Gela

아무래도, 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆

[woongelaatin]

«NOW PLAYING: Next mistake-BOYNEXTDOOR»

ABOUT ME!

» Gela `| She/her `| '10 liner `| Woonhak stan

GROUPS I STAN

» BONEDO, CORTIS, PIWON, ILLIT, TXT, STAYC

MASTERLISTS

» BOYNEXTDOOR!

» OTHER...

I take requests but I'm a MINOR so no nsfw stuff please!

[woongelaatin]

CRYING REALLLLL 😭😭😭😭 sending u all the virtual hugs bc OMG 🫂🫂 but journalism is so so cool wthelly !? also IM GOODDD actually i could be better bc i started summer classes 😭😭 but its okay we Must survive....... biochemistry when i catch you biochemistry...

Summer classes is crazy I would cry so hard😭😭 but good luck and do your besttt!!

[woongelaatin]

IMYTTTT HOW HAVE U BEEN DOING

I’m NOT doing okay as off now, I joined journalism and I was already stressing out because my laptop was laggy too😭😭 like omg gimme a break BUT WHAT ABOUT YOUUU🥹

[woongelaatin]

Yoon Jeonghan

[woongelaatin]

sana ay nasa mabuti kang kalagayan, nangungulila ako sa pinoy onedoor 🤧🤧 inaaway ako ni aylin 😭😭

HII ATE STEBYYY!! I’m doing okay like very and I hope ikaw din🥹🥹 AND BAKIT KA INAAWAY HELP AHAHHA😭

[woongelaatin]

HI GELA

HIYOOO I MISS YEWWW

[woongelaatin]

GELLAAA how was ur summer vacation??? kami hindi pa nagbabakasyon 🤩 pe classes with 40° weather is not for the weak aka me JANDJDJDKSJ im sending asks to random ppl cus im trying to escape reality (pending schoolworks)

also to answer ur question, oks naman ako these days. been making graphics for wips para mamotivate magsulat lol

HIHI ATE STEBYYY!! Summer vacation was okay I mostly bed rotted HAHAHA😭😭 I hope your summer break is near because WHATTT?

Also procrastination is REALLL😛 But I’m kinda scared for my grades this year so I HOPE I will actually focus now 💔💔

That’s so cool because you can find time to balance writing and schools works, I lowk haven’t had the motivation to write even though I have a few fics to finish plsslsl😭 I hope you’re doing well in uni🥹🥹

[woongelaatin]

EEYYYOOOOOOOO hi par

HIHI ATEEEE🥹🥹🥹 I’m lowk confused why ppl are on my asks even tho I’m so inactive (I’m basically dead in tumblr) BUT HOW ARE YOUUU :DDD

[woongelaatin]

I'm good loveyy, I remember you telling me you waking up at the most ungodly hour to go to school 🤣 how are youu, how's school??

YOUR TIMING IS HONESTLY GOOD BECAUSE I’M GOING TO ENROLL TODAY😭😭 I hope it goes wellll🥹

[woongelaatin]

hi cutiee, how are you??

Hiii moot!! It surprised me that I got a question at such a random time knowing that I haven’t been posting, but I’m doing good!! I still remember that fic you made because I reblogged it, heheh. How about you??🥹

[thedensworld]

Before She Disappears | K. Mg

Genre: Marriage Au!

Type: Angst, Plot Twist(?)

Word Count: 14k

Summary: Mingyu was preparing for a divorce when he began to sense that something was wrong with his wife.

Mingyu hadn’t been home since yesterday—or maybe since the day before that. He stopped counting after the fight, the kind that didn’t end with slammed doors but with silence, thickening the wall that had been building between you for over a year. He chose to stay in his humble studio, surrounded by paintings never meant for the world—only for him to face. Each canvas stared back in accusation, as if every unfinished stroke was cursing him.

You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.

Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.

And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.

His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.

“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”

He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.

You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.

“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.

He looked at you then, smiling softly.

“Her family didn’t let her.”

Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.

And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.

The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.

On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.

And there was no reason left to stay.

Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.

He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.

Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?

*

“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”

It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.

“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”

Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.

“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.

There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.

“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.

“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”

Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.

He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.

Your parents had spoiled you too much.

Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.

Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.

Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.

The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.

They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.

He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.

Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.

He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.

“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.

He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.

He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.

“Ji Y/n…”

As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.

“Kim Mingyu..”

“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.

You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.

“I was just out for air.”

Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”

He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.

“Don’t yell at me.”

The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”

He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.

“Which home?”

He froze.

For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.

“Our home.” he said.

The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—

You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.

He cursed under his breath.

Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.

You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.

He called your mother and spoke quietly.

“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”

A pause.

“I’m taking her home.”

Another pause, heavier this time.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.

Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.

*

Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.

You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.

He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.

But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.

He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.

“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.

“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.

“I’m just good.”

You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.

He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.

He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.

Since when had he started to hate your work?

It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.

The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.

A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.

He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.

However, none of that came.

Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.

“Morning.”

Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.

That was all it took to freeze him in place.

You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.

“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”

You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.

The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.

“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”

You looked at him for a moment, then down.

Your feet.

Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.

“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”

You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.

He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.

Your favorite.

He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.

Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.

“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”

You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.

“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”

The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.

Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”

You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”

He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.

That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.

“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.

Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”

He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.

“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Then again.

“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”

There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.

Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.

That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.

His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.

He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.

Your resignation.

You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.

The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.

Why would you give this up?

Was it for him?

For us?

The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.

You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”

The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.

Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.

Why now?

You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.

Then came the nervousness.

His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.

Was this your way of reaching out?

“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”

As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.

The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.

He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.

*

Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.

He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.

You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.

You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.

You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.

Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.

And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.

The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.

“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.

You looked up. “About what?”

“A kid.”

The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.

“No,” you said. Too quick.

Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.

“I don’t want one.”

There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.

“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”

You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason.”

Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”

Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”

“I have thought about it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”

You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.

Mingyu blinked. “What?”

“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”

He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.

“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.

Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”

“It’s not just weight.”

“Then what is it?” he pressed.

You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.

“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”

The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.

And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.

You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.

There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.

Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.

“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.

You didn’t turn immediately.

“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.

Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”

“I’m not hungry.”

That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.

The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.

It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.

You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.

Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.

Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.

So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.

The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.

Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.

*

“What is this?”

Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.

His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?

A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.

Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.

And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.

Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.

Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.

Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.

“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.

And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.

“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened.

He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.

“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”

Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.

“Aren’t we?”

The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.

You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.

Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.

“I’m tired, Y/n.”

The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”

His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”

There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.

“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”

The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.

“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”

Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Because at least that would make sense.”

But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.

“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”

The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.

“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”

He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.

“I can’t keep doing that.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.

That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.

“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”

A beat. Then, softer—

“I want a divorce.”

No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.

*

Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.

The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.

Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.

You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.

Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.

But it came out uneven. Shallow.

“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.

Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.

Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.

There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?

It had to be.

Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—

But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.

Because in your mind, you were still trying.

You drove to the gallery on autopilot.

The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.

You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.

Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.

But then—

Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.

Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.

“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.

“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.

The question threw you off more than it should have.

“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”

His brows furrowed.

“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”

A pause.

Then—

“It’s been a week since you resigned.”

The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.

You stared at him.

“…What?”

Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.

“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”

Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”

He didn’t answer right away.

And that hesitation, that was worse.

“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s why you resigned.”

Something in your stomach dropped.

Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.

“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”

The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.

A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”

Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.

“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

They hung in the air—wrong.

Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.

Seungkwan froze.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.

“Again?” he asked quietly.

Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.

“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”

But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.

Again.

Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.

“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”

Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.

And that silence—

it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.

Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.

“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”

The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.

Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”

But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.

A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.

A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.

It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.

“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”

Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.

“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”

The world tilted.

“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.

“No, that’s not—no.”

But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.

Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.

The word hit harder than anything else.

Miscarried.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered..

Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.

“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”

You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.

“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”

Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”

That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.

“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”

You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.

There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.

You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.

Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.

Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.

Patient Name: Y/n.

Date: two weeks ago.

Your breath caught. And then, there it was.

Miscarriage.

The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.

Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.

Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.

“…No.”

It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?

*

You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.

Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.

The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.

How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.

You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.

You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?

The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—

Mingyu.

Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.

You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.

Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.

Your throat tightened slightly.

“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”

There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.

“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”

The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.

Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.

The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.

“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”

The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.

“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.

“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”

The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.

Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.

You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.

The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.

Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.

A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.

The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.

A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.

Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.

The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.

Red.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.

Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.

Then silence.

A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.

Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Another shift.

You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.

“Y/N!”

The world snapped back violently.

The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.

The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.

Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”

Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”

The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”

Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.

Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.

And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.

*

Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.

His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.

“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”

His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.

“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”

He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.

No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.

“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.

Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.

This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.

“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”

You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”

Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.

Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.

“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”

His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.

“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.

You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”

Mingyu froze.

“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”

But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?

His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?

His chest tightened.

“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”

You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”

Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.

But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.

And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.

“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”

The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.

You didn’t answer him. Not right away.

Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.

“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”

And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.

Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”

Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”

Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.

“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”

Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.

“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”

Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.

You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.

Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.

“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”

That did it.

His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.

“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”

Your grip on him only tightened.

“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”

Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.

Again.

The words hit him harder than anything else had.

Again.

His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.

He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.

“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”

You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.

*

The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.

You were inside. Unconscious.

Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.

And just like that, you were gone.

The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?

Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.

Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.

“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.

Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.

“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.

Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.

Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”

Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.

“She’s had episodes like this before.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.

“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”

Younger.

Mingyu’s stomach dropped. “How young?”

A pause. A long one.

“After high school,” your father said quietly.

Mingyu frowned, confusion deepening. “What happened?”

Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”

The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”

“She was assaulted.”

The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.

“…What?” The word barely left him.

Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”

Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.

“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”

Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.

“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”

“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.

Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.

“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.

Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”

Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.

And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.

His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.

“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”

Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.

Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.

His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.

Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.

“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”

“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”

Mingyu’s brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper. “When?”

Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”

Something in his chest dropped.

“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”

Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.

“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.

But days?

“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.

Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.

“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”

Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.

“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”

His chest tightened painfully.

“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.

“I need space.”

The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.

“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”

Mingyu’s breath caught.

“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”

Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”

Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.

“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.

Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”

Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.

Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.

It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.

“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”

Mingyu’s head snapped up.

“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”

His stomach dropped.

“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.

Mingyu froze.

“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.

His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.

Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.

“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”

Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.

Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.

And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.

*

You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.

You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.

It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.

Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.

At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.

And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.

So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.

Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.

And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.

You told yourself it was easier that way.

Safer.

If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.

But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.

You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.

You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.

The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.

Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.

You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.

And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.

*

Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.

“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.

The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.

You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?

“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”

She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.

You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.

“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”

The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.

“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.

Suji.

“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”

She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.

You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.

You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.

“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”

You paused mid-chew. You worked?

The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.

A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—

“Kim Mingyu.”

The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.

Suji froze slightly.

“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.

You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.

“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.

A small pause.

Then—

“My husband.”

The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.

Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.

Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.

My husband.

It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.

Name: Ji Y/N

Age: 56 years old

Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance

Guardian: —

Emergency Contact: —

Empty. All of it.

She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.

Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.

For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.

But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.

“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.

Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.

Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.

A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.

Suji went still.

“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.

Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.

She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.

Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.

And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.

Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.

Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.

Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.

Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.

Kim Mingyu.

*

The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.

And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.

Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.

Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.

He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.

Careless.

Cold.

He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.

“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.

You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.

“I know you,” you said softly.

Mingyu’s breath caught.

“My husband,” you added.

The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.

Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.

Mingyu swallowed.

“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.

You blinked.

“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—

A studio.

Raised voices.

His voice—

I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.

A paper in your hand.

The word divorce.

Your chest tightened—

And then it slipped.

Gone.

You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.

Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.

“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.

You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”

Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.

“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.

Mingyu stilled.

“What?” he asked.

Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.

I was scared.

I was hurting.

I didn’t understand what was happening to me.

I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.

Your breathing faltered slightly.

“I—” you started.

Mingyu leaned forward just a little.

For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.

“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.

His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.

You tried.

God, you tried.

“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”

Your voice cracked.

Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.

But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”

Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.

“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.

The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.

You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.

“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”

The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.

You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.

“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.

Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.

The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.

“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.

Your eyes lifted to him.

He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.

“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”

The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.

“…I think I did,” you said softly.

And somehow, that hurt him more.

Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.

“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.

You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”

When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.

“Goodbye, Mingyu.”

He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.

However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .

Since how long you've imagined him to know.

End.

[woongelaatin]

Genuinely so confused about the ending BUT DANG THIS HIT SO HARDDDD

[woonhakfeet]

to the ‘you’ of tomorrow. myung jaehyun |

(보이넥스트도어)

Pairing: interrogation captain !myung jaehyun x enemy soldier!reader.

Synopsis: you were always taught that fighting for your country was an honour. Applauds would await your return. Parades would testify of your success. You’d be a hero. But things don’t end up the way you thought. Finding yourself captured by the enemy’s hands, you quickly come to realise the reality of war. It’s ugly. It’s ruthless. It takes without asking. And there’s no certainty of tomorrow.

Word Count: 8.8k

Warnings: angst, violence, negative depictions of war, blood, bodily excrements, guns, torture ( tried not to go in detail ), deaths, signs of depression, war and all that unfortunately comes with it.

Note: this is a war AU set around the 20th century. Reader discretion is advised. Please read with precaution and take breaks if necessary. Remember this is a fictional piece, it is not a direct reference to Jaehyun or his personality.

*bold dialogue is Korean, and English is in normal writing.

The sky is dull. 

It’s been that way for months now. 

Ravens hover over heaps of bones and indistinguishable matter. The atmosphere is dry and humid at the same time, heavy with the scent of youthful loss. 

The air is still. Too still to be natural, too thick to breathe in normally. Thumps of footsteps. Echoes of gunshots. Choirs of agony. Death is prevalent.

You’re breathing heavy, lungs hampered by the unnatural amount of smoke and chemicals lingering in the sky, heart rate beating at an unprecedented rate. You wish you could give up your sense of smell right now. Rotting flesh, pools of blood, dried urine. 

The ear screeching sound of bombshells hitting organic ground can be heard from not too far. You stumble past piles of dismembered bodies and fallen comrades whilst trying to keep your balance. Every grenade acts as another obstacle to your mission. 

The ground shakes as another shell drops a couple of feet away from you. The soldier that was running alongside you disappears in an instant. The only thing remaining being one of his blown off shoes. 

You lurch over, holding your breath as you cup your mouth with your hands. You can feel the bile accumulating up you throat. The rifle you were given is slung across your body. You’re too scared to use it. 

Behind you, another fleet of bodies run with false patriotism. Their mouths open with shouts of victory but their eyes close as if they already lost the battle. 

For a second, you wonder what the objective of this whole thing even is. 

You’re running with no destination, straight into enemy territory. You wear a sorry excuse of a badge, devised under the label of ‘Training’ and drape the unfathomable weight of a nation as your cloak. 

Your shoes squelch further into the wet mud under your weight. A soldier trips next to you. 

Then, you see it. 

The hedge of the enemy’s base, a rough 800 metres away. If you managed to toss yourself over their wall, would your country praise your name to the heavens? Would they parade around the capital? Would they supply your sick mother with the rightful medication she needed? 

Your lashes flutter shut and you take a deep breath. 

You can do it. 

You don’t know what it was for, what reward awaited your success or what you would do when your feet touched enemy ground, but you’re near. That’s all that matters, right? That’s all the morning speeches rave on about. 

The nation would be proud of you. 

Of your bravery and sacrifice.

The sound of boots landing on soft soil captures your attention.

A young lad wearing the opposing uniform jumps out at you, seemingly out of nowhere, a long knife points directly towards you. 

You halt abruptly.

His hands are shaking, nostrils blaring in panic. You’re sure he’s never even held a knife in his entire life. 

He’s scared.

He hardly looks above 16 years of age. His foreign name tag, unbeknown to you, reads “Keonho” and you’re surprised that the enemy nation even bothered to plaster each foot soldier’s name on a given uniform when your own nation decided to allocate your  reserve team by numbers. 

“D-don’t move!”

You don’t understand him one bit, but you raise your hands in surrender anyway. 

“I said don’t move!” He repeats in distress, his spare hand searching for the gun in his holster. He finds it and points it at you as if unsure of his own action. He’s gritting his teeth, and his eyes are watery.

You say nothing, silently watching him.

Your quietness unnerves him all the more. His hands begin to sweat, arms lowering in hesitation. It seems like the both of you don’t know what to do, until a barrage of piercing gunshots plummet through him like he was made of yarn. 

His body jolts painfully at every shot and your eyes widen at the scene before you.

“What...” your voice is weak, you take a tentative step towards the body of the young lad.

“No—!”

“—What do you think you’re doing, 3-7-8?”

Your Sergeant wrenches you back by the collar, dragging you behind him as another shot cracks through the air like fire. He doesn’t even spare a glance towards the boy he shot, now on the muddled ground.

“H-he wasn’t going to shoot, Sergeant! I swear!” Your voice breaks, as you stubborn attempt to make sense of a situation beyond your years.

“And how are you so sure about that, 3-7-8.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. The field doesn’t care about what you think, it swallows up lives before a singular emotion can even break the surface. 

Your eyes travel around the scene at the speed of light.

Everything is too fast and too loud. 

You’re in a battlefield, surrounded by enemies, with no escape route and an even slimmer chance of survival. 

“If he hesitates, you shoot. If you hesitate—” Your Sergeant finally looks at you, eyes flat and devoid of any sympathy. “You die.” 

Cries and explosives litter the sound-waves, yet the most traumatising sound of all is the way your Sergeant’s voice carries itself with such cold truth.

He was right. 

You didn’t know if the boy was going to shoot or not. The Serge had a fleshed out reason to shoot the enemy down. You could’ve died or even worse, caused someone else’s death by your recklessness.

You bite down on your tongue, hard. 

He was right…but you still want to believe the boy wouldn’t have taken the shot. 

Your mouth’s tastebuds swim in a metallic red. 

The Sergeant is long gone, moving forward without sparing you a singular, added glance.

The foreigner’s chest gently rises and falls. He is still alive, barely. His eyes are starting to roll to the back of his head. His breathing is slow. 

You crouch near his body, holding his hands to share some last bit of warmth. You know it won’t bring him any comfort, seeing the enemy’s face staring down blankly above him, but you hope it aids to put your own mind at ease. Even if it’s only by a fraction. That at least, you tried. 

You feel the faintest squeeze of your hand. 

You hold back the bloodcurdling scream at the back of your throat, a sole tear streaks down your face before you wipe it like it was never there.

His hand goes limp in yours. 

You hate this. 

Finally deciding to pick up your rifle, you rub your eyes with your dirty sleeve and start running again.

Run. Dodge. Shoot. Lay low.

Run. Dodge. Get shot. Shoot back.

You can’t move your arm. You’re sure that if anymore time goes by, it will need to get amputated. 

You run. 

Another shot.

You can’t feel your dominant leg. 

Limp. Fail to dodge. Shoot. Shoot some more.

Your flesh rips as another tiny bullet ricochets through the same leg.

You plummet to the ground. You’re down. You’re weak. You’re close.

200 metres, give or take. 

Your body has refused to continue operating correctly, skin collecting droplets of cold sweat, lungs burning, eyes stinging. 

Not too far behind you, someone calls your name. Not a number, not a title. Your real name. The sound is muffled. You keep crawling.

Roughly 190 metres. You’re so close.

The shout of your name. Again. This time, you halt your crawling and look back.

Schmidt, a young and chubby orphan boy, no more than 13 years of age, is hopping towards you. 

You remember, you met him on the first day. He was crying up a storm whilst stashing his face with your rations. 

It was fine. 

You weren’t hungry anyway. 

You were both pulled into serving the force outside of your will and without a lick of consent. Mainly because he’s simply a boy on the streets, and you’re a sole seed of a sickly woman.

Like stealing candy from a child, only a fool would pass up such an easy opportunity to recruit extras. 

From that day onwards, as he cried about wanting to escape whilst rubbing his slimy snot on your arm, you swore on your life you’d protect him. 

He’s only little. The day he shook like a leaf during the first endurance test, you could practically see him giving up the ghost. 

You promised you’d make it out alive together and bake him biscuits as a reward for serving the nation. You couldn’t even bake. But you’d try just about anything for the likes of him. You consider him as a younger brother. 

You’d die for him.

“[name], please, answer me!” His weakened body drops next to you, hands scavenging your face to check for consciousness. 

You groan in pain at the contact of his freezing hands.

Breathing in a heavy sigh of relief, Schmidt turns to face the grey sky, his battered back to the ground.

“Thank God. I thought you were dead!” 

You blink at him, mouth too dry to speak. The both of you lie there, listening to the sounds of hell on Earth. Though that doesn’t last long. 

Suddenly, a veil of silence engulfs you. The gunshots stop and the sound of men retreats further and further away from the two of you.

You swallow a lump in your throat.

Too quiet.

Sharing a look of concern, you both you go still. Schmidt is starting to break into a cold sweat and you can only pray that he gets your signal to play dead. 

He doesn’t.

A beat passes before the little boy starts to move closer towards you, he throws your injured arm over his shoulders and grunts as he attempts to lift up your weight. You hiss in pain. 

“Schmidt, you idiot. Let me go!” 

But Schmidt is just a naïve young lad trying to save the only soul he’s ever grown to know and love. 

With the little strength remaining in him, he hauls your weight up. You lean heavily against him, and for a second he staggers, boots sliding in the muck. But he steadies himself just in time.

“I won’t let you die!” He whisper-shouts heroically. His abdomen is practically cut open in half, and you only just take notice of the sheer amount of life that is draining out of him. His wet and darkened tunic uncomfortably sticks to your uniform. His helmet, much too large for his small head, slips past his eyes in his struggle to get you moving.

The blood continues to drip off his body.

You try to pry yourself off  of him. He holds you tighter. With a limp every step, he manages to get the two of you going. 

“Schmidt, stop. Put me down, you bloody fool!” he grips you tighter. 

There’s no more men on the field. 

Your whole team has abandoned the two of you, they don’t bother to check for any survivors. 

Your ankle twists and you hash out a curse. 

“Almost there!” Schmidt tries to encourage from beside you. He looks up at you, a delirious, wide-eyed grin splitting his muddy face. You know darn well that you’re no where near your base, but you keep quiet. 

Schmidt beams up at your taller form in glee. “When we get back…we’ll have a proper fry-up, yeah? And a nice cup of hot, steaming coff—”

A single bullet whizzes past, a sharp thwip that cuts the air between you like lightening. Instinct takes over; you throw your weight down, dragging the boy into a crouch to shield him. You sink to duck your head, wary of any further rounds incoming. 

“Get down!” you snarl, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Another round of bullets skyrocket through the air. You’re disoriented, the grey sky spinning above you. You shake his shoulder, your voice rising in panic. 

“Schmidt! We need to move now or we’re dead!” 

Are you surrounded? The sounds circle you like a snake. You hear rounds of fire coming from here, there and nowhere all at once. You blink away the blurriness around your outer vision. Your head is aching in raw agony.

“Blast it! Where are they coming from?”

You turn your head like a manic, arms still shielding the boy. 

He’s ever so still within your hold, and you finally take the time to shake him back into his senses.

He doesn’t respond.

“Schmidt, pull yourself together! We need to get out of…” your words halt in your throat to a deafening stop. 

Before you, a limp Schmidt is staring up at you, lifeless. His hands which were clutching at the fabric of your uniform hang half loose. His fingers still lightly curl around your arms but slowly start to sink into the mud like melted ice. 

He never let go.

“S-Schmidt?” You bluntly shake him with all your might. 

“Schmidt! Wake up, this isn’t funny!” 

He doesn’t move. 

You grab his hands. Their heat is already being stolen by the cold soil below. 

“…Schmidt…” you call out to him quietly. If you say it any louder, you’re afraid he won’t answer. 

“Hey,” you slowly lower him flat on the ground, brush off some of his stray strands, and lift his oversized helmet. 

“Come on, buddy. Stop playing games.” 

Your vision starts to blur. You can feel the hot tears welling up. You fight against them.

“Schmidt, GET UP!” You strike his chest harshly. The hollow, thudding sound echoes in the sullen silence of the field.

You break into an uncontrollable sob. 

The bullets dance around you like haunted ballerinas.

“Please, please, just PLEASE!” 

Shaking hands grab a fistful of the dead boy’s jacket. His number tag no longer visible due to the sheer amount of blood that covers it. Your eyes stay put on his face, insisting to ignore the round gash in his heart from the bullet exiting his body. 

You collapse on top of him, clinging on to what little breath of life is left in him. 

“We can go back,” you mumble into the fabric. “I’ll bake those biscuits, Schmidt. I promise. I’ll even nick the Colonel’s cocoa powder and mix it in your coffee, just the way you like it. I’ll do it all right now, just... just look at me.” 

He doesn’t look at you, and he doesn’t respond.

Of course he doesn’t. 

The dead can’t talk.

Minutes go by and you just stay there, right next to him, hands tightly squishing his hands in delusional hope that he’d squeeze yours right back.

The sky darkens.  

It’s so cold that the water around the corner of your eyes has turned into crackling icicles.

Your ears block out the noise pollution around you. Or perhaps the bullets stopped a while ago. You don’t know. You don’t care about anything right now. Your eyes have long dried out, so you opt to close them instead. You wish it all to be a bad dream. You lie so still that one would think you’re already dead. 

Maybe you are. Despite the beating drum in your chest, you feel nothing. 

You probably are dying out. You can feel it. The numbness is travelling from your wounds and into your finger tips. That, or it’s the cold. Your awareness is too broken to tell.

You have no strength to feel sorry for yourself.

“Over here!” 

A foreign voice from afar lulls you to painfully peel your eyes open. A strong flash of light breaks through the darkness of the night. It blinds you.

You wince.

It’s them.

You slowly reach for your rifle. Teeth baring with animalistic loathing. A single thought in your mind. Empty out the magazine and kill them all.

They murdered Schmidt.

Before you can even find the trigger, something cold and strong slams into the side of your head— 

Everything goes black.

A flame sparks to life.

A young man shields a lighter with his hand, the glow flickering across his features as he brings it to the tip of a cigarette. He inhales. The end burns a dull orange. Smoke curls into the still air.

He exhales slowly, like he has the leisure of time.

Jaehyun hates cigars.

He takes another puff, his face grimacing in displeasure at the taste.

It’s the only thing that warms you up on a night like this one. 

His fingers adamantly scroll through a report of pages. His steps walk him to stand in front of an old, bolted door. One of his underlings salutes him stiffly. 

“At ease.”

There’s a delicate scent of ground beans that hangs in the air. Jaehyun glances over at the hidden cup of coffee behind the junior soldier’s back. 

Coffee here can only be described as rancid. 

Jaehyun hates the taste of coffee.

Without another word, he unlocks the door to the interrogation room and walks in.

Slouched on the table is the body of an enemy combatant. They’re battered and bruised, and dang near dead. 

Jaehyun fights the urge to scowl and walk right out of the room. 

He hates his job too.

Pulling the chair on the opposite side of the lump of body before him, Jaehyun takes a seat. His face shows no particular emotion as he waits for the person to get up.

“Open your eyes.” It’s an order, and you don’t recognise it.

“I know you’re awake.” 

You don’t move.

Your mind still re-runs the scene that just played out a few hours ago. You can still feel his body holding yours. Your body stays slack against the table, breath slow and shallow, as if playing dead might somehow carry over from the battlefield. As if stillness could make you disappear.

“Do you speak English?”

The mystery guy asks, and you flinch at the familiarity of the language that rolls off his tongue with his distinct accent.

You still don’t move. 

The measly yellow light of the room creates forms of shadows over you. 

Jaehyun leans over the table, he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He isn’t getting anywhere with this, as expected.

“I can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.” He says more to himself than to you. His voice is cold when he talks. Like every other soldier you’ve ever met.

“You killed him.” You whisper out.

You have nothing left. No motivation to keep going. No one to go back to. No happiness to chase. Solely the deep scars that litter your mind like a plague. 

Jaehyun freezes at the sound of your voice. He still hasn’t caught a glimpse of your face. Your pathetic utterance leaves him looking at you in silence. 

He didn’t know what to say.

After a moment, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry.” He says it quietly, the words measured, careful—like something he’s said before, to someone else, in a room that looked just like this one.

You don’t lift your head.

The apology sits between you, hollow and weightless. He doesn’t know who you’re talking about. He doesn’t care to ask. Maybe he has learned not to.

Jaehyun wordlessly nods once.

Getting up from his seat, he heads for the door. “I’ll leave you be for the night.” 

The door opens with a click, then closes with a soft thud. 

You close your eyes, waiting to eventually fall asleep, and hopefully never wake up again.

Except you do. 

The same guy from yesterday is sitting in front of you. 

You can tell because his voice is the exact same gruff tone that you remember hearing yesterday. Boyish and mature all together, he speaks like he has 60 years behind him.

He brought you a loaf of bread, a warm cup of coffee and a suspiciously fake smile. 

You don’t touch the bread and only stare longingly at the coffee. 

The man clears his throat. He introduces himself as Myung Jaehyun but insists you just call him “Jaehyun” as it would be easier for you to say.

Your lips don’t even move to form a vowel. It’s likely you’ll never utter his name to him anyway. He understands. 

“Aren’t you going to drink your coffee? We have a long day ahead of us, today.” He purposefully leaves out the details of what he means, his lack of vocabulary also playing a part in his limited communication.

You wordlessly blink down at the cup. 

A whole minute passes by and Jaehyun is sure that he’s not going to get an answer from you, until you decide to speak up, just above a breath.

“I don’t like coffee.”  The words come out dry and haggard, barely above a whisper, your throat still raw from disuse.

Jaehyun’s brows lift just slightly, enough to show he wasn’t expecting that, but not enough for you to take notice.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than before, something sparks behind it.

“So you can talk.” He says blandly.

You stay quiet. 

A grounded knock is heard, and the door to the interrogation room props open, revealing a mature man. 

A variety of achievements rest on his breast pocket, back straight, eyes alert. His hat is different and it’s beyond obvious that he’s of a much higher ranking than Jaehyun. 

His face is stoic, lines of stress hang tightly on his face, he glares down at you like you’re the scum of the Earth.

You have a feeling you aren’t coming out of this alive. 

Jaehyun hurries to stand behind the wooden chair he was earlier sitting on. He salutes promptly, face morphing into an expressionless display of respect. 

“Colonel.” He simply acknowledges, and the Colonel gives a brief nod back. 

“I’ll take it from here, Captain.” 

Jaehyun stills. The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the slight tightening of his shoulders, the way his posture sharpens a fraction too late.

“But Sir, I’ve only just begun—”

The Colonel steps closer, cutting him off with his mere presence, his dominance swarms the small room, making it hard to breathe.

“Are you questioning my authority?” The Colonel growls out, he brings his face directly in front of Jaehyun, baring his teeth. They’re so close that their noses are a seed away from touching. 

“No, Sir!” Jaehyun steels. 

“Good. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

The last thing Jaehyun saw before the door cried to a close, was a bag full of instruments being placed on the table, and your beady eyes never leaving his sight.

The next day is here. 

You look unrecognisable.

What was meant to be described as ‘questioning’ on paper certainly resembles the likeness of torturing, to you.

You give a humourless scoff. 

The Colonel lands another kick to the stomach, sending you flying, back crashing against the stone wall. 

You exasperate a puff of air, lurching forward to dispel the blood that accumulated in your mouth. 

The table is thrown to the side and the Colonel picks up the wooden chair that you once sat on. 

“Your silence won’t save you.” 

His voice is level. Unhurried. Like this is routine.

He looks down at you—not with anger, not even with frustration—but with something far worse.

Indifference.

Like your fate has already been sealed, and he’s simply carrying it out. His face is eerily calm when he raises the chair, ready to bash it against your body. 

Your eyes catch the Captain’s. 

He’s at the back of the room, observing everything. His hands are neatly behind his back, posture stiff and in complete surrender to his duty.

 When your eyes meet, nothing happens.

No pause, no flicker, just the faintest glint that passes over you without landing.

Schmidt used to talk endlessly about the romance books he somehow got his hands on—worn out copies of tales where enemies clash, banter, and steal moments from each other, but somehow the world always pulls them together. 

He believed it all, like magic or secret wishes whispered to the stars. That even if people fell out, even if they tried to ignore it, something would always draw them closer, and they’d feel it instantly. It’d be like sunlight slipping through an attic window, dust motes swirling in the quiet, impossible not to notice.

This isn’t that.

Jaehyun looks straight past you like you’re not there. His gaze slides over your face, your shoulders, your wounds, and lands somewhere beyond, as if you are just another piece of furniture in the room. 

You almost want to laugh at yourself for ever thinking, even for a heartbeat yesterday, that his apology might have meant something.

“I hate repeating myself,” you look back at the Colonel when you hear the sound of your language being spoken. 

Your chest is rising and falling with painful effort, the corner of your lip is completely busted and you have an ugly black eye forming. 

The Colonel blankly looks at you, waiting for an answer, but you only laugh in mockery in his face. Spitting out a bloodied and loose tooth that rings off his combat boots, you smirk teasingly. 

“F*ck you.” 

The chair comes swinging with momentum. The impact is as expected. 

Little components of the chair sprinkle off like dust, a few splinted parts stick to your skin like glue, drawing out trickles of red. 

You hiss in a breath. 

“You hit like a b*tch!” You burst out in a manic chuckle and the Colonel’s eye twitches in vexation.  

He promptly moves to the bag full of instruments at the corner of the room and plucks out a pocket knife. 

You “ooo” like a child at the sight of the weapon, undermining his threat.

Grabbing your jaw in his much larger hands with excessive force, he nearly slashes your throat off then and there but the door to the room suddenly bursts open with no warning. 

“Colonel, we have a problem!” 

Time stops and nobody moves for a good 5 seconds. Then, the Colonel tsks. He roughly throws your face to the side and stands to his full height. 

“You better have what I want by our next meeting.” 

With one last look of pure hatred, he walks out following the panicked subordinate. 

As soon as he leaves, your limbs begin to shake uncontrollably. You drop to the ground entirely, your body having no strength to sustain a seated position. 

Your lungs hurt. 

You’re still recuperating from your gun wounds, yet alone the damage dealt by the maniac. 

Whimpering out in excruciating pain, you wriggle on the floor in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. You eventually go with lying straight on your back. You stare at the ceiling. 

You hope this will all end soon. Maybe, if you aggravate the Colonel enough, he’ll put a solid bullet through your skull. 

You’re not valuable enough for your squadron to care for. You’re sure they’re not coming to get you. They probably thought you’re already dead. 

You wish you were.

Silently, you momentarily close your eyes. 

You wonder beyond the boundaries of reality. You wonder if, in another alternate universe, you and Schmidt would still meet, with no pain involved this time. If you would be living on coffee meshed with cocoa powder and indulging on an ungodly amount of sweet treats. You wonder if your mother would have been well enough to walk on the grassy field behind your cottage. 

The sound of movement. 

Oh.

Your eyes lazily peel open and you slowly turn your head towards the sound. 

At the back of the room, in the dark of the ceiling’s shadows, he’s still there. 

The Captain.

Does he enjoy seeing people get tortured? Perhaps it’s something that brings him a pathetic sense of authority and joy. 

You blink at him. 

He doesn’t look away. 

The corner of his lips strain ever so noticeably. 

A beat passes and neither of you move, each basking in the unwelcome presence of the other. 

For a moment, it looks like he might step forward. It’s small. Barely there. A laughably small hesitation that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

Then it’s gone.

He turns sharply, boots echoing against the floor as he walks out without another glance.

You scoff in disbelief.

The routine goes as follows: you wake up to the sound of the door creaking open, you get beaten to an absolute pulp before hearing any questions leave the Colonel’s lips, and then you’re left to share this awkward silence between you and the Captain.

You wonder if he’s even human. At least the Colonel wears his hatred on his sleeve, but the Captain? He just stands there and does a load of nothing.

It’s been around a week. You refuse to eat any food and tentatively sip the water that they occasionally provide you. You have no idea how the war is progressing on the outside.

You don’t care.

Your body is so malnourished that you’re beginning to have heart palpitations and you’re prone to experiencing weird hallucinations here and there. Lovely.

You haven’t seen the Colonel much for the rest of the week. He sends his lackeys to interrogate you beat you instead. 

Seems like he can’t get enough of you. 

A change of face truly does help the immersion. He’s starting to become creative with his torture too. Honestly, you’re shocked you haven’t dropped dead.

The Captain still comes in every day, though. Still silent. Still hesitant. It’s a waste of time in your eyes; you wonder what he’s thinking.

Today, he stands in a corner. His stance isn’t as guarded, but it’s still reserved. He’s watching you closely. There’s no one else in the room.

Perhaps it’s your day off, you’re not sure.

You raise your busted eyebrow and gesture towards the chair across from you, jokingly.

“If you’re going to stare, at least do it whilst sitting down.” You say like you’re talking to a friend.

For the first time in what seems like forever, you see him blink. A sense of consideration etches itself across his mind.

You wait, and he doesn’t disappoint. 

At first, you’re surprised he actually takes your offer, but then your mind eases into a still. Is he going to hurt you too? Like everyone else that enters this room?

You instinctively brace for impact when he’s but a few inches away from you. He notices, but makes no sign of reaching for you. Instead, he silently takes the seat you pointed to.

A few minutes go by with just the two of you in the room, sitting across from each other. 

Your eyes bounce around the environment, looking for something interesting to invest your attention in, but they keep coming back to him. 

Like always, he’s already studying you. He doesn’t look at your injuries the way the other soldiers do. His gaze skirts around the worst of it, like he’s pretending it isn’t there, or maybe like he can’t quite bring himself to stare.

He also doesn’t move much. 

You think of him as a stickler. A dog’s bone, as stiff as a tree trunk in June. He must be fun at gatherings.

Your thoughts pull a short, quiet laugh out of you, and his eyes widen by a fraction.

You pull yourself together abruptly.

“Aren’t you going to ask any questions, like the others?” you randomly ask.

To his surprise, you’re being rather talkative—a stark contrast from the first few days he encountered you.

He gazes at you quietly, then shakes his head no.

“I am not authorised to.”

You lean back on your chair, completely clueless to what he just said. Your eyes look for his as you assess his tone of voice to decipher what his phrase could’ve meant.

You forgot how he sounded. 

He hadn’t uttered a single word from the first day you met. He speaks low and careful. His boyish nature circles each syllable, then gets lost to unprecedented stress and maturity halfway through each word.

“I thought you spoke English?” you say more like it’s a question, and his expressionless eyes blink back at you with no particular offence.

He moves his fingers to pinch at the air.

“A little,” he says in a way you think is mildly endearing and (though you’d never admit it) kind of cute.

You look at him quizzically.

“Do you like coffee?” you ask casually. 

He thinks for a bit. “No. Not really, it tastes…” without finding the right words, he opts to stick his tongue out whilst grimacing. 

You look at him for a second, then lightly snort. He blinks in slight embarrassment, but recovers relatively quickly.

“I once knew someone that hated coffee too.” You look down at your restless hands. He’s attentively listening. He always is.

“He only ever drank it if mixed with cocoa. It became his favourite drink after that.”

You raise your head to spare him a look. 

“Perhaps you’ll like it better that way too.”

He silently thinks, then shrugs. Maybe he’ll try it out someday. But cocoa was so rare to find, he wonders how you even got your hands on it in the first place.

Oddly enough, the knot in the atmosphere begins to unravel the more your mostly one-sided conversation goes on.

You tell him stories. 

He never asks, but you do so anyway. 

You tell him your origin. About the life you had before the war, albeit quite plain and unimaginative. 

You tell him about Schmidt, about the gruelling hours of training, about the sleepless nights and the nightmares that stalk you when you do manage to fall into slumber’s arms. 

You tell him about your mother, about the life you wish you had. About the dreams of freedom you reach out for in your sleep. 

About the pride you have to have for a country that sees you as nothing but a number. 

You tell him everything he doesn’t wish to know, and leave out all he needs to know.

As you talk, you see the glint in his eyes grow. A sliver of humanity, a spark of relatability. It escapes him before he can capture it and lock it back into the cold cages of his role.

At some point, you realise he’s not just listening but he remembers. The way his eyes lift a pinch before you mention your Schmidt again, like he’s already expecting it. Like he’s piecing you together slowly, day by day.

He didn’t ask, but he still sat and listened like he did. Night after night.

Didn’t make it appear like it affected him, but his lips flattened in a thin line like it did. Day after day.

After all, you are just like him. Forced to fulfil a burden much too heavy for your human body to carry. 

The burden that weights a nation, ready to crumple at the very sound of a rifle. He may have decided to join by his own will, but this was not the path he expected to be walking.

You’re both helpless pawns in a game you never had the knowledge of starting.

The days routinely end with your rambling, and for some strange reason, you feel better after trauma-dumping your own problems onto an unrelated individual. 

Perhaps the therapeutic conversations led you to see him in a different light, but when you look at Jaehyun now, you see an individual much closer to you than you initially thought. 

Maybe not in relation, hardly physically either, but you share a sense of self that no one else in this enemy camp exemplifies.

He never says anything. You don’t expect him to.

The silence comforts you, instead.

A couple of days go by after that. Simple days. Repetitive days. Days that sting like thorns on raw skin.

Jaehyun comes in. Sometimes he stays long, other times he reluctantly leaves after a few measly minutes, called by one of his subordinates.

When he thinks you’re not looking, his fingers twitch faintly at his side, like he’s about to reach out for something, before he stops himself. 

You’re not sure when, but eventually, he starts migrating closer and closer to the table. When he’s feeling bold, he carefully lifts the chair from under the table and sits across from you, wordlessly looking over your stature. When he’s feeling adventurous, he utters broken sentences, pushing his English skills to the limit. 

It’s weird. It’s strange. It’s warm.

He makes it better. Not by much, not in a way you can afford to rely on, but you start finding yourself waiting for the familiar sound of his heavy footsteps over anyone else’s.

Though, of course, you’re still suffering. You’re still trapped inside enemy quarters. You’re still barely living.

But somewhere along the way, he starts to make it bearable.

Not enough to save you. You still wish for them to end it quickly. A single bullet to the temple would suffice. You still have nothing left, not one drop of motivation to serve the country, nor the bravery to walk out of this enemy camp alive. You just can’t.

You’re still young, yet you feel like you’ve lived through every ugly thing a person could possibly endure. Perhaps you’re being overdramatic, like your Sergeant used to say when you complained about a dislocated shoulder during training that one time. But your unresponsive leg would beg to differ. The numbness is travelling up to your chest now. You’re sure you have the next two days, max. That’s you being optimistic.

And still, you find yourself listening for him.

The silence between you has changed. It doesn’t press in as hard anymore when he’s there. Without meaning to, you start measuring the day by him. 

By how long he stays, by whether he comes back at all. Like a window left slightly open, the air in the room doesn’t feel as desperately suffocating anymore.

The wooden door squeals open with unrest.

You raise your head from where it was nested between your crossed arms.

A pair of footsteps follow the click of authoritative boots. The chair across from you screeches as it’s moved away from under the table. 

A person sits on it. 

Their hand gently places a small revolver in the middle of the table. They comfortably lean back on their seat, their fingers go to fix the collar of their shirt like it’s another normal evening.

You wordlessly stare at the gun in front of you.

“Pretty isn’t she?” the Colonel speaks up from his seat. His words are laced with an unsettling glee.

Jaehyun, who entered with him, moves to the side of the room in silence. His hands are clasped in front of him, dark eyes rooted to the ground.

For the first time, he’s not looking your way.

An ugly feeling blooms at the pit of your stomach.

“Oh,” the Colonel gives a short chortle. 

“I forgot, you maggots use English.” He mocks. His eyes crinkle in amusement, and you shudder at witnessing his sadistic smile for the first time.

Your eyes move to notice Jaehyun just a few strides behind the Colonel. He looks mildly nervous, and you have the right mind to believe that the meeting today is likely not to end well. 

You look back at the Colonel. He’s already assessing you like you’re easy to read. Nothing but an open book.

“It looks like you’re well acquainted with the Captain.” He raises a falsely impressed brow and briefly turns half his body to nod to Jaehyun like he just told an inside joke. 

You watch him carefully, palms starting to sweat.

“Don’t think I’ve yet to notice your lingering presence in this room, Captain.”

The Colonel says whilst looking at you, and your eyebrows furrow at the lack of understanding. For some odd reason, it feels like he isn’t speaking to you anymore.

Jaehyun stills in his position.

The Colonel smirks, orbs still playfully piercing through yours like you’re below the privilege of existence itself.

“Don’t worry, Captain.” His side smile drops in the blink of an eye, a dangerously plain expression replaces it as he finishes. 

“You won’t have to linger much longer.”

You blink in confusion, your hands balling into fists at the strange sensation in the air. The atmosphere grows dark and heavy, almost visible.

“Captain, pick up the gun.”

Your eyes widen at the words that leave the Colonel’s lips. You repeatedly glance between Jaehyun, who has yet to move, and the Colonel before you.

“W-what?” Jaehyun asks in disbelief, his body arching forward, hands clasping tighter. His eyes drill into the back of the Colonel’s eyes, refusing to find yours.

The Colonel sighs in frustration, scratching his head with little interest. His head dips lazily as he stays silent for a second.

“Why does everyone keep making me repeat myself these days, HUH?!” His hand slams against the tabletop with such force that you physically jump in your seat.

“Are you deaf?” He says.

“Pick. It. Up.” He stretches each word with a haunting tone.

He turns to you. “You’re not useful to us. I’m sure you knew this from the start.” He says in English, and your blood runs cold at the realisation.

The Colonel looks at you quietly. “Where’s the pride you loved to display earlier?” He fights to swallow a laugh, finding the situation hilarious. Scoffing in displeasure, he utters a mix of foreign curses, then switches them to English once they become more targeted.

“You pests are so annoying. Just a waste of air.” He leans closer to your face. “If you knew you were this useless from the start, why didn’t you just say so? I would’ve killed you sooner.” 

His eyes trace your injuries, heartlessly. His finger outstretches to dig into a bullet wound in your limb. You bite back a scream. 

“I’ll give you one last chance. We have an infirmary right next door.” He offers silently. You can feel his breath fanning your face.

You know it’s a lie. What’s more, you were a mere reserve. All you ever got told was to run into the battleground and shoot like your life depended on it. 

Your words meant squat. 

Jaehyun takes a step forward, one arm shakily lifting to reach out for you. He swallows hard as he finally peers at you. 

His eyes search yours.

If you could give them anything, anything even mildly useful, maybe they’d let you live.

No.

He’ll make sure of that. He’ll take you under his wing himself; he’ll even deliver you back to the opposition at the risk of his life, if he has to. 

His fingers curl in on themselves as his nails dig into the palms of his hands, drawing trickles of blood.

Just please, say something.

Anything.

His eyes widen in urgency as they catch yours. 

You calmly study his face with care: the colour of his hair strands that fall to frame his face, the gentle gloss of his soft eyes from the tears that are starting to accumulate in his waterline, the way his nose slopes delicately, the way his lips part in worry.

You can practically hear his low and raspy voice in your head, begging you to give them something, even if it’s made up. The invisible connection between the two of you shakes with unspoken insecurity. 

You hold your breath as you mouth an “it’s okay” his way, knowing very well that it would do little to comfort him.

You always do this.

It seems like you are prone to leave a trail of suffering wherever you go, whether dead or alive.

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head lightly.

The Colonel’s eyes fill with rage.

“You’re laughing?” His natural Korean tongue slips. He stands up harshly, the chair beneath him crying out with a squawk at the abrupt movement. He circles the table to stand above you, intimidatingly.

“Your people disgust me.” He kicks you off your chair and you drop with a thud like a sack of bones.

“Ruining our nation.” kick.

“Killing our people—” another kick.

“I hate people like you the most. Hypocritical,” he hits you across the face. 

“Prideful,” he slams your head against the concrete and your skin opens up a ridiculously large gash, blood spewing out like a dam. 

“Filthy beyond belief!” He picks you up by your dirty rags and yanks your body, throwing you against the wall. You hit it with a splat, breath ripped out of your lungs, bones crushed, skin peeled. 

You fall like a fly, whimpering helplessly on the floor. You hug your chest. Surely, broken ribs are present. You shut your eyes in pain.

The Colonel heaves a breath, a bead of sweat forming near his temple. He turns to a paled Jaehyun. “Finish it. I don’t wish to get my hands more filthy than they are.”He says as he lets out a spit on your crumpled face. You shudder at the impact.

Jaehyun silently watches. His feet are glued to the ground. His heart is beating faster than he ever thinks it has.

The Colonel turns to face Jaehyun at the lack of movement.

He’s frozen.

“Useless.” He spites.  “We’ll deal with you later, Captain.”

Making haste towards the gun himself, the Colonel aggressively shoves Jaehyun to the side with enough force to throw him off his balance. 

He staggers against the wall as he watches the Colonel wrap his fingers around the cold steel.

“W-w-wait, please—” he breathlessly whispers, body stumbling to the Colonel’s side, but the older man only shoves him harder. Jaehyun’s back connects with the wall, shoulder banging against the surface with a small crack.

Loading the barrel, the Colonel snaps the gun shut with a satisfying click. Taking one last long look at you, he crouches to aim the gun straight at your face. Cold steel rests directly against your forehead.

You manage the strength to find where Jaehyun is, already knowing where he usually stands. He’s still in the same corner, crouching, body much nearer to you than usual. He’s crying. 

Your, eyes bore into his.

You give a smile, mouth so bloodied there is little to no distinction between the usual slight yellow tint of your teeth and the red liquid.

Unlike the notion of seeing your life flash before your eyes, the moment is distastefully silent. Your mind scrambles to hold onto a last, significant fragment.

As your eyes stare past the pistol and into Jaehyun’s glistening ones, you catch it. Not a fond memory. Not a prominent thought.

Simply put, it’s the only thing that would make your life seem like it was, at least, worth a respectable sacrifice.

Duty.

Like a moth to a flame, your mind can’t grasp anything but that. The only thing you were truly ever taught. 

Not how to hold or shoot a gun—you learned that yourself. Not how to survive when rations ran low. You learned that the hard way. And certainly not how to survive an enemy combatant. You’re about to die by the hands of one. But duty… that’s something you were ingrained with, day in and day out, to the grave with pride and patriotism.

And so, as the last curse simmers out of the Colonel’s lips and hangs amongst the cold, frosty room, you release your last breath and declare your last call. 

You’ve never said his name, you’re surprised you even remember it. You’re not sure you’ll say it right, but you speak anyway.

“Jaehyun.” You say his name carefully, almost like a question. Mind still wary enough to wish to pronounce his name right.

“Thank you, and…. I’m sorry.” You speak with a lifted cadence, your words languidly tumbling off your tongue with unacknowledged warmth.

You say sorry like you mean it. Like it hurts. Because it does. 

Your heart opened to the young man that spent days silently observing you like you were an assignment. 

Your heart opened up to the idea that maybe not all the enemy soldiers are evil as you were taught, because Jaehyun isn’t so bad. He isn’t like the rest.

Your heart… beats one more thump as a last farewell to your mother, to Schmidt. 

To Jaehyun.

And then, with a sudden click and a resounding bang, the world collides into nothing.

You’re on the floor, laying flat. Your body oozing out pools of blood. Your head is cold against the ground. Your lifeless eyes still on Jaehyun. The corner of your lips are faintly lifted.

You’re free.

You’re free… but he isn’t.

Myung Jaehyun stares blankly at your stone body. Not as a Captain. Not as the leader of a small troop. Not as an enemy to your kind. Just as Myung Jaehyun.

Something small, hidden and real cracks within him. A fragile ‘something’ that he can’t quite name. A ‘something’ that you suddenly took away with you.

A young man who’s been conditioned to think and act accordingly is now shaken at the sight of the exact same thing he has been trained to witness.

His head pounds, screeching in agony, his eyes blink repeatedly, his body shakes as he breathes. 

He yearns to reach out a hand to your bruised and bloodied one that sits limply on the floor, fingernails missing from past torture sessions. 

You’re there, growing colder and colder on the ground, and he can’t do anything to reverse it. He’s helpless. He’s hopeless. He’s weak.

His Colonel mumbles profanities under his breath, expressing his distaste at such a worthless endeavour. It was all a waste of time, he says, as he leaves the room, the door closing with a bang that resonates like the shot that split through your skull.

Jaehyun feels sick to his stomach.

Though a waste of time to others, to Jaehyun, it is all the time he willingly wishes to remember ever since joining the military. 

The only moment he was pried out of the autopilot mode he constantly operates in, the only moment something felt real and warmer than the cheap cigarette he uses to sustain his body heat with. 

He lets out a strangled sound of anguish, refusing to take a step near your body out of fear of accepting another person’s death like it is the equivalent of putting on clothes.

This isn’t normal. He can’t keep serving here. Not like this. This isn’t what he signed up for. This isn’t how it was meant to end.

He looks up at the ceiling, eyes dead and eyelids hanging low. He really can’t do this much longer. His lids heavily droop to a close, engulfing him into a temporary safe-keep of darkness, where nothing could give him hope, and nothing could equally take it away.

Yet, as always, the silence prevails, but for mere seconds.

The door cracks open.

A fellow young and inexperienced soldier peeks his head in nervously. His eyes are naïve and his meek lips form an unsure line.

His name tag reads Martin.

Shyly, the young lad looks around the room only for his orbs to drain in horror once seeing the body at the end of the room. He stills.

The moment doesn’t break, and Jaehyun doesn’t find the willingness to interrupt the silence. Instead, he waits. 

The younger eventually finds the words to speak.

“E-erm, S-s-sir your p-presence is… requested at… the strategy office…” the young soldier’s words die down, eyes still on the body, no sign of the initial spark and excitement that a newbie holds. Not anymore.

Nothing but the harsh reality of war awaits those who step inside it.

The younger lad, Martin, rushes to excuses himself without another word, completely ignoring all protocol and hierarchy etiquette.

Jaehyun finally opens his eyes, a robotic calm to his voice as he enters autopilot mode again.

The same dreaded persona that he’s been stuck in for the past four years. The air is cold and frozen. Time leaps past the grasp of his fingers despite his desperate efforts.

Once again, as he stands near the middle of the room, he’s not Myung Jaehyun. He’s not the silly guy that lives next door and delivers morning papers. He’s not the man that gets to save lives when they’re placed right in front of him.

He’s simply the Captain.

The Captain’s eyes trail your body once, gaze cold and unforgiving. There is no one else in the room. Your blood begins to spread near his boots.

He doesn’t flinch.

Much like you had, his hand hovers, trembling, over the last fragile thread of meaning he can grasp in this hellish world; his duty.

The Captain peels his eyes away. 

He’s expressionless. He’s emotionless. There is nothing left for him but the constant haunted melody that follows the call of his role.

“Understood,” he says to no one in particular.

Then he disappears beyond the door.

Just another sacrifice.

[woongelaatin]

I'm like..crying my eyes out rn

[ihankaji]

DEAR, MY FEELINGS ⋆˚꩜｡ SUNGHO SMAU

── ✶ NEW MESSAGE ! As one of the admins of Soulmate Tracker, it’s no surprise for Sungho to handle the anonymous confessions to post. But when the account suddenly becomes flooded with confessions that all directed seemingly at him, he’s now caught off guard. Now he’s left wondering—should he continue to keep this “soulmate” undercover or decide to seek out the person behind it all?

OR IN WHICH One by one, you left anonymous confessions—believing it was the safest way to let your feelings out, certain he'd never know. But what you didn't realize was that he was behind the screen, reading every word you wrote. Each message left him more flustered—unable to think about anything but you, his secret person.

MATCH IN THE MAKING ➜ park sungho x fem ! reader ──

THE ANONYMOUS MESSAGES ♡ social media au + written, school au, romance, crack, fluff, some angst, pining, secret identity kind of thing, classmates to lovers

OTHER SEARCHES ↻ boynextdoor ( all mems ), tomorrow x together ( soobin ), zerobaseone ( hanbin ), nmixx ( haewon ), ive ( rei ) + ( more tba if any ! )

GUIDELINES ⓘ language/profanity, insults/bickering, teasing, random timestamps, kind of chaotic, sungho in MASSIVE denial 🫰 + more will be added if any !

STATUS ↻ COMING SOON [ … — … ] ( every … )

EDITOR’S NOTE⌇HELLOHELLO soulmate undercover spin off… who cheered!!!!! i know i did 😛 i (“un”)fortunately gave into the voices and decided that it was time to give sungho his spotlight 🙏 this is my first long smau for him so i hope you enjoy this as well ♡ and for this one, i have to dedicate it to my other love, @himewonu ♡ happy birthday my soulmate !!!

+ and as always, the playlist linked in “dear, my feelings” (will update as i go) and to those that haven’t read soulmate undercover, reading taesan’s one first may give more insight into his character in this smau but it isn’t entirely necessary !!

🗒️ ▸ THE TRACKERS & THE SEEKERS 𓋰 ❨ PROFILES ❩ !

📩 ▸ THE “UNSEEN” CONFESSIONS 𓋰 ❨ CHAPTERS ❩ !

PROLOGUE › BE KIND TO THE SINGLE MINGLES.

001 › Wow! Ovaries not at fault for this twin…

002 › IN A PUBLIC SERVER?

003 › TW: P@R|< S#N€H0

004 › yoohoo… it’s go time…!

005 › must be a doppelganger…

TO BE ADDED (unreleased chapters may be renamed) !

› SEND AN ASK OR COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO THE TL!

DEAR, MY FEELINGS TL ( OPEN ) ────

BONEDO PERM TL ( OPEN ) ──── @riumori @j4d @itsactuallylina @htaesan @himewonu @pumpkg @mimimimiaa @deeour @s0shroe @mari3s @woonhakntaesansgf @yunextdoor @wensurr @ivxae @wnouzi @bamgeutori @bbyinni @prodkwh @daeengz

[woongelaatin]

My love for Sungho fics and smaus goes beyond another universe

[woongelaatin]

GELA I LOVE THE THEME

THANK YOU AYLINN!! I made it out of boredom 😗✌

[woongelaatin]

Woah I didn't notice I hit 50 followers I'm really happy omg!! 🥺✌ love you guys...

[woongelaatin]

CALL ONGOING H.TS

Pairing: Taesan x reader

Synopsis: Taesan calls you and spends the night on the call while you slowly fall asleep.

Genre/warnings: Fluff, implied that reader and Taesan are in a relationship, high school au, this is just sweet ok, ok!!

Wordcount: 1.5k

Note: GUESS WHO'S BACK LOL! First post of 2026, kinda nervous..!1!! Anyway. This was supposed to be posted last year, the amount of fics I have in my drafts ughhh!! I hope you guys enjoy reading this!!

Another day, another night in the library. You're a senior in high school in Korea, which means everything you do and focus on is the CSAT. It's an important test that could, no, will give you a great future. Even though it's hard, you still found a way to hang out with friends, who are really helpful and encouraging. Spending time with family these days are really hard, since your dad is always at work, your brother is also going to school and your mom is at home, taking care of everything in the house for you to walk into a comfortable home.

Then, there's your boyfriend, Taesan. He looks mean, but really, he's just an introverted sweetheart. He's always there when you need him, and you're always there when he needs you. You even study with him all the time. He's smart, mature, and charming, it makes your heart race. Now that you have a bit of understanding with the story, let's go back to the first sentence.

Another day, another night in the library, It's like you live there. Well...

“I have slept in here 4 times already, I hate being a senior...” You complain to your boyfriend, who just smiles at your whines. “I know, and I also know that you're still going to stay here even though you should go home and see your family. It's like you moved out, you haven't seen them in a while.” Taesan stands up and shoves everything you have in your desk into your bag, then slings it on his shoulder. “Come on, you've studied enough. Let's get you home..“

When you got home, courtesy of Taesan who walked you home, your mom immediately nags you about getting home late, though she understands why. “Y/n! You're home late again! I haven't seen you come home for a while now, have you been sleeping at the library?” Your mom hovers around, patting your head and caressing your back. You would've been annoyed of this was another day, but seeing how worried your mom is, you let her be. “Ma, you know I have to–”

“And you also have to take care of yourself. Just go change then go down and eat, okay?” Your mother pats your shoulder when you smile, then goes back to the kitchen. You turn around and go upstairs and clean yourself. Not long after, you get down, giving your mom a kiss on the cheek when you sit down. You sat with your mom and brother on the table, eating while your mom scolds your brother for getting home late too. “You're both growing up now, don't forget about me, okay?”

Now you're in your bed, laying down while staring at the ceiling. All this time, you've been working hard, yet... You still don't know what you really want for yourself. Then, your phone rings. Groaning, you stand up to get your phone, then you see it's Taesan. You immediately light up, accepting the call. “You look happy.” Taesan smiles when he sees your smiling face. “I'm just glad it's you.”

“You're cute.” Taesan mutters, a genuine reaction to seeing you on call, and it caught you off guard. “Did you just call me cute? Thanks.” Your cool reaction was to tease Taesan and it clearly worked. “Shut up...” Going to your desk, you turn on your camera and face it towards you. “I'm going to study, mind if you'll stay with me?” Taesan opens his camera and he seems to be on his bed, clearly ready to sleep. “I can stay for a while.”

 “Thank you, but you don't have to stay long, I know you need your sleep too.” You pout, feeling bad because you don't want him to feel sleepy the next day because of you. “Who's gonna remind you to rest then? I know you well, and you won't go to sleep until the sun's already rising because no one's there to tell you. You push yourself too much, Angel.” The nickname he's given you that almost everyone knows, even your mother, makes you melt. You smile, that feeling of knowing he genuinely cares about you and your health warms your heart. “Okay, okay… but I swear I'll review for an hour then after we can talk! I mean, if you want to.” You lean on your phone to see Taesan clearly. He looks like he's getting up, too. “Of course I want to talk to you, Angel. I'll keep you company while you study then.”

  Taesan stays with you on call as you study. Sometimes, he mentions something that happened today, or asking if you’re still okay from the other side. “Taesan, I’m fine. You literally just asked me like, 2 minutes ago.” Taesan sighs as he looks at the time. “Y/n…it’s late already. You should stop. I’ll keep bothering you if you won’t stop.” After a while, you close your notebook, turn off the lamp, and take your phone as you take small steps to your bed. “You’ve convinced me now, happy?” You squint your eyes as the light from your phone, trying to look at him. “Very. Also, are you okay? Is your brightness too high?” You nod as you take off your glasses, forgetting to take them off. “I miss you.” Taesan’s eyes widened, surprised at your sudden confession. “I miss you too. Let’s go on a date after CSAT exams, yeah?”

Taesan waits for your response, but he doesn’t hear anything from your end. “Y/n?” Suddenly, he hears snoring from your end, and he smiles. “Goodnight, baby.” He stares at the screen, smiling as he hears your snores. Knowing you’re getting rest now is enough for him. Then he yawns, tucking in his sheets. Though you’ve fallen asleep already. He does not end the call, instead, he puts his phone on his pillow, next to his face, and he drifts off to sleep.

You groan as you hear your alarm, reaching for it on your nightstand. Getting up, you notice that your phone was on, only to see Taesan from the other side of the call, the one he did not end last night. He looks peaceful, he was even smiling in his sleep. You pick your phone up, smiling at the sight. I hope you slept well, Taesan.

[shaxyzstuff]

Beware of the dog (He got separate anxiety) | 보이넥스도어 M.JH

Between three years and a half.

— Myung Jaehyun x reader

In Summary

When Myung Jaehyun, the loud and popular Comm Arts senior, shoved a microphone in your face asking about your ideal type, everyone thought it was just content for the university channel. You looked him dead in the eye and said, 'I like dogs. Just not people who act like dogs.' The campus thinks it's the start of a new romance. But the truth is, you’re just trying to ignore your ex-boyfriend, who has decided that three years apart is long enough.

Exes to Lovers, second chance trope but make it fluff, University AU, Golden Retriever x Black Cat

Ft. Lee Sohee (Riize), Ahn Yujin (IVE), Oh Haewon (Nmixx) Warnings: Alcohol Consumption (Heavy drinking & Drunk antics), Second-hand Embarrassment (Public confessions, Jaehyun being Jaehyun), Academic Stress (Vet school struggles), Profanity. medical mentions: brief vet terms (heart murmurs, etc.), nothing graphic.

wc. 5.2K

The long wooden table at the Veterinary Medicine cafeteria had been completely conquered. It was buried under a chaotic mountain of lecture sheets, sticky notes, multi-colored highlighters, and three take-away coffee cups where the ice had long since melted. The iPad screens of the three students displayed slides full of scribbled notes and complex diagrams, reflecting the palpable stress in the air.

"I’m going to go insane... What is the difference between Grade 3 and Grade 4 murmurs again, Y/N?"

The girl with glasses, Yujin, looked ready to tear her hair out as she turned to her best friend with desperate eyes.

"Three implies no palpable thrill... Four involves a palpable thrill," you answered flatly, eyes glued to your screen.

Across from you, the only male in the group muttered a memorization mantra. "Okay... Thrill equals four and up."

Yujin frantically flipped through her sheets. "Then... what if it's a left apical systolic murmur? What’s the diagnosis?"

"Mitral regurgitation," you answered instantly, like an automated machine. "Especially in small, geriatric dogs."

Sohee looked up, eyeing you suspiciously. "You sound like you’ve seen it in real life."

You paused your pen for a beat. "Clinic duty yesterday."

"God, I haven't even had a real case yet!" Yujin groaned, burying her face into the table in defeat. Sohee watched her with pity before dropping his pen to ask the dreaded question.

"What time is our quiz again?"

The answer made Yujin want to scream. "3:45 PM!"

"I still don't remember anythiiiing!"

Just as Yujin’s wails echoed, a different kind of noise intruded from the cafeteria entrance. The sound of chatter and footsteps of a large group was steadily approaching your table.

"Hey... isn't that the Comm Arts interview team?" Sohee raised an eyebrow. "What are they doing in this building?"

Neither you nor Yujin had time to answer. The bright logo of the Communication Arts faculty, accompanied by an army of cameras, microphones, and a very familiar crew, appeared right above your lecture notes.

You glanced up for a split second, then immediately returned your focus to the screen.

"Don't lose focus," you said calmly. "Next topic: Endocrine."

Yujin turned pale.

"Difference between diabetes in dogs and cats?"

"Dogs are mostly Type 1. Cats are similar to Type 2," you recited rapidly to snap your friend back to reality. "Some feline cases can go into remission with diet control..."

Sohee sighed heavily. Before he could complain about his fate, the interview team stopped right at your table.

"Excuse me! Can we interview the fourth-year students for a moment? How are you feeling before the exam?"

The questions went around the table out of courtesy, which surprised no one. After all, Ahn Yujin was the faculty mascot—top grades, model looks, and photogenic. Sohee answered politely as well.

It was standard procedure for you to keep your head down, making yourself as invisible as possible to survive the situation.

But then, the microphone moved...

It stopped.

Right in front of your face.

"One last question."

His voice softened.

To the audience, it was just playful banter. But to you, it was a blaring red siren.

"What is your ideal type?"

You held your breath.

You stared at that familiar grin, laced with hidden meaning... the smile of the only person in the world who knew your secret.

Three and a half years.

That was how long we had maintained the perfect illusion of being "strangers."

From the day we quietly broke up in the first semester of freshman year, until now... not Yujin, not Sohee, not a single soul in the faculty knew what we used to be.

We were both excellent actors. We passed each other a thousand times without a greeting, treating the other like invisible air.

But today... Myung Jaehyun was threatening to tear up that silent treaty right in front of the cameras and hundreds of witnesses.

Sohee and Yujin exchanged confused glances—not because they knew the truth, but because they couldn't fathom why the God of Comm Arts was actively flirting with the Ice Queen of Vet Med.

You took a deep breath, hardening your gaze to bury the secret deeper.

If he wanted to play games, he better be ready to lose.

"I like dogs more,"  you answered flatly, not looking at the camera, but staring directly into the interviewer's eyes with an unreadable expression.

The owner of the question started to widen his smile, but before he could look too satisfied, you cut him off coldly.

"But I don't like people who act like dogs."

Myung Jaehyun, the campus MC, the shining star and heartthrob of the Communication Arts faculty, burst into laughter as if your insult was the highest compliment.

A chorus of murmurs erupted from the camera crew. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a cameraman shaking, trying hard to suppress a laugh.

Yujin leaned in to whisper. "What scene am I watching? Is this how top-tier students flirt?"

You didn't break eye contact with Jaehyun but whispered back, "Nonsense."

But Sohee leaned in, pretending to whisper but speaking at a normal, deadpan volume.

"It’s the Contrast Attraction Trope... The Comm Arts Golden Retriever versus the Vet Black Cat."

You shot a glare at him until he raised his hands in mock surrender.

Jaehyun, still grinning, bowed cheerfully. "Thank you for the interview! Good luck with the quiz!"

He began walking backward away from the table...

But his eyes never left yours for a second.

You turned back to organize your sheets, acting as if nothing had happened, ignoring the teasing from your two best friends.

"Are we taking this exam or not?"

The two scrambled to pack their things, but Sohee couldn't resist one last jab, whispering to Yujin loud enough for you to hear.

"Still thirty minutes left. She's definitely rushing to meditate and calm her heart down."

"Lee Sohee!"

"Just kidding~"

Of course. Both your best friends and everyone in the faculty knew the truth.

The idea of Y/N, the faculty's cold-hearted Black Cat, having a boyfriend?

A cat giving birth to a puppy was more believable.

Let them talk... You simply prioritized your grades over romance... right?

Three days.

That was exactly how long your peace lasted after the quiz.

Three days of silence, zero interviews, and absolutely no Myung Jaehyun.

You almost believed that he had given up, or perhaps found a new victim to annoy in the Performing Arts department.

You were wrong.

Dead wrong.

The Teaching Hospital of the Veterinary Faculty was usually busy, but today was surprisingly manageable. As a fourth-year student on rotation, your job was mostly observation and basic triage.

You were currently wiping down the examination table in Room 3, humming a soft tune, enjoying the smell of disinfectant.

Bang!

The door to the clinic didn't just open; it flew open.

"Emergency! We have a critical patient!"

The familiar loud voice echoed through the hallway, causing several real patients (dogs and cats) to perk up in their cages.

You froze, the rag in your hand hovering over the steel table. You closed your eyes for a second, praying to every deity of science that it wasn't who you thought it was.

You turned around.

Standing at the reception counter was a tall, bewildered-looking boy in a bucket hat—Woonhak, a junior from Sound Engineering Faculty—clutching a fluffy, calico cat in his arms like it was a bomb.

And right behind him, wearing a face of exaggerated concern that deserved an Oscar, was Myung Jaehyun.

"Doctor! This cat is lethargic! Look at his eyes! They are full of sorrow!" Jaehyun exclaimed, pointing dramatically at the cat, which was currently letting out a big, lazy yawn.

The receptionist, a first-year student, looked terrified. "Uh... do you have an appointment?"

"No time for appointments!" Jaehyun slammed his hand on the counter (gently). "This requires immediate attention from the most skilled senior student available. Someone named... Y/N?"

You sighed, the sound loud enough to be heard across the room, and walked out of Exam Room 3.

"Woonhak," you called out calmly.

The boy jumped, looking relieved to see a familiar face. "Oh! Y/N noona! Thank god."

"Bring the patient in," you said, ignoring the man standing behind him completely. "Room 3."

Jaehyun beamed, nudging Woonhak. "See? I told you she's the best."

Inside the examination room, Woonhak placed the cat gently on the table. The cat stretched, looked at you, and purred instantly.

"So," you put on your gloves, looking at Woonhak. "What happened?"

"I found him near the Engineering building," Woonhak explained innocently. "He was sleeping near the speakers and didn't wake up even when I tested the bass. I thought he was deaf or sick..." He pointed at Jaehyun. "Then Hyung came by and said the cat might be in a 'deep coma' and dragged me here."

You looked at the cat. Bright eyes, moist nose, healthy coat.

You looked at Jaehyun, who was leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a smug grin.

"A deep coma?" you asked dryly.

"Emotional coma," Jaehyun corrected shamelessly. "He looked heartbroken. I suspect a breakup."

"It's a cat, Jaehyun."

"Cats have feelings too, Y/N. Don't be speciesist."

You turned back to Woonhak. "The cat is fine. He's just lazy and probably well-fed by the cafeteria ee-mo nim (auntie). His heart rate is normal." You scratched the cat's chin, and it leaned into your touch. "Actually, he looks very happy."

"Oh, really?" Woonhak scratched his head. "Hyung said he looked like he was on the brink of death."

"Your Hyung," you glared at Jaehyun, "needs a brain scan more than this cat needs a vet."

Jaehyun laughed, walking closer to the table, invading your personal space just enough to make your breath hitch, but not enough to be unprofessional. He leaned down to look at the cat, his face inches from yours.

"Well, since we're already here..." he whispered, his voice dropping to that deep tone that used to make your knees weak freshman year. "Maybe you can check my heart too? It's been beating weirdly since I saw you three days ago."

Woonhak, oblivious to the tension, blinked. "Hyung, you should go to the campus nurse for that. This is for animals."

You stepped back, stripping off your gloves with a snap.

"Listen to the junior, Jaehyun. Get out. Or I'll prescribe you a dewormer."

After being kicked out of the clinic with a threat of "deworming" earlier that day, you would think Myung Jaehyun would learn his lesson and stay away.

But alas, rejection only made his symptoms worse.

It was nearly midnight. The shared apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Jaehyun lay sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He was bored. He was lonely. And he desperately needed an audience for his misery.

Usually, he would annoy his other roommate. But Taesan—his high school best friend and current nuisance—had dragged her out at the crack of dawn for some "urgent errand" (which definitely meant something more than a project). judging by the silence, she wasn't coming back tonight.

That left him with only one option…

As if summoned by his bad luck, the door to the far right bedroom opened.

The roommate stepped out.

Jaehyun watched her. Usually, teasing her was fun. She was the type who would give him a satisfyingly disgusted look or a silent stare that screamed "You are trash"—which, honestly, Jaehyun found hilarious.

But tonight seemed... different.

The light under her door hadn't turned off since last night.

She walked past him like a zombie, hair messy, glasses sliding down her nose, radiating a dark aura of pure sleep deprivation. She headed straight for the fridge.

The door to the far right bedroom opened quietly.

One of his roommates stepped out. She looked like she had just rolled out of a grave—hair messy, big glasses, and an aura of someone who hadn't slept properly in days. She walked past the sofa like a silent ghost, heading straight for the fridge.

"Ughhh... I'm dyinnnggg..."

Myung Jaehyun groaned from the cushions, kicking his long legs in the air like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"Hey... I think I'm sick."

She didn't answer. She didn't even give him the usual 'disgusted face' he expected. She just poured water with terrifyingly slow movements.

Jaehyun sat up abruptly, putting on his best puppy-dog face to the back of her head.

"A human hospital can't fix me... My symptoms are complex. I feel lethargic, like a puppy whose owner left him alone. Tail down, ears drooping... I keep thinking about the vet clinic..."

She drank her water, still facing the open fridge.

Jaehyun persisted, wanting some reaction.

"With symptoms like these... I should probably go back to the Veterinary Faculty tomorrow, right? Maybe let Y/N check me again? What do you think?"

She finally closed the fridge door.

She turned to look at him for a brief second. Her expression was unreadable, completely uninterested in his drama.

"Interesting," she muttered, her voice low and dry.

"You really are a Clingy Dog. A specialist is definitely required."

Jaehyun’s eyes lit up. "Right? So tomorrow I should—"

"But I recommend the Neutering Department," she cut in, her face void of any emotion. "Get fixed. Because if you go back there, she looks like the type who might actually cut something off just to make you stop barking. It’s annoying."

With that single piece of cold advice, she turned around, walked back to her room, and shut the door.

Click.

Jaehyun sat frozen on the sofa, hand over his heart.

"Wow... Savage… extra scary today." He whispered to the empty room. "Taesan really left me with the final boss."

He flopped back onto the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Her words echoed in his head.

'Neutering Department... She might actually cut something off...'

He shivered.

"She's right," he muttered to himself. "Y/N looked really ready to kill me today. If I go back myself tomorrow, I might not survive."

He rolled over, feeling defeated.

I can't go myself. It's too dangerous. But I still want to send her something... just to let her know I'm thinking about her.

Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in his head.

He sat up, a mischievous grin slowly replacing his pout.

I can't go... but I know someone who lives with her. Someone who works with me... and is easily bribed with food.

"Oh… that’s one..." Jaehyun whispered into the darkness, reaching for his phone to search for the best bakery in town.

"You are going to be my majestic carrier pigeon."

"Girl... I'm done. I want to resign from being a human and become a tree."

The door swung open, and Haewon, your roommate, dragged herself inside, looking like a zombie. However, her hands were full of fancy paper bags. Holding the very bribe Jaehyun had planned.

You looked up from your desk. "Script revision again?"

"Yes!" Haewon collapsed onto the sofa. "Myung Jaehyun is a demon! He made me rewrite the script ten times. I was about to scream in his face... But!"

She lifted the bags triumphantly.

"Right after the meeting, he suddenly switched to 'Angel Mode.' He said, 'Sorry for being strict today, let me treat you guys.' And he literally bought out the famous bakery near campus for the whole team."

You raised an eyebrow. "Wow, generous."

"Right? But here's the weird part..." Haewon handed you a separate, smaller paper bag.

"He gave me this and said, 'Haewon-ah, give this to your roommate too. Since you complained she has back pain, consider this an apology for keeping you at work so late.'"

You froze, taking the bag cautiously. "He sent this... for me?"

"Yeah! I was confused too, but free food is free food. Go ahead, eat it." Haewon didn't think twice, happily tearing into her own croissant.

You looked inside your bag... and your heart skipped a beat.

It wasn't just random pastries like Haewon's.

It was the Fresh Milk Cream Cat Paw Bread.

The rare item that sold out by 8 AM. The exact treat you used to be obsessed with when you were dating.

And at the bottom of the bag, there were two cooling pain relief patches and a small yellow sticky note.

The messy handwriting read:

"Roommate Rental Fee (Paid in Cat Paws) 🐾"

You gripped the bag tighter.

'You crafty bastard, Myung Jaehyun... using my own roommate as a courier?'

"Aren't you gonna eat it? That place is famous," Haewon asked with her mouth full.

You quickly folded the bag shut, hiding the patches and the note.

"Ah... I'll save it for breakfast. Thanks."

"Jaehyun is so weird. One minute he's a tyrant, next minute he's Santa Claus," Haewon mumbled. "Lucky he bought snacks, or I would've cursed him out."

You sighed quietly, staring at the innocent-looking bag on your desk.

He didn't creepily show up at your door. Instead, he infiltrated your room through your unsuspecting friend.

That was somehow... even more dangerous.

As your mom said, ‘beware of sly but innocent-looking dog’

The University Festival. A time for joy, music, and alcohol.

For Jaehyun (Comm Arts Senior), it was his victory lap before graduation.

For you (Vet Med 4th Year), it was just a noisy distraction from the mountain of textbooks waiting in your dorm. You were only here because the faculty required 4th years to man the "Pet Health Check" booth.

You rested your chin on your palm, watching your juniors sneak off to see the concerts.

A deafening scream erupted from the main stage.

On the giant LED screen, Myung Jaehyun appeared. He looked radiant, energetic, and completely free of academic stress.

'Must be nice to be graduating soon,' you thought bitterly, rolling your eyes at his pixelated face. 'Meanwhile, I'm stuck here for another two years.'

"Excuse me, Doctor?"

A soft, gentle voice interrupted your thoughts.

You looked up to see a female student standing there. She had a calm aura, wearing a knitted cardigan that looked cozy despite the summer heat, and she smelled faintly of old books and vanilla. She looked like she belonged in a library or a museum—perhaps a History major or a Librarian.

But what caught your eye was the fluffy calico cat in her arms.

"Oh!" You blinked. "That cat..."

It was the same cat Woonhak had dragged into the clinic days ago—the one Jaehyun claimed was in an 'emotional coma'.

The girl smiled sweetly, adjusting her glasses. "I brought 'Plato' for a quick check-up. He's been sleeping a lot lately."

"Plato?" You chuckled at the name. "Well, Plato is famous in our clinic. A junior from Engineering brought him in a few days ago, claiming he was dying of heartbreak."

The girl laughed, a sound like wind chimes.

"Ah, the boy in the bucket hat? I saw him from the library window. He looked so panicked... it was actually quite cute."

You raised an eyebrow. "Cute? He kidnapped your cat."

"He meant well" she said, stroking the cat's fur, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Well," you started the examination. "Plato is perfectly healthy. Just lazy and well-fed. His heart rate is normal."

"Thank you, Doctor." She bowed politely. "I'll make sure he stays away from the Engineering speakers from now on."

As she walked away, cradling 'Plato', you shook your head.

Just as the peaceful atmosphere settled, a shadow fell over your table. while your best friends, Yujin and Sohee, were doing absolutely nothing helpful.

"That girl with the glasses just now..." Sohee muttered, watching the History major student walk away with her cat, Plato. "She had a crazy aura. Like a main character in a romance novel."

"Forget her," Yujin said, fanning herself with a clipboard. "Look at the screen! Our 'National MC' is killing it."

On the giant LED screen, Myung Jaehyun appeared alongside Oh Haewon, your roommate.

Jaehyun was beaming with energy, waving at the crowd.

Haewon, on the other hand, maintained a perfect professional smile, though you—being her roommate—could see the dead look in her eyes that screamed, 'I want to go home and sleep.'

"Haewon looks like she's about to commit murder," you noted dryly. "Haewon told me she's going to poison his water if he goes off-script one more time”

"Can you blame her?" Sohee laughed. "Standing next to the 'Energy Vampire' Jaehyun for three hours? I'd pass out."

Just then, a shadow fell over your table.

"Excuse me... Sunbae?"

A freshman boy stood there, holding two strawberry smoothies. He looked nervous but determined.

"I... I don't have a dog. But can you check my heart? I think it’s beating too fast because of you."

Yujin choked on her water. Sohee’s eyes lit up with glee. Drama!

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

"Listen, kid. I'm a fourth-year Vet student. I have a Pathology exam tomorrow, a lab report due on Monday, and I'm currently fueled by caffeine and rage," you said, giving him a tired smile. "Go find a nice freshman girl."

"Come on, Noona... You look like you need some sugar!" The freshman persisted, leaning his elbow on your desk, getting comfortably close. "Just take the smoothie."

Meanwhile Jaehyun was in the middle of introducing the next band, but his eyes were locked on the Veterinary booth.

He saw the scene clearly: The freshman leaning way too close. Yujin and Sohee laughing in the background. And Y/N looking annoyed but unable to escape.

"Yes... and for the next performance..." Jaehyun spoke into the mic, his grip tightening.

"...Please welcome 'Get Your Hands Off Her'... I mean! 'Summer Rain'!"

Haewon, standing next to him, dropped her smile instantly. She smacked his arm with her cue cards.

"Ya! Myung Jaehyun! Stick to the script! What is 'Get Your Hands Off Her'?"

Jaehyun ignored her. He shoved his mic into Haewon’s free hand.

"Cover for me! Emergency!"

"What? Hey! We're live, you idiot!" Haewon hissed, struggling to hold two microphones. "Don't you dare leave me alone!"

"Bathroom break! My stomach is exploding!" Jaehyun yelled (into the lapel mic), then sprinted off the stage.

Haewon stood alone, glaring daggers at his retreating back. She took a deep breath, switched back to her professional face, and addressed the crowd.

"Ha... Men, am I right? Give it up for the band!"

Back at Your Booth:

Jaehyun snatched the smoothie away.

"Junior!" he barked.

Yujin dropped her phone. Sohee’s jaw hit the floor.

"Is that... Jaehyun?" Yujin whispered. "Why is he here?"

"This smoothie is loaded with sugar!" Jaehyun lectured the freshman. "The Doctor here has a Pathology exam! She needs caffeine, not diabetes!"

The freshman’s eyes widened. "Jaehyun Sunbae?"

You looked up. "Jaehyun? Did you just dump Haewon on stage?"

Jaehyun ignored you and glared at the freshman.

"And why are you bothering my classmate? She's stressed, sleep-deprived, and has a scalpel in her pocket. I've seen her in the anatomy lab. She's ruthless."

The freshman paled. "S-Sorry, Sunbae! Sorry, Noona!" He bolted.

Once the boy was gone, the booth fell into silence.

Yujin and Sohee were staring at Jaehyun, trying to process why the 'King of Comm Arts' was acting like a jealous boyfriend.

You stood up. "Myung Jaehyun. You are unbelievable."

Jaehyun flashed a shameless grin.

"I'm just looking out for you. You looked like you were about to snap."

"I was close," you admitted. "Go back. Haewon is going to murder you."

Jaehyun leaned in, his voice dropping (but still broadcasting).

"Don't worry. Even after I graduate..."

He winked.

"...I'll still come back for my regular check-ups."

Yujin gasped. Sohee grabbed Yujin's arm.

You grabbed your stethoscope like a weapon. "Get out."

"Okay, okay! See you at the after-party!"

He ran off, shouting back.

"Unless you fail your Patho exam! Then see you in the library!"

The crowd laughed.

Haewon’s voice boomed from the main stage speakers, abandoning all politeness:

"MYUNG JAEHYUN!! I SWEAR TO GOD, GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE NOW!!"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands.

The air smelled of grilled pork belly, spicy soup, and the collective relief of students who were finally off-duty.

It wasn't just you, Yujin, and Sohee.

The entire Veterinary Booth Team—about twelve exhausted fourth-year students—had taken over a long row of tables. Shots of soju were being poured, and the noise level was deafening.

But at your end of the table, the atmosphere was... interrogative.

"Cheers!"

You downed your shot, hoping to drown out the memory of the festival. It didn't work.

Yujin and Sohee were staring at you. Several other classmates leaned in, sensing gossip.

"So," Yujin started, picking at a fish cake. "Let's review the evidence. One: He knows you hate strawberries. Two: He knows your exam schedule. Three: He called you his 'favorite student' on a live mic."

Sohee adjusted his glasses. "Hypothesis: You two aren't just strangers."

You calmly flipped a piece of meat on the grill, keeping your face poker-straight.

"He never said something like that and also I told you already. We took a General Ed class together in freshman year. 'Intro to Philosophy'. We just argued a lot in class, that's all. He's just an attention seeker who likes to annoy his old classmates."

"Just classmates?" A guy from the lab team asked. "He looked at you like you owed him money... or love."

"Just. Classmates," you insisted firmly. "Now, can we talk about the Pathology exam?"

Before anyone could press further, the plastic flaps of the pub's entrance flew open.

"Table for two! We need alcohol! Lots of it!"

Speak of the devil.

Oh Haewon marched in, looking like she had just survived a battlefield. Behind her stumbled Myung Jaehyun, whose face was flushed pink. He was clinging to Haewon’s backpack strap like a lost puppy.

Yujin’s jaw dropped. "Wait... isn't the Comm Arts after-party at 'Blue Moon'?"

Haewon spotted your group (it was hard to miss a dozen Vet students in lab coats/festival shirts) and dragged Jaehyun over.

"Move over, guys. We're crashing."

"Haewon?" You blinked. "What are you doing here? Where's your faculty team?"

Haewon collapsed onto the empty chair next to Yujin, looking exhausted.

"They're at 'Blue Moon'. It's a zoo over there. Too loud, too many people, and the seniors are trying to make everyone drink from a shoe. I needed to be around sane people."

She pointed a thumb at Jaehyun, who was currently waving happily at your stunned classmates.

"Plus, this idiot saw Yujin's Instagram story."

"My story?" Yujin checked her phone. "Oh, the one where I tagged Y/N saying 'Drinking away the stress'?"

"Exactly," Haewon rolled her eyes. "He saw the tag and started whining: 'Haewon-ah, I want spicy chicken feet! Haewon-ah, let's go find the Vet team!' He wouldn't shut up until I drove him here."

Jaehyun plopped down right next to you—the only empty spot left.

He smelled of beer and expensive cologne. He rested his chin on the table, blinking slowly at you with glossy eyes.

"Oh... It's the Doctor..." he mumbled, poking your arm with one finger. "You're real. Not a hologram."

"You're drunk, Jaehyun," you said coldly, pushing his hand away. "Go back to your faculty."

"See? So cold," Jaehyun turned to complain to Sohee (who was sitting opposite). "Hey, Sohee. Does she treat you this cold too? Or is it just me?"

Sohee looked at you, then at Jaehyun. "Ya, Myung Jaehyun. Are you okay? You look wasted."

"I'm not okay!" Jaehyun suddenly slammed his hand on the table (weakly).

The entire long table of Vet students went silent. Twelve pairs of eyes turned to watch the show.

"I have a grievance!" Jaehyun announced, pointing a wobbly finger at the empty air. "I want to file a complaint against this cruel world!"

"Shut up, Jaehyun. Eat your soup," Haewon warned, stuffing a piece of radish into his mouth.

He chewed and swallowed, but didn't stop.

"My ex-girlfriend... she's so cruel. We broke up three years ago, right? But she still treats me like a stranger! I just wanted to buy her bread! I just wanted to verify her safety! But she calls me a dog!"

The atmosphere at the table shifted from 'confused' to 'shocked'.

Yujin gasped. "Ex-girlfriend? Three years ago?"

Jaehyun nodded aggressively. "Yes! We dated for six months in freshman year! It was beautiful! But now? She blocked me on KakaoTalk! Can you believe it? Blocked! For three years!"

You felt the blood drain from your face.

You tried to kick him under the table, but he was too drunk to feel pain.

"Jaehyun," you hissed. "Stop talking."

Jaehyun turned his head to look at you.

His eyes, usually full of mischief, were now swimming with a mixture of alcohol and genuine, pathetic longing.

He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his phone, and shoved the screen in your face.

"Look. It's still blocked."

He tapped the screen.

"Y/N-ah... Unblock me. Please?"

DEAD SILENCE.

The entire Vet team froze.

A girl at the far end dropped her chopsticks.

Sohee slowly took off his glasses and cleaned them, as if his vision had deceived him.

Yujin looked at you, then at Jaehyun, and her brain finally connected the dots.

"Wait..." Yujin whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "So the 'Ex-girlfriend' is..."

"You said you were just classmates from Intro to Philosophy!" A friend shouted from down the table.

"We were!" You defended yourself weakly.

"Liar!" Jaehyun wailed. "We were the Campus Couple of Class '21! We held hands under the table! We shared earphones!"

He grabbed your sleeve, tugging it gently.

"Come on... Unblock me. Just for today? I promise I won't send weird stickers. I just want to send you photos of clouds. And maybe ask if you ate. Come on, Babe... I mean, Y/N."

"..."

Haewon sighed loudly, burying her face in her hands. "I knew this would happen. I should have left him at Blue Moon."

The pressure from twelve pairs of eyes was heavier than any exam.

You looked at Jaehyun’s puppy eyes.

You looked at your friends, whose mouths were hanging open.

The secret was out. There was no point in denying it anymore.

You closed your eyes, let out a long, defeated sigh, and grabbed your phone out.

You tapped the screen once.

[Unblocked]

You slammed the phone back into your pocket.

"Fine. You're unblocked."

You grabbed your soju glass and downed it in one go.

"Now shut up and eat your chicken feet before I block you again."

Jaehyun looked at his phone, then at you. A smile slowly spread across his face—the brightest, most triumphant smile you had ever seen.

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Ping!

Your phone vibrated in your pocket instantly.

You checked it.

[Myung Jaehyun sent a sticker: A happy dog rolling on the floor.]

[Message: Did you eat well? ☁️]

"OKAY!" Yujin slammed her hands on the table, her eyes burning with curiosity.

"Emergency Meeting! Move the tables closer! Y/N, start from the beginning. Freshman orientation. NOW."

The entire Vet team cheered and scooted their chairs closer.

Jaehyun sat there, happily eating his chicken feet, winking at you as if he hadn't just thrown you into the lion's den.

Yeah.

You were definitely going to fail that Pathology exam tomorrow.

Bonus Scene

The apartment was dark.

You stumbled in, supporting a very drunk, very happy Myung Jaehyun, while Haewon followed behind carrying his bag.

You dumped Jaehyun onto the sofa. He immediately curled up, hugging a cushion, mumbling something about "chicken feet" and "unblocked."

Just then, the door to the first bedroom opened.

The Psychology major roommate stepped out to get water, looking like she hadn't slept in 24 hours. She froze, staring at the chaotic scene: You (smelling of BBQ), Haewon (looking dead), and Jaehyun (snoring on the floor).

"Don't ask," Haewon muttered, walking past her to the bathroom.

The girl looked at you, then at the lump on the sofa.

She didn't say anything. She just walked to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and stared at Jaehyun with a look of pure logical analysis.

"So," she whispered. "The Dog is finally back from the stray life?"

You sighed, massaging your temples. "He's on probation."

She smirked. "Good luck. You'll need it."

She walked back to her room. Before closing the door, she muttered to herself:

"Great. Now the noise level in this ecosystem has increased by 200%."

A/N

ah… I am not into second chances trope in real life at all… but if my ex was him… 🤷🏻‍♀️ anyway! English is not my first language. Feel free to like or interact with! (Oh Almost forgot. But I kinda put any hints on every work in this series so… feel free to find out then (⭑> ヮ •͈ )

[woongelaatin]

This is def connected to 10 things I hate about you (drop the woonhak fic NEAWWWW!!)