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Jul 4

Framed In Distance

The first time you notice something is different, it isn’t because Mark tells you.

It’s because a stranger does.

Your phone buzzes while you’re halfway through reheating leftovers in your tiny Seoul apartment—steam fogging up the kitchen window, rain tapping softly against the glass like it’s trying to be let in. You wipe your hands on your shorts and glance down.

A notification from a fan account.

You almost ignore it. You’ve gotten used to Mark’s life bleeding into yours in strange, indirect ways since he moved back to the States after GOT7’s chapter with JYP officially ended. Not because he stopped loving music, or you, or Korea—but because life had simply scattered everyone in different directions, like ash in wind.

Still, something about the caption makes you pause.

“Mark just posted?? He deleted it but we saw it 😭😭”

You frown slightly.

That’s new.

You tap it.

The post is gone by the time you get there, but screenshots already exist underneath like evidence of something fleeting but real.

Your breath catches.

It’s you.

Not a glamorous, posed version of you. Not anything you’d ever think to post yourself.

It’s you, sitting cross-legged on your bed in the early morning light, hair a mess, holding a mug with both hands like you’re trying to absorb warmth through your palms. Your eyes are half-lidded. There’s sunlight spilling across your face in soft gold streaks, the kind that makes everything look quieter than it is.

You remember that morning.

Mark had called you at 6:12 a.m. his time, 8:12 p.m. yours. You’d answered still half-asleep, voice thick with sleep and longing. He’d just finished a studio session. You remember laughing about nothing, about how your coffee tasted “like regret but in a comforting way,” and him laughing softly on the other end like he was right there beside you instead of an ocean away.

You remember hearing a shutter sound.

You thought it was nothing.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

The caption under the now-deleted post is still visible in some screenshots:

“miss her.”

That’s all.

Two words.

Simple. Careless. Devastating.

Mark Tuan has always been quiet about love.

Not because he doesn’t feel it deeply—but because he tends to hold it in places words can’t easily reach. Between guitar strings. In the pauses between conversations. In the way he looks at people when he thinks no one is watching.

And apparently, in photos he never meant to share.

The second time you notice, you start looking.

Not intentionally at first. It’s subtle. Like your brain is trying to solve a puzzle it didn’t know existed.

You scroll through his older posts.

Most are standard: studio shots, travel glimpses, group reunions with GOT7 members when schedules align, blurry backstage lights. The kind of curated chaos you expect from someone still half-in, half-out of public life.

But then you begin to see it.

A pattern.

A hand holding a coffee cup—clearly not his.

A sleeve you recognize from a hoodie you left at his place in LA.

A reflection in a car window showing a figure curled up asleep on someone’s shoulder.

Your stomach tightens at that one.

Because you remember it too.

You were visiting him in Los Angeles for two weeks last winter. Jet lag had been unbearable. You’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat while he drove through late-night streets, talking softly about nothing important so you wouldn’t feel alone.

He had probably taken that photo without telling you.

You sit back on your bed slowly, phone slipping slightly in your grip.

It’s not invasive.

That’s the strange part.

It doesn’t feel like he’s stealing moments from you.

It feels like he’s trying to keep them alive.

Like he’s afraid they’ll fade if he doesn’t trap them somewhere.

The first time you ask him about it, you don’t mention the deleted post.

You wait until he calls.

There’s a seven-hour difference now that he’s fully settled back in the States. It’s late evening for you when his name flashes on your screen.

You answer on the second ring.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” Mark replies, voice warm but tired in that way you know means he’s been working too long without noticing. “You eating?”

“Already did.”

A pause. You hear faint city noise behind him. Cars. Wind. The unfamiliar rhythm of a place you’ve never fully lived in.

“You sound quiet,” he says.

“I saw something today.”

That gets his attention.

There’s a shift in his breathing, subtle but immediate. “What kind of something?”

You hesitate, then decide honesty is easier than circling it.

“One of your posts.”

A beat.

Then, carefully: “Which one?”

“The one you deleted.”

Silence.

Not heavy, not defensive. Just… still.

Then he exhales slowly. “Ah.”

You wait.

On your end, your apartment feels too quiet. The rain outside has stopped, leaving everything glossy and reflective under streetlights.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says finally.

“I figured.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “Did it bother you?”

You almost laugh at that. Not because it’s funny—but because the idea of being bothered is so far from what you feel that it doesn’t even fit.

“No,” you say honestly. “It confused me more than anything.”

“Confused you how?”

You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling.

“Because I didn’t know you were doing that.”

There’s a soft sound on the other end, like he’s sitting down somewhere.

“I do it a lot,” he admits.

You close your eyes slightly.

“I know.”

That surprises him.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t realize how often.”

A small pause stretches between you.

Then he speaks again, voice lower now. More careful.

“It’s easier,” he says. “Taking photos.”

“Easier than what?”

“Than missing you in real time.”

Your chest tightens slightly at that.

You don’t respond immediately.

Because there it is—the truth sitting in the middle of the conversation like something fragile neither of you wants to break.

Mark has never been dramatic about distance.

He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t guilt you. Doesn’t turn longing into something heavy you have to carry.

But he also doesn’t hide it.

Not really.

He just translates it into something else.

Something quieter.

Something like a hand hovering over a camera button when you’re laughing. Something like saving a photo instead of sending a message that says I miss you too much to function.

“Show me,” you say finally.

There’s a pause.

“What?”

“Show me the photos.”

You can almost hear his hesitation.

“They’re just—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, “show me.”

A beat.

Then: “Okay.”

He sends them slowly.

Not all at once. Like he’s unsure how much of himself he’s allowed to reveal at a time.

A photo of your hand wrapped around a tea cup in winter. Steam curling upward like breath.

A blurred one of you walking ahead of him in an airport, unaware he’s following.

A close-up of your face mid-laugh, taken from too near for you to have noticed.

You sit there for a long time just looking at them.

They’re not perfect photos.

But they feel like memory preserved in glass.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask softly.

“I didn’t want it to feel weird,” he says immediately. “Like I was… watching you.”

You glance down at your phone.

“You’re not watching me,” you say. “You’re remembering me.”

Silence.

Then, quieter than before: “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then his voice softens in a way that makes your throat tighten slightly.

“I just… didn’t want to lose you in the parts I can’t be in.”

That’s the thing about distance no one really prepares you for.

It’s not just absence.

It’s fragmentation.

It’s waking up and realizing someone you love is living a parallel version of your life you can’t touch.

Two weeks later, the accidental post happens.

And this time, it doesn’t disappear fast enough.

You find out from him.

Not from fans.

Not from screenshots.

From Mark himself, who calls you immediately after it happens.

“Hey,” he says quickly, voice slightly out of breath.

You sit up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

A pause.

Then: “I messed up.”

Your stomach drops slightly. “What happened?”

“I posted something.”

Silence.

Then you say carefully, “Okay?”

“It was you.”

You blink.

Then slowly: “What kind of me?”

A soft exhale on the other end. Almost embarrassed.

“…the morning one. With the coffee.”

You go still.

“That was an accident?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “I was trying to send it to myself. I didn’t realize I was still on my main account.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, almost helplessly: “I deleted it fast but people already saw.”

You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling again.

“Mark,” you say slowly, “it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says immediately. “I didn’t want it to be public like that.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “I just didn’t want people turning it into something it isn’t.”

You soften slightly.

“And what is it?”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“You.”

That one word lands heavier than anything else.

You don’t see the full extent of it until later.

Because fans do what fans always do—they piece things together.

The photos. The timing. The consistency.

And suddenly, it’s no longer just a random accidental post.

It’s a narrative.

A quiet one.

A love story told in fragments.

That night, Mark video calls you.

He looks exhausted.

Not from regret—but from emotion he doesn’t know how to put down.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You shake your head slightly. “Stop apologizing.”

“I didn’t mean for you to feel exposed.”

“I don’t,” you say gently. “I feel… seen.”

That makes him go quiet.

You watch his expression shift slightly on the screen. Like he’s trying to understand the difference.

“I didn’t know you kept so many of them,” you add softly.

His mouth curves slightly, almost sad.

“I keep all of them.”

“All?”

He nods.

A pause.

Then, quieter: “It makes the distance feel less… final.”

You feel something tighten in your chest.

“Mark,” you say softly, “I miss you too.”

His eyes flick up at that.

“I know,” he says.

But then he shakes his head slightly.

“No— I mean… I know you say it. But I don’t always feel it the same way until I see you like this.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Like what?”

He hesitates.

Then, softly:

“Real.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

Later, after the call ends, you lie in bed with your phone still warm in your hand.

You open your gallery.

And you start saving his photos.

Not because you need proof of him.

But because you finally understand what he’s been doing.

He isn’t trying to hold onto control of something slipping away.

He’s trying to keep love tangible when everything else is miles apart.

Weeks pass.

Then months.

Distance doesn’t get smaller.

But it changes shape.

It becomes something you both learn to carry instead of fight.

Late-night calls become routine.

Morning photos become exchanged like greetings.

And sometimes, when he’s particularly tired, he’ll send you something unedited.

A messy video of him laughing in a studio.

A blurry shot of his hand reaching for coffee.

Or, once, a voice note that just says your name like he’s testing whether it still works across oceans.

The next time you visit him in LA, you don’t warn him.

You just show up.

He opens the door and freezes.

For a full three seconds, he doesn’t move.

Then he exhales like something inside him finally gives in.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

You laugh, stepping forward. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate after that.

He just pulls you in.

No cameras.

No distance.

No fragments.

Just one continuous moment that doesn’t need to be saved because it’s finally happening.

And later, when you’re both sitting on the couch in the soft glow of evening light, his phone rests face down on the table.

You glance at it.

He notices.

“What?” he asks.

You smile slightly.

“Are you going to take a photo?”

He thinks about it.

Then shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I think I just want to be in this one.”

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you needs to preserve the moment for later.

Because he’s already here.

#got7 #mark tuan

kpopdiva89

Jul 4

Framed In Distance

The first time you notice something is different, it isn’t because Mark tells you.

It’s because a stranger does.

A notification from a fan account.

Still, something about the caption makes you pause.

“Mark just posted?? He deleted it but we saw it 😭😭”

You frown slightly.

That’s new.

You tap it.

The post is gone by the time you get there, but screenshots already exist underneath like evidence of something fleeting but real.

Your breath catches.

It’s you.

Not a glamorous, posed version of you. Not anything you’d ever think to post yourself.

You remember that morning.

You remember hearing a shutter sound.

You thought it was nothing.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

The caption under the now-deleted post is still visible in some screenshots:

“miss her.”

That’s all.

Two words.

Simple. Careless. Devastating.

Mark Tuan has always been quiet about love.

And apparently, in photos he never meant to share.

The second time you notice, you start looking.

Not intentionally at first. It’s subtle. Like your brain is trying to solve a puzzle it didn’t know existed.

You scroll through his older posts.

But then you begin to see it.

A pattern.

A hand holding a coffee cup—clearly not his.

A sleeve you recognize from a hoodie you left at his place in LA.

A reflection in a car window showing a figure curled up asleep on someone’s shoulder.

Your stomach tightens at that one.

Because you remember it too.

He had probably taken that photo without telling you.

You sit back on your bed slowly, phone slipping slightly in your grip.

It’s not invasive.

That’s the strange part.

It doesn’t feel like he’s stealing moments from you.

It feels like he’s trying to keep them alive.

Like he’s afraid they’ll fade if he doesn’t trap them somewhere.

The first time you ask him about it, you don’t mention the deleted post.

You wait until he calls.

There’s a seven-hour difference now that he’s fully settled back in the States. It’s late evening for you when his name flashes on your screen.

You answer on the second ring.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey,” Mark replies, voice warm but tired in that way you know means he’s been working too long without noticing. “You eating?”

“Already did.”

A pause. You hear faint city noise behind him. Cars. Wind. The unfamiliar rhythm of a place you’ve never fully lived in.

“You sound quiet,” he says.

“I saw something today.”

That gets his attention.

There’s a shift in his breathing, subtle but immediate. “What kind of something?”

You hesitate, then decide honesty is easier than circling it.

“One of your posts.”

A beat.

Then, carefully: “Which one?”

“The one you deleted.”

Silence.

Not heavy, not defensive. Just… still.

Then he exhales slowly. “Ah.”

You wait.

On your end, your apartment feels too quiet. The rain outside has stopped, leaving everything glossy and reflective under streetlights.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says finally.

“I figured.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “Did it bother you?”

You almost laugh at that. Not because it’s funny—but because the idea of being bothered is so far from what you feel that it doesn’t even fit.

“No,” you say honestly. “It confused me more than anything.”

“Confused you how?”

You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling.

“Because I didn’t know you were doing that.”

There’s a soft sound on the other end, like he’s sitting down somewhere.

“I do it a lot,” he admits.

You close your eyes slightly.

“I know.”

That surprises him.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I just didn’t realize how often.”

A small pause stretches between you.

Then he speaks again, voice lower now. More careful.

“It’s easier,” he says. “Taking photos.”

“Easier than what?”

“Than missing you in real time.”

Your chest tightens slightly at that.

You don’t respond immediately.

Because there it is—the truth sitting in the middle of the conversation like something fragile neither of you wants to break.

Mark has never been dramatic about distance.

He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t guilt you. Doesn’t turn longing into something heavy you have to carry.

But he also doesn’t hide it.

Not really.

He just translates it into something else.

Something quieter.

Something like a hand hovering over a camera button when you’re laughing. Something like saving a photo instead of sending a message that says I miss you too much to function.

“Show me,” you say finally.

There’s a pause.

“What?”

“Show me the photos.”

You can almost hear his hesitation.

“They’re just—”

“Mark,” you interrupt gently, “show me.”

A beat.

Then: “Okay.”

He sends them slowly.

Not all at once. Like he’s unsure how much of himself he’s allowed to reveal at a time.

A photo of your hand wrapped around a tea cup in winter. Steam curling upward like breath.

A blurred one of you walking ahead of him in an airport, unaware he’s following.

A close-up of your face mid-laugh, taken from too near for you to have noticed.

You sit there for a long time just looking at them.

They’re not perfect photos.

But they feel like memory preserved in glass.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask softly.

“I didn’t want it to feel weird,” he says immediately. “Like I was… watching you.”

You glance down at your phone.

“You’re not watching me,” you say. “You’re remembering me.”

Silence.

Then, quieter than before: “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then his voice softens in a way that makes your throat tighten slightly.

“I just… didn’t want to lose you in the parts I can’t be in.”

That’s the thing about distance no one really prepares you for.

It’s not just absence.

It’s fragmentation.

It’s waking up and realizing someone you love is living a parallel version of your life you can’t touch.

Two weeks later, the accidental post happens.

And this time, it doesn’t disappear fast enough.

You find out from him.

Not from fans.

Not from screenshots.

From Mark himself, who calls you immediately after it happens.

“Hey,” he says quickly, voice slightly out of breath.

You sit up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

A pause.

Then: “I messed up.”

Your stomach drops slightly. “What happened?”

“I posted something.”

Silence.

Then you say carefully, “Okay?”

“It was you.”

You blink.

Then slowly: “What kind of me?”

A soft exhale on the other end. Almost embarrassed.

“…the morning one. With the coffee.”

You go still.

“That was an accident?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “I was trying to send it to myself. I didn’t realize I was still on my main account.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, almost helplessly: “I deleted it fast but people already saw.”

You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling again.

“Mark,” you say slowly, “it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he says immediately. “I didn’t want it to be public like that.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “I just didn’t want people turning it into something it isn’t.”

You soften slightly.

“And what is it?”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“You.”

That one word lands heavier than anything else.

You don’t see the full extent of it until later.

Because fans do what fans always do—they piece things together.

The photos. The timing. The consistency.

And suddenly, it’s no longer just a random accidental post.

It’s a narrative.

A quiet one.

A love story told in fragments.

That night, Mark video calls you.

He looks exhausted.

Not from regret—but from emotion he doesn’t know how to put down.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You shake your head slightly. “Stop apologizing.”

“I didn’t mean for you to feel exposed.”

“I don’t,” you say gently. “I feel… seen.”

That makes him go quiet.

You watch his expression shift slightly on the screen. Like he’s trying to understand the difference.

“I didn’t know you kept so many of them,” you add softly.

His mouth curves slightly, almost sad.

“I keep all of them.”

“All?”

He nods.

A pause.

Then, quieter: “It makes the distance feel less… final.”

You feel something tighten in your chest.

“Mark,” you say softly, “I miss you too.”

His eyes flick up at that.

“I know,” he says.

But then he shakes his head slightly.

“No— I mean… I know you say it. But I don’t always feel it the same way until I see you like this.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Like what?”

He hesitates.

Then, softly:

“Real.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

Later, after the call ends, you lie in bed with your phone still warm in your hand.

You open your gallery.

And you start saving his photos.

Not because you need proof of him.

But because you finally understand what he’s been doing.

He isn’t trying to hold onto control of something slipping away.

He’s trying to keep love tangible when everything else is miles apart.

Weeks pass.

Then months.

Distance doesn’t get smaller.

But it changes shape.

It becomes something you both learn to carry instead of fight.

Late-night calls become routine.

Morning photos become exchanged like greetings.

And sometimes, when he’s particularly tired, he’ll send you something unedited.

A messy video of him laughing in a studio.

A blurry shot of his hand reaching for coffee.

Or, once, a voice note that just says your name like he’s testing whether it still works across oceans.

The next time you visit him in LA, you don’t warn him.

You just show up.

He opens the door and freezes.

For a full three seconds, he doesn’t move.

Then he exhales like something inside him finally gives in.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

You laugh, stepping forward. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate after that.

He just pulls you in.

No cameras.

No distance.

No fragments.

Just one continuous moment that doesn’t need to be saved because it’s finally happening.

And later, when you’re both sitting on the couch in the soft glow of evening light, his phone rests face down on the table.

You glance at it.

He notices.

“What?” he asks.

You smile slightly.

“Are you going to take a photo?”

He thinks about it.

Then shakes his head.

“No,” he says.

A pause.

Then, softer:

“I think I just want to be in this one.”

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you needs to preserve the moment for later.

Because he’s already here.

#got7 #mark tuan

#mark tuan

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