Please write producer!woozi x reader just anything about it I BADLY NEED WOOZI FICS
White Noises
(Lee Jihoon x FemReader)
*slice of life, angst, heavy angst, Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, emotional neglect*
You loved him. You loved him.
And that made it worse.
Because Jihoon wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t neglectful by intention. He didn’t forget anniversaries or raise his voice or flirt with anyone else. He was consistent, gentle even in his silence. And he loved his music the kind of love that burned so bright, it left little space for shadows like you.
He used to invite you in into his studio, his world, his chaos. You’d curl on his small couch, chin on your knees, while he played melodies he wasn’t confident about yet. “It’s not good,” he’d mutter, scratching his neck, but you’d shake your head and smile, hearing what he couldn’t.
Now?
Now he shut the door.
Now, you only saw him in passing hunched over his monitors, headphones on, eyes distant even when you waved from the hallway. A ghost lingering in the home you once shared.
And the hardest part?
You didn’t know when it started.
Maybe it was after that third comeback. Maybe it was the constant pressure to outdo himself. Maybe he just assumed you’d always be there, waiting quietly like a favorite verse in a song he hadn’t played in a while.
Maybe… you’d let yourself disappear for him.
The dinner table sat for two. It had been sitting for two for the past five nights.
You brought him food warm at first, lukewarm by the time he remembered, untouched when he didn’t.
There was a note scribbled on a napkin in front of his untouched soup.
“I don’t want to eat alone anymore.”
You crumpled it before he could see. Threw it in the trash.
Maybe you were being dramatic. Maybe he was just stressed. Maybe this was what loving someone brilliant looked like loving them from a distance, understanding their silence, waiting for slivers of time like gifts.
But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
You missed the version of Jihoon who tugged you by the wrist to slow dance with him at 2 a.m. in the kitchen. Who whispered lyrics into your hair as you fell asleep. Who wrote your name in the corner of sheet music like a secret.
Now? He was just… tired.
And you were tired too.
But not from work. From waiting.
That weekend, you packed an overnight bag and left.
No dramatic note. No angry voicemail. Just a message:
“Going to stay with a friend. I need some air.”
You didn’t expect him to reply immediately. He didn’t.
You didn’t expect him to chase after you. He didn’t.
Three days passed.
You checked your phone, irrationally hoping he’d say something.
But silence.
On the fourth day, you came back. The apartment smelled the same like jasmine candles and dust and silence. His shoes were at the door. His hoodie still draped over the couch, the one you used to wear.
You walked into the kitchen and paused.
The soup was gone. Plate washed. Counter wiped.
But the emptiness was still there, humming like feedback static through every room.
That night, he came out of the studio.
It was late. You were curled on the couch in your hoodie, scrolling aimlessly, not expecting him to say anything.
But he stood there.
Still in that same black shirt, sleeves rolled, a pencil tucked behind his ear. Tired. Pale. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.
“You left,” he said simply.
You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
Silence.
Then, “Why?”
You almost laughed.
Instead, you met his eyes. “Because I was tired of feeling like a stranger in my own relationship.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’ve been busy. I know that. But there’s a difference between being busy and being absent, Jihoon.”
He shifted, guilt flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.”
That’s what made it worse.
He walked forward, but not close enough. “I thought you understood…”
“I do,” you whispered. “That’s the problem. I understand everything your dreams, your ambition, your pressure. But who’s understanding me?”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was hollow. Defeated.
You stood up. “I’m not asking for grand gestures. I just wanted to matter.”
“You do.”
“Then show me. Not in words, Jihoon. In presence.”
You walked past him.
This time, he didn’t stop you.
That night, you slept in the guest room.
No tears. Just silence.
And a pillow that didn’t smell like him.
In the days that followed, you danced around each other. Polite. Distant. Like roommates rather than lovers.
He left coffee on your side of the table again. You didn’t touch it.
You folded his laundry. He left his charger on your nightstand.
Small things. Habits pretending to be affection.
But no late-night hugs. No forehead kisses. No lyrics murmured into your hair.
You sat on the balcony one night, knees to your chest, watching the city breathe beneath the stars.
You didn’t hear him until he was behind you.
“I wrote something,” he said softly.
You turned.
He held out a notebook. Pages dog-eared. Lyrics scribbled messily. Your name on the first line.
“I didn’t know how else to say it,” he confessed. “So I wrote.”
You didn’t take it.
Instead, you asked, “Do you love me, or do you just love writing about me?”
He froze.
You stood, brushing past him. “Words are easy. Presence is hard. And you haven’t really been here in months.”
For once, Jihoon had nothing to say.
You walked away again.
And this time, he let you go.
The kitchen lights were harsh tonight, humming against the tiles like a second heartbeat. You stirred the tea absentmindedly, barely hearing the spoon clink. Everything felt unreal like you were floating somewhere outside of yourself.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Same tired eyes. Same clenched jaw.
“You’re being dramatic,” Jihoon said, tone flat. “Again.”
The spoon stopped.
You looked at him slowly. “Again?”
He stepped in, voice tightening. “You always do this when I’m working. Suddenly I’m the villain because I’m focused?”
You blinked. “I never said that—”
“You didn’t have to,” he cut in. “It’s the sighs. The walking away. The guilt-tripping.”
You flinched.
He stepped closer. “You think I don’t notice the way you make everything about how I don’t love you right? Just because I’m not sitting on the couch 24/7 doesn’t mean I don’t care, Y/N.”
“I never asked for that,” you whispered. “I just wanted—”
“You wanted what?” His voice rose, sharp now. “For me to drop everything because you’re insecure?”
It hit like a slap. Your breath caught in your throat.
Jihoon shook his head, almost laughing. “This is always how it goes. I get busy, and suddenly you’re packing bags and sending guilt texts.”
“I never guilt tripped you,” you said, but even as you said it, your voice wavered.
He pounced on that. “Right. Because, ‘I don’t want to eat alone anymore’ isn’t emotional blackmail?”
Your heart stopped. You hadn’t even let him see that napkin. How did he know?
“You read the trash?” you asked, voice breaking.
“I live here,” he said coldly. “I saw it. And you knew I would. That’s why you left it.”
You shook your head slowly, stepping back. “No. I threw it away so you wouldn’t see it. I was venting, Jihoon. I’m allowed to feel lonely.”
He laughed not loudly, not joyfully, but like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You don’t even realize how much pressure you put on me. You think you’re gentle, but you want me to feel guilty for not being enough for you.”
The words felt like ice in your chest.
“I’ve never asked you to be anything other than present,” you said, quieter this time. “I’ve always supported you—”
He cut in again. “And I didn’t ask for someone who needs hand-holding every second.”
Silence.
That one stung.
Your hands trembled, but you clenched them into fists to hide it.
He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.
“I think you just… make problems when things are fine,” Jihoon continued. “Things were fine until you started acting like I don’t care.”
You stared at him, something inside you cracking like glass.
So this was it.
This was how it turned how the man who once pulled you into his arms without words now stood across from you, arms crossed, acting like you were the problem. Like you were unstable. Needy. Selfish.
Maybe you had been quiet too long. Maybe he thought your kindness made you easy to bend.
But tonight, something shifted.
“I’m not making this up,” you said slowly. “I’m not imagining the distance, Jihoon. You stopped being there. You shut me out. And now you want to blame me for noticing?”
He looked annoyed. “You’re twisting this.”
“No,” you snapped, and it surprised you the fire in your chest. “You are.”
His lips parted, but you didn’t let him speak.
“I have done everything I could to love you. Even when I was being ignored. Even when you forgot what day it was. Even when I sat alone in that tiny couch in your studio like a prop in the background of your life. I stayed. But I won’t let you turn this on me.”
The silence between us was suffocating, yet it wasn’t the kind that begged for comfort. It was thick, heavy, like a storm gathering behind closed doors. Woozi’s eyes, usually so gentle and soft, now held a cold, unyielding edge. The words he had just spat out kept replaying in my mind like a broken record, echoing the disbelief, the hurt.
“You’re imagining things. I never said those things. You’re making this up.” His voice was steady, almost clinical, as if I were a child accusing him of some childish mischief.
I stared at him, my chest tight, eyes burning. “How how can you say that? After everything I told you? After how it made me feel? I trusted you…”
He cut me off with a tired shake of his head, as if my pain was a bothersome interruption in his day. “You’re overreacting. You’re too sensitive. I don’t know why you keep twisting things. Maybe you just want to fight.”
That hit me harder than any slap could. The sharp sting of being blamed for my own feelings, my own truth, collapsed me inward.
I blinked back tears that threatened to fall. “I’m not lying. You said it. You hurt me.”
“No, I didn’t.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “You’re just too emotional. Stop making me the bad guy.”
It was the ultimate betrayal—not just the cruel dismissal, but the deliberate rewriting of reality. I wanted to scream, to shake him awake, but my voice caught in my throat.
“Why… why are you doing this?” I whispered, the pain raw and exposed.
He looked away, the mask slipping for a split second. Then, with a small, bitter laugh, he said, “Because if I admit it, then I have to face what I did. And I’m not ready to do that.”
That was the cruel truth he was afraid. Afraid to confront his own mistakes, so he pushed me away instead. Left me alone in a room full of shadows.
I wanted to reach out to him one last time, to plead for the man I thought I loved, but the walls I had built to protect my heart trembled and cracked under the weight of his words. Instead, I turned away, retreating into myself.
Days passed like a blur. I spoke less, smiled less, a ghost lingering in the corners of our shared spaces. The warmth between us was replaced by icy distance. Woozi stayed busy in his studio, buried in music and deadlines, barely looking my way.
And I let him because what was left to say? The person I loved had become a stranger who denied my reality.
Late at night, I lay awake, fingers clutching my sheets, haunted by memories of whispered promises and gentle touches that now felt like echoes from a past life. I told myself to be strong, to hold onto the fragments of who I was before this unraveling.
But sometimes, the loneliness crept in like a tide, threatening to drown me in its relentless waves.
One evening, after a particularly silent dinner, Woozi finally spoke, voice tired and distant.
“We should talk.”
My heart thudded with a mix of hope and dread. “About what?”
“About us.” He sighed. “About everything.”
I wanted to believe we could fix this, but the memory of his cold denial made me hesitate.
“I’m not sure if ‘us’ still exists,” I whispered.
He closed his eyes, the exhaustion plain on his face. “Maybe it doesn’t. But I don’t want to lose you.”
His words were fragile, but I wasn’t sure if they were enough anymore. Not without truth. Not without accountability.
I looked at him, searching for the man I once knew in the shadows of his guarded gaze. But all I saw was the pain of two people slowly unraveling, tangled in silence and broken trust.
And maybe, that was the hardest truth of all.
