to Jisung now, the things you learnt from him at that one camp will stick with you forever.

"That kid's insane," Jeno muses. "He skipped a year in elementary, lived with hyungs he barely knew in university, and did side jobs because he hadn't gotten a scholarship to pay for his tuition fees, unlike Yeon-seok."

You shrug. "Maybe not 'insane'. Just determined."

Jeno nods. "And he's not much of a kid anymore, is he?"

You shake your head with a smile. "Not anymore."

—

As you wander around with Jeno, stopping at paintings to admire them, a sense of melancholy threatens to overwhelm you, slipping between your eyelids like a mass of black water, a receding wave preparing to crash upon the shore of your eyelashes.

You blink back thoughts of insecurity, trying to focus on the artworks and not your feelings, but it’s no use. You can’t escape from the thoughts running wild in your head, and it gets the better of you, a lone tear managing to get past your barriers, trailing slowly down your cheek.

You subtly wipe it away, but Jeno notices immediately, and he stops short.

He turns towards you, concern emanating off his being, and it offers you some comfort. He holds you carefully, like he’s not sure if you’ll break apart in his hands. His body shields you from anything else in the museum, encasing you in a bubble of protection and silence.

You breathe in deeply; once, then twice. You feel the heat behind your eyes slowly fading to a simple stinging sensation, one that doesn’t make you feel completely helpless.

Jeno’s hands tighten around you, and you instinctively lean in towards him. He doesn’t speak, allowing you to unravel the spool of thread wrapped around your lungs, prying apart the anxiety that prevents you from breathing.

When you can think straight again, you look at Jeno, and he knows.

Without words, understanding passes between you, and Jeno knows everything that’s running through your mind.

He nudges you, gently. Are you okay? his eyebrows ask, raising so high they almost disappear into his fringe.

You can lie about a lot of things, like why you came to the museum in the first place or how you feel staring at the art on the walls or whether you’re okay right now, but you don’t. Because you know that regardless of what you say, Jeno will see right through you like you’re a ghost. You’ll never understand if it’s because it’s you, or if everyone’s feelings are transparent to him. You don’t think you care.

It’s enough to just stand there, weightless. You’re completely supported by Jeno, whose embrace is so tight it’s practically lifting you off the ground, and you;re not complaining.

If he could lift your burdens off your mind the same way he’s lifting your feet from the ground right now, he would. And you would want him to.

“I feel like my art’s worth nothing if it can’t be shown to the world.” You speak slowly, uncertainly, knowing you might cry if you let everything out too quickly. Jeno wants to stop you before you get caught up in the flow of you words, but he knows it’s better if you let it all out.

Opening a bottle of carbonated soda that’s just been shaken is dangerous, but if he leaves it alone, the bottle might just explode.

“I know I don’t make art to be seen. I make it for myself. But at the same time, can any artist say that their craft is not made for the eyes of man? We all long for approval and praise, and that is partly what we make art for.”

Your lips tremble, and Jeno finds himself forced to stare at your quivering eyelashes and the sheen of tears you’re barely holding back. Still, you steel yourself, digging your heels into the ground to steady yourself.

“I wonder, sometimes. If my art isn’t seen, is it even art anymore?”

That’s the minefield, the question Jeno can’t answer without speaking baseless comfort. He has no answer to it, only empty words that he knows will fail to put you at ease.

You, however, don’t expect an answer. You look curiously at Jeno, waiting for a response, but the response doesn’t have to be a satisfactory answer.

Jeno leans in, tucking your head between his chin and his collarbone, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.

He holds you there until you’ve stopped trembling. Then, one hand still firmly in yours, he takes you back to the hotel, sitting on the edge of your single bed while you sit and stare into nothingness.

When you make no move to get changed, he stands, and brings you to the bathroom. He peels the clothes from your body, helping to scrub your skin until it’s a rosy shade of pink, then wraps you in a towel and moves your arms to dry your body.

After he’s showered, the two of you sit on the bed, Jeno on top of the covers, while you’re tucked underneath them. Jeno has no change of clothes, no money, only his phone and both of your tickets to the museum.

In his street clothes, he refuses to get under the blanket and dirty the bed, but you are content with his presence.

You lie on the bed with your arms wrapped around Jeno’s waist, and when the shock has faded, you cry yourself to sleep.

Jeno is there throughout it, a beaming light in the whirlwind of emotions you’re experiencing, a constant presence that grounds you. He allows you to breathe between sobs, until they slowly fade away and your eyes close, motionless.

The next day, you find a wreath of galaxes on your bedside table, along with a glass of water, and it feels like a great weight has finally been removed from your shoulders.

The day of Donghyuck’s wedding comes earlier than you were expecting. Between taking you out to dinner and going on bike rides around the city, Jeno has kept you busy. Busy enough to forget your troubles, or at least for you to be able to cope with them in a relatively healthy manner.

You hear three knocks on the door, and as you go to open it, you see Jeno standing there, in the emerald green tuxedo you picked for him and the matching tie. His shirt is a pale green, so pale it can be mistaken for white, and gel gives his hair a wet gleam.

He smiles innocently, and it outshines all the charm his outfit has.

You fell in love with all of Jeno, after all, not just his appearance.

Your sage green dress flows past your ankles, and it would drag on the floor if you weren't wearing heels. They’re tall, but even with them on, you are still only the same height as Jeno. He grins at you, and carries you, bridal-style, into the lift lobby.

“Leave some room for the grooms later, stop trying to one-up them,” you joke, but Jeno only hoists you up into a more comfortable position.

“No can do,” Jeno says cheekily.

You don't pursue it.

—

A surprise awaits you in the car. As you open the door to the passenger side, you find that it’s filled—and so is the driver’s seat. Your heart skips a beat, thinking you must’ve gone to the wrong car, but the sight of the driver’s face makes you do a double take.

“Jisung?”

Jisung offers you a shy grin. “Yep, it’s me.”

“Is it really you? I thought… I never thought I’d see you again! How–” your words come out from your mouth before you can think them through, your rapid-fire Korean faltering in your confusion.

“Donghyuck and I are friends, remember?” You don't really, but if Jeno and Jisung are friends from college, it makes sense that Donghyuck would know them both too.

You clap a hand over your mouth, mind reeling. “So… you were invited to the wedding too?”

Jisung nods. Then, he gestures towards the lady in the driver’s seat. “I also have to introduce her to you. Y/n, meet Yeji. Yeji, Y/n.”

Yeji offers her hand for you to shake, and you take it, wondering where you’ve heard the name before. Yeji, Yeji, Yeji… Ah. You’ve got it. “Hwang Yeji?”

She’s the artist who organised the exhibition Soyeon had given you tickets to view. It was there, at the museum, that you saw Jisung’s art. If she really is Hwang Yeji, then everything will make sense.

Yeji nods. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She picks up a small bouquet of pink peonies, orange tulips and heather, presenting it to you. “Jisung showed me a few of your pieces, mostly older ones,” she says by way of explanation. “They had the potential to become something more. I heard from Jeno that you’d seen my exhibition, so I know you probably like flowers, and you know that I like them too. So this bouquet is an invitation for you to work with me some time, for us to perhaps collaborate on another exhibition in future.”

You are taken aback by the sudden offer, but you’re not an idiot. You remember the way you had collapsed into Jeno the week before, scared that you would never be able to get your art out there. Now, your chance is right in front of you.

You take it.

Gratefully receiving the bouquet, you don’t miss the symbolism of the flowers, the goodwill the arrangement holds. You know it is intentional.

“Thank you for your offer. I look forward to working with you.”

Yeji shakes your hand heartily, and you and Jeno get into the backseat.

After settling in, you rest the bouquet on your lap, and you turn to see Jeno holding a white rose. You frown, wondering where he could’ve conjured it from, and lock eyes with Jisung in the driver’s mirror. You raise your eyebrows in question, and he shrugs innocently.

You roll your eyes at the conspirators, but turn your attention back to Jeno. Jeno carefully slips the white rose into the side of the bouquet, managing to prevent it from looking uneven. You play with the petals of the rose, its symbolism clear in your head.

Used to congratulate people on career successes, your mind supplies helpfully. The only career success you can think of right now is also the most recent one, Yeji’s offer to you. But there’s no way Jeno could have known that Yeji would put that offer out. Unless…

“Did you know?” You ask, tone accusing. You doesn’t have to finish the question; Jeno understands what you’re talking about.

“No, I didn’t know if Yeji would offer to work with you for an exhibition. Jisung only told me that he had shown Yeji your art, and I had faith in your abilities. I knew that after witnessing the extent of your talents, Yeji would have something good to offer you, career-wise.”

You can’t argue with that. The logic is sound, and the flowers are cohesively pretty. You continue to play with the petals, a small smile dancing on your lips.

The smile doesn’t escape Jeno’s attention, and he smiles too.

—

It starts to drizzle as soon as you reach the wedding place. Jeno is quick to procure a clear umbrella, holding it for both of you. He knows you wouldn’t want to get your clothes wet.

Jaemin is there too, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, standing by the side. Donghyuck’s wedding is a loud, chaotic one, with many guests you don't recognise all talking with each other. Jaemin hovers at the vague edge of the crowd, as much of an introvert as Jeno, and you tug Jeno over.

“Hi, jagiya.” Jaemin envelopes you in a warm hug, and he smells like home.

Jeno opens his hands for a hug too, but Jaemin only laughs and swats his hand away. Jeno slings one hand over Jaemin’s shoulder, and you snatch his umbrella away, going off to find Donghyuck.

The two men stand side by side, Jaemin still holding the umbrella, watching you disappear into the hordes of people.

—

The rain gets heavier, and you try to occupy as little space as possible, not letting a single part of your body protrude from under the umbrella. Droplets of rain splash onto your shoes and your face, and you wipe them from your face with the back of your hand.

Jisung stands beside Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, with Chenle, Jaemin’s old roommate, and a couple of other men you can’t remember the names of. Donghyuck and Yeon-seok’s roommates from university, you think, because you remember seeing them at the reunion.

You congratulate the grooms, and move to stand next to Yeji and Jisung. The small circle are the only people that have gotten a chance to speak with Donghyuck and Yeon-seok, and by the looks of it, their conversation isn’t going to end anytime soon.

Yeji makes small talk with you, and you laugh about a few shared experiences, before you notice the crowd starting to disperse, and the officiator announces that the wedding is beginning.

You move back to where Jeno is, and he leaves Jaemin with his umbrella, ducking under your umbrella to join you.

The wedding is simple and sweet, and there are tears all around as the two bridegrooms say their vows.

“...to love and to cherish, until death does us part.” Jeno’s fingers suddenly falter, and the golden locket he’s been fidgeting with throughout the wedding slips through his fingers. He lunges to catch it, and you finally notice what he’s been doing with his hands.

Resting one hand on his left knee to calm him down, you nuzzle into his neck, and nudge his hand open with your index finger.

“What’re you holding?” you ask under your breath.

“Nothing.” You briefly register the officiator allowing Yeon-seok and Donghyuck to kiss, and you look up at them just in time.

“Open your hand,” you command.

Obediently, Jeno uncurls his fingers, and you take the locket from him. You fumble with the clasp, but it springs open, and there’s a picture inside. Squinting, you realise that it’s a picture of you and Jeno, taken when you weren’t paying attention. Your hand is shielding your eyes from the sun, and Jeno’s firm hand is wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.

Your grip on Jeno’s knee tightens.

“How long have you been carrying this around for?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse.

Jeno looks away. “Since we took the picture. It’s been, what, two years?”

You feel your throat seizing up, and you force yourself to take a few deep breaths. Jeno has been carrying the locket around for two years. Almost the same length of time that you’ve been dating for. He’s loved you enough for the whole span of that time to carry a picture of you around wherever he goes.

You can’t breathe. “You’ve been carrying this around for two years?”

Jeno shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, like a soldier going off to war,” he quips. Somehow, you’ve switched to Korean, but you don't quite register it. It just feels right, better, to speak in your native language.

It fits, the same way your body fits into the cracks of Jeno’s body, the way his arms wrap around you and fit into every nook and cranny of yours. Your scars line up against each other’s, and Jeno is the puzzle piece that makes you whole.

“So you love me.” It might seem strange, after all they’ve been through, to doubt it. But it hasn’t been long, and you hate to give yourself away, to love somebody else. Every day, you wonder if you’ve crossed the line from like to love, or if you’ve fallen out of like with each other.

“Yes.” You never knew one word could turn your world upside down. The rain has eased, but it feels like there’s water rushing in your ears, heart pounding.

Then, “Are you okay?”

You hear it from your other side, your left side, and you see Yeji there, concern in her eyes. You turn your attention back to the proceedings, and see Donghyuck taking the wedding bouquet from Yeon-seok, preparing to toss it in the air.

“Yes,” you say, determinedly. Jeno guides your hand to tilt the umbrella backwards, giving both of you a better view of the grooms, and the water continues to flow off the umbrella.

Neither of you make a move to take it, leaving the more eager guests to rush towards Donghyuck, surrounding him. He turns his back towards them, while Yeon-seok moderates the crowd, and tosses the bouquet into the air.

It arcs towards the middle of the crowd, and a lone carnation falls out. Jeno reflexively reaches out for it before it can fall on the soaked grass, and he tucks the yellow carnation behind your ear.

His face is right next to yours, his breathing fast and rapid, and you hear the pulsing of his heart when you place a hand on his chest.

Jeno leans his forehead on yours, the umbrella creating a bubble of silence and tranquility amidst the loud cheers and celebration outside of it. A tear rolls down his cheek, and he smiles, the tear caught on the upside of his upper lip.

You watch as he licks it away, and brush the pad of your thumb against the trail of the tear.

“Are you crying?” you ask softly.

“No,” Jeno says, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “It’s just the rain.”

You wrap your arm around his neck, nose bridge aligned with his, waiting quietly.

“I know you don’t want to get married now,” Jeno says. “But please, take this carnation as a promise that I will never let you have your heart broken.”

You have heard false promises fall from Jeno’s lips before. You’ve faced his broken promises, seen through his lies, accepted his empty praise. This time, however, it’s different. You know it in your heart, can hear the dogged beating of his heart, refusing to hurt you again.

You smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll take that promise.”

—

floriography

violet: a declaration to always be true

blue salvia / azure blue sage: harbours sentiments of missing and thinking of someone.

peppermint: warmth of feeling

lavender: purity, devotion, serenity, grace and calmness.

sunflower: adoration and loyalty, long life and lasting happiness.

chrysanthemum: longevity, fidelity, joy and optimism.

red camellia: you’re a flame in my heart.

galaxes: encouragement.

pink peonies: good luck, prosperity and success

orange tulips: joy, enthusiasm and excitement

heather: admiration and support

white roses: symbolises innocence and purity. used to congratulate people on career successes.

carnations: symbolise pride and love for someone in a supportive way. used to tailor bouquets to one’s favourite colour due to their ease of dyeing.

[planetkiimchi]

faded photograph | x.mh

featuring: model!minghao x photographer!reader

word count: 1134

author’s note: happy minghao day.

Click. The flash of cameras goes off, and Minghao barely blinks, ever at ease in front of the camera. You direct him into another pose and he moves, swiftly and gracefully, attuned to the movement of every limb in his body. He moves just quickly enough that it is a challenge to keep up with the rate that he switches poses, your camera shutter clicking as fast as it can go, every frame captured perfectly, immortalised in time.

”That’s perfect, thank you.” The blinding lights that have cast an otherworldly glow on Minghao are shut off, and it takes him a moment to register it. He slowly removes his sunglasses, rubbing the lenses clean on a piece of cloth that the staff passes to him. As soon as he has returned the sunglasses, he raises his gaze, and it lands surely on you.

It’s almost as if you are the magnet and he is a piece of iron, always attracted to magnetic items. Because that is exactly how he would describe you, engrossed as you scroll through the photos you have just taken, lips pursed. It takes everything within him not to kiss you right there and then, instead tearing his eyes away from your lips to the crease in your forehead.

Supporting himself with one hand, he gets to his feet, closing the distance between you in a matter of strides. Before you realise it, his thumb is pressed between your knotted eyebrows, gently massaging your skin until you get it. The tension ebbs away, receding like the tide at dawn, leaving a smooth shore as you relax your facial features. You inhale deeply, releasing the tension in your clenched jaw, consciously lowering your shoulders.

”That’s more like it,” Minghao murmurs into the shell of your ear, breath fluttering across your skin and causing a heat to rise to your cheeks at the blatant display of affection.

For some time, you had tried to keep your relationship at work strictly professional, until one of the younger photographers tried to make a move on you.

Minghao wasn’t possessive by nature, but when he noticed your disinterested, polite smile didn’t seem to deter the younger photographer’s advancements, he had grown uncomfortable. You were too nice to reject him, but Minghao wasn’t just going to sit by and let it play out.

He had come up to you while your thumb played with the button on the camera, scrolling through your pictures, your attention half on them and half on the conversation at hand. You were nodding in that absent-minded way you did when you weren’t listening—something Minghao positively hated when it was directed at him, he would much rather you pay attention to either him or your work, not both—and he had given into the impulse to slip his hand into yours, causing you to stiffen at his touch.

”Hao?” Your nickname for him had slipped out, and he couldn’t help the smile playing at his lips.

”Yes, love?”

Your furrowed eyebrows had been a clear sign of your confusion, but Minghao only pecked your cheek and stood beside you, withdrawing his hand from your loose grasp to hold your waist. His touch was gentle and his presence welcome, and while the other photographer looked discomfited, you were comforted by Minghao’s gesture, and the photographer never made a move towards you again.

Since then, Minghao had been more open about your relationship, even at work. He wasn’t particularly clingy, but he liked to slip his hand into yours whenever he was standing near you, and he liked to kiss you before a shoot. It was his good luck ritual, he claimed. You weren’t one to protest, not when you enjoyed it perfectly fine.

With a sigh, Minghao rests his head on your shoulder, and you tilt your head to the side, resting your own head atop his. He slings his hands around your waist, inhaling your scent, until you let out a sharp gasp.

”This is the one!”

”Hm?” He looks up, careful not to jostle your grasp on the camera or hit his head against your chin, leaning in to peer at your screen. You tilt the camera his way, and he nods in approval.

He isn’t familiar with the process of photography, but he knows raw photographs rarely get published as they are. Editing is just as much part of the process as the photo-taking is, but that photograph is beautiful. Minghao is iron, after all, a magnetic material, and one of the things that draws him in is beauty.

From fresh morning dew on blades of grass to dried flowers used as bookmarks in old, weathered hardcover books with battered covers and yellowed pages, Minghao is familiar with beauty. He is especially familiar with it with you as his partner, with your soft hair and arched brows and the curve of your lips. Your jaw, soft where your tongue is sharp, and your eyes, bright and clever and keen, all of it is beautiful.

So is the photograph, because it was taken from your perspective, and the way you see Minghao is different from the way Minghao sees himself.

He sees himself as he is, objectively, able to appreciate the way wire-rimmed glasses frame his face in a more attractive manner, or the way his slender fingers and lithe limbs always draw a glance or two that hover a little too long to be normal.

But you have seen him in all his glory, the broken way he collapses into your touch after a long day at work, all of him melting into your embrace before he has even stepped over the threshold into your house proper. You have been with him through his frustration, the regret that follows after his harsh, angry words, said in a blur of fury so red-hot it turns his vision white. You have held him when he cries, softly, weeping into your shoulder, struggling to catch his breath.

You have seen him happy, too, the way he glows incandescently in the sunlight on a Sunday afternoon, sprawled across a picnic mat with the low-hanging branches of the twisted, gnarly old tree shading his face while the sun warms the fabric of his plaid clothing.

You have captured every facet of him in that one photograph. In it, he exudes confidence, but not in an arrogant way, in an easy way, the same way that he always seems to smile when he catches sight of you. Like it is second nature, as if he has been built for nothing else but to bask in your light, the glow of creativity you bring with you.

Minghao will always be a faded photograph to himself, but to you, he would will always be in sharp focus, fully in technicolour.

—

general taglist: @slytherinshua, @wiishies

seventeen taglist: @weird-bookworm, @kangtaehyunzzz, @raevyng, @moonkyeom, @zhongzn

if you liked it, please reblog it.

want to be added to my taglist?

[planetkiimchi]

[planetkiimchi]

wip tracker - acoustic love

short intro to this: it's a guitarist!doyoung fic, and doyoung is cousins with y/n from "and they were roommates" <3

currently at 12376 words!

[planetkiimchi]

at 14147 words, taking a break from this until the weekend

[planetkiimchi]

i lied. we're at 15057 words, and i can offer this now

[planetkiimchi]

17411 words (i'm hitting a wall)

[planetkiimchi]

finally got back to this! 21438 words as of now, hopefully i can get the written parts beta-ed over this weekend

[planetkiimchi]

24827 words

[planetkiimchi]

29060 words

[planetkiimchi]

update: this will be on hold until doyoung clears things up (and apologises) for the mcdonald's sponsorship. in the meantime, i'll think about changing the mc for it (since it's already almost done anyway)

[planetkiimchi]

wip tracker — wait for me | n.jm

[planetkiimchi]

also it was so jarring to go and change all the "minor"s in my bio to "adult" cus i turned 18 recently... feeling kinda old 😅😅

[planetkiimchi]

ok i'm ngl i've stopped following kpop except for &team for a while, life's just been really busy, and i still enjoy writing but it's just been pretty tiring writing and then seeing that the members got into a scandal or did something stupid.

i was going to write something for mark, for "a guide to loving right", but that was before he left the group. afterwards i was still planning to write for him, but after the whole confederate flag thing, i'm just not in the mood to anymore. i can't really see him without thinking about it, so i don't think i'll be able to write for him.

but that aside, i am still gonna try and finish the other pieces, and there's this one 40k-ish fic i wrote for doyoung a while back (before the whole mcdonalds fiasco) that i intend to revamp and use for joshua (svt), so stay tuned <3`

[sn4psh00t]

sfw fic compilation for wen junhui

nsfw ver.

note: it's important to note that I did not read all of these fics - this is a compilation list and not a recommendation list. i wanted to give some love to jun and his variety of fics available on the platform. I plan to do this with some of the other members in seventeen, so this is an ongoing series <3

dividers credit goes to @/saradika-graphics

on my tongue part 1 [26.2k] @livmarauder - IN AUNIVERSE filled with soulmates, you never wanted one, never wanting to be tied down to a stranger for the rest of your life. However, fate always seems to work against you and gives you the worst soul mark you could ever have: a soulmate who seems to have a taste for spicy foods, something that you have a distaste for.

part two is nsfw

skyline [22.8k] @haologram - injuries are always easy to come by when your job is flying through the air, so you're not surprised when you're set in front of a bunch of out-of-work trapezists looking to take your partner's spot for eight weeks. what isn't easy to come by is certainly the biggest con-artist in the world of trapeze: wen junhui.

burn for the win [22.1k] @mylovesstuffs - being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?

finding spring [22k] @joshujin - Tale tells of a water spirit bound to the Elysian River, destined to guard the very magic her human body once sought after. She lives where the animals come to drink, where the children wade in the water, where the river empties into the sea. And she is waiting for the chance to be freed.

pulse points [15.9k] @wheeboo - Being the TA for your anatomy class has always been really rewarding, especially stemming in your passion for the medical field. But as it’s approaching the peak of the school semester and labs have gotten more intense, you aren’t surprised to be dedicating your time to tutoring your strangely handsome, dorky, yet enigmatic classmate during after school hours — and reassuring him how to not be afraid of dissections.

free love [13.8k] @gam3bo17 - The first time you saw him you didn’t know his name, only that he didn’t look at you the way everyone else did. The countryside air felt different: cleaner, lighter, like it didn’t matter who you were. No chauffeurs. No bodyguards hovering nearby. No people trailing behind you like shadows. For the first time in your life you felt normal. Not the child of the family that owned Pledis Industries. Not the face plastered across city billboards and magazine covers. Not someone people bowed to before they spoke. Just you.

for the love of the game [13k] @yoongihan - you've accepted your place in the world of baseball; you know what you're good at. outside of the dugout and locker room, certain university classes are NOT what you're good at. asking for help feels weak, especially from the perpetually smiley cheerleader who you're sure is just as dumb as he is pretty.

psycho [12.8k] @wheeboo - in which a new patient is assigned for treatment under your care, and you begin to put the puzzles and pieces together to a past case that you thought to have ceased away from your mind.

who's your worm guy? [11.3k] @imnotshua - your final project is due far too soon and you’re stumped for ideas. that is until you pick up a part time job in the ticket booth at your local water park and you meet the most– uh– interesting employees. this includes a wen junhui, food and beverage supervisor, whose creativity sparks most when he’s hazy and slacking off.

anonymously yours [11.3k] @wheeboo - When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard.

most ardently [10.7k] @chanheescafe - you find a sense of familiarity in your sworn rival, jun, while exchanging anonymous letters with a stranger .

Pendulum [9k] @gyuswhore - There are many things your father never told you when he left you his flower shop; the ever creaky door hinges, the delivery man who can never seem to tell the orchids from the gardenias, and the headquarters of the biggest mafia in New York operating in the employee break room. Of course you're used to it now, the familiar faces passing in and out of the shop while you pretend nothing is amiss. Until a new face appears, disappearing into the backrooms without a word, bloodied knuckles and a poorly strapped revolver on his hips. Suddenly, it's very hard to pretend.

sixth times the charm [8.8k] @planetkiimchi - your coworker jun is naturally friendly and a little chaotic, but he also mistakenly thinks you like his crush. this love rivalry persists despite the two of you being friends, at least until he realises that the one he likes is you.

pink stationary [7.9k] @haologram - everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other.

i like you feeling like this [7.7k] @minnnliz - overwhelmed by her case load at work, reader's friend recommends she visit the cat café that just opened downtown, since she claims she's too busy to get a cat of her own. but is it the cute cats that keep her coming back... or the cute guy who makes the mandatory uniform cat ears look endearing?

meow or never [6.9k] @supi-wupi - Jun adopts a cat who turns out to be a cursed human. You’re the only other person who knows the secret—and Jun might be falling for both the cat (platonically) and you (romantically).

Gemini  [6.7k] @caratchronicles - As the saying goes, "History repeats itself". Eons after the Second Titan War, the world is left in a similar state of despair. Good prevails, but so does the imbalance and injustice. Now standing on opposite sides, the Gods and Demigods don't think that the damage done by The Aegean War can ever truly be repaired. When yet another prophecy pushes you to fight for your friends, you must decide for yourself: Are you worth fighting for too?

happy ending [6.6k] @junkissed - a pointless argument escalates until both of you need some space, but it couldn't come at a worse time.

kiss me it's for science [4k] @supi-wupi - Jun and Y/N are both psychology majors. For their thesis, they must observe the chemical reactions of romantic attraction... using themselves as test subjects. Bonus, Their “experiment” is being live-blogged by classmates on a fan account.

unread messages [3.5k] @supi-wupi - Jun moved back to China. You still write to him every day, though you never hit send. Until one day, he replies—to a message you never sent.

do i wanna know [3.3k] @belovedgyu - mob boss! junhui x detective! femreader

tears [3.3k] @acphengene - soulmate au, angst, fluff, selfdoubt and a lot of insecurities

memory lane [3.1k] @orbitondgtl - On your first wedding anniversary, Jun has something special planned for the two of you. In turn, you have something special planned for him.

secret life of wen junhui [3k] @wheeboo - in which jun gets set up on a blind date by his best friend.

marmoris [3k] @haologram - everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other

[thelawfulchaotic]

Gemini had the fucking GALL to get in my email and summarize a 3-line email, taking up more space than the email did visually.

Hit the “thumbs down.” It’s like, what’s wrong??? Was our summary wrong? Were there offensive words? Thank you for helping us improve our AI tools :)

I selected “other.”

Text box popped up. Please elaborate!

Wrote in “I can fucking read” submit comment

Then had to spend several minutes torching all my settings with a flamethrower. Let me be clear: I’m (a lawyer) notoriously picky with my words FOR GOOD REASON (lawyering) so I overwhelmingly reject Gmail’s “helpful” little assistance. My privacy settings were set to “full paranoia” a little less than a year ago when I saw the writing on the wall and knew public defenders could become a target in the future. Better to lock it all down now.

Gemini had crept in there and turned ALL that shit back on. And showed itself by saying “Jane Doe says she’s so sorry for your loss and offers to reschedule for Thursday at 3” over an email from Jane Doe saying “I’m so sorry for your loss. We could reschedule for Thursday at 3?”

Why would I possibly need this. In what universe would I need this. I have eyes and a brain and a reading speed that twenty years ago was measured at 1500 wpm with full comprehension on dense scientific text. Furthermore! If I read a summary, I’m not reading what they actually wrote. If I’m not reading what they actually wrote, I’m not using my own judgment on the words and phrases that they used.

I literally don’t understand why this is helpful at all. This is just avoidance. Using LLMs to write is specifically Not Writing. Using LLMs to summarize is Not Reading. Using them to make art is Avoiding Making Art. Just READ! Just WRITE! I was not put on this fucking planet to not read and not write and not make art! Avoidance is an anxiety symptom and indulging it gives it more power.

If I had an AI to do my most dreaded task, answer the phone for clients, I wouldn’t use it. Because an AI cannot help them. An AI cannot hear the facts of their case, make appropriate noises, be thoughtful and insightful, and then give them a realistic estimate of what could happen in court. I am unique. I cannot be replaced by machine learning. I have style. I have expertise. I don’t hallucinate unless I’m having a really great Friday night and I’m off the clock.

When I need to outsource tasks from my own brain, I give them to people I know can do them and that I trust to do them right.

Fuck, it just sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?? Goddamn Gemini jumpscare right in my own fucking email

[planetkiimchi]

bus 402 | h.hj

featuring: hyunjin x gn!reader

word count: 3999

summary — you have a small crush on the blonde guy you saw on the bus ride to work, but you don’t even know his name. luckily, fate has its ways to bring you together with this stranger on your commute.

author’s note: never say i am not a researcher because i literally went on google maps and found places for this fic to work. the bus route they’re on is bus 402 in seoul (hence the fic title)! also, if this fic looks familiar, it’s because i originally wrote it for yuta here

Y/n, Wednesday, 7:59am.

Squeezing onto the bus filled with other people, you fight to catch your breath as the bus sets off. Huffing, you brush your baby hair out of your face, adjusting the collar of your turtleneck. You unzip your down jacket, trying to cool your body down—the bus is much too warm with so many people in it.

Just then, a flash of bright yellow catches your eye. You notice a young man, about your age, standing out from the crowd. Maybe it’s his blonde hair, swept into a ponytail, or the silver jewellery decorating his ear, but he catches your attention immediately.

Which is strange, because you live in Korea. It’s always at least semi-crowded, and almost everyone’s hair is dyed, so there’s no reason for this man in particular to be so interesting. It’s odd, because you wouldn’t claim to recognise everyone on your commute to work, and you could swear you’ve never seen him before, yet you feel a sense of… well, familiarity perhaps, when you see him.

Blondie, which is what you’ve coined him in your head for now, looks up. You avert your gaze, but not fast enough. Seeing you looking at him, his mouth forms the slightest of smirks. You turn away, pressing the back of one cold hand to your cheek, not even surprised by how warm it is.

Desperate to hide your blush, you face away from Blondie for the remainder of your commute, but not without noting that he hasn’t yet gotten off when you reach your stop.

As you step off the bus, you wonder if you'll ever see him again.

—

Hyunjin, Thursday, 7:39am.

For the first time in his life, Hyunjin is standing at the bus stop instead of running to catch his bus before the doors shut. Hyunjin oversleeps most of the time, too exhausted from the night before to wake up on time. He often finds himself rushing to the bus stop, legs going as fast as they can carry him, flailing his arms at the bus driver. When he boards the bus, he’s always heavily panting, hair in a total mess.

Today, his hair is in a ponytail again. He pops an earbud into his ear, playing music to pass the time.

When the bus arrives, he’s lucky enough to get a seat before they’re all filled, and a sense of warmth fills his body. Perhaps this is what it feels like to have an organised life? He wouldn’t know.

His bus arrives every ten minutes, so oftentimes when he misses the bus that will get him to work on time, he’ll have to wait for the next one. He’s not sure when the last time he was punctual for work was.

He’s wrapped in his thoughts when the doors open, and a few people squeeze their way onto the bus. He looks up briefly, noticing the same person entering the bus again.

Yesterday, he’d felt someone staring, and when he looked up, he saw a commuter with dark brown eyes and disheveled chestnut brown hair. They made eye contact with him before turning away with flushed cheeks, not once looking back at him.

Interesting, he hums to himself. Mystery Worker is dressed in formal clothing, a tidy blouse paired with plain black trousers, the black turtleneck they’re wearing underneath their shirt peeking out from their collar.

Mystery Worker purses their lips, glancing at the screen at the side of the bus. As their head lowers back to their phone, they pause mid-movement, then squint in Hyunjin’s direction.

Feeling their gaze on him once more, Hyunjin’s hand self-consciously goes to touch his blonde hair—he rarely regrets it, but after two times of Mystery Worker being intrigued by it, he wonders if it was really a good decision to dye his hair blonde.

Mystery Worker smiles, subtle but unmistakable, and Hyunjin finds himself smiling back.

—

Y/n, Friday, 7:59am.

It’s the last day of the work week, and you’re celebrating it by starting your day off with a flask of hot coffee. You’d brewed it early that morning, determined to find a way to get yourself through the day, and what better way than to give yourself a shot of caffeine?

Humming, you tap your foot rhythmically against the floor in time with the music streaming from your headphones. Right on time, the bus approaches the bus stop, the familiar rumbling of the engine and warm air announcing its arrival.

You step onto the bus, getting jostled around as people enter after you, and you’re grateful to find yourself near a pole. You reach out and grasp it to keep your balance, forgetting about the flask in your hand. It falls to the ground, making a loud sound that causes heads to turn.

Your cheeks flush red hot as you bend down to pick it up, thankful that you’d screwed the cap on tightly. You bow your head to the commuters near you in apology, breathing a sigh of relief when most of them turn back to their devices without giving you any more thought.

A light chuckle draws your attention, and your eyebrows furrow in irritation as you pinpoint the direction of the laugh, directing your glare to…

Oh. It’s Blondie, holding one white earbud in his hand and staring blatantly at you, phone forgotten in his hand. He tilts his head at you in greeting, and you frown back at him, unhappy that he was laughing at you.

Setting his phone down in his lap, he raises both hands in apology, and you continue to frown for a few more seconds, just for the effect, before rolling your eyes and shrugging.

He’s clearly taking that as “apology accepted”, because he smiles at you and points to your flask.

Coffee? he mouths, and you nod in response.

He nods in approval, putting his earbud back in and going back to his phone.

—

Hyunjin, Monday, 7:35am.

Hyunjin finds his days are gradually starting earlier. For example, last night he slept at 10 after coming back from dinner with his parents, and he woke up at 6.45am today, which is honestly a great improvement from the usual 7.15.

He even had time to enjoy breakfast—a raisin bun with cream cheese—at home, instead of chomping down on it on his way to the bus stop. His walk to the bus stop today is slow, leisurely, even, a stark contrast to the hurried run-walk he usually does while trying not to choke on his food.

He strides into the sheltered, softly-lit enclave with two minutes to spare. He checks his phone, looking up to see the headlights of the bus. He flags it down, tapping his foot as the bus pulls into the bus stop.

The door opens, as if on cue, and he walks in, leaning comfortably against a wall in the corner.

He’s never really thought about it, usually too preoccupied with thoughts on how he can reach work on time, but now he has the luxury of the full 25 minutes of the bus ride and nothing to do.

Reaching up to pull the hair tie from his hair, he decides he can try to learn how to braid his hair.

It has never occurred to Hyunjin how difficult it is to braid hair. He’s seen his mother do it before, with her long hair that cascades past her shoulders tidied up into one neat braid. This gave him the wrong impression that braiding hair was easy, but as he quickly finds out, it is not.

He clumsily tries several times to split his hair into three segments, but they’re quite disastrously not equal, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to braid his hair.

Five minutes pass without him even noticing, and he’s still stuck trying to remember how his mother’s hands went over each other, failing to recreate it on his own hair. He sighs in exasperation, letting go of a fistful of hair and sulking.

The bus comes to a stop and he braces himself so as not to fall, grabbing the nearest pole as Mystery Worker walks in, all poised. Today, their turtleneck is a dark shade of red—maroon, Hyunjin thinks it’s called—and they meet Hyunjin’s gaze as if on instinct. His pout slips off his face and he smiles sheepishly at them.

They raise their eyebrows in question, and Hyunjin points towards his hair, repeating what he’s been doing for the entire ride. Mystery Worker laughs, but not in a mean way, more like in an amused manner.

Muttering “excuse me” under their breath, they squeeze past the other people on the bus, coming to Hyunjin. He not-so-nonchalantly realises that he’s still leaning against the wall, and that in this position, Mystery Worker is taller than him.

“Hi,” Mystery Worker says, and Hyunjin is so caught off guard that he almost forgets to reply.

“...Hi,” he replies breathily, cursing himself for the tone in which he said it.

Mystery Worker points to his hair. “Do you… need help?”

Hyunjin nods. He offers the hair tie to Mystery Worker, turning his head so they can reach his hair. Mystery Worker moves to stand behind his head, fingers deftly moving through his hair, braiding it into a bun, which they then tie up without struggle.

Hyunjin opens his mouth to thank them, hand reaching instinctively up to touch it. His bangs are still loose, and he runs his fingers lightly over the loose braid, a smile slowly blossoming on his face.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Mystery Worker shrugs. “No problem.”

The bus comes to a stop, and Hyunjin frowns. Has it been six stops already? It must have been, because Mystery Worker nods towards the door, and says, “That’s my stop.”

“Wait!” Hyunjin calls after them, volume low. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Y/n,” Mystery Worker tells him. “And yours?”

“Hyunjin,” Hyunjin says. Before he can say anything else, Y/n is gone.

—

Y/n, Tuesday, 8.27am.

You’re running through the different ways you can make up the fare for today’s taxi ride in your head. ₩44000 is a lot for you, especially since the week has only just started, and you still need enough money for your meals for the rest of the week.

You close your eyes, breathing heavily and deeply through your mouth before opening them again. You stare dejectedly out the window, unable to stop thinking about the feel of Blondie’s hair in your fingers. It’s getting so bad, you couldn’t even stop thinking about it last night, to the point that you only fell asleep at midnight, and you woke up late today at 8am.

The taxi you called was a last resort, but there was no way you were getting to work on time otherwise. You’d gotten ready in less than half an hour, which was record time even for you.

Worst of all, you can’t even see Blondie—no, Hyunjin, today. And it’s all because of your stupid overthinking tendencies. His voice still rings in your ear, low and clear, against the background noise of the revving bus engine.

What if he thinks you’re not on the bus because of him? After all, you braided his hair, then rushed off, too embarrassed to be in his presence. Worse still, what if he doesn’t notice? What if all the previous times he’s met your eye were flukes, and you’re just another passerby in his life?

Maybe he doesn’t actually remember you, and you’re making a big deal out of nothing. You were so stupid not to have gotten his number, and now you might never see him again.

Damn.

—

Hyunjin, Wednesday, 7.35am.

Hyunjin arrives extra early at the bus stop, which by his definition, is about four minutes earlier before the bus’s designated arrival time.

He’s still unable to get Y/n out of his mind, the way they easily braided his hair before going off for work. He replays the last moment of them leaving over and over again, berating himself for not asking for their number.

Y/n wasn’t on the bus yesterday, and maybe they were sick or something, but it’s making him worried. Were they uncomfortable getting so close to him? Did he cross a line? Or worse, do they not find him attractive at all and think he’s attention-seeking?

Hyunjin’s fist clenches, and he makes a conscious effort to unclench it. But then he just feels more uncomfortable, so he scrunches the fabric of his pants in his fist until the bus arrives, letting out a long breath to calm himself down.

For the first time since Hyunjin moved to Gangnam, he stands near the front door, pressed up against the plastic screen separating him from the people in their seats. People move past him into the bus, and he can’t help but fidget with his earrings all the way to Hannam Ogeori station, waiting until the doors open.

The tightness in his heart loosens the moment he sets eyes on Y/n, who’s wearing a navy turtleneck and a worried expression that turns into relief the moment their eyes meet.

They make their way to him, maintaining a respectful distance, and bow their head slightly in greeting. “Hi.”

He dips his head back. “Hi.” He tries not to sound too desperate as he asks, “You okay? I didn’t see you yesterday.”

Y/n bites their lip, staring at the wall behind Hyunjin. Hyunjin’s wearing his platforms today, so he notes with a hint of triumph that he’s taller than them, even when leaning against the plastic screen.

“I overslept,” they say simply. “I couldn’t take the bus, or I’d be late, so I called a cab instead.”

Oh? Hyunjin thinks it’s pathetic how happy he feels hearing that. Instead, he opts to say, “Did you get to work on time?”

Y/n nods. “Yes.” Then, shaking their head slightly as if to rid themselves of a thought they’d rather not have, they ask, “How are you?”

Hyunjin shrugs, straightening up and bracing the palm of his hand against the screen, reaching for the pole to keep his balance. “Okay, I guess.” He decides not to tell them how his life has taken a rather drastic turn in the past week. He’s been waking up earlier, excited by the prospect of seeing them on the bus, determined not to miss his bus.

Yesterday, when they weren’t there, his heart dropped. If they hadn’t come today, his not-very-hard-earned habit of waking up early might go away, and his life would return to the dreary routine he was used to.

That would be a most unpleasant outcome, which is why he is glad that they are on the bus again today.

“Oh.” He attempts to keep a casual tone as he says, “I forgot to get your number the other day.”

He’s not very good at hiding how gleeful he is when they reach into their bag, pulling out their phone and opening KakaoTalk.

They pass their phone to him, and he types his full name and number in before saving the contact.

“Hwang Hyunjin?” they ask to double-check, and his heart melts at the sound of them saying his name.

“Yes,” he nods.

Y/n hums to themselves, then says, “I’ll contact you.”

The doors open at this perfect juncture, and Hyunjin manages to wave at Y/n before they turn and leave.

—

Y/n, Thursday, 7.59am.

When you board the bus, you have to take a good, hard look at the commuters before you finally spot Hyunjin. He's seated next to another man about his age, also sporting blonde hair just a couple shades darker.

Hyunjin glances up, waving at you, and you take a few steps closer to him.

"Hey, stranger."

You almost do a double take before realising he's teasing you. "Hey, Hyunjin."

The disarming, guileless grin on his face almost fools your heart into calming down, until he jokes, "Didn't recognise me?"

"No." You immediately add, "I mean, your blonde hair is just so distinctive, I'm used to catching sight of it even on a crowded bus. So it kind of threw me off, I guess, seeing two people with blonde hair sitting side by side."

Perhaps it's your delivery, or the way you wave your hands in front of yourself as you defend yourself, but Hyunjin laughs.

"I believe you," he assures you, and you let out a sigh of relief. "Have you eaten breakfast?"

Nodding, you pull out your bento box from your bag. "I made lunch," you explain. "It's beef bibimbap, and I had some rice left over, so I decided to make kimbap."

Hyunjin nods approvingly. “Sounds yummy.”

The conversation proceeds the same way it did last night, polite “how are you”s are exchanged, and there’s discussion about the weather this morning and the wave of tourists that have been seen around the city center lately. You work near Gyeongbokgung Palace, which can be considered a tourist spot, so you’re no stranger to tourists. Lately, though, you’ve definitely seen a lot more tourists—maybe they’re here early, at the end of winter, waiting to see the cherry blossoms.

An announcement reminds you that you’re reaching your stop, and it feels faster than it usually does. You wave goodbye to Hyunjin, who asks, “Same time tomorrow?”

You laugh and nod. “See you!”

—

Hyunjin, Friday, 7:53am.

It’s been 9 days. Not that Hyunjin is counting. He just happens to know that they first met on a Wednesday, and that today is Friday, and that it’s been more than a week since he started leaving the house on time. He just happens to know. Not that he’s keeping track, no, of course not.

(He likes to lie to himself sometimes. It helps him feel better.)

Yeji has perfect timing, because she calls just as the bus reaches Hannam Ogeori station, and he presses his phone to his ear. Y/n walks in, lips lifting into a smile as they catch sight of him. They hurry over, watching him speak to his cousin in Korean so quick it’s a mess of words, but Yeji understands, of course.

My cousin, he mouths at them. “Hold on a second,” he tells Yeji, and he’s met with obedient silence as he pulls the phone away from his mouth, speaking to Y/n. “Do you want to say hi? She’s my younger cousin.”

Y/n shrugs. “Sure.”

Hyunjin passes them the phone, and they greet Yeji politely. He can’t hear Yeji’s response, but Y/n briefly introduces themselves and explains how they got to know Hyunjin. A smile plays on his lips, watching how earnestly Y/n speaks over the phone.

“Here you go.”

Hyunjin receives the phone, and Yeji is already screeching in his ear. “Have you made your move? Hyunjin, how did you manage to find someone so sweet just by going to work? This is so unfair.”

Hyunjin doesn’t typically blush, but he thinks that he might begin to if Yeji keeps this up. Lowering his voice, he chides her, “Yeji-ya, can you lower your volume? They’re literally right next to me.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Still, I think you should ask them out! They sound like they like you, at least as a friend.”

Hyunjin refrains from rolling his eyes. He’s not above taking advice from his cousin in a pinch, but he can’t help but find that she’s being a bit nosier than usual. Perhaps after he graduated from university, she’s become more worried about them drifting apart, so she always makes a point to ask him how he’s doing.

“I’ll consider it,” he tells her, before hanging up.

Y/n watches him curiously, raising an eyebrow in question, and he tries to play it off by saying, “Do you have plans for tonight?”

Y/n shakes their pretty head, hair falling into their eyes. They run a frustrated hand through their hair, sighing in irritation, apologising softly. “‘M not sighing at you,” they clarify. “My hair’s just not cooperating with me today.”

Hyunjin opens his mouth to say no, it’s fine, but Y/n is already moving on. “Anyway, I don’t have plans, so…”

Hyunjin rushes to fill the silence. “Would you like to go to Namdaemun with me for dinner?”

Y/n grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

Y/n, Friday, 6.21pm.

The wind is frigid, but not half as cold as it was a month ago. Already the winter is coming to an end, and the melting snow and warmer temperatures begin to usher in the start of spring.

Spring in Korea comes with the ever-famous cherry blossoms, though the number of foreigners flocking to take pictures at all the popular tourist spots makes it less special than it was when you were younger.

The night is young but the sun has set, and there’s a sort of stillness in the night, even with the bustling city life and the crowds of working class people seeking warmth in small, crowded restaurants, indulging in a hot bowl of ramyeon after a long day.

You blow on your hands, rubbing together and placing them over your ears, which are as cold as ice. Shuffling your feet, you glance up at the sky, wondering when the last time you saw stars was. Your bus of thought is interrupted by a pointed cough, and you tilt your head back down, meeting Hyunjin’s eye.

“Hey, stranger.”

You grin at the nickname, which is already starting to grow on you. “Hey, Hyunjin.”

He extends a hand out to you, cocking his head to one side. “Come with me?”

You take his hand, finding that his palm is warm, almost as warm as the heat pack in your pocket. His breathing creates little puffs of mist in the cold air, and you move closer to him, matching his pace as he begins walking.

The lights seemingly grow brighter as you draw nearer to them, the alluring smell of fried meat and sweet desserts filling the air. It only gets stronger, the smell of spices and the sound of crackling fire overwhelming your senses the further you walk into the street.

Like a little kid, Hyunjin draws you towards a stall selling japchae, pointing out the items on the menu as you nod along. You place your free hand over your ear, trying to warm it up, and Hyunjin notices.

Chuckling softly to himself, he grabs your hood and pulls it over your head, not caring that it seems to mess up your hair.

“I look like a little kid,” you complain, and he raises both eyebrows.

“Better than freezing to death, no?”

You pout, and he briefly smooths your hair before turning back to the stall owner and ordering a plate of japchae for the two of you to share. You offer to hold it, inwardly glad for the warmth of it against your palm. Hyunjin offers to feed you, using the chopsticks to bring the japchae close to your mouth, one hand underneath preventing the sauce from getting on your clothes.

The two of you walk around, peering at the food people are selling—occasionally letting out cries of “it’s so expensive”—and buying some mandu, tteokbokki rice cakes and hotteok to share.

Under the stars obscured by light pollution, in the cold Seoul winter on some night in February, you mumble a few words of thank you to the man you’d never expected to become a part of your life.

“You can’t thank me like that with my full name,” he says, eyebrows raised. “I don’t even know your surname yet.”

“It’s L/n,” you say.

“L/n Y/n.” He tries the word, rolling it around in his mouth. “It’s a pretty name.”

“Hwang Hyunjin sounds better.”

Hyunjin leans in, eyes sparkling at the mention of his name, so close to you you can barely breathe. “Say it again?”

Heart pounding, you repeat his name, over and over again until he’s satisfied, eyes shining brighter than the stars.

—

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[planetkiimchi]

i want to publish “ripped jeans, shattered dreams” soo badly but every time i sit down to write it i swear the plot gets longer ????? like the scenes develop themselves ??? it’s 12k words and i’m not done yet???

[planetkiimchi]

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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