Till There Was You
【📂】 summary: for most of your life, you moved through the world like a whisper—unnoticed, unheard, slowly learning to expect silence in return. but when wonwoo looked at you and listened, really listened, something shifted. in his quiet presence, you found not just comfort, but the courage to believe your voice had always mattered. 【🖇️】 pairing: listener!wonwoo x soft spoken!reader. 【💿】 genre: slice-of-life; slow-burn romance; coming-of-age. 【🧺】 tags: university; comfort; support; gentle love; quiet x quiet; found voice; soft romance. 【📦】 w/c: 1.2k+
📬 — author’s note！this is inspired by real life experiences.
*i want to say more here (in this a/n) but i have writer's block... so tba.
p.s. posting two days in a row??╰( ^o^)╮W0W╰( ^o^)╮
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all your life, you felt like a shadow—present but unseen, moving quietly through the world like a ghost drifting just beyond the edges of everyone’s notice. you spoke, but your words seemed to dissolve into air before anyone could catch them. you were the forgotten background character in a story you longed to be part of, the quiet presence no one turned toward.
at home, it was no different. being the middle child came with its own invisible weight. your older sibling was loud and accomplished, always taking the spotlight. your younger sibling was the baby, soaking up attention with every giggle and step. and you? you were the quiet one in the middle — the stereotypical forgotten child. sometimes, it felt like your family didn’t even notice you were there.
in preschool, the loud laughter and bright colors swirled around you like a storm. you tried to join in, but your voice barely rose above a whisper. in class, you raised your hand hesitantly, but the teacher called on someone else before you could speak. at home, your family often forgot to ask how you felt, as if you were another piece of furniture—there, but not really noticed.
you learned to shrink yourself small, folding into the spaces around others. being quiet was safe, but it was lonely.
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you were twelve, sitting at a lunch table with classmates chatting about favorites — foods, colors, music. the topic was light and easy, a world you wanted to step into.
someone said, “buldak ramen are way better than jin ramen.”
you smiled inwardly. you loved buldak ramen.
the conversation shifted to music.
“i hate that song ‘mirotic’ by tvxq,” someone said. “it’s been on the radio forever.”
your chance.
“i think ‘mirotic’ is kind of catchy,” you began softly.
but the noise rushed over you like a wave. before your words finished, someone shouted, “i hate that song too! it’s stuck in my head all the time!”
laughter followed, the conversation bouncing quickly onward.
no one turned to you.
you felt yourself folding inward, fading like a ghost whose voice went unheard. your bright words dissolved into the noise—unseen, forgotten.
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middle school wasn’t the only time.
high school felt louder, faster, but the feeling didn’t change. you tried again and again to speak, to make yourself heard, but most times your voice was swallowed by others’ louder conversations. sometimes, maybe ten percent of the time, someone listened.
but mostly, you were the shadow in the crowd — present but overlooked.
you remember a birthday party in high school, the music booming and laughter filling the room. you tried to share a funny story, but before you finished, someone else spoke louder, and the group turned away. you sat back, your words swallowed by the noise, a ghost drifting unseen through the crowd.
still, you kept trying.
because inside, you believed your voice mattered.
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college promised a new start, a chance to be someone else.
but old habits die hard.
you slipped quietly into the background, fading into the crowd.
then you met wonwoo.
he wasn’t loud or flashy. he sat near the front in literature class, writing notes with calm focus.
one day, your books slipped and fell on the stairs outside class.
he picked them up without a word, looked at your notebook cover, and said, “you annotate everything?”
“yeah. helps me think,” you replied, surprised.
he smiled softly. “smart.”
it wasn’t a grand introduction, but it felt like the first time someone really saw you in a long time.
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wonwoo’s presence was gentle but constant — a quiet anchor in a sea of noise. he didn’t ask you to be loud or change. he listened.
one afternoon in the library, sunlight spilled across the table where you both studied.
“hey,” he said softly, looking up. “what kind of music do you like?”
caught off guard, you replied, “mostly calm songs. acoustic stuff, or soft pop.”
he nodded. “yeah, these days i’ve been mainly listening to iu’s ‘knees.’ it’s soft and comforting. loud songs can be exhausting.”
you smiled quietly.
for once, your voice wasn’t swallowed by the crowd.
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you tried again, years ago, at that noisy party.
your voice was a whisper in a room full of megaphones.
you were a shadow among shining faces — a ghost drifting through a scene where no one saw you.
your words, like fragile wings, couldn’t break through the noise.
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wonwoo noticed your quiet resilience.
when you hesitated to join discussions, he gently invited you in.
“hey, what did you think about the presentation?” he asked once after class.
“it was… interesting,” you said softly.
“want to grab coffee and talk about it?”
you nodded.
over steaming coffee, you spoke quietly about movies and dreams.
for the first time, someone wanted to hear your thoughts.
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one night, walking home beneath the streetlights, wonwoo looked at you with quiet understanding.
“you know,” he said softly, “i get it. i’ve felt invisible too—like my voice didn’t matter. it was a slow process for me to open up. but i had a few best friends who stuck with me, who made me feel seen, even when i didn’t believe it myself.”
you looked at him, surprised.
“it’s like... in this battle of being heard, you don’t have to be alone,” he continued. “sometimes, you just need someone who refuses to let you disappear.”
his words warmed you like a gentle light.
you found solace in knowing you weren’t alone in this.
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months passed.
you opened up more.
one day, during a study group, you raised your hand to share a complicated idea. the room was noisy, people talking over each other as usual.
but this time, wonwoo caught your eye.
he nodded—a quiet signal.
you spoke, voice trembling at first, then growing stronger.
when you finished, the room was still.
someone said, “that’s actually a really good point.”
wonwoo smiled warmly.
you realized being heard wasn’t about volume.
it was about being seen.
you were no longer a ghost drifting unseen.
you were present.
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you step to the front of the room in interpersonal communication—bcsc 101, steadying your breath as the classroom quiets.
looking around at your classmates, and finally at wonwoo’s encouraging eyes, you begin:
“good afternoon, everyone. today, i want to talk about something we often take for granted—our voice. not just the sound we make, but the act of being truly heard. communication isn’t only about speaking louder or faster; it’s about connection, understanding, and presence.”
you pause, feeling the weight of your own words.
“for much of my life, i felt like a shadow—someone whose words didn’t quite reach others. it’s easy to believe that if no one hears you, maybe you don’t exist in their world. but through this course, and through personal experience, i’ve come to understand that being heard requires vulnerability and trust, and also someone willing to listen.”
you glance at wonwoo briefly, then continue.
“in interpersonal communication, we learn that effective dialogue happens when both parties are fully engaged. it’s a shared space where ideas aren’t just exchanged, but honored. finding that space changed everything for me.”
you conclude with quiet strength, “i hope this encourages you all to listen—not just to the loudest voice in the room, but also to those quieter ones that need to be heard.”
as you step back, the room holds still for a moment before breaking into warm applause.
wonwoo’s smile is the brightest.
and in that moment, you aren’t just the quiet kid anymore.
you are seen.
- fin.
[…epilogue]
