March 5, 2017
Not every beginning has to be perfect,
And not all endings are meant to be happy. A strange coincidence brought us together, an unplanned interaction of two drifting souls. But I believe, deep in my heart, that each of us found in the other what our lives had been missing. He filled the hollow spaces in my existence, gave me hope when I thought I had none left. His presence was the quiet reassurance I had long craved, the steady force that pulled me from the abyss I had resigned myself to.
He made me believe in myself again. Because of him, I learned to cherish fleeting moments, to trust in my own strength, to carve a path toward the dreams I had once abandoned.
Somehow, without realizing it, I had grown attached to him in a way I could not explain. And he, too, seemed to feel the same. Our daily meetings became a ritual, a part of my life as natural as breathing. I confided in him about everything—the fears I could not speak aloud, the hopes I barely dared to whisper. And he listened, always, without judgment, without interruption, as if my words held the weight of something sacred.
I never imagined he would disappear.
I only knew that I needed him.
I wanted him. Desperately.
But life does not grant us all that we desire.
And nothing in this world is eternal.
Every beginning has an end.
And our meeting—our beginning—was no exception.
It ended with his disappearance. Without a trace.
September 16, 2017
They say you only realize the value of something once it's gone.
I never truly understood how much color he had painted into my world until he vanished, leaving it dull and lifeless in his absence.
Six months. Half a year. A fraction of a lifetime, yet more than enough to entwine my existence with his. Time does not measure the depth of bonds—it is not the ticking of days that defines connection, but the imprint someone leaves on your soul.
He was a flower blooming in a garden painted in shades of black and white, a brief burst of vibrance in an otherwise muted world.
They say time heals. That it numbs the ache of loss, patches wounds, makes the unbearable a bit more endurable .
But I needed more time.
I wandered through every place we had ever been, hoping, searching, clinging to the possibility that I might find him again. But in the end, all I found was silence. A void where he used to be.
He was gone. I had to accept it. He was not my lover, nor my soulmate, nor the one who held my heart in his hands.
But he was as valuable to my heart. The one who had made me smile when I thought I had forgotten how to, the one who had softened the edges of my worst traits and reshaped them softer, into something better. He had changed the way I saw the world, and in return, he left behind memories that made me smile and ache in equal measure.
March 5, 2019
They always told me that nothing in life comes easily. That wounds take time to heal. That good memories never fade, no matter how much we try to let them.
And so, life continued. The seasons shifted, the days stretched into months, the world spun forward, indifferent to my grief.
I no longer lived in the shadow of his absence. I won’t lie—I had not forgotten him. But I had come to see him as a chapter of my past, one I had turned the page on.
Or so I thought.
Because fate is cruel. Or perhaps it is kind in ways we do not understand. Either way, it led me back to him.
I never expected to see him again. And certainly not like this—out in the open, in the middle of a busy street, where the world continued its ceaseless motion as if it had no idea that time had just stopped for me.
I had searched for him. I had begged the universe to return him to me. But by the time I had stopped searching, when I had given up, there he was.
Our eyes met.
And in that moment, the past and present collided.
Without thinking, I called his name. Without hesitation, I threw myself into his arms.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, I felt the pure, untainted joy of a child.
May 17, 2019
I don’t know why I still feel this emptiness.
I had longed for him, searched for him, ached for his return. Yet now that he was here, standing before me, something was missing.
The Hansol I had known no longer existed.
Yes, we met every day again, in the same old place, following the same routine. But everything was different. He was different.
His light had dimmed. His laughter had lost its warmth. The spark in his eyes had faded, replaced by something I could not quite name.
I asked him, time and time again, if something was wrong. If there was anything I could do to help.
But each time, he only smiled. And each time, he told me he was fine.
May 20, 2019
After work, I went to our meeting place, expecting to see him waiting for me.
But he wasn’t there.
I waited. Minutes turned to hours, but he never came.
Worried, I paced the area, searching for any sign of him. Then, as I turned back to the bench where we always sat, something caught my eye.
A small blue envelope. My name written across it in his handwriting.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. My vision blurred as I read his final words.
And then I ran. As fast as my legs would carry me. As if I could outrun fate.
But I was too late.
By the time I arrived, I could only watch as his body fell, swallowed by the river below.
maybe "home" has been right in front of you all along.
→ pairing: soonyoung x f!reader (f2l)
→ warnings: smut (minors DNI), references to parental divorce and difficult relationship with parents, references to stress and anxiety from school/work, reader is a lawyer (sorry)
→ word count: 0.9k
→ note: happy holidays maki @sknyuz from your secret santa! hope you enjoy this little big-city-girl-comes-home-for-the-holidays hallmark moment <3 this fic is written for the 2025 studioSVT fic exchange event.
——
You've had worse Christmases than this.
There was that year you were seven and your parents, freshly divorced, spent most of the evening of Christmas Eve trading venomous barbs over dinner. Which they insisted on having together, at your mother's apartment, because they might be divorced but they were still a family, goddamnit, and you prayed and prayed that night that an asteroid would strike Anyang and the earth would open up and swallow you—and your mother, and your father—whole.
Then there was the year you were seventeen, and the holidays found you—consumed with anxiety over the CSATs—with a stack of practice exams in a study cafe, surrounded by the other pathetic, miserable souls who were willing to sacrifice holiday merriment and yuletide cheer to the altar of college admissions. (You ended up scoring the highest in your district, high enough to earn you admission to Yonsei University, and your mother gave you nothing but a paper-thin smile and a murmured "good job.")
And then when you were twenty-seven, two years ago, you spent the entirety of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day holed up in your fancy fiftieth-floor corner office, choking down free coffee from the communal Keurig and poring over dozens of credit documents, because the client wanted the deal closed by year-end and you, as the most junior attorney on the team, got the short end of the stick. So while the partner you were killing yourself to please and the three senior associates on the deal took off to Hawaii or Jeju-do or to one of the shittier provinces they called home, you spoke to no one but the security guard in the lobby and microwaved whatever was left from the holiday party in the office fridge for dinner.
Anyway.
You've had worse Christmases. At least this year, someone's keeping you warm. Even if that person is—
"Shit," Soonyoung groans into your ear. "Yeah, just like that, baby—"
"Little soon for that, don't you think?"
He peels himself away from you. Pouts, a crease forming between his eyebrows, and he's so cute—cuter than you remember, honestly—that you're tempted to kiss it away. "Baby," he snarks, "I'm literally inside of you."
"Oh, fine. Whatever." You lean over and scrape your teeth over his earlobe, and he twitches under you, groaning. You smirk a little at how reactive he is, how pliant. "Call me whatever you want."
He snaps up into you, impatient for more. "Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good."
You roll your hips into him, over and over. You set a punishing pace that he matches, both of you rendered speechless. You're reduced to pants and moans as he carves a space for himself inside you, the drag of his cock and the friction against your clit overwhelming in the best way.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come." He kisses a path down your collarbone, all the way down to your breasts. "Shit, are you close?"
You grab a handful of his hair. Groan, the pleasure scratching its way out of your chest, when he starts sucking at your stiff, aching nipples. "Yeah, yes," you pant. "C-Close—"
He snakes his hands between you and finds your clit with surprising ease. Starts thumbing circles into it, and you think you're going to die, right then and there. "Come, baby," he grunts. "Come for me—"
You do. Harder than you ever have in your life, trembling and gushing around him, stars bursting in your belly and behind your eyes. He's not long to follow—he groans, broken, and stiffens under you as he spills into the condom.
And then—save the violent thundering of your heartbeat in your ears—silence.
You just sit there for a minute, slumped against him with his cock softening inside of you. He traces soft, lazy circles into the flesh of your hips, which feels far too affectionate for the moment, and you've always wondered if post-nut clarity was just a guy thing, but now the panic is setting in.
Oh, god. You just had sex with Soonyoung. Kwon Soonyoung. The sniveling little kid who sat next to you in kindergarten and stole your crayons. The boy who'd tug your ponytail on the bus home from school and let you play with his Nintendo DS. The teenager who'd walk kimchi jeon and tteok over from his mother's kitchen to yours and end up staying for dinner, his affable presence alleviating the usual tension at the dinner table. (Your mother may not have liked you very much, but she always had a soft spot for Soonyoung.)
Soonyoung, the boy you'd left behind in Anyang all those years ago in search of broader horizons, in search of a life beyond your parents, beyond your stifling hometown. And now he's looking at you like he's searching your eyes for something, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it's like you never left.
"Baby." His face lights up in different shades of blue, yellow, red, and green, the Christmas lights he'd strung up in his living room bleeding rainbows across his skin in the dark. "Talk to me."
Soonyoung. It dawns on you then that you feel more like yourself now than you have in a long time. That Soonyoung is the closest thing you've ever had to family, real family, and that he makes up the entirety of your past but if this is what your future looks like, with his eyes shining up at you, tender and full of affection, decades of love—
Well, you might finally have something—someone—worth living for.
"I think," you whisper, "this is the best Christmas I've ever had."
Our town was never meant to be desired… It was not touristic, not loud, not blessed with spectacle. It was the kind of place old couples chose when they were tired of wanting more;a town people arrived at only after they had already lived. Young adults were rare here; they left as soon as they learned the roads could take them elsewhere. It was understood, almost like a rule passed down quietly: if you were born here and decided to stay, you would also die here , surrounded by the same faces, under the same sky, beside the same green field where you had wasted and worshiped all your free time. And we had plenty of it.
These very criteria convinced me I had been born in the perfect place, at the perfect time.
All I had ever wanted was a slow life ; one without surprises, without urgency, without the constant threat of change. I romanticized every unhurried morning, every dinner built patiently from local ingredients, every solitary picnic by the lake, every predictable family gathering that ended the same way it began. I believed stillness was a virtue, that repetition was a form of peace.
That belief survived…until I met him.
He arrived like fate that had taken the long way around, as though the world had bent itself patiently just to cross our paths. He once said , half-smiling, half-serious, that we were meant to find each other here, meant to share this quiet boredom together, meant to live gently until we were buried under the same ground. At the time, I believed him without resistance.
He was pale and quiet, always dressed in neat, careful pieces, almost angelic in their precision. Even his smile was restrained—soft, distant—like sunlight that feels unsettling because it is too white, too clean, as if a blinding ray slipped from behind him without warning. His long hair was tied into a tidy man bun. I had always hated long hair on men ,how it often looked greasy, careless, almost indecent. His wasn’t. It was silky, luminous, healthier than my own, and I hated myself for noticing.
That was how I saw him the first time.
And that was the commentary running through my head as it happened.
Given the size of the place I lived in; where everyone knew everyone, or at least knew of them ,I concluded almost immediately that he was not from here. The heavy bag slung over his back confirmed it. So did the way he entered the café.
It was the only coffee corner in town that tried to be something more than functional ,subtle lighting, mismatched chairs, an ambition toward aesthetics that felt almost rebellious. I was standing at the counter, struggling to decide on an order I had already memorized, when he walked in. Not just I noticed him , everyone did. Silence shifts when a stranger enters a place like that.
He stood behind me in line.
There were only two of us.
So I made a quick decision and moved to an empty table upon making my order , pretending to mind my own business while the question in my head kept colliding with invisible walls: what was a man that young doing here, in a town this dormant? By the time both our orders were ready, he took his cup and left the café. I brushed the thought away with deliberate effort and returned to my journal, as words pinned my curiosity down and kept it from wandering.
The day slipped past without ceremony. By nightfall, I was already preparing myself for the coming week, for Monday, for routine. Even in a town this small, life still moved: schools opened their gates, shops lifted their shutters, children ran through streets that never learned new names. Most people here owned small farms, living off what the land agreed to give them, selling organic produce either to nearby cities or directly from their own hands. That was how my family lived too. Because of it, I was spared the weight of money, the kinda weight that dictates decisions, compresses dreams. I had the privilege of choosing exactly how I wanted to exist.
I chose quiet.
I lived alone in a small house with a modest front yard, and a few blocks away was there , my pride: a tiny library and restoration studio. I didn’t only sell new books. I repaired what time tried to erase. Paper, glue, broken spines, softened corners , the smell alone felt sacred.
Clients came always with intention: libraries, collectors, people who loved old letters too much to let them decay. The work was solitary, meticulous, and deeply meditative. Exactly the kind of life I had imagined for myself , selling normal books here and there and repairing some from time to time .
I knew that by morning I would have visitors ; teenagers after school, old people during the day, all asking for some forgotten, boring title they half-remembered.
I did not expect him.
I had almost forgotten the stranger from the café when he appeared in front of me instead of an old man asking for a manual or a farming guide. The bell above the door rang softly as he entered. His resting face looked as if it was already smiling. His steps were slow, deliberate. He shone again , as if light poured from him rather than onto him.
Once more, I pretended to be occupied.
He wandered briefly through the shelves before returning to the counter, holding a small guidebook; a map of the town. One I had forgotten I even stocked. When I finally looked at him, properly, for the first time, our eyes met.
They were… shaded. Not dark ; guarded.
I smiled as he handed me the book.
“New here?” I asked. “Visiting someone?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “I guess I look out of place. Everyone keeps asking me the same thing.”
He spoke with the same soft, almost suspicious smile, reaching for his wallet.
“No need,” I said, gently pushing the map back. “Consider it a welcome gift. I hope it helps.”
Something in his gaze shifted then. The guarded look dissolved into something genuine ,soft, unguarded. He thanked me and left, the bell echoing behind him like a thought that refused to fade.
After that, he vanished.
For the rest of the week, I didn’t see him once. I only heard of him through old women whispering on sidewalks, He had a house nearby, they said. A truck had arrived with furniture. He was staying. Maybe even moving in.
Yet I dismissed the thought. No one our age chose a place like this.
The following Monday arrived too quickly, days were repetitive on this side of the world . I was reorganizing shelves, the radio murmuring in the background, when the bell rang again. I carefully set the books down and walked to the counter.
He was there.
Standing as if he knew I would be.
There was a certainty about him that unsettled me , as if he had won an argument that had never been spoken. The same soft smile rested on his lips, still mismatched with his eyes. In his hand was a small basket, filled with chocolate cookies.
Before I could speak, he slid it gently toward me.
“A small thank you for the map,” he said. “It helped more than I expected.”
I murmured my thanks, but he continued before the moment could settle.
“If you’re free this weekend,” he said, “maybe I could take you for a coffee. You don’t have to answer now. I’ll come back later…give you time to think.”
And then he was gone.
All I could hear was the bell again, ringing too loudly in my ears.
I had seen it coming, to be honest. In a town like this, his options were limited. Excluding the possibility of a girl waiting somewhere where he came from, beyond these fields , which I assumed existed , it was only a matter of time before he ended up with one of us. That’s what the old ladies whispered anyway. He was their newest fascination. a Hot topic , in every sense of the word.
But I had excluded myself entirely.
After all, I hadn’t seen him since the day of the map. I assumed that whatever quiet list he had made in his mind, I had already been crossed off , forgotten as easily as a stranger passing through.
And yet, something about the way he looked at me suggested otherwise
By then, I was somehow certain we would not remain just two random people inhabiting the same town.
That week stretched longer than it had any right to. Not just for me but for my friends too. They knew who he was by then; they had crossed paths with him once or twice, enough to confirm he was real and not something my imagination had quietly manufactured. The three of us began meeting more often, small reunions disguised as casual evenings, where we constructed theories and possibilities for scenarios that never actually unfolded. By midweek, we had reached a collective agreement: he deserved a chance. For the team, we said , so we could all get to know the outsider who had wandered into our small, sealed land and for the plot since it was way too peaceful here .
Looking back, we were little more than an updated version of the old ladies who had dissected him days earlier. The only difference was proximity. They watched and commented from a distance; we felt almost involved, as if curiosity alone granted us some claim over him after his interaction with me .
Every evening, we gathered at one another’s houses. A DVD played on the television, long forgotten, its flickering light merely an excuse for background noise. Conversation always drifted back to him. And yet, despite the attention we paid him in absence, he never appeared. Not once. Not in the streets, not near the café, not passing by any of us. It was as if he had never existed at all ,as if we were collectively indulging in an elaborate delusion.
Friday arrived.
I was waiting out the final ten minutes before the clock struck seven so I could wrap up the day. My thoughts had already stood me up for a date that never began. Had he hesitated? Regretted it? Forgotten entirely?
The bell rang.
The look on my face must have betrayed everything. He stood there ; the very last minute , and I didn’t even attempt to hide my shock. I was certain he could tell I had been waiting for him all week, that I had thought about him more than I cared to admit.
His eyes were suspicious, as always carrying something sharp, something calculating that never quite matched his face. They suggested a mind working quietly behind the scene, a mastermind hidden backstage. And yet, his soft, innocent smile camouflaged it so perfectly that I almost convinced myself I was the only one who saw it. That perhaps I was overthinking, accusing him of something without evidence.
In the few seconds it took him to approach the counter, I gathered myself. The wood between us felt deliberate, a boundary I was grateful for. I waited for him to speak first, even though we both knew exactly why he was there....
so... i wrote this yesterday cuz i was struggling to find a boring tamsy fic aka my fav type so i decided to write one my self ,not sur eif anyone would read it or be interested but id like to get insights
content: drabble, fluff, est. relationship, petnames: honey, wife, and love, cuddling and hugging, reader mentions changing jeonghan's clothes
word count: 460
summary: in which jeonghan just wants to sleep with you.
note: i just wanna baby this man. anyway enjoy this draft...
Jeonghan doesn't think twice before flopping onto the mattress next to your still body. Despite your protests that 'outside clothes don't belong on the bed,' he's already had a long day and wants nothing more than to doze off by your side.
And of course, his arrival wasn't all that quiet; he just had to let you know he was home somehow.
"Go change, honey," you grumble into the pillow.
His head pokes up to your side in surprise, like a child caught doing something they shouldn't. He only hums, though, sounding more like a whine as he slips under the blanket. "Five minutes."
"You say that every day," you remind him, eyes still closed.
"And I eventually do," he defends himself, nudging your hip with his knee.
That makes you open your eyes, squinting at Jeonghan. "Yeah, after you fall asleep for like an hour."
"Can't blame a man for wanting to sleep by his wife for a bit," he says, shifting closer until his nose touches your shoulder. "But you gotta give me credit, I still change, don't I?"
You roll your eyes, "Only because I change you."
"That sounds like teamwork to me," he cutely concludes, shifting closer to you. Before you know it, he's pulling your body into his, putting his arms around you. And you let him, because deep down, there's a sense of pride in you that you're the first thing Jeonghan wants to be with after he's done work. "You're warm."
"Hm," you respond, putting your hands on his cheeks, your warmth heating his face, "you're cold."
His lids are already fighting to stay open, his breaths slower. There he was, Jeonghan in the flesh, trying to pretend he's still awake.
"You're going to black out," you whisper, squishing his face together.
"Not yet," he says, voice muffled against your palms. "Just wanna feel you first."
When you feel his face become limp and his legs loosely tangled with yours, you realize he's done for the day.
"Jeonghan," you warn him quietly, "if you fall asleep--"
"I'll change later," he interrupts, halfway gone. "Promise."
"You always say that."
"And I always do," he repeats, his words slurring. "Eventually."
You sigh, but there’s no urgency behind it. Not when you're holding each other like this. Not when the first thing he does after work is bury himself into you like you’re the only place he knows.
Your hand reaches the back of his head to comb through his hair, patting it gently. He reacts just at the touch of yours, pulling you closer until your chests press firmly against each other.
"Love you, though," he murmurs, to which you only stare at him lovingly, as annoying as he can be.
Louu!! Love what you've done with the place !! very aesthetic 😌✨🍂
Now let's see...
Can I get a tall chai mocha vanilla bean iced, with Woozi from Seventeen please?
It appears I have left my wallet, uhm.. Do you take photocards? 😅
Studio Gremlin// Woozi x Reader
you’d learned the hard way not to interrupt him mid-work. still, you walked in anyway, holding takeout and zero shame.
“you’ve been in here for five hours,” you said, setting the food beside his laptop.
“five and a half,” he corrected, eyes still glued to the screen.
you squinted. “you haven’t blinked once.”
he finally looked up, expression flat but soft around the edges. “you counting my blinks now?”
“yeah, because apparently i’m dating a robot.”
woozi sighed, spinning in his chair until his knees bumped yours. “if i were a robot, i wouldn’t crave coffee or—”
“—fall asleep sitting upright?” you cut in.
“no,” he said with a small grin, “i was gonna say ‘fall in love,’ but sure. let’s go with insomnia.”
you snorted, tossing him a plastic fork. “eat before i unplug you.”
he took the food, shaking his head but smiling anyway—the quiet, real kind that meant he’d lost this round. then, after a pause, he said, “you know, you’re the only person allowed to bully me in my own studio.”
“aw,” you teased, “that’s basically a proposal.”
he didn’t answer right away. just leaned over, pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, and said, “you’d say yes anyway.”
Each Sunday, a new note graces HER doorstep; delicate poems accompanied by whimsical doodles that seem to resonate deeply with her heart. At first, she’s bewildered by the anonymous gestures, but as the weeks go by, the quiet ritual becomes a beacon of light, breaking through the monotony of her daily life.
the first time I discovered a note resting quietly on my doorstep. It was a small piece of paper, delicate and unassuming, yet it carried a weight I couldn't quite explain. Written on it was a poem, each word woven with a care that made my heart flutter. Attached to it was a colorful sticky note, adorned with a tiny doodle
At first, I thought it might have been a mistake, some misplaced
gesture meant for someone else. But the next Sunday, it happened again.
Another poem, another charming little doodle.
And then again the week after that.
Whoever this person was, they were taking time out of their life to create these small,
beautiful offerings and leave them for me,
as if they are crafting a secret ritual between us.
Each note felt like a tiny spark,
stirring something deep inside me
curiosity, excitement, and a warmth I hadn't experienced in a long time.
It was as someone had opened the first page of a love story,
and I was the unwitting protagonist, drawn in by their gentle persistence.
It was another ordinary Sunday. I woke up at 3 p.m., the usual time that marks the beginning of my weekend. It's the routine, the drill, and it never fails me. Juggling a full-time job with night shifts and university has never been easy, especially for someone like me who treasures sleep more than anything. My body craves it, and my soul finds solace in its embrace. I don't have any hobbies or talents to occupy my time—nothing that stirs me the way other people seem to be —but I'm not complaining. I like my quiet life, my predictable routine, and the space it allows me to exist in peace.
As I made my way downstairs from my small apartment, I rubbed my face, half-awake, too lazy to even wash away the remnants of sleep. All I could think about was what show I'd binge-watch today. After all, the days are so busy, and my social battery is constantly running on empty. Going out? Never an option. I find comfort in doing nothing. It's the kind of day I look forward to—the one where I can slip into the familiar cocoon of my sofa and let time drift by unnoticed.
But as I reached for the couch, something caught my eye—a small piece of paper resting on the floor in front of my doorstep. I paused, confused for a moment. Had it been there yesterday when I got home? Maybe I dropped it while entering, but no, I don't own any notebook that uses paper like this. I bent down to pick it up, curiosity stirring in me.
The paper was simple, folded neatly, and as I opened it, a line of words caught my attention. It was written like a poem, each word soft and deliberate, its rhythm flowing through me:
I read it again, and the feeling settled into me like a quiet echo. What was this? A poem? A message? It felt personal, like someone had left a little piece of themselves behind for me to find.
"A very small pinwheel
It's standing alone and just blankly
Looking for someone anxiously and a bit lonely ,
felt like I was looking at me."
Taped to the paper was a small yellow note, a doodle sketched on it. At first glance, it didn't make sense, the shapes and lines blending into each other. But as I focused, the image became clearer. It was a bench—no, a row of seats like if it was in an auditorium, with one alone girl sitting by herself. I stared at it for a few moments, trying to piece it together. And then it hit me—the girl on the bench, alone in the seats,is the pinwheel—and it was me.
A bittersweet realization washed over me, and I couldn't help but smile a little. How... romantic. A subtle reminder, delivered in such a simple way, that I'm alone. A reminder that stung, yet somehow warmed me all the same. Whoever this was, they had an unusual way of making solitude feel both melancholic and tender at the same time.
Friday had finally arrived, and with it came a wave of relief.
The promise of 48 uninterrupted hours stretched out before me, a quiet reprieve from the chaos of the week.
But truth be told, what I looked forward to the most wasn't the rest—it was the poem.
For nearly two months now, the notes had appeared like clockwork,
Their arrival transformed my Sundays into something extraordinary.
They came without fail, waiting for me on the doorstep when I woke up.
I'd tried to solve the mystery, staying up late at night,
but I never caught a glimpse of anyone.
Whoever this anonymous poet was, they must have delivered the notes at first light,
slipping away unnoticed.
The weekend came and went in a blur, two nights slipping through my fingers faster than I would have liked. And now, here I Am, sitting on the floor with my back against the door, holding this week's note in my hands. My heart thudded softly in anticipation as I unfolded the small piece of paper, revealing the words of my anonymous poet:
This week has been particularly rough. Between classes and the ever-mounting workload at my job,
I found myself stretched thin. The weight of responsibilities pressed down on me, leaving me drained but oddly fulfilled. On days like this, I felt alive in a strange way—grateful for how the hectic days made me feel alive having things to do while living with no purpose. I'd long since accepted my life as it was: simple, routine, and unremarkable. Complaining never changed anything, I'd learned that. You either be flexible to adapt and move forward, or you take action to change your circumstances. For me, adaptation was easier.
"To me, you are infinitely precious.
Would you like to tell me that you had a hard day today?
Saying I have you, thank you for your hard work, saying I love you, and holding you tight.
When you're having a hard time, you can hug me; I'm the same.
You know that even if you hide it, it won't be hidden."
The words resonated like a gentle echo in my chest, filling the quiet room with warmth. I hugged the note close to me, as if the paper itself could somehow substitute for the poet who had written it. For a moment, I let myself imagine their arms instead of the fragile page, their voice instead of the written lines.
Standing, I carried the note to my room, where a journal waited—a two-month chronicle of poems and doodles, each one more intimate than the last. I added the latest piece to the growing collection and stepped back to take in the pages.
The doodles had evolved over time, telling a story of their own. The girl who had once sat alone in an empty auditorium was no longer solitary. Now, faint, blurry figures surrounded her, a crowd of indistinct shapes filling the seats. At her feet curled a small black cat, a detail that had taken shape over six weeks of notes. It seemed to have crept into her life slowly, just as these letters had crept into mine.
I smiled, closing the journal and tucking it back in its place. His words were ink on paper, intangible yet impossibly warm, like the memory of an embrace. Somewhere out there, someone was watching me, noticing the quiet details of my life, and turning them into poetry.
Admittedly, the thought was a little unsettling—bordering on stalker behavior if I were being honest—but it also stirred something deeper in me. To feel seen, even in this peculiar and anonymous way, was unexpectedly comforting. I couldn't deny the warmth it brought, the strange sense of being loved without ever being touched.
And for now, I chose to hold onto that feeling.
In the span of three months, I lost count of the letters I received. Each one drew me deeper into the mystery of the person who had so effortlessly brightened my days in such an original, almost magical way. They must be a genius—someone who understands how to weave words together in perfect harmony. Not just for the eyes to read or the lips to recite, but for the heart to feel.
What astounded me most wasn't just the beauty of the poems, but their uncanny timing. Each verse seemed to reflect the very essence of my week—capturing my mood, my thoughts, my small victories, and quiet defeats. The way they mirrored my life so perfectly left me wondering. Could they really know me that well, or was I simply reading too much into it? Maybe I was imagining things, finding meaning where none existed.
Every night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts had slowly begun to shift. Once, I would spend hours cringing over past mistakes—small, silly things that seemed monumental in the quiet of the night. Or I'd spiral into endless overthinking about the uncertain future, drowning in the what-ifs and the maybes. But now, those restless thoughts had been replaced by something else—something gentler.
Now, I found myself wondering which moment from this week would become the highlight of my next long-awaited poem. perhaps it's something so small I hadn't even noticed myself ,
The anticipation had become a kind of comfort, The excitement of it filled me with a warmth I hadn't known I needed. a quiet thrill that carried me through the days.
When the day finally came, I found not one, but two verses waiting for me. Unfolding the familiar paper with eager hands, I read:
"I wanted to be your tomorrow, so I lived through today."
"Right now, I need anything that resembles you.But I don't have it in me, so let's meet again.
Until I arrive, you have to be well.I'm looking for you right now."
This time, for the first time, the words didn't feel like they were about me. Even if they were dedicated to me, they carried a different weight—one that spoke more about the writer than the reader.
I carefully added the new pieces to my growing collection, pressing them next to their elder pages in my journal. As I did, a realization settled over me—how self-centered I had been. I had basked in the glow of these weekly notes, soaking in the extra attention, treating them like small rewards for surviving yet another demanding week. I had revealed in the warmth they brought without ever pausing to consider the person behind them.
Who were they? How did they feel, loving from a distance? What did it mean to them to send these letters, to watch without being seen? I had been so caught up in receiving that I never once thought to look beyond the doorstep, to pay attention to the world around me.
I glanced at the small sticky note attached to the poem. The doodle had changed again. The little black cat, once curled contentedly in the lap of the girl sitting in the auditorium, was now sitting alone in a box beneath a rainy sky. A pang of something unfamiliar stirred within me.
Had they always been there, waiting for me to notice?
I realized something tonight—something I should have noticed long ago. I've been selfish. that's too soft of a word. Egoistic fits better. I've been so wrapped up in the comfort of these letters, in the way they made me feel, that I never once stopped to ask myself why. Why me? Why now? Why this?
Instead, I took it all in stride, letting each poem feel like a gentle pat on the back, a warm hand resting on my shoulder when I needed it most. I let them soothe me, much like sunlight breaking through an icy morning, soft and golden against my skin. But I never wondered where that warmth was coming from, who was behind it, or what it meant to them. I never asked if they were standing in the cold while I soaked in their light.
People often tell me that my ability to take life as it comes is a blessing—my effortless acceptance, my way of just being without overanalyzing everything. They say it's rare to live without questions, without the burden of constantly needing answers. But I've come to realize that this unplanned, almost willful ignorance has never done me any favors.
If anything, it has left me stranded alone, even in a room full of people. No matter how many friends I have or how many conversations fill my days, at the end of it all, it's always just me. Me against myself, against my thoughts, against my life.
And tonight, for the first time in a long time, I wanted to do something different. I wanted to reach out.
It was late, the kind of late that makes the world feel smaller, quieter, like I was the only person left awake. I sat next to my doorstep, knees pulled to my chest, heart thudding in quiet anticipation. Any moment now—I was so sure of it—I'd see them. I would finally catch a glimpse of the one who had been watching from a distance, leaving pieces of their heart in folded papers and small, whimsical drawings.
I imagined them, hovering somewhere nearby, uncertain and waiting just as I was. For weeks now, I had simply accepted their presence in my life without giving anything in return. But tonight, I was ready to answer—to finally offer back even the smallest fraction of the warmth they had given me.
I wanted to be the sunlight on the other side of their world.
Was that how they felt all this time? Is this the longing they carried—an unspoken connection, an invisible thread they created tying us through words and silent gestures? And I had left them waiting, unknowingly keeping them at bay, absorbing all they had to give without offering even a glance in return.
They say people don't truly value what they have until it's gone. And though I don't even know who they are, I feel like I've already lost them. They are a shadow in my life, a presence without form—just ink on paper, emotion without substance. I have no name to whisper, no face to picture, yet they have become something real to me.
The small poem i wrote last week feels heavier than the rest, folded neatly in my pocket. I take it with me everywhere now, as if it's a charm, as if carrying it close to my heart will somehow lead me to them. Will I recognize them if I see them? Will they recognize me? Or have I been staring past them all this time, too absorbed in myself to notice?
It's foolish, I know. But still, I wait. I wait in the biting cold, clutching that fragile piece of paper between my fingers, staring into the empty street with a hope I never thought I'd have.
The minutes stretch on, each one heavier than the last. The silence around me is thick, pressing against my chest, whispering doubts in my ears. They won't come. You've missed your chance. You should have acted sooner.
But I stay. Because deep down, I'm still hoping.
I sit on the cold, hard floor, the chill seeping into my bones, with nothing but a crumpled note in my hand and the impatient rhythm of my heart. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I realize—I don't want to be alone anymore.
.
.
.
I was still sitting on the hard, cold floor, my back pressed against the door, feeling the numbing chill creep into my bones. The small gap between the door and the floor let in a frigid breeze, sending a shiver through me every now and then. I had been waiting for what felt like hours, my eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute, teetering on the edge of sleep when suddenly, there it was.
A whisper of movement. A fleeting sensation. I didn't know how I felt it, but I did. A thin piece of paper slid beneath the door with such delicacy that it shouldn't have stirred me at all, and yet somehow, I sensed it. As if my entire being had grown attuned to this moment, to the soft rustling of paper against the floor.
Without thinking, my fingers tightened around the note I had been holding all night—the first response I had ever written. Before I even realized what I was doing, I found myself sliding it forward, mirroring his quiet ritual. But unlike him, I hesitated. Just the tip of the paper peeked out from under the door, unsure, tentative. I couldn't push it all the way through, couldn't take that leap of faith. He always did. He always knew I would find his notes, pick them up, read them—trust them.
Through these past weeks, I started to notice something strange, something unsettling in its quiet intimacy. He knew me, perhaps better than I knew myself. The little things, the unnoticed quirks, the subconscious habits I thought were invisible... he had seen them all. He had been watching, observing, learning from a distance. And yet, despite this familiarity, he remained an enigma to me.
To me, he was still a mystery, a shadow without form, a voice without sound. I had no way of knowing who he was, what he looked like, or even what his voice might sound like if he were to speak. He was an unknown, and the unknown terrified me. I couldn't afford to take risks with uncertainties; my world had always been built on predictability, on the comfort of solitude. So I slid my paper forward hesitantly, not fully committing, waiting to see what he would do.
Would he take it? Or would he run the moment he realized I had figured out his timing?
Doubt gnawed at me.
What if I was nothing more than an old, forgotten game he found in the attic—something that piqued his curiosity for a while, only to realize it was dull and predictable? Was I just a passing distraction, a fleeting amusement before he moved on to something more exciting, more challenging?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost didn't notice it at first, the faintest tug against my fingertips. My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, deliberately, the small piece of paper slipped from my grasp, vanishing through the gap.
He noticed it. He took it.
A strange mix of relief and anticipation flooded through me. He was still there. This silent connection, this delicate exchange, was still intact. I leaned my head back against the door, closing my eyes for a moment, letting myself feel something I hadn't allowed in a long time.
longing.
"It's still cold outside, the tip of my nose is tingling.
Though we're far away, the memories bring us closer.
I read his words, and a sting shot through my chest, something between wrongdoing and longing—guilt . That word, cold, echoed in my mind with an ache I could no longer ignore. I had been distant, indifferent, letting his presence linger on the edge of my life without truly reaching out in return. And now, the thought hit me like a sudden gust of wind , what if he never comes back?
If your heart has a hole, I'll cover it with my hands.
Even if your hands are empty,
Give them to me so I can fill them up."
What if yesterday's note was the last?
The mere idea made my chest tighten, a quiet panic creeping in beneath my skin. But at least I had finally done something—I had given him an answer. A small piece of myself, tentative and uncertain, but an answer nonetheless. Would it be enough?
I sighed, dragging myself out of bed, the weight of the upcoming day pressing down on me. Mondays used to be the worst—dull, exhausting, dragging me through the motions of life without purpose. But now, they felt different. Lighter. As if the lingering warmth of my Sunday rendezvous was enough to carry me through the week, giving me something to look forward to, something to hold onto.
As I got ready, I found my thoughts drifting back to the words I had written to him the night before. It hadn't been easy. He made it seem effortless—the way his poems slipped between my fingers like whispers meant only for me, weaving emotions into verses that felt like soft embraces. For me, it was different. The words didn't come naturally. They sat stubbornly on the tip of my tongue, refusing to align into anything that felt right, that felt enough.
But still, I had tried.
I had poured my heart into those few fragile lines, hoping they would reach him in the way his words had always reached me.
I could still see the ink smudges on my fingertips, evidence of my struggle to find the right words, the right way to say—thank you, I see you, I feel you.
"Within the whirlwind of a day,
For giving me trivial happiness,
For handing me all the smiles in this world into my two empty hands.
Even when I'm out of breath on a steep road,
Even when I got lost on a cold day , Holding out a hand with warmth,
The story I want to tell...
To you."
A soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Maybe, just maybe, we were finally moving forward.
And yet, here I was.
I decided to take a short vacation
not the kind that takes you to sandy beaches or towering mountains,
but a break to regain some semblance of balance. False hope followed by crushing disappointment is a feeling I've spent my life avoiding. It's one of the reasons I've built my world on absolutes: ones and zeros, black and white, fact and certainty. Feelings? They've always been something I kept locked away, shelled up and distant.
Falling ... whether in love or in disappointment,
wasn't something I ever allowed myself to do.
Two Sundays had passed without a single trace of the poet whose words had once felt like sunlight pouring into the gray corners of my life. I regretted stepping out of my comfort zone to reply, regretting the hours I'd spent deliberating over every word. For someone who lived by logic, I couldn't make sense of the silence. It wasn't like a book with a neatly written final chapter, a conclusion that lets you move forward. No, this felt unfinished, suspended in the air like a sentence cut short.
The what-ifs plagued me: what if he was sick? What if he was just playing me? What if he'd decided, without a word, to leave my doorstep forever?
By the third week, the void of his absence had become a hollow routine. I told myself to fake it till I made it—recovery could be an act, couldn't it? My days resumed their usual rhythm, but they felt strangely muted. I was still here, going through the motions of work and study, but I no longer felt like the main character in my own story.
The quietness wasn't new. My life has always been quiet. But now it was noiseless, an eerie kind of silence that seemed to seep into everything. Work was the same, studies were the same, the pile of overdue projects loomed over me like a judgment I didn't want to face. I told myself it wasn't because of a silly heartache. I was above such things, wasn't I? I'm far beyond silly love stories , and light years away from souvenirs of journal books written in pink, glittery pens. This is how I've chosen to remain—untouched by frivolous emotions, anchored in certainty. Life, after all, isn't meant to align with whimsical, uncertain feelings.
But life, it seemed, wasn't quite done with me.
It was Friday, and I was drowning in work. The night shift dragged on with a weight that felt heavier than usual, and the office felt stifling. Desperate for air, I gathered my papers and laptop and retreated to the balcony. The fresh breeze carried a sliver of relief as I dove into my tasks, determined to make it through the night.
I was so absorbed that I didn't notice the cup of coffee that appeared on the table until its rich aroma wafted toward me. Startled, I looked up to find a soft smile greeting me.
"I don't know how you manage to stay focused without coffee," he said, sparing me a soft smile "But I figured you might need one to boost your pace."
I couldn't help but smile back. The gesture was small but so perfectly timed that it felt like a lifeline. "That's really thoughtful of you. Thank you," I said, taking a sip and feeling the warmth spread through me. "You seem to be blending in pretty well so far. Are you enjoying the environment overall?"
He pulled out a chair and sat down next to me, turning my unintentional break into a full-fledged conversation—not that I was complaining. "So, your first month is already over," I added, not wanting the new hire to feel awkward after his thoughtful gesture.
"So far, so good," he replied with an easy smile. "I'm really enjoying it here. But... if I'm being honest, you don't seem like you're feeling the same way."
His words caught me off guard, a gentle observation that hit deeper than expected.
Was it really that obvious? Did I wear my exhaustion, my quiet disconnection, so openly? My mind scrambled for an answer, something casual, something deflective. "Well, studying and working full-time isn't exactly a walk in the park," I said lightly, hoping my tone didn't betray the truth even though his silence made it feel not so convincing. "And, you know, we all go through personal stuff too. Some days just feel heavier than others."
I hoped my answer would suffice ,But even as I said it, his gaze didn't waver, as if he could see right through the veneer I was trying so hard to maintain. It was disarming—and oddly comforting.
Despite that ,his response was nothing like I expected.
"You know," he began, his voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity,
"i've been told once
It's gonna be okay, like the hands on the clock
They'll go in circles back to their places"
The words fell over me like an unexpected downpour, seeping into the cracks I had painstakingly tried to seal shut. His voice carried a quiet intensity, the kind that made it impossible to brush off or ignore, no matter how much I wanted to.
I looked at him, my lips parted slightly as if a response was on the verge of forming, but nothing came. The steady stream of thoughts that usually rushed through my mind slowed, like a dam had been placed to quiet the chaos.
For a moment, everything seemed to pause—the hum of the city fading into the distance, the cool night air brushing against my skin. There was no noise, no ache, no endless loop of "what ifs." Just a stillness I hadn't realized I craved.
His words lingered in the space between us, their weight settling somewhere deep within me. And for the first time in weeks ,I had a flashback—sharp and vivid—of the feeling I had reading my first poem. It was like a spark igniting in the dark, a warmth that spread through the coldness I didn't even know had settled within me. That feeling, so tender and foreign at the time, now felt familiar.
It was the same warmth, the same subtle pull, that I was feeling now. As his words hung in the air, I couldn't help but wonder if this was what I had been chasing all along—connection. The kind that doesn't need grand gestures or declarations but exists quietly, like the soft glow of a candle on a dark night.
I held onto the memory of that first poem, its words echoing faintly in my mind. And now, sitting here with him, I couldn't help but feel the same stirring, as if some part of me knew this moment mattered.
I didn't feel entirely alone.
For days now, my mind had been consumed by the words Seungkwan had spoken to me that evening. Was I merely overthinking again, or had he intentionally crafted his words with a delicate precision, each syllable aimed straight at my heart? The way his voice lingered in the air, the weight of his gaze , it felt almost like a confession, though it wasn't. I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion, as though I could physically scatter the foolish thoughts that clung to my brain. Deep down, however, I knew better. There was no way he the ever-charismatic, quick-witted Seungkwan could be the one behind the poems.
He wasn't my secret admirer. That role was reserved for someone else.
It was impossible for me to ignore that these scenes had to be drawn from the very place I spent hours through the days at . The more I thought about it, the clearer it became that my secret poet was a classmate, not a coworker. The idea that it might be someone else , someone from my work place was far too remote, too disconnected from the world I lived in day after day. So I clung to the notion that the mystery remained confined to the university.
If I had reached any conclusion about the identity of my mysterious poet, it was that they were someone from the university I attended.
The poetry, the delicate little drawings, the stray sticky notes , each one was an undeniable reflection of the life I led within those walls. The words seemed to capture my thoughts as they unfolded in the classrooms, my anxieties and dreams tucked into corners of lecture halls, between the lines of textbooks, or scribbled on scraps of paper during lectures I wasn't entirely present for. It wasn't just the content that resonated; it was the place that was so vividly captured in each note, the auditoriums, the benches outside where students sat and waited for something they couldn't quite articulate.
It was almost laughable, the way my choices felt so limited. As if my social life were some tightly-knit little thread that could only stretch to two directions. When I thought about it, the irony of it all hit me like a cold gust of wind. In a world that celebrated extroversion and ease, I found myself a prisoner of my own introversion, my small social battery flickering like a candle that couldn't last for long. There was a strange kind of distress in it, this quiet life I led. I'd always known it, but only now, when I tried to speak it out loud,to myself the least , did I realize just how little room there was to grow outside of my own bubble.
As the days slipped by, I became more and more consumed by the small journal that held the secret poems. It was like a precious relic, waiting patiently for him to return at my doorstep and bring life to the next page , for me to return home to feed it the attention it craved. Each page held the weight of emotions—fragments of someone's soul, carefully etched with precision. And yet, the one thing I could never understand was why it felt like I was the only one meant to carry that weight. A whole week would pass, and the journal would remain silent, empty, as though it too, was waiting. Waiting for me to return to it, to fill its pages with the unsaid.
I had started reading it like a ritual, each evening before sleep, my fingers tracing the edges of the pages. I memorized every wrinkle, every tear at the corners, the faint indentations from where the pen had pressed too hard. The words weren't just words anymore; they became part of me. I could see the book in my mind even when I wasn't holding it—its familiar weight in my hands, the way the pages seemed to carry a life of their own. Every letter, every scratch of ink was burned into my memory, yet still, I went back to it again and again. It was like a quiet conversation, one that never responded, but always listened.
And as I read, I began to respond in my mind. Each poem became an invitation, a question, and I answered, depending on how I felt that day. Some answers were hopeful, some filled with doubt, others desperate for meaning. It was like talking to an old book that could never speak back, but I kept pouring myself into it anyway. Slowly, I began to long for more—a real conversation, a direct reply from the person who wrote those words. I wanted him, the poet, to see me, to hear my thoughts, to acknowledge that I, too, was here, sitting with him in this strange, one-sided dialogue.
And then, one evening, it happened.
I was sitting at my desk, the pen resting in my hand as if it had been waiting for this moment as much as I had. My fingers trembled, and I didn't quite understand why. It wasn't fear, not exactly—but it felt as though I was about to shatter something fragile, something precious. My heart raced as I stared at the blank page in front of me. The moment I had been secretly hoping for had arrived, and yet, I hesitated.
But the words came, unbidden, pouring out as though they had been buried inside me for far too long. I didn't stop to think, didn't second-guess myself. The pen moved, not slowly but desperately, as if it was the only way to release the storm that had been swirling inside me. When the ink finally dried on the page, I sat back, staring at my confession. My first answer. It felt like a turning point , like I had just written my own story, one that would now be tied to someone else's.
I read it over and over, each time noticing something new, something I hadn't seen the last time. My words, though tentative, felt like a reflection of his. Somehow, I had started to speak his language, to mimic his style, his tone. And it wasn't until later that I realized—I had become so immersed in his world, in his rhythm, that my own voice had been molded by it.
The lines I wrote were simple, but they felt profound:
It wasn't a confession, not really. It was a whisper into the night, a longing I could only express in silence. Writing—whether to him or to myself—somehow made the weight of everything else more bearable. It didn't erase the struggles or make the pain vanish, but it made them coexist with life in a way I hadn't expected. Life, with all its broken promises and unanswered questions, felt a little less heavy in those moments when I poured my heart onto paper.
"Before I know it, I'm asleep and
I look for you in my dream unknowingly.
I think it's a lie that I want to forget you."
But even then, I knew: life wasn't a fairytale. No matter how beautifully the gifts were wrapped or how much glitter they sparkled with, they were still gifts from a world that wasn't kind. Life would always turn momentary happiness into lasting sorrow. It would always play tricks on us—sudden joy replaced by even deeper sorrow. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't about avoiding those hits. Maybe it was about learning how to survive them.
And so, the journal waited. The words kept coming. And I, in turn, would keep writing.
The heaviness of longing had not left me, but its grip loosened , getting lighter by the days. It remained tucked away affecting my mind recklessly but its strokes got weaker, settled in the quiet chambers of my heart, its presence familiar but no longer suffocating.
I still felt its touch , soft but persistent, weaving itself into my thoughts like an echo of something I once held close.
The small notebook I used to confide in each night had started to gather dust, untouched for days at a time. I only reached for it when the yearning became unbearable, when the memory of him resurfaced in the spaces between my daily distractions , the quiet moments before sleep, the idle seconds between conversations, the long walks home when I allowed myself to wonder:Was he still out there, thinking of me?University became a cruel trigger, a reminder that I had never unraveled the mystery. Every class stretched on endlessly, the words of my professors turning into background noise as my focus shifted to the people around me. My mind crafted a quiet obsession, convincing itself that if I only paid enough attention—just enough—I might find him. I might catch a glance, recognize a slant in someone's handwriting, stumble upon the telltale flick of a pen forming familiar letters. It became second nature to scan notebooks, to glance at scribbled margins and hastily written sentences. His handwriting was burned into my mind, waiting to be found again.And yet, life moved on.Routine settled in. University was no longer just a backdrop for my silent search; work and responsibilities kept me anchored in the present. The stray poems and their anonymous writer—once the brightest spark in my days—became a closed chapter, though one I still reread in the privacy of my thoughts.But something else, or rather someone else, had stepped into the spaces he left behind.Seungkwan.From the night we had first spoken outside of work, he had become a familiar presence—one that I found myself unconsciously looking for each morning. He was the type of person who made things easier, who filled the silence with lighthearted chatter, effortlessly pulling people into his orbit. His humor was easygoing, his stories full of mischief and warmth. He talked about his friends with such animated fondness that I often felt like I had lived those moments with him, teleporting into the memories he painted with his words.We were opposites in so many ways. He carried life with an ease I had never mastered, seeing the best in things without slipping into mindless optimism. It was a balance I respected. Two weeks turned into two months, and without realizing it, I had let him in. The mystery of the poems had faded into the background, but Seungkwan's presence filled the spaces they left behind.And this evening, I was about to step into his world.The coffee shop was warm and inviting, with soft golden lights spilling out onto the street. It was the kind of place that felt like a hidden gem . Cozy, unintimidating, a corner of the world where time slowed down. I hesitated for a second before pushing the door open, the faint scent of roasted coffee beans greeting me.Despite the late hour, there were only a few people inside.
My mind, usually quick to process things, blanked out entirely. And to make matters worse, the cashier was too good-looking, standing there with effortless confidence. I could already feel the embarrassment creeping in... he was definitely going to think I was staring.I internally cursed at myself, trying to shake my brain awake, but before I could even stammer out a word, Seungkwan's voice chimed in behind me."Just two iced lattes, Mingyu. We could never go wrong with the basic, right?"Relief washed over me as I gave a small nod and followed him to a table."So that's Mingyu, the lover boy?" I murmured, lowering my voice so only he could hear.Seungkwan grinned, matching my energy. "Exactly. And his soon-to-be girlfriend is the girl in the corner. Me and Soonyoung are trying to push them into a date, but we still haven't figured out the perfect spot."I glanced back at them before turning to Seungkwan. "Why are you even picking a spot for them? If it's their date, they'll make it work better if they just follow their own flow. All you guys need to do is set the stage, give them a little push." I smirked, throwing in a playful wink.Seungkwan's eyes lit up, his mind already running wild with plans. I could tell he was storing my words away, mentally crafting a scheme as he went all giggly about how brilliant the idea was.Before I knew it, the entire group had arrived.And as always, Seungkwan had plans for me.No options, no warnings , just participation.
A girl sat alone in the far corner, her posture hunched over, completely absorbed in her work. Something about her focus made me think I might enjoy studying here. My gaze lingered for a second before I turned back toward the counter , only to freeze.
What the hell do I order?
His goal for the night? For me to socialize. And not just with him, but with his friends.
The hot water from the shower washed away the exhaustion of the day. Towel-drying my hair, I sat down at my desk, staring at the clock. 3:13 AM. Too late to sleep, too early to stay awake. Maybe I should just skip work tomorrow.
Apparently, I needed to work on my social skills."You say things too bluntly" he had pointed out one day. "Honesty is good, but brutal honesty? Not so much."I never saw myself as someone who struggled socially, but the way he framed it made me rethink things. Maybe I had been too comfortable in my solitude, too used to keeping people at arm's length.And now, here I was ; seated among them, attempting to play along.The café had grown busier. The girl in the corner had left, and so had Mingyu.
Seungkwan has disappeared behind the counter to help Soonyoung, leaving me with three of his friends. Or rather, two , since Jeonghan was too busy teasing Chan to actually participate in the conversation.The one in front of me, Jihoon, was quiet... Too quiet.For a moment, the background noise faded, my thoughts drifting elsewhere , nowhere other than my favourit subject to zone out ,until I felt a light tap on my shoulder."Would you like to... I don't know, get some air?" His voice was low, just enough for me to hear. "They're starting to get on my nerves."I let out a small laugh. "Sure. I have to head home soon anyway."As we walked, I found myself speaking first. "Thanks for saving me from those two."i just noticed that started initiating lots of talks latelyJihoon shrugged. "You seemed like you were suffering there. And you mentioned having projects to work on, so I figured I could escape by walking you home."I chuckled at his honesty. "Well, it's a win-win."
But then, I saw it.A single sheet of paper.I had thought I was moving forward. But now, just as I had begun to feel steady, the sky darkened again.The poem was in my hands, and suddenly, all traces of sleep vanished. My heart pounded, my fingers trembled. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much I had tried to forget, I had always been waiting. Always.And now, he had answered.I read the words once. Then twice. Then a third time.And just like that, the storm inside me raged once more."I'm afraid thatI'll take you for granted.I think that's why I'm being like this.I'm nervous about that.What if I lose you?"Just when I thought the storm was over , and my boat started figuring out its direction through the ocean , the rain started pouring again , my heart had a tempest going inside again and the boat that was fighting to stay on the surface is now drowning .Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.He had given me what I had asked for ... a clear ending.And yet, it felt like anything but closure.
I thought I had started to adapt . Days passed, and I told myself that the weight in my chest was getting lighter. The ache of longing, once unbearable, dulled to something quieter, something I could live with. I convinced myself I was moving on, that the thoughts of him no longer dictated my every moment. The faceless figure in my mind , the one I had sculpted with my own hands, crafted with all the qualities I craved... was fading. Or so I believed.
He was the one who had stepped into my life, the one who had ignited this storm inside me.And so, I doubted my own doubts.Even when the days stretched long and empty, even when his absence turned into a permanent fixture in my life, I still believed in his return. I held on to the possibility, letting it lull me into a false sense of comfort. If he had come once, he would come again.But they say to be careful what you wish for. And I wasn't careful at all.I had prayed desperately, foolishly to hear from him, to see a sign, to receive something, anything that could put an end to my uncertainty. I had begged for closure, for clarity, for a conclusion to whatever this thing between us had been. I just needed one last moment. One final piece to set myself free.And then, just like that, he answered me.Not a whisper. Not a fleeting sign.
He was my own creation. A ghost I had painted into existence, shaped into an idea of perfection that had never been real. I filled in the blanks with my own desires, assigned him the traits I had longed for in another person. And most of all, I convinced myself that he was drawn to me, tethered to me in a way he could never escape.I had built my hope on the foundation of certainty—certainty that he would return. Because wasn't that how this worked? No matter how much time passed, he would come back. He had chosen me first. I had never asked for him, never sought him out.
No, it was a direct, undeniable answer.And now? Now I was nothing but a hollow body moving without a soul .I lost track of time and Time lost its meaning.
The days and nights blended together, each one into the next, my mind became a chaotic storm, every thought tangled in a spare, spinning out of control.
I couldn't even track my own thoughts; they ran wild, reckless, spiraling into nothingness.
His words echoed through me , not in sound, but in something worse. They existed in silence, in the spaces between my own thoughts, in the empty moments when I was supposed to be at peace.
They took root inside me, unwelcome and immovable, sinking deep into the marrow of my being.I couldn't stop them. I couldn't push them away. And that realization sent me spiraling.How did this happen? How had I let him seep into my life so thoroughly that even his absence felt like a presence?I had been so sure of my solitude before him.
I had wrapped myself in it like a protective cocoon, had convinced myself that I was content in my quiet world. And then he came along, tearing through my walls, threading himself into the fabric of my existence without permission. He had turned my solitude into loneliness. Had made the silence feel suffocating.And now he was gone, but the damage remained.
I was left staring at the ruins, standing amidst the wreckage of something that was never even tangible to begin with. How cruel was that? To be destroyed by something that was never real, by someone who had existed only in fragments, in half-truths and stolen moments?I could still feel the weight of his presence, even now, even as I sat in my room staring at nothing.
The air around me felt heavy, thick with something unspoken.And then I saw it.The poem.It sat there, unassuming yet ominous, waiting for me. As if it knew. As if it had been waiting for me all along.Just when I thought the storm had passed, when I had finally begun to navigate my way through the vast, empty ocean of my emotions, the rain came pouring again.
The ship I had so desperately tried to keep afloat was sinking, and I could do nothing to stop it.I held the paper in trembling hands, my eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. I had read his words countless times before, had memorized the way they flowed, the way they carried meaning beyond ink and paper. But this time, the words felt heavier. This time, they weren't a mystery ; they were a goodbye.And suddenly, it all clicked.The silent waiting. The restless nights.
The way my heart had stubbornly clung to the idea of him, refusing to let go. It was because I had never truly believed in an ending. I had never considered the possibility that he wouldn't return. That he wouldn't want to.But here it was. The end I had wished for, staring back at me in ink-stained clarity.
"I'm afraid thatI'll take you for granted.I think that's why I'm being like this.I'm nervous about that.What if I lose you?"
I read it once.
Then twice.
Then again and again, until the words blurred together, until my vision was too clouded by the burning in my eyes to make out the letters.And then, just like that, the tears fell.Not in quiet, delicate streams, but in violent, desperate waves. My chest heaved with the force of it, my entire body shaking with the weight of everything I had suppressed for so long.
I wanted an answer.And now I have one.But instead of setting me free, it left me shackled to something even heavier. Because now I wasn't just longing for him—I was mourning him. Mourning something that had never even begun.
And I didn't know how to stop.I know that my thoughts might sound unfair—to myself and to girls in general—but feelings don't abide by logic, do they? It's like losing a competition I never even entered or being the lone item left on a shelf after everything else has been chosen. It makes me feel like I'm not good enough, like there's something inherently lacking in me.
For the longest time, I was a loner, locked away in the walls of my own solitude. I used to blame my lack of connection on that , on not socializing enough, on never putting myself out there. But now, stepping into the light, I realize that even when I tried, even when I let myself believe that something, anything, could bloom, it never did.
Looking back at all the almosts and half-written stories ; the so-called situationships that never even deserved that name, I see them for what they were: fleeting words, empty exchanges, illusions of something more that never materialized. Signals that never crossed over into action. Affection that never exceeded conversation.
And I can't help but ask myself: What makes them different? The ones who are chosen, who are loved? What makes them worthy of being held, adored, fought for , while I remain here, untouched by it all?Maybe it goes deeper than romance. Maybe it's rooted in something I've always known but never wanted to say out loud. Is it because even from the beginning, I was never truly loved , Is love something that marks you from birth, and if you never had it then, does it mean you never will?
At this point, it's not about losing my poem writer or failing to win him over. It's not about any particular person at all.Now, I'm questioning my worth.
The sun slipped through the cracks of my window, casting golden streaks across the ceiling. I lay there, unmoving, watching the slow dance of dust particles in the morning light.I have been like this since Friday.Wrapped in the stillness of my own thoughts, I watched time pass without feeling its weight...
I thought time only blurred like this when we were consumed by joy, when we were laughing, lost in the presence of those we loved. But here I was, drowning in stillness, waiting for another Monday to arrive , another week to begin , without knowing why.Should I just call this another breakdown? Skip work again? Pretend the world beyond my bed didn't exist?My thoughts wandered, untethered, drifting into the abyss of questions I had no answers for.
Strangely, I wasn't even thinking about him. Instead, I found myself tangled in something deeper, a maze of self-reflection that led to nowhere. I wasn't living in the present , I was everywhere but here, dissecting my entire existence like an unsolvable puzzle.At some point, I must have drifted off because when I woke again, the light had shifted.
The hours had slipped through my fingers like sand, and I hadn't even noticed. This kept happening , falling in and out of restless sleep, over and over again, lost in the loop of a weekend. The only thing anchoring me to reality was the knowledge that my alarm was set for Monday. As long as it rang, there was no harm in molding myself into the mattress a little longer.
A sharp notification sound broke through the haze of my thoughts.For a moment, I ignored it. The mere thought of reaching for my phone felt impossible, like an exhausting, Herculean task. My body was heavy, weighed down by something intangible, and the short distance between me and the nightstand felt like an entire ocean.By the time I mustered the energy to reach for my phone, another notification had come in.I frowned.
Who would text me out of nowhere like this? I wasn't used to getting messages, not in the norm. If my best friend wanted anything, she'd call. But we hadn't spoken in so long.Curiosity pried my fingers into action, and I finally unlocked my phone.A strange number.Before my mind could even process what that meant, before I could start forming the cautious, hopeful questions in my head—before I could entertain the foolish possibility that it was him—another message popped up.
"It's Jihoon, btw."
I stared at the screen for a long moment, my mind catching up with reality. Jihoon? When did he get my number? Did I ever give it to him? My fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating, as I clicked into the conversation.
"Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to grab a coffee at Seungkwan's."
"Oh, I forgot , how are you doing?"
I blinked.Then, nothing.I didn't reply. I didn't even move. I just sat there, staring at the message, watching the seen mark appear on his side. I could see him typing, then stopping, then starting again... hesitating, just like me.A part of me wanted to reply immediately. Another part of me ; the part that was currently cocooned in blankets, unwilling to face the outside world , wanted to ignore it altogether.
Saying yes would mean getting up. Getting ready. Washing my face in this cold weather. And it was the weekend, I don't wash my face on weekends, especially not when I'm heartbroken. Picking an outfit felt like an impossible task, and layering up in winter always ruined my fashion sense anyway.No. I wasn't going. I wasn't answering. I wasn't even existing.
Why was he texting me anyway? Couldn't I just be depressed in peace?I let the phone drop onto my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling again.
But the message lingered in my mind.
Maybe I needed to go.Maybe I needed to move on ?
not just from him, but from this. From the way I had wrapped myself in sorrow, let it consume me like a second skin. I had spent too long drowning in an attachment to someone who had never even truly existed in my life, someone who had loved me only in words, in fleeting gestures, in poems left behind like unanswered questions.
He had covered me with paper-thin affection. I needed to build another wall.I grabbed my phone again, this time sending a screenshot of the conversation to my best friend. After all, my lawyer and right-hand girl needed all the details. Whatever I was experiencing, we lived it together.Before I couldn't even wait for her reply, another message from Jihoon arrived.
"?!"
I sighed. I had left him on read unintentionally.
"Yeah, sure. Give me an hour and I'll be ready."
"Perfect. I'll pick you up at 04:00."
I sent a simple thumbs-up and exhaled, pushing myself up from the bed. Every movement felt sluggish, but I forced myself forward. Gathering the last specks of energy I had, I dragged myself toward my in-house office.
There, sitting on my desk, was my notes journal. My last written heartbreak. It lay there as lifeless as I had been mere moments ago, untouched since the last time I had poured my emotions into its pages.
I picked it up.Flipping through the pages, I traced the inked words with my fingertips, reading the remnants of my own pain. My past self had documented every piece of my destruction with such care, as if preserving the suffering made it easier to bear.
But I was done letting these pages dictate my life.With a deep breath, I flipped to the next blank page—the one meant for the ending. My ending.
I wasn't going to be discarded like an afterthought. I wasn't going to be left drowning in unwritten closure. He had no right to reject me when I had never asked for his attention, his poems, his fleeting declarations of love.
So I would rewrite the narrative.I would live more.I would stop focusing on what I lacked and start appreciating what I had. I would let go, not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.He was the past. And no matter how much I longed for it, the present was already ahead of me, waiting to be lived.I closed the journal, the final lines of my own poem echoing in my mind:
No.I was longing for something new.And this time, I was going to find it.
Tears fall again
Unknown tears are falling
Am I longing for the past?
Over time, I came to understand that recovery is nothing more than a quiet accumulation of choices. The small acts of defiance against the sadness, the steady resolve to stand again, to breathe deeper, to feel more , not less. Each decision, however insignificant it seemed in the moment, built a bridge between the me who cried on bathroom floors and the me who now dares to look ahead. A gap slowly widened between me and the hurt. The memories still exist — they always will — but I buried them deep in the past, out of sight. I've learned that healing doesn't mean erasure. You can revisit the ruins, but you don't have to move back in.
I once thought coping was the hard part.
Facing your demons required something heroic, some strength I wasn't born with, wisdom I hadn't earned. But the truth revealed itself quietly, like dawn creeping through a cracked window: recovery isn't loud. It's not triumphant. It doesn't come in waves. It arrives one tiny step at a time, like footprints in the dust slowly marking distance between you and the ache that tries to make a home inside your chest.
And so I chose not to live with my sadness, but to overcome it.
I made peace with the nights I spent curled beneath my blankets wishing the world would just stop turning. I stopped trying to escape through an eternal slumber wrapped in despair, reliving the same grey hours in a loop. I opened the curtains instead. I chose color over grayscale. I painted again ,not canvases, but emotions. And yes, I kept the grey in my palette, tucked between lilac moments and the ochre of new beginnings. That grey ,most of it , was locked in the shape of a small book, in the poems journal
There was no plurals in its pages. It has always been a story of one ,of that person who chose the gray as a color and it suited him as he always was just a shadow,but now pages are gonna be mine , about my own colorful life ,about how I found my pieces again. just me.I finally made the decision to write myself as the main character.
"In this big world
I know I'm like a particle of dust Nothing is easyIn this exit-less, maze-like world"
Oddly enough, it was Jihoon who helped turn the page.
Being around him felt like walking into an old flower shop at the corner of a sleepy street ,the kind run by a wrinkled woman in a knit shawl, brooming away wilted petals from the doorway, gently turning the closed blooms toward the sunlight. That was Jihoon. Without a word, he made space for me to unfold, to face the light again. Our conversations were brief, but his presence lingered like the aftertaste of honey in warm tea.
He never meant to save me. He was just there ,a presence, quiet and unassuming. He didn't force laughter from me or fill silences with empty chatter. He was simply... there.
Still. Like the morning sun through a fogged window. Like a steady breath after a long cry. Not demanding, not overwhelming ,a perfect contrast to the storm of my thoughts and the burnout of my dwindling social energy.
In the maze I had been lost in, where shadows stretched endlessly and hope seemed like a cruel joke, Jihoon found me. He didn't drag me out. He simply reached for my sleeve, tugged gently, and waited. We walked out together.
Those two weeks felt like a lifetime. Time expanded in his presence, every moment heavy with a kind of sacred stillness I hadn't known I needed. My late-night calls with Sophia were filled with nothing but him ,his messages, his stories, the strange and tender things he remembered about me. He memorized details I didn't even know I revealed. He watched me the way people watch rain ,not rushing it, not trying to stop it, just letting it fall.
For once, I wasn't an afterthought. I wasn't a supporting character in someone else's fairytale. I was seen. And that terrified me.
Because attention from a stranger is addictive ,it makes you feel chosen, even if only temporarily. And sometimes, even the sweetest things can rot if you're not careful. I mistook care for connection, noticed for being needed. I thought I was healing, but maybe I was only getting high on affection ; a temporary fix for an empty heart.
And when the sweet began to fade, when the warmth didn't fill every crack like it used to, I saw the shadow around the rose-tinted glasses. La vie en rose? Maybe. But even rose-colored worlds have thorns. When you've lived in darkness long enough, even a flicker of light looks like the sun. I was so starved for warmth that I mistook kindness for forever.
Still, I chose to move forward.
That morning, I was getting ready for the picnic. My first outing with Jihoon, Jeonghan, and Seungkwan ,and Sophia was coming too. She already knew all of them in theory, thanks to my late-night gossip sessions that covered every detail since the day Seungkwan coaxed me out of isolation and back into life.
The white floral dress I wore made me feel like spring incarnate. I hummed quietly as I packed the basket, loading it with snacks, drinks, and memories waiting to be made. I imagined the taste of Sophia's famous homemade brownies melting in my mouth. It felt like a scene from a movie ,the kind of movie I never thought I'd be in.
The doorbell rang just as I stood by the entrance. Jihoon stood there, expression unreadable ,no smile, no warmth. But I didn't need it. He glowed in his own way, like a lantern whose flame burned low but steady. Calm. Secure.
"You're already done. Perfect. Jeonghan is waiting for us" he said, gently taking the basket from my hands.
Jeonghan smirked knowingly in the front seat. I quickly shared the location and we were off.
He didn't ask; he acted, like he'd always done. I followed him to the car, texting Sophia that we were on our way. Jihoon opened the back door for me, and I slipped in silently, expecting him to take the front passenger seat beside Jeonghan ,
But he slid in next to me instead, never once meeting my eyes.
The drive was quiet. Peaceful. Green fields blurred past the window, their gentle sway soothing something raw inside me. Sophia's eyes occasionally burned holes into the back of my head through the rearview mirror as I pretended not to notice.
Somewhere along the road, somewhere between the silence and the sunlight, I realized I was on the way . Not healed, no But healing.
And that, for now, was enough.
I read the words again, slowly, my lips moving silently along their curve, my fingertips brushing lightly against the paper as though trying to hold the warmth of the moment within them. The ink was smudged slightly at the edges , just faintly enough to remind me that it was real. Not something dreamt up in a late-night haze, not a forgotten lyric or a line from some book that stuck to my mind , but something said to me. To my face. With eyes that didn't waver.
"When things get hard, let's hold hands
I'll pat your shoulders
Sometimes, when you get tired from life
When things are hard, come to me"
This time, it wasn't me pouring words onto the page in solitude, trying to make sense of pain or searching for solace in syllables. It wasn't a hidden confession slipped under my door, or a message I imagined in the space between silence and sleep. It was him. Jihoon. Who I once believed was only quiet in presence, not in poetry.
I closed the notebook gently, like tucking in a sleeping child, and placed it back on the shelf where it belonged. It had become more than a book ; it was a keepsake now. A reliquary of little moments stitched together by the hands of healing.
I wasn't prepared for the way his words would linger inside me. They didn't pierce like the phrases of others once had. They didn't bloom with intensity or burn with longing. They settled. Softly. Like light dusting over morning dew. And maybe that's what made them different. They weren't declarations. They were invitations.
.
.
.
The ride to this enchanted space was quiet, but not heavy. The kind of silence that made you notice small things , the way Jihoon's fingers tapped lightly against the handle of the basket, the rhythmic sound of the wheels against the road, the occasional flicker of sunlight dancing across Jeonghan's rearview mirror. I leaned back in my seat, my body still worn from the weight of everything I had been carrying lately, but my heart felt lighter.
From the back seat, I could see Sophia's location moving slowly toward ours. She was always fashionably late, and I wasn't surprised, but I hoped she'd arrive just in time for the quiet to be replaced with the sound of her bright, unapologetic laughter. Her brownies were already a scent in my imagination; soft, chocolatey warmth, always wrapped in parchment paper and a crooked ribbon she'd pretend to hate but never stop using.
When we arrived at the park, the sun was still shy behind drifting clouds. The grass, damp from last night's rainfall, smelled earthy and clean. A field of daffodils tilted in the wind like small yellow heads nodding in welcome. Jeonghan parked the car up the hill while we decided to go sit down in the tall shade of an old pine tree. The moment I stepped out, the breeze caught the hem of my sundress, fluttering it like a whispered reminder that spring was, indeed, breathing again.
Jihoon helped me unload the basket without a word. He was always like that, his language was in gestures. I used to think love had to be loud to be real. Now I was learning that sometimes it existed in the quiet: in someone carrying the heavier bag, opening the car door, walking beside you in silence without asking for anything in return.
We picked a spot on a small hill where the sun hit just right, half-shaded by the budding branches above us. Seungkwan spread the checkered blanket over the grass with a flair, laying out cups, plates, a speaker he carried in his backpack, and a thermos full of some honey tea he'd been experimenting with. He moved like someone used to creating joy wherever he went. Jihoon sat down beside him, back against the tree, his knees bent, his gaze drifting somewhere toward the horizon.
Then I saw her. Sophia.
Walking up the hill from the car in her oversized jean jacket and sneakers, holding a box of brownies like it was a sacred offering. She waved with one hand, her other arm wrapped around the tray to protect it like it held treasure which, in a way, it did. Only to be snatched by jeonghan ,claiming he'll bring it more safely
"Took you long enough,"
I teased, rising slightly to wave her in, she rolled her eyes and sat beside me, slightly out of breath, unwrapping the brownie tray and offering it to everyone like communion. I bit into one and nearly groaned at the taste. She always said baking was her love language;flour, sugar, and cocoa butter in place of words she didn't know how to say.
"I'm trying," I whispered back.
"You look better,"
she whispered under her breath once the boys were distracted arguing over who brought the wrong speaker cable.
And that was the truth. I wasn't healed, not completely. But I was present. I was wearing a dress I hadn't touched in over a year, smiling under a spring sun I had once blocked out with blackout curtains. I was sitting among people who saw me, not as someone broken or in need of fixing, but as someone choosing to live again.
As we ate and laughed and shared pieces of our lives, the ache in my chest softened. I watched Jihoon, his quiet attentiveness, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at Jeonghan's impressions, the way he stole a second brownie when he thought no one was looking. And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I was observing life from a distance...
Under the golden coated sky, where the sun melted slowly behind distant hills and the air was thick with the fragrance of wildflowers, everything felt slower ; suspended, even. The earth felt softer underfoot, the grass swaying in rhythms only it understood. All around us were colors: pale yellows, burnt oranges, rose pinks, muted greens. It was a living canvas. The kind of scene I used to sketch inside my head as an escape ; but here it was, real and breathing around me telling me the softest words in a time I needed them the most .
"And You know," he murmured, "it's okay if you're still figuring things out. If it gets hard, you don't have to hide."
I didn't know what to say. So I didn't say anything. I just nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. And he seemed to understand that silence wasn't absence ; it was presence in another language.
We walked back in a quiet kind of rhythm, our steps unconsciously aligned , as if we were dancers moving to a song we couldn't hear, yet somehow understood. I hadn't even noticed the smile tugging at my lips until Sophia shot me a narrowed glance, her mouth forming the teasing words, "look at you, glowing." I rolled my eyes, dismissive on the outside,but inside, I was still smiling.
I wrote as I finished folding the small piece of paper neatly, just to burn it in my balcony under the dim night light, thinking about this whole journey. How my notebook had lost lots of paper and still lost more. Did she burn them just like I do with my silent vows for her?
At first, it was just the way she looked at the world, like everything around her existed in quiet hues, and yet somehow, she still glowed through all of it. She didn't smile much, but when she did, it was like catching a glimpse of a shooting star. Brief. Bright. Gone too fast. That's when I started writing.
The notes were never meant to be found. Not really. I slipped them between my books,whenever i saw her sipping on her coffee cup at the corner café, silently resting on her favorite bench in the park.It felt harmless at first. Writing to her. For her. I just wanted to take it out of my heart and make it into life ,something beautiful in a world that often left her looking tired, burdened. I noticed the way her fingers clenched her shoulder bag strap on particularly bad mornings, how her steps faltered after long study sessions, how her shoulders hunched when she walked back home under streetlights that always flickered. I memorized her routines like verses. Her silences. Her sighs. Her shadows.
yet She never asked for this. She never invited me into her world.
But I crossed lines. I knew I did. The more I watched, the more I wrote.
And the more I wrote, the more I realized how dangerously close I was to slipping into obsession , not with her, but with the illusion of her I had built in my head. My prayer-like whispers were meant to ease the ache I noticed in her chest, even if she never knew who whispered them. Even if she never knew it came from me
So I stopped.
I was terrified she'd find out. That she'd feel violated instead of cherished. That she'd think I was a stranger with a twisted fascination, someone who romanticized her pain for his own fulfillment. I couldn't tolerate the thought of becoming that person in her eyes. So I left. And in doing so, I set her free from a web she didn't even know existed. Or so I thought .
I stopped writing. I stopped watching so closely.
I disappeared. Not because I stopped caring , but because I cared too much.
And It hurts , watching her from afar again, returning to the shadows of her life like I was nothing more than a passing thought, a footnote in her story. But that was the right place for me to be. She deserved to find happiness on her own terms, not tethered to someone who had built a version of her out of scribbled lines and moonlit metaphors.
Still, even in silence, I kept rooting for her. I celebrated every day she got out of bed, every time she smiled at a friend, every moment she chose herself. That was always the goal. To lift her, not claim her. To love her in a way that never asked anything in return.
A flashback of how it all started hits me like cold water pouring all over , days away from now felt like ages in the past ,how The first poem idea came on a night when sleep wouldn't come. My fingers trembled against the page. I didn't write her name, I just couldn't. So i wrote for her, about her, into the space between them. The words spilled as if they'd been waiting
I folded it neatly, didn't even know what to do with it now lost in sleepless thought i find myself unconsciously doodling on a small sticky note and like if i was sleepwalking , i woke up from the storm of thoughts in my head after my hands slipped the 2 paper pieces through the slip down her door ,It felt like crossing a boundary, but also like offering something fragile , harmless anonymous kindness, nothing more. But the truth was, it was deeply personal.
"A very small pinwheel
It's standing alone and just blankly
Looking for someone anxiously and a bit lonely ,
felt like I was looking at me."
The next one was harder , I watched her surviving a very tough week , fighting a war behind her eyes, i so wanted to pat her back , to provide her some emotional support ,to hug her through the hard times but all i had are silent prayers , but i can slip another note ,another drawing , i can hug her through my words ,i did it once already so this time felt easier , my heart isn't pounding as fast as last time , That night, i wrote
That was my hug .
"To me, you are infinitely precious.
Would you like to tell me that you had a hard day today?
Saying I have you, thank you for your hard work, saying I love you, and holding you tight.
When you're having a hard time, you can hug me; I'm the same.
You know that even if you hide it, it won't be hidden."
More notes followed, each one a quiet tether between them. Each one carrying pieces of me I couldn't say aloud. I wrote about the gray days, the loneliness I imagined in her silence, the resilience I admired from afar.
But with each note, fear crept in. How much did i really know about her? Too much. I knew where she studied. Where she worked. What time she left her apartment. What flowers she paused to look at outside the bookstore. I never meant to memorize it all , it simply happened, as if her presence rewrote the rhythm of my life. And that was when the guilt started. What if she found out? Would she see me as a ghost, a voyeur? Would it break her to know the stranger who noticed her so deeply had been walking alongside her all along? I wasn't proud of knowing her address, though it had come unintentionally,it just happened that i passed by one day, shocked to see her standing at the gate, looking so small in a world that never made space for softness...
And the whole verses drops saga started. Till i stopped writing.
Stopped visiting her usual places.
Disappeared like mist after a storm.
It killed me to do it, but it was for her own good. She deserved to heal without shadows. To live without the burden of questions. I believed she needed to find the light on her own , and i was just an echo, something she might look back on with fond confusion. Nothing more.
I still thought of her often. Still wrote, but only for myself now. Sometimes i'd whisper her name into the pages, like a prayer , cuz Sometimes it's enough just to be near ,Even if that nearness is invisible.
I returned to my silence, back to the first chapter of our untold story
where i watched her from afar, unseen and unheard, admiring the way she carried her world without knowing anyone was watching.
Because loving her was never about being seen.
And now, watching her walk beside me,shoulders relaxed, laughter unguarded
I don't regret a single word I wrote. Even if she never knows they were mine. Even if she never connects the dots.
It was about seeing her.
And letting her go, when holding on would've done more harm than good.
The hallway felt emptier than it ever had. The air was still, heavy, like the silence that follows a slammed door. Her door, once so familiar , marked by the faint scratches near the handle and the chipped paint at the bottom , stood in front of me like a monument to everything I'd ruined.
She was gone. I knew it the moment I arrived.
Still, I stood there.
No faint scent of her favorite jasmine detergent drifting under the door.
Looked up unconsciously, maybe cuz I used to check if she's still awake to make sure it was safe for me to practice my weekly ritual but i saw No plants on the windows and The curtains behind them were drawn in a way that said finality, empty .
I don't know how long I stared at the threshold where I had, for so many quiet Sundays, left pieces of my heart. Folded poems. Doodles she never knew were mine. Tiny offerings I slipped through that narrow crack under her door, believing, foolishly, that maybe beauty could reach her before I ever did.
At first, writing to her had been a relief. A way to breathe again. The words came from a place deeper than I knew I had ; a place where I stored all the fragments I wasn't brave enough to speak aloud.
Sceneries of her sitting alone in the library, shoulders slumped under the weight of something invisible, but eyes still tracing the spines of books like they were lifelines. I didn't know her then. Not really. But I felt her sadness like an echo in my own ribs.
Each week after that, the words came easier.
And with each poem, I felt closer. Not in a physical way, not like the kind of closeness that asks for something in return. Just close enough to keep hoping. Close enough to imagine that my quiet could reach her silence, and maybe—maybe—heal something.
But that hope turned against me.
The day I saw her reading the notes with wonder in her eyes, I also saw something else: her starting to believe in someone who didn't exist. Someone safe. Someone magical. Someone kind.
I was the stranger who knew too much ; her walk times, her classes, the cafés she liked to sit in alone. I was the man who watched from a distance, who noticed things he shouldn't have. I thought it was admiration. I told myself it was poetry. But the truth was uglier than that.
She deserved that person.
But I wasn't him.
When we met by chance—truly met by my friends plan—I told myself I'd start over,somehow clean. I thought if I just stayed silent, if I never told her, I could rewrite myself. That I could be the Jihoon she smiled at over coffee, not the shadow from her doorstep.
But I was wrong.
She found out. I don't know how. Maybe a line I'd forgotten I'd used... But something in her changed the moment she realized.
The light dimmed in her.
And then, just like that ... she was gone.
No word. No confrontation. Just absence.
I didn't blame her.
What I did... it wasn't love. Not in the way she needed. Not in the way that made her feel safe. I told myself I was being gentle, but I was only protecting myself.
Still, I needed to say goodbye. I needed to close this book.
So I stood there, holding the last letter I would ever write .
My hands trembled as I slid the paper beneath her door , one final poem, one final goodbye, even though I knew she would never read it.
"We're getting farther apart,
Then I just need to catch you
So you won't get far,
That should be enough."
Tears fell freely this time, no longer hidden, no longer held back. They stained the ink, blurring the words I had so carefully chosen.
I stood for a long moment, waiting for... nothing.
No response.
No footsteps.
Just silence.
And then, I turned and walked away , leaving behind the only love story I had ever written, one she never asked for, one she never got to finish.
your birthday is tomorrow and your gift's delivery date was pushed back an extra two days.
he muttered under his breath, pacing the room.
"well i did rent out that entire restaurant for dinner. plus i bought out every single one of her favorite flowers from that florist's shop. and i suppose it doesn't hurt that i hired her favorite band to play to. oh, and luckily i arranged for fireworks to go off after dinner.”
gojo sighs.
your birthday is ruined. and it's all his fault. he lies in bed sulking, considering to cuss out jeff bezos himself when he hears the front door open.
"satoru i'm home!"
he scrambles to greet his wife, wrapping her in a hug. as you two pull apart, you notice his expression.
"are you okay? what's wrong?"
"everything is ruined. the stupid package isn't arriving until after your birthday. they had one job! one" he sighs and shakes his head. "this is the worst day of my life."
you chuckle, shaking your head at your husband.
"toru it's not a big deal, i swear. it's okay."
"no it's not, everything is ru—"
you cut him off with a kiss. he cups your face, running his thumb along your cheek. you pull away, glaring at him.
"if you say 'everything is ruined' again, you're sleeping on the couch."
his eyes widen and he nods.
"yes ma'am."
In the comfort of solitude and the safety of routine, she thought she found peace. A quiet observer of the world who lived by rhythm, by silence, by control...until a disruption
breaks her preordained life, and what begins as a small unconvenience encounter soon
From a balcony dressed in potted plants, a sun-faded round table at its center,
I watched as I always do … the movements of the world around me.
The days unfolded just as the birds left their nests every morning.
Events followed the same rhythm,
In the same order,
At the same time.
That quiet routine always gave me comfort,
A sense of balance,
A feeling that everything was still within my grasp.
And I held tightly to that belief.
But within that soft symphony,
I began to wonder
Is it silence that makes us feel every passing minute?
Or is it solitude that slows down time?
We, humans, often fail to recognize the quiet details surrounding us.
Even the ones that disturb us.
They still carry their own shade of color
A hue that stains our lives, subtly but permanently.
And Perhaps the noise in my past
Was merely a reflection of the stillness within me.
Maybe , in the end, working under pressure simply suits some people.
And I had grown used to being one of those few.
The weight of deadlines, the rush of tasks
they were always far lighter than the weight of people.
There was no need for a strict schedule, no one standing over me with expectations.
I simply did what I loved, at my own pace
Or at least, I liked to believe so.
To be honest, I don’t think I could ever go back to sharing my space with anyone.
Not after I truly came to understand the value of complete solitude.
And strangely enough, I never found myself troubled by that realization.
I convinced myself that kind of sparkle
the one people call connection
was never mine to begin with.
And I never waited for life to surprise me with some hidden treasure.
I liked being in my comfort zone.
I liked the silence, the control, the stillness of knowing what tomorrow would look like.
And for now, I’m still convinced that I want things to stay exactly as they are.
But then...
He came in like a bright, inspiring song
That was the first comparison that came to my mind when I saw him
He was the kind of person who drew every eye in a crowded room.
Sharp features, golden skin ; kissed by the sun.
Tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a presence too bold to ignore.
At a table full of young men, he was always the first one you’d notice.
He might’ve had the look of a charming heartbreaker
The kind of guy who knew he was dangerous and wore it like cologne.
But the surprise was... he wasn’t like that at all.
It could’ve been anyone else, me, you, anyone.
But not him.
I stepped into the café in silence.
The book rested in my hands, pages trembling slightly , not from the breeze, but from my own unsettled grip.
It was my first time working with this publishing house, and to say I wasn’t pleased would be a polite understatement.
A storm of emotion stirred within me , mostly anger, because they hadn’t kept their promises. Frustration, at the hideous cover that had nothing to do with my aesthetic, my identity as a writer. Disappointment, because the release date had been delayed again, without so much as a proper excuse for all my readers .
I made my way to my usual seat, the one by the window, the one that knew me better than most people. I sat down and opened the book. My latest work. A catastrophe, at best. It didn’t look like mine. It didn’t feel like mine. The design, the layout, the soul…everything had been distorted. I was bracing myself for the possibility that they might have even rewritten parts of it.
I pulled out my phone and dialed their number, trying to suppress the fire rising in my chest. I can ignore a lot of things, but not when someone ruins the one thing that holds the most meaning to me ; my books.
Then I felt a shadow beside me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a barista’s apron. Without looking up, I muttered softly,
“The usual, please.”
No response.
I sighed deeply and redialed the number. Still nothing. But the presence—his presence—remained beside me, quiet and unwavering.
My thoughts got tangled. The call, the book, and what I thought was seungkwan standing still on top of my head all along … everything was overlapping. I couldn’t take it.
Frustrated, I rested my head on the table and let out a sharp breath.
“Could you stop staring and just bring my order?” I snapped, my voice edged with exhaustion. “Some of us are having a really bad day, and you’re making it worse.”
I regretted it the moment the words escaped.
I looked up, and my heart sank.
It wasn’t Kwan, neither soonyoung . It wasn’t anyone I recognized.
Just a stranger.
The universe must’ve been playing games with my nerves today.
Flushed with embarrassment and anger, I grabbed my bag and stormed out, aware of the confused eyes following me.
I didn’t know where I was going.
All I knew was that I needed air. A quiet place. A corner where I could collect myself and make sense of everything ,of the ruined book and my shattered expectations, and the awkward moment I just created.
I just needed stillness. A reset.
Inhale…
Exhale…
The feeling of tension in front of this door is unfamiliar.
And yet here I am, pausing before I step in.
I enter, and almost instinctively, my eyes begin to search for him , without permission, without thought.
For a moment, I managed to convince myself that everything that happened yesterday was just in my head. A passing illusion. A trick of exhaustion.
And I almost believed it , when I didn't see him.
I sat in my usual spot, as if routine alone could ground me.
I put on my headphones and begin working on my next book, trying to bury myself in the lines and outlines, in plots that make more sense than real life.
A few minutes pass.
A plate and a cup are placed in front of me.
And then… his shadow settles across the table from me.
Still, I don’t look up. My eyes remain fixed on the screen. I pretend to type something important.
But of course, who else could it be?
Kwan. Come to ramble above my head, as always.
He starts talking without warning, his voice carrying its usual nonchalance.
“You didn’t come in yesterday, did you?”
“Why are you asking?”
“You won’t believe what happened. Some crazy customer yelled at one of the staff for no reason.”
He takes a sip from the iced coffee , the one that was clearly meant for me , then goes on:
“And not just any staff. A friend of mine. It was his first day. If you had been here, I swear, I would've put that woman in her place.”
I lift my eyes from the screen, and meet his.
A slight smile curves my lips, though my tone remains dry.
“Hmm. Yeah. I was here yesterday.”
I pause, letting the weight of the next words land exactly where they should.
“And that crazy woman… was me.”
Some might call it pride.
Maybe even arrogance.
But the truth is I’ve never been good at apologizing.
I tend to treat things as if they never happened.
Sweep them under the silence.
Carry on with the same expression, the same rhythm,
as if nothing ever cracked the surface.
And I know that kind of reaction doesn’t sit well with most people.
People expect words.
They expect the right ones,
wrapped in remorse, delivered with softness.
But even when I try, even when the apology is sincere,
it never feels enough.
It always sounds rehearsed in my own ears, like I’m borrowing someone else’s lines.
And now… here I am, seated across from him,
in a moment that clearly calls for one.
He’s quiet.
His gaze is fixed on the cup between his hands, turning it slowly, almost absentmindedly, as if the steam might spell out answers he doesn’t want to ask me for.
“Mingyu, right?”
His eyes flicker up to meet mine for a brief second.
Then a quiet nod.
“Yes, it’s him.”
I inhale, hold it, and let the words spill slowly.
“I know this might sound odd... but I really am sorry.
For how I acted before.”
There’s a pause , a long one. I fill it with more words, because silence has never been kind to me.
“I mean… it’s not like I gave you trauma or anything,”
I add with a nervous half-smile,
“but still, I acted poorly. And I regret that.”
His brow lifts ever so slightly.
Then he shrugs,
the motion casual, but his eyes hold a softness I didn’t expect.
“It really wasn’t that big of a deal,” he says.
“I don’t know why Kwan made such a fuss about resolving a conflict that barely existed.”
My lips curl faintly.
“Well… that day it was obvious. You saw it too, didn’t you?
That I wasn’t okay.
That something was… off.”
He looks down again, nodding once.
“Yeah. I figured. Things like that happen sometimes.”
I don’t respond right away.
Instead, I watch the way the light from the café window cuts across his face , sharp angles softened by the quiet hum of mid-morning stillness.
There’s something unsettling about his calm,
like he carries the kind of understanding that doesn’t need to be explained.
And for a moment,
I wonder what it would’ve been like
to have met him on a better day.
I haven't been going to the café much lately.Not as often as I used to. Life had gotten… busy.
Or maybe I was keeping myself busy on purpose.
That afternoon, I was making a cup of tea, watching the rain trickle down the windowpane,
each drop tracing its own path across the glass as I waited for the water to boil.Then the doorbell rang.
I paused.
It was strange , I wasn’t used to unannounced visitors. Or any visitors, really.
And who else would dare show up at my door without warning?
Of course. Seungkwan.I opened the door to find him standing there, eyebrows knit in mock frustration, holding a box in his hands.
Without even a greeting, he brushed past me and made his way inside,
setting the box dramatically on the table like it was some sort of peace offering.
I wasn’t surprised. This was perfectly in character for him.
Behind him, another figure lingered at the threshold. He looked uncertain, like he was still processing what he’d just walked into.
I offered a small smile.
“Don’t just stand there. Come in,” I said softly.
Mingyu stepped inside, eyes scanning the place like he didn’t want to intrude yet still can’t handle curiosity.I turned to Seungkwan.
“So… am I allowed to know the reason for this unexpected visit?”
He gestured proudly to the table.
“I brought you mocha , cookies and donuts.”
I raised a brow.
“Oh? What’s the catch ‘buy two, get one Mingyu free’?”
My eyes flicked to Mingyu, who chuckled under his breath.
Seungkwan just grinned and patted the couch beside him like this was his living room
and I was the guest.
“I just wanted to make sure,” he said as he settled in,
“that I’m not the reason you stopped coming to the café every day like you used to.”
He nodded in Mingyu’s direction.
“As you can see, someone here won’t stop complaining
that I’m costing him his daily source of income.”
I turned to look at Seungkwan, feigning a dramatic gasp.
He cut me off before I could even begin my performance.
“Friendship is important,” he declared,
“but money is more important. Sorry not sorry.”
I rolled my eyes and took a seat, letting my expression soften.
“Well, sorry to disappoint you both,” I said as I brought over the cup of tea I’d been making,
“but the universe doesn’t revolve around Mingyu.”
I took a sip, letting the warmth settle into my hands.
“I’ve just been drowning in work lately. That’s all.”
They didn’t interrupt.
And I didn’t stop there.
“I’m also trying to let go of some old habits,” I continued.
“And going to your café every single day is one of them.”
The words hung in the air for a moment . There was no bitterness in my voice, only a quiet truth.
One that didn’t need to be defended and I think I was a little naïve
when I convinced myself I could reason with Seungkwan.yet, here I am…
standing once again in front of his café.
The doorbell chimed softly as I stepped inside.
Everything was still in its place as if time had respectfully paused during my absence.But then again, what was I expecting to change in just a week?
My usual table sat empty, quietly waiting for me, as though it had missed me too.
But I didn’t sit there this time.
Instead, I chose a new seat, one by the wide glass window that looked out onto the street. It felt symbolic somehow.
A shift.
A pause.
I hadn’t brought my laptop. No notebooks, no highlighters, no to-do list scribbled in the margins.
As much as I love my work, there comes a time when even passion asks for rest.
When the mind, cluttered with ideas, deadlines, and characters, simply craves silence.
So I sat—alone,
not in loneliness,
but in quiet companionship with myself.
I watched the world unfold behind the glass. Strangers walking beneath gray skies, umbrellas tilted, footsteps rushed or deliberate. Each person is driven by their own reasons for being out on a moody, rain-kissed afternoon.
I was halfway lost in that thought when the soft clink of glasses startled me back.
A tray was placed in front of me.
Chamomile tea. And an iced latte.
“You’re welcome,” came a familiar voice.
“Kwan told me to make you something hot—he claims you’ve sworn off anything cold lately.” A short pause, then a smirk “But I don’t trust him, so I came to check for myself.”
I turned, surprised.
“Soonyoung?”
I blinked, unsure if it was really him at first.
“This is how you greet your friends after they come back from a trip?” I teased,
my voice light with mock accusation.
I reached for the cup of tea,
placing it gently in front of me like a small peace offering to myself.
“If I tell you something,” I said slowly, locking eyes with him,
“Will you promise to keep it a secret?”
I think I overcomplicate things sometimes.
When I first found out that Mingyu would be working regularly with Kwan and Soonyoung,
I felt… irritated. Not exactly angry ,just slightly unsettled.
But in truth, his presence didn’t really change anything.
He mostly stayed near the register anyway.
Which meant: minimal interaction.
A comfortable, manageable distance.
But today, he wasn’t there.
Instead, it was Soonyoung standing behind the counter,
hands busy, humming something softly.
I tried not to let it bother me.
I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.
But after saying hello,
the question just slipped out.
“Where’s Mingyu? Is he on break? …on vacation or something?”
Soonyoung shot me a look , half suspicious, half amused.
“I know why you’re asking me of all people,” he said,
narrowing his eyes in mock accusation.
“You’re hoping I’ll let something slip.
Well, too bad. I’m not saying a word.”
I raised a brow.
“You’re not saying a word because you know something.
Which makes this even more suspicious.”
“I don’t know anything. Ask Kwan.”
“Kwon Soonyoung,” I muttered under my breath,
“What exactly are you two hiding from me?”
I folded my arms across my chest.
“You know I hate surprises. And I won’t hesitate to resort to violence if necessary.”
He ignored me. Completely!!. Which only confirmed my suspicion.
They were hiding something.
And the fact that Soonyoung of all people was taking this seriously, that was the real giveaway.
He was notoriously bad at keeping secrets. And this wasn’t going to be the exception.
All it would take… was a little bit of my signature Drama Queen tactics.
“Soonyoung,” I began, voice low and deliberate,
“Did I not choose you, of all people, to trust with my secret?”
“You know how much I hate involving others in my personal life. And yet I told you. Only you.”
“And this is how you repay that trust?”
He looked at me… Really looked.
And for a moment, I saw him cave— his lips parted, his expression softening , but then he caught himself.
His face hardened again.
“Your tricks won’t work this time,” he said, voice firm.
“I’m not telling you. No matter how hard you try.”
Then he added quietly,
“This is the first time I’ve seen Mingyu actually care about a girl . And I’m not going to be the one to ruin that for him.”
I froze.
The words hung in the air like smoke.
My mind scrambled to process them.
Soonyoung, realizing what he’d just said,
took about three seconds to register it himself.
His eyes widened ever so slightly.
He’d already said too much.
And he knew it.
I suppose I’ve grown used to being the center of attention.
At least when it comes to girls.
I’ve had more than my fair share of fleeting relationships, connections that sparked, flickered, and faded before they had the chance to become anything real.Maybe it left me feeling tired. Maybe I’m just… full of myself.But with her, it’s different.
There’s something strange about the way I’m drawn to her. Not the kind of attraction I’m used to ;quick, shallow, easy. No. This one grows slowly, like a thought that lingers long after it should’ve passed.When I look at her, I don’t catch her stealing glances at me.
She doesn’t stare.
She doesn’t flirt.
She barely even notices me, really.
And somehow, that only pulls me closer.There’s no need to dress my best around her, no pressure to impress. Because she truly doesn’t care. She treats me like I’m anyone, just another face in the café…Maybe that’s what stirred something in me. The fact that she doesn’t see me the way others do. The way she carries herself , detached but grounded. Focused. Quiet. Entirely in her own world.
And what started as idle curiosity, slowly began to evolve into interest, into quiet admiration.Into something dangerously close to affection.But how long am I going to keep watching her from across the room? I don’t talk to her unless she approaches the counter to place her order. And even then, I never get the chance to hand it to her myself.It’s always Soonyoung.
He swoops in, grabs the drink from my hands, and delivers it to her like it’s a gift only he is allowed to give.
Then they talk.
And talk.
And talk.
Maybe it only feels like hours because I’m watching from a distance.But still … I see the way she smiles at him, the way she furrows her brows when he says something that seems to annoy her. I see her turn her laptop toward him, or hand him her phone, lost in some deep explanation.And I catch myself wishing , just once… that I was the one listening to her talk so deeply invested in whatever she likes , i want her raw ideas and her unfiltered personality that shows up only to specific people like that.
It’s four in the afternoon now , The time she usually shows up ,I was still behind the counter, greeting customers and taking orders, when she walked in , barely glancing at me as she passed, a book raised high in her hand.She moved fast, her expression lit with excitement, heading straight toward Soonyoung and Seungkwan, who were lounging near the back.I watched as she grabbed them both by the arms, presenting the book to them like it was some kind of treasure.And then … They embraced her. The three of them laughing, celebrating something I couldn’t quite hear. And god how jealousy burned in me at that moment , Not the kind that’s loud or bitter ; The kind that sits deep in your chest and reminds you exactly where you stand.I looked away. I had no right to feel anything , And yet I did.
I was still lost in thought when I noticed them walking toward the counter , all three of them now.Seungkwan had that smirk on his face; the one he wears when he’s up to something.They stopped in front of me, and he spoke first:
“Our brilliant author just hit a bestseller milestone with her latest book.”
He beamed. “And we’re going out to celebrate. You coming with us?” Then he winked.
It had been nearly half an hour. We were still standing here just the two of us.
Waiting.
Soonyoung and Seungkwan were nowhere to be seen.Mingyu had called them several times, but they weren’t answering. Not even a text. Not even a simple “on our way.”
We had all agreed to meet here, then go out to dinner together, a casual celebration.But it seemed, for whatever reason, they had decided to abandon the plan without warning.
A breeze passed by. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, pretending to check my phone, pretending not to feel awkward.The silence between us stretched, not uncomfortable, but not exactly easy either.Then his voice broke through.
“I didn’t know you were a writer.”
His tone was curious, not accusing.yet Like he’d just stumbled upon a quiet piece of me.
I shrugged, glancing away with a soft smile.
“I’m not sure I really am,” I replied, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Let’s just say I was lucky enough to have one of my manuscripts noticed by a publisher. They offered me a chance. That’s all.”
He tilted his head, watching me with a calm sort of attentiveness that made me feel far more exposed than I wanted to be.
“I’m not really the kind of guy who reads much,” he admitted.
“But if they noticed your work , and if it became a bestseller, then it’s not just luck. You must be talented.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.Compliments usually don’t stick. They pass through me like background noise.But this one, his voice low, sincere, saying something I never quite believed about myself , this one lingered.I could feel the warmth creeping up my neck. If I looked in a mirror right now, I was sure I’d resemble a tomato.Still, I held onto my composure as best I could. I thanked him. Kept my voice even, as if the compliment hadn’t sent my heart racing just a little.I didn’t know what to say next. Didn’t know how to move forward without sounding clumsy.Thankfully, his phone rang.
He answered quickly , a slight furrow appearing between his brows as he listened.
“Ah, it’s Kwan,” he said after a moment, turning to me. “There was an emergency. They won’t be able to make it.”
I nodded slowly. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.
he looked at me,
his expression shifting—lighter, more open.
“I guess we’ll have to reschedule for another time.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I mean… two people are enough to celebrate, aren’t they? If you don’t mind, of course.”
We didn’t go to dinner right away.Instead, we found ourselves in front of an old traditional looking cinema a few blocks away, a relic of the old days with the authentic velvet seats and faded posters.
“Let’s just watch something random,” she said.“Something we know nothing about.”
I agreed. The spontaneity felt refreshing.
We chose a film we couldn’t even pronounce properly, some indie drama with vague reviews.
The kind of movie that either bored you to sleep or changed your life.
Inside the dim theatre, she chose the seats. Middle row, off-center.I ended up with the better view of the screen,maybe cuz the height factor was secured to my side, but truthfully, my eyes kept drifting sideways.
She sat beside me, barely brushing shoulders, her body still, focused ,but never rigid. Whenever I shifted, she shifted too, subtly. Like we were caught in the same quiet current,both pretending not to notice.
As the movie started, I expected her to fidget, maybe whisper about how dull it was. But no she was locked in.She didn’t just watch the movie. She read it.Every plot twist, she saw it coming.
I’d hear her lean in with a soft smirk and whisper, “She’ll say she’s leaving in 3… 2… now.” And just like that ,the screen obeyed her.She barely smiled at the comedic moments. Didn’t laugh when the room did. But whenever a character chose someone else over themselves, gave something up, made a sacrifice, that’s when she reacted.
She’d lean forward slightly, her eyes lit with something tender and solemn. And then she’d whisper to herself maybe to me too: “This is unreal and absurd .”
I had to ask, “Why?”
She didn’t even pause. “As much as people pretend,” she said softly,
“sacrifices aren’t real anymore.
We live fast now.
Everyone’s looking out for themselves.
No one has time for anyone else.”
There was something in her voice ,not bitterness, exactly. But a kind of quiet grief. Like she’d seen something beautiful in the world once, and now it was gone.
I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed silent, but I thought about it. Long after she’d stopped speaking, I kept thinking.
By the time the credits rolled, we stepped back into the warm air outside. The sky was dipped in gold and rose, and everything felt a little more cinematic than usual.I looked at her. She looked back.
“That was fun,” I said, meaning more than the film itself.
She laughed—gentle, genuine.
“It was.”
I hesitated for a moment.
Then:
“Dinner?”
We ended up at a small Thai place with neon signs and a menu we could barely decipher.
“Let’s order the weirdest sounding thing,” she proposed.
I raised a brow. “And if it kills us?”
“Then at least we die curious.”
We ordered dishes we couldn’t pronounce, took pictures of each one like we were food critics with deadlines. She made me laugh until I forgot I was supposed to act composed.
She complimented my photography skills, amazed at how good I made her look.
“How are you not behind a camera full time?” she asked, teasing.
“Or in front of one, honestly. You’re so damn photogenic it’s unfair.”
I rolled my eyes.“You’re just being nice.”
“I’m not. You’d make a perfect model. Or a documentarian. You capture life the way it deserves to be seen.”
Something in me softened. And I knew that meant something.
We chatted for hours about everything and nothing.The food. People watching. Why basil tastes different in every country.Then we left the restaurant
Coffees in hand from a nearby caffe we began walking slowly under the sunset as The sky darkened above us, and the air turned gentle with the breeze.
We wandered aimlessly, following cracked sidewalks and empty alleyways, speaking of trivial things that somehow grew deep under the streetlights.
“What would your last meal on earth be?” she asked.
“Anything that’s warm and shared,” I said.
“Cheesy.”
“Accurate.”
We talked about colors that reminded us of people, songs that made us cry, movies we swore we hated but secretly adored.The lamest topics… but the conversation never felt shallow.
Somehow, it all meant more when it came from her.
The space between us had shifted. It wasn’t filled with silence anymore.
It was filled with something that hummed quiet but alive.
By the time I walked her home and stood at her doorstep, I could see it in her eyes:
She knew. She felt it too.
Something was growing between us.
Something real. And maybe, just maybe
she believed in it as much as I did
The hours of the day ended so quickly and i was already in the next day , but my mind was stuck in the past few hours , playing it all in repeat on my head , i just wanted a little bit more than nothing , But somehow, even that might be the reason we could drift apart.
A sign. A hint. Even a fleeting smile.
I don’t want grand gestures just to see her at ease when she's beside me.
To feel like I make sense to her , and everything else would come gradually by time.
I want to witness that softness she shows around them, but not with the same affection.
With something more. Just a little more.
I want to be someone she looks forward to.
Someone who lingers in her thoughts the way she lives rent free in mine.
And yet I can't seem to reach her. always there, but wrapped in something sharp, something distant. As if she built fences of silence and thorns, and I keep showing up without armor.
And now as I sit alone, when the world grows quiet, and nothing is demanding my attention, the same thought always returns:
What is keeping us from each other? Now that we progressed this much?
It doesn’t feel like the timing.
It doesn’t feel like fear.
It just feels like… she's holding something back.
As if letting go, even for a moment, would cost her more than she's willing to pay.
And maybe it would.
But if you could just give me something , a small gesture, a truth half-spoken, a glance that stays a second too long ,I wouldn’t hesitate anymore.
I wouldn’t second-guess your silences.
I wouldn’t keep pacing this same spot between longing and restraint.
All I need is a little more than nothing.
And if she only gave me that— I would’ve been brave enough for the both of us.
Yet I realised too late how I wasn’t even considered a friend in the end.
She didn’t bother to tell me not even through a message. Not a word. No goodbye.
And I— I had truly believed things between us were beginning to shift, to soften, to unfold into something almost tender.
But she left. Left everything behind. The city. The café. The routine we somehow built in silence. The routine she had and i made it a WE thing just cuz i memorised it , and got used to witness it. She packed up and vanished into the rhythm of her career without the slightest weight of farewell.
It only hit me now how foolish I’ve been.How blind I was, letting pride paint illusions across her every quiet gesture.I thought I saw something growing. I thought I felt something real. But maybe it was just me staring too long at a reflection, thinking it was a window.
The truth stings.
Maybe I thought too highly of myself. Thought that any girl… that she could fall for me, just because I wanted her to. As if that was enough.
But love doesn’t work like that.
It’s not enough that I felt something. It never is.
Her new beginning so full of promise, so full of open skies turned out to be my closed door.
A silent ending I never saw coming.
And somehow, the worst part is how quietly it all ended.
No storm. No fracture. It never began to end , it was Just absence.
jungkook loves those moments right before sleep, you're curled up under his arm, head against his chest. his hand gently rests against your back, fingers absently minded tracing circles. jungkook's phone sits in his other hand, he scrolls through tiktok as you both watch, giggling at the videos together. bam's laid by your feet, trying to get involved in the mess of your legs tangled together. eventually, his soft breathing and the low volume of his phone lull you to sleep. he notices as you cuddle closer to him subconsciously and he smiles down at you. this happens often, but he never gets tired of it, his phone full of pictures of you sleeping soundly. you're sure his lockscreen is a different one every time you catch a glance.
I don’t know if your request are opened but I was wondering if you could write some Kaiju No. 8 smut mainly for Hoshina.
I’ve read the ones you’ve done previously and they’re amazing (let’s be for real here he has me in a chokehold) anyways I wanted to request a Hoshina x Fem! Reader smut lowkey any kinks but maybe if you’re okay with it have the two get walked on?
H-O-T T-O G-O!
Oh my goodness.. my requests arent open yet but i will take your offer! Since you asked so nicely :3
TW: Biting,You'se guys are doing 'it' in his office, hes too rough and fast..!,praise,biting,no plot just pure.. something!.... And tell me if theres anything i missed.. :3
NSFW AHEAD
He has you in a chokehold, fucking you so hard that your legs are trembling, he has you leaned in his office table, and gripping your waist like your trying to run away from him.
"Hnh.. hn.. too much, too muc-" you say, he covers your mouth and leans in, still thrusting inside of you.
"Ya wouldnt want 'em to hear us, officer [lastname]" He grunts, still pistoning his cock inside of you.
Tears swell up from your eyes due to the immense pleasure he was giving you. The smell of sex tinted against the air, sweat coating both of your bodies.
"Fuck... ya' look so beautiful like this underneath me."hoshina whispers in your ear, pounding you harder and faster.
You try to moan in response, but to no avail since he has his hand covered in your mouth.
He kisses your neck, the kiss is wet and sloppy, as he makes his way into your shoulder, biting it.
You moan once again, but he suddenly speaks and says "too bad i cant hear yer' pretty little sounds yer' makin' for me, otherwise we coulda been caught."
He says, licking the bite mark that he made on your shoulder
Suddenly, the door slams open, it was kafka!
"Hey vice captain you forgot too-" he stops once he opens his eyes. "Oh uh im sorry i uh- bye!" He runs out.
You blushed from embarrasment, hoshina opened his eyes and blinked twice.
He takes his hand off your mouth, and you speak and say.
"Well... i guess we did get caught." You chuckle. "Well its his fault he didnt knock on tha' door!" He responds.
I honestly forgot ehat i was doing *sighs* and this is so short..
your little burp makes seungcheol laughs, hiding his huge smile behind a french frie.
"i'm sorry", you say, putting your cup down.
but seungcheol shakes his head, finishing up his fries. "it's okay, babe. i've seen you do worst."
it's 1:47am, your bed isn't messy with cozy blankets and tangled legs, but now empty fast food packages instead. in sleepy words, you told seungcheol you were hungry, and a 5-minute discussion and a 25-minute trip to the nearest drive thru later, he took care of that.
"are you good? there is still some-", seungcheol looks at his receipt, a hiccup silencing him for a moment. "strawberry milkshake? i put it on the fridge. they were out of chocolate."
"babe, i'm so full right now", you put your hand on your stomach. "and sleepy."
"let's go to sleep, then."
another 5-minute clean-up, and then you're inside seungcheol's arms once again, his big frame cuddling you up.
"did you eat good?", he whispers against the back of you neck.
you hum in response, nodding with the very little strength you have left. by 2:04am, you're already in dreamland, seungcheol following you not so longer after - a proud smile on his face.
One of the pieces of advice Vice Captain Soshiro Hoshina once gave Kafka was to never get too attached to anyone in the Defense Force.
“It’s going to numb the pain of losing a fellow soldier,” he had said. “You won’t be crushed when you see their dead body, soaked in blood.”
So, tell him why—Kafka thought, spoon paused halfway to his mouth—why is that same Vice Captain sitting beside—no, practically hovering over the quiet and soft-spoken operations officer during lunch? And why is he glaring at Kafka like he wants to throw him into the nearest Kaiju’s mouth?
“Isn’t she the one you talked to about how to use your transformation?” Reno asked from beside him, nudging his arm.
“Yeah… we talked a lot about Kaiju,” Kafka said, quickly shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth, hoping food would serve as a shield from the Vice Captain’s laser stare.
“I didn’t even know who she was,” Iharu added, casually eating a mountain of rice in one go.
Kikoru shot him a disgusted glare. “How can you not know your fellow officers?” she scolded.
Iharu started coughing, nearly choking. “She’s just so quiet!”
“That’s Okonogi’s assistant,” she added after a moment, eyes flicking toward the pair. “But I’m surprised she and the Vice Captain are close. I’ve never seen them talk before… and now they’re sitting that close?”
At the other table, Okonogi quietly tried to suppress her laughter, sipping her water with suspicious calm. She was thoroughly entertained by the bizarre scene unfolding before her. Who would’ve guessed the Vice Captain could be so... transparent?
He had told her earlier, "I'm not jealous."
And yet, here he was—hovering over her assistant, throwing daggers with his eyes at Kafka for merely having a conversation with the girl.
“He wanted my position . Now he wants my girl?!” Soshiro complained.
Soshiro Hoshina tried to keep people at arm’s length. He told himself it was for their safety. But once he got attached, it was all over—he’d keep them close, protect them fiercely, and heaven help anyone who looked at them the wrong way.
And yes—Soshiro Hoshina definitely got jealous.
And he wasn’t good at hiding it.
…
A/N: I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER IS COMING AKFHAJS (i love you guys cbjsd) ITS 1 IN THE MORNING AND I REALLY WANT TO WRITE JEALOUS SOSHIRO X SHY READER SJFHAJDJ (i kinda do want to make a part 2 of this..hehehe) also my girl 🫦
genre fluff , established relationship , park jihoon x fem!reader cw kissing wc 780 request no note a couple of people were asking for more jihoon fics and i wanted to repost this to my main (originally written for my f1 blog) so i hope you enjoy!! net @kstrucknet @daydreamnet
The lights had dimmed and almost all the guests had already left the party. The few left were lingering on the sides of the room, too drunk to notice the lovesick couple still swaying slowly in the middle of the dance floor, hands never leaving each other's bodies.
Jihoon’s palms rested on your waist gently but firmly, like he would never let you go, but was also too afraid to hold on too tightly. You had your arms on his shoulders, hands clasped together behind his neck, keeping him close.
You were soaking in every moment of tonight as the first day you were reunited with Jihoon after weeks. You’d missed him more than you cared to admit, but he was beyond adamant with how much he had missed you. In every glance, touch, and smile you could feel the warmth behind them. Jihoon acted as if you had hung the stars in the sky just for him, and tonight, he would do anything you wanted.
He wasn’t much of a dancer now after being off the stage for a while, and it normally took more than one man’s persistence to get him up from his seat during a party. But with you, he found himself being the first one to ask you to dance. The party went by all too fast, or maybe the time was blurred with the glasses of alcohol you both downed.
Now nearing the end of it, he wished he could pause the moment and have unrushed time to admire you in all your perfect beauty. Your fancy dress that you wore just for him. Makeup done to perfection, drawing his eyes from your eyes to your cheeks to your tempting lips, and then back up to your eyes again. Jihoon could barely wrap his head around how you managed to look this pretty, much less how you were really truly all his.
It was almost too good to be true.
But it was true, and Jihoon could feel it in the grounding nature of your touch on the skin of his neck, or the twinkle in your eyes as you looked at him, or the adoring smile that graced your lips. Somehow, he was the cause of it all.
“I don’t want this moment to end,” he whispered, entranced by you completely as you guided him through the mindless motions of the slow dance. It was bliss. No one to interrupt or observe the private moment. No one to disturb the perfection in your gaze.
“Then don’t let it,” you replied easily, as if you had all the answers to every question Jihoon could ponder upon.
“I don’t know how I got so lucky with you,” Jihoon breathed, letting your hands pull his face closer to you until his forehead rested against yours.
“I think you’d rather be luckier to ever get rid of me,” you teased, and Jihoon smiled knowingly.
After being attached at the hip for your entire childhood, it would’ve been more shocking to everyone if you ever decided to date someone other than each other. He was always a part of your life, always the centre of your world. The busy and hectic schedules of idol life and filming dramas were as familiar to him as they were to you, even though you had never tried your hand at it. But you watched him from the beginning, cheering him on as he achieved his dreams and reached for greater highs. Through all the success and failures, you were always there beside him. And it felt right. Jihoon couldn’t imagine his life any different.
Jihoon didn’t consider himself a particularly patient man. He was willing to wait when he needed to, but when there was something he wanted right in front of him, he wasn’t going to hold back. So it wasn’t surprising when he leant up to kiss you like he had never known patience in his life, but you melted into him without a second to spare. His lips moving against yours resembled your dance the entire night. It was messy and uncoordinated at times, but it came from undeniable devotion, and that was all you could feel spilling from his plush lips. He loved you with everything he had and there was nothing more earnest than that.
And when you pulled back from the kiss, giggling as you tried to wipe the smudge of lipstick that had gotten on his lips, Jihoon felt like he was on cloud nine. So consumed by his love for you that he was sure he could float up to heaven any second. Or maybe he was already there. Maybe this was what heaven felt like.
misc taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @cosmicwintr,, @seunghancore,, @emmylksblog,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @chenleszone,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hursheys,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows
