HELLO so I've read your white noise jihoon fic and I'M IN LOVEEE (i love angst LMAO) could you write another heavy angst jihoon 🥹🥹 i just happen to love heavy angst and jihoon at the same time 🥹🥹
(Lee Jihoon x Fem Reader)
*heavy angsr, emotional, slice of life, drama, slow-burn, tension, emotional unraveling*
I used to think I understood people well. I study them for a living, after all criminology demands it. Profiling minds, decoding motives, understanding why people do the things they do... But somehow, with Jihoon, everything I’ve ever known felt completely inadequate.
He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t hiding anything sinister. He was just... a boy who slowly began to slip away without realizing it.
We met on a rainy night cliché, I know at a small café near the university. I was buried in notes about victimology while nursing a cold Americano, and he walked in, drenched from head to toe, looking like something that had just escaped a dream and got lost in the wrong reality. I didn’t recognize him at first not as the famous Woozi, producer of hits, member of SEVENTEEN. I just knew he had kind eyes, and that he asked the barista for two sugars and no cream, just like I did.
He sat across from me, headphones on, tapping away at his laptop. For the next few hours, we exchanged glances and shy smiles. When he left, he said, “Good luck with whatever you’re studying,” and I replied, “You too, with whatever you’re making.”
Fate or maybe something more mundane, like routine brought us back to that same café the next week, and the week after that.
Soon, he was watching me underline textbook passages, and I was watching him tweak vocal tracks. I didn’t know it then, but I was falling. Slowly, then all at once. And when he asked me out awkwardly, like it was a song he hadn’t finished writing I said yes, because I already knew that nothing had ever felt so right.
We became each other's safe place. On days when autopsy reports made me sick to my stomach, he held me until I could breathe again. On nights when a deadline kept him in the studio, I brought him dinner and reminded him to sleep. He'd say things like, "You're the only person I want to see after 16 hours of mixing," and I'd pretend I wasn’t already in too deep.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
It started with missed texts.
At first, they were just delayed responses hours late, simple things like "Sorry, was recording," or "Didn't see this." I understood. His job demanded focus, long nights, chaos. Mine did too. I once spent 48 hours analyzing a serial offender's pattern for a term paper, so who was I to judge?
But then came the missed calls. The forgotten dates.
My birthday. Our anniversary.
He always apologized. Always looked genuinely sorry. Hugged me like he meant it and whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
And I believed him. Every time. Because Jihoon wasn’t careless just consumed. I told myself that. Repeated it like a mantra.
He wasn’t fading because he stopped loving me. He was just... overwhelmed. Right?
But how do you explain the ache of eating dinner alone again? Or the way your heart sinks when you walk past the old café and realize it’s been months since you shared a moment there?
How do you hold on to someone who’s still there but no longer with you?
One night, I stayed up until 3 AM studying forensic pathology. My phone was silent. Jihoon had promised he’d call after practice, but I knew better now. I’d stopped holding onto promises like lifelines.
Still, when I heard the soft knock on my door, I ran.
He looked tired. Pale. Overworked.
“You always say that,” I replied, voice colder than I intended.
He stepped inside, taking in the open books and messy desk. “You’re still studying?”
“I live in this apartment more than you live in yours, so yes.”
The words hung in the air like a slap. I wanted to take them back. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry.
“I’m trying,” he whispered. “You know I am.”
But trying isn’t enough when it’s one-sided.
I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Beg him to just see me again.
But I didn’t. Instead, I sat down on the edge of my bed and stared at my palms red from gripping my pen too tightly. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying until Jihoon walked over and wiped a tear with his thumb.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to miss your birthday. The studio-”
“The studio always needs you,” I cut in softly. “Everyone always needs you, Jihoon. Except me, I guess.”
“You think I don’t need you?” he asked, disbelief washing over his face.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I think you don’t notice when I need you.”
That silence that followed was heavier than anything I’d studied in all my classes. He looked at me like he was seeing me through a fog like maybe, somewhere along the way, he’d gotten lost.
“I love you,” he murmured.
“I know you do,” I whispered. “But love isn’t supposed to feel like I’m always waiting for you to come back.”
He sat beside me. Close, but not close enough. His hand hovered near mine, like he didn’t know if he had the right to hold it anymore.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” he said. “I got so caught up in deadlines and concepts and schedules that I forgot I had something someone who doesn’t see me as work. Just as Jihoon.”
I blinked back fresh tears.
“I used to love how hard you worked,” I admitted. “It made me feel safe. Like I was dating someone who never gave up. But now... I just feel like I’m last on your list.”
“You’re not,” he said quickly. “You’ve never been.”
“But it feels like I am.”
He reached for my hand then, cautiously, like he thought I’d pull away. I didn’t.
“I don’t know how to be in a relationship while also being... me,” he said. “I’m scared I’ll never figure out the balance.”
I finally looked at him. Really looked.
“I’m not asking you to change, Jihoon. I’m just asking you to try. Really try. Because I’m scared, too. Scared that one day, I’ll stop waiting. That I’ll stop hoping you’ll choose me over another late night.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’ll slow down. I’ll try harder. Please... don’t give up on me yet.”
And there it was the part that shattered me. Because despite everything, I still loved him more than anything else. But love, no matter how deep, couldn’t survive on apologies alone.
I didn’t answer right away. We sat there, hand in hand, hearts bruised but still beating in sync barely.
I knew the road ahead would be rough. I knew he wouldn’t magically become the perfect boyfriend overnight. But part of me still believed in him in us. Maybe that made me naïve. Or maybe it just made me human.
“I’m not giving up yet,” I whispered finally. “But Jihoon... don’t make me regret staying.”
He nodded slowly, eyes glassy. Then he pulled me into his chest, arms wrapping around me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my sorrow.
We stayed that way until the sun started to rise.
And even then, I didn’t know if we’d make it..
Things were different after that night.
Not better. Just... different.
Jihoon started trying in the small ways he left sticky notes on my desk that said, “Good luck on your midterm ♡,” or brought home my favorite takeout when I worked late on my thesis. He sent me voice notes when he couldn’t come home for dinner. He’d text me good morning and goodnight like clockwork, even if he couldn’t call.
But even with all that, there were still days I sat on the couch waiting for him to come home until the food got cold. Days when I’d pass out on the floor in front of my laptop, eyes blurry from analyzing crime scene data for hours, and he wouldn’t be there to help me into bed.
It wasn’t his fault. Not really.
He was trying. I could see it in how he reached for me more often, how he’d kiss my forehead before rushing out to the studio and whisper, “I’ll make it back early tonight, I promise.”
Tonight became next week.
They started to feel more like hopeful guesses.
One night, I was up grading mock forensic reports for my TA job. I’d brewed coffee three times already, and my neck felt like it was fused to my spine. I looked at the clock: 1:41 a.m.
I stared at my phone, my finger hovering over his contact.
If I called, he’d answer, apologize, say he was on his way. Maybe he even meant it. But I was tired of hearing “I’m sorry.” I wanted to feel it.
Just as I closed my laptop and buried my face in my hands, the front door creaked open. Soft footsteps, the rustling of his coat, the quiet shuffle of someone trying not to wake the house.
“Hey,” I said without looking up.
He froze. “You’re still awake.”
He stepped into the kitchen awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I brought bread from that bakery you like…”
He set the bag down slowly. “Did I forget something again?”
“No,” I said, standing. “You just forgot me again.”
“Don’t.” I finally looked at him, really looked. “You say you’re trying, and I believe you. But Jihoon, I’m exhausted. I’m drowning in assignments, exams, autopsy reports, case studies hell, I’ve barely slept. And the one person who’s supposed to be my calm in the storm is never here.”
“I’m here now,” he whispered.
“But for how long?” My voice cracked. “Until your phone rings? Until the next beat hits you and you forget I exist?”
“What’s not fair is I keep giving and giving, and you keep... not showing up. Not in the way I need you to.”
He looked like I’d punched him. “So what now?”
I took a long, shaky breath.
And that was the truth. I didn’t know.
Because I still loved him. But I also loved me. And I was starting to realize I couldn’t keep bleeding for someone who didn’t even realize I was cut.
He crossed the room then, slowly, like I might vanish. He took my hands.
“I know I’m failing you,” he murmured. “But I don’t want to. I’m scared. Scared that I don’t know how to be everything you deserve. That I’m too far gone in my own world to love you properly.”
I swallowed, eyes brimming with tears.
“I don’t need perfect, Jihoon. I just need you to show up. Really. Not just physically emotionally. I need to know I’m still a part of your world.”
He nodded, tears trailing silently down his cheeks.
“I’ll prove it,” he whispered. “Not with words. I’ll prove it with actions. Please… give me time.”
But I didn’t say no either.
And for now, that was enough.
I hadn’t heard his voice in twenty-one days.
It wasn’t because we were angry. There were no screaming matches, no broken plates, no one storming out. That would’ve been easier, I think. Something to blame. Someone to point fingers at.
He stayed at his studio the night I told him I needed space. Packed a duffel bag and left without protest. His eyes were glassy, jaw tight, but he didn’t try to stop me. Maybe that was the worst part how easily he let go.
I moved in with a friend near campus. Her place was smaller, a bit messier, the walls thin enough to hear her laugh when she FaceTimed her boyfriend. But it felt warmer, somehow. I could breathe again.
I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d lost until I was no longer orbiting his world.
For once, my mornings weren’t rushed. I woke up with sunlight in my hair instead of bags under my eyes. I drank coffee that wasn’t cold. I read chapters without rereading the same line ten times. I went on solo walks, bought myself flowers, smiled at strangers, and cried a little when no one was looking.
His hoodie still hung in my closet. His laugh still echoed in my head when something dumb happened. I still reached for my phone when I saw something I knew he’d love before remembering there was no message to send.
The version of me that dreamed of working on criminal cases, of writing policy reform, of standing in a courtroom defending justice. That girl had started dimming her light for someone who barely noticed she was fading.
That couldn’t happen again.
I wasn’t sure if I still believed in fate. In timing. In people “meant to be.” Because if Jihoon was really my person, why did love feel so damn lonely?
[Jihoon]
I hope you're okay. You don’t have to reply. Just wanted to say I’m thinking about you.
And I’m sorry again. For all of it.
I stared at the message for five minutes.
Because the thing about time is when you finally give yourself some, you start to realize what you deserve. I deserved more than just love. I deserved effort. Attention. Consistency. And I was starting to believe I didn’t have to beg for it.
Jihoon’s POV Three Weeks Into the Separation
I still park outside her campus sometimes.
Not to stalk. Not to be weird. I just… like knowing she’s okay. Seeing her walk out of the lecture hall with her messy notes and oversized tote bag. Watching her tuck her hair behind her ears when she’s focused on her phone. I’ve even caught her laughing with her friend once, and for a moment, I let myself believe she was still mine.
I should be happy about that. But it crushes me.
Because I made her heavy.
I didn’t realize love could feel like a burden until I became one. It started with missed dinners. Ignored calls. Me saying “just five more minutes” and turning that into hours. Her cooking dinner for two and eating alone. Her dressing up for a date I forgot. Her eyes watering and me too tired to ask why.
I didn’t mean to be absent. I was just… stuck in a cycle of needing to make something of myself. Every song I worked on, every melody that slipped through my fingers, felt more important than rest, than sleep, than her not because she didn’t matter, but because I thought she'd always be there.
She was the one constant in my chaos.
And I took that for granted.
I keep her hoodie folded in my room the yellow one she always wore when painting. It still smells like her. Faint lavender and acrylic. I haven’t washed it. Can’t bring myself to. Sometimes I sleep with it under my pillow like some lovesick teenager.
The studio’s been quiet without her humming while she waited for me to finish up. No soft giggles. No late-night snacks. No hand on my back reminding me to eat, to stretch, to exist outside of my obsession with perfection.
I check my phone more than I should.
She didn’t reply to my message. I didn’t expect her to. I said she didn’t have to. But fuck, it still stung.
I wonder if she’s forgetting the little things. How I used to run her bath when she got cramps. How I’d sneak into her classes just to watch her present. How I carried her paint set in my backpack once because she forgot it and cried from stress.
She never asked for much. Just me. Just my attention.
And I couldn’t even give her that.
I don’t want to stop her from healing. She deserves peace. But I can’t stop loving her either.
So here I am. Outside the campus library, sitting in my car like a ghost, wondering if maybe just maybe she misses me too.
It was just a regular café.
At least, that’s what I told myself as I walked in, the bell above the door chiming softly like it always did. I had my headphones in, hoodie up, messy sketchbook tucked under my arm. I just needed to get out of my own apartment, away from the memories that clung to the walls like dust.
I wasn’t expecting to see him.
He was at the corner table. Same old black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug like it was holding him together. He looked thinner. Tired. His under-eyes were dark, his usually neat hair curling out at the sides like he hadn’t run his hands through it in days.
I froze mid-step. He didn’t see me yet.
My first instinct was to turn around. To pretend I never saw him. Because I wasn’t ready. Not to talk. Not to remember. Not to feel everything again.
His lips parted slightly. No words. Just that same unreadable, searching expression I’d seen the day I walked out.
The tension hit like a wave. My chest tightened. The air felt too thin. The playlist in my ears faded into nothing as my fingers slowly pulled the earbuds out. He stood up. Slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to scare me away.
I wanted to run. But I didn’t move.
One word. One stupid word. And everything inside me cracked open like glass under pressure.
There was a beat. A silence so loud it made my ears ring.
“You look good,” he said, voice rough. “Healthy. Painting again?”
We stood there in the middle of the café, like the rest of the world had faded away. Like we were suspended in a memory neither of us could erase.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice trembling. “God, YN, I’m so sorry. For not being there. For letting you go through it all alone.”
I bit my lip, hard. “I never wanted to be alone, Jihoon. I just… didn’t want to feel invisible.”
His eyes welled. And then so did mine.
“I was drowning in work,” he said, stepping closer. “But that’s no excuse. You were always the most important thing. I just forgot how to show it.”
“I used to wait by your door like a fool,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. “You were five feet away from me and still out of reach.”
His hand reached up, trembling as he brushed a tear from my cheek. I leaned into it before I could stop myself, because damn it, I missed his touch like air.
“I still wear your hoodie,” he admitted with a broken laugh. “It still smells like you.”
A sob ripped out of me and I collapsed forward not caring that we were in public, not caring who saw wrapping my arms around him tightly, desperately.
He caught me mid-fall, but he was shaking just as hard.
We ended up on our knees on the café floor, clinging to each other like the world would split in half if we let go.
“I missed you,” I choked out, burying my face in his chest. “I missed you so much it physically hurt.”
“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered into my hair. “Not for a second.”
I didn’t know if we were ready to fix it. If this meant we’d be okay again. But in that moment, in that fragile embrace on the café floor, we were just two people who had hurt and missed each other too much to keep pretending we were fine.
And sometimes, that’s where healing begins.
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