angst/fluff/happyending/there will be no nsfw/one-sided love/ popular reader x popular maki
Why can't you want me like the other boys do?
They stare at me while I crave you.
Maki.
Maki was born on 17th Feb 2006, his favourite colour was red, and he played centre in basketball. In the span of 4 years, your limerance hadn't faded one bit.
You knew what kind of girl you were. You were pretty, you were smart, you were approachable, you were kind, you were sporty. So why wouldn't he look at you? Why had he not talked to you other than to get your friend's number? Were you not his type, or just unlovable?
Surely that wasn't it. You had boys lined up for you, locker filled with letters. Boys glanced your way every step you took. But why not him?
Good news, he was in all your classes. Bad news he was in all your classes.
You had thought about him again, and again. You noticed how he blinked twice when he was confused, how his big, manly hand would grip and twirl the pen, how he stared out the window in calculus, how he toyed with his lip when he was nervous, how he pressed his lips together when he was spaced out. You noticed him. Every single day. Your eyes found him in the room full of brunettes. Maybe he noticed you, too.
I will make this a series, if this gets enough requests so do your thing guys. Like, repost and maybe follow:)
Maki, hirota riki, riki maus. Maki was many things, but he was definitely yours.
People may say he's too loud for a personality like yours, he's too touchy, he's too this, he's too that.
He likes to think that they're stupid and jealous, because they don't see the things he sees.
They don't see how his heart stops when you come too close, they don't see how he lets Nicho call him a simp for you. How his whole personality changes around you, how his sensitive skin reacts when you kiss him.
His favourite part of the day is when he gets out of the shower in nothing but sweatpants, waiting for his sweet girl to pamper him.
He loves it when you hop on his lap, with your pomegranate scented body butter ready to moisturize him.
He loves it when your soft fingers slide down his torso, massaging the tension down his shoulders.
He loves it when you grab his face and attack him with your kisses.
He loves it when you smile into the kiss as if you aren't rewiring his entire head.
You make him weak, not that he minds.
GUYS. This is my first fic or wtv. Reposts, likes, and follows would be appreciated! Comment if i should do the other pov of this.
Warning : psychological abuse, emotional neglect, family conflict, public shaming, false accusations, intense grief and mourning themes, death of a character, childbirth-related tragedy, isolation, betrayal, gaslighting themes, strong emotional distress, angst-heavy narratives.
Synopsis : in the late 1990s Taipei royal household, reputation is everything and truth is rarely spoken aloud. the Lin and Zhao families are bound by tradition, status, and carefully arranged expectations. One daughter is praised for her grace and perfection, while the other is quietly reduced to an afterthought present, but never truly seen. within the palace walls, love is displayed like ceremony and duty is mistaken for devotion. every smile is observed, every silence is judged, and every rumor becomes something heavier than truth. when an irreversible tragedy strikes, the balance of the household fractures. grief does not remain private. it spreads, reshaping loyalty, memory, and belief itself. In a place where appearances decide innocence, one person becomes the center of a story she never chose.
reblog to get your ass eaten for a week.
PART ONE
1998, Taipei Royal Residence
Time moved forward even when no one wanted it to.
The palace returned to its rhythm piece by piece, but it was not the same rhythm it once held. It felt forced now, carefully maintained, like a fragile performance everyone had agreed to continue despite knowing something vital had already been lost.
Months had passed since Meiyu’s death.
But grief had not softened. It had only changed shape. For some, it became silence. For others, it became control.
For you, it became isolation.
You were no longer openly scolded the way you once had been. No one raised their hand anymore. No one shouted your name across the halls. That kind of attention required acknowledgment, and acknowledgment was something you no longer received.
Instead, you were… managed.
Your movements were limited without being explicitly forbidden. Doors were not locked, but servants always seemed to appear whenever you walked too far. Conversations stopped when you entered, but no one told you to leave. Meals were still prepared for you, but always sent to your room.
It was a quiet kind of punishment.
One that made it clear you still existed… just not where anyone could see you.
The child had grown. Not much, but enough.
Her cries had changed. They were no longer constant, helpless wails. Now they came in intervals, softer at times, louder at others, as if she was beginning to recognize the world around her.
The inner quarters had become even more restricted. Guards were placed near the entrances, attendants rotated more frequently, and every instruction regarding her care was followed with precision.
“She must not fall ill.”
“She must not be disturbed.”
“She must not be exposed to misfortune.”
You knew what that meant. You were the misfortune.
The one thing she must never be exposed to.
Still, you tried. Not often.
Just enough to remind yourself that you had not forgotten the promise you made.
The first time you tried again, it was early morning. The palace was quieter then, the routines not fully settled. You walked slowly, carefully, as if moving too fast would make you visible.
You reached the corridor outside the nursery.
For a moment, nothing happened.
No one stopped you. No one spoke.
You thought… maybe this time—
“She is not to be near the child.”
The voice came from behind you.
You did not turn immediately. You already knew.
“You should not have come,” he continued.
Zhao Yufan.
His presence alone was enough to change the air around you. Even now, months later, the weight of his gaze felt heavier than anything else in the palace.
You turned slowly.
“I just wanted to see her,” you said, your voice quieter than the silence around you.
“You have no right.”
The words came without hesitation.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. “She is my sister’s daughter.”
“And you were my wife’s last visitor.”
There it was again. That line.
That conclusion he refused to move past.
You held his gaze this time, even though it burned.
“I kept my promise,” you said softly. “I stayed.”
Something flickered across his expression. Brief.
Gone before it could become anything real.
“Staying is not the same as protecting,” he replied.
Your chest tightened.
“And keeping you away from her,” he added, his voice lowering, “is the only way to ensure that.”
That was how he saw you now. Not as someone who failed. But as something dangerous.
You nodded once. Because there was nothing else left to do.
“I understand,” you said.
But you did not. Not fully. Not in a way that made it hurt any less.
You turned again. Walked away again.
And this time, you did not try to come back.
Days passed. Then more.
The palace settled into a new pattern, one that revolved around two people.
The heir.
And the one who had lost everything.
Yufan did not soften.
If anything, he became more rigid.
His time was divided with precision. Mornings were spent in council chambers, afternoons reviewing estate matters, evenings overseeing the child’s care from a distance he never crossed too closely.
He rarely held her.
Not because he did not care.
But because when he did… something in his control faltered.
The few times he allowed himself to, the attendants noticed.
The way his hands hesitated before lifting her.
The way his gaze lingered too long on her face.
The way he would leave the room almost immediately after, as if staying even a moment longer would undo him.
So he stopped. And chose distance instead.
Until the day that control was interrupted.
Yufan’s grandmother had come from the countryside.
She was not someone who visited often. Age and distance had kept her away from the palace for years, her life rooted in quieter lands, far from politics and power.
But news traveled.
And grief, when it reached her, did not stay ignored.
She arrived without ceremony, her steps slow but steady, her expression unreadable as she entered the palace that had changed so much since she last saw it.
The servants bowed lower around her.
The elders spoke more carefully.
Because she was not someone to be dismissed. Not someone to be managed. She observed everything. Quietly. Carefully.
The silence in the halls. The way people spoke. The absence of laughter.
The distance between family members who should have stood closer.
And most of all him.
She watched Yufan longer than anyone else did. Not just in passing. But intentionally.
She saw the way he worked without pause. The way he spoke without emotion. The way he avoided certain corridors without realizing it. The way his eyes no longer held anything beyond obligation.
“He is still breathing,” she said once to one of the older attendants.
“But he is not living.”
The words spread quietly. Because they were true.
And truth, in that palace, had become something rare.
She asked about the child. Often.
“How does she sleep.”
“How often does she cry.”
“Who stays with her at night.”
Each answer she received only deepened the lines in her expression.
“She cries for long periods,” one attendant admitted carefully. “Especially at night.”
“And what do you do when she does.”
“We soothe her, Madam. We carry her, we sing, we—”
“And her father.”
A pause.
“He… is informed.”
“Informed,” she repeated.
Her gaze hardened slightly.
“And the other one.”
The attendant hesitated.
“You mean…”
“The younger daughter of the Lin family who Meiyu left her last thoughts to”
Another pause.
“She is not allowed near the child.”
“Not allowed,” the grandmother repeated slowly.
“By whose order.”
No one needed to answer. She already knew.
Days passed under her quiet observation.
She did not confront immediately.
She waited. Watched. Listened.
Until she had seen enough to understand not just what had happened.
But what was continuing to happen.
One evening, she requested a private meeting.
Only a few were called.
Yufan. Lin family aka your parents. The Zhao's. A small number of elders.
The room was heavy with unspoken tension even before she spoke.
She sat at the head, her posture straight despite her age, her presence commanding without effort.
“I did not come here to mourn,” she began.
Her voice was calm. Steady.
“I came because something is being done wrong.”
No one interrupted. No one dared.
She looked directly at Yufan.
“You have lost your wife,” she said.
A simple statement. But it landed with weight.
“And in losing her, you have chosen to lose everything else as well.”
His jaw tightened slightly. But he did not respond.
“You believe that by holding onto blame,” she continued, “you are holding onto her.”
Silence.
“But you are not.”
Her gaze did not soften.
“You are abandoning what she left behind.”
That made him look up. For the first time.
“She left you a child,” the grandmother said.
“And you stand at a distance from her as if she is something you cannot bear to face.”
His voice came out lower than expected.
“I ensure she is cared for.”
“You ensure she is managed,” she corrected. “Not loved.”
The words cut deeper than anything spoken in months.
No one moved. No one spoke.
“And as for the girl you have all decided to cast aside—”
Your existence entered the room. Without you being there.
“You isolate her,” she said, her voice sharpening slightly. “You blame her. You turn her into something she has not been proven to be.”
Your mother’s expression tightened. “She was the last—”
“I know exactly what she was,” the grandmother interrupted.
“And I also know what grief does to people who do not know how to carry it.”
The room fell silent again. Because there was nothing to argue against.
She exhaled slowly.
And then she made her decision.
“This cannot continue.”
Her gaze moved between them.
“The child needs stability.”
A pause.
“The household needs order.”
Another.
“And Yufan—”
Her eyes settled on him again.
“You need a life that does not revolve around a moment that has already passed.”
He did not like where this was going. It showed.
“You will remarry,” she said.
The words landed heavily. Not a suggestion. A decision.
“And this time,” she continued, “it will not be arranged between strangers.”
A shift in the room. Subtle. Uneasy.
“The Lin family still has a daughter.”
Silence deepened. Thicker than before.
“You will marry her.”
And just like that. Everything changed again.
You sat alone in your room. Unaware.
Still carrying a promise you were not allowed to fulfill.
Still being erased from a life that was slowly being rewritten.
Without you in it.
The decision did not settle quietly. It spread.
Through corridors, through servants’ whispers, through guarded conversations behind half closed doors. It reached every corner of the palace before it ever reached you.
And where it landed, it did not bring relief. It brought tension.
Because no one truly agreed with it. Not completely. Not honestly.
Yufan did not accept it.
Not the way his grandmother expected him to.
He did not raise his voice in front of her. He did not argue openly. He listened, stood still, nodded when necessary, and gave the kind of response that sounded like obedience.
But the moment he stepped out of that room, the restraint began to crack.
“This is unnecessary.”
His voice was low, controlled, but there was something sharp beneath it now.
His parents stood across from him, just as unsettled.
His mother spoke first, more carefully than she ever had before. “Your grandmother believes this is the best way to restore stability.”
“Stability,” he repeated, almost hollow. “Is that what this is.”
“She is thinking of the child,” his father added. “And of the household.”
“And I am not,” Yufan replied, his gaze hardening. “Is that what you think.”
Silence followed. Because that was not what they thought.
They knew he cared.
They had seen it in the few moments he allowed himself to hold his daughter, in the way his entire posture changed before he forced it back into place.
But care was not the issue. Grief was. And grief had made him rigid.
“You cannot continue like this,” his mother said quietly. “You barely sleep. You avoid her. You avoid everything that reminds you of her.”
Her voice softened at the last part. Her. Meiyu.
The name still unspoken. His jaw tightened.
“I am managing what needs to be managed.”
“That is exactly the problem,” his father replied. “You are managing. Not living.”
The same words. Different voice. Still just as heavy.
Yufan turned away slightly, his hand pressing against the edge of the table as if grounding himself.
“This is not about living,” he said. “This is about replacing.”
“No one is asking you to replace her.”
“It is exactly what this is,” he snapped, the first real break in his control.
The room fell silent again.
Because they understood that part.
Even if they could not say it.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself back into stillness.
“And the girl,” he added, quieter now, but no less tense. “You expect me to accept her as if nothing has happened.”
No one needed to ask who he meant. You.
His mother hesitated this time. “She is still Meiyu’s sister.”
“And she was still the last person with her,” he replied.
There it was again. That lingering doubt. It had weakened. Slightly.
There were moments, small ones, where something inside him questioned it. Moments when he remembered how you had looked that night. Moments when your words echoed in ways that did not quite match the image he had forced himself to believe.
But doubt was not enough to erase what had already taken root.
Not yet. So he held onto it.
Even if it was not as strong as before.
“We cannot refuse your grandmother,” his father said finally. “You know that.”
That was the truth that ended the conversation.
Because in that household, her word was not easily denied.
Not without consequences no one was willing to face.
So resistance became silence. Reluctant. Heavy. Unresolved.
And beyond their walls, another reaction took shape.
Your family.
Where the news did not bring hesitation.
It brought urgency. Something dangerously close to relief.
“This is an opportunity,” your mother said, her voice sharper than it had been in months.
Your father nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead. “We must not allow anything to disrupt this.”
“There will be no disruptions,” she replied immediately. “We will ensure it.”
And by ensuring it—
She meant controlling you. Even more than before.
You were watched more closely. Your movements restricted further. Servants were given clearer instructions.
“Do not let her wander.”
“Do not let her speak unnecessarily.”
“Do not let her near the Zhao household unless instructed.”
You noticed.
But no one explained it. No one told you why. Because to them, you did not need to know.
Preparations began quickly. Too quickly.
The palace that had once been wrapped in mourning now filled with activity again, but it was not the same kind of liveliness that had existed during Meiyu’s wedding.
There were no soft smiles. No quiet excitement. No genuine happiness. Everything felt… forced. Obligatory.
Servants moved with efficiency, not enthusiasm. Decorations were discussed, fabrics chosen, arrangements planned, but every conversation carried a trace of discomfort.
Because no one forgot. Not really.
And more importantly, no one liked you.
That part had not changed. If anything, it had deepened.
“She will be the new lady of the Zhao household?”
“After everything?”
“It does not feel right.”
“But we cannot question it.”
So they worked. And whispered. And avoided saying too much out loud.
Because the decision had already been made.
You remained unaware.
Until the day you were called. It was unexpected.
A message delivered to your room, simple and direct.
“You are to go to the Zhao residence.”
No explanation. Just instruction.
You hesitated. Of course you did.
You had not been allowed near that place for months. Every attempt had been stopped, every step redirected, every presence rejected.
And now you were being told to go.
You followed anyway. Because something inside you refused to ignore it.
The Zhao residence felt the same. And completely different.
The familiar halls now heavier, quieter in a way that felt deeper than before.
Servants watched you as you passed.
Not stopping you. But not welcoming you either.
You were led further inside than you had been allowed in months.
You saw her. Yufan’s grandmother.
She sat near the window, light falling softly around her, her posture composed but not distant.
Her gaze lifted the moment you entered.
And unlike everyone else it softened.
“Come here,” she said gently.
The words alone caught you off guard.
You stepped closer slowly, unsure, your hands instinctively folding together as if preparing for something formal.
But nothing about her felt formal.
Not in the way you were used to.
She studied your face for a moment.
Not with judgment. With something closer to understanding.
“You have grown thinner,” she said quietly.
You blinked, not expecting that.
“I am fine,” you replied automatically.
She did not argue. Did not press. Instead, she gestured slightly to the side.
And that was when you saw her.
The baby. Your sister’s daughter.
She was in the arms of an attendant, small, wrapped carefully, her face slightly scrunched as soft cries escaped her again and again.
Something inside you tightened immediately.
Without thinking, you took a small step forward.
Then stopped. Because you already knew. You were not allowed. The habit of restraint had become too familiar. The grandmother noticed. Of course she did.
“Why are you stopping,” she asked.
You hesitated. “I am not permitted to—”
“I am permitting you,” she interrupted gently.
The attendants glanced at each other. Uncertain. But none of them spoke. Because her authority outweighed all others.
“Take her,” she said.
Your breath caught slightly.
Slowly, carefully, as if the moment might disappear if you moved too fast, you stepped forward.
The attendant hesitated only briefly before placing the baby into your arms.
And the moment she did something changed.
The crying stopped. Not gradually. It stopped. Completely. The room went still.
The baby’s small face relaxed almost instantly, her tiny fingers curling slightly against your clothing as if she had recognized something.
As if she knew.
Your heart stuttered.
Your arms tightened instinctively, holding her closer, your breath uneven as you looked down at her.
“Shh…” you whispered softly, your voice trembling despite yourself. “It’s okay… I’m here…”
She did not cry again. Not even a sound. The grandmother watched quietly. And for the first time since she had arrived there was certainty in her eyes. Not doubt. Not assumption. Something clearer than that.
Across the room, the attendants stood frozen.
Because they had never seen this before. Not once.
And somewhere beyond those walls a decision that had already been made. Was about to become something far more complicated than anyone had expected.
You held the baby carefully, your arms instinctively adjusting to her weight as if you had done this a hundred times before, even though this was the first time anyone had allowed it. Her small body fit against you so naturally that it made your chest ache in a way you were not prepared for.
Her breathing softened.
You lowered your gaze, your lips parting slightly as if you wanted to say something more, but nothing came out. There were no words that could match what you felt in that moment.
Only that promise.
The one that had never left you.
Across from you, the grandmother watched everything without interrupting. She did not rush the moment.
And only when she was certain you had fully felt it.
Did she speak again.
“She knows you.”
Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly.
You looked up slightly, confused. “She is just a baby.”
“And yet she stopped crying the moment you held her.”
You did not answer.
You looked back down at the child instead, your fingers brushing lightly against her small hand. She curled her fingers around yours almost immediately, holding on without effort.
Something inside your chest tightened again.
The grandmother shifted slightly in her seat.
“There are things happening in this household,” she continued, “that you have not been told.”
That made you look up fully. A small flicker of unease crossed your expression.
“I assumed as much,” you said carefully.
She studied you for a moment.
“You are to marry Yufan.”
Your entire body stilled. For a second, it felt like you had misheard.
Like your mind had tried to twist something impossible into something that made sense.
“I…” your voice faltered slightly. “I do not understand.”
“You will,” she said calmly. “Because it has already been decided.”
Your grip on the baby tightened slightly, not enough to hurt her, but enough for you to realize you needed to steady yourself.
“This is not—” you stopped, your breath catching. “This cannot be serious.”
“It is.”
“You will be married into this household.”
Your chest rose and fell unevenly now.
“Does he know,” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.
“He knows.”
That was not the part that hurt.
“What does he think.”
The grandmother did not answer immediately.
Your gaze dropped again, your lips pressing together as you tried to keep your expression from shifting too much.
“I see,” you murmured.
The baby stirred slightly in your arms, her small fingers tightening again as if reacting to the subtle change in your breathing.
You swallowed.
“I do not think he would agree to this,” you said quietly.
“He does not agree,” the grandmother replied.
“But agreement is not always required.”
That truth sat heavily between you.
“I am not asking you to pretend this will be easy,” she continued. “Or that it will be welcomed by everyone.”
You let out a quiet, hollow breath.
“That would be impossible anyway.”
Her gaze softened slightly.
“But I am asking you to understand something important.”
You looked up again.
“This marriage is not only about restoring order,” she said. “It is about giving this child a future where she is not raised in absence.”
Your eyes flickered down to the baby again.
“She has already lost her mother,” the grandmother continued. “She should not grow up without warmth as well.”
Your throat tightened. Because you understood that. Too well.
“And Yufan,” she added, her voice lowering slightly, “he will not heal by being left alone with his grief.”
You did not respond. That part felt too complicated. Too distant from anything you could reach.
“He needs to face what he has been avoiding,” she said. “And you… you are part of that.”
A small, bitter thought crossed your mind before you could stop it.
Or maybe I am just another thing he will avoid.
The grandmother watched you carefully.
“He does not trust you,” she said, not cruelly, but truthfully. “And you know why.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the baby’s blanket.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“And yet,” she continued, “I have seen enough to know that what is believed is not always what is true.”
Your eyes flickered up at that.
“I will not force closeness,” she said. “That cannot be commanded.”
“But I will require understanding.”
You listened.
Because this was the first time anyone had spoken to you like this since everything had happened.
“You will speak to him,” she said. “Before the wedding.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“Conversations,” she clarified. “Not obligations. Not formalities.”
You hesitated.
“I do not think he would want that.”
“He does not,” she agreed calmly.
And then—
“He will do it anyway.”
That certainty left no room for argument.
You looked down again, your thoughts moving faster than you could control.
“What if it changes nothing,” you asked quietly.
The grandmother’s expression did not waver.
“Then at least it will not remain unspoken.”
You adjusted the baby slightly in your arms, your movements slower now, more careful.
“I do not want to replace her,” you said suddenly, your voice softer than before.
The grandmother’s gaze softened further.
“No one can.”
You nodded slightly.
“But they will expect it,” you added, your throat tightening.
“Some will,” she said. “Not all.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“And him,” you whispered.
That was the question you were really asking. Her answer came without delay.
You lowered your gaze again, your lips pressing together as you tried to steady yourself.
“I do not think he will ever see me as anything other than—”
You stopped. You did not finish it. You did not need to.
The word killer did not need to be spoken to exist.
The grandmother watched you carefully.
“Then you will give him the chance to see differently,” she said.
You let out a small, shaky breath.
“And if he does not.”
“Then you will decide what kind of life you are willing to live.”
The baby shifted again, letting out a soft sound before settling once more against you, still calm, still quiet.
You held her a little closer.
As if she was the only steady thing in that moment.
Footsteps echoed faintly outside the room. You felt it before you saw him. That familiar shift in the air. That quiet tension that followed his presence. The grandmother noticed too. But she did not interrupt. She let the moment play out. Yufan stopped at the doorway. His gaze moved immediately. To you. To the baby in your arms.
Something in his expression hardened instantly.
Just that same cold resistance you had seen before.
“What is she doing here.”
The words were sharp. But enough to cut through everything that had just been said.
The grandmother spoke calmly. “I asked her to come.”
His gaze did not leave you.
“And I allowed her to hold the child.”
You stood there, still holding the baby, your arms suddenly feeling too visible, too exposed under his gaze.
“She should not be here,” he said flatly.
The words landed exactly the way they always did.
You swallowed.
Your throat tightening painfully as you lowered your gaze slightly, careful not to disturb the child still resting calmly against you.
“I was just leaving,” you said quietly.
You stepped forward slowly, carefully handing the baby back to the attendant.
The moment the baby left your arms she cried.
His expression did not change. Not where it mattered.
You stepped back. Your hands empty now. Colder.
And you nodded slightly, more to yourself than to anyone else.
“I understand,” you murmured.
But your voice was not as steady as before.
You turned before anyone could see more than that.
Before the tightness in your chest turned into something visible.
Before the tears you refused to let fall reached your eyes.
And you walked out. Trying to keep your steps even. Trying to breathe normally. Trying not to break.
Over something that had already been decided.
1998, Taipei — Day of the Wedding ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
Morning came too early.
It slipped into your room quietly, pale light stretching across the floor, touching the edges of things that did not feel real yet. For a moment, just a moment, you stayed still in your bed and let yourself pretend nothing had changed. That this was just another day where you would wake up, keep your head down, and move carefully through a life that did not belong to you.
But the silence was different.
Today was not a day the palace would allow you to ignore.
You sat up slowly, the weight of it settling over you piece by piece. Your hands rested on your lap, fingers curling slightly into the fabric as your gaze drifted toward the wedding garments laid out across the room.
A color meant for joy. For celebration. And yet it felt heavy just to look at it. You had imagined this once. Not like this.
There had been a time when marriage meant escape to you. A way out of the suffocating walls of your family, a chance to belong somewhere else, somewhere kinder, somewhere that did not look at you like you were something lacking.
You had imagined smiles. Soft conversations.
Someone who would choose you, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Someone who would look at you without judgment.
Without comparison. Without history.
But that had been a different version of you.
A version that still believed in things turning out differently.
You stood slowly, walking toward the garments as if each step required thought. Your fingers hovered over the fabric before finally touching it, the silk cool beneath your skin.
It was beautiful. There was no denying that.
Intricate embroidery, carefully chosen patterns, every detail arranged with precision that reflected the status of the Zhao family. Anyone else would have felt honored to wear it.
Servants entered quietly, but not for you. That difference had already been made clear. They moved around the room with purpose, preparing things, adjusting details, but none of it was directed at you. They did not help you dress. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary.
The instruction had been followed exactly. You were not to be served.
Not as a bride. Not as anything.
You dressed yourself.
Your hands trembled once when tying one of the inner layers, but you steadied them quickly, forcing yourself to continue. There was no one to assist you. No one to fix mistakes. No one to notice if something was wrong.
You adjusted everything yourself until there was nothing left to adjust.
When you finally looked at your reflection you paused.
For a second you did not recognize yourself.
The red framed you differently. The ornaments placed carefully in your hair caught the light in ways that made you look softer than you felt. Your face, composed and still, carried none of the chaos inside you.
You looked like a bride. Just not the kind anyone had wanted.
A quiet knock came at the door.
“It is time.”
No warmth. Just instruction.
You nodded, even though no one was looking for it, and turned toward the door.
Each step felt measured as you walked through the halls.
The palace had been decorated.
Red lanterns hung from above, banners placed carefully along the corridors, everything arranged to present an image of festivity.
But it did not feel festive. It felt… restrained.
Like something everyone was participating in, but no one truly believed in.
Guests had arrived. Families gathered.
Voices filled the space, but they were quieter than they should have been, conversations kept low, expressions carefully controlled.
You felt their eyes. They followed you as you entered. Some curious. Some judgmental. Some simply indifferent. But none of them warm. Not a single one. You kept your gaze forward. You had learned how to do that well. And then you saw him.
Yufan stood at the front, already in place, dressed in formal attire that matched the weight of the occasion. He looked exactly as he always did.
If anyone looked closely, they might have noticed the tension in his posture, the slight tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were just a little too still.
But no one commented.
His gaze met yours briefly as you approached. There was no softness there. Just acknowledgment. Like this was something he had accepted, not something he had chosen.
You reached your place. The ceremony began. Words were spoken. Formalities followed. Everything moved exactly as it should. And yet it all felt distant. Like you were watching it happen from somewhere outside yourself. The vows were exchanged. Just tradition. Just obligation. When it came time for the final part. The moment everyone waited for.
The air shifted slightly. The expectation was there. Even if everything else had been restrained. This part could not be avoided.
Yufan stepped closer. That same quiet tension that had followed him from the very beginning. Your breath caught slightly, but you kept your expression steady, your gaze lowering just enough to avoid meeting his directly.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
The space between you closed. The kiss. It was brief. Careful.
More a gesture than anything else. There was no lingering.
There was no harshness either. Did not make it uncomfortable beyond what it already was.
And when he pulled away he did so with the same controlled composure he had maintained throughout everything.
A gentleman. Even in unwillingness.
The ceremony ended. Applause followed. Polite.
Not the kind that filled a room with joy, but enough to fulfill what was expected.
And just like that you were married. Your last name carrying Zhao now.
Not with love. But with responsibility.
Into something that would demand more from you than you had ever been allowed to give before.
The transition was immediate. Because there was no time to linger in what had just happened. No time to process. The roles were already shifting. The instructions already changing.
By the time you returned to the inner residence, it had been made clear.
You were not stepping into the position Meiyu once held.
The servants followed the orders given by your family without question.
They attended to the Zhao household.
To Yufan. To the elders. But not to you.
Your responsibilities were laid out without ceremony.
The child. The inner quarters. The tasks no one else would take.
It was not spoken as punishment. But it was. And everyone knew it.
Night settled over the Zhao residence slowly, as if even the sky hesitated to cover what had just taken place.
The celebrations had ended hours ago, if they could even be called that. Guests had left in clusters, their conversations hushed, their expressions carrying more curiosity than joy. The lanterns still burned along the corridors, casting a soft red glow over everything, but the warmth they were meant to represent never quite reached you.
By the time you returned to the inner quarters, the silence had deepened.
It felt heavier now.
You stood outside the room that had been prepared for the two of you, your hand hovering just inches away from the door. For a long moment, you didn’t move. The weight of everything that had led up to this point pressed down on you all at once the ceremony, the stares, the quiet judgment, the expectations that had been placed on you without ever being spoken gently.
This was supposed to be where it became real.
Not the ceremony. This.
You closed your eyes briefly, steadying your breathing, before finally pushing the door open.
The room was dimly lit, candles flickering softly along the walls. Everything had been arranged carefully, deliberately, in a way that suggested intimacy, closeness, a beginning.
But the atmosphere inside it was anything but that.
Yufan was already there. Standing by the window. His back to you.
He hadn’t changed out of his formal attire yet, the deep red fabric still perfectly in place, as if he hadn’t moved since the moment the ceremony ended. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense in a way that immediately made the air feel tight.
He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t acknowledge you at all.
You stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You stood there, unsure where to go, what to do, what was expected in a situation where nothing about this felt natural.
“I will change first,” you said softly, your voice careful, controlled.
It wasn’t really a question. Just something to fill the silence.
He didn’t respond. Not even a glance.
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of your sleeve before you moved toward the bathroom. Your movements were quiet, measured, every sound seeming amplified in the stillness.
You removed the layers slowly, carefully folding them as best as you could. There was no one to assist you, no one to take them away. You did it yourself, just like everything else today.
When you stepped out again, dressed in simpler clothing, the room felt colder.
Because now he was watching you. Not openly. But you could feel it.
You looked up slightly, meeting his gaze for the first time since entering.
Something inside your chest tightened.
There was nothing soft there. Just anger.
It caught you off guard, even though it shouldn’t have.
“You look comfortable.”
His voice broke the silence sharply.
The words themselves were not loud, but the tone behind them was enough to make you freeze where you stood.
“I—” you paused, unsure how to respond to something that didn’t sound like a question. “I was told to prepare—”
“Of course you were.”
He cut you off.
Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
He let out a short, humorless laugh, turning fully toward you now. “Everything has been prepared for you, hasn’t it? Decided for you. Arranged for you.”
His gaze dragged over you slowly, and it felt heavier than any physical touch.
“Must be convenient.”
You shook your head slightly, your hands tightening at your sides. “I did not ask for this.”
“No?” His voice sharpened immediately. “You didn’t ask for it, but you accepted it.”
Your breath caught.
“That is not the same thing.”
“It looks the same to me.”
The room felt smaller. The air harder to breathe.
“I had no choice,” you said quietly, forcing the words out even as your throat tightened.
“You always have a choice.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in your expression shifted something fragile, something close to breaking.
“That is easy for you to say.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you knew they would not be received well.
His expression darkened instantly.
“Easy?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “You think any of this is easy for me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it properly,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You think standing here, being forced into this, is easy?”
You instinctively took a step back. The intensity in his voice made it impossible not to.
“I did not mean that,” you said again, softer this time.
“Then what did you mean?” he pressed, not giving you space to recover, not allowing you to retreat from it.
You hesitated. Because no answer felt safe.
It only made things worse.
“Nothing?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course.”
His gaze hardened further, something colder settling into it now.
“You never have anything to say when it matters.”
“I have tried to speak,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You have never listened.”
“Listen?” he echoed, his tone almost disbelieving. “What exactly do you expect me to listen to?”
“The truth,” you said, even though your voice trembled slightly.
A mistake. You realized it immediately. Because his expression changed completely. The anger didn’t just stay. It deepened. Turned into something far more cutting.
“The truth?” he repeated slowly.
“I did not kill her.”
The words hung in the air.
A quiet, sharp exhale left him.
“Is that what you think this is about?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm now.
You stared at him, your heart pounding unevenly.
“Isn’t it?”
He stepped closer again, stopping just enough distance away to make it impossible to ignore him.
“You really believe that saying it like that changes anything?”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“And I am telling you,” he snapped, his composure breaking for the first time, “that it doesn’t matter what you say.”
“There was no one else,” he continued, his voice low but filled with something raw, something unresolved. “You were the last person with her.”
“I tried to help her,” you said quickly, the words rushing out now, desperate, unsteady. “She was already—”
“Enough.”
The single word cut you off completely.
His jaw tightened, his hands clenching slightly at his sides as if holding back something more.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. There was nothing left to say.
“I won’t share this room with you.”
The words came suddenly. For a second, you didn’t understand.
Your mind struggled to catch up, to process what he had just said.
“I—what?”
“I said I won’t share this room with you,” he repeated, his voice cold, unwavering. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
You stood there, frozen, your hands slowly curling into fists at your sides as you tried to steady yourself.
“Where would I go?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of everything except the bare truth of the question. He didn’t turn back.
“That’s not my concern.”
You swallowed hard, forcing your breathing to remain steady even as your vision blurred slightly.
You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not where he could see it.
You moved slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last as you walked toward the door. Your hand rested on the handle for a moment.
As if part of you still hoped. Something would stop you. That he would say something. Anything. But he didn’t.
So you opened the door. And you stepped out. Into the quiet, empty corridor. The door closed behind you with a soft click.
The corridor felt colder than it had any right to be.
You stood there for a moment after the door shut behind you, your hand still resting lightly against the wood as if you hadn’t fully accepted that you were no longer allowed on the other side of it. The silence pressed in around you, thick and unwelcoming, the faint glow of the lanterns along the walls stretching your shadow into something long and unfamiliar.
You told yourself to move. Standing there would not change anything. It never had.
Your steps were slow at first, almost uncertain, but they steadied as you walked further down the hall, away from that room, away from that final, quiet rejection that had been delivered so easily it almost felt rehearsed. You didn’t know where you were going at first. There was no place that had been given to you, no room that had been called yours.
But your body moved anyway. Because there was only one place that had felt even remotely… less unbearable. The nursery.
The door was slightly open when you reached it, a soft line of light spilling out into the dark corridor. You paused just outside, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the door before pushing it open fully.
Inside, it was quiet.
A small lamp burned near the cradle, casting a warm, gentle glow across the room. The attendants were gone, likely dismissed for the night, their absence leaving the space feeling strangely still.
You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at the small form resting in the cradle. The baby was asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, her features relaxed in a way that made the world feel… quieter, even if only for a second.
Your shoulders dropped slightly.
Some of the tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding eased just enough for you to breathe properly again.
You moved closer, your steps instinctively quieter, as if you were afraid to disturb something fragile. When you reached the cradle, you leaned down slightly, your gaze softening as you took in every small detail the way her fingers curled loosely near her face, the faint crease between her brows, even in sleep.
Your hand hovered for a moment before gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.
She didn’t stir. Didn’t wake. And for a brief, fleeting second. You felt something close to peace. It didn’t last.
A sharp, sudden cry broke through the silence without warning.
It cut through the room so abruptly that you flinched, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. The baby’s small body tensed, her face scrunching as the cries came louder, more desperate, filling every corner of the space.
You didn’t hesitate.
You reached for her immediately, lifting her carefully into your arms, your movements instinctive now, almost practiced.
“It’s alright,” you whispered, your voice softer than anything you had spoken all day. “I’m here… it’s alright.”
But she didn’t calm.
If anything, the crying grew louder, sharper, her tiny fists clenching against your chest as if something was deeply wrong.
Your breath hitched.
“No, no… what’s wrong…”
You adjusted your hold, rocking her gently, your hand supporting her head as you moved back and forth in small, careful motions.
“It’s alright,” you repeated, though your voice wavered slightly now. “It’s alright… I’m here…”
But she didn’t settle.
The sound of her crying echoed through the room made your chest tighten painfully. It didn’t just feel like her crying.
It felt like everything. Everything that had been held in. Everything that had been forced down. Everything you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel.
All of it suddenly had a voice. And it was loud. Too loud.
Your arms tightened slightly around her, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground yourself as you continued to rock her, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.
“Please…” the word slipped out before you could stop it, your voice barely holding together. “Please… it’s okay…”
Your throat tightened. Because it wasn’t okay. None of it was.
The baby’s cries didn’t ease.
They rose and fell in uneven bursts, small, helpless, and it broke something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected.
“I’m trying…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were speaking to her or to yourself anymore. “I’m trying…”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You pressed her closer to your chest, your chin lowering just enough to rest lightly against the top of her head as you continued to sway.
“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt her…” the words came out unevenly now, barely more than a breath. “I didn’t… I would never…”
Your vision blurred.
You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold everything in the way you always had.
“I didn’t mean for anything to happen…” you whispered, your voice trembling now despite your efforts. “I tried to help… I did… I swear I did…”
Your grip tightened slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of the small blanket wrapped around her as if holding on to something tangible would keep you from unraveling completely.
“But no one listens,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “No one even… lets me speak…”
Your shoulders trembled faintly.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, your breath uneven as you fought against the pressure building in your chest.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” you admitted, your voice barely audible now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”
The baby’s cries began to soften. Just slightly.
You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze dropping to her face, watching as her expression eased just a little, her small body relaxing by degrees in your arms.
You adjusted your hold again, gentler this time, your movements slower, more deliberate.
“It’s okay…” you murmured again, though this time the words felt different. “You’re okay…”
Her cries quieted further, fading into soft, uneven whimpers before finally settling into quiet, shaky breaths.
You kept rocking her. Even after the room fell silent again.
Because you were afraid that if you stopped. Everything would come rushing back.
Your back eventually found the edge of the bed, your body lowering carefully as you sat down, still holding her close, still moving slightly, even as exhaustion began to settle into your bones.
The silence returned. But it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of everything you hadn’t said. Everything you hadn’t been allowed to say.
Your gaze drifted downward, resting on the small, fragile life in your arms. A small, bitter exhale left you.
“I wish it was that simple with everyone else.”
Your fingers brushed lightly against her tiny hand again, watching as she instinctively curled her fingers around yours, holding on without effort.
Your chest tightened.
A tear slipped free before you could stop it, trailing quietly down your cheek before disappearing into the fabric beneath.
You didn’t make a sound. Didn’t let yourself break fully. But the crack was there. Clear. Unavoidable.
You leaned back slightly, your head resting against the wall as you closed your eyes, your arms still wrapped securely around the baby.
To remind you that you were still holding on.
The days after that did not change all at once. They shifted slowly, almost quietly, like something settling into place whether you accepted it or not.
Morning after morning, you woke before the rest of the household. Not because anyone told you to, but because there was no one else who would. The baby rarely slept through the night in those early months, and even when she did, your body had already learned to remain alert, to listen for the smallest sound. It became instinct. It became routine.
At first, the attendants would still hover at a distance, uncertain of where they stood around you. They would come when called for the baby, for the household, for the Zhao family but never for you. And slowly, even that hesitation disappeared. They stopped lingering. Stopped watching. Stopped expecting anything from you at all.
Because it had been made clear. You were not to be served. So you learned.
You learned how to warm water properly without spilling it. How to wash delicate fabrics by hand, careful not to damage them. How to prepare simple meals, though they were never meant for you first. How to clean, to arrange, to maintain spaces that would never truly belong to you.
And above all you learned her.
At first, it had been instinct. That strange, quiet understanding the moment you held her, the way she settled in your arms as if she recognized something even you could not name.
But as the days passed, that instinct turned into something deeper.
You learned the difference between her cries the sharp, impatient one when she was hungry, the softer, uneven one when she was uncomfortable, the quiet, trembling one when she simply wanted to be held.
You learned how she preferred to be carried, how she would curl into your chest when she was tired, how her tiny fingers would grasp onto your sleeve without thinking.
You became the one she reached for. The one she quieted for. The one she depended on.
Time moved forward whether anyone acknowledged it or not. Weeks slipped into months, and the fragile, restless infant in your arms began to grow into something more aware, more responsive.
Her eyes began to follow you when you moved. Her small hands began to reach out intentionally.
You gave her a name.
Xinyi. Zhao Xinyi.
You were sitting by the window, the afternoon light filtering in gently as she rested against you, her small head tucked beneath your chin. She had been unusually calm that day, her tiny fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of your sleeve.
You looked down at her.
At the life that had been left behind in the wake of something so heavy, so unresolved.
And the word came to you without effort.
“Xinyi.”
You said it quietly, testing it. Your fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. You didn’t know if anyone would accept it. You didn’t know if it would last.
She responded to it.
Not in understanding, not in recognition, but in the way her expression softened, in the way she made a small, quiet sound as if acknowledging the warmth in your voice.
So you kept using it. You spoke it when you held her. When you soothed her.
When you whispered to her in the quiet hours of the night when the rest of the world felt too distant to reach.
The rest of the household did not question it immediately. Names, after all, could wait. There were formalities, traditions, discussions that would come later.
But you did not wait. Because she needed something now. Something to hold onto. And so did you.
Yufan did not change.
If anything he became more distant. More controlled. More cutting in the few moments your paths crossed.
He rarely entered the nursery when you were there. And when he did, it was brief, purposeful, his attention fixed solely on the child, never lingering on you longer than necessary.
“Is she fed?”
“Yes.”
“Has she slept?”
“She has.”
That was the extent of it. No acknowledgment beyond that.
Sometimes, when she reached toward him, he would hesitate just slightly before taking her into his arms. And in those moments, something in his expression would flicker.
Something less guarded. But it never lasted. Not when you were there. Not when his gaze inevitably drifted back to you. Because then it would return. That same cold distance. That same unspoken accusation.
“You’re holding her too much.”
The words came one afternoon, sharp and uninvited.
You stilled slightly, your arms tightening instinctively around Lian as you looked up at him.
“She cries when I put her down,” you replied softly.
“That doesn’t mean you should encourage it.”
Your lips parted, but no immediate response came.
Because there was no right answer. Not one he would accept.
“I am only doing what calms her,” you said eventually, your voice careful.
“Or what comforts you.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Because they carried something else. Something close to resentment.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because denying it felt dishonest. And admitting it felt dangerous. So you stayed silent. And he left. Just like that. As if the conversation had never needed to exist in the first place.
The pattern repeated.
Days blending into one another, your routine unchanging, your responsibilities constant. There was no break. No relief. No moment where the weight lessened.
Even when your body ached from exhaustion, when your hands grew raw from work, when your eyes burned from lack of sleep.
There was no one to notice. No one to tell you to rest. Except her.
In the quiet moments, when she would press closer to you, when her breathing would steady against your chest, when her tiny hand would curl around your finger without thought. That was when you allowed yourself to pause. Just for a second. Just enough to breathe.
The grandmother noticed. She was one of the few who truly watched. Who paid attention beyond what was spoken. Sometimes, she would enter the nursery without announcement, her presence calm, steady, her gaze immediately finding you. And there would be that look. Not judgment. Something softer. Something heavier. Pity. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to belittle you.
But it still settled uncomfortably in your chest. Because you didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to be seen as something broken. Something to be endured.
That was what you had become in the eyes of most.
She would sit beside you occasionally, her personal attendant trailing behind her, ready to assist in ways no one else would for you.
“Give her to me,” she would say gently.
And sometimes, you did. Because your arms were tired.
Because your body needed rest even if you didn’t allow yourself to admit it.
You would watch as the attendant helped, adjusting things, preparing what was needed, moving with an ease that reminded you of everything you were denied.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” the grandmother said once, her voice softer than usual.
You lowered your gaze slightly.
“I am supposed to.”
“That does not make it right.”
You didn’t answer. Right and wrong had stopped mattering a long time ago. So you continued. Day after day. Month after month. Holding her. Raising her. Becoming something she relied on, even if no one else acknowledged it. And in return she grew. More aware.
And every time she reached for you. Every time she quieted in your arms. Every time she looked at you like you were something safe.
It reminded you that even in a place where you were unwanted.
You were still needed. Even if only by her.
The household settled into a rhythm that looked orderly from the outside and felt suffocating from within. You moved through it quietly, doing what was expected, learning what no one would teach you, filling spaces that no one else wanted. The servants continued to pass you as though you were part of the walls, never stopping, never asking, never offering. What had begun as a punishment slowly hardened into habit, and habit turned into something worse normal.
You woke before dawn, you worked through the day, and you slept only when your body refused to stay upright any longer. The baby grew steadily in your care, her small world orbiting around you in a way that made everything else both bearable and unbearable at the same time. She smiled more now, her eyes lighting up when she saw you, her hands reaching without hesitation, without doubt.
No one had to tell her who you were. She had decided that on her own.
And yet, in the same space where she leaned into you without fear, Yufan continued to pull further away like he was doing.
It was not just distance anymore. It was deliberate.
If you entered a room, he would leave. If you were already there, he would not step inside. Conversations were reduced to the bare minimum, clipped and cold, his tone always edged with something sharp enough to remind you of where you stood.
There was no room for misunderstanding. He did not want you near him. And he made sure you felt it.
At first, you tried to avoid it. You adjusted your movements, your timing, your presence. You learned the hours he preferred certain spaces and quietly stayed away from them. You spoke less, moved softer, kept your gaze lowered longer.
The grandmother had begun to notice the imbalance more openly as time passed. Where others ignored it, she addressed it, though never in a way that caused immediate conflict. Her approach was patient, measured, but firm.
“You are part of this household now,” she told you one afternoon, her voice calm but unyielding. “Not just in name. In responsibility.”
You listened quietly, Lian resting against your shoulder as you gently swayed her.
“I understand,” you said.
“And yet you remain confined to the nursery and the inner quarters.”
You lowered your gaze slightly.
“I go where I am allowed.”
Her expression shifted faintly.
“That is precisely what needs to change.”
You didn’t respond.
Still, her word carried weight in ways yours never could. And slowly, she began placing small responsibilities in your hands beyond the child. Minor decisions at first. Observations. Quiet involvement in matters that extended beyond the nursery walls.
Nothing grand. Nothing that would draw too much attention. But enough to shift something. Enough to be noticed. And it was. Yufan noticed.
He said nothing at first. Not when he heard your name mentioned in passing, not when he saw you lingering slightly longer in spaces you once avoided, not when small decisions began to include your presence.
But the silence did not mean acceptance.
That night had been still in a way that made every sound feel louder. The corridors were quiet, the household settled, the faint flicker of lanterns casting shadows that stretched long against the walls.
You had just finished settling Xinyi to sleep. She had been restless earlier, her small fingers clinging to you more than usual, but eventually, she gave in to sleep, her breathing evening out against your shoulder before you placed her gently into the cradle.
You lingered for a moment, watching her. Then you turned to leave.
The corridor outside was dim, the air cooler than the nursery, and you wrapped your arms slightly around yourself as you walked, your steps quiet, your thoughts heavier than usual.
You didn’t expect to see him. Not at this hour.
Standing just outside the main corridor, partially shadowed, his presence unmistakable even before you fully saw him.
You slowed. Then stopped.
For a brief second, neither of you spoke. His gaze was already on you.
“You’re expanding your role now.”
The words came without greeting, without softness.
You held his gaze for only a moment before lowering it slightly.
“I am only doing what I was asked to do.”
“By her,” he said immediately, his tone cutting.
You didn’t deny it.
“That does not make it wrong.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you felt it—the shift.
His expression hardened instantly.
“Of course you’d say that.”
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself.
“I am not trying to overstep.”
“No?” he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Then what exactly are you trying to do?”
You hesitated.
Because no answer felt safe.
“I am trying to fulfill what is expected of me.”
“And what is that?” he pressed, closing the distance further. “Tell me.”
Your breath caught slightly, but you held your ground.
“To be part of this household.”
The silence that followed was brief. Enough for something in him to snap. His hand moved before you could react.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm too firm pulling you forward just enough to force you to face him fully.
The suddenness of it stole your breath.
“Part of this household?” he repeated, his voice low, tight with something barely contained. “You think this is how you do that?”
Your pulse spiked, your free hand instinctively moving toward his grip, but you didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
“I am not doing anything wrong,” you said, your voice quieter now, strained.
His grip tightened. Pain flared up your arm, sharp and immediate.
“You’re not doing anything wrong?” he echoed, disbelief laced heavily through his tone. “You step into her place, take over her responsibilities, hold her child, walk through her home like you belong here—and you call that nothing?”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“That is not what I am doing.”
“Then what is it?” he demanded, his voice rising just enough to break the quiet of the corridor. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to become her.”
The words hit harder than his grip. Your breath faltered.
“I am not—”
“You are,” he cut you off sharply. “You’re trying so hard to fit into something that was never yours.”
Your throat tightened.
“I never wanted this.”
“Then why do you keep acting like you do?”
The accusation in his voice burned.
“I am only trying to survive here,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to steady it.
His grip didn’t loosen.
“If that were true, you would stay where you belong.”
“And where is that?” you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended, but carrying more weight than anything else you had said.
There was something in his expression. Something uncertain. But it disappeared just as quickly.
“Not here,” he said flatly.
The finality in those two words settled heavily between you.
Your vision blurred slightly, but you refused to let it show.
“I am not trying to replace her,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steady.
His jaw tightened.
“Then stop acting like it.”
“I am taking care of her child.”
“That’s not your place.”
“No one else is doing it.”
The words came out sharper than you intended.
And immediately you knew.
His expression darkened completely.
“Don’t,” he warned, his grip tightening again, pain shooting through your wrist. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”
“I am not twisting anything,” you said, your voice breaking slightly now despite your effort. “I am telling you the truth.”
“The truth?” he let out a short, bitter laugh. “You really think your version of the truth matters here?”
The words cut deep.
You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling unevenly.
“I am not her,” you said, the words barely above a whisper now. “I never will be.”
“Then stop trying to be.”
“I am not.”
His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second. But it didn’t release.
“Everything you do says otherwise.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t lower your gaze.
“I am just trying to do what no one else will,” you said quietly.
His grip finally loosened. Abruptly.
He let go of your wrist as if the contact itself had become unbearable.
You staggered back slightly, your arm instinctively pulling toward you as you held your wrist, the ache lingering, throbbing beneath your skin.
“Stop,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less harsh. “Just… stop.”
The words felt heavier than the ones before.
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I don’t want to see you trying to take her place again.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“I never was.”
He didn’t respond. He walked away. Leaving you there. Alone. Again.
The corridor felt colder than before. Quieter.
Your wrist still ached, the faint imprint of his grip lingering against your skin. You stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not speaking. Just breathing. Trying to steady yourself. Trying to hold everything in like you always did.
But this time it was harder. It wasn’t just about being unwanted.
Warning : psychological abuse, emotional neglect, family conflict, public shaming, false accusations, intense grief and mourning themes, death of a character, childbirth-related tragedy, isolation, betrayal, gaslighting themes, strong emotional distress, angst-heavy narratives.
Synopsis : in the late 1990s Taipei royal household, reputation is everything and truth is rarely spoken aloud. the Lin and Zhao families are bound by tradition, status, and carefully arranged expectations. One daughter is praised for her grace and perfection, while the other is quietly reduced to an afterthought present, but never truly seen. within the palace walls, love is displayed like ceremony and duty is mistaken for devotion. every smile is observed, every silence is judged, and every rumor becomes something heavier than truth. when an irreversible tragedy strikes, the balance of the household fractures. grief does not remain private. it spreads, reshaping loyalty, memory, and belief itself. In a place where appearances decide innocence, one person becomes the center of a story she never chose.
reblog to get your ass eaten for a week.
PART ONE
1998, Taipei Royal Residence
Time moved forward even when no one wanted it to.
The palace returned to its rhythm piece by piece, but it was not the same rhythm it once held. It felt forced now, carefully maintained, like a fragile performance everyone had agreed to continue despite knowing something vital had already been lost.
Months had passed since Meiyu’s death.
But grief had not softened. It had only changed shape. For some, it became silence. For others, it became control.
For you, it became isolation.
You were no longer openly scolded the way you once had been. No one raised their hand anymore. No one shouted your name across the halls. That kind of attention required acknowledgment, and acknowledgment was something you no longer received.
Instead, you were… managed.
Your movements were limited without being explicitly forbidden. Doors were not locked, but servants always seemed to appear whenever you walked too far. Conversations stopped when you entered, but no one told you to leave. Meals were still prepared for you, but always sent to your room.
It was a quiet kind of punishment.
One that made it clear you still existed… just not where anyone could see you.
The child had grown. Not much, but enough.
Her cries had changed. They were no longer constant, helpless wails. Now they came in intervals, softer at times, louder at others, as if she was beginning to recognize the world around her.
The inner quarters had become even more restricted. Guards were placed near the entrances, attendants rotated more frequently, and every instruction regarding her care was followed with precision.
“She must not fall ill.”
“She must not be disturbed.”
“She must not be exposed to misfortune.”
You knew what that meant. You were the misfortune.
The one thing she must never be exposed to.
Still, you tried. Not often.
Just enough to remind yourself that you had not forgotten the promise you made.
The first time you tried again, it was early morning. The palace was quieter then, the routines not fully settled. You walked slowly, carefully, as if moving too fast would make you visible.
You reached the corridor outside the nursery.
For a moment, nothing happened.
No one stopped you. No one spoke.
You thought… maybe this time—
“She is not to be near the child.”
The voice came from behind you.
You did not turn immediately. You already knew.
“You should not have come,” he continued.
Zhao Yufan.
His presence alone was enough to change the air around you. Even now, months later, the weight of his gaze felt heavier than anything else in the palace.
You turned slowly.
“I just wanted to see her,” you said, your voice quieter than the silence around you.
“You have no right.”
The words came without hesitation.
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. “She is my sister’s daughter.”
“And you were my wife’s last visitor.”
There it was again. That line.
That conclusion he refused to move past.
You held his gaze this time, even though it burned.
“I kept my promise,” you said softly. “I stayed.”
Something flickered across his expression. Brief.
Gone before it could become anything real.
“Staying is not the same as protecting,” he replied.
Your chest tightened.
“And keeping you away from her,” he added, his voice lowering, “is the only way to ensure that.”
That was how he saw you now. Not as someone who failed. But as something dangerous.
You nodded once. Because there was nothing else left to do.
“I understand,” you said.
But you did not. Not fully. Not in a way that made it hurt any less.
You turned again. Walked away again.
And this time, you did not try to come back.
Days passed. Then more.
The palace settled into a new pattern, one that revolved around two people.
The heir.
And the one who had lost everything.
Yufan did not soften.
If anything, he became more rigid.
His time was divided with precision. Mornings were spent in council chambers, afternoons reviewing estate matters, evenings overseeing the child’s care from a distance he never crossed too closely.
He rarely held her.
Not because he did not care.
But because when he did… something in his control faltered.
The few times he allowed himself to, the attendants noticed.
The way his hands hesitated before lifting her.
The way his gaze lingered too long on her face.
The way he would leave the room almost immediately after, as if staying even a moment longer would undo him.
So he stopped. And chose distance instead.
Until the day that control was interrupted.
Yufan’s grandmother had come from the countryside.
She was not someone who visited often. Age and distance had kept her away from the palace for years, her life rooted in quieter lands, far from politics and power.
But news traveled.
And grief, when it reached her, did not stay ignored.
She arrived without ceremony, her steps slow but steady, her expression unreadable as she entered the palace that had changed so much since she last saw it.
The servants bowed lower around her.
The elders spoke more carefully.
Because she was not someone to be dismissed. Not someone to be managed. She observed everything. Quietly. Carefully.
The silence in the halls. The way people spoke. The absence of laughter.
The distance between family members who should have stood closer.
And most of all him.
She watched Yufan longer than anyone else did. Not just in passing. But intentionally.
She saw the way he worked without pause. The way he spoke without emotion. The way he avoided certain corridors without realizing it. The way his eyes no longer held anything beyond obligation.
“He is still breathing,” she said once to one of the older attendants.
“But he is not living.”
The words spread quietly. Because they were true.
And truth, in that palace, had become something rare.
She asked about the child. Often.
“How does she sleep.”
“How often does she cry.”
“Who stays with her at night.”
Each answer she received only deepened the lines in her expression.
“She cries for long periods,” one attendant admitted carefully. “Especially at night.”
“And what do you do when she does.”
“We soothe her, Madam. We carry her, we sing, we—”
“And her father.”
A pause.
“He… is informed.”
“Informed,” she repeated.
Her gaze hardened slightly.
“And the other one.”
The attendant hesitated.
“You mean…”
“The younger daughter of the Lin family who Meiyu left her last thoughts to”
Another pause.
“She is not allowed near the child.”
“Not allowed,” the grandmother repeated slowly.
“By whose order.”
No one needed to answer. She already knew.
Days passed under her quiet observation.
She did not confront immediately.
She waited. Watched. Listened.
Until she had seen enough to understand not just what had happened.
But what was continuing to happen.
One evening, she requested a private meeting.
Only a few were called.
Yufan. Lin family aka your parents. The Zhao's. A small number of elders.
The room was heavy with unspoken tension even before she spoke.
She sat at the head, her posture straight despite her age, her presence commanding without effort.
“I did not come here to mourn,” she began.
Her voice was calm. Steady.
“I came because something is being done wrong.”
No one interrupted. No one dared.
She looked directly at Yufan.
“You have lost your wife,” she said.
A simple statement. But it landed with weight.
“And in losing her, you have chosen to lose everything else as well.”
His jaw tightened slightly. But he did not respond.
“You believe that by holding onto blame,” she continued, “you are holding onto her.”
Silence.
“But you are not.”
Her gaze did not soften.
“You are abandoning what she left behind.”
That made him look up. For the first time.
“She left you a child,” the grandmother said.
“And you stand at a distance from her as if she is something you cannot bear to face.”
His voice came out lower than expected.
“I ensure she is cared for.”
“You ensure she is managed,” she corrected. “Not loved.”
The words cut deeper than anything spoken in months.
No one moved. No one spoke.
“And as for the girl you have all decided to cast aside—”
Your existence entered the room. Without you being there.
“You isolate her,” she said, her voice sharpening slightly. “You blame her. You turn her into something she has not been proven to be.”
Your mother’s expression tightened. “She was the last—”
“I know exactly what she was,” the grandmother interrupted.
“And I also know what grief does to people who do not know how to carry it.”
The room fell silent again. Because there was nothing to argue against.
She exhaled slowly.
And then she made her decision.
“This cannot continue.”
Her gaze moved between them.
“The child needs stability.”
A pause.
“The household needs order.”
Another.
“And Yufan—”
Her eyes settled on him again.
“You need a life that does not revolve around a moment that has already passed.”
He did not like where this was going. It showed.
“You will remarry,” she said.
The words landed heavily. Not a suggestion. A decision.
“And this time,” she continued, “it will not be arranged between strangers.”
A shift in the room. Subtle. Uneasy.
“The Lin family still has a daughter.”
Silence deepened. Thicker than before.
“You will marry her.”
And just like that. Everything changed again.
You sat alone in your room. Unaware.
Still carrying a promise you were not allowed to fulfill.
Still being erased from a life that was slowly being rewritten.
Without you in it.
The decision did not settle quietly. It spread.
Through corridors, through servants’ whispers, through guarded conversations behind half closed doors. It reached every corner of the palace before it ever reached you.
And where it landed, it did not bring relief. It brought tension.
Because no one truly agreed with it. Not completely. Not honestly.
Yufan did not accept it.
Not the way his grandmother expected him to.
He did not raise his voice in front of her. He did not argue openly. He listened, stood still, nodded when necessary, and gave the kind of response that sounded like obedience.
But the moment he stepped out of that room, the restraint began to crack.
“This is unnecessary.”
His voice was low, controlled, but there was something sharp beneath it now.
His parents stood across from him, just as unsettled.
His mother spoke first, more carefully than she ever had before. “Your grandmother believes this is the best way to restore stability.”
“Stability,” he repeated, almost hollow. “Is that what this is.”
“She is thinking of the child,” his father added. “And of the household.”
“And I am not,” Yufan replied, his gaze hardening. “Is that what you think.”
Silence followed. Because that was not what they thought.
They knew he cared.
They had seen it in the few moments he allowed himself to hold his daughter, in the way his entire posture changed before he forced it back into place.
But care was not the issue. Grief was. And grief had made him rigid.
“You cannot continue like this,” his mother said quietly. “You barely sleep. You avoid her. You avoid everything that reminds you of her.”
Her voice softened at the last part. Her. Meiyu.
The name still unspoken. His jaw tightened.
“I am managing what needs to be managed.”
“That is exactly the problem,” his father replied. “You are managing. Not living.”
The same words. Different voice. Still just as heavy.
Yufan turned away slightly, his hand pressing against the edge of the table as if grounding himself.
“This is not about living,” he said. “This is about replacing.”
“No one is asking you to replace her.”
“It is exactly what this is,” he snapped, the first real break in his control.
The room fell silent again.
Because they understood that part.
Even if they could not say it.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself back into stillness.
“And the girl,” he added, quieter now, but no less tense. “You expect me to accept her as if nothing has happened.”
No one needed to ask who he meant. You.
His mother hesitated this time. “She is still Meiyu’s sister.”
“And she was still the last person with her,” he replied.
There it was again. That lingering doubt. It had weakened. Slightly.
There were moments, small ones, where something inside him questioned it. Moments when he remembered how you had looked that night. Moments when your words echoed in ways that did not quite match the image he had forced himself to believe.
But doubt was not enough to erase what had already taken root.
Not yet. So he held onto it.
Even if it was not as strong as before.
“We cannot refuse your grandmother,” his father said finally. “You know that.”
That was the truth that ended the conversation.
Because in that household, her word was not easily denied.
Not without consequences no one was willing to face.
So resistance became silence. Reluctant. Heavy. Unresolved.
And beyond their walls, another reaction took shape.
Your family.
Where the news did not bring hesitation.
It brought urgency. Something dangerously close to relief.
“This is an opportunity,” your mother said, her voice sharper than it had been in months.
Your father nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead. “We must not allow anything to disrupt this.”
“There will be no disruptions,” she replied immediately. “We will ensure it.”
And by ensuring it—
She meant controlling you. Even more than before.
You were watched more closely. Your movements restricted further. Servants were given clearer instructions.
“Do not let her wander.”
“Do not let her speak unnecessarily.”
“Do not let her near the Zhao household unless instructed.”
You noticed.
But no one explained it. No one told you why. Because to them, you did not need to know.
Preparations began quickly. Too quickly.
The palace that had once been wrapped in mourning now filled with activity again, but it was not the same kind of liveliness that had existed during Meiyu’s wedding.
There were no soft smiles. No quiet excitement. No genuine happiness. Everything felt… forced. Obligatory.
Servants moved with efficiency, not enthusiasm. Decorations were discussed, fabrics chosen, arrangements planned, but every conversation carried a trace of discomfort.
Because no one forgot. Not really.
And more importantly, no one liked you.
That part had not changed. If anything, it had deepened.
“She will be the new lady of the Zhao household?”
“After everything?”
“It does not feel right.”
“But we cannot question it.”
So they worked. And whispered. And avoided saying too much out loud.
Because the decision had already been made.
You remained unaware.
Until the day you were called. It was unexpected.
A message delivered to your room, simple and direct.
“You are to go to the Zhao residence.”
No explanation. Just instruction.
You hesitated. Of course you did.
You had not been allowed near that place for months. Every attempt had been stopped, every step redirected, every presence rejected.
And now you were being told to go.
You followed anyway. Because something inside you refused to ignore it.
The Zhao residence felt the same. And completely different.
The familiar halls now heavier, quieter in a way that felt deeper than before.
Servants watched you as you passed.
Not stopping you. But not welcoming you either.
You were led further inside than you had been allowed in months.
You saw her. Yufan’s grandmother.
She sat near the window, light falling softly around her, her posture composed but not distant.
Her gaze lifted the moment you entered.
And unlike everyone else it softened.
“Come here,” she said gently.
The words alone caught you off guard.
You stepped closer slowly, unsure, your hands instinctively folding together as if preparing for something formal.
But nothing about her felt formal.
Not in the way you were used to.
She studied your face for a moment.
Not with judgment. With something closer to understanding.
“You have grown thinner,” she said quietly.
You blinked, not expecting that.
“I am fine,” you replied automatically.
She did not argue. Did not press. Instead, she gestured slightly to the side.
And that was when you saw her.
The baby. Your sister’s daughter.
She was in the arms of an attendant, small, wrapped carefully, her face slightly scrunched as soft cries escaped her again and again.
Something inside you tightened immediately.
Without thinking, you took a small step forward.
Then stopped. Because you already knew. You were not allowed. The habit of restraint had become too familiar. The grandmother noticed. Of course she did.
“Why are you stopping,” she asked.
You hesitated. “I am not permitted to—”
“I am permitting you,” she interrupted gently.
The attendants glanced at each other. Uncertain. But none of them spoke. Because her authority outweighed all others.
“Take her,” she said.
Your breath caught slightly.
Slowly, carefully, as if the moment might disappear if you moved too fast, you stepped forward.
The attendant hesitated only briefly before placing the baby into your arms.
And the moment she did something changed.
The crying stopped. Not gradually. It stopped. Completely. The room went still.
The baby’s small face relaxed almost instantly, her tiny fingers curling slightly against your clothing as if she had recognized something.
As if she knew.
Your heart stuttered.
Your arms tightened instinctively, holding her closer, your breath uneven as you looked down at her.
“Shh…” you whispered softly, your voice trembling despite yourself. “It’s okay… I’m here…”
She did not cry again. Not even a sound. The grandmother watched quietly. And for the first time since she had arrived there was certainty in her eyes. Not doubt. Not assumption. Something clearer than that.
Across the room, the attendants stood frozen.
Because they had never seen this before. Not once.
And somewhere beyond those walls a decision that had already been made. Was about to become something far more complicated than anyone had expected.
You held the baby carefully, your arms instinctively adjusting to her weight as if you had done this a hundred times before, even though this was the first time anyone had allowed it. Her small body fit against you so naturally that it made your chest ache in a way you were not prepared for.
Her breathing softened.
You lowered your gaze, your lips parting slightly as if you wanted to say something more, but nothing came out. There were no words that could match what you felt in that moment.
Only that promise.
The one that had never left you.
Across from you, the grandmother watched everything without interrupting. She did not rush the moment.
And only when she was certain you had fully felt it.
Did she speak again.
“She knows you.”
Her voice was quiet, but it carried clearly.
You looked up slightly, confused. “She is just a baby.”
“And yet she stopped crying the moment you held her.”
You did not answer.
You looked back down at the child instead, your fingers brushing lightly against her small hand. She curled her fingers around yours almost immediately, holding on without effort.
Something inside your chest tightened again.
The grandmother shifted slightly in her seat.
“There are things happening in this household,” she continued, “that you have not been told.”
That made you look up fully. A small flicker of unease crossed your expression.
“I assumed as much,” you said carefully.
She studied you for a moment.
“You are to marry Yufan.”
Your entire body stilled. For a second, it felt like you had misheard.
Like your mind had tried to twist something impossible into something that made sense.
“I…” your voice faltered slightly. “I do not understand.”
“You will,” she said calmly. “Because it has already been decided.”
Your grip on the baby tightened slightly, not enough to hurt her, but enough for you to realize you needed to steady yourself.
“This is not—” you stopped, your breath catching. “This cannot be serious.”
“It is.”
“You will be married into this household.”
Your chest rose and fell unevenly now.
“Does he know,” you asked, even though part of you already knew the answer.
“He knows.”
That was not the part that hurt.
“What does he think.”
The grandmother did not answer immediately.
Your gaze dropped again, your lips pressing together as you tried to keep your expression from shifting too much.
“I see,” you murmured.
The baby stirred slightly in your arms, her small fingers tightening again as if reacting to the subtle change in your breathing.
You swallowed.
“I do not think he would agree to this,” you said quietly.
“He does not agree,” the grandmother replied.
“But agreement is not always required.”
That truth sat heavily between you.
“I am not asking you to pretend this will be easy,” she continued. “Or that it will be welcomed by everyone.”
You let out a quiet, hollow breath.
“That would be impossible anyway.”
Her gaze softened slightly.
“But I am asking you to understand something important.”
You looked up again.
“This marriage is not only about restoring order,” she said. “It is about giving this child a future where she is not raised in absence.”
Your eyes flickered down to the baby again.
“She has already lost her mother,” the grandmother continued. “She should not grow up without warmth as well.”
Your throat tightened. Because you understood that. Too well.
“And Yufan,” she added, her voice lowering slightly, “he will not heal by being left alone with his grief.”
You did not respond. That part felt too complicated. Too distant from anything you could reach.
“He needs to face what he has been avoiding,” she said. “And you… you are part of that.”
A small, bitter thought crossed your mind before you could stop it.
Or maybe I am just another thing he will avoid.
The grandmother watched you carefully.
“He does not trust you,” she said, not cruelly, but truthfully. “And you know why.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the baby’s blanket.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“And yet,” she continued, “I have seen enough to know that what is believed is not always what is true.”
Your eyes flickered up at that.
“I will not force closeness,” she said. “That cannot be commanded.”
“But I will require understanding.”
You listened.
Because this was the first time anyone had spoken to you like this since everything had happened.
“You will speak to him,” she said. “Before the wedding.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“Conversations,” she clarified. “Not obligations. Not formalities.”
You hesitated.
“I do not think he would want that.”
“He does not,” she agreed calmly.
And then—
“He will do it anyway.”
That certainty left no room for argument.
You looked down again, your thoughts moving faster than you could control.
“What if it changes nothing,” you asked quietly.
The grandmother’s expression did not waver.
“Then at least it will not remain unspoken.”
You adjusted the baby slightly in your arms, your movements slower now, more careful.
“I do not want to replace her,” you said suddenly, your voice softer than before.
The grandmother’s gaze softened further.
“No one can.”
You nodded slightly.
“But they will expect it,” you added, your throat tightening.
“Some will,” she said. “Not all.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“And him,” you whispered.
That was the question you were really asking. Her answer came without delay.
You lowered your gaze again, your lips pressing together as you tried to steady yourself.
“I do not think he will ever see me as anything other than—”
You stopped. You did not finish it. You did not need to.
The word killer did not need to be spoken to exist.
The grandmother watched you carefully.
“Then you will give him the chance to see differently,” she said.
You let out a small, shaky breath.
“And if he does not.”
“Then you will decide what kind of life you are willing to live.”
The baby shifted again, letting out a soft sound before settling once more against you, still calm, still quiet.
You held her a little closer.
As if she was the only steady thing in that moment.
Footsteps echoed faintly outside the room. You felt it before you saw him. That familiar shift in the air. That quiet tension that followed his presence. The grandmother noticed too. But she did not interrupt. She let the moment play out. Yufan stopped at the doorway. His gaze moved immediately. To you. To the baby in your arms.
Something in his expression hardened instantly.
Just that same cold resistance you had seen before.
“What is she doing here.”
The words were sharp. But enough to cut through everything that had just been said.
The grandmother spoke calmly. “I asked her to come.”
His gaze did not leave you.
“And I allowed her to hold the child.”
You stood there, still holding the baby, your arms suddenly feeling too visible, too exposed under his gaze.
“She should not be here,” he said flatly.
The words landed exactly the way they always did.
You swallowed.
Your throat tightening painfully as you lowered your gaze slightly, careful not to disturb the child still resting calmly against you.
“I was just leaving,” you said quietly.
You stepped forward slowly, carefully handing the baby back to the attendant.
The moment the baby left your arms she cried.
His expression did not change. Not where it mattered.
You stepped back. Your hands empty now. Colder.
And you nodded slightly, more to yourself than to anyone else.
“I understand,” you murmured.
But your voice was not as steady as before.
You turned before anyone could see more than that.
Before the tightness in your chest turned into something visible.
Before the tears you refused to let fall reached your eyes.
And you walked out. Trying to keep your steps even. Trying to breathe normally. Trying not to break.
Over something that had already been decided.
1998, Taipei — Day of the Wedding ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
Morning came too early.
It slipped into your room quietly, pale light stretching across the floor, touching the edges of things that did not feel real yet. For a moment, just a moment, you stayed still in your bed and let yourself pretend nothing had changed. That this was just another day where you would wake up, keep your head down, and move carefully through a life that did not belong to you.
But the silence was different.
Today was not a day the palace would allow you to ignore.
You sat up slowly, the weight of it settling over you piece by piece. Your hands rested on your lap, fingers curling slightly into the fabric as your gaze drifted toward the wedding garments laid out across the room.
A color meant for joy. For celebration. And yet it felt heavy just to look at it. You had imagined this once. Not like this.
There had been a time when marriage meant escape to you. A way out of the suffocating walls of your family, a chance to belong somewhere else, somewhere kinder, somewhere that did not look at you like you were something lacking.
You had imagined smiles. Soft conversations.
Someone who would choose you, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
Someone who would look at you without judgment.
Without comparison. Without history.
But that had been a different version of you.
A version that still believed in things turning out differently.
You stood slowly, walking toward the garments as if each step required thought. Your fingers hovered over the fabric before finally touching it, the silk cool beneath your skin.
It was beautiful. There was no denying that.
Intricate embroidery, carefully chosen patterns, every detail arranged with precision that reflected the status of the Zhao family. Anyone else would have felt honored to wear it.
Servants entered quietly, but not for you. That difference had already been made clear. They moved around the room with purpose, preparing things, adjusting details, but none of it was directed at you. They did not help you dress. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary.
The instruction had been followed exactly. You were not to be served.
Not as a bride. Not as anything.
You dressed yourself.
Your hands trembled once when tying one of the inner layers, but you steadied them quickly, forcing yourself to continue. There was no one to assist you. No one to fix mistakes. No one to notice if something was wrong.
You adjusted everything yourself until there was nothing left to adjust.
When you finally looked at your reflection you paused.
For a second you did not recognize yourself.
The red framed you differently. The ornaments placed carefully in your hair caught the light in ways that made you look softer than you felt. Your face, composed and still, carried none of the chaos inside you.
You looked like a bride. Just not the kind anyone had wanted.
A quiet knock came at the door.
“It is time.”
No warmth. Just instruction.
You nodded, even though no one was looking for it, and turned toward the door.
Each step felt measured as you walked through the halls.
The palace had been decorated.
Red lanterns hung from above, banners placed carefully along the corridors, everything arranged to present an image of festivity.
But it did not feel festive. It felt… restrained.
Like something everyone was participating in, but no one truly believed in.
Guests had arrived. Families gathered.
Voices filled the space, but they were quieter than they should have been, conversations kept low, expressions carefully controlled.
You felt their eyes. They followed you as you entered. Some curious. Some judgmental. Some simply indifferent. But none of them warm. Not a single one. You kept your gaze forward. You had learned how to do that well. And then you saw him.
Yufan stood at the front, already in place, dressed in formal attire that matched the weight of the occasion. He looked exactly as he always did.
If anyone looked closely, they might have noticed the tension in his posture, the slight tightness in his jaw, the way his hands were just a little too still.
But no one commented.
His gaze met yours briefly as you approached. There was no softness there. Just acknowledgment. Like this was something he had accepted, not something he had chosen.
You reached your place. The ceremony began. Words were spoken. Formalities followed. Everything moved exactly as it should. And yet it all felt distant. Like you were watching it happen from somewhere outside yourself. The vows were exchanged. Just tradition. Just obligation. When it came time for the final part. The moment everyone waited for.
The air shifted slightly. The expectation was there. Even if everything else had been restrained. This part could not be avoided.
Yufan stepped closer. That same quiet tension that had followed him from the very beginning. Your breath caught slightly, but you kept your expression steady, your gaze lowering just enough to avoid meeting his directly.
He hesitated. Just for a second.
The space between you closed. The kiss. It was brief. Careful.
More a gesture than anything else. There was no lingering.
There was no harshness either. Did not make it uncomfortable beyond what it already was.
And when he pulled away he did so with the same controlled composure he had maintained throughout everything.
A gentleman. Even in unwillingness.
The ceremony ended. Applause followed. Polite.
Not the kind that filled a room with joy, but enough to fulfill what was expected.
And just like that you were married. Your last name carrying Zhao now.
Not with love. But with responsibility.
Into something that would demand more from you than you had ever been allowed to give before.
The transition was immediate. Because there was no time to linger in what had just happened. No time to process. The roles were already shifting. The instructions already changing.
By the time you returned to the inner residence, it had been made clear.
You were not stepping into the position Meiyu once held.
The servants followed the orders given by your family without question.
They attended to the Zhao household.
To Yufan. To the elders. But not to you.
Your responsibilities were laid out without ceremony.
The child. The inner quarters. The tasks no one else would take.
It was not spoken as punishment. But it was. And everyone knew it.
Night settled over the Zhao residence slowly, as if even the sky hesitated to cover what had just taken place.
The celebrations had ended hours ago, if they could even be called that. Guests had left in clusters, their conversations hushed, their expressions carrying more curiosity than joy. The lanterns still burned along the corridors, casting a soft red glow over everything, but the warmth they were meant to represent never quite reached you.
By the time you returned to the inner quarters, the silence had deepened.
It felt heavier now.
You stood outside the room that had been prepared for the two of you, your hand hovering just inches away from the door. For a long moment, you didn’t move. The weight of everything that had led up to this point pressed down on you all at once the ceremony, the stares, the quiet judgment, the expectations that had been placed on you without ever being spoken gently.
This was supposed to be where it became real.
Not the ceremony. This.
You closed your eyes briefly, steadying your breathing, before finally pushing the door open.
The room was dimly lit, candles flickering softly along the walls. Everything had been arranged carefully, deliberately, in a way that suggested intimacy, closeness, a beginning.
But the atmosphere inside it was anything but that.
Yufan was already there. Standing by the window. His back to you.
He hadn’t changed out of his formal attire yet, the deep red fabric still perfectly in place, as if he hadn’t moved since the moment the ceremony ended. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense in a way that immediately made the air feel tight.
He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t acknowledge you at all.
You stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You stood there, unsure where to go, what to do, what was expected in a situation where nothing about this felt natural.
“I will change first,” you said softly, your voice careful, controlled.
It wasn’t really a question. Just something to fill the silence.
He didn’t respond. Not even a glance.
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of your sleeve before you moved toward the bathroom. Your movements were quiet, measured, every sound seeming amplified in the stillness.
You removed the layers slowly, carefully folding them as best as you could. There was no one to assist you, no one to take them away. You did it yourself, just like everything else today.
When you stepped out again, dressed in simpler clothing, the room felt colder.
Because now he was watching you. Not openly. But you could feel it.
You looked up slightly, meeting his gaze for the first time since entering.
Something inside your chest tightened.
There was nothing soft there. Just anger.
It caught you off guard, even though it shouldn’t have.
“You look comfortable.”
His voice broke the silence sharply.
The words themselves were not loud, but the tone behind them was enough to make you freeze where you stood.
“I—” you paused, unsure how to respond to something that didn’t sound like a question. “I was told to prepare—”
“Of course you were.”
He cut you off.
Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
He let out a short, humorless laugh, turning fully toward you now. “Everything has been prepared for you, hasn’t it? Decided for you. Arranged for you.”
His gaze dragged over you slowly, and it felt heavier than any physical touch.
“Must be convenient.”
You shook your head slightly, your hands tightening at your sides. “I did not ask for this.”
“No?” His voice sharpened immediately. “You didn’t ask for it, but you accepted it.”
Your breath caught.
“That is not the same thing.”
“It looks the same to me.”
The room felt smaller. The air harder to breathe.
“I had no choice,” you said quietly, forcing the words out even as your throat tightened.
“You always have a choice.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in your expression shifted something fragile, something close to breaking.
“That is easy for you to say.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you knew they would not be received well.
His expression darkened instantly.
“Easy?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “You think any of this is easy for me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it properly,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You think standing here, being forced into this, is easy?”
You instinctively took a step back. The intensity in his voice made it impossible not to.
“I did not mean that,” you said again, softer this time.
“Then what did you mean?” he pressed, not giving you space to recover, not allowing you to retreat from it.
You hesitated. Because no answer felt safe.
It only made things worse.
“Nothing?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course.”
His gaze hardened further, something colder settling into it now.
“You never have anything to say when it matters.”
“I have tried to speak,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “You have never listened.”
“Listen?” he echoed, his tone almost disbelieving. “What exactly do you expect me to listen to?”
“The truth,” you said, even though your voice trembled slightly.
A mistake. You realized it immediately. Because his expression changed completely. The anger didn’t just stay. It deepened. Turned into something far more cutting.
“The truth?” he repeated slowly.
“I did not kill her.”
The words hung in the air.
A quiet, sharp exhale left him.
“Is that what you think this is about?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm now.
You stared at him, your heart pounding unevenly.
“Isn’t it?”
He stepped closer again, stopping just enough distance away to make it impossible to ignore him.
“You really believe that saying it like that changes anything?”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“And I am telling you,” he snapped, his composure breaking for the first time, “that it doesn’t matter what you say.”
“There was no one else,” he continued, his voice low but filled with something raw, something unresolved. “You were the last person with her.”
“I tried to help her,” you said quickly, the words rushing out now, desperate, unsteady. “She was already—”
“Enough.”
The single word cut you off completely.
His jaw tightened, his hands clenching slightly at his sides as if holding back something more.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. There was nothing left to say.
“I won’t share this room with you.”
The words came suddenly. For a second, you didn’t understand.
Your mind struggled to catch up, to process what he had just said.
“I—what?”
“I said I won’t share this room with you,” he repeated, his voice cold, unwavering. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
You stood there, frozen, your hands slowly curling into fists at your sides as you tried to steady yourself.
“Where would I go?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of everything except the bare truth of the question. He didn’t turn back.
“That’s not my concern.”
You swallowed hard, forcing your breathing to remain steady even as your vision blurred slightly.
You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not where he could see it.
You moved slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last as you walked toward the door. Your hand rested on the handle for a moment.
As if part of you still hoped. Something would stop you. That he would say something. Anything. But he didn’t.
So you opened the door. And you stepped out. Into the quiet, empty corridor. The door closed behind you with a soft click.
The corridor felt colder than it had any right to be.
You stood there for a moment after the door shut behind you, your hand still resting lightly against the wood as if you hadn’t fully accepted that you were no longer allowed on the other side of it. The silence pressed in around you, thick and unwelcoming, the faint glow of the lanterns along the walls stretching your shadow into something long and unfamiliar.
You told yourself to move. Standing there would not change anything. It never had.
Your steps were slow at first, almost uncertain, but they steadied as you walked further down the hall, away from that room, away from that final, quiet rejection that had been delivered so easily it almost felt rehearsed. You didn’t know where you were going at first. There was no place that had been given to you, no room that had been called yours.
But your body moved anyway. Because there was only one place that had felt even remotely… less unbearable. The nursery.
The door was slightly open when you reached it, a soft line of light spilling out into the dark corridor. You paused just outside, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the door before pushing it open fully.
Inside, it was quiet.
A small lamp burned near the cradle, casting a warm, gentle glow across the room. The attendants were gone, likely dismissed for the night, their absence leaving the space feeling strangely still.
You stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at the small form resting in the cradle. The baby was asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, her features relaxed in a way that made the world feel… quieter, even if only for a second.
Your shoulders dropped slightly.
Some of the tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding eased just enough for you to breathe properly again.
You moved closer, your steps instinctively quieter, as if you were afraid to disturb something fragile. When you reached the cradle, you leaned down slightly, your gaze softening as you took in every small detail the way her fingers curled loosely near her face, the faint crease between her brows, even in sleep.
Your hand hovered for a moment before gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her forehead.
She didn’t stir. Didn’t wake. And for a brief, fleeting second. You felt something close to peace. It didn’t last.
A sharp, sudden cry broke through the silence without warning.
It cut through the room so abruptly that you flinched, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. The baby’s small body tensed, her face scrunching as the cries came louder, more desperate, filling every corner of the space.
You didn’t hesitate.
You reached for her immediately, lifting her carefully into your arms, your movements instinctive now, almost practiced.
“It’s alright,” you whispered, your voice softer than anything you had spoken all day. “I’m here… it’s alright.”
But she didn’t calm.
If anything, the crying grew louder, sharper, her tiny fists clenching against your chest as if something was deeply wrong.
Your breath hitched.
“No, no… what’s wrong…”
You adjusted your hold, rocking her gently, your hand supporting her head as you moved back and forth in small, careful motions.
“It’s alright,” you repeated, though your voice wavered slightly now. “It’s alright… I’m here…”
But she didn’t settle.
The sound of her crying echoed through the room made your chest tighten painfully. It didn’t just feel like her crying.
It felt like everything. Everything that had been held in. Everything that had been forced down. Everything you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel.
All of it suddenly had a voice. And it was loud. Too loud.
Your arms tightened slightly around her, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground yourself as you continued to rock her, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.
“Please…” the word slipped out before you could stop it, your voice barely holding together. “Please… it’s okay…”
Your throat tightened. Because it wasn’t okay. None of it was.
The baby’s cries didn’t ease.
They rose and fell in uneven bursts, small, helpless, and it broke something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected.
“I’m trying…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were speaking to her or to yourself anymore. “I’m trying…”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You pressed her closer to your chest, your chin lowering just enough to rest lightly against the top of her head as you continued to sway.
“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt her…” the words came out unevenly now, barely more than a breath. “I didn’t… I would never…”
Your vision blurred.
You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, trying to hold everything in the way you always had.
“I didn’t mean for anything to happen…” you whispered, your voice trembling now despite your efforts. “I tried to help… I did… I swear I did…”
Your grip tightened slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of the small blanket wrapped around her as if holding on to something tangible would keep you from unraveling completely.
“But no one listens,” you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “No one even… lets me speak…”
Your shoulders trembled faintly.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief moment, your breath uneven as you fought against the pressure building in your chest.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” you admitted, your voice barely audible now. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”
The baby’s cries began to soften. Just slightly.
You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze dropping to her face, watching as her expression eased just a little, her small body relaxing by degrees in your arms.
You adjusted your hold again, gentler this time, your movements slower, more deliberate.
“It’s okay…” you murmured again, though this time the words felt different. “You’re okay…”
Her cries quieted further, fading into soft, uneven whimpers before finally settling into quiet, shaky breaths.
You kept rocking her. Even after the room fell silent again.
Because you were afraid that if you stopped. Everything would come rushing back.
Your back eventually found the edge of the bed, your body lowering carefully as you sat down, still holding her close, still moving slightly, even as exhaustion began to settle into your bones.
The silence returned. But it wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of everything you hadn’t said. Everything you hadn’t been allowed to say.
Your gaze drifted downward, resting on the small, fragile life in your arms. A small, bitter exhale left you.
“I wish it was that simple with everyone else.”
Your fingers brushed lightly against her tiny hand again, watching as she instinctively curled her fingers around yours, holding on without effort.
Your chest tightened.
A tear slipped free before you could stop it, trailing quietly down your cheek before disappearing into the fabric beneath.
You didn’t make a sound. Didn’t let yourself break fully. But the crack was there. Clear. Unavoidable.
You leaned back slightly, your head resting against the wall as you closed your eyes, your arms still wrapped securely around the baby.
To remind you that you were still holding on.
The days after that did not change all at once. They shifted slowly, almost quietly, like something settling into place whether you accepted it or not.
Morning after morning, you woke before the rest of the household. Not because anyone told you to, but because there was no one else who would. The baby rarely slept through the night in those early months, and even when she did, your body had already learned to remain alert, to listen for the smallest sound. It became instinct. It became routine.
At first, the attendants would still hover at a distance, uncertain of where they stood around you. They would come when called for the baby, for the household, for the Zhao family but never for you. And slowly, even that hesitation disappeared. They stopped lingering. Stopped watching. Stopped expecting anything from you at all.
Because it had been made clear. You were not to be served. So you learned.
You learned how to warm water properly without spilling it. How to wash delicate fabrics by hand, careful not to damage them. How to prepare simple meals, though they were never meant for you first. How to clean, to arrange, to maintain spaces that would never truly belong to you.
And above all you learned her.
At first, it had been instinct. That strange, quiet understanding the moment you held her, the way she settled in your arms as if she recognized something even you could not name.
But as the days passed, that instinct turned into something deeper.
You learned the difference between her cries the sharp, impatient one when she was hungry, the softer, uneven one when she was uncomfortable, the quiet, trembling one when she simply wanted to be held.
You learned how she preferred to be carried, how she would curl into your chest when she was tired, how her tiny fingers would grasp onto your sleeve without thinking.
You became the one she reached for. The one she quieted for. The one she depended on.
Time moved forward whether anyone acknowledged it or not. Weeks slipped into months, and the fragile, restless infant in your arms began to grow into something more aware, more responsive.
Her eyes began to follow you when you moved. Her small hands began to reach out intentionally.
You gave her a name.
Xinyi. Zhao Xinyi.
You were sitting by the window, the afternoon light filtering in gently as she rested against you, her small head tucked beneath your chin. She had been unusually calm that day, her tiny fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of your sleeve.
You looked down at her.
At the life that had been left behind in the wake of something so heavy, so unresolved.
And the word came to you without effort.
“Xinyi.”
You said it quietly, testing it. Your fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. You didn’t know if anyone would accept it. You didn’t know if it would last.
She responded to it.
Not in understanding, not in recognition, but in the way her expression softened, in the way she made a small, quiet sound as if acknowledging the warmth in your voice.
So you kept using it. You spoke it when you held her. When you soothed her.
When you whispered to her in the quiet hours of the night when the rest of the world felt too distant to reach.
The rest of the household did not question it immediately. Names, after all, could wait. There were formalities, traditions, discussions that would come later.
But you did not wait. Because she needed something now. Something to hold onto. And so did you.
Yufan did not change.
If anything he became more distant. More controlled. More cutting in the few moments your paths crossed.
He rarely entered the nursery when you were there. And when he did, it was brief, purposeful, his attention fixed solely on the child, never lingering on you longer than necessary.
“Is she fed?”
“Yes.”
“Has she slept?”
“She has.”
That was the extent of it. No acknowledgment beyond that.
Sometimes, when she reached toward him, he would hesitate just slightly before taking her into his arms. And in those moments, something in his expression would flicker.
Something less guarded. But it never lasted. Not when you were there. Not when his gaze inevitably drifted back to you. Because then it would return. That same cold distance. That same unspoken accusation.
“You’re holding her too much.”
The words came one afternoon, sharp and uninvited.
You stilled slightly, your arms tightening instinctively around Lian as you looked up at him.
“She cries when I put her down,” you replied softly.
“That doesn’t mean you should encourage it.”
Your lips parted, but no immediate response came.
Because there was no right answer. Not one he would accept.
“I am only doing what calms her,” you said eventually, your voice careful.
“Or what comforts you.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. Because they carried something else. Something close to resentment.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because denying it felt dishonest. And admitting it felt dangerous. So you stayed silent. And he left. Just like that. As if the conversation had never needed to exist in the first place.
The pattern repeated.
Days blending into one another, your routine unchanging, your responsibilities constant. There was no break. No relief. No moment where the weight lessened.
Even when your body ached from exhaustion, when your hands grew raw from work, when your eyes burned from lack of sleep.
There was no one to notice. No one to tell you to rest. Except her.
In the quiet moments, when she would press closer to you, when her breathing would steady against your chest, when her tiny hand would curl around your finger without thought. That was when you allowed yourself to pause. Just for a second. Just enough to breathe.
The grandmother noticed. She was one of the few who truly watched. Who paid attention beyond what was spoken. Sometimes, she would enter the nursery without announcement, her presence calm, steady, her gaze immediately finding you. And there would be that look. Not judgment. Something softer. Something heavier. Pity. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to belittle you.
But it still settled uncomfortably in your chest. Because you didn’t want pity. You didn’t want to be seen as something broken. Something to be endured.
That was what you had become in the eyes of most.
She would sit beside you occasionally, her personal attendant trailing behind her, ready to assist in ways no one else would for you.
“Give her to me,” she would say gently.
And sometimes, you did. Because your arms were tired.
Because your body needed rest even if you didn’t allow yourself to admit it.
You would watch as the attendant helped, adjusting things, preparing what was needed, moving with an ease that reminded you of everything you were denied.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” the grandmother said once, her voice softer than usual.
You lowered your gaze slightly.
“I am supposed to.”
“That does not make it right.”
You didn’t answer. Right and wrong had stopped mattering a long time ago. So you continued. Day after day. Month after month. Holding her. Raising her. Becoming something she relied on, even if no one else acknowledged it. And in return she grew. More aware.
And every time she reached for you. Every time she quieted in your arms. Every time she looked at you like you were something safe.
It reminded you that even in a place where you were unwanted.
You were still needed. Even if only by her.
The household settled into a rhythm that looked orderly from the outside and felt suffocating from within. You moved through it quietly, doing what was expected, learning what no one would teach you, filling spaces that no one else wanted. The servants continued to pass you as though you were part of the walls, never stopping, never asking, never offering. What had begun as a punishment slowly hardened into habit, and habit turned into something worse normal.
You woke before dawn, you worked through the day, and you slept only when your body refused to stay upright any longer. The baby grew steadily in your care, her small world orbiting around you in a way that made everything else both bearable and unbearable at the same time. She smiled more now, her eyes lighting up when she saw you, her hands reaching without hesitation, without doubt.
No one had to tell her who you were. She had decided that on her own.
And yet, in the same space where she leaned into you without fear, Yufan continued to pull further away like he was doing.
It was not just distance anymore. It was deliberate.
If you entered a room, he would leave. If you were already there, he would not step inside. Conversations were reduced to the bare minimum, clipped and cold, his tone always edged with something sharp enough to remind you of where you stood.
There was no room for misunderstanding. He did not want you near him. And he made sure you felt it.
At first, you tried to avoid it. You adjusted your movements, your timing, your presence. You learned the hours he preferred certain spaces and quietly stayed away from them. You spoke less, moved softer, kept your gaze lowered longer.
The grandmother had begun to notice the imbalance more openly as time passed. Where others ignored it, she addressed it, though never in a way that caused immediate conflict. Her approach was patient, measured, but firm.
“You are part of this household now,” she told you one afternoon, her voice calm but unyielding. “Not just in name. In responsibility.”
You listened quietly, Lian resting against your shoulder as you gently swayed her.
“I understand,” you said.
“And yet you remain confined to the nursery and the inner quarters.”
You lowered your gaze slightly.
“I go where I am allowed.”
Her expression shifted faintly.
“That is precisely what needs to change.”
You didn’t respond.
Still, her word carried weight in ways yours never could. And slowly, she began placing small responsibilities in your hands beyond the child. Minor decisions at first. Observations. Quiet involvement in matters that extended beyond the nursery walls.
Nothing grand. Nothing that would draw too much attention. But enough to shift something. Enough to be noticed. And it was. Yufan noticed.
He said nothing at first. Not when he heard your name mentioned in passing, not when he saw you lingering slightly longer in spaces you once avoided, not when small decisions began to include your presence.
But the silence did not mean acceptance.
That night had been still in a way that made every sound feel louder. The corridors were quiet, the household settled, the faint flicker of lanterns casting shadows that stretched long against the walls.
You had just finished settling Xinyi to sleep. She had been restless earlier, her small fingers clinging to you more than usual, but eventually, she gave in to sleep, her breathing evening out against your shoulder before you placed her gently into the cradle.
You lingered for a moment, watching her. Then you turned to leave.
The corridor outside was dim, the air cooler than the nursery, and you wrapped your arms slightly around yourself as you walked, your steps quiet, your thoughts heavier than usual.
You didn’t expect to see him. Not at this hour.
Standing just outside the main corridor, partially shadowed, his presence unmistakable even before you fully saw him.
You slowed. Then stopped.
For a brief second, neither of you spoke. His gaze was already on you.
“You’re expanding your role now.”
The words came without greeting, without softness.
You held his gaze for only a moment before lowering it slightly.
“I am only doing what I was asked to do.”
“By her,” he said immediately, his tone cutting.
You didn’t deny it.
“That does not make it wrong.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you felt it—the shift.
His expression hardened instantly.
“Of course you’d say that.”
You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself.
“I am not trying to overstep.”
“No?” he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “Then what exactly are you trying to do?”
You hesitated.
Because no answer felt safe.
“I am trying to fulfill what is expected of me.”
“And what is that?” he pressed, closing the distance further. “Tell me.”
Your breath caught slightly, but you held your ground.
“To be part of this household.”
The silence that followed was brief. Enough for something in him to snap. His hand moved before you could react.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist, firm too firm pulling you forward just enough to force you to face him fully.
The suddenness of it stole your breath.
“Part of this household?” he repeated, his voice low, tight with something barely contained. “You think this is how you do that?”
Your pulse spiked, your free hand instinctively moving toward his grip, but you didn’t pull away.
Not yet.
“I am not doing anything wrong,” you said, your voice quieter now, strained.
His grip tightened. Pain flared up your arm, sharp and immediate.
“You’re not doing anything wrong?” he echoed, disbelief laced heavily through his tone. “You step into her place, take over her responsibilities, hold her child, walk through her home like you belong here—and you call that nothing?”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“That is not what I am doing.”
“Then what is it?” he demanded, his voice rising just enough to break the quiet of the corridor. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to become her.”
The words hit harder than his grip. Your breath faltered.
“I am not—”
“You are,” he cut you off sharply. “You’re trying so hard to fit into something that was never yours.”
Your throat tightened.
“I never wanted this.”
“Then why do you keep acting like you do?”
The accusation in his voice burned.
“I am only trying to survive here,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice trembling slightly despite your effort to steady it.
His grip didn’t loosen.
“If that were true, you would stay where you belong.”
“And where is that?” you asked, the question coming out softer than you intended, but carrying more weight than anything else you had said.
There was something in his expression. Something uncertain. But it disappeared just as quickly.
“Not here,” he said flatly.
The finality in those two words settled heavily between you.
Your vision blurred slightly, but you refused to let it show.
“I am not trying to replace her,” you said, your voice quieter now, but steady.
His jaw tightened.
“Then stop acting like it.”
“I am taking care of her child.”
“That’s not your place.”
“No one else is doing it.”
The words came out sharper than you intended.
And immediately you knew.
His expression darkened completely.
“Don’t,” he warned, his grip tightening again, pain shooting through your wrist. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”
“I am not twisting anything,” you said, your voice breaking slightly now despite your effort. “I am telling you the truth.”
“The truth?” he let out a short, bitter laugh. “You really think your version of the truth matters here?”
The words cut deep.
You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling unevenly.
“I am not her,” you said, the words barely above a whisper now. “I never will be.”
“Then stop trying to be.”
“I am not.”
His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second. But it didn’t release.
“Everything you do says otherwise.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t lower your gaze.
“I am just trying to do what no one else will,” you said quietly.
His grip finally loosened. Abruptly.
He let go of your wrist as if the contact itself had become unbearable.
You staggered back slightly, your arm instinctively pulling toward you as you held your wrist, the ache lingering, throbbing beneath your skin.
“Stop,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less harsh. “Just… stop.”
The words felt heavier than the ones before.
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched at his sides.
“I don’t want to see you trying to take her place again.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“I never was.”
He didn’t respond. He walked away. Leaving you there. Alone. Again.
The corridor felt colder than before. Quieter.
Your wrist still ached, the faint imprint of his grip lingering against your skin. You stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not speaking. Just breathing. Trying to steady yourself. Trying to hold everything in like you always did.
But this time it was harder. It wasn’t just about being unwanted.
Warning : psychological abuse, emotional neglect, family conflict, public shaming, false accusations, intense grief and mourning themes, death of a character, childbirth-related tragedy, isolation, betrayal, gaslighting themes, strong emotional distress, angst-heavy narratives.
Synopsis : in the late 1990s Taipei royal household, reputation is everything and truth is rarely spoken aloud. the Lin and Zhao families are bound by tradition, status, and carefully arranged expectations. One daughter is praised for her grace and perfection, while the other is quietly reduced to an afterthought present, but never truly seen. within the palace walls, love is displayed like ceremony and duty is mistaken for devotion. every smile is observed, every silence is judged, and every rumor becomes something heavier than truth. when an irreversible tragedy strikes, the balance of the household fractures. grief does not remain private. it spreads, reshaping loyalty, memory, and belief itself. In a place where appearances decide innocence, one person becomes the center of a story she never chose.
reblog to get your ass eaten for a week.
PART TWO { coming soon }
1996, Taipei Royal Residence
Morning in Taipei arrived softly, like it always did, with pale sunlight slipping through carved wooden screens and settling across the polished stone floors of the royal residence. The palace stood quiet yet alive, its walls carrying whispers of routine and expectation. Servants moved in practiced silence, their footsteps light, their voices lower than the wind that stirred the hanging lanterns in the courtyard. Everything had its place here. Everything had its rhythm.
And everyone had their role.
Before you were even seen, you were already being spoken about.
“The second miss woke late again.”
“Ai yo, she never learns.”
“Nothing like the eldest miss. That one is truly obedient.”
Their voices blended into the morning air as naturally as birdsong. No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty. The kind that did not need proof.
You had not even stepped into the courtyard yet.
When you finally did, the atmosphere did not shift dramatically. No one gasped. No one fell silent out of respect. Instead, there was a subtle tightening, a quiet awareness. Heads lowered, but not in admiration. More like caution. As if your presence required careful handling.
Your steps were unhurried, though your expression carried its usual edge. Not anger, not exactly. Something sharper. Something people preferred to label instead of understand.
A servant hurried past you with a tray, her hands slightly trembling. The porcelain cups rattled softly against one another. Just as she passed, someone called her name from behind, and she turned too quickly. The tray tilted. A cup slipped. It shattered against the stone near your feet.
The sound cut clean through the morning.
She froze immediately, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between apology and fear. Then she dropped to her knees.
“Duibuqi, second miss. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
You looked down at the broken pieces, then at her. Your brows knit together, irritation flickering across your face before you could stop it.
“Watch where you are going,” you said.
Your voice was not loud. It did not need to be.
But it was enough.
The servant bowed lower, her forehead nearly touching the ground. “Yes, second miss. I will be more careful.”
Behind you, the whispers had already begun again, quieter this time, but sharper.
“See, she gets angry so easily.”
“Always like this.”
“So difficult.”
You did not turn back to look at them. You already knew the expressions they wore. Pity mixed with disapproval. Judgment wrapped in politeness.
Across the courtyard, laughter rose, soft and bright, like a completely different world existing just a few steps away.
Your gaze shifted without meaning to.
There she was.
Your sister stood beneath the shade of a flowering tree, sunlight catching gently in her hair. Everything about her seemed to belong perfectly to this place. The way she held herself, the way she smiled, the way people naturally gravitated toward her as if drawn by something warm and steady.
And beside her stood Zhao Yufan.
He was composed in the way people expected of him, posture straight, expression calm, yet softened in her presence. His hand lifted briefly to adjust the sleeve of her hanfu, the motion careful, almost instinctive. She laughed at something he said, her voice light, unguarded.
They did not need to try.
That was what made it unbearable.
“They are truly well matched,” someone murmured nearby.
“A perfect pair.”
You looked away before the scene could settle any deeper into your chest. There was no use staring at something that was never meant to include you.
The dining hall was already prepared when you entered later that morning. The long table stretched across the room, its arrangement precise, every seat assigned according to importance that had long been decided.
Your father sat at the head, his presence commanding without effort. Your mother beside him, elegant and composed, her gaze sharp enough to notice every detail that fell out of place. Your sister sat close to them, naturally, as if there had never been any other arrangement possible.
Your seat was further down.
Not at the very end. Not completely removed.
Just far enough to remind you where you stood.
You took your place quietly. No one acknowledged your arrival.
Tea was being poured.
Your sister’s movements were fluid, practiced to perfection. She lifted the teapot with steady hands, pouring into each cup with care and precision. Not a single drop spilled. Not a single motion wasted.
Your mother watched with approval. “You have improved again.”
Your father gave a small nod. “Discipline shows in the smallest actions.”
Your sister lowered her gaze modestly. “Thank you.”
Then, as if it were inevitable, their attention shifted.
“And you,” your father said without looking directly at you.
You paused, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.
“Yes.”
“Have you completed your studies for this morning.”
You opened your mouth to answer, but a servant spoke first, her voice careful.
“Second miss woke later than usual today.”
The words hung in the air.
Your mother sighed softly, disappointment woven neatly into the sound. “Again.”
You felt something sharp press against your ribs, but your expression remained unchanged.
“I will complete them,” you said.
Your father finally looked at you then. Not with anger. Not even with frustration.
Something worse.
Expectation already abandoned.
“You should learn from your sister.”
Of course.
You reached for the teapot when it was passed down the table. For a moment, you considered not taking it at all. But that would only confirm what they already believed.
So you poured.
Your hand was steady, but not perfect. A slight miscalculation, a fraction too slow in adjusting the tilt, and a thin line of tea slipped over the edge of the cup.
It was nothing.
Barely noticeable. But it was enough.
Your mother’s gaze sharpened immediately. “Even this, you cannot do properly.”
You set the teapot down carefully. “It was just a little—”
“Excuses,” your father cut in.
Silence followed.
No one defended you. No one questioned it.
Across the table, your sister’s expression shifted, concern flickering briefly in her eyes. But she said nothing. Not because she did not care.
Because she did not know how to bridge a gap she had never experienced.
The rest of the meal passed with conversation that did not include you. Plans were discussed. Expectations were set. Your sister responded with grace, her voice calm, her answers always correct.
You finished your meal quietly and left before you were dismissed.
No one stopped you.
The corridors outside felt cooler, the air less suffocating. You walked without direction at first, letting your steps carry you away from the weight of the dining hall.
Servants passed you, bowing quickly, their eyes avoiding yours.
Somewhere along the way, you heard it again.
“The second miss.”
“Troublesome.”
“She argued with the tutors yesterday, did you hear.”
“I am not surprised.”
You kept walking.
There was no point correcting them. Even if you did, they would not believe you. Even if they believed you, it would not matter.
By the time you reached the outer gardens, the noise of the palace had softened into something distant. The air here felt different. Less controlled. The scent of flowers stronger, the breeze less restrained by walls and expectations.
You stopped near a stone path, staring down at the uneven patterns beneath your feet.
“Why do you always make things harder for yourself.”
Her voice was gentle. Of course it was.
You did not turn immediately. You already knew who it was.
Your sister stepped beside you, her presence warm in a way that should have been comforting.
“Everyone is concerned,” she continued softly. “You do not need to argue with them all the time.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I am not arguing.”
“They say you are.”
You turned to look at her then, something sharp flickering in your eyes. “And you believe them.”
She hesitated. That was answer enough.
“I just think,” she said carefully, “if you tried a little more, things would be easier.”
You laughed, though there was no humor in it. “For who.”
“For you.”
You shook your head. “You would not understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Her voice carried genuine concern, and for a moment, something inside you wavered. The urge to say something real, something honest, rose quietly beneath everything else.
But it faded just as quickly.
“What is the point,” you said.
She fell silent.
There were no words she could offer that would change anything. Not really.
After a moment, she reached out, her hand brushing lightly against your sleeve. “I only want things to be better for you.”
You pulled your arm back before you could stop yourself.
Her hand lingered in the air for a second before she lowered it.
“I know,” you said, though it came out flat, distant.
Because you did know.
And that made it worse.
By evening, the palace had transformed again. Lanterns were lit one by one, their glow casting soft light across the courtyards and corridors. The air cooled, carrying with it the quiet hum of night settling in.
From your room, you could see part of the outer walkway.
You had not meant to look.
But you did. They were there again.
Your sister and Zhao Yufan walked side by side beneath the lanterns, their steps slow, unhurried. They were not speaking much, but they did not need to. The silence between them was comfortable, filled rather than empty.
At one point, she said something that made him pause, a faint smile touching his lips before he responded. She laughed softly, the sound carrying just enough to reach you.
It looked effortless.
You watched for longer than you should have.
Long enough for something unfamiliar to twist quietly in your chest.
Not anger. Not exactly. Something heavier. Something you refused to name.
When they finally disappeared from view, the courtyard felt colder.
You remained by the window, the moonlight slipping across your face, pale and distant.
“If they have already decided who I am,” you murmured softly, your voice barely audible even to yourself, “then what is the point of proving them wrong.”
The night did not answer. It never did.
And somewhere within the palace walls, life continued exactly as it always had.
Perfect for some. Unforgiving for others.
The days that followed moved with a kind of quiet certainty, as if everything within the palace had already been decided long before anyone spoke it aloud. Routines deepened, expectations sharpened, and attention narrowed itself around a single center.
Your sister.
Her name carried through the halls now with even more weight.
Lin Meiyu.
It suited her. Soft, elegant, easy to praise.
“Meiyu did this.”
“Meiyu handled that.”
“Meiyu never disappoints.”
Even the way people said her name felt different from the way they said yours.
Hers was spoken with warmth.
Yours was spoken with caution.
Or not at all.
By midmorning, the courtyard had already begun to fill with activity. Servants moved in and out with fabrics, trays, documents, and sealed letters. The atmosphere was not frantic, but it was charged, like something important was approaching and everyone could feel it.
You leaned against one of the wooden pillars in the outer corridor, watching without really watching. No one stopped you. No one asked why you were there.
They rarely did.
Across the courtyard, Meiyu stood with a small group of attendants, reviewing something laid out before her. Silk fabrics in soft tones were draped over a low table, each one more delicate than the last. Her fingers brushed lightly over them as she listened, nodding occasionally, asking quiet questions.
She looked… comfortable.
Not just in the moment, but in her place within it.
A servant approached her with a respectful bow. “Miss, the young master has arrived.”
A faint change crossed her expression. Not surprise. Not nervousness.
Something gentler.
You did not need to look to know who they meant.
Still, your gaze shifted.
Zhao Yufan entered the courtyard with the same composed presence he always carried. There was nothing overly grand about the way he walked, yet people made space for him without being told. Respect followed him naturally, like a shadow.
He stopped a short distance from Meiyu, offering a slight nod. She returned it, though her lips curved into a small smile that softened the formality of the gesture.
“You came early again,” she said.
His voice was low, steady. “There were matters to discuss with your father.”
“And you chose to come here first.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Yes.”
There was no embarrassment in his tone. No attempt to deny it.
Meiyu lowered her gaze briefly, though the faint color in her cheeks gave her away.
You looked away before the moment could settle further.
Their conversations were never loud, never meant for others to hear. Yet somehow, they always felt more present than anything else around them.
“Zhen de hen pei,” someone whispered nearby.
“They suit each other so well.”
Of course they did.
Later, inside one of the inner halls, preparations had shifted from fabrics to something more formal. Documents were being arranged carefully across a long table. Seals, brushes, and ink were placed with precision.
You lingered near the entrance, just far enough not to be immediately noticed. Or perhaps you were noticed, and simply not acknowledged.
Your father stood at the center, speaking with a group of officials. His tone was measured, authoritative.
“The arrangements have been discussed thoroughly,” he said. “There should be no further delay.”
One of the officials nodded. “The Zhao family has expressed their full agreement.”
Another added, “The union will strengthen both sides significantly.”
Union. Agreement. Strength.
The words felt heavy, deliberate.
Not a single one mentioned love.
Your mother stood beside them, her posture as composed as ever. “Meiyu has been prepared for this role her entire life. There will be no issue.”
You felt something tighten in your chest, though your face remained unchanged.
Across the room, Yufan stood with his own family representatives. He listened more than he spoke, his expression unreadable but attentive. When addressed directly, his answers were clear, respectful.
Responsible. Reliable.
Everything they wanted him to be.
“He is only twenty,” one of the older officials remarked, not critically, but thoughtfully. “Yet he carries himself well.”
Your father gave a short nod. “Age does not determine capability. Discipline does.”
Another voice, quieter but still audible, followed. “Marriage will only solidify that. With the eldest miss by his side, managing the palace will not be difficult.”
There was a pause.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Do you believe he is ready to take on such responsibility so soon.”
Yufan spoke before anyone else could answer.
“I will fulfill what is required of me.”
The kind of answer that satisfied everyone in the room.
Your father seemed pleased. “Good.”
A decision sealed not with emotion, but with expectation.
You shifted slightly, your hand brushing against the edge of a nearby table. One of the documents slid just enough to misalign the careful arrangement.
A small thing. Easily fixable.
But in a room like this, even small things were noticed.
A servant stepped forward quickly, adjusting the paper, though her eyes flickered toward you for just a moment too long.
It was enough. Whispers did not begin immediately.
By the time you left the hall, the tone of the palace had already begun to shift.
“Did you hear?”
“The engagement is being announced.”
“It is official now.”
“Of course it is. It was always going to happen.”
“And the second miss…”
A pause.
Then, quieter, but sharper.
“She looked displeased.”
“Jealous, maybe.”
“Ai yo, it is obvious, is it not.”
You kept walking.
Your steps were steady, your expression unchanged, but the words followed you anyway.
Jealous.
The courtyard was more crowded than usual by the afternoon. Servants moved with greater urgency, decorations beginning to appear in subtle ways. Red accents. Gold details. Nothing overwhelming yet, but enough to signal what was coming.
An announcement. A celebration. A future already being built.
You had not intended to go there again.
But you did. Maybe out of habit. Maybe out of something else you refused to name.
Meiyu stood near the center this time, surrounded by attendants adjusting the layers of her clothing. The colors were softer than the bold reds that would come later, but even now, she looked… radiant.
Someone laughed lightly. “The young master will not be able to take his eyes off you.”
Meiyu smiled, though she shook her head slightly. “Do not say things like that.”
“They are true.”
You turned to leave.
A servant carrying a tray of porcelain teacups moved quickly around the corner, not seeing you until it was too late. You stepped back instinctively, but your sleeve caught against the edge of the tray.
The entire thing tipped.
The sound of porcelain shattering against stone echoed far louder than it should have.
Every eye turned toward you.
The servant dropped to her knees immediately, trembling. “Duibuqi, duibuqi—”
But no one was looking at her. They were looking at you.
Your hand lowered slowly, the fabric of your sleeve still swaying slightly from the sudden motion.
“I did not—”
Your mother stepped forward, her expression tight, controlled, but unmistakably displeased. “What are you doing.”
“It was an accident,” you said.
Your father’s gaze hardened. “An accident that always seems to follow you.”
You clenched your jaw slightly. “I did not do it on purpose.”
“No one said you did,” your mother replied. “But intention does not erase consequence.”
Behind them, the murmurs continued.
Meiyu stepped forward, her brows drawn together slightly. “It is alright. No one was hurt.”
Her voice was gentle, as always.
But it did not change anything.
Your father exhaled sharply. “Enough.”
The single word cut through everything else.
He turned to one of the attendants. “Take her back to her room.”
You blinked. “What.”
Your mother did not even look at you. “You will remain there.”
“Until the announcement is complete.”
Something in your chest twisted. “You are locking me away.”
“To prevent further embarrassment,” your father said flatly.
“I did nothing wrong.”
His gaze met yours, cold, final. “You have done enough.”
The decision was made. As always.
Two attendants stepped forward, hesitant but obedient. “Second miss…”
The walk back felt longer than it should have. The palace that had always felt suffocating now felt distant, as if you were already being removed from it piece by piece.
When you reached your room, the doors were opened.
You stepped inside. And then they closed behind you.
The sound of the lock sliding into place was quiet. Too quiet.
You stood there for a moment, staring at the door, half expecting someone to open it again. To say it was unnecessary. To say it was a mistake.
Outside, the palace continued without you.
The announcement began not long after.
Though you could not see it, you could hear fragments carried faintly through the walls and corridors.
“The union between the Lin family and the Zhao family…”
“Eldest daughter, Lin Meiyu…”
“Zhao Yufan…”
“…to be married…”
Applause followed.
You moved toward the window slowly, your fingers brushing against the wooden frame as you looked out at the fading light.
Lanterns were being lit again. One by one. Marking the beginning of something new. Something you were not part of.
Your reflection stared back at you faintly in the glass, blurred by the dimming sky.
The words echoed again, quieter now, but deeper.
You let out a small breath, your expression unreadable.
“Let them think what they want,” you murmured.
Outside, laughter rose faintly into the evening air.
Inside, the room remained still.
And somewhere within the palace, a future was being celebrated.
Without you.
The morning of the wedding arrived before the sun had fully risen, yet the palace was already awake.
The kind of life that only came with celebration, with expectation, with something so carefully prepared that even the air seemed to carry it differently. Red lanterns lined the corridors, their color deep and vivid against the carved wood and pale stone. Silk banners hung from the archways, embroidered with gold thread that caught every bit of light.
Everywhere you looked, there was proof of it.
This day mattered.
Servants moved quickly, their usual quiet steps replaced with something closer to urgency. Trays of ornaments, folded garments, ceremonial items passed from hand to hand. Voices overlapped, instructions given and followed without pause.
No one came to your door.
No one asked if you were ready.
You had not been unlocked since the day before.
The palace had simply… moved on.
You sat by the window, exactly where you had been the night before, though the light now was different. Morning filtered in, softer, almost indifferent. It illuminated the room just enough to show what had been left behind.
A wedding was happening. And you were not part of it.
From where you sat, you could see part of the outer courtyard. Not clearly. Not enough to feel included. Just enough to remind you what was happening beyond the door you could not open.
More lanterns had been added overnight. The space looked fuller now, more complete, like it had been waiting for this final transformation.
Footsteps passed your door more frequently today.
None of them stopped.
“Make sure the headdress is secured properly.”
“The guests will arrive soon.”
“Has the young master prepared everything on his side?”
“He has. He was up before dawn.”
Zhao Yufan did not seem like someone who would falter on a day like this.
Dressed in ceremonial robes, every layer placed with care, every detail checked twice. His posture would be straight, his expression composed, his movements precise. There would be no hesitation in him.
That was what they all believed.
You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing against the edge of the window frame. The wood was cool beneath your skin, grounding in a way nothing else had been since yesterday.
You wondered, briefly, what Meiyu looked like now.
Whether she was nervous. Whether she was smiling. Whether she had thought of you at all. The thought came and went quickly. There was no point holding onto it. Outside, the sound of music began to rise.
Soft at first. Then clearer.
Traditional instruments, steady and ceremonial, marking the beginning of something that had already been decided long ago.
The ceremony itself unfolded without you, but not without sound. Every step of it seemed to echo faintly through the palace walls, carried in fragments that reached you whether you wanted them to or not.
“The bride is ready.”
“The groom has arrived.”
“Prepare for the formal greeting.”
Voices layered over music, over movement, over something that felt too large to ignore and too distant to touch.
You stood eventually, unable to remain seated any longer. The room felt smaller today, the walls closer, the air heavier.
Your hand hovered near the handle for a moment before resting lightly against it. Locked. On the other side, footsteps passed again.
“They look perfect together.”
Your grip tightened slightly before you let go.
Across the palace, beneath the weight of tradition and watchful eyes, the ceremony reached its most important moment.
Yufan stood where he was expected to stand.
Responsibility sat heavily on him, even if it did not show in the way he held himself.
Meiyu stood across from him, her presence softening the weight of it all. Her expression carried warmth, a calm kind of happiness that settled easily into the moment.
When their eyes met, there was no doubt.
No hesitation. The vows were spoken. The formalities completed.
The announcement that had already been made the day before now became something permanent.
Applause followed. Louder than before.
The ceremony gave way to celebration.
Guests filled the halls, their voices louder now, less restrained. Laughter echoed through the corridors, blending with music and conversation.
“Lin Meiyu.”
“Zhao Yufan.”
A perfect future.
“The second miss was not present.”
A quiet response followed.
“It is better that way.”
And that was enough. The day continued without interruption.
By the time evening settled in, the palace had transformed again. The lanterns glowed brighter now against the darkening sky, their light warm and steady. The celebration had not slowed, only softened into something more intimate, more relaxed.
From your window, you could see more now. Shadows moving. Figures passing. At one point, you caught sight of them. Just for a moment.
Meiyu, dressed fully now, her figure unmistakable even from a distance. Yufan beside her, his posture unchanged, though something about him seemed… quieter than before.
As if something had shifted into place.
They moved through the courtyard together, surrounded by others, yet somehow still apart in their own space.
You watched until they disappeared from view again.
You tilted your head slightly, studying your own reflection as if it belonged to someone else.
“Then I will stop trying,” you said softly.
You turned away from the window at last, the light from the lanterns no longer reaching your face.
Behind you, the sounds of laughter carried faintly into the night.
Ahead of you, the room stretched out in silence.
Time in the palace did not rush. It unfolded.
Slowly, deliberately, like silk being pulled from a loom, thread by thread, until something whole appeared without anyone noticing when it truly began.
After the wedding, the atmosphere shifted into something softer, yet more structured. Celebration faded into routine, and routine settled into expectation. The red decorations were taken down one by one, replaced again with the familiar elegance of the palace’s everyday order.
Lin Meiyu was no longer simply the eldest daughter.
She was now the wife of Zhao Yufan.
And with that came a quiet transformation that everyone seemed to accept without question.
She moved differently now, though only slightly. There was more weight to her presence, more attention in the way others spoke to her. Servants bowed a fraction deeper. Officials addressed her with greater care.
Morning routines began earlier for her now. Before the sun fully rose, she was already awake, seated by the window with documents laid out neatly before her. Household matters, financial records, correspondence between families. Things she had once observed from a distance were now placed directly in her hands.
She did not hesitate.
At first, there had been moments of quiet uncertainty. A pause before speaking. A second glance at certain details. But those moments grew fewer with each passing week.
“You have a natural sense for this,” one of the senior attendants told her once.
Meiyu had smiled, modest as always. “I am still learning.”
But she learned quickly. Yufan noticed.
He did not praise easily, nor did he speak unnecessarily, but there were small moments. Subtle ones. The kind that could be missed if not watched carefully.
A document adjusted slightly before she could reach for it.
A quiet explanation offered before she needed to ask.
A glance that lingered just a second longer than required.
Their conversations were still soft, still measured, but there was something deeper settling between them now.
Comfort. Understanding.
They did not rush into affection, nor did they avoid it. It simply existed, growing quietly in the spaces between responsibilities and expectations.
In the evenings, when the formalities of the day had passed, they would sometimes walk through the courtyard together. Not always speaking. Not always needing to.
As the months passed, that quiet balance only deepened.
Yufan’s responsibilities grew heavier, but he carried them without complaint. Decisions that once passed through older hands now rested with him more frequently. Matters of the palace, internal affairs, external relations. Each one added weight, but also steadiness.
He did not falter. Not outwardly. But Meiyu noticed the subtle signs.
The way his shoulders held tension a little longer than before.
The moments where his silence stretched, not empty, but occupied.
By the time the seasons began to shift, the palace had settled fully into this new rhythm.
And then, one morning, something changed again.
Not in the structure. In her. It began subtly.
A moment of dizziness she brushed aside.
A slight fatigue she did not mention.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Until it could no longer be ignored.
The physician was called quietly, without announcement, without concern beyond routine.
Meiyu sat calmly as the examination was completed, her hands resting gently in her lap.
She did not seem worried.
Just… attentive.
The room was silent for a moment after.
Then the physician bowed his head slightly.
“Congratulations.”
A pause.
“You are pregnant”
The words settled into the space like something fragile.
For a moment, Meiyu did not react.
Not because she did not understand. But because she did.
Slowly, her hand lifted, resting lightly against her abdomen as if to confirm something she could not yet feel.
“I see,” she said softly.
There was no shock. Only quiet realization.
When Yufan was told, his reaction was different.
He stood still for a moment after hearing it, as if the words needed time to settle into something real.
“Pregnant?,” he repeated.
The physician nodded. “Yes.”
Silence followed.
Then, slowly, something in his expression shifted.
Not uncertainty. Not fear. Something deeper. Responsibility. Again.
But this time, intertwined with something else.
Something warmer.
He dismissed the others soon after, leaving only the two of them in the room.
Meiyu watched him quietly, her gaze soft but searching.
“You are thinking too much again,” she said gently.
He let out a small breath, almost a quiet laugh. “Perhaps.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Is it troubling you.”
“No,” he said after a moment.
Then, more honestly, “It is… a lot.”
Her lips curved faintly. “It always is.”
Then, softer, “But not everything that is a lot is something to fear.”
He looked at her then, his expression steadier now.
“You are not afraid.”
She shook her head lightly. “No.”
“Why.”
Her hand rested again over her abdomen, her gaze lowering just slightly.
“Because I know I will not be alone.”
The words were simple. But they carried weight.
The kind that settled into something lasting.
Yufan did not respond immediately.
Instead, he stepped closer, his hand hesitating for only a second before resting gently over hers.
Neither of them spoke. They did not need to.
Outside, the palace continued as it always did.
But the news spread quickly.
“The young mistress is expecting.”
“A child.”
“This is good.”
“Very good.”
“Everything is falling into place.”
Servants smiled more easily. Officials spoke with renewed confidence.
The future, once discussed in careful terms, now felt closer.
More certain. And within the palace walls, life continued to unfold.
Carrying with it something new.
1997, Taipei Royal Residence — Early Spring
Time did not stop after the news.
It moved forward, steady and unquestioned, carrying everything with it.
And at the center of it all, Lin Meiyu changed.
But slowly, visibly, undeniably.
Her days became softer in structure, though no less important. The responsibilities she once handled from morning until night were gradually eased, passed carefully into other hands, though never fully taken from her. She still sat with documents, still listened, still advised, but now there was always someone beside her, watching, reminding, guiding.
“You should not strain yourself.”
“Rest a little longer.”
“Leave this for later.”
Her mother in law was the one who said it most.
Always calm. Always present. Always attentive in a way that left no room for refusal.
She would adjust Meiyu’s sleeves when they slipped too far, ensure her tea was warm but not too hot, watch her steps when she walked even the shortest distance.
“You must think of the child now,” she would say, her tone gentle but firm. “Nothing is more important.”
And Meiyu listened. She always did.
Her hand found its way to her stomach more often now, resting there without thought, as if grounding herself in something that was slowly becoming more real with each passing day.
By the time the weeks turned into months, the change was no longer subtle.
Her figure softened, her movements slower, more measured. The curve of her stomach began to show beneath the layers of silk, impossible to ignore, impossible to dismiss.
Servants spoke softer around her, their voices lowered instinctively. The corridors she walked were always cleared just a moment sooner. Even the air seemed to shift, making space for her presence.
“She is glowing.”
“It suits her.”
“The child will be strong.”
Everything about her was seen as something good.
The Lin family came to visit when the news had settled into certainty.
It was not a small event.
Arrangements were made carefully, reception prepared with the same attention as any important gathering. Your parents arrived with the composure they always carried, their presence commanding, their expressions controlled.
They had come for their daughter.
You stood at the far end of the hall when they entered, your figure half hidden behind one of the carved pillars. No one told you to come forward.
No one called your name. And you did not move.
Your mother’s gaze passed over the room, settling immediately on Meiyu. It softened in a way you had not seen directed at you in a long time.
“You look well,” she said, stepping closer.
Meiyu smiled gently. “I am.”
Your father nodded, his attention already shifting to the visible curve beneath her clothing. “Good.”
That was enough.
No questions. No hesitation. Just approval.
Servants moved quickly to bring tea, to arrange seats, to ensure everything was exactly as it should be. Conversations began, polite and measured, centered entirely around Meiyu, around the child, around the future that was already being imagined.
At one point, you took a step forward.
Not even enough to fully enter their space.
But it was noticed. Not by them. By someone else.
A quiet murmur reached you before you could take another step.
“Do not let her get too close.”
A second voice followed, lower.
“It is not appropriate.”
“She will bring bad luck.”
The words were not meant to reach you.
But they did.
They always did.
You stopped.
Your foot settled back into place without a sound.
Across the room, Meiyu was laughing softly at something your mother had said, her hand resting lightly over her stomach again. She looked… happy.
Safe. Surrounded.
The space around her was full.
The space around you was empty.
You turned your head slightly, your gaze dropping before it could linger too long.
There was no place for you there.
There never had been.
Later, when the gathering moved into a more private space, you were not called to join.
The doors closed.
Voices continued behind them, muffled, distant.
You stood in the corridor for a moment longer before turning away.
Your steps were quiet.
By evening, the palace had settled again, the visit continuing in contained spaces, conversations flowing where you were not present.
You found yourself back near the outer courtyard, the same place you had stood countless times before. The lanterns were already lit, their glow steady, unchanged by anything that had happened.
From a distance, you could see movement again.
Meiyu, walking slowly, one of the attendants beside her, another just behind. Her steps were careful now, deliberate, as if every movement carried more weight than before.
Her mother in law walked with her this time, her attention unwavering.
“Careful,” she said softly, her hand hovering just slightly, ready to steady if needed.
“I am fine,” Meiyu replied, though her pace did not quicken.
“You should not walk too long.”
“I wanted some air.”
A small pause.
Then, softer, “It feels different now.”
Her hand rested again over her stomach, her expression thoughtful, almost distant.
Her mother in law’s gaze followed the motion, something gentle passing through her expression. “It will only become more real from here.”
Meiyu nodded.
You watched for a moment. Just a moment.
Then you looked away. Your chest felt tight.
Not sharp. Not sudden.
Just… constant.
Like something that had settled there and refused to leave.
You leaned back slightly against the pillar behind you, your fingers curling loosely against the wood. Your eyes burned faintly, though no tears fell.
You did not let them. You had learned not to.
Because there was no one to see them.
No one to care. And no one who would understand.
Somewhere along the way, the words had stopped feeling like accusations.
They had become… facts.
Bad daughter. Bad sister. Trouble.
You let out a slow breath, your gaze fixed somewhere distant, unfocused.
“That is what I am,” you murmured quietly.
Not questioning. Not denying.
Just… accepting.
Across the courtyard, Meiyu’s soft laughter rose again, carried lightly through the evening air.
It did not reach you.
Or maybe it did. And you simply did not respond.
The palace stood as it always had. Beautiful. Unchanging.
Divided in ways no one ever spoke about.
And within it, life continued forward.
For some, it moved gently.
For others, it passed without ever truly touching them at all.
The palace learned how to speak about them in a single voice.
Lin Meiyu and Zhao Yufan.
A perfect union. A steady balance. A love that needed no proof because it appeared, to everyone watching, effortless and enduring.
They walked side by side, spoke with quiet understanding, fulfilled every expectation placed before them. There were no raised voices, no visible cracks, no moments that invited doubt. If anything, they were admired more with each passing month.
“They will last,” people said.
“They already have.”
But what the palace saw and what existed beneath it were not the same.
Meiyu loved him.
That much was real.
It showed in the way her gaze softened when it rested on him, in the way she listened even when he did not say much, in the small, careful efforts she made to ease the weight he carried without ever making it obvious.
Her love was gentle, patient, constant.
Yufan… was different.
Not unkind. Not distant in a way that could be criticized.
But measured.
Everything about him remained measured.
Even now. Even with her.
He cared for her. That was undeniable. He ensured her comfort, her safety, her needs were met before she ever had to ask. He listened when she spoke, responded when required, stood beside her exactly as he should.
But his thoughts were often elsewhere.
On the palace. On decisions waiting to be made.
On responsibilities that stretched far beyond the walls they lived in.
Marriage had not changed that.
If anything, it had only deepened it.
At night, when the palace quieted and the corridors emptied, there were moments where Meiyu would look at him and feel it.
Not absence. But distance.
A quiet space between them that no one else seemed to notice.
“You are thinking again,” she said once, her voice soft as she sat beside him.
He did not deny it. “There is much to consider.”
“There always will be.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Do you ever stop.”
He glanced at her briefly, then away. “I cannot afford to.”
She watched him for a moment longer, her hand resting lightly over the curve of her stomach.
“I do not want you to feel like you have to carry everything alone,” she said.
“I do not.”
But he did. And she knew it. Still, she smiled.
Because that was what she did. She made things easier.
Even when they were not.
As the months passed, her body changed more noticeably. The soft curve of her stomach grew into something undeniable, something that drew attention wherever she went.
Life was no longer just a quiet promise.
It was visible. Real.
Her steps slowed, her days shortened, her responsibilities carefully reduced. She was surrounded constantly now, never left alone for long, watched over with a level of care that bordered on suffocating but was accepted without question.
“You must rest.”
“Do not walk too far.”
“Be careful.”
Her mother in law remained closest, always present, always attentive. There was no room for error now. No room for risk.
The child mattered.
More than anything. More than anyone. Even more than her.
By the time winter approached, the palace had fully adjusted to the coming arrival. Rooms were prepared. Plans were made. Every detail considered, every possibility accounted for.
Foreign physicians had been brought in, their presence a quiet reassurance. They spoke in different accents, carried unfamiliar instruments, but their purpose was clear.
To ensure the child’s safe arrival.
Everything was ready. Everything was controlled.
Until it wasn’t.
It happened suddenly.
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had risen, before the palace had fully woken.
A sharp pain. A shift. And then—
“Call the physician.”
Her voice, strained for the first time.
Servants rushed. Doors opened. Footsteps echoed.
Water spilled across silk and floor, unmistakable, undeniable.
“It is time.”
The words spread faster than anything had before.
Yufan was there within moments, his composure intact but his movements sharper than usual. His eyes found her immediately, taking in every detail, every sign.
“Stay calm,” someone said.
“We are prepared.”
But preparation did not erase reality.
She was in pain. Real pain.
The kind that could not be softened by careful words or steady hands.
She was taken into the delivery room quickly, the doors closing behind her with finality.
Outside, the palace gathered.
Yufan stood closest. Still. Silent. Controlled.
But his hands were clenched at his sides, the only sign that something within him was not as steady as it appeared.
The Lin family arrived not long after, their presence urgent, their composure strained for the first time in years.
“How is she,” your mother demanded.
No one had an answer yet.
Time stretched. Minutes blurred into something longer.
Inside the room, voices rose and fell, instructions given, movements rushed.
“More pressure.”
“Careful.”
“She is losing too much—”
The words cut off, replaced with something more urgent, more controlled.
Outside, the tension grew.
Yufan did not move. Did not speak. But his gaze never left the door.
Not once.
Inside, the situation shifted. Quickly. Dangerously.
The physicians exchanged glances that did not need words.
Too much blood. Too fast.
“The child—”
“The mother—”
A choice. Unspoken. But understood. Only one.
Outside, no one knew yet. Not fully.
Only that something was wrong. Very wrong.
And then.
A servant appeared at the doorway, her expression pale, her voice unsteady.
“She… she is asking for the second miss.”
Immediate.
Your name had not been spoken like that in a long time.
Then your father spoke, his voice tight. “Let her inside.”
“Come,” the attendant said quickly. “You are needed.”
Needed. The word felt strange.
You did not hesitate. You followed.
By the time you reached the room, the air had changed.
It was thick. Tense.
Filled with something that pressed against your chest before you even stepped inside.
You hesitated only briefly before entering.
The sight in front of you.
It did not match anything you had imagined.
Meiyu laid pale against the sheets, her usual warmth drained, her breathing uneven, fragile. The strength that had always defined her seemed to flicker, barely holding.
For a moment, you could not move.
“Come closer.”
Her voice. Weak. But still hers.
You stepped forward slowly, your vision narrowing, everything else fading into the background.
Her eyes found you immediately.
And for the first time in your life
There was no distance in them.
Only urgency. Only something real.
“You came,” she whispered.
You swallowed, your throat tight. “They said you asked for me.”
Her lips curved faintly, though the effort showed. “Of course I did.”
You stood beside her, your hands uncertain, unsure where to rest, what to do.
She reached for you first.
Her fingers found yours, cold but firm, holding on with a strength that surprised you.
“I do not have much time,” she said softly.
Your breath caught. “Do not say that.”
“Listen to me.”
Her grip tightened slightly. “Please.”
You nodded, your vision blurring.
“If… if something happens to me,” she continued, her voice trembling now, “you have to promise me something.”
“What are you—”
“Promise me.”
Your hand shook in hers. “You are not going to—”
“Take care of my baby.”
Your heart stopped.
“I cannot—”
“You can.”
Her eyes held yours, steady despite everything.
“You are stronger than you think.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I am not,” you whispered.
“You are.”
Her voice softened further.
“They do not see you,” she said. “But I do.”
Your breath hitched.
“You have always been more than what they say.”
Another tear fell.
“Promise me,” she whispered.
You shook your head weakly, but your fingers tightened around hers.
“I… I promise.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
Relief. Soft. Quiet.
“Thank you.”
Her grip loosened slightly.
Her breathing faltered.
You leaned closer, panic rising. “Meiyu—”
Her eyes never left yours.
Not until the very end.
And then, they did.
Her hand went still in yours. The room fell silent.
For just a moment. And then—
A cry. Sharp. Clear. Alive. The baby.
A girl.
Delivered. Safe.
But she, meiyu.
Gone.
You did not move. Did not react.
Her hand still in yours.
Your tears falling silently, unnoticed.
Standing there. Holding her hand. The last one she saw. The last one she spoke to.
Grief did not arrive quietly.
It tore through the palace like something violent, something unforgiving, something that did not care who it touched or how deeply it cut.
The celebration that had once filled these halls was gone.
Replaced. Completely.
Lanterns still burned, but their light felt colder now, harsher against the silence that followed every whispered word, every stifled cry. Servants moved differently, their steps uncertain, their voices trembling.
No one knew where to look. No one knew what to say.
Because the truth was simple.
Lin Meiyu was gone.
And nothing in the palace knew how to exist without her.
Her name echoed everywhere now, but not in praise.
In disbelief. In sorrow.
In something that bordered on desperation.
“She was fine…”
“How could this happen…”
“She was so careful…”
“She was supposed to be safe…”
The words circled endlessly, searching for something to hold onto.
They found nothing.
And then—
They found you.
You were still standing in the same room when it began.
Still holding her hand long after it had gone cold.
Still unable to process the silence that had replaced her voice.
Someone pulled you back. Rougher than necessary.
Your fingers slipped from hers.
And just like that.
She was taken from you.
Covered. Hidden. Gone.
“No—”
You did not even realize the sound had come from you until it was too late.
Too soft. Too late. Too meaningless.
The room filled quickly after that.
Voices overlapping, grief spilling out in ways that could not be contained.
Your mother was the first to reach her.
A sound left her that did not sound human.
Not controlled. Not composed. Broken.
“Meiyu—”
She collapsed beside the bed, her hands grasping at what was no longer there, her voice shaking with something raw, something desperate.
“This cannot—this cannot be happening—”
Your father stood frozen, his face pale, his usual authority stripped away completely. He did not move at first.
He did not speak.
As if saying it out loud would make it real.
“She is gone,” someone said quietly.
Everything shattered.
Your mother’s head snapped up.
Her eyes found you.
Still standing there. Still too close. Still the last one.
“You—”
Her voice cracked. Then rose.
“What did you do.”
The room went still.
Your breath caught. “I—”
“You were with her,” she continued, her voice breaking but growing louder, sharper. “You were the last one with her.”
“I didn’t—”
“What did you say to her.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
The sound of the slap came before you even fully registered her movement.
Sharp. Loud.
Your head snapped to the side, the sting spreading across your cheek instantly, your ears ringing from the force of it.
“You killed her.”
The words hit harder than the slap.
You froze.
“I did not—”
“You killed her.”
Her voice was louder now, shaking, uncontrolled.
“She was fine until you went in.”
“That’s not true—”
“You were always jealous of her.”
The room shifted. Eyes turned. Whispers began.
“She envied her…”
“She never liked her happiness…”
“It makes sense…”
“No—” your voice broke this time. “No, that’s not what happened—”
“Then what did happen.”
The voice came from behind.
You turned.
Zhao Yufan stood there.
He looked nothing like he had before. The composure was gone.
The control. Gone.
What remained was something hollow. Something broken.
His eyes were fixed on you.
Not uncertain. Not questioning. Accusing.
“You were with her,” he said.
Each word slow. Deliberate.
You shook your head, tears finally spilling freely now. “She called me in—she wanted to—”
“To what,” he cut in sharply.
“To say goodbye?”
The word hit like a blade.
Your voice trembled. “She—she made me promise—”
His expression darkened further.
“Promise what.”
“To take care of—”
“You expect me to believe that.”
Your chest tightened painfully. “It’s the truth—”
“The truth is you were always jealous of her.”
“No—”
“The truth is you could never stand being compared to her.”
“That’s not—”
“The truth,” his voice broke slightly now, but it only made it worse, “is that she is dead, and you were the last one with her.”
The words settled into something final. Something unmovable.
You stared at him, your vision blurring completely now.
“You think I would do that,” you whispered.
Around you, the palace had already decided.
“She brought bad luck…”
“She always did…”
“A curse…”
“A bad daughter…”
“A bad sister…”
“A killer…”
The words came from everywhere.
From no one. From everyone.
You could not tell anymore.
Your mother’s voice rose again, louder, more desperate. “Get her out of here.”
No one hesitated this time.
Hands grabbed you. Pulled you back. You did not resist.
You did not speak. There was nothing left to say.
As you were dragged from the room, your gaze flickered once more to where Meiyu had been.
Gone. Completely.
As if she had never been there at all.
The door closed behind you.
And the sound of grief continued on the other side.
Unstoppable. Unforgiving.
Inside, Yufan did not move for a long time.
He stood where he was, his gaze fixed on the place where she had been, his expression empty in a way that was more terrifying than anything else.
“She promised…” your voice echoed faintly in his mind.
But it did not matter.
Nothing mattered. Not now. Not without her.
When he finally moved, it was slow.
Like something within him had been removed, leaving behind only what was necessary to stand, to breathe.
To exist. But not to live.
“She is gone,” someone said again, softer this time.
He did not respond.
His hand lifted slightly, as if reaching for something that was no longer there.
Then fell. Empty. The palace would recover. It always did.
But something had broken that night that would not be so easily repaired.
And at the center of it, two lives changed forever.
One buried. One blamed.
And one left behind, standing in the ruins of everything he had never realized he truly had.
Summary: Did you kill him? Or did he kill himself? No one knows.
Wonwoo always knew you were crazy. Not the cute kind of crazy, not even the harmless eccentric kind—no, you were the crazy-crazy type. The kind who lived on instinct and adrenaline and a strangely graceful chaos that somehow never collapsed on top of you.
He had known it since senior high school. You used to sit behind him, slumping low in your seat and hiding your face behind your arms to sneak in sleep during morning classes. It was always after training, always after another night where you pushed yourself too far. Quietly, without a word, Wonwoo would stay awake for the both of you. He wasn’t doing it out of kindness—at least that’s what he told himself. Someone had to make sure you two didn’t end up stuck in the detention room again.
You never spoke much. Sometimes he wondered if you even knew his name.
It stayed that way… until university.
Somehow both of you ended up in the same drama club—him by accident, you by deliberate choice. You had quit idol training by then, shedding years of pressure in exchange for a dream you were still piecing together: acting. Meanwhile, Wonwoo debuted first, his quiet high-school self pushed under the spotlight of the boyband life.
One night after practice for the club’s upcoming performance, you stopped him—breathless, hair messy from rehearsal, cheeks still warm under the fluorescent lights.
“I need someone,” you said suddenly.
Wonwoo turned, one eyebrow lifting. He still found it hard to understand how two people who trained in the same label for years, who literally sat an arm’s length apart in high school, somehow never actually formed a real conversation until now. Maybe that was your magic: appearing chaotic but always on your own path.
“I’m not following,” he said.
“Do you have a friend who’s handsome and nice too?” you asked casually, as if you weren’t dropping a bomb on him. You leaned back on the studio’s dusty wall, stretching your tired neck as though this was the most normal question in the world.
Wonwoo didn’t bother asking why—you were always unpredictable anyway. Handsome people? He knew plenty in the industry. But nice? Truly nice? That narrowed the list to exactly one person.
Kim Mingyu.
“Do you think he’ll go on a date with me?” you added before he could open his mouth. “Just one time. For acting observation.” Your shrug was light, practical, as though you were asking for an extra pen. Wonwoo watched you for a moment, then the reasoning clicked. Observation. You needed a reference for a role.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll let him know and give him your number.”
He didn’t wait for your reaction. He simply picked up his bag, pushed open the studio door, and walked out. The hallway lights flickered for a second, and he didn’t even look back.
“She’s… she’s crazy…” Mingyu said, biting his bottom lip so hard it almost left a mark. Wonwoo had only asked a simple question—How was the date?—but Mingyu looked like he had just survived a hurricane.
“Or maybe I was the crazy one,” Mingyu muttered, eyes fluttering shut as if replaying a scene he wasn’t ready to see again. His shoulders rose, fell. Then rose again. Wonwoo could practically hear his brain malfunctioning.
“I’m definitely the crazy one,” he concluded finally, pressing his forehead to the dining table with a sigh so dramatic it echoed in their dorm kitchen.
Wonwoo chuckled under his breath. “What’s wrong? What happened?” His voice was calm, almost too calm, but curiosity glinted at the edges.
Mingyu mumbled something into the wood—completely incoherent.
Wonwoo kicked his shin. “Talk louder.”
Mingyu snapped upright.
“We had sex!”
The words hit the room like a brick. Wonwoo blinked, stunned into silence as he watched Mingyu flail in embarrassment, cheeks burning red.
“And… and… she could walk. She can walk!”
Wonwoo’s brows knitted. “What do you mean she walked?”
Mingyu ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and overwhelmed.
“She was in a wheelchair the whole time, hyung! And I— I thought I should be a gentleman. She looked so pretty, and she was so kind. I was trying to be respectful!”
Wonwoo’s jaw dropped a little, disbelief spreading across his face.
“It was a really nice date,” Mingyu went on, words tumbling out too fast. “But I screwed up, because we kissed— and that was it, that was it for me— I lost control and… and… we slept together. Hyung, it was my first time. God damn it.”
Wonwoo exhaled sharply, putting the pieces together at last. Kyoko. You were playing Kyoko. The character from Beautiful Life—the adaptation script for their upcoming show. The girl in the wheelchair.
You were crazy. Acting so well you dragged Kim Mingyu into the role with you.
And that— that was the exact moment Wonwoo realized something uncomfortable, something undeniable. You were dangerous. Reckless, immersive, impossible to predict. The kind of person who blurred the line between performance and reality. The kind of person who could pull even the sanest man into your orbit.
And just like Mingyu, Wonwoo felt the pull. He told himself you were crazy. But maybe—just maybe—he was becoming crazy too.
*
You failed to debut as an actress too—though not because you weren’t good enough. Everyone knew you were brilliant. You had the kind of presence casting directors remembered even after fifty auditions. But talent didn’t matter when your father was rich enough to buy three production houses and strict enough to crush your dreams with a signature.
He didn’t want you on screen. He wanted you behind a desk, your name printed neatly on the director board, part of the family empire he’d been grooming you for since you were ten. So you disappeared from the industry without a sound.
Wonwoo didn’t see you for years after that. Life pulled him in a different direction too—his group disbanded, and he threw himself into acting, slowly building a name for himself through bit roles, supporting roles, then finally leads.
He thought the memories of you would fade with time. The two a.m. practices in the university drama room— The stolen kisses to “practice the scene”. The way you flirted like it was breathing—without effort, without guilt. He assumed all of that would stay locked in that smoke-filled, dusty rehearsal room forever.
But then he met you again. You weren’t the girl in baggy training pants and smudged eyeliner anymore. You were polished now—hair sleek, suit tailored, confidence sharpened into something business-like. You approached him at a gala, champagne in hand, as if years hadn’t carved an entire lifetime between you.
“I’m working on a beauty brand,” you said, your tone friendly but your posture all CEO. “I want you as the face of it.”
Wonwoo didn’t even pretend to think it over. There was no reason to reject you. No reason he wanted to. And somehow, the things you both left behind in university— all of it stirred back to life. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Before either of you consciously decided anything, you were dating.
And somehow, Wonwoo found that your craziness—your impulsiveness, your unpredictability—wasn’t just tolerable. It was sexy.
“It’s called a business strategy, love,” you whispered one night, your voice velvety in the dark. “You may date that actress in public. It’s good for your image too.”
You said it so casually despite having him pinned beneath you, despite how his breath kept catching every time you rolled your hips. His hands trembled where they held your waist, not in fear but in the helplessness of wanting you too much. No one had ever undone him like this.
“I’ll be the only one…” you murmured, leaning close enough for your breath to brush his lips, “…to have you like this. Right?”
Your words were hardly more than a whisper, but they hit him with the force of a confession and a demand all at once.
Wonwoo gasped for air, his self-control slipping with every shift of your body. He was too far gone in whatever spell you wove around him—this dizzying blend of chaos, confidence, and tenderness that was so uniquely yours.
You were heaven in a form he’d never expected. Not the polished actress you once aimed to be, not the exhausted trainee he used to sit in front of in class, not the girl he shared detention hours with because you couldn’t stay awake through morning lessons.
But this you. Unrestrained. Certain. Beautiful in a way that didn’t need permission. And God—he didn’t even try to resist you.
“Y/n… I— I can’t…”
Wonwoo’s voice broke, strained and trembling, the way it only ever did with you. His fingers curled helplessly against your sides, his breath coming out in short, pleading bursts. He wasn’t even trying to hide how undone he was.
“Please… let me…” His desperation hit you first, then the memory of why you had him like this in the first place. “Not yet, baby.”
Your voice was low, controlled, edged with something dangerous. “Remember what you did.”
His eyes flickered—shame, frustration, overwhelming want.
The scandal. The staged kiss with an actress. Fabricated by his label to bury a political issue. He didn’t choose it, but the public didn’t care.
Wonwoo let out a sound—half moan, half apology—and tried to steady himself by gripping your waist, but you pushed his hands back down firmly, pinning him with a gaze that made him shiver.
You leaned down, your forehead brushing his, letting him feel the warmth of your breath, the firmness of your control.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He obeyed instantly. Your hand slid up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing his lower lip with deliberate possession, your touch turning his entire body into electricity.
“These,” you murmured, eyes dropping to his mouth, “belong to me.”
Your voice softened but never lost its dominance.
“All of you… is mine.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering, completely undone by the certainty in your tone — by how effortlessly you could take him apart without needing to raise your voice or even touch him more.
In that moment, he wasn’t thinking about cameras, labels, scandals, or the actress he’d been forced to kiss. He was thinking only of you. Of how no one had ever owned him the way you did.
Of how no one ever could.
*
Jeon Wonwoo, the rising idol-actor, was found dead in the Han River after missing for a month.
The headline spread like wildfire. Everyone whispered the same thing: suicide. It had only been three months since Jang Yani — the actress he was publicly dating — died in a car accident.
“It must’ve been hard for him.”
“Rest in peace, both of them.”
“They’re flying together in heaven now.”
You chuckled as you scrolled through the comments under a news article announcing Wonwoo’s death. The sound was light, almost amused — completely at odds with the gravity of the situation.
Across from you, Mingyu stood trembling in all black, eyes swollen and red from crying. He looked like the ghost of the boy he used to be, shoulders shaking, breaths uneven. He had run straight from the funeral to your office, still smelling faintly of incense and wet soil.
“You don’t look sad at all,” Mingyu said, voice hoarse, disappointment coating every syllable. “You didn’t even send him off for the last time.”
Your finger paused mid-scroll. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his. “Why would I?” You spun your chair to face him fully. “Why should I mourn someone who's cheating? He’s going straight to hell, anyway.”
The words were cold. Too cold. Mingyu snapped. He stormed forward and shoved your chair so hard it slammed into the desk behind you. The wheels screeched; pens rattled; a picture frame fell face down. He leaned in close, eyes blazing with a fury you had never seen from him.
“Don’t you dare badmouth him,” Mingyu hissed.
You tilted your head, unbothered. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m not threatening,” he growled. “I’m promising.”
“I’ll find proof,” Mingyu continued, chest heaving. “I know you killed him. I know it. Because I knew how he loved you — and I know he would never leave you on his own. Not like this.”
Your expression didn’t move, but something sharp flickered in your gaze.
“I swear to God,” Mingyu said, voice breaking, “I’ll do everything to show the world who you really are, Y/n.”
A brief silence stretched between you — heavy, humming, dangerous. Then you leaned back in your chair, calm as a blade being sheathed.
“Good luck with that, Kim Mingyu.” He flinched at the way you said his name.
“You better not be swayed,” you smirked as you delivered the line that caused Mingyu's eyes to tremble.
Wonwoo had mentioned once — almost too casually — that Mingyu used to have a crush on you. Or maybe it wasn’t just a crush. Maybe it was the remnants of your shared early twenties, when the two of you briefly dated after that one impulsive night neither of you talked about afterward.
Mingyu would insist on dropping by the drama club just to watch rehearsals. Just to see you. Wonwoo always noticed.
“He told you that?” you asked, laughing softly as you lay against Wonwoo’s bare chest, your cheek rising and falling with each steady breath he took. “He really does overshare.”
Wonwoo’s arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until your legs tangled with his. He brushed aside the damp strands of hair clinging to your forehead, his touch slow and lazy, the way he always got after moments like these.
“And,” he murmured, “I think he also told me he found being intimate with you… was unforgettable.”
Your eyes narrowed playfully. “He needs to stuff his mouth with a dozen shirts.”
Wonwoo chuckled, the sound low and warm against your ear.
“And that,” he said, tilting his head so his lips grazed your skin, “is how I discovered your little secret.”
He let his breath tickle your ear before whispering, voice dipped in amusement and something darker: “…your kink.”
*
You liked being in charge. Wonwoo found it endlessly amusing, mostly because your day-to-day life didn’t show much of that authority at all. Your secretary, Seungkwan, practically ran your schedule with surgical precision, handling calls, organizing meetings, smoothing out conflicts before they ever reached your desk. You only had to walk in during major presentations—poised, calm, immaculate—looking every bit like the woman who had everything under control.
But Wonwoo knew better. Knew you. Deep down, you loved authority. You just rarely got the chance to show it. That was why he was leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, watching the untouched vegetables you’d insisted on chopping yourself.
“Do you want me to do it, baby?” Wonwoo asked gently, voice warm as honey. His eyes drifted from the knife to your stubborn expression, and he smiled.
“No, you sit.” You told him, without looking up.
He bit back a bigger grin. He loved that tone in your voice—gentle but firm, soft but commanding. “I like when you act tough like that,” he murmured.
You turned your head just enough to give him a look. “What do you mean?”
Wonwoo tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The kitchen light caught on his jaw, making him look unfairly handsome. “Nothing,” he said, teasing. “Just admiring my sexy girlfriend.”
You scoffed under your breath. “What’s so sexy about a bossy woman?”
He chuckled, stepping closer so his chest brushed your shoulder. His voice lowered, turning almost intimate. “You don’t understand, baby.”
You raised a brow, challenging him. “Then explain.”
He let the silence linger for a beat—just long enough for the air between you to warm.
“It’s not just bossy women,” he said finally. His fingers gently brushed your waist. “It’s bossy you.”
Your heartbeat kicked up, but you kept your expression cool. “You like it when someone tells you what to do?”
Wonwoo shook his head slowly, leaning in so his breath tickled your ear. His voice dropped to a low whisper—honest, playful, and a little too soft.
“I like it,” he said, “when you tell me what to do.”
“Liar.”
The word slipped from your mouth before you could stop it, sharp and instinctive.
“Don’t you also like it when your boss tells you to do everything?” you added, your tone edged with something brittle—jealousy, maybe, though you hated admitting that.
Park Miran.
The director of the company Wonwoo had been signed to ever since his acting career took off. You never met her, yet her name felt like a splinter you couldn’t pull out.
“You let her cook your public dating life for years,” you said, slicing the vegetables a little too aggressively.
Wonwoo blinked, taken aback. He took a small step back—not because he was afraid, but because he recognized the storm in your eyes. “Baby… you know it’s just for the public.”
You hummed, noncommittal, the sound low and unamused.
“And you seem to enjoy it more than you’re supposed to. Does Jang Yani cook you breakfast too?” you asked, the sarcasm dripping like honey laced with poison.
Wonwoo exhaled slowly. “Baby… no. Never.”
Your jaw tightened. “Or Park Miran?” you pressed. “You tend to do everything for her.”
His eyes softened immediately. “I’ll do everything for you, baby.”
Your hands paused mid-motion. The knife hovered over the cutting board, and the kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, too still.
“For real?” you asked, your voice quieter—less sharp, less defensive. Almost fragile.
Wonwoo stepped closer, his hand brushing your lower back with cautious affection. He nodded once, firmly. “For real.”
You swallowed, searching his eyes. The question left your lips in a whisper that tasted like challenge and vulnerability mixed together.
“Even kill for me? Die for me?”
Silence unfurled between you. Heavy. Charged. Wonwoo didn’t look away—not even for a heartbeat. Then he nodded. Slow. Deliberate. “Even kill for you,” he said, voice low, unwavering.
“And die for you.”
*
Wonwoo drank far too much. The world tilted every time he blinked, and he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to recognize where he was. But the moment his blurred gaze caught the familiar ceiling—the faint crack near the light fixture—he exhaled shakily.
Home. He was in his apartment.
“Y/n…? Is that you, baby…?” His voice came out slurred and weak, as if his tongue couldn’t keep up with his thoughts.
Warm hands touched his torso, guiding him to sit up, helping him out of his shirt. Wonwoo didn’t resist. He didn’t even question it. It felt familiar—something you always did when he came home too exhausted from schedules to take care of himself.
His head lolled to the side, consciousness slipping. “Cold…” he whispered when those hands didn’t dress him again, only left him bare to the air.
A slow, unfamiliar touch slid lower, drifting into territory that made his fogged brain spark with faint alarm. But he was too drunk, too sedated, too far from control.
“Baby… I don’t think I can…” he murmured, his voice cracking in confusion and discomfort.
His eyelids fluttered, refusing to stay open, the world sinking into a dark blur.
He didn’t fight. He couldn’t. His body felt captured in sleep even while waking terror pulsed somewhere deep inside.
Eventually, everything went black.
Morning light seeped through the curtains, warm across his eyes. Wonwoo groaned softly, hand reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed. For once, you were still there—he thought. Sleeping in.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“Good morning…” he breathed, his voice rough.
But the second his fingers brushed hair that felt wrong—shorter, unfamiliar—an icy chill shot up his spine.
Wonwoo froze.
His vision snapped into focus. His heart began to race. Inches away from him lay a woman who wasn’t you. He scrambled back, breath quivering, a cold sweat breaking over his skin.
The woman shifted in her sleep, turning over. Jang Yani. His stomach twisted violently.
Fragments of the night before flickered in his mind—the wrong hands, the wrong voice, the heavy sense of sinking into unconsciousness before he could form words. He remembered drinking. But not enough to black out. Not enough to forget everything. Not enough to be this defenseless.
A horrifying realization crawled up his spine as his pulse hammered in his ears. She had drugged him. Driven him home. Taken advantage of him while he was unconscious.
Wonwoo’s breath broke. His hands trembled. He felt sick. This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn't a drunken misunderstanding. This was a violation—deliberate and calculated. His voice trembled in the quiet morning air. “…What did you do to me?”
Months later, it was a quiet afternoon when the elevator to his apartment opened and Jang Yani walked out like she owned the air in the hallway.
Wonwoo had barely enough strength to stand. He watched her place a hand over her stomach as if she expected him to disintegrate on the spot.
“We need to talk,” she said, voice too calm for what she was about to ruin.
Wonwoo didn’t answer. His jaw clenched until he tasted metal.
“It’s yours,” she whispered, sliding a sonogram photo on the countertop between them. “I’m pregnant.”
His heart didn’t drop. It didn’t break. It simply stopped. Time moved, but he stayed frozen.
“That’s impossible,” he forced out.
Yani looked away, then back at him with watery eyes. “It happened. That night—”
“No.” His voice cracked. “You drugged me. You took me home. You—”
“Wonwoo, I didn’t mean—”
He stepped away from her like she was fire. His hands shook. His breath trembled. And he felt something inside him collapse, quietly, like a building giving up from the inside.
It didn’t take long before the company entered the picture because they always do. They always know.
By morning, six executives sat around a table, as if discussing a marketing strategy instead of his life.
“This is an opportunity,” one of them said.
“For who?” Wonwoo asked.
“For everyone.”
They spoke about timing. Public sympathy. Brand value. Synergy. Words that didn’t belong to human lives but to numbers on a screen.
“We’ll release the announcement tomorrow,” the manager said, sliding a press statement toward him.
“You and Yani are getting married.”
The room blurred. Wonwoo blinked through it, but the walls didn’t come back into focus.
“I’m already with someone,” he whispered.
They smiled politely. Insincerely.
“And she isn’t publicly known. Her involvement won’t damage the company’s reputation if she disappears quietly.”
He laughed once—broken. Too broken. He tried to reach you. He tried until his fingers cramped and his voice cracked and every unanswered call cut a little deeper.
But you didn’t pick up. Your line went dead. Your number—blocked or changed. Seungkwan kept sending back the same message: She doesn’t want to see you.
Wonwoo understood. He had spent months hiding the truth from you, and the truth came back to swallow him whole.
He stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Stopped functioning. His apartment smelled like spilled alcohol and cold air. He kept the curtains closed because daylight felt like a punishment he didn’t deserve. His manager started picking him up for schedules, dragging him out like a ghost. He acted. He smiled. He answered questions about his upcoming marriage and “the blessing” on the way.
Every camera flash made him feel further from himself. Every congratulatory message pushed him deeper into the dark. You were everywhere in that darkness. Your voice. Your fingerprints on his skin. Your perfume lingering on the collar of the jacket he refused to wash.
Wonwoo kept wondering, if he had told you sooner, if he had confessed everything the morning after, if he had held onto you tighter that night—
Would you still be here?
*
You let him see you after a full month of punishing silence. A month of unanswered calls, deleted messages, and unopened gifts he kept sending like a man trying to bargain with fate. He never expected you’d come back on your own. Not like this.
Wonwoo had just finished his schedule, showered, and was half-drifting toward bed when the doorbell rang. The sound cut through the quiet like a blade. He frowned, checked the monitor and his heart dropped.
You stood there. Slightly wobbly on your feet. Hair messy from the night wind. Eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed from alcohol. But unmistakably you.
“Baby…” he breathed out, voice cracking as he sprinted to the door.
He almost threw himself into your arms but you stopped him with a single raised palm, an invisible wall he could feel physically slam into.
Your expression was unreadable as you stepped past him. You removed your shoes slowly, neatly, like you were entering a stranger’s house. Then you walked inside without waiting for him, heading straight for the living room with the gait of someone trying very hard to stay balanced.
Wonwoo followed behind you like a shadow. Terrified. Hopeful. Desperate to touch you but afraid of breaking what little space you allowed him.
You collapsed onto the couch with a soft thud. He stayed standing, too scared to come close, too afraid you’d disappear again if he breathed wrong.
You let out a low chuckle, not a happy one. More like someone laughing at a cruel joke the universe had played on them. Your eyes roamed the room lazily, taking in the space with a kind of drunken clarity.
“So,” you muttered, your voice slicing through the silence, “this is where you touched her.”
Wonwoo’s breath stuttered. The words hit him like a punch.
Your gaze drifted toward him, unfocused but sharp enough to wound.
“All that acting with her for years…”
Your smirk curled, bitter and broken. “…maybe it wasn’t really acting, huh?”
The air between you tightened, suffocating. Wonwoo felt the burn of shame crawl up his throat, felt panic settle into his lungs like smoke. Wonwoo took a breath that trembled on the way out.
“Y/n, I swear—”
“Swear what?” You cut him off, fingers dragging down your face before pushing roughly through your hair. Your voice cracked. “Swear you didn’t do it? I met her, Wonwoo. She’s fucking pregnant!”
Your arms lifted helplessly, the liquor thinning the walls around your feelings. Your eyes shone wet, red, and full of something far worse than anger—disappointment. The kind that crushes more than it burns.
And Wonwoo broke. He dropped to his knees in front of you so fast it was almost a collapse, head bowed, shoulders tight, hands trembling against his thighs.
“I wouldn’t do it,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You know I wouldn’t. You know I wouldn’t.”
“But you did.” Your tone was soft, but it hit harder than any yell could have.
Wonwoo’s breath hitched. His eyes burned instantly, hot with tears he had been forcing down for months. Just hearing the accusation—hearing your disbelief—made his chest fold in on itself.
He shook his head violently, as if he could get the memory out if he denied it hard enough. As if he could undo it. But that night stayed with him like poison.
“I didn’t know,” he choked out. “I was— I was too unconscious. I wasn’t aware. And she—”
His voice shattered. “She used me. She took advantage of me.”
The words scraped his throat raw. The shame in his expression was unbearable—his jaw trembling, breath stuttering, his shoulders shaking as months of swallowed guilt finally clawed their way out.
A sob escaped him. Then another. His whole body folded, like the weight of everything finally crushed him into the floor.
You watched him unravel, watched the man you loved break open in front of you. The alcohol fog thinned just enough for clarity to slip in, and suddenly the room felt unbearably still.
Just the ticking of the clock, the soft hum of the refrigerator, Wonwoo’s muffled cries—and that dizzying ring in your skull that had followed you since the moment you woke up this morning.
He didn’t try to touch you. He didn’t dare.
“I swear,” he whispered again, voice barely holding together, “I would never touch anyone but you.”
He lifted his face just enough for you to see the devastation in his expression—eyes swollen, cheeks streaked, lips trembling.
“I love you too much.”
You didn’t say anything for a long moment. The air in the room felt like it was burning, thick enough to choke on. Wonwoo’s voice kept breaking as he explained everything — how that night, in his drunken haze and guilt, he thought it was you; how he didn’t push away because some pathetic part of him wanted it to be you; how he let it happen because he missed you so much it twisted him blind.
Your hands were cold, but your head felt like it was boiling. He said it. He actually said it out loud.
Jeon Wonwoo. Your Jeon Wonwoo. The man who claimed to love you more than anything in his life. The man who swore that he would never, ever touch a woman the way he touched you. The man who looked at you now with his chest visibly shaking, eyes rimmed red, terrified of losing you.
“I thought it was you,” he whispered, and the words made your stomach turn. “I knew the moment I sobered up— I knew it was wrong. I knew it wasn’t you. And I can’t forgive myself.”
You didn’t blink. You didn’t breathe. You couldn’t.
“Jeon Wonwoo…”
He swallowed hard. He looked like he was already on the floor, even while standing in front of you. His eyes lifted to yours slowly, afraid of what he’d see.
“There are only two options that I can think about— that will let go of this sting in my chest.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched. But he didn’t interrupt. He waited. He waited because he knew he deserved whatever came out of your mouth.
Your face didn’t move. Your voice didn’t shake.
“Either I kill her,” you said quietly, like you were stating a fact.
“Or I kill you.”
The look on his face shattered into something beyond fear — something close to acceptance, like he already expected it, like he had rehearsed his death in his head every night since that mistake.
He didn’t step back. He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t even flinch.
“If that’s what it takes,” Wonwoo whispered, voice trembling, “I won’t run.”
He looked at you like he was already saying goodbye — like he knew he had no right to ask for mercy, no right to beg, no right to breathe the same air as you anymore.
The silence that followed was not quiet.
It screamed.
*
Wonwoo had witnessed you kill someone before. It was on your second anniversary — a day he still couldn’t think about without feeling his lungs tighten. You told him you’d be home early to prepare dinner for the two of you. He was excited, almost embarrassingly so. He’d said goodbye to everyone on set with such unusual cheer that even the staff joked about him going on a date.
He drove straight to your place afterward, making sure he looked presentable. Nice shirt, neat hair, no traces of fatigue. Perfect enough to greet the woman he loved.
But the moment he stepped out of the car, something felt off. The walk from the parking lot to your unit felt heavy, as if the air was pushing against him. The quiet of the hallway pressed into his ears. He stopped in front of your door, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and dread.
He could’ve entered the passcode immediately — he’d done it a thousand times. Your home was his second home. Your kitchen, your couch, your bed were familiar enough for him to navigate blindfolded.
But today… today he wanted you to greet him. He imagined you opening the door with your hair tied back, apron strings hanging loosely at your waist, the warm smell of your cooking spilling out into the hallway. Maybe you’d smile shyly, maybe you’d tease him for being early, maybe you’d kiss him before dragging him inside.
He wanted that moment. He waited for it. So he rang the doorbell. Once. Twice. A third time. Nothing. No footsteps approaching. No locks clicking. No soft voice calling his name from the other side.
His heart began to beat in the wrong places — throat, temples, palms. His fingers trembled as he finally reached for the keypad. He entered the passcode, and the door unlocked with that familiar soft beep. But the moment he stepped inside, something was wrong.
Your unit was silent. Completely still. No sizzling pan, no humming, no sound of running water, not even the faint creak of you moving around. Just stillness. Stillness so thick it felt alive.
He closed the door behind him slowly, his breath barely moving, a feeling he couldn’t explain crawling up his spine as he took his first step into the darkness of your home.
He walked slowly, careful not to startle you. He assumed you might be in the kitchen with your back turned, perhaps too focused on slicing vegetables to hear the door. So he called your name softly as he stepped further inside.
“Y/n?”
No answer. The air felt wrong again. He rounded the corner toward the dining area, expecting your usual anniversary setup — candles, wine glasses, the soft warmth you always crafted for him.
Instead, he froze. His breath vanished so fast it punched a hole through his chest. You were there, but not the way he imagined.
You were kneeling on the floor, your back rising and falling with sharp breaths. Blood splattered across your face, your clothes, your hands. It dripped from your fingers in slow, sticky lines.
And beneath you—a man he recognized instantly. Your uncle. Motionless.
Your hand was still wrapped around the handle of the knife lodged in his chest, the blade gleaming red under the dining room lights.
For a long moment, all he could do was stare. He didn’t shout. Didn’t move. Couldn’t.
You slowly lifted your head at the sound of his breath catching. Your eyes met his — wild, trembling, something unhinged and yet heartbreakingly familiar buried underneath.
“Wonwoo…” you whispered, as if waking from a trance.
The knife slipped from your hand and clattered onto the tiles. He took a single step back, but only because his knees nearly buckled. The metallic smell of blood thickened the air between you, and he realized with a sickening twist that his mind couldn’t process the scene fast enough.
Your lips trembled as Wonwoo stared at you, still frozen in the doorway. Blood pooled beneath your knees, thick and dark, and yet all you could focus on was the sound of your own heartbeat—so loud you wondered if he could hear it too.
“Wonwoo…” you whispered again, your voice cracking, no longer sounding like yourself. “I—he—”
But the words died before they reached your tongue.
“He hurt me.” Your voice was thin. Detached. Almost childlike.
Wonwoo’s breath hitched.
Your eyes drifted to the man beneath you—your uncle’s face twisted into a slack, lifeless expression. You killed your uncle that night—not out of rage, not out of impulse, but out of survival. Out of reclaiming every piece of yourself stolen from you since you were ten years old.
Wonwoo didn’t ask for details. Not then. Not while you were kneeling over a corpse with blood drying on your fingers. Instead, he moved toward you with the kind of carefulness he usually reserved for fragile artifacts or newborn kittens—slow, deliberate, terrified of breaking you even further.
“Give me the knife,” he whispered.
You blinked at him, dazed. “Wonwoo…”
“Give it to me, sweetheart.”
Your fingers unclenched. The blade slipped into his palm without resistance. He didn’t flinch at the blood, didn’t recoil from the warmth still lingering on the metal. He simply set it aside on the tile before gently taking your wrists.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
You hadn’t noticed. You looked down. Your hands trembled so violently they blurred in your vision.
“Come,” he said softly.
He helped you stand—not with force, but with a steady guiding touch, the way someone might lead a frightened animal out of a storm. You allowed him to pull you to the bathroom, each step feeling too light, too unreal. Wonwoo turned on the tap, warm water rushing in a soft hiss.
“Let me,” he murmured.
He washed your hands himself. Every finger. Every knuckle. Every stain. His touch was gentle, as if he thought scrubbing too hard would wound you, as if he feared the water might wash away more than just blood. When he lifted your chin, you saw his eyes—dark, steady, and broken.
“You’re safe now.”
You didn’t feel safe. Not until he said it. He guided you back into the living room after he finished cleaning your hands and face. The body was still there, sprawled across the wooden floor like an abandoned shadow.
Wonwoo stared at it for a long moment, his jaw tight. Not shocked. Not disgusted. Resolute.
“Y/n,” he said quietly, “wait in the bedroom.”
You shook your head instantly. “No. I—I should—”
“You’ve done enough,” he said, a tremble in his voice. “Please. Let me take care of the rest.”
There was something in his tone that made your knees give in. The exhaustion finally clawed through your adrenaline, sinking you. You backed away slowly, your eyes still glued to the lifeless body until the bedroom door closed behind you.
Wonwoo stayed in the living room. And he cleaned. He wiped the floor, scrubbing until there wasn’t a trace of red left. He gathered the clothes soaked in blood and stuffed them into bags. He moved with an eerie calmness, his mind blank except for one repeating thought:
You must never face this alone again.
Finally, when everything around the room was spotless, when only the body remained. He approached it, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
He rolled the body into the tarp he had found in your storage closet—something you kept for painting projects. How ironic, he thought bitterly. The tarp made no sound when the corpse thudded into it. He tied it securely, lifted it with a quiet grunt, and carried it out with the kind of steadiness that only came from absolute determination.
He hid it. Disposed of it. Erased it. For you. By the time he returned, your apartment smelled faintly of a cleaning solution and cooling dinner—the dinner you’d tried to prepare before the night shattered.
Wonwoo entered your bedroom quietly.
You were sitting on the floor, knees hugged to your chest, staring at nothing.
He lowered himself beside you.
Your head slowly turned toward him, eyes hollow.
“It’s done,” he whispered.
Something inside you cracked—not loudly, not violently, but in a quiet shatter, like thin ice breaking underfoot.
You leaned into him.
And for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to cry. Wonwoo held you, his hand on the back of your head, his voice buried in your hair.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not after this.”
He meant it. Every word. Even if he had to stain his hands forever. Even if he had to carry your darkness as his own. He would. He already had.
*
Mingyu chuckled—quiet, disbelieving, a sound edged with bitterness. Of course you would twist the situation. Of course money and power would fold the world to your will, just like they always had.
He stood in the living room with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the television as the breaking-news banner flashed red across the bottom of the screen.
PARK MIRAN ARRESTED FOR ARTIST ABUSE, MONEY LAUNDERING SCHEME
The footage showed her being escorted by officers, hands cuffed, her face stony behind the cameras, as reporters clawed for statements. The nation exploded in chaos—an uproar of betrayal, shock, and sudden “empathy” for the actors she exploited.
Mingyu’s jaw shifted as he watched. You had buried her. Neatly. Efficiently. Like flicking a chess piece off the board. With your parents’ influence and your own connections, the scandal had erupted overnight—brutal, precise. The woman who once controlled Wonwoo’s life was now nothing but a headline.
Mingyu exhaled sharply through his nose. He grabbed his coat, unable to stand in that room anymore. He needed to face you. Needed answers. Needed to know how much of this was vengeance—and how much of it was guilt.
By the time he reached your office, he was already fuming. The security guard bowed to him, letting him in without question, and Mingyu stalked through the hallway with long, purposeful strides.
Your door wasn’t even fully closed. You were inside, legs crossed at your desk, tapping your pen against a document with bored calm. As if the world outside wasn’t burning. As if a woman you had silently declared war on wasn’t being dragged away on national television.
Mingyu didn’t bother knocking. He shoved the door open. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look up at first. You simply murmured, “I told you to stop stomping around my office like a stray dog. It ruins the carpet.”
Finally, your eyes lifted. Mingyu stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling, anger coiled so tightly inside him he looked ready to snap. He took a slow step in.
“I’m done,” he said, voice low, trembling not with fear but with fury. “I’m done with your attitude. With your games. With the way you treat everyone like pieces on a board.”
Your pen paused mid-tap. Mingyu continued, voice sharpening, “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t know you’re pulling strings behind all this? Park Miran’s downfall, the articles, the sudden investigations—”
He pointed at you, his hand shaking. “You’re cleaning the board. You’re sweeping every obstacle out of Wonwoo’s name like you’re preparing for something.”
You leaned back in your chair, expression unreadable. He swallowed hard. “And I want to know why.”
Silence. Heavy. Dense. Unmoving. You smiled—slow, thin, dangerous. “Mingyu,” you murmured, “isn’t it obvious?”
He stared. You set your pen down, leaned forward, and rested your chin on your hand. “I told her,” you began, voice steady, almost lazy, “to keep her nose out of my business.”
Mingyu froze. Your eyes lifted to him—calm, cold, and carrying something he couldn’t name. “But she came to me anyway,” you continued, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your coffee cup, “storming in, pointing her finger in my face… accusing me of killing Wonwoo.”
You scoffed—a tiny, humorless sound.
“We both know,” you said, leaning back in your chair, “how she treated him.”
The air seemed to shrink around Mingyu. A chill crawled down his arms as he studied your expression—too composed, too deliberate, too unbothered by the accusation of murder.
And the worst part? You didn’t deny it.
“And didn’t I tell you, Mingyu,” you said quietly, almost gently, as if scolding a child rather than warning a grown man, “that if you keep doing this—”
You lifted your eyes, and Mingyu felt something primal jolt in his chest.
“—poking at my side,” you finished, voice dropping to a low whisper, “it’ll only leave you with more harm than good.”
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They settled into the room like a cold fog, crawling up Mingyu’s spine until his breath hitched. You didn’t blink. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t threaten him outright. You didn’t have to. Your calm was the threat.
Mingyu swallowed hard, feeling suddenly aware of how small your office felt… how close the walls were… how far the door seemed. And for the very first time, as your gaze pinned him in place, he realized. You weren’t someone who made empty promises.
Bad news traveled fast in the industry, but that month it traveled like wildfire.
An actor from another label was caught in a drug scandal. A well-known producer was arrested for embezzlement. A manager from a top company was charged with assault. A director—someone Mingyu had worked with in his rookie days—was hospitalized after a mysterious car accident.
At first, Mingyu thought it was just the usual cycle of the entertainment world. People rose, people fell. Rumors turned into scandals. Scandals turned into headlines.
But the more he watched from the sidelines, the more the pattern began to form—quietly, eerily, unmistakably. These weren’t random people. They were connected. Connected to him. Connected to Wonwoo.
The director who forced Wonwoo to redo a kiss scene 11 times. The producer who threatened to blacklist him if he didn’t play along with fake dating. The management rep who took Yani’s side in every argument, even the ones clearly unfair. The old manager who once hit Wonwoo during training days, and everyone pretended not to see.
One by one, they fell. One by one, their lives were ruined. Mingyu felt it settle in his chest like cold ice.
This… This couldn’t be you. You killed Wonwoo—or at least Mingyu believed you did. You could manipulate, twist, deceive. But punish people… for Wonwoo? It didn’t make sense.
Why avenge a man you claimed to despise? Why bring justice to people who wronged him… after you supposedly ended him yourself? His breath hitched.
It wasn’t you. But then… who?
Mingyu closed his eyes, replaying every headline, every ruined career, every person disappearing from the spotlight.
It was too neat. Too clean. Too perfectly arranged.
Someone was targeting everyone who ever hurt Wonwoo. Someone with knowledge. Someone with resources. Someone with motives deeper than the industry gossip could ever scrape.
And then a darker, colder realization clawed at the back of Mingyu’s mind—
What if Wonwoo didn’t die?
What if the body they found wasn’t his?
What if someone else was doing all of this… for him?
*
It was never Wonwoo who drowned in the waters of the Han River. The truth was quieter, stranger, and far more deliberate. The body pulled from the current had no name. No history. No fingerprints in any system. A man who seemed to exist for no one and belonged to nothing. Even you didn’t know him. Wonwoo didn’t either.
No family searched. No friends called. No one mourned. That was precisely why he was chosen. A man the world would never look for, taking the place of a man the world wanted dead.
Wonwoo drew a long breath as he sank deeper into the couch inside the villa he’d bought years ago—under a name that was now legally, publicly, and thoroughly his. The living room was dim, the only light spilling from the window where evening rain tapped against the glass like a quiet metronome.
He’d lived like this before. A man wearing other men’s lives. Taxi driver. Police officer. A king in a past life. A broke college student. An heir with too much money and not enough soul. Gentle, cruel, romantic, detached—he had slipped into all of them like second skins.
Becoming a new version of himself now wasn’t difficult. It was almost disturbingly natural.
He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling as the truth breathed back at him in the silence.
Jeon Wonwoo had died in the public eye. But the man sitting here—breathing, thinking, planning—was simply another role, another identity waiting to be shaped.
“You saved me… This is the least I can do to help you.”
Your voice was soft through the phone, almost fragile beneath the hum of the international line.
Wonwoo sat on the balcony of the villa, foreign night air brushing against his skin. Thousands of kilometers away, you were in Seoul, handling the chaos he could not touch. Cleaning the mess he left behind.
Cleaning him from the world.
He glanced at the glowing screen of his tablet—article after article reporting scandals, arrests, sudden “accidents.”
Directors. Producers. Managers.
Everyone who had wronged him falling one by one, exactly as planned.
A slow smile tugged at his lips each time a new headline appeared. Not because he enjoyed cruelty. But because for once… the world was bending in his favor.
“I wish I was with you right now,” Wonwoo murmured, eyes drifting closed as he imagined it—your warmth pressed into him, your scent, your steady heartbeat grounding him instead of all this emptiness.
“You miss me, Jeon Wonwoo?”
Your tone was teasing, but he could hear the exhaustion you were trying to hide.
Wonwoo hummed. “Of course. It’s been two months since I last saw you.”
There was a soft breath on the other side—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.
“It’s only one month left,” you said quietly, “then you’ll see me again.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tightening around the phone, holding onto your voice like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
There was a brief pause on your end—quiet enough that Wonwoo thought the call had cut for a second.
Then you spoke, voice turning strangely thoughtful.
“Wonwoo… Your friend, Mingyu..”
Wonwoo’s brows drew together. “Mingyu? Why bring him up?”
You exhaled, a faint rustle suggesting you had leaned back into a chair. “He’s been hovering around me these days. Coming to my office, trying to question things. I think he notices something.”
Wonwoo’s jaw tightened.
Of course Mingyu would notice. He had always been perceptive—too perceptive for his own good.
“Is he bothering you?” Wonwoo asked, a protective edge slipping into his tone.
“Not exactly,” you murmured. “But he keeps poking at the truth. And you know how I feel about that.”
A cold breeze slipped across Wonwoo’s skin. Your voice wasn’t threatening—it never was. But the softness in it was always the most dangerous part.
“Y/n,” he warned gently, “don’t do anything reckless. Not with him.”
“I haven’t,” you whispered. “Not yet.”
Silence.
Wonwoo swallowed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “He’s innocent. He didn’t hurt me.”
“I know,” you replied, and the way you said it… felt like you were thinking far deeper than the surface. “But innocence doesn’t stop trouble. And I don’t like trouble around you.”
Wonwoo’s chest tightened with a mix of fear and affection—because he knew you meant every word, and you would go as far as necessary for him.
“Y/n,” he said slowly, “promise me you won’t touch him.”
This time, the silence was longer.
Finally, you gave a soft hum—uncertain, noncommittal. The kind of sound that could mean yes, could mean no, or could mean I’ll decide when the time comes.
“I’ll handle him,” you said. “Just… you don’t worry about it. You stay where you are. Stay safe. I’ll handle Seoul.”
Wonwoo leaned forward, voice low and raw. “I only care about you being safe.”
“I am.”
There was a smile in your tone, but it didn’t ease him.
“If anything happens,” you added lightly, “you’ll be the first to know.”
*
Planning Wonwoo’s revenge wasn’t hard for you. It was instinct. It was breath.
After his confession that night, you had gone home feeling devastated—hollow in a way you hadn’t been since childhood. You felt like you had lost something essential, and you hated losing. Losing was weakness. Losing was death. Losing was the ten-year-old version of you, silent and obedient, forced to survive horrors you never chose.
But Wonwoo… he had never let you lose. Not once.
Wonwoo had been your strongest anchor since the beginning—though you couldn’t pinpoint when it started. Maybe the first time he covered for you during a scandal. Maybe the night he stood between you and a manager who raised his voice. Or maybe it was much earlier, a quiet moment neither of you thought twice about.
You always believed the man you loved was calm, composed, with a heart sturdy enough to hold the storms you never learned to control. With him, every problem felt… survivable. Even the ones you buried so deep you pretended they didn’t exist.
And then that night came.
He saw you in your truest, ugliest form—blood splattered across your face, your hands shaking around a knife buried in your uncle’s chest. A scene no one should have walked into. A scene that should have made him recoil.
But Wonwoo didn’t step back. He didn’t yell. He didn’t call the police.He approached you like you weren’t dangerous at all, like the blood meant nothing, like you weren’t already ruined beyond saving. His hands were steady when he cupped your face. His voice was soft when he told you to breathe.
And then, without hesitation, he helped you clean the body. The floor. The walls. The knife. You remember thinking: He shouldn’t be doing this. But he did.
He became your shoulder to lean on. Your shelter. Your absolution. And that was the final strike—the last, irreversible blow.
You would do anything for him. Absolutely anything.
Because in your mind, that was the price of someone who loved you even when you were monstrous. Just like how—if you needed him to—Wonwoo would kill for you.
And if fate demanded it, he’d die for you too.
Wonwoo helped you discard your uncle’s body—the man who had been sexually harassing you since you were ten. Your uncle used to call it a secret between the two of you. Used to tell you that you were being a “good niece.”
And you were too young to understand what he was doing, too young to know that obedience wasn’t kindness.
Running away from home to become a trainee was supposed to fix everything. Getting swallowed by the drama club, filling every second with practice, and forcing exhaustion onto yourself—it wasn’t enough. Nothing ever kept him away. He kept coming back for you. Even years later.
Even until that night when he made the mistake of cornering you again—only this time, you were older, stronger, and holding a weapon. You finally had a reason to kill him. You finally saw the motive clearly.
And when it came to Wonwoo, finding a second motive wasn’t hard at all.
A woman dared to touch your man while he was unconscious… a woman who forced herself into his life, claimed pregnancy, and expected you to sit still. Someone proper, clean, fragile-looking—perfect as the first step of your plan.
Jang Yani.
You made a single phone call, using a burner phone that evaporated in acid after. Just a little interference with her car’s system. Just enough to make her vacation trip with friends… impossible. She didn’t deserve a vacation. Not when she had left Wonwoo traumatized, violated, and suffocating in guilt.
Her death was fast. Almost gentle. And it was only the beginning.
“Believe me… I’ll handle the rest.”
You handed Wonwoo a plane ticket—the one that would take him far away, safely out of the country. The ticket he needed after the news broke of “his body” being found in the Han River.
He looked at it, then at you, his expression unreadable. “What’s your plan, baby?”
You shrugged lightly, as if you were talking about doing laundry, not orchestrating a purge.
“Just a few things. People who put you in uncomfortable situations… I’ll take care of them.”
Wonwoo reached out, taking both of your hands, holding them tightly. He knew he had to go. He knew he had to disappear. And today was the last day he could.
But the fear in his eyes wasn’t for himself. “Are you gonna be okay?”
His voice was small, pained.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
You leaned closer, brushing your thumb over his cheek. A slow smile grew on your face—one that only he ever saw, soft at the edges and deadly underneath.
“I’ll be fine, love,” you whispered.
“Trust me.”
*
“Is he alive?”
Mingyu sat across from you at your dining table that night, both hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His voice cracked from the weight of weeks—no, months—of suspicion. He had finally connected all the dots. And now he wanted an answer.
“Is he alive?” he asked again, desperation bleeding through every syllable.
You leaned back in your chair, unfazed. “Why?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
Mingyu bowed his head. His voice softened in a way you had never heard from him—not even when he begged you to stop harming the people around him.
“I just need to know that he’s alive…”
You stared at him for a long second. Then, slowly, deliberately, you reached for the phone resting on the table. You dialed the number you memorized down to the breath it took for him to pick up.
After a few rings, a familiar voice answered—warm, low, safe. “Baby? What’s wrong? You said you were going to sleep.”
“I was about to,” you replied calmly, eyes never leaving Mingyu’s trembling form, “but your friend Mingyu came to my place. He wants to know whether you’re still alive or not.”
There was a small pause on the other end. Then Wonwoo’s voice softened. “Mingyu?”
Mingyu froze. His lips parted. A sound escaped him—half a choke, half a sob.
“Hyung…” His voice broke completely, shattering into a dozen pieces.
A quiet chuckle came from the phone. “You’re also one with ambition, huh?”
The warmth, the familiarity—you watched it hit Mingyu like a collapsing wave. A big man was now crying silently at your table, shoulders shaking from relief.
“Hyung!” Mingyu called again, as if saying it once wasn’t enough to convince himself.
You leaned your chin on your hand, smirking at the sight. He looked nothing like the man who stormed into your office months ago, throwing warnings and suspicion like knives.
Now he was just… a friend who finally found the ghost he’d been mourning.
“Tell me this is real,” Mingyu said breathlessly as he grabbed your phone with both hands, turning his whole body toward it like it was a lifeline.
“Tell me you’re really alive.”
“Mingyu-ah,” Wonwoo’s voice softened on the other end, the way it only did with people he once considered family. “Breathe.”
Mingyu tried. A shaky inhale. A broken exhale. His hand trembled as he held the phone closer to his ear.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered, the words ripped out of someplace deep. “Hyung, I—I thought I killed you.”
You froze at the phrasing, but Wonwoo only let out a low hum. Not angry. Not mocking. Just… sad.
“You didn’t,” he said calmly. “And even if things had gone that far, it wouldn’t have been your doing. You know that.”
Mingyu bit down hard on his lip, trying to keep the sob from crawling out of his throat.
Wonwoo sighed, steady and patient. “Listen carefully.”
Mingyu nodded even though Wonwoo couldn’t see him.
From your seat, you watched the shift — the way Wonwoo’s tone sharpened, becoming something colder, steadier. The tone of a man who planned everything, who never spoke without intention.
“I’m alive,” Wonwoo said firmly. “And the only reason I stayed alive this long is because she”—a pause, gentle but weighted—“kept me that way.”
Mingyu swallowed hard.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know everything now. I know what she did. Hyung… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Wonwoo let the apology settle for a moment. Then, “You can’t undo what’s happened. Neither can I.” His tone was strangely compassionate. “But you can do one thing right from now on.”
Mingyu straightened slightly, waiting.
“Protect her,” Wonwoo said.
Your breath caught.
Mingyu blinked in disbelief. “Hyung—”
“Not out of debt,” Wonwoo clarified, voice low but unwavering. “Not out of guilt. Not because I’m asking as your friend… but because she deserves to live without watching her back.”
Mingyu wiped his cheek with the heel of his palm. “I will,” he promised immediately. “Hyung, I will. I’ll protect her with my life if I have to.”
Wonwoo made a small approving sound.
“Good. I trust you, Mingyu.”
The line fell quiet for a few seconds, heavy with everything unspoken — regret, reunion, the kind of bond that bends but never breaks.
Then Wonwoo added, softer, almost fond, “and don’t show up crying at her house again without calling first. She’ll think I only befriended dramatic people.”
You snorted. Mingyu choked out a wet laugh.
Wonwoo’s warmth seeped through the call. “Go home, Gyu. And make sure she sleeps.”
When you took your phone back, Mingyu finally lifted his head. His eyes were red, swollen, but clearer than you’d ever seen them.
He looked at you like you had done something sacred.
*
A month later, the world was finally quiet.
Everything that needed to be hidden was buried. Everything that needed to be manipulated had already been pushed into the shadows. Loose ends were cut cleanly, lies were fed to the press, and those who needed convincing had been coerced or threatened into compliance.
Mingyu, true to his word, checked on you like clockwork — quietly, carefully, without stepping past boundaries. It was almost strange, how gentle he treated you now. How he watched your back the way Wonwoo asked him to.
But even with Mingyu keeping watch, the nights felt long. Empty. Haunted by the shape of a man who wasn’t supposed to exist anymore.
So when the final task was done — the last bribe delivered, the final piece of evidence destroyed — you packed a single suitcase and booked a flight to the city Wonwoo now called home.
The airport was crowded, but you felt detached from the noise around you. Your fingers traced the zipper of your bag, the ridges of your passport. The boarding announcement echoed overhead, muffled by the static in your mind.
For the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe.
I'm going to him. He's alive. He's waiting.
The plane ride felt unreal — clouds drifting past the window, a stranger asleep beside you, the low hum of the engine blending into your heartbeat. You dozed off in fragments, drifting between exhaustion and anticipation and the quiet ache of wanting.
When you finally landed, the time difference hit like a wave. The air here smelled different — clean, crisp, cooler. A foreign language rippled around you in soft waves. You walked through the terminal with your hood up, sunglasses low, blending into the flow of travelers.
Your phone buzzed.
Wonwoo:
Baby? Did you land safely?
Your chest tightened.
You:
Just landed. I’m on my way.
There was a pause — just long enough to feel like he might cry or laugh or breathe out relief.
Wonwoo:
I’m at the apartment. Door’s unlocked.
Hurry.
You took a taxi, the city lights blurring into long strokes of gold and white. Foreign signs passed by, unfamiliar streets weaving in and out of your view, but all you cared about was the one destination — the apartment nestled on the 14th floor of a quiet building overlooking the river.
When you reached the door, your hand hesitated for a moment. Not out of fear — but because everything you fought for, killed for, survived for… was behind it.
You turned the handle.
Inside, the apartment was dim, the soft glow of a single lamp spilling across the small living room. The curtains were drawn. The air smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent — his scent, unmistakable.
And then he appeared from the hallway.
Wonwoo. Alive. Real. Standing barefoot in loose sweats and a plain black shirt, hair slightly messy as if he’d been pacing or running his hands through it.
His eyes met yours first. And in them — relief so deep it almost broke you in half. He whispered your name like a prayer.
You dropped your suitcase. He stepped forward at the same time you did. The distance closed in a heartbeat. His hands cupped your face. Yours gripped the front of his shirt. Your foreheads pressed together.
“I missed you,” he breathed. Voice cracked. Body trembling.
You didn’t answer. You just pulled him in and kissed him like you were reclaiming a part of your soul.
The month apart, the blood spilled, the lies, the fear — all of it dissolved the moment he held you again. You were home.
His lips were warm, almost feverish against yours — like he’d been holding himself together by threads and your presence finally let him come undone. He didn’t rush. Didn’t devour. He kissed you like someone memorizing a ghost, terrified you might vanish if he went too fast.
Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the soft hair there, pulling him closer until your chests pressed tight. You felt the shudder run through him. Felt his heartbeat stumble.
Wonwoo exhaled shakily against your mouth. “Baby… you’re really here.”
You hummed an answer, tugging him into another kiss — deeper this time, slower, laden with everything you couldn’t say for a month. His palms traveled down your arms, brushing the sides of your ribs, stopping at your waist as if checking you were real, alive, whole.
He pulled back only a breath away, eyes dark, glassy, relief and want tangled together. “Let me see you,” he whispered.
He guided you backward, step by step, toward the bedroom. His fingers stayed laced with yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles as if afraid you might slip away again. When the back of your knees touched the mattress, he leaned in, his forehead brushing your cheek.
“You did all of that alone,” he murmured, voice low. “While I was here breathing because of you.”
Your hand slid beneath his jaw, tilting his face toward you.
“I lived because of you too,” you whispered.
Something broke in his expression — not pain, but devotion so fierce it made your breath hitch. And then his mouth was on your neck, soft at first, then a little hungrier, tracing the line beneath your ear. His hands slipped under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders with a slow drag. Every inch of skin he exposed, he touched — not rushing, not claiming, but grounding himself in you.
You tugged his shirt up, your fingers brushing his skin, warm and familiar. He let out a quiet sigh — the kind that only left him when he was with you like this, safe.
He climbed onto the bed with you, bracing himself above you, his nose brushing yours. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, his breath hitting your lips.
“Do you know,” he whispered, “how many times I imagined this? How many nights I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know if you were okay?”
You pulled him down, your lips finding his again — slow, deep, pulling a quiet groan from his chest.
Your hand slid down his back, feeling the tension melt out of him as he molded himself against you. He kissed you with more urgency now, but still careful — as if the month apart had turned him fragile and starved all at once.
“Wonwoo…” you breathed his name.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw — worshipping every part he missed.
“I’m here,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your bodies tangled together, warmth meeting warmth, breath mixing, hearts steadying against each other. His hands explored you with reverence, your fingers gripping him back with equal desperation.
And when he finally pushed the blankets over both of you, pulling you tightly against his chest, it wasn’t lust that filled the room — it was relief, need, devotion, survival.
Two people who killed and bled and ran for each other finally lying in the same bed again. He kissed your shoulder softly, slowly, almost shyly, as if the intimacy itself was sacred.
“I love you,” he whispered into your skin. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just true.
You turned your head, meeting his eyes.
“I love you more.”
His hand slid to your hip, pulling you closer. Your leg draped over his. Your forehead pressed to his collarbone.
And his breathing finally steadied.
For the first time in months, both of you slept — wrapped around each other, bodies warm and intertwined — without fear.
*
Rain hammered down like a curse that morning. The hall was filled with black umbrellas, black suits, black dresses — but Mingyu stood quietly at the back, hands folded in front of him, face unreadable.
He wasn’t grieving. Not in the way everyone thought. He stared at your framed photo — the soft, practiced smile — and almost laughed at how perfectly you would have hated that picture.
“Too boring,” you would’ve said.
“Too cute,” Wonwoo would’ve teased.
Mingyu exhaled. He was the only one in the room who knew the truth. You weren’t in the coffin. You weren’t dead. This was a performance.
The fire had been fast. Professional. Controlled. Only the apartment, only the right room, only the staged body.
Only the diary you wrote months ago for this exact moment — the one that described your pain, your trauma, your family’s abuse. A diary written in your handwriting but with your intent.
Not a confession.
A weapon.
A weapon meant to cut your family down to nothing.
When Mingyu arrived at the scene that night, the firefighters pulled him aside—
“Kim Mingyu-ssi? Are you able to identify the body?”
He bowed his head, eyes filling with well-performed despair.
“I can… but I know it’s her.”
That was his cue. Your cue. The cue to let the world burn exactly the way you wanted.
Your parents were crying too loudly — like they wanted their grief to be heard by the stockholders. Your relatives stayed in the front row, hands over their mouths, hiding the guilt that rubbed under their skin like a stain.
Mingyu’s fist tightened. He knew which parts of your diary were real — and which parts were sharpened for maximum damage. You played the victim so you could become the executioner. And this funeral, this theater, was the climax of your revenge.
Mingyu approached the coffin last. He placed a single white chrysanthemum on the lid — the flower that symbolized truth revealed after death.
Except the truth was alive. Breathing. Waiting overseas with a man who would set the world on fire for you.
“Rest peacefully,” Mingyu said with a respectful bow.
Then quietly — so quietly that no one standing near could hear — “Until you come back.”
He straightened his posture, cool and composed.
Your family believed they finally got rid of you. The business thought you snapped under pressure. The public pitied you.
Only Mingyu knew the truth. You were giving your family the funeral they should have given you years ago.
❀࿐ notes from the florist: fem! reader, heavily cheol centric (like literally), only a few mentions of mc and other members, cursing, small descriptions of violence (there are bad guys already), yes that is hyungwon of monsta x, seungcheol thinks he's crazy, maybe he is, he is confused throughout the whole chapter pls save him, i promise the rest of the chapters would be longer than this lmao i just cut it there for the suspense, if i missed anything that should be here do tell me !
❀࿐ summary: 13 souls scattered around the mortal world, all with that empty feeling that a big part of their life was missing. They don't know when it started, but suddenly, they all noticed very mysterious patterns in their life. Until one of them, Seungcheol, woke up to a torn paper beside his pillow. Across realms, a girl locked up high in a tower is trying her best to wait, but is starting to lose hope.
❀࿐ word count: 2.2k
❀࿐ masterlist
“Seriously, a few more days of these and I’m really going to see a professional.”
Seungcheol never even thought this day would come, but he genuinely believes he’s going crazy.
“Man, if I were you, I would’ve gone to a doctor years ago. Seriously, the random occurrences part could just be some really cool coincidences that the universe thinks would be a good prank for you, but dreaming voices ever since you were a teen? I would go insane,” his friend, Hyungwon, said, voice easy like he was talking about the weather. He flipped through the menu without really looking.
Seungcheol can only vaguely remember the first time a dream like that occurred, since it was so long ago. At first, only darkness was seen. Within that void were various voices, those of children. There were too many voices for him to even bother to count. Among these voices, the one where he was most intrigued with was the faint voice of a girl. He thinks that might be the only girl among the children. The dreams were like that for a while until light slowly crept in. It wasn’t dark anymore — hey, at least there was improvement — but they were all blurry, all happening in a very grainy perspective, up until now.
They all also seem to be different scenarios, from what he could understand. Most of the time, the children would be playing. Sometimes, eating. Sometimes they would even fight with each other. There were even talks of royalty and even magic between these voices. Seriously, is my body switching to another dimension while I’m asleep? Seungcheol thought one time.
Somehow, the universe must’ve seen him as a walking comedy film. Because if that wasn’t enough, he has been noticing some strange coincidences in his life lately. Everything around the world seemed to unconsciously follow his words. It was yesterday that he realised how many of the pieces fit together. That’s what sent him to the pastry shop on Sunday, instead of staying home and doing nothing on the only day off he had. He invited Hyungwon because he needed someone to laugh at him or tell him he was losing it. Hyungwon was good at both.
The first time it happened was actually with Hyungwon himself. Both of them were part of their company’s Product Management team, with Seungcheol being the Department Head. They were chattering about the company’s new app, and it escalated into an argument as they quarreled about their differing opinions.
“Forget it. Let’s not dwell on it much.” Seungcheol had muttered, feeling slightly lightheaded.
“… on what?” he heard Hyungwon mumble.
“Huh?”
“Let’s not dwell on what?”
“The launching of the new app..?”
It started to escalate from there. Small incidents at work: he told an intern to “take a break,” and the intern pushed his chair back and walked away ten minutes later like it was a command heard from authority. He half-joked to a junior about finishing a report in a day, and it appeared the next morning, neat and formatted, like someone strapped motivation on and ran. Brainstorming sessions turned his offhand comments into direction. People agreed. Things lined up when he said they would.
“Oh, were we talking about that?” he genuinely hadn’t felt more mortified in his life.
Someone in HR once told him, serious and a little awed, “You have this voice that makes people listen.” He laughed it off at the time. It sounded flattering, awkward. But after the printer untangled itself, the morning he banged it with the edge of his hand and muttered “work,” and after a red light turned green right as he thought come on, nothing felt funny anymore.
Just remembering all these is making his head throb. Hyungwon can only watch his friend in pity, not really knowing how to actually help him with this. The slowly increasing noise inside the shop is definitely not helping as brunch time starts to come. People were in small clumps, phones out, laughing. The noise felt like it was pushing on his skull.
“Too loud,” Seungcheol muttered, automatic, more to himself than anyone. Hyungwon blinked. Conversation dropped a notch, then another. It wasn’t silent, but the whole room shifted into easier tones. Hyungwon glanced around, surprised in that way that made his eyebrows lift.
Later that night, Seungcheol closes his eyes and rests, anticipating yet another vague vision and the bubbly giggles of the children, which, as much as he tries to deny, he has grown quite fond to.
Seungcheol swallowed and felt like crying and laughing at the same time.
However, this night was different.
This time it wasn’t the usual soft grain. When he opened his eyes, there was smoke. Thick, hot, the kind of smoke that makes a person cough even just remembering it. The smell sat in the back of his throat and made his eyes water.
He was small again — small and hollow-eyed and hiding behind something carved and too shiny for kids to touch. The place felt like a house and like a palace at once: polished wood, heavy curtains, high ceilings. It didn’t look like the city he knew. It looked older, older than the oldest building downtown.
“Seungcheol!” a voice called. It cut under the other noises, a child's call, urgent and familiar.
Wait… Seungcheol?
His name was being said in that voice. In a place he’d never been. The voice was one of the others from the dreams. For the first time, the names matched words in a dream meant for him.
The voice from outside the doors calls out again. The voice was familiar, and he surmised that it must be one of the children in his dreams. Suddenly, the door burst open. In came a middle-aged woman dressed in the most expensive-looking silk Seungcheol has ever seen. She was holding two crying children with him, a boy and a girl, with a few knights scattered around them.
“Seungcheol?” the woman muttered worriedly once she saw him. He couldn’t control himself as he felt his body stand up, running towards them.
Just as he was about to reach them, a big explosion was heard, and from outside of the shattered windows of the room, in came a horde of people in black cloaks. Their clothes sucked in shadows, or they carried smoke with them. They moved differently; there was no hesitation. He remembers thinking, They aren’t human, before the pain arrived.
Everything that followed that was a blur. It all felt like a haze when Seungcheol felt an agonizing pain coming from deep within him. His little knees trembled as he fell down. Beside him, the other children seem to feel the same as they all wail in torment.
“Jun! N-no, the princess-”
“Ah, there she is. The princess…” a deep, spine-chilling voice echoed across the hall.
“No..” the woman mumbled as he gazed at the man.
“The divinity is now in our control, and the king and queen have fallen. No more use keeping you lot then, huh?” he then turns to his men, “Get the princess. You know what to do with the rest.”
“J-Jun! Y/N!” Seungcheol hears himself shout, although very childlike.
“Seungcheol!” was the last thing he heard before everything started to fade.
Y/N!
Y/N…
He snapped awake back in the pastry shop. Light and clink and the familiar roar of the coffee machine filled the world. He sat up too fast and his head spun.
Y/N?
“Hello? Earth to Seungcheol?” Hyungwon is in front of him, waving his hand around.
… what the fuck?
“What’s going on?” Seungcheol mutters, more to himself.
“What was that?”
“Was I sleeping?”
“You were spacing out.”
That definitely did not help at all.
He looks around. Something doesn’t… feel right. He glanced around the shop, searching for something unusual, and yet he failed to do so. Same pastries in the case, same barista moving with practiced motions, the same couple in the corner pretending to be smug about their date. But he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling around him.
Something is definitely wrong.
“You seem troubled,” Hyungwon asks him calmly.
“Well that’s one way to put it,” he mumbles as the other just chuckles in reply.
Did I just imagine all that?
“Hey, this isn’t a dream, right? You’re real, right?” he asks worriedly. Hyungwon watched him for a beat and chuckled in reply, “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just… I was already in bed, or well, at least I thought I was, and then I had a dream…”
“Like your usual dreams?”
“No- I mean, yes. But this time… This time, everything was clear. And it was like I was actually experiencing it. I was a child, and another boy called me my exact name… It’s as if I were in-”
“A memory?”
“Exactly.” Seungcheol sighs in bewilderment.
Hyungwon sipped his coffee, his gaze wandering to his friend. The way he watched now had a tilt to it, like he was trying to guess which direction a glass would fall before it slipped.
“Were you able to smell the fire?”
“Ye-” Seungcheol suddenly froze.
…huh?
“Sorry, what was that?”
“… I said, were you able to smell the fire?”
To say that Seungcheol was confused is an understatement. It didn’t register at first. Then the word landed, and he felt his stomach drop.
“I never said anything about a fire, Hyungwon.”
He feels the air around them has shifted. He looked at Hyungwon; the man’s smile was the same smile he’d seen a hundred times. But when the smile didn’t reach the eyes, something in Seungcheol tensed.
Seungcheol stared at him. “How do you know about that?”
Finally, Hyungwon met his eyes, too calm, too certain. “You’ve been dreaming of them for years. You just never really realized.”
His throat went dry. “Hyungwon, what are you-”
“Funny thing about memories,” he cut in, smiling faintly. His voice was soft, but there was an edge. “You think they belong to the past. But sometimes, they’re just waiting for you to catch up.”
As if on cue, everything around them became silent. Seungcheol looked around.
No one was there. No customers, no baristas, even the hands of the clock were frozen. Just him, and the man across the table, watching.
He turned back.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly. It was the only question he could think to utter.
The “person” in front of him chuckles, “Who I am does not matter, child. The more befitting for this question is you. Who are you, Choi Seungcheol?”
Seungcheol’s pulse quickened. His name sounded strange coming from that mouth. He bristled at the word child. He is not a child. “What do you mean, who am I?”
The figure tilted their head, watching him with something unreadable in their expression. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Living a life that doesn’t quite feel like yours. You go through the motions, say the right words. But somewhere deep down, it still feels like you’re just… not where you’re supposed to be. Like a worn glove not meant for your hand.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Hyungwon—or whoever it was—smiled faintly. “You keep thinking it’s the world acting strange, but it’s you who keeps bending it. A word, a thought, even a whisper, and everything listens.”
“Listens?” Seungcheol repeated quietly. “What do you mean?”
“The air. The people. The silence between your thoughts.” Their tone was calm, too calm. “You’ve always had a way of making things happen just because you said so.”
This was starting to sound like nonsense. But he couldn’t say it without feeling the truth in a dozen moments replaying in his head. The little coincidences that had leached into his life and stuck.
His throat tightened. “You’re not making sense.”
“If I weren’t, you wouldn’t be so afraid,” they murmured.
The city outside the café window was still frozen, mid-motion, mid-sound, mid-life. The spoon in his untouched cup of coffee floated faintly, as if weightless.
“Why are you showing me this?” he managed.
“Because you keep hearing them.”
Seungcheol blinked. “What?”
“The voices,” they said. “The ones that follow you into sleep. The laughter. The crying. The children calling out to someone who never answers.”
His breath caught.
They didn’t answer, only watched him with that same calm certainty that made his stomach twist. “You think they’re just dreams, Seungcheol. But dreams don’t call your name. And voices that persistent, they don’t belong to strangers.”
Their words lingered in the air, almost too heavy to breathe in.
“Then what do they want from me?” he asked hoarsely.
“To remember,” they said simply. “That’s all they’ve ever wanted. That’s all she has ever wanted.”
He blinked. She? He didn’t know for sure, but the word skidded into place with the rest. The girl’s voice. The small presence in the dreams.
A fissure ran a half second across the man’s face, like a bad video feed. For a moment, “Hyungwon”’s features rippled and something under his skin glowed faint and warm, then snapped back.
“W-wait!” he felt stupid and childish saying it, but it came out anyway, “Are you… Y/N?”
This seems to make “Hyungwon” pause, as they stare right through him. Then, they chuckled, “You’re good at perceiving… Close, but wrong.”
“Want to know the answers to your question? Listen closely, child,” they murmured as the world around them began to fade. “If you wake with the weight still in your chest, look beside where your dreams rest. You’ll find those that are meant to stay. Bon voyage, child. Find them, and may you all fulfill your long-awaited fate.”
He woke up panting in his bed. The apartment smelled like the detergent he left in his sheets, not smoke. He lay there for a second, hands splayed, heartbeat trying to find normal. The headache had crawled back to the base of his skull.
And before Seungcheol could respond, the shop dissolved into darkness.
He sat up and glanced around like anyone who’d just had an acid flashback. Nothing seemed different. The blinds let in light. A stray towel from laundry hung over a chair. His phone buzzed somewhere, but he didn’t reach for it.
Then he saw it. A folded piece of paper, sticking out just beside his pillow.
He frowned, blinking at it. He didn’t remember putting anything there. Carefully, he pulled it out. It looked old, as if it had been burned at the edges and pieced back together. The texture was strange, soft like cloth but fragile like dried leaves.
And the handwriting. Elegant, looping strokes that didn’t belong to any modern pen. It read:
The days blur together now. The moon rises and falls, and still, the tower stands silent. I’ve long stopped counting how many mornings I’ve greeted with trembling hands.
Sometimes I think I hear their voices. Faint, like echoes caught between worlds. I wonder if they remember me, or if time has swallowed me whole. It hurts. Everything hurts…
Still, I wait. Even when hope feels thin, I wait. Because if I stop, then what else is left?
To my dearests… wherever you are, please, don’t forget me. Please…
He stared at the words. Dearests.
Something in his chest tightened. He didn’t know why, but the word felt… familiar. He turned the page around. There was something written faintly on the back, like the ink hadn’t fully decided to stay. Only one name stood clear, as if it was freshly written.
Lee Jihoon.
The rest were barely visible, scattered shadows of letters that refused to form.
Seungcheol blinked hard, his pulse quickening. He didn’t know anyone by that name. But even just reading it out loud made his throat feel tight, like he should.
The page hummed faintly in his hand. Just for a second, he thought he heard it — a distant voice, soft and far away.
WARNINGS: Explicit Language, Mentally heavy themes, Unplanned pregnancy
WC: 5.8k
SUMMARY: She would’ve made such a lovely bride, what a shame she’s fucked in the head.
A/N: Dropping a fic for my favorite song on the first day of my birth month. Hope you guys like this little surprise oneshot. (One shot is more appropriate because I felt like I got shot when I wrote this. Ngl tho this is written with a whole chunk of plot in mind that I’m not sure if I want to pursue or not because it hits too close too home LMAO)
It’s just you and Mingyu on this terrace.
Most of the guests have left, with only your closest friends staying behind to chat and catch up in the dining hall.
The slow music playing indoors is muffled, soft, slipping through the cracks like a whisper in the cold November air. The breeze bites as it passes by, but the heat radiating from Mingyu as he presses you close and sways your bodies in time with the music keeps you warm, happy.
“Happy birthday,” Mingyu whispers into your hair before his lips press a tender kiss on top of it.
“You’ve said that so many times, Gyu,” You giggle, and despite the numbness of your face, you can still feel the texture of Mingyu’s shirt as you nuzzle into it. “Thank you for planning all of this.”
“I had help,” Mingyu replies as he smiles down at you cheekily. “But it was mostly me so if you’ve got more compliments in you, I don’t mind hearing them.”
You only laugh, pinching at Mingyu’s cheek fondly as you speak, “I do, but I’ve gotta keep your ego in check.”
“I’m dating the most gorgeous, most intelligent, most amazing, most breathtaking woman in the world,” Mingyu says with his full chest, like he genuinely believes his own words to be the absolute truth. “Of course I have an ego.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, mister,” You tease to hide your own embarrassment.
“Yes, but honesty definitely will,” Mingyu wiggles his brows suggestively.
You only roll your eyes at him playfully before sinking further into his embrace. There’s no place in the world like Mingyu’s arms. It’s your sanctuary, your escape, your shield from everything in the world that’s out to hurt you—including yourself.
The song you’re dancing to ends, and your favorite song starts to play. You can feel Mingyu’s arms tighten around you as your eyes flutter shut, the song and Mingyu’s hold lulling you into a peace that you’re sure nothing can shatter.
“Time flies, no?” Mingyu breathes out, nostalgia and hope lacing his tone. “We’ve been together for seven years, but it feels like I just met you yesterday.”
“You slow dance with acquaintances on their birthdays, Gyu?” You grin, chin tilting up as you look at Mingyu with that childlike playfulness you can only ever fully exhibit around him.
“Only the ones I’ve been in love with since day one.” Mingyu smiles at you, tenderly, earnestly, and the emotions on his face are so raw that it has the flow of your breath shifting, your heart stuttering in its cage.
“Yah.” Your laugh is shaky as Mingyu pulls away from the embrace. “Why are you so sappy today?”
He only laughs as he steps back. “I’m about to get sappier.”
Mingyu pulls out a velvet box and gets down on one knee, and the Busan cityscape blurs into specks of light strewn across a blanket of night. The soft music turns into a sharp ringing in your ears, and the slow beat of your heart has turned into a race. You’re wondering what will kill you first: the look in Mingyu’s eyes or the dread pumping in your veins?
He says your name like a prayer, and you can’t help but think that this is it. These are Kim Mingyu’s final words before you killed this version of him.
“It took me one day to fall in love with you, and a month to know that it would be you, and only you,” Mingyu whispers, eyes glittering with adoration and anticipation as his hands clutch onto the box for dear life. Had it been another day, had you been a better woman, you would’ve laughed and teased him to hold on tighter to the box lest his clumsy hands let it fall through the railing. “I’ve spent ten years of my life with you, spent the last seven loving you, and I don’t think I can live the rest of my life if it isn’t with you.”
You’re shaking, crying, and Mingyu’s smiling back at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. The pool in his eyes is filled with joy, a stark contrast to the terror that flows down your cheeks.
You’ve spoken about this: marriage, kids, retirement. At the moment it had been mindless dreaming. You had spent nights in Mingyu’s dorm room fantasizing about the future, planning your wedding, naming your unborn children, building your unfunded house—everything. There wasn’t a single second in the last seven years where you entertained any other future than the one with Mingyu in it.
So why were you scared?
Why were you staring at Mingyu’s hands like he was holding a gun and not a box he poured his heart into?
The ring shines in its bed of black: white gold with a large jewel you’ve mentioned in passing. He listened, he listens. He always does. Mingyu’s heart has always been too devoted for his own good.
“Will you marry me?” Mingyu looks at you hopefully, like he’s already got the colors picked, the guests listed down, and the honeymoon planned out.
You had been that certain once, but standing here, faced with Mingyu and his heart of glass, you doubt. You doubt even when he has given you no reason to. You doubt even when the walls of his heart have always been transparent. You doubt even when he’s handed that large, fragile thing to you without a second thought.
He’s seeing visions of a distant future, and you’re here haunted by spirits that should’ve found their peace long ago.
You think of your mother who struggled juggling you and her career. You think of your father who tried to be the greatest father and failed to be her husband in the process. You think of the woman your mother could’ve been had she not married him. You think of her dusty diploma, her worn out pictures from conferences, her untouched make-up box, her awards covered with pictures of the little family that damned her to her fate—
You think of the nights you’ve spent wondering if she would’ve been better off if you had never been born.
Your success stands on the grave of a woman that could've been so much more. It stands on the soil that buries the corpse of a bright, beautiful woman whose potential became the untimely victim of time and that dastardly thing she still calls true love.
“I’m sorry,” You choke the words out through tears, and you watch as Mingyu’s face morphs into confusion, hurt, fear, and finally, understanding.
You drop his heart onto the cold flooring, and Mingyu looks like he’s about to drop on both knees and get his hands bloody just to pick up the shards, wrap them in tablecloth, and hand it back to you.
Mingyu smiles at you, hiding the sorrow in his eyes as he gets onto his feet. “It’s okay—“
“It’s not. I can’t, I—“ You take a step back, then another, and Mingyu looks at you like you’re about to disappear. “I’m sorry.”
And disappear you do.
“Wait!”
You don’t look back. Even when Jeonghan asks you where you’re off to, even when Seungcheol looks at you in confusion, even when Minghao stops to ask you what’s wrong—you push through. You run to whatever cold corner of this unfeeling city your feet and fear can take you to, and you don’t look back.
—
“What happened?”
It’s the first thing Mingyu hears as he walks out of the terrace and into the dining hall. The music has stopped, the chatter had died, and all of your closest friends are looking at him like he’s knocking at death’s door.
They may not be wrong.
Mingyu only waves Seungkwan off, falling back onto the closest seat, one hand clutching his head while the other clutched at the little box.
You left him.
Seven years, and you left him.
Just like that.
Seungcheol, ever reliable, takes the seat beside him and speaks, “Mingyu, what’s going on—“
“She said no.” Mingyu can feel the sobs threatening to break free as your horrified face flashes through his mind. “Hyung, I proposed and she said no.”
“Go,” Seungcheol waves everyone off, and Mingyu can hear the shuffling of feet grow quieter as everyone else leaves.
“Was it too soon?” Mingyu doesn’t know who he’s asking. Seungcheol who always seemed to have a solution? The universe who had tied your paths together? Or himself who should have known better?
“Mingyu, I don’t know. You know her better,” Seungcheol replies. “It’s not like she broke up with you. Maybe she’s just not ready—“
“Hyung, she ran away.” Mingyu looks up at the man, eyes sharp and glassy with an anger misplaced. “She looked so terrified at the idea of even marrying me. I’ve never seen that. I’ve never seen her look so—“
Mingyu can’t even finish his sentence. Enough self-pity, he was going to fix this. “Hyung, where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Seungcheol sighs. “She ran out before any of us could even ask her what was wrong.”
Mingyu immediately opens his phone to check your location. Thankfully, you’re in the vicinity, moving slowly.
The sky is dark, the air is cold, and Mingyu knows the dress he bought for you is too thin for Busan’s icy seaside. Worry and hurt swirl in a confusing mix, and Mingyu doesn’t know if he’s going to chase after you or give you the space to breathe.
Judging by how you looked at him on that terrace, Mingyu knows he’s the last person you want to see.
“Can you tell Jeonghan-hyung to get her?” Mingyu sounds defeated as he asks. The sound of it is so pathetic that even he is starting to feel sorry for himself. “I don’t think she wants to see me, but it might be dangerous for her—“
“I’ll go ask.” Seungcheol gives Mingyu’s shoulder a squeeze as he gets onto his feet. “Go rest, Mingyu. It’s better to talk to her when the two of you are in a better condition.”
“I will,” Mingyu says as he rises from the seat. “Thanks hyung.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Mingyu goes back to your hotel room, and every second of the journey back is spent wondering where he went wrong.
You’ve talked about this, dreamed about it. Mingyu had always believed that your engagement and eventual marriage wasn’t a question of if but rather a question of when.
So where did he go wrong?
You’ve never stared at Mingyu with that much fear and sadness, and the vision of it is so vivid in his mind that shutting his eyes only makes the horrid image clearer. He hates that he pushed you to that point, hates that it happened on your birthday of all days.
Maybe he should’ve waited. Maybe he should’ve picked a different ring. Maybe he should’ve picked a different day. Maybe he should’ve picked his other suit. Maybe he should’ve just been happy with whatever you had now. Only the labels and legalities would change, after all.
Mingyu feels like a shell of himself, housing nothing but pain and regret as he goes through the motions of his nightly routine without you by his side.
He wonders where you are, wonders how you’re feeling. He wonders if Jeonghan has found you, and wonders if you’re safe and warm. He wonders if you’ve found somewhere else to stay—
Mingyu hopes you’ll come back here.
Unfortunately, Mingyu sleeps in a cold bed, and he wakes up in one too.
[Jeonghan]: She went back to Seoul.
[Jeonghan]: I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop her.
Mingyu can feel his shattered heart break into finer particles of dust at Jeonghan’s text. Was he that unbearable to you? Were you so put off by his proposal that you couldn’t even say goodbye or tell him that you were leaving?
[Mingyu]: It’s fine, hyung
[Mingyu]: Thanks for telling me
Despite the hurt, the pain, and the anger, Mingyu doesn’t retaliate. Quietly, he packs his bags, folding his clothes and collecting his toiletries before organizing it into the little luggage he brought. He packs yours too, and Mingyu hates the way his eyes glass over with tears as he catches your scent on one of the shirts he’s folding.
He loves you. That wasn’t going to change.
And loving you hurts. So much.
“Hyung, I’m sorry, but can you bring this to her?” Mingyu nudges the suitcase and stretches out the keys of his car to Jeonghan.
“I can, but how are you getting home?” Jeonghan looks at Mingyu weirdly as he grabs the suitcase while eyeing the keys warily.
“I’m…” Mingyu’s resolve wavers for a second as he thinks of you cold and alone in your shared apartment back in Seoul. “I’m going to my parents for a while. I just… I need to think.”
Jeonghan looks at him like he’s on the verge of falling apart.
That isn’t far from the truth.
“And she might need the car so… Yeah.” Mingyu hates that it’s still you he’s thinking of even when he feels like his heart is being pulled apart slowly, torturously, and sadistically by some invisible force.
“Fuck, dude, don’t look at me like that,” Jeonghan sighs as he takes Mingyu into his arms, giving the larger man a comforting squeeze. “I’ll take it to her, but promise me you’ll be back, okay?”
“Hyung, my job’s in the city. Of course I’ll be back,” Mingyu jokes to keep the air light as he returns Jeonghan’s hug, but the older man doesn’t laugh, he only tightens his hold.
“Stay safe, Mingyu.”
The night train is quiet when Mingyu gets on it.
He tucks his luggage in, body on autopilot as he walks towards his assigned seat. The train is quiet, and only the sound of light snores and gentle breathing from sleeping strangers and exhausted wanderers fill the air.
Mingyu doesn’t know if he’s thankful that the train is this silent. It gives him the space to breathe, but that space to breathe only gives way for the space to think, and thinking is a dangerous thing for a man with too many problems. Though he thinks it would be just as bad to deal with a crowd of bustling bodies when the only thing he wanted to be was alone—
Or to be with you.
But that wasn’t an option.
The world outside is dark as the train speeds through the rails. You’d hate it here, Mingyu thinks. You like window seats because of the view, like the way the blues and the greens blend into an indecipherable blur before they turn into the grays and blacks of a cold, concrete jungle. It didn’t matter what you saw as long as you saw something.
Mingyu’s heart only clenches at the memory of you. You were everywhere even when you were nowhere to be found.
The air is much, much colder when Mingyu exits the station. He’s lugging his little suitcase with the limbs of a man weighed down by the world, and his frustration only grows when he realizes that there isn’t a single taxi in sight.
He would be so much warmer if you were in his arms.
It takes a while before a taxi passes by, but one eventually does, and Mingyu is quick to give his address and settle into the backseat. The drive is quick, and Mingyu’s barely awake for the entirety of it.
The last time he was home, he was with you.
Mingyu’s childhood home stands before him like a reminder of what could have been. A small sub-urban house, two kids, a dog, yearly vacations when your schedules would allow—Mingyu sees flashes of a future that may never happen.
One ring, Mingyu waits.
It takes a while before the door opens, but when it does, his sister appears, sleepy and wholly confused as she rubs at her eyes like she’s wondering if any of what she’s seeing is real.
“Hey,” Mingyu smiles sadly, and he watches as his sister’s eyes widen into saucers at the realization that yes, it’s her brother standing right in front of her when he should be all the way in Busan celebrating his girlfriend’s birthday.
“Oppa, what are you doing here?” His sister asks as she drags him and his suitcase into the house. “Where’s eonnie? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating in Busan?”
“It’s—“ Mingyu struggles to find the right words as he shuts the door and kicks his shoes off. “It’s a long story.”
His sister doesn’t prod despite the clear worry in her eyes, and Mingyu doesn’t offer despite the overwhelming ache in his soul.
It’s a pain beyond words, Mingyu thinks. Even if he wanted to tell her, he wouldn’t know where to start, wouldn’t know what words to use to convey that feeling of pain and numbness all at once.
Mingyu sleeps on his old bed that night, and every bit of him wishes he was in Seoul, beside you.
—
[Gyu <3]: I’m going to Anyang for a while
[Gyu <3]: Can we talk when I get back?
[Gyu <3]: I love you
You haven’t replied, and Mingyu hasn’t sent another message.
The only thing you’ve done for the past three days is to work yourself dead, staying well beyond your prescribed hours and overwhelming yourself with cases that would make any sane person break from the pressure. It destroys the body, but it distracts the mind, and that was more than enough.
You’re exhausted, and most days you’re just going home to shower and sleep. It isn’t healthy, and you know your colleagues are just waiting for the chance to tell you to breathe and slow down, but you know this is better than having the energy to torment yourself with memories of the broken look on Mingyu’s face.
A few more days pass, and Mingyu’s still in Anyang.
You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t want to be stuck in a room with yourself either. You don’t think anyone does if they had a choice. Not even your friends who are only kind to you because you look too pitiful to be left alone. Not even your mother who had to give away her youth to get you through yours. Not even your father who would’ve been a more successful man had you never been born. And most definitely not Mingyu who was probably realizing that he’s been wasting his time with a fraud who couldn’t even love herself, so how the hell could she ever love him?
It’s no surprise that your body gives in after all the mental and physical abuse you’ve put it through.
The fatigue is easier to ignore, but the world spinning on its axis and your stomach following suit wasn’t something you could brush off. You tried for one day, but you almost spilled your guts on the floors, so rather than embarrassing yourself, you decided to just stay at home and be taunted by the happy pictures of you and Mingyu hanging on the wall.
You wonder how he’s doing.
Was he eating properly? Was he getting his eight hours? Was he taking his vitamins? Has he forgotten about the incident? Did he hate you now? You don’t blame him if he did. It wasn’t that hard to do it, and you—of all people—knew that best.
You hope he’s doing well, and you pray that if the universe ever thinks of sending misfortune his way, then it should just send all of it your way instead.
You’ve got nothing to lose when you’ve already destroyed everything.
The soup looks stale as you stir it, and you think it’s your karma for letting Mingyu do all the cooking. You’re not a bad cook, but after getting used to Mingyu’s five-star meals, everything else just looks like it came straight out of a recipe book written during an economic crisis.
Unfortunately, after vomiting into the toilet and crying into the sheets all day, you needed to replenish your electrolytes unless you wanted Mingyu to find your corpse strewn all over the floor of your shared apartment.
If he was still coming back, that is.
The thought drives a stake through your heart, the soup in front of you turning blurry as tears pool in your eyes.
You said no. You said you can’t. You wrote the ending to a story that was just beginning, and now you’re crying over the finale like you didn’t tie your fate into this convoluted knot.
Mingyu is your greatest love, and you think he might just become your greatest loss.
—
“Wanna drink the pain away?” Is the first thing Mingyu’s sister suggests, the woman torn between keeping the air light and somber.
The family’s gathered on the table for breakfast, and alcohol is the last thing any of them should be consuming so early in the morning, but Mingyu thinks that his parents might just let it slide after he just recounted the events from your birthday.
“What do you have?” Mingyu asks, matching the joking tone his sister had. Worrying them was the last thing he wanted, but the hurt was too much to bear alone.
“The Dom Pérignon you bought is still there,” His sister answers, and Mingyu can feel his already shattered heart break into even tinier pieces.
Mingyu was saving that for a celebration. In his mind, when—if you said yes, he would’ve taken you straight to your hometown to tell your parents, then he would’ve taken you back here to Anyang to celebrate with his family. He had it all planned. The tulip glasses, the alcohol, the pure, unadulterated joy of breaking that wonderful news—
That wasn’t happening anymore.
“Open it up.” Mingyu smiles through the pain.
“One bottle of fancy vintage champagne coming right up, His sister says as she gets onto her feet and walks into the kitchen.
When his sister leaves, it’s quiet, and Mingyu can feel the weight of his parents’ gazes as they look at him with an unreadable expression. Was it pity? Concern? Mingyu doesn’t know, but he can tell his mother’s hurting for him, and his father looks like he doesn’t really know what to say.
Mingyu wouldn’t either, had he been in his place.
“Have you spoken to her?” Mingyu’s mother asks like she’s holding out for something better than this shitshow of a situation. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”
“No,” Mingyu can feel his throat seize as he speaks. “I… I asked her to talk when I get back, but she hasn’t really… replied.”
“She’s probably just overwhelmed, son,” Mingyu’s father sighs, and Mingyu can practically feel the weight of it as it leaves his father’s body. “It’s just a rough patch. You guys just have to talk it out.”
“Your father’s right,” Mingyu’s mother smiles softly as she reaches across the table to take Mingyu’s hand. “Couples fight all the time, and it’s how you bounce back from it that matters.”
“And she loves you, sweetie,” Mingyu’s mother continues, and she says the words with so much conviction that it only makes Mingyu even more confused because if everyone else could see how much you loved him, then why did you leave him? “I’ve seen how that girl looks at you, and I’m not sure why she said no… But I know that she would never hurt you intentionally.”
Mingyu only purses his lips and nods, sending his mother a small smile that he hopes will ease her aching heart.
The rest of Mingyu’s stay in Anyang is spent living through the same monotonous routine of waking up, checking his phone for messages from you, breakfast, checking his phone, walking the dogs, checking his phone, lunch, checking his phone, helping around the house, checking his phone, cooking dinner, checking his phone, eating dinner, showering, settling in bed, scrolling through photos of you and him, and waiting.
An endless amount of waiting.
He counts the seconds, the minutes, and the hours. He eyes the chips of paint on the walls, the clock ticking a little faster than his own heart, the shadows from outside filtering through the window, but no matter how long he waits, your message never comes.
Mingyu wants to go home, but he’s not sure if his home wants him back.
—
Jeonghan has had enough.
There was only so much rotting and self-pitying a person should do before they became too comfortable in the decay, and Jeonghan refuses to let you sink into your self-isolating tendencies again. That’s why as soon as the clock strikes five, he’s grabbing his things, running out of his office, and passing by your favorite restaurant to get you the japchae you like so much.
Mingyu still hasn’t come back from Anyang, and it’s frustrating because he knows you. You’re going to drown yourself in your thoughts, blame yourself for everything that went wrong before taking the path of self-destruction because it’s the only form of control you know. But Jeonghan can’t get mad at Mingyu, nor can he force the man to come back. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
So Jeonghan decides that he’ll do damage control until then because he knows, before you even became a couple, that it would be you two or it would be no one. Mingyu looks at you like he’d give you the world, and you look at Mingyu like the world doesn’t matter as long as he was there.
Honestly speaking, Jeonghan doesn’t know why you said no, but he’s not here to judge you or interrogate you.
He’s here to be your friend
“Yah, you better open this door or I’m kicking it down!” Jeonghan calls from outside, banging at your door. He knows he’s being bothersome to your other neighbors, but that’s the point. You can ignore him, but you’d hate the idea of inconveniencing the people around you.
The door swings open, and you look like death.
“Keep your voice down,” You sound defeated as you speak, hand rubbing at your temple as you step aside and let Jeonghan walk in. “Why are you here?”
“Brought japchae,” Jeonghan says as he enters the apartment and kicks his shoes off. “How’s my favorite self-sabotaging diva doing?”
“Jeonghan, if you’re going to be annoying, just leave,” You groan as you walk back to the sofa and plop down onto it like a miserable mess.
Jeonghan doesn’t take any offense. If anything, the annoyance in your words eases him. Frustration was better than defeat, annoyance was better than silence.
“If I did that, then we’d never see each other,” Jeonghan chirps, grin widening when he sees you roll your eyes from underneath the blankets you’ve stuffed yourself under. He can’t help the way something in him softens as he sits down on the floor and sets the japchae on the coffee table. “Hey, eat up. You look horrible.”
“Way to make a girl feel great about herself,” You snort, sitting beside Jeonghan. “But I can’t really stomach anything right now. Everything just ends up in the toilet.”
“Well, you have to try,” Jeonghan says as he opens the container and hands you the chopsticks. “You’re the one who told me to eat when I’m sick.”
“Why does it smell—“
Jeonghan nearly jumps out of his skin when you hastily get on your feet and bolt to who knows where. He’s immediately alarmed, covering the japchae and running to where you’re…
Vomiting?
You’re bent over the toilet when Jeonghan finds you, and despite the queasy feeling in his stomach, Jeonghan kneels beside you, holding your hair and rubbing your back up and down while you spill your guts into the toilet.
The japchae smelled fine to him. So why…?
“Damn, are you pregnant?” Jeonghan jokes when you finally stop gagging, attempting to keep the air light.
Unfortunately, it seems to do the exact opposite.
Something uneasy settles into Jeonghan’s stomach when he feels you freeze underneath his fingers. It can’t be, he thinks. That would just add insult to injury, and Jeonghan doesn’t think the universe is that cruel.
“I—“ You look paler, horrified. You look like you’re surrounded by vengeful ghosts celebrating your misfortune. You look worse than you did the day you ran away.
“I don’t know.”
—
“Oh, Mingyu! Nice of you to drop by,” Ms. Kang, one of the neighborhood ahjummas, is quick to greet him when he passes by with Bobpul. “How have you been? We haven’t seen you since last year!”
Mingyu feels like prey in front of the little crowd of sweet-looking old ladies who are gathered in a small judgmental circle of neon tights and sunvisors. He’s in a social checkmate. If he stays, he’s going to be interrogated like a criminal, but if he leaves, he’s going to be vilified and painted like a snobbish, holier than thou asshole who couldn’t spare his neighbors ten minutes of his day.
“I’m doing well, auntie,” Mingyu replies, and he hopes his smile is convincing enough. “How have you been? Are you taking all your medicines?”
“Aigoo, always such a sweet boy. I am, don’t worry about me, doc,” Ms. Kang waves him off. “We were supposed to invite you to a little event organized by the neighborhood association, but your mother said you were in Busan.”
“Ah, yes,” Mingyu replies sheepishly. He already hates where this is going. “It was my girlfriend’s birthday.”
“The one you had with you last year?” Ms. Song, the other ahjumma, asks, and Mingyu nods in reply. “Where is she?”
Mingyu should’ve just risked being painted as a snob.
“She’s in Seoul, auntie,” Mingyu answers, and he hopes she doesn’t notice his discomfort. “She has work back at the hospital.”
“She didn’t come with you? What a shame,” Ms. Kang comments, and Mingyu has to resist the urge to get defensive. The less he spoke, the less they knew, and the less they knew, the less they could twist for their mindless entertainment. “Women nowadays, can you believe them? They’re wasting their youth working like men when they could be at home taking care of the family.”
“I’m sure you want your own family someday, right?” Ms. Kang turns her attention to Mingyu. “It might be difficult when the two of you are so busy.”
“We’re fine as we are, auntie,” Mingyu says through a tight smile. “I’m not in a rush. I want to make sure that we’re both ready before taking on such a big responsibility.”
“Ah, but you’re not getting any younger.” Ms. Song adds fuel to the fire of Mingyu’s steadily growing anger. “So if you ever get tired of waiting, Mingyu, I’ve got a daughter—“
“Yah!” At the very least, Ms. Kang has the mind to scold her tactless friend even though she looks like she agrees with Ms. Song’s sentiment. “Apologies for her, Mingyu. Hana just broke up with her boyfriend so her mother’s worried.”
“I’m just saying,” Ms. Song scoffs. “Men need a woman who can support their success, and not to brag but Hana’s a very kind and beautiful girl—“
“I’m sorry to cut the conversation short, aunties, but I have to get home soon,” Mingyu apologizes, and not one bit of it is genuine. “I need to help my mom with lunch.”
“Aigoo, what a diligent son,” Ms. Kang coos. “Very well, we won’t hold you back. Send your mother my regards.”
“And mine!” Ms. Song adds.
“I will.” Mingyu takes his leave.
And like the two-faced vultures they are, the moment Mingyu’s back is turned, they get to work.
“You shouldn’t have said that.”
“But I’m not wrong. You know he can do so much better than that girlfriend of his.”
“I know, but you didn’t have to say it out loud.”
“You know I’m just looking out for him. Women like her are too selfish to think of anyone but themselves.”
“You’re right… Shame, she’s so pretty too. She would be the perfect wife if she wasn’t so caught up in that silly career of hers.”
“This generation, I tell you. They don’t know the value of family—“
Mingyu speeds up, and Bobpul, almost as if she can sense his growing unease, is quick to match his pace. He can’t hear any more of it, he refuses. Only the universe knows what he would have done if he stayed to hear more of their disparaging attacks towards your character.
Who the fuck were they to say all of that about you?
When Mingyu gets home, he heads straight to his room and packs his bags. It’s been a week and a half, and Mingyu’s tired of waiting. He was coming home whether you liked it or not, whether you wanted him back or not. He was going to fix this, and he was going to do it with you.
You two would make it out of this.
“Oh, where are you off to?” Mingyu’s mother asks when Mingyu descends the stairs with his luggage in hand.
Mingyu gives his mother a hug, “Getting my girlfriend back, eomma.”
His mother’s smile turns warm at the words that leave his mouth. “Take care of her, Mingyu.”
“I will.” Mingyu did not have to be told twice, and maybe not even once because that was his default.
Even when you’ve broken him into pieces beyond restoration, it’s still you.
It’ll only ever be you.
The moment Mingyu arrives at the station, he’s running out with his luggage in tow. There are numerous strangers sending dirty looks his way as he pushes his way through but he doesn’t care, he just wants to get home, he just wants to get to you.
Mingyu doesn’t miss a beat the moment he comes face to face with the apartment door that’s been lingering in his mind for the past few days. He prepared for this, recited the apology in his head until he could say it even in his sleep. He was going to open the door and the moment you see him, he was going to get on his knees and—
Something’s wrong.
It’s the only thing running through Mingyu’s head when he steps inside and shuts the door behind him. It’s cold, like no one’s been inside for a while. The sink is dry, like no one has used it. The breaker is off, like someone prepared the house for a long period of absence—
Your things are gone,
Like you had no plan of ever coming back.
Mingyu can feel himself grow weak, limbs growing cold, heart picking up pace, lungs struggling to breathe—did you leave him? You couldn’t have.
You wouldn’t have.
Mingyu almost drops his phone when he pulls it out of his bag, hands trembling as he opens his contacts and presses your name.
Ringing.
“Pick up,” Mingyu doesn’t know who he’s pleading to. “Please pick up—“
You end it.
But Mingyu doesn’t give up. He calls again, you end it again. He repeats the desperate process over and over because he refuses to let things end like this—
The call fails.
You’ve blocked him.
And Mingyu thinks this is the closest he’ll ever be to death without dying.
Looking for Mingyu × Reader University AU Fic (might be called Lost Saint)
Hi! I’m trying to find a Mingyu × Reader fic I read a while ago but it seems to have disappeared. I think the title was something like Lost Saint.
Details I remember
Setting: University AU
Reader: Scholarship student
Mingyu: Super rich, part of the popular group
Scene 1: Mingyu and his friends cheat off the reader during an exam
Scene 2: Later, Mingyu meets the reader again at a pub/bar where she works
I remember it has multiple parts probably like 9 parts but It was on Tumblr and I really want to find it again. If anyone recognizes it or knows if it’s been deleted/archived, please let me know!
i've seen this movie before | wicked games series | k. mg
You expected to get answers, knowing well that the truth hurts. But to love blindly hurts even more.
☆ pairings: kim mingyu x female reader
☆ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+)
☆ aus: bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, no strings attached
☆ word count: 10.7k
› CHAPTER ONE – CHAPTER TWO – CHAPTER THREE – READ MORE
› 🎧: i've seen this movie before – hyejin | lovememore. – dosii | not me! – jeebanoff | unrequited – ethan low | habit – i.m | shower – OoOo | no blueberries – dpr ian, dpr live, cl
☆ warnings: talks about relationships, ghosting. smut with plot, soft dom reader, unprotected p in v sex, reader is on birth control, oral sex (m. receiver), hard to soft fucking, creampies, cowgirl, cockwarming. reader is chubby. pet names: baby, shorty, sugar, sweetheart (hers)
☆ author's note: so.... i kind of love writing this story. i have so many other projects that i need to work on but this just swallowed me whole. i don't know what it is, but i'm also starting to think that mingyu might be climbing on my bias list as well. help me
anyway, i hope you all enjoy this!! 🩵
☆ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂
i’ve seen this movie before
“I care about you.”
Mingyu remained silent, looking at you intently. And in your state of emotional distress, you struggled to know what he tried to tell you with his eyes.
But seconds passed, and you became increasingly anxious. You suddenly felt like a prisoner in your own space. You wanted to leave, to vanish into thin air.
The memory of the night you broke up with your ex lingered in your mind. The way he discarded you like it was nothing. You remembered the night you confronted him, expecting to get answers, knowing that the truth hurts. But to love blindly hurts even more.
You didn’t look at him. Not knowing what would happen next, you tried to hide your face. Tears were beginning to form in your eyes. You felt nervous, and somehow, humiliated. Like all this time, you had been pretending to be this perfect girl while underneath, you were hiding so much.
No, not hiding. But trying to be yourself again despite the pain you suffered and endured.
You stared at the small mole on his chest, bracing yourself for rejection.
But instead, Mingyu grabbed your hand, squeezing it with his own. “Hey,” he said softly.
You looked up, finally meeting his gaze. There was no hesitation there, just something soft.
“Thank you for telling me,” he mumbled. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles. “I know it wasn’t easy, so I’m really glad that you did.”
You tried to smile, but all you did was show him a pained expression. “Y-you don’t have to say anything back,” you stammered. “I know that this is a lot—”
Mingyu cut you off with a kiss. It was slow, intentional. Like he needed to convey what he was feeling without words. His lips locked with yours, kissing you slowly, deeply. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead against yours.
“I care about you,” he said quietly. “A lot more than I planned to.”
Your breath hitched softly. “You do?”
“Of course I do,” he smiled, pulling back slightly to look at your eyes for a long second. He brushed your hair back from your temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The relief that washed over you made your chest swell, and your eyes sting. You leaned into him, curling tighter in his warmth, his arms wrapped around you as you hid your face in the crook of his neck.
He pressed his cheek against the top of your head, his hand caressing your back as he hugged you. “I don’t know where this is going,” he drawled sleepily after a moment. “But I want to keep going. With you.”
You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady, so you held him tighter instead, letting the warmth of his body reassure you. His hand returned to caress your back, then transitioned to the back of your head.
His fingers threaded your hair, sinking into the messy strands, tangling, and softly letting go. It was so soothing that you felt like easing into a quick sleep. You stayed like that for a long time—wrapped in his big arms, your face pressed against the curve of his neck, feeling the pulse of his heart, the slow rhythm of his breathing.
“We should clean up,” you whispered after a long moment.
Mingyu exhaled softly. “Don’t wanna get up now,” he replied with a muffled laugh. His cheek was still pressed against your hair, his arms hugging you cozily.
You pushed away from his embrace, but he just dragged you back in again. “Gyu,” you giggled sweetly. “I gotta go clean up,” you said, motioning to the bathroom door.
Mingyu released you, but with a begrudged sigh.
You caught his gaze, trained on you as you made your way to the bathroom, closing the door behind you. Facing the mirror, you felt a twist in your tummy when you saw the vulnerable girl looking back at you. You didn’t like what you saw—big teary eyes, cheeks flushed, lips chapped from kissing him.
You didn’t understand why you didn’t like your own reflection then. But as you let the thought sink in, you understood what you saw.
You were falling in love. And it was scary.
A few minutes later, you came back to find Mingyu asleep, still naked. Carefully, you climbed on the bed, crawling to his side and getting under the covers.
Like a magnet, his arms found your body. He pulled you in, sighing blissfully when he nuzzled his face against your hair. You stayed like this for some minutes, enjoying the sound of Mingyu’s steady breathing. But you turned over, facing him while still wrapped in his arms.
His hand climbed from your waist to your cheek, cupping it softly before pressing his lips against yours. “Sleep, baby,” he commanded with a sleepy drawl. Then, he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers. “I got you,” he whispered.
You breathed out through your nose, your whole body easing into his embrace, and you let yourself close your eyes. You could feel his heartbeat below the palm of your hand, calm and steady.
It was the rhythm of his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing that finally lulled you to sleep. But deep down, you were relieved that you had confessed part of what troubled your mind, and that might’ve been the reason why you could fall asleep so easily.
You got one confession down. Now you just had to confess to him that you were falling in love.
The sunlight felt different that morning. Upon blinking slowly, you saw it pour inside your apartment from the parted curtains that you once again forgot to close last night. It was a dim light, pale, even. It made you think that the morning was looking cloudy.
But you closed your eyes again, deciding to sink back into the last bits of a dream you were having.
Mingyu had his arm rested across your waist, his chest pressed against your back, one leg tangled over yours. The weight of his body brought you a comfort that nothing else could, and his warmth made you want to stay there forever.
You were almost completely sure that he hadn’t let go of your body through the whole night. He held you just like the other nights you’ve shared a bed with him. It brought you another sense of comfort to know that the conversation from last night hadn’t change that at all.
So you just lay there, breathing him in. The scent of citrusy coconut, mixed with vanilla, lingered on his skin, and you knew that it would linger on the pillowcases as well. It was so familiar, so warm.
You stirred slightly, feeling the weight of his leg linked with yours starting to numb you. Mingyu felt you shifting, and moved his leg too.
“G’morning,” he murmured, his voice raspy but still sweet.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. A warm feeling bloomed in your tummy. “Good morning,” you replied.
Mingyu leaned in and pressed a kiss on your shoulder.
But then, he sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, blinking in the pale morning light.
You turned on your back, watching him as he looked around. “I should probably head back,” he said gently, moving out of the bed and starting to gather his clothes. “Grab a shower. Change before work.”
You nodded, sitting up too, with the bedsheets wrapped around your chest. “Yeah. Of course.”
Mingyu finished putting on his clothes, sending a look at you as he buckled his belt. Something about your appearance made him smile, bending over to cup your face with his hands.
“Thanks for last night,” he mumbled before giving you a tender kiss.
You gave him a small smile, the fluttering in your heart made it impossible to do anything but nod at him.
“And I meant what I said,” he added, looking at you with that same softness from the conversation of last night. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your throat thickened. You reached out to grab his wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Okay.”
You thought about asking what would happen now—about the strings, expectations. You wanted to ask if his “not going anywhere” only meant in the sense of your casual relationship.
But you felt like it was too much, too soon.
Mingyu gave you one last kiss. “I’ll call you,” he said, pulling away from you entirely.
You watched him walk to the door, and when the door closed behind him, you felt deeply unsettled by the silence in your apartment.
And once again, the quiet didn’t mean peace. It meant something else. Something you had spent months trying to get rid of. But now for someone new.
Water trickled down the pot of the hanging plant in one corner of your apartment. You watered your plants in silence, one by one. You realized that in your routine, you had grown accustomed to watering all of your plants in the same order. From the main door, then further inside.
You moved carefully through your apartment, like you didn’t want to disturb the peace in your surroundings.
You did what you normally would do. You did the laundry. Folded it. You prepared your meals, cleaned afterwards. You opened a book, read a few words then closed it. It was as though every part of you was trying to go about your day as normally as you could.
But you were on autopilot. You recognized this feeling.
You hated it. The silence. The stillness.
You breathed in, grabbed your phone and checked it.
No calls.
No texts.
Nothing new.
It had been some days since you saw Mingyu. And though he hadn’t fully stopped texting you or calling you, you felt anxious during the moments when he didn’t.
You made coffee. Cleaned up the blankets and pillows on the couch. You lit a candle, opened the window. Turned on the fan, letting some noise fill in the silence.
You reached for your phone again, starting to feel a new obsession growing inside. And sighed before you could even see that you had no new notifications again.
This is normal, you told yourself. People had lives. Jobs. Things to do.
You turned on the TV, letting something mindless play in the background to add to the numbing buzzing sound of the fan. It didn’t help. The apartment felt too still. Like it was holding its breath waiting for something.
There was a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t quite get rid of.
But still, you forced yourself to do something other than obsessively looking at your phone. So you sat down, opened your laptop, and searched the words: Graphic Design For Beginners.
And as you went along revising your options, and sipping your coffee mug, you felt yourself relax.
This was probably just your inner fears seeping in, trying to betray you. Your heart was still wounded from your previous relationship, even though it was learning to love again.
So you just convinced yourself that he was busy. He’d call soon.
You focused on yourself.
And suddenly you didn’t feel too scared to breathe. You enrolled in a course and made the decision to get back into what you loved before your life changed. Before you met your ex and you gave up your aspirations to become a graphic designer.
You were once again stepping back into the old you.
Your phone buzzed on the table. And your first instinct was to scramble to get it. But you kept yourself composed as you reached out for it, expecting yet another disappointment.
But it was Mingyu. Seeing that he texted made your heart skip a beat.
“Hey baby
I’ve been busy, that’s why I haven’t called
I miss you like crazy.”
And just like that, it was like you could breathe again.
The days went on like most of your others, slow, quiet. Anticipating.
You returned to the gym some days after, secretly hoping that you would run into Mingyu, now that you knew for certain that he also went to the same gym.
The gym wasn’t as crowded as usual, but it was loud and buzzing with music.
You went through your usual warmup—stretching, moving around, adjusting your earphones, changing songs on your playlist, trying not to think about how quiet your phone had been again.
“Well, well, well,” you heard behind you as you were looking for a song to play. “If it isn’t my favorite person.”
You paused, turning to see Jungkook. He stood a few feet away, sleeves rolled up to show off his tattooed arms. He wore his usual black uniform, adorned with a black beanie and that stupid grin on his face.
You exhaled a soft laugh. “Hi there to you too,” you replied.
“I’m sorry, am I seeing a ghost?” he joked. “You haven’t been here for days. I was beginning to think you were dead.”
You gasped. “Well, I’m here,” you said half-heartedly. “Still alive.”
“I’m glad,” he nodded. Then he sent a look around the gym. “You’re training all by yourself today?”
You hesitated, and you noticed him catching that. “Yeah,” you said.
Jungkook narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded. He started to turn around, but then something dragged him back to you. “Hey, after this, do you want to grab a smoothie with me?” he asked nervously, and then stammered: “A-as friends, of course.”
You were half-expecting him to tell you something like that. You nodded, giving him a kind smile. “Sure.”
The walk from the gym to the smoothie shop was quiet. You could feel Jungkook quietly forming something to say. He would open his mouth, turn to you, and then drop his question. And you couldn’t find something to say either.
The air was warm and thick, and the sun was at the highest point in the sky, so getting inside the shop was a stark contrast: the AC mini split was blasting cold air against your face, and the greyish walls made the place look dark. And almost uninviting.
But Jungkook loved this place. He practically hopped to the register and spat out some weird name for a smoothie. He leaned against the counter, crossing one foot over and looked at you.
“Ready to try something new?” he asked with a toothy grin.
“Oh,” you sighed. “Okay. As long as you don’t order something super extravagant.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “You’re boring as fuck,” he said, turning to the barista, who seemed half amused and half shocked that Jungkook could talk to you that way. “One Spring Break, please,” he said, pulling out his wallet.
“I’ll pay this time,” you said, pushing him off the counter while getting your card.
“Fine,” he huffed a laugh. “I’ll get it next time.”
The barista smiled at you and quietly got to work.
The smoothie Jungkook ordered for you tasted like mango, banana, yogurt and had chia seeds. It was sweet, creamy and balanced. While he ordered a chocolate and peanut butter smoothie, “for the gains,” he said quietly before sipping with an awed look in his eyes.
You chose to sit close to the window and far from the AC. You took another sip from your smoothie, letting the chill settle over your tongue without freezing the roof of your mouth.
Jungkook watched you for a moment. His big, dark eyes went over your face shyly before looking away.
“So,” he started, reclining back on his chair. “You and Kim Mingyu?” he raised his eyebrows.
Your tummy twisted for some reason. But you nodded. “Yeah,” you sighed.
Jungkook nodded slowly, like he was finally understanding something. Like he was putting up the pieces of a puzzle that you had not been privy to.
But you were too caught up with your own thoughts to ask, or to pay attention to what his expression meant. You rested your elbows on the table, pressing your cold hands on your face as though the shocking feeling on your skin could snap you out of it.
It didn’t work.
“But it’s not like that,” you said, looking at him through your fingers. “We’re not official. I mean, it’s casual.”
You didn’t mean to say those last words with so much disdain. But it was already too late.
Jungkook blinked twice, catching the venom in your words. “But you want more.” He said knowingly.
You choked back on your words, opened your mouth to say no.
You weren’t supposed to ask for more. You had agreed to this. No strings, no expectations.
But you couldn’t fool yourself any longer. You nodded quietly.
“And he… doesn’t want to?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“He hasn’t… told you anything?” you asked meekly, feeling like you were stepping over a line you weren’t supposed to cross.
Jungkook crossed his tattooed arms over his chest. “I mean, he only told me he was seeing someone,” he pointed out. “But that was before I knew it was you, of course.”
“Well, I don’t know if he wants more,” you declared, pain blooming in your chest. “One minute we’re good. And then the next it’s like I’m waiting for something I’m not supposed to ask for.”
He stared at you for one second. Then he grabbed his smoothie, stirring it with the straw as he gathered his words. “Maybe it’s not about you.”
You arched an eyebrow.
“You know,” he shrugged slightly. “Sometimes men don’t pull away because of you,” he said. “Sometimes men are too scared of finding something good.”
You didn’t know how to reply to that. But there was an understanding in his tone, a solidarity shown in his dark eyes that made you realize something. Your breath hitched.
“You know—,” you declared. Swallowing hard, you leaned over the table. “—about his ex?”
Jungkook nodded, biting his lower lip like he was trying to keep himself from talking. His eyes searched yours for a second, and you wondered what he might’ve seen in them because it made him resolute about telling you more.
“I saw his ex with someone else. At first I thought she might be someone else, that my eyes were deceiving me but,” he sighed heavily. “But then she saw me too, and hid away from me. That’s how I knew it was her. Called Mingyu and told him,” he rolled his eyes slowly, looking now at the ceiling. “They broke up that same night.”
Your heart stammered. Your throat felt too tight, and you quickly looked away.
“I care about him,” you said, your voice sounding brittle.
“And you don’t want casual,” he said. Putting two and two together again. “Just tell him. He might not be the most romantic guy but he’ll understand.”
You looked down, your smoothie had created a halo of water around it.
“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” Jungkook said. “Wanting more.”
You sighed, scratching the corner of your eye to pretend you weren’t wiping a tear. “I just don’t want to ruin everything.”
Jungkook pursed his lips tightly. He didn’t say what was obvious, and you silently thanked him for it. You just sat there, sharing the moment of silence as you commanded your heart to calm down. You took another sip from your smoothie, hoping the cold would wash out the tight feeling in your chest.
But yet again, it didn’t work.
“Even if it ruins everything, at least you got an answer,” he shrugged again, still crossing his arms, smoothie cup hanging loosely in his hand. “Right now, you don’t know because he probably thinks you’re good with you two being just friends, you know?”
You frowned. “Yeah,” you said. “You have a point.”
“Always do,” he grinned proudly.
Mingyu had to get the lights at the bar that night.
It was a Thursday night, and this was one of the busiest nights before the weekend. But despite the rush, Mingyu wasn’t tired. He had grown accustomed to being awake at night and working arduously. So this wasn’t something new.
What was new, however, was Mingyu’s distracted mind. He kept messing up orders. Repeating them. Forgetting them. Duplicating them. His head was somewhere else, undoubtedly.
He knew something was off, but he didn’t want to admit it.
“I’m just tired,” Mingyu told Wonwoo when he pointed it out. But it was a blatant lie.
And Wonwoo seemed to know.
The city moved slowly when Mingyu came out of the bar after closing. Wonwoo was waiting for him, leaning against his well-kept old car. Scrolling on his phone, Wonwoo raised his head at the sound of the metal door creaking and whirring as Mingyu shut it behind him.
Wonwoo said nothing, just opened the door and climbed inside the car. Mingyu followed, sighing as he sat on the passenger seat.
The ride was quiet. Too quiet, almost.
Wonwoo pushed his wire-frame glasses with one knuckle, keeping one hand on the steering wheel as he drove home. The ride there was typically three to four minutes long by car, but Mingyu could tell Wonwoo wanted to say something. He was driving slower.
But they arrived at the apartment complex eventually. Mingyu exited the car and, without saying anything, entered the building with Wonwoo following closely behind.
Inside the elevator, Mingyu could feel it again. Like his best friend was dying to say something, and Wonwoo tried to tell him things through furtive glances. The silent scrutiny followed all the way into their shared apartment.
Mingyu opened the fridge as soon as he went into the apartment. This was part of his routine: open the fridge and cook something quick before bed. Maybe cook something for Wonwoo as well.
But he wasn’t hungry. He closed the fridge and paced around the kitchen before finally deciding to plop down on the couch.
“What’s up with you, Mings?” Wonwoo asked. There was no heed in his tone, it sounded like Wonwoo was tired of Mingyu’s new display of anxiousness.
“Nothing,” Mingyu chanted back in the same nagging tone. He pulled his phone out from the pocket of his hoodie.
Wonwoo panned to the kitchen, placing his hands on his hips as he sighed. “You’re not cooking dinner?”
Mingyu glanced at him over his phone. “Do you want me to cook something?” he said, rising from the couch.
“I thought you would,” Wonwoo shrugged, quietly moving to sit at the stool on the aisle. “I didn’t have lunch earlier at the bar, so.”
“I can cook you up some ramen,” Mingyu said, sounding deflated.
“Ramen is okay,” Wonwoo replied, grabbing his phone too. The opening music of a video game filled the silence.
Mingyu pulled out a pan, two packs of ramen and got to work. But he could feel the scrutiny of Wonwoo’s gaze on the back of his head. It was almost like a shadow, pestering him.
“I swear I’m okay,” Mingyu mumbled through a sigh.
“I didn’t say anything,” Wonwoo replied with a small huff. There was a shy smile tugging at his lips.
Silence followed again. Wonwoo continued playing the video game on his phone.
Mingyu placed the ramen into the pot full of water and waited. Grabbing his phone, he checked his messages. There was nothing from you, and that was to be expected—it was three in the morning. And not that it would be weird to get a text message from you, since you’ve texted past that hour other times.
But the last text message from you read that you were going to bed. You wished him a good night and a great rest of his shift. And Mingyu had replied with what he thought was just as warm a message.
His fingers hovered on the keyboard. He chewed on his lower lip and started typing.
“Hi, baby
Just made it home”
A beat. He doubted himself, still chewing off the dried skin on his lower lip.
Then, he typed, “I miss you.”
But before hitting send, something grabbed his attention. The hissing sound of boiling water distracted him, he had forgotten to lower the heat.
He returned to his phone, deleting the words that never left the text box and set his phone away.
Wonwoo raised his eyes, looking at Mingyu over the frame of his glasses.
Mingyu just continued acting on autopilot, serving Wonwoo a bowl of ramen. And he was about to serve a bowl for himself, but then decided against it.
“You’re not hungry?” Wonwoo frowned, grabbing his pair of chopsticks.
Mingyu just shook his head no.
But he saw it in Wonwoo’s eyes—the expert scrutiny. And Mingyu was by far no stranger to this. He knew what Wonwoo would see. The withdrawn demeanor, the lack of hunger, the feigned tiredness.
The phone buzzed on the counter.
Wonwoo’s gaze followed Mingyu’s hand as he lifted his phone, getting a glance at the notification he had received. It was you. A text from you.
Mingyu didn’t open the text. Instead, he ground his teeth, lowering his phone back on the counter.
“You’re not going to get that?” Wonwoo asked, chopsticks in his hand, ramen untouched.
Wonwoo blinked twice, tilting his head to one side. Like a cat noticing something flashy.
Mingyu finally looked over. “You won’t understand,” he sighed.
Wonwoo set his chopsticks around his fingers, and dipped them into his bowl, grabbing a good handful of noodles. “Try me,” he said.
Mingyu breathed in. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he confessed, letting out his breath.
Wonwoo waited, still balancing his chopsticks to let the noodles cool.
“I like her,” Mingyu continued. “I like her a lot. I do. We talked and she told me something pretty serious and close to her. I thought about telling her that I wanted more, but—” he rubbed his hands against his face. “I don’t know if I can give her that.”
Wonwoo didn’t waste a second. “Then what are you doing?”
Mingyu winced, blinking dumbly.
Wonwoo continued, “You’re stringing the girl along. And giving her the illusion that this will eventually lead up to something is not softening the blow for her.”
Mingyu stiffened, watching Wonwoo as he just ate his noodles like he didn’t just drop a bomb on Mingyu.
Silence followed, the kind that was heavy with guilt.
Wonwoo rose from the stool, walking over to the fridge to get a soda. The hissing and clicking sound of the can opening made Mingyu snap from his trance.
“So what are you going to do?” Wonwoo asked, returning to his stool while sipping from the can.
The phone buzzed again, now causing Mingyu’s heart to cave in.
And in that moment, it was settled for him. Mingyu grabbed his phone, opening the chat he had with you.
“I’m gonna talk to her.”
“Want to take the car?” Wonwoo asked, looking slightly proud that Mingyu had chosen to do the right thing.
“Sure, thanks,” Mingyu replied. Grabbing the keys and texting you that he was on his way.
The TV screen flickered a faint blue glow on your face. You were choosing what to watch, but nothing succeeded in catching your attention. So you resorted to switching from preview to preview, getting the feeling that you had already seen everything on offer.
You couldn’t sleep. You were restless. But at the same time, you were tired from not being able to sleep.
Your foolproof method—which was falling asleep on the couch with something playing in the background, had failed miserably. All broken by one single thought: Mingyu.
Or maybe not just a thought, but a riptide of feelings. Multiple thoughts that went in various directions, and failing to land in conclusion.
Was he ghosting you again?
Was he having problems with his ex again?
Had he seen her? Talked to her? That would explain why his replies were slower now.
He texted, yes. But that was after hours of getting no reply, and when he did, he was incredibly affectionate. Then he would go radio silent again.
You lay on your couch in a fetal position, with your arms tucked against your chest, the remote in one hand. The room was quiet, except for the switching audio from flicking from movie to movie preview. The fan was off. The city was quiet and asleep outside.
Just the TV on loop. And your thoughts.
You hadn’t heard from him since earlier that morning. And technically, there was no reason for him to text you again, since your conversation had reached a full stop. There was no clear falling out, just… radio silence.
You hated how loud his silence could be. You hated how painful his absence was. [VZ1]
Your phone buzzed somewhere in the cushions of the couch. You didn’t move at first, you didn’t scramble to get it. You just slowly moved an arm, searching for it and finding it when it buzzed again.
“Hi, baby
Just made it home”
That read his text message. And you saw the three little dots appear below the two texts. He was typing again.
But then the three little dots disappeared, and they stayed gone.
You just stared at the screen, its brightness almost blinding you. You sat up so abruptly that it made your head spin.
Mingyu hadn’t texted for hours before that. You came to the realization that he might’ve been busy, and you almost felt guilty for wanting to reproach him for his lack of interactions during the day.
Gathering your thoughts, you typed slowly and almost hesitantly: “Hi! I’m glad you’re home”
Then, biting your bottom lip, you typed again. Your heartbeat stammered almost painfully when you added, “I missed you 🥺”
It took some minutes for him to appear online again. And then, without any warning, he said: “I’m coming over. Can we talk?”
Your chest tightened. Not in panic, but with the full certainty that he had missed you just as badly as you did. You smiled at your screen, feeling elated that you were going to see him again.
It would normally take him up to twenty minutes to reach your place. But you’d soon realize that he was getting there by car, since he arrived faster than usual.
As soon as the buzzer sounded, you rose from the couch and ran with shaky legs to get it. You saw through the intercom his frame. He was crestfallen, so it was difficult to discern his face.
But you gave him access, pushing the button with one trembling finger. Then you waited. It would take him two minutes to reach your floor, so you breathed in deeply and composed yourself.
Then, he knocked on your door quietly, almost as if he already knew that you would be waiting by the door. So you opened it, heart fluttering wildly as you saw his face.
You smiled sweetly at him, love and adoration blooming inside you as you almost cooed, “Hi, Gyu.”
Mingyu stopped, almost as if he were about to say something, but was taken aback by the affection coating your words. He released a breath, his shoulders slumping as he replied, “Hi, there baby,” he said, his tone just as warm as ever.
You didn’t think twice, you threw your arms around him, giggling in joy as he wrapped you in a tight hug, pushing you and him inside your apartment. You heard the door slamming shut, and you realized that he might’ve kicked the door.
Mingyu moved his arms, cupping your face fully so he could plant a long kiss on your lips. “Hi, I’m sorry for bothering you so late.”
“No, don’t worry,” you mumbled, reciprocating the paused kisses he gave you. “I was having trouble falling asleep.”
Mingyu paused, leaning his head to make eye contact with you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his tone low and gentle. But you couldn’t let the slight fear in his eyes go unnoticed.
So you reassured him. “Yes, I’m okay,” you smiled at him, grabbing a hand from your face to press your lips against his palm.
“Sure?” he whispered, gulping hard when you started kissing his hand.
“I probably just had a lot of caffeine,” you replied, feeling satisfied with yourself to sound convincing enough.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to ghost all day—”
“No—it’s fine,” you cut him off, cupping his cheek to call his gaze to yours. “We don’t have to talk all the time. I know you were busy, I understand.”
Mingyu closed his mouth and exhaled through his nose as he leaned in and rested his forehead on yours. “You give me too much merit,” he muttered. “You gotta be stricter with me.”
You closed your eyes, moving your hand to his nape and kissing his lips tenderly. “Maybe you’re just lucky that I like you,” you whispered sultrily.
“Yeah?” he hummed, and you could picture his grin through your mind’s eye. “You like me?”
“As if that weren’t obvious, you dummy,” you giggled, your heart skipping over how delighted and honeyed you sounded.
He let out a small sigh before joining his lips with yours, kissing you slowly, but oh so tenderly. His hands slipped from your face to the back of your head, holding you firmly as if you were to pull away from him. “I missed you,” he let go of those words with so much emotion that you felt them in your heart.
But you realized that the slight twinge of sadness wasn’t directed towards you. It was almost as though he was fundamentally reproaching himself for his silence and absence.
“I’m here,” you whispered, feeling equally emotional. It was so overwhelming to listen to him say those words that your heart almost jumped out of your chest, robbing you of your voice.
Mingyu kissed you again—harder this time. As though he wanted to compensate for all the hours he went silent, as though he wanted you to forgive him for something he wasn’t capable of avoiding.
But there was more—something about the hunger in which his kiss was trapping you. alarm bells rung inside your head, trying to reach your heart. But you ignored them, tackling them down as you pushed Mingyu with your hands firmly planted in his chest.
You pushed him until the back of his knees brushed against the couch. The TV screen remained static, illuminating the entire apartment with a soft blue glow. It was playing something that you were too entranced to even pay attention to. The sound had faded into the background of your mind, and none of it mattered.
With trembling fingers, you skirted up his chest, finding the zipper of his hoodie. You dragged it down, sending a furtive glance up to his eyes. Mingyu was biting his bottom lip, taking quick breaths as he looked at your face.
You slipped your hands beneath the shoulders of his hoodie, feeling his skin as you slid it down his arms and dropped it to the floor. You continued to undress him, feeling his eyes on you as you marvelled over how beautiful his body was. You took off his black sleeveless t-shirt with his help, and then moved your fingers to undo his belt.
You sunk your thumbs between his skin and the elastic band of his boxers, pushing them down and letting them drop to the floor. Mingyu stepped out of his clothes, now fully naked in front of you.
Neither of you commented that your body was still dressed from head to toe. You were very aware of how much powerful it made you feel. He let you undress him completely, he did not object. He always let you have control.
You placed your hands on his shoulders for support, standing on your tiptoes to reach his lips with your own. Mingyu kissed you slowly, trapping your lips with his and moaning when you reciprocated his kiss.
His hands found your waist, pulling you closer to his body, making you feel his skin and his welcoming warmth. You hummed into his mouth, your hands travelling on his body, circling down his back, and exploring his glorious nakedness.
Your hand trailed down his lower tummy, feeling his muscles shift and tense when your fingertips grazed against the soft pubic hair. You ran one finger further down, feeling the soft skin of his thick and hard shaft, the tiny veins trailing up to the tip of his cock.
Mingyu sucked in a breath, wincing as you continued playing with his cock, enjoying the way it slowly grew harder, and harder.
You wrapped your fingers around his cock, pumping it slowly as you felt Mingyu stirring, like he was trying to push his cock in your fist but stopping himself before doing so.
You bit back a smile just as he used his index finger to lift your chin, commanding your eyes to him. “Stop playing,” he whispered, his dark eyes coasting over the features of your face.
You arched a brow. “You told me to be stricter,” you remarked.
Mingyu smiled, rolling his eyes playfully. “I did. But you’re not being strict, you’re just toying with me.”
You lowered yourself, his hand dropping from your chin halfway as you sat on the couch. And without teasing, or more playful touches, you wrapped your mouth around his cockhead, licking the precum leaking from his slit.
You hollowed out your cheeks as you sucked his pinkish brown head, and then carried onto licking his length, all the way to the base of his cock.
You dared to make eye contact then, only to find out that his gaze was trained on your face, his mouth hanging open, his eyes filled with lust. Your heart gave a leap inside your chest, but you continued licking him from his base up a few times until you wrapped your mouth around his cockhead again.
He grabbed your hair with one hand, carefully twisting it with his fist as you started gliding your mouth on his cock. It was difficult at first, and you found out that you were so out of practice when you dared to take him deeper.
“Careful,” he mumbled softly when he heard you gag. But then he sighed, blinking slowly as your mouth continued sucking him, trying to swallow him whole. “Fuck, baby. Slow down.” He pleaded.
But you didn’t comply, not at first.
You tried to take a few inches more, the tip of his cock hitting the roof of your mouth felt painful the first time you attempted this. But you eased into it, his hand that wasn’t on your hair came to cup your cheek, and you dared to look into his eyes again.
It was so hot. His dark eyes were lost in you, filled with lust and not blinking away. You let out a hum around him, and he immediately responded with a raw moan, making his throat bob.
Drool started to gather in the corners of your mouth, trickling down slowly but you didn’t care enough to wipe it off. You tried to take more of him, stroking with your hand what you couldn’t take in your mouth.
You pulled off his cock, leaving only the tip so you could tease it with your tongue, swirling it around. Mingyu flinched this time, hissing loudly through gritted teeth. “Baby, if you keep doing that I’ll come in your mouth.”
You ignored him, humming again in delight as he grew more and more tense, his hand tightening around your hair, but he didn’t pull. You wanted him to, but you didn’t stop to tell him.
You picked up the pace, taking him almost completely. Your jaw felt tight with pain, and you knew it would hurt in the morning. But you didn’t care. Mingyu was closer, panting, almost whining with every breath he let out.
“Baby.” He warned.
You pulled your mouth off his cock, leaving him a mess. Mingyu protested with a groan, but you just smiled at him, rising from the couch to reach his lips.
“You’re a tease,” he drawled with a raspy tone. But he kissed you anyway, pressing his lips against yours tenderly.
“Sit on the couch,” you told him, pushing his shoulders lightly.
But he complied either way, sitting down and watching you remove your shorts and panties unceremoniously, stepping out of them as you moved to straddle his lap. His hands latched on to your hips almost immediately, sliding up your back to hike your tank top up.
His eyes followed every curve of your body, his mouth parted as he stripped you off your last piece of clothing.
You mimicked him, putting one finger under his chin to command his puppy eyes to yours.
“You’re beautiful,” he sighed dreamily.
His hands moved down to your thighs, squeezing you gently before one hand sneaked between your legs, cupping your bare pussy.
You gasped softly, grabbing his shoulder for support.
“So wet,” he whispered with a smirk. “Enjoy sucking me off?”
You slapped his hand away, but a playful smile crept onto your face. “Of course I do, Gyu,” you replied, rolling your eyes. You sat on him, grabbing his cock to align it with your pussy. “I might let you cum in my mouth next time.”
“Fuck,” he gritted, his hands finding your thighs again.
“Would you like that?” you mumbled, blinking at him sultrily.
“Yes,” he nodded repeatedly, glancing between your face and where your body was about to join with his.
You placed his cock between your middle and ring finger, sliding the swollen cockhead between your lips. You let out a lewd whine when you rubbed the bulbous head against your folds.
Then, you pushed him inside, just a couple of inches. You instantly felt it—the slight bite. Your eyes watered, but you pushed another inch inside, moaning this time.
“Baby,” he breathed. You lifted your gaze to his. “You okay? Am I hurting you?”
“I like it,” you gasped. “It feels so good.”
Mingyu laughed, the sound making your heart flutter. “Oh, yeah?” he breathed. His gaze lingered on your face, watching you as you struggled to take his cock.
“Yeah,” you replied. “I like that you’re cock is so big it hurts,” you drawled sultrily. And to really make your point, you sat down fully on his cock.
Your mouth dropped open, your vision blurry as you blinked some tears away. Mingyu clenched your thighs, digging his fingers into your skin.
“Fuck—baby,” he whined, dropping his head back.
You started riding him slowly at first, getting used to the stretch of his cock. You eased into it, using his shoulders for support.
Mingyu guided your hips, watching your body bounce on him. He swallowed hard, blinking slowly as he tried to resist the urge to take control.
You smiled at him. “Do you like that, Gyu?”
He gave you a lazy nod. “You feel so good, baby,” he replied. “You have no idea.”
You replied with a short giggle, leaning over to kiss his lips swiftly. “You feel good too,” you whispered, your breathing shallow as you started riding him faster.
“Yeah?” he whispered.
You gave him full nods. “You feel so good it’s addictive,” you replied sweetly. “I want you so much—want your cock everyday.”
Mingyu’s gaze snapped to yours. Something about your words seemed to resonate with something he was thinking.
But you didn’t have time to pause, or to really wonder about that look he gave you. You were riding him faster, harder. Using the headrest of the couch for support.
“Ngh, fuck—” he gritted, clutching your hips harder. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He panted. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Baby—”
He slammed your hips down on him, his strength overpowering yours. You couldn’t move; you were tightly pressed down on him. He let out a long and raspy moan, his cock twitching inside you as he came.
The grip on your hips loosened before it became painful. Mingyu was panting, slowly opening his eyes to look at you.
You stayed like this for a moment, just enjoying each other’s warmth. You enjoyed having him inside your body so much that you forgot about your own pleasure.
A smile stretched on his lips. A hand came to cup the back of your head, pulling you into a slow, wet kiss. “You are the one who’s addictive,” he whispered.
Your heart fluttered wildly. But before he could give you the chance to reply, he flipped positions, pressing your back on the couch. Now he was on his knees, his hips slotted between your thighs, and inside you still.
Mingyu used one hand to motion your legs around him. You complied, forgetting about having control altogether. You wrapped your legs around him at the same time he pressed his hips against yours, thrusting his cock deeper inside you.
His eyes roved all over the features of your face. As though he were trying to memorize every single detail—the way you blinked, the way you parted your lips… the way you looked at him.
A question appeared in his eyes, but you just smiled at him.
“What?” he whispered. He was pushing his hips against yours, trying to tease you with a slow pace.
You tried to shake your head, biting your lip. But you just couldn’t hold it any longer, “I just really like you, Kim Mingyu,” you confessed. And even though you had said those words before, the way you said them this time meant something different. They meant more.
Mingyu blinked, his breath hitching slightly, but you noticed it. You noticed that he wasn’t expecting you to put so much emotion over such simple words.
But he bowed his head, meeting your lips in a slow, passionate kiss. “I like you more,” he replied.
You giggled, slapping his shoulder playfully. “Mingyu.” You said.
He replied with a giggle of his own. “What? I mean it,” he whispered, giving you another kiss.
You kissed him back, sinking your fingers into his long, beautiful hair. He moaned into your mouth as he felt your nails grazing his scalp.
His arm hooked under your thigh, unlocking your ankles when he drove your leg to your chest. You moaned loudly and so lewdly. Now his thrusts felt impossibly deeper, his cock reached places you didn’t know you could feel so much.
“God, Mingyu!” you cried out, gasping as his thrusts became faster.
But there was something you couldn’t get out of your mind. This didn’t feel like fucking. Mingyu was looking at you the same way he did the last time he took you—he looked at you like he loved you.
“Mingyu,” you gasped, your hands circling his back, sinking your nails into his back.
It felt so good. To have him inside you—raw, deep and yours. You looked into his eyes, noticing the strain, the pleasure, and something more. You couldn’t look away. You were completely wrapped.
“Baby,” he replied, letting you mark him with scratches. His mouth dropped open, gasping as you sank your nails deeper.
“I’m close,” you blurted.
“I’ll cum with you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss on the corner of your mouth.
You breathed in deeply, remembering how good it felt last time. Mingyu noticed, smiling as he followed your slow breaths, pushing his cock deeper inside you. Sweet pleasure bloomed inside you, making you let out a moan.
“Cum with me,” he whispered. “Come on, baby. I know you can do it.”
His hand moved to the back of your knee, spreading your thighs wider for him. He went in deeper, his thick cock massaging walls deliciously, hitting a sweet spot inside you.
“Fuck,” you gasped, moving a hand to grip his shoulder, heedlessly sinking your nails on his skin.
“That’s it,” he said with a rawness in his voice. “Cum with me, baby.”
“Mingyu!” you cried, your jaw going slack as a wave of pleasure took over your entire body. You orgasmed so hard that your vision went blurry, your mind blank as you moaned, panted and cried out his name.
Mingyu pushed his forehead against yours, coming with you, with sharp breaths that you felt brushing against your lips.
And then, he was kissing your mouth, his thrusts sloppy as he came to a full stop, pressing his hips firmly against yours.
He gently released your thigh, but didn’t stop kissing you. His hand came to cup your chin, his fingers gingerly trailing along your jawline. His kisses turned from passionate to languid, smiling when you hummed, trying to break free to catch your breath.
“You’re okay, sweetheart?” he asked sweetly.
You nodded lazily, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You?”
Mingyu smiled. “I’m okay,” he replied, backing away slightly just so your gaze could connect with his.
Then, you felt it.
You loved him.
“Did I hurt you too badly?” he asked, his eyes starting to study you.
You shook your head. “Nothing too bad. For now,” you admitted with a shaky laugh.
Mingyu sat back on his knees, flashing you a worried look.
“I’ll be fine, Gyu,” you told him. “I just need to sleep.”
He nodded to the bed. “Let’s tuck you in,” he prompted, getting ready to rise from the bed.
You groaned when he pulled out of you, the change so noticeable your body winced. “Wait,” you said, and he stilled. “Let me catch my breath first.”
Mingyu paused when you extended your arms to him, smiling when you made grabby hands at him. “Really?” he smiled, squeezing behind you and putting your body on top of his.
Mingyu breathed out when you relaxed on top of him, his arms wrapping around you to bring you his warmth. “Were you sleeping on the couch?” he asked, noticing the blanket thrown to one side of the couch.
“Trying to,” you replied, blinking slowly at him.
He turned to look at you. “Are you dozing off?” you nodded. “Baby, we gotta clean up before—”
“Sshhh,” you brought a finger to his lips, making him laugh.
He clicked his tongue, but didn’t protest anymore. A hand started stroking your hair, his fingers sinking and tangling in the strands of your hair.
“Mingyu,” you breathed after a moment of silence.
“Yes?” he replied quietly.
You drew in a breath through your nose. “How are you?” you asked with a tiny tone.
“I’m good, baby,” he replied, and you could feel that he was looking at your face. And his tone told you he was intrigued when he asked, “Why?”
“You disappeared on me again,” you said simply.
“Yeah, I know, baby,” he said, sighing deeply. “And I’m sorry about that.”
He grabbed your hand, the one that was parked on his chest and pressed kisses on the pads of your fingers.
“It’s okay,” you mumbled.
You would’ve said more—ask him what troubled him so much that he had to go radio silent. But you were half-asleep already.
“Baby,” he whispered, nudging you softly.
“Yeah?”
“Can we sleep on the bed?” Mingyu whispered, laughing lightly at the awkward position your bodies were folded into on the couch.
“Of course,” you whispered back, matching his smile.
Without skipping a beat, he rose from the couch, clumsily bending down to hook his arms beneath you. You let out a small gasp as he lifted you like it was nothing.
You didn’t protest. You were growing used to it.
He carried you to the bed and tucked you in. And like muscle memory, you curled toward his body the second he slipped in beside you. Mingyu smiled, his big arms wrapping you safely around your body as you placed your head on his chest.
The last thing you felt was his deep sigh—followed by a soft kiss that he pressed to the top of your head.
You closed your eyes. And then, it was morning again.
You blinked slowly, stirring beneath the covers. Something felt wrong before you could even register why.
You reached out across the bed. It was empty.
The warmth was already faded from his side. The room was quiet too, awfully quiet. And the light filtered through the curtains. You sat up, blinking away the weight of sleep, heart thumping loudly as you tried to listen.
There was nothing. It was empty. You were alone.
Your heart didn’t race. It just sank. There must be something wrong, there must be an explanation.
You reached for your phone on your nightstand, checking the screen. Nothing.
The hollow, heart-wrenching ache you had been trying to push down for the past few days returned. It came rushing back stronger than ever. It was saying, I told you so.
Jeon Wonwoo raised his head when he heard the lock of the door click.
Mingyu pushed the door open, quietly stepping inside the apartment and closing the door behind him. Then he leaned against it, sighing deeply in what Wonwoo could only recognize as regret.
“How did it go?” Wonwoo asked, his tone as condescending as ever. “You guys talked for hours.”
When Mingyu didn’t return home, it was evident that he hadn’t gone to your place to talk things over with you.
Mingyu let out a dry laugh. “Funny.” He muttered.
Wonwoo was sitting on the couch, watching his best friend and roommate drag his feet and plop on the couch next to him with a big sigh. There was a sombre look on Mingyu’s face, his lips were chapped, his eyes were baggy and sported dark circles underneath.
“What happened?” Wonwoo asked, not hiding the shock in his tone. “You look like you went to war.”
“I couldn’t do it,” he mumbled, chewing off the dry skin on his lips. “As soon as I saw her, I knew I couldn’t do it.”
Wonwoo remained silent, but he couldn’t help but assess the situation. There Mingyu was, struggling to talk to a girl he was infatuated with. He cared about her. Wonwoo remembered the first weeks Mingyu started seeing you. How Mingyu couldn’t stop talking about you with anyone who listened.
Now it was almost as though he was ashamed to talk about you—and Wonwoo suspected why.
“You should’ve seen her,” Mingyu muttered, his eyes lost somewhere in the distance. “It was like she was seeing her favorite person in the entire world and—” Mingyu sighed, closing his eyes, losing that mental image of you. “I couldn’t do it. I choked up.”
“So sleeping with her was a better idea?” Wonwoo asked flatly.
Mingyu winced, shaking his head as he clicked his tongue. “Fuck off,” he spat.
Wonwoo made a downturned smile. “Why? I’m being serious,” he said plainly, adding a small shrug. “You couldn’t let her off easy, so you decided to wrap her up more instead?”
Mingyu bounced his knee frantically. He didn’t dare to look at Wonwoo, and the feeling rising inside him was too familiar. It reminded him of the time he broke up with Gigi. That same sick kind of pain. The shame.
“You’re bleeding.” Wonwoo pointed out, nodding to Mingyu’s split lip.
Mingyu touched his mouth. Blood. Then he nodded dismissively, sighing as he leaned back on the couch.
He stared at the ceiling as he remembered that look in your eyes when you opened the door for him. The way you looked at him when he was inside your body—like it wasn’t just sex what you were having with him. It was something more. You trusted him.
Mingyu didn’t want to admit it, but it was clear as day now.
“You’re going to break that girl’s heart.”
Wonwoo rose from the couch, letting the disappointment in his words hang in the air. It was the first time that Mingyu did something that gained the genuine disapproval of Wonwoo. And it was almost like a knife to Mingyu’s chest.
Because Wonwoo was right.
Mingyu closed his eyes, swallowing hard to try and hold his tears back.
Then, with shaking fingers and a heart already fraying, he reached for his phone. He opened your chat and typed:
“Can we talk tonight?”
The basketball court was empty.
The pavement was wet, collecting in puddles that reflected the streetlights above.
You stared at the screen of your phone. In the chat you shared with Mingyu, you saw the location that he pinpointed for you. And that he wanted to meet after sunset.
You hugged yourself tightly, not because of the cold breeze, but because you thought you would collapse if you didn’t. Those words, can we talk? were never good. You knew this.
You were deeply acquainted with this type of fear. And you thought—you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t feel it again.
The air smelled of wet asphalt. You breathed in deeply, trying to fill your head with other things. You tried to push away the anxiety that was slowly consuming you.
Mingyu approached the bleachers with a sombre look. Crestfallen, hands in his pockets. He removed the cap of his hoodie once he stepped onto the basketball court.
His eyes found you almost immediately. And then you saw him, his shoulders lowered. As though he was relieved to see you.
Mingyu stopped just a few feet away from where you sat.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said quietly.
You parted your mouth, raising your head to look at him. You understood that this wasn’t the type of conversation you thought you were going to have with him. Your heart sank. “Of course.”
The silence that followed was tight. It wasn’t awkward, and it didn’t feel like either you or him were looking for words to say. But rather, you were looking for the courage to say them.
Mingyu finally decided to sit down beside you, leaving just enough space between your thigh and his.
“You left this morning,” you started without looking at him.
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Sorry.”
Then, another moment of silence. You didn’t know what to say, you didn’t know if it was appropriate to tell him the exhaustion you felt from these last couple of days of nothing but mixed signals on his end.
“I didn’t know where else to do this,” he admitted after a pause. His tone conveyed that there was more that he wasn’t telling you. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling softly. “I just… I just didn’t want to say this somewhere that felt like it could follow you home.”
Your chest caved in, making you tighten your arms around yourself. “Say what?” you asked, even though you already knew where this conversation was going.
Mingyu looked at you, his eyes searching your face. That was when you saw the brittle look in his eyes.
And for a second, you thought that he might take it back. Whatever he was thinking of saying. But then he swallowed hard, as though mustering strength.
“I care about you,” he stated with a strangled tone. “So much more than I planned to.”
You stared at him, confused.
He lowered his gaze, looking remorseful as he said, “But I can’t do this anymore.”
The air in your lungs left you, and you swore you felt something inside you break beyond repair.
“What does that mean?” you asked quietly.
Mingyu looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly when he heard your voice. His eyes searched yours. “I thought I could handle it,” he said. “Us. This. Everything.”
You almost felt like you were speaking to another Mingyu. You almost felt like the person you were with last night was a different man. And you wanted him back.
“So what changed?” you asked.
“Nothing,” Mingyu said quickly, pausing to outline your features one more time. “Nothing has changed.”
You waited, staring at him as though he would take his words back. You felt like there was more. Something he was holding back.
“I still feel the same,” he added, his tone soft, but there was hurt in his words. “I still care, I still—” he cut himself off with a sharp gasp, looking away from your eyes briefly. “I still think about you. All the time.”
“Then why are you leaving?” you asked, the words spilling out before you could stop them. Before you could try and soften them. But realization was seeping in, and started to get ready for the inevitable heartbreak.
Mingyu yanked his gaze from your eyes, sending it skyward. As though he would find the answers there. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled: “Because I’m not ready. I haven’t fully healed from last time.” He muttered as though not wanting to say those words. He met your gaze again. “And you deserve someone who’s all in. You deserve someone who doesn’t pull away at the first sign of commitment.”
You swallowed the knot in your throat. “You don’t think I know what that feels like?”
Mingyu choked on his words, then he looked at you—really looked. And you knew he would find the vulnerable girl you had been trying so hard to hide.
“This isn’t about you not being enough,” he said gently. “This is about me not being whole.”
You huffed, trying to keep the tears at bay. “I never asked you to be whole. I just wanted you to stay.”
He winced, and his gaze dropped. “And I thought I could.”
The pain in your heart blinded you. It made you irrational. So you weren’t thinking straight as you blurted, “Is this because of her?” you whispered shakily.
Mingyu parted his mouth, a light frown showing on his face. “No—” he blinked in confusion. “This has nothing to do with her—”
“I know she tried to reach you the other night, at my apartment,” you said uncontrollably.
He motioned towards you, as though trying to eliminate the space between you, but suddenly stopped himself. He went rigid, as though commanding himself to stand his ground. “This has nothing to do with her,” he repeated. “She was out of my life since before you and I crossed paths, I swear.”
You watched him for a moment. Then you understood that Mingyu didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to leave, he wanted more. You knew it.
“I thought I was ready for this. For us.”
You shook your head once. Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. You wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him.
“I didn’t want to end it like this,” he whispered. “But dragging it out would’ve been worse.”
You raised your gaze at him, jaw set. “Then just say it, Mingyu,” you said. “Don’t protect me.”
He parted his mouth. Then closed it. But you knew that his decision was made.
“I’m ending this,” he whispered.
Mingyu paused, and you understood that he was waiting for you to say something. Maybe he wanted you to plead, to negotiate.
You just stared past him, tightening your arms around your body, bracing for the cold. “I think you should go, Mingyu,” you mumbled quietly, but there was a slight bitterness in your tone.
Mingyu froze beside you. And when you thought that he would say something more, he didn’t. He nodded once, like he already knew there was nothing else to say.
He got up and started walking. You looked away, deciding that you wouldn’t watch him walk away from you. You turned your head to your side, staring down at the puddles of water across the basketball court.
Part of you wanted to stop him, to beg him to stay, to tell him that you could wait for him. There was so much more that you didn’t tell him—that you were in love with him, that you were willing to take whatever part of him he was capable of giving you.
But none of it mattered. He was already walking away. The sound of his footsteps was all you could hear, then nothing.
You didn’t see him standing a few meters away. You didn’t see when he turned around, one last glance over his shoulder.
Mingyu saw you from afar, sitting in the same spot. You were still hugging yourself tightly.
Then his heart broke.
You started sobbing, hiding your face on your knees. His first impulse—what his heart wanted—was to run back and hold you. But he was doing what was right, for you, for him. Even though it felt wrong.
Mingyu balled his hands into fists, turning around once more as he walked away, for good this time.
☆ author's note: hellooooooo
this author's note is to thank you again for your amazing support!! thank you for reading, thank you for your feedback, for sharing and for being here with me in my little writing corner! hehe
i've been thinking a lot about fanfic, about writing and about what it all means. you know? people say that fanfic is for free but it's not. it's not free for most writers. it takes us time, dedication, effort, etcetera. so i for one truly appreciate it whenever i receive feedback on your part.
i guess i'm saying all of this to say, thank you. thank you at the ones who send feedback in whatever form. whether it is an anonymous ask, a reblog with comments, or by dropping a comment down below. hell, even by liking this post you're letting me know that you're here. you have my gratitude! 🩵
so.... 👉🏻👈🏻 yell at me in the comments for this chapter? idk kjfghd next part is going to get interesting
toodles
☆ STAY TUNED FOR PART V! ☆ | PREVIOUS CHAPTERS | SUPPORT ME ♡
If you love me right, then who knows? I might let you make me Juno. You know I just might. Let you lock me down tonight. One of me is cute, but two though? Give it to me, baby
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, smut, porn with a little plot
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): non idol
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.6k
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature, 18+
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of wanting children and getting knocked up
𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, creampie, oral (fem rec), fingering, squirting, massive dick Mingyu, pussy stretching, dirty talk, needy reader, multiple positions (cowgirl, and missionary), breeding/impreg kink, the mc calls herself a slut (she’s very sex positive), use of lube, mentions of using fuzzy handcuffs
nicknamed: baby, baby girl, darling, good girl (hers) baby (his)
𝐚𝐧: inspired by the song of the same name by Sabrina carpenter. I wanted to post this for Mingyu’s birthday. Thank you so much to @sluttyminghao and @mylovesstuffs for beta reading and helping me edit this!
Tall, gorgeous and handsome. The sight of him is absolutely mouth-watering. God bless his father for his genetics he was clearly gifted with.
You’ve been seeing Mingyu for three weeks and you are practically feral at the thought of throwing yourself at the beautiful man you are thirsting after.
As it turns out, Mingyu is a gentleman and requested you take things slow. He told you he wanted to wait until you’ve been together for a month before you finally get down and nasty together.
Your three weeks together haven’t been all sweet and innocent though. At the beginning of week two, after a late-night dinner, some heavy making out and dry humping led to him fingering you on the couch. Two nights later you found yourself with your hand in his sweatpants groping his very, very large cock. You practically begged him to let you blow him, but he said on your next date you could take the next step.
A couple of days ago was when you were finally blessed with the opportunity to suck the life out of Mingyu and his massive cock. You liked to think that you were pretty good at sucking dick, but nothing could truly prepare you for this experience. You couldn’t fit his whole length in your mouth at first without gagging. After a few tries, you could finally take him in your throat. The praise he gave you as he used his hands as a makeshift hair tie, which left you wet.
You’ve been far from innocent for a while. You lost your good old-fashioned v-card a week into your sophomore year of college and never looked back. Some people might say you’re a little loose with who you sleep with or maybe a good old fashion “slut”, but you don’t see it that way. You always just say you’re sex positive; you’re all about embracing the sexual side of yourself.
The night you met Mingyu he informed you that he’s a reformed fuck boy. The reason he wants to take things slow with you is because he wants to fully build a connection. If that’s what he wants, you’ll follow his request.
Tonight, you’re three nights shy from a month together. You aren’t sure you can make it through this date if you don’t finally get the opportunity to ride him like your life depends on it.
The thing about Mingyu is that you’re pretty sure you’re going to fall in love. It’s not just because of his perfect genetics and massive cock. He’s, unfortunately, perfect. Maybe not unfortunately—fortunately for you—he’s perfect. He’s a gentleman, he’s so kind, and he fucking cooks. He’s everything a mother dreams about their daughter finding in a partner. You knew one day if you take him home, your mother is going to beg you to marry him. She’s going to take one look at him and tell you to make her some grandchildren.
Hell, your friends are all telling you to lock it fully down. The day after your first date, you showed them a photo of Mingyu, and they literally gave you a high five that you managed to bag him.
There is something about Mingyu that just makes you feel like you’re an absolute horny mess at all times. You haven’t always been like this. Sure, you’re sex positive and love sex, but a normal man doesn’t make you feel like all your hormones are out of whack. Maybe that's because when he smiles, he instantly gives you butterflies and makes you feel like you’re falling hard.
Standing outside the expensive restaurant he just took you to, you’re waiting for a cab. His arm is over your shoulder as you lean against him. You’re desperately hoping that your matching red lingerie set with crotchless panties isn’t going to go to waste tonight.
“Mingyu?”
“Yes, darling?”
“What’s the chance I get you to take me home and see what’s under this dress?”
Biting his bottom lip, he holds back a smile. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Death by pussy doesn’t sound like a terrible death.” You absolutely love teasing him.
“Death by your pussy is how I personally prefer to die.”
“Is that a yes to finally riding you like my life depends on it?”
He can’t help but let out a chuckle at your extremely blunt statement. Before he can even respond, the cab arrives. Mingyu pulls away long enough for you to slide into the back seat. He slides in next to you. His large hand rests on your exposed thigh. He gives the cab your address.
Slowly, he leans in close, brushing your hair away from your ear. “Yes, you can do all things you have been dreaming about,” he whispers just loud enough for only you to hear. His hand stays firmly planted on your thigh, never moving.
The whole cab ride, you felt like it was taking everything in you not to crawl onto Mingyu’s lap and start kissing him like you need him to breathe. Fucking in the back of a cab probably isn’t the best idea though. The last thing you need is to get arrested for public indecency.
The moment you’re out of the cab, you grab his hand and pull him towards your apartment. The walk to your apartment feels too long. The second your apartment opens, you shove him against the door. “Someone’s extra horny tonight.” He has no clue how much he turns you on with little to no effort.
“I’ve been so patient with you. I just think I deserve a reward for being such a good girl.”
“Oh, you’re a good girl?” He cocks his head to the side.
“I’m a good girl just for you.” You trail your fingers up his chest.
“What does my good girl want me to do tonight?” He leans down so his lips are closer to yours.
“I have some fuzzy pink handcuffs you could try out.”
“Naughty girl.” He pops his tongue and gives you a wicked grin.
“You know I want you so bad. I don’t think I have ever wanted someone like you.”
“Are you just saying that because you want me to fuck you?”
“No. I’m saying that because I like everything about you. Sure, you’re hot, and you make me so horny I feel like I’m going crazy. You’re honestly perfect for me. I have fallen so hard for you.” You might as well lay all your cards out on the table.
“Oh, you’ve fallen for me?” He raises his eyebrow.
“Does that mean you haven’t fallen for me?” You’ve fallen for him so hard, there is no way he hasn’t fallen for you too.
“Baby girl, I’m head over heels for you.”
“Do you like me enough to make me Juno?”
“Like the movie?” He lets out a laugh.
“Yeah. Do you know one of me is cute? Could you imagine two?”
“Does my pretty girl have a breeding kink?” “What, you don’t want to knock me up?” You don’t want him to knock you up just yet, but there is something thrilling about playing into a breeding kink that you both clearly have.
“Does that mean no condoms tonight?”
Pressing your index finger into his chest, you look up at him and smile. “Make me fall in love tonight, big boy.”
Stepping around him, you head off towards your room, knowing he’s going to follow behind you. Opening the door, you have about ten seconds before Mingyu walks in behind you. Slipping off your high heels, you can feel his eyes burning into you. He is standing by the door, just watching as you go about slowly taking off parts of your outfit. Walking over to your dresser, you remove your jewelry. Looking into the mirror that’s on top, you find Mingyu carefully watching.
Reaching back, you slowly start unzipping your dress. The red fabric pools at your feet. Your red lace lingerie set you’re wearing is fully sheer. Your body is fully on display.
“Fuck-“ he groans.
“Like what you see, big boy?”
He instantly starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. Reaching into the nightstand, you pull out a bottle of lube and those pink fuzzy handcuffs you had mentioned before. Twirling them around your finger, you watch as he strips down to nothing but his boxers that are doing nothing to hide his very large erection.
“You know I want to blow you so badly, but I feel like I have been such a patient girl. I was hoping you could eat me out before I ride you.”
“Can your pretty lingerie stay on?” He steps closer to you.
“You don’t want to unwrap your present?”
“You look too good in it for it just to end up on the floor.”
Crawling onto the bed, you lay back, propping yourself up on your pillows. You spread your legs to show him how wet you already are. Slowly, you dip your fingers through your wet folds. “Oh.” You can’t help but moan as you circle your sensitive clit. His eyes are locked on you, watching each of your movements.
“Are you going to make me do all the work?” You sigh.
He crawls onto the bed. Laying on his stomach, he takes one of your legs resting it over your shoulder. He kisses the delicate skin on your inner thigh.
“Mingyu- please-“ If he wants you to beg for him you absolutely will.
“As you wish.”
His lips attach to your sensitive clit, sucking on it while he starts pumping one finger in you. He’s large, so you’re well aware he’s going to have to stretch you out before you can properly take him without pain.
The fact that Mingyu is eager to eat you out is just another thing about him that’s perfect. He’s said he gets off on pleasing his partner. By the ways he’s practically making out with your pussy while he pumps two fingers in and out of you, you know he’s not lying. Judging by the size of Mingyu's extra large cock, you know two fingers probably aren’t enough.
“Another one, please.” You practically beg.
He chuckles against your core. His lips stay pressed against you. Another finger is added. The stretch feels so good. He has you moaning like a bitch in heat. To be quite honest you feel like you’re in heat, with how desperately you want the man between your legs.
His fingers start doing a come hither motion, causing a pressure in your stomach you’ve never experienced.
“Gyu-“ His name is nothing more than a broken moan.
“What does my good girl want?” He pulls away from your pussy for the first time.
“Oh- go-d-“ Your entire body feels tense. You’re starting to feel dizzy and your release is getting closer and closer to the edge.
His tongue starts flicking your clit at a fast rate. His long fingers are rubbing the spongy spot inside you.
“Gyu-“ You practically scream. A pressure breaks inside you. Your walls contract as your release squirts all over Mingyu's hand and face.
His fingers slowly pump inside you, helping you ride out your high as he pulls his face away from your core.
“Baby-“ You can’t form coherent words. You’ve never squirted before in your life. You’ve never had an orgasm that feels as if it’s left you brain dead.
“Luckily you didn’t squirt on the bed. You just got my hand and face.” He lets out a laugh.
“I’ve never done that before,” you sigh.
He sits on his knees between your spread legs. “I’m honored.”
Laying down on the bed next to you he pulls off his boxers. He’s laying there naked with his large dick resting on his stomach. He taps his hip. “Climb aboard.” The cocky grin he sports gives you butterflies. He grabs the bottle of lube. Clicking the cap open he generously coats his length.
Slowly crawling onto his lips he wastes no time massaging your already wet core with lube.
Straddling his waist you grind against his large cock. Maybe one orgasm isn’t enough to make it comfortable to take him.
“Did you want to try those fuzzy handcuffs on me?” you ask, reaching out and picking them up.
“Orgasm number three I’ll handcuff you. I want you to ride me, as you said like your life depends on it.” Biting your bottom lip, you can’t help but smirk. “Do you need more lube?” His hand rubs your thigh.
“Let me try to take you, and if it hurts, we can use more.”
Lifting your hips he holds his length at your entrance. You take him slowly, inch by inch, giving yourself a chance to adjust to his massive size. It feels as if he’s splitting you open, but it’s absolutely delicious.
He fills you to the brim. There is no way he’s not bruising your cervix.
“Fuck, you’re huge.”
“Sorry, baby.” He sounds concerned. His large hand is gently rubbing your thigh.
“You’re splitting me open, but it feels so good.” By the end of your sentence, he’s smiling up at you.
There’s no way in hell you could start with a quick pace. You start with a small bouncy pace. Only moving up an inch or two before sinking back down. His hands rest on your hips, helping you move.
Leaning forward your hands are resting on his chest. You slide your hips up further and further with each thrust. Sex with Mingyu feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. The way he’s stretching you out makes you feel as if you’re close to the edge. The room is filled with wet sounds of you siding up and down his cock, your whiny moans, and his deep groans. It sounds like a porno, and you can’t get enough of it.
Your release comes quicker than you expected. Your body is tense and your walls contract. Throwing your head back you moan his name. You still completely, your body is completely fucked out. You can’t continue to ride him in your dazed state.
“Did I break you, baby?” He rubs your thigh gently, as if he isn’t thrusting into you while your brain is completely broken.
“Fuck- Gyu-“
“Can I flip you onto your back?”
“Yes.”
With little to no effort, he flips you. He spreads your legs wide, giving him more access to your practically abused pussy. He sits on his knees. His pace is slow but firm.
“Did you want those fuzzy handcuffs now?” He teases you.
The idea of not being able to touch him now makes you want to cry.
“No-“ You whine.
He moves down, hovering over you. His pace picks up. His release is rapidly approaching. The way he moans your name is like music to your ears.
“Can I come inside you?”
“Ple-ase.” You’re cock drunk and can barely speak.
“Did you want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes.” You don’t actually want to get pregnant, but having children with him one day would be a dream.
Slamming his hips into you, he fills you to the brim, painting your walls white with his salty release.
Collapsing on top of you, he tries not to put all his weight on you. He places a trail of wet kisses across your collarbone. “Baby do I need to get up and get you plan b?”
You can’t help but laugh. Of course that’s his first question after fucking you so good you can’t even think straight
“No, I'm on birth control.”
Your hand runs up and down his spine almost as if you’re trying to memorize how it feels.
“Give me two years and I’ll actually make you Juno. You’re not wrong, one of you is cute. I couldn’t even start to imagine two of you.”
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Absolutely nothing worse than finding out that you share interests with someone you hate. Has you thinking things like fuck you I'm better at enjoying star wars than you are
Jeonghan loved you. He loved you in a way that terrified him, in a way that made him selfish and silent and a coward.
❧ PAIRING; jeonghan x reader
❧ GENRE; angst
❧ TAGS/WARNINGS; strangers to lovers to strangers, heavy angst, timestamp, oneshot, emotionally unavailable jeonghan, major character death, implied depression, smoking, alcohol consumption, grumpy x sunshine with tragic ending, inspired by the song ‘Angel’ ft Jimin
❧ WORDCOUNT; 3.2k
𐚁₊⊹
▍18 OCTOBER 2021
It was autumn the first time Jeonghan saw you.
It was a late afternoon, where the sky was a faded blue, and the golden leaves settled on the ground in a final display of warmth before winter’s icy touch.
You were standing beneath a rust-colored oak tree, watching a flock of birds taking off into the sky. And there was something about the way you watched them with your head tilted slightly and lips parted like you were whispering a wish only the wind could carry. It was like you wanted to follow them.
It was as if you had wings yourself. Something untouchable and too delicate for this world.
As another cool breeze blew, it tangled through your long, dark hair, lifting stray strands and sending them floating like silk ribbons around your face.
You had no jacket on and your oversized blue sweater had slipped off one shoulder. Jeonghan wondered why you’d wear something like that on a cold day.
He was sitting on a park bench with a cigarette dangling between his fingers, watching you the way someone watched something they know they shouldn’t want.
Then, as if you sensed him, you turned and met his gaze.
Most people looked at him and saw trouble. Some saw a lost cause.
But you? You just smiled.
It was the kind of smile that could undo a man. And maybe, just maybe, that was the moment you undid him.
And perhaps it was also the moment you started ruining him.
Jeonghan saw you as someone who belonged in the sky. Someone who wasn’t meant to stay tied down to the earth like he was.
▍8 DECEMBER 2021
He learnt your name without you even telling him. Kim Y/n.
He wasn’t supposed to, but the name-tag you dropped when you were rushing to work was what got you and him at his point.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” you asked him one day as you stirred your coffee absentmindedly.
It was his first date with you — or whatever counted as a date in his world. He took you to a dingy little café in the corner of Gangnam, which had the kind of scent that smelt like burnt espresso and nostalgia to him.
“Not much to say” he shrugged.
You smiled and rested your chin on your hand as you studied him. “I think you just don’t know what to say to me.”
That should have been Jeonghan’s first warning. You were right.
You had this way of looking at people like you could see all their secrets. Like you could unravel them without even trying.
And for some reason, Jeonghan wanted to be unraveled by you.
You were all light and warmth. Laughter that filled a room. The kind of person who danced barefoot in the rain just because it made you feel alive. You would drag him into old record stores, press play on songs you swore could change his life.
You had a way of seeing the world that made one believe in magic. You believed in love, in fate, in the kind of things he stopped believing in years ago.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, was the kind of guy people warned a girl like you about. He had a past filled with bad decisions, hands that had held too many things too tightly and ruined them in the process. He had walls so high no one ever dared to climb them.
Except for you.
You climbed them without hesitation.
─────
It was past midnight the, and both of you were lying on the roof of his apartment building, staring at the stars.
“I used to think I was meant for something bigger,” you murmured. “Like I was supposed to be something more.”
“You are,” he said without thinking.
You turned to face him, the city lights reflecting in your eyes. “You don’t even know me.”
He did, though.
Jeonghan knew the way you hummed to yourself when you were lost in thoughts. The way you always smelt like lavender and old books. The way you could fill up a space just by being in it.
You were the kind of person one could not help but notice. The kind of person who made the world feel less empty.
And Jeonghan knew, deep down, that he didn’t deserve you. Because in his world, Y/n and Jeonghan weren’t supposed to happen.
But God, he wanted you anyway.
▍12 FEBRUARY 2022
One night, Jeonghan laid tangled with you in his bed while the city lights casted shadows on the ceiling. You traced lazy circles on his pale skin with your soft fingertips while humming a song under your breath.
“Tell me something real,” you whispered.
He exhaled smoke as he watched the way the glow from the bedside lamp made your eyes flicker like candlelight.
“I don’t deserve you,” he admitted.
You smiled, that soft, knowing smile of yours, and kissed him like you didn’t believe him.
Like you thought love could save him.
Jeonghan always reminded himself how he wasn’t like you. That he came from shadows, from a past filled with darkness.
But you — you weren’t afraid of the dark in him.
You leaned into it and traced your fingers over the rough edges of his life as if you could smooth them out.
▍27 MARCH 2022
Jeonghan tried to warn you.
One night, when you fell asleep beside him, he brushed a strand of hair from your face , “please angel, don’t fly so close to me” he murmured.
You didn’t hear him.
Or maybe you did, and you just ignored it.
Because you were also the kind of girl who didn’t believe in warnings.
You believed in love. And love, you thought, could fix anything.
He should have let you go sooner.
Jeonghan knew how this would end. He knew that he would only ruin you, that people like him don’t get to keep something as pure as you.
He told you again, and then again.
“Don’t fly so close to me angel” he’d mumble against your skin on a usual Saturday morning.
But you would simply laugh, tucking your head against his chest. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
You lifted yourself up on your elbows and looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes. “You don’t get to decide what I do with my wings.”
He sighed. “Y/n…”
“I love you,” you whispered.
Jeongan wanted to believe that love was enough.
But love doesn’t change what a man is.
And people like him? They break beautiful things.
▍10 JUNE 2022
It started the way all things break — slowly, and then all at once.
Jeonghan had a habit of disappearing. Not physically, but emotionally. Some nights he would pull you close, whisper things in your ear, let you think you had all of him. And then, without warning, he would shut down. He’d go out, stay late, drink too much, lose himself in the noise of the city so he didn’t have to feel the weight of what you made him want.
Because you made him want things he didn’t deserve.
And you — you deserved someone whole.
The first time you cried over him, it was because he didn’t come home. He found you sitting on the sofa with your arms wrapped around your knees.
“Where were you?” you asked with a small voice.
“Out” he simply shrugged, like it was no big deal.
“Out where?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
You shook your head while your hands trembled. “It matters to me.”
Jeonghan wanted to tell you the truth. He wanted to tell you that he was afraid, that loving you made him feel like he was standing on the edge of something too high, too terrifying.
Instead, he kissed you.
And for a while, you let that be enough.
Until it wasn’t.
It then started becoming too frequent. Small fracture, things that seem insignificant at first. Another night where he didn’t come home. A fight over nothing that turned into something. The way you would look at him sometimes, searching for something he couldn’t give you.
“You keep shutting me out,” you whispered one night, hugging your knees to your chest.
He lit a cigarette and avoided your gaze. “I never asked you to stay.”
You flinched, and he hated himself for saying it.
You should have left then. You should have ran before the darkness in him swallowed you whole.
But you stayed.
Because you always saw the good in people. Even when there was nothing left to see.
“Why do you do this?” you asked with a shaky voice as tears rolled down your cheeks, breaking the long silence.
“Do what?” he muttered, lighting another cigarette after the first one finished in a flash.
“Push me away.”
Jeonghan exhaled smoke, still avoiding your gaze. “Because one day, you’re going to leave. And I’d rather it be now than later.”
You stared at him for a long moment before whispering, “You really believe that, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
You sighed, standing up and walking closer to him. “I’m not leaving Jeonghan” you said as you reached for his hand. He wanted to believe you.
But people like him didn’t get to keep people like you.
▍23 JULY 2022
The night you and Jeonghan ended, it was raining.
You both stood outside his apartment, neon lights from a nearby diner reflecting in the puddles at your feet.
“Tell me the truth,” you pleaded with your trembling voice. “Do you even love me?”
Your voice broke on the last word, and something inside him cracked. Your hair was soaked, raindrops clinging to your long lashes like unshed tears.
He should have told you what you wanted to hear. Maybe it would have saved you and him. Maybe it would have saved you.
But the thing about Jeonghan was, he destroyed everything he touched.
“You don’t wanna lose those wings because of me by Y/n,” he said with a hollow voice. “People like me break beautiful things like you.”
You let out a soft, broken laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t care,” you whispered. “I don’t care if you’re broken. I love you.”
His hands curled into fists. “You shouldn’t.”
He saw the way your breath hitched. “Then tell me you don’t love me. Look me in the eyes and tell me, and I’ll walk away.”
He should have told you the truth — that you were the only light in his life, that without you, he was nothing.
But if he loved you, he had to let you go. So he gave you the lie that would set you free.
“I don’t love you.”
The moment the words left his lips, he wanted to take them back. You inhaled sharply, as if he had struck you.
And then you turned, walked away without uttering a word, disappearing into the rain.
And he just let you go, no matter how much it destroyed him inside.
▍25 JULY 2023
Jeonghan received a phone call two days later from an unknown number. His heart dropped before he even answered. Like there was an unshakeable dread filling up in his chest. Something felt wrong. There was a hollow pit in his stomach he couldn’t explain.
When the shaky voice spoke, his whole world shattered.
A drunk driver. A car that never stopped. The impact was instant. No chance to say goodbye.
You were gone.
The phone in his hand slipped and fell on the floor with a thud. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor, numb and breathless.
His breath hitched, but no sound came out.
Memories flooded in — when he first saw you, the warmth of your hand in his, the way you chased away his darkest days with your light. He could almost hear your voice, but it slipped away like a whisper in the wind.
The sun crept through the window as the new day began, but it felt cold. How could the world continue to turn without you in it?
Just like that, the light you carried — his light — was gone, snuffed out.
▍30 JULY 2022
He went to your funeral. It was raining heavily that day.
He made sure to stand in the back where he was hidden in the shadows like he always was, drenched in the downpour.
His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. It was as if the pain would keep him grounded and keep him from shattering completely.
Jeonghan watched as your family and friends wept for you. He listened as they spoke of you — how vibrant you were, how you lit up every room you stepped into, how you had dreams bigger than life itself.
Someone whispered about how unfair it was, how someone so full of life could be taken so soon. Someone else wondered if you knew how loved you were. He swallowed hard at that because he knew the truth. You didn’t.
Because of him.
No one knew that you died thinking he didn’t love you.
No one knew about the nights you stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he kept his distance, why he always seemed just out of reach.
No one knew about the unanswered messages, the half-written replies he never had the courage to send. They didn’t know about the way he had watched you from afar, longing to reach out but never daring to.
And that was the worst part.
Jeonghan loved you. He loved you in a way that terrified him, in a way that made him selfish and silent and a coward. He thought there would be more time. More chances to say the things he had locked away in his chest. More moments where he could turn around and run to you instead of away.
But life had stolen those chances. Death had taken away the possibility of redemption.
And now, as he stood there, his heart breaking under the weight of words left unsaid, he realised something far worse than his own grief.
That you had left this world believing a lie.
That you had gone thinking he never cared.
And no matter how many sleepless nights Jeonghan spent whispering apologies into the dark, no matter how many times he wished he could trade places with you, the truth remained. He had lost you. And you never knew the depth of his love.
Perhaps the cruelest thing about regret is that it changed nothing.
And so, as the final words were spoken and the casket was lowered into the earth, he turned and walked away — back into the shadows.
The only place he ever truly belonged.
▍15 AUGUST 2022
Jeonghan never stopped seeing you.
It wasn’t just in his memories, though they haunted him endlessly. It wasn’t just in his dreams, where you stood just close enough to touch but always disappeared the moment he reached for you. It was in everything.
In the blinking street lights that reflected on the wet pavement, your laughter still echoing down empty streets, just like the nights you used to walk home together.
In the sound of a song playing on an old record player, static crackling between the notes that reminded him of the way you used to hum absentmindedly. How your voice blended with the world around you.
In the scent of lavender that sometimes drifted through his apartment, even though you were gone, even though he threw away the candle you left on his shelf months ago.
It was maddening.
He drank to forget. Bottle after bottle, glass after glass, burning his throat, numbing his mind. But even in the haze of intoxication, you were still there, slipping into his thoughts like you had never left.
He smoked to forget. Let the smoke fill his lungs, let the world blur around him, hoping that maybe it would drown out the echoes of your voice in his head. But it never did. The memories clung to him that made it impossible to wash away.
But nothing worked.
Because the truth was, Jeonghan had never been so afraid of loving someone before. He never let himself feel something so deeply, never allowed someone to carve their name into the walls of his heart. And yet, you did it easily, without even trying.
He was afraid of losing you. So he kept his distance, kept his heart guarded, kept his love hidden behind silence and stolen glances. He thought that if he didn’t hold on too tightly, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you were gone.
But in the end, he lost you anyway. And the pain was unbearable.
Because now, there were no more chances. No more time to fix things, to tell you the truth, to hold you just once without fear. There was only regret. Only the ghost of you, lingering in the spaces you used to fill.
And Jeonghan knew, with every aching part of him, that he would never stop seeing you. Not now. Not ever.
▍18 OCTOBER 2022
He found your journal two months later which was tucked beneath the old record player you left in his apartment.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. It was the same day he first saw you, a year ago, standing beneath a rust-colored oak tree, looking like something out of a dream.
Jeonghan never believed in fate, but this? This felt cruel.
The pages were filled with you. Your thoughts, your feelings, the little fragments of poetry you loved so much. Lyrics scribbled in the margins, quotes that must have meant something to you, tiny doodles in between sentences. It was chaos, yet somehow, it was unmistakably you — warm, messy, alive.
But then, his fingers hesitated as he reached the final page. There, written in your delicate, familiar handwriting, was a single line.
“Even if you break me, I’d still choose you.”
His breath got caught. A sharp, unbearable ache spread through his chest which pressed against his ribs and crushed him from the inside.
His vision blurred as he read the words again and again, as if they might change if he stared long enough. As if there might be some other meaning he could twist them into, something that didn’t feel like a knife to his heart.
But the truth was undeniable.
A lump formed in his throat that was suffocating him. His hands trembled as he clutched the journal closer, as if holding it tightly enough might somehow bring you back.
And for the first time since you left, Yoon Jeonghan wept.
He cried out loud as he fell to his knees. He screamed as he held your journal to his chest, feeling himself break the last of him completely.
Because you were never afraid to love him. And he was too much of a coward to love you back.
You were always fearless. You ran headfirst into love, into life, into everything. You were meant to fly. And maybe he was the one who clipped your wings. Maybe, all along, he was the weight dragging you down, like a storm that pulled you under.
Maybe he was always meant to watch you fall.
Because the thing about people like him?
They don’t just break beautiful things.
They destroy themselves in the process.
And as he sat there, drowning in the words you left behind, Jeonghan realised that he never truly feared losing you.
He feared what it would mean to love you completely.
