When you come back home
pairing: Kotone x Male Reader
The crash was loud enough to wake the dead — or at least the half-asleep cashier behind the counter.
You turn toward the sound and find a familiar disaster standing in the middle of the instant noodle aisle.
Kotone.
Covered in ramen cups.
Holding one in her hand like it’s a grenade.
She freezes, blinks once, and says, deadpan,
“You saw nothing”
You blink back. “You’re right, I did not see that you just declared war on the ramen shelf.”
“It attacked first.”
“I’m sure it did.”
The cashier sighs audibly, and Kotone winces, crouching down in a panic to pick up the mess — except she keeps grabbing the same three cups and restacking them in the wrong order, making the pile collapse again.
You snort. “You’re actually making it worse.”
“Then help me!” she whisper-yells. “This is serious! People could starve without these!”
“Tragic. National crisis.”
Kotone glares at you, the same way she did back in high school when you stole the last pudding from her lunchbox. You grin and crouch down anyway, helping her restack the fallen ramen cups one by one.
The two of you don’t say anything for a moment — the silence thick with dust, nostalgia, and the faint hum of the store’s dying air conditioner.
Then she mutters, “You still eat this junk?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You still trip over air?”
Her mouth opens. “That’s defamation.”
“You tripped on nothing, Kotone.”
She points dramatically at the floor. “You don’t know that. There could’ve been a— a ghost!”
“Right. The ghost of instant noodles past.”
“Exactly!” she says, deadly serious — and for some reason, that’s the moment you start laughing. Like, really laughing.
Her pout deepens. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re supposed to help!”
“I am! Emotionally!”
Kotone smacks your arm with a ramen cup. “I should’ve known you’d betray me first chance you got.”
“Please. You’d lose a battle to a paper bag.”
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Tripped-on-a-stationary-chair.”
“That chair was aggressively stationary.”
“Mm-hm.”
You both glare at each other, then burst out laughing again — loud, shameless laughter that echoes down the empty aisles. The cashier mutters something about “kids these days” but you both ignore him.
Outside, the air smells like rain and warm asphalt. Kotone walks beside you, swinging the plastic bag of snacks like it’s a pendulum of chaos.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think the store clerk hates us.”
“I think he’s filing a restraining order.”
“Good. Keeps things interesting.”
You glance at her. “So you’re back?”
“Temporarily.” She shrugs, the movement small and casual, but there’s a glimmer in her eyes — something softer hiding beneath the bravado. “No schedules for awhile, so I figured I’d come home before my company glues me to a practice room.”
“Your group giving you a break? Scandalous.”
Kotone narrows her eyes. “Oh? You do know who we are.”
You pretend to think. “Double… what now?”
Her jaw drops. “You liar. You know our songs.”
“I might’ve heard one. Maybe. Accidentally.”
“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “After all these years, you’ve become one of those guys.”
“What guys?”
“The ones who pretend they don’t know me to seem cool.”
“Relax, superstar. I’m not pretending.”
Kotone gasps. “You’re literally gaslighting an idol right now.”
You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure idols don’t get gaslit in convenience stores.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She kicks a pebble down the street, then adds, “Also, for the record, I’m totally telling my members that my childhood friend betrayed me.”
“They’ll side with me. All 23 of them.”
“Impossible.”
“Highly likely.”
“You underestimate my influence.”
“You underestimate my tolerance for chaos.”
She stops, squints at you, then bursts out laughing again. “God, I forgot how annoying you are.”
You grin. “And yet, you missed me.”
She opens her mouth, ready to argue — but then closes it again. A small smile flickers at the corner of her lips. “Shut up.”
You end up walking her home. Neither of you mention it, but it feels natural, automatic. The streets are still the same: cracked pavement, uneven sidewalks, the distant buzz of cicadas.
“You still live at the same place?” she asks.
“Yeah. You?”
She nods. “Feels smaller now. Or maybe I just got taller.”
“Definitely taller. You used to barely reach my shoulder.”
Kotone immediately steps closer, comparing. “I still don’t.”
“Shame.”
She elbows you. “You’re not that tall.”
“Tall enough to—”
Before you can finish, she reaches up and flicks your forehead. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Height doesn’t protect you from justice,” she declares, proudly.
You stare at her. “You’re insane.”
“Takes one to know one.”
You both break into another round of laughter, the kind that leaves you breathless.
By the time you reach her street, the laughter fades into something quieter. Softer.
Kotone glances at her house, the lights off inside except for the faint glow of her bedroom window.
“I guess this is where I turn,” she says.
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches, not uncomfortable — just full of things you both aren’t saying.
Then she looks back at you, eyes warm but tired in a way you’ve never seen before. “Thanks. For… this.”
You blink. “For bullying you in a convenience store?”
“For… showing up,” she says quietly, and before you can respond, she smiles — that same small, crooked smile she had as a kid. “Goodnight, dummy.”
“Goodnight, klutz.”
She waves lazily over her shoulder as she walks away.
Later that night, Kotone sits cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from a quick shower, a half-eaten popsicle melting beside her. Her old room feels exactly the same — the faded curtains, the posters on the wall, the faint creak in the floorboards.
Except for that..
It’s sitting on her desk under the soft yellow glow of the lamp — a little worn, the edges curled. The ink slightly faded but still clear.
Instead, she traces a finger over it— and laughs under her breath.
“Still a terrible liar,” she murmurs.
She sets it down gently, switches off the light, and crawls under the blanket.
Outside, the rain starts to fall — steady, quiet, and comforting. The sound she used to fall asleep to when everything still made sense.
And somewhere, half a town away, you’re probably still laughing about the ramen cups.
She smiles in the dark.
“Idiot,” she whispers fondly, a bittersweet smile on her face.
Then, finally, she sleeps.
You fall back into orbit without even realizing it.
One day it’s “Hey, coffee?”
Then it’s “You’re free this afternoon, right?”
Then it’s walks that turn into inside jokes that turn into hours that pass too easily.
It’s like muscle memory — how she always walks a half-step ahead of you but turns back to make sure you’re following, how you always wait an extra second at crosswalks just to annoy her.
Everyone sees it — the way your laughter sounds louder when you’re together, how your voices overlap like you’re trying to win an invisible argument.
But both of you pretend it’s nothing.
Like this is just what best friends do.
It’s late afternoon when you find yourselves at the park, the same one you used to visit after school. The swings are still creaky, the vending machine still refuses to accept slightly crumpled bills. Kotone’s hair glows in the sunlight — brown with a soft reddish tint — and she’s drinking iced coffee through a straw like she’s in a commercial.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she asks suddenly, her voice light.
You tilt your head. “What does?”
“Being friends again.”
You grin. “Who said we ever stopped?”
She blinks, and for a split second, something flickers in her expression — like she’s about to say something else. But then she laughs, kicking at a stray pebble. “You’re still as cheesy as ever.”
“And you’re still bossy.”
“Excuse me,” she says, mock offended, “I’m confident.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Confident menace,” she corrects, pointing her straw at you like a weapon.
You roll your eyes. “Sure. That’s what they all say before they trip over nothing.”
She gasps dramatically. “I do not trip over nothing!”
“Uh-huh,” you hum. “Tell that to the ramen aisle.”
“That was one time!”
“Two times.”
“…Okay, maybe two, three if you count the supermarket that time, but still—”
You’re laughing so hard your sides hurt, and she’s smacking your arm like you’ve just committed treason. The old man walking his dog gives you both a strange look, but you don’t care. For the first time in a long time, it feels easy again.
Later, you stop by the convenience store. The same one where you met her again after years apart.
Kotone grabs a can of milk soda and raises it toward you. “Famous people still drink this,” she declares.
“Oh, right. You’re famous now,” you tease. “Should I start bowing when I see you?”
She squints at you. “You’re just jealous.”
“Of what? Your fans?”
“Of my talent,” she says, smirking proudly.
You snort. “TripleS, right?”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “You remembered.”
“I think I’ve heard of them.”
“You think?”
You grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever listened to their songs. What’s your name again?”
She gasps and smacks your shoulder with the rolled-up magazine she’s holding. “You liar! You totally know!”
“I don’t even know what a TripleS is.”
“Kami-sama, give me patience,” she mutters, trying not to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Excuse you,” she says, straightening up. “I’m an idol. Drama is part of the brand.”
You grin. “Right. So is tripping over ramen cups, apparently.”
“Stop bringing that up!” she yells, but she’s laughing now, full and loud, the kind of laugh that makes her eyes curve into crescents. You think it’s the prettiest sound you’ve heard in a long time.
That night, she’s back in her childhood room — the one with faded posters and fairy lights that don’t all work anymore. She’s lying on her stomach, scrolling through your messages.
“You still hate the green popsicle part?”
“Obviously”
“Good. more for me.”
“you’re so predictable it’s boring”
“and you’re still so annoying”
She giggles quietly, hugging her pillow to her chest. It feels like the years apart are shrinking, collapsing into the space between your texts.
She replays what you said, “Who said we ever stopped?”
You’d said it like a joke, like a throwaway line. But it sticks.
Her smile lingers, soft and sleepy. But when the phone screen goes dark, the quiet feels heavier.
The words echo in her mind again.
Who said we ever stopped?
She turns over, staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable.
“You didn’t say anything,” she whispers to no one. “That’s the problem.”
You remember that night because it felt too alive to fade.
The sky had that deep, heavy blue that only happens after the rain threatens but doesn’t fall. The streetlights buzzed above you like nervous thoughts, catching in the damp air, and somewhere down the block, someone’s radio played an old love song out of tune.
Kotone had insisted on dragging you out of the house after dinner — said you were getting boring, said she missed your “chaotic energy.” You said that was her way of admitting she was lonely. She told you to shut up, and you did. Because she was Kotone
So you ended up on her porch steps, half a pack of Pocky between you, cicadas screaming like background noise to your laughter.
“You’re seriously bad at this,” she said, balancing a Pocky stick on her nose, face scrunched in focus.
You watched her — her lips pressed together, hair falling over her cheek, the faintest pink at the tips of her ears.
The stick fell.
“Yes!” you said, triumphant. “Finally!”
She groaned, swatting your shoulder. “You were literally rooting for me to fail.”
“Wrong. I was rooting for justice to prevail.”
“Justice?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Says the person who threw my controller last time I beat them at Pokemon.”
“You threw it first!”
“I gently placed it…”
“I will smack you into tomorrow”
“against the wall”
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, and for a moment, it felt like time folded back on itself — like you were both children again, like the world hadn’t yet taught you about distance or fear or how dreams can be the cruelest kind of beautiful.
And you thought: This is the night.
The folded letter in your pocket felt heavy — as if it already knew its fate. You’d written it days ago, unable to sleep, every word raw and unsure: how she made everything brighter, how you didn’t know when friendship had stopped being enough. It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t even neat. But it was real.
You’d told yourself you’d give it to her tonight. Or at least say something.
But before you could gather the courage, she spoke.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said suddenly.
The world stilled. Even the cicadas seemed to hold their breath.
“I got scouted,” she said.
“Like what? For basketball? You might be a little bit too…” You barely finish before Kotone shoves you to the ground, a pout on her face.
“No you idiot. To be an idol. In a girl group. In Korea. Like Loona.”
Your throat went dry. “Korea?”
She nodded, eyes darting to yours, like she was waiting for your reaction. “Yeah. For a company. It’s… it’s real. They want me to start soon.”
The words hit you like a wave you didn’t see coming.
“That’s—wow,” you said, trying to sound happy. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s kind of insane, right? I didn’t think it would actually happen.” Her voice trembled on a laugh. “But I think I have to go. I want to try.”
You swallowed. “Of course you do.”
She looked at you then — really looked at you. And something in your chest twisted. Because you could see it: excitement and fear flickering together in her eyes, like firelight in a storm.
“I’m scared,” she admitted softly.
You tried to smile. “You? The girl who fought a seagull over fries?”
Her laugh cracked the tension. “That seagull was terrifying. But that fucker had it coming. No one touches your fries”
“Sure. The poor bird probably tells its friends about you.”
She elbowed you. “You’re such an idiot.”
You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”
“Don’t make me miss you before I even leave,” she said, and it was playful, but the words stuck in your chest anyway.
You wanted to say, Then don’t leave.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you said, “You’re going to be incredible.”
“You think so?”
“I know so,” you said quietly. “You’ve always been the brave one.”
Her smile faltered, just for a second. “That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m running away?”
You didn’t have an answer. You wanted to tell her that maybe chasing something doesn’t mean you’re running — that sometimes it’s just the only way to see how far your wings can carry you.
But the words got tangled somewhere between your heart and your mouth, so all that came out was a shaky laugh.
“Well,” you said, “if you are running, at least you look cool doing it.”
She threw a Pocky stick at you. “Stop ruining my emotional moments.”
“I’m just trying to lighten the mood!”
“You’re impossible,” she said, but she was smiling again.
That smile — that’s what destroyed you. The way she could look both terrified and radiant at the same time, like she already belonged to somewhere beyond your reach.
“Promise me something?” she said suddenly.
“Anything.”
“You’ll always be there for me. No matter what.”
You hesitated, then forced a grin. “Of course. I’m basically immortal.”
She laughed, but her eyes were too wet to hide it. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
The rain started then — light at first, just a whisper against the roof. The kind of rain that blurs the world without washing anything away.
You didn’t move. Neither did she.
You just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, both pretending the night wasn’t slipping away beneath your feet.
And when it was finally time to go, she followed you to the gate.
“Don’t forget me, okay?” she said, trying to make it sound casual.
You smiled, even though your throat ached. “Never.”
You turned before she could see your face, the rain masking the sting in your eyes.
Somewhere on the walk home, the letter slipped out of your pocket. You didn’t notice. You wouldn’t find out until much later — by which point it wouldn’t have mattered.
Because by then, Kotone was already gone.
At first, she messaged you every day. Photos of her dorm. Complaints about sore muscles. Voice notes of her laughing about weird Korean snacks. You replied at first, quick and easy — keeping the rhythm alive, pretending you hadn’t noticed the growing distance behind the jokes.
But slowly, the messages became shorter. The hours between them longer. The emojis fewer.
And you started typing replies you never sent.
You doing okay? You eating enough? Don’t burn out too fast.
Delete. Rewrite. Delete again.
You told yourself she was busy. That she was chasing something worth the silence.
Then it got harder to lie to yourself. Her text messages went unreplied. Phone calls went unanswered.
Until one night, your phone buzzed again.
✉️Kotone: You promised you’d always be there for me
You stared at the message until your eyes blurred. Typed a reply.
You: I still am.
Your thumb hovered over “send.”
You almost can’t stop yourself
Then you turned the screen off.
You told yourself she’d understand.
That this was what it meant to love someone enough to let them go.
But the truth was quieter, sharper.
You weren’t letting her go.
You were just running away
And so the night she told you she was leaving became the last night that still felt like both of you — the laughter too loud, the silences too full, the air heavy with everything you didn’t say.
You’re halfway through a lazy summer afternoon nap when someone knocks on your door — loud enough to shake your walls.
You groan. “If this is a delivery, I didn’t order anything—”
But when you open the door, she’s there. Kotone, with her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, cheeks a little flushed from the sun, and two dripping melon popsicles clutched in one hand.
“You’re alive!” she declares.
“You’re loud,” you counter, blinking sleep from your eyes. “Also, you’re melting all over my porch.”
She grins, completely unbothered. “Then let me in before the sugar gods punish us both.”
Before you can respond, she’s already slipped past you, kicking off her shoes and making herself at home. She glances around your small living room like it’s some kind of museum exhibit.
“Wow,” she says, fake awe in her voice. “Still the same couch. Still the same curtains. Still the same tragic lack of interior design.”
You frown. “You’ve been here for, what, two seconds?”
“That’s all it takes for an idol’s expert eye,” she says proudly.
You cross your arms. “You couldn’t even win a game about recognising songs. I thought that was your wheelhouse Miss Kotone”
Her jaw drops. “You watched that?!”
“Internet exists,” you shrug.
She gasps. “You liar! You said you didn’t even know who TripleS was!”
“Still don’t,” you lie easily, leaning against the doorframe. “Sounds like a type of shampoo.”
Kotone looks personally offended. “We are a global idol collective!”
“Oh yeah, totally,” you nod seriously. “The one where Yooyeon, Seoyeon, and Yeonji ambushed you for your map, right? Iconic television.”
Her mouth falls open. “You— you watched Badge Wars?”
“Maybe,” you say. “Purely by accident.”
She narrows her eyes. “You absolutely didn’t stumble on it by accident.”
“I might’ve,” you tease. “Can’t believe you just turtled. I expected more fight from the girl who beat the lights out of me for taking her lunches”
She lets out a dramatic gasp. “Excuse me! That was a very special lunch!”
“If you say so” you say. “I just think you’ve lost your violent spark.”
“TAKE THAT BACK,” she yells, whacking your arm with the popsicle stick.
You yelp, laughing. “Violence! I’m being attacked by a national idol!”
“WHO’S LOST HER VIOLENT SPARK NOW!”
The whole house fills with your laughter — hers bright and unrestrained, yours helplessly caught up in it. The kind of laughter that hurts in the best way.
When you both finally calm down, she leans her head back on the couch, breathless and smiling. “I missed this,” she says softly.
You pause, caught off guard by how quietly she says it.
But then she stands and tosses you one of the popsicles. “Come on. Riverbank. It’s tradition.”
The river looks exactly the same. The cicadas hum, the air smells like damp grass, and the sun dips lazily behind the hill.
You sit side by side, feet dangling over the water. She unwraps her popsicle and immediately wrinkles her nose.
“You still hate the green part,” she says.
“You still forget I like it,” you reply without missing a beat.
She gasps. “You’re lying. You hated it. You always gave me the green part for my orange.”
“Well, that’s because you’d throw a fit and pout if I didn’t give you the green part.”
“HEY! That was one time! And I had just flunked my exam, so I needed comfort food.”
“Well,” you shrug, “even if I used to hate it, taste changes. Maturity.”
“You? Mature?” she scoffs. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve told all day.”
You grin. “I’ve told bigger lies.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Kotone says through a laugh, though it sounds more like a challenge than a question.
The silence is almost deafening.
“Like saying TripleS sounds like a shampoo brand.”
She chokes on her popsicle laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here you are,” you say softly.
The words hang there for a moment — heavier than you meant them to be.
You talk for hours. About stupid things — her trip to the convenience store, your tragic attempt at cooking, the time she almost mistook a microphone stand for a person backstage, and the other time she mistook a person for a microphone backstage. The second one went substantially worse.
But eventually, the laughter fades. The pauses between words grow longer.
Kotone leans back on her hands, eyes on the water. “You know,” she starts quietly, “sometimes I feel like I’m running in circles.”
You glance at her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Being an idol sounds like a dream when you’re outside looking in,” she says. “But when you’re living it... sometimes it feels like you’re not living at all. Just— performing. Even when you’re supposed to be yourself.”
You stay quiet.
She keeps talking, voice soft, steady. “There’s always something next. Another show, another recording, another smile you have to put on. You have to hold your breath, and look graceful like a swan, diving underwater even when you’re drowning. And at night, when the lights go out, it’s just— quiet. You look around, and there are people everywhere, but somehow you feel…”
She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.
Lonely.
The word echoes in your head anyway.
And suddenly, you can’t breathe right — because it hits you all at once. All those years she was out there, trying to be strong, trying to shine, and you weren’t there. You told yourself you were giving her space to chase her dream — but maybe what she needed was someone to tell her she didn’t have to shine all the time.
You look at her, and she’s looking away, blinking fast.
“Kotone,” you say softly.
She shakes her head, smiling too quickly. “Sorry. Wow, that got depressing fast. I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey,” you interrupt gently. “You don’t need to apologize. You’re allowed to be tired.”
Her lip trembles, but she laughs anyway. “You always say the right thing, you know that?”
“Only when it’s about you.”
Her cheeks flush, and she kicks at the water to hide it. “Still smooth, huh?”
“Always.”
“If only-” She catches herself, and you both tense up.
She laughs again — softer this time, almost fragile. Then her hand brushes yours, and both of you freeze.
For one heartbeat, you think neither of you will pull away. But you both do, pretending not to notice, staring hard at the river instead.
You can’t tell if your chest is burning from the sun or from her.
When you walk her home later, she lingers at her gate again, twirling the popsicle stick in her fingers.
“You know,” she says, “it’s weird. Everything here feels like it’s been waiting for me. Even you.”
You grin. “What can I say? I’m dependable.”
“Liar,” she says, laughing softly. Then, after a beat, she adds, “But… thanks for today.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel normal again.”
You smile, trying to ignore the ache in your chest. “Anytime, superstar.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.
That night, you text her:
✉️You: get home safe? ✉️ Kotone: yup. stop worrying, grandpa. ✉️ You: not worrying. just making sure the world celebrity didn’t get lost again. ✉️ Kotone: you mean like how you get lost in your own neighborhood? ✉️ You: that was one time. ✉️ Kotone: once a disaster, always a disaster. goodnight. ✉️ You: goodnight, trouble.
You hover over your screen for a long moment before locking it.
And across town, Kotone does the same — staring at your last message, smiling until the smile trembles.
Both of you fall asleep that night with the same thought echoing softly: how easily laughter can hide the things you’re both still too scared to say.
You hadn’t planned to call. Really. It had started as one of those stupid, impulsive ideas you normally talk yourself out of halfway through — only this time, you didn’t. Kotone had been back in town for a few days, and everything had felt almost like before. Laughing until your cheeks hurt, teasing her about her “celebrity walk,” pretending that years hadn’t slipped between you like pages torn out of a book.
And then the laughter would fade, and you’d catch her staring out the window for just a second too long. That’s when it hit you — how much you’d missed. How many moments you weren’t there for. How much you’d let her bear alone.
So, of course, your next logical step was to sign up for a fancall. With her group. Yeah. Brilliant. The writer needs to stop writing shit cliches and wrap it up.
You couldn’t exactly ask Kotone for advice on how to stop being the person who hurt her. So you told yourself that maybe, just maybe, the people who spent the most time with her — her members — might help you figure it out. Without knowing who you really were.
Your finger hovered over the confirmation button. “Don’t be weird,” you muttered. “Just… do it.”
Then your screen flashed. Connected — Nien (TripleS).
Immediately, chaos. Pure, glorious, unfiltered chaos.
Nien’s face filled your phone, a grin stretching from ear to ear. Her hair bounced with every movement, one earbud dangling like it had its own orbit. Somewhere behind her, voices echoed — shouting, laughter, a faint “Nien, stop throwing things!” and a loud crash.
“HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO! IS THIS A REAL HUMAN?!” she screeched, leaning so close to the camera her nose almost fogged the lens. “Finally! A calm one! Normal energy! Oh my god, a break!”
You blinked. “Uh— hi?”
She pointed dramatically at the camera. “You have no idea what I’ve been through today. The last call? The girl whispered my name for two minutes and then fainted. Fainted! I thought she’d lagged out, but no, she just fell sideways! I respected it though — commitment! Romantic! Honestly? I kinda fell for her a little.”
You choked on your laugh. “That… sounds intense.”
“She’s living in my mind rent-free now,” Nien said solemnly, before instantly switching tones. “Anyway! You’re breathing normally, so you’re already my new favorite. Normal! Calm! Safe! Boring but safe!”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t ruin it!” she warned cheerfully, spinning in her chair hard enough to blur. “So! Why are you here, mysterious normal person? You’ve got the ‘I have emotional damage’ face. Spill!”
You hesitated. Then, maybe because she was so wildly disarming, you did. “I need advice. About a friend. Someone I promised I’d always be there for… and I wasn’t. I thought staying away would protect her, but I think it just made her feel alone. Now I don’t know how to fix it. Or if I even can.”
Nien gasped so dramatically you were sure it echoed through the dorm. “OH MY GOD. THIS IS A K-DRAMA. I LOVE IT.”
You blinked. “That’s… not—”
“No no no, listen, I’m invested. Okay, step one!” She raised a finger like she was teaching a masterclass. “Admit you messed up. Not with a novel. Not with a sad PowerPoint. Just say: ‘I was wrong. I’m sorry.’ Keep it short and punchy, like a good chorus drop. Boom!”
You bit back a smile. “Okay…”
“Step two,” she said, spinning again, this time juggling her phone and a stuffed penguin. “Context, not excuses. ‘I thought I was protecting you’ — valid. ‘I’m a noble tragic hero’ — not valid. Nobody likes that. You ghost someone for ‘their own good’? No! That’s Marvel-movie behavior.”
You snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Step three! Actions, not speeches!” she continued, shaking the penguin for emphasis. “Little things! Quiet gestures! Put a snack she likes in her bag, send a postcard, share a stupid meme. Do not flood her inbox like you’re spamming a game boss. Consistency over chaos. Small moves, big meaning.”
Her energy was relentless — a hurricane in a hoodie — but somewhere under the comedy, her words stuck.
“Step four!” she yelled. “Timing! You don’t just barge in with a speech like in movies! You ask. ‘Can I tell you something I should have said before?’ She says yes? Go! She says no? You wait. Respect her rhythm. Timing makes or breaks everything.”
You nodded slowly. “You’re… actually really good at this.”
“I contain multitudes,” she declared, striking a dramatic pose before laughing. “But seriously—wait, I have something real to say.”
And just like that, she shifted. The grin softened. Her voice steadied.
“Listen,” she said quietly, eyes still bright but suddenly focused. “The past means more to people than it shows sometimes. There was this once, I did something… stupid. I stole a letter from a member. Thought it’d be funny. Just a prank. You know — Nien chaos. But when they realized it was missing… they freaked out. Not like, cute angry. Real angry. Crying. Shaking. It was—” she exhaled, “—it was bad.”
You stayed silent, sensing how rare this side of her was.
“I didn’t get it back then,” she continued. “I thought, ‘It’s just a piece of paper.’ But to them, it was everything. Memories. Love. Something that kept them grounded. When I saw how broken they looked — like I’d taken away something sacred — I felt so small. I tried to joke, to fix it, but some things… you can’t fix with jokes.”
She looked down briefly, then back at you. “That’s when I learned: everyone has anchors. Things that keep them steady when the world spins too fast. You mess with those — you’re not just being dumb, you’re breaking something. Don’t take someone’s anchor. Protect it.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the chaos before.
Then she clapped her hands suddenly, the sound exploding through your earbuds. “OKAY! EMO TIME OVER!” she shouted, half-laughing. “So, moral of the story: Don’t ghost, don’t steal, don’t play the tragic hero. Do small, honest things. Listen when they talk. And if she tells you she was lonely—” her voice softened again, “—don’t try to fix it right away. Just… say you’re sorry she felt that way. That you wish you’d been there. That’s all. That’s enough.”
“I’m beginning to sound like Seoyeon…eww” Nien mutters to herself
Her eyes lingered on the camera for a moment, kind and unguarded. Then she grinned again, wide and unhinged. “Now! I’m gonna go pester Jiwoo because she hid my ramen cup. Wish me luck, normal human!”
“Good luck,” you said, still dazed from her whirlwind of sincerity and noise.
She saluted. “May chaos guide you!” she yelled, spinning so fast you caught a blur of colors before the call disconnected.
And then the screen went black.
You sat there for a long moment, the silence almost too loud after all that noise. Somewhere outside, cicadas hummed, as if they’d been waiting for you to listen again.
You weren’t exactly sure what counted as a “small gesture.” After Nien’s whirlwind advice session, you’d spent the next morning staring blankly into your fridge, trying to decode her words like they were a secret questline.
“Tiny gestures,” she’d said. “Consistency. No tragic speeches.”
So, naturally, your brilliant idea was: invite Kotone over. Low risk, high reward, right? Just hang out. Casual. Friendly. Not emotionally catastrophic. Probably.
When you texted her — hey, come over? I’ll cook something? — she replied almost immediately.
✉️Kotone: wow, u? cooking? ✉️ Kotone: is this a threat or an invitation ✉️ You: it’s called growth ✉️ Kotone: it’s called attempted murder
She showed up anyway.
The doorbell rang, and before you could even finish drying your hands, she was already half through the doorway, holding a bag of chips and looking far too at home for someone who hadn’t been there in years.
“Smells suspiciously edible,” she said, leaning over your shoulder to peek at the pan. “Who are you and what have you done with the disaster I used to know?”
“Disaster’s still here,” you muttered. “Just… slightly reformed.”
Kotone grinned — that same sharp, sunshine-filled grin that made your heart stutter. “Wow. Reformed. Big word. Did you learn that from your therapist or from watching cooking shows?”
“Neither,” you shot back. “From surviving your ego.”
“Fair,” she laughed, tossing her hair dramatically before hopping onto the counter like it was still her house. “So what’s the occasion? You suddenly feeling generous? Or guilty?”
You handed her a spoonful of soup. “Neither. I just figured we could hang out.”
She tasted it, hummed, and gave a small nod. “Not bad. Still too salty, though. Fitting.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending her presence didn’t fill every quiet corner of your house like it always used to. She looked the same — older, maybe, but still her. The mischievous tilt in her eyes, the way her foot swung idly against the cabinet door, the slight smile when she thought you weren’t looking.
Dinner went as well as expected. You bickered about everything — from how much garlic you added, to whether her band’s choreography looked painful (“We’re professionals, not contortionists,” she’d said indignantly), to who could hold more ice cream in one bite.
And then, somewhere between dessert and laughter, she noticed.
You’d poured her water before she asked. Pulled out a blanket when she shivered. Reached to fix the strap of her hoodie when it slipped. You didn’t even think about it — it just happened.
Kotone squinted at you. “Okay, wait. What’s going on here?”
“What?” you asked, mid-sip.
“You’re being…” she tilted her head, smirking. “Nice. Like—unusually nice. Suspiciously nice. You going soft on me?”
You choked. “I’m just being decent.”
“Oh no no,” she teased, pointing her spoon dramatically. “This isn’t decent. This is you, serving me soup and tucking me in with a blanket like some kind of romcom lead who finally learned empathy. What happened? Did guilt finally evolve you into a functioning adult?”
You gave her your best deadpan stare. “Keep talking and I’ll revoke your soup privileges.”
“Too late,” she said around a mouthful of soup. “Soup’s mine now.”
You sighed, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. It was chaotic, familiar, her. And somehow, it made your chest ache in the gentlest way.
After dinner, the two of you ended up in the living room, legs tangled on opposite sides of the couch, a movie playing in the background — one neither of you were watching.
Kotone was scrolling through her phone, when she suddenly said, “You know… this feels weird.”
You glanced at her. “Weird how?”
“Like…” she scrunched her nose, searching for words. “Like time froze. Like we just… paused for a few years and now we’re unpausing.”
You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
“You just…threw away the remote.” Kotone doesn’t let that statement hang in the air long enough to sting.
She looked at you for a second too long, eyes soft and unreadable. “You still remember all the small things. The soup, the blanket, the way I like the fan on setting two instead of three.”
“I told you,” you said, trying to smile, “I have an excellent memory.”
“Liar,” she teased, but her voice trembled just slightly at the edges. “You forgot me for years.”
The air stilled. You opened your mouth to reply — to explain, to apologize — but then she smiled again, a little too brightly. “Kidding! Relax! You look like you’re about to cry or propose or something.”
You forced a laugh, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, you wish.”
She threw a pillow at you. “Oh, please. You couldn’t handle me.”
“Handle you? You’re like caffeine mixed with chaos. I barely survived the soup.”
She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, the sound bright and unguarded — like nothing had ever hurt her. You laughed too, because that’s what you both did best. Pretend it was all okay.
And for that night, maybe it was.
Because even if your chest still ached with all the things you hadn’t said, even if she still smiled like she was holding something back — for now, you were here. Together. Talking too much, laughing too loud, sharing old warmth as if it had never gone cold.
And maybe, you thought, watching her curled up with a popsicle in hand and that familiar glint in her eyes, that was what healing looked like — not grand gestures, not dramatic confessions, but quiet, ridiculous moments of almost-normal.
“Hey,” Kotone said suddenly, voice softening. “You’re still bad at hiding it, you know?”
“Hiding what?”
She smiled, lazy and knowing. “When you care.”
You froze — then threw a cushion at her, half-panicked, half-flustered.
“See?” she laughed. “Knew it. Softie.”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it,” she grinned, biting her popsicle. “You missed me.”
You looked away. “Only sometimes.”
She kicked your leg lightly. “Liar.”
You smiled. “Always.”
Her grin faltered, just for a moment — but then she laughed again, because that’s what both of you did best.
And when she left that night, humming under her breath, the house still smelled faintly of soup and summer.
If you had to describe the kitchen right now, “crime scene” wouldn’t be far off.
There was flour on the ceiling. How it got there, you would never know.
“Okay—okay wait,” you said, half laughing, half choking as Kotone somehow managed to flick more flour onto your shirt. “How are you this bad at baking?”
“I’m amazing at baking,” she said, indignant, holding a whisk like a weapon. “You’re just in my way.”
“In your way? You threw butter at me, Kotone.”
“I didn’t throw it,” she argued, though she was absolutely lying through her teeth. “It just… slipped aggressively.”
The countertop was a battlefield. A measuring cup had gone missing in action. Sugar coated the floor in a fine layer of crystalline snow. Kotone stood triumphant in the middle of it all, hair tied in a messy bun that was already coming undone, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a smear of chocolate across her cheek.
You were supposed to be making cookies. You were instead making chaos.
“Stop laughing and help me, oh my god—” Kotone said, attempting to whisk the batter again, only for it to splatter up onto her wrist.
You leaned against the counter, grin spreading wider. “Are you sure you’re not secretly auditioning for a food fight drama?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking a lot for someone who mixed salt instead of sugar.”
“That was an experiment!”
“That was a crime!”
You reached for the spatula to defend your honor, only for her to snatch it from your hand and hold it aloft. “Not so fast, traitor!”
“Oh, you’re dead,” you said, lunging forward.
The next thirty seconds could only be described as culinary warfare. Kotone ducked, laughed, tried to dodge your grab for the spatula, and ended up bumping into the counter, sending a small cloud of flour into the air. You caught her wrist at the same time she tried to smear chocolate on your face, and the both of you froze — faces inches apart, eyes wide, breathing too fast.
Then she burst out laughing. And the moment shattered like sugar glass.
“Okay, okay, truce!” she said between giggles. “Before we destroy your kitchen completely!”
You let go, still smiling despite yourself. “You started it.”
“And you escalated it,” she countered, poking your chest. “Classic you.”
By the time the cookies were finally in the oven, you were both covered in a respectable layer of chaos — flour, sugar, laughter, and unspoken things.
Kotone flopped onto the couch beside you, arms stretched out dramatically. “I think we burned half of them.”
“Half is a win,” you said.
“Half is a tragedy,” she corrected, but her grin gave her away.
She leaned her head back, eyes closed, still smiling. “You know, you’ve been nice lately. Suspiciously nice.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Suspiciously?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head to look at you, smirk soft but playful. “You used to throw flour first. Now you help me bake. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe I just matured,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Kotone snorted. “Yeah, and maybe I’m secretly an astronaut.”
“Would explain the spacey moments.”
“Excuse me?” she said, laughing as she smacked you with a kitchen towel.
You caught it before she could pull it back. “That’s violence, you know.”
“That’s justice.”
You tugged the towel gently, smiling. “You’ve gotten way too bold.”
She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “And you’ve gotten way too soft.”
The words hit a little closer than you expected. You forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m just trying to keep you from burning my kitchen down.”
Kotone giggled, then reached over to steal a sip from your drink. “Sure. You’re totally not just being sweet to me for no reason.”
You nearly choked. “Wh—sweet?”
“Yeah, you’re practically glowing. You’re like, radiating domestic energy.”
“I take it back. You’re delusional.”
Kotone laughed so hard she almost dropped the cup. “God, I missed annoying you,” she said, half under her breath.
The sentence was soft enough that you almost didn’t catch it — and she pretended she hadn’t said it. But something in her eyes flickered, a quick, quiet shimmer of something else.
The timer dinged, breaking the air between you.
Kotone jumped up, all cheerful again. “Moment of truth!”
You followed her into the kitchen, both of you crowding around the oven like it held state secrets. The cookies were uneven, some slightly burnt, others weirdly perfect — a reflection of the two of you, maybe. A mess that somehow worked.
“See?” she said, holding one up proudly. “We’re a good team.”
You smiled. “Miraculously.”
Kotone grinned. “You mean thanks to me.”
“Sure,” you said, deadpan, “you and your violent cooking philosophy.”
“I bring the chaos,” she said brightly, “you bring the sarcasm. Balance.”
You handed her a cookie. “Here. Peace offering.”
She accepted it with a dramatic bow, then bit into it — and hummed, eyes lighting up. “Not bad! You actually did something right for once.”
“High praise,” you muttered, but couldn’t help smiling.
For a while, the two of you just ate in companionable silence — that easy rhythm you used to have slipping back like it never left. She talked a bit about the dorms, about how loud Yeonji was, about how Yooyeon kept stealing snacks at midnight. You listened, smiling at every story, every little glimpse into her world.
Then you said, “Hey, can you grab my gloves from the table?”
“Roger that,” she said, marching off.
You turned back to the cookies, humming quietly to yourself — and then heard a thump.
“Uh,” Kotone said from across the room, “your drawer just… declared independence?”
You spun around — and froze.
She was crouched beside your desk, one hand holding a file that had fallen open. Albums, posters, a binder — a whole archive, really — lay spread across the floor.
The binder was the worst part. It was thick, carefully labeled. Pages of her photo cards, some signed, some rare, all pristine.
Kotone blinked at it, then slowly looked up at you, eyes wide with amusement. “…You collect me?”
You immediately felt your soul leave your body. “That’s not— I— It’s not like—”
“Oh my god,” she said, trying and failing to suppress a grin. “This is—this is serious fan behavior. You have the limited edition one!”
You groaned, covering your face. “I can explain.”
“You better,” she teased, flipping through the pages. “Because this? This is intense. You even kept the little pre-order cards!”
You tried to snatch it back. “Stop!”
Kotone giggled, dodging you easily. “I didn’t know you were a stan! Should I start signing your walls? Maybe sell you my used water bottle?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
She laughed, loud and delighted. “You’re blushing! Oh my god, you’re actually blushing!”
You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“Admit it, you missed me.”
You didn’t answer fast enough.
Kotone’s laughter faded just a little — not gone, just softer, gentler. She glanced down at one of the signed albums, tracing her finger over her name before setting it aside. “You really did keep up with everything, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure where to look. “Guess I did.”
There was a pause — small, fragile. Kotone smiled, but there was something behind it, something faint and hidden, like the echo of a thought she didn’t want to finish.
“Then I guess,” she said lightly, “I did something right.”
She stood, brushing off her hands, grin returning. “Anyway. Cookies are gonna burn. You can tell me later about how deep your fandom goes.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the tightness in your chest. “I’m regretting this baking session already.”
Kotone bumped your shoulder on her way past. “Liar.”
And as she reached for another cookie, humming softly under her breath, you realized how right she was. You didn’t regret it at all. Not even a little.
It starts with a photo.
Just one blurry photo — you and Kotone walking side by side, her laughter frozen mid-motion, her head tilted toward you beneath the warm blur of streetlights. Your arm brushes hers. The air glows soft and gold, tender in a way that feels like home.
But the internet doesn’t care about warmth. It doesn’t care about tenderness or how ordinary that night was. It only cares about who she was with.
Within hours, it’s everywhere.
“tripleS Kotone spotted on a date with a non-celebrity.” “Company refuses to comment.” “So disappointing. I thought she cared about her fans.”
You scroll until the words blur together. The comments multiply like rot — parasitic, relentless. By noon, her name trends worldwide. Every timeline, every screen, every headline.
Kotone’s phone vibrates nonstop. Her manager’s name flashes again and again — until she can’t look anymore. She sets it down, face-down on the bed, and the buzzing continues. She presses a pillow over her ears, but the sound keeps finding her.
Another call. Another message. Another wave of hate.
When she finally hurls the phone across the room, it bounces, hits the floor, and lights up again — like it refuses to let her rest.
You stand there helpless, watching as she curls up at the far edge of the bed, knees drawn tight, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. Her breaths come in shallow bursts. She’s trying not to cry, but her body shakes with the effort.
The comments keep coming.
“She’s just like the others.” “Fake.” “I can’t believe I ever supported her.” “She ruined everything.”
Every word cuts deeper than the last — and you can do nothing to stop it.
By evening, Kotone locks herself in her room.
You knock once. Nothing.
You try again, softer. “Kotone. Please.”
Still silence.
You slide down the wall, sitting on the floor, your back pressed to the door. The light under the crack glows faintly, flickering with movement. You rest your hand against it like maybe she’ll feel you there.
“I just want to know you’re okay,” you murmur.
No answer. Only the rain outside, slow and steady.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world fades until it’s just the two of you — one behind the door, one waiting on the other side.
And then, a sound.
A small, broken sob.
It’s faint, but it feels like the air leaves your lungs.
You knock once more, barely a whisper. “Kotone?”
Nothing — and then the softest sniffle, so quiet you almost imagine it.
“I’m not leaving,” you whisper. “Not until you’re okay.”
And you stay there — long enough for the rain to turn to a downpour, long enough for your back to ache and your throat to burn with words you’ll never say.
Finally — the lock clicks.
The door opens a few inches.
She stands there, eyes red, hair tangled, wearing your old hoodie that hangs too big on her frame. Her hands are buried in the sleeves, trembling. Her lips are cracked from crying.
“Why are you here?” she asks, her voice raw, like it hurts to speak.
You blink. “Because I was worried.”
She laughs — short, sharp, hollow. “Now you’re worried?”
You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Kotone—”
“No!” Her voice cracks, trembling with the kind of pain that’s been waiting years to escape. “You don’t get to pretend you care now. Not after everything.”
Your chest tightens. “I always cared—”
“Then where were you?” she shouts. “When I was in Korea — when I cried alone in the dorm bathroom, trying to cry softly to hide it from the others. When my manager yelled at me for every mistake. When I begged myself not to break down on camera.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to stand on stage in front of thousands of people and still feel like no one’s looking at you? When the one person who promised they’d never leave — already has?”
Your breath catches. “Kotone—”
“I kept waiting for you!” she shouts again, tears streaming freely now. “Every night. I’d stare at my phone, watching that stupid green dot next to your name. I thought maybe you’d text first. Maybe tonight you’d remember me. But you never did.”
You swallow hard, words dying in your throat.
“Do you know how many times I almost called?” she whispers. “How many messages I typed out and deleted? How many times I told myself you were just busy, that you’d come back when you could?”
Her voice falters. “You promised you’d always be there.”
She looks up, eyes burning. “But you weren’t.”
You close your eyes. “I never stopped caring.”
Her laugh is sharp, pained. “Then why didn’t you show it?”
She steps forward, trembling. “You had binders. Binders, for God’s sake — of us, of me. Every photo, every album, every fan sign. You followed everything.”
You freeze.
Her tears spill faster. “You knew where I was. You watched every step I took. So if you cared so much—” her voice breaks, cracking open the silence between you — “then why didn’t you call?”
You can’t look at her.
“Do you know what that felt like?” she whispers. “To know you were still out there, still watching — but remembering that you didn’t call me? Not even once?”
Her hand hits your chest. Once. Twice. Weak, but it trembles with grief. “You were right there,” she sobs. “And you still let me believe you didn’t care.”
You can’t move.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispers. “I thought I wasn’t worth missing.”
You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — her breath shaking, her eyes wild.
“Why didn’t you tell me you missed me?” she says. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
Her voice cracks, and she lifts something in her hands. A small, worn envelope.
Your stomach drops.
The letter.
Your letter — the one you wrote before she left for Seoul. The one you lost that night she told you she was leaving.
“Kotone…”
Her hands shake as she holds it up. “Do you know how many times I read this?” she asks softly. “Before every show. Every rehearsal. Every time I wanted to give up. You said you believed in me. You told me to chase my dream.”
Tears spill down her cheeks, her lips trembling. “You told me you’d wait.”
She looks up at you, her voice cracking open. “So why?”
You can barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” she whispers.
And just like that — the room breaks.
You can’t move. You can’t speak. The storm outside swells, thunder rumbling like the world itself is grieving with her.
Finally, you manage, “Because if I did… I was afraid you’d stay.”
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering into hurt.
You take a shaky breath. “If I told you how I felt, I was afraid you’d give up everything. I didn’t want to be the reason you quit. The reason you regretted your dream. I couldn’t live with that.”
Kotone stares at you, disbelieving. Her lip quivers. “You idiot,” she breathes. “You absolute idiot.”
“I know.”
She lets out a small, broken laugh. “You think I wouldn’t have chosen you?”
Your throat tightens.
“I already did,” she says. Her voice is so soft you almost miss it. “Before I left. That night you wrote this — I already knew.”
Tears fall freely now. “I spent years loving you in silence. Every time I smiled on stage, I thought — maybe you’d see me. Maybe you’d look at me and call me. Maybe you’d remember. But you didn’t need to. You already had me, didn’t you? Trapped in your binders, frozen in pictures, easier that way, wasn’t it?”
You feel your knees go weak.
“I was out there trying to become someone you’d be proud of,” she says, “and all I ever wanted was for you to pick up the phone.”
The rain crashes against the glass, drowning the world outside.
Neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly — brokenly — she says, “You should’ve let me decide what I wanted.”
You look at her. She’s trembling, eyes glassy and distant.
“I would’ve stayed,” she whispers. “Even if it ruined me. Even if I had to start over, or I had to find another way to chase my dreams. I would’ve stayed for you.”
Her voice cracks completely. She sinks to her knees, curling in on herself, her face hidden behind trembling hands.
And you — you sink down beside her, useless and heavy, a thousand apologies caught in your throat.
Thunder rolls in the distance.
Inside, the two of you sit in silence — close enough to touch, but worlds apart.
And for the first time, you realize that loving her quietly might have been the cruelest thing you ever did.
The river was quiet that night—too quiet for a world that kept moving. The current whispered against the stones, soft and steady, like it had all the time in the world to listen. You didn’t. You sat there with your arms wrapped loosely around your knees, staring at your reflection as it wavered and broke with each passing ripple.
You weren’t sure what you were waiting for. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe just a familiar voice to fill the silence.
When it came, it was softer than you remembered. “Hey.”
You turned. Kotone stood a few steps behind you, hair pulled into a loose ponytail, the wind tugging at her bangs. In her hands were two melon popsicles, the kind the two of you used to buy every summer from the tiny shop near the bus stop.
Without saying anything, she walked over and sat beside you. Close enough that her sleeve brushed yours. She offered one out.
You took it.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. You both just sat there, legs dangling near the water, watching the popsicles slowly melt in your hands.
Finally, Kotone broke the silence. “I couldn’t sleep.”
You nodded. “Me neither.”
“Too many thoughts,” she said quietly. “Too many voices.”
Her tone wasn’t bitter—just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of rest but from being stretched thin for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said. The words were too small, too late. But they were real.
Kotone didn’t answer right away. She just nudged a pebble into the water with her shoe and watched the ripples bloom outward. “You know,” she said eventually, “I came here before I left for Korea. Every night the week before. Just… to feel calm.”
You looked at her. “Yeah. I remember.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “I thought if I sat here long enough, I’d stop being scared. That I’d find some kind of sign that I was doing the right thing.” She laughed under her breath. “Didn’t work, though. I was still terrified.”
You swallowed. “I was terrified too, and not just of making you not chase your dreams.”
“Then what?”
“That you’d forget me,” you said honestly. “That you’d move on. That one day I’d see you smiling onstage, and you wouldn’t remember the person who used to walk you home.”
Kotone blinked, surprised. “You thought I’d forget you?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
She shook her head, letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You’re such an idiot.”
“I’ve been told.”
She smiled a little, but it faded just as quickly. “I never forgot you. Not even once. Every city I went to, every stage, every new dorm… there was always something that reminded me of you.”
Her voice softened, trembling just slightly. “There’d be nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d reread your letter. I must’ve read it a hundred times. Sometimes I’d cry, sometimes I’d laugh, but I always… I always felt like you were still with me, even when you weren’t.”
Your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean to disappear, Kotone. I just—”
“I know,” she said, cutting you off gently. “I wouldn’t have done it, but I know why you did.”
You looked at her, confused.
“You thought you were protecting me,” she continued. “You thought if you stayed away, it’d make it easier for me to focus. To chase my dream without looking back.”
You exhaled slowly. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “I know. That’s why it hurt so much.”
Her words caught you off guard.
“I never hated you,” she said. “Not once. I was angry, yeah. Sad. I thought maybe I’d said something wrong. But I never hated you. I wanted to. It would have hurt less that way, but I just… missed you so much it hurt.”
You looked down, fingers tightening around the wooden stick of the popsicle. “I missed you too. Every day. Every time I saw you smiling on screen, I’d tell myself you looked happy, that you didn’t need me anymore. But then I’d see it—the same look in your eyes I used to see when you were scared.”
Kotone was quiet for a moment, her gaze on the water. Then, softly, she said, “I wasn’t happy. Not really. I loved what I was doing, but… it always felt like something was missing.”
You turned to her. “What was missing?”
Her eyes met yours. “You.”
You froze. The simplicity of it hit harder than any argument, any outburst could have.
“You were always there in the back of my mind,” she continued, voice trembling. “When the lights went off after a concert, when I was too tired to take off my makeup, when I felt small in a room full of people. I’d think, ‘If I could just call you, it’d be okay.’ But I couldn’t.”
The silence that followed was fragile. You could hear the sound of the water, the faint echo of traffic from the bridge nearby, the small cracks in both of your hearts trying to mend themselves in real time.
“I thought you stopped caring,” she whispered.
“I never did,” you said. “I just thought… I didn’t deserve to. To risk ruining your dreams for my own selfishness”
She turned toward you then, eyes wet but steady. “That was my choice, not yours.”
Neither of you spoke after that for a while. The night was heavy but softer somehow, like it had finally loosened its grip.
After a long pause, Kotone leaned her head against your shoulder. It was tentative at first, like testing whether she still had permission. When you didn’t move, she relaxed, her hair brushing against your arm.
You let out a shaky breath. “You still like the green part?”
She smiled faintly, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Yeah. Always have.”
You smiled too, just barely. “Guess some things don’t change.”
“Some do,” she murmured.
You turned to her, but she didn’t lift her head. “Like what?”
“This,” she said simply. “Being here again. Talking. Not pretending anymore.”
You felt her hand brush yours then—accidental, maybe, but it lingered just a moment too long to be nothing.
The cicadas hummed louder, the river shimmered under the moonlight, and in that quiet, you realized something. Maybe this wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe it was something better—understanding.
A beginning, not an ending.
Kotone sighed softly. “I don’t know what’s next,” she said. “But… if you’re here, I think I’ll be okay.”
You turned to look at her then, really look—her tired eyes, her faint smile, the girl you loved who somehow still looked at you like you were worth the wait.
You reached out, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly.
She laughed softly. “Good. Took you long enough.”
And then she leaned in just a little closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You know, I think I started loving you before I even realized it.”
You smiled. “Funny. I think I did too.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The air between you felt warmer somehow, softer, like all the sharp edges had dulled a little.
Kotone nudged you with her shoulder. “You owe me a lot of ice cream,” she muttered.
You blinked. “What?”
“For emotional damages,” she said, taking another bite of her popsicle. “And for every time you didn’t text back.”
You laughed again, and this time, it reached your eyes. “That’s gonna be expensive.”
“I’m worth it,” she said, grinning faintly, and for a second—just a second—you saw the old Kotone again, the one who smiled with her whole face.
You both sat there until the sky went fully dark, the streetlights reflecting on the water like stars that had fallen too close.
At some point, she leaned her head against your shoulder. You froze at first—then relaxed, letting your head tilt slightly toward hers.
The cold from the popsicles had long since faded, replaced by the warmth of her against you.
“Don’t disappear again,” she murmured.
You nodded. “Only if you don’t run.”
She smiled faintly. “Deal.”
The river moved quietly beside you, carrying away the last of the hurt, the last of the silence.
And under the moonlight, with sticky fingers and hearts still piecing themselves back together, you and Kotone stayed there—two broken halves, finally remembering how to fit.
The sun hung low, spilling gold over the river and turning everything soft and drowsy. The air smelled faintly of summer rain, and Kotone sat on your porch steps with her knees pulled to her chest, a half-melted popsicle dripping onto her wrist. You’d both spent the day doing absolutely nothing — wandering through town, bickering in shops, pretending the clock wasn’t ticking down to her flight.
Now, it was just you two, sitting in the hush between cicada calls, pretending you weren’t counting how many hours you had left.
“Your porch still creaks in the same places,” Kotone said, rocking slightly, her voice light. “You should fix it.”
You smiled. “If I did, you wouldn’t know where to step.”
She laughed — that bright, melodic laugh that still made your chest ache. “Right. Can’t ruin the nostalgia.”
You leaned back against the railing, eyes on the fading sky. It was so easy again. Too easy. The space between you felt charged, like the seconds before a storm — not the kind that destroys, but the kind that drenches you and makes you remember what warmth feels like after.
When she turned to look at you, the light caught in her hair, and you thought — just for a second — that she didn’t look like the idol everyone else saw. She looked like your Kotone. The girl who used to race you down the hill behind your school. The girl who used to steal your snacks and then act offended when you noticed. The girl who never really left, even when she did.
“You’re staring,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing grin.
“I’m not,” you lied.
Kotone raised a brow. “Oh? Then what are you looking at?”
“Someone who doesn’t know how to eat a popsicle without it melting all over her.”
She gasped, smacking your arm lightly. “You’re such a brat.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
You grinned, swiping a drip of syrup off her hand before she could. “You’re hopeless.”
The touch lingered longer than it should’ve. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Her eyes flickered down to your hand, then up again — and suddenly the air felt too thick, too heavy. You both laughed it off, too quick, too practiced.
She shifted closer, the distance shrinking, until her shoulder brushed yours. “You really didn’t change much,” she murmured, softer this time. “Still the same you.”
You turned to her. “You think that’s a good thing?”
Kotone smiled faintly. “Yeah. It is.”
Silence followed — comfortable, but fragile. You could hear the river murmuring in the distance, the sound of home, of summers that used to feel endless.
“I used to think,” she said after a while, “that maybe we’d never get back here. Not like this.”
You looked down at your hands. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I’m glad we did.” Her voice trembled just a little. “Even if it’s just for now.”
You swallowed hard. The words you’d been holding for years pressed against your tongue, desperate and heavy. But you didn’t say them — not yet. Maybe because you were scared. Maybe because she was leaving.
“Do you ever think about—” you began, but she interrupted with a small, knowing smile.
“All the time,” she said.
That stopped you.
“Whatever you were about to ask,” she added, “yes. I think about it all the time.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“I do.”
You turned to face her fully now. The world seemed to narrow to just her — her lips curved in a small smile, her eyes glinting with something that looked too much like everything you’d ever wanted.
“Kotone,” you said quietly.
She leaned in just a little, enough for your breath to catch. “Hmm?”
You hesitated. The words hovered there — I love you, don’t go, stay — but you couldn’t ruin it. Not yet. The world already took enough from her.
“Thank you,” you said instead. “For coming back. For everything.”
Her smile faltered, softened. She looked at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours like she was trying to read all the words you weren’t saying. Then she whispered, “Always.”
The word hung between you, as soft as the evening breeze, as fragile as the fading light.
You both sat there until the stars came out — your shoulders pressed together, laughter spilling quietly between the silences, the unspoken confession resting somewhere in the warmth of her hand against yours.
Neither of you said it out loud. But it didn’t matter.
Because in that small, fleeting summer night, you both knew.
You always had.
Kotone left on a Tuesday. The morning after felt like a hangover — not from alcohol, but from all the feelings you didn’t say. Her mug still sat in your sink, half-rinsed. A hair tie you didn’t remember her taking off clung to your wrist. Everything looked normal, and yet, everything didn’t.
You told yourself you wouldn’t expect her to text first. She had schedules, practices, interviews — a life that didn’t have room for waiting. So you didn’t expect it. But she texted anyway.
✉️ Kotone [9:47 PM]: landed safe :) ✉️ Kotone [9:48 PM]: i miss the creaky porch already ✉️ You [9:50 PM]: wow that was fast ✉️ You [9:50 PM]: didn’t even get a dramatic “goodbye forever” at the airport ✉️ Kotone [9:51 PM]: sorry, i didn’t want to cry in front of the paparazzi lol ✉️ You [9:51 PM]: fair ✉️ Kotone [9:52 PM]: …but i did cry a little in the cab ✉️ You [9:52 PM]: loser ✉️ Kotone [9:53 PM]: says the one who kept my mug hostage
You smiled at your phone like an idiot.
That became your new rhythm — little texts between long hours. You learned that Kotone was the type to message at the oddest times. 2:16 AM, after a rehearsal. 11:03 AM, when she was half-asleep on the studio floor. Her texts were little windows into her world — messy, honest, sometimes half-coherent.
✉️ Kotone [2:16 AM]: rehearsal done. my feet hate me. send comfort. ✉️ You [2:17 AM]: comfort is on the way. ETA: 0.2 seconds. imagine me patting your head. ✉️ Kotone [2:18 AM]: not the same. need actual headpats. ✉️ You [2:19 AM]: okay now you sound like a cat ✉️ Kotone [2:20 AM]: maybe i am
And sometimes, it was voice calls. Soft, late-night calls that felt like secrets.
You’d hear her breathing before she spoke, the faint rustle of sheets as she lay in her dorm bed. The city outside her window hummed faintly, and her voice — tired but alive — filled your ears.
“How’s Seoul?” you’d ask.
“Busy,” she’d say. “Loud. The coffee here’s good though.”
“You always talk about coffee.”
“Because it’s the only thing keeping me functioning.”
“Besides me,” you teased.
There’d be a pause, then a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Besides you.”
Some nights she’d tell you about rehearsals — how her groupmates teased her about being distracted lately. How she smiled more on set. How the fans noticed it, too. And you’d wonder if she told them why.
Other nights, you didn’t talk much. You’d just exist together. You, listening to the hum of her world; her, listening to the silence of yours.
“Are you still there?” she’d whisper sometimes.
“Yeah,” you’d murmur. “Still here.”
And she’d sigh — a small, content sound, like she was trying to memorize what it felt like to be found again.
Weeks turned into months. You got used to the time difference, the way she’d send photos of cloudy Seoul mornings or half-finished drinks with captions like “thinking of you, kinda.”
You’d reply with something stupid — a selfie of you holding her forgotten mug, or a shot of the riverbank at sunset. And every time, she’d say the same thing:
✉️ Kotone [7:12 PM]: stop sending me pictures that make me miss home :(
✉️ You [7:13 PM]: maybe that’s the point
✉️ Kotone [7:14 PM]: then you’re mean
✉️ You [7:14 PM]: you love it
✉️ Kotone [7:15 PM]: …yeah. i kinda do.
One night, during a call, she said softly, “You know, it feels different this time.”
You turned in your bed. “What does?”
“This. Us.”
Her voice was tired but warm — the kind of tired that comes after laughter. “Last time I left, it felt like goodbye. This time… it doesn’t.”
You swallowed, heart stuttering. “Maybe because it isn’t.”
There was a silence then. Not awkward, just heavy — the kind that holds everything words can’t carry.
“You’re gonna make me cry again,” she murmured.
“Then don’t,” you said gently. “Just… stay on the call.”
She did. For hours. Neither of you hung up. Sometimes you’d hear her breathing, slow and even, and you’d realize she’d fallen asleep. You didn’t end the call. You just listened.
Days passed like that — one message, one call at a time. The distance stayed the same. But somehow, it didn’t feel so far anymore.
And every time the phone rang, your heart would skip, because you knew it was her. Every time she laughed through the speaker, your room felt less empty.
It started as a ridiculous idea.
You’d been talking to Kotone daily — texts, calls, memes, late-night voice notes — the whole rhythm of being close, but still far. And yet, the thought kept creeping into your mind: what if you didn’t have to be far? What if you could see her, surprise her, and finally show her, without words that might fumble the moment, how much she meant to you?
The problem? You were in your hometown. Seoul was… a universe away. But then, you remembered Nien.
You’d never forgotten that chaotic, brilliant, unhinged personality on the other end of that one fancall. The way she had given you advice about Kotone, the way she had lectured you on trust, on small gestures, on paying attention to the heart behind the binder and the letters. Nien was your only link to Kotone’s world without it being suspicious.
So you contacted her again, with the help of a very rich mutual on Twitter — a generous, slightly wealthy fan who owed you a favor after a ridiculous chain of DMs. Somehow, that led to another fancall with Nien.
Nien: “WHO IS THIS HUMAN?!” she yelled the moment she appeared. Her hair was still chaotic, earbuds dangling, dorm sounds echoing in the background. “You again! You’re normal again, huh? Safe? Too safe! This is suspicious!”
You laughed nervously. “Nien… I need a favor.”
She froze mid-spin. “FAVOR. DANGER. THRILL. EXPLAIN.”
You explained everything, carefully, but quickly. How you and Kotone had… history. How you’d made mistakes. How you’d promised to be there, and how you finally wanted to show her you had always meant it.
You explained the surprise you were planning, your only chance to make it unforgettable.
She stared at you for a moment, eyes narrowing, then her grin split her face in half. “OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH. I LOVE THIS. CHAOS. EMOTIONAL CHAOS. ROMANCE. OMG. THIS IS SO EXCITING.”
You held up your hands. “It’s not chaos. I’m trying to be organized for once.”
“LIES,” she said instantly, giggling. “Fine. Fine. I’m in. I will help you orchestrate the perfect surprise. No mistakes. No disasters. But… you owe me everything, okay? EVERYTHING. Dorm snacks, selfies, weird dances — EVERYTHING.”
There’s a long, quiet beat. Then she says, voice soft, “Wait.”
You blink. “Wait?”
She leans closer to the screen. “You said… letter.”
Your heart skips. “Yeah.”
Her eyes dart side to side, like she’s trying to connect invisible dots. “You said it was old — yellowed — and you gave it to her before she left.”
You nod slowly. “That’s right.”
She gasps — a sharp, audible sound. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
She covers her mouth with her hand, eyes wide. “No freaking way.”
“What?” you repeat, alarmed now.
“Oh my god, oh my god.” She laughs — a mix of disbelief and secondhand guilt. “That letter. The one she wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks. The one I accidentally… kind of… stole.”
“I didn’t know it was from you!” Nien waves her hands frantically, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I thought it was, like, a fan thing — or something she wrote to herself, I don’t know! She was so mad when she found out I took it.”
You can’t help it — you laugh. A real, tired, almost disbelieving laugh. The story she had told you. “You stole my letter.”
“Oh my god,” Nien groans, burying her face in her hands. “I stole your letter.”
The two of you laugh until the tension dissolves into something easier — something lighter.
Then she looks back at you, eyes soft but serious. “You really love her, don’t you?”
You nod. “Yeah. Always have.”
Nien smiles, but it’s the quiet kind — the knowing kind. “Then come here,” she says. “I’ll help. I’ll talk to the manager, I’ll figure something out. You just get on that plane.”
“Really? That easy?” You asked, almost incredulous. “Yeah, well, the writer, you know, the one that keeps calling me a lesbian, poor guy probably got lazy and couldn’t think of another way for you to get into contact and make this all happen, so, contrivances. Now, back from our 4th wall break for our regularly scheduled program.”
You don’t know how to thank her — so you just whisper, “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she grins. “Just… make her happy. She deserves that.”
You nod again, and this time your voice doesn’t shake. “I will.”
For the next week, Nien became your clandestine partner-in-crime. She shared tips about the dorm layout, the best times to avoid security, how to leave little teasers without tipping Kotone off. She teased you relentlessly, but also sent updates on Kotone’s schedule — all anonymized so Kotone would never know you had infiltrated her life via her most chaotic ally.
Finally, the day arrived.
You stood near the dorm, heart hammering like a drum. The city smelled like rain on asphalt, a comforting scent that reminded you of the last time Kotone had been in your hometown. And now… you were here, in her city, breathing the same air, waiting for her to come out, unaware that you’d flown across the sea to see her.
You heard the familiar click of her shoes against the pavement before you saw her. That sound alone was enough to make your heart race — light, rhythmic, a melody you hadn’t realized you’d memorized.
Kotone appeared a second later — laughing at something one of her groupmates had said, phone in hand, her hair bouncing with every step. The evening sun caught in it, making her glow gold. The world seemed brighter, faster, lighter — and your stomach was a tangled knot of nerves.
You took one hesitant step forward. “Kotone,” you said softly.
She froze mid-step. The laughter died instantly. Her head turned toward you, eyes scanning your face like she couldn’t quite trust what she was seeing. Shock. Disbelief. Then — slowly, achingly — recognition.
“Wait…” she whispered. “No way.”
You swallowed hard, holding up a small envelope — a simple, creased note. The same kind of envelope you’d used for the letter all those years ago.
“I had help,” you managed, your voice trembling. “But I’m here. I just… I wanted to see you. In person. To see you smile — not through a screen, not in a video. Just you. Right here.”
For a moment, Kotone just stared — eyes wide, lips parted — like the world had stopped spinning. Then her hands flew to her mouth.
“You…” Her voice broke into a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. “You’re here? You’re actually—”
Before you could even nod, she moved.
It wasn’t just a run — it was a blur. A sprint that turned into a jump, high and sudden, all momentum and emotion. You barely had time to brace yourself before she collided with you, arms thrown around your neck, legs nearly lifting off the ground.
You stumbled back a few steps, laughing helplessly as you caught her, the force of her joy nearly knocking you both over.
She buried her face into your shoulder, shaking with laughter and tears all at once. “You idiot!” she said between hiccupped breaths. “You absolute idiot! You actually came!”
“I told you I would,” you murmured into her hair, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.
She leaned back, still clinging to you, eyes shining so bright it felt like the whole city had dimmed to make room for her. “You—how did you even—”
“I had help,” you said again, laughing through the adrenaline. “Nien. Twitter. Maybe fate, I don’t know.”
“Nien helped you?” she gasped, incredulous.
“Yeah. Turns out she’s better at logistics than she is at keeping secrets.”
Kotone laughed — loud and unrestrained, the kind of laugh you hadn’t heard in person for years. She swatted your shoulder lightly. “You’re insane,” she said, voice trembling with affection.
“Maybe,” you admitted. “But I’m your kind of insane, and I’ll be here, forever. Guess who’s your new neighbour?”
She stared at you for a heartbeat — and then, softly, her smile changed. Less laughter now, more something tender. Something full.
Her hands slipped from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs brushing your jaw. “You really moved here,” she whispered.
You nodded. “Yeah. For good.”
Her eyes glistened, but this time, there were no tears. Just warmth. “You have no idea how much I wanted this.”
And before you could even think — before the world could start moving again — she leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect — it was messy and breathless and half-laughing, the kind of kiss that tasted like years of missed chances and all the things you’d both been too afraid to say.
When you finally pulled apart, she was still close enough that her breath brushed your skin. “You’re ridiculous,” she whispered, smiling against your lips.
“I know.”
“I love that about you,” she said, and this time, she didn’t look away.
You laughed softly, forehead resting against hers. “Good,” you murmured. “Because I think I’ve always loved that about you too.”
She grinned, eyes bright and unguarded, and tugged you by the wrist toward the dorm entrance. “Come on,” she said, voice lilting with happiness. “You’re telling me everything.”
You let her pull you inside, your hand still wrapped in hers — a perfect fit, like it always had been.
