Discover Top Posts Tagged with #2521

All-time Favourite Dramas 10/10 🌟

Here's all my absolute 10/10 dramas, both korean and chinese with ratings, tags, and my thoughts in general.

#kdramas #lovely runner #2521 #twenty five twenty one #hospital playlist #doom at your service #reborn rich #my name #romance is a bonus book #extraordinary attorney woo #flower of evil #nevertheless #hot stove league #it's okay not to be okay #alchemy of souls #love to hate you #when I fly towards you #hidden love #cdramas

- - - - - - Stardust - - - - - -

Hi everyone, welcome to my blog ♡

I’m a beginner writer, I write mainly for Weak Hero, but feel free to request anything else!

DNI if you’re racist, homophobic, zionist, sexist, or anything of the kind thanks :)

Requests are : open

TAGLIST — comment on this post or DM to be added.

MORE ABOUT ME — introduction and guidelines.

Angst — ℘ || Fluff — ۶ৎ || Suggestive — ʚଓ

⊱⋆⊳ MASTERLIST ⊲⋆⊰

✴ 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒:

HEADCANONS:

𖤝 Weak Hero Boys as your bestfriends/boyfriends ۶ৎ

𖤝 Weak Hero Boys when a sex scene comes up on screen ʚଓ

𖤝 "The tears you didn't shed" ℘ — PART 1 ▪︎ PART 2 ▪︎ PART 3

𖤝 "Guilt, love, and tears" ℘ — PART 1 ▪︎ PART 2 ▪︎ PART 3

𖤝 "Jealous? Never!" ۶ৎ

𖤝 "Money doesn't buy love" ۶ৎ

𖤝 "I wasn't talking to you" — coming soon.

AHN SUHO:

𖤝 "Unspoken feelings and unsaid words" ℘

GO HYUNTAK:

𖤝 “Pinky Promise” — coming soon.

GEUM SEONGJE:

𖤝 "The heart behind the fists" [series]

✴ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃:

'DOOMED FATE' SERIES:

𖤝 Chapter 1, "The New Transfer"

✴ 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍:

HA YICHAN:

𖤝 "I was the love of your life. But you were not mine." ℘

K-Dramas I write for: Weak Hero Class, All Of Us Are Dead, Twinkling Watermelon, 2521, Racket Boys, [will update]

Currently watching: Taxi Driver, My Dearest Nemesis (no I cannot make up my mind to watch one at a time judge me).

Current obsession: Weak Hero Class/D.P.

I am a friend to anyone wishing to be, or a stranger to vent to if you feel like it. Whatever it is, my DMs are always open, and don’t hesitate a second before messaging me—I’m always scared to message people first myself. I’m a human being like you, and I won’t judge you for seeking friendship or help—it’s the bravest things you can do.

I love you guys, always ♡

A reminder I love and want to share with anyone who might need it;

"You’re beautiful the way you are. When you’re feeling down, remind yourself that you—oh beautiful you—are entirely made of stardust. So when you see a beautiful night sky, know that you are as beautiful as them."

˚˖𓍢ִ໋`🌿:✧˚.📷⋆𖧧

today is the last 25/21 until the year 2125

#they’re my last strand #2521 #twenty five twenty one #kdrama #kdrama edit #kim taeri #nam joo hyuk #baek yijin #baggy jeans #na heedo #heejin

⠀ ︎ ⠀ ︎ ( ♡ ︎ ) ⠀ ︎ ⠀ ⠀i ⠀ love ⠀ you⠀ back. ──

⠀⠀ ⠀said ⠀ i ⠀ wouldn’t ⠀ take⠀⠀ nobody back

happy 3 year anniversary to the drama that changed my brain chemistry

#2521 #twenty five twenty one #i’m still not over it #baekdo #nam joo hyuk #kim taeri

WHAT WE LEFT BEHIND TWENTY-ONE

WORD COUNT: 1.2K

TAGS: angst, past lovers, bittersweet, sports AU, squid game doesn’t exist, reminisce

A/N: i’ve been SO fixed on 2521, best kdrama ever! i miss hee-do and yi-jin so bad to the point i had to write in-ho and reader as them in another universe :( i suggest watching that drama if u like slice of life and youth kdramas!

DIVIDERS: chachachannah

PAIR: news anchor!in-ho x fencing!reader

The gold medal around your neck feels heavier than it should—its weight dragging against your chest like a reminder rather than a reward.

You thought this moment would feel cleaner. You had imagined it dozens of times—your victory on the world stage. The screaming crowd. The anthem. The tears that weren’t supposed to be sad. And yet, now that you’re here, now that you’ve climbed the mountain you’ve been scaling since you were seventeen and broke and hungry and alone—

It doesn’t feel like the top.

It feels like the edge of something vast and empty.

The announcer’s voice crackles overhead, echoing across the stadium.

“And now, a special post-victory interview with South Korea’s fencing champion, L/N Y/N, led by our lead anchor, Hwang In-ho.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

You’ve trained your whole life not to flinch. Not when a blade flies past your face, not when reporters ask invasive questions, not when the weight of expectation sits on your shoulders like armor. But now—now you almost do.

Because it’s him.

Of all people.

Hwang In-ho.

The man you loved when love was all you had. The boy who once held your face between his palms and whispered, “You can do anything. Even if I’m not there to see it.”

You hadn’t realized how deeply those words had burrowed inside you—until you spent years trying to hate him for saying them at all.

You walk toward the stage slowly. With purpose. You remind yourself of the cameras, the sponsors, the reputation you’ve spent half your life earning. You are composed. You are graceful.

But your pulse thunders when you see him.

He stands exactly as you remember—rigid posture, pressed suit, neat hair, elegant watch ticking quietly on his wrist. But his face…

His face is a betrayal. It hasn’t changed. Not really. Older, yes. Wiser, perhaps. But those eyes? Still the same brown you used to memorize during lazy Sunday mornings and cramped subway rides and sleep-deprived midnight calls.

Still the same man who kissed you behind gymnasium bleachers after your first regional match.

Still the same man who walked away because loving you hurt too much.

Your heels click against the stage floor. He turns toward you with the calm, public smile of a professional—his mask so perfectly in place that for a moment, you think maybe it was all in your head.

“Y/N, congratulations,” he says, voice smooth, low, practiced. “You’ve just made history. How does it feel, standing here with the gold?”

You take the mic from him. Your hand brushes his—just barely.

Your skin burns.

You force a smile. You look out into the crowd, bright lights burning into your vision.

And then you say, “It feels… heavier than I thought it would.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the people watching at home to think it’s poetic. But you see the corner of his mouth twitch, just slightly, like it always used to when he wanted to ask what you really meant.

He doesn’t.

You keep going. “I dreamed of this moment for so long. I thought it would feel like flying. But instead… it feels like I’m finally breathing again after drowning for years.”

He nods, lips still shaped into a press smile, but you catch it—that flicker of something in his eyes.

“Your journey’s been incredible,” he says. “You started with nothing—no equipment, no coach, no team—and now you’re here. A global champion.”

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Not nothing. I had someone who believed in me once. Someone who made me believe it too.”

There’s another pause—longer, heavier. The audience might think it’s dramatic effect. But between you and him? You both know what it is.

You stare at each other a second too long. Enough to make the silence feel intimate. Enough to make the cameraman shift uncomfortably.

He blinks. Looks away.

Still the same coward, you think. But there’s no real anger in it. Just the echo of what could’ve been.

“Were there moments,” he says carefully, “when you thought of giving up?”

Your smile is immediate. It’s not happy.

“Every week. Every match. Every time I had to eat instant noodles for the fifth day in a row because training cost more than living. Every time I watched my classmates graduate, date, fall in love, while I spent Valentine’s Day with blisters and bruises. There were moments where it wasn’t just a question of giving up. It felt like surviving was the sacrifice.”

You meet his eyes then. This time, there’s no smile.

“But I never stopped. Because someone once told me I’d win. And even when he left—” You falter. “Even when the world told me I was wasting my youth, I kept chasing the echo of that promise.”

He swallows.

You see his fingers clench around his cue card. See the veins in his wrist twitch like they used to when he was nervous.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He can’t.

The interview wraps up with a few more formal questions. You answer them. Laugh once or twice. Thank your coaches, your team, your fans.

And when it’s over, you step off the stage without looking back.

Until—

“Wait,” he says quietly, behind you, after the cameras go dark.

You stop. But you don’t turn.

His voice is softer now. Raw.

“I watched every one of your matches. Even the qualifiers. Even the ones that didn’t make the news. I stayed up at 3 a.m. refreshing the live scoreboards. I—I knew you’d make it.”

You inhale sharply. Keep your back to him.

“Then why didn’t you call?” you ask. “Why didn’t you stay?”

“I thought it would hurt you more if I stayed in your life and became the reason you failed. I thought… I thought letting go was how I could protect you.”

You finally turn.

“You weren’t protecting me. You were protecting yourself.”

He flinches. But doesn’t deny it.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says instead.

You nod. “I know.”

And it should be enough. That admission. That honesty.

But it isn’t.

Because the person you loved is still standing there in a suit, behind a camera, and the person you became learned to win without him.

“I loved you too,” you whisper. “At nineteen. At twenty-one. And even when I hated you, I think I still loved you.”

His jaw tightens.

“But I can’t go back,” you say, a bitter smile ghosting your lips. “I worked too hard to become someone without you. And now I don’t know how to be that girl again.”

He nods slowly.

And that’s when you both understand.

This isn’t a love story.

It’s a memory.

A scar.

A beautiful, broken part of your history that shaped who you are—but doesn’t get to stay.

You step closer—close enough to see the lines time etched on his face, close enough to smell the familiar scent of his cologne, something citrusy and warm.

You press a hand to his chest.

“Thank you,” you say. “For loving me. For leaving. For everything. But I have to go now.”

And he says nothing.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

That night, as the plane takes you home, you sit by the window with the medal in your lap.

You watch the clouds pass by and wonder where he is.

In a studio? On a train? Lying awake thinking about the version of you he once held at twenty-one?

Maybe.

But you don’t call.

And he doesn’t chase.

Because sometimes—love isn’t meant to return.

It’s meant to be remembered.

masterlist

#kirby #daily kirby #my art #digital #hal laboratory #nintendo #2521