Jun 30, 2024
Anzas Studio by Yoshimasa Tsutsumi (2011) Location: Beijing, China
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Anzas Studio by Yoshimasa Tsutsumi (2011) Location: Beijing, China
The Words that were never Spoken
James Chao x choreographer!reader AU oneshot — ☆.ᐟ
⋆.ೃ࿔* :･🎭⋆.ೃ࿔* :･
background :: You are Jame’s highschool sweetheart who happened to be CORTIS’ choreographer. Being an idol was everything James ever wanted, but constant pressure, online criticism, and exhaustion have started turning his dream into something he barely recognizes anymore. While everyone else believes he’s handling things well, you notice the cracks behind his smiles and late-night jokes. Alone in an empty practice room after another endless day, James finally admits the truth: he’s tired of pretending he’s okay.
warnings :: Emotional hurt/comfort, burnout, crying, self-worth issues, idol pressure, anxiety, loneliness, emotional breakdowns, negative comments/social media hate, heavy angst, comfort ending.
lee’s note :: i wanted this fic to feel quiet in the saddest way possible not the dramatic sadness i usually write, but the kind where someone keeps functioning while secretly falling apart. please take care of yourselves and remember that struggling silently is still struggling. THIS IS ALSO A FAKE STORY! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT GOES ON WITH PEOPLES LIVES.
w/ luv, throughyrs
⋆.ೃ࿔* :･🎧⋆.ೃ࿔* :･
The practice room lights were always too bright after midnight.
You sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, laptop balanced on your knees while the instrumental looped for the hundredth time. Your eyes burned from staring at choreography notes, but you kept replaying the same eight-count over and over, trying to figure out why it still felt wrong.
The door creaked open quietly.
“Still here?”
James leaned against the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp with sweat from vocal practice. He looked tired too. Tired in the way idols always did … the kind that settled into their shoulders and stayed there no matter how much sleep they got.
“You scared me,” you muttered.
“You say that every time.”
“Because you appear like a ghost every time.”
A small smile tugged at his lips, but it disappeared almost immediately.
That had become normal lately.
You noticed things about James before anyone else did. The way he laughed softer now. The way he stopped arguing during practice. The way he’d stare at his phone for long stretches before locking it again with a blank expression.
He walked into the room and dropped beside you with a groan, stretching his legs out.
“You ate yet?” you asked.
“Mhm.”
“You’re lying.”
“Mhm.”
You sighed and pushed the convenience store sandwich toward him anyway. He stared at it for a second before taking it without another word.
Silence settled between you comfortably. The music still played quietly from the speakers.
Usually, James filled silences. He’d hum random melodies, poke at your shoulder, complain dramatically about schedules.
Tonight he just sat there.
You glanced over carefully. “Bad day?”
He peeled at the wrapper slowly. “Just tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“Then maybe I’m always having a bad day.”
The joke landed flat.
Your chest tightened a little.
James noticed and immediately looked away.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t.
Because lately it felt like you were watching him disappear in pieces.
A month ago, James used to drag you onto the rooftop after practice.
Now he barely left the studio.
A month ago, he’d send voice notes at 2 a.m. singing unfinished lyrics just to make you laugh.
Now your messages stayed unanswered for hours.
You tried not to take it personally.
You really did.
But some nights were harder than others.
Especially nights like this one.
“Did you see the comments?” he asked suddenly.
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
“Good.”
That one word carried too much weight.
James had always acted unbothered online. He joked through criticism better than anyone. But people forgot idols still read things. They forgot words stayed.
Rumors spread fast. Too fast.
Too emotional.
Too sensitive.
Too weak.
Not talented enough.
Holding the group back.
You hated every single one.
“People are stupid,” you muttered.
He laughed softly through his nose. “You can’t say that when our entire career depends on people.”
“I can if they’re being cruel.”
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he took another bite of the sandwich mechanically, like he barely tasted it.
Your chest ached.
“You know none of that’s true, right?”
James stared ahead at the mirrored wall.
“I don’t know anymore.”
The room suddenly felt freezing.
You had never heard him say something like that before.
Not James.
Not the boy who danced until his knees bruised because he loved performing that much.
Not the boy who stayed after practice helping everyone else perfect their parts.
Not the boy who smiled so brightly it made everyone around him feel lighter too.
“I mean…” He swallowed hard. “If enough people say something, eventually it sticks in your head.”
You closed your laptop quietly.
“James.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the floor.
“You don’t have to pretend around me.”
That almost broke him.
You saw it happen in real time — the way his expression tightened, the way he blinked too quickly.
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are.”
A shaky breath escaped him.
And then he smiled.
That hurt even more.
Because it wasn’t real.
It was the practiced smile. The idol smile. The one designed to survive interviews and cameras and fansigns and bad days.
You hated that smile.
“I just…” He rubbed at his eyes quickly. “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
The music continued looping in the background, tinny and distant.
“You know what the worst part is?” he whispered. “I wanted this so badly.”
You looked at him carefully.
“And now?”
He shrugged helplessly.
“Now I wake up scared.”
The confession shattered something inside you.
James looked embarrassed immediately after saying it out loud. Like admitting it made him weak.
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It is.” He laughed quietly, but his voice cracked halfway through. “Other people handle this fine.”
“You’re not other people.”
His eyes finally met yours then.
Red-rimmed.
Exhausted.
Quietly falling apart.
And for the first time, you realized how alone he must’ve felt.
Surrounded by members.
Managers.
Fans.
Staff.
And still alone.
You moved closer carefully, like approaching something fragile.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
James stared down at his hands.
“Because everyone already has enough problems.”
The answer came too fast.
Like he’d been carrying it for a while.
You wanted to cry right there.
Instead, you reached over and intertwined your fingers with his.
James froze instantly.
The room stayed silent except for the faint hum of the speakers.
“You don’t have to earn the right to be cared about,” you whispered.
His face crumpled.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just quietly.
Like he’d spent too long holding everything in.
He turned away immediately, shoulders shaking once.
Twice.
You pretended not to notice the tears.
That seemed kinder.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
“For what?”
“For being like this.”
Your eyes burned.
“James,” you whispered, “look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You are not hard to love just because you’re hurting.”
The tears slipped down his face before he could stop them.
And somehow that made you cry too.
Not because he was crying.
But because he looked so ashamed of it.
You moved before thinking, pulling him into your arms carefully.
At first he stayed stiff.
Then suddenly he folded into you completely.
Like exhaustion finally won.
His forehead pressed against your shoulder while quiet, uneven breaths shook through him. You held him tighter, one hand running through his hair while the other gripped the back of his hoodie.
The practice room lights buzzed overhead
Outside, people probably still thought James was okay.
That was the strange thing about sadness.
Sometimes it looked exactly like a person showing up to work every day and smiling at the right moments.
“I’m trying,” he whispered brokenly against your shoulder.
“I know.”
“I really am trying.”
“I know.”
And that was the saddest part of all.
He was trying so hard.
My happy place ❤️🔥
Ernie Barnes (American, 1938-2009), Dance Studio, 2002. Oil on canvas, 24 x 47 7/8 in.
getting fitted 🩰
It’s not right but it’s okay rehearsal
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