DIAL TRAGEDY ; lhs [short]
pairing; lee heeseung × fem!reader
genre; drabble, extreme yearning, idol!au, poetic angst
vibe; cold night mist, the blue light of a phone screen, the sound of static, and a heart that beats too loud for its own good.
author's note: took a late night walk today...this is for when the feels are physically bruising your chest. i wanted to capture that moment where the digital connection isn't enough anymore and the physical reality is almost too much to bear. please enjoy. ♡
a loop of "almosts" and "what ifs."
Heeseung is a man made of frequencies. He understands the world in wavelengths—the sharp spike of a high note, the low thrum of a bassline, and the jagged, irregular static of his own anxiety.
But your voice? Your voice is the only frequency that levels him out.
It has become a ritual, a secret held in the dead of night. When the pressure of the stage feels like a chokehold, he retreats to the fire exit or the shadows of the recording booth. He doesn't look at his contacts; he doesn't have to. His thumb knows the way home.
Ring. Ring. Click.
"Hee? It’s late."
He doesn't speak immediately. He just breathes, matching his inhalations to the soft cadence of your voice. He listens to the rustle of your sheets, the quiet yawn you try to hide—the domestic sounds of a life he’s currently barred from. You are his tether. As long as you are on the other end of the line, he won't too far into the void.
But lately, the digital bridge is starting to crumble. The phone is getting heavier. The Dial Tragedy isn't the distance anymore; it’s the realization that he’s becoming a ghost haunting your voicemail.
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The lyrics are scattered across his digital notepad, a frantic mess of ink and light.
I want to be with you every day and night Wanna pick you up and take you to paradise So pick up the, pick up the phone, go here and there
He’s tired of the script. He’s tired of being the tragic lead who only loves you through a speaker.
The air in the company building is recycled and thin, tasting of exhaustion. Heeseung stands by the window, watching the city lights flicker like dying stars. His heart starts that familiar, frantic gallop—a staccato rhythm that he can’t compose his way out of.
[2:14 AM] Heeseung: The silence is too loud tonight.
[2:14 AM] Heeseung: Please. Walk with me?
When you agree, his breath hitches so sharply it hurts. He moves through the building like a shadow, slipping past security and into the biting cold of the Seoul night. Every step toward the park feels like he’s walking toward a cliff. He’s terrified that if he sees you in the flesh, the fragile peace he’s built on phone calls will shatter, leaving him completely exposed.
He reaches the park gate, the metal cold and damp under his palms. He’s early—he’s always early when it comes to you.
He tries to practice his breathing, but his lungs feel like they’re filled with glass. Dial tragedy. He thinks of the song. He thinks of how he’s used your kindness as a battery, charging himself up just to go back into the lights, leaving you in the dark.
Then, a movement.
A shadow detaches itself from the streetlamp’s glow. It’s you.
You’re wrapped in that oversized coat, your face pale and soft in the moonlight. As you walk toward him, Heeseung feels his heart hammer against his ribs with a violence that makes him dizzy. It’s not the adrenaline of a stage; it’s the raw, terrifying thrum of wanting. It’s the sound of a man who has been missing, finally seeing what he needed.
He watches the way your boots crunch on the frost, the way your breath hitches in a small puff of white. You’re getting closer—ten feet, five, three—and the closer you get, the more his composure disappears. The idol vanishes. There is only Lee Heeseung, a boy who is so profoundly lonely that it’s a miracle he hasn't turned to dust.
"You came," he rasps. His voice is a wreck, a broken thing.
"You called," you answer simply, stepping into his space.
The proximity is a sensory overload. The scent of your shampoo, the warmth radiating from your skin, the way your eyes search his with that devastatingly kind concern. Heeseung’s heart is screaming now, a rhythmic, desperate thud-thud-thud that he’s sure you can hear in the quiet of the park.
He reaches out, his fingers trembling as he grazes the sleeve of your coat, not quite brave enough to touch your skin yet. He looks down at you, his eyes brimming with a tragedy that no song could ever truly capture—the tragedy of loving someone so much that even breathing the same air feels like a beautiful, temporary mercy.
"I’ve been standing here counting," he whispers, a small, sad smile breaking across his tired face. "I think my heart beat a million times just waiting for you to round that corner. It’s a tragedy, isn't it? That I only feel alive when I'm terrified of losing you."
He doesn't look away.
He can't.
In the blue-black shadows of 2:00 AM, he lets himself drown in the yearning, hoping that just this once, the line won't go dead.
in honor of composer evan <3333
©️tenderfiless est. 2026
