Sometimes I want x reader stories to be more like Disney shows. Full of laughter, shenanigans, disguises, fun costumes worn for no reason but fun, and good comebacks. I sometimes imagine yn shouting "diversion ", throws something, and runs away. Maybe yn decided to take a ride in a giant tire, passed their friends causing them to chase after the tire. The tire crashes, yn slowly gets out. "That was awesome, help me get this back at the top, I'm going again."
pairing: sick!seokmin x volunteer!reader
synopsis: Seokmin is a long-term patient in the ward where you volunteer. You bond over music and stolen nighttime conversations. But he’s hiding how sick he really is because he doesn’t want to see you cry.
wc: 5k
genre: Angst, Death, Hospital AU, sick!seokmin, volunteer!reader, Visit Logs
warning: Seokmin is sick, IMPLIED DEATH, Mentions of Deteriorating Health, Serious Illness, Grief and Loss, Medical Settings, Fluff in some moments
a/n: this includes the implied death of a member. If you feel uncomfortable reading this scroll away, i have plenty of other fics you can read.
The hospital ward smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh paper, mingled with the subtle sweetness of wilted flowers in chipped vases. You slipped quietly through the corridor, clutching your volunteer badge and a small portable music player wrapped carefully in a scarf.
The buzz of overhead lights hummed softly above you as you pushed open the door to room 207, where Seokmin was waiting with a guarded but tired smile that somehow made your heart ache before you even spoke. His eyes, shadowed with fatigue, flickered up as you stepped inside, and for a moment, the sterile world outside felt miles away, replaced by a fragile sanctuary held together by whispered songs and unspoken hope.
“Hey,” you whispered, careful to keep your voice low, not wanting to disturb the other patients nearby. Seokmin’s lips twitched into a small smile—an effort, but one that reached his eyes and softened the lines of exhaustion.
“Hey,” he replied, voice rough around the edges but steady. “I was hoping you’d come.”
You set your bag down on the bedside table, glancing at the notebooks and loose sheets scattered there—his ever-present companions. Music filled the silence between you, not from the speakers but from the way he tapped his fingers gently on the worn wood, humming a quiet melody.
“You’ve been practicing,” you said softly, reaching for the music player. You handed it to him with a small smile. “Thought you might like to listen to something new. A little escape.”
His fingers brushed yours as he took the device, and for a fleeting moment, the room felt less like a hospital and more like a shared space of comfort and understanding. Seokmin plugged in his earphones and settled back against the pillows, eyes closing as the music began to flow.
You perched on the chair by the window, watching him in silence. There was something about the way he lost himself in the notes—like the music was a lifeline to a world beyond the sterile walls and beeping machines. You admired his quiet strength, even as you fought the urge to reach out and take some of the weight from his shoulders.
The truth was, you knew. You knew how sick he was. How much the doctors tried to hide the worst from you, thinking it would protect you. But you saw through it all—the pale skin, the thinning hair, the way his breaths came a little more shallow each day. Still, he never let you see him falter, never let you catch the moments when he wanted to break down.
You wiped your eyes quickly, the sting of tears threatening to spill, but you didn’t want him to see. Not like this.
After a long moment, Seokmin opened his eyes and smiled at you with a softness that made your heart tighten. “Thank you for coming,” he said simply.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I’ll always come.”
—
It had been months since you first started volunteering in the ward. You remembered the nervous anticipation when you’d signed up, wanting to do something meaningful, something to hold onto in a world that often felt too chaotic. You never expected to meet someone like Seokmin—someone who, despite the heaviness hanging over him, radiated warmth through the cold hospital walls.
He was a patient who sang. Not loudly, not showy—just quiet, tentative melodies that drifted from his lips when he thought no one was listening. Sometimes, late at night, when the ward was mostly silent, you’d catch him humming by the window, eyes fixed on the distant city lights like they held some secret hope.
You’d never told him how much those moments meant to you.
—
That evening, you settled into your usual routine. You pulled out your sketchbook and began to draw, fingers tracing soft lines as Seokmin hummed beside you. The music flowed between you like a thread, fragile but unbroken. You shared stories in whispered voices, fragments of your lives outside these walls, building a small world that belonged only to the two of you.
He told you about the songs he loved growing up, the artists who had shaped his dreams. You told him about your childhood, the small things that made you happy—the smell of rain on hot pavement, the feel of pencil against paper. Sometimes, you traded little gifts: a song you recorded on a disc, a drawing folded carefully inside an envelope, a bracelet braided from threads you’d brought with you.
Every visit ended too soon, but you found comfort in the routine—the small moments of connection that gave meaning to the endless days.
—
But the truth you both avoided hung like a shadow.
Seokmin was sicker than he let on. The doctors had told you in private—the prognosis wasn’t good, the treatments were only buying time. But Seokmin had his own way of coping: by hiding the worst, by focusing on music, on moments of beauty instead of pain. He didn’t want to see your face break, didn’t want to be the reason for tears.
So you learned to hold back your own fears, to be strong for him even when your heart shattered behind closed eyes. You smiled when he smiled. You laughed at his jokes, even the ones that made your throat catch. You sang with him in those stolen moments, voices blending in the quiet room.
Because that was what he needed.
—
One night, after the ward had quieted and the soft hum of machines filled the air, Seokmin asked you to stay a little longer. He pulled out his guitar—worn and scratched from years of use—and began to strum.
The melody was gentle, hesitant at first, then growing more confident as he sang. His voice was smooth but fragile, filled with longing and a raw honesty that made your chest ache.
You closed your eyes and let the music wash over you.
When the last note faded, Seokmin looked at you, searching your face as if asking permission to share more than words could say.
You reached out, took his hand gently. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For trusting me.”
He squeezed your hand back, eyes glistening. “You’re the only one who hears me.”
—
As the days passed, you found strength in each other—a fragile hope woven through music and silence.
You never said the words aloud, but they hung between you, unspoken yet understood.
No matter what came next, you’d be there.
For him.
For the songs that kept him alive.
For the bond that no sickness could break.
—
The hospital door closed softly behind you as you left that night, heart heavy but full.
You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
But you knew one thing for certain.
You’d always come back.
—
Visit Log — 03/04/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Status: Stable.
Refused sedatives again, citing "vivid dreams." Appetite normal. Emotional state brighter than baseline. Patient met volunteer (Y/N) during scheduled afternoon round. Observed laughing for ~6 consecutive minutes. Asked staff to play “happier” music in the hallway. No signs of acute distress.
Visit Log — You
Date: March 03/04/2025
Today was hard. The hospital smells like antiseptic and something faintly sweet, like old flowers. I’m learning to hold back my feelings when I’m with Seokmin—he tries so hard to be strong, but I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. The music helps. I brought him a playlist with some new songs; he seemed to like it, though he didn’t say much. When he hummed along, my heart clenched. I wish I could do more. I’m scared for him, but he never wants me to see that. I hope I’m enough—just to be there.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: March 03/04/2025
She came again today. I try to hide how tired I am, but I don’t want her to see me like that. The music helps me breathe, even if just for a little while. She brought something new—songs I’ve never heard. I listened with my eyes closed. It was like being somewhere else, somewhere better. I’m grateful she comes. I don’t say it, but I need her. Maybe she doesn’t know that yet.
Visit Log — You
Date: March 14/04/2025
We shared stories today. I told him about my love for drawing, and he talked about the artists he admires. There was a fragile peace in the room, like we created a little bubble away from the hospital. I wish I could capture that feeling on paper. I’m starting to understand that sometimes, just sitting quietly together means everything. His grip on my hand at the end of the visit was tighter—I wonder if he’s scared. I’m scared too.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: March 14/04/2025
She sketches when I sing softly beside her. Her presence quiets the chaos in my head. I want to tell her everything—how scared I am, how much I wish I could be stronger—but I can’t. Instead, I give her music. It’s the only language I know that feels safe. When I squeezed her hand, I think she understood. I hope she stays.
—
The days blurred together in the soft haze of the hospital routine, but today felt different. You stepped into room 207, the door clicking softly behind you, and found Seokmin staring out the window. The afternoon sun cast golden streaks across his pale skin, illuminating the faint freckles you hadn’t noticed before. He didn’t turn immediately, lost in the distant horizon where city rooftops met sky.
“Hey,” you said gently, setting your bag down. Your voice broke the silence like a warm breeze.
He blinked, then turned, his eyes settling on you with a tired warmth. “Hey,” he replied. “I was just... thinking.”
You pulled the chair closer, perching beside the bed. “About what?”
He hesitated, then shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Everything and nothing. The music, the songs I’ll never finish... and the silence.”
You understood that silence—the one that filled the spaces between breaths, the words left unspoken, the dreams tucked away.
“Tell me,” you urged softly.
Seokmin’s fingers twined nervously. “Sometimes, I wonder if the songs I write even matter. Like... if anyone will ever hear them after I’m gone.”
Your heart clenched. You wanted to tell him the truth—that his music was a light for others, that it carried fragments of hope—but the words caught in your throat.
Instead, you reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I hear them. And I promise, you’re not alone.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and for the first time, vulnerability cracked through his carefully built walls. “I don’t want to be a memory,” he whispered. “I want to be something more.”
You swallowed hard, feeling tears prick the corners of your eyes. “You already are.”
—
Later, as the ward grew quieter and shadows lengthened, Seokmin strummed his guitar softly, the notes tentative but full of yearning. You sat close, your hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding him in the moment.
The music was a conversation between two souls grasping for connection—a fragile promise woven through chords and whispered dreams.
When the last note lingered in the air, Seokmin smiled, the weariness momentarily lifted. “Thank you for being here.”
You smiled back, knowing the road ahead was uncertain, but feeling certain too that you’d walk it together.
—
Visit Log — 28/03/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Status: Stable, mild fatigue reported. No signs of infection. Complained of occasional chest tightness during the evening, but denied pain. Scheduled for additional imaging.Emotional state described as “cheerful, borderline theatrical.” Staff noted improved mood after visit from volunteer (Y/N). Patient sang for short periods, voice slightly strained at higher registers. Refused to rest post-visit.
Visit Log — You
Date: 28/03/2025
Today felt heavier than usual. I saw him lost in thought by the window, and when I asked, he opened up about his fear of being forgotten. I wanted to scream that his songs already mattered, that I hear him—every note, every word—but I held my tears back. Instead, I promised him he’s not alone. The music tonight was softer, filled with hope and a sadness I felt deep in my chest. He smiled at me after, and it felt like the first time he truly believed I’d stay.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 28/03/2025
She listens. Really listens. Today, I let my guard down, spoke about my fear of fading away. I don’t want to be just a memory, a forgotten song in someone’s playlist. She reached out, touched my face gently. Her presence is the anchor I didn’t know I needed. When I played tonight, I wasn’t just strumming strings—I was sharing my soul. I hope she knows how much it means to me. I hope she stays.
Visit Log — You
Date: 04/04/2025
I brought a new notebook today—blank pages, waiting to be filled with his music and maybe, if he lets me, our stories. We laughed softly when he tried to play a silly tune he wrote as a kid. I saw a spark I hadn’t seen in weeks. It reminded me that beneath the sickness, beneath the fear, he’s still that boy who finds joy in simple things. I want to hold onto that light, for both of us.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 04/04/2025
She brought a notebook today. Blank, ready for new songs, new memories. We laughed—really laughed—for the first time in a long time. The sickness is still here, but for a moment, it didn’t feel so heavy. She’s like a melody I didn’t know I needed, soft and steady. Maybe with her, I can finish the songs I started—not just in music, but in life.
—
The quiet hum of the hospital was punctuated by the soft tap of your shoes against the linoleum floor. You hesitated outside room 207, nerves fluttering in your stomach like restless wings. Today felt important, though you couldn’t quite say why.
When you pushed the door open, Seokmin was sitting on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his leg, fingers absentmindedly tracing the worn wood. His eyes lifted as you entered, a small, tired smile greeting you.
“Hey,” you said softly, crossing the room.
“Hey,” he replied, voice rough but steady. “I was waiting.”
You sat beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “I brought something.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
From your bag, you pulled out a small recorder— the kind musicians use for quick song ideas. “I thought maybe you’d want to capture your melodies. Sometimes it’s easier to sing them out loud than write them down.”
Seokmin’s eyes glinted with a flicker of excitement. “You think?”
You nodded, pressing the button to test the mic. “Let’s try it.”
The first notes were hesitant, fragile—a half-remembered tune from a restless night. But as the recorder caught the sound, something shifted. Seokmin’s fingers found the strings again, more confident this time, weaving together melody and words like a delicate tapestry.
You watched him closely, amazed at how music could carve hope out of silence. You didn’t say it, but it was clear: this was more than notes and lyrics. It was a thread pulling him back from the edge.
After a while, the song faded into a quiet hum, and you reached out to squeeze his hand. “You’re not alone in this. We’ll write the rest together.”
He looked at you, vulnerability softened by trust. “I want that.”
Later, as the sun dipped low and the ward dimmed, Seokmin asked softly, “Can you stay a little longer? I want to hear you sing.”
Your heart warmed. “Of course.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, and together you let the music carry you through the evening—a fragile, beautiful promise that no matter what came next, you’d face it side by side.
—
Visit Log — 07/04/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Status: Imaging complete. Awaiting review. Patient reported fatigue, shortness of breath upon exertion. No fever. Lungs auscultated—crackles noted in lower lobes.Staff advised rest. Patient ignored said advice.Emotional state: Stable. Engaged in 40 minutes of light conversation with volunteer (Y/N). Sang briefly—pitch control mildly affected, possible strain due to lower oxygen saturation levels.
Visit Log — You
Date: 07/04/2025
Today I brought a recorder, hoping to help him capture his music without the pressure of pen and paper. He was hesitant at first but warmed up quickly, and for a moment, the hospital felt like a real studio, alive with creation. He asked me to stay and listen while he sang, and I could hear the vulnerability in every note. We’re threading something fragile and strong between us, and I’m holding onto it tightly.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 07/04/2025
She brought a recorder—a tool to catch my fleeting thoughts, my scattered melodies. When I sang today, I wasn’t just making music; I was opening a door I thought I’d shut forever. She stayed and listened, and for once, I didn’t feel invisible. Maybe this song, this moment, can be the start of something real. I don’t want to be just a patient; I want to be a person—with her.
Visit Log — You
Date: 17/04/2025
He shared a piece of himself today—a melody tangled with fear but wrapped in hope. I sang with him, not well, but with all the heart I had. We laughed when I missed a note, and for once, I saw him smile freely, without the weight of the illness pressing down. It’s a small victory, but it feels like a turning point.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 17/04/2025
She sang with me today. Not perfectly, but with a kind of fearless honesty I hadn’t heard in a long time. When I smiled without worry, it felt like breathing again—like maybe I’m more than this hospital bed. With her, I’m starting to believe I still have a song to sing.
—
The hospital corridor seemed quieter today, the usual buzz muted like a held breath. You found Seokmin sitting upright in bed, a sketchpad resting on his knees. His fingers hovered over the page, hesitant, as if unsure whether to commit the swirling ideas inside his head to paper.
“Hey,” you greeted softly, pulling the chair close.
He glanced up and smiled—a tired but genuine smile. “Hey. I was trying to put my thoughts into something... something more visual.”
Curious, you leaned over to see the faint outlines of a music staff weaving through abstract swirls of shadow and light, a visual dance of melody and feeling.
“Looks amazing,” you said. “Like music you can see.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s any good. It’s just... feelings.”
You reached out and touched his hand. “Sometimes, that’s the best place to start.”
They say music speaks when words fail, but sometimes it’s the art in between—notes and sketches—that tells the truest story.
Over the next hour, you both worked quietly side by side—his drawings, your notes scribbled along the margins, ideas and encouragement weaving between you.
For a fleeting moment, the sterile hospital room transformed into a studio, a sanctuary where creation and companionship lived side by side.
As the sun slipped beyond the window, casting long shadows, Seokmin reached out, his hand covering yours. “Thank you—for staying.”
You smiled, heart full. “I’m not going anywhere.”
—
Visit Log — 28/04/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Vitals stable. Mask precaution enforced due to mild fever. O₂ support at 3L/min. Appetite low. Requested citrus candy—advised against due to mouth ulcers.Emotional state: Unusually quiet for majority of the day. Noted sudden increase in alertness upon volunteer arrival. Unusual post-visit calm reported by nursing staff.
Visit Log — You
Date: 28/04/2025
Today, Seokmin shared his sketches—music in visual form. It’s raw, emotional, imperfect, but deeply honest. We worked together, him drawing, me adding words and ideas. The hospital felt less like a prison and more like a place of possibility. His hand found mine at the end, and I felt the quiet promise of something real.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 28/04/2025
She’s helping me see beyond the illness—through music, art, and presence. When I showed her my sketches, she didn’t judge, just helped me make sense of the chaos in my head. Her hand in mine is a tether to hope, a reminder I’m not alone. I’m beginning to believe in ‘us,’ in ‘tomorrow.’
Visit Log — You
Date: 01/05/2025
The bond between us is fragile but growing stronger. Today, laughter came easier, and the fear that usually clung tightly loosened for a moment. His sketches are getting bolder, more certain—like he’s finding a new language for the things he can’t say.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 01/05/2025
With her, the shadows seem less heavy. I’m learning to speak in lines and colors, in melodies that don’t have to be perfect but have to be honest. She listens, stays, believes. That’s more than I ever dared hope for.
—
The soft hum of the machines blended with the faint scratching of pencil on paper. You sat beside Seokmin’s bed, carefully adjusting the angle of his sketchpad so the light caught every curve and shade. Today, he’d brought his guitar—a battered acoustic, strings dulled but cared for—resting against the chair.
“I tried something new,” he said, voice quiet but steady, fingers brushing the strings softly.
The melody floated between you—tentative, fragile, but filled with longing. It was unlike anything you’d heard from him before: not the practiced rhythms of a trainee or the rehearsed beats of a stage performer, but raw and intimate, like a secret shared in the dark.
You reached for your notebook, fingers trembling slightly as you jotted down the lyrics he hummed, lines half-formed but pulsing with unspoken emotion.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered after a pause, eyes downcast.
You met his gaze, steady and warm. “I’m here, no matter what.”
For a moment, the room held its breath.
He swallowed, voice cracking just slightly. “It’s hard, you know. Pretending I’m okay, when every day I feel myself slipping.”
You squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The night wrapped around you both, and the hospital faded away, leaving just the music, the words, and the quiet promise of honesty.
—
Visit Log — 13/05/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Patient alert. No fever. O₂ support unchanged. Reports fatigue, chest pain persistent but tolerable. Refused physio session citing dizziness.Volunteer presence noted to have positive emotional impact. Patient verbalized existential anxiety. Encouraged therapeutic journaling—accepted readily.
Visit Log — You
Date: 13/05/2025
Today, Seokmin played for me. Not the polished songs he usually practices, but a new, fragile melody—his own. The lyrics were raw, a window into his hidden pain. When he admitted how hard it’s been pretending, I felt the weight he carries. I told him he doesn’t have to hide with me. It was the closest we’ve come to breaking the silence.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 13/05/2025
I played a song I barely understand myself. She listened without judgment. Told me I don’t have to wear a mask around her. I want to believe her, but the fear of breaking her heart makes me hold back. Yet, when her hand found mine, I felt something stronger than fear.
Visit Log — You
Date: 18/05/2025
There was a quiet moment between us today—no words, just shared looks and gentle touches. I see him fighting, but I also see his courage. I’m learning how to be his strength without breaking my own heart. The music he makes is becoming our secret language.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 18/05/2025
She’s the only one who sees the real me. I’m scared she’ll leave when the truth is too much, but her presence steadies me. The music is no longer just my escape—it’s our connection.
—
The afternoon light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow on Seokmin’s pale face. You had brought a small speaker today, your way of sharing the songs that had been stuck in your head lately—music you hoped might lift his spirits, even if only for a moment.
He rested in his bed, guitar resting nearby but untouched. His eyes watched you carefully as you hit play, the melody filling the quiet space between you.
“This one reminds me of you,” you said softly, voice steady despite the lump forming in your throat.
He smiled faintly, but there was a shadow in his eyes you couldn’t ignore. You wanted to reach out, to pull him from whatever dark place he was hiding in, but you knew he guarded his pain fiercely—especially from you.
After the song ended, he reached out hesitantly and squeezed your hand.
“I’m tired,” he admitted quietly. “Tired of fighting. But I don’t want you to see me give up.”
You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears you didn’t want him to see. You couldn’t let him bear this alone.
“You don’t have to be strong for me,” you whispered. “You can let me in. Let me carry some of this weight.”
His eyes glistened, but he nodded slowly.
And in that fragile moment, words weren’t needed. Your presence, your understanding—it spoke louder than anything.
—
Visit Log — 26/05/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Patient weak. O₂ saturation borderline; supplemental oxygen adjusted. Intermittent low-grade fever. Complains of joint pain and extreme fatigue. Refused food but took fluids.Patient gave handwritten note to volunteer; encouraged emotional expression. Volunteer reported patient verbalized reduced hope in recovery.Observation: despite patient’s physical deterioration, patient engaged in conversation longer than average. Brief laughter noted.
Visit Log — You
Date: 26/05/2025
He told me he’s tired today. I didn’t push him, just held his hand. Told him he doesn’t have to be strong all the time—I want to be his strength, not his burden. He’s still fighting, but I can see the cracks. I hope I’m enough to keep him from falling apart.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 26/05/2025
It’s hard to admit when I’m tired. Harder still to ask for help. But she’s different—she doesn’t judge. I’m scared she’ll break if I show her how weak I really am. But today, I let her in a little. Maybe it’s okay to lean on someone.
Visit Log — You
Date: 30/05/2025
There was a quiet peace between us today—no pressure to talk or pretend. Just presence. I’m scared of what’s to come, but I’m not going anywhere. Whatever happens, he won’t face it alone.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 30/05/2025
She stays. Even when I push away, she stays. It scares me how much I need her. I want to be stronger—for her, for me. Maybe, with her, I can.
—
You sit beside Seokmin’s bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor syncing with your own racing pulse. His face is paler than ever, shadows under his eyes deepening, but the faintest smile plays on his lips as he looks at you.
“I don’t want you to cry,” he whispers, voice fragile. “Not for me.”
You shake your head, fighting tears that threaten to spill. “I’m already crying, Seokmin. But it’s not just for you—it’s because I love you.”
His fingers curl weakly around yours, warmth fading but the connection still there. You brush a stray hair from his forehead, memorizing every detail—the way his breath catches, the softness of his skin.
“I’m scared,” you confess, voice breaking. “Scared of losing you.”
He reaches up, thumb tracing your cheek, tears slipping from your eyes. “I’m scared too. But I want you to remember me like this—singing, laughing, fighting. Not the hospital, not the sickness.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I will. I promise.”
Outside, the sun dips low, casting golden light into the room. For a moment, time stands still—just you and Seokmin, holding onto each other, and the music that brought you together.
—
Visit Log — 13/06/2025
Room 317 — Patient: Lee Seokmin
Patient awake for short periods; highly fatigued. Requested volunteer by name. No food intake; fluids only. Communicated via whisper and minimal movement.Patient and volunteer shared final melodic interaction. Patient hummed original melody; volunteer accompanied. Emotional exchange observed. Volunteer did not cry in room.
Visit Log — You
Date: 13/06/2025
He looked tired today—more tired than ever. I held his hand and told him it’s okay to be scared. I told him I love him. I hope he knows it’s enough, even when words fail. I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not yet.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 13/06/2025
I don’t want to leave her. I want to stay—to sing, to laugh, to fight beside her. But I’m scared this is the end. I’m scared she’ll forget the real me. I want her to remember the music, the moments, not the pain. She means everything.
Visit Log — You
Date: 17/06/2025
He slipped away quietly last night. I stayed by his side until the end. It hurts so much. But I’ll carry him with me—in every song, every smile, every breath. This isn’t goodbye. It’s thank you.
Visit Log — Seokmin
Date: 17/06/2025
If I could sing one last song, it would be for her. For the laughter, the stolen conversations, the love. I hope she remembers me with music in her heart. I love her. Always.
—
The café was quiet, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the windows. You sat at the corner table, clutching a worn notebook filled with lyrics and melodies you had written during those fragile months. Each page held a memory—laughter, tears, stolen moments with Seokmin.
You played a soft melody on your phone, one of the songs he had loved, a tune you now carried with you like a lifeline.
A gentle breeze stirred the pages, and for a moment, you imagined him sitting across from you, eyes bright, that easy smile lighting up the room.
Though he was gone, his music remained—in your heart, in the songs you would keep writing, and in every note that whispered of love and resilience.
You closed the notebook softly and looked out the window, feeling the weight of loss but also the stirring of hope.
Because endings are just new beginnings disguised in quiet.
And somewhere beyond the silence, his voice was still singing.
I just binged read the gachiakuta manga and it’s SO FREAKING GOOD, why are all the men so fine tho (follo specifically). I’M SO HYPED FOR THE ANIME!! 🔥🔥
