summary: four ex-couples are brought together to test whether love can end, restart or transform. you’re not sure which path is yours yet - closure, a new beginning or the courage to try again
< prologue | part 2 >
the taxi slows down before it fully stops, its tires crunching softly against gravel and for a moment you wish it wouldn’t, you wish it would just keep driving. you watch the house through the window, standing there, all clean lines and wide windows reflecting the pale sky, like it’s been waiting for you specifically.
the driver says something you don’t fully catch, and you blink, pulling yourself back into your body.
“sorry?”, you say.
“we’re here”, he repeats gently.
right. here.
you nod, pay and thank him and then push the door open. you step out, your shoes meeting the ground with a soft thud and for a brief second you just stand there, staring at the house with your hand still resting on the door.
this is it.
you close the door, walk around to the trunk and pull your suitcase out. the handle clicks into place and you flinch a little at the sound. it’s stupid, there’s no one outside to hear it, but your nerves are already stretched thin, reacting to everything like it matters more than it should, because, in reality, everything about this matters.
you wave goodbye to the driver, more out of habit than anything else, and watch as the taxi pulls away. it disappears faster than you expect, leaving you alone in front of the house with nothing but the faint hum of distant traffic and the sound of your own breathing. you consider getting back in, well not literally because there’s no taxi anymore, but you consider leaving.
you’ve thought about it so many times already that it doesn’t surprise you when the thought comes back again. you thought about it when hyunjin called you to talk about the show, when you told your ex, when you both agreed to do it, when you packed your things last night.
you’ve been thinking about it every single day. and yet, here you are.
your grip tightens on the suitcase handle as you exhale slowly, steadying yourself and then, you start walking towards the house. each step feels like you’re crossing some invisible line you won’t be able to step back over. the path is neat, carefully arranged, leading straight to the front door like there’s only one direction you’re supposed to go.
you reach the door and hesitate again, your reflection faintly visible in the glass, and you look more composed than you feel. you smooth your hair back, then your clothes, you grab your suitcase again and then let out one last breath.
you know the cameras are already recording you, the people of the show told you that. which means you’ve stopped being just you ever since you left the taxi. now, you’re you on a show. you with rules, you with secrets.
you push the door open before your thoughts make you run away and step inside. the interior is quiet and brighter than you expected. natural light spills in through large windows, stretching across polished floors and soft-coloured furniture. the space feels open, carefully designed to look effortless and beautiful and you know every detail has been thought through.
you walk inside slowly, your suitcase rolling softly behind you and you let your eyes wander. the living room opens up in front of you, wide and inviting, with a large sofa facing a low table, a few scattered cushions, and subtle decorations that make the place feel lived in without being personal.
“hello?”, you ask softly, but there’s no answer, you’re the first one.
you move further in, your footsteps quiet but echoing, another sign that tells you that you’re alone. the cameras are there, you can feel them even when you don’t look directly at them. you glance towards the kitchen, drawn by the openness of it. it’s just as expansive as the rest, with clean countertops and a large island in the centre of it. you can already imagine people standing there, leaning against the counter, laughing and talking with each other.
you run your fingers along the edge of the island as you pass. everything feels a little too polished, like a stage waiting for actors, actors like you. your stomach twists at the thought.
you wonder who will walk through that door next. a girl? a boy? one of the other participants you’ve never met, who will just walk in here and introduce themselves and become part of your daily life faster than it should be possible? or-
your chest tightens again, sharper this time.
it could be him. it was one thing to see him last week, with all of the cameras and you talking and seeing each other for the first time in a year. but if he’s the next one to arrive today…
you swallow, your gaze drifting back towards the entrance as the idea settles heavily in your mind, impossible to ignore. the moment you see him, no matter if he’s the next one or not, you will have to act like you don’t know him, like there’s no history between you. you’re just strangers. the thought feels almost absurd when you try to hold it next to everything you lived together.
was this a good idea?
the question comes back again and you walk back into the living room. you leave your suitcase and then lower yourself onto the sofa. you rest your hands in your lap, your fingers loosely intertwined, and stare ahead without focusing on anything in particular as the silence stretches.
you think about how this will look from the outside - the first arrival, the quiet girl sitting alone, waiting. they won’t hear your heart beating so loud you think it will leave your chest, they won’t see the way your thoughts keep circling the same questions, they won’t hear the way your mind keeps going back to him, they won’t know how much of you is hoping and dreading that he’s the one who walks through that door next.
you suddenly hear it, the faint sound of the front door opening, and you straighten slightly, your hands tightening in your lap, your gaze flicking towards the hallway that leads to the entrance. you hold your breath as you hear the first footsteps, soft and careful.
one of the girls.
one of the boys.
him.
your chest tightens with something you don’t want to name and even though you don’t move from the sofa, every part of you feels alert, waiting. the footsteps come closer and then she appears.
a girl steps into the living room, pausing just slightly when she notices you. her eyes widen for a brief moment and then a visible wave of relief softens her expression, her shoulders dropping like she’s just let go of something she didn’t know she was holding.
you feel it too, faintly, relief spreading quietly through your chest. it’s not him, good. you stand up and you both bow politely.
“hi”, she says, her voice gentle and you see there’s a small smile on her face, “i’m lily”
“hi”, you reply, returning the smile as best as you can, “i’m y/n”
she nods her head and then glances around the room again, as if she’s taking everything in now that she knows she’s not alone.
“it’s… really big”, she says, laughing out of nerves.
“yeah, it is”, you say, laughing too, “i got here some minutes ago. i haven’t seen all of it”
“that makes me feel better”, she says, smiling a little more easily now, “i thought i’d be the first one and just… wait here awkwardly”
you shake your head, laughing more, “don’t worry. i already did that for you”
that earns another laugh from her, this time more genuine, and the tension between you loosens just a little. you both sit down on the sofa, leaving a comfortable amount of space between you.
“so…”, she starts, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “were you nervous coming here?”
you let out a small breath, glancing down at your hands before looking back up, “yeah. more than i thought i’d be”
“same”, she says, nodding, “i kept thinking about it on the way here, like… why did i agree to this?”
you huff out a quiet laugh, the words hitting a little too close, “i’ve been thinking that for a while”
she smiles again and there’s something understanding in her expression that makes it easier to sit there with her. the conversation flows slowly but steadily, both of you skirting around anything too deep, too revealing, because you can’t reveal too much about yourselves, at least not yet.
you’re in the middle of responding to something she says when the sound of the front door cuts through the air again and both of you pause. your head turns towards the hallway and lily does the same beside you, her posture straightening too.
you hear footsteps, heavier this time, and your heart picks up again. the footsteps get closer and closer, until a figure appears in the living room. it’s a boy this time, and he stops when he sees the two of you and gives a small, polite nod.
“hello”, he says.
you and lily bow in greeting and he mirrors the gesture.
“i’m minho”, he adds, his voice even, controlled.
you introduce yourself and lily does the same. there’s something calm and unreadable about him but it doesn’t fully hide the slight tension in his shoulders, the careful way he moves when he leaves his suitcase next to yours and walks over to sit down on the sofa with you. you can see he’s nervous too.
three strangers in a too big, too quiet house. the silence settles again, like all three of you are waiting for someone else to be the one to break it. minho is the one who does, as he glances between you and lily and then speaks.
“are you two the first ones?”
his voice is calm, casual enough, but you can hear the hesitation there, like he’s choosing his words more carefully than necessary.
you nod, “yeah. i got here first and then lily came a bit after”
“i was really hoping i wouldn’t be the first one”, lily says.
minho laughs, “yeah, me too”
and then, you hear a soft, very audible sound breaking through the room - lily’s stomach. you blink and turn your head towards her at the same time as minho before the three of you laugh at the same time.
“oh god, i didn’t eat this morning, i’m sorry”, lily says, covering her face, her voice muffled behind her hands, “i was too nervous”
“don’t worry”, you say, still laughing.
minho tilts his head, looking at her, “i can cook something if you want”
the offer comes naturally, like it’s not a big deal at all, but it still makes you glance at him with a bit more interest. lily looks surprised too, her eyes widening just a little before she quickly shakes her head.
“no, it’s okay”, she says, “i’ll just wait until everyone gets here”
“are you sure?”, he asks her.
“yeah”, she nods, smiling, “it feels weird to start without everyone”
you glance at minho again, “you like cooking?”
he shrugs, casual, “yeah. i do it a lot”
“that’s nice”, you say, “i don’t. like, at all”
“same”, lily adds, laughing a little, “i mean i know how to cook, but i really don’t want to most of the time”
minho’s lips curve just slightly at that, like he finds it amusing but isn’t going to comment too much on it. you’re about to say something when you hear the door opening again, cutting the moment instantly.
the three of you go quiet, your attention shifting towards the hallway in sync. your heartbeat picks up again, the now familiar tightness returning to your chest before you can stop it. you see a boy stepping into the living room with a small, polite smile already in place, like he’s prepared for this moment. his eyes move across the room, landing on the three of you, and he gives a light bow.
“hi”, he says, “i’m seungmin”
you move with the others, bowing in return. your voice comes out steady when you introduce yourself, even though your heart hasn’t stopped beating faster and faster, you know it won’t calm down until everyone is here. seungmin places his suitcase next to the others and then walks over to sit in the armchair across the sofa, right in front of you.
up close like this, it’s easier to see the details - the slight tension in his posture, the careful way he settles into the seat, how his hands rest together a bit too neatly, how he keeps pressing his lips together. he looks composed and calm, but it’s the same calm you had seen in minho as well, controlled and nervous.
“did you eat?”, lily asks seungmin, her tone light.
he shakes his head slightly, “um... not much”
“me neither”, she says with a small laugh, “i was too nervous”
seungmin nods in understanding, a faint smile touching his lips and then, you decide to speak again.
“do you like cooking?”
his gaze shifts to you, “i know how to, but i don’t really like it”
“just like us”, you say, gesturing between you and lily, the two of you laughing again.
the front door opens once more and you all wait there in silence until a girl appears this time. she stops the moment she sees all of you, like completely still. her eyes widen slightly, like she wasn’t expecting to walk into a full room and she just stands there taking everything in. you recognise the feeling immediately, that brief and overwhelming awareness that this is real, that you’re all here for the same reason.
she bows quickly, almost a little too fast, “hi, i’m hae”, she says, her voice quieter than the other so far, carrying a small awkward edge that makes something in your chest soften just lightly.
you and the others greet her the same way, introducing yourselves one by one. she looks around again, as if trying to figure out where to go or what to do, and then she walks over to leave her suitcase next to the others. after a small hesitation, she moves towards the sofa, but instead of sitting near you, she chooses the far end, settling into the corner with a bit of distance between herself and the rest of you.
“did you have trouble finding the place?, seungmin asks, his tone easy, directed towards minho first.
minho shakes his head, “not really. the directions were clear”
seungmin nods, glancing briefly towards lily and you as if including everyone in the conversation, “same here”
it’s simple, surface-level, but it works, it gives everyone something to hold onto.
“and you?”, he continues, this time looking towards hae.
she blinks, then shakes her head quickly, “no… it was okay”
“good”, he says, offering a small, polite smile, then his gaze moves between all of you, “have you looked around the house yet?”
you shake your head, “not really, just the living room and the kitchen”
seungmin hums softly, like he expected that answer.
“it’s big”, minho says, glancing around again, “i think we’ll get lost at some point”
that earns a faint smile from lily and even minho’s expression softens slightly. before anyone can say anything else, the door opens again. the sound is becoming familiar now, but it still sends a small jolt through you. your body reacts before you can stop it as your shoulders straighten slightly, your attention shifting once more towards the entrance as your heart speeds up again.
another boy steps into the room with a natural ease that immediately feels different from the rest of you. he’s not completely relaxed, you can see a hint of nervousness in the way his gaze flickers across everyone, but he carries it differently.
“hi”, he says, smiling as he bows lightly, “i’m bang chan but you can call me chan or chris”
his tone is warm and open and it changes the atmosphere almost instantly. you introduce yourselves again, you honestly don’t remember how many times you’ve done that today, and he moves to join you in the living room once he sets his suitcase down with the others. he sits down on the sofa, just between hae and lily, but leaving a respectful space between all of them. he looks around at all of you, his expression thoughtful for a second before it softens again.
“so…”, he starts, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, “am i the only one that’s nervous or are you all just really good at hiding it?”
all of you laugh at that, and you miss the way chan looks at you quickly before he looks around the room again.
lily lets out a short laugh, “no, no, we’re definitely nervous”
“same”, seungmin adds quietly, clearing his throat and looking at the floor now.
you smile a little as you joke, “i think we’re all just pretending not to be”
chan nods his head, “okay good, that’s better”, he glances between all of you again, “did you guys eat before coming here?”
“we were talking about that before, saying that we were too nervous to eat anything”, minho says.
“i barely ate too”, chan says.
hae gives a small nod again, she’s quieter than the rest, but she does it to be included in the group.
you glance towards the kitchen, “do you think there’s food already here?”
“probably”, lily says, “or maybe we have to go buy some?”
chan tilts his head, “we could check”
everyone agrees and there’s a small shift in the group, like the idea of actually doing something, anything, helps ease the stillness just a little more. you’re about to say something else when the door opens again, and the tension returns. you hear high heels against the floor, and it tells you everything before you even see her - the last girl is here.
she steps into the living room, her gaze moving across all of you, “hi, i’m yeong”
everyone introduces themselves and then chan gestures towards the kitchen, “we were just about to check if there’s anything to eat”
yeong glances in that direction, then back at the group, and nods her head, “okay, that sounds good”
you stand up with the others, following them towards the kitchen, everyone filling the space that had felt too still just moments ago. the kitchen feels different now with almost everyone in it, you don’t forget that the last boy has yet to arrive. all of you move around the island, opening cabinets and checking the fridge.
“there’s some stuff here”, hae says, crouching to look into a lower cabinet.
“there’s not a lot”, minho adds, scanning the shelves.
“ramen”, chan points out, pulling out a couple of packets, “that’s something”
“of course it is”, seungmin says lightly.
there are a few other things - bread, eggs, some vegetables, meat, basic ingredients. it’s not enough for anything elaborate but it’s enough to put together something quick.
you find yourself standing near the counter, watching as everyone starts to fall into small roles without really discussing it. there’s quiet conversation, overlapping just enough to keep the silence from settling again, and yet, your thoughts drift as you glance at them one by one, almost without realising it.
some of them look more relaxed now, others are still nervous and you try to think about you and your ex and-
you stop yourself there. your gaze shifts away as your fingers brush against the edge of the counter. this is what you signed up for, a house full of strangers and questions and choices you’re not sure you’re ready for.
your chest tightens again, as the now familiar question surfaces again, was this a good idea?, quieter this time but no less present. you watch as minho opens the ramen packets, casually asking who wants what and for a moment, it almost feels normal, like you’ve done this a million times before. but underneath it, your thoughts keep moving and circling, never quite setting, because nothing about this is going to be simple.
by the time evening settles in, the house already feels different. not completely familiar, not yet at least, but it feels less distant than it did when you first met this morning. eating together had gone better than you expected and after that, the energy naturally dipped and you all moved to unpack, see the house, sit alone for a while and just breathe.
there were four rooms in the house which meant you all had to share. you end up sharing with lily and you’re quietly grateful for it because there’s something about her that makes you feel at ease. you talk a little while unpacking and it’s enough to settle some of the nerves in your chest.
everyone is nice, really nice, but you had expected something more awkward or forced. but instead it was just good, really good even. which almost makes it worse because it lulls you into forgetting, just for a second what his actually is.
now, the house is alive again, and you make your way back into the kitchen. one by one everyone gathers again, naturally falling into place like you’ve already created a routine. you step closer to the counter, glancing around.
chan is already there, his sleeves pushed up as he looks through what you can have for dinner. minho stands nearby, leaning against the counter as he looks too. lily joins you a second later before looking around as if deciding where to help. seungmin stands next to you and just when he’s about to speak, the front door opens again.
everyone pauses and looks at each other, the last boy is finally here. you hear footsteps quickly this time, faster and slightly rushed. a boy appears then, breathing just a little heavier than the rest of you had when you arrived.
“hi- sorry”, he says, bowing quickly, “i’m han and i’m really sorry i’m so late”, his voice is warm but hurried as he continues, “my job was… busy today. it took longer than i expected. sorry”
he bows again but you all stop him, there’s no need to apologise.
“it’s fine”, lily says with a small smile, “we were just about to start dinner”
“yeah”, chan says, “you didn’t miss anything important”
han lets out a small breath, visibly relieved, “okay, good. i felt bad”
you introduce yourselves again and han nods after each of you, his shoulders relaxing. he looks at his suitcase and then at you again.
“so… um…”, han starts.
“oh, you’re gonna share a room with me, here, let me show you”, seungmin says before he moves to han and the two of them go to their shared room.
everyone’s here, no more arrivals, no more waiting. all of you move to start dinner again and han slips into it easily despite arriving late, offering to help and joking when he almost grabs the wrong thing, earning a few laughs in return. when everything is ready, you all move to the table together.
there's a brief moment of hesitation - who sits where, how close, how far - but it passes quickly. chairs scrape softly against the floor as everyone settles in, plates and bowls being passed around, the clatter of utensils filling the space. you sit between lily and yeong, all of the girls on one side and all of the boys on the side. you start eating in silence but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to start again.
“we should probably figure out chores”, yeong says, glancing around the table.
“yeah”, seungmin agrees, “this place won’t stay clean on its own”
han lets out a small laugh, “i was hoping it would”
“rotating sounds better, so no one gets stuck with the same thing”, you say.
“agreed”, seungmin says.
there’s a small pause as everyone considers it, then nods follow.
“and groceries”, hae says quietly, “we’ll need more food”
“that too”, minho says, “maybe tomorrow? whoever’s free can go”
“and dinner”, han says, his gaze moving between all of you, “should we… eat together everyday?”
it’s a simple suggestion but it carries something deeper, a kind of quiet commitment.
“i think that would be nice”, you say.
“yeah”, lily agrees, “everyone will be busy during the day with their jobs and stuff, so dinner would be nice”
“then we can rotate cooking too”, chan says, “like two people each night?”
everyone agrees and then, when you finish eating, you hear the doorbell ringing again. the sound cuts through the room so suddenly that for a second, no one reacts. all of you pause almost at the same time, small movements freezing mid-action and conversations dropping off mid-sentence.
“is… someone else coming?”, lily asks quietly.
no one answers at first and it almost feels like the beginning of the day again, that same anticipation and uncertainty creeping back in.
minho pushes his chair back and stands up, “i’ll go and check”
he heads towards the front door and the rest of you stay where you are, listening, the house feeling too quiet again. there’s the faint sound of the door opening and then closing. minho reappears a few seconds later, something in his hand.
an envelope.
the moment you see it, you recognise it immediately. somewhere in the back of your mind you knew this would come, but actually seeing it, here, now, makes it real in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for.
he looks at all of you, holding it up slightly, “it’s for us”
he reaches into the envelope and pulls out several smaller ones, one for each of you. your eyes drop to them, scanning, and your breath catches when you see your name written on one. a memory flashes in your mind - sitting alone days ago in your apartment, a pen in hand as you stared at a blank page without writing anything. some of the people on the show had contacted you and said you needed to write an introduction of your ex.
you remember how hard that felt. how impossible it was to decide what to say, what to not say.
minho starts handing them out one by one. all of you take them with different expressions, different reactions, some of you are more hesitant, others are more curious. once everyone has their envelope, you all sit there, waiting until someone decides to actually do something.
“so…”, chan starts, “should we read them?”
then lily nods slowly, “out loud?”
“probably”, minho says, “i think that’s the point”
no one argues but there’s a shared understanding, unspoken but clear, that this is part of it, the beginning of everything unraveling.
lily ends up going first. she hesitates before opening the envelope, her fingers careful as she slides the paper out. you watch her expression as she scans the first lines, the way her lips press together briefly before she starts reading, her voice soft at first, slightly unsteady.
‘lily is the first girl i had a serious relationship with. she is nice, bright and smiles a lot so she gets along with everyone. she’s soft hearted and hates being alone so i think it’ll be nice if she meets someone kind and gentle and becomes the person i couldn’t be for her’
when she finishes reading, she lets out a small breath, smiling faintly as she folds the paper again.
“that was…”, she trails off.
“beautiful”, hae offers gently and lily nods.
next is minho and he doesn’t hesitate as much when he opens his envelope. his tone is steady when he reads, more than lily’s, but there are moments where something softer slips through the words he reads.
‘my first impression of minho was that he was very handsome’
he stops reading when all of you laugh at that, himself included.
‘he may seem cold at first but he’s actually a very warm person and he likes to give presents and prepare things for his girlfriend. he’s someone who’s genuine with others, so he was a very warm and reliable boyfriend’
when he finishes reading, he reacts with a slight shake of his head, like he expected that.
“that was very good”, han says.
minho hums, “it was”
yeong decides to go next and when you look at her, you notice the way her fingers hold the paper just a little tighter. her voice is clear as she reads but there’s emotion there, subtle and controlled.
‘yeong is a caring and soft hearted person who gets hurt by the smallest actions and words, but she tries to hide it because of her strong pride, so i think it would be great if you can pay attention to her and take good care of her’
when hae’s turn arrives, she goes very quiet again. she almost whispers at first, glancing down more than she looks up, but as she continues, her voice steadies, even if her hands don’t.
‘once hae sets her mind on something, she’ll do it no matter what. she’s a passionate person who likes learning new things and looks cool working. she was a very considerate girlfriend and was always there for me whenever i needed her’
you find yourself leaning slightly without realising it, listening more carefully, trying to piece things together without actually knowing anything, without seeing the image of the puzzle you’re trying to create.
han’s letter brings a different energy. he laughs once before he even starts reading, shaking his head slightly like he already knows what’s coming.
“okay… this is embarrassing”, he says, but he reads anyway.
‘han is someone who makes me feel special. i loved our time together and he was very romantic. he’s bright and funny and he talks a lot so it’s easy to talk with him. he loves music and when he’s with people he shines. i think a girl who can understand him will be a good match for him. he will treat you like a princess but he’s also the princess in the relationship’
there’s more laughter this time and it helps, just a little, to break the weight that’s been building.
chan goes after him. he opens his envelope with a small breath, scanning the page briefly before starting to read. his voice is warm, like it was when he first walked in, but there’s something more grounded in it now.
‘chan is a very warm and meticulous person. wherever he goes and whoever he’s with, he always puts others first. he takes good care of people, so while living with him, you’ll be able to see his sweet side often. he likes music and he’s sentimental, so i think he’ll be very good with a girl who has the same interests as him’
you notice the way the room quiets a bit more as he reads, the attention fully on him. when he finishes, he smiles faintly and looks at seungmin as he folds the paper.
“your turn”, he tells him.
seungmin opens his letter without much hesitation and he starts reading, his voice calm and controlled.
‘seungmin has a very detailed personality to the point he notices the minor changes in your tone. he loves baseball and he is very good at it. he usually seems calm but he’s very loving, caring and warm when you get to know him. he looks after those close to him and he took great care of me and always put me first. he’s the only boy i regret breaking up with’
everyone stays silent at the last sentence, the words quite heavy and full of regret. you try to keep your breathing steady because you know you’re next and you’re not sure if you’re ready for the words that are going to appear in front of you in mere seconds.
all eyes shift to you, there’s nowhere else for the attention to go. your heart is beating too fast again and your thoughts are too loud but still, you inhale slowly and open the envelope.
you stare at the handwriting, recognising it as soon as the letter lands in your hands. you force your eyes to focus and then, you start reading.
‘y/n has a pretty smile and laughs a lot, that’s why when you look at her, you feel happy as well. she’s someone with bright energy and loves chocolate, so if you give her something sweet, you’ll see her wide smile’
but as you go on, something shifts. you try to keep going anyway, your eyes moving across the lines, your grip tightening on the paper.
‘she is always happy and she is very caring and loving. while we were together, she made me grow and taught me many things. i remember our time together as the best time of my life’
you can feel it building - the memories behind the words, the things he chose to write. your voice softens without you meaning it to.
‘she’s soft hearted and emotional, and also strong, but please be kind to her so that she won’t get hurt’
by the time you reach the end, your chest feels too tight, your throat closing just enough to make the last words harder to get out. when you finish, you lower the paper slowly, your hands not as steady as before. your eyes sting, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down. you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, letting put a small breath that doesn’t quite steady you.
you see a hand in front of you, offering you a tissue. you look up and see seungmin, with a soft smile on his face.
“here, take it”, he says.
“thank you”, you say as you grab the tissue.
you knew this would happen. you bring the tissue to your face, brushing your cheek and wiping the tears from your face, trying to compose yourself again, even as your chest still feels tight and your emotions are sitting too close to the surface.
not long after you finish reading the letters, all of you decide it’s time to go to bed. you can still feel the weight of your letter sitting in your chest, without fully letting you go after you read it out loud. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, staring down at your hands, still holding the faint memory of the paper from earlier.
“hey”, lily says gently.
you look up.
she’s watching you now, her expression soft but a bit concerned, “are you okay?”
you take a second before answering, not because you don’t want to respond, but because you’re trying to figure out what the honest answer even is.
“i think so”, you say finally, “it was just… a lot”
she nods immediately, “yeah, i get it”
“it kind of hit me more that i expected", you say, looking down again.
“i could tell”, she says softly, “but it was really nice. you know, what your ex wrote”
you nod slowly, not trusting yourself to speak again. you both start getting ready for bed when your phone vibrates, both of your phones do. you look at lily and she’s already looking at her own phone. you reach for yours and you see a text from the show.
exchange: who made your heart flutter today? send them a text
this is the first actual choice you have to make and your mind starts moving, faster than you can control. you think about the day, about the boys and then you exhale quietly. you don’t even know them yet, not all of them at least. sending something to someone new feels… too much and too fast.
but if you send your ex the text… your thumb hovers over the screen for a second before you finally type.
‘thank you’
it’s simple, maybe too simple. but it’s the only thing that feels right in this moment, especially after everything that happened earlier, after the letter. you stare at the words for a second, then press send before you can overthink it.
“did you send it?”, lily asks you.
“yeah, you?”
“yeah”, she says, placing her phone down beside her.
none of you asks who you sent the text to, it’s understood, the texts have to remain anonymous, at least for now, that’s part of the rules. you start talking again, relaxing, when your phone vibrates again.
you see a new text and your heart picks up slightly as you read it.
‘i miss seeing you smile’
your breath catches and for a second you just stare at the screen and before you can think too much about it, another text appears.
exchange: your ex chose you
when you finally wake up the next day, you realise that the light filtering through the curtains is higher in the sky than it should be, and for a moment you just lie there, disoriented. your body feels heavy and your head too. it takes a few seconds before you reach your phone, your eyes still half-lidded and when you see the time, you blink, even more confused now.
it’s almost noon. last night… didn’t really let you rest. you just lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts looping over and over again. the letters, the text.
you turn on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow for a moment before pushing yourself up. your body protests just a little, still tired, but there’s no point staying there. you leave your room and go to the kitchen and you see hae as soon as you step in. she’s standing by the counter, a cup in her hands, and she looks up when she hears you enter.
“y/n”, she says, a small smile appearing, “good morning, oh, well... good afternoon”
“yeah, hello”, you reply, your voice still a little softer than usual.
“did you just wake up?”, she asks you.
you nod, rubbing lightly at your arm, “yeah… i didn’t sleep that well”
“me neither”, she says, letting out a small breath, “i think everyone was a bit overwhelmed”
you nod your head and then ask her, “where is everyone?”
“seungmin and minho went to buy groceries”, she says, “the other left earlier for work”
you nod slowly, leaning against the counter and hae looks at you again, a little more carefully this time.
“are you okay?”, she asks.
you hesitate for a second before answering, “yeah, i just… needed some time i guess”
“it was a lot”
“yeah, it was”, you agree.
you’re about to say something else when you hear the front door opening, followed by the noise of footsteps and the faint clatter of bags.
“they’re back”, hae says.
a second later, minho and seungmin walk into the kitchen, both of them carrying grocery bags.
“oh, you’re up”, minho says, setting one of the bags down on the counter.
seungmin’s gaze follows, landing on you briefly, “morning”
“morning boys”, you reply.
“have you eaten?”, minho asks, already moving to set the rest of the groceries down.
you shake your head.
“i can make something quickly”, he offers.
“no, it’s okay”, you say, “you just got back, i can-”
“it won’t take long”, he cuts in lightly and starts pulling something out of one of the bags, starting to prepare you something to eat.
you exchange a small glance with hae, who smiles faintly, then turns back to the groceries.
“let’s put these away”, she says.
you nod, stepping closer to the counter. seungmin joins you without a word, picking up one of the bags and starting to sort through it. the three of you start taking things out, placing items where they belong, and behind you, you hear minho moving around, the sound of cooking filling the kitchen.
you finish putting everything away at the same time minho finishes cooking for you and he slides a simple plate towards you with a small nod.
“thank you”, you say.
he just shrugs lightly, “eat before it gets cold”
you sit at the counter while the others linger nearby. hae pours herself some water and seungmin leans lightly against the counter, looking at his phone for a second before he puts it away again. the four of you stay there, talking as you eat slowly, the food pulling you a little more into the moment and into your body.
when you’re done eating, everyone leaves to do their own thing, it’s still too early for constant closeness, too soon to be together all the time without space. the house is shared, yes, but you’re all still figuring out how to exist in it with more people.
you go to your room and sit on your bed before reaching for your bag, pulling out a book you brought with you. reading has always been like this for you - a way to settle your thoughts, to step into your own little world just enough to understand your own mind better. and right now, your mind needs it.
you curl up against the headboard, opening the book, letting the words pull you in slowly. it takes a few pages to fully focus, your thoughts still drifting back to everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours, but eventually it quiets.
time passes without you noticing too much, and at some point you check your phone, replying to a few texts, when you start hearing movement outside your room again. voices, doors, the house filling up.
you close your book, setting it aside and stand up, stretching before heading out of your room. when you step into the living room, all of them are already there. chan and seungmin are sitting on the sofa, talking about something that makes lily laugh beside them. han is nearby, saying something animatedly while minho listens with a small, almost amused expression. hae and yeong are there too, talking together, a bit further from the group but still there.
“y/n, you’re here!”, lily says when she notices you.
you smile at her, moving closer, “yeah, i was in our room”
“how was your day?”, chan asks you, turning towards you when you sit next to him.
“quiet”, you say, “slept in and then just read for a while”
“that sounds nice”, he says.
the conversation picks up from there, and you find yourself laughing along at some point, the sound coming easier than it did yesterday. suddenly, the doorbell rings and the sound cuts through the room, immediate and clear. the doorbell rings again and then lily pushes herself up from the sofa.
“i’ll get it!”, she says, already heading towards the door.
you follow her with your eyes as she disappears down the hallway, the rest of you falling into a brief, curious silence. you hear the door opening and closing, and then lily comes back with an envelope.
she looks around at all of you, a small, almost nervous smile on her face before she opens it. the paper rustles lightly in her hands as she pulls out the contests, looking down to read.
“okay, here we go…”, she starts, her voice a little bit shakier now.
‘earlier today, the female participants were asked to name an important restaurant for them that held memories with their ex’
your stomach drops lightly.
right, that text, you remember it now, it’s one of the texts your answered before when you were reading in your room. you didn’t realise it would happen so soon, whatever this was supposed to be. lily continues, reading carefully.
‘the male participants will now choose one of these four restaurants for your first date tomorrow. please, keep in mind that the purpose of this is to meet new people’
there’s a small shift in the room, it’s subtle but you feel it.
“so… if we have to pick a restaurant that we don’t know…”, han trails off.
“it’s because we can’t pick our ex”, minho finishes, matter-of-fact.
silence settles for a second as the implication lands clearly for everyone. you swallow, your gaze dropping briefly to the table before lifting again.
lily pulls out four small cards from the envelope and places them carefully on the table in front of you. each one has the logo and the name of the restaurants the four of you have chosen - four choices, something simple but carrying more weight than they should.
everyone gathers around the table, drawn in without needing to be told. the space tightens, your shoulders almost brushing, and you feel the air shifting again.
“so… how do we decide the order?”, chan asks.
“rock, paper, scissors?”, han suggests.
the boys nod their heads and then their hands go up, small bursts of laughter breaking through the tension for just a moment as they play it out. seungmin wins so he will go first, then minho, han and chan, that’s the order.
seungmin looks at the cards and then reaches for one, the tacos restaurant. he picks it up and turns it over, all of you realising there’s a code on the back. he takes out his phone and scans it.
“what’s that?”, hae asks him.
“you scan the code and it tells us who we’re gonna have our date with”, seungmin says.
okay, so everyone is gonna know who is going with who once all of the boys choose the restaurant, perfect. you’re not really sure if that calms your nerves or not.
minho goes next and he reaches for the bbq restaurant without much hesitation. his movements are smooth, almost detached, but you can see it, the slight tension in his jaw as he flips the card over and then there’s another code, another scan, another couple for a first date.
han is next and he looks at the remaining cards for a second before choosing the italian restaurant. there’s a small smile on his face, nervous but something you’ve come to learn is so him.
“okay…”, he mutters softly, mostly to himself, as he turns the card over.
you feel it before anything happens, that strange pull in your chest, that quiet sense of something about to shift. he scans the code and pauses for a second, then two, and then, he looks up, straight at you, and everything clicks into place at once.
han is your first date.
a/n: han jisung you're OUT ❌ he's notttt the ex (i'm scared bc i know some of you are gonna come for me and i'm sorry pls don't hate me) so who's the ex???? 🤔
the library
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˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ “i only wanted to see you laughing in the purple rain…”
in which you recently passed away in an accident, and you must board a train to the end of forever.
or… your trip to the afterlife happens to be incongruously soothing as death just so happens to wear the face of the one who got away.
grim reaper! bang chan x spirit f! reader · category : angst with a tiny pinch of fluff · contents : ex lovers. reader is referred as y/n. grief. mourning. mentions of terminal illness. blood. character death. kissing. this story is purely a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes only. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 15k
💬 … lynsbng speaking ⸝⸝ i’m not crying, you are!
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THE FIRST THING YOU BECAME AWARE OF WAS THE SILENCE. not the absence of sound–no, that would have been too simple, too clean. this was a silence with texture, thick and velvety as mourning cloth, pressing against your eardrums like the weight of water at impossible depths. it had presence, it had intent. the stillness wrapped around you, and held you the way grief holds the living; gentle, relentless, impossible to escape.
then came the cold.
it started at your shoulder, a point of pressure so familiar it bypassed your confusion entirely and spoke directly to something older, something buried beneath years of practiced composure and carefully constructed walls. the cold seeped through the fabric of your blouse—was it always this thin?—and settled into your epidermis like a brand, like a benediction, like the memory of a hand that once knew the geography of your anatomy better than you knew it yourself.
and then the voice.
“y/n.”
your name, spoken the way only one person had ever spoken it. it sounded like a prayer, a secret, and the answer to a question you never expected to inquire yet again.
you would have known that voice in the wreckage of the world. you would have known it at the bottom of the ocean, in the heart of a fire, at the moment of your death. you had known it at the moment of your death, you realized dimly, though the thought slid off your consciousness like water off wax—slick, fleeting, impossible to grasp.
it was the voice that once whispered terrible, beautiful poetry into your hair at three in the morning, when the rest of the world slept and you two were the only people alive. it was the voice that laughed—that bright, breathless sound like sunrise breaking over the ocean. every time you pulled him away from his producing dungeon by the earlobe, scolding him for forgetting to eat again. it was the voice that promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers, and you had believed him because how could you not? how could you not believe in forever when he looked at you like you had invented the concept just for him?
your eyes opened.
the world was grey. not the grey of depression, not the grey of rainy days or old photographs. this was a grey that existed between things—between light and shadow, between life and whatever came after, between the person you were five minutes ago and the person you were now. it was the grey of liminal spaces, of train stations at midnight, of hotel rooms in cities you would never visit again. it was the grey of almost and not quite and still waiting.
you were lying on cold asphalt. the surface was rough against your back, gritty with the debris of a thousand passing tires. the smell that filled your nostrils was an unholy cocktail of burnt rubber, gasoline, and something else… something metallic and sweet that your mind refused to categorize.
copper. iron. the building blocks of ichor. the taste of it lingered at the back of your throat, coppery and wrong, and you wondered vaguely if this was what dying tasted like.
above you, a figure stood silhouetted against lights that flashed and swirled; blue and red, blue and red, the colors of emergency, of urgency, of too late. the lights washed over him in rhythmic pulse, painting him in colors that seemed out of this world, and yet—
and yet, it was him.
…it was… him.
chan stood over you like a fallen angel, like a prayer answered in the worst possible way, like every dream you ever had and every nightmare you couldn;t admit to wanting. his face was exactly as you remembered it: the soft, kind curve of his cheeks that made him look younger than his years, the worried downturn of his lips that appeared every time you so much as stubbed your toe, those deep, expressive eyes that once held your entire universe in their dark depths and refused to let go.
however, something was wrong.
something was deeply, fundamentally wrong, and it took you a long, suspended moment to understand what it was.
his skin. it was perfect; flawless, unblemished, the same neutral winter tone you used to trace with your fingertips for hours, memorizing every mole, every freckle, every tint imperfection that made him him–yet it glowed. not with the healthy radiance of life, not with the flush of exertion or emotion, but with an ethereal, internal light. the light of things that existed beyond the veil. the lights of moon, deep sea creatures, and concepts that were never meant to take human form.
and his eyes.
his eyes were the most… peculiar.
they were still his eyes… the shape, the set, the way they focused on you with that familiar devastating intensity. however, the color had drained away, replaced by something vest, something endless. they were voids now, his eyes, starless, hollow, and deep as the space between galaxies, and when you looked into them you felt yourself falling, falling, falling into an infinity that had no bottom, no top, and no sides, just the terrible, beautiful forever of oblivion.
he reached down and pulled you to your feet.
his hand was cold… so cold, impossibly cold, the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the dark side of the moon—but it was real. present. in this grey, shifting world where nothing felt quite anchored, his grip was the one constant thing. the only thing you could trust.
you looked down.
your car was gone—no, not exactly gone. that was the wrong word. your car was there, but it no longer looked like a car.
it was a sculpture of violence, a testament to physics, momentum, and the terrible fragility of human engineering. metal had been folded like origami paper, wrapped around a lamppost that stood utterly unimpressed by the destruction it had wrought. glass sparkled across the road in a million crystalline fragments, each one catching the flashing lights and throwing them back like tiny, cruel stars.
the driver's side door was... somewhere else. you spotted it twenty feet away, torn from its hinges and lying crumpled against a parked car. the steering wheel had been pushed through what used to be the dashboard. and there, still partially inside, still strapped into the seat by a seatbelt that had done its job even when everything else failed—
there was a figure, covered by a sheet.
white, pristine, untouched by the blood that pooled beneath the wreckage in a dark, spreading stain that seemed to grow even as you watched. the sheet had been placed with care, with reverence, with the particular gentleness of people who did this for a living and had learned that the dead deserved dignity even when the living couldn't give it to them.
you looked at it. you looked at it for a long, long time. the sheet rose and fell with nothing—no breath, no movement, no life. just the terrible stillness of something that would never move again.
and somewhere in the deep, survival part of your brain that had kept you alive for twenty-seven years, a switch flipped. a door closed. an understanding settled into your bones like cold water filling a grave.
oh, you thought, with a strange, distant clarity that felt almost peaceful. oh, that's me.
you turned back to him—to the man who wore your lost love's face like a mask, like a mercy, like the cruelest joke the universe could possibly play.
"chan?" you heard yourself ask, and your voice sounded wrong, thin and echoey, like it was traveling from very far away, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
he tilted his head.
it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak—that your heart (did your heart still beat? you don’t know. you couldn't really feel it anymore) clenched in your chest with a pain that was almost physical.
“i beg your pardon?”
his voice was his. it was his. the same timber, the same resonance, the same quality that used to make you close your eyes and just listen when he spoke, drinking in the sound of him like water in a desert. however, there was something layered beneath it now, an echo that hadn't been there before, a vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once rather than from a single throat. it was the voice of something ancient, something eternal, something that had existed long before humans walked the earth and would exist long after they were gone.
“for i am death, miss y/l/n.”
his introduction hung in the grey air between you, heavy as headstones, final as a closed casket.
“y/n y/l/n, you have met the end of life,” he paused, and something flickered in those moonless eyes; something that might have been gentleness, if gentleness could exist in a being of finality, “time, 14:43 pm.”
you stared at him.
the words bounced off your understanding like coins off frozen ground–pinging, skittering, refusing to find purchase. you knew what they meant. you weren't stupid, you had a brain, you could process language. you knew what each word signified, individually, as a sentence.
however, the meaning of them, the weight, the implication, refused to settle. it was like trying to pour water into a cup that was already full. there was simply no room left in your consciousness for this information.
“what are you saying?” a huff of disbelief slithered through your lips, thin, and reedy. “this isn’t funny, chan.”
for a heartbeat—or whatever passed for a heartbeat in this place, something shifted in his expression.
it was there and gone so fast you might have imagined it, a crack in the perfect, still mask of his features, a glimpse of something raw and wounded beneath the surface of divine indifference. his eyes flickered for just a moment, the void replaced by something warm, brown, and achingly familiar.
and then it was gone, sealed over like ice forming on a lake.
or maybe… you were just being delusional. maybe this was your brain’s last desperate attempt to find comfort in the face of the incomprehensible, projecting familiarity on a stranger who happened to share the same exact features with your past lover.
maybe you wanted so badly for him to still be present that you were seeing thing that weren’t real.
“...please come along with me, miss y/l/n.”
he extended his hand towards you. it was the hand that had pulled you into countless embraces, that had brushed strands from your face when you were sick, that had gripped yours so tightly during horror movies. it looked the same. the same long fingers, the same slight calluses from years of producing music.
a laugh bubbled up in your throat.
it wasn't a happy sound. it wasn't even a sad sound, really. it was the sound of a mind pushed past its breaking point, of a soul that had encountered something so fundamentally absurd that laughter was the only possible response. you laughed, and the sound echoed in the grey space around you, bouncing off buildings you couldn't see and returning to you distorted, wrong, like a funhouse mirror version of itself.
this was a dream. it had to be a dream. a hallucination brought on by the impact, by the blood loss, by the chemicals your dying brain was releasing in its final moments. any second now, you would wake up in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and worried nurses, and this would all be a story you told people at parties.
i saw my dead ex-boyfriend as the grim reaper when i died. can you believe it? god forbid a girl to die in peace.
to prove it—to prove that none of this was real, that you were still alive, that the universe hadn't actually become this cruel, you turned away from him, declining his hand, and started walking toward the crowd of onlookers gathered at the edge of the wreckage.
a man in a heavy coat ran straight through you.
there was no impact. no resistance. just a fleeting sensation of cold, like stepping through a curtain of ice water, and then he was on the other side, stumbling to a halt, his face pale as he stared at the wreckage with the particular horror of someone who had just realized they were witnessing something they would never be able to unsee.
he pulled out his phone with trembling hands and started filming. of course he did. everyone filmed everything these days. your death would probably be on the internet within the hour, viewed by strangers who would scroll past it with the same detachment they used for everything else.
you turned, slowly, and looked at the scene properly for the first time.
the flashing lights weren't just ambiance; they belonged to real vehicles, solid vehicles, fire trucks and police cars and an ambulance that had arrived too late. officers in crisp uniforms were redirecting traffic, their faces professionally blank, their movements efficient and practiced. paramedics stood in a small cluster near the wreckage, their postures slack with the particular exhaustion of people who had done everything they could and watched it amount to nothing.
one of them, a young woman with tired eyes and hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, was talking to a police officer, shaking her head. you drifted closer, drawn by some invisible current, and heard fragments of her report.
"...died on impact. nothing we could have done. the steering column... massive internal injuries... probably didn't feel anything."
probably didn’t feel anything.
you wanted to laugh again, or cry, or scream. you had felt everything. you had felt the headlights blinding you through the windshield, the screech of tires that wasn't yours, the terrible suspended moment of knowing what was about to happen and being utterly powerless to stop it. you had felt the impact, the shattering, the brief, bright flare of pain that was almost beautiful in its intensity before everything went grey and quiet.
however, you hadn't felt this. this floating, this weightlessness, this strange detachment from the body that was yours only minutes ago. this was new. this was different. this was what came after.
the paramedic walked away, and you followed her gaze to the wreckage, to the sheet-covered form still strapped into the driver's seat.
no one was rushing to help. no one was prying open the door, cutting through the metal, trying to reach the person inside. there was no point. the person inside was gone. the person inside was you, and you were standing ten feet away, watching yourself be dead.
you exhaled a long, slow breath.
and instead of grief, instead of horror, instead of any of the emotions you were supposed to feel at the moment of your own death, a strange, profound relief washed over you.
it started in your chest—a warmth, a loosening, a release of tension you hadn't even known you'd been carrying. it spread outward, through your arms and legs, up into your face, until every part of you felt lighter, freer, easier than you had in years.
you were tired.
god, you were so tired.
you were tired of the life that you had to continue. you were tired of the career you had to pursue. you were tired of the impossible deadlines, the passive-aggressive emails, the endless meetings that could have been emails, the emails that could have been a single text message. you were tired of coming home to an empty apartment at 11 p.m., too exhausted to cook, too drained to do anything but fall into bed and do it all over again the next day.
you were tired of the silence.
the silence of a bed meant for two that only held one. the silence of a dinner table set for one, eaten alone, cleaned up alone. the silence of weekends stretching out before you like an endless grey desert, with no one to fill them, no one to share them, no one to make them mean anything.
you were tired of being alone.
and now… now you weren't alone anymore, were you? now there was someone here, someone who looked at you with eyes that might be empty but still saw you, still focused on you, still made you feel, for the first time in five years, like you existed in the same universe as another person.
death, it seemed, was a vacation you never knew you needed.
you turned back to him.
to death. to the being who wore your lost love's face like a second skin, like a gift, like a punishment.
“…okay," you said, and your voice was calm now, steady, the voice of someone who had made peace with something they couldn't change. "okay."
something flickered beneath that stone-cold demeanor. it was there and gone so fast you couldn't name it, couldn't categorize it, could only feel its passing like the brush of a ghost's fingers against your consciousness. surprise, maybe. curiosity. interest in a soul that didn't fight, didn't bargain, didn't scream.
he glanced down at his hand, and you watched as a pocket watch materialized in his palm—silver, antique, etched with symbols you didn't recognize but somehow understood. the hands didn't point to hours or minutes. they pointed to something else entirely, something beyond the reach of mortal timekeeping.
he looked back at you, and for a moment… just a moment… his expression softened into something gentle, almost human.
“it’s time,” he announced, the words fell into the silence like stones into deep water, sending ripples through the grey.
he offered his hand once again.
this time, you took it.
his fingers closed around yours, cold, solid, and real, and in the space between one breath and the next, the world dissolved.
THE TRANSITION WAS SEAMLESS… one moment you were standing on a rain-slicked street, surrounded by the wreckage of your mortal life and the flashing lights of emergency vehicles that could no longer touch you; a tableau of tragedy you had already cited, akin to an actor watching the final scene of a play they had once starred in. the next moment, your feet found purchase on polished, grimy floor tiles, and the world reformed itself around you like water settling after a stone had been dropped into it.
you were in a train station—at least, you thought it was just an ordinary train station. the architecture was right, the high, arched ceilings ribbed with iron, the long platforms stretching into darkness like fingers reaching for something just beyond sight, the tracks gleaming dully in the low light, twin silver ribbons leading nowhere and everywhere.
this was like no train station you had ever seen. the ceiling vanished into shadow so complete it felt solid, a weight of darkness pressing down from above like the lid of a closed casket. you could stare into it for hours, for days, for eternities, and never find its end. the tiles underfoot were white, or had been once; now they were veined with cracks, stained with the grime of decades, of centuries, of something that predated time itself. here and there, tiles were missing entirely, revealing only more darkness beneath.
the air was cool and still, carrying the faint, mineral scent of places underground; the breath of caves, of catacombs, of all the places where light feared to tread. it was the smell of buried things, of secrets kept, of journeys that had no return ticket.
and the silence… it was different from the silence of the accident site. the silence of the crime scene had been thick, muffled, the silence of shock and aftermath–a blanket thrown over chaos. the silence here was active. it hummed with a frequency just below hearing, a vibration you felt in your teeth, in your bones, in the place where your soul used to anchor to your body. it breathed in slow, patient rhythms, the breath of something vast and ancient that had been waiting here for longer than mountains. it listened. you could feel its attention on you, curious and detached, like a curator examining an art.
in the center of the platform, sitting motionless on the tracks, was a train.
it was old—no, ancient might be the right word. the kind of ancient that spoke of craftsmanship that no longer existed, of an era when things were built to last forever because forever was understood to be a real and present concept, a destination rather than a word. the metal was dark, polished to a deep gleam that caught the light and held it hostage, refusing to let go. the windows were tall and arched, filled with glass that was slightly rippled, slightly imperfect. along the sides, brass fixtures glowed with a warm, muted light, their surfaces worn smooth fingers that had touched them across centuries.
and at the front, a single lantern burned with a flame that never flickered, never wavered, never died; a flame that had been burning since before your ancestors first walked upright, that would still be burning when the last star in the universe guttered into darkness.
it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen… and the most terrifying.
beauty and terror, you were learning, were not opposites. they were two sides of the same coin, two faces of the same god. to truly see one was to glimpse the other, standing just behind it, waiting to be acknowledged.
“this way,” death led you towards a small booth at the edge of the platform. it resembled the kind of ticket booth you might find in an european train station, the kind with a curved window and a little ledge for setting down your fare, the kind that had once been staffed by an old man with spectacles and patient eyes. however, there was no one inside. there was just a slot, dark and waiting, and above it, words covered into the wood with a permanence that felt like law:
PRESENT YOUR TICKET
you looked down at your hand.
a ticket lay across your palm.
you hadn't felt it appear. you hadn’t seen it materialize. but there it was, as real as anything in this unreal place–a small rectangle of heavy cream paper, the kind that felt expensive between your fingers, the kind that had been made to last. text ran across it in elegant, flowing script:
PLATFORM 9
DESTINATION: █████
VALID FOR: ONE SOUL
NON-REFUNDABLE
beneath the text, in smaller letters, was your name. your full name, the one your mother had given you, the one that appeared on your birth certificate, your driver’s license, and the headstone that would soon be carved in your memory.
you stared at it for a long moment.
then, without quite knowing why, you stepped forward and slid the ticket into the slot.
for a heartbeat, nothing happened. the ticket disappeared into the darkness of the booth, and you were left standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you had just made a terrible mistake.
then a soft click chimed from somewhere deep in the mechanism. a small barrier beside the booth, a wooden turnstile, old and ornate, swung open, inviting you through.
you had been approved. you wouldn’t be a wandering spirit, trapped between worlds, unable to move forward or back. you had a destination. you had a place. you had, for the first time since waking up from a bloodbath, a purpose.
you stepped through the turnstile and onto the platform proper. the train had waited long for your arrival.
death walked beside you, his presence a constant coolness at your shoulder. he didn't speak, didn’t guide, didn’t direct. he simply was, a shadow that accompanied you without demanding anything, without expecting anything, without asking for anything in return, and you didn’t mind. you were, instead, grateful.
the doors of the train slid open as you approached, noiseless and smooth, revealing a corridor of warm wood and soft velvet. you stepped inside, and the door closed behind you with a gentle hiss.
the interior looked even more pleasing than the exterior.
you stood in the corridor, taking in the details that your eyes had skimmed over in that first moment of entrance. each compartment was a small room unto itself, with seats of deep burgundy velvet arranged around small tables of polished mahogany. lamps glowed on the walls, casting long shadows that danced and swayed with the movement of the train—although the train itself wasn’t moving yet.
death stood beside you, waiting.
after a moment, he gestured towards one of the compartments, “you may choose any seat. they’re all reserved for you.”
you moved into the nearest compartment, sliding into a seat by the window. the velvet was soft against your back, cooler than you expected yet not that uncomfortable, like sitting on a cloud that had been left in the shade. it yielded to your weight perfectly, cradling you in a way that felt almost intentional, as if the seat itself had been waiting for you, had been shaped specifically for your soul.
death sat across from you.
for a long moment, neither of you spoke. your gaze remained on him, drinking him in. the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way arms were crossed above his chest, the particular set of his mouth that used to mean he was deep into his thinking. and he reciprocated yours, watching you with those dark, dark eyes that held nothing of the warmth they had once carried.
the silence between you was torture. you searched his face like a diver searching for air, desperate for some sign, some crack in the façade, some flicker of the man who had once held you through panic attacks and whispered that everything would be okay. you looked for the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the adorable dimples when he smiled. for the way his lips used to be pressed against yours in the rain, in the studio, in the hospital when there were no words left to say. for the softness that would bloom across his features when he looked at you, like flowers opening to the sun.
and there was… nothing.
nothing but that quiet, detached curiosity, like a false god examining a mortal prayer they do not intend to answer. like a scholar studying an interesting specimen. like a cat watching a bird through a window—mildly engaged, fundamentally unmoved.
this was not the silence of comfort, because there was nothing comfortable about this. about being trapped in an endless train ride with the face of your dead lover and the hollow eyes of something you had never known you feared until this moment. the train hummed beneath you, a low, constant vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once, and the world outside the windows was only darkness, only void, only the absence of everything you had ever known.
he didn't recognize you. you figured it out in a harsh way, the way you figure out that a limb is broken when you try to use it and the pain tells you everything you need to know. there was no recognition in his gaze. no familiarity. no emotion at all, beyond that mild, academic interest. you were a soul. one of billions. one in a trillion. a face in an endless crowd of faces, all of them eventually forgotten, all of them eventually reduced to the same grey nothing.
it was the silence of a love that existed solely on one side now, a bridge that had collapsed halfway, leaving you stranded on the edge with nothing but memory to hold onto. you could still see the other side, still remember what it looked like, still feel the phantom weight of footsteps that would never cross again.
but he was gone... the man you had loved—still loved, would always love, could not stop loving no matter how many years passed, he had been gone for three years and seemed to remain that way. succumbed to his illness, to the terminal disease that had eaten him slowly from the inside while you sat helplessly by his bedside, holding his hand, pretending you couldn’t feel it growing colder. you had kissed him one last time. you had accompanied him the whole time in his death bed. you had watched the light leave his eyes. you had stood at his grave and promised to move on, to live, to carry him with you without letting his absence destroy you.
and you had failed. you had failed so completely. you had just been too stubborn to accept it until now.
and this… this ancient being sitting across from you was making things far worse.
he tilted his head.
it was such a small gesture, such a him gesture—the slight cant to the left, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, the way his lips parted as if he was about to speak. it was a ghost of the person he used to be, a muscle memory that had survived the transformation, a remnant of humanity that even the gods hadn't been able to erase completely.
it sent a knife through your heart.
"you're quiet," he observed. his voice was soft, curious, the voice of someone examining an interesting specimen. "most souls talk. they ask questions. they bargain. they beg. they weep. they try to run. you just... sit there. staring at me.”
"you look like someone i used to know," you replied almost instantly, and your voice was steady, surprisingly steady, even though you felt like you were crumbling inside, even though every word felt like glass in your throat.
"ah." he nodded, as if this explained something, as if this was a phenomenon he encountered regularly. "…that happens. the form death takes… it's drawn from the soul death is guiding. whatever face will bring the most comfort, the most peace. sometimes it's a parent. sometimes a child. sometimes a beloved pet." a pause. "sometimes, i'm told, it's a lover.”
you flinched. the word lover, spoken in his voice—chan's voice, applied to someone else, to some hypothetical soul who wasn't you, who had never been you, who would never matter the way you had mattered to the man in the hospital bed.
“you’re not him,” you declared, the words landing like a verdict.
“…no,” he said simply, his expression devoid of any of the things a human might have felt in that moment… or so you thought. however, there was something in the way he held himself, something in the almost-imperceptible pause before he spoke again, that made you wonder if the emptiness ran as deep as it appeared. if perhaps, beneath that void, something was listening. something was watching. something was waiting for you to say more.
“i am… the end of life,” he continued, his voice touched by something that might have been gentleness, might have been curiosity, might have been the faintest echo of the humanity he had lost, “your… temporary friend, if you must.”
temporary friend.
the words lodged in your chest like shards of glass.
because he wasn't your friend—he didn't feel like a friend. he was a stranger wearing your lover's face, a specter dressed in the skin of your most precious memories, a void disguised as the man who had once held your heart in his hands and promised to keep it safe forever. every familiar line of him was a lie. every gesture that echoed the past was an accident, a coincidence, a trick of the light. the being sitting across from you had never held you in the dark. had never whispered that everything would be okay. had never traced idle patterns on your skin while the world slept.
but he was also all you had, at this exact moment.
in this place between places, on this train to the end of forever, he was the only presence that felt real. the only voice that spoke. the only eyes that looked at you and saw something, even if that something was just another soul to be guided, another name on an endless list, another brief flicker of consciousness on its way to oblivion. he was a stranger, yes. a void wearing a familiar shape. but he was here, and you were here, and in the absence of everything else you had ever known, that had to be enough.
"temporary friend," you repeated, testing the weight of the words on your tongue. "that's what you are? to all of them? to all the souls you guide?"
"to all of them," he confirmed. "for the journey, at least. some want to talk. some want silence..." he paused, and something shifted in those eyes—something that might have been the faintest stirring of interest. "i don't know what you want.”
i want you to be him, you thought. i want you to remember. i want you to hold me the way you used to hold me, to look at me the way you used to look at me, to love me the way you promised you would love me forever.
of course, you didn’t say any of that.
because what would be the point?
"i don't know what i want either," you admitted, and the honesty of it surprised you. "i thought i did. i thought i wanted to live. i thought i wanted to go back, to keep fighting, to keep existing in that world that was slowly killing me. but when i saw my body, along all those people standing around doing nothing—"
you shook your head. "i felt relieved. i felt free. for the first time in three years, i felt like i could breathe."
his silence was loud, boisterous, and terrifying. his stare sent shivers cascading down your spine, forcing you to avert your gaze to the ground.
"…three years," he repeated. "that's how long you've been waiting."
it wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.
"that's how long since he died. since chan died." you looked at him, at the face that was and wasn't his, at the eyes that held nothing of the love you remembered. "since i lost the only person who ever made me feel like i mattered."
the words hung in the air between you, heavy as stones dropped into deep water. you watched them sink, watched them disappear into the vast emptiness of his gaze, and wondered if they would reach anything at all. if there was anything to reach, beneath that void, beneath that eternal stillness.
before death could open his mouth, before he could offer whatever response he might have offered; comfort, perhaps, or curiosity, or that strange, detached interest that was the closest thing to warmth he seemed capable of, the train began to move.
it was not the gentle lurch you had expected.
it was a shudder, deep and resonant, like the waking of some ancient beast from slumber deeper than time. a sound rolled through the carriage, low and vibrational, the kind of sound you felt in your bones before you heard it with your ears—a subsonic thrum that seemed to bypass hearing entirely and speak directly to something primal, something buried in the oldest part of your brain. the floor trembled beneath your feet. the lights flickered once, twice, and then steadied, their glow somehow dimmer than before, as if the train itself had drawn on their strength to fuel its awakening.
and through the window, the world began to change.
you turned, instinctively, drawn by the movement, by the shift in light, by something deeper and older than conscious thought. your reflection stared back at you for a moment; pale, hollow-eyed, a ghost even to yourself, and then it dissolved, replaced by something else entirely.
the memories.
they came not as images, not as scenes played out on a screen, but as presences. as if the walls of the train had become transparent, as if you were looking not at a window but at a door into your own past, your own heart, your own self. they pressed against you from all sides, not visually but viscerally, flooding the compartment with the weight of everything you had been.
the first memory was simple. small. almost insignificant.
a kitchen, bathed in afternoon light so golden it seemed liquid, pouring through the windows like honey. your mother's hands, dusted with flour, shaping dough into imperfect circles on a worn wooden counter. your father's laughter from somewhere off-screen, the distant drone of a football match on television, the smell of something baking: bread, maybe, or cookies, that particular warmth that meant home. you were small—seven, maybe eight, sitting at the kitchen table with crayons spread before you like treasure, coloring a picture of a house with a rainbow arched above it like a promise.
you remembered this.
you remembered the way the sun felt on your arms. the way your mother hummed while she worked, some old song you didn't know the name of. the way your father would come in at halftime and kiss the top of your head, his lips warm against your hair, and say, "that's beautiful, sweetheart. the best one yet."
you had been loved.
so deeply, so completely, so unquestioningly loved that you had taken it for granted, had assumed it would always be there, had never once considered that love was a thing that could be lost.
the memory shifted, dissolved, reformed.
now you were older–eleven, maybe twelve, standing on a stage in a school auditorium. the lights were hot against your face, too bright to see the audience, but you could hear them. the rustle of programs, the coughs and whispers, the expectant silence that fell just before you opened your mouth to sing. your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird throwing itself against its cage.
you sang.
your voice, high and clear and pure, filled the space. you didn't remember the song… something from a musical, maybe, something you had practiced for weeks until the notes lived in your bones. however, you remembered the feeling. the way your heart soared with every note, lighter than air, lighter than anything you had felt since. the way the music seemed to flow through you rather than from you, as if you were just a vessel, just a channel for something larger than yourself, something ancient and eternal that had been using human throats to sing since before words existed.
when you finished, the applause was like thunder. like rain after drought. like proof that you existed, that you mattered, that you had touched something in them that they couldn't touch themselves.
you had been good at this, once. you had been alive.
more memories came, faster now, a cascade of moments that built the architecture of your life like bricks in a wall. your first boyfriend, awkward and sweet, holding your hand at the movies with palms so sweaty you couldn't tell where his ended and yours began. your first heartbreak, curled on your bedroom floor while your mother brought you tea and didn't ask questions, just sat with you in the silence until the worst of it passed. graduation, your cap tilted at a jaunty angle, your friends' arms around your shoulders, the future stretching out before you like an unwritten book. university, the nervous excitement of moving into dorms, the terror and thrill of being on your own for the first time, the slow realization that you were becoming someone new.
and then—
him.
the memory slowed, lingered, breathed.
a lecture hall, the projectors, the drone of a professor's voice. you were taking notes, or trying to, your attention wandering to the window, to the grey sky beyond, to anything other than the lecture you had heard a hundred times before. your pen moved automatically, scratching out words your brain wasn't processing.
a shadow fell across your desk.
"mind if i sit here?"
you looked up, and there he was.
bang chan.
twenty years old, with eyes that held depths you couldn't yet fathom and a smile that seemed to suggest he knew something you didn't, something wonderful, something that was about to change your life in ways you couldn't yet imagine.
"it's free," you said, and gestured to the empty seat beside you.
he sat, and the world shifted on its axis.
you watched the memory unfold like a story you had told yourself a thousand times, in the dark, when sleep wouldn't come. late nights in the studio, you at the microphone, him at the mixing board, both of you so absorbed in the music that hours passed like minutes, that time became meaningless, that the only thing that existed was the sound you were building together. the first time he played you something he had produced; a track built around your voice, your melody, your soul, and the way your heart had stopped when you realized what it meant. what he was telling you without words.
the first time he kissed you.
under fairy lights he had strung up in the studio, "for ambiance," he said, but you had known. his lips were tentative at first, sweet, questioning—and then, when you didn't pull away, when you leaned into him instead, they became something else. something certain. something forever. the world outside ceased to exist. there was only his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, the quiet sound he made against your lips that sounded like coming home.
two years.
two years of laughter, arguments, and making up. two years of learning each other's bodies, each other's minds, each other's souls. two years of building a future together, brick by brick, dream by dream, until the architecture of your life was so intertwined with his that you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
and then—
the hospital room.
you knew what was coming. you had lived it once, and you had just finished telling him about it, just finished spilling the story of your grief into the void of his attention. but knowing didn't prepare you. knowing didn't protect you. knowing just meant you had time to brace yourself before the blow fell.
the machines. the tubes. the antiseptic smell that clung to everything, that would cling to your memories forever, that would haunt you in unexpected moments for the rest of your life.
and chan in the bed, so thin, so pale, so wrong. the man who had glowed with life, who had burned so bright you sometimes had to look away, was reduced to this—a skeleton draped in skin, a ghost before his time.
you watched yourself walk into that room, your face blotchy from crying, your hands trembling at your sides. you watched his eyes light up when he saw you, as if your presence could somehow override the reality of his situation, could somehow make everything okay. as if love alone could cheat death.
"hey," he whispered. "you came."
"of course i came." your memory-self's voice cracked, broke, reformed. "i'll always come. i'll always be here."
his hand, reaching for yours. his fingers, cold against your skin—that particular cold you now recognized, that cold you now knew belonged to the dead and the dying and the in-between.
"promise me something."
"anything."
"don't stop singing."
you blinked at the memory; you, at the confusion on your face, at the tears streaming down your cheeks like rivers that would never run dry.
"promise me." his grip tightened, desperate despite its weakness. "when i'm gone—don't stop. the world needs your voice. i need your voice. even if i can't hear it anymore, i'll know. i'll know somehow. i'll be listening."
"i promise."
the words echoed in the train compartment, overlapping with your memory-self's voice, creating a dissonance that hurt to hear, that cut through you like glass.
"i promise. i won't stop singing. i promise."
and then—
the flat line.
the sound of it. you had long forgotten the sound of it; that endless, horrible tone that signified the end of everything–the man that you loved most, he was everything. it went on and on, a needle through your eardrums, a knife through your heart.
“chan…? chan, no… please…”
your voice, high, thin, and desperate, similar to a child’s voice, a voice that did’;t understand why the world kept turning when it had just ended.
“chan… chris.. christopher, please wake up.”
you watched yourself grab his hand, his cold, still hand, and press it so your cheek as if warmth could be forced back into him by sheer force of will. as if love could resurrect. as if promises meant anything at all in the face of this.
“CHRISTOPHER, PLEASE–DOCTOR! ANYONE PLEASE!”
the scream went on and on, even after the nurses came, even after the hands pulled you away, even after you had no air left to fuel it. It went on in your memory, in your bones, in the part of you that would never stop screaming, not really, not ever.
“GOD, WHY?! BABY, PLEASE! WAKE UP! I CAN’T LOSE YOU!”
the sheet, being drawn up, over his face, over the face of the man you loved, the man who had promised you forever, the man who had left you alone in a world that didn't care, that kept spinning, kept turning, kept existing as if nothing had changed.
the memory held on that image. the sheet. the stillness. the terrible, absolute finality of it. the way his hand had looked, lying on the bed beside him, no longer reaching for anything.
and then it dissolved.
you were left staring at your own reflection in the train window, your face wet with tears you hadn't realized you were crying, your body shaking with sobs you hadn't noticed escaping.
across from you, death was silent.
you didn't turn to look at him. you couldn't. if you turned, if you saw his face—your beloved chan's face, wearing that empty expression, those pale eyes, that terrible, beautiful indifference, you would break. you would shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to put yourself back together. the shards of you would scatter across this impossible train, across this journey to the end of everything, and there would be no one left to gather them. not even him. especially not him.
so you stared at your reflection, at the ghost you had become, and you let yourself feel it. all of it. the grief you had been carrying for three years like a stone in your chest, heavy and smooth and worn by constant handling. the loneliness that had become your only companion, that slept in your bed beside you, that sat across from you at dinner tables meant for two. the exhaustion of waking up every morning to a world that expected you to keep living when half of you had already died. the desperate, aching need for something you could never have again, for a hand you would never hold, for a voice you would never hear—except here, except now, except in this cruel parody of return.
the confession came out before you could stop it, raw, ugly and true.
"i didn't keep my promise."
the words fell into the silence like bodies into graves. you watched them land in your reflection's eyes, watched the ghost of you absorb their weight.
"i tried." a laugh escaped you, bitter and broken. "god, i tried. for a few months after, i sang every day. i have tried auditions after auditions, training after training. i sang until my throat was raw, until i had no voice left, until the sound that came out of me was nothing but scraping and air."
your hands were trembling. you watched them tremble in the reflection, watched the ghost of you fall apart in slow motion.
"but it hurt too much. every time i opened my mouth to sing, i heard his voice in my head… telling me i was good, telling me the world needed to hear me, telling me he loved me. and i couldn't—" your voice cracked, splintered, bled. "i couldn't carry that weight. i couldn't carry him anymore. so i stopped."
the silence that followed was boisterous.
"i stopped singing," you whispered. a tear slid down your reflection’s cheek. you watched it fall, watched it catch the dim light of the train, watched it disappear into the collar of your shirt. "i stopped everything. i went to work, i came home, i slept, i did it all again. i’ve tried so hard to forget him.”
the words hung in the air between you like smoke from a fire that had finally burned itself out.
you had said it. after three years of carrying this secret, this shame, this failure, you had finally spoken it aloud. you had broken the promise. you had let him down. you had taken the one thing he had asked of you—the only thing he had ever asked of you—and you had abandoned it because you were too weak, too broken, too human to bear the weight of it.
across from you, death was motionless.
for a long, terrible moment, he simply looked at you with those grey eyes, and you braced yourself for whatever came next. judgment, perhaps. disappointment. that quiet, detached curiosity that seemed to be his default state, observing your pain like a scientist observing a specimen.
but none of those things came.
instead, he moved.
it was slow, deliberate, as if he was giving you time to pull away, time to refuse, time to build your walls back up before he could reach you. he rose from his seat across from you and crossed the small space between you in two silent steps. then, without a word, without asking permission, without any of the things a human might have done in this moment, he lowered himself onto the velvet seat beside you.
and he took your hand.
his fingers were wintry, akin to the cold of winter graves and forgotten attics and the space between stars. however, they wrapped around yours with a gentleness that stole your breath. not the grip of someone trying to hold on. not the clutch of someone afraid you might disappear. just... presence. just here. just a hand, holding yours, in the darkness.
then softly, so softly, you almost didn’t hear it over the pounding of your own grief in your ears, “...i’m sorry.”
the words landed like snowflakes on warm skin—there and gone, melting into nothing, but leaving behind a trace of cold that you felt all the way down to your bones.
i’m sorry. two words from a being who had existed for eternity, who had guided countless souls to their final destinations, who had worn a thousand faces and would wear a thousand more. two words that meant nothing and everything, that should have been empty yet somehow weren't.
you gazed up at him, at this stranger wearing your lover's face, at these ashen eyes that held no memory of you but somehow, impossibly, seemed to see you. really see you. not as another soul to be processed, another name on an endless list, but as something more. something that had caught his attention. something that made him, for the first time in perhaps millennia, feel something other than the endless, weightless drift of eternity.
"what are you sorry for?" you whispered.
“you have been alone, you have been hurting… i’m sorry for everything you have lost, for everything you are still losing. consider this as my act of…”
he trailed off, his brow slightly furrowing in that achingly familiar way; the same expression chan used to wear when he was searching for the right word, the right note, the right way to say something that mattered. the silence stretched between you, fragile as spun glass, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for something you couldn’t name.
“kindness,” he finished finally, and the word seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised you,. his lips parted slightly, as if he was testing the weight of it, the shape of it in his mouth. “perhaps, of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindness.”
the words sank into you like anchors finding the ocean floor, disturbing depths you hadn't known existed.
death was kind.
this cold, empty, eternal thing was offering you kindness. not because he had to. not because it was his duty. but because he wanted to. because something in you, something in your grief, something in the way you had loved and lost and kept loving anyway, had seemed to reach him in a way nothing else ever had.
“...i understand,” you swallowed, the words scraped past the thickness in your throat, past the tears you were still crying, past the part of you that wanted to scream, the part that simply wanted to rest, the part that wanted to end everything, “i suppose that’s how life works–nothing lasts forever.”
nothing lasts forever.
the admission hung in the air between you, heavy as a funeral shroud, cold as the hand that still held yours. you had heard them before, of course—spoken at funerals, printed in sympathy cards, murmured by well-meaning friends who didn't know what else to say. but you had never truly felt them until now. never understood them in your bones, in the marrow of you, in the place where grief lived like a second heart.
not love. not grief. not even life itself.
not even the man who had promised you forever in a hospital room that smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers.
death went silent. he didn’t speak, didn’t offer comfort, wisdom, or any of the things a human might have said in this moment… no platitudes about moving on, no gentle reminders that grief was the price of love, no assurances that time would heal what had been broken. perhaps he knew, better than anyone, that such words were hollow. perhaps he had said them so many times across so many millennia that they had lost all meaning, worn smooth as river stones by endless repetition.
or perhaps, you thought as you watched his face shift through expressions you couldn't quite name, he simply ran out of words.
instead, his thumb began to move.
slow, rhythmic circles against the skin of your hand, tracing patterns that seemed to mean something even if you couldn't understand them. the motion was unconscious, you realized—he wasn't looking at what he was doing, wasn't thinking about it, wasn't even aware that he had started. it was simply... happening. flowing from him like water from a spring, like breath from lungs, like something his body remembered even if his mind did not.
it was such a small thing. such a human thing. the kind of absent-minded gesture someone made when they were lost in thought, when words failed them, when they didn't know how to say what they were feeling. the kind of thing chan used to do when you were curled up together on the couch, watching movies, existing in the same space without needing to fill it with sound.
your throat tightened.
of course, he had led an endless amount of souls, including you, to the afterlife… he must be used to comforting the living, the dying, the in-between. this was routine for him. another day, another soul, another brief moment of connection before moving on to the next. the thumb circling your hand meant nothing. it was just muscle memory. just habit. just the accumulated weight of millennia of practice.
and yet.
and yet it felt like something. it felt like care. like presence. like… warmth.
the tears came again, silent and hot, tracing warm paths down your cold cheeks.
you didn't know why you were still crying. you had cried so much already—enough tears to fill oceans, to drown in, to lose yourself in. but they kept coming, kept falling, kept being, and through it all, his thumb never stopped its slow, steady rhythm against your skin.
circle. circle. circle. a heartbeat made of motion. a promise made of touch. the only constant in a world that had dissolved into chaos and memory and the wreckage of everything you had ever loved.
minutes passed. or hours. or moments. time didn't matter here, didn't exist here, didn't mean anything in this place between places. the train continued its endless journey through darkness, and the memories continued their slow dance beyond the window, and you continued to cry, and he continued to hold your hand and trace those impossible circles against your skin.
you watched them with a kind of detached wonder, seeing yourself from the outside for the first time, understanding things about your own story that had never been clear before.
the years after chan's death. the grey apartment. the empty bed. the job that drained you, the nights that stretched on forever, the slow erosion of everything that had made you you. you watched yourself fade, day by day, month by month, year by year, until there was almost nothing left.
and then the accident. the headlights. the impact. the end.
you should have felt sad, watching it. you should have felt regret, or fear, or longing for the life you had left behind. you should have wept for the woman who had died alone on a rain-slicked street, for all the things she would never do, all the people she would never meet, all the possibilities that died with her.
but instead, all you felt was peace.
a deep, quiet peace that settled into your bones and made you feel, for the first time in three years, like you could finally rest. like the struggle was over. like you had been released from something that had been holding you captive, something you hadn't even known was a prison until the door swung open.
the tears were still on your cheeks, but they were old tears now. cooling. drying. the last remnants of a grief that had finally, finally run its course.
you took a breath. then another. then you reached up with your free hand and forcibly wiped the tears away with the back of it, smearing them across your skin like the last traces of a storm that had finally passed.
"i'm ready," the words came out steady, settling into the space between you like stones finding their resting place at the bottom of the river, finally still, after so long tumbling in the current.
the words came out steady. calm. certain in a way you hadn't been certain of anything in years.
his thumb stilled against your hand for just a moment–a pause, a question, a silent check, before resuming its slow, steady rhythm, “ready?”
"to go. to wherever i'm going." you turned from the window to face him, and for the first time, you didn't flinch at the sight of his face. didn't feel that sharp stab of grief at seeing chan's features on a stranger. "i've been running from this for so long. from death, from loss, from feeling. but i'm not running anymore."
it was still strange. it would probably always be strange. however, the pain had softened, somehow, during this impossible journey. blunted by time and tears and the simple presence of this ancient being who had sat with you in the dark and held your hand while you fell apart.
christopher chahn bahng was gone. he had been gone for three years, and no amount of wishing, no amount of crying, no amount of broken promises would bring him back. yet this entity, this death, this guide, this ‘temporary friend’, had given you something you hadn't known you needed.
permission to stop.
permission to let go.
permission to finally, after all this time, be ready.
death nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes—not the understanding of someone who had lived through what you had lived through, but the understanding of a ancient god who had witnessed it a million times. who had seen every variation of grief, every shade of loss, every possible way a soul could approach the end. the angry ones and the peaceful ones. the ones who fought until their last breath and the ones who surrendered with grace. the ones who clung to memories like lifelines and the ones who let go so completely they seemed to disappear before they'd even left.
you were neither, and you were both. you were something in between: a soul who had held on too long and was only now learning how to release.
"…it is time, then," he said. his voice was gentle, almost tender—the voice of someone delivering news they wished they didn't have to deliver, "the journey is almost over. beyond this train, beyond these memories, there is something waiting for you. i cannot tell you what it is. i cannot tell you what you will find. every soul experiences it differently, and the only thing i know for certain is that i do not know."
he paused, and something flickered in those soulless eyes.
"but i can tell you this: you will not be alone. whatever comes next, you will face it with everything you have ever been, everyone you have ever loved, every moment that has ever mattered. they are part of you now. they will always be part of you."
your heart, that phantom organ that still somehow managed to beat in your chest, swelled with something that felt almost like hope.
"will i see him again?" you whispered. "chan? will i—"
death's expression softened. it was the first truly soft thing you had seen on his face since this journey began.
"i cannot promise you… that. i do not know what waits beyond this threshold. but i can promise you this: if he is there… he will be waiting. and if he is not—" he reached out and took your hand again, his cold fingers wrapping around yours. "you will carry him with you. and that will be enough. it will have to be enough."
you nodded, swallowing against the thickness in your throat.
"okay," you breathed. "okay.”
his lips curved into something that might have been a smile, if smiles could exist on the face of death, despite crooked, “you’re braver than most. most souls fight until the very last moment. they scream. they bargain. they beg for more time, for second chances, for anything that might let them go back. but you…”
he shook his head, something like wonder in his voice; as if, after millennia of guiding souls, you had still managed to surprise him, “you just… accepted it.”
“maybe i’m just tired.”
"maybe." the edges of his lips twitched slightly, that same feigned simper. "or maybe you've already done all the fighting you needed to do. maybe this is just... rest."
you liked that. rest. not an ending, not a finality, just... rest. the kind of rest you had been craving for three years, the kind you had never been able to find in that grey apartment with its empty bed and its crushing silence. the kind that had eluded you no matter how many hours you slept, no matter how many days you spent pretending to be fine.
"thank you… death.”
"for what?"
"for being kind. for listening. for—" you gestured vaguely at him, at the train, at everything. "for wearing his face. it made this easier. and harder. but mostly easier, i think. it felt like he was here with me, one last time."
something shifted in his expression. too fast to name, too quick to understand. but you felt it. you felt him, beneath the mask, beneath the centuries of solitude and duty and emptiness. you felt something reaching for you, something that wanted to hold on, something that was fighting against its own nature to be present with you in this moment.
"can i ask you for something?" the words came out before you could stop them, before you could think about whether they were appropriate or fair or kind.
"anything."
you hesitated. the train was slowing now, the memories fading from the windows, a soft light beginning to glow in the distance—warm and golden and somehow inviting, like a home you had never seen but somehow recognized. you were running out of time.
"can you…" you stopped. swallowed. started again. "can you hold me? just for a moment? i know you're not him–i just... i want to be held one last time. by someone who looks like him."
he was quiet for a long moment, and you braced yourself for refusal. for the gentle explanation that this wasn't appropriate, wasn't allowed, wasn't what death was supposed to do. for the polite but firm rejection that would send you into the light alone, still hungry for a touch you would never feel again.
however, instead, he moved.
slowly. carefully. giving you every chance to change your mind, to pull away, to take back the request. his arms lifted, opened, offered—a question more than an answer, an invitation more than an assumption. his haunting eyes held yours, asking permission, waiting for consent, refusing to assume anything.
you rose up from your own seat, moving forward to the spot beside him. the train hummed softly around you, the memories flickered beyond the window, and the light grew steadily brighter—yet none of it mattered. none of it existed. there was only him, and his open arms, and the moment stretching between you like a held breath.
you leaned into death himself.
when his arms finally closed around you, they were hesitant at first, as if he had forgotten how. the cold seeped through your clothes, through your skin, through to the bone—yet beneath that chill was something steady. something present. he held you with a gentleness that made your heart ache with recognition, that reminded your body of what it felt like to be held by someone who loved you.
it was slightly different from his.
his hugs had been warm, full-bodied, all-encompassing. he had held you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. he had pressed his face into your hair and breathed you in, and you had felt, in those moments, like nothing could ever hurt you. like the world outside could burn and you would still be safe, still be loved, still be home.
yet it still felt safe.
in death’s arms, encased in his cold, cradled in his careful tenderness, you found safety for the first time in three years. the first time since chan's fingers had slackened in your grip. the first time since that endless, terrible tone had sliced through the hospital room and carved everything away.
"thank you," you whispered into his chest. the words were muffled, swallowed by the fabric of his black coat, by the cold, by the sheer impossibility of this moment.
his arms tightened. just slightly. just enough to let you know he had heard, he understood, he was here. "…you're welcome."
you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the train slowing around you, the light growing brighter beyond the windows. you didn't want to let go. you didn't want this moment to end. but you knew… you knew… that all moments ended eventually. that was the nature of moments. that was the nature of everything. even this. even him. even the impossible, fleeting connection between a soul and the being who guided it into whatever came next.
"your ‘temporary friend’," you murmured, remembering his words from earlier. the phrase had stuck with you, lodged itself somewhere in your chest. "that's what you said you were."
this entity who had existed since before time had a name, who had guided more souls than there were stars in the sky. the light from beyond the windows caught his features, softening them, gilding the sharp edges of his cheekbones, warming the cold planes of his face. it made him look almost human. almost like chan. almost like someone you could keep.
in another life, perhaps. in another world.
"i think," you said slowly, "that you're the best ‘temporary friend’ i've ever had."
his lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to respond, wanted to offer some words in return.
however, before he could, before the moment could stretch any further, the train came to a halt.
it was not the gentle stop of a train arriving at a station. it was a cessation, a stillness, an absolute end of movement. one moment the world was sliding past in a blur of light and memory; the next, everything was perfectly, utterly still.
THE LIGHT OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS WAS NOW SOFT, pearlescent, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. through the glass, you could see a platform, not the abandoned, grimy platform from before, but something else. something more. it was bathed in that same soft light, and at the end of it, you could see…
a gate.
it was wrought iron, old and beautiful, covered in flowers that seemed to bloom even as you watched. beyond it, you could see a garden—the most beautiful garden you had ever imagined, with colors that didn't exist in the living world and light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
the afterlife.
your final destination.
death rose from the seat beside you, and the motion drew your eyes to his face one last time. then his hand was there, waiting. you took it confidently, letting him pull you gently to your feet. frost enveloped your fingers, yet beneath it was something solid, something steady, something that made you feel, even now, even at the end, like you weren't alone. he led you forward, through the train, down the corridor, towards the door that would open onto forever.
the doors slid open silently, revealing the platform beyond.
you stepped out together, hand in hand, and the light washed over you like warm water, like a blessing, like coming home after a long, hard journey. it was beautiful. it was peaceful. it was everything you had hoped for and more.
death stopped at the edge of the platform, just before the gate. his hand released yours, and you turned to face him, to say goodbye, to thank him one last time for everything he had done—for the kindness, for the patience, for holding you while you fell apart. the words were gathering in your throat, lining up like soldiers ready to march: thank you, i'll never forget you, i hope you find peace too–
however, before you could speak, before you could form the words that were gathering in your throat, he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms.
this was not the careful, hesitant embrace from before. this was not the gentle holding of a being learning to touch for the first time. this one was desperate. this one was fierce. this one held you like he was drowning and you were air, like he had been waiting for this moment for longer than you could imagine, like letting you go would kill him in a way that even death couldn't survive.
you froze, confused, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides.
"death—" you started, your voice muffled against his chest. but before you could finish, before you could ask what was happening, before you could process any of the emotions flooding through you—
he kissed you.
his lips pressed against yours; cold as starlight, cold as the space between heartbeats, cold as everything he had ever been—yet they were familiar. they fit against yours the way they had always fit, the way they had fit in the studio under fairy lights three years ago, the way they had fit in the hospital room when there were no words left to say, when all that remained was touch, tears, and the desperate need to hold on just a little longer.
and without thinking, without understanding, without knowing why…
you reciprocated his kiss.
your arms came up around him, pulling him closer, holding him the way you used to hold chan, the way you had held him a thousand times in a thousand different moments. your lips moved against his like they had never stopped, like the three years of silence and grief had never happened, like you were still the person you had been before everything fell apart.
but it was him.
somewhere in the back of your mind, in the depths of your soul, you knew. you had always known. the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way his presence made you feel seen in a way that nothing else ever had—it had always been him.
and this broke you.
because you were kissing chan. you were kissing chan one last time, and you hadn't known, hadn't realized, hadn't understood until this moment what you had been missing, what you had lost, what you had been given back for just a handful of heartbeats. three years of emptiness, three years of searching for him in every face, in every crowd, in every quiet moment when the world went still.
and he had been here all along. he had been holding you. he had been guiding you home.
tears streamed down your face, hot and endless, mixing with the cold of his lips, with the salt of three years of grief finally released. they fell between you, onto your joined mouths, onto the hands that clutched at each other like lifelines. he held you close until there were no space left, chest to chest, heart to heart, his hands familiar on your waist.
when you finally broke apart, when you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes were no longer moonless grey.
they were brown.
they were his brown… warm, genuine, and full of a love so vast it seemed to confine everything. they were the eyes that had held you together when everything else was falling apart, the eyes that haunted you in your dreams. they were the eyes you had searched for in every stranger's face, the eyes you had been so afraid you would never see again.
"chan," you breathed, and the word was a prayer, a question, a desperate hope. "chan, it's you. it's really you."
he smiled, that smile, the one that creased his cheeks with dimples, the one that had made you fall in love with him, the one you had dreamed about for three years, and nodded slowly.
"but you said–you…" you couldn't form the words, couldn't process the betrayal, couldn't understand why he had let you suffer, why he had let you grieve, why he had let you believe he was a stranger.
"i know." his hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your cheek, wiping away tears that wouldn't stop falling. "i know what i said. i know what you believed. and i'm sorry–i'm so, so sorry… i had to. i had to guide you. i had to be here for you, just for a little while, because if i had shown you who i really was from the beginning, you would never have been able to let go."
"let go?" you shook your head, confusion and grief and desperate love all tangled together in your chest, a knot so tight you didn't think it would ever come undone. "let go of what? let go of you? i've been letting go of you for three years, chan. i've been trying so hard to forget you, to move on, to live, and i couldn't! i couldn't do any of it because you were everywhere, in everything, and now you're here, and you're telling me—"
"i'm telling you goodbye."
the words landed like a blade between your ribs.
the world stopped. the light behind you dimmed. the train, the platform, the gate—all of it faded into background noise, into static, into nothing at all. there was only him, and his brown eyes full of love, and the words that had just carved themselves into your heart.
"what?"
"goodbye." his voice was soft, so soft, but it held the weight of eternity. "this is it, baby. this is the end. and i…" his voice cracked, and he had to pause, had to gather himself, had to find the strength to continue. "i have to let you go."
"no." you grabbed his arms, held onto him with a desperation that surprised you both. "no, you can't. you can't do this. you can't come back to me just to leave again. you can't—"
"i have to." tears were falling from his eyes now—not the clear tears of before, but something darker, something that looked almost like ink, trailing black paths down his pale cheeks. "i'm death, y/n. i have a duty, a purpose, a function. i can't leave the train. i can't cross through that gate. but you…" he looked past her, at the garden beyond, at the light, the peace, and the judgement that was waiting. "you can. you will. and you'll be happy there. you'll be at peace. you'll finally rest."
"i don't want to rest." the words came out fierce, desperate, angry. "i want you. i've always wanted you. i waited for you for three years, chan. i died waiting for you. and now you're telling me—"
"i'm telling you that i love you." his voice was steady now, certain, the voice of someone who had made peace with something impossible. "i'm telling you that i've loved you since the moment i saw you, and i'll love you until the end of everything. i'm telling you that i will wait for you–not just in this life, but in every life. when your soul is ready to be reborn, when you return to the world in a new body with a new identity and a new face, i will be here. waiting. and when your time comes again—whenever that may be, however long it takes… i will be the one who comes for you. i will be the one who guides you home."
"you can't promise that."
"i can." he beamed through his tears—black tears, ink tears, the tears of a being who had existed for eternity and was feeling, for the first time, what it meant to lose something. “some connections are too strong to be broken by death, time or the whims of gods. you and i…" he paused, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away. "you and i are bound, y/n. we have been since the moment we met, and we will be until the end of everything. that's not something they can take away. that's not something anyone can take away."
he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead; a kiss so gentle, so tender, so full of love that it felt like a benediction.
"goodbye, my love," he whispered against your skin. "i'm more than grateful to see you one last time, to send you off one last time. i will wait for you. always."
he stepped back, out of your arms, out of your reach, and walked toward the train with a slowness that felt like torture.
each step was a slow death. each movement of his body away from you was another wound, another cut, another piece of your heart carved out and left to bleed on the platform.
you tried to follow.
you tried.
your legs moved before your mind could catch up, before you could think, before you could process what was happening. you took a step toward him, then another, your hand reaching out, reaching for him, reaching for chan—
and stopped.
not because you chose to. not because you changed your mind. but because something stopped you.
an invisible barrier, warm and soft but utterly impassable, rose between you and the platform. between you and the train. between you and him.
"CHAN!" you screamed, and the sound tore from your throat like something living, like something dying, like something that would never stop echoing. you slammed your fists aggressively against the invisible barrier, desperate, "chan, please! don't do this! don't leave me again!"
he stopped at the door of the train and turned to look at you one last time.
his face was wet with those raven tears, those tears that spoke of a grief too deep for words. but he was smiling—that smile, the one you had fallen in love with, the one you would carry with you through every life, every death, every rebirth.
"you're a cruel man, christopher chahn bahng!" you screamed, using his full name, the name only you had ever used, the name that held all your love and all your anger and all your desperate, impossible hope. "how can you do this to me? how can you bring me back to you just to let me go again?"
his smile dropped, just slightly, just enough to let you know that he heard you, that he understood, that he loved you even in this, especially in this.
"i’m sorry… i love you, y/n, " he called, his voice carrying across the impossible distance between you. "i always have. i always will."
the train doors began to close.
you pressed against the invisible barrier, your hands flat against nothing, your body straining toward him even though you knew… you knew… you couldn't reach him.
"i love you so much," you called out, and your voice broke on the last word, dissolved into sobs, into tears, into the thousand pieces of your heart that were scattering across the space between you. "i love you so much, chan. i never stopped. i never stopped."
through the closing doors, through the gap that was getting smaller and smaller, you saw him.
those onyx tears, streaming down his cheeks like ink, like grief, like love made visible. that smile, still there, still his, still holding all the warmth and love that had sustained you through three years of darkness.
and then, as the doors sealed shut, as the train began to move in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from you, away into the darkness from which it had come—he blew you a kiss.
the doors closed.
the train began to move, not forward, towards some unknown destination, but in reverse, sliding away from the platform, away from the gate, away from you.
you slid down against the invisible barrier, your knees crashing against the cold floor with a force you couldn't feel—because what was physical pain compared to this? what were bruises and breaks compared to the sight of him disappearing, of him leaving again, of him choosing to go when every fiber of your being was screaming at him to stay?
your heart shattered even more. you would die the second time due to this.
then, ludicrously, it pieced itself back together… only to shatter again, and again, and again, an endless cycle of breaking, and mending and breaking, each wave of grief more brutal than the last.
through the windows of the train, you could see him.
standing in one of the compartments, his hand pressed to the glass. his eyes remained on yours as the train began to move faster, locked onto yours with an intensity that burned through the distance, through the darkness, through the impossible space between you.
his lips were moving. words you couldn't hear, couldn't catch, couldn't hold onto… but somehow, you were able to comprehend.
i love you. forgive me.
the train slid further into darkness, and his hand stayed pressed to the glass, as if he could reach through it, as if he could touch you one last time, as if he could bridge the impossible distance with nothing but will, want, and love.
his abnormal, inky tears… you could see them even from here, even through the gathering dark, even as the train carried him away from you. rivers of night, pouring from the eyes of the only person you had ever truly loved.
the train was smaller now, a shrinking shape in the endless void, a light growing dimmer with each passing second.
you pressed your hand against the barrier, matching his gesture, reaching for him even though you knew you couldn't touch, couldn't hold, couldn't keep.
and then it was gone.
behind you, the gates to the afterlife blazed with light—warm, welcoming, patient. the garden beyond called to you with its color, its peace, and its promise of rest. yet you couldn’t move towards it. not yet. not while the last image of him still burned behind your eyes… his hand on the glass, his lips that you would kiss a thousand times, his tears falling like the universe itself was mourning with him.
i'll wait for you.
and somewhere, in the darkness between worlds, on a train that ran forever through the spaces between life and death, someone was waiting for you.
— hard of hearing!bang chan x fem reader, in which an accident that left bang chan hard of hearing for the rest of his life starts to take a toll on him. and what good of a wife would you be than to gift him the thing that he had been missing through all these years.
a/n: okay i know i said i would update you caught my heart today, but i am not finished with it yet 😭. so here, have my short drabble of bang chan i had wrote years ago. i tweak some parts of it it make it a lot more realistic but please note that this is non-canon compliant. i just love something emotional and comfort it by the end of the story. so enjoy reading! < 3
word count: 1.5k words.
Christopher Chahn Bahng wasn’t born deaf.
He was born healthy—gifted, even. Music seemed to run through his veins from the moment he could hold a microphone. He climbed his way through the industry with relentless passion, eventually becoming part of a thriving group that took the world by storm. Even after retiring from performing, he never truly left music behind. He continued working behind the scenes as a producer, spending countless hours in recording studios, perfecting sounds only he seemed capable of hearing.
Until the accident happened.
Years of constant exposure to loud audio—headphones pressed against his ears for hours without proper breaks, overused earpieces during performances and recording sessions—finally caught up to him. What began as a persistent ringing soon turned into something far worse. An eardrum rupture.
The damage left him 70db hard of hearing.
From that moment on, everything in Christopher’s life began to crumble.
Conversations became exhausting puzzles. Words blurred together, fading before he could grasp them. Sounds he once relied on—music, laughter, voices—slowly slipped further and further away from him.
And the cruelest part of it all? Even your voice began to disappear from his world. He hadn’t heard it clearly since the rupture.
Watching him over the years, you knew the loss had begun to take its toll. His temper grew shorter. His voice, when he spoke, often came out louder than necessary—almost aggressive. Not because he meant to be, but because he could no longer judge the volume of his own words. People began avoiding him. Not out of cruelty, but out of discomfort. They didn’t know how to communicate with him. None of them knew sign language, and awkward misunderstandings often made conversations exhausting for everyone involved.
His bandmates still checked on him, of course. Most of the time through text messages, since many of them were busy with their own careers, families, and responsibilities. But when it came to truly adjusting to his new world, no one did it the way you did.
You learned sign language with him. Sat beside him night after night, practicing until your fingers moved naturally. You never made him feel like a burden, never allowed him to believe he was being left behind. Even when the world around him fell silent, you stayed.
Touching his arm when you approached so he’d know you were there. Resting your hand on his shoulder during conversations. Letting him feel the vibrations of your voice against your chest when you spoke. Reminding him, in every small way possible, that he was never alone.
Still, no matter how strong Christopher Chahn Bahng appeared to be—prideful, stubborn, resilient—there were moments when the vulnerability showed.
And you, of all people, knew exactly what those moments looked like. The way his jaw clenched when he saw people talking in the distance, unable to tell whether they were speaking about him or not. The crease forming between his brows when he missed pieces of conversations. The quiet frustration lingering in his eyes whenever the silence felt too heavy.
His hearing loss made him feel weak.
You once overheard Han Jisung gently asking him about hearing aids. The memory still lingered in your mind.
“Have you ever thought about using one?” Jisung had asked carefully.
Chan’s reaction was immediate. A deep frown formed on his face.
“I’m not putting some apparatus in my ear just to make myself look weak in front of people, Ji,” he muttered. “I’d rather not hear at all than be treated differently.”
The stubbornness in his voice left no room for argument. And for a long time, you respected that choice.
Until one moment changed everything.
One quiet evening, after returning home from work, you found him lying on the bed. A book rested in his hands as his eyes scanned across the pages, completely unaware of your arrival. He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice your footsteps. Only when the mattress dipped under your weight as you climbed onto the bed beside him did he finally realize you were there.
He looked up immediately.
“You’re home,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His expression softened as he placed the book on the bedside table.
He shifted closer, eyes studying your face. You tilted your head slightly, raising your hands.
“How was your day off?” you asked in sign language.
But he didn’t answer. Instead, he simply stared at you.
One second passed.
Then another.
A full minute slipped by before he finally moved closer, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head against your chest. His voice came out quiet. Almost hesitant.
“Can you talk for a little while?”
Your heart tightened.
“I want to feel you vibrate when you speak.”
It wasn’t a direct confession. He never said he missed your voice. But you knew. You knew how much it hurt him. Three years of silence had been slowly breaking something inside him. And every time Bang Chan shuddered slightly when your chest vibrated with your words… it broke something inside you too. You never pitied him. He hated pity. But the loneliness in his actions was impossible to ignore.
So when your fourth wedding anniversary arrived, you didn’t even have to think about what gift to give him.
The decision had been made long ago.
Now, sitting across from him in the restaurant, your fingers tightened around the small box hidden beneath the table. You watched quietly as your husband ate his meal.
Eventually, he noticed your staring. He paused mid-bite.
“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, confusion creasing his forehead.
You smiled. Then gently placed the small box in front of him.
“Open it,” you signed.
He did. His brows furrowed immediately when he saw what was inside.
A hearing aid.
He looked up at you, clearly questioning.
“What the hell is this for?”
You reached across the table.
“Just… wear it for me. Please.”
After a moment of hesitation, he sighed and placed the device into his ear. Once it was set, you reached for his hands. Your fingers intertwined with his across the table. For a moment, you simply looked at him. Then you tightened your grip slightly.
And spoke.
“Hi, Chris.”
Bang Chan flinched. His eyes widened instantly, shock flashing across his face as your voice suddenly filled his ears. His breath hitched. His hands began trembling. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them. Then suddenly, he lowered his head onto your hands on the table—his shoulders shaking as sobs escaped him uncontrollably.
Your knuckles soon felt warm and wet.
He was crying.
“Chris… baby,” you murmured softly, your own voice beginning to crack. But he only tightened his grip around your hands, shaking his head as if asking for a moment longer.
So you gave it to him.
You waited quietly until his breathing slowly steadied. Then you spoke again, your voice softer.
“Channie… look at me.”
He lifted his head without hesitation. And in that moment, realization fully settled in. He could hear you. Not a faint vibration. Not a distant echo.
Your actual voice.
“I hear you,” he whispered, his voice breaking as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks.
You nodded, smiling through your own tears. Your hands gently cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his damp skin.
“God…” he breathed shakily. “I missed your voice so much. I can hear you again.”
You laughed softly.
“Can you say my name again?” he asked.
“Chris.”
His breath trembled as he closed his eyes, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist.
“Thank you, baby,” he whispered. “I could never ask for a better gift than hearing your voice again. If I knew it felt this good… I would’ve gotten one sooner.”
A small laugh escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair.
“My ever-so-prideful husband,” you teased gently. “And you don’t have to thank me. You know I’d do anything for you.”
You leaned closer.
“I love you, Channie.”
A mischievous spark suddenly flickered in his eyes.
“Do you think we could use this hearing aid for something else?” he asked.
Your brows furrowed.
“Like what?”
His grin widened.
“Maybe… hearing you scream my name?”
Your eyes widened in shock before you smacked his shoulder.
“CHRISTOPHER!”
“I’m kidding!” he laughed—genuinely this time. A sound you hadn’t heard from him in years.
“I love you more, Y/N.”
And of course, you already knew that. Bang Chan had never exactly been subtle about his love for you.
After all—
He still turned off the hearing aid you gave him whenever someone else tried to talk to him. But the moment you spoke? He always turned it back on.
Minho stood in the entryway for a long moment, just staring at the wall. His shoulders were up somewhere near his ears, his bag still slung across his chest like he'd forgotten it was there. The kind of day that didn't have a name. Not a bad day in the dramatic sense, no disasters, no fights, nothing he could point to and say that's what broke me. Just a thousand tiny cuts. A schedule that ran overtime. A producer who talked over him. A dancer who kept missing the same count, and Minho had to smile and say "again, you've got this" when what he wanted to do was scream.
He heard you before he saw you. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Then you were there, in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his hoodie and absolutely nothing else of consequence.
You looked at him. Just looked.
No questions. No "how was your day?" No "what's wrong?" Just your eyes, scanning his face, reading the lines he hadn't learned how to hide yet.
Then you turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Minho blinked. He should probably move. He should probably take off his bag. He should probably,
The sound of your voice, slightly muffled because you were already on the phone. "Yeah, the usual. Double the dumplings. And the spicy rice cakes. Yes, to this address. Thanks."
Minho's bag hit the floor.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, scrolling through something on yours. You caught his eye and, there it was. That small, crooked smile. The one that said I see you. I've got you. You don't have to say anything.
You hung up. "Forty minutes."
"How did you-"
You shrugged, like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just reached into his chest and massaged the knots out of his heart without him saying a single word. "You get this little line. Right here." You stepped forward and pressed your fingertip gently between his eyebrows. "Between the eyes. Means you need dumplings."
He caught your wrist. Held it. Pressed his lips to your palm.
"I love you," he said, and it came out wrecked, because it was true in a way that terrified him sometimes.
"I know," you said softly. Then you tugged him toward the couch. "Come on. There's a variety show marathon. You're not allowed to think until the food gets here."
You pulled him down beside you, and he went willingly, gratefully, his head finding its natural resting place on your shoulder. Your fingers found his hair.
He still hadn't told you about his day. He didn't need to.
Not literally. But there was something in his mouth, something soft and vaguely offensive, and he was already mid-cough when he opened his eyes to find Soonie's tail draped directly across his face like a mustache from hell.
He sputtered. Swatted blindly. Soonie, offended by this betrayal, leapt off the bed with a yowl of protest.
Beside him, you were shaking.
Not with cold. Not with fear. With laughter. Silent, shoulder-shaking, hand-over-your-mouth laughter that you were desperately trying to contain and failing spectacularly.
Minho turned his head. Blinked at you with cat hair clinging to his eyelashes. "You saw that."
"I saw nothing," you gasped. "I was asleep. Completely asleep."
"You let him suffocate me."
"You're so dramatic. He was just-" You lost it, a snort escaping despite your best efforts, and that set you both off. Minho tried to stay dignified, he really did, but your laugh was infectious, that full-body thing you did, and soon he was laughing too, cat hair be damned.
You reached for him. He leaned into it instinctively, the way he always did, the way he'd been doing for years without thinking. Your thumb found the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, brushing away the evidence with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"There," you murmured, still smiling. "All better. Very handsome."
He caught your thumb with his lips before you could pull away. Pressed a kiss to the pad of it. Watched your eyes go soft and warm.
"You have cat hair on your face too," he whispered.
"Liar."
"Absolutely. Right there." He leaned in, touched his nose to yours. "Let me get it."
And he kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting morning and you and the life he still couldn't quite believe was his.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with that expression. The one that undid him every single time. Like he was something precious. Something miraculous.
"What?" he asked, suddenly shy.
You just shook your head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just-" You reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "You're here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of wonder. Like you couldn't quite believe it either.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.
You didn't answer. You just pulled him back down, cat hair and all, and held on.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's choreography, worrying about tomorrow's schedule, spiraling about things that hadn't even happened yet.
He turned over, intending to stare at the ceiling instead, and froze.
You were facing him. Asleep, clearly asleep, your mouth slightly open, your breathing deep and even, one hand tucked under your pillow. The moonlight from the window painted half your face silver.
And Minho couldn't look away.
He'd seen you asleep a thousand times. A thousand nights of this. You stole the blankets. You talked in your sleep sometimes, nonsense words that made him smile. You reached for him in the dark, your hand finding his chest or his arm or his hair, pulling him closer even in unconsciousness.
But tonight, for some reason, it hit him differently.
How?
How did someone like you, you, with your laugh and your kindness and the way you remembered that he liked his coffee with just a splash of milk, the way you defended him to people who didn't matter, the way you looked at him like he hung the moon, how did someone like you choose someone like him?
He wasn't being self-deprecating. He genuinely didn't understand it. He was loud, sometimes too much. He was competitive, sometimes too much. He was insecure in ways he'd never learned to hide, and you'd seen all of it, the ugly parts, the tired parts, the parts he tried to keep from the world, and you'd stayed.
Not just stayed. You'd chosen him. Every day. For years.
Your hand twitched in your sleep, searching. Finding his arm. Curling around his bicep like it belonged there.
Minho's breath caught.
He lifted his free hand, slowly, carefully, and hovered it just above your cheek. Not touching. Just feeling the warmth radiating from your skin. Just tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
I don't deserve you, he thought. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
But he was too selfish to give you up. Too in love to question it too hard.
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you," he whispered, so quiet it was barely air. "I hope that's okay."
You stirred, just slightly. Your lips curved, just slightly. A sleepy, unconscious smile.
"Love you," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft.
Minho's eyes burned.
He closed the distance, pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, and finally, finally felt sleep tugging at him too.
"Love you more," he whispered against your skin. "Always."
Outside, the world kept spinning. Inside, in the dark, with you in his arms, Minho had everything he'd ever need.
Minho was standing at the stove, stirring the kimchi jjigae he'd been perfecting for months, your favorite, the one you always asked for when you'd had a hard day, when you appeared in the kitchen doorway. Same hoodie. Same bare feet. Same soft look on your face.
But something was different.
"Hey," you said. Casual. Easy.
"Hey yourself," he replied, not turning. "Dinner's almost ready. I added extra tofu, like you-"
"Minho?"
Something in your voice made him turn. Made the spoon pause mid-stir.
You were holding the rice cooker insert. Empty. Looking at it with an expression he couldn't quite read. Confusion? Frustration? Something in between.
"Did we..." You trailed off, shook your head slightly. "Sorry, this is dumb. Did we already eat? I was about to make rice and I can't remember if-"
"You asked me to make dinner," Minho said slowly. "An hour ago. You said you were craving the jjigae."
You blinked. Looked at the rice cooker. Looked at the pot on the stove. Looked at him.
"Right," you said, but it came out wrong. Too quick. Too automatic. "Right, of course. Sorry, I just-" A small, self-deprecating laugh. "Brain fog. Long week."
Minho smiled. He made himself smile, because that's what you do when someone makes a joke, when someone explains away a tiny, insignificant thing.
"Yeah," he said. "Long week."
You set the rice cooker down. Came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face between his shoulder blades. He felt you breathe in, slow and deep.
"It smells amazing," you mumbled against his back.
He covered your hands with his. Held them tight.
"Anything for you," he said.
—
Three days later, you forgot Dori's name.
You were on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when the ginger menace jumped into your lap and started kneading your stomach with intense, focused determination.
You laughed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, buddy. Where'd you come from?"
Minho looked up from the photo album he was organizing, a project, he'd told you, just for fun, just to have all the pictures in one place.
"His full government name is Dori," he said lightly. "But he also answers to 'the menace' and 'get off the counter.'"
You smiled. Nodded. Kept scratching.
And Minho watched you.
Watched you look at the cat you'd had for four years. The cat you'd found as a kitten, soaking wet in the rain, and carried home in your hoodie pocket. The cat you'd named after your favorite character from your favorite movie, the one you made Minho watch at least twice a year.
You didn't say his name. You just called him "buddy."
Minho told himself it was nothing. You were distracted. You were tired. You called people the wrong names all the time, you'd called him Jisung once, early in the relationship, and they'd never let either of them live it down.
Minho was in the bedroom, folding laundry, your sweater, his shirt, the socks that never seemed to match no matter how carefully he paired them, when you appeared in the doorway.
You looked... small. That was the only word for it. Small in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said, setting down the sweater. "What's up?"
You didn't come in. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, and stared at a spot on the floor.
"I need to tell you something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Minho felt the ripples before he understood why.
"Okay," he said carefully. "I'm listening."
You took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"It's happening more often. The-" You gestured vaguely at your head. "The forgetfulness. Little things. What I went into the kitchen for. A word I was looking for. Whether I already told you something." A pause. "I forgot Chan's name yesterday. When we were texting. I had to scroll up to see who I was talking to."
Minho's hands had gone still on the laundry.
You looked up. Met his eyes. And he saw it, the fear. The real, raw fear you'd been hiding behind smiles and self-deprecating jokes for weeks.
"I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow," you said quietly. "Talk about it. It's probably nothing. Stress, or sleep, or-" You stopped. Swallowed. "But I wanted you to know. Before I... before I didn't."
Minho crossed the room in three steps. Took your face in his hands. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
You let out a shaky breath. Leaned into him. Let him hold you up.
"It's probably nothing," you said again, like a prayer.
"Probably," he agreed, because he needed to believe it.
But his heart was already pounding. Already knowing. Already starting to break.
That night, you fell asleep in his arms, your breath warm against his neck, your hand curled loosely over his heart.
Minho didn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you against him. Listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. Every inhale. Every exhale. The way your eyelashes fanned against your skin. The tiny mole behind your ear that you hated and he loved.
It's probably nothing.
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and have you be fine, have this be a blip, a scare, a story you'd tell later with a laugh and an eye roll.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was wrong.
And for the first time in his life, Minho had no idea how to dance his way out of it.
He tightened his arms around you. Pressed his lips to your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark. "No matter what. I've got you."
You stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled deeper against him.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho held on tight and prayed to every god he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be different.
Minho was in the middle of practice when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Choreography was already behind schedule, and Jisung kept messing up the transition, and Chan had that look on his face that meant they weren't leaving until they got it right. One more run. Then another. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
He glanced at it between takes. Your name on the screen. Three missed calls.
His blood went cold.
"Give me a second," he muttered, already reaching for his phone, already stepping away from the mirrors and the music and the bodies around him.
"Hyung, we're in the middle-"
"Give me a SECOND."
The studio went quiet. Minho didn't notice. He had the phone to his ear, your contact photo staring back at him, you at the beach last summer, squinting into the sun, laughing at something he'd said.
You picked up on the first ring.
"Minho?"
Your voice. But wrong. Thin and stretched and scared in a way he'd never heard before.
"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
A breath on the other end. Shaky. Too shaky.
"I'm at the doctor's office. The, the neurologist. I came in for those tests, the memory ones, and they-" You stopped. He heard you swallow. "They want me to call someone. To come in. They said I shouldn't be alone for the results and I didn't know who else to-"
"I'm coming."
"The traffic is bad this time of day, you don't have to-"
"I'm coming. Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
He was already grabbing his bag. Already heading for the door. Chan called after him, worried, confused, and Minho just shook his head, couldn't form words, couldn't do anything but move toward you.
"Minho?" Your voice, small through the phone.
"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm almost there. Just, just stay on the phone. Okay? Stay on the phone with me."
The neurologist's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Minho burst through the door like a man being chased, hair disheveled, chest heaving, still in his sweat-soaked practice clothes. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he was already scanning the room, already searching,
You stood up from a chair in the corner. You looked so small. That was the only word for it. Small and pale and young in a way that made his heart crack right down the middle. You were wearing his hoodie again, the gray one, the one you'd stolen months ago and never given back, and your hands were shaking.
He crossed the room in four steps and pulled you into his arms. You crumpled against him. Let him hold you up. Let him be the thing that kept you from falling apart right there in front of everyone.
"I didn't know who else to call," you whispered into his chest. "They said to bring someone and I just, I just wanted you. I just wanted you here."
"I'm here," he said fiercely. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
A door opened. A nurse with a kind face and sympathetic eyes looked at them both.
The doctor's office was small. Cluttered with diplomas and anatomical diagrams and a box of tissues placed strategically on the corner of the desk. Minho hated it immediately. Hated the tissues most of all.
You sat in the chair across from the doctor. Minho stood behind you, one hand on your shoulder, because he couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. Needed to be touching you or he might shatter.
The doctor was a woman. Middle-aged. Gentle eyes. The kind of face that delivered bad news for a living and hadn't quite learned how to hide the toll it took.
"Thank you for coming in," she said to Minho. Then she turned to you, and her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. "I have the results of your cognitive assessments and the MRI."
Your hand found Minho's. Squeezed.
"Okay," you said. "Just, just tell us."
The doctor nodded. Opened a file. Looked at it for a moment, then set it aside and met your eyes directly.
"The MRI shows significant hippocampal atrophy. That's the area of the brain responsible for memory formation and retrieval." A pause. "Combined with your cognitive test results and the symptom pattern you've been reporting, we've arrived at a diagnosis."
The room was very quiet.
"It's a form of early-onset neurodegenerative disease. Specifically, a variant of accelerated retrograde amnesia." The doctor's voice was gentle but unflinching. "It's rare, especially in someone your age. But the pattern is clear. Your brain is struggling to consolidate new memories and is beginning to degrade existing ones, starting with the most recent and moving backward."
Minho's hand tightened on your shoulder. You reached up and held it there.
"What does that mean?" you asked. Your voice was steady. Too steady. "What does that mean for, for us? For our life?"
The doctor hesitated. Just for a moment. But Minho saw it. Saw the way she braced herself before continuing.
"The progression rate varies, but based on the scans, we're looking at an accelerated timeline. The memories you've formed in the last few years are the most vulnerable. As the disease progresses, you'll lose them. First recent events, then older ones. Eventually-" Another pause. "Eventually, you may lose most of your autobiographical memory. The people in your life. The experiences you've had."
"You're saying," Minho heard himself speak, his voice rough and strange, "you're saying she'll forget. She'll forget everything."
The doctor looked at him with those gentle, terrible eyes.
"I'm saying we need to prepare for that possibility. There are treatments that may slow the progression. Therapies that can help with coping strategies. But yes. The trajectory suggests significant memory loss over the coming months."
Months.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
You turned in your chair. Looked up at Minho. And he saw it, the moment you realized what this meant. What this would do to him. To the life you'd built together.
"Minho-"
"No." He shook his head. Dropped to his knees in front of you so you were eye to eye. Grabbed both your hands in his. "No. Don't. Don't you dare start worrying about me right now."
"But if I forget-"
"Then I'll remember." His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I'll remember for both of us. Every single day. I'll be here every morning and I'll tell you who I am and I'll make you fall in love with me again and again and again if that's what it takes."
Tears were streaming down your face. You didn't seem to notice.
"That's not fair to you," you whispered. "That's not, you can't spend your life-"
"Watch me."
He said it like a vow. Like a challenge to the universe itself.
The doctor was saying something about treatment plans, about support groups, about clinical trials. Minho heard none of it. He was too busy looking at you. Committing this moment to memory. The way your nose crinkled when you cried. The way your bottom lip trembled. The way your hands shook in his.
"I love you," he said. "I love you and I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just don't forget this. Don't forget this right now. Me telling you. Me promising you. Hold onto this as long as you can."
Neither of you spoke in the car. Minho drove. You stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shapes and people going about their ordinary lives, completely unaware that the world had ended.
At a red light, you reached over and took his hand.
He looked at you. You were still staring out the window, but your fingers were laced through his, holding on like he was the only solid thing left.
"Can we get ice cream?" you asked quietly. "The place with the weird flavors? The one we went to on our first date?"
Minho's throat closed.
"Of course," he managed. "Yeah. Of course we can."
Later, after the ice cream, after the crying, after the phone calls to family that neither of you had the strength to make yet, you fell asleep in his arms.
Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But everything was different now.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in his life, he was afraid of the morning.
Because tomorrow, you might wake up and know him.
Or tomorrow might be the first day you didn't.
He held you tighter. Pressed his lips to your hair. Closed his eyes against the dark and made himself a promise.
I'll be here. Every single day. I'll be here.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho began to say goodbye to someone who was still, impossibly, right there in his arms.
He watched the clock change. 2:13 AM. 3:47. 4:02. 5:19. The numbers glowed green and indifferent, and he watched them all, your body warm against his, your breath steady, your hand curled over his heart like it had always belonged there.
At 6:34, the alarm went off.
Not his. Yours. The one you set every morning because you liked to wake up slowly, to stretch and groan and burrow deeper into the pillows before finally surfacing.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Shifted away from him, reaching for the phone on your nightstand to silence it.
Minho held his breath.
You turned back over. Faced him. Your eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, soft in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
And then you blinked.
Focused.
Looked at him.
Your body went still.
Minho felt it happen. Felt the exact moment the warmth in your eyes flickered and died, replaced by something else. Something cold and unfamiliar.
Stranger danger. That's what they called it in animals. That instinctive freeze when confronted with the unknown.
You were looking at him like he was the unknown.
"Hi," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. He hadn't used it in hours. Hadn't cried either, not yet, but his voice was wrecked anyway.
You pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to create space between your bodies. Your hand slipped away from his chest.
"Who-" You stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes darted around the room, the familiar walls, the unfamiliar man, the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He'd known this was coming. He'd prepared for this. He'd promised himself he'd be strong, be gentle, be whatever you needed him to be.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice cracked on his own name. "I'm your, I'm your boyfriend."
You stared at him.
He watched your brain working, searching for something, anything, that would make this make sense. Your brow furrowed. Your lips parted. Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," you said, and it was polite. So painfully, horribly polite. The voice you used with strangers who stopped you on the street. "I don't, I don't remember."
Minho nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"That's okay," he lied. "That's, that's okay. The doctor said this might happen. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You were still looking at him like he was a puzzle you couldn't solve.
"How long?" you asked quietly. "How long have we been together?"
Four years. One thousand four hundred sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand sixty-four hours. I stopped counting the minutes because it hurt too much to realize I'd never get them back.
"A while," he said instead. "A few years."
You looked down at yourself. At his hoodie you were wearing. At the bed you were in. At the cats who were still sleeping, oblivious, at the foot of it.
"I should-" You started to move, to get up, to escape. "I should go. I shouldn't be here. This isn't, I don't know you, I shouldn't be in your bed, I'm sorry-"
Minho's heart shattered.
"No, no, wait-" He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air between you. "Please. Just, can I show you something? Before you go? Please?"
You hesitated. Looked at his hand. Looked at his face.
Something in his expression must have reached you, because slowly, carefully, you nodded.
Minho reached for his phone on the nightstand. Hands shaking. Opened his photos. Scrolled past a thousand memories you no longer carried.
He turned the screen toward you.
It was a photo from two summers ago. You at the beach. Sand in your hair. Ice cream on your nose. Laughing at him for taking yet another picture, for documenting everything, for being ridiculous and sweet and so in love with you it was embarrassing.
You took the phone. Studied the image.
"That's me," you said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And that's..." You looked up at him. Back at the photo. At the way his arm was wrapped around your waist, the way he was looking at you in the picture like you were the sun. "That's you."
"Yeah."
You stared at the photo for a long time.
Minho watched you. Committed this to memory too. The way the morning light caught your eyelashes. The way your lips moved slightly as you tried to find words. The way your hand trembled holding his phone.
"I don't remember," you whispered finally. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of it."
The tears came before he could stop them.
He turned his face away, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to get himself under control. But they kept coming, silent and hot, because you were right here and you didn't know him and you were sorry and God, it hurt, it hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and now you sounded scared. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to, I don't know why I'm here, I don't know you, I'm sorry-"
"It's not your fault." He forced the words out through the wreckage of his throat. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just, I'm just sad. That's all. I'm just sad."
You reached out.
Hesitated.
Then, gently, so gently it broke him all over again, you touched his cheek. Wiped a tear away with your thumb.
The gesture was so familiar. So you. Even when you didn't know him, your body remembered. Your body knew how to comfort him.
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You were looking at him with confusion, yes. With fear, yes. But underneath it, something else. Something soft. Something curious.
"You really love me," you said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." His voice broke on the word. "Yeah. I really do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you looked down at his hand, still lying on the bed between you. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and took it.
"I don't remember you," you said. "But I think, I think I'd like to. If that's okay."
Minho squeezed your hand. Held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"That's more than okay," he whispered. "That's everything."
You sat at the kitchen table in his hoodie, your hoodie, the gray one, but you didn't know that, and watched him make coffee.
He could feel your eyes on him. Studying him. Trying to piece together who this stranger was who claimed to love you.
"What's my favorite food?" you asked suddenly.
He turned, surprised by the question. "Tteokbokki. The spicy kind. You say it's the only food that's allowed to make you cry."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's specific."
"You're specific. You have opinions about everything. You once spent twenty minutes explaining why the rice at that one restaurant was wrong. I didn't understand half of it, but I loved watching you talk about it."
You ducked your head. Almost shy.
"What else?"
He leaned against the counter. Let himself look at you. Really look.
"You hum when you're happy. Not songs, exactly. Just, melodies. Made-up ones. You don't realize you're doing it." He paused. "You steal the blankets. Every single night. I wake up freezing and you're wrapped up like a burrito and I wouldn't change it for anything."
Your cheeks pinked.
"You snore," he continued, smiling now despite everything. "Just a little. Only when you're really tired. You deny it every time I mention it. You say I'm lying and then you fall asleep on my chest and snore again."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You laughed. Just a small one. Just a breath. But it was real.
And Minho realized, with a ache so deep it almost doubled him over, that this was his life now. Collecting your laughs like precious coins. Hoarding every smile. Falling in love with you over and over again, knowing you'd forget by tomorrow.
He brought you coffee. Made it exactly how you liked it, light roast, a splash of milk, no sugar. Handed it to you.
You took a sip. Your eyes widened.
"This is perfect," you said. "How did you know?"
"I know everything about you," he said simply. "Every single thing."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. Something shifted in your eyes. Something warmer.
"Tell me more," you said softly. "Tell me everything."
And so he did.
He told you about the first time he saw you, at a friend's party, laughing at something, your whole body committed to it. He told you about your first date, the ice cream place with the weird flavors, how you'd ordered something called "sweet potato and honey" and made him try it. He told you about the cats, how you'd found Dori in the rain and carried him home in your hoodie pocket. He told you about the way you danced when you thought no one was watching, all wrong and beautiful and so perfectly you.
You listened. Asked questions. Laughed in the right places. Cried a little when he told you about the night you first said "I love you."
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his coffee was cold and the morning had somehow slipped away into afternoon, you reached across the table and took his hand.
"I don't remember any of it," you said quietly. "But I believe you."
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
You squeezed his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" you asked. "When I wake up and don't remember again?"
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
"Yes," he said fiercely. "Every tomorrow. Every single one. I'll be here."
You smiled. That small, kind smile. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
That night, you fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Minho carried you to bed. The same bed you'd woken up in this morning, terrified of the stranger beside you. The same bed you'd share tonight, trusting him because he'd spent the whole day earning it.
He tucked you in. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Brushed the hair from your face.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Your hand found his and held on.
"Minho," you whispered. Just his name. But you said it like you knew him. Like you remembered.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I'm here."
"I'm glad." Your eyes were still closed, your voice thick with sleep. "I'm glad you're here."
Tears slid down his cheeks. Silent. Endless.
"Me too," he whispered. "Me too."
He stayed there until your hand went slack, until your breathing evened out, until he was sure you were asleep. Then he pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead and whispered the words he'd say every night for the rest of his life:
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
He turned off the light.
Walked to the living room.
Sat on the couch in the dark and finally, finally let himself break.
Not in any way a stranger would notice. The furniture was the same. The photos on the walls were the same. The cats still slept on the same pillow, chased the same sunbeams, meowed at the same time every morning for food.
But the apartment had changed.
There were sticky notes now. Dozens of them. On the bathroom mirror: Your name is ____. You are safe. Minho is your person. On the refrigerator: Food inside. Eat something. Minho made it. On the nightstand: This is Minho. He loves you. You love him too.
Minho had gotten good at writing them. Short. Clear. Kind. Nothing that would scare you, nothing that would make you feel broken.
He wrote new ones every night before bed, because you'd been known to wake up in the middle of the night disoriented, and he needed you to see his words before you saw your own panic.
Tonight, he sat at the kitchen table with a stack of sticky notes and a pen that was running out of ink.
The photo album sat in front of him.
He'd finished it last week. Three months of work, distilled into fifty pages. Your life together. Your love story. Page after page of proof that you had existed, that you had been happy, that you had chosen each other.
He'd shown it to you this morning.
You'd flipped through it slowly. Studied each photo like a detective examining evidence. Asked questions he'd answered a hundred times before.
Who's this? That's us at the beach. You buried me in the sand and then left me there to get ice cream.
When was this? Two years ago. Your birthday. You said you wanted to go somewhere warm, so I booked flights that night.
Why are we making that face? Because you dared me to eat a whole lemon and I actually did it. You laughed so hard you cried. That's you crying in the photo. Right there.
You'd laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. And Minho had felt his heart crack open and heal itself in the same breath.
But then you'd gotten to the last page. A photo of the two of you at home, ordinary Tuesday night, you in his lap and both of you smiling at the camera like idiots in love.
You'd stared at it for a long time.
Then you'd looked up at him, and your eyes were wet, and you'd said the words that would haunt him forever:
"I wish I could remember loving you. It must have been amazing."
He'd held it together until you went to take a shower. Then he'd sat on the bathroom floor and cried into a towel so you wouldn't hear.
You came out of the bedroom wrapped in his hoodie, the gray one, always the gray one, even though you didn't know why you loved it so much, and sat across from him at the kitchen table.
He slid a cup of coffee toward you. Perfectly made.
You smiled your thanks. Took a sip. Made that small satisfied sound that made his chest ache.
"I have a question," you said.
"Anything."
You set down the cup. Looked at him with those eyes that held no memory of him but held everything else, your kindness, your curiosity, your stubborn beautiful soul.
"Why do you stay?"
Minho blinked. "What?"
"I've been here a month. I know because of the notes. I write the date on them now, so I can keep track." You tapped the edge of the table. "Every morning I wake up and I don't know you. Every morning you're here, with coffee and kind eyes and a photo album full of a life I don't remember. And I just-" You shook your head. "Why? Why do you stay? This has to be destroying you."
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the table and took your hand.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The first week, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought it would kill me. Waking up every day to the person I love most looking at me like a stranger. Having to introduce myself over and over. Watching you search your own mind for something that isn't there anymore." His voice wavered. He steadied it. "I cried every night. I cried in the shower. I cried in the stairwell so you wouldn't hear. I thought about leaving. Not because I didn't love you, but because I thought maybe you'd be better off without some stranger in your apartment every morning, claiming to be yours."
Your hand tightened on his.
"But then-" He smiled. Small and sad and real. "Then I'd make you coffee. And you'd take that first sip and make that little sound. The one you've made every morning for four years. And you'd look at me over the cup, and you'd smile, and you'd ask me a question about myself. Because that's who you are. You're curious. You're kind. Even when you don't know me, you want to know me."
Tears were forming in your eyes. You didn't blink them away.
"Every day, I get to fall in love with you all over again," he continued. "Every day, I get to see you for the first time. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you talk to the cats like they understand every word. Every single day, I get to discover you again."
He squeezed your hand.
"And every night, when you fall asleep in my arms, you hold onto me. Even when you don't know who I am, your body remembers. You reach for me in the dark. You say my name in your sleep. And I think, I think maybe some part of you knows. Some part of you remembers loving me. Even if your mind can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.
"So that's why I stay," he whispered. "Because loving you, even like this, especially like this, is the best thing I've ever done. And I'm not going to stop. Not ever."
You were crying now. Quietly. Beautifully.
"You deserve so much better than this," you said.
"I have you," he replied. "That's the only thing I deserve. That's the only thing I want."
You stood up. Walked around the table. Climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He held you. Rocked you gently. Pressed kisses to your hair.
"I don't know why I love you," you whispered against his neck. "I don't remember why. But I do. I feel it. Right here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "It's like, like my heart knows you even when my head doesn't."
Minho closed his eyes. Let the tears fall.
"That's enough," he breathed. "That's everything."
Later, you fell asleep in his arms. Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But tonight, something was different.
Just before sleep took you, you stirred. Lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light from the window.
"Minho?" you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His heart clenched. "I know, baby. I know."
"What if one day I wake up and I don't just forget you? What if I forget how to love? What if I forget how to feel?"
He pulled you closer. Held you tighter.
"Then I'll love you enough for both of us," he said. "I'll feel enough for both of us. I'll remember enough for both of us. You don't have to be scared. I've got you. I'll always have you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Searching his face. Finding whatever it was you needed to find.
Then you smiled. Soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.
"I believe you," you whispered. "I don't know why, but I believe you."
"That's all I need."
You kissed him. Just a gentle brush of lips. Just a promise.
Then you settled back against his chest, your hand over his heart, and within minutes you were asleep.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, holding you close.
And he thought about all the tomorrows ahead. All the mornings he'd wake up a stranger. All the coffees he'd make. All the introductions. All the photo albums. All the moments of recognition that would fade by nightfall.
It would be hard. It would be devastating. It would break him over and over again.
But right now, with you in his arms, breathing softly, trusting him even though you didn't know why,
At 3 AM, Minho carefully extracted himself from your arms. You stirred, mumbled, but didn't wake.
He went to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Pulled out a fresh sticky note and the pen that was almost out of ink.
He wrote:
Good morning. I'm Minho. I'm the luckiest person in the world because I get to love you. Today, I'll make you coffee. I'll show you photos. I'll tell you stories. And by the end of the day, you'll smile at me like I'm someone special. You'll hold my hand. You'll fall asleep in my arms.
You won't remember tomorrow. But I will. I'll remember every single second.
And I'll be here. Waiting. Ready to fall in love with you all over again.
Always yours,
Minho
He placed it on the nightstand, right where you'd see it when you woke.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulled you gently against his chest, and closed his eyes.
That's what the doctor had called it, anyway. A last-ditch effort. An experimental treatment that had shown promise in early stages. Not a cure, never a cure, but maybe a slowdown. Maybe a few more months of memories. Maybe a little more time.
You'd agreed before the memory loss fully hit. Sat in that same office with the gentle-eyed doctor and the box of tissues and signed your name on page after page of consent forms. Minho had held your hand the whole time. Had watched you scribble your signature with a determination that made his chest ache.
"I want to fight," you'd told him afterward, in the car, with the rain streaming down the windows. "I want to try. For us. For more time."
He'd kissed you. Right there in the parking lot. Long and slow and desperate.
You'd go to the hospital, sit in a room with pale blue walls and a television that only played cooking shows, and they'd hook you up to an IV. The medication was clear. Unremarkable. It dripped into your veins for three hours while you watched chefs compete and Minho held your hand and you both pretended this was normal.
For the first three months, it seemed to work.
You still forgot. Every morning was still a reintroduction. But the forgetting seemed... slower. Smaller. You remembered the cats' names more often. You remembered the gray hoodie was yours. Sometimes, just sometimes, you'd look at him and something would flicker in your eyes, recognition, maybe, or something close to it.
You were burning up. Literally burning. Your skin was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, and you were shaking, violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bed frame.
Minho was awake instantly.
"Hey. Hey, baby. Can you hear me?"
Your eyes were open but unfocused. Glassy. Your lips moved but no sound came out.
He grabbed his phone. Dialed. Pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while the other held your face, tried to ground you, tried to bring you back.
"The clinical trial hotline," he said when someone answered. "My girlfriend. She's in the trial. She has a fever and she's shaking and she's not responding-"
The ambulance came.
Minho rode in the back, holding your hand, watching your chest rise and fall, praying to every god he'd never believed in.
The hospital was too bright. Too loud. Too full of people going about their ordinary lives while yours hung in the balance.
Minho sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at a wall that was painted a color designed to be calming. It wasn't calming. Nothing was calming.
A doctor came out after what felt like hours. Young. Tired. Sympathetic in that practiced way that meant bad news.
"Mr. Lee?"
Minho stood. His legs almost gave out.
"She's stable," the doctor said quickly. "The fever is responding to treatment. But we need to talk about the clinical trial."
Minho just looked at him. Waiting.
"The reaction she had, it's a known risk. Severe neuroinflammation. Her body is rejecting the treatment." The doctor paused. "We can continue the infusions, but the likelihood of another reaction is high. Each one could be worse than the last. Seizures. Organ stress. Potentially-" Another pause. "Potentially fatal."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What happens if we stop?" Minho heard himself ask.
"The memory loss will accelerate. The timeline we discussed initially, it will move faster. Weeks instead of months." The doctor's eyes were gentle. Cruelly gentle. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
So pale. So small. Tubes and wires connecting you to machines that beeped and hummed and kept you alive.
But your eyes were open. And when you saw him, you smiled.
"Minho."
It was your voice. Your smile. Your eyes looking at him with recognition, real recognition, not the polite confusion of a stranger.
He crossed the room in three steps and was at your side, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles, crying without making a sound.
"Hey," you whispered. Your voice was rough. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I was scared. Because you're here and you know my name and I don't know how to handle any of this."
Your fingers tightened on his. Weak, but there.
"I remember," you said softly. "Today. I remember today. The ambulance. The lights. You holding my hand." A pause. "I was so scared. But you were there. You're always there."
"I'll always be there," he promised. "Always."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then your eyes drifted to the window, to the gray sky beyond, to the ordinary world going about its ordinary day.
"What did the doctor say?" you asked quietly.
Minho's heart stopped.
"About what?"
"Don't." You looked back at him. "Don't protect me. I can tell by your face. It's bad. Just tell me."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell you everything was fine, that you'd go home tomorrow, that you'd have more time.
But you'd asked him never to lie. Back when you still remembered everything. Back when you'd made him promise.
"The treatment is hurting you," he said. "The fevers, they'll keep happening. Each one could be worse. They said we can stop, but if we stop-"
"The memory loss gets faster." You finished his sentence. Nodded slowly. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe."
You were quiet for a moment. Processing. Accepting.
Then you squeezed his hand and smiled that small, brave smile that destroyed him every time.
"Then we stop."
"Baby-"
"Minho." You reached up with your free hand, touched his face. So gently. "I don't want to spend what time I have in a hospital. I don't want you to watch me seize and burn and maybe die in a room with pale blue walls. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our bed. I want the cats to sit on my lap. I want to drink your coffee and watch you dance and-" Your voice broke. "And I want to make as many memories as I can before I can't anymore."
He was crying. Both of you were crying.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
You pulled him down. Pressed your forehead to his.
"How long do I have?" you asked. "Before I forget everything? Before I forget you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I need to know," you said. "I need to know so I can, so I can say goodbye properly. So I can tell you everything I need to tell you."
Minho closed his eyes. Let himself feel the weight of it.
"A month," he breathed. "Maybe two. The doctor said, the doctor said at this stage, with the accelerated timeline-"
"A month." You said it like you were testing the weight of it. "Okay. Okay. One month."
You pulled back. Looked at him with those eyes that held so much. Love. Fear. Grief. Gratitude.
"Then we have one month to live a lifetime," you said. "Can we do that?"
He kissed you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say.
"We can do anything," he whispered against your lips. "As long as I'm with you."
The apartment felt different. Sacred, almost. Every corner held a memory you might not have tomorrow. Every object carried weight.
You stood in the living room, looking at the photo album on the coffee table. At the sticky notes on the walls. At the cats weaving between your ankles.
"It's strange," you said quietly. "Knowing I won't remember this. Knowing that right now, this moment, will be gone tomorrow."
Minho came up behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your hair.
"Then let's make it count," he said. "Let's make every second count."
You turned in his arms. Faced him.
"Teach me something," you said.
"What?"
"Teach me something I've never learned. Something new. Something I won't forget because I never knew it before." You smiled. "Give me a memory that's just for today."
So he did.
He taught you a dance move. The one from the music video, the one you'd tried to teach him a lifetime ago. You laughed at your own clumsiness, at his patient corrections, at the way you kept stepping on his feet.
And when you finally got it, finally nailed the sequence, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him, full of joy and triumph and the fierce beauty of being alive.
"Did you see that?" you laughed. "I did it!"
"I saw," he said, smiling through the ache in his chest. "You were amazing."
You beamed at him. So proud. So present.
And Minho made himself a promise.
He would give you this. Every single day. A new memory. Something just for today. Something the thief couldn't steal because it had never been stolen before.
You sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he'd written a hundred sticky notes, and you wrote. For hours. Page after page.
When you finally came to bed, your eyes were red and swollen.
"What did you write?" he asked gently.
"Letters." You crawled into bed beside him, settled against his chest. "Letters to myself. For when I forget. Reminders of who I am. Who you are. What we had." A pause. "What we have."
He held you tighter.
"There's one for every day," you continued. "For as long as I can. When I wake up, I'll read one. And for a few minutes, I'll remember. I'll know."
Minho's throat was too tight to speak.
You lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light.
"You're in all of them," you whispered. "Every single one. You're the reason I wrote them. You're the reason any of this matters."
He kissed you. Long and slow and full of everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I know," you whispered back. "I love you too. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay."
"I will," you promised. "I'll stay until I can't."
Panic seized him. He threw off the covers, ran to the living room,
You were there. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the photo album in your lap.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and fear.
You looked up. Your eyes were wet.
"I wanted to remember," you said quietly. "I wanted to look at these and really see them. While I still can."
He sat beside you. Pulled you against his side.
Together, in the dark, you looked at photos of a life you were losing.
The beach. The ice cream. The cats as kittens. Your first anniversary. The time he surprised you with tickets to your favorite band. The time you surprised him with a cake that looked nothing like the picture but tasted perfect anyway.
Page after page of proof that you had existed. That you had been happy.
"This one's my favorite," you whispered, pointing to a photo of the two of you in the kitchen, flour on both your faces, laughing at something the camera didn't capture.
"Why that one?"
"Because we're not posing. We're not trying to look good. We're just, happy. Real happy." You traced the image with your fingertip. "I want to remember this. Even if I forget everything else, I want to remember this."
You made a list. Things you wanted to do. Places you wanted to see. Foods you wanted to eat one last time.
Minho made it happen.
The beach where you'd had your first real conversation. The ice cream place with the weird flavors. The park where you'd first said "I love you." The rooftop where you'd watched the stars and talked about the future you thought you'd have.
Every day, a new adventure. Every night, you fell into bed exhausted but smiling.
And every morning, you woke up and read your letter and knew, for a little while, who you were and who he was and what you meant to each other.
Not just from the letter. Not just from the photos. You knew him. You looked at him and your eyes lit up with recognition, with love, with everything.
"Minho," you breathed, and it was his name, his name, the way you'd always said it, full of warmth and belonging.
"Yeah," he whispered, tears already forming. "Yeah, it's me."
You pulled him down. Kissed him like you'd never stop.
"I remember," you said against his lips. "I remember everything. Today. Right now. I remember."
You spent the day like you used to. Before the forgetting. You made breakfast together, pancakes, messy and imperfect and perfect. You danced in the living room, wrong and beautiful and so full of joy it hurt. You talked about nothing and everything. You held hands on the couch. You kissed in the kitchen. You laughed until you cried.
And at the end of the day, as the sun set through the window, you looked at him with eyes that held four years of love.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For loving me even when I couldn't love you back." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For giving me a lifetime in a month."
He cupped your face in his hands. Brushed the tear away with his thumb.
"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Thank you for being the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for every single day, even the ones you forgot."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I'll try to remember tomorrow," you said. "I'll try so hard."
"I know you will." He kissed your forehead. "And if you can't, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
That night, you fell asleep in his arms.
And Minho held you close and prayed to a god he still didn't believe in that tomorrow, just once more, you'd know his name.
He'd gotten into the habit. Those final minutes of darkness, with you still asleep in his arms, were the only time he wasn't bracing for impact. The only time he could just be with you, without the weight of your empty eyes.
He watched the sunrise paint your face gold.
Committed it to memory. The soft part of your lips. The way your eyelashes fluttered during dreams he'd never know. The small sound you made when you were surfacing from sleep.
Please, he thought. Please. Just one more day. Just let her know me one more time.
You stirred.
Your eyes opened.
And Minho knew immediately.
There was nothing there. Not confusion, not fear, not the polite curiosity of a stranger. Just, nothing. Empty. Like a house where someone had turned off all the lights.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked at the room. Looked at your own hands like you'd never seen them before.
It was a scream of not knowing. Of existing without context, without memory, without any thread connecting you to the world.
You scrambled backward, away from him, falling off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that should have hurt but you didn't seem to notice. Your back hit the wall and you pressed yourself against it, arms wrapped around your knees, rocking.
"No no no no no-"
Minho was on his knees in front of you, hands up, palms out, trying to be small, trying to be unthreatening.
"Hey," he said, voice shaking. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're in your home. My name is Minho, I'm your-"
You looked at him.
And the look in your eyes stopped his heart.
Not fear. Not confusion. Nothing. Absolute vacancy. Like looking at a person through a window made of ice.
"Who am I?" you whispered.
"You're-"
"WHO AM I?" Louder now. More desperate. Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair, pulling. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. There's nothing. There's nothing in my head. Why is there nothing in my head?"
Minho reached for you.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
He froze. Hands still in the air. Tears streaming down his face.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I won't touch you. But please, please let me help you. You're sick. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But you're safe. You're in your home. I'm here to help you."
You stared at him.
And then you started hitting yourself.
Not hard at first. Just slapping your own temples, your own forehead, like you could shake something loose, like you could force your brain to work.
"Come back," you muttered. "Come back come back come back. There has to be something. There has to be something."
Minho lunged forward. Caught your wrists. Held them tight.
You fought him. Actually fought, kicking, thrashing, screaming. Not at him. At the universe. At the emptiness inside your own skull.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO I NEED TO FIND IT I NEED TO FIND MYSELF-"
"You're right here," he sobbed, holding on, taking the hits because he couldn't let you hurt yourself. "You're right here. You're safe. Please. Please, baby, please-"
You went still.
Looked at him with those empty eyes.
"Baby," you repeated. Like the word meant nothing. Like it was sounds without sense.
One arm around your torso, pinning you gently but firmly to his chest, the other fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. You were still fighting, still thrashing, still making sounds that weren't words anymore, just raw, animal noises of distress.
"911," he gasped when someone answered. "Please. My girlfriend. She has memory loss. She woke up and she doesn't know anything. She's, she's hurting herself. She's terrified. Please. Please hurry."
He gave the address. Dropped the phone. Wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"Shh," he whispered against your hair. "Shh. I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe."
You didn't stop fighting until the paramedics arrived.
Minho watched them do it. Watched the medication flood your system, watched your eyes go from wild and empty to slowly, heavily closed. Watched them strap you to a gurney and wheel you out of the apartment you'd never remember living in.
He rode in the ambulance again.
Held your hand again.
Watched your chest rise and fall again.
But this time, when you opened your eyes, there was nothing there. And he knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that there never would be again.
The same doctor. The same gentle eyes. The same box of tissues on the corner of the desk.
Minho hated her. Hated this room. Hated the universe for putting them here again.
"She's in a state of complete autobiographical memory loss," the doctor said quietly. "Not just recent memories. Everything. Her name. Her age. The concept of self. It's all gone."
Minho stared at a spot on the wall.
"The terror she's experiencing, it's not something she can control. Imagine waking up in a world you don't recognize, in a body you don't recognize, with no context for anything. No language, even, beyond the instinctive. She doesn't know what a hospital is. She doesn't know what help is. She only knows fear."
"Fix it," Minho said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You're doctors. Fix it."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"There is one option."
Minho looked at her.
"The clinical trial. The one we stopped. If we restart it, at a higher dosage, there's a chance, a small chance, that some memories could return. Fragments. Impressions. Enough to give her back a sense of self."
"But?"
The doctor met his eyes.
"But the side effects will be worse. The fevers will be worse. The inflammation will be worse. She'll need round-the-clock monitoring. She'll need to stay here, in the hospital, indefinitely. And even then, there's no guarantee. She might never know who she is again. She might never know you."
Minho's hands were shaking.
"And if we don't?"
"Then she'll remain in this state. Permanently. She'll need full-time care. She won't recognize anyone or anything. She'll live in a world of strangers, including herself."
The room was very quiet.
"There's one more thing," the doctor said. "If we restart the trial, she can't go home. The risk of seizures is too high. She'll need to be here, in the neurology wing, for the foreseeable future. You can visit, but-"
"She can't come home."
"No. I'm sorry."
Minho closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, something broke for good.
They let him see you before they moved you to the neurology wing.
You were awake. Sedated, but awake. Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and there was nothing in them. No recognition when he entered. No fear, either, thanks to the drugs. Just... absence.
He sat in the chair beside your bed. Took your hand.
You didn't react.
"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "And I don't know what you'd want. I don't know if you'd want to fight, or if you'd want to let go. I don't know anything anymore."
You blinked slowly. Your eyes drifted to his face. No spark. No flicker.
"You're in there somewhere," he said, his voice cracking. "You have to be. You're too bright to just, to just go out. You're too you."
Nothing.
He lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one.
"I'm going to say yes," he whispered. "To the trial. Because if there's even a chance, even a tiny chance, that you could come back, even for a moment, even just to know your own name... I have to take it. I have to."
You looked at him. Empty. Peaceful. Gone.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."
Page after page. Consent forms. Waivers. Acknowledgement of risks. Acknowledgement that you might die. Acknowledgement that you might never come back. Acknowledgement that even if you did, you might not know him.
He signed them all.
Then he went back to your room, your room, in the neurology wing, with the pale blue walls and the television that only played cooking shows, and sat beside you until visiting hours ended.
A nurse came. Gentle. Kind. "You should go home. Get some rest. She'll be here tomorrow."
Minho looked at you. Still staring at the ceiling. Still empty.
"Will she know me?" he asked. "When she wakes up?"
The nurse's silence was answer enough.
He stood. Leaned down. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll always come back. I promised you that, remember? Even if you don't."
You didn't respond.
He walked out of the room.
Walked down the hallway.
Walked out of the hospital and into the night and drove home to an apartment that would never feel like home again.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie. Winding around his ankles, meowing for food, for attention, for the person who wasn't there.
Minho stood in the entryway and looked at the life they'd built.
Your shoes by the door. Your hoodie on the back of the chair. The photo album on the coffee table. The sticky notes on the walls. The half-empty cup of coffee you'd never finish.
He walked to the bedroom.
Your side of the bed was still rumpled. The sheets still held your shape. The pillow still smelled like you.
He lay down on your side. Buried his face in your pillow. Breathed in the last traces of you.
And for the first time since this started, really started, Minho let himself break completely.
He sobbed until he couldn't breathe. Sobbed until his throat was raw. Sobbed until there was nothing left, just empty heaves and the sound of his own heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.
The cats jumped on the bed. Curled up around him. Dori licked the tears from his face.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were gone.
Not dead. But gone.
The person he loved, the one with the laugh that filled rooms, the one who stole blankets and snored and made him coffee and looked at him like he was something precious, that person was somewhere inside a body that didn't know her own name.
You were awake. Sitting up in bed. Your eyes were clearer today, less sedated, but still empty. Still vacant.
A nurse was helping you eat breakfast. You opened your mouth mechanically when the spoon approached. Chewed. Swallowed. No expression.
Minho stood in the doorway.
The nurse noticed him. Smiled gently. "She's had her first infusion. No reaction yet. That's good."
He nodded. Walked to your bedside.
"Hi," he said softly.
You looked at him. Nothing.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice only cracked a little. "I'm the person who loves you most in the world. I know you don't know me. That's okay. I'm going to keep coming anyway. Every day. I'm going to keep telling you who I am. I'm going to keep hoping."
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, your hand moved.
Reached out.
Touched his face.
Minho's breath caught.
Your fingers traced his cheek. His jaw. His lips. Like you were trying to read him through touch. Like your body was searching for something your mind had lost.
"No," you whispered.
His heart stopped.
"No what?"
You frowned. Concentration. Effort. Like you were trying to climb out of a deep, dark hole.
"No... don't..." You shook your head slightly. "Don't... cry."
Minho realized there were tears on his face. He hadn't noticed them falling.
"You don't know me," he whispered. "How do you know I was crying?"
You looked at him. Still empty. Still lost.
But your hand stayed on his face.
And for one moment, one tiny, impossible moment, he thought he saw something flicker in your eyes.
Then it was gone.
You pulled your hand back. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Minho sat beside you for the rest of visiting hours. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Telling you stories about a life you'd never remember.
Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes you were asleep. Sometimes you were in the middle of a fever, shaking and burning and surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed.
He was there for all of it.
He read you letters, the ones you'd written, the ones you'd never read yourself. He showed you photos from the album, even though your eyes slid off them like water. He told you about the cats, about Dori's latest mischief, about Soonie's favorite sleeping spot.
And every day, before he left, he kissed your forehead and said the same thing:
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I love you."
You never responded.
But sometimes, when he said it, your fingers would twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Minho held onto that like a drowning man holds onto air.
Three weeks into your hospitalization, Minho found a letter he hadn't seen before.
It was tucked into the back of the photo album. Your handwriting on the envelope. His name. He opened it with shaking hands.
Minho,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. Not dead, I made the nurse promise she'd give you this if I ever got to the point where I couldn't communicate anymore. So if you're reading this, I'm in that place. The empty place. And you're still here, being you, being the most stubbornly loving person I've ever known.
I need you to know something.
I'm not scared.
I know that sounds crazy. I should be terrified. But I'm not, because I know you're with me. Even if I don't know it in the moment, even if my eyes are empty and my hands don't hold yours back, some part of me knows. Some part of me feels you. And that part is peaceful.
You gave me that. You gave me a love so big it exists even when I don't.
I need you to promise me something. You're going to want to stay in that apartment forever, surrounded by my things, trapped in a life that's half-empty. Don't. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll laugh again. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy, even if it's without me.
I know that seems impossible right now. But I need you to try. For me. For the person who loved you more than anything.
I don't know if there's an afterlife. I don't know if I'll be watching. But if I am, I'll be cheering for you. I'll be so proud of you. I'll be so grateful for every single second you gave me.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for loving me even when I couldn't love you back.
You were my whole heart. You will always be my whole heart.
Forever yours,
(Your name)
P.S. , Take care of the cats. They miss me. Tell them I love them.
Minho read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, placed it in his wallet, and went to the hospital.
You were having a good day. No fever. Eyes open. You even looked at him when he walked in.
"Hi," he said, sitting beside you. "I brought a letter. From you. From before. Do you want to hear it?"
You stared at him. Empty.
He read it anyway.
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his eyes were wet, you reached out and touched his face again.
He sold the apartment. Packed up your things carefully, reverently. Kept the gray hoodie for himself. Donated the rest to a women's shelter, because you would have wanted that.
He found a smaller place. Closer to the hospital. Easier for visiting.
He took the cats.
And every single day, he went to see you.
You never knew him again. Not really. There were moments, flickers, glimpses, tiny windows where your eyes would focus and your hand would reach for his. But they never lasted. By the next visit, you were empty again.
But Minho kept coming.
He kept talking. Kept reading. Kept holding your hand.
Because somewhere, deep inside the empty, he knew you were there. The real you. The one who laughed with her whole body and stole blankets and made him coffee and looked at him like he was the sun.
Minho sat beside your bed, holding your hand, telling you about Dori's latest adventure. The cat had gotten stuck in a paper bag and stumbled around the apartment for an hour before Minho rescued him. It had been hilarious. You would have laughed.
He was mid-sentence when your fingers tightened on his.
He stopped. Looked at you.
Your eyes were open. Clear. Focused.
"Minho," you whispered.
Not a question. Not a stranger's polite confusion. His name. His name.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's me."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I remember," you said softly. "I remember everything."
Minho's world stopped.
"You-"
"For a minute. Maybe less. But I remember." You lifted your free hand, touched his face. "I remember loving you. I remember being loved by you. I remember everything that matters."
Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.
"I've been waiting," he choked out. "I've been waiting so long."
"I know." Your thumb traced his cheek. "I know. I felt you. Every day. Even when I couldn't respond. I felt you here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "Right here."
He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Your voice was getting weaker. Your eyes were fluttering. "I'll try to come back. I'll try to remember again."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be here. I'll always be here."
You smiled one more time.
Then your eyes closed, and you were gone again.
Minho sat beside you, holding your hand, crying without making a sound.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's visit, replaying your empty eyes, replaying the one moment of clarity you'd given him a week ago.
I remember loving you.
He held onto those words like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it before the sound could fully register, heart already pounding, because phones don't ring at 3:47 AM for good news.
The screen said: HOSPITAL.
He answered. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Mr. Lee?"
"Yes."
"It's Dr. Park. From the neurology wing." A pause. The kind of pause that stretches into eternity. "I'm so sorry to call at this hour. There's been an incident."
Minho was already standing. Already pulling on clothes. Already moving toward the door.
"What happened?"
"She had a seizure. A severe one. The team responded immediately, but-" Another pause. Longer this time. "It was too aggressive. We couldn't stop it. Her heart-"
The words stopped.
Minho stopped too. Frozen in the middle of his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, the cats watching him with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lee? Are you there?"
"She's gone." His own voice. He barely recognized it.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She wasn't in pain. I need you to know that. She wasn't in pain."
Minho's legs gave out.
He sank to the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
"She was alone," he whispered. "She was alone and she didn't know who she was and she died alone."
"There was a nurse with her. She wasn't alone. And Mr. Lee-" The doctor's voice cracked, just slightly. Professionalism giving way to something human. "In her final moments, she said a name. Just once. Before the seizure took her."
Minho's heart stopped.
"What name?"
"Yours. She said 'Minho.' Clear as anything. And then she was gone."
The sob that tore out of him was animal. Primal. It came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed.
She remembered. At the end. She remembered.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you for telling me."
"Someone will be in touch about, about arrangements. Take your time. There's no rush. And Mr. Lee?"
"Yes?"
"She was lucky to have you. I've never seen anyone fight as hard for someone as you fought for her."
The line went dead.
Minho sat on his living room floor at 3:47 AM, one shoe on, one shoe off, and held the phone in his hands.
The cats came to him. Dori first, then Soonie, then Doongie. They curled around him, pressed their warmth into his shaking body.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were really gone.
Not empty. Not waiting. Not somewhere inside a body that didn't know itself.
Gone.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. You were too bright, too alive, too much to just be gone.
But the phone call was real. The silence was real. The empty apartment was real.
One moment he was on the floor with the cats. The next, he was in the parking lot, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like he'd been holding it for hours.
The sun was rising. Pale pink and orange over the buildings. Beautiful. The kind of sunrise you would have dragged him outside to see.
He sat in the car and watched it and thought about how the world kept spinning even when his had stopped.
A nurse met him at the entrance. The kind one. The one who always smiled at him when he came for visits.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "She's still in her room. They haven't, they haven't moved her yet. I thought you might want-"
"Thank you."
His voice was automatic. His legs were automatic. Everything was automatic except the gaping hole where his heart used to be.
He stood outside it for a long time. Staring at the crack of light. Listening to the machines that weren't beeping anymore.
She's not in there, he told himself. She's not in that room. She's somewhere else. She's free.
But his hand still shook when he pushed the door open.
You were in the bed.
Still. So still. Your eyes were closed, your face peaceful, your hands folded over your chest like you were sleeping.
But you weren't sleeping.
He knew because your chest wasn't moving. Because the machines were dark. Because the room had the terrible quiet of finality.
He walked to your bedside.
Sat in the chair he'd sat in a thousand times.
Took your hand.
It was cold.
Minho lifted it to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one. Just like he'd done a million times before.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm always here. Remember?"
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
But he kept talking anyway.
"The cats miss you. Dori tried to steal my food this morning. Soonie slept on your pillow again. They know something's wrong. They keep looking at the door like you're going to walk through it."
He laughed. A broken, wrecked sound.
"I keep doing that too. Looking at doors. Expecting you."
He pressed your hand to his cheek. Held it there.
"The nurse said you said my name. At the end. Thank you for that. Thank you for remembering. Even for a second."
Tears dripped onto your cold fingers.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be in a world without you. I don't know how to wake up tomorrow and not come here. I don't know how to exist when half of me is gone."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to your still shoulder.
"You were supposed to forget me. Not leave me. You were supposed to be here, even if you didn't know me. I could handle that. I could handle anything as long as you were breathing."
A sob wracked his body.
"But you're not breathing. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye."
He stayed like that for a long time. Holding your hand. Crying into your shoulder. Saying everything and nothing.
Eventually, a gentle hand touched his back.
The kind nurse. Tears streaming down her face.
"It's time," she whispered. "They need to, they need to take her now."
Minho nodded. Sat up. Looked at your face one last time.
He leaned down. Kissed your forehead. The same spot he'd kissed a thousand mornings.
"I love you," he said. "I loved you from the moment I met you. I'll love you until the moment I die. And after that, if there's anything after that, I'll find you. I'll always find you."
He stood.
Let go of your hand.
Walked to the door.
Turned back one last time.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wherever you are. Wait for me."
Then he walked out of the room, and you were gone.
Your family. His family. A few close friends who had watched this whole tragedy unfold from the sidelines, helpless.
Minho stood at the front and didn't cry.
He'd done all his crying in that hospital room. Now there was just emptiness. Just the mechanical motions of existing.
They played your favorite song. The one you used to dance to in the living room. Minho stood perfectly still and listened and thought about the way you'd grab his hands and pull him into your ridiculous choreography, laughing, always laughing.
Afterward, people touched his arm. Said words he didn't hear. Cried tears he couldn't join.
He nodded. Thanked them. Waited for it to be over.
When everyone was gone, he stood alone by the grave. Looked at the headstone with your name on it. Your real name. The one he'd whispered a million times.
"I brought something," he said quietly.
He pulled the gray hoodie from his bag. Your hoodie. The one you'd stolen years ago and never given back.
He knelt. Folded it carefully. Laid it on the fresh earth.
"So you're not cold," he whispered. "Wherever you are."
The wind picked up. Rustled the leaves. Carried something that might have been a whisper or might have been his imagination.
He stood. Looked at the sky. Thought about all the mornings he'd wake up without you.
"I'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. I'll be okay because you'd want me to be. I'll laugh again. I'll dance again. I'll live again."
A pause.
"But I'll never stop loving you. Not for one second. Not ever."
That night, Minho sat on his couch with three cats on his lap.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie.
They purred. They kneaded. They looked at him with eyes that held their own kind of grief.
"She loved you," he told them. "So much. She found you in the rain, Dori. She carried you home in her hoodie pocket. You were so small you fit in one hand."
Dori blinked slowly.
"She used to talk to you guys like you understood every word. Maybe you did. She seemed to think so."
Soonie meowed. Soft. Questioning.
"Yeah," Minho whispered. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry. She's not coming back."
The cats curled closer. Pressed their warmth into him.
And for the first time since the phone call, Minho cried.
Not the violent sobs of that first morning. Not the wrecked grief of the hospital room. Just tears. Silent, endless tears, falling onto the fur of the creatures you'd loved.
He cried for you. For him. For the life you should have had.
And when the tears finally stopped, he sat in the quiet and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
Not happiness. Not okay-ness. But peace. The knowledge that you weren't suffering anymore. That you weren't scared or empty or lost.
You were free.
And someday, a long time from now, he would be too.
He sat at the kitchen table, the same table where you'd written your letters to yourself, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that was almost out of ink.
Dear y/n,
I don't know where you are. I don't know if you can hear this. But I need to talk to you anyway.
It's been a year. A whole year without you. I don't know how that's possible. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever.
The cats are good. Dori still steals food. Soonie still sleeps on your pillow. Doongie still follows me from room to room like he's making sure I'm okay. I think they remember you. I think they're waiting too.
I moved. Just last month. A new place. Smaller. Closer to the park where we used to walk. I brought your hoodie. The gray one. It's in a drawer next to my bed. I don't wear it, I'm scared of wearing it out, but sometimes I take it out and hold it and pretend you're still here.
I laughed yesterday. Really laughed. Jisung told a stupid joke and I laughed before I could stop myself. It felt strange. Like betraying you. But then I remembered what you wrote in your letter-"Promise me you'll laugh again", and I think maybe you were cheering somewhere.
I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay. But I'm here. I'm living. I'm trying.
Because that's what you asked me to do.
I love you. I'll always love you. Every single day for the rest of my life, I'll love you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Minho
He folded the letter. Put it in an envelope. Wrote your name on the front.
Then he went to the cemetery and buried it in the earth beside you.
On a quiet Tuesday, many years later, an old man sat in a chair by a window.
His hair was gray now. His body was tired. But his eyes were still sharp, still bright, still full of a love that had never faded.
Three cats, descendants of the originals, slept at his feet.
In his lap was a photo album. Worn. Pages yellowed. Held together by love and tape.
He turned the pages slowly. Smiling at each one.
The beach. The ice cream. The kitchen covered in flour. The cats as kittens. A thousand small moments that added up to a lifetime.
He stopped at the last page.
A photo of you. In the gray hoodie. Laughing at something off-camera. Beautiful. Alive. His.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm getting close now. I can feel it."
The cats slept on.
"I hope you're still waiting. I hope there's something after this. I hope I get to see you again."
He traced your face with a trembling finger.
"If there is-" His voice cracked, old and soft. "If there is, I'm going to run to you. I'm going to hold you and never let go. And if there isn't, if this is all there is, then thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything."
He closed the album. Set it gently on the table beside him.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Because somewhere, in the space between heartbeats, he heard it.
( 애인 ) 𝒾n which ︵ grief is just love with no place to go. you were the light in their everyday lives, the one who saw them clearly and loved them through the noise, only to be lost in the sharp silence of a single mistake. now, they're left to navigate a world that feels too quiet, holding onto the fading echoes of your voice while learning to live with a love that can no longer reach you.
angst 8O68 major character death guilt accidental death isolation depression suicidal ideation ( jeongin's ) vomiting ( felix's ) panic attacks self-loathing fighting emotional & verbal hurt
oops my finger slipped. also i deadass teared up for some of these now i have a migraine. please don't dox me
⌨️ like&&reblog for a kiss. ── #click4masterlist to see more.
CHAN
it was his fault. it didn't matter how many times people told him otherwise, because he knew the truth.
the words he’d spat at you were still vibrating in the air of the apartment, ghost echoes that refused to fade even though the person they were aimed at was gone.
chan sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging between his knees, his fingers digging into his scalp until it stung. the silence in the room was physical. it was heavy, pressing against his eardrums like deep water.
he could still see the way your expression had shifted—that split second where your face went from concern to absolute devastation. he’d been awake for forty-eight hours, fueled by nothing but cold brew and the crushing pressure of a comeback deadline.
when you’d walked into the studio with a container of home-cooked food and a gentle plea for him to just come home for an hour, he’d snapped.
"can't you see i'm busy?" he’d barked, his voice raw and ugly. "i don't need a babysitter. i need you to leave me alone so i can actually do my job."
you hadn't shouted back. you never did. you’d just stood there, the plastic bag of food crinkling in your hand, your eyes glassy. you’d apologized—god, why did you apologize?—and turned around.
ten minutes later, the rain had started. twenty minutes later, his phone had buzzed with a call from an unknown number. thirty minutes later, the world had ended.
chan stood up abruptly, his legs feeling like lead. he walked into the kitchen, his eyes landing on the counter where your keys usually sat. they weren't there. they were in an evidence bag at a police station, probably scratched or bent from the impact.
he reached for a glass of water, but his hand shook so violently that he had to set it back down. he looked at the clock. 3:00 am. this was usually the time you’d text him to see if he was heading back, or if he needed a ride. he pulled his phone out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over your name in his contacts.
1 unread message.
he hadn't opened it. he couldn't. it was sent at 11:42 pm, exactly three minutes before the timestamp on the police report. his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. he finally tapped the notification.
i'm sorry for bothering you, channie. i left the food on the table. please eat it when you get a chance. i love you so much. drive safe if you come home later.
chan let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was more like he’d been punched in the gut and all the air had been forced out of him at once. he sank to the floor, his back sliding against the cold refrigerator.
"i'm sorry," he whispered into the empty kitchen. "i'm so sorry."
the members had tried to come over. changbin had stayed for four hours yesterday, just sitting on the sofa in silence because chan wouldn't speak. minho had brought over a bag of groceries, wordlessly stocking the fridge before leaving with a heavy hand on chan’s shoulder. they wanted to help him carry the weight, but they didn't understand that he deserved to be crushed by it.
if he hadn't been so cruel, you would have stayed. you would have sat on the studio couch and fallen asleep under a blanket while he worked. you wouldn't have been on that bridge. you wouldn't have been in the path of a driver who couldn't see through the torrential rain.
every decision he’d made that night had led to you being gone.
he stood up and walked toward the hallway, his feet dragging. he opened the door to your shared bedroom, the scent of your perfume still clinging to the pillows. it was a soft, floral scent that usually made him feel like he could finally breathe. now, it felt like it was choking him.
he saw your favorite oversized hoodie draped over the back of a chair. he picked it up, burying his face in the soft fabric. he expected to feel a sense of closeness, but all he felt was the stinging reality of your absence. the hoodie was cold.
he went to his desk in the corner of the room, the one he rarely used because he was always at the studio. sitting there was a small stack of mail he’d ignored for days. on top was a postcard you’d bought a week ago, something you were planning to send to your parents.
chan is working so hard, you’d written in your neat, looping script. i'm so proud of him. i hope we can all grab dinner when he’s less busy.
"less busy," he choked out, a bitter laugh escaping him.
he was free now. the comeback was delayed. the schedule was cleared. he had all the time in the world, and none of it mattered. he realized then that he’d spent so much time protecting his time with you, guarding his work, and being the leader that he’d forgotten how to just be your person.
and now, he’d never get the chance to learn again.
the sun started to peek through the blinds, casting long, pale strips of light across the floor. it was a new day, which felt like an insult. how was the sun still rising? how was the world still turning when you weren't in it?
he walked back to the kitchen and saw the container of food you’d left. he hadn't touched it. he opened the lid, the smell of braised short ribs—his favorite—wafting up. you must have spent hours on it.
he took a bite, but he couldn't taste anything. it felt like ash in his mouth. he forced himself to swallow, tears finally spilling over and dripping into the container. he ate the whole thing, shivering in the quiet apartment, every bite a penance, every swallow a reminder of what he’d thrown away for the sake of a song that he now hated with every fiber of his being.
he looked at his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop. he looked like a ghost. his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow. he looked exactly how he felt: hollowed out.
he reached for a notepad and a pen. his hands were still shaking, but he pressed the tip to the paper. he didn't know who he was writing to—maybe to you, maybe to the void, maybe to the version of himself that had been so arrogant as to think he had forever.
i’ll never forgive myself, he wrote. the ink bled into the paper where a tear hit it. i spent so much time trying to be everything for everyone else that i broke the only thing that actually mattered. you were my home, and i locked the door on you.
he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie. he stayed there on the floor long after the sun had fully risen, a leader with no one to lead, a producer with no music left in him, just a man sitting in the wreckage of a life he’d accidentally destroyed with one tired, sharp word.
LEE KNOW
it was the silence that felt like a physical blow. lee minho was a man who understood the nuances of noise—the rhythmic thud of a heavy bass line in a practice room, the demanding meows of three cats, the sharp, teasing banter that had been the foundation of your relationship for years. but this silence was different.
it was a vacuum, sucking the air out of his lungs until his chest ached with the effort of breathing.
he was sitting on the floor of his living room, exactly where he had been three days ago when the two of you had had the fight. the remnants of it were still there, mocking him. a knocked-over stack of dance magazines, a half-empty bottle of water, and the heavy, invisible wall he’d built in the heat of the moment.
he’d been exhausted—beyond the point of rational thought. the choreo for the new title track wasn't clicking, his legs were aching, and when you’d shown up at the dorm with a gentle reminder that he’d missed your anniversary dinner, he’d turned into someone he didn't recognize.
"i'm trying to actually build a career here," he’d snapped, his voice a cold, jagged blade. "i don't have time to worry about a calendar every five minutes. if you’re so lonely, go find someone who doesn't have anything better to do than eat overpriced pasta."
he remembered the way you’d recoiled, as if he’d physically struck you. he remembered the way your lip had trembled for a fraction of a second before you’d pulled your mask of composure back on, like you were trying to make the hurt smaller.
you hadn't yelled. you hadn't even said anything. you’d just set your keys on the counter, looked at him with a hollow kind of disappointment, and walked out into the rain.
"go then!" he’d yelled after you, driven by a toxic mix of pride and fatigue. "don't come back until you realize the world doesn't revolve around your dinner plans!"
and you hadn't.
minho stared at his phone, the screen cracked from when he’d thrown it against the wall after the police officer had left his apartment. he’d been staring at the last text he’d sent you, sent only ten minutes after you’d left, when his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.
i’m an idiot. i’m sorry. come back and i’ll make you the stupid pasta myself.
it was marked as delivered. it would never be read.
a soft weight pressed against his side. soonie bumped his head against minho’s arm, letting out a small, questioning meow. the cat knew. animals always knew when the person who smelled like home was missing. minho reached out, his fingers trembling as he stroked soonie’s ears, but the comfort he usually found in his cats was gone. he felt like a fraud.
how could he take care of them when he’d failed so spectacularly at taking care of you?
he stood up, his joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. he saw your favorite mug sitting in the sink, a ring of dried coffee at the bottom. he couldn't bring himself to wash it. if he washed it, the last physical evidence of your morning together would be rinsed away, down the drain and into the dark.
he leaned against the counter, his eyes burning. minho didn't cry easily. he was the one who kept his emotions tucked away in neat, categorized boxes. but the box labeled you had burst open, and the contents were suffocating him.
he found himself walking toward the hallway closet. he pulled out your heavy winter coat, the one you’d forgotten because you’d been in such a rush to leave his anger behind. he buried his face in the faux-fur collar, inhaling deeply.
it still smelled like your shampoo—something bright and vanilla—and for a split second, his brain tricked him into thinking you were just in the other room.
"i didn't mean it," he choked out, the words muffled by the fabric. "i didn't mean any of it."
he thought about the "what ifs" until his head throbbed. what if he’d just taken a nap before you arrived? what if he’d just said happy anniversary instead of complaining about the choreo? what if he’d run after you the moment the door clicked shut?
the police told him the driver hadn't seen you through the sheets of rain. they told him it was instantaneous, that you didn't suffer. they meant it to be a kindness, but to minho, it was a horror.
he had been the last thing you’d seen—not a sunset, not a smiling face, but his sneering expression and the sound of his cruel voice.
he wandered back into the living room and saw your keys still sitting on the counter. he picked them up, the metal cold against his palm. dangling from the ring was a small, worn-out keychain he’d given you as a joke a year ago. it was a cat with a grumpy face that you’d insisted looked exactly like him when he woke up.
he gripped the keys so hard the edges bit into his skin. he deserved the pain. he deserved the silence. he deserved the way the apartment felt like a tomb.
minho sat back down on the floor, the darkness of the evening beginning to swallow the room. he didn't turn on the lights. he didn't deserve the light. he just sat there with soonie, doongie, and dori hovering nearby, a man who had spent his whole life learning how to move his body with perfect precision, only to realize he’d stepped on the only thing that had ever truly anchored him.
he closed his eyes, and in the quiet, he could almost hear your laugh—the way it used to cut through his moods like a flashlight in a dark basement. it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever known, and he was the one who had silenced it.
"i'll find you," he whispered into the empty air, a promise that felt more like a plea. "next time, i'll find you and i won't let go. i'll never let go."
but for now, there was only the rain against the window and the crushing, eternal weight of the things he had left unsaid.
CHANGBIN
the gym was empty, the fluorescent lights humming with a clinical, biting edge that made the space feel more like a cage than a sanctuary. changbin was staring at a heavy barbell, the iron plates stacked high, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.
his hands were shaking. it wasn't the kind of tremor that came from a heavy set of reps; it was the kind that came when your world had collapsed and you were trying to hold up the ceiling with nothing but your bare skin.
it had started with something so stupid. a misunderstanding about a schedule, a missed call, and a week of built-up pressure that he’d decided to unload on the one person who didn't deserve it.
"you're always just there," he’d groaned, his voice dripping with a frustration he didn't actually feel toward you. "don't you have anything else to do? i'm trying to focus on my life, on the group, and i feel like i have to constantly check in with you like i’m reporting to a boss. it’s exhausting."
the silence that followed had been sharp. he’d watched you slowly set down the bag of laundry you’d brought over—his laundry, that you’d picked up because you knew he was too busy to do it.
you hadn't looked angry. you had just looked tired. a deep, bone-weary kind of tired that he’d been too blind to see.
"i'm sorry i'm such a burden, binnie," you’d said softly. "i'll let you get back to your focus."
you’d walked out of the dorm, and he’d let you. he’d actually sat back down on the sofa and felt a twisted sense of "victory" for finally getting some space. he’d waited an hour, then two, his pride slowly dissolving into a hollow ache.
he’d finally picked up his phone to text you a half-hearted apology, but the screen was already flooded with news alerts.
major accident on the highway. flash floods. multiple casualties.
now, changbin sat on a weight bench, his head in his hands. the smell of iron and sweat—usually the things that made him feel powerful—now made him feel nauseous. he looked at his reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors. he looked strong. he looked like the powerhouse everyone expected him to be.
but inside, he felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.
he’d spent his whole life building himself up, making himself sturdy so he could be a shield for the people he loved. but what was the point of a shield if you used it to crush the person you were supposed to protect?
he reached into his gym bag and pulled out a small, crumpled receipt he’d found in his pocket earlier. it was for a pair of high-end running shoes you’d bought him two weeks ago because you noticed he was complaining about his arches. you’d spent your own savings on them, joking that you were "investing in his gains."
he’d never even thanked you properly.
"i'm so small," he whispered, his voice cracking in the vastness of the gym. "i'm so pathetic."
he finally stood up, but instead of lifting, he walked over to the corner where he kept his personal locker. inside sat a small, handwritten note you’d tucked into his gym bag months ago: don't overdo it today. your muscles need rest, and i need you in one piece. love you!
he pressed the paper to his lips, his shoulders finally heaving. the tears came then—not the quiet, dignified kind, but a violent, racking sob that tore through his chest. he collapsed back onto the bench, the note clutched in his fist like a lifeline.
he thought about the way you used to wait for him at the door, the way you’d always have a protein shake ready, the way you’d listen to his rough demos and tell him his verses were the heart of the song.
you were the only person who saw seo changbin—not the rapper, not the idol, not the bodybuilder, but the man who was often scared he wasn't enough.
and he had told you that was exhausting. he had told you that you were exhausting.
the guilt was a physical weight, heavier than any plate in the room. it was sitting on his chest, squeezing the air out of him. he realized with a terrifying clarity that he would never be able to out-work this pain. he couldn't sweat it out. he couldn't lift it away.
it was a part of him now, a permanent shadow in his peripheral vision.
he stayed in the gym until the sun started to bleed through the high windows, turning the iron plates into silhouettes. he didn't want to go home. home was where your shoes were still by the door. home was where the laundry you’d dropped off was still sitting on the floor, a monument to his own cruelty.
he finally gathered his things, his movements slow and robotic. as he walked toward the exit, his eyes caught the "maximum capacity" sign on the wall.
"i'm at capacity," he muttered, a bitter, broken laugh escaping him.
he walked out into the cool morning air, the city beginning to wake up around him. people were starting their days, coffee cups in hand, oblivious to the fact that the world was missing its brightest light. changbin pulled his hoodie over his head, hiding his face, and began the long walk back to an apartment that was no longer a home.
he didn't know how to move forward. he didn't know how to be himself anymore. how to exist without you.
but as he walked, he kept his hand in his pocket, his fingers tracing the edges of your note. it was the only thing he had left that wasn't heavy.
HYUNJIN
the studio apartment was bathed in a cruel, mocking gold as the sun dipped below the horizon. it was the kind of light hyunjin usually lived for—the perfect golden hour that he would spend hours trying to replicate with tubes of ochre and zinc white.
but now, the light just felt like an intruder. it crept across the floor, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the half-finished sketch still sitting on the easel in the corner.
hyunjin was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold brick wall. his long hair was a tangled mess, falling over his eyes, but he didn't have the energy to push it back. his hands, usually so expressive and nimble, were stained dark with charcoal and dried ink, looking bruised in the twilight.
he couldn't stop looking at the door.
it was the last place he’d seen you. he could still hear the sharp, echoing thud of it closing—a sound that had felt like a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't ready to finish.
they had been working on a new performance, and hyunjin had pushed himself past the breaking point. his muscles were screaming, his mind was a frayed wire, and when you had shown up at the practice room with a gentle suggestion that he was overworking himself, he had lashed out.
it wasn't even about you. it was about the fear of not being perfect, the crushing weight of expectation. but you were the one standing there, and you were the one who caught the edge of his tongue.
"you don't get it," he’d hissed, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "you just sit there and watch. you don't understand the pressure. you’re just annoying me right now. if you’re so worried about my health, go worry about it somewhere else. i don't need you hovering over me like i’m some child."
he remembered the way you’d gone still. the way your eyes, usually so full of warmth and soft encouragement, had shuttered. you hadn't even argued. you’d just nodded once, picked up your bag, and left.
"i'm sorry," you’d whispered. "i won't distract you anymore."
two hours later, the manager had walked into the studio, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held his phone.
now, hyunjin reached out and touched the canvas in front of him. it was a portrait of you he’d started weeks ago. he’d wanted to surprise you for your anniversary. he’d captured the way the light hit the bridge of your nose, the specific curve of your smile that only came out when you were laughing at one of his jokes.
but it was unfinished. your eyes were still just empty outlines, waiting for the depth and color he’d promised to add.
he’d never add it. he couldn't. every time he picked up a brush, he felt like he was suffocating.
"i'm sorry," he whispered, the words sounding thin and pathetic in the empty room. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean it. i was just tired. please, just come back and tell me i’m an idiot."
he stood up unsteadily and walked to the small table by the window. your coffee mug was still there, half-full of cold, stagnant liquid. beside it sat a small scrap of paper where you’d doodled a little ferret while waiting for him to finish a painting session.
he picked up the paper, his fingers tracing the shaky lines. you weren't an artist, but you always tried for him. you’d draw little things to make him smile, to remind him that life existed outside of the lines and the shades.
he collapsed into the chair, clutching the scrap of paper to his chest. the grief wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a dull, constant ache, like a bone that had set wrong.
it was the realization that he had spent his whole life trying to create beauty, trying to capture the essence of the world on a flat surface, while the most beautiful thing he’d ever known had been right beside him, and he’d thrown it away because he was tired.
he looked at his paints. the reds looked too much like the sirens he’d seen in his nightmares. the blues were too cold, like the rain that had been falling that night.
hyunjin grabbed a tube of black paint and a palette knife. in a sudden, violent burst of movement, he smeared the dark pigment over the unfinished portrait. he covered your smile, your hair, the bridge of your nose. he couldn't bear to look at the ghost of what he’d destroyed.
when the canvas was nothing but a void of wet, glistening black, he dropped the knife. it hit the hardwood with a hollow metallic sound.
he sank back onto the floor, the shadows of the room finally swallowing him whole. he’d always been a man of colors, of light, of vibrant expression. but as he sat there in the dark, hyunjin realized he had finally painted his masterpiece. it was a perfect representation of his heart: empty, dark, and utterly silent.
he closed his eyes, praying for a dream where the door would open again, and you’d tell him that the light was perfect for a sketch. but the only thing that met him was the silence, and the knowledge that he was finally alone with his art.
HAN
the noise in the studio was usually a comfort to han jisung—a messy, chaotic layer of synth pads, vocal chops, and the frantic clicking of a mouse. but tonight, the silence was screaming. it was a high-pitched, ringing void that seemed to radiate from the empty swivel chair in the corner of the room.
jisung sat at his desk, his hands hovering over the keyboard, but he couldn't remember a single chord. his brain felt like it had been short-circuited. every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same frame: the harsh, fluorescent light of the hallway reflecting in your eyes as you looked at him with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated hurt.
it had been such a small thing. he’d been struggling with a bridge for seven hours, the melody slipping through his fingers like sand. when you’d pushed the door open, balancing a tray of iced coffee and your own laptop, he hadn't seen his best friend. he hadn't seen the love of his life, his everything.
he’d seen another distraction.
"can you just—for once—not be in here?" he’d snapped, the words coming out louder and sharper than he’d intended. "i have actual work to do. i can't be your emotional support animal twenty-four-seven. just go. find someone else to cling to for a night."
you hadn't snapped back. you were used to his moods, his high-strung anxiety, his "genius" tantrums. but this had been different. he’d targeted the one thing you were always self-conscious about: your fear of being a burden.
you’d stood there for a long beat, the ice in the coffee cups rattling against the plastic. "okay, hanji," you’d whispered, blinking tears back, your voice so small it barely carried over the hum of the cooling fans. "i'll go."
you’d turned on your heel and disappeared. and jisung, fueled by a toxic surge of adrenaline and a desperate need to finish the track, had turned back to his monitors. he’d worked for another three hours, convinced himself the song was a masterpiece, and finally reached for his phone to send you a meme as a peace offering.
the notifications were already there.
the police report mentioned the rain-slicked pavement and a driver who hadn't seen the pedestrian in the crosswalk. it mentioned the time: 11:14 p.m.
jisung had sent his stupid meme at 11:16 p.m.
now, he grabbed the edges of his desk, his knuckles turning white. he felt like he was drowning in the air of his own studio. he stood up, his legs shaking, and walked over to the corner chair. on the floor beside it was a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. he picked it up, his breath catching in his throat.
it was a doodle. a little quokka with oversized headphones, holding a heart. you’d probably drawn it while waiting for him to finish his previous session, waiting to show it to him when he finally took a break.
"i'm so sorry," he choked out, the sound echoing off the soundproof foam on the walls. "i'm so sorry, angel. i didn't mean it. i love you. i love you clinging to me. i need you to cling to me."
he sank to his knees, burying his face in the seat of the chair where you always sat. it still smelled like your laundry detergent—something soft and clean. he grabbed the fabric, bunching it in his fists, and finally, the dam broke. jisung was a loud person—he laughed loud, he talked loud, he rapped with a piercing intensity—but his grief was a quiet, jagged thing.
it was a series of broken gasps and muffled sobs that felt like they were tearing his lungs apart.
he thought about all the lyrics he’d written about love, about loss, about the "one that got away." they all felt like a joke now. they were just words, shallow and meaningless compared to the crushing reality of your absence.
he realized he’d spent so much time trying to capture the perfect emotion on a track that he’d failed to protect the real emotion standing right in front of him.
he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. he scrolled through your messages, his thumb trembling over the screen. your last text to him was from that afternoon: don't forget to eat, sunshine. i'm bringing coffee later. see you soon!
"sunshine," he whispered, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping him. "you called me sunshine."
he looked at his monitors—the glowing bars of the song that had cost him everything. he reached out and hit the delete key. then he hit confirm.
he watched as the project file, the work of ten hours, the work he’d prioritized over your life, vanished into nothing. it didn't make him feel better. it didn't bring you back. but it was the only thing he had left to sacrifice.
the sun began to creep through the small window of the studio, a pale, grey light that didn't feel like morning. it felt like the end of the world. jisung stayed on the floor, curled into a ball next to your empty chair, the little quokka drawing pressed against his heart.
he was a songwriter, a storyteller, a man who always had a witty comeback or a clever rhyme. but as the world woke up without you, han jisung found he had finally run out of things to say. the only thing left was the silence, and the ghost of a girl who had once called him her sunshine.
FELIX
the apartment still smelled like the apology brownies he’d pulled out of the oven only an hour before the phone rang. it was a sweet, heavy scent—the kind of smell that usually made felix feel like he was wrapped in a warm blanket. now, it made him want to claw his own throat out.
he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, his hands still dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar. the bright blue mixing bowl was sitting in the sink, half-filled with soapy water. everything was so incredibly normal, so horrifyingly domestic, that it felt like a sick joke.
it had been his fault. he knew it with a certainty that felt like lead in his veins.
they had been fighting over something so small it didn't even have a name. he’d been coming home later and later, his body aching from the physical toll of a world tour, his mind frayed by the constant need to be "on." when you’d gently suggested he take a break—just one night to be lee felix instead of stray kids' felix—he’d snapped.
"you think it's that easy?" he’d rasped, his voice dropping into that deep, jagged register he only used when he was truly hurt. "you think i can just turn it off? you have no idea what i do for this. you’re just sitting here in this perfect little bubble i built for us, judging me. if you hate how much i work so much, then why are you even here?"
the look on your face had haunted him for the forty-five minutes you’d been gone. it wasn't anger; it was the look of someone who had just realized the person they loved most in the world thought they were a burden.
you hadn't even grabbed a proper coat, just your keys and your shoes, walking out into the freezing slush of a seoul february.
"i'll leave you to your work then," you’d said. as much as you tried to hide it, your tears had slipped down your cheeks. that was the worst part. like you had been trying to hide yourself from him.
the phone call from the hospital had been short. precise. the kind of words that didn't leave room for hope. a patch of black ice, a driver who couldn't stop in time, and a girl who had no business being out in a storm without a coat.
felix felt the first wave hit him then. it wasn't grief—not yet. it was a physical rejection from his own body. he stumbled toward the small bathroom off the hallway, his knees hitting the tile with a bone-jarring thud. he barely made it to the toilet before he was retching, his stomach turning itself inside out.
he puked until there was nothing left but bitter bile and the lingering, nauseating taste of the chocolate he’d sampled earlier. he stayed there on the floor, his forehead pressed against the cold porcelain, shivering so hard his teeth clattered. his blonde hair, which he’d spent so much time styling for your date night at home, was damp with sweat and stuck to his temples.
"please," he gasped into the empty, tiled room. "please, not her. anyone but her. take me. it was me. i said it. please."
he crawled back into the hallway, his movements slow and agonizing. he reached the coat rack and saw your spare scarf hanging there—the soft, pink one with the loose threads at the end. he pulled it down, wrapping it around his hand, pressing it to his face.
it still smelled like the perfume he’d bought you for christmas.
he thought about your hands. he thought about how they were always warm, even when his were like ice. he thought about how you used to trace the freckles on his cheeks like they were stars in a constellation only you could see.
and he thought about how those hands were now cold, sitting in a room with white sheets and bright lights, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
the sunshine of the group.
that’s what everyone called him. he was the one who brought the light, the one who gave the hugs, the one who made sure everyone else was okay. but as he sat on the floor of his dark hallway, felix realized the sun had finally gone out. he had extinguished it himself.
he looked toward the kitchen, where the brownies were still sitting on the cooling rack. they looked perfect. they looked like a "sorry" that would never be heard.
he let out a sound—a high, broken keen that didn't sound like a human voice at all. it was the sound of a boy who had finally realized that all the brownies and heart-shaped notes and grand gestures in the world couldn't fix a broken soul.
he’d wanted to give you the world, but instead, he’d given you the street on a rainy night.
he curled into a ball on the floor, the scarf clutched so tight his fingers went numb. he didn't want to get up. he didn't want to go to the hospital to identify a body that used to be his home. he just wanted to stay here in the dark, in the smell of chocolate and the cold, until the world forgot he ever existed.
"i'm sorry, angel," he whispered, his voice a ghost of itself. "i'm so, so sorry."
the clock on the wall ticked—a rhythmic, heartless sound that reminded him he was still alive, and you weren't. and for lee felix, that was the greatest punishment of all.
SEUNGMIN
the air in seungmin’s apartment was stagnant, heavy with the scent of unwashed coffee mugs and the faint, lingering smell of your favorite citrus perfume. he was sitting at his small dining table, the one where you’d spent countless nights helping him memorize lyrics or just arguing over which convenience store had the best spicy ramen.
in front of him was a notebook, open to a blank page. his pen was held loosely in his hand, the tip resting on the paper until a small, dark blot of ink began to spread, staining the wood beneath. seungmin was known for his precision—for the way he hit every note with surgical accuracy and the way his life was organized into neat, predictable rows.
but precision didn't help when the world stopped making sense.
he’d been the one to start the fight. it was a stupid, prideful thing about timing and careers. he’d been stressed, his voice feeling strained after a long recording session, and when you’d suggested he take a day off to rest, he’d turned that sharp, observational wit of his into a weapon.
"you’re so focused on the now, but i’m trying to build something that lasts," he’d said, his voice quiet but biting. "you don't get it because you don't have to be perfect for anyone. i do. so just stop acting like you know what's best for me. it’s annoying."
he remembered the way you’d blinked, the hurt flashing behind your eyes before you’d masked it with that careful, yet kind, expression you only used when he was being particularly difficult.
"i'm sorry for being annoying, seungmin," you'd said, eyes wet. you hadn't slammed the door. you’d closed it softly, with the same gentleness you’d always shown him.
that was four days ago.
the call had come from the hospital later that night. a driver had run a red light. a pedestrian in the crosswalk. no time to react.
seungmin finally dropped the pen. it clattered against the table, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. he stood up, his movements stiff, and walked into the kitchen. on the counter sat a small box of herbal tea you’d bought for him because you were worried about his throat.
he hadn't even opened it yet.
he reached out, his fingers tracing the plastic wrap. he’d spent his whole life being the anchor, the one who stayed grounded while everyone else drifted. but without you, there was no ground left to stand on.
he walked toward the window, looking down at the street below. the city was still moving, people were still laughing, and the cars were still rushing through the intersection where everything had ended. it felt like a betrayal.
how could the world be so loud when you were so quiet?
"you didn't deserve that. you're too kind to me. too good," he whispered, his forehead pressing against the cold glass. "too good for me."
he went to his closet and pulled out a hoodie—one you used to steal all the time because it was too big for you. he buried his face in the fabric, desperate for a hint of you, but the scent was fading, replaced by the sterile smell of his own life.
he thought about all the times he’d teased you for your "poor life choices," all the times he’d played the role of the cynical boyfriend while secretly counting down the seconds until he could see you again. he’d been so busy being the person who knew everything that he’d forgotten to be the person who said anything.
he couldn't remember the last time that he told you he loved you. it hadn't been on the last day he'd seen your face. but what about before that?
he tried to retrace the weeks, digging through the mundane conversations about groceries or the weather, looking for the words. it felt like they had just slipped into the background, something assumed rather than said.
maybe he’d muttered it while you were half-asleep, or maybe he’d just thought it so loudly he convinced himself he’d actually spoken it aloud. now, the silence of the room just made the lack of it feel heavy, like a debt he’d forgotten to pay until it was too late to settle up.
what if you'd died doubting that he had? that he did love you?
seungmin sank to the floor, his back against the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. he wasn't a messy person, but his grief was a disaster. it was a jagged, unpolished thing that didn't fit into a four-four time signature.
he closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound of your laugh, but all he could hear was the click of the door closing and the sound of his own cold voice telling you to go.
"i'm an idiot, pup," he choked out, the nickname feeling like a physical weight in his throat. "i'm just an idiot."
he stayed there until the room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside. he was waiting for the buzzing of his phone, for a message asking for an sos, for a rescue flare that would never come.
the most observant man in the room had missed the only thing that mattered, and now, seungmin was finally left with a silence he couldn't fix.
I.N.
the cold on the rooftop was the only thing that felt honest anymore. it was a sharp, biting wind that cut through the layers of jeongin’s coat, stinging his cheeks and numbing the tips of his fingers. he stood near the edge, his chest heaving as he tried to catch a single, clean breath of air.
but the oxygen felt thin, like it was being filtered through a thick layer of ash.
it had been two weeks since the news. two weeks since you walked out of his apartment, teary-eyed and hurt, because of him. because of his cruelty.
and jeongin felt as though he had been submerged underwater the entire time. the world was a blur of muffled voices, bright stage lights that felt like needles in his eyes, and a relentless, crushing pressure in his lungs.
he didn't think he would ever breathe properly again. the simple act of inhaling felt like a betrayal. how could he fill his lungs when yours had stopped?
he leaned his weight against the cold metal railing, his head dropping into his hands. his body felt heavy, a shell of the person he used to be. every muscle ached with the fatigue of trying to pretend he wasn't hollow.
tucked between his shaking fingers was a small, faded slip of paper—a ticket stub from the very first date the two of you had gone on. it was a movie he hadn't even liked, a poorly paced thriller that you’d spent the entire time whispering critiques about into his ear.
he had kept it in the secret compartment of his wallet, a lucky charm he’d pull out whenever the pressure of being an idol felt like it was too much to carry. it was his anchor. it was proof that he was loved by someone who didn't care about his stage name.
for a split second, the wind whistled through the vents of the building, and jeongin’s heart stopped. it sounded like a hum—the specific, soft melody you used to absentmindedly whistle when you were focused on a task.
"angel?" he breathed, his head snapping up from his hands.
his eyes darted frantically across the rooftop, his pulse racing with a sudden, agonizing burst of hope. for one beautiful, terrifying moment, he expected to see you leaning against the doorway, your hair windswept and a teasing smile on your face, telling him he was being dramatic.
but the roof was empty. the hope died as quickly as it had flared, leaving behind a coldness that was even deeper than before.
he looked down, his gaze drifting toward the street below. across the road, a girl was walking, her laughter carried upward by the wind. she was glowing under the streetlamps, her hand firmly interlaced with a boy’s as they swung their arms between them.
they were young—his age—and happy, and entirely oblivious to the fact that a world had ended just a few stories above them.
in the distraction of the moment, jeongin’s grip on the ticket stub loosened. a stray, aggressive gust of wind caught the corner of the paper, snatching it from his numbed fingertips.
the ticket stub fluttered out of his hand, caught by a stray gust of wind, and he watched as it danced over the edge of the railing, disappearing into the dark abyss of the city below.
"no," he gasped, his body lunging forward, his hands grasping at the empty air where the paper had been a second before. "no, please. wait!"
he gripped the railing so hard the metal dug into his palms, his eyes scanning the darkness for a flash of white. but the street was a sea of moving lights and shadows, and the ticket—the last tangible piece of that first night—was gone.
it wasn't just the ticket. it was the realization that he couldn't hold onto any of it. not the smell of your hair, not the sound of your voice, not the way you looked when you were laughing at his terrible jokes.
it was all leaking away, dissolving into memory, and he was powerless to stop it. soon, he feared, even the memories would start to fray at the edges, and he would be left with nothing but the shape of a person he used to love.
the first sob broke out of him like a physical wound. it was a jagged, raw sound that tore through the quiet of the night. he collapsed onto his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold concrete of the roof. sobs racked his thin frame, violent and unforgiving, shaking him until his vision blurred with tears.
he felt so small. he was supposed to be the one who stayed strong, the one who kept the peace, the one who smiled through the exhaustion. but the smile was gone, replaced by a grief that was too big for his body to contain.
jeongin looked through the gaps in the railing at the drop below. it would be so easy. a single step, a moment of weightlessness, and then the quiet. the noise in his head would finally stop. the constant, agonizing ache in his chest would vanish.
he could follow the path of the ticket to the ground, and maybe, in whatever came next, he would find you waiting there with that same ticket in your hand.
he stood up slowly, his legs feeling like lead. he placed one hand on the top of the railing, looking down at the pavement. the thought of the impact didn't scare him; what scared him was the thought of waking up tomorrow and having to do this all over again.
but as he looked out over the city, he stopped. his hand gripped the metal until his knuckles turned white.
"i don't get to go," he whispered, his voice thick with salt and despair.
he didn't deserve the easy way out. he didn't deserve to escape the pain he felt. if he left now, who would remember the way you looked in the morning? who would remember the specific way you’d tuck your chin when you were embarrassed? if he died, those memories died with him, and he couldn't let you disappear completely.
he had to live with it. he had to carry the weight of your absence until it became a part of his bones, a permanent shadow in his soul. that was his duty to you. to bear the pain, to feel every second of the silence, and to keep your name alive in a world that had already moved on.
jeongin slid back down against the wall, his face hidden in his knees as the wind continued to howl around him. he stayed there long after his tears had dried, long after his skin had turned blue from the cold. he was alone on the roof, a boy who had lost his anchor and his heart, and for the first time in his life, he didn't try to hide the darkness.
he just sat there, breathing in the cold air, waiting for the sun to rise on a world that would never be bright again.
summary: chan accidentally airdrops you something, and that ends up with the two of you starting to go on dates. that makes you a perfect new addition to his body count(not the sexual one) but you escape when he tries to kill you, and he ends up missing you. then falling for you. then not being able to let go of you.
warnings: violence, serial murder, blood references, problematic main characters, codependency, implied stalking, chan breaking into your fucking home, obsessive love, mentions of sex but no smut written, not as funny as my first fic
word count: 10k
your phone pings. it’s an airdrop.
chris’s iphone would like to share a note
you frown. you don’t know a chris. but you accept it anyway.
you’re sitting in a public place. we don’t even have to name it because it’s not significant for the story whatsoever(i’m lazy to think of anything) the world is going on around you. a baby crying. someone aggressively typing on a laptop. you? pink sweater. minding your business. then the airdrop notification comes. a note.
the pink sweater girl looks cute
you freeze.
pink. sweater.
you look down at yourself. confirmed. you are, in fact, the pink sweater girl. congratulations.
your head lifts slowly, like an animal sensing danger, except instead of a predator it’s… men. two of them. mid twenties. baseball caps. both holding their phones, one obviously because he sent the note, the other because he received it. they’re grinning at each other, doing that handshake dap half hug thing men invented instead of therapy. (like in my other fic i’ll just clarify instead of describing looks, it’s felix and chan)
then they both glance up, because it’s natural that you’re gonna look at someone you’re talking about.
they make eye contact with you.
and immediately look away.
pink sweater girl (you) glances back down at the phone. maybe coincidence. but no, one of them looks at his screen again. you physically watch the realization crawl across his face. eyebrows lift. smile drops. eyes flick to you. back to phone. back to you.
oh no.
oh no, he sent it to you.
he smacks his friend’s arm.
friend looks at the phone. friend’s mouth forms a silent “OHHHHH”
the other one, who airdropped you, runs a hand over his face like when he remembered he left a body somewhere.
soon, he mans himself up and you watch him approach. up close, he’s annoyingly good looking, great body, a smile with a huge body count. (socially and not socially)
“hey.” he says, easy. smooth.
you blink at him. “you airdropped me, right?”
he laughs. it’s warm. disarming. suspicious. “okay, in my defense, that was meant for him.” he points to his friend, who gives a useless little wave.
“in your defense, that’s worse.”
“yeah, no, that’s fair. i was just trying to tell my friend you looked cute.” he continues. “privately. sorry.”
you stare at him.
“can i sit?” he asks, already halfway sitting.
you do not say no. he’s cute.
“chris. chan. whatever you like.” he says, offering his hand.
“…y/n.” you say, accepting it and smiling now. because he deserves it, he came over with a good intention after all. (absolutely not.)
“sooo…” he says, nodding at your phone. “scale of one to calling the police, how bad was that first impression?”
you look at him. this disaster of a man. then sigh. “i’ll let it slide. for now.”
he laughs, and it’s bright and easy and absolutely beautiful.
you don’t know it yet, but this is the worst luck of your life. because chan is very good at what he does. just not at this.
you start seeing him. not dates, just casual hangouts, or accidental meets. first it’s “oh you’re here again?” at the same coffee spot. then it’s “i was in the area” which is a lie because no one is ever in the area of that place on purpose. then it’s full blown planned-but-we-pretend-it’s-not meetups.
he asks about you. remembers things. little things. you go on walks, sit in parks, get food. he does that thing where he walks on the outside of the sidewalk like a gentleman, which is unnecessary and honestly feels like he’s preparing for a car to jump the curb at all times.
he never overshares. but not in a shady way. in a “healthy boundaries king” way. which is honestly more alarming. who taught him that.
you like him.
you like how he listens. how he teases you without being mean. how he never pushes. how being around him feels weirdly calm. and yeah, sure, how good he looks. so when he invites you over one evening, you say:
“yeah. okay.”
and chan smiles, and it’s warm and bright and absolutely not the face of a man with a secret life.
“cool.” he says. “cool, cool.”
and yeah, his place is… annoyingly nice. because you’re there now.
you step inside. “shoes off?” you ask.
“yeah, i mean, only if you want. no pressure. i’m not like, a shoe cop.”
he is absolutely a shoe cop. you take them off.
you hang out on the couch while he cooks. it’s unsettling how good he is at being gentle. at some point he hands you a spoon to taste the sauce. your fingers brush. he pretends that didn’t affect him, but it did. you can tell. this idiot is gone for you.
you eat. you talk. he remembers that story you told three weeks ago about your third grade enemy. who remembers that? psychos. and… boyfriends.
you laugh a lot. he looks at you like that’s the best sound he’s ever heard, which would be cute if it wasn’t a lie. and if the best sound he’s ever heard wouldn’t actually be his victims screaming.
while other kids learned empathy, chan learned curiosity. in like… the worst direction. he didn’t feel things the way he was supposed to. he studied them instead. it started with things that made adults say “boys will be boys” when they really should’ve said “we need several professionals immediately.”
he grew up. got smarter. learned the rules. learned how to smile at the right times. how to mirror. how to be what people needed. he built a version of himself that could pass.
and he’s very, very good at it.
later, you’re still talking, closer now. the air shifts. quieter. charged.
“you trust me?” he asks.
you shrug. “i mean. you haven’t murdered me yet.”
he smiles. but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. something moves behind them.
he stands. slow, calm. too calm.
and there it is. the vibe shift. the sudden, bone deep understanding that prey animals probably get right before they bolt.
your body knows before your brain does. “chan?”
“i didn’t want it to be you.” his voice is gentle, almost sad.
EXCUSE ME?
“okay.” you say, standing up too. “we’re gonna rewind, actually—”
you move back a step. he moves forward.
he reaches for you.
you react on pure, untrained survival instinct and shove him, harder than you knew you could.
he stumbles back into the coffee table. something crashes. a lamp.
you look at him, realizing your situation. realizing that this is not a game anymore and not cute. so you step backwards, then start running to the door.
footsteps. coming after you.
the situation has escalated in a way that feels, frankly, rude.
you’re trying to open the front door, which is locked, when you hear the kitchen drawer. The specific metal on wood sound every human being recognizes. you don’t need to look to know he got a knife out.
when he starts coming your way from the kitchen, you run into the living room again.
you turn.
he’s there, knife in hand.
you both just stand there for a second, breathing.
you point at the knife. “so that’s new.”
“yeah.” he says, like he also just noticed it. “that escalated.”
“you think?”
silence stretches. he’s watching you carefully.
you swallow. “are you, like… a psycho? or what’s the deal here?”
he exhales through his nose. “yeah.” he says after a second. “i mean. that’s the short version.”
you shift a step sideways. he mirrors you, slow.
“like… diagnosed?” you ask.
“no.”
“self aware?”
“mm.” a shrug. “i know i’m not like other people.”
“i can tell.”
you keep circling the coffee table. it’s almost calm, if you ignore the knife. don’t ignore the knife.
“you do this a lot?” you ask.
“yeah.”
“how many?”
he thinks, not counting, recalling. “uh. i don’t know. i stopped keeping track.”
“right.”
a beat.
“that’s not great.” you say.
“mm.”
you both pause as you accidentally end up at the same side of the table. you both adjust. social awareness king even now.
“you were normal.” you say. “that’s annoying.”
“i am normal.” he says.
you just stare at him.
he gestures at himself. “i have a job. i pay rent. i recycle.”
“you also kill people.”
“yeah.”
“you ever try therapy?” you ask.
he gives you a look. “you think i’d say this out loud in a room with a stranger?”
“fair.”
a weird silence settles. your heart is slamming.
“so what, you’re just gonna… do it?” you ask.
“yeah.”
you grab the nearest object without looking, a hardcover book, and whip it at his head.
it hits his shoulder. he barely reacts.
you grab a pillow. throw it. it lands on the floor.
he actually looks offended by that one. “you could at least try.” he says.
“oh, shut up, dude. i am trying.”
“are you?”
“i am.”
“you’re clearly not.”
“i am so trying.”
you make a quick step. so does he. you stop. so does he.
you keep on circling. “so what, this is like… a hobby? what are we talking? you’re, what, secretly evil? since when?”
“always, kinda.”
“cool.”
he shrugs one shoulder.
“i don’t feel things that much, not like other people do.” he says. “didn’t. ever. i learned how to act like i do. most of the time it’s fine. i can do the right responses, it’s just… not attached to anything.”
“that sucks.”
“it’s not like a choice-choice.” he adds. “it’s just how it is.”
“yeah, i gathered you didn’t wake up and decided to kill someone today.’”
a beat.
“…i mean.” he says.
“oh.”
“yeeeaah.”
he lifts the knife slightly. the circling slows. you’re both just standing now, a few feet apart. the room feels too small.
“so what, you just decided people were the move?” you ask.
“animals first.” he says. “when i was a kid.”
you close your eyes briefly. “of course.”
“i wanted to see how things worked.”
“yeah. most kids use youtube or pornhub.”
you keep moving. backward. he mirrors you, forward.
you reach behind you, grab a little plant off a shelf, and throw it at him. you miss and it hits the wall. doesn’t break, but falls loud.
“please stop throwing my stuff.” chan whispers.
“stop trying to stab me.
“but that’s… different.”
silence.
he speaks again. seems like he enjoys talking about himself. “it’s not, like, a trauma thing. before you ask.”
“i wasn’t going to ask.”
“alright.”
you stop circling. he stops too. you resume. so does he.
“you ever try, like, not killing people?” you ask.
“yeah. it builds up.”
you stare at him. “that’s insane. no offense.”
“none taken.”
a bit of silence. tension.
your voice is softer when you speak next. “so what, i was just… next?”
he keeps eye contact when he nods. he’s not shy about wanting to kill you.
“sorry.” he says, not sincere. you know that too, and he knows you know.
your eyes flick to the hallway. distance. objects.
he notices.
the vibe shifts again. decision time.
his grip tightens slightly on the knife.
you bolt to the kitchen. you don’t know why.
he’s right behind you now. closer. you can hear his breathing, still steady. that’s the worst part bro, this is cardio for you and a light walk for him.
you grab a chair, shove it behind you, it slows him maybe half a second. you throw a dish towel. useless.
“stop throwing soft things.” he calls, mildly.
“shut up.”
you reach the counter, hands scrambling blindly. you fling a fruit bowl. apples everywhere, and only one nails him in the chest.
he looks down at it like it was a little bird flying into him.
you run again.
hallway, bedroom. wrong choice. always a wrong choice.
you spin back out before he can corner you, nearly colliding with him. you both jolt back on instinct, like two strangers doing the awkward sidewalk dance.
“sorry.” you both say at the same time.
your foot hurts. you look down, then look back up at him.
“you stepped on my foot.” you say.
chan blinks, then looks down. “oh.”
you slap his arm. not hard, just as correction. “watch it.”
“my bad.” he says automatically.
your heart is beating so hard it’s starting to make you feel dizzy.
you look at him again. “you’re not even out of breath.” you say.
“i run.” he replies.
“of course you do.”
you start moving again, slower now, both of you drifting sideways in the narrow hallway.
he studies you. he feels the usual things, the focus, the clarity, the hum in his chest that’s been with him since he was a kid standing in a backyard with some small and warm animal in his hands, wondering what would happen if he would cut it up. and he did, later.
but it’s tangled now. weird. something else joined it. irritation, interest, a tight, unfamiliar pressure behind his ribs.
“you’re not scared?” he asks.
“i’m terrified.” you say, plain, honest.
he searches your face. he adjusts his grip on the knife.
you both shift at the same time again, hallway too small, lives too big for this space. you shoulder brushes his chest and your body flinches.
he notices that. there it is. the fear. not in your face, but the recoil. in the space your body tries to create.
you move first, sudden, slipping past him again.
behind you, he turns smoothly. and now he knows you’re scared.
you round the corner into the living room again, lungs burning, legs starting to feel unreliable. behind you, his footsteps.
“your layout sucks.” you say, breathless.
“yeah, I’ve been meaning to open it up.” he replies, right there behind you. not rushing, enjoying the chase.
you grab the back of a chair and drag it behind you like that’s going to stop a man who jogs daily and murders as a hobby.
“do you stretch before this?” you ask.
“usually.”
“good for you.”
you both slow again, circling opposite sides of the couch now. it’s absurdly normal looking.
“you could just sit down.” he says.
“so could you.”
“when we’re done, maybe.”
you both adjust direction at the same time again. that awkward almost collision energy thing.
“does anyone know?” you ask, breath tight. “about… this. about you.”
“no.”
“no one at all?”
“no.”
“friends?”
he gives you a look.
“right.” you say. “i suppose we don’t count felix either.”
a pause.
“it must be lonely.” you add, before you can stop yourself.
he doesn’t react right away. just watches you. then says “ow.” but like in that sassy way.
you clock the sign in his eyes that your words hit.
you also clock the plate rack by the sink.
you get a plate, then turn back toward him. “this is such a stupid way to spend a night, by the way.”
“i was having a good time earlier.” he says.
“yeah. same.”
he shifts his weight, just a second. adjusting his grip.
seeing that as your window, you move, fast. you adjust your grip on the plate and swing.
it connects with the side of his head with a horrible, solid sound. the porcelain shatters. chan drops the knife, and his knees buckle.
then he drops to the floor hard.
you stand there, plate shard in hand, chest heaving.
you wait.
one second, two. chan doesn’t move.
“oh my god.” you breathe. “oh my god.”
your hands start shaking now. bad. delayed reaction finally cashing in or whatever they call this shi.
you kick the knife away far, under the table.
he’s out. actually out.
you don’t check his pulse, you don’t lean closer, and you most definitely don’t do anything brave or smart or cinematic. you just search his pockets for keys with shaking hands, and when you have them, you run.
you don’t even put your shoes on, you just unlock the door and yank it open, stumble into the hallway, slam it behind you like that helps. and you don’t look back. you go down the stairs, out the building. you don’t stop until the building is small behind you. then smaller, then gone.
your phone is in your pocket, you know that. police exist. you know that too.
and you don’t call them.
maybe you’re in shock. maybe you don’t want to explain any of this out loud. maybe some part of your brain hasn’t caught up and still thinks this was just a very bad date. or maybe it’s the look on his face earlier. when you said lonely. that half second of something almost human, buried under everything else. or maybe…
you don’t know.
you just go home. and you don’t call.
now, it’s been a few days since that. which is insane, by the way. you haven’t slept right since that night. every noise is a thing, and every man with dark hair gets a double take. but you’re here. functioning.
you’re at work now. you’re halfway through lunch, sitting with two coworkers, when the office door opens. no one looks at first, then omeone does a little “…oh?”
you glance over.
a delivery guy stands there holding the largest fucking bouquet you’ve ever seen. it’s fucking brutal. genuinely.
he looks around. “uh, i have a delivery for y/n.”
your stomach drops so fast it feels like you missed a step on the stairs.
your friends light up. “OOOHHH.” one of them says. “okayyyy, secret admirer!”
you take the flowers. they’re heavy, man.
“who’s it from?” one of them asks.
“there’s a card.” you say.
you slide the little envelope out with fingers that only shake a little if you don’t look directly at them.
you open it.
you left without your shoes.
rude.
i had a good time, though. you’re hard to plan for. i like that.
dinner again soon? i’ll be more careful.
-chan
your vision tunnels. sound goes weird. like you’re underwater and that fuckass coworker of yours is speaking from the surface.
you never told him where you work, not once, not accidentally. you are extremely careful with that, always have been. your brain starts flipping through memories. coffee shop, park, walks, his place. that’s it.
“that’s so romantic.” one of your coworkers says, peeking over your shoulder. “wait, what does that mean, ‘more careful’? that’s kind of dark haha.”
you fold the card slowly. “yeah.” you say. your mouth is dry. “he’s… weird.”
understatement of the fucking century.
you look at the flowers again. big, expensive, smelling good.
he knows where you work.
he sent this during business hours.
he wanted you to open it here. in public. surrounded.
your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest now. your skin feels too tight, too hot. you’re going to fucking collapse right here right now.
he’s not done, not embarrassed, not scared. he’s enjoying this.
“are you okay?” your friend asks, finally noticing your face.
you nod automatically. “yeah. yeah, i just, uh. need some air.” you stand up too fast. the chair screeches, too loud. everything’s too loud. you carry the bouquet with you because leaving it feels worse.
out in the hallway, the smile drops off your face.
“fuck.” you whisper, hands shaking so hard the flowers rattle.
he found you.
he waited.
he sent a gift.
somewhere, deep under the terror, under the nausea, under the oh my god he could be outside right now, you understand something. you didn’t call the police. and now he thinks this is still between just you and him. which, in his fucked up brain, means you’re still playing.
you throw the flowers into the trash.
to get home, you get a taxi, check the mirrors every thirty seconds, heart banging against your ribs the whole ride. when you get to your building, you scan the street. nothing.
you go inside, up the stairs, keys between your fingers like claws even though you know damn well that doesn’t do much.
you hands are shaking when you unlock your door.
you step in, and flip the light switch.
“i’ll get that.”
the door shuts behind you with a soft, final click.
your brain doesn’t process it, not at first. the voice hits before the meaning does.
then it lands. it wasn’t you saying that. it was a man’s voice telling you he’ll get that.
you turn, and chan is right there. inside your apartment. he’s been waiting. relaxed posture, jacket off, weapon nowhere visible, which somehow feels worse.
you suck in air to scream, but his hand covers your mouth instantly. other hand reaches past you, calmly turning the lock.
“mm-mm.” he murmurs, correcting you.
your whole body goes rigid, panic blowing up in your body so fast it almost whites you out. you claw at his wrist, trying to twist away, breath coming sharp through your nose.
he looks at you, softly, then he puts a finger to his lips.
shh.
you want to bite him. you want to claw his eyes out. you want to wake up.
after a second, he slowly takes his hand off your mouth.
you stumble back from him like he’s physically burning you.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you snap, voice loud and shaking and furious. “What the FUCK is WRONG with you?!”
you shove his chest. hard. he rocks back half a step, not surprised nor affected.
“are you actually insane? you broke into my apartment?! you followed me to work?! what the fuck is this?! are you out of your fucking mind??”
you shove him again. he lets you.
“how did you even survive?” you ask.
“I have a hard head.” he says.
“yeah, no shit!”
he glances around your apartment. takes it in. the photos. the couch. your dumb little lamp. then, calm as ever: “where are the flowers?”
you stare at him. “are you— i threw them out!”
he frowns. “they were expensive.”
“i don’t give a fuck, chris!”
you shove him again, and this time it’s messy, more emotion than force. he lets you.
“this is not a thing. this is a crime. multiple crimes. a fucking bundle pack of crimes. are you aware of what you’re doing?” you ask.
he watches you. “you didn’t call the police.”
your jaw tightens. “that does not mean i want you around.”
“it means something.” he says.
“it means i was in shock, you psycho!”
a beat.
“what do you want from me?!”
silence.
“i want to take you out.”
you blink. “what.”
“on a date.”
you just stare at him. “you broke into my house.”
“yeah.”
“you tried to kill me.”
“yeah.”
“you stalked me.”
“mhm.”
you stare at him. you actually can’t fucking believe this is happening. “are you concussed? is the plate thing delayed?”
“i mean it.”
“you TRIED TO KILL ME.”
he nods once. “that part didn’t go how i thought.”
you make a sound. “no. are you hearing yourself?”
“i don’t want to kill you.” he says.
“you already tried!”
“that was before.”
“before WHAT?!”
he runs a hand through his hair. “before i knew.”
“knew what, that i have a job?!”
“that i like you.”
you just look at him. flat. done. “that is not my problem.”
he steps closer, not fast this time and not grabbing you. “please.”
you freeze. that word does not belong in his mouth.
“don’t do that, you fucker.” you warn.
“i can’t stop thinking about you.” he says, voice tighter now. “you’re in my head all the time. that doesn’t happen. ever.”
“that is not romantic, chan.” you say. “that is a medical issue.”
“i don’t care.” he says. “just one. one date. in public. you pick the place, and i won’t bring anything. i won’t—” he gestures. “i just want to sit across from you again.”
“you are insane.”
“i know.”
“you need help.”
“probably.”
you shake your head, backing away. “no. you don’t get to beg your way into my life after THIS.”
“i don’t know how else to do it.” he says, honest, but still not emotional.
“go to therapy.” you snap.
“y/n.”
“chan, i would rather fight a bear.”
he looks genuinely stressed now. like this is the hardest thing he’s ever done, and that includes murder.
“please.” he says. “i don’t want to stop seeing you.”
your heart is still racing, and your fear is still there, but now there’s something else in the room too. your brain is actually debating it.
his shoulders drop, his voice lowers half a notch, like he’s stepping into a different character.
“i’m not right.” he says. “you know that. i’ve never been right.”
ohhh here we fucking go.
you fold your arms. “don’t.”
“i didn’t choose this.” he continues, staring at the floor now. “i’ve always been like this. since i was a kid. something’s missing.“
yea sure bro throw the tragic backstory card in. fucking asshole.
“i try.” he says. “i watch how people act. i copy it. i learned how to be normal. that’s work, all the time. you have no idea how hard that is.”
you just look at him.
yeah, maybe that’s true. and also not your fucking problem.
“i don’t connect to people.” he goes on. “not really. they’re just… shapes. but you’re not. and i don’t know what to do with that.”
he runs a hand over his face like he’s exhausted by being a horrible person.
you feel it, the pull. the very human reflex to soften when someone sounds sad. to help, to be there.
THIS IS MANIPULATION.
self pity. poor me, i’m wired wrong, look how hard my life is, please ignore the crimes.
he’s not confessing for you. he’s building a case for himself. every sentence is don’t hold me accountable wrapped in a vulnerability act.
you point at him. “cut it the fuck off.”
he looks up.
“that.” you say. “that thing you’re doing? the sad little ‘i’m fucked up, life is hard’ speech? shut the fuck up.”
he blinks.
“i don’t care if you’re sad about you being the way you are. you are still choosing to do shit. repeatedly.” you continue.
he watches you.
“that wasn’t an apology.” you say. “that was acting, chan.”
a beat.
“…yeah.” he admits.
silence stretches.
“okay.” he says finally.
“okay what.”
“i won’t do that.”
“good.”
another pause.
“can i have a glass of water?” he asks.
you stare at him.
“you broke into my home.” you say slowly.
“yeah. i’m still thirsty.”
unbelievable.
you walk to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it. your hands are steadier now, weirdly. you hand it to him.
“thanks.” he says, and drinks it. it looks adorable.
you sit on the arm of the couch, watching him.
“you don’t show up unannounced anymore.” you say.
“okay.”
“you don’t follow me to work.”
“okay.”
“you don’t get to send me anything. ever. no gifts. no notes. no bullshit.”
“…okay.”
“you don’t come here again.”
he hesitates.
you glare.
“…okay.”
“say it like you mean it.”
“i won’t come here again.”
you study him. he means it the way he means things, not emotionally, but as a rule.
he hands the empty glass back to you. “bathroom?”
you point down the hall automatically, then freeze. “why did i just—”
“thanks.” he says, already walking.
you rub your face. “this is insane. fucking asshole.”
from the hallway: “i can hear you.”
“good.”
he comes back a minute later, drying his hands on his jeans. “you can pick where we go.” he says.
“somewhere loud, with people. cameras. witnesses. preferably a location with multiple exits.”
“okay.”
you rub your temples. “jesus.”
“there’s that that place on—”
“no.” you cut in immediately.
“why.”
“too dim.”
“okay.”
“no place with booths.”
“…okay.”
“no parks. no walking after.”
“i get it.”
“i don’t think you do.”
he actually pulls his phone out. “tomorrow?” he asks.
“no, i need time.”
“for what.”
“to process this shit.”
he nods slowly. “two days.”
you shrug. “fine. two days. six p.m. that diner about half an hour away, the ugly one.”
he smiles faintly. “i know it.”
he knows every location within a mile radius of your existence. fantastic.
“you arrive alone.” you say. “you sit the whole time and you don’t follow me if i leave.”
a pause. then “okay.”
you narrow your eyes. “that one took too long.”
“i’m adjusting.” chan says.
you just shake your head. this is brutal. you actually can’t believe this is happening to you, bro.
you point to the door. “leave.”
he walks to the door, unlocks it, opens it. normal movements. ordinary. then he leaves without a word. which is weirder than the whole thing that just happened between the two of you, because… who the fuck leaves without saying bye? what is this guy’s fucking problem???
“fucking psycho.” you whisper to the empty apartment.
and the date ends up going… fine. yeah, it’s fine, no use denying what’s true. women look at him, one at the counter full on stares, another smiles when he walks past to sit down. heads turn. it pisses you off more than it flatters you, because this shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does.
chan does not notice a single one. he’s only looking at you. and he doesn’t say anything weird. you talk about surface things, work, movies, people, how the diner looks.
it feels like sitting across from a guy. just a guy. which is deeply, deeply fucked.
and just like that, you two become a thing. not a relationship, you don’t call it that, or at least don’t want to. you don’t label it, and you don’t tell people.
you meet in public places, always your choice, always crowded. he follows the rules with unsettling precision, bc he’s terrified of breaking the system you built. coffee shops. sometimes you take him with you for late night grocery shoppings.
weeks pass. then months. you discover chan listens more than he talks, now that he knows he can show you the real him. asks questions that are too observant. remembers everything. your schedule shifts? he notices. you’re tired? he notices. you cut your hair half an inch? he notices.
he never brings up what he is, and you never pretend you forgot. but sometimes you forget for ten minutes. fifteen, if you’re laughing. then he’ll say something slightly off, not creepy, just… detached, and you remember you are building something… something like this.
you also start recognizing the difference between how he looks at strangers and how he looks at you.
strangers: flat, measuring.
you: focused, curious.
you two fight a lot.
“you were ghosting me.” you snap once outside a café, acting like you weren’t begging him to leave you alone months before. yes, you caring about him not answering says a lot already.
“i wasn’t ghosting. i was busy.”
“with what, burying a body?”
he just blinks at you. “you don’t want the real answer.”
“correct.”
and sometimes he says things that remind you what he is. being too calm about violence in movies, too accurate about how long it takes for people to notice someone missing.
creep.
then to top it off, you’re coming home once. it’s not even that late, but you didn’t have a good day. ready to go to bed, you open your apartment door and… chan is sitting on your couch. you just stare at him.
“hi.” he says.
you close the door very slowly. “we had a rule.”
“mhm.”
“then why are you here.”
“i wanted to see you.”
you’re so tired for this right now. “you can’t just show up when you feel like it.” you say, dropping your bag. “i thought i’ve made that clear.”
he stands when you step closer, and now you’re in his space, pushing his chest with your palm.
“you don’t listen.” you say. “you just decide things.”
“i do listen.” he says calmly.
“no, you don’t.” you shove him again. he lets you, because you’re not trying to hurt him, you’re trying to move the frustration out of your body.
you push him once more, and he catches your wrists. not tight at all, he would never, just stopping the motion.
you freeze. he’s close. closer than he’s ever been without space or witnesses or rules between the two of you.
“let go.” you say.
“you’re shaking.” he says.
“because you broke into my home again, you psycho!”
your breathing is uneven, anger, fear, an endless swirl of emotions inside of you.
a beat hangs there.
then he leans in and kisses you. soft, careful. especially soft.
you just… stop. you can’t really process it, but your body knows it likes it. so much.
after a second, you pull back. “what the fuck.” you breathe.
“i wanted to do that.” he says.
“that’s not— you don’t just— you ASK—”
“i didn’t know how else to let you know.” he says, frustrated for real now. “i don’t know how to make you feel what i feel.”
you just stand there, heart racing, furious and rattled and very, very aware of how close he is.
but what says the most, is that you don’t tell him to leave.
after that, things change to be closer. he sits next to you sometimes, shoulder to shoulder. he doesn’t reach unless you do first. you two also argue a lot, you call him out constantly. he doesn’t get offended though.
the rule about your apartment is the only one he can’t keep. you catch him multiple times sitting on the steps outside your building when you get home, leaning against the wall down the hall like he “was just in the area” which is bullshit and you both know it.
“you said you wouldn’t come here.” you tell him every time.
“i know.” he says every time.
he means the apology, he just doesn’t stop.
tonight, you’re both on the couch. your show is playing, but neither of you are watching it. he’s on the other end at first.
you can feel him looking at you, though.
“what.” you say without looking at him.
“nothing.”
you glance over. he’s already closer than he was a minute ago. you didn’t see him move.
“chan.”
“yeah.”
“you’re doing the weird staring thing.”
he doesn’t deny it, instead, he shifts slowly. he puts one knee on the couch, then the other. then he’s pathetically moving toward you on all fours, careful.
he stops right in front of you, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face. his hands press into the couch on either side of you, but he’s not trapping you. there’s room to move.
relief crosses his pretty face, then he leans in and kisses you, slow. and now, you let yourself feel it.
you know it’s wrong, you know it’s fucked, and you know every rule you built bent tonight. but you’re tired of fighting every second. so you don’t pretend, you don’t justify it. you just accept the truth sitting heavy in your chest.
you forgave him.
which is, objectively? morally? spiritually? a terrible decision. absolute clown behavior. girl what the fuck.
and yet, you like him after all.
so yeah. you’ve accepted that he’s kinda your boyfriend now. and he feels that. he feels that you let go now, and how does he show that he gets you? he’s always touching you.
not grabby, just wants contact. his hand on your knee. fingers hooked in your sleeve. his forehead against your shoulder.
“you’re on me.” you mutter.
“yeah.”
“why.”
a pause. you can feel him thinking. “…i like it.”
you sigh but don’t move him. because you like it too.
you never ask where he’s been when he disappears for a night, and he never tells you. well, he would, but he knows you don’t want to hear it.
you’re in the kitchen one night and he’s literally following you step for step. you turn around suddenly and he almost walks into you.
“stop haunting me.” you murmur.
“i live here now, kinda.” he shrugs and reaches out, thumb brushing your jaw.
you end up laughing at him. god, he’s cute. (serial killer btw)
you know what he is, you know what you’re doing, and you most definitely know this ends badly in every possible timeline. but you’re the first person he’s ever wanted near him without an end goal. without wanting to chop you up. well, we know it started as that, but he doesn’t want to do that anymore.
and that’s why he keeps breaking the rule about your home. your place smells like you. sounds like you. is you. and god, he can’t fucking stay away from you.
you, on the other hand, are not missing pieces like he does. yours are just… bent. you feel everything. too much, if anything. fear, guilt, affection, anger, all of it overlapping, constant. you don’t lack a moral compass, you actively ignore it.
that’s the difference.
you know he’s wrong. you know staying is wrong. you know your own bad decisions. still do them.
part of it is control. you survived him once, you set rules, and he follows most of them. being with him tricks your brain into thinking you have power over something you absolutely do not.
and part of it, is that you know you’re his only one. being the only picture of love for a powerful asshole like this feels fucking amazing.
most days, you exist in this strange middle smth. you’re on the couch, and he’s half draped over you, heavy, warm, his arms around you. he wants you all over him so much.
then one night, you’re in your apartment, barefoot, in the kitchen. when the door unlocks, your shoulders tense automatically, but then you relax, it’s chan. you gave him a key weeks ago after arguing with yourself for three straight days.
“hey.” you call.
when he doesn’t answer, you turn. and your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your knees.
there’s blood on his shirt. not a little, not a cut. it’s smeared across the front. dark and drying.
“chris.” you say.
he looks at you, calm, eyes clear and… too clear.
“what happened?” you ask, voice already shaking.
he glances down at himself like he forgot. “oh.”
OH?
“you’re bleeding?” you ask.
“no.”
“then whose is that?”
a pause. he doesn’t answer.
now, you get a taste of reality.
“chan.” you say, backing up. “no. no, no, no. not in my kitchen. not… don’t bring that here.”
he goes still. “i didn’t mean to—”
“i don’t care what you meant!”
he steps toward you. you step back.
“you said— you said you’d keep it away from me.” you say. “away from my life.”
he looks… off balance. his smart but fucked up little brain obviously doesn’t know what to do with this. “i don’t want you to look at me like that.” he says quietly.
“like what?!”
“like i’m—”
“what you are?”
that hits, you can tell. he exhales, shaky now. “i don’t know how to split it.” he says. “i don’t know how to be with you and not be… me.”
“that’s not my job to fix!”
“i know.” his voice cracks on the last word.
he closes the distance fast, not aggressive, just desperate, and grabs you, not hard, just holding on.
“i don’t want you to leave.” chan says, pathetic suddenly. “i don’t—“
“you’re not the victim.” you’re rigid in his arms. heart racing, hands hovering, not sure about what to do.
“i know.” he says again. “i know. i just… i don’t know how to stop being this.” his grip tightens, clinging to you.
despite everything, the blood, the horror, the reality crashing through your denial, you let him hold you. not because he deserves it, but because somewhere along the way, you stopped knowing how to let go.
“i messed up.” he says.
“no shit, chan.” you whisper, your tone affectionate despite how rude the words are.
“i didn’t think—”
“that’s the problem, baby. you don’t think about what happens after. you just do it and then show up here.”
he runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smear across his forehead. oh your fucking god bro.
“i don’t have anywhere else.” he says.
“that is not my responsibility!” you raise your voice again. he deserves it.
his breathing changes, faster now. uneven. “i don’t want you scared of me.” he says.
“i am scared of you.” you reply.
he pulls you into him then, desperate. that’s how he deals with all these feelings, it seems like. this is what he needs when it’s too much. your touch.
you stiffen, then shove at him weakly. “you’re covered in blood—”
“i know.” he says into your shoulder. his voice shakes, actually shakes. “i know. i know. i know.”
he’s freaking out now too. not about what he did, but about you pulling away.
then his hands drop from you. the air changes. “y/n, don’t do this to me.”
you shake your head. “i’m not doing anything, chris. i’m reacting to the fact that you walked in here drenched in someone else—”
“you think you’re better than me.” he cuts in. he looks… scary. terrifying, actually. that’s because he’s panicking.
“…i never said that.”
“you don’t have to.”
he steps back, running both hands through his hair, smearing red across his temples. he looks fucking crazy.
“you knew what i was.” he says. “you don’t get to act shocked now.”
“i’m not acting!” you shout. “i am shocked! there’s a difference between knowing and seeing it in my fucking living room!”
he kicks the leg of the coffee table hard enough that it scrapes across the floor. the sound makes you jump.
“i try.” he says, voice rising. “i follow your rules, your places, your times, your conditions, and the one time i can’t clean it up perfectly, suddenly i’m too much.”
“you ARE too much right now!”
that shuts him up for a second. his chest is rising fast, hands flexing, and you can see the restless, we can even say dangerous energy crawling under his skin. not directed at you exactly, but not not either.
but you know he’s not losing control because of what he did. he’s losing control because he thinks he’s losing you. that fear, for him, doesn’t look like retreat. it looks like attack.
“chan. baby.” you say, voice lower now, and you slowly step closer. “you’re not losing me.” you say.
his eyes are sharp, searching, suspicious. “you just said you were scared.”
“i am.” you say. “and it is what it is. but do you see me going anywhere?” you brush your hand over his pretty cheeks. “no. i just need you not to bring that here. i need separation. i need a line. not from you, but from other people’s guts in my living room. most people don’t like that, and i’m one of them. and that’s okay. it doesn’t mean i like you any less, and you know that.”
his eyes flick to the blood on his hands like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time. “i didn’t think.” he mutters.
“i know. and that’s okay. i know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
his breath shudders out of him.
“i don’t want to fight you.” you add softly. not entirely true. you are furious. you are shaken. but you want him calm more than you want to win this moment. because calm means safe.
“…i can try.” he says. he means keeping allat human remains away from you, and you know that. no need for clarification. it’s not a promise, though. it’s the most he has.
you nod, because right now de-escalation matters more than truth.
“thank you. go clean up.” you say quietly.
he doesn’t move.
“bathroom.” you add. “now.”
a beat, then he nods. obedient isn’t the right word, it’s not submission. it’s… trust in your direction.
you lean up and press the smallest kiss against his cheek before he pulls away from you and goes to the bathroom.
when you can hear the water running from there, you stand, staring at nothing.
your boyfriend is in your bathroom washing blood off his hands.
your boyfriend.
you love him.
you shouldn’t, but you so do.
when he comes back, he’s shirtless, hair damp, skin scrubbed red in places as if he tried to sand himself down to something cleaner underneath. he stands there awkwardly.
you open your arms. “c’mere, baby.” you insane fucking bitch.
chan comes to you immediately, no hesitation. he folds into you, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your shoulder, into your neck. you hand goes to the back of his head automatically, fingers in his hair, the other hand spreads across his back.
he’s warm, solid, a man who has done unforgivable things. a man who melts the second you touch him like this.
“you’re okay.” you murmur.
he exhales hard against your skin.
“i didn’t mean to bring it here.” he murmurs.
“i know.”
is that fully true? does he mean it in the way you mean things? you don’t know, but you know he didn’t mean to hurt you. and that’s the line you have chosen as enough.
you smooth your hand down his back slowly, repetitive. “you’re okay.” you repeat. “you didn’t mean it.”
that part isn’t true. he meant what he did out there. somewhere. to someone. but he didn’t mean to crack open your safe space. he didn’t mean to make you look at it.
“i don’t want you scared.” he says into your shoulder, tightening his adorable grip on you.
“i’m not.” you lie softly. you are. you always are, a little. but you also know him, the way his system works, how he came here knowing this was a safe place.
you rest your cheek against his head.
you evil boyfriend. your terrifying, capable, deeply fucked up boyfriend. held in your arms like he’s the one who needs protection.
so yeah, that… went like that. he learned from it, you learned from it. you have calmed down about it since then.
and he’s still very, very gentle with you. for an example, you’re in the kitchen with him standing somewhere behind you. it’s morning. you’re pouring yourself tea, when you feel something nudge your elbow.
you look down. his mug has silently, slowly slid across the counter toward you.
you stare at him. “use words.”
he blinks once. “tea.”
“you are capable of full sentences.”
he considers that. “more tea would be… good.” brutally charismatic dream man to the world btw.
you pour it.
“thanks.” he says quietly, hands wrapping around the mug.
it’s adorable, if you ignore literally everything else.
he’s on your dick constantly. shoulder touches. fingers hooking in your belt loop when you walk past. forehead pressing into your shoulder while you’re brushing your teeth. physical contact is how his little feelings come to the surface.
once, like in the MIDDLE of the fucking night, you’re asleep. actually calm in your sleep too, when the mattress dips.
you wake up just enough to process the arm that slides around your waist and a face pressing into the back of your neck.
you mumble, half conscious. “cold.”
“sorry.” chan whispers.
you reach back blindly, grabbing his wrist, pulling his arm tighter around you. you smell soap. strong. recently used. you’re awake enough to translate that into “he recently killed somebody and just washed up then immediately came to you” but too tired to think much of it. and too in comfort now that he’s here, so you fall back asleep.
in the morning, you will see his shirt in the sink, confirming your theory from last night. and you will not ask.
then one day you realize you stopped thinking of the worst when he comes home late. stopped asking where he was. and it’s not because of you wanting to ignore it anymore. it’s from acceptance now.
“you’re late.” you say one night to the man who you once told to stay the fuck away from your place, and now wait for before going to bed.
“yeah.” chan answers.
you glance back. he’s standing there, a little too still. shirt in his hand this time.
you sigh, tired more than shocked. “shoes off. bathroom. now.”
he nods. “sorry.” he adds, already walking.
you turn back to the stove, jaw tight. “jesus.” you mutter, stirring harder. “i made pasta.”
from the hallway: “i like your pasta.”
“i know.”
he doesn’t understand guilt the way people describe it. he understands consequences, and he understands loss. you are the only loss that terrifies him, because he loves you with his whole, damaged system. it should scare you more, and sometimes it does, but mostly, when he’s got his face buried in your neck, breathing slow, hands warm against your back, he’s just your boyfriend. your awful, terrifying, weird, quiet boyfriend who pushes his mug toward you instead of speaking and crawls across furniture to ask permission to kiss you.
and you love him so much.
sometimes, in very quiet moments, when he’s asleep beside you, face relaxed into something almost boyish, you study him.
this man could end lives.
this man panics if you don’t text back.
and what’s even more brutal is how he performs to the world. because he performs perfectly.
you watch it sometimes, and it’s fascinating. it’s horrifying. it’s the same face that rests in your lap at night, blank and quiet and real.
you remember the first time he walked up to you, casual, charming, disarming.
you didn’t stand a chance.
nobody does.
because he holds doors, makes eye contact like the person talking is the only one in the room. waiters like him, strangers tell him things, women glance twice. he laughs at the right volume, tips well, knows just enough about everything to keep conversations moving. he’s the guy moms hope their daughters bring home. he’s not shy to show you off, always behind you in public, arms loosely around your waist, chin on your shoulder.
you fell for that guy. then, you fell for the actual guy under the costume.
and the guy under the costume would do anything for you. you’re in a parking garage once after you asked him to take you shopping. you’re mid-sentence, telling him about something, keys in hand, when chan goes still. not even that dramatic fucking bullshit that movies do, just… still.
you notice because he was touching you a second ago, hand at your lower back, and now he’s not.
“what?” you ask.
his eyes are over your shoulder, and you turn. a guy is walking past too close, hoodie up, moving weird, fast, then slow. his gaze flicks between you, your bag, the car. your brain also starts doing that thing, the math, but chan’s obviously faster with it because he steps slightly in front of you.
“hey.” the random ass guy says(an: insert that “who’s this” meme from tiktok comments omfg guys), already too near. “you got the time?”
“no.” chan replies, calm.
the guy’s hand moves, too fast. you, inexperienced little you, don’t even process it fully, just that the motion is wrong. but chan is not inexperienced, and soon, there are bodies colliding with the side of the car. a grunt. a hard, final sound you’ll pretend later you didn’t recognize.
chan is standing.
the other guy isn’t.
you stare.
“are you hurt?” you ask chan. that’s your first question. not what just happened. not oh my god. chan is the first thing you care about, not even the violence anymore. that says a lot about your relationship’s improvement.
“yeah.” he says.
you step closer immediately, checking him over, hands on his arms, his sides, his chest. your fingers come away shaking, but not from what’s on them. from adrenaline.
“you okay?” you ask again.
“i’m fine.”
your gaze flicks past him, to the body on the concrete. meanwhile chan looks at you like he’s waiting. for fear. for disgust. for the moment you finally see him clearly and step away.
you don’t, well, you do see him clearly, but you also don’t step away. at all. you grab his jacket instead.
“let’s go.” you say.
when he’s driving you home, you’re scared, but not of him. you’re scared of what just rearranged inside you. because you replay it, the moment, the motion, the outcome, and your mind keeps landing on one thing.
chan moved without hesitation. between you and danger. and the only emotion that cuts through the shock is relief. relief that he was there.
and while driving, he just reaches over slowly and puts his hand on your knee.
at home, you can obviously see that he feels guilty that you saw that. but you step into him, and press your face into his chest. he immediately wraps around you.
“i only care that you’re okay.” you say into his shirt.
it’s true.
something settles after that night in the garage. the constant internal argument quiets. the this is wrong/but i love him/but this is wrong loop loses volume. you stopped trying to solve it. acceptance is ugly, but it’s peaceful.
and chan feels it immediately. he is a fucking expert in you, so when you stop freaking out when he brings blood home, when your body language loses that last thread of tension around him, he softens too.
he kisses you more, for an example. passing by you in the kitchen, kiss to your temple. sitting beside you, absentminded press of his mouth to your shoulder. lips on your forehead when you’re half asleep. you shoulder when you’re brushing your teeth. the top of your head when you’re sitting and he’s standing behind the couch.
you’re on your laptop once, deep in something, and he just leans down and presses a kiss to your temple.
you don’t even look up. “hi.”
“hi.”
he walks away.
that’s it. that’s the interaction.
he’s still not verbally expressive, still not a “talk about feelings” person. but physically, he’s all there. touch is this asshole’s way of expressing his love for you.
the sex is better too. this new honesty makes everything between you more direct, makes the communication easier, and boy does it make you cum harder. he’s fucking amazing in bed, you couldn’t even deny that when you were still scared of him. but now? oh your fucking god.
and after sex, when you’re asleep, he watches you longer and differently. his little eyes are literally shining when he looks at you, especially when you’re naked and guard down and asleep next to him. he feels so lucky.
you still argue. you’re both stubborn, both wired wrong in ways that clash. but neither of you want to argue really.
“you’re not listening.” you say one evening, arms crossed.
“i am.” he replies, calm.
“then don’t just nod. actually respond.”
a pause. “…i don’t know what the correct response is.”
you sigh, some of the heat draining. “try anything.”
“…i don’t like when you shut down.” he says finally. it’s clumsy, so blunt, but so so so real.
you blink. “okay. that’s something.”
progress, yes, though he still disappears sometimes and still comes back late. but! he tells you more now.
“i’ll be gone tonight.” he says some days.
“okay.”
“don’t wait up.”
“i won’t.”
a beat.
“be careful.” you add.
he nods.
one night, you’re both on the couch, your legs over his lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your ankle.
“you’re calmer.” he says.
“so are you.”
“that’s because you’re calmer.”
you glance at him. “don’t make me responsible.” then you nudge his side with your foot gently.
he catches it, and presses a brief kiss to your ankle bone. the same man that removed ankle bones before btw.
you know exactly what kind of man you love now. you’re not pretending he’s good, you just… chose him anyway.
he talks more, too. you’ll be lying in bed and he’ll say: “i don’t like when they panic early. it’s loud.”
you stare at the ceiling. “cool. hate that sentence.”
he nods into your shoulder. “yeah.”
another night: “i prefer planning. impulse is messy.”
“please stop workshopping murder in my bed.” you mutter.
he kisses your collarbone lightly. “okay.”
he keeps talking, in pieces, over weeks. just… information. and you realize this is his version of intimacy. letting you see the internal logic, the preferences, the way his brain categorizes things most people couldn’t even think about without unraveling. he’s not confessing, he’s including you. and you just listen, sometimes telling him to shut up, sometimes asking questions, like that “letting my horse take me places to let him know i care about his interests too” tiktok trend or idk how it goes.
once you’re in a bookstore. some guy is talking to you about a novel you’re holding, being overly friendly in that way men do when they think they’re charming. you’re polite, nodding, listening, when an arm slides around your waist from behind.
chan’s chin rests briefly on your shoulder.
“hey.” he says, voice so so so charismatic, smiling at the guy like they’re old friends. “did you find what you were looking for, baby girl?”
you close your eyes for half a second. oh my god. you can feel chan turn the public personality on. relaxed posture, perfect smile, protective but casual. like he just wandered over from being handsome somewhere else.
“yeah.” you say dryly. “book.”
“nice.” he says, kissing the side of your head.
the stranger mumbles something about having to go. chan watches him leave, expression pleasant. then, quietly in your ear: “he was standing too close.”
“i had it handled.”
“oh, i know.” he doesn’t remove his arm, and you don’t make him.
it’s insane how easily he switches. but you can catch it now perfectly. when his face goes blank between expressions, when he talks about things he knows only you can be told about, when his hand tightens slightly in his sleep. and now you just brush your thumb over his knuckles until he settles.
what changes, in the end, isn’t that he becomes better. it’s that he becomes unguarded. with the world, he still has that mask. but with you, that starts crumbling, because somewhere along the way, his brain filed you under safe.
like you’re in your room, drawer open, looking for a charger. chan appears behind you like he always does, silent, looming, curious.
“what are you looking for?” he asks.
“nothing you need to help with.” you reply.
too late, his hand has already reached into the drawer. you turn just in time to see him pull out your vibrator, and examining it.
you snatch it out of his hand so fast you almost dislocate your own shoulder.
he blinks. “i thought—“
“that is a private object, chan. it’s okay if we use it during sex, you do not need to pull it out now.”
“i wasn’t using it.”
“THAT IS NOT THE POINT.”
he nods slowly, processing. “privacy.” he repeats.
“yes. privacy. personal. mine. it’s okay for you to touch it when it’s in context, otherwise it’s not pleasant to have you throw it around.”
“okay.”
five minutes later he opens your bathroom cabinet while brushing his teeth.
you smack the door shut.
he looks at you, toothbrush in mouth.
“…privacy?” he tries.
“privacy.”
“right.”
he’s not being creepy on purpose. he just genuinely does not have the instinct most people have that says this is someone else’s space inside their space. his brain works like this: your house = your shared environment = accessible. drawers? shelves? phone screens? all just… objects in the environment.
you’re folding laundry. he walks past, casually picks up one of your panties and starts examining it.
you slap his hand away. “what are you DOING.”
“i was looking.”
“AT WHAT.”
“you.”
you sigh.
he looks at you. “…context matters?”
“yes, good job.”
he still forgets sometimes, he just feels so comfortable around you, and he really wouldn’t mind if you were the one snooping around in his things, because he doesn’t have any secrets from you. you start realizing that because he doesn’t attach taboo to things the way most people do, he also doesn’t instinctively categorize them as off limits. to him, objects are objects. curiosity is neutral.
another time, you come out of the shower and nearly die on the spot. he’s sitting on the bed, reading your journal. not snooping in a sneaky way, not hiding it, just sitting there, legs crossed, flipping a page.
you freeze. “what are you doing.”
he looks up. “you think in lists.”
you snatch it from him.
“i wasn’t judging.” he says calmly. “i wanted to understand you better.”
“i appreciate that, baby, but this is a no.”
“…so journals are private.”
“YES.”
a pause.
“what about notes apps.”
you point at the door. “OUT.”
this man can plan crimes down to the minute. he can read people in seconds. he can charm strangers, disappear in crowds, control his expressions like a trained actor. but understanding why he cannot open your nightstand without warning? that takes fifteen separate lectures. you’ve scolded him in every room of your house at this point. kitchen: “stop opening containers that aren’t yours.” living room: “that’s my journal, don’t touch it.” bedroom: “knock. yes, even here. no, i don’t have a problem with you seeing my body, i just need my privacy.” bathroom: “if the door is closed, you WAIT.”
“you’re very complicated.” he tells you once, but he still tries, because you are the only person whose discomfort registers that high.
but he opens drawers, he reorganizes things “more efficiently.” he once moved your entire bathroom counter layout and then looked confused when you stood there staring at it.
“it’s better.” he said.
“it’s WRONG.”
“functionally—”
“emotionally wrong, babe!”
then something shifts again. not in him. in you. because one night he’s sitting beside you, close but not touching, clearly trying very hard to stay in his lane, hands in his lap, wanting to go through stuff. it’s in his little instincts. and you feel it. the restraint. the way he’s holding himself back because you said no before. and instead of relief, you feel… something else. tenderness.
so you tell him to go the fuck on and snoop around.
you let him do it now. whatever.
he starts wearing your hoodie sometimes. you start not caring. he uses your shampoo. you just buy more. he sits on your side of the couch. you sit on him instead. somewhere along the way, your space stops being mine and becomes ours, and you don’t remember signing that lease, but here you are.
you catch him one afternoon in your room while you’re working at the table, fiddling absently with something on your dresser, bored, waiting for you to finish.
you look up. your fucking vibrator is in his hands again.
and you just sigh. “don’t break anything.”
he doesn’t. you let him play around.
what he doesn’t understand though, is when you baby his ass. that absolutely fries his system. you’re on the couch, he’s half lying on you, and you grab his face suddenly.
“who’s a menace?” you coo.
he blinks.
“you are. yes you are. big scary menace.” you pinch his cheek.
“why are you talking like that?” he asks.
“because you’re cute. look at your face. stupid.”
“…okay.”
you kiss his nose.
affection he understands. playful nonsense affection? no. but he lets you do it, every time.
from the outside, he’s still perfect. charming. polite. magnetic. then he comes home, drops the mask, and stands in your kitchen in your socks, drinking juice straight from the carton while you smack his arm.
“glass!”
he gets one immediately.
you shake your head. “unbelievable.”
he kisses your temple on the way past.
and you don’t even care anymore that he comes home drenched in other people sometimes.
author’s note: i only tagged people who asked to be on my general taglist. if you asked to be tagged for sorry we tried to kill you part 2 but didn’t mention my general taglist and you’d like to be tagged for my other works too, let me know :) this just means i didn’t tag those people this time because i wasn’t sure if you meant only part 2 or my other upcoming works as well. let me know. love y’all<3 (also the fact that you’re reading this rn, which tells me you’re THAT interested in my work, deserves a reward, which is me telling you that the part 2 of sorry we tried to kill you is coming out next, theeeen a separate serial killer felix like this)
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