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renjun is my #angel boy! i tag haechan, minho, han and hyunjin as #hyuckie, #lino, #hanji, #hyune respectively. felix is my #sunshine boy! wonbin is my #pretty boy!
real name: all content except gifs. specialised tags are only for gifs (e.g. #enhypen for fics, art etc & #enha for gifs)
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SYNOPSIS. You can’t afford to be burnt out, especially during a crucial era of your life: being in medical school. Enter your best friend—a boy with a tough-looking exterior, a skateboard that’s seen better days, and a heart softer than his beat-up converse—Lee Chan, with his backpack full of snacks, and an uncanny ability to show up exactly when you need him most. He may not be a doctor, nor exactly your therapist, but he certainly is a heartthrob, and your heart can’t help but always page him.
PAIRING. skater boy!lee chan x med student!fem!reader (ft. lowkey stoner!vernon, med student!jeonghan, med student!joshua, soonyoung)
GENRE. fluff, childhood best friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, suggestive, slow burn, college au
WARNINGS. heavy swearing, food + drinking mentions/consumption, so much fucking mutual pining!!!, reader experiencing burnout + self-doubt issues, chan has a mullet, piercings, and tattoos yes, (3) shirtless chan scenes, chan is a self-critical perfectionist, mention of scars, descriptions of minor injuries, hospital mentions + visits, mental health topics, drug use (weed & vaping), reader has a panic attack and passes out, kissing, terms of endearment, vernon makes a sex joke at the end lmao
WORD COUNT. 24.2k
notes: hi hi everyone! this fic is part of the @camandemstudios "the lonely heart's cafe" collab! it also takes part in the same universe as my favourite horangdan @etherealyoungk upcoming fic with hoshi HAHA. ty to skye and also @bananabubble + @imujings listen to me ramble abt this too. pls don't forget to show love all the other authors in this collab <3 HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEE CHAN!!! 🫶
You slam your textbook shut. You don’t think you can reread the same page about neurotransmitters and synaptic transmissions any longer without losing your mind for the third time that night.
Your head feels like it’s two seconds away from combusting, and the pressure coming from upcoming exams, assignments that are constantly due the very next day, along with endless clinicals is suffocating. You’ve been staring at this textbook for what feels like hours or even days, but nothing’s sticking. It’s as if your brain has reached its limit for the day, and you’re left grasping for focus that you can’t find.
“Screw it,” You mutter under your breath, closing the textbook and tossing it to the edge of the bed where it threatens to fall off if you don’t catch it in time, but you ignore it, too tired to even care, and it falls onto the floor below with a soft thud.
Running a hand through your hair, you can feel a headache beginning to creep in, a dull throb behind your eyes. Your body feels heavy, as though it’s been holding in all your exhaustion for the past five months. Accepting your fate, you flimsily fall back onto the bed, granting the greenlight for the comfort of the sheets to swallow you whole.
Then a tap hits your window.
You ignore it at first by grabbing your pillow and burying your face in it, too bummed out to scold the freshmen who think that it’s cute to throw pebbles at people’s windows for the hundredth time this semester.
Another tap follows, then another, becoming more insistent after each one. At this point, they may as well blow a missile through your damn window. But then you hear it𑁋the sharp hiss of a psst, before a muffled, yet unmistakable voice holler out your name. A groan escapes your lips as you drag your body off the bed and shuffle towards the window, pulling the curtain aside and sliding the sash up. You’re immediately greeted by a whiff of cold air hitting your face.
The irritation leaves your body within a second once you spot the figure that’s waving up at you from the ground below. There’s a jump to your heart when you catch a glimpse of the scheming grin that runs across their face.
“Chan? What the hell?” You whisper-yell down towards him, glancing around you as if your voice was loud enough to wake up your next-door neighbours. “It’s midnight!”
You wouldn’t be surprised if you somehow mistakened your best friend as a burglar from how the dark hoodie he’s wearing engulfs him. But you watch as he pulls his hood down and adjusts the scratched-up skateboard tucked underneath his armpit, flashing you that boyish grin that never fails to disarm your guarded-up walls. His breath curls in the cold night air, and you catch the glint of his lip piercing when he tilts his head back to look at you.
“Come on, Y/N, I got reinforcements!” He reveals a black plastic bag from somewhere behind his back, waving it up to you like he’s just discovered some kind of treasure.
You squint, trying to make out what’s in the bag, but it’s too dark to see anything clearly from your window. “What is that?”
“Snacks,” he calls back, his grin widening. “And caffeine. Actually, wait𑁋” He reaches a hand inside the bag, shuffling throughout its contents. “No caffeine, because you need to get your insomniac ass to sleep.”
You roll your eyes at that. “You’re actually a goddamn idiot.”
“So I’ve been told many times. Now, are you going to let me in before that stupid security guard comes and tackles me to the ground again?’
Briefly, you can’t help but smile at the memory of that one specific time a few months back where Chan had been caught sneaking around the apartment complex. The poor elderly security guard nearly had a heart attack when he found Chan struggling to climb the side of the building with a skateboard in hand because you jokingly refused to let him inside your messy apartment. You had to spend an hour talking your way out of that one, and even then, you weren’t sure if all your talking and dumb excuses were enough to convince the security guard that Chan wasn’t a robber trying to get to you through your window.
“Ugh, fine. Give me a second,” You relent, pulling away from the window and hurrying to unlock the door. After a minute, you could already hear the recognisable, obnoxious stomps from the stairs that were echoing throughout the quiet hallway of your apartment.
When you see Chan emerge all breathless like he’s run a marathon in that oversized hoodie, skateboard still tucked under his arm, you can’t help but shake your head, crossing your arms together as he gallops down the hallway and to your door.
Then he looks at you, and for some reason, it almost seems like he looks… different. You don’t know why, because in your eyes, he still looks the same. His dark hair had grown longer𑁋pretty much a mullet at this point𑁋and he had recently changed his lip ring to a sleek silver hoop that catches the faint light in your apartment hallway. The hoodie he wore was thrifted from this store in a sketchy part of town that closed up two years ago, its print faded and frayed at the cuffs of the sleeves. His beat-up Converse shoes are practically at the verge of dying. You think he’s definitely worn it more than a million times, but that wasn’t anything new. There wasn’t anything on the surface that was new.
Yet as he stands there, rosy cheeks flushed from the cold, his grin as radiant as always, there’s something about him that makes your heart stutter for just a moment.
“Okay… You’re doing that staring thing again.” Chan snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back from your head. “You gonna let me in or not?”
You snap out of it, quickly stepping aside to let him in. “You’re so annoying, you know that?”
“And yet, you still tolerate me.” He shoots you a wink before brushing past you, and you observe as he leans his skateboard against the wall of your place. Then he flops onto the wobbly chair in front of your desk like its second instinct, like this place is his second home, and in a way, it is, because you’ll always be the first to let him in.
Chan lifts the black plastic bag as if he’s showing it off to you and sets it down on your cluttered desk, which has been overtaken by textbooks, flashcards, and an impressive collection of empty coffee mugs. You feel yourself fall into a pit of embarrassment at the mess, but this is Chan you’re talking about𑁋he’s seen you at your worst, or… the worst he’s seen so far.
“You know, I’ve heard these snacks are scientifically proven to cure stress,” he claims while handing you a plastic bowl of cup ramen.
You snort at that as you grab the cup of ramen from his grasp and place yourself down on the floor right by him. “Oh, really? Did you read that in The Medical Journal of Lee Chan’s Dumbass Theories?”
“Damn right I did.” He flashes you that lopsided grin, popping open a bottle of water and taking a sip before passing it to you. “Drink. You look like you haven’t had anything but coffee for days. Can’t imagine how much shit is in your head right now.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose at the thought. “I know. I’ve got a headache trying to memorise whatever the hell is in these textbooks.”
“And what’s the medical term for a headache again?”
You peer at him with narrowed eyes when you take another sip of water. “Cephalalgia.”
“See, you’ve still got it in you,” he quips wholeheartedly while leaning back in the chair, a leg propped up on his knee, a pleased smirk to his face when he captures the faintest sight of a smile to your features.
You only let out a scoff as you stand up to fill water into your cup of ramen, placing it in the microwave right after. Even then, you swear you can still feel the way his eyes are wandering over you as you move around the small kitchen, the tonnage of his gaze making your skin tingle. You try to shake off the odd sensation, focusing on getting your ramen prepared. You can hear Chan shifting in the chair behind you, the sounds of rustling hitting your ears as he rummages through the snacks.
Silence overtakes the both of you for a few minutes. It’s comfortable. It always is when it’s with him.
It’s a bit scary, too. Even though it shouldn’t be.
“I went to the skatepark earlier,” Chan suddenly pops in.
When the microwave dings, you carefully take out the cup of ramen. “Practicing your 900?”
“What can I say? I’ll be the next Tony Hawk,” he teases amusedly. “I’m just kidding. Could never be on that man’s level.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself one day doing all those… tricks and shit,” You say as you settle on your bed, pushing away pieces of paper of horrendous math calculations, making them fall down to the ground.
Chan shrugs, looking nonchalant as he leans back in his chair, casually stretching his arms behind his head. He was always pushing himself, always looking for the next adrenaline rush, no matter how reckless it seemed. It's a bit worrying sometimes. “Eh, I’ll survive. A little pain is part of the game.”
“Still. Just… be careful, alright?” The softness and genuine concern to your tone isn’t hard to miss as Chan looks over at you, the teasing spark in his eyes dimming for a second.
Chan plops a chip into his mouth, the crunch bouncing off the walls of the room.
“I will, don’t worry.” Then he leans in like some sort of villain in a superhero movie. “So… I’d like to propose an idea.”
You already know what he’s about to propose. “Chan, no𑁋”
“You, me, these snacks I robbed from the store, and a few episodes of Gilmore Girls.”
You pause mid-bite, your spoonful of ramen hovering just inches from your mouth as you stare at him in disbelief. A part of you wonders if the lack of caffeine in the bag had somehow changed his brain chemistry, but then again, this is the Lee Chan you’ve always known since you were fourteen𑁋spontaneous, reckless, and somehow endearing despite it all.
“You’re such a weirdo,” You murmur under your breath, but the smile on your face betrays you as it always does.
“Come on! You know you want to, Y/N,” he says smugly, and as he catches the slight unsureness to your features, he lets out a sigh. “Relax with me, please?”
For a moment, your mind weighs about the mountain of work that’s bound to be dumped on you, the looming exams, the clinical hours you’ve been drowning in… and then you think about the weight lifting off your shoulders every time Chan’s around. Even just for a little while, the world seems to slow down when he’s here.
He’s a goddamn terrible influence on you in the oddly best way possible. Oh, the irony.
“Okay, fine. Just… one or two episodes, alright?” You give in.
The way Chan’s eyes light up from your words sends a flip to your stomach, and he’s quick to leap off the chair to sink himself down right next to you on the bed. His warmth is quick to surround and engulf you, making himself comfortable in a way that feels so familiar it almost makes your heart race. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you shift slightly to make more room for him, attempting to ignore how suddenly hyper aware you are of his closeness to you.
He rolls his sleeves as if he’s prepared to commit his entire being to this mini-marathon of episodes, and you catch a peek of the tattoos that roam up and down his arms. You’ve seen them countless times before, but tonight, they seem to catch your attention more curiously than ever, and your gaze lingers for just a second too long before you snap your attention back to the screen of the laptop being placed between the two of you.
The bed creaks slightly as he adjusts himself, pulling the blankets up over both of your legs and getting comfortable as if he owns the place, before pressing the play button.
Even as the episode rolls in front of you, your mind… wanders to the boy right next to you. To Chan. To your best friend.
He isn’t looking at you when you’re looking at him, too focused on the scene playing before you. And just the single thought of him is enough to fill every part of your mind, every crevice in your heart. It’s overwhelming.
But it’s not just tonight. It’s not just this moment.
It’s every time he’s around.
The warmth of his body against yours feels too comforting to ignore. The way his carefree smile that you’ve seen thousands of times over the years always makes you forget the time, the way his eyes seem to see through you sometimes that you feel almost bare, the way out of the eight billion people walking this planet right now, he’s the only one who knows you better than anything else.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
Is this it? Is this what people talk about when they say it just clicks?
You want to laugh at how oblivious you’ve been, but the thought that keeps echoing through your mind is no, this isn’t new𑁋it’s been there for a while.
But as you steal another glance at him, the realisation hits you like a fucking bulldozer, like a speeding train, like a bullet penetrating through your body, like a punch to the gut you’re sure will leave a bruise. You nearly choke on your ramen.
You’re falling for him. You’re falling for your best friend.
No, scratch that. You’ve already fallen. Hard. For God knows how long. Fuck.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even know. You’re utterly screwed.
You were at the cusp of middle school and high school when you met Lee Chan. Even though you’re only a year ahead of him, the eighth graders at your school seemed to have a superiority complex bigger than their egos could contain. Back then, he was just another scrawny seventh grader running around with wild passions, and you were just trying to survive through these awful years of awkwardness, or just middle school in general.
It was during one of those ridiculous dares that you met. Some eighth grader had dared him to steal a soda can from the teacher’s lounge fridge, and he’d been caught red-handed𑁋by you, unsurprisingly, as you were sent to pick up some paperwork for your office aide duties. And instead of being embarrassed or causing a ruckus in the middle of the hallway, he had grinned at you like he threw the most disastrous prank in history.
“You won’t snitch, right?” he had asked, while holding the can of soda behind his back.
“Well, I’m an office aide after all,” You had responded sarcastically, crossing your arms together. “I could totally report you to the principal.”
But your words hardly phased him. Didn’t phase him at all. In fact, he’d just looked at you like one of those geeky kids confident in winning their Pokémon Go battles.
“Let me give you a reason not to then,” he had said, revealing the soda can from behind his back and offering it to you. You had stared at him in disbelief, and after a short while, you’d finally taken it. He had just shot you a smile and shuffled past you, as if nothing had happened, but not before adding, “Come to the playground after school. I’ll show you something cool.”
By something cool, he showed you something called a kickflip. You had no idea what a kickflip was at the time, but Chan was way too eager to show you as he grabbed hold of a skateboard that was once used by his father. You had watched him try and fail repeatedly, but never once had he looked embarrassed or frustrated. It was that lighthearted attitude of his that drew you in, something you admired even then. And so, you stayed after school, watching him persist until he finally nailed the trick, his smile wide and victorious. Maybe the world felt lighter in those moments too𑁋that maybe going to high school wouldn’t be an absolute shitshow.
That as young and dumb that you were, maybe life had good things for you.
Because it was with him.
You didn’t call it a crush though, because all the eighth graders who were stuck in their heads all mentioned how crushing on seventh graders was disgusting and gross, that going after the hot high schoolers was cooler. Thus, you ignored the small flutter in your chest whenever he made you laugh after nearly face-planting while practicing, turned a blind eye to the way your heart skipped when he gave that ungodly smile after nailing another trick.
You told yourself it was nothing. You were just friends. Best friends, even.
“I think I have a crush on my best friend,” You downright admit in the middle of the cafeteria, unconsciously stabbing your salad in front of you with a plastic fork.
Jeonghan peers at you while slurping up his banana milk. “Eat your ugly salad.”
You glare at him but take a begrudging bite of your salad anyway, chewing slowly as if it might somehow alleviate the embarrassment swirling in your chest. It’s been almost a week since you’ve come to terms with your feelings for your best friend. Jeonghan sets his banana milk down and leans forward, propping his chin on the palm of his hand with the kind of smug expression that tells you he’s about to make this conversation even worse.
“Well, you could𑁋”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything!” Jeonghan raises his hands in the air like he’s surrendering, letting out a scoff. “How inconsiderate of you.”
“Just𑁋Don’t you get it, Jeonghan?” You ask after stuffing a piece of cold lettuce in your mouth. “This is medical school. The pressure’s insane, and everything is a goddamn mess. I can’t just throw everything away over a stupid crush. And it’s not like Chan would feel the same way. We’ve been friends for so long… and it’s just stupid to think about anything more. I’m stupid for even falling for him in the first place.”
Jeonghan watches you carefully while mulling over your words, then his lips curl into a slight smirk, yet a hint of softness to his eyes.
“You know,” he starts, leaning back in his chair, swirling the banana milk in his cup. “It’s not stupid to have feelings. It’s natural. What’s stupid is throwing those feelings under the rug and leaving them to the dust mites.”
“But I just…” Your voice trails away as you struggle to find the right words. “I already have a lot on my plate right now, and it almost feels wrong to think of him that way. As someone more than a friend. I feel like a pervert or something𑁋I don’t know.”
“A pervert?” Jeonghan questions with a raised brow. “Aw, do you dream of giving him a little smooch on the lips?”
You choke on the next bite of your salad, coughing and trying to hide your face in your hands as Jeonghan just snickers, completely pleased at your reaction.
“You’re actually the devil’s worst nightmare personified,” You mutter under your breath, but there’s no anger behind it.
“Ah, well, that’s a new one,” Jeonghan remarks amusedly. “Better than the devil’s knight in shining armour, I suppose.”
You sigh, dropping your fork and slouching in your seat. You don’t think you have the energy to think about all of this right now. There’s a certain heaviness that settles in your chest as you reluctantly chew your way through the rest of your salad. You have other things to worry about right now, such as the mountain of schoolwork on your desk, your pathology exam on Friday, and having to impress your grumpy fifty-year-old attending tomorrow.
“Come on, let’s get through pharmacology.” You start to pack up your belongings, sealing off the remains of your unfinished salad and stuffing the container inside your backpack. Jeonghan watches you knowingly with a sigh as he gathers his own things.
“You’re avoiding the conversation,” he points out, standing up and tossing his empty drink into the trash bin.
“I know,” You admit, standing up to join him. “I just don’t have the mental space for it right now. I have so much to do, and thinking about Chan and... whatever this is... it’s not helping.”
Jeonghan doesn’t say anything after that, and you appreciate the quiet while shoving your laptop and notebook inside your backpack before flinging it over your shoulder. He doesn’t want to apply more pressure on the wound than needed.
One day, he thinks, you’ll have to face it, and that it’ll come to bite you in the ass sooner or later.
You could really use a shower right now.
After an entire day of clinicals and back-to-back lectures, all you want to do is melt in your bed and let the world fade away. But instead, you find yourself trudging towards the skatepark, because you promised to meet up with Chan for God knows why. By all means you’re definitely late, and you aren’t even sure if Chan would be at the skatepark as he’d have to wait almost an hour for you to show up, yet the thought of disappointing him somehow hurts more than the aching fatigue in your legs.
You spot him instantly. He’s mid-trick when you approach, his skateboard spinning in the air before he lands effortlessly with a triumphant grin. You see him fan himself, wiping his sweat off with his shirt he retrieves from the ground, catching sight of his exposed form and the tattoos that run up and down his skin. His back is turned towards you as well, and you catch a glimpse of another tattoo that he has: a series of Japanese letters that trail down his spine, spelling out his zodiac sign, Aquarius.
After a mere pause, he turns his head and spots you, his face lighting up like it always does, and you feel that familiar flip in your stomach again.
“You’re late,” he calls out, kicking the skateboard up into his hands and jogging over to meet you.
You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Blame my neuro attending. That man has the stamina of a marathon runner and the patience of a saint. Could rival Derek Shepherd, to be honest. I think I aged ten years today.” You set your bag down on the floor next to a nearby bench. “You didn’t wait long, did you?”
“Nah, not that long. You actually came after Vernon left𑁋idiot left his vape here,” Chan says while fishing the vape out of his pocket and taking a shameless hit from it, a cloud of vapour floating into the air when he exhales, before offering it to you with a teasing grin. “Want a hit?”
You scrunch your nose, shaking your head with a laugh. “Offering me, a med student, that shit is crazy. My lungs are precious thank you, unlike you and Vernon.”
“Tell that to those bozos.” He points to the noisy teenagers at the other side of the park, before sitting right next to you on the bench. “Can’t even roll over there without getting smacked in the face with weed.”
Your smile falters just slightly as you watch him lean back, his face tilting towards the darkening sky. The dim light of the streetlamps catches on the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the relaxed purse of his lips, and highlights the sleek dragon tattoo that snakes up his arm. He looks... peaceful. Content. Like the world isn’t asking too much from him tonight, like there’s no ginormous weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, unlike you.
“I messed up today during clinicals,” You randomly confess, making Chan turn toward you. “There was this patient today… a girl. Seventeen years old, has a tumour that’s basically about to split her brain in half. I kept arguing with my attending about treatments, and I was so sure I was right𑁋that we could do something more about it𑁋but in the end, I just... made it worse. I felt like such an idiot, because… because there wasn’t anything we could do. She only has one chance with surgery, and she took it, despite her low chances of surviving.”
Chan listens to you, his eyes gentle and thoughtful, understanding but not pitying. It’s the same way he used to listen when you were venting back in high school, always patient, never rushing you to fix yourself or your emotions.
“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, but his tone is nothing like a scold. “You care. That’s the difference. Not everyone would have fought that hard for her, even if you didn’t win. You’ve got a heart the size of the ocean, dude, you know?”
You smile faintly, chest tightening a little to his words. “The mother-fucking ocean?”
Chan grins at your lightheartedness, nudging you with his elbow. “Yeah, the mother-fucking ocean. You’re stubborn as hell, but you’ve got that heart. And that’s what makes you good at what you do. It’s what makes you you.”
You look down almost in guilt from his words, unconsciously playing with your fingers in your lap. You don’t know why, but it hits harder than usual tonight, and for a second, the rush of everything you’ve been holding back hits you𑁋the exhaustion, the worry, the feeling that you’ve been carrying more than your fair share of burdens these days. They almost threaten to burst out of you, but right now, they don’t. Not yet at least.
“You’re gonna be a good doctor,” Chan continues. “I don’t even have to be a doctor to know that. You just… you get it. You’re going to go out there and do great things. Maybe even better things than me.”
You almost want to laugh at that, almost want to tell Chan just how much shit he’s done that is far greater than what you could ever dream of. You’re not sure if he realises it himself𑁋how great he is, how much you admire him, love him𑁋but you think you could spend more than a lifetime telling him just that if you could.
Maybe you’ve been avoiding these feelings for too long, but the truth is, they’ve been there for as long as you can remember. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment these feelings shifted from friendship, to admiration, to something more𑁋maybe it was when he helped you get through the first few years of high school, or when he held your hand during a school dance, not in some romantic gesture but because you were scared of your anxiety acting up𑁋but it’s always been there. He’s always been there.
“I… Thank you, Chan,” You say softly. Then you tilt your head back, looking at the same sky he is, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that? But you’re also... you’re really great yourself. Like, better-than-I-deserve great.”
Chan just chuckles at that. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, turning his head slightly to look at you. “That’s probably the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I’ve heard a lot of dumb shit from you.”
“Wow, okay. Forget all that I said then,” You retort back playfully, shaking your head and crossing your arms together. “You’re the worst person alive, actually.”
When you’re busy gazing up at the sky above, Chan turns to you. His eyes flit over you, basking how your eyelashes slowly bat together from tiredness, how your lips are slightly curled up in relaxation, how your features glow from the singular street lamp illuminating the skatepark. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and glances away, his thoughts racing faster than he can keep up with.
“You meant it though, right?” he asks.
“What?” You question, turning towards him.
“About me being great or whatever.” You can tell he’s trying to brush off the hesitation, but you sense the uncertainty in his voice. “You meant it?”
Out of all times, you wonder why he’s questioning it right now, at almost midnight in the middle of the skatepark. You’ve told him countless times how great he is, always hyping him up for skate competitions and giving him comfort on the times he’s down himself. Why… is he suddenly asking if you meant it?
“Well, I… Of course, I meant it,” You respond, catching his eye. “Why wouldn’t I?”
For a short period, there’s just silence, comfortable, a pinch of awkward𑁋a word you can pretty much never associate with your interactions together𑁋yet heavy. The way Chan’s features soften on his face from your words seem more important than the stars blinking up in the sky right now.
Then all it takes is a tiny giggle from him, and you can’t help but groan.
“Oh no,” You grumble pesteringly, shooting him an exasperated glance, but your tone is light, teasing. “I fueled your ego now, didn’t I?”
“Yep. I can walk around like I’m the best thing since sliced bread,” Chan jokes, puffing out his chest with pride. “My greatness has been confirmed by a certified medical professional.”
“Whatever, big head,” You sneer back playfully.
Chan stretches out a bit more on the bench, his legs extending and his arms behind his head. You can tell he’s getting more comfortable too, probably ready to call it a night, just like you, and you can’t help but let yourself soften a little.
Without thinking, you shift your body and lean your head down to gently rest it in Chan’s lap. His body stiffens for a few seconds as if he wasn’t expecting it, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets you settle, and after a beat, his hand comes to gently rest in your hair, and something tugs at your heartstrings from the feeling. Your eyes slowly flutter to a close.
“You okay?”
Those words almost make you want to cry.
“Yeah,” You reply quietly. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
When you open your eyes back up, Chan is looking down at you, studying you, his thumb tenderly tapping the top of your head as he waits for an answer.
“Alright.” You let out a deep inhale, blinking back up at him. “I’m not.”
Then his hand stops moving, and you nearly regret even telling him that.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks cautiously.
The corners of your lips tug up slightly, another sigh leaving you. All you can do is shake your head.
“Not really.”
Chan just pulls away, not entirely, but enough to give you a little space. His hand stays near, though, and he’s still watching you, his expression soft.
“Okay.”
For now, the two of you let your gazes drift back up to the sky, and you think𑁋maybe falling for your best friend isn’t the worst thing in the world.
The number 87 is scratched at the top of the page of your medical jurisprudence exam.
“Thanks for letting me cheat off you, by the way,” Jeonghan chimes in jokingly over your shoulder, nudging you in the arm before walking past you and out the door.
You roll your eyes at his comment but remain standing right where you are at your seat, and you don’t know why you can’t get yourself to move. Your fellow classmates𑁋all dressed in their finest set of scrubs𑁋brush past you and out of the classroom, but you could only clench your first around the paper in your hand.
An 87 isn’t bad; if anything, it’s great. Hell, it’s probably better than some of the other people in your class. You should be happy about it. But for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something off. It’s the fact that you’re standing here, staring at a number that’s supposed to represent your hard work, your achievements, yet it feels empty, hollow, even.
You don’t feel proud of yourself.
All you can think about are the countless nights you’ve spent studying for something that doesn’t even feel fulfilling anymore. Your mind wanders over the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, the times you could hardly breathe because rotations had you stuck in the hospital𑁋what was it all for? A number? A stupid grade on a piece of paper?
You take a deep breath, trying to push the thought away.
“You’re doing fine,” You remind yourself, quietly, under your breath. But somehow, it doesn’t sound as convincing as you need it to. “You did good. You’re fine.”
Yet, there’s a voice that echoes off the walls of your head: you can do better.
You meet Jeonghan and your other mutual friend Joshua in the hallway after managing to finally leave the large lecture hall. The two of them are chatting enthusiastically amongst each other, comparing their exams and the questions they received credit for along with the ones they got wrong.
You force a smile to slip across your face when you approach, though it merely feels like a mask you’re getting tired of wearing.
“If I manage to survive this program, then I better be gifted with twenty years worth of coffee,” Jeonghan says while stuffing the exam paper inside his backpack. On the other hand, Joshua seems to be way more organised than you and Jeonghan combined, slipping his paper into a colour–coordinated folder before holding it under his arm.
“What did you want to go into again? Pediatrics? Can’t imagine you with children for the life of me,” Joshua comments playfully.
“Alright, mister, you’re the one who wanted to go into plastics,” Jeonghan retorts with a smirk, nudging Joshua in the ribs. “I can totally see you standing in front of a mirror practicing how to say, ‘Oh, ma’am, you’ll look amazing after this rhinoplasty.’”
Joshua rolls his eyes but laughs. “At least I’ll make my patients happy. I’m not sure kids would survive under your care without learning sarcasm as their first language.”
“Sarcasm builds character, my friend,” Jeonghan states matter-of-factly, wiggling a finger up in the air as if to emphasise the point. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach those little demons how to get through life in the correct way.”
You give in a chuckle at their banter, clumsily folding your exam paper in half and stuffing it deep inside your bag, hoping you’d probably forget all about it by the end of the day. Though the tension inside you doesn’t seem to want to disappear quite easily. You should feel happy to be surrounded by friends who’ve stuck with you through this hellish journey, but instead, you’re just... floating.
It’s like you’re suspended between reality and expectation, unsure of where you really fit into either world. You try to push it down, but the feeling keeps creeping back, making your chest feel tight.
“Now I think this calls for a celebratory shot of champagne, or Iced Americano, whatever you want to call it,” Jeonghan announces to you and Joshua as all of you are walking outside.
The time has nearly reached evening by this point, the warm hues of the sky painting the sunset that’s illuminating the campus. It’s a sight that would normally give you a sense of peace, an opportunity to relax, but it doesn’t give you that feeling right now. Far from it. You should be happy, you remind yourself again and again. You’ve been working towards this for your entire life, yet here you are, dragging yourself through the motions like a robot programmed to survive but never to live.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most𑁋the thought that you’ve lost yourself somewhere along the way. You can’t remember the last time you felt truly at ease, or when you last let yourself just... breathe.
Your steps don’t fall in rhythm with Jeonghan and Joshua as you trail behind them. All of your energy feels like it’s been drained out of your body, and that you’d much rather be in the comfort of your apartment to study and distract yourself.
“You guys can go ahead,” You say to Jeonghan and Joshua with a soft, yet tired smile. “I think I’m just going to head home and get some rest. Catch up later?”
Joshua frowns, noticing the tension in your voice. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” You reply nimbly with a half-shrug, even though the word feels like a lie when it leaves your lips. “Just… tired. You know how it is. You two deserve to celebrate, though. Go and enjoy yourselves.”
Before you could give Jeonghan or Joshua any chance to respond, you give them a half-hearted wave before hiking off in another direction. You blink away the heat that was threatening to form in your eyes, keeping your gaze focused on the ugly, cracked pavement ahead as you hurriedly make your way back to your apartment. Every step feels heavier than the last, and you swear you feel yourself sinking with each one you take. You tell yourself it’s fine𑁋that you’ll feel better once you’re home, but you can’t tell if you’re just trying to convince yourself that.
By the time you arrive at your apartment building, perhaps more time has gone by than you expected. The sun has nearly set at this time, making way for the moon to take over with its nightly duties, casting its pale glow over the world around you. But it doesn’t seem to paint its glow on you.
When you start trudging your way towards the entrance to your building, a voice freezes you in your path.
“Y/N! Wait up!”
Your heart sinks in your chest at the voice, almost urging you to step inside your place before that particular gnaw of guilt could grab you, but you freeze nonetheless. You reluctantly turn around to none other than Chan jogging up to you, his skateboard nearly falling from his grip as he lands right in front of you. He’s breathing a bit heavier than usual, as if he’d been running to catch up.
“You haven’t texted me all day,” he tells you breathlessly.
You lift a brow at that, a corner of your lip lifting up at his clinginess. “And you ran all the way here to tell me that?”
“Well, duh, I have to make sure you’re alive.” He wipes off some sweat from his forehead. You could tell he just rolled here all the way from the skatepark.
As you let your eyes scan over him, you can’t help but notice how effortlessly cool he looks with his messy fair falling in front of eyes, and the way he still seems to be trying to catch his breath from the exertion of running up to you. There’s a softness in his expression that makes your chest tighten, and it’s enough to make you lose focus on everything else. The exhaustion, the doubt, the ache in your chest𑁋all of it vanishes when you look at him.
Truthfully, you missed him too. You always do.
“You’re such a dork,” You prod, trying to suppress the soft warmth that spreads through your chest. You know he’s only teasing, but his concern still cuts deeper than you expect. “See? I'm alive and breathing.”
Chan eyes you suspiciously, before grabbing ahold of his skateboard from under his arm. “Alright, if you say so…”
Before he could place the skateboard on the ground, you stop him.
“Wait, Chan.”
Chan shoots his attention back to you, and perhaps that’s enough to make your legs feel like jelly and your throat to go dry. You hesitate, biting back the emotions threatening to spill out of your mouth, but something about the softness in Chan’s gaze makes it feel like this is the right time to let it out. Even if it’s just a little bit.
Without thinking, you take a step forward, then another, and another, before leaning in to gently let your head fall on his shoulder. Chan freezes, his body tensing at the sudden contact. For a second, you wonder if you’ve done something wrong, but then he exhales, his warmth radiating against your temple. You don’t notice the way his hand hovers uncertainly over your back, contemplating, before he ultimately brings it back to his side.
“I got my results for an exam today,” You admit quietly.
Chan thinks he knows where this is going, breathing out a defeated, “Oh. Did it… I mean, did you𑁋”
“I passed,” You mutter with a slight chuckle. “With flying colours.”
Chan doesn’t respond immediately, the only sound being the gentle rustling of the evening breeze. You can feel his shoulder shift slightly under your head, not out of discomfort, but then you feel his arm gently slide over your shoulders, pulling you a little closer to him. Maybe you’re close enough to the point he can feel your heartbeat.
“Then why do you sound so down?” he asks. “If you passed, you should… you should be celebrating, right? That’s a big deal.”
“I am celebrating.” You huff out a breath. “Now that you’re here, I-I could celebrate.”
Chan tenses at that, like your words rendered him speechless. “Because… because I’m here?”
You nod lightly against his shoulder. “It’s… easier to breathe when you’re here, I guess.” And then you smile faintly, even Chan can feel it. “Don’t let that get to your head, though.”
But it does. It does go to Chan’s head in more ways than one as he feels that familiar heat crawl up his neck from how those words fall naturally off your lips, like it was such a normal thing to say. And no, it doesn’t fuel the prideful ego he claims he has, doesn’t make him smug or self-assured; no, it goes straight directly to his heart, as your words always do. He’s glad the dim evening light hides the full extent of his reaction, but he knows his heart isn’t probably nearly as subtle.
And when you lift your head off his shoulder and pull away slightly, he can’t help but stare at you. You don’t say anything either, the words sitting in the air between you. But then you smile𑁋tiredly, genuinely, not forced or hiding anything𑁋and the first thought that comes to his head is that… you’re beautiful.
“You reek of sweat,” You suddenly point out teasingly, scrunching your nose. “How many hours did you stay at the damn park?”
“Oh, you know, only a good seven hours,” Chan replies sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Plus I did go to the gym with Soonyoung too…”
“And let me guess, no knee pads or helmet?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.
Chan opens his mouth in defense. “Well, I𑁋”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough,” You cut him off playfully, rolling your eyes dramatically.
Then Chan lightly nudges you with the skateboard. “At least you’ll be there to patch me up, yeah?”
“Nope, sorry, I’m leaving you at the mercy of the cranky ER nurses,” You tell him, wiggling a dismissive finger toward his face.
Chan just steps back up to you, a twinkle of mischief that you capture in his eyes, before he grabs hold of the skateboard under his arm and shoves it in your hold, a low oof escaping out of your mouth. Then you watch with a scoff as he brushes past you and into your apartment building, and you jog to catch up with him.
“What the hell are you doing, Chan?” You call out after him, trying to juggle the weight of the skateboard in your hands. Chan glances over his shoulder with that signature grin of his𑁋half playful, half smug𑁋and it’s enough to make you want to smack him with the board. “And take this thing back, I’m not carrying it! Lee Chan!”
Chan looks back at you with his tongue sticking out, before disappearing around the corner. “Sorry, I’m going to use your shower!”
And for the first time the entire day, the laugh that leaves you is real. A real, genuine laugh that comes from deep in your chest, bubbling up before you can stop it.
“Hey, Lee Dino! You’re up!”
Chan picks his head up from where he sat on the bench, scrunching the empty water bottle and aimlessly tossing it in the trash bin beside him. He stands up, tugging his shirt off that was nearly drenched in sweat and throwing it aside near his belongings. The cool air of the afternoon hits his skin, caressing over the tattoos that paint his skin.
His muscles flex as he stretches his arms above his head, relieving whatever tension was flowing through his body. The key factor to skateboarding is balance, but it’s also about rhythm𑁋finding the flow between body and board, and Chan knows it all too well.
He inhales deeply, eyes scanning the open park in front of him, full of potential for the next challenge.
“Let’s see what you got today, Lee Dino,” Chan mutters to himself, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Dino. A self-proclaimed nickname that was at first given to him by his father when he was just a kid and fascinated by the strength and coolness of dinosaurs in those silly comic books. His dad had joked that he wanted his son to dominate the world like the dinosaurs once did, and that nickname stuck ever since. It felt fitting to Chan, even now.
He strides confidently toward the half-pipe, his worn-out skateboard tucked under his arm. Placing the skateboard on the ground, he pushes it back and forth a few times with his foot, the wheels scraping the pavement below. He eyes the ramp ahead, its steep curve teasing him, almost daring him to take it head-on.
Chan doesn’t hesitate.
In one singular, fluid motion, he plants one foot on the board and pushes forward, flying off with a burst of energy that propels him toward the ramp. The world around him blurs for a split second as his focus narrows entirely on the slope ahead. His heart races, not out of fear but exhilaration. The crowd that had gathered around the park watches, a mix of awe and excitement in their eyes.
He hits the curve of the ramp, leaning into it just the right amount, and in one smooth motion, he launches himself into the air. The adrenaline kicks in, but it’s all muscle memory that fills him𑁋he knows exactly how to control his body.
Time seems to pause and the world around goes on mute as he floats above the ground. The board twists under his feet with the familiar flick of his ankle. His body moves effortlessly, adjusting for the perfect landing, and searching for the right second to take in a deep breath.
He lands back on the pavement with the grace of a dancer, his knees absorbing the shock of the landing, and the cheers of his friends and his fellow skaters power up to full volume right to his ears when the world comes back to him. But as he rolls around the bowl, his focused eyes are already scanning for the next trick he’s about to perform.
One trick after another, he continues, smoothly flowing from one move to the next. A quick Ollie here, a grind on the edge there, his body dancing on the board with a sense of freedom following right after him. He can feel the eyes of the crowd who have curiously gathered around the park to watch, but right now, it’s just him and the board.
One last run, he tells himself. Chan rolls again, more faster this time, building up speed as the seconds of anticipation pass. As he nears the highest point of the ramp, he shifts his weight and takes in one last deep breath. He’s going for a bigger one this time. A heelflip, followed by a 360-degree spin mid-air.
The muscle memory kicks in again as he pushes off for one final time. He feels the rush, the levity to his bones that make him fly, the thrill as the world spins around him. But as he spins, something doesn’t quite feel right, and he could sense it right away. A rush of cold wind catches him off-balance, and for a split second, he hesitates mid-air, yet he’s just a millisecond too late.
It’s a tiny moment𑁋one probably wouldn’t be able to notice it from how fast he was going𑁋but it’s enough to throw him off. His body is barely in the perfect alignment it needs to be. Panic flashes through his eyes.
And his heart sinks as he realises he’s not going to stick the landing.
Chan manages to land the board, but it’s far from the smooth he was expecting, slamming harshly that his body doesn’t fully absorb the shock. His right foot misses the edge of the deck just slightly, and the board wobbles beneath him. He tries to adjust quickly, but the momentum carries him a bit too far, and before he knows it, he’s stumbling off the side and onto the rocky ground, the skateboard shooting out from under him and skidding into one of the nearby flatrails.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself.
Collective gasps ripple through the air as he finds himself laying flat on the ground, his breathing heavy. Chan rolls onto his side, groaning in frustration.
“Man, you good?” Vernon’s voice pops in, the boy picking up Chan’s skateboard and jogging towards him. “That looked like a bad fall.”
Chan pushes himself up from the ground, shaking his head and laughing lightly, wiping his palms against the asphalt and feeling the sting of scraped skin. The fall had been harsh, his body aching slightly from the impact, but the sting is nothing compared to the frustration burning in his chest. He’s taken worse falls before, but this one felt different. This time, he knew he should’ve nailed it.
Maybe he was a bit too cocky. A bit too confident than he needed to be.
“Yeah, I’m good, dude.” He grabs hold of Vernon’s outstretched hand and stands back up on his feet with a grimace. “Guess I miscalculated that a bit, huh?”
“You sure about that?” Vernon asks skeptically, handing Chan back his skateboard. “You look like you’ve taken a hit.”
Chan just chuckles, downplaying himself playfully. “Nah, I’m fine. Maybe just a little bit of a bruised ego.”
But even with that, his mind races, still replaying the trick, analysing the split-second mistakes he made. Why had he hesitated? Was he not focused enough? Was it the wind? Or maybe, was it that nagging feeling of doubt that had crept in when he least expected it?
“You’ve been pushing yourself harder lately,” Vernon says, eyeing him knowingly. “You’re going to burn out if you keep going like this.”
But Chan only shakes his head dismissively.
“It’s just a slip-up.” Then he pats Vernon on the shoulder. “It’s all good, man.”
But deep down, he’s unsettled. He’s used to pushing through challenges, always looking ahead and striving for the next trick. But now, he feels like something’s holding him back, and it’s not just the fall.
He can’t help but think about you. A while ago when you’d reassured him, telling him he was great and making his heart do flips more than it should. Maybe he hadn’t fully processed it then, but now, with the fall still fresh like a wound, the words hold more poundage than ever. The words he told himself about his worth, the words you told him about his greatness… they don’t seem to line up with the failure he feels now. Maybe you were just saying it to make him feel better.
Or maybe he really isn’t as great as everyone thinks.
Because if you𑁋the one person who knew him best𑁋saw something in him, then maybe it was real. Maybe his greatness wasn’t just an illusion he crafted to keep himself from falling apart.
Later that evening, Chan finds himself taking a mindless hit of his vape. The skatepark has cleared away at this point, leaving only him and Vernon sitting on the edge of the half-pipe, the cool night air settling over the empty ramps and rails. The rush of adrenaline from earlier is now long gone, replaced by a quiet hum of exhaustion and contemplation.
Chan exhales slowly, watching the vapour dissipate into the dead of night, the faint flavour of Sour Fucking Fab coating his tongue. The nicotine buzzes in his veins, a distraction𑁋temporary, but enough.
His fingers absentmindedly tap against his skateboard, the frustration from earlier still simmering beneath his skin. Vernon leans back on his elbows, glancing at him with that same knowing look he always has when Chan is overthinking.
“You wanna talk about it now?” Vernon finally asks after exhaling a cloud of vapour of his own, leaning back on his palms.
Chan lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Not really.”
Vernon doesn’t push. He never does, seemingly having the unbotheredness that could rival a rock. The boy just nods, stretching his legs out in front of him, letting the silence do the talking instead. They sit there for a while, watching the overhead lamps flicker across the park, and the occasional car passing by.
Chan lets his legs dangle over the edge of the ramp, his skateboard resting beside him, scuffed and worn from years of practice. He takes another slow drag of his vape and drops his back down on the cool pavement below, sealing his eyes shut.
“You good?” Vernon asks again, his voice cutting through the silence.
Chan blinks, shaking himself out of it. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About your fall?”
Chan hums noncommittally. “Among other things.”
Vernon leans back against the rail, watching him closely. “You’ve been weird lately.”
Chan only lets out a breathy chuckle, yet doesn’t respond right away. It’s funny how one fall is enough to mess with his head. He just blankly stares up ahead at the night sky. He doesn’t have an answer. At least, not one he’s ready to say out loud. But Chan knows Vernon, and Vernon knows him, and he’s not going to let this go that easily.
“Do you think I’m actually good at this?” he asks suddenly, voice quieter than before.
Vernon turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “At skating?”
“Yeah.” Chan swallows the lump in his throat. “Or at anything, really.”
Vernon frowns puzzledly, sitting up properly. “Dude, what are you talking about? You’re literally one of the best skaters here."
“Yeah, but what if I’m just… I don’t know, pretending?” The words come out before Chan can stop them. “What if I’m just tricking myself into thinking I’m great when I’m really just average?”
Vernon studies him for a long while before letting out a slow breath. “Man, if that were true, you wouldn’t be out here busting your ass every day till the crack of dawn. You wouldn’t get back up after a fall. You wouldn’t care this much.”
Chan doesn’t respond right away, only pushing himself back off the ground. Then his mind drifts again, back to you𑁋your head resting in his lap, the way you looked up at him with something unreadable in your gaze. The impact of your words still lingers. You’re really great yourself. Like, better-than-I-deserve great.
“Have you ever thought that… maybe people see you as something more than you really are?”
Vernon lifts up a brow. “You’re speaking hieroglyphics.”
Chan scoffs annoyedly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Like, they think you’re this… great person, right? Someone who’s got it all figured out or whatever. But then, you screw up. And suddenly, you don’t know if you’re actually that person, or if they just convinced themselves you were.”
Vernon eyes him conspicuously. “Dude. That’s just imposter syndrome.”
A dry laugh leaves Chan. “Well, shit.”
“Okay, so you mess up one fall and suddenly you’re questioning your entire existence?”
Chan snorts, but there’s no real amusement behind it. “Maybe.”
Vernon stares at him a little longer, a little harder, then sighs.
“It isn’t just about the fall, is it?”
Chan hesitates, his fingers tightening around his vape. He wants to say yes𑁋that it’s just about the fall, just about that one pivotal mistake𑁋but he knows it’s not. He knows Vernon is right.
Because if it were just about the fall, he wouldn’t feel this restless. He wouldn’t be sitting here, staring at the cracks in the pavement like they held the answers to all the questions buzzing in his head.
And the thought of you wouldn’t keep creeping into his mind, either.
He smiles faintly at the thought of you, and he swears he could almost feel the warmth of your body when you laid your head on his shoulder the other day.
Maybe falling𑁋on the board, for you, for everything𑁋wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Maybe he just had to figure out how to land.
“You ever think that maybe no one’s expecting you to be perfect except yourself?” Vernon questions suddenly.
Chan turns to look at him in surprise.
“Think about it.” Then the boy breathes out a cloud of vapour, hitting Chan square in the face, accusingly pointing at him with the mouth of his vape. “And wipe that disgusting lovesick shit off your face.”
Chan chokes from his words.
“Chan?”
“...hm?”
You lightly flick the tip of your pencil on his head, causing him to stir in front of you. The two of you were in the library of your campus, and Chan for some reason voluntarily wanted to come with you, despite it being one of your boring study sessions. He’s sitting in the chair right across from you, hoodie over his face and face buried in his arms on the table, clearly dozing off.
“You’re sleeping,” You say, raising a brow. “Why did you even come if you were just gonna pass out on me?”
Chan slowly lifts his head, eyes heavy with drowsiness. His hair is a mess, sticking up in odd angles, and his face is creased from where he had pressed it against his arms. He blinks sluggishly at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but there’s something else there𑁋something softer, something warm.
“Mmm… moral support?” Then he shoots a glance towards your opened textbook and computer screen. “I barely understand any of the shit you’re studying anyway.”
You roll your eyes, fighting the smile threatening to spread across your face. “You could’ve just stayed home and slept, you know.”
“That’s boring,” he groans, rubbing his eyes before propping his chin on his palm. He studies your bare face𑁋tired eyes, a bit of breakout to your cheek, the way you chew on your bottom lip when you’re frustrated. “Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Anything. I don’t know𑁋your shitty commute to school or if that one shitty nurse bothered you today. Just talk to me.”
You sigh, stretching your arms above your head before setting your pencil on top of your textbook. You could feel Chan’s eyes waiting for you as you try to rack your brain for anything to talk about. Anything that didn’t revolve around you practically moping through your coursework the entire day.
And then your face lights up.
“A baby held onto my finger last night,” You say, eyes softening from the memory. “Her name is Nabi, and she was sooo tiny, Chan, you have no idea. She wasn’t even my patient, so I had to sneak inside the nursery to see her, but…” You lean back in the chair, glancing down at your calloused fingertips from all the times you’ve practiced sutures. “I don’t know. She wrapped her tiny hand around my finger, then all I felt… was peace. It was relaxing. I haven’t felt peace like that in a long time.”
Now that’s an image that comes to Chan's head.
For a moment, like a spell, he’s lost in it. His mind wanders, as it always does when he lets himself think about you too much. He can imagine you there, looking down at Nabi with that quiet wonder in your eyes, watching you care for this tiny life. He pictures you cradling a baby of your own with the same peaceful look on your face as you guide them gently through the world.
And the thought hits him like a tidal wave: You’d be an incredible mother.
It’s not something he’s imagined before, not something he’s consciously thought of. But now that you’ve said it, now that you single-handedly planted the concept in his head, he can’t push it away. He’s seen it when you did volunteer work for young children back in high school, seen it when you showed him pictures of you cradling the newborn baby of your cousin with the fondest look on your face. He can see it so clearly.
“You’d be a great mom,” he blurts out suddenly, and he hardly processes the words until after they’ve left his mouth.
You blink at him, dazed. “What?”
Chan clears his throat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I-I just think you’d be really good at it. You’ve always been great with kids, so…”
You blink at him again, unsure of what to say, and he can’t quite tell what you’re thinking in your head. But in reality, his words seem to hit you more than you expected. Perhaps you’ve been too caught up in your studies that it’s hard to imagine that kind of future for you right now. Yet, if somehow, life gave you that kind of situation, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Maybe this would all be worth it in the end.
And so, you smile. It’s a small, just barely noticeable quirk of your lips, but it’s soft, and for some reason, it makes Chan’s heart skip.
“Yeah,” You murmur quietly. “Maybe.”
“Nabi was lucky to have you there, though,” Chan adds in. “Maybe she also felt peace too.”
You peer at him with an amused look. “Are you getting a soft spot for babies now?” Then you scoff sarcastically. “I guess the tough-looking skater boy can get soft, after all.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he jokes, trying to brush off the warmth spreading across his chest. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
You could only roll your eyes. “Sure, I’ll keep your secret, buttercup.”
Chan just chuckles. He doesn’t mind being the soft version of himself with you. He doesn’t have to wear the hard exterior that everyone expects from him: the reckless skater with tough edges who never cracks under pressure. It’s easy, he thinks, to be soft around you. It’s easy for you to make him soft in the first place, with just a single glance, a smile, just you.
The room grows quiet now, other students filing their way out of the library for the night, leaving only the two of you. You glance down at your work, but your thoughts drift, still lingering on the conversation, and on Chan. You notice how his gaze has relaxed, lips curled like he’s trying to hide a smile. You don’t mind it𑁋this side of him. The one that feels less like a skating rebel and more like a person you’re learning to understand more every day.
He watches you as you get back to your work, highlighting parts of your textbook with that quiet concentration that he admires. It’s occasions like these when he finds himself noticing even the smallest details about you.
Yet his mind keeps repeating about the peace you mentioned, and there’s a sudden urge in him to bring it back to you.
“Come on.” He rises from the seat, stretching his arms over his head before grabbing his skateboard from where it rests against the table. “Let’s get out of here for a bit.”
You blink at him, confused. “What?”
“You need a break,” he states simply. “And I need to clear my head too. Let’s go do something𑁋anything but this.” He gestures at your pile of notes and textbooks like they personally offended him.
You stare at him like he’s proposed the most ridiculous thing in the world, hesitation making you stiffen. You glance between your opened textbook and unfinished papers. You still have a lot to study, and it looms over you like a cloud. But then you meet Chan’s eyes, and your heart gets lodged in your throat.
It’s tempting. More tempting than you want to admit. You bite your lip, considering.
“Chan.” You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re on thin ice right now.”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxes, tiling his head amusedly as if he knows he’s getting under your skin. “Just for a little bit, please?”
You groan, throwing your head back dramatically. “You’re a bad influence.”
“I’m a wondrous influence, thank you,” he corrects smugly, already swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Now come on. Pack all that gross knowledge up.”
“Just so you’re aware, one day all this shit could help me find some revolutionary cure in the future,” You point out while stuffing all your belongings in your backpack. “Catch me on the front page of the New York Times.”
Chan smiles at that. Honestly, with already knowing how smart and studious you are, he wouldn’t even be surprised if that someday were to happen. He’s never once doubted your abilities, never once doubted that you’ll potentially save the world in some way, shape, or form, never once doubted that you’ll accomplish great things.
“Alright, whatever, as long as you don’t forget about me,” Chan says as you pack the last of your belongings.
You hit him gently on the shoulder. “I’d never do that to you.”
Chan’s heart does the familiar jump once again.
The two of you make your way out of the library, the cool night air hitting your skin as soon as you step outside. Campus is quieter at this hour, streetlights casting long shadows over the pavement. Chan hops onto his skateboard with ease, gliding a few feet ahead before spinning back around to face you, rolling backwards.
“Okay, so… what’s the plan?” You ask him.
He pretends to think, tapping his chin dramatically. “We could get ice cream.”
“It’s freezing, idiot.”
“Or we could break into the football field and stare at the sky like we’re in some coming-of-age movie.”
You scoff airily. “We’re not breaking into anything, Chan.”
“Ugh, you’re boringgggg,” he exaggerates teasingly, but there’s no real disappointment in his voice. He kicks off again, rolling beside you as you walk. Then, as if something clicks in his head, his expression shifts and his face brightens up. “I know what we’re doing.”
You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Chan merely grins, and you know you have to give in. “You’ll love it, trust me.”
That’s exactly what someone who is about to get you in trouble would say.
Chan’s place has always been so… Chan. He shares it with another roommate𑁋a chill guy named Vernon who you’ve interacted a few times when you would visit the skatepark. The apartment is dimly lit, a shelf at the corner of the slightly unkempt living room containing a collection of vinyls and old CDs.
Posters of old rock bands and underground artists fill the walls. There’s another skateboard propped up by the door right next to a disorganised row of shoes and a stand propping up an electric guitar. The living room table is littered with books about sports you aren’t familiar with, loose papers, and a bong sitting casually beside an ashtray that contained some old rolled-up joints.
It’s been a while since you’ve visited his place personally as you’re used to him visiting you instead. It looks a bit different this time, some new furniture and decorations added that you haven’t seen before, but it still oozes the familiar comfort rightfully belonging to Chan.
“Bro, can you turn it down a little?” You hear Chan knocking a few times on Vernon’s door.
A voice is muffled on the other side, then the door swings open, and Vernon’s head pops out from the room. The two of them exchange a few words before Vernon turns his head to shoot you an acknowledgement.
“Yo, Y/N,” he greets you casually.
“Hey, Vernon,” You respond back with a quick smile.
Vernon faces back to Chan, glancing between the two of you, before poking him in the chest and muttering quietly, “Don’t fuck this up with her, man.”
Chan just swats Vernon’s hand away with a scowl, feeling the heat spread up to his ears. “Shut up.”
Vernon just shoots a knowing smirk before heading back into his room. You hear the music from inside lower slightly, yet still audible through the walls. Chan turns back to you, and you catch him fiddling lightly with one of his ears, but you don’t question it.
“Want something to drink?” he asks, slipping past you to head into the small kitchen area.
You give a nod. “Sure.”
You watch as he rummages through the refrigerator, half-expecting for him to pull out two bottles of beer or even just plain water. But instead, he fishes out two small juice boxes, sending you back to old memories of your middle school lunches and lazy summer days at the skatepark, and you bite back a chuckle.
He throws one to you, and you catch it mid-air.
“Seriously?” You question while stabbing the straw through the carton.
Chan only shrugs. “They’re Vernon’s. He bought them in bulk last time he got shit-faced high. Said they were ‘the peak of human invention’ or whatever.”
You roll your eyes, but when you take a sip, Chan watches in amusement as you dive in for more.
“Told you. Peak of human invention,” he muses while taking a sip of his own. “Our middle school has to take notes.”
“For sure,” You agree wistfully, sitting yourself down at the arm of the couch. “Alright, so what’s this grand plan of yours?”
A mischievous glint flickers in Chan’s eyes, and he disappears for a few minutes inside his room. When he comes back out, he has a few blankets hung over his shoulder.
“Rooftop,” he chimes eagerly with a grin.
You lift up a brow, eyeing him with skepticism. “I… Are we even allowed up there?”
Chan merely shakes his head, already walking toward the window where the fire escape is. “Nope.”
You groan but follow him anyway because, despite everything, you trust him. He’s always been the reckless one, the one who always takes risks, the one who hardly thinks before acting, but somehow, whenever you’re with him, you never feel unsafe.
The climb up the fire escape is easy, and soon, the two of you are on the rooftop, looking out over the other unappealing suburban apartment buildings beneath your feet. There’s a slight inkling of fear that you’ll get caught up here, but at this point, would it be the worst thing in the world? The answer is quite easy.
The night air is cool, a minor breeze driving through the air, blending with the soft music Chan plays from his phone. He spreads out the blankets, plopping down with an exaggerated sigh before patting the space next to him.
You settle down beside him, tucking your knees up to your chest. The streetlights ahead cast golden halos to the ground below, and for a few moments, neither of you decide to speak. But it isn’t uncomfortable per se𑁋far from it, honestly. It’s just a simple silence where words aren’t necessary to fill it.
“Junior year, Christmas break,” Chan says after a long pause, glancing toward you with a fixed look. “Senior year for you.”
You take a contemplative sip of your juice box. “The time you gaslighted me into running away with you for a night? Right before that embarrassing Christmas party at my house?”
“I was a pretty bad kid back then, wasn’t I?” Chan chuckles softly at the thought.
“Yeah, dude, what the hell happened to you? You used to be this scrawny little kid who spread rumours about snakes being at the playground so that other classes wouldn’t come.” You lean back on the blanket with him, exhaling a deep sigh. “Now you’re all… responsible and weirdly philosophical.”
Chan eyes you with a raised brow. “You haven’t changed.”
“I haven’t?”
“Nope. You’re still the same stubborn smartass girl who’d rather kill themselves in textbooks than touch grass once in a while.”
“Okay. Rude, first of all.” Then you lift your gaze up towards stars, and something in your chest aches. “But I guess some things never change, yeah?”
Chan stares up towards the sky as well, watching the same stars as you. “Yeah, I guess not.”
The two of you sit in another pit of comfortable silence for a while. You feel his shoulder brush against yours as he adjusts himself on the blanket, and for a brief second, your breath catches. It’s such a small thing𑁋his warmth seeping into your skin, his presence right beside you𑁋but it makes your stomach flutter in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.
You turn your head slightly to catch a glance of him. The sleeves of his hoodie have ridden up, revealing the large tattoo on his arm. You could tell how intricately designed the ink is on his skin, lines and shapes weaving together in patterns you can’t quite decipher but are distinctly, undeniably Chan.
“You ever think about it?”
“Huh?” You utter out.
“The future.”
You blink at him with surprise. Chan isn’t usually the type to dwell on these things. He lives in the moment, takes on whatever the hell life throws at him. If anything, you were usually the one to think about the future. You were always known for having a plan for everything, knowing exactly the kind of path you’ll take. But now, it seems more unclear than ever.
“I… don’t know,” You admit unsurely. “I think about what I want to do, who I want to be. But when I think about it now, with everything going on, I…” You find your voice trailing away, guilt slithering up your spine. “It’s hard to imagine it now.”
The only response you hear from Chan is a low hum, before he clears his throat.
“I think you’d be happy.”
Your breath catches. “What?”
He turns his head to look at you, his eyes soft even under the night sky. “I think that no matter where you end up, no matter what you do… you’ll be happy. You deserve to be.”
Something warm unfurls in your chest, like a flower coming in full bloom. You don’t know what to say to that, and even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to let it out. Your throat suddenly feels dry, your hands clammy, and you force yourself to look away in a flash to blink back some heat in your eyes.
Chan notices the pensive look to your face, but doesn’t push for anything more. He sits himself up on the blanket, taking a quick hit of his vape before exhaling a thin cloud of vapour into the night air. You fix your eyes on him, the dim light casting shadows over his face as he exhales.
His gaze drifts out to the neighbourhood of buildings ahead, but he seems to be lost in thought, withdrawn, like he’s fighting with himself about something he doesn’t know how to voice. The silence stretches again, but this time it’s heavier, different𑁋more intimate than you’re used to.
Then, you clear your throat. “We should probably head back soon.”
Chan doesn’t move from his spot on the blanket. “Yeah. Probably.”
But neither of you make an effort to actually get up. He wordlessly offers you his vape without looking, and you hesitate momentarily before shamelessly taking it from him, inhaling a little too deeply, but not caring enough to stop𑁋just to feel something other than this. The taste is odd at first, unfamiliar, but it quickly becomes something soothing in the cool night air as you breathe it out. You pass it back to him, your fingers brushing over the warm skin of his hand.
“Y/N?”
Your heart stutters when he calls your name. “Yeah?”
Hesitation lingers in the air. Chan sucks in a deep breath.
“You’re my favourite person, you know?”
Your breath gets caught in your throat at that, but you quickly mask it by giving him a playful shove in the arm, probably ruining the sentimental moment.
“I know, idiot,” You retort playfully, hoping it would be enough to hide the way your heart is racing. “You’ve told me that many times already.”
Chan just shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “I mean it.”
Your fingers nervously knead at the fabric of the blanket pooling around you. You can’t get yourself to look at him. You can’t.
Because you know. You know exactly what he’s saying.
And you don’t know what to do about it.
So instead, you swallow hard, keeping your gaze ahead. “You’re mine too, Chan.”
Chan doesn’t respond right away, and you don’t catch the faint smile that was beginning to bloom across his face. There’s a sigh that leaves his lips, almost one of relief, and he leans back on the palm of his hands, his eyes glued to your side profile.
“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “I know.”
Neither of you say anything more.
“Okay, listen, here’s the catch. She’s like… really great. Like… she spoils me and all that. It’s so overwhelming,” Soonyoung huffs out after dropping his deadlift and standing up. “I don’t know how to be a good boyfriend for her! I’ve never dated anyone before! How the hell do I ask her to go to the movies with me?”
Chan is listening. Well, not entirely𑁋Soonyoung’s words seems to be going in one ear and flowing out the other. He’s been listening to the older boy’s rant about this sudden new addition to his dry love life, the best part being that it’s his older sister’s best friend. Chan nods along anyway, keeping his gaze fixed on the gym floor as he absently rolls his water bottle between his palms.
Soonyoung only continues to ramble, pacing a little in front of him with his hands to his hips. “Like, what if I mess it up? What if she realises I have no idea what I’m doing and decides I’m not worth it? Or what if I’m too much?”
Chan hums, taking a long drawl of his water. “If she’s with you, she probably already thinks you’re too much, bro.”
The older boy shoots him a measly glare, popping down on the bench right next to him. “Wow, thanks, genius. You’re sooo encouraging. You’ve never been in love before, anyway.”
When Soonyoung snatches his water bottle, a few beats of silence fills the air. Chan continues to stare down at the gym floor like it contains all the answers in the world, all the answers he’ll never have, and Soonyoung gives him a few curious looks. And then, it clicks in his head.
“Wait a damn minute.” Soonyoung fixes his posture right away as his eyes widen, sitting up straighter. “Chan𑁋”
“Man, you really are blind are you?” Chan retorts with an amused click of his tongue. “No wonder you suck at being a boyfriend.”
“Shut up!” Soonyoung shoves him in the arm, before grabbing him by the shoulders like he’s just made the greatest discovery in history. “No way, is it Y/N? It’s Y/N, right?”
Chan’s reaction is immediate, the sound of your name already sending those familiar flutters to the pit of his stomach. This only makes Soonyoung beam up even more, and Chan already knows that the older boy will take this right into his damn grave.
He tries to pry Soonyoung off him, but he only relents.
Soonyoung is practically vibrating with excitement. “Dude, wow, didn’t you used to tell me you were going to marry her or something?’
“Why the hell do you still remember that?” Chan groans and rubs a defeated, embarrassed hand over his face. “I was, like, fifteen. A dumb, didn’t know their right-from-left kid. She was way out of my league at the time.”
“But not anymore.”
Chan rolls his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“Come on, look at you! You’re hot, like a total eye-catcher and mouth-drooler material. Of course she’d be into you,” Soonyoung persists, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Literally anybody would swoon over you.”
Chan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s different now, though. Med school is swallowing her whole, and she barely has time to breathe anymore. Besides, it’s just… complicated, you know?”
“You’re each other’s person,” Soonyoung affirms with confidence. “Don’t forget that.”
Chan’s heart thrums loudly at that. Now, the only thing he could think about was his conversation with you the other night. He can still feel the soft brush of your shoulder against his, the comfort of your presence beside him. You’re my favourite person, he had said; You’re mine too, you had said. It echoes in his mind like a tenacious virus infecting his thoughts. It’s true, he knows it is. You’re his person.
The big question is, though, how the hell does he gain the courage to finally face it?
Chan had never been the one to overthink things. He’s always been the careless kind. But with you, he finds himself replaying every single little memory with you, and it makes him almost want to combust.
Running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, Chan grimaces, tapping his foot out of unease.
“Love really is a piece of shit,” he mutters.
Soonyoung leans back on the bench with a reflective sigh. “Yeah, it really is.”
Chan side-eyes the older boy for a second, nudging him lightly in the shoulder. “Let me give you a piece of advice then.”
Soonyoung turns to face him with a puzzled look.
Chan just smirks, shoving Soonyoung in the forehead with his index finger.
“Stop being a pussy and your girlfriend𑁋do I need to spell it out for you? Your girlfriend𑁋to the damn movies already, you loser.”
No, this is not happening.
A tear squeezes past your eye and lands somewhere by your feet as you stare at the bold, unforgiving letters of the word FAIL written at the very top of an exam you took the other day. You will yourself to blink as if it would miraculously make the words change, for some mistake to have been made. But nothing changes. The numbers don’t rearrange themselves, the percentage doesn’t miraculously rise above the passing threshold. It stays there𑁋permanent, irreversible, mocking like a goddamn clown.
No, no, no, no.
Your throat tightens.
This is the fourth exam you failed in a row. You had studied until your eyes dried up and burned, pushed yourself past the brink of exhaustion, drained every last drop of energy you had left into preparing for this exam, hoping to make up for the list of others you scored below average on. You sacrificed sleep, skipped meals, ignored texts from friends. And for what? For fucking what?
For this shit?
Your vision swims.
Your pulse hammers loudly right to your ears, loud enough you’re sure it could drown out any kind of sound. Your knuckles tighten its grip around the paper until they turn white, nails digging into the palm of your hand.
Your breath hitches, and suddenly, it feels like the walls around you are closing, eager to shut you in. The room suddenly shrinks into a confined space that’s hard to properly breathe, the air too thick, your own skin too suffocating to be in. Your heart pounds painfully against your ribs, and a cold sweat trickles down the back of your neck.
You had been barely holding it together as it was, restrained by the threats of burnout. Long nights, endless studying, the constant weariness sitting heavily on your bones. And now? Now you have proof that none of it was enough. That none of it was worth it. That you weren’t enough.
A ding from your phone startles you out of your thoughts for a split second. You barely manage to catch the notification that jumps at you.
[10:37pm | dumbass 🛹]
y/n?? are you okay?
i don’t know what’s happening,
but your friend jeonghan ran into me
saying about how you ran away crying??
A choked sob escapes you before you’re able to stop it. You can feel the anxiety creeping its way from down your feet and up through your bones. You hardly realise how much you’re trembling from your hardened grip on your phone.
[10:39pm | dumbass 🛹]
y/n answer me please
i know you’re not okay
A cold panic grips your chest achingly𑁋you’re sure there’s a bruise there forming in some disgusting mental form.
What does this mean for you?
Your future?
Your dream?
[10:43pm | dumbass 🛹]
y/n please i’m worried
about you. i care for you
so so much
There’s a tug at your heartstring at his text, but then you feel another tug, one that’s more stronger, more desperate. It’s almost as if the final nail to the coffin had been hammered. You crumple the piece of paper in your hand aggressively before flailing it somewhere across your apartment. There’s a darkness that seems to loom right over you, goosebumps dancing up and down your skin as you sit yourself down at the edge of your bed.
One last ding from your phone.
[10:47pm | dumbass 🛹]
i’m coming over, okay?
stay there for me, y/n
i’ll be there in 5 mins
You stare at the screen of your phone, the words blurry through the tears that won’t stop raging down your face. You can barely process Chan’s messages. You know he’s worried. You know he’s trying to be there for you, but the weight of failure seems to crush your body like a boulder, and you aren’t even sure if you have the willpower to face him.
You can’t let him see you like this. You can’t allow him to see this weak, vulnerable, and ugly part of you. You can’t.
Time seems to tick by slowly as you pace around your room, but at every angle, all you can see is your scattered textbooks, the countless notes you’ve taken that never seemed to stick into your brain like it was meant to. All you see is the so-called effort that kicked you right back to this point. Your mind races with a million thoughts, each one a reminder of how much you’ve failed, how much you’ve fallen short of the finish line. The clock ticks mercilessly, and before you even realise it, Chan is at your door.
You freeze.
The knocks are insistent. Suddenly, the thought of Chan allows you to exhale a deep breath; the first, real one.
“Y/N? Open the door, please,” Chan urges, voice muffled through the door.
You could only stand there, staring at the door as if it could open by itself. Your heart is pounding even faster, your mind screaming at you to do something. You can just yell back that you’re fine𑁋that there’s nothing to worry about, but the truth is that you don’t fucking know what’s wrong with you.
“Y/N, please… I’m not going anywhere. Just… let me in.”
The pure softness to his voice seeps through the door and hits you square in the chest, and something inside your cracks. You know you should let him in, but your failure feels so raw, so final, that it’s hard to imagine someone, especially someone like Chan, still wanting to be around you.
And yet, he’s here, attempting to reach you.
Taking a deep breath, you wipe away your tears, and against every thought in your mind telling you to retreat, you reach out and open the door.
On the other side, Chan stands with an arm leaning against the doorframe, his dark hair tousled and messy from the wind, his breathing rapid and fast like he’s just run from the other side of the world just to get to you. The thought only deepens the cut even farther.
“Y/N…” His voice falters immediately at the sight of your face: puffy, reddened eyes, your body shaking like the world is crumbling right at your feet.
His heart lurches at the sight, jaw tightening slightly as his instincts to protect you, to lash out at whatever did this to you, flare up. He doesn't even hesitate. Without another word, Chan steps forward, his arms wrapping around you in an instant, pulling you against his chest. You don’t do anything but fall right into his grasp, and it’s almost as if you fit perfectly in his hold. Like the space was always meant for you.
You allow yourself to believe it for just a moment.
“Shit, you’re cold and shaking,” Chan mutters under his breath, tightening his hold around you a little bit more, but you already know the chill comes from somewhere else𑁋somewhere deeper that you know he can’t fix just like that.
For the first time in what feels like forever, you exhale a breath that doesn’t feel like it’s cutting you from the inside out, your fingers digging desperately into the fabric of his hoodie. You feel the heat radiating off him, the comfort of being in his arms, but a sinking feeling grows heavier in your chest. You don’t deserve this. Not his warmth, not his care, not his worry. You can’t let him in, not like this.
But for a moment, just for a moment, you do.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his breath hitting the temple of your head. “I’ve got you.”
You swallow a breath at that.
You shouldn’t let him do this. You shouldn’t let yourself melt into him like this, shouldn’t let yourself believe that this is where you belong. Because it isn’t.
Because you know better.
Because you know this warmth is only temporary.
Because you know the second you let yourself rely on him, really rely on him, it’ll all come crashing down.
Slowly, the grip you have on his hoodie loosens, and you start to push yourself off him.
At first, Chan doesn’t notice. His hold on you remains firm, as if he thinks you’re just shifting, adjusting. But then your hands push against his chest𑁋just barely at first; it’s a hesitant, silent plea for distance.
He stiffens.
His hold loosens, just slightly, but his arms don’t drop completely.
“Y/N?” The way he calls out your name comes out in a mere echo, like his presence is far away, even when it isn’t. Even when he’s just right there in front of you.
You don’t answer. You just push a little harder. I can’t let myself love you like this.
And that’s when he lets go. The cold is swift to settle back over your skin, the safety of his warmth disappearing in an instant. Chan looks like he wants to reach for you again, a twitch to his arms that doesn’t go unnoticed, but he doesn’t. He waits.
And that’s somehow worse.
You take a step back, putting more distance where there shouldn’t be any. “You should go.”
Chan flinches like you’ve slapped him, his eyes widening at your words, clearly taken aback, his expression completely faltering. He stays completely still in his spot.
“What?” He croaks out, his voice cracking weakly. “You can’t just𑁋”
“You don’t have to do this,” You say, forcing the words out even as they feel like shards of glass in your throat. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
“Why won’t you just𑁋” He stops himself, exhaling sharply before lowering his voice. “Why won’t you just let me be here for you?”
“Because it’s not fucking fair, Chan.”
“Bullshit,” he hisses out, but his voice is not angry, just desperate, hurt. “I don’t give a damn about fairness, Y/N. What’s not fair? That I care for you? That I want to be here when you need me? That I…”
“I’m not your responsibility!”
“...I’ve loved you for so fucking long it’s physically killing me inside?”
The truth spills from his lips like a flood he can no longer hold back. Silence swallows the room entirely, your feet sinking into the floor like quicksand. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, the world around you comes to a halt. The tension stirring in the air has enough power to crush you all at once.
You shut your eyes, willing yourself to feel nothing, willing yourself to pretend like his words didn’t just stab you straight through the heart.
But they do.
Because you love him. God, you love him so much.
But you can’t give in.
Because if you do, you’ll shatter. And if you shatter, he’ll be the one trying to pick up the pieces.
“You need to leave,” You deadpan, forcing the words out even if they cut through your throat like a knife.
But Chan only stands his ground, and takes a few steps towards you until he’s close enough that you could feel his familiar warmth again. Your hands twitch at your sides as he stands right before you, and for a singular second, you steal a glance down at his lips.
“Don’t do that,” he urges, leaning in a little more, the edge of your bed from behind pressing into the back of your knees. “Don’t act like this doesn’t mean anything to you.”
Maybe he’s close enough to catch the subtle shakiness to your breath, to see the way your eyelashes imperceptibility flutter, to see the way your lips part ever so slightly. And maybe, just maybe, he’s close enough to make you forget𑁋for a fleeting, dizzying moment𑁋why you’ve spent so long trying to push him away.
If you gave the world one more second, his mouth would be on yours. One more second, and you’d finally know what it feels like to kiss the boy you’ve loved for as long as you can remember.
Yet like a punch to the gut, reality slams into you.
You swallow hard. “It doesn’t.”
The lie tastes like poison on your tongue.
Chan lets out a broken laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe you. “You’re a shitty liar, you know that?” His voice comes out hoarse and rough. “You can tell me whatever the hell you want, but I know you, Y/N. I know… I know that you feel something, too.”
You bite down on your lip so hard you swear you could taste blood. You don’t respond. You can’t.
“So just say it,” he presses on desperately, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “Say it, and I’ll go. Say it, and I’ll stay. Look at me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t love me. God dammit, just give me something, Y/N, please.”
The way his voice becomes soft and pleading breaks something in you. Right now, you’re staring at the boy who has always been there for you, who has always known you better than you know yourself. The boy who is giving you a chance. A singular chance to pull him back. A singular chance to confess that you’ve loved him since before you knew what the hell the word love even meant.
And that same boy is staring at you like you’re his whole world, like you’re the only thing keeping everything from falling apart. You want to tell him the truth. You want to throw yourself into his arms and let him hold you together into eternity when you feel like you’re crumbling apart. But you can’t.
Because one day, he’ll wake up and realise that loving you is exhausting. That being around you is suffocating. That he deserves someone who isn’t this broken, utter mess of a failure.
So you do the only thing you can. You force yourself to break him before he can break you.
“Go home, Chan.”
“No,” he resists firmly, yet a pinch of shakiness to his voice. “Not until you say it… Not until you tell me that you love me too.”
“I don’t love you, Chan.”
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
Silence.
You see the exact second the words hit. The exact moment his heart breaks.
You catch the way his body visibly deflates, the way the colour drains out of his face. Every fibre of his form tenses, and Chan swears to himself that he can’t breathe, as if your words completely knocked the wind out of him, tearing his heart out of his chest and right down to the ground. He’s still staring at you, searching your rigid face𑁋for hope, for any hint of regret, for something at this fucking point𑁋but he doesn’t find anything. His lips part slightly as if he was about to say something, but nothing comes out.
And then slowly, finally, he gives a nod.
“Right,” Chan says quietly, and his words are barren, empty. “Okay.”
He takes a slow step back, then another. And you almost call out to him, almost take it all back, almost tell him the truth𑁋that you love him more than anything, that you’ve loved him since you were kids, that pushing him away is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.
But you just clench your fists at your side. Chan stands at your doorway.
Then he turns back to look at you, his hand right on your doorknob, and you can’t read his face, yet you feel the way his eyes are piercing right through you. He pauses. He’s waiting.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” is the last thing he tells you before crossing onto the other side.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, your legs give out beneath you. Your entire body trembles as you press a cold hand to your mouth, a loud sob spilling out of you before you could stop the dam from breaking.
Because you love him.
And you just let him go.
The burning sensation of alcohol runs down Chan’s throat, the bitter taste of beer stinging his tongue.
He finds himself out of breath, standing at the very edge of the half-pipe with his skateboard gripped tightly in his hands. He’s been here for what feels like hours, but the night air is still too cold to shake off the sting in his chest. Skating is the only way he could cope with all the pain, the confusion, the longing, with everything that’s been lingering on his mind every night.
“Dude, are you just going to skate until you die?” Vernon’s voice punches through his thoughts, the boy sitting splat on the pavement, an unlit joint at the tip of his mouth.
Chan doesn’t even acknowledge the question at first, his eyes boring holes through the concrete beneath his feet. Then, with a leap of faith, he places a foot on the skateboard and pushes himself down the ramp. The evening breeze catches in his hair as he concentrates on getting to the other side of the half-pipe, the wheels screeching loudly against the pavement as he flies through the air.
Just for a few seconds, he wills himself to not think about you, but when he lands on the other side of the ramp with a hard thud, the feelings all come rushing back. He slows down, rolling in a few mindless circles before strolling back up to where Vernon is. He flicks his skateboard on his foot, letting it rest against his knee as he takes another deep breath.
“Chan𑁋”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Vernon pesters, concern edging his voice. “You can’t just keep skating away from this, man.”
“I’ve been in love with her for years, don’t you get it?” Chan jabs his skateboard into the ground, frustrating coating his words. “She’s everything to me and she just… she just let me go. I left because that’s what she wanted. It fucking sucks.”
Vernon lights the joint between his lips and leans back on his palms, exhaling a trail of smoke into the air that disappears into the dead of night. He watches as Chan swallows another swig of beer and clumsily plops himself down on the ground right next to him, letting his skateboard roll away a few inches before pulling it back with his foot. The only sounds that interrupt the heavy silence are the nearby chirps of crickets and the clicks from Vernon absentmindedly fiddling with the lighter between his fingers.
I don’t love you, Chan, are the words that have been replaying like a broken record in Chan’s mind ever since that night. And now here he is, at the fucking skatepark in the dead of night, trying to outskate a heartbreak that clings to him like a second skin.
Chan’s eyes drift up towards the darkened sky, a contemplative sigh leaving him.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to stop, you know?”
Vernon lifts a brow. “Stop what?”
“Loving her,” Chan finishes, tapping his fingers against the can of beer. “It’s crazy how it’s always been easy to love her. Maybe even easier than breathing sometimes.”
Vernon’s eyes flicker from the glowing tip of his joint to Chan’s solemn face. “Sounds like you’re in deep.”
This earns a bitter laugh from Chan. “You’re not helping, dude.”
“Don’t stop loving her then,” Vernon mutters like it was the most simple thing in the world. “But don’t let it eat you alive either.”
Chan scoffs, shaking his head. “Easier said than done.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Listen, when I first started skating, I used to wipe out all the time. Like, bad. I’d eat shit and bust my ass so hard I thought I’d never get back up again.” Vernon pauses, taking another long-winded drag. “But I did, because that’s just how it works, man. You fall, you get hurt, you get back up.”
Briefly, Chan casts a glance down to his hands, taking note of the fading scars on his knuckles from all the times he’s taken falls throughout his life, all the times he’s hit the pavement and gotten back up again.
And he thinks about you.
And he thinks about you, wondering: how many times have you fallen without anyone there to catch you?
He thinks about the way your hands trembled that night, the way you practically crumbled in his hold, the way your eyes looked so exhausted, so defeated. He thinks about the way your voice cracked when you told him to go, how you looked at him like he was both the thing you wanted most and the thing you couldn’t bear to hold onto.
Chan swirls the can of beer in his hands, taking one last swig before slamming the can on the pavement with a loud clink, the lingering metallic taste mixing in with his bittersweet thoughts.
He should have stayed. Should have fought harder. Should have told you that even if you pushed him away, even if you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t need him, he wasn’t going anywhere, because no matter which direction he goes, the path always leads back to you.
Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? It’s staying even when someone tells you to leave. It’s holding on even when they don’t have the strength to do it themselves.
He thinks about you again. About how you looked at him with that same damn expression you had the night your parents got into this big fight back during your freshman year of high school, the night you broke up with your first boyfriend during junior year who was an absolute dickhead to you, the night you first told him you didn’t believe in happy endings.
“Shit,” Chan breathes out frustratingly. “What the hell do I do now?”
Vernon shrugs, flicking the ash off his joint onto the ground until it dissolves into nothing. “Figure out if you’re willing to fall again.”
Chan lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what if I hit the pavement even harder this time?”
“Then you’ll get back up,” Vernon says casually, with his cool, calm, and collected demeanour that’s almost irritating, even if the younger boy knows that he’s right. “Just like you always do.”
A plastic-wrapped sandwich is placed on the bedside table beside you, but you don't make a move to even acknowledge it. You know you should eat, you know you should do a lot of things, but your limbs feel like lead, and the thought of food makes you want to gag.
“Y/N? You need to eat.”
The worried tone of Jeonghan’s voice rings out from behind you, yet you could only find yourself sprawled atop one of the beds in the on-call room, your back turned towards the door and your eyes staring hazily into the dull, sterile hideous walls of the hospital.
There’s a defeated sigh that you hear come from Jeonghan, the noise of the hospital fading away when the door closes shut. Another presence enters into the room𑁋Joshua𑁋and you could only shut your tired eyes close as you mentally prepare yourself for them to attempt to dig you out of your hole once again.
But you’re beyond caring at this point. You can’t remember the last time you had a full night of sleep or felt anything other than the overwhelming deadweight of exhaustion and isolation pressing down on you. The only thing that seems to matter now is just getting through the damn day, making it to the next hour, then the next, until the cycle starts all over again.
The faint shuffle of footsteps signals Joshua’s approach, and despite how worn out you are, you can’t help but tense up slightly. You don’t want to explain yourself anymore. You don’t have the energy to.
“Y/N, at least drink some water,” Joshua assures, and you hear the snap of a water bottle opening and being placed on the bedside table right next to you.
You don’t reply at first, your gaze still fixed on the blank wall. You’re so tired, but somehow, sleep feels impossible. You feel your chest tighten, the heaviness of everything pressing down on you. The hospital. The clinical hours. The endless patient charts. The constant rush to keep up, to not fall behind. But beneath it all, another thing has been gnawing at you𑁋the night you pushed away the only person who could keep you from completely drowning.
Chan.
Thinking of his name alone is enough to send a wave of guilt crashing over the dam in your mind, and you bury your body even further within the sheets of the bed, willing yourself not to think about the way his face fell that night, the way his hands clenched into fists like he was holding himself back from reaching out to you.
You hurt him. You told him to leave. You told him you didn’t want him. You saw it in his eyes. And perhaps that’s what makes it worse𑁋knowing that you did it on purpose.
For a few minutes, Jeonghan and Joshua don’t say anything else. They’re not leaving; of course, they aren’t. The two of them have been hovering around you like ghosts for the past two weeks just watching, waiting for you to crack open enough to let them in. But some wounds don’t heal with a sandwich and a bottle of water. Some wounds don’t heal at all.
Then finally, a voice cuts through the thick silence.
“This isn’t healthy, Y/N. You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Jeonghan rebukes, sitting himself at the edge of the bed.
Your jaw tightens, flipping your body on the bed to finally face them. “Doing what?”
“This,” Jeonghan points out. “Locking yourself away, pretending like you’re fine when you’re not.”
“I don’t need a lecture,” You mumble flatly.
Joshua exhales sharply, crossing his arms as he leans against the bedside table. “We’re not here to lecture you. We’re here because we care. And you can’t keep wasting yourself away like this. It’s not healthy.”
Something inside you flinches, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to remain still. You’ve gotten good at that lately. They’re right, of course. You know that they’re right.
A bitter laugh leaves you. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Joshua’s face softens, and he crouches down so that he’s level with you. “Being here and actually living are two different things.”
His words make you pull the sheets tighter around yourself, as if that will somehow shield you from their concern, from the way they’re looking at you like you’re slipping right through their fingers. You catch a glimpse of the unopened sandwich and water bottle standing on the bedside table, the sight making your stomach twist, and for a brief second, you consider reaching for it𑁋just to ease the worry etched into their faces.
But before you could make any decision, the overhead intercom jolts you to life.
“Code blue, third floor east wing. Code blue, third floor east wing.”
The words send a chill down your spine, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. In an instant, you’re throwing the sheets off, shoving past Joshua and Jeonghan as you bolt out the door.
A patient is crashing. There’s no room for hesitation. No room for exhaustion.
Your feet pound relentlessly against the linoleum floor as you barrel down the hall, your body moving on autopilot as you dash down the hallway. The rush of adrenaline keeps pushing you forward. A part of you senses that Joshua and Jeonghan are right behind you, but you barely register their presence as you weave past other nurses and patients, making a beeline toward the east wing.
And then𑁋just as you round the corner, just as nurses and doctors rush in from all different directions, the sound of their voices mixing with the frantic beeping of monitors𑁋the world tilts.
Your vision blurs, black spots dancing in the corner of your eyes, parts of your body growing numb.
And then… nothing.
The last thing you hear before the world fades to black is the sound of Jeonghan frantically calling out your name. Your knees buckle, and suddenly, the cold, unforgiving hospital floor is rushing up to meet you.
“Is this like, what, our second time meeting ever?”
Chan shoots his gaze over to Jeonghan, who was still dressed in his scrubs and walking towards him with his arms crossed together. Chan leans his back against the wall behind him, his skateboard tucked securely under his arm. He steals a quick glance at the closed door right in front of him, and his chest aches knowing that you’re right behind it.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he tightens his grip on his skateboard when Jeonghan stands right next to him. He barely knows the guy, but there’s something in Jeonghan’s gaze that makes it feel like he’s already sized Chan up.
His jaw tightens at the urge to barge into your room. But what would that accomplish? What would he even say? Would you even want to see him?
“Third,” he mutters, keeping his eyes trained on the door. “If we count the time we had a staring contest last week in the parking lot.”
Jeonghan scoffs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I still haven’t ruled it out.”
Chan exhales sharply through his nose, the faintest hint of a laugh escaping before his expression hardens again. He wants to be angry at Jeonghan, at Joshua, at anyone who’s been standing between him and you these past few weeks. But the hard truth is that he’s not angry at them. He’s angry at himself, specifically. Because while they were there𑁋staying, fighting for you𑁋he wasn’t.
“Did she ever tell you?” he asks Jeonghan.
Jeonghan lets out a contemplative hum. “Tell me what?”
“If she ever wants to see me again.”
Jeonghan stares at the younger boy for a moment. He leans against the wall as well, letting his uncrossed arms fall back to his side, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his scrubs.
“Do you really need her to say it?” Jeonghan asks, the question hanging in the air. “I think you already know the answer.”
And fuck, that stings.
Chan swallows at that. He feels restless, like his body is demanding him to move, to do something, anything𑁋kickflip down the hallway, punch a hole through a wall, slap reality into himself, burst into your room to shake you awake and demand to know why the hell you keep doing this to yourself. But he knows none of those things will change anything.
Minutes later, the door to your room opens, and out comes a disheveled-looking Joshua.
“She’s knocked out,” he says while stepping up to Chan and Jeonghan. “Got a minor concussion from the collapse, but the doctor says she should be okay once she rests for a little while.”
Guilt gnaws at Chan even more. Taking a leap of faith, he takes a step up.
“Can I go in?” he hesitantly asks.
Joshua’s eyes flicker towards Jeonghan, the two of them exchanging a knowing look between one another.
“Make it quick,” Jeonghan tells him. “We’ll cover you.”
Chan doesn’t need any more encouragement than that. He brushes past Jeonghan and Joshua, pushing open the door to your room with a bit too much force, the quiet click of the latch echoing throughout the quietness. His grip tightens around his skateboard, his heart hammering against his ribs as he lays his eyes on you for the first time in weeks.
And God, you look wrecked.
He’s greeted with the steady beep of the heart monitor. The hospital blanket is draped up to your chest, your body curled within like you’re trying to disappear. Even in sleep, you don’t look anywhere close to peaceful. Your brows are furrowed, lips parted like you’re caught in some action-packed dream you can’t escape from.
Chan rests his skateboard down against the wall, silently pulling up a chair beside your bed and sinking into it. He doesn’t reach for your hand, at least not yet, even though he wants to. He doesn’t dare.
Because what right does he have?
His fingers twitch where they rest against his knee, resisting the urge to grab onto your hand. You look so much different from the last time he saw you. Your face looks drained of colour, the hollows beneath your eyes painted dark from exhaustion. Your chest rises and falls steadily, and an IV stands intimidatingly at the side supplying fluids into your body.
For weeks, he’s been running through every possible scenario in his head𑁋what he would say, how he would say it, what he would do if you push him away again. But now that he’s here, staring at the way your fingers weakly clutch at the sheets, all those words fall apart in his throat.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he leans a bit forward, forearms braced against his thigh.
“You really know how to scare the shit out of people, huh?”
A humourless chuckle leaves him, but it’s quick to fade away when he catches sight of your fragile form again.
Silence. You don’t stir or react. But Chan keeps talking anyway, because gosh, he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I wanted to be mad at you,” he admits quietly, gaze flitting down to the floor for a moment before he forces himself to look back up. “I wanted to be so fucking mad because you told me to leave, and I…” His voice falters, shaking slightly as his breath hitches. “I actually listened. I’m so fucking stupid.”
Still no response from you.
“You don’t even know, do you?” he mutters. “How much everyone’s been losing their minds over you. Jeonghan has been glaring at me like he wants to kill me, which, to be fair, he might actually want.” A scoff leaves his mouth, shaking his head. “Your other friend Joshua won’t even look at me half the time. Vernon is probably done with my shit. Soonyoung is having his own existential crisis. And me? I’ve… I’ve just been trying to figure out if you meant it that night. When you told me to leave.”
His hands clench themselves into fists against his lap, the same way they had that very night. Memories hit him like a wave as he remembers the harsh adamancy to your voice, the way you stood there like you had already made peace with hurting him.
But then his eyes drift over to your hand and his breath catches in his throat. Without thinking, he reaches over to brush his hand over yours. His heart skips at the subtle warmth of connection, even through your cold skin. The pulse in his neck quickens at the touch. You still don’t move.
Slowly, he closes his fingers around yours, not expecting much. It’s tentative, almost apologetic, and it hits him at how much he’s wanted to do this𑁋to hold your hand and feel the comfort that came solely from you.
“You’re not invincible,” Chan whispers under his breath. “No one is. It’s not a weakness to let someone love you. To let me love you.”
A small, helpless laugh escapes him at the sudden confession, but it’s not like he could go about his days without telling you at least. He shifts in the chair, but his hand refuses to leave yours; if only, they tighten just a little bit more, his thumb gently caressing over your knuckle.
“Fuck,” he murmurs as his gaze rakes over you once more, the corners of his lips quivering upwards. “I could love you for the rest of my life.”
The room returns to its deathly quietness. Nothing to let him know that you’re hearing him. Nothing that would assure him that he isn’t just speaking into the void. Nothing but the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the faint hum of the hospital outside your room. Chan simply stays like that, his fingers resting lightly against yours, waiting. Hoping. Promising to stay here for as long as he can.
And then𑁋so slight he almost misses it𑁋your fingers twitch against his.
You find yourself running.
It’s three in the morning, you’re dressed in your sleep clothes and stumbling out of your apartment with a pair of slippers. You were given very specific instructions by Jeonghan, Joshua, and your clinical instructors to rest for a few days after your collapse, but after being spammed with messages from Vernon that Chan had injured himself from an accident while skateboarding, your feet seemed to make the decision before your mind could process it.
So now, here you are, pushing open the door to your building and bolting out into the quiet, empty streets like a woman possessed out of her damn mind. Your frantic breaths fog into the air, the cold nipping at your skin as you dash off in a desperate sprint all the way to Chan’s apartment.
Vernon’s texts had been frustratingly vague𑁋just a series of frantic messages about Chan taking a bad fall at the skatepark, about blood and bruises and the possibility of a broken wrist. The words had been enough to send your already fragile heart spiraling, and now, the only thing driving you forward is the need to see him. Why would Chan do something so reckless?
But deep down, you already know the answer, don’t you? Chan has always been reckless, not because he doesn’t care, but because he does. Too much.
You hardly remember the last time you ran this fast, and your lungs burn as you push forward out of pure desperation, slipper-clad feet slapping against the pavement. Every breath you take feels suffocating, an aching pressure squeezing into your ribs, but you can’t stop. Not until you see him. Not until you know he’s okay.
By the time you reach Chan’s apartment complex, you don’t even hesitate to burst through the doors. For a minute, you contemplate taking the elevator, but that would mean wasting the few extra seconds you could use to head straight to his place.
One flight of stairs. Two flights of stairs. Three flights of stairs. You nearly trip on the last step as you shove open the door to his floor and make a straight beeline toward his place. When you land at the doorstep, you lift a fist and pound a few times on the door.
The seconds pass torturously long before the door swings open, and you’re greeted with Vernon.
“Where is he?” You ask him demandingly, letting out breathless pants.
Vernon appears almost shocked at your presence before he steps aside to let you in. “He’s in his room. I got a first-aid kit on the kitchen count𑁋”
You don’t waste anymore time than that, pushing past Vernon and into the apartment. Stomping all the way to Chan’s door, you raise another fist up and pound against the wood, loud and insistently.
“Chan!”
Silence.
You knock again, harder this time. “Chan, open the door!”
Still nothing.
Frustration and worry boil over all your thoughts, and without thinking, you hectically twist the doorknob. Locked still. Of course.
“Lee Chan, if you don’t open this goddamn door right now, I swear to𑁋”
The lock clicks.
Your breath catches when the door slowly opens, revealing Chan standing under the dim lighting of his room, and your gaze sweeps over him closely. His right wrist is wrapped in some sort of sloppy, rushed, makeshift plaster, a bruise painted at the corner of his jaw, and there’s a nasty scrape running down his forearm. His skateboard sits abandoned against the frame of his bed, and from the looks of it, one of the wheels is barely hanging on.
He looks tired. More than that𑁋he looks completely shocked to see you. Something tightens in your chest.
Chan opens his mouth. “What are you𑁋”
“Are you insane?” The words spill out before you can stop them, your voice shaking. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Chan’s eyes widen at your words, startled. “I-It’s just a sprain, it’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” You goad, motioning over his figure. “Vernon made it seem like you broke half your bones!”
Chan shoots a glare over your shoulder to where Vernon was looming idly in the background. The boy only shrugs with his arms hanging in the air innocently.
“I panicked, alright? Sue me,” Vernon admits shamelessly, before disappearing around the corner and back into his room.
You release a heavy sigh, running a frustrated hand through your hair. You head back into the kitchen area to retrieve the first-aid kit before storming past Chan and into his bedroom.
Before Chan could say anything, you point to his bed. “Sit down.”
Chan doesn’t budge.
Your expression darkens. “Chan.”
When he catches sight of the desperate look on your face, he knows that resisting even more would be basically useless. He finally relents, placing himself at the edge of the bed as you quietly begin to rummage through the first-aid kit for antiseptic wipes and bandages.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy, tense in a way neither of you have the courage break and instead just let settle awkwardly. You bend down in front of him, carefully unwrapping his poorly done plaster. The scrape on his forearm is worse than you thought𑁋angry and red, still oozing slightly at the edges.
“You’re an idiot,” You mumble while carefully dabbing the antiseptic wipe against his warm skin, causing him to jerk slightly, a hiss leaving his lips. “Stay still.”
Chan silently watches as you clean his scrape, gazing over the worried lines etched on your features as you lean in closer, his muscles twitching from your gentle touch. For some time, neither of you speak, and you cautiously grab his hand. It’s only when you start wrapping the fresh plaster around his wrist that he finally breaks the silence. You definitely need to take him to the hospital after this to get a proper splint.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he states quietly. “You literally got a concussion, like, three days ago.”
You purse your lips together into a thin line as you glance over the bandage to make sure it’s secure and firm. “I know.”
When you step back from him slightly, your eyes land on the bruise to the corner of his jaw, and one of your eyebrows shoots up suspiciously. The bruise doesn’t appear that fresh. Chan can tell that you caught onto him.
“Where else are you hurt?” You ask with a pointed look.
At first, Chan hesitates, yet he could only shrink like a snail seeking into its shell under the serious expression painted on your face. His eyes drop down to the floor in guilt, and you watch as he shifts cautiously, reaching with one hand to clutch the ends of his wrinkled shirt before pulling up over his head.
Your heart stutters at the sight, and you can’t help but drink in his bare, topless form. You capture the entirety of the dragon tattoo that’s snaking up his arm and curling over his shoulder, the head of the dragon resting at the base of his neck, beneath the line of his trapezius muscle. The dark and bold lines making up the scales and claws are almost glistening under the faint lighting, contrasting heavily with his pale skin. You’ve never had the chance to appreciate the beauty of the art painted over his skin, at least not this up close. His toned chest and visible lines of his abs causes your throat to dry up and sends heat creeping up your neck.
But your admiration is quick to diminish when his muscles flex under the strain of the movement, and you spot another glimpse of a scrape to his collarbone, as well as a small cut on the superficial skin of his shoulder that’s hidden quite well from his tattoo. Without thinking, you let a finger delicately caress around the area of the one on his shoulder, and Chan visibly tenses up from that.
All you can do is simply stare, your heart clutching inside your chest.
“Chan…” You call his name so softly.
Chan bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
You lightly shove him in the shoulder. “That’s a load of bullshit.”
A wry chuckle leaves him, and it seems to lift a bit of tension in the room. “Yeah, maybe.”
Only giving a shake of your head, you reach out hesitantly, letting your fingers caress over his skin before you can stop yourself. Chan flinches from your touch, but he doesn’t pull away; instead, he traces your every movement as you carefully inspect the minor wounds painted over his body. Anytime your fingertips ghost over his skin, shivers run up and down his spine, but he forces himself to remain still. Just for you.
You’re being impossibly gentle as you grab another antiseptic wipe to clean the scrape to his collarbone, his Adam’s apple bobbing from your tenderness. He has to suck in a breath when you lean in even closer, swearing he could feel your warmth radiating onto him𑁋it’s comforting and terrifying all at once.
There’s something different in the way you look at him, as if you’re trying to commit to memory every new mark on his body, as if you’re desperately searching for more wounds he might be hiding from you. And maybe he is.
“You ran all the way here, didn’t you?” he asks, cutting through the silence.
Your fingers still for a second before you wearily sigh, firmly pressing down a band-aid over the scrape on his collarbone. “Yeah.”
His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but then he just laughs softly, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot too, you know that?”
You roll your eyes, snatching another band-aid and routinely moving onto the cut on his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”
This time, you stand up from the floor and sit down right next to him on the bed, undoing the wrapping from the band-aid and carefully applying it over the cut to his shoulder. You can’t get yourself to look at him as you press a tiny bit of pressure over his skin to ensure the band-aid sticks, but you feel his own gaze lingering on you, burning a hole right through your heart. It’s almost like a touch itself from him.
As you pull away from him, you lift your eyes to meet his, and for a singular millisecond, his focus drops down to your mouth before looking back up to your face again. Then, all he gives you is a faint, almost teasing smile. You nearly give in from just that.
“High school, freshman year. Sophomore year for you,” he suddenly says. “Last week of school. Friday.”
You lift a puzzled brow. “What?”
An almost dreamy look crosses his features. “That’s when I first knew I started having a stupid crush on you.”
Your stomach lurches from his words. Time seems to come to a halt as a wave of memories wash over you from that particular day.
“Remember? It was my very first skateboarding competition, and I was an absolute nervous wreck after fucking up my boardslide. You were there, cheering me on even though you had no idea what you were watching.” He laughs faintly to the memory, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with his uninjured hand. “But then you smiled at me, and somehow, everything felt okay.”
You do remember. You remember that day very well. You remember being late to his competition because you had to attend the last student council of the year meeting back at school, yet you caught him just in the middle of his performance𑁋a performance that didn’t go entirely well. He had fallen, just like now, and you recall the way his face was flushed with embarrassment when he struggled to stand back up. But then he shot a quick glance your way, and you couldn’t help but loudly cheer him on, despite the pensive looks on other people in the crowd, and his face lit up immediately just from that alone.
Then the thought harshly slams into you. Lee Chan has been in love with you for more than ten years.
Chan shifts awkwardly in his position, his injured hand resting in his lap as he continues to hold a steady gaze on you.
“Kinda embarrassing, right?” he mutters with an uneasy chuckle, shaking his head. “Holding onto something like that for so long. Even when I tried to tell myself that it was all stupid hormonal shit, I could never get you out of my head.”
You still don’t respond, only the pounding of your heart answering for you that you’re sure as hell Chan could hear. For the past many years, you knew that you’ve been holding onto something for him too. But ever since you’ve indebted yourself to the consequences of medical school, with the burnout, the pressure, the exhaustion𑁋it made you feel like you had no right to hold onto love.
So you pushed those feelings away; the same way you had pushed him away.
But now, here he is. Still here. Looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.
And it breaks you.
You turn away, staring down at the floor, curling your fingers against the sheets of his bed. “I’m a mess, Chan.”
“I don’t care.” His response is immediate, firm.
Your breath stutters. “I pushed you away.”
“I know.”
“I hurt you.”
“I know that, too.”
“So why…” Your voice trails off curtly as you regain your thoughts. “So why are you still here?”
“Because I’m stubborn,” he says with a shameless smirk, a glint of fondness in his eyes, before his face softens once again. “Because you’re my best friend, my favourite person; because I’ve loved you since we were kids; because I’ve always known your heart was the one I wanted to carry, even if it’s heavy. Your pain is mine to hold, too. It doesn’t scare me.”
Your mouth falls open, but the words get stuck in your throat, like they’re too fragile to speak, too big to fit. You don’t even realise how close Chan is to you until you feel his warm breath fan against your cheek, his presence so close you could almost taste it.
His face hovers near yours, and your pulse quickens in response. His gaze flickers down to your lips, just mere inches from yours, the softness of his features tugging at your heartstrings. The world seems to slow down, and your mind races𑁋why is it so hard to just breathe?
And yet, you don’t pull away.
Then, just as he leans in a tiny bit more, his lips barely a breath away from yours, he pauses, and it’s almost as if your beauty punches him in the gut for the very first time again. He sees everything𑁋the weariness that plagues your face, the glassiness to your eyes, the way you sneak a glance down to his mouth as well. He forces himself to swallow a lump in his throat.
You still don’t pull away.
“God,” he mutters softly under his breath, voice full of pure, unadulterated awe. “You’re beautiful.”
Your stomach twists violently at his words, completely knocking the wind out of your lungs.
“Chan?”
He blinks up at you, waiting.
“Have you ever been scared of… crossing that line?”
Chan blinks at your question, and for a minute or two, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he searches over your face, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.
“Terrified out of my goddamn mind, actually,” he corrects with amusement. “But now… I do know that when I cross that line, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want to go back.”
Amongst the heaviness in the air, those words almost single-handedly dissolve the barrier between you. Before you can second-guess yourself, before doubt can sink its claws into you again, you shoot one last sure glance down at his lips and lean in to finally close the distance between the two of you.
Chan lets out a groan at the sudden contact, your mouth bumping against his lip ring, but he throws that discomfort out the window.
It’s barely anything at first. Your breath catches against his warm and slightly chapped lips, but it’s enough. Enough for him to take it as permission, enough for him to finally cross that line with you. His lips meet yours softly and tentatively, like he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t𑁋when you press just a little closer, letting your fingers curl against his bare shoulder𑁋he deepens the kiss, exhaling shakily into your mouth, his uninjured hand coming to pull you closer by your waist.
He tastes like something sweet and a little dangerous, like honey laced with fire.
Chan kisses you like he’s been waiting for this opportunity his entire life, and to be fair, he did wait that long. His eyes flutter to a close as he lets nothing but feeling take over, as if he’s memorised the shape of your lips in his head a million times over but only now gets to experience how soft and perfect they really are. How much he wants to kiss you even more.
Your fingertips drag lightly, carefully, over his bare skin, tracing the markings of the large dragon tattoo down his arm. He shivers and his muscles tense under your touch, a quiet, barely audible groan slipping from him, making his grip on your waist tighten. His thumb brushes over the fabric of your shirt, pressing just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He has to fight his restraint to fully consume you, like he wants to brand this moment down into his very bones.
“Fuck,” he curses, voice muffled against your mouth. “I knew it.”
Your body burns at his touch. A second hardly passes as you could breathe out, “Knew what?”
“That if I ever kissed you, I wouldn’t want to stop,” he rasps hoarsely, his breath shallow as his lips brush against yours again like he’s not quite ready to pull away, merely determined to make up for all the lost time and finally taste what he’s been holding back. “I’m so weak for you, baby.”
Chan has waited ten years for this. He isn’t going to waste a single second.
A shudder runs through you from the pet name and the way his voice sounds so low and full of longing. His hands slowly yet delicately drift under the hem of your shirt, and he inhales the little noises you can’t quite hold back. You feel his calloused fingertips from all his years of skateboarding meet the skin of your waist𑁋not pushing, just touching, worshipping. Your hand drifts to caress the contours of his back, drawing over the smooth, defined lines of his muscles beneath the ink of where his Aquarius tattoo is imprinted on his spine.
“I’m addicted to you,” he says in between kisses, his weight pressing down on you as your back falls against the bed. “I should’ve kissed you years ago.”
His lips move against yours sweetly, intoxicatingly. There’s a quiet moan that leaves your mouth, barely audible yet enough for Chan to feel it, and it sends a rush of desire coursing through him. But he doesn’t rush it. He knows how long he’s waited for this moment, how long he’s dreamt of it. And now that it’s finally happening, he’s cherishing every second like it’s his last day on earth, willing himself to memorise every subtle shift of your facial expression, every breathless sound you make, every brief contact of your skin on his.
You.
That’s all his mind is screaming at him.
You, you, you.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, but his grip on your waist tightens like he’s begging you won’t.
You don’t.
Your fingers dig desperately into his shoulders, feeling the rising tension in his muscles, and you’re suddenly aware of the effect you have over him, the effect you’ve always had over him. He’s practically losing himself in you. His injured hand twitches at his side, somewhat frustrated at the thought that he can’t hold you in the way he wants to. But his other hand drifts a tiny bit more under your shirt.
You sigh into his mouth, and Chan swears he’s never heard a sound more intoxicating than that.
“You’re not real,” he mumbles, and you feel him smile against you. “You can’t be real.”
The chuckle you let out at that quickly dissipates when you feel his mouth trail to the corner of your jaw. Then his breath meets the pulse point by your ears, and he plants a soft, affectionate kiss at that spot. You melt into the bed just by that.
“For years,” he continues breathlessly, lips slowly ghosting over the shell of your ear. “I’ve been patient. So fucking patient. I swear to God, baby, I’ll give you everything.”
His words make you dizzy, like you’re floating𑁋weightless, like your body has been set ablaze from the inside and out.
When he pulls away after some time, his breathing uneven and heavy, his half-lidded gaze meets yours.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, worriedly, studying over your nervous expression.
You swallow hard against the dryness in your throat, still feeling the tingle at your lips from the kiss or kisses. You sit up in his bed slightly.
“Yeah, I’m…” You lower your eyes in a pit of shyness. “I’m okay. Are you?”
A sheepish grin blooms on his face. “Oh, I’m good. I’m grand. Half-busted clearly still, but…”
You lightly flick him on the head. “You’re supposed to be resting, dummy.”
“And you’re supposed to be resting too, idiot,” he retorts playfully, but then his face falls into nothing but affection. “And kissing me.”
The two of you let out a series of giggles at that. Your hands rests unsurely on bare skin of his chest and shoulder𑁋hardly realising how they got there in the first place. You’re both tangled in this delicate new dynamic, and yet, in a way, it feels so natural. Everything has changed, and now you find yourself standing right at the edge of something beautiful and uncertain, but still worth falling for.
Then, before you could kiss him again, a cough interrupts the two of you. You both look towards the doorway, and there’s Vernon standing there with his arms crossed.
“Alright, not to kill the mood, but before y’all start breaking the bed or whatever, at least close the door first,” he says with an impish smirk.
Chan grumbles annoyingly, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “Seriously, dude?”
“Hey, I just wanted to check if you two needed anything,” Vernon shrugs innocently. “Didn’t mean to walk on y’all eating each other’s faces. But for the record, fucking finally.”
“Whatever, bye, Vernon!” Chan staggers off the bed to shut the door in the boy’s face, groaning something under his breath before plopping down right beside you.
The laugh you’ve been suppressing tumbles out of you all at once, a sense of relief and giddiness taking over. Chan looks over at you with a sheepish grin, chuckling along with you, his fingers gently brushing against the lines of your palm as you both try to calm your laughter.
“Chan?”
“Yeah?” His face lights up when you call his name. Cute.
“I love you.”
The utter vulnerability in the crack of your voice makes his heart lurch. Chan stares at you, as if he’s afraid that you might vanish if he blinks. But when he does blink, you’re still here in front of him. And when you blink, he’s simply smiling at you. It’s the same smile he wore when you were kids, the kind that could outshine all the stars in the sky, the one that made you feel like you could take on the world. Only now, it feels different. It feels like home.
He’s been knocking on this door for years, and you’ve finally let him in.
“I love you too,” he mumbles quietly, leaning back to tenderly press his forehead against yours. “Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”
That line between friendship and love? Yeah. Erased.
There’s no going back, it seems. But for the first time in a long time, you’re beginning to look forward.
"Think about it.” Then the boy breathes out a cloud of vapour, hitting Chan square in the face, accusingly pointing at him with the mouth of his vape. “And wipe that disgusting lovesick shit off your face.”
SHEESH. clocked.
Your pain is mine to hold, too. It doesn’t scare me.”
Here to request soft &team coz they're definition of soft 🤧
idk if yove done it before, but like something domestic with them, maybe like spending winters with them or like a sleepover or something! Im sorry if its repetitive but I just love domesticity too much 😔
Anyways enjoy writing!
Lots of love ❤️
⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ WINTER INTIMACY 🧸ྀི — word count varies 200-242 per member
[ extras ]ot9, food, pet names
ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ! hehe hopefully it meets your expectations!!! thank you for reqing, i did have fun writing<33 teamies my beloved i love them they are all so soft and cute:(
@kstrucknet ·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ @lune-net
┆彡 YUDAI [ 祐大 ]
"are you sure it's safe?" your mumble was muffled by your scarf pressing against your lips. your gloved hands wrapped tighter around the edge of the wooden sledge as you looked down the snowy hill.
"yeah! i did it as a kid all the time and i turned out just fine" yudai grinned, his hands holding you. "i'll catch you if anything"
"how so? it's a hill and i'm on the sledge… you'd slip" you grunted. somehow, despite your negative energy, you were excited. you saw the small kids enjoying this, so it must be fun. right…?
"i will, don't you worry. okay, ready?" yudai asked, smile audible in his voice. you nodded and he pushed you.
the sledge took off, rapidly gaining speed while sliding down the snowy hill. you squealed, heart pounding. you tried to steer the thing but it wouldn't listen.
"yudai!" you yelped, although you were sure he didn't hear you.
you closed your eyes shut, the wind making your eyes tear up anyway.
you didn't know for how long you were sliding down when there was a sudden yank back. you squeaked, opening your eyes.
the world stopped. there was heavy breathing behind you.
you looked through your shoulders and saw yudai fixing his hat, his cheeks red.
"told you… i'd catch you…" he breathed out and sent you a reassuring smile. "my… turn now…"
┆彡 FUMA [ 風魔 ]
"what do you think of mine?" you asked, finally finishing building your snowman. it was a little… crooked, sure. but it had three spheres as body and head, carrot for a nose, sticks for hands. his coal eyes were unsymmetrical but who would care? you even gave him cat ears so it would look cuter!
you dusted off your gloves from snow proudly and heard fuma's hum.
"cute, i like it. the ears really finish it off nicely" he complimented your work. then, it was your turn to look at his snowman.
you let out a shocked stutter, steam escaping your lips on the cold air.
in front of you was built big snorlax. his shapes were perfectly round and edged where thy were supposed to be. fuma traced lines and drew its face with a stick, accurately nailing the pokemon's details.
even feet! he even had his paws! with claws!
"fuma, what the…!" you choked out and he started laughing at your shocked face. "it looks like straight out of your cards! how did you do that?"
he shrugged nonchalantly.
"well mine just looks like bootleg pikachu next to yours…" you mumbled. fuma chuckled and wrapped his arm around you, eyeing the snowmen.
"i mean…" he started but you knew that whatever would leave his mouth would be a lie. so you just shoved him playfully, drawing more giggles from him.
┆彡 NICHOLAS [ 奕翔 ]
"do we have to do this?" nicholas groaned. as if he was even helping in the first place.
you were diligently wrapping red, thin bows around mistletoe branches. he was supposed to help. keyword: supposed. he got bored after five minutes, his bow barely looking like a bow.
you looked up at him, placing the finished branch away. only five more to go.
"i just want our place to look nice, nicho. but i assume… do you want to hang them around? just… don't destroy the bows, please" you asked, pouting slightly. he nodded with a grin.
"i can help with this! leave it to me" he mumbled and by the tone of his voice you could already tell he was up to something.
finishing the other greenery decorations didn't take you long. since nicholas was nowhere to be found, you decided to put away the remaining five yourself.
once done, you went to your bedroom. at an instant, you had to stop.
the mistletoe was glued to your doorframe. against which nicholas was leaning with a smirk.
"nicho… we can't close the door if it's here" you sighed, reaching your hand out. but he grabbed it, pulling to his chest. his hazel eyes looked deeply into yours.
"yeah but… we have to kiss now every time we cross the doorway." he hummed. you just smiled and before you could realize, his lips were crashing on yours.
┆彡 EUIJOO [ 의주 ]
you hummed to yourself, taking a short break before moving to the next page. you just took in the warmth: both from the fireplace and euijoo.
you glanced outside, at the snow.
and then here. warm and cozy. under a fluffy blanket with euijoo tucked next to you. his head was resting in the crook of your neck, body physically as close as possible. he was playing on his switch but the soft snores gave him away.
you didn't blame him at all. the sounds of wood cracking were calming, the fuzziness and comfort making it irresistible to fall asleep.
you closed your book and decided to join him. putting away the switch gently but you failed not to wake him up.
"y/n…" he mumbled sleepily, shifting.
"shush… let's sleep" you whispered. his warm hands found your waist and he pulled you closer, closing you in a hug as if you were a plushie. his breath tickled your skin.
"it's so cozy…" he slurred, only nuzzling his head deeper into you. he was undoubtedly right, your eyes were getting heavier with each second.
in no time you fell asleep to the sound of the fireplace and his soft breathing.
┆彡 YUMA [ 悠真 ]
the heat emitting from the laptop is strangely comforting. the movie playing became a mere background noise for you, as you cuddled deeper into yuma. the scent of fresh laundry and his cologne hit you, making your heart skip a beat.
focus shifting away, you looked outside the window with a soft, quiet sigh.
the snowstorm was still present, white streaks outside your window. it was so intense you could think the whole world was covered in white by now.
yuma's fingers that are laced with yours sense that your grip loosened. his brows furrowed, clearly dissatisfied with his observation.
"hey" he grunted, pulling the duvet closer and giving your hand a squeeze.
"hm!" you hummed mindlessly, feeling your eyelids become heavier and heavier.
yuma gently put the laptop away and wrapped his arms around you, warmth spreading across your back. you were buried under a duvet and a blanket, warm fuzzy socks on.
"someone got sleepy, huh?" he teased in a low voice, rubbing your hip. "you wanted to watch the movie, silly!"
you closed your eyes and took your sweet time with answering, speech slurred by sleepiness.
"it's just so warm… and cozy…"
his quiet chuckle made you smile.
"can you just… hold me… closer…?" you mumbled. and he did, no objections.
the pleasant heat made you feel like you were floating, straight into the dreamland.
┆彡 JO [ 穣 ]
you and jo were humming along to the music playing in the background, the pleasant smell of gingerbread dough spreading all over the room.
"how is yours going?" you asked, not tearing your gaze away from your gingerbread man. you wanted to surprise jo and make him. you prepared all different colors of icing to work with.
jo looked up and adored you. your brows furrowed in focus, pink tongue sticking out. he scoffed gently before answering.
"good, i think! the icing is drying fast, that's good. i'm almost done" he hummed. you looked up and scratched your nose, accidentally staining it white icing. you caught his stare and grinned.
"wanna see mine? look!" you exclaimed and before he responded, you took your gingerbread jo gently and approached him.
"wait that's me?" he asked, amused. his eyes were crooked… it looked more like a stickman but the hairstyle gave it away.
"yeah! do you… holy! that's so cute? oh my god!" you whined, looking at his plate.
a literal masterpiece.
two cats smooching each other. how did he even do that?! they looked very realistic, detailed.
"it's us… as cats!" jo raised his chin up to look at you with joy sparkling in his ebony eyes. you grinned, dusting flour off his cheek before placing a kiss on it.
┆彡 HARUA [ 琉愛 ]
"ugh, i've been craving hot choco all day…" harua mumbled, approaching you. you turned around, excited.
"what?! me too!" you laughed and leaned to grab something out of the shopping bag. "that's why i bought this!"
you watched his eyes widen, childish joy painting on his face.
"whipped cream and marshmallows?!" he gasped, grabbing them to take a closer look.
"let's make some chocolate then" you hummed and grabbed your favorite mugs.
harua glued to your back, observing through your shoulder your moves: adding cocoa, mixing it with hot water. then, adding hot milk. you stirred it gently as he leaned away and opened the whipped cream.
you heard a rustle.
"rua, don't eat it all–" you whined, turning around. his finger with whipped cream on top flashed before your eyes before you felt something on your nose. "hey!"
his giggles filled the room as you stared at him in disbelief.
"you menace!" with a grunt, you wiped the cream off your nose and smeared it on his cheek.
"hey!" he yelped, reacting in an instant. he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks. then, he rubbed his against yours. his hair tickled your face, causing you two to start chuckling uncontrollably.
┆彡 TAKI [ タキ ]
you were crouching behind a bush, trying to calm down your rigid breathing. as queitly as possibled, you gathered snow into your gloved hands. freezing air prickling your skin, steam coming out of your mouth… you didn't care. you had to get revenge.
you shaped a medium sized ball, a little chunky.
you peeked out of the bush, trying to spot taki among other people.
you were looking around, scanning every person. even if you landed a hit on someone else, nothing would happen. everyone was having a snowball fight. but you had to get taki, he had no mercy on you so why would you—
"looking for someone, pretty?"
you turned around so suddenly, you hat covered your eyes. then, you felt snow on your face.
you quickly fixed your hat and threw your snowball back. you scored, his giggles making you smile. you wasted no time making new ammo and aiming it at taki.
he tried dodging but the abrupt movement made him lose balance, slipping nedxt to you.
"oh my god, are you okay?" you gasped, leaning over him. he breathed out shakily, red blush from cold staining his face. his hair glued to his forehead due to sweat, chest failing up and down irregularly.
"yeah. cease fire?" he asked and before you could respond, he pulled you towards him. you fell on his chest and decided to rest with him for a while on the snow.
┆彡 MAKI [ マキ ]
"catch me if you can!" maki yelled and just… left you.
"wait a minute! dude, we barely stepped onto the rink!" you yelped, holding close to the security edge. maki was already off, whooshing between people in the crowd. "asshole!"
you wobbled slowly, gradually working speed and confidence. you haven't went ice skating in a while so you just needed a moment.
when you finally pushed away from the railing, slightly waving your hands to gain balance, there was a sudden push. hands on your hips helped you gain momentum as you yelped in panic. you didn't have to turn around to know it's maki.
"riki maus!" you grunted and he let go, slowing down. his giggles made your anger quickly fade as you glaces at him and his foolishly huge smile. "can we make it romantic? like a normal couple?"
"who said we're a normal couple?" he asked, one hundred percent serious. you just scoffed and he grabbed your hand, warming it up. he matched your tempo, humming. "do you want to have a bet? who falls the more times has to buy us hot choco?"
"bet!" you nodded enthusiastically.
by doing so, your hat fell over your eyes. in panic, you tripped… bringing the both of you down.
giggles escaped your lips as you sat on the cold ice.
"you didn't have to take it so seriously you know?" he just chuckled and fixed your hat, looking at you softly.
to celebrate jeonghan coming home… user haoboutyou is also coming home??? life has been tough but i’m tougher 💪
it is entirely jeonghan's fault that the two of you only arrive at the beach when everyone else was getting ready to leave.
by the time the train pulls into the station nearest the beach, the afternoon has already begun softening around the edges. the heat no longer sits heavily on your shoulders, and the crowd you've expected is already thinning. families are packing up picnic blankets while children drag their feet across the sand, bargaining for five more minutes in the water. somewhere behind you, someone struggles to fold an umbrella that's clearly won the argument.
you'd told him as much while the train rattled towards the coast, watching families with oversized cooler boxes board at earlier stops. when the two of you finally stepped onto the sand, the afternoon sun has already begun its slow descent, bathing the shoreline in a warm sort of glow that makes everything look softer than it really was.
"i don't know why i listened to you," you mutter, slipping your sandals off before they fill with sand.
jeonghan glances over his shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips. "because i have good ideas."
"you have ideas."
"they're usually good."
"they're usually convenient for you." he hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and continues walking ahead with the tote bag hanging loosely from one shoulder.
you watch him duck instinctively around a little girl running after a beach ball before he veers closer to the water, where the tide packs the sand into something firmer beneath your feet.
as much as you hated admitting it, he'd been right.
you glance sideways. "...i hate that you're right."
jeonghan smiles to himself without looking at you.
"i know." curse his stupidly handsome smirk.
-
the beach feels slower than you remember. maybe it's because there's finally enough space to hear the waves over everyone else's conversations, or maybe it's because neither of you has anywhere else to be afterwards. the wet sand cools your feet while jeonghan walks close enough that your shoulders brush every few steps.
you don't think much of it when jeonghan slows down for the third time. the first had been because he'd spotted a shell half-buried in the sand, the second because he'd insisted a cloud looked suspiciously like mingyu's profile, and now he's crouching again, poking carefully at something with a stick he'd picked up somewhere along the way. you've already learned that hurrying him accomplishes absolutely nothing, so you stop a few steps ahead and wait instead. eventually, he looks up with the sort of expression that tells you he's forgotten you kept walking in the first place. "look," he says quietly, pointing towards a tiny hermit crab making its way across the wet sand. it takes all of five seconds for the little thing to disappear beneath a rock. somehow, that seems to satisfy him.
you don't say anything about it once he stands again. there isn't much to say, really. the hermit crab has disappeared, the stick in jeonghan's hand is abandoned somewhere along the wet sand, and the two of you continue walking like that small interruption had been a perfectly normal reason to stop. with him, you suppose it is. jeonghan has always had a way of making detours feel intentional, as if the day had been quietly waiting for him to notice whatever everyone else had walked past.
-
by the time you finally decide to sit, the sun has lowered enough that the water looks gold where it catches the light. jeonghan drops onto the towel first with a small sigh, one that sounds far too relieved for someone who has done nothing more strenuous than walk slowly and inspect beach wildlife. you sit beside him and open the container of fruit you packed that morning, only to find the pieces still cold. for a moment, you stare down at it, confused, until jeonghan reaches into the tote and pulls out a half-melted bag of ice with the calm expression of someone who’s just performed the greatest trick of all time.
"when did you buy that?"
"when you were looking for your sunglasses."
you pause. "... my sunglasses were on my head."
"i know."
there's no point arguing with him after that, not when he looks so pleased with himself and not when the watermelon is cold enough to make you forgive him almost immediately. the two of you eat straight from the container, passing it back and forth until the fork is mostly forgotten and jeonghan starts stealing pieces with his fingers. every now and then, the wind picks up enough to threaten the napkins, and he catches them without looking particularly proud of himself for doing so.
the beach continues emptying around you. somewhere behind you, the family with the defeated umbrella finally manages to fold it, earning a tired cheer from one of the children. jeonghan laughs under his breath, and when you turn to look at him, the sunset has caught on his face in a way that feels unfair. soft hair, softer eyes, the kind of expression that makes people forget he is usually the reason something has gone missing in the first place. he must feel you staring, because his gaze shifts towards you after a moment, curious but unhurried.
"what is it?"
"’s nothing."
his mouth curves like he doesn't believe you, but he lets it go. instead, he leans back on his hands and looks out at the water again, close enough that your knees touch. after a while, his pinky hooks around yours where your hands rest on the towel between you. not quite holding your hand, not quite asking to, just enough contact to acknowledge you're there.
you let him have it.
the sun sinks lower, the tide creeps closer, and jeonghan's shoulder eventually settles against yours like he has simply run out of reasons to keep the space between you. you think about teasing him for being tired after insisting this was the perfect time to come, but he looks too comfortable to disturb. besides, he had been right. the beach is nicer like this, quiet and half-empty, with the day folding itself away slowly around you.
jeonghan has always had a way of making detours feel intentional, as if the day had been quietly waiting for him to notice whatever everyone else had walked past.
IM. this is so soft. the whole fic is so soft BUT THIS LINE!!!! don't make me sob please.
jeonghan reaches into the tote and pulls out a half-melted bag of ice with the calm expression of someone who’s just performed the greatest trick of all time.
if i really had to choose, i also like this line, but if i wasn't forced to choose i would probably quote the whole fic back at you.
wc ☆ 1.6k summary ☆ on the eve of seungcheol’s birthday, your deep talks remind you exactly why he’s been in your life for so long. warnings ☆ bittersweet, aging, deep talk, intimacy listen to ☆ cheers to youth by seventeen an ☆ this is a bday fic for cheol, but i graduated hs today !!! i’m reuploading this old fic bc it reflects my own fears about growing up perfectly. i’m overjoyed to be stepping into a new phase of my life, but so upset that i’m letting go of all i’ve ever known. i’m gonna miss seeing everyone i love every day, but i know i’m onto bigger and better things. cheers to youth everyone 👩🏽🎓🎓🥳 !!!
life is really hard. there’s so many obstacles, so many things that people have to deal with, losing their footing every day in a world that they’re still trying to navigate. there’s not a single person who has done this before. it only gets worse the older you get, and that’s something you’ve felt nothing but dread thinking about. it’s scary, getting older. for you, it just leaves more room for you to feel sentimental and reminisce on moments that you won’t be able to experience again, even the moment where you sit right here, lingering on such a thought. it’s all fleeting, and it’s scary to know that these last seconds of joy, happy memories of a certain era of life, are slipping through your fingers. even if there’s more to come.
the years fly by faster and faster, the longer you spend your time on this planet. even the summer, such a small fraction of the year, feels like it only lasts a week. the whole season smushed into seven days, days which you’ve spent on vacation with only one person. coincidentally, the same person you see when you think of the past however many years. there’s not a single person you’re more grateful for knowing, having met him as a child, keeping him by your side for your whole life.you remember it so clearly, over ten, nearly twenty years ago when you were knock kneed and second guessing every step you took. he saw you, and without thinking twice about it, he took you under his wing and hasn’t let you go ever since.
it was embarrassingly obvious that you were lonely, someone people didn’t like much, no matter where you went. you were used to navigating things on your own, and without the help of others, simply keeping to yourself and finding your own way. he was so bold, he didn’t even give you room to debate before claiming you as his best friend, helping you find your wings and become who you are today. you truly couldn’t credit anyone with their assistance in your success except him. he became someone you could lean on, and he quickly became your best friend, your crutch. it was easy to fall into a sort of dynamic where you were like family, being adopted by his own and becoming an extreme part of your life.
as you lay on this lounge chair, skin to skin while watching the waves sparkle under the moonlight, all you can help to do is reminisce on the time you’ve had with seungcheol. there’s not much time left until his special day, until he turns 30, welcoming you and all your friends into the third, melancholy decade of your life. with your head against his bare chest, you feel his heartbeat slow and his breathing go back to normal as the minutes tick by. yet, you still can’t seem to catch your breath. it feels like just yesterday you were cowering behind cheol’s teenage, yet still very broad shoulders while he introduced you to his other friends. you blinked and suddenly you’re no longer chasing him down the boardwalk, beer bottle spilling over your hand as you race to the beach, tumbling through the sand when you catch him. you don’t do that anymore. you’re in the same place you walked all those years ago, except this time you guys don’t play fight in the sand, don’t get shitfaced and do all the reckless things you used to. now, you’ve found love, sitting with him on a secluded area of the beach, laying on top of him with barely any clothing separating the two of you, reminiscing on the past almost-twenty years that you’ve known each other.
this makes your heart hurt, your anxiety kick in. you’re so, so grateful that all of your youth was spent with him. there was nothing but pure joy, and you still have that now, but there’s something in you that feels nothing but pure dread, knowing that the youth you were so used to is going away. not completely, but it’s morphing into something different, and you’re not sure how ready you are to take that on. not long after cheol’s birthday, it’ll be jeonghan, jisoo.. and you’re right there with them. soon enough everyone else will follow suit, and you really couldn’t put it into words just how much that freaks you out. there’s no way to explain it. when you look up at cheol, the arm that isn’t wrapped around you rests under his head, and his gaze is set on the sky above you both. he looks so beautiful, completely relaxed, face reflecting nothing but serenity as he lays with you. you’re envious of that, of his calm state of being, and happiness towards his special day and what comes after. eventually he catches your gaze, and he smiles softly, pulling you closer to give you a kiss. smooth, soft, and full of all the tranquility you wish you were feeling.
“talk to me.” he says, and you almost wanna curse at the way he knows you so well, immediately sensing the weight on your mind.
you sigh, “i just.. i don’t understand how you’re so calm.”
he chuckles, sitting up a little to place you properly between his legs. with your back to his chest, he wraps his arms tight around your torso. “what do you mean? should i be scared? am i gonna die tomorrow?”
you smile, just barely, a little huff of air leaving your lips. “no, no.. i’m talking about, like.. about growing up. you’re happy. embracing it. i don’t get that.”
he hums lowly, kissing your crown. “first of all, we grew up a long time ago. and of course i’m happy to be getting older. sure, we’ve come a long way, and i am entering a different stage, but it’s exciting to see what comes with it. personally, i’m especially excited to see how sexy i get once i’m thirty..” he laughs, nuzzling into your nape when you let out a little giggle.
“and.. you’re not afraid to lose what you’ve had in your twenties?” you look up at him, so much vulnerability, genuinely worried about this predicament, and you can see the way he softens at it.
he shakes his head, “nope. because i’ll always have those memories to keep. and i have you, the kids.. you guys are a part of my twenties. am i gonna lose you all after the next..” he checks his watch, “fifteen minutes?”
immediately you’re shaking your head, leaning into him impossibly close. “no! of course not.. you’ll have me, them, for forever.”
“well? there you have it then. i’m not losing my twenties, or any of my youth for that matter, by turning thirty. i still have you all with me, and i’ll keep you until i die. and even after that.” he emphasizes the last part with a kiss to your temple.
you nod your head. “i just feel like life keeps moving. and it keeps getting faster, but i can’t keep up. i don’t remember the years getting so short, you know?” you fight the way you get a little choked up the longer you talk, but he notices, as always, hands starting to rub against your waist.
this time, he has to take a moment to think, going silent to think of a response. “i understand how you’re feeling. i think that way more than i’d like to admit, but..” he pauses again, “there’s nothing we can do but look up, right? not everything has to be at the pace you’ve set for yourself. you don’t have to be what everyone expects you to be right now. whatever part of life you’re ready for, whichever part you want to be, i’ll be here to love you and support you through it, okay?” he holds you by your chin, keeping eye contact while he speaks, pouting slightly to help push his point, jerking his head to force your verbal response when you nod. he smiles satisfactorily when he hears your little okay, leaning in to give you kisses, on your lips and all over your face.
“now. no more sadness, okay? there’s one minute left, and my birthday wish is for us all to be happy. happiness only, ‘kay?” he noses the crook of your neck, laughing when you flinch at the little kisses that tickle your skin.
seungcheol’s phone rings, jeonghan calling, and you know that means it’s hit midnight, and you reach for it to hang up on him. you turn to face him, reaching for the little cupcake set beside you. i’ll be the first one, you mumble, lighting the candle before looking at him with a smile. as you start singing, his face shines so bright under the orange glow of the flame, smile so wide and perfect, even after all these years. as the song comes to a close, you feel much more excitement towards the future than you previously had, even if it’s not by much. seungcheol’s eyes fall shut as you end the song, adding a few extra notes to be fancy, laughing as he makes his wish and blows the candle out.
“happy birthday, my cheollie.” with a finger you wipe icing on his cheek, immediately going in to kiss it off. when you try going back in a second time, he turns his head, holding you against his lips by the back of your head. this time, it’s a little more romantic than the last few, his hands holding your body as close to him as it can get.
he pulls away, not by far, your foreheads touching, “thank you, baby girl.” he kisses you again, “i can’t wait to spend my thirties and forever with you.”
everyone warned you that moving away was a risky idea. yet blinded by love you took the risk and started a new life with your partner so many miles from home. however, when your relationship starts to fall apart, you find solace in the only two things you have left: alcohol and the mysterious yet charming joshua hong. though joshua tries his best to mend your broken heart - you're unaware that you're also breaking his in the process.
~ pairing: joshua hong/hong jisoo x gn!reader
~ content: situationship!au, brief mentions of photographer!shua, low key forbiden relationship, flirty??) banter, shua being a sweetheart, open ending, and ofc classic shuaraes yearing
~ tw/cw: alcohol and nicotine abuse, emotional cheating from reader (kinda?), alluded toxic relationship between partner and mother, mentions of a dead loved one, joshua has insomnia
~ song rec: stop the world i wanna get off with you - arctic monkeys
~ author's note: happy halloween guyss, take this as my contribution to spooky season (a this is actually a heavily adapted and rewritten passage from an old wip. it was actually a jihan love triangle slow burn set in paris, but the writing is absolutely terrible and unsalvageable (i still love the general plot and characters, send an ask if u wanna find out more Imaoo) . but i really really liked this scene so i tried to rewrite this as best i could, but it's still far from perfect, so sorry in advance <33
FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, YOU YEARNED FOR A STORM.
One so violent it would tumble buildings and flood the earth. You wanted the raindrops to beat your back like hailstones and waves of thunder to shake this cursed city. But no; it was warm with not one late-night chill floating in the air. April had started just a few days back and with it brought the advent of spring, the world was turning towards new beginnings yet you had never felt so stuck and lost. Callous words replayed in your head like a glitchy record, the same syllables being repeated over and over till it all faded into one inescapable noise.
Moving here was supposed to be the start of the life you had always wanted: a big city, quaint apartment, your long-term partner and dreams just waiting to be fulfilled. You left the only home you had ever known, But you should’ve listened when you were told that ‘not all that glitters is gold’, not even their eyes when they told you they loved you. Everything you thought you knew - shattered. And all it took was one particularly nasty row. It left you disoriented - both mentally and physically, so you tried to find the answers to your problems by searching in the corners of rundown clubs and pools of scarlet red wine.
When you shook your purse, the lack of a jingle indicated that you had forgotten to pick up the notes and coins that you left on the bar counter to pay for a cab, swearing loudly like a teen getting their first taste of defiance. You headache went from a dull thud to full on pounding, maybe drinking away your problems wasn’t the best idea. The roads were empty and the streetlights dim. You made a note to never visit this part of the city again. Especially after the sun had already set.
Click, and in the corner of your eye was a small pocket of hell, wavering around its silver compartment. Long, calloused fingers tended to the flame before blowing it out and relighting it again. Click, your eyes darted to the lighter’s owner. A familiar face was not exactly what you were expecting.
It was like Joshua Hong existed exclusively at midnight, fading out of existence as dusk turned into dawn. But yet, as time went on, you found yourself thinking of his ebony hair and addictive smile in the middle of the afternoon. He looked like a dream - a sliver of his face illuminated by the flame. He hadn’t noticed you yet, sporting a slight frown, his forehead creasing as if in contemplation. He shook his head and took out a Marlboro from his half-empty packet, taking a drag as quickly as he lit it. The smoke swirled around his head like a ribbon: a gift bow tied at his lips. The pink was chapped and the skin around them dry. You wondered if he had been taking care of himself lately.
“Y/N what did I tell you about going out alone when it’s dark?” Your heart skipped beats like hurdles and your head was about to go for a joyride.
“Joshua Hong, are you trying to kill me?” You gripped your chest and Joshua chuckled lightly before taking another drag.
“I was trying to save you.” He blew out the smoke. “You were so lost in thought there, I thought you were about to faint.”
It came like clockwork – his caring gestures, words that always knew how to soothe and caress so tenderly. The way he spoke with such softness reminded you of your mother during your school days (when you failed one of your mock exams, she held you against her chest and cooed in your ear, back then you felt like you mattered: you wondered when it all went wrong). You knew he could smell the alcohol on you, but for once he chose to ignore it.
“What the fuck are you even doing crouching in some alleyway anyways? It’s sketchy, are you like a vampire or something?”
“I’m a photographer Y/N, the night provides underrated inspiration.” Joshua took another drag like a breath and relished in it like it was fresh air. You watched the smoke fall out of his mouth in puffs and you wondered if he did this all the time. As someone whose life dream was to create art you could relate, you just hoped you didn’t look as sketchy as him piecing together your ideas.
“Do you smoke?” He turned his body to you and asked.
“Not anymore, out grew it in my teenage years. But I get the temptation now and again.” You lay against the wall and stared up at the moon hidden behind the clouds. Your heart was heavier than you ever thought possible, a part of you wished the roads were busier. A car could just rush by and that would be the end of you and all your problems. Maybe then your partner would see your point of view.
“Trust me, you don’t.” He said, crushing the bun of his dying cigarette using the heel of his Doctor Martin’s. He turned back to face you, eyes gentler than a lover’s caress.
“Come, I know a place that I think might get your mind off things.”
—
“Joshua, slow down, are you trying to kill me?” You squealed as he shoved his hands against your back.
You swung back and forth, feet kicking wildly up into the air. With sections of your hair flying in front of your face sticking to your lip-gloss, the rusty metal chains etching deeper marks into the palms of your hand as Joshua swung you faster and faster, the bubbly laughter from behind you ricocheting off every corner of the children’s playground. With the force Joshua was pushing you at, you feared the swing would collapse under your weight. However, it was nice, for even just a minute, to pretend as if you and your actions were weightless, watching the world spin in circles. Like in your adolescence, when you and your hometown friends would get drunk on cheap vodka in a park not too different to the one you found yourself in and felt like not even God himself could touch you.
“Is that a challenge?” He remarked. Before you could respond he had already revved back to give you an even more powerful shove, giggling while seeing your face scrunch up in horror.
Joshua’s plan worked, within seconds of being with him, you forgot all about the argument with your partner. A guardian angel of sorts, Joshua came into your life how sleep comes to the tired - slow at first then engulfing you into a world that ceases to exist when you open your eyes again.
After every bitter fight, you always ended up by Joshua’s side. However, despite his pleading, you don’t leave them (they were the only trace of the person you used to be). But when you were with Joshua, you forgot it all: your nagging partner, the chill in your shared flat when they left you alone, that dull aching homesickness. Like magic, Joshua could clear your mind, his sweet smile causing an amnesia-like effect. Leaving only the faint smell of cigarette smoke and a deep feeling of emptiness to remember him by.
“Joshua Hong, you’re evil!” You squealed and he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world, “like the devil disguised in an angel’s body!”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” The smirk on his face was iridescent and for a second you almost couldn’t be mad at him.
“It can be whatever you want it to be.” You turned to him as he grabbed onto the metal chains to slow down the swing.
Up close his heart-shaped lips looked so impossibly soft, you craved them pressed up against your cheek, his hands around your neck- Fuck. You felt the alcohol coursing hot underneath your skin, erasing your already limited filter - you would never have this confidence sober.
“I’ll take it as a compliment, as that means you very indirectly called me attractive,” He replied with a cocky smirk.
“You’re reaching for heavens with that one.” You let out a chuckle as he sat on the seat beside yours and swung lightly to and fro.
“Is it a crime to hope you think of me in the same way I think of you?” He sighed and started up into the starless evening sky,
“What I’m trying to say is, I think you’re really beautiful Y/N.”
Before you could even form a response, Joshua was speaking again, rummaging in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lighter.
“I haven’t been here in years with someone. Even, I haven’t been here at all in quite a while. I’m surprised this place hasn’t been torn down.”
You could see what he meant. Even with the slightest of movements, the swing set groaned like a grey sky before a storm. Before sitting on it, Joshua had to blow off a thick layer of dust that had settled upon the seat, dispersing like age-old ashes. The rest of the park looked considerably abandoned, the grass looked like it hadn’t been cut in years and vegetation had grown in cracks between the concrete paving. You imagined this park on the very outskirts of the city used to be surrounded by bustling residential, where the park was used as a community hub and not a meeting place for a nicotine addict and the shittest partner known to man. When answering him back you had to pretend you were completely unaffected, as if you get called beautiful every day of the week (you don’t, your partner barely complimented you anymore.)
“Who was the last person you visited with then?”
Still staring at the sky, he answered, “My first love, this was her favourite place in the world.”
“Been?”You quip, confused, “How come she doesn’t like it anymore?”
Joshua turned to face you, unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. The previous look of mischief in his eyes was impossible to trace, replaced with a gloomy grey. He looked slightly defeated and only then did you start to piece things together.
“Oh, Joshua…”Your voice softened, “I’m so sorry for your loss…”
Your memory panned back to past conversations and the way he spoke so fondly of her. You had assumed they fell apart like first loves normally do. Then you remembered that not even a couple of minutes ago he called you beautiful, it made you feel guilty about the way your heart fluttered at the compliment even though he may have thought nothing of it.
And there it was, as if a director cut the slate and the curtains opened, rain started to pour from the sky. ‘Pathetic fallacy at its finest’, you thought to yourself, as you watched the rain soak Joshua head to toe, drops of water running down his face like crystal tears. The water so easily slipped of the leather of his brown jacket and onto his dark wash jeans. Under the showering sky, you felt as if you both were black and white film stars, playing destined lovers. Everything felt like destiny with Joshua, even though you knew you both were never meant to be. So entranced in the warmth of his soft brown eyes, you almost didn’t feel the chill that ran down your spine at the feeling of your damp clothes clinging to your skin.
“It’s okay, though it isn’t. It’s just something I have to come to terms with. I’m grateful that I loved her while I had the chance to.” You hummed in agreement, and he lit the cigarette and took a drag for longer than he usually did.
“Up until today,” He continued, “I still have trouble sleeping.”
“Same, not with the dead girlfriend part but with the trouble sleeping bit.” He laughed at that. You smiled, relishing that he found you funny. “I’m like half melatonin at this point.”
“And you call me the vampire?” Joshua smiled a smile that showed his teeth peeking out from his gums.
“Well, that makes the two of us! So when are we going on a one-way trip to Transylvania?”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Joshua said and got off the swing, the chains squeaking as he removed his weight. You decided to push yourself while you waited for him to put out his cigarette.
With you staring up at the starless black sky, Joshua knew he shouldn’t. He knew the feelings festering in the depths of his abdomen would bring him to ruin someday. Somewhere along the line, he knew he would regret this night. Whether it would have been tomorrow in the shimmering amber of dawn or a drunken night ten years too late. Because you would never fully be his and he would never fully be yours.
He knew that. He knew that. Yet…
You were nothing short of beautiful. The way your eyes glistened, laugh sounded and skin smelt. The way your wet clothes stuck to your body. The way he knew you were suffering yet he couldn’t do much about it. If you asked, he would put his life on the line for you. You crumbled every bit of his glass-like resolve and you did it effortlessly. He swore never to love another, to call someone else his. But you were making it oh so difficult. His disposable camera in his right hand felt heavier than his fast-beating heart. It rang throughout his chest and travelled into his ears. A warning siren: the universe begged him not to. His camera would get damaged, the photo would come out blurry, it’s not worth it-
You and Minghao share a café table on a restless winter night, and somehow, you just kind of click.
⇢ pairing. xu minghao x writer!reader
⇢ genre. fluff, strangers 2 something?
⇢ word count. approx. 6k?
⇢ warnings. f!reader, she's a bit silly, super duper brief discussion of burnout
⇢ author's note. a very belated birthday not-so-surprise to my beloved @haologram !! alta you are so very dear to me + happy belated birthday + you deserve all the good things. this is not what i intended on writing but it just kind of came out — i wish it was much longer and much better but unfortunately. i am only me. anyway love you thank you bye
THE CAFÉ IS the sort of place that looks better from a distance, if you’re being entirely honest. Warm glow from the windows, steam fogging the glass, people inside with their laptops and oversized mugs. Cosy, in theory, especially set against the cold, grey streets.
Up close, it’s a bit tragic. The lighting is a bit too yellow, the tables wobble, and the espresso machine makes a long, pained noise every time someone orders anything with foam. Still, it’s open twenty-four hours, and at 10:24p.m., that pretty much all you needed.
You slide into the last empty table and set your bag down, already feeling the heaviness of the night settle on your shoulders. You hadn’t meant to leave your apartment – you’d tried reading, then cleaning, then sitting inside the horrendous mess you’d made in your attempt to clean, and then mindlessly scrolling – but everything felt too loud inside your own head, and escaping to your usual mediocre café felt like the only real option.
You’d barely opened your laptop when a group of students burst through the door, chattering loudly about deadlines and caffeine shots. They scan the café like predators and, with zero shame, descend on your table.
“Oh – sorry – can we…?” one of them asks, already pulling out a chair.
You manage to force a polite, thin smile. “Take it. Go wild.”
You grab your bag and mug before they can be knocked over, and step back, surveying the room. Every table is full. Every single one.
Perfect.
Someone clears their throat.
You glance to your left.
A man sits alone at a two-seater table near the window, hands wrapped around a mug that looks too small in them. He has a sketchbook open in front of him and a pencil resting against his index finger, but you notice, as your eyes sweep over the paper, that the page is blank.
He nods towards the empty seat opposite him. “You can sit here, if you want.”
You hesitate. Not because you mind sharing – it’s late, and you’re too tired to be awkward – but because you don’t want to disturb whatever quiet bubble he’s in.
“Are you sure?” you ask.
“It’s either that,” he says, blinking slowly, “or you stand there until all the college kids finish their assignments at 11:59.”
“Alright,” you say, sliding into the seat. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He went back to his sketch, pencil tapping lightly against the page.
You settle into the chair, pulling your mug closer. You sip your drink – burnt, of course – and glance subtly at him. He’s familiar in that way regulars sometimes are. You’ve seen him here before, usually tucked away in a corner, expression unreadable.
He continues doing whatever he was doing before you sat down, staring at a page he hasn’t drawn on, pencil hovering, tapping every so often. He doesn’t angle the sketchbook away from you, but you get the feeling he wants to, so you very determinedly don’t look his way again, digging your laptop out of your bag and focussing on your own work.
The café hums. A spoon clinks. Someone laughs too loudly in the back. It doesn’t take much staring at your blank document before you let your eyes wander the room: the couple sharing a slice of cake, the student asleep on her own arm, the barista shamelessly scrolling on his phone.
You sigh, glance at your screen. No new notifications. Not that you’re expecting any.
The man next to you shifts in his seat, the faint scrape of his chair legs the only sign of life. He flips to another blank page. His posture is relaxed in theory but tense in detail – slouched shoulders, but restless fingers, leg bouncing ever so slightly.
You feel strangely mirrored.
At some point, maybe after ten, fifteen minutes, the group of students at your old table break into a loud debate about referencing styles, and the pencil pauses mid-tap. He doesn’t quite sigh out loud, but you feel the sigh move through him, the smallest ripple of irritation.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop a smile.
Another minute. Two. You decide to take a bite of the pastry you bought, mostly out of obligation. It tastes exactly like disappointment. You try not to pull a face, but you must, because at the edge of your vision, the stranger’s mouth lifts – not a laugh, barely even a smile.
Still, he doesn’t comment.
You check the cracked wall clock. 11:03p.m. You have exactly twenty-three words of your article done.
You pick up your phone pointlessly, put it down again. Type out two lines, delete three. The college students keep talking, more frantic by the minute. The barista yawns. The world keeps moving in that peculiar, late-night way where nothing important happens, but everything feels slightly more intimate.
Eventually, the silence between you and your neighbour breaks – not by words, but because at 11:12pm, your page refreshes, buffers, crashes – refreshes again – and the WiFi drops. You watch the bars vanish from your phone and let out a quiet groan.
The man beside you taps his pencil once, then sets it down. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a barely-there shift in his shoulders, like he already knows what’s happened.
You flick your phone screen off and glance up at him. “Perfect,” you mutter to yourself.
His eyes lift to yours, brief but steady. “It does that sometimes,” he says, voice soft from disuse.
You deflate, disappointed. “I know but – even this late?”
“Especially this late,” he replies. “They usually don’t get it back up until the next morning.”
His tone is calm but not warm; factual, but not conversational. You don’t
You sigh, leaning back. “Well. That’s my evening plans ruined, I guess.”
He huffs – a faint, almost silent sound. A reaction, at least; it’s not a smile, but his lips do twitch for just a split second. You watch him turn the pencil slowly between his fingers, his thumb brushing the edge in small, rhythmic movements.
You’re the one who speaks again, without thinking. “You get stuck too?”
His eyes flick to you again, quicker this time, and they linger a little longer. “…Sometimes,” he answers, finally. “Tonight, yes.”
You nod, relieved that he isn’t brushing the comment away. “Same.”
He lets out another small, almost imperceptible sound; agreement, empathy, you’re not sure, but you observe the fleeting, curious glance he sends to your laptop. The same silence settles between you again, but now it feels a little looser, a little less rigid.
You take another sip of your terrible coffee. You make another involuntary face. This time, Minghao’s mouth definitely twitches.
You point accusingly at the cup. “This is genuinely awful.”
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, but the closest he’s gotten so far. “Why did you buy it?”
“Poor judgement,” you say. “And false hope.”
His gaze lowers to his sketchbook again, but there’s a faint amusement lingering, like he’s replaying the answer in his head. He taps the pencil once more. “Their tea is better.”
“My tea standards are higher,” you say seriously.
There’s a pause. Then: “…Fair.”
It’s such a small exchange, barely anything, but it still sends something in your stomach swooping, low and fluttering. You watch him return to the blank page, pencil hovering again. He doesn’t look frustrated, more hesitant. Without lifting his head, he asks, quietly:
“What did you need the WiFi for? Trying to work?”
You blink. The question is understated, almost casual, but surprising coming from someone so reserved – you don’t say anything, just laugh softly. “Trying is the right word.”
“What is it?” he asks, raising his eyes to look at you.
“Writing,” you admit almost automatically, momentarily fixating on his eyelashes before dragging your focus back to your now-useless laptop. “Well, pretending to write.”
He nods like that makes sense. “Pretending to draw,” he echoes, tapping the blank page.
You grin. “Successful pretending all round, then.”
His mouth curves. “Seems so.”
You don’t feel like going home quite yet, so you pull out the book you’re always carrying around but never read. The café grows quieter as the hour deepens. Someone leaves; the college kids bundle their coats and scarves together and leave not long after. Outside, a bus hisses to a stop and drives away again without anyone boarding.
The world feels like it’s thinning out.
You sit back, hands wrapped round your mug for warmth rather than enjoyment. Eventually you stop pretending to read – give in to your own curiosity, lean forward ever so slightly and gesture to his sketchbook. “What were you planning to draw?”
He pauses. You think it’s not because he doesn’t know, but because he’s deciding how much to share. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “I thought being out of the house might help.”
“And did it?”
He gives you a look that’s almost a smile, without moving his lips at all. “No.”
You snort. “Same. I thought a change of scenery would kick-start something.”
“And did it?”
“Also no.”
There’s a beat. Then he murmurs, “At least we’re consistent.”
You don’t know what to say, so you sip your awful coffee as though it’ll help. It doesn’t.
Again, it takes a while before either of you speaks again. The café’s pretty much emptied out, enough that you can hear the radiator clicking behind you, the soft hum of the fridge behind the counter. Your coffee’s cold now, which honestly doesn’t make it much worse, but you’re more intrigued by the way he’s actually, finally putting pencil to paper with swift, long strokes.
Surprisingly, he’s the one who breaks the silence this time, his pencil suddenly pausing, him looking up and nodding to your closed laptop. “What were you going to write?”
You exhale slowly at the reminder. “An article. Deadline’s tomorrow morning.” You stare at the dark screen of your laptop. “Well, today, technically.”
“Do you know what you want to say?”
“Unfortunately,” you admit, “yes. Actually writing it is the problem.” Your eyes flick towards his sketchbook, obscured by his arm. “I guess you got over pretending.”
He pauses, glances from the paper to your face, but then silently angles the sketchbook slightly towards you, and you realise he wasn’t drawing the barista or the students or even the café’s sad potted plant in the corner.
He’d drawn you.
Well. It’s definitely you – hunched over your mug, eyebrows furrowed, a furious little scribble storm cloud above your head.
Your mouth drops open. “You did not.”
He shrugs one shoulder, the faintest hint of a smile playing with the corner of his mouth. “I thought it captured the moment.”
“Sorry,” he adds, a moment later, and he actually sounds it. “I thought it was funny.”
“It is,” you admit, breathing out a laugh. “My night’s already gone downhill. Might as well commemorate it.”
He smiled – a small, brief thing, but warm enough to feel like a reward.
“I’m Minghao, by the way.”
You blink, surprised. “Hi,” you say, a bit soft. “I’m ___.”
He nods once. “I think I’ve seen you here before.”
You straighten a little. “Have you?”
A tiny shrug. “You sit by the radiator when it’s cold. And you talk to yourself when you’re typing, sometimes.”
Your face heats instantly. “I do not.”
His mouth does that small almost-smile again. “You do.”
You groan into your hands. “Brilliant.”
He doesn’t tease further, though. He goes quiet in that careful way he has – like he’s giving you space to recover from your own embarrassment. It helps.
After a moment, you gesture towards his page. “Does that usually work for you? Coming here to draw unsuspecting patrons?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes it makes it worse.”
“Sorry if I’m making it worse.”
“You’re not.” He says it simply, without any weight on the words, and somehow that makes it land deeper.
You sit back, not trusting your reply. Instead, you glance around the café again like something new will magically appear.
Minghao follows your gaze. “It’s quieter now.”
“Mm.” You wrap your hands round your terrible mug filled with terrible coffee.
He taps the pencil lightly on the table instead of the sketchbook this time; your eyes follow the movement, but you see him watching you in the corner of your peripheral vision. His gaze is intense, you can feel it on your face, and inadvertently, you feel a warm flush creeping up your neck.
You clear your throat. “Sorry,” you say, belatedly, “I should probably get out of your way, or something.”
He shakes his head before you’ve even finished the sentence. “You don’t have to,” he says, eyes dropping back to the pencil in his hand. It’s the first time his voice has sounded – well, it’s not quite not nervous, exactly, but uncertain. “Only if you want to.”
“I don’t,” you admit, because lying feels pointless in this strange, late-hour bubble, and you really don’t feel like going back to your apartment just yet.
Something in his posture eases; barely, but enough for you to notice, because you’re looking at him so closely. His shoulders settle, the pencil stops its restless tapping, his expression softens by a degree.
You take a small breath, the kind you don’t realise you were holding until it’s already out. The radiator ticks again. Minghao nudges his empty cup aside, dropping the pencil. “What was the article about?” he asks again, gentler this time. “You didn’t say.”
A sheepish grin. “Ironically,” you say, leaning back, “burnout.”
He grins.
“It’s not like, y’know. The pinnacle of thought essays, or anything,” you say quickly. “It’s not even meant to be my article really, my co-worker had to take unexpected leave, and so I’m writing it for her. What about you? What’s the drawing for?”
He shifts. “Drawing’s just a hobby,” Minghao says, suddenly almost shy. “I’m not anything professional.”
“Wow,” you say, genuinely surprised. “You could be, if you ask me. It’s really good.”
He looks down, lips tugging in that tiny not-quite-smile he keeps giving you. “I try. Helps keep my head quiet.”
“And does it?” you ask, tilting your head.
“Sometimes.” He glances at the sketch of you, storm cloud and all. “Sometimes it turns into… that.”
You snort. “A compelling portrait of my suffering?”
“It’s accurate,” he says, deadpan. You laugh before you can stop yourself; he looks quietly pleased with that.
“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “The writing – is it your job?”
You nod. “Mostly articles, some editing. Which sounds more interesting than it is.”
“Sounds hard,” he says honestly.
“It is,” you admit. “Mostly it’s a lot of deadlines and caffeine.” You glance at him, at the faint crease between his brows, at the sketchbook, closed now, but still angled your way. “Can I ask,” you say slowly, “what you actually do? If drawing isn’t the main thing.”
He runs a long-fingered hand through his hair. “I work at a gallery.”
Your eyebrows rise. “As an artist?”
“No,” he says, with a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Admin. Scheduling, emails, the boring parts.”
“That’s not boring,” you counter.
He raises his eyebrows at you disbelievingly and you snort, immediately raising your hands in defence. “I mean, not that boring! Right?
He considers that. “It can be boring.” A beat. “Sometimes I wish I could do more with the art side of things.”
You lift your mug, forget it’s empty, set it back down. “What stops you?”
He shakes his head, eyes on the table. “I don’t know. Time. Confidence, probably. I’ve never gone to school for it, or anything.”
You prop your chin on your hands. “I think you’re great at it.”
That gets his attention. His eyes flick up, like he’s startled at your forwardness.
“Well,” he laughs, thumb rubbing the edge of the table, “you barely know me.”
“Yeah,” you admit, “but I know your drawing made me laugh on a night where literally everything else was making me want to lie face-down on the floor. Surely that counts for something?”
The corner of his mouth curves, not a smile, but the hint of one. “That’s a low bar,” he says softly.
“Still cleared it,” you shrug.
He huffs another of those quiet breaths that might almost be a laugh. “Do you like what you do?”
His question catches you off guard. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh through your nose. “Some days. Other days it feels like I’m just doing it to do it.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is. But I guess that’s true for a lot of jobs.” You tilt your head at him. “Does your gallery job feel like that?”
He thinks. And when Minghao thinks, you notice, he holds very still. “A little,” he agrees. “It pays the rent. It’s predictable. And it’s nice, working in the gallery. I don’t see much of it,” he continues, and it’s the longest he’s spoken since you started the conversation, “because our office is way upstairs, but it’s better than nothing.”
“What about you?” he asks, after a beat. “Do you want to keep writing?”
You swallow. “I think I want to want it,” you admit. “I miss liking it.”
He nods, slow, thoughtful. “Maybe you just need something different. They say that’s good for burnout, don’t they?”
“Like what?”
He shrugs. “A new place. A new project. A new person.”
Your stomach flips before your brain can get its act together.
You search his face, looking for a hint of humour, irony – anything. But he’s just looking at you, calm and open, like he didn’t just drop something that feels suspiciously flirty between the two of you.
You clear your throat. “A new person?”
He just holds your gaze and says, very quietly: “Sometimes it helps.”
You don’t know what to say to that. So you sit there in the warm-yellow light, in a café that’s prettier from the outside, meeting his serious brown eyes for a second too long, before dropping your gaze. He nudges his mug a little farther from his sketchbook, and the movement sends a faint ripple through the quiet between you.
“Since you came out to get unstuck,” you ask, “did it help at all? The change of scenery.”
Minghao taps the pencil lightly on the table. “A little. I needed to get out of my apartment. Felt like the walls were getting smaller.”
You lift an eyebrow. “Same reason I ended up here.”
He nods. “It’s a good place to hide. The lighting’s terrible, but people leave you alone.”
“Except when they don’t,” you say, with a guilty smile.
There’s a beat where he seems like he’s deciding how to respond, then he glances at you with a small tilt of his head. “I don’t mind the company.”
It’s simple, sincere, and somehow lands without making anything awkward.
“So,” he continues, “what kind of stuff do you normally write? When you’re not filling in for coworkers.”
“Short pieces. Columns. Sometimes interviews. Nothing groundbreaking.” You fold your arms loosely over your laptop. “I used to enjoy it more than I do right now.”
“Oh? What changed?”
“Probably the constant deadlines,” you guess, wrinkling your nose. “Everything starts blending together after a while.”
He huffs a quiet sound, the closest he gets to a laugh. “I get that.”
“You do?”
Minghao nods. “At the gallery, everything I do is basically schedules and emails. After a while, days start looking the same.”
“But you like it, at least?”
“I like parts of it.” He thinks for a moment. “I like seeing what comes in. I like when something surprises me. And I like that it’s quiet, and I can get my work done.”
You let out a little sigh at the reminder, casting a forlorn glance at your laptop.
He looks at you for a second, not in a way that digs or pries, just observing. “It’ll come back.”
You cock your head to the side, not understanding.
He matches your tilt with a smile. “Your writing. It’ll come back.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“Not really.” He presses the side of his thumb along the pencil. “I just think people don’t lose things like that permanently. They just go quiet for a while.”
You lean back a little, lips tugging upward unconsciously. “That’s a nice thought.”
He hums. “I like to think it’s a realistic one.”
A bus hisses past outside. One of the fridges hums. A chair leg creaks somewhere behind the counter. You breathe out, lighter than you were an hour ago.
“What made you pick up drawing in the first place?” you ask. Neither of you are even pretending to work or read or draw anymore, your book pushed to the side.
Minghao scratches the side of his jaw. “I used to doodle a lot in school. Teachers hated it. I just kept doing it, I guess. Never really stopped.”
“You ever show your work to anyone?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “Friends. My co-workers. Nothing serious.”
“Well, I liked what I saw,” you say. “Even the dramatic storm cloud you gave me.”
He cracks a smile at that. “You looked like you were having a moment.”
“I was. A whole moment.”
“Seemed fair to record it.”
You open your mouth to respond, but the café door makes that tired little ding sound again, soft but sharp enough to break the drift of conversation you and Minghao have fallen into. You glance over just in time to see the barista you’ve been half-watching all night sling his apron onto a hook and grab his backpack. Another guy, younger, yawning so hard his jaw cracks, steps out from the back with a new apron and a long stretch that says he’d rather be anywhere else.
Shift change. Which means it’s late – later than you thought.
You check your phone.
1:37 a.m.
“Oh, shit,” you murmur.
Minghao seems to take that as a cue to check his as well. His eyebrows lift a fraction. “Whoa.”
“Same,” you say. “I thought it was like, midnight, max.”
He gives you a tiny smile. “I guess we’ve been talking for a while.”
You look down at your empty mug. It’s cold, but the café feels a little too warm, a little too stale, like the air stopped moving an hour ago.
A small impulse sparks in you, either brilliant or deeply stupid, and you’re not awake enough to tell the difference. You look at Minghao with a freshness that startles him.
“Do you like ice cream?”
He stares at you for a full second, eyes a little wide and lips frozen with confusion – whatever he’d been expecting you to say, it certainly wasn’t that.
“Like… in general?” he asks hesitantly.
Cute, your mind supplies subconsciously, but you shove that down, bite back a smile. “Yes. As a concept.”
His brow furrows. “I mean… yes? I guess so?”
You lean forward, hands flat on the table. “Good. Let’s get some.”
Minghao looks genuinely baffled, which is frankly adorable. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s freezing.”
You wave that off with a firm, confident motion that suggests you’ve made many questionable life decisions at questionable hours. “Temperature is a social construct.”
“It is absolutely not a social construct,” he says, but there’s a hint of laughter in it, shaped around the edges of the words.
“Come on,” you say. “There’s that place down the street with the huge neon strawberry in the window. They’re open until like, three.” You pause, tilting your head. “Unless you don’t want to.”
He hesitates for exactly half a second, and then: “I’ll go.”
You grin, the kind that rises without permission. “Great. Pack your stuff.”
He lets out a quiet, resigned almost-laugh, like he’s surrendering to whatever sudden burst of energy you’re running on. He closes his sketchbook, tucks the pencil neatly inside, slips everything into his bag with deliberate, methodical care. You shove your laptop haphazardly into yours with significantly less dignity.
As he stands, he shrugs on his jacket and zips it halfway, enough to keep the cold out but not enough to look like he’s bracing himself for it. You notice him glance at you, a subtle check to see if you’re actually serious.
You absolutely are.
You pull on your coat, wrap your scarf, and nod toward the door. “Come on. This is the best idea I’ve had all night.”
“It’s ice cream,” he says, still slightly disbelieving.
“Exactly.”
His mouth twitches. You both weave through the empty tables and head for the door. The barista barely glances up as you push out into the cold; the air outside hits instantly, bracing after the heavy café warmth.
You shiver once, then grin at Minghao like this only proves your point.
He exhales, which might actually be him laughing, you’re coming to realise. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’ll thank me when we get there.”
“We’ll be eating ice cream at two in the morning.”
“Correct,” you say. “We’re living boldly. New things, remember?”
He shakes his head, but he falls into step beside you anyway, matching your pace without trying.
The walk is short, not more than three minutes, but the cold makes it feel sharper, the biting kind of air that wakes you up more than the shitty coffee you had earlier. The streetlights hum faintly, casting long, uneven shapes across the pavement. Somewhere far off, a siren wails half-heartedly.
Minghao walks beside you, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tucked slightly against the bite of the wind. He keeps glancing over at you like he’s considering saying something, and then he finally does, his breath fogging white as he says, “Do you do this often?”
“Do what often?”
“Leaving a perfectly warm building to get ice cream.” A beat. “In winter. At two in the morning.”
“It’s not, like, a regular habit,” you laugh at his questioning eyes. “That’s why it’s fun! Isn’t it fun?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says, “ask me after I can feel my fingers again.”
You bump your shoulder lightly into his. “That’s a yes.”
He doesn’t deny it.
A moment later, the neon glow appears, a giant strawberry buzzing faintly, flickering every few seconds like it’s on its last life. The windows are fogged, the place half-lit, but there’s a sign in the corner that proudly announces OPEN 24 HOURS. Minghao gives the sign a long, distrusting look. “That thing is one bad wire away from setting the whole block on fire.”
“Adds charm!”
He looks at you with a face that says he won’t dignify that with a response, but his eyes are warm, amused, like he’s fighting down a laugh.
Inside, the shop smells faintly of artificial vanilla. A teenager behind the counter looks up from his phone when the bell above the door jingles and does a double take, like he didn’t expect real customers at this hour.
“Oh,” he says, like he’s shocked real customers exist at this hour. “Hi. Welcome to… uh – ” he gestures vaguely to the peeling sign behind him, and then seems to give up, realising neither of you seem particularly interested in his rehearsed greeting. “What can I get you?”
“Chocolate,” you say quickly.
“Cone or cup?”
“Waffle cone, thanks.”
The guy nods and looks at Minghao.
He gives the menu a quick scan like he’s hoping for divine guidance. You nudge him with your elbow.
“Pick one,” you whisper.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
He gives you a look, then points up at a mint flavor that’s a little too green. “That one.”
The kid nods. “We call it Cool Green.”
“Sure, that. Cup, please.”
You both get your cups and drop into a tiny table by the window. It’s surprisingly not empty – someone in a booth is asleep on their arms, and a tired couple is sharing some kind of sundae in the corner. Everything feels soft and blurred around the edges, the way late-night places always do.
You lick at your ice cream tentatively. It’s not the best you’ve ever had, but it does what it needs to. Minghao tries his mint, pauses, and makes a face.
“What,” you say.
“It tastes like toothpaste.”
“You got mint chocolate,” you manage, around a laugh. “What were you expecting?”
Minghao splutters defensively, “It’s not meant to taste like toothpaste!”
You laugh, this quick burst that even surprises you a little – the tired couple in the corner glances over. You cover your mouth, but it only makes you laugh harder.
Minghao watches you with an expression that’s hard to pin down at first, and then it settles into something like fond disbelief, his own smile forming, quieter.
“You’re having way too much fun,” he says.
“You brought this on yourself. Following a stranger to an ice cream parlour. No survival instincts.”
He shakes his head, but he’s still smiling.
The conversation drifts easily, about awful snacks you’ve both eaten, the strange guy who tried to sell him batteries outside the gallery. You make him laugh actually, which feels like an achievement, by telling him about the pet store under your old apartment, random things you’d never bring up in a normal conversation but somehow fit now. You tell him about your siblings, he tells you about his college friends, how he’s dyed his hair blue before. He listens fully, without rushing you. And he’s funny, in a dry, subtle kind of way. Catching you offguard until you’re suddenly laughing too loudly for the hour, and he’s watching you for just a beat too long.
Silence settles in again, but it’s comfortable now, cushioned by all the things you now know about him. He taps his spoon against his cup idly, and you grin, nodding to it. “You’re welcome.”
He wrinkles his nose. “For the toothpaste ice cream? Yeah, thanks for that.”
Your mouth drops open. “No,” you retort, “for this experience. Trying new things.”
His brows lift teasingly. “That was my advice to you, wasn’t it?”
“Practise what you preach.”
He looks down at his violently green ice cream, then up at you. His voice softens just a tiny, tiny fraction, but you notice it anyway. “I’m glad you asked.”
You feel that small flutter in your chest again, subtle but there, and it’s ridiculous really. This whole thing is ridiculous, sitting across from a stranger in the middle of the night, telling him about the time you accidentally set off your smoke alarm with a microwave burrito and ended up eating dinner on the fire escape.
Eventually, Minghao’s spoon scrapes the bottom of his cup, and you crunch up the last of your cone. He picks up his phone, checks the time again. “It’s almost three.”
Your eyes widen. “No way.”
He turns his phone to show you. 2:57 a.m.
You stare. “Wow.”
He meets your gaze briefly – a warm, private kind of amusement – and you feel that flutter again.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s walk a bit.”
The cold outside hits with the same sharp bite as before, but now it feels almost energizing, like stepping from one world into another. The street is washed in sodium-orange light, wet pavement shining from some earlier drizzle. Muffled city sounds echo blocks away, but here it’s suddenly quiet.
You and Minghao fall into step again, and you watch as he blows a warm breath into his long fingers. “So this is the part where my body files a complaint,” he says. “Ice cream then winter wind.”
“Your body will live,” you say.
“Will it,” he mutters darkly, but you’re better at reading him already, seeing the corner of his mouth pull ever so slightly.
For a stretch, neither of you talks. The silence feels friendly now, not careful the way it did earlier. His face is more open, his words less guarded than the stranger with a sketchbook you sat next to at first. The metal shutters on a closed hair salon rattle softly as the wind pushes through the street. You tuck your hands deeper into your pockets. Minghao notices, his eyes flicking to your shoulders.
“You cold?”
“A little.”
He slows a half-step, drapes his scarf around your neck. The gesture stops you in your tracks for a second; his eyes avoid yours, and you detect the faintest flush on the apples of his cheeks. You’re pretty sure it’s not from the cold, but he’s finished wrapping the scarf and is walking before you can say anything.
“Better?” he asks, glancing over just once.
“Yeah,” you say, maybe a little too high-pitched. “Better.”
When you turn the corner, the wind picks up, sending a swirl of dead leaves tumbling across the pavement. You stop to watch them skitter past.
“You’re staring at trash,” he says gently.
You cast him a dirty look, but the smile you follow it with lets him know you’re just kidding. Another half-block, both of you automatically headed towards the café where you met.
You slow down near the corner where the street widens and the buildings get shorter. Minghao kicks a pebble forward lightly, like he’s keeping track of where it lands. You give it a small nudge too, just because, and he glances at you with this tiny grin.
He’s the one who speaks again. “I guess we should probably head home soon.”
Part of you wants to groan out loud. Not because you’re tired – you’re strangely awake, vibrating with this soft, buzzing energy – but because you don’t want to break whatever this is between you two.
But you nod. “Yeah. It’s late.”
“Early,” he corrects. “Technically.”
“Pedantic,” you shoot back.
He smirks. A quiet one, but unmistakable. You walk the last block in companionable silence until you reach the point where the road forks – he gestures vaguely right; your apartment’s left. You both stop at the little patch of sidewalk between two parking meters, the lamplight painting both your shadows thin and long.
Minghao shifts his weight again, hands shoved into his pockets, scarf slightly lopsided from where he wrapped it around you. His hair is a little wind-mussed, his cheeks pink from cold, and he’s looking at you the way people look at something they want to stay with but aren’t sure they should ask to.
“Thank you for the ice cream.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I had fun,” he says, voice warm. You look at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone, and he meets your gaze just long enough to send another of those swooping sensations through your stomach.
There’s a beat where the air seems to tighten, charged with something you don’t want to put a name to. “Oh,” you say suddenly, reaching up to tug the scarf loose. It’s soft and warmer than you realised, still carrying a faint trace of the café’s roasted-coffee smell. “Here, I should give this back.”
“Keep it.”
You shake your head. “Minghao, no, you’re freezing. I basically dragged you around town.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, gently pushing your hands back toward you before you can unwrap it. “Take it.”
“But – ”
“If I get sick, it’s my own fault for eating Cool Green at two in the morning. Just give it back next time.”
You stop. The implication hangs there between you, and something in your chest turns over.
“Alright,” you say. “Next time.”
His eyes flicker, just a hint of warmth under the streetlight.
“I guess I should give you my number, then,” you say tentatively. “For next time.”
He freezes for half a second and then he steps slightly closer, enough that his voice feels warmer in the night air.
You hand him your phone. He types carefully, like he’s determined not to fat-finger his own name. When he gives it back, your screen lights up with an incoming text from an unknown number.
You glance at him.
“Just so you have mine,” he says quietly, and the way he says it is so unassuming and gentle that your stomach does yet another embarrassingly enthusiastic flip.
You lock your phone and look up at him again. Neither of you moves.
Then he tilts his head, just slightly, a little rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “I should let you sleep.”
“You too.”
He hesitates. “Text me when you get in?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “You too.”
Finally, finally, you turn away from each other. His footsteps echo faintly as he walks down his street, and you look back once. He’s already glancing over his shoulder at the same time, caught in the act, and you both look away too fast to be smooth.
Your cheeks burn pleasantly all the way back home.
When you reach your apartment and lock the door behind you, you lean against it for a second, scarf still holding the leftover warmth from his hands. Then you pull out your phone.
Minghao: Did you get home safe?
a/n (yes again): initially i started writing three separate fics bc i wasn't sure which idea i liked most, and i'd got to about 3.5k on the one i thought would work. and then this just kind of ended up happening. ANYWAY. i have many thoughts about these two and where they go from here but this is alta's fic so i'm not saying anything. love u alta bb i'm so sorry this took so long. also fun fact cool green was the name of the mint choc chip ice cream at a random place i went to when i was little and i thought it was so funny back then. no idea why.
or: you and jisung have been dating for a while now and he can't stop talking about you to, well, anyone who would listen. and so of course he has to introduce you to his best friend! only catch is..his best friend is actually your older brother.
warnings: none! 2k-ish crackfic, sibling Quarells, some second hand embarrassment maybe, pathetic attempt at humor and Korean honorifics (cuz it's funnier that way and cuz im back in my kdrama phase)
a/n: requested by my bby sitri I hope you like it 😼
upon your first meeting with jisung, he spilled his entire coffee down your shirt while trying to talk to you, that wasn't particularly the best first impression, but from then on you knew he was a disaster. It wasn’t even a flirtatious disaster—just pure clumsiness, the kind that made him groan and dramatically collapse onto the cafeteria table. "I swear I’m usually smoother than this," he’d muttered into his sleeves, and you’d laugh so hard your sides ached.
Three months later, he still hadn’t gotten any smoother.
Jisung was the kind of boyfriend who sent you memes at 3 AM with captions like "this is us," and it'd be two monkeys holding hands.
He’d show up to your apartment with his shirt inside out, or forget halfway through a sentence what he was even talking about, his hands flailing as he backtracked with, "Wait, no, scratch that—what was the point again?"
You adored it. Adored him, even when he accidentally used your toothbrush and spent the next hour apologizing.
What he lacked in coordination, though, he made up for in sheer, unshakable enthusiasm. Jisung loved loudly. He’d drag you to hole-in-the-wall noodle shops and insist you try his favorite dish, then watch your face with focus because he needed your validation.
He’d memorize the way you took your coffee and show up with it before your morning lectures. And when he talked about you to his friends—which was often, apparently—it was with the kind of reverence usually reserved for rare celestial events.
a text notification buzzed against your thigh at 9:37 PM, the screen glowing with Jisung’s name
Emergency meeting!!!
my friend thinks I’m lying about you!!!!
You snorted, rolling onto your stomach as your fingers tapped back,
What, like I’m some government conspiracy?
Three dots pulsed. Then,
WORSE. He thinks I made you up in a sleep-deprived delirium.
So that’s how you found yourself wedged into a booth at a 24-hour diner at 10pm on a Tuesday, with Jisung vibrating beside you.
“He’s gonna love you,” he assured you for the fourteenth time, “I mean, obviously. Who wouldn’t? But like — specifically him. Because he’s my best friend. And you’re my—” His sentence disintegrated into a flustered hand wave that nearly knocked over the salt shaker.
The bell above the door jingled. Jisung’s head whipped around so fast you heard his neck crack. “HYUNG!” he bellowed, launching halfway out of the booth. You turned — and froze.
Chan stood in the doorway, leather jacket shrugging off one shoulder, Your brother blinked. You blinked. Jisung, oblivious, was already pulling him towards the table “—and she’s real, see? Told you I wasn’t hallucinating!”
Chan’s eyes locked onto yours, his expression flickering between disbelief, amusement, and the faintest hint of protective warning — the same look he’d given you when you’d tried to sneak out of the house at sixteen, wearing eyeliner for the first time.
You pressed your lips together to stifle a laugh as chan made his way over. Jisung, still mid-sentence, hadn’t noticed the silent exchange.
“—so anyway, she’s basically perfect, hyung, like, objectively? And I know you think I have terrible taste—”
Chan cleared his throat, sliding into the booth opposite you both, “Oh, I know you have terrible taste,” he said, deadpan, and you kicked him under the table. but he didn’t flinch, “But let’s hear it. What’s so special about her?”
Jisung, bless him, took the bait like a goldfish going after a shiny hook.
“Everything,” he breathed, hands gesturing wildly. “She laughs at my dumb jokes—like, actually laughs, not the polite ‘oh god he’s embarrassing himself again’ laugh. And she remembers the weirdest stuff about me, like—”
You tuned out momentarily, watching Chan’s face twitch as he fought to keep his expression neutral. His fingers drummed against the tabletop in the same rhythm he’d used to tap out Morse code messages to you when you were kids and he was supposed to be grounded. 'Play along', it seemed to say. You tilted your head and reached for your water glass to hide your grin.
"—And she's smart," Jisung continued, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation happening across the table. "Like, scary smart. Last week she corrected my calculus homework in pen."
Chan scoffed, "Doesn't sound that smart to me," he said, "Correcting calculus is baseline human decency, berry (the family dog) could do that."
You kicked him again, harder this time, but he just grinned, eyes crinkling with mischief. Jisung gasped like Chan had insulted him — well he insulted you which was worse.
"Hyung!" he squawked, half-standing in the booth. "Take that back right now."
jisung looked genuinely distressed, you seized the moment to slide the conversation sideways.
"So!" you said brightly, plucking a fry from Jisung's plate before he could launch into another defense of your intellect. "Chan-ssi, what do you do when you're not doubting my academic credentials?"
The honorific tasted absurd on your tongue — you'd never called your brother anything but "idiot" in your life — but Jisung didn't notice, too busy glaring at Chan.
Chan leaned back, stretching his arms along the booth's vinyl backrest with practiced nonchalance. "Oh, you know," he said, looking like he was enjoying this too much. "Producing tracks, herding idiots like this one away from open flames—" Jisung squawked indignantly "—the usual."
The diner’s lights hummed overhead, casting a garish glow over the half-eaten plate of fries between you. Chan’s smirk widened as he watched Jisung’s face contort in outrage, his fingers now gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Anyway,” Chan drawled, leaning forward, “how long has this relationship been going on, exactly?”
You opened your mouth, but Jisung barreled in like a golden retriever spotting an open car window. this was his favorite thing to talk about after all.
“Three months and seventeen days!” he announced.
“Not that I’m counting or anything, but like, hypothetically, if someone were counting, which I’m not, but if they were, they’d know it was exactly 1,584 hours since our first kiss, which was at 9:23 PM on a Tuesday, so exactly a month and a week ago—”
Chan’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Jisung, completely oblivious to the nuclear-level tension crackling across the table, was now counting off on his fingers. “—and we’ve spent approximately 237 hours together, not including texts, which total roughly—”
“Okay,” Chan cut in, uncharacteristically calm, “Let’s back up.” His gaze flicked to you—really? written all over his face, before settling back on Jisung “You’re telling me you’ve kissed my—” He barely caught himself before saying the word sister “—this perfect, smart, definitely real person—”
“Yes!” Jisung beamed, practically vibrating out of his seat. “And it was even better than I described, hyung, like—” He reached across the table, seizing Chan’s wrist with enthusiasm.
“— and she humors me. Voluntarily. Like yesterday, I texted her that pigeons are government drones, and she agreed and sent me a PowerPoint—”
Chan’s gaze flicked between you and Jisung like he was watching a particularly chaotic ping-pong match. or maybe it was that he couldn't quite imagine his 'baby sis' being with anyone.
“Okay,” he said slowly, each syllable deliberate, “let’s try this again.” He pointed at you with his finger. “You—” Then at Jisung, “—and him. Dating. How did that happen?”
“Oh my god, it was fate,” he gushed, “Like, statistically, what are the odds I’d spill coffee on the one person who’d laugh instead of cursing me? And then she gave me her hoodie like some rom-com heroine—which, by the way, I still have, and it smells like her laundry detergent, which is weirdly comforting—”
Chan’s eye twitched.
“—and then she texted me first after, which never happens, because I’m usually the one sending essay-length apologies for existing—”
You coughed into your napkin, face heating as Jisung’s rambling veered into territory even you hadn’t heard before.
~
The diner’s clock ticked past 12:17 AM when you finally nudged your chair back with an exaggerated stretch. “Alright, disaster duo,” you said, nodding toward Chan’s crumpled menu and Jisung’s fifth refill of soda, “I’ve gotta tap out before my brother files a missing person’s report on me.” You reached for your jacket, but Jisung’s hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with urgency.
“Wait—no,” he blurted, eyes wide and pleading like a kicked puppy. “It’s early. Like, criminally early. The sun’s not even thinking about rising yet.”
His grip tightened slightly, “And—” He hesitated, then brightened with the sudden brilliance of a lightbulb flicking on. “Invite your brother! Yeah! Bring him here! We can—I don’t know—bond over terrible diner soda and judge people’s life choices through the window.”
Chan choked on his own spit, coughing into his fist. “Oh, I’m judging plenty already,” he muttered, shooting you a look that made you bite your lip to keep from laughing, watching Jisung’s face twist in confusion as he glanced between you both.
“Seriously,” Jisung pressed, oblivious to Chan’s internal crisis, “call him!” His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, warm and slightly sticky from soda condensation. You hesitated, then smirked, pulling your phone from your pocket while making direct eye contact with Chan " y'know what?" you lips curled up in a smirk "i will"
The dial tone pulsed once, twice—then Chan’s ringtone blared from his jacket pocket, the opening bars of some obnoxiously upbeat pop song Jisung had probably forced on him. Chan didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back, dug out his phone, and held it up. The screen flashed Baby Sis.
Chan swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear without breaking eye contact with you. "Well?" he said, voice dripping with mock concern through the speaker. "Is everything alright? You never call me this late."
You could see the exact moment Jisung's brain stalled like a computer buffering—his mouth half-open, gaze darting between Chan's face and the phone in his hand. "Uh," he said intelligently, fingers tightening around your wrist.
You raised your own phone to your ear, watching Chan's smirk deepen as you pitched your voice into exaggerated sweetness.
"Oh, just peachy," you chirped into your phone, watching Chan's smirk widen as he leaned forward on his elbows, the diner's garish lighting catching the mischief in his eyes. "Except I'm sitting here with my adorable disaster of a boyfriend—yes, Jisung, I'm talking about you—and I just realized I never introduced you two properly." You paused dramatically, tilting your head. " brother, meet my boyfriend. Boyfriend, meet my very overprotective older brother."
Jisung made a noise like a deflating balloon, his grip on your wrist slackening. His mouth worked soundlessly for a beat before he whispered, "What."
Chan, being an absolute menace, waved at Jisung with his free hand, fingers wiggling in a mock-cute gesture. "Surprise," he said through the phone, then louder in person "Been hearing a lot about you, boyfriend"
Jisung’s face went through approximately ten emotions in three seconds—shock, confusion, dawning horror that chan might genuinely punch him after this, then back to shock before his palms went up to his face as he slid down the chair dramatically.
maybe it'd take him some time to get over this embarrassment. probably more time than it took to get over the embarrassment of your initial meeting.
Two months after your breakup, you’re tucking away the last traces of Jihoon, the boy you loved for the sweetest two years of your life.
⇢ pairing. lee jihoon x reader
⇢ genre. angst, fluff. exes!au, but also: strangers2lovers, college!au, literature/history student reader, music production/literature student jihoon, (eventual) producer!jihoon and grad student reader
⇢ word count. approx. 6k
⇢ warnings. alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks. each section has a link to a poem or song — you don't need to read or listen to understand (but i do especially recommend the poems). the lines i've quoted are the most relevant anyway. author's note at the end!
NOW | The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
You find his book buried in a box at the back of your closet.
It’s dog-eared and dusty, the cover curling at the edges. Mary Oliver’s Dream Work — the same copy Jihoon lent you during your second semester of senior year, back when literature classes were your whole world and Jihoon was nothing more than the boy who always sat one chair too far away.
You almost miss it. You’re sorting through your wardrobe, half-listening to the hum of the fan in your near-empty apartment, folding sweaters you don’t wear anymore, in between half-hearted glances at the clock. You’ve been doing everything slowly lately. Like if you move too quickly, the rest of it — all the unfinished things — will come tumbling down.
When your hand brushes the worn spine, your breath catches. It feels like finding a matchbook in a drawer you thought you emptied: useless, but still faintly dangerous.
You pull it free and brush your thumb across the cover. A sticky note clings to the inside, the ink slightly smudged but still legible: You already know Wild Geese, obviously. Try Dogfish and The Journey too. — Jihoon.
You read it twice before closing the book again, brush your finger over the ink one more time. The loop of his “y” and the vowels he squashes together. Let it rest against your thigh as the fan ticks through another slow rotation overhead.
And just like that, you’re back in that classroom.
THEN | I wanted the past to go away, I wanted / to leave it, like another country;
Poetry and its forms, Professor Kang.
Jihoon sits one seat over and a row down — always just far enough that you can’t speak without leaning forward, but close enough that you can catch the way he twirls his pen between his fingers, or chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking. Chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie. Shoulders hunched. Eyes always on the page.
He never raises his hand. Never speaks during discussion. But his notebooks are a battlefield — furious graphite slashing through the notes he disagrees with, cramped side-notes curling down the page like smoke. He annotates like he’s keeping score. Like he’s waiting for someone to say the wrong thing, just so he can write the right one in the margin.
The day you hear him speak for the first time, the class has just limped its way through a lukewarm discussion on Sappho. The professor skips half the fragments and bungles his way through the rest. Jihoon looks up once, right at the end — briefly, almost like it’s a mistake — and mutters, under his breath, “That was garbage.”
You laugh. Loudly — too loudly.
Jihoon’s head whips around. He blinks at you, startled. You blink back.
Then, slowly, unexpectedly, he smiles. Small, like a secret.
You wait until after class to catch up with him. “You didn’t like the lecture?”
He doesn’t stop walking, just casts you a look that’s more amused than annoyed. “Not Sappho’s fault. The professor skipped the best fragment.”
You tilt your head. “Oh? Which one’s that?”
He pauses. “The one about the moon and the stars. Fragment 34.”
You smile. “I know that one.”
He smiles back. “I figured you would.”
That’s the first conversation. You think about it for a week. Rerun it in your head. Rehearse what you might say next time, in case there is a next time.
There is.
The second time happens in the library. You find him — or rather, he finds you, entirely by accident. You’re hidden between the poetry shelves, seated cross-legged on the floor with a small stack of books beside you. Jihoon rounds the corner, underlining something in a clean paperback you don’t recognize.
He almost bumps straight into you — too absorbed in his book to notice you at first. He stops short, blinking down in surprise, and then his eyes widen just slightly when he realizes who it is. A beat passes. Then he smiles, slow, genuine, a little crooked at the edges like it catches him off guard.
Like he hadn’t expected to see you here, but now that he has, he’s glad.
There’s a flicker of something else in his expression, too — something quietly pleased, like the world’s done him a small favor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts the paperback under one arm and slides down beside you without asking, like this had been planned. Like the two of you were always meant to end up here, shoulder to shoulder, tucked between Shakespeare’s sonnets and Shelley’s anthologies.
Your lips lift before you can stop them.
“You’re the only person I know who annotates library books like they belong to him,” you say, after a few moments.
He doesn’t look up. “This one’s mine.”
You glance over. The title catches your eye. Dream Work. “Mary Oliver?”
Jihoon hums in affirmation, still underlining, his pen moving carefully between the lines. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I wasn’t,” you say, and it’s mostly true. “I just didn’t have you pegged as someone who read nature poetry in his spare time.”
He snorts softly. “Everyone reads Wild Geese at some point. It’s basically a rite of passage.”
You smile, tilting your head as you watch the curve of his handwriting. “And the rest of her work?”
“She wrote like she meant it,” he says, in that steady, warm voice. “Like she was asking you to follow her into the woods and come back changed.”
Something quiet blooms in your chest at that. You don’t say anything, but Jihoon glances over and seems to catch it anyway, offering you the faintest of smiles. He taps his pen lightly against the open page.
“This one’s for you, then.”
You blink. “What?”
He rips a sticky note off your stack, scribbles something hasty, and presses it to the inside of the cover. Then he slides the book over to you, letting it rest over your textbook.
You look at him instead of the book. “You carry around annotated poetry collections just in case you run into someone in a library who might need them?”
He shrugs. “It’s barely annotated right now. Just a couple of them.” He flashes you an unexpected smile — “There’s nothing deep. I can’t give you a piece of my soul just yet.”
You trace the edge of the sticky note with your thumb. “You didn’t even know what I liked.”
“I had guesses,” Jihoon says, and for the first time, he meets your eyes head on — sharp, curious, a little too knowing. “You don’t read just for school.” He nods to the pile of books around you, and then reaches out to brush his hand over your battered copy of The Waves.
Instinctively, you reach for it, and then laugh at yourself. “That definitely has a piece of my soul in it,” you say, fingering the dog-eared pages. “Maybe even two pieces.”
Jihoon smiles — it’s the quietest thing — and returns to his underlining.
Later, you read The Journey tucked into a booth at the back of your favorite café. You read Dogfish twice, once before class and once just after, alone on the grass behind the library with the wind tugging at your sleeves. When you close the book, you keep your hand pressed to the cover like it might still be warm.
“Mostly, I want to be kind.”
In the margin, written in his slanted hand, a note to himself: Harder than it looks, isn’t it?
NOW | Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
You blink, and the memory dissolves like mist.
Dust swirls in the sunlight spilling through the window. You’re still cross-legged on the floor, knees stiff, a cardigan half-folded in your lap, Jihoon’s book resting heavy in your hands like it knows what it’s doing to you. Weighed down with more than just paper.
Again, you run your thumb along the spine.
You shouldn’t have forgotten about this. Should’ve noticed it sooner, should’ve rescued it from the back of your closet with its curled edges, its yellowed pages, and the sticky note still clinging quietly to the back cover. Should’ve placed it back into his hands, alongside all the other traces that remain in your space.
It’s been two months since you and Jihoon fell quietly, reluctantly, out of each other’s lives. In the corner of your guest bedroom, a cardboard box — its seams straining, its flaps not quite closed — holds the last of his things. Only it was Yuna who had filled it for you, a week after the break-up, carefully collecting whatever was undoubtedly his, tucking it away so all you needed to do was hand over an impersonal brown box.
Of course, there was no real way for her to know that this was his, not yours.
It’s been two months without a word. And yet, this book feels like a piece of him. A snapshot of what you were, once — younger. Less cautious. poised on the cusp of a love that lasted two years — a love that you thought would last much, much longer.
You set the book aside carefully, your hands glancing over his handwriting, just one more time — it’s unmistakable. Thick. Scrawled. Careless in a way he never was when he spoke: the only messy thing about him.
THEN | you are twisting toward me, / and the years that make up the majority of my life
“Your writing’s messier than I expected,” you say. You’re sitting across from Jihoon at the cramped study table, textbooks and notebooks sprawled between you, mountains of paper.
Jihoon glances up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can read it, right?”
Your joint paper is due in two weeks, something on the similarities and differences of form among the Romantic poets. You both want the grade, but neither of you expected it to feel like this: heads bent over the same page, notes merging into the other’s.
The first study session is tentative, a dance of questions and answers. Jihoon is quiet, but precise, speaks with conviction; you’re more hesitant, but bold enough to challenge him. Between discussions of meter and metaphor, you share coffee, your elbows brushing, neither of you pulling away.
Over the following days, the library becomes your refuge. You argue over Blake’s prophetic style and Wordsworth’s pastoral ideals. You read aloud to each other, voices low and hesitant but growing more confident. The paper becomes less about the grade and more about the quiet moments in between — the study dates that stretch into dinners, the conversations that drift past poetry and into life.
Slowly, you realize the distance between you is shrinking, thread by thread, word by word.
You learn that Jihoon is a music production major, but minors in literature. That he has a soft spot for poetry, but he thinks it’s very different to lyrics. That he has a younger sister, parents who work long hours, but try their best. That he has an unlikely group of friends, chaos personified, he calls them, but it’s with the fondest smile you’ve ever seen him wear.
You learn, too, that actually, he’s a little bit famous — he’s been selling music to people for a while. That he hasn’t really made any big household names (yet, you tell him), but he’s produced for names you recognise, all the same.
Jihoon learns that you’re a double major, literature and history. He smiles when you tell him that, says it suits you. He hears about your sister who lives abroad, your quiet weekend routines, and tells you that you have a habit of fiddling with your rings when you’re deep in thought.
Your last study session falls on a slow Friday evening in the library, sun dipping behind the windows, casting long golden shadows across the table. You’re tucked into your usual corner, cross-legged, a half-empty iced coffee sweating onto a pile of notes. Jihoon sits across from you, scribbling something in the margins of his printout.
You’ve already gone over the draft twice. There’s not much left to fix.
“So,” you say, stretching your arms over your head with a quiet sigh. “What happens when we actually submit this thing? Do we have to pretend we don’t know each other again?”
Jihoon glances up, amused. “You planning on ignoring me in lectures?”
“I was thinking of politely avoiding eye contact.”
He chuckles under his breath, taps his pen against the table. “Awkward nods across the room. Pretending we didn’t spend two weeks dissecting Keats together.”
You smile too, suddenly a little too aware of the quiet between you. “It’s been nice,” you say, a little more softly. “Getting to know you outside of class.”
Jihoon toys with the edge of his notebook, fingers lingering on the spiral binding. “Me neither. I thought we’d get it done, maybe exchange a few emails, call it a day, but this was… better. Even if you do think Blake is better than Wordsworth.”
“Not this again,” you groan, fixing him with a reproachful look. “We agreed to not bring up the Williams anymore, Jihoon. It’s too much for us.”
A smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re right. I don’t think I can go back to ignoring you after all that.”
Jihoon’s gaze flicks away, like he’s steadying himself. He fidgets with the corner of his notebook — something you’ve started to recognize as a tell. His voice is even, but the edges are uncertain.
“I was, uh — thinking,” he says, eyes fixed on the spiral binding. “Since we’re not meeting to study anymore... maybe we could still hang out. But like — not for school.”
You tilt your head. “Like friends?”
He huffs out a breath, and finally looks at you again. His ears are pink, you notice, his cheekbones dusted the same shade. “No. Yes. I mean — like a date. But I don’t m— ”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly.
Jihoon blinks.
You laugh, sheepish, a little warm in the face. “Sorry. You didn’t finish. But yes. I’d like that — dinner, I mean. As not friends.”
Jihoon grins, shy and crooked, and the look on his face is worth everything.
NOW | Like a wave that crashed and melted on the shore
The laundry hums steadily in the background — a warm, domestic sound that fills the apartment with a kind of low, living silence. You’d shovelled the rest of your clothes that lingered in your closet into the washing machine, and as you wait, you cradle your phone between your shoulder and cheek, folding socks into mismatched pairs on the bed.
“I just don’t think I’m cut out for another round of personal statements,” you say, chucking a T-shirt into the growing stack. “How am I supposed to sound smart, humble, and hard-working all at once?”
On the other end of the line, Yuna snorts, tossing her hair. “Just lie like the rest of us.”
“I’m serious. I rewrote one sentence five times today and then stared at a wall for half an hour.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says dryly. “You’re already living the PhD lifestyle.”
You smile faintly, brushing your knuckles against your temple. “Do you think it’s stupid to even apply? I don’t know if I have the energy to be broke and stressed for five more years. I haven't even finished my Master's.”
“I think you’re one of the smartest people I know.” She pauses. “Also one of the most dramatic.”
You laugh under your breath, swinging open the washing machine. “Okay, fair.”
There’s a rustle as you reach into the laundry basket again. Your fingers brush something thicker: knit, soft, too large. Everything in the machine has been buried in your closet for a while, but it still doesn’t feel like yours. You pause, tug it free.
You hold it up. Not yours.
It's a sweater. Charcoal gray, sleeves slightly stretched, collar frayed at one edge.
Your stomach dips. Definitely not yours.
“Hey,” Yuna says, leaning back into frame with narrowed eyes, holding her own laundered socks with one hand. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, folding the sweater slowly, more carefully than necessary. “I just found something I didn’t know I still had.” You keep it out of frame, but it’s pretty obvious that you’ve found something of Jihoon’s, even if she doesn’t know what specifically.
There’s a beat of quiet. Then, gently: “You okay?”
You swallow, press your palm against the wool, and muster up a smile. “Yeah. I will be.”
Once she’s hung up, you can’t help it — you catch a whiff of fresh pine from the folded fabric, and tears prick at your eyes.
THEN | I look / at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
The night air is cool against your flushed cheeks as you and Jihoon step out of Soonyoung’s house, the laughter and music still buzzing faintly behind you. The little get-together had been warm and loud, but now it’s just the two of you, waiting for the last bus home under the dim yellow streetlights.
You’re a little tipsy, words slurring in the best way — loose and light — while Jihoon stays perfectly steady, sober as always. He watches you with a soft smile, says something quiet about the way your eyes catch the streetlight, and steadies you when you wobble slightly after turning on your heel to beam at him.
“I’m cold,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself.
Without a word, Jihoon slips off his charcoal gray sweater and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm, familiar; smells just like him, soft and fresh. You look at him, eyes wide, and he just shrugs. “You’re the one who forgot to bring a jacket.”
He’s feigning aloofness — it doesn’t work as well when he’s already slipping his hand into yours.
You laugh softly and lean your head toward him, catching your breath in the quiet lull before the bus rumbles up. On the ride home, you curl into his side, the steady rhythm of the wheels lulling you closer to sleep. Your head finds his shoulder easily, and Jihoon just caresses your hand in soothing circles with his thumb. Keeps his gaze on the window, careful not to disturb you.
When the bus stops near your building, he gently nudges you awake. You blink, dazed, and he offers his arm, guiding you through down the street, into the elevator — nodding as you talk incessantly, adding in a dry comment every now and then. At your door, you fumble with your keys, too busy gesticulating with one hand as you speak; Jihoon gently takes them from you, nodding to show he’s still listening as he unlocks the door for you.
You step into your apartment, turn around to see him linger in your hallway. “You’ve never been inside before,” you remember.
“No,” he agrees, quietly. He tilts his head to the side, smiling when you look at him with a question in your eyes. “Not tonight, baby,” he answers, even softer. “You’re still a little drunk.”
You lean against the doorframe, half-pouting — he darts forward as though to steady you, but realises a beat later that you’re not falling anywhere.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” you say mournfully, but your lips twitch ever so slightly. (He called you baby. He’s done it a few times now, but it still makes your stomach swoop.)
You’ve been on five dates with Jihoon. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but you’ve never been so sure of something — of someone — in your life.
You smile, but don’t deny it, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other slipping around your waist to allow you to fall into a hug.
Then, almost too quietly, muffled by his T-shirt, boldened by the remnants of the alcohol, you speak. “Jihoon?”
“Hm?”
“Are you my boyfriend now?”
You hear his heartbeat quicken the slightest bit. Feel his chest rise with a quiet huff of a laugh. “If you’ll have me,” he says finally, lips brushing your temple. “It’s rotten work.”
You return the quote automatically. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
NOW | But you miss something that you can’t place and you can’t deny it
The kettle hums softly, not yet boiling, and the apartment is quiet in that particular way only your own home gets — soft, lived-in silence.
You move through the motions automatically. Mug, tea bag, half a spoon of sugar. The familiar rhythm steadies you. It’s been a long day — too much reading, too many tabs open on your laptop. Too many figurative skeletons in your literal closet.
You reach up to the cabinet. Most of your mugs are piled in the dishwasher, so you tiptoe to reach the ones at the back, hand already outstretched toward your usual last-resort mug, but then your fingers brush against something else. Something heavier.
You pause.
It’s the green mug. Deep forest green with a chipped handle and a slightly uneven rim. You’d found it years ago in a secondhand shop, part of a mismatched set you never really paid much attention to — but Jihoon had chosen it the first time he came over. And after that, without fail, it was always the one he reached for. It wasn’t his, technically, but it was the one you always steeped tea in when he messaged you he was coming over.
It wasn’t his, but it became his.
You take it down slowly, cradling it in both hands. Today feels like a joke, almost. Three things, back-to-back: three harsh reminders that while his name was never on the lease, Jihoon had made a home in your home — in your life.
You should give it to him. With all the other things you haven’t returned yet.
There’s still a faint tea ring at the bottom, like it had been rinsed in a hurry last time. You must not have noticed, two months ago, when everything ended and you shoved it at the back of the cupboard. Or maybe you did, and didn’t care.
You set it beside yours on the counter, side by side like they always used to be. And then you just stand there, waiting for the water to boil, trying not to cry at the sight of an empty green mug.
THEN | Almost children, we lay asleep in love, listening to the rain.
The rain traces shaky lines down the windows, turning city lights into shimmering trails. Inside, your apartment glows warmly against the blue-black of the late night, a small world of your own.
Jihoon is hunched over his laptop at your kitchen table, wearing a baggy black hoodie, the one he’s tugged at all evening as he tweaks a song that’s been tying him up in creative knots. You’d been working across from him in silence, overwhelmed with readings for your first year of your MA, until you’d decided that you’d had enough, getting up to making some tea.
It’s been a year since you and Jihoon got together. You’re well into the first year of your master’s, and Jihoon — well, Jihoon is thriving. His music has blown up, particularly after producing a hit song for an idol group, and his calendar’s filled up faster than either of you expected. Sessions with artists, meetings with A&R reps, collaborations that kept him bouncing between studios — it’s a rush, a mess, it’s his dream come true.
When you step into his sight again, mug in hand, his headphones drop temporarily around his neck. The steam spirals up in a thin wisp, and you watch it for a moment, wondering if you’re disturbing him, interrupting some kind of delicate artist process. But when he glances up and meets your gaze, something in his expression eases, a softness creeping in.
“Thought you could use something warm,” you say quietly, setting the mug down near his notebook.
He lets his fingertips linger against the mug’s side, the warmth slowly seeping into his skin. “Thank you.” His voice is gravelly from hours of wrestling with something just out of reach in his imagination.
He drops his headphones back over his ears, then tilts them down to hang around his neck. “Actually, I — I wanted you to hear something I’ve been working on.” His tone falters just a little, cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.
You nod, trying to quell your eagerness. It’s rare that your boyfriend shows you things when they’re raw and unpolished like this. Jihoon is too much of a perfectionist to bare anything less than incredible to the world. Your favourite days are when you’re the exception.
He clicks a few keys and something soft and gentle spills from his laptop’s speakers — the notes grow, fold into each other, fade away. You hear his voice after a few moments, too, sweet and smooth, close to the mic.
When it ends, you straighten up, meet his eyes with a surprised, almost breathless smile. “You wrote lyrics.”
He flushes deeper. “I’ve been trying it out these days. Like you suggested.” He looks away, then back at you. “You make the words easier.”
Jihoon drops his gaze to his laptop, then tilts the track’s tab just a bit, letting you see its title in the corner of the media player — and again, your breath catches.
It’s your name.
NOW | A pity. We were such a good / And loving invention.
The mug of cooled tea sits forgotten on the counter as you make your way down the hallway. The floors creak beneath your feet, almost like a gentle protest — a small affirmation that you’re really not supposed to be doing this.
But you do it anyway.
You kneel at the side of your mattress, reach underneath, and tug forward a small wooden box you haven’t opened in months. Your stomach drops, a nervous swoop, a rush of dread so icy that it feels a little like vertigo. You know this is a bad idea. That whatever’s inside will dredge up so much.
Still, with careful fingers and an uneasy sigh, you ease the box’s lid up. Inside, a stack of letters, their envelopes worn, the ink slightly faded.
All from Jihoon. All addressed to you.
For a moment, you simply stare at his handwriting, at the carefully creased folds and then, reluctantly, you reach in and lift the first envelope, turning it over in your hands.
The seal is already broken. The past is there, waiting for you to let it back in.
Morbid curiosity, maybe some kind of emotional sadism, or something less dramatic — lingering, aching care — drives you to reach in. Your fingertips linger over the texture, the fold lines, the faint ink blots. Without thinking, you let your eyes dart across a few of the letters, drinking in Jihoon's words like you've been starved for them.
“...Did you eat? Did you remember to drink something warm? I’m worried you’re wearing yourself down.”
“Happy birthday, baby. I know you said no gifts, but I also know you know I was going to get you things anyway, right?”
“It’s our 500 day anniversary already. It’s kind of ironic, though… I was thinking about something Rumi said: ‘Love is not a matter of counting the days, but making the days count.’ So maybe we shouldn’t be counting at all — and yet here I am, marking this anniversary in big, bold numbers. I guess that’s just human, isn’t it?
I think what I want more than anything is to make whatever time we do have matter. To fill it with something we’ll remember, even when the calendar runs forward without us noticing.
Happy 500th day, baby. Let’s keep going for a long time.
THEN | Know it's for the better
The restaurant is nearly empty by the time you realise he’s not going to show up.
The plate of food in front of you cooled a long time ago; the rich sauce congealing, the steam gone. The wine in your glass is nearly finished, sip by sip, a nervous habit you fell into while glancing at your phone, then at the clock. He said he’d be there by 7:30.
It’s 8:45 when you pay the bill, reluctantly adding a small tip for the server who kept your water glass filled and tried not to make you feel ridiculous sitting there all by yourself. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket — heavy with messages you shouldn’t need to send: Where are you? Are you okay? Did something come up?
When he finds you a few hours later, you’re already home, a stack of articles for your thesis growing alongside you — a mess of notes, highlighters, and printed-out journals that you can’t bring yourself to focus on. The moment you hear his key in the lock, something tightens in your stomach: you weren’t expecting him to come to yours after forgetting about you all day.
Jihoon stands in the doorway, dripping rainwater from his hair and his jacket, the thunder a distant growl outside. His grip falters briefly on the doorknob before he lets it ease closed, turning the lock quietly.
He finds you there, cross-legged on the floor, your pen resting limply in your hand. He sets his wet shoes side by side against the wall and crosses the room, pausing a few feet away, unsure whether closing the distance is a kindness or a violation.
The silence between you is thick — not hostile, but heavy — a pressure you feel in your ribs, a rawness you can’t mask.
He clears his throat softly, then lets a shaky breath seep out. “Baby,” he begins, stops, starts again. “I’m sorry. I was writing lyrics in the studio, and a deadline got pushed back so I got carried away, and I just — it's not an excuse. I'm sorry.”
The words hang there, faltering, not enough — not nearly enough — to make up for the loneliness you felt in that restaurant. Or a month ago, when he was in Japan and fell asleep on your first call in weeks. Or all the nights you fell asleep with your phone pressed to your pillow, wondering if a text might come, if he might remember to say he’s thinking of you.
You think the worst part is that you can’t even blame him. That you can’t even point fingers when you tell him this isn’t working anymore, that you can’t keep going like this.
“I’m not angry at you,” you say, and there are tears slipping down your cheeks, and Jihoon looks so pained that he can’t brush them away. “I’m fucking proud of you. I don’t want to hold you back by always making you wonder if you’re failing me in some way.”
He draws in a shaky breath, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you see tears glimmer in Jihoon’s eyes. “That’s not — I don’t want you to feel that I’m choosing something else over us. Because I’m not. I wouldn’t—”
“I know you wouldn’t.” You hesitate. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“That’s not fair.” His voice breaks, barely above a whisper. “Baby.”
You swallow thickly, around the acidic taste in your mouth, the swollen painful lump in your throat. “Yes,” you agree softly. “I know.”
NOW | I know what my heart is like / Since your love died
A lot of things can change in two months.
You’re two months closer to deadlines for PhD applications. Two months closer to finishing your MA, to turning in your thesis and figuring out whatever comes after.
Two months further from Jihoon.
The days have a way of adding up — a page turning quietly while you’re not looking. The routines you fell into alongside him over two years: texting first thing in the morning, calling just before falling asleep, sending each other photos of whatever small thing made you think, “He’d like this” — have slowly been overtaken by silence, by space.
Some nights, you lie in your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he’s thinking, where he is, whether he’s staying up wrestling a new song into submission, or if he’s gone to bed hours before with a heart as heavy as your own. The corner of your phone glows in the dark — a text thread you’re afraid to delete but that you’re not brave enough to restart. The messages you exchanged in happier days remain there, a digital reminder of something you’re not sure you’ll ever feel again.
You miss arguing over books, letting the margins fill up with your notes and his, listening to him hum quietly as he cooked in your kitchen — a noise you hadn’t noticed until it was gone. You miss the way his face glowed just a little when you walked into a room, like he’d been holding his breath until you arrived. You miss his head in your lap, reading Rilke to you. You miss the midnight conversations that stretched until your eyelids grew heavy.
You miss him.
Two months isn’t enough to change that.
THEN | Just know any love I gave you's forever yours to keep
The clock glows 12:32 on the nightstand — a small pool of gold against the deep-blue shadows that wrap around you both. The sheets are a mess, a riot of cotton and warmth. Jihoon lies on his side, propped up by a stack of pillows, a paperback resting precariously against his thigh. His glasses are slipping down his nose; his lashes droops a little more with each blink.
His fingers trace the worn spine of The Waves, your heavily annotated copy, edges softened by time and countless readings. The same one you held the day you spoke in the library. His eyes flick from the pages to your face, searching for some unspoken meaning behind the notes in the margins — words underlined with care, questions scribbled in the corners.
“It’s a beautiful book,” he says, softly. “I don’t think I get it, though. Not completely.”
That makes you laugh a little, a sleepy, amused huff. “Neither do I, really.” You feel your smile soften, a little more tender around the edges. “There’s one part, though, that reminds me of you.”
“Yeah?” He lifts his head from the book, looks at you expectantly.
Your voice is nothing more than a whisper: “'And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.’”
NOW | I still think of you with roses / Spilling all over your abdomen /Your poetry and my abandon
You put the book and the sweater in the box of Jihoon’s stuff, letting them join all the other clothes and books he left behind. You dither for a moment, and then you put the mug in the box too. It’s not like you’ll use it, anyhow.
The letters are still in a haphazard pile on your bed — when you return to gather them, you pause for a moment. Every single one ends the same:
With all my love,
Jihoon.
You tie the letters with a ribbon, and put them back under your bed.
And then you dig your phone up from the sheets, glance at the peeling cardboard box that holds every other tangible reminder you have left of him. With one hand, you scroll through your phone to a contact name you still haven’t changed — Jihoon 🤍— and hover over the call button, the weight of everything caught between you and the screen.
But my words become stained with your love / You occupy everything, you occupy everything
⇢ author's note. yes i wrote another exes au with lots of flashbacks and an open ending i am FULLY aware. trust me. i can't help it.
ANYWAY. this took way longer than expected bc it was not meant to be more than 2k words. however. here we are. i think there's so MUCH i have to say about this fic, just because of all the poetry i linked in here, and i don't think anybody wants to hear all that. but trust me guys there's a reason for Everything in here.
also, in case anybody is confused by the ending — we end with reader debating whether or not to call jihoon. it is entirely up to you where they go from there — does she return his stuff and never see him again? does he have her blocked?? do they (gasp) kiss and make up??? do they undergo a twisted series of events and end up robbing a bank??? the world will never know. (this is me trying to say there is 99.9% chance there won't be a part 2. sorry.) but as always i would love to hear what u guys think!
HANA......listen.....LISTEN. there are very few fics that make me feel as seen as this one—not in an uncomfortable way, but the gentle, peeling-layers-back sort of quiet ruin. poetry has such a special place in my heart, and to have the blessing of reading something that weaves poetry and narrative with so much care makes me emotional
all that to say is this is my attempt at annotations/analysis, mostly orbiting around the idea of unraveling what was lost through what had first been gained
first of all. so so much care in the voice of the writing. i adore your prose sm—it's so tender. there's just something about a writing voice that is so obviously filled with empathy for the characters and their story. you know your reading journey is in safe hands. (i just want you to know i wanted to say some variation of this for everything, and would quote more if i could, but it got so comically long as im writing this that im just too embarrassed to ramble any longer)
its (1st bit especially) just a beautifully apt foreshadowing UGH
i read through all the poems (duh) and i feel like . at least visavis this fic, this poem's repetition can read as an attempt at self-persuasion just as much as genuine affirmation—and the last stanza has the only word italicized, and the only parts in parentheses. maybe, these could denote doubt, or an admittance of the pain that still lurks ("Write it!")
that said, the entire story itself is one of repetition, too—of the structural kind. now-then-now-then-now. the story echoes itself, and so this poem is ridiculously apt as the first one to weave in, as its also woven throughout
^ in response to this being under dogfish, i propose: "Attention is the beginning of devotion."
ALSO. THE FIRST FLASHBACK BEING LINKED TO *THAT* BIT IN DOGFISH?????ou u want to kirr me . i reread this and zeroed in on this bit immediately
coincidental (?) parallel between slowly and the "doing everything slowly" in the first scene
(wild geese as a rite of passage is too real . and that woods exploring bit!! OKAY UPSTREAM ENJOYER!!!)
so much to love about this—everything in this scene really. the evident attentiveness they have to each other. the book lending is just . a blaring red sign for me that jihoon is down bad ++ the fact that he notices their reading habits, "figured" they'd know the sappho fragment, etc etc......ATTENTION IS THE BEGINNING OF DEVOTION. and jihoon's trust via sharing his personal copy. the way that trust was, in turn, handled with care. the start of being able to share yourself knowing you are in another's safe keeping....
^ im in pain . hahhaha hana pay for my emotional damage icb you linked THIS POEM . im reading it for the first time and ?!?!?!!?
wtf . wtf . goodbye world (this fic and its journey in a nutshell . and my journey reading it lawl)
^ this (and the next few paragraphs) is a wonderful study in stretching and suspending time to limn the development of their relationship. it's deftly done, quiet and delicate in that lovely way so characteristic of the care you have with your words
(and the date . as not friends . bye theyre so cute this is so unfair why do we have to read this knowing how it ends—WHICH IS THE NEXT SONG. HANA WHAT IF I JUST SOB FOREVER)
looking at the poem, i cant help but feel like there's also something that's not quite foreshadowing, but a thought mired in the hypothetical. there's a contemplation on how sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. and the choice to use that for this particular scene speaks to the gamble that entering a relationship is, but also perhaps to a juxtaposition of where they are now and where they inevitably go (random hella geeky thought but the sort-of commentary provided by including the poem/songs feel a little like what the chorus does in the ancient greek plays)
and if i speak
(^ actually i think for m fits this fic so well too, esp I’m greedy — I want to hold onto everything, the world wants to take it away. and the bit about surprises being bad for us ,, lowkey the breakup scene)
anyway . the sweater left there + "you had to go / i know, i know, i know" + "i gotta go / i know i know i know"—everything is brushed in shades of loss. i hate everything
^ love as someone who can speak your language, etc (forming your own lexicon—in this case through the words of others, shared and cared for)
having a coke with you be the poem for this scene is so....so!!!!! the way it speaks of a love in terms of everyday devotion. excitement for more moments, the heartest heart eyes in present ones. a consistent wish to spend days together . im gna sob (how many times have i said this again)
"it wasn't his but it became his" hahahahaha i will kirr u
(i think now is a good time to say how lovely it is that the three items each are seen in the flashbacks—and i'll get into it later when touching on inventory)
^ they love eo so much . (and the song?!?!? with lyrics?!?!? your favourite days are when you're the exception??!!? you make the words easier?!?!??? oh hana i will cry) — and this scene with a poem set on a rainy day.....attuned to the vulnerability inherent in intimacy.......
^ "Let's keep going for a long time." + that poem . ohhhh i will krill myself again. ("We even flew a little." HELLO?????)
the whole poem being about the severance of two people, perfectly fitted, just hammers the separation again and again (im devastated if you cant tell)
^ this + the quote being "know it's for the better" IM JUST IN PAIN. the breakup itself felt like, as far as the narrative is concerned, the culmination of the inevitable. kind of like how you know how things end in greek tragedies, but that doesn't make the end any less devastating. and, if you want to read into it a bit more, the fact that even a good number of poems in the then scenes hinted at or came from a place of loss just augments the feeling of inevitability (again . greek tragedy . i remember someone describing it as "nonlinear bc it's circular" and it has NAWT left my mind)
ALSO—
^ WHO TOLD YOU THIS WAS OKAY. the fact that neither of them wanted it, that mc didn't blame jihoon for it, and was proud of how far he'd come, even as it felt like the relationship (and they) felt left behind......painpainpainpain
(and if i say i thought of first time by hozier)
^ if i could quote the entire scene for this poem i would . wow . wow. another wonderful example of stretching and suspending time. and the ache left behind (overtaken by silence), metaphorically rendered by the poem as the pool left behind by the tide (jihoon)—if love were the ocean, loss left only a little pool behind.
(also the thought of jihoon reading rilke......yeah. yeah. i'd be having the crashout of the century too)
^ FIRST OF ALL. this quiet scene of lying in bed and talking about the very book that jihoon wasn't quite allowed to borrow at first—the progression of their relationship is undeniable. jihoon is allowed into the bits of mc's soul that was scribbled into the margins. AND THEN it's framed around this song?!?!? shut up rn.
(also. the prose is just . so lovely . every tender scene in the then bits feel like bits of healing after the bandaid getting ripped off. rinse and repeat.)
^ GOODBYE WORLD. im also digging into it in a bit later, but i love how this last scene stitches everything together. we have the book, the sweater, the mug, and the letters. all the flashbacks, packed away, so to speak. all that's left is what to do with the connection itself, the final lifeline (the mobile number). and juxtaposing that with the final line of lake chateau?!!?!?? it's dread. it's a quiet, but devastating buildup.
(FINALLY screamed at the individual parts, now i will scream at this fic as a whole)
the premise of this piece reminds me of this passage in wonderlands by charles baxter (might be familiar for sito readers)
the frame story here (the now's) weave the tangible items with the intangible memories tied to them—it starts with the three items: the old copy of Dream Work from high school, the sweater, and the mug. then it spirals. missing him through the letters and remembering his music (missing his art/words), until it's finally the plain admittance of missing him. and then finally, we return to the cardboard box, adding to it the additional open-ending of having his phone number.
i love how the scenes are stitched together. i got a feeling that it's something you're conscious of when you commented on that aspect of sito, but ohmygod it's just done so wonderfully here. the first and last sentences/paragraphs function as a transition (eg "the memory dissolves like mist", midnight conversations + "12:32 on the nightstand"), the spotlighted object is there as a link, etc. even as it's nonlinear, the reader is not left floundering to pick up the flow from scene to scene.
on another note, stories are predicated on change—incidentally, i just finished reading ursula k le guin's steering the craft, and at one part she argues against conflating story with conflict. and then she mentions other important aspects of life: relating, finding, losing, etc. i just think this fic is a nod to how true that is—and how, in le guin's words, "The story is not the plot but the telling." in other words, how change is woven together without conflict taking the center stage.
all that to say (and i need to shut up soon cos this is way too long to be sane behaviour)—this was just too wonderful and im fragile. the way the poems are woven in, how they add layers to the flashbacks and the present day scenes. the way love's coming and going was chronicled, and how even the breaking feels gentle (and all the more devastating for it). once upon a time, anything svt x poetry felt few and far between—it's still not a mainstream interest as far as caratblr goes, but how thankful i am that the niche in the center of that venn diagram is never zero. this was a wonderful piece, bold in presentation and tender in storytelling. im just. so thankful to have been able to read it. ilyilyily
Warnings: profanity, heavy ANGST, taeyong is a bit entitled at first, problematic paparazzi, kissing, food, alcohol consumption, drug use, a small mention of marijuana and use of it, smoking, lying, inaccurate depictions of the music and well as journalism industry, sexual innuendos, allusions to sex but nothing sexually explicit, suggestive
Word count: 51.4k
Summary: When you’re presented with the opportunity to accompany the world’s hottest rock band, Cherry Bomb, on their latest tour for an article, you know it could be your chance at furthering your career and possibly acquiring a spot at the New York Times, every journalists dream. You strive to figure out the truth about all the rumours that seemed to hover around them, but you don’t anticipate are the extent of the lies involved, nor do you account for the charming front man.
Playlist: here
Notes from brooke: she’s finally here! and yes, on seeing that word count you can best believe that i am not just touching grass, but rolling around in it. this was supposed to be 25k but i sort of….got…..carried away….yEP!! it took four, almost five long months to write but i firmly can that it is one of the best things i have written and am very proud of it!! i worked harder on this fic than i have for any of my fics, so feedback would be greatly appreciated!! <3
You knew you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. It was, in no way, professional.
“What do you mean he’s dropping out?” Johnny’s voice was just loud enough to reach your ears from where you stood outside his office, saving you from the embarrassment of having to press your ear against the door. The editor had the habit of being pretty loud when he was distressed or pissed off, and that little fact was currently working to your advantage well. You stood there, holding your notes and listening carefully to the one side of the conversation you were unintentionally privy to.
