back when he first left for tour, mingi’s voice used to light up every phone call. he’d lean into the camera with his grin taking up the whole frame, asking about your day before he even talked about his.
“turn your head a little,” he’d say over video call that first week, tilting his own. “ohhh, i see those new twists. you look so good, baby.”
you’d laugh, twisting a strand between your fingers, the warmth in your chest carrying you until the next call.
but somewhere between europe and japan, his voice started to sound tired. he still called, but only late at night, when his eyelids drooped and his answers came slower.
then the calls became texts. short ones.
busy rn. miss you tho.
sorry i crashed early. tomorrow for sure.
tomorrow didn’t always come.
mingi
at first, he called every night because that was the only way he could sleep.
he’d prop his phone against a pillow, grinning as you turned your head to show off your hair.
“ohhh, that’s fire, baby,” he’d say, screenshotting the screen without even hiding it. “gonna save this for when i miss you too much.”
he missed you too much after the first week.
but the schedule tightened in ways he didn’t see coming. interviews stacked on soundchecks stacked on fan signs stacked on flights. nights blurred into mornings without rest.
he started calling later and later. sometimes you were already asleep.
he hated the way your voice sounded careful when you answered, like you didn’t want to bother him.
then the calls became texts because he thought that would at least keep you from seeing how wrecked he looked.
busy rn. miss you tho.
he meant it every time.
reader
the ache wasn’t sharp at first. it was slow, quiet, almost polite in how it crept in.
you’d send him little updates like always — photos from your niece’s birthday party, a mirror selfie before brunch, a short video showing your new knotless braids — but his replies came hours later, sometimes without even opening the attachment.
and you told yourself you understood. it was tour. it was exhausting.
but some nights, you saw more of him in fan edits than in your own life. his voice laughing in a backstage vlog while you sat in the dark with your phone.
when friends asked, you smiled and said, “he’s good, just busy.”
mingi
he saw the videos you sent — your niece’s party, your new braids, a brunch selfie — but sometimes hours passed before he could open them. not because he didn’t want to. because he didn’t want to look and then have to put his phone away without replying.
he thought waiting until he had time was better than rushing a half-answer.
but the time never came.
when you texted come home to me, his heart squeezed so tight it hurt.
he almost booked a last-minute ticket.
but the manager was already waving him over to go over a surprise schedule change.
he told himself he’d make it up to you next time.
next time didn’t happen.
reader
two months in, you stopped initiating calls.
you waited.
and sometimes… he didn’t call at all.
when he finally said, “i’ll be home for a few days,” you almost cried from relief. you took off work. deep cleaned the apartment. bought groceries for his favorite meal.
you spent an hour in front of the mirror deciding between leaving your hair in its big twist-out or pinning it up. you went with the twist-out. he always said it was his favorite.
the door opened mid-evening, and you shot up from the couch, heart in your throat.
“mingi—”
he stepped inside, pulling his suitcase behind him. a quick smile, a quick hug, and then he was checking his phone.
“hey, babe. sorry, traffic was crazy.”
you pulled back, studying him.
he looked thinner. tired.
you wanted to say you missed him. you wanted him to say it back.
instead, he walked into the kitchen, asking, “what’s for dinner?”
mingi
by the time the break finally came, he was holding the thought of you like a lifeline.
he imagined you running into his arms, your laugh against his chest, your scent in his hair. he imagined a night where the only schedule he cared about was yours.
when the door opened and he saw you, all of that should’ve happened.
but he was so tired.
he hugged you quickly, smiled because he knew you were smiling, and let his phone buzz in his hand because there was a meeting he couldn’t ignore tomorrow.
he didn’t notice your hair.
he hated himself for that later.
reader
it was awkward.
he didn’t mention your hair.
he didn’t notice the candles or the playlist you made.
he scrolled while you plated the food.
you tried.
you asked about the tour, about his health, about the members.
but it felt like interviewing a stranger.
after dinner, you sat on the couch together, but he kept checking notifications. your phone buzzed in your lap, and you ignored it, watching the way he barely looked at you anymore.
reader
“you’re not really here,” you said softly.
his eyes flicked up. “what do you mean? i’m literally here.”
you swallowed. “no. you’re somewhere else. you’ve been somewhere else for months.”
he frowned, setting his phone down. “i’ve been working. you know how this life is.”
“yeah, i know. i just thought i was still part of your life.”
he leaned back, voice tightening. “that’s not fair. i’m doing this for us. for our future.”
“i never asked for you to disappear so we could have a ‘future.’ i wanted you. now. not whatever’s left of you after you give it all away to everyone else.”
mingi
when you said you thought you were still part of his life, it felt like his chest caved in.
“that’s not fair. i’m doing this for us. for our future.”
he meant it, but it sounded like a defense.
you wanted him now.
he didn’t know how to give himself now when so much of him was already gone to the stage, the fans, the cameras.
then you said it.
“mingi, you don’t even know what color my hair is right now.”
and that broke him in a way nothing else could.
he had always loved that — the colors, the styles, the way you made it yours.
he had pictures on his phone from every stage of it.
and somehow he’d stopped noticing.
reader
“it’s been four months since you last saw me in person and the first thing you did was check your phone. you don’t call. you don’t show up when you say you will. and every time i think maybe you’ll notice me again, i get the same excuse — you’re busy. i’m tired of being patient for a version of you that might never come back.”
mingi
he wanted to tell you he was sorry, that he could fix it, that he would find a way.
but the truth sat heavy in his mouth:
he didn’t know if he could.
so he said the one thing that would hurt both of you equally.
“maybe we should take a break. until i can give you what you deserve.”
you asked if that meant breaking up.
he didn’t answer because saying “yes” out loud would have made him stay.
reader
he stood, grabbing his bag.
“my flight’s early. i’ll… see you around.”
you didn’t watch him go.
later that night, you scrolled aimlessly until a video popped up — fancams of the concert overseas, mingi’s smile wide and bright under the stage lights.
he looked happy.
you wondered if he’d ever looked at you like that again in the past few months.
mingi
on the flight, he opened his camera roll and scrolled back to the screenshot from months ago — you smiling, your twists framing your face.
he almost sent it with a i miss you.
but he didn’t.
that night, before going on stage, he stood in the wings listening to the crowd chant his name.
his chest felt empty in a way no performance could fill.
he walked out anyway.
he smiled anyway.
because loving you meant letting you go before he made you resent him for staying.
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||
you didn’t expect to see him.
the café wasn’t even in your neighborhood — just a place you’d ducked into after missing your bus. you were scrolling through your phone, waiting for your latte, when a voice called your name.
you knew it before you looked up.
mingi
he didn’t plan this either.
he was supposed to grab his drink and go.
but then he saw you — same curve of your shoulders, same tilt of your head, the light catching in your hair like it used to.
you looked up, and the months apart collapsed into a single breath.
reader
“hey,” you said softly, unsure if you should smile.
he smiled first. tired, but real. “hey.”
the last time you’d seen each other, it had been all sharp edges and hurt. now it was just quiet.
he asked if he could sit. you nodded.
the conversation started small.
how have you been.
been busy.
you look good.
you too.
the words didn’t fill the air the way they used to, but they didn’t cut like before either.
when you reached for your drink, his gaze flicked to your hair, and you caught it.
“twist-out again,” you said, half teasing.
his mouth curved faintly. “yeah. i remember.”
and maybe that shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. but it did.
mingi
he wanted to tell you everything — that he’d thought about you every night on stage, that he still had that screenshot from the first week of tour.
but you seemed okay.
and part of loving you now meant not opening something you’d finally let heal.
so instead, he asked about your work. you told him. he listened, laughing at the right parts.
for a moment, it almost felt like before.
reader
but then the moment passed, as moments do.
your drinks were almost gone.
he checked his phone.
you adjusted your coat.
“i’m glad you’re doing okay,” he said finally.
“you too,” you replied.
and you meant it.
he stood first, giving you one last smile before heading toward the door.
you watched him go, the ache in your chest softer than before — not gone, but no longer sharp enough to bleed.
you sipped the last of your latte, letting the warmth settle in your hands.
some things don’t need to come back to still mean something.
mingi
the air outside was colder than he remembered. it scraped at his throat, made him shove his hands deep into his coat pockets.
he didn’t look back. not once.
but he saw you anyway.
in the way the glass caught the café light
in the faint smell of cinnamon on the wind
in the beat of a song stuck in his head that you used to hum without knowing
he walked two blocks before stopping.
the city kept moving around him — car horns, a bus braking, a couple arguing softly on the corner — but all he could hear was the way you’d said “you too” like it was enough.
he wanted to run back.
he wanted to tell you that he still kept your hair scarf in his carry-on, just in case you ever needed it again.
he wanted to tell you that the ache didn’t stop when the tour did.
instead, he took a deep breath, shoved the scarf deeper into his pocket, and kept walking.
because some things hurt worse if you try to hold them twice.
