warnings: none really, tried to be whimsical with my writing style, sort of based on submarine (the vibe not necessarily the plot), beom and reader are still in school for the plot, didn’t post a fic for big man’s b-day so take this. This fic is my child, please love her.
There’s a very specific kind of silence that follows you around.
Not the heavy kind. Not the sad kind either. Just the sort that sits beside you like it knows you’re thinking too much and doesn’t want to interrupt.
You notice it most on the walk to college.
The pavement is always slightly damp, even when it hasn’t rained, and your headphones never sit quite right over your ears. You keep one side off anyway, just in case something interesting happens, though nothing ever does. You tell yourself you like it that way. Predictable. Controlled.
You think you look like the kind of person who has something going on internally. You hope you do, at least. Otherwise, all the staring out of windows would be a bit embarrassing.
That’s when you first really notice him.
Choi Beomgyu isn’t new. He’s been in your classes for months. He’s quiet in a way that isn’t shy, just uninterested. Like everything happening is slightly beneath him, but not in a rude way. More like he’s watching a different film entirely.
You decide, almost instantly, that he is interesting.
You start keeping a mental log.
Day one: he taps his pen against his desk exactly five times before answering a question.
Day two: he laughs at something the teacher says that isn’t funny.
Day three: he doesn’t show up at all, and you spend an unreasonable amount of time wondering why.
You tell yourself it’s observational. Detached. Like you’re studying a character for a film. Something very Submarine, introspective, slightly pretentious, but in a charming way.
You’re just, paying attention.
You’ve always liked the idea of things more than the reality of them. You like imagining conversations more than having them. Like constructing versions of people in your head that are easier to understand, easier to predict. Safer.
You build a version of him, too.
Quiet but thoughtful. Detached but secretly observant. The kind of person who would understand you without needing things explained.
Which is why it’s slightly inconvenient when reality interrupts it.
It happens properly on a Tuesday.
Of course it does. Tuesdays are always slightly off.
You’re sitting outside during lunch, picking at food you weren’t hungry for in the first place, when he sits down next to you without asking. Not close enough to be familiar, not far enough to be accidental.
You don’t look at him straight away. That would be too obvious.
You nod anyway. “You always don’t.”
There’s a pause. You can feel it stretching, like a rubber band about to snap or settle.
Then he laughs. Not loudly. Just enough.
“I like watching people before I talk to them.”
You turn your head then, properly, because that feels significant.
“Me too,” you say, even though you’re not sure if that’s true or if you just want it to be.
It doesn’t become something obvious.
There’s no instant shift, no clear moment where things change from nothing into something. Just small, almost unnoticeable adjustments.
He starts sitting near you sometimes.
Not every day. Never consistently.
Just enough that you start to expect it.
Just enough that you notice when he doesn’t.
About things that don’t matter.
About things that do, but only in vague, half-formed ways that don’t require too much vulnerability.
You tell him things you don’t usually say out loud.
Like how you think people are always pretending a little bit.
Like how you worry you’re forgettable.
He shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “You’re not.”
You don’t ask how he knows.
Beomgyu is difficult to understand.
Not in a mysterious, romantic way.
He disappears. Not dramatically. No explanation, no warning. Just gone. For a day, sometimes two. Once, almost a week.
When he comes back, he acts like nothing happened.
Like the absence wasn’t noticeable.
Like you didn’t spend those days feeling slightly unsteady, like something had been removed without your permission.
You tell yourself you don’t have the right to.
But the questions sit there anyway, heavy and persistent.
One night, your phone lights up at 2:13am.
You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.
The next day, he talks to you like usual.
You consider bringing it up.
You hate how much it bothers you.
You hate that you were waiting.
You start narrating things in your head.
You think this is the part where it becomes something.
Though you’re not sure what “something” is.
It shifts on a cold evening at a bus stop.
The kind of cold that settles into your bones, slow and stubborn.
You’re sitting next to him, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching your breath fog faintly in the air.
He’s leaning back, eyes half-closed, like he’s listening to something distant.
“You ever feel like you’re waiting for your life to begin?” you ask.
Then, “I think it already did, we just missed it,”
You let out a small, humourless laugh. “That’s reassuring.”
There’s something in his expression, something tired, something you don’t fully understand.
Before you can think too much about it, he reaches out and tugs your sleeve down over your hand.
It’s such a small gesture.
But it feels like everything at once.
“You look cold,” he says.
You don’t realise how much he’s affected you until it starts hurting.
Not sharply. Not all at once. Just gradually.
In the spaces where he isn’t.
In the way your mood shifts depending on whether he’s there or not.
In the way you start second-guessing everything you say, everything you do, like you’re trying to maintain something fragile that could disappear at any moment.
You don’t know how to stop it.
You think you might like him.
Which is, again, inconvenient.
He says it casually, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t land exactly where it hurts.
You look at him. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You make things bigger than they are.”
There’s something about that, something dismissive, even if he doesn’t mean it that way, that makes your chest tighten.
“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
His expression shifts immediately.
“That’s not what I-” He exhales. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
You shrug, even though it feels wrong. “It’s fine.”
But neither of you pushes it further.
It shifts on a day that feels completely ordinary.
Grey sky. Too much homework. Someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.
You’re walking together, not talking, when he suddenly says, “You still think too much.”
You blink. “That’s not news.”
He stops walking. You don’t, at first, so you end up a step ahead before turning back.
“I like it,” he adds, quickly, like it matters that you know that.
Something about the way he says it, careful, almost makes your chest feel tight.
“You don’t seem like you like much,” you say.
He looks at you for a second longer than usual.
You weren’t prepared for that.
Not like this. Not without build-up or music or something to signal that this was the moment.
Your brain does that thing where it tries to turn everything into a narrative.
You think this is the part where everything changes.
“That’s not funny,” you say, because it feels safer than anything else.
You search his expression for something, hesitation, uncertainty, anything that makes this easier to process.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say.
Because I don’t know where I stand with you, ever.
You don’t say any of that.
Instead, “It’s just, sudden.”
He nods slightly. “Yeah.”
You wish that fixed things. You wish that made everything clear and stable and easy.
If anything, it makes it worse.
Because now there’s something real there. Something that matters.
And it still feels like it could disappear at any moment.
Being with him feels like trying to hold onto something you can’t fully grasp.
Sometimes he’s there, fully, completely, in a way that makes everything else fade slightly into the background.
He listens. He notices things.
He says your name like it means something.
And then other times, he’s distant again.
Just elsewhere. Like there’s a part of him you’ll never quite reach.
You start to wonder if you imagined it.
Not the moments themselves.
But the meaning behind them.
You replay conversations in your head, looking for proof.
Looking for something solid.
It happens on another ordinary day.
Grey sky. Too many thoughts. Not enough space for them.
You’re sitting together, but not really together. There’s a gap, small, but noticeable.
Of feeling like you’re holding something he keeps letting slip through his hands.
You don’t plan to ask it.
For a second, you think he won’t answer.
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
There’s something different in his voice this time.
Not closed off. Just careful.
For once, you don’t fill the silence.
“I don’t know how to stay,” he says eventually.
It’s quiet. Almost lost in the space between you.
He looks at you then, properly.
“I like you,” he says again, softer this time. “That part’s easy. I just-” He hesitates. “I don’t know how to be consistent. Or good at it.”
You don’t say anything right away.
“You don’t get to just disappear and expect me to be okay with it,” you say finally.
“I need something stable. Or at least honest.”
There’s no hesitation this time.
And somehow, it feels more solid than anything else he’s given you.
It’s not perfect after that.
It doesn’t suddenly become easy or clear or simple.
There are still pauses, still moments where things feel uncertain.
But they’re different now.
Because when he pulls away, he tells you.
When he doesn’t reply, he explains.
Not always immediately. Not always perfectly.
One evening, you’re back at the bus stop.
Same cold air. Same quiet.
But it feels different now.
Less like something you’re trapped in. More like something you’re choosing to stay in.
He’s sitting beside you, shoulder just barely touching yours.
“You still think we missed it?” you ask.
You raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“I think we’re just slower than everyone else.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He nudges your sleeve down over your hand again, the same small gesture as before.
But this time, it doesn’t feel uncertain.
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