Hi! I hope your life is treating you well, and I have a request if you don’t mind!
Basically: Han x sunshine tattoo artist, hear me out. Han is introducing reader to the guys and they think reader is like Minho in some sense cuz they look like a grunge pin board threw up on them and they’re covered w tattoos sleeves and stuff, but the second reader opens their mouth they turn into a the most sunshiny person ever. So the guys get whiplash from all of it. And reader a d Han are just ADHDing together in the corner
Ofc you don’t have too write it, but if you do take your time!
omg i love this idea!!!! sorry this might take a while, i have a bunch of other requests, but i'm rlly excited to write this! thanks for requesting and i'll try to do my best! <3
YALL I AM SO SORRY IVE BEEN SO FREAKING BUSY WITH SCHOOL AND GYMNASTICS BUT IM BACK AND IM FEELING SUPER MOTIVATEDDDD SOOOOO NEW POST COMING AND HOPEFULLY ILL BE MORE ACTIVE LOLLLL I LOVE YALL
❦ SYNOPSIS — in which your boyfriend gets close to the new girl, Jieun, while leaving you behind or in which you won’t sit around and let your bf put you in the shadows for the new girl.
genre: smau , angst | paring: juhoon x fem!reader
warnings: juhoon is a little gaslighty tbf, swearing, cheating if you squint and tilt your head, lmk if i miss anything
lanis little letters: updating white keys tonight but i was going through my masterlist and realized my page is lacking juhoon work so allow me to make up for it — tags + requests open enjoy tho <3
ɞ . abstract. they tell you what their first impression of you was—and it's not as romantic as you'd have thought. what's romantic about the love of your life writing you off as just a pretty face?
ɞ . warnings / tags. angst. themes of insecurity. discussion of appearance-based stereotypes. unintentional emotional hurt (which makes it worse). feeling underestimated/undervalued.
ɞ . note. ib: @/loveyislost's series. part two here. part three here.
BANG CHAN
it’s the way he says it—easy, casual, almost mindless. like he’s commenting on the weather or the plot of the show flickering on the screen. it’s just chan. he’s always been the type to speak his heart without overthinking the polish, and usually, you love that about him.
but this? it sits in the air between you like lead.
you shift from where you’re curled up on the couch beside him, your shoulder losing its warmth as you pull away just a fraction. you tilt your head, searching for his gaze, but he’s still looking at the tv. he looks relaxed. he looks like he hasn’t just shattered something.
"what do you mean?" you ask softly. your voice feels small, like it’s trying to hide.
he just chuckles, a low, warm sound that usually makes you feel safe. now, it just feels like he’s laughing at a joke you aren’t in on. "well, you know," he says, eyes crinkling at a cartoon character on screen. "it’s not a bad thing. it's just that, i totally expected you to put out on the first date."
you freeze. the air in your lungs feels thin. "why," you pause, the words tripping over the sudden lump in your throat. "why would you think that?"
this is all news to you. you’ve been together for months—long enough that you thought he saw you. the real you. not some caricature. the words make you shrink, your stomach doing a cruel, sickening little jump. the worst part is the lack of malice in his voice. he isn't trying to be mean, which somehow makes it a thousand times worse. it means it’s just a fact to him.
"i'm just saying, like... you're pretty," chan shrugs, reached over to ruffle your hair like he always does. he doesn't notice the way you flinch away from his touch. "it's just a vibe."
"i... i don't get it, chan. me being pretty equates to... to that? you thought i was just easy?"
"no, of course not. not easy," he says, finally turning to look at you, though he’s still smiling. he hasn't clocked the way your hands are shaking under the blanket. "people just think that about girls like you. you have that look, you know? like you’re used to the attention. i just figured you played the game."
"girls like me?" the words taste bitter. "is that what you think about me? that i’m just... a look?"
"i don't think that about you now," he counters, his tone drifting back to that conversational, effortless lilt. "i just meant that's the first impression. i’m just being honest, babe. don't take it the wrong way."
slowly, you shake your head, pulling your knees up to your chest to create a barrier. "but you just said you expected it. from me. that means you looked at me and decided i was..." you can't even finish the sentence. the word vapid is screaming in your head. shallow. just a pretty face.
chan reaches for the popcorn bowl, the movement so normal it’s jarring. he’s already moved past it. in his head, the conversation is over and he’s given you a compliment. "do you think we need a refill?" he asks, shaking the bowl so the unpopped kernels rattle. "i can go pop another bag if you're still hungry."
you stare at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to realize he just told you he didn't respect you when you met. but he’s just looking at you with those soft, tired eyes, waiting for an answer about popcorn.
"no," you whisper, turning your face back to the tv so he won't see your eyes welling up. "i'm not hungry anymore."
"suit yourself," he mumbles, leaning back and pulling you by the waist to tuck you back under his arm.
you let him. you stay there, pinned against his side, but the warmth is gone. he thinks it’s just a compliment—that you’re so pretty it’s intimidating, that you’re so pretty people assume the worst. but all you can hear is the underlying truth: that when he looked at you, he didn't see someone to get to know. he saw a girl who was just there to be looked at.
you stay quiet, watching the bright colors on the screen blur into a messy smear as you try to blink back the tears, wondering how many other things he thinks about "girls like you" that he hasn't said out loud yet.
LEE KNOW
minho is usually the one who sees through everyone. he’s observant, sharp, and prides himself on knowing people better than they know themselves. so when the words leave his mouth, you expect them to be weighted with some kind of deeper meaning. instead, they’re just... light. carelessly tossed out while he’s busy with something else.
he’s standing at the kitchen island, meticulously dicing vegetables for dinner. you’re sitting across from him, chin resting on your palms, just watching the steady, rhythmic movement of the knife.
it’s peaceful until it isn’t.
"you know," he starts, not even looking up from the cutting board. "when i first saw you, i told the guys you’d probably be a handful. one of those girls who only cares about the aesthetic of things."
you blink, your heart catching in your chest. "a handful? what’s that supposed to mean?"
he shrugs, his focus entirely on the carrots. "just that you look like you’d be high maintenance. you have that face—the kind where people just assume you’re there to look pretty and be taken care of. i didn't think there’d be much going on behind it."
the knife hits the wood with a sharp thud. it feels louder than it probably is.
"you didn't think there’d be much going on?" you repeat, your voice tighter than you intended. "so you just... saw me and decided i was shallow?"
minho finally looks up, but he just has that faint, amused smirk on his face. the one he wears when he thinks he’s being clever. "i mean, look at you. can you blame me? you’re objectively very pretty. usually, people who look like that don't have to try very hard at anything else. they just let their face do the work."
he says it like it’s a compliment. like he’s praising your DNA while simultaneously insulting your entire existence.
"i've worked hard for everything i have, minho," you murmur, your gaze dropping to the countertop. you feel a hot prickle of shame behind your eyes. "it’s not just 'my face' doing the work."
"i know that now," he says, waving the knife dismissively before going back to the vegetables. "i’m just saying what the initial thought was. it’s funny how wrong first impressions can be, right? i really expected you to be way more superficial."
he chuckles to himself, like it’s a funny little anecdote from the past. he doesn't see the way you’re digging your nails into your palms under the table. he doesn't see that he’s basically told you he started your relationship with zero respect for your mind or your character.
"is that why you were so cold to me at the start?" you ask, your voice trembling. "because you thought i was superficial?"
"it was just an assumption," he says easily, sliding the carrots into a bowl. "don't get all sensitive about it. i’m dating you now, aren't i? obviously, you proved me wrong."
he reaches across the island to flick the tip of your nose, his fingers cool and smelling of onions. he’s smiling, waiting for you to bite back with a witty retort or a fake pout. but the words are stuck in your throat.
you have that face. just there to look pretty.
"yeah," you force out, a ghost of a smile touching your lips that doesn't reach your eyes. "i guess i did."
minho hums, satisfied, and turns back to the stove. he starts humming a random tune, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just planted a seed of doubt that’s already starting to bloom. you sit there in the silence of the kitchen, feeling less like his partner and more like a trophy he accidentally found out had a soul.
CHANGBIN
the gym is quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic clank of weights and the low hum of the air conditioner. changbin is mid-set, his focus intense as he finishes his reps, and you’re sitting on the bench nearby, scrolling through your phone and waiting for him to finish.
he drops the dumbbells with a heavy thud and exhales, reaching for his water bottle. he looks over at you, his chest heaving, and a wide, proud grin breaks across his face.
"you know," he pants, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "i still remember when i first told the guys i was going to ask you out. chan actually laughed."
you look up, curious. "he laughed? why?"
changbin chuckles, leaning back against the weight rack. "he just thought you were way out of my league. and honestly, so did i. you’re just so... you know, polished. you look like you belong in a magazine, not sitting on a sweaty gym bench with a guy like me."
you tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "i'm not that polished, binnie."
"no, seriously," he says, his voice taking on that casual, breezy tone he uses when he's just thinking out loud. "i really thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just... boring. like, someone who spends all their time on their makeup and has nothing to talk about but clothes and mirrors."
the smile on your face falters. the words feel like a sudden, cold splash of water. were those really his first thoughts about you? ouch. "boring?"
"yeah, you know," he says, shrugging his broad shoulders as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "it's the 'pretty girl' curse. i just assumed you’d be high-maintenance and shallow. like, you’re so good to look at that i didn't think there’d be much personality under there."
you feel a dull ache start in your chest. you’ve spent your whole life trying to be more than just a face, trying to be someone people took seriously, and here was the person who was supposed to know you best, admitting he’d written you off from the start.
"so you only asked me out because of how i looked? even though you thought i was boring?" your voice is a bit more brittle now, a bit sharper.
changbin doesn't catch the shift. he’s too busy unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. "i mean, i was willing to take the risk just to be seen with you, honestly. you’re a total 10. i figured even if the conversation was dry, at least i’d have the prettiest girl in the room on my arm."
he takes a long drink, his throat bobbing, while you sit there feeling like a decorative object. an accessory.
"is that all i was to you? a trophy?"
he stops drinking and looks at you, finally noticing the way you're holding yourself—stiff, guarded. he lets out a little laugh, reaching out to playfully nudge your shoulder. "hey, don't get all dramatic. i’m saying it was a good surprise. i was shocked when i realized you actually had a brain and a sense of humor. it was like a 'buy one, get one free' deal."
he grins, clearly thinking he’s being charming, but the joke feels like a slap. he doesn't realize that he’s just told you he thought your intelligence was a bonus, not a requirement.
"right," you mumble, looking down at your lap so he can't see the way your bottom lip is trembling. "a bonus."
"exactly!" changbin says, oblivious as he stands up to start his next set. "i really lucked out. most girls who look like you don't usually have much else going for them."
he grabs the weights again, his muscles flexing as he starts his reps, leaving you sitting there in the heavy silence of the gym. you watch him work out, feeling smaller than you ever have, wondering if he ever would have bothered to look for your heart if he hadn't liked the way your face looked first.
HYUNJIN
the sun is setting, casting long, golden shadows across hyunjin’s bedroom. he’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by fashion magazines and sketches for his next project, while you’re tucked onto the edge of his bed, absentmindedly braiding a loose thread on his rug.
it had been a long day of him talking about his latest shoot, and he’s in one of those moods where he’s thinking out loud, his voice soft and dreamy.
"i was looking at the shots from today," hyunjin says, flipping through a magazine without really seeing the pages. "and it reminded me of the first time i saw your profile on social media. before we actually met."
you smile, feeling a little flutter in your chest. "yeah? what did you think?"
he looks up, his dark hair falling over his eyes, and gives a small, airy laugh. "honestly? i almost didn't message you back. i thought, 'there’s no way she’s real.' you looked so... perfect. like a doll."
"a doll?" you tease, though a tiny knot starts to form in your stomach.
"yeah," he hums, turning back to the magazine. "i just assumed you were one of those people who lived for the camera. i figured your life was probably just empty aesthetic—no substance, no depth. just someone who liked the way they looked in a mirror."
the knot tightens. of all the people to say this, you didn't expect it to be him. hyunjin, who had spent so many nights leaning on you, venting about how he hated being called "just a visual." hyunjin, who had cried because he felt like people didn't care about his hard work, only his face.
"you thought i had no substance?" you ask, your voice a little hollow. "hyunjin, you of all people... you know how that feels. to be dismissed like that."
he stops flipping the pages, but he doesn't look up. "that’s the thing, though. it’s different for you. you aren't an idol, you don't have to prove anything to anyone. i just saw a pretty face and thought, 'it’s okay if she’s a bit, like, simple, she’s gorgeous enough to make up for it.'"
falling from his lips, it makes "simple" sound like a slur. you stare at the back of his head, waiting for him to realize what he’s saying.
"so you were okay with me being empty as long as i was pretty?"
"i mean, at first? yeah," he says, finally looking at you with a shrug that feels way too casual. "i didn't think i’d actually fall for you. i just wanted to see if you were as pretty in person. i was prepared for you to be boring. i'm just glad you ended up being more than just a visual, unlike most girls who look like you."
he says it like he's giving you a prize. like he’s inviting you into an exclusive club where you’re "one of the good ones."
"you really thought i was just a decoration," you whisper, the hurt finally starting to leak into your voice.
hyunjin notices the change in your tone this time. he tilts his head, looking slightly confused. "babe, why are you getting upset? i'm saying it as a good thing. i’m saying i was surprised that you actually have thoughts. it’s a compliment."
"it’s not a compliment to tell me you had zero expectations for my personality because of my face, hyunjin. especially when you hate it when people do that to you."
he sighs, a frustrated sound, and drops the magazine. "it’s not the same. i’m an idol. i have to be more. for you, it’s just... you’re lucky. you have the look that everyone wants, so why does it matter if people assume you’re like that? at least they’re looking."
he reaches out to take your hand, but you pull back, the sting of his words lingering. he doesn't see the hypocrisy. he doesn't see that he’s doing the exact thing that breaks his heart when it’s done to him.
"i think i’m gonna go home," you mumble, sliding off the bed.
"already, jagi?" he asks, eyes wide with genuine surprise. "but we were having a good time. did i say something wrong?"
"no," you lie, your heart aching as you grab your bag. "i'm just tired."
"okay," he says, already reaching back for his sketches. "text me when you get back, pretty girl."
the nickname, which usually made you blush, now just feels like a label. a box he put you in the moment he saw you, and one he’s clearly not interested in letting you out of.
HAN
the arcade is loud, a chaotic mess of neon lights and electronic music that makes you feel alive. it's so nice to finally be on a date with him, to spend some time together. you’re sitting at a booth in the corner, waiting for your food while jisung finishes a round of some rhythm game.
he slides into the seat across from you a few minutes later, grinning and out of breath. "did you see that? i totally crushed the high score," he says, grabbing a french fry from the basket between you.
"i saw," you smile, because his happiness has always been contagious. "you're getting better."
he laughs, leaning back and looking at you with that bright, observant gaze he has. "it's funny, actually. i remember telling the guys when we first started hanging out that i was surprised we actually had things in common."
you tilt your head, confused. "why would you be surprised? we like the same movies, the same music..."
"no, i know," he says, waving a fry dismissively. "i just mean... look at you. you’re like, top-tier pretty. the kind of girl who usually just hangs out at expensive clubs or spends all day taking pictures for the 'gram. i definitely didn't think you’d be into the stuff i’m into."
the noise of the arcade seems to fade, replaced by a dull ringing in your ears. "so you thought i was... what? an instagram model with no interests?"
jisung chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the way your posture has stiffened. "i mean, kinda? it's just the vibe you give off. you're so put together. i just figured you were one of those girls who’s just there to be seen. i honestly expected you to be, like, totally watery and boring to talk to."
your heart sinks. out of everyone, jisung—who struggles so much with his own anxieties and how people perceive him—should know how much it hurts to be judged before you even speak.
"watery?" you whisper, the word feeling like a stone in your throat. "you really thought that little of me?"
"it's not that i thought little of you," he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice like he’s telling a joke. "i just thought you’d be a trophy type. i was actually kind of relieved when i realized you were a nerd. it made me feel way less intimidated. like, 'oh, she’s actually human, not just a pretty face.'"
he grins, waiting for you to laugh along with him. he thinks he’s being relatable, showing you his vulnerability by admitting he was intimidated. but all you can hear is that he looked at you and saw an object, not a person.
"so if i didn't have these 'nerdy' interests," you ask, your voice trembling slightly, "you would've just kept thinking i was a shell?"
"i mean, probably?" he shrugs, reaching for another fry. "but that’s just how it is with girls who look like you. you don't really expect them to have much depth. it’s like a hidden character unlock or something."
he stuffs the fry into his mouth, his eyes already wandering back toward the claw machines. "we should try that one next, i bet i can win you that cat plushie."
you look at him, the bright, funny boy you thought really knew you. he’s already moved on, excited for the next game, while you’re left sitting in the booth feeling like you’ve been stripped down to nothing but a set of features. a hidden character.
"yeah," you mumble, looking down at your food. suddenly, you don't feel too hungry. "maybe later."
"sweet," he says, not noticing the way you're blinking back tears. "this is the best date ever."
FELIX
the kitchen is warm, filled with the sweet, buttery scent of the brownies felix just pulled from the oven. he’s in a great mood, humming a soft melody as he carefully frosts them, his movements gentle and precise. you’re sitting at the table, watching him, feeling that familiar tug of affection for how much care he puts into everything he does for you.
"you know," he says, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room. he doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the swirl of chocolate. "i was talking to my mom on the phone earlier, telling her about you. about how we met."
you smile, resting your chin on your hand. "what did you tell her?"
felix pauses, a lopsided grin appearing as he remembers. "i told her that when i first saw you, i was actually kind of scared to talk to you. you just looked so... perfect. like a porcelain doll. i honestly thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just, you know, a bit empty."
the smile on your face wavers. "empty?"
"yeah," he shrugs, finally looking up with those bright, innocent eyes. "just because you’re so pretty. i think i told her you looked like you’d be the type to only care about your reflection. i didn't expect you to have such a big heart, or to be so kind to everyone."
it’s meant to be a compliment. you know it is. but the way he says it—like your beauty and your character are two separate entities that shouldn't exist in the same person—makes your heart heavy.
"so you just looked at me and assumed there was nothing inside?" you ask softly. "that i was just a doll?"
felix misses the hurt in your voice, already moving back to the counter to start plating the brownies. "i mean, can you blame me? you have that look—the it girl look. usually, girls like that don't really have to be nice or smart, right? they just get by on being beautiful. i just figured you were another one of those."
the air in the kitchen feels stifling now. it’s the same thing you’ve heard from the others, but coming from felix, it feels more like a betrayal. he’s the one who always talks about "staying true" and "inner beauty," yet he’d judged you by the exact standard he claimed to ignore.
"it's not just a look, lix," you mumble, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "it's just... me."
"i know, i know," he says, sliding a plate with a warm brownie in front of you. he leans down, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your forehead. "that’s why i’m so glad i was wrong. it’s like a secret, isn't it? that the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen is actually a real person with feelings."
he chuckles, sitting down across from you and taking a bite of his own creation. he looks so satisfied, so happy to be sharing this moment with you. he doesn't see that he’s just admitted he viewed you as a stereotype first and a human being second.
"a secret," you repeat, the brownie tasting like ash in your mouth. "is that what it is?"
"totally," he says, his mouth half-full. "the guys were all shocked too. we actually had a bet going about how long it would take for me to realize you were too much to handle. glad i won that one, huh?"
you feel nauseous. a bet?
he winks at you, bright and cheerful, completely unaware that he’s just confirmed your worst fear. he didn't fall for you; he fell for a face and decided to stay because the "extra" parts—your mind, your soul—turned out to be tolerable.
you look at him, the boy who smells like sugar and sunshine, and realize that even he hasn't really been looking at you at all.
he hasn't even seen you.
SEUNGMIN
the apartment is quiet, the only sound being the soft scratching of seungmin’s pen against his notebook. he’s focused, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he reviews his lyrics. you’re sitting on the rug at his feet, resting your head against his knee. it’s the kind of domestic silence you usually treasure—the kind that feels solid and sure.
seungmin reaches down, his fingers absentmindedly tangling in your hair as he reads over a line he just wrote. he lets out a small, huffed breath that might have been a laugh.
"i was looking at my old journals from when we first started talking," he says, his voice steady and calm. "it’s actually kind of embarrassing how much i misread you."
you hum, tilting your head back to look at him. "misread me how?"
he doesn't look down, his eyes still scanning his notes. "i just had you filed away under a certain category. i thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just... there. you know? pretty, quiet, maybe a little bit self-absorbed. the kind of person who’s nice to look at but doesn't really have anything to contribute to a real conversation."
the words hit you with a dull, heavy thud. you pull away from his knee just an inch, the sudden distance feeling massive. "nothing to contribute?"
"i mean, be realistic," he says, finally meeting your eyes. his expression isn't cold—it’s just that typical, blunt seungmin honesty. "most people who look like you don't really develop much of a personality because they don't have to. i figured you’d be vapid. i thought i'd have to do all the heavy lifting in the relationship... intellectually speaking."
you feel the blood rush to your face, a mix of heat and a cold, sinking realization. "so you thought i was stupid?"
"not stupid," he corrects, his tone almost clinical, like he’s explaining a math problem. "just... shallow. i expected our dates to be a lot of you talking about yourself and me just nodding along because you were pretty enough to make it worth the boredom. glad i took that risk, though."
he says it like he’s proud of his own pragmatism. like it’s a funny story. he doesn't seem to realize that he’s essentially admitted he entered your life with zero regard for your mind.
"worth the boredom," you repeat, your voice sounding thin and foreign to your own ears. "so, if i hadn't, like, contributed enough, you would have just... stayed for the view?"
seungmin shrugs, turning a page in his notebook. "maybe for a while. but like i said, i was wrong. you actually have a brain. it was a pleasant surprise."
he says pleasant surprise the same way he’d describe finding an extra ten dollars in his pocket. it’s an added bonus, not the main event. he doesn't notice the way your heart is actually aching, the tears welling on your lash line, or the way you’ve tucked your hands into your sleeves to hide the fact that you’re shaking.
"you’re lucky you’re smart," he adds, finally offering a small, lopsided smile that’s supposed to be affectionate. "it would have been such a waste of a face if you were as boring as i thought you’d be."
he goes back to his lyrics, the pen scratching against the paper again, the sound now feeling like it’s scraping against your nerves. he’s settled back into the silence, perfectly content, while you’re left sitting on the floor feeling like a project he almost didn't take on because he didn't think the materials were high-quality enough.
you stay there, your head back against his knee because you don't know how to move without breaking, realizing that the person who prides himself on being the most observant was actually the most blind of all.
and it hurts so badly.
I.N.
the ferris wheel is moving slowly, the neon lights of the amusement park shrinking below you as you reach the peak. jeongin is sitting right next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours, and he looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. the wind is a bit chilly, but the atmosphere between you is usually so warm that you barely notice.
he’s looking out at the skyline, a small, genuine smile on his face. "this was a good idea," he says, his voice soft. "i needed a break from the studio. thanks for dragging me out here."
"anytime," you say, nudging him playfully. "you were starting to look like a ghost with how much time you were spending indoors."
he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he looks at you, his eyes reflecting the twinkling lights of the city. "you know, i was thinking about our first date earlier. when we went to that fancy cafe you liked."
you smile at the memory. "you were so quiet that day. i thought i was boring you."
"no, not boring me," he says, and his tone shifts—it becomes that easy, unfiltered honesty that usually makes you feel so close to him. "i was just... surprised. i remember telling the hyungs later that night that you actually had stuff to say. i really didn't expect you to be so well-spoken."
the smile on your face stiffens. "well-spoken? why wouldn't i be?"
jeongin shrugs, his gaze drifting back to the view. "i don't know. you're just so pretty, you know? i guess i just fell into that trap of thinking you were probably just another girl who’s a bit... empty-headed. i figured you’d be more concerned with your outfit than with having a real conversation."
the words feel like a cold draft hitting you. you pull your jacket tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help the hollow feeling in your chest. "empty-headed? is that really what you thought when you looked at me?"
"at first? yeah," he says, completely unaware of how the air has left your lungs. "i mean, can you blame me? usually, when someone looks like you do, they don't really have to develop a personality. i just assumed you were one of those types. i was actually kind of prepared for the conversation to be really shallow."
you swallow hard, your throat feeling tight. out of everyone, jeongin is the one you always felt most comfortable being yourself around. you thought he saw the real you from the start.
"so you were prepared for me to be boring?" you ask, your voice a little shaky. "you didn't think i had anything of value to say?"
"i just didn't think i'd have to listen that hard," he admits with a small, careless laugh. "i figured i’d just enjoy looking at you and call it a day. i was honestly shocked when you started talking about that book you were reading. like, 'wow, she reads?'"
he looks at you then, grinning like he’s giving you the world's biggest compliment. he thinks he’s telling you how much more amazing you are than his expectations. he doesn't see that he’s telling you his expectations were on the floor.
"oh," you whisper, the word tasting like lead. your face feels warm, and there's a lump in your throat.
"yeah! it was a great surprise," he says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. his palm is warm, but you feel oddly numb to the touch. "i’m glad you aren't like that. it would’ve been such a shame if you were just... boring. it's much better this way."
the ferris wheel starts its descent, the car swaying slightly. jeongin goes back to pointing out landmarks in the distance, his voice bright and cheerful. he’s perfectly happy, tucked into his own little world where he "lucked out" with a girl who has a brain.
you sit there, watching the ground get closer, feeling like you’ve been categorized and filed away. he doesn't realize he’s just told you he never would have bothered to find your heart if he hadn't liked the way your face looked first.
"yeah," you mumble, forced a smile that makes you ache. "it’s much better."
ɞ . abstract. they tell you what their first impression of you was—and it's not as romantic as you'd have thought. what's romantic about the love of your life writing you off as just a pretty face?
ɞ . warnings / tags. angst. themes of insecurity. discussion of appearance-based stereotypes. unintentional emotional hurt (which makes it worse). feeling underestimated/undervalued.
ɞ . note. ib: @/loveyislost's series. part two here. part three here.
BANG CHAN
it’s the way he says it—easy, casual, almost mindless. like he’s commenting on the weather or the plot of the show flickering on the screen. it’s just chan. he’s always been the type to speak his heart without overthinking the polish, and usually, you love that about him.
but this? it sits in the air between you like lead.
you shift from where you’re curled up on the couch beside him, your shoulder losing its warmth as you pull away just a fraction. you tilt your head, searching for his gaze, but he’s still looking at the tv. he looks relaxed. he looks like he hasn’t just shattered something.
"what do you mean?" you ask softly. your voice feels small, like it’s trying to hide.
he just chuckles, a low, warm sound that usually makes you feel safe. now, it just feels like he’s laughing at a joke you aren’t in on. "well, you know," he says, eyes crinkling at a cartoon character on screen. "it’s not a bad thing. it's just that, i totally expected you to put out on the first date."
you freeze. the air in your lungs feels thin. "why," you pause, the words tripping over the sudden lump in your throat. "why would you think that?"
this is all news to you. you’ve been together for months—long enough that you thought he saw you. the real you. not some caricature. the words make you shrink, your stomach doing a cruel, sickening little jump. the worst part is the lack of malice in his voice. he isn't trying to be mean, which somehow makes it a thousand times worse. it means it’s just a fact to him.
"i'm just saying, like... you're pretty," chan shrugs, reached over to ruffle your hair like he always does. he doesn't notice the way you flinch away from his touch. "it's just a vibe."
"i... i don't get it, chan. me being pretty equates to... to that? you thought i was just easy?"
"no, of course not. not easy," he says, finally turning to look at you, though he’s still smiling. he hasn't clocked the way your hands are shaking under the blanket. "people just think that about girls like you. you have that look, you know? like you’re used to the attention. i just figured you played the game."
"girls like me?" the words taste bitter. "is that what you think about me? that i’m just... a look?"
"i don't think that about you now," he counters, his tone drifting back to that conversational, effortless lilt. "i just meant that's the first impression. i’m just being honest, babe. don't take it the wrong way."
slowly, you shake your head, pulling your knees up to your chest to create a barrier. "but you just said you expected it. from me. that means you looked at me and decided i was..." you can't even finish the sentence. the word vapid is screaming in your head. shallow. just a pretty face.
chan reaches for the popcorn bowl, the movement so normal it’s jarring. he’s already moved past it. in his head, the conversation is over and he’s given you a compliment. "do you think we need a refill?" he asks, shaking the bowl so the unpopped kernels rattle. "i can go pop another bag if you're still hungry."
you stare at him, waiting for the punchline, waiting for him to realize he just told you he didn't respect you when you met. but he’s just looking at you with those soft, tired eyes, waiting for an answer about popcorn.
"no," you whisper, turning your face back to the tv so he won't see your eyes welling up. "i'm not hungry anymore."
"suit yourself," he mumbles, leaning back and pulling you by the waist to tuck you back under his arm.
you let him. you stay there, pinned against his side, but the warmth is gone. he thinks it’s just a compliment—that you’re so pretty it’s intimidating, that you’re so pretty people assume the worst. but all you can hear is the underlying truth: that when he looked at you, he didn't see someone to get to know. he saw a girl who was just there to be looked at.
you stay quiet, watching the bright colors on the screen blur into a messy smear as you try to blink back the tears, wondering how many other things he thinks about "girls like you" that he hasn't said out loud yet.
LEE KNOW
minho is usually the one who sees through everyone. he’s observant, sharp, and prides himself on knowing people better than they know themselves. so when the words leave his mouth, you expect them to be weighted with some kind of deeper meaning. instead, they’re just... light. carelessly tossed out while he’s busy with something else.
he’s standing at the kitchen island, meticulously dicing vegetables for dinner. you’re sitting across from him, chin resting on your palms, just watching the steady, rhythmic movement of the knife.
it’s peaceful until it isn’t.
"you know," he starts, not even looking up from the cutting board. "when i first saw you, i told the guys you’d probably be a handful. one of those girls who only cares about the aesthetic of things."
you blink, your heart catching in your chest. "a handful? what’s that supposed to mean?"
he shrugs, his focus entirely on the carrots. "just that you look like you’d be high maintenance. you have that face—the kind where people just assume you’re there to look pretty and be taken care of. i didn't think there’d be much going on behind it."
the knife hits the wood with a sharp thud. it feels louder than it probably is.
"you didn't think there’d be much going on?" you repeat, your voice tighter than you intended. "so you just... saw me and decided i was shallow?"
minho finally looks up, but he just has that faint, amused smirk on his face. the one he wears when he thinks he’s being clever. "i mean, look at you. can you blame me? you’re objectively very pretty. usually, people who look like that don't have to try very hard at anything else. they just let their face do the work."
he says it like it’s a compliment. like he’s praising your DNA while simultaneously insulting your entire existence.
"i've worked hard for everything i have, minho," you murmur, your gaze dropping to the countertop. you feel a hot prickle of shame behind your eyes. "it’s not just 'my face' doing the work."
"i know that now," he says, waving the knife dismissively before going back to the vegetables. "i’m just saying what the initial thought was. it’s funny how wrong first impressions can be, right? i really expected you to be way more superficial."
he chuckles to himself, like it’s a funny little anecdote from the past. he doesn't see the way you’re digging your nails into your palms under the table. he doesn't see that he’s basically told you he started your relationship with zero respect for your mind or your character.
"is that why you were so cold to me at the start?" you ask, your voice trembling. "because you thought i was superficial?"
"it was just an assumption," he says easily, sliding the carrots into a bowl. "don't get all sensitive about it. i’m dating you now, aren't i? obviously, you proved me wrong."
he reaches across the island to flick the tip of your nose, his fingers cool and smelling of onions. he’s smiling, waiting for you to bite back with a witty retort or a fake pout. but the words are stuck in your throat.
you have that face. just there to look pretty.
"yeah," you force out, a ghost of a smile touching your lips that doesn't reach your eyes. "i guess i did."
minho hums, satisfied, and turns back to the stove. he starts humming a random tune, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just planted a seed of doubt that’s already starting to bloom. you sit there in the silence of the kitchen, feeling less like his partner and more like a trophy he accidentally found out had a soul.
CHANGBIN
the gym is quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic clank of weights and the low hum of the air conditioner. changbin is mid-set, his focus intense as he finishes his reps, and you’re sitting on the bench nearby, scrolling through your phone and waiting for him to finish.
he drops the dumbbells with a heavy thud and exhales, reaching for his water bottle. he looks over at you, his chest heaving, and a wide, proud grin breaks across his face.
"you know," he pants, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "i still remember when i first told the guys i was going to ask you out. chan actually laughed."
you look up, curious. "he laughed? why?"
changbin chuckles, leaning back against the weight rack. "he just thought you were way out of my league. and honestly, so did i. you’re just so... you know, polished. you look like you belong in a magazine, not sitting on a sweaty gym bench with a guy like me."
you tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. "i'm not that polished, binnie."
"no, seriously," he says, his voice taking on that casual, breezy tone he uses when he's just thinking out loud. "i really thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just... boring. like, someone who spends all their time on their makeup and has nothing to talk about but clothes and mirrors."
the smile on your face falters. the words feel like a sudden, cold splash of water. were those really his first thoughts about you? ouch. "boring?"
"yeah, you know," he says, shrugging his broad shoulders as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "it's the 'pretty girl' curse. i just assumed you’d be high-maintenance and shallow. like, you’re so good to look at that i didn't think there’d be much personality under there."
you feel a dull ache start in your chest. you’ve spent your whole life trying to be more than just a face, trying to be someone people took seriously, and here was the person who was supposed to know you best, admitting he’d written you off from the start.
"so you only asked me out because of how i looked? even though you thought i was boring?" your voice is a bit more brittle now, a bit sharper.
changbin doesn't catch the shift. he’s too busy unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. "i mean, i was willing to take the risk just to be seen with you, honestly. you’re a total 10. i figured even if the conversation was dry, at least i’d have the prettiest girl in the room on my arm."
he takes a long drink, his throat bobbing, while you sit there feeling like a decorative object. an accessory.
"is that all i was to you? a trophy?"
he stops drinking and looks at you, finally noticing the way you're holding yourself—stiff, guarded. he lets out a little laugh, reaching out to playfully nudge your shoulder. "hey, don't get all dramatic. i’m saying it was a good surprise. i was shocked when i realized you actually had a brain and a sense of humor. it was like a 'buy one, get one free' deal."
he grins, clearly thinking he’s being charming, but the joke feels like a slap. he doesn't realize that he’s just told you he thought your intelligence was a bonus, not a requirement.
"right," you mumble, looking down at your lap so he can't see the way your bottom lip is trembling. "a bonus."
"exactly!" changbin says, oblivious as he stands up to start his next set. "i really lucked out. most girls who look like you don't usually have much else going for them."
he grabs the weights again, his muscles flexing as he starts his reps, leaving you sitting there in the heavy silence of the gym. you watch him work out, feeling smaller than you ever have, wondering if he ever would have bothered to look for your heart if he hadn't liked the way your face looked first.
HYUNJIN
the sun is setting, casting long, golden shadows across hyunjin’s bedroom. he’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by fashion magazines and sketches for his next project, while you’re tucked onto the edge of his bed, absentmindedly braiding a loose thread on his rug.
it had been a long day of him talking about his latest shoot, and he’s in one of those moods where he’s thinking out loud, his voice soft and dreamy.
"i was looking at the shots from today," hyunjin says, flipping through a magazine without really seeing the pages. "and it reminded me of the first time i saw your profile on social media. before we actually met."
you smile, feeling a little flutter in your chest. "yeah? what did you think?"
he looks up, his dark hair falling over his eyes, and gives a small, airy laugh. "honestly? i almost didn't message you back. i thought, 'there’s no way she’s real.' you looked so... perfect. like a doll."
"a doll?" you tease, though a tiny knot starts to form in your stomach.
"yeah," he hums, turning back to the magazine. "i just assumed you were one of those people who lived for the camera. i figured your life was probably just empty aesthetic—no substance, no depth. just someone who liked the way they looked in a mirror."
the knot tightens. of all the people to say this, you didn't expect it to be him. hyunjin, who had spent so many nights leaning on you, venting about how he hated being called "just a visual." hyunjin, who had cried because he felt like people didn't care about his hard work, only his face.
"you thought i had no substance?" you ask, your voice a little hollow. "hyunjin, you of all people... you know how that feels. to be dismissed like that."
he stops flipping the pages, but he doesn't look up. "that’s the thing, though. it’s different for you. you aren't an idol, you don't have to prove anything to anyone. i just saw a pretty face and thought, 'it’s okay if she’s a bit, like, simple, she’s gorgeous enough to make up for it.'"
falling from his lips, it makes "simple" sound like a slur. you stare at the back of his head, waiting for him to realize what he’s saying.
"so you were okay with me being empty as long as i was pretty?"
"i mean, at first? yeah," he says, finally looking at you with a shrug that feels way too casual. "i didn't think i’d actually fall for you. i just wanted to see if you were as pretty in person. i was prepared for you to be boring. i'm just glad you ended up being more than just a visual, unlike most girls who look like you."
he says it like he's giving you a prize. like he’s inviting you into an exclusive club where you’re "one of the good ones."
"you really thought i was just a decoration," you whisper, the hurt finally starting to leak into your voice.
hyunjin notices the change in your tone this time. he tilts his head, looking slightly confused. "babe, why are you getting upset? i'm saying it as a good thing. i’m saying i was surprised that you actually have thoughts. it’s a compliment."
"it’s not a compliment to tell me you had zero expectations for my personality because of my face, hyunjin. especially when you hate it when people do that to you."
he sighs, a frustrated sound, and drops the magazine. "it’s not the same. i’m an idol. i have to be more. for you, it’s just... you’re lucky. you have the look that everyone wants, so why does it matter if people assume you’re like that? at least they’re looking."
he reaches out to take your hand, but you pull back, the sting of his words lingering. he doesn't see the hypocrisy. he doesn't see that he’s doing the exact thing that breaks his heart when it’s done to him.
"i think i’m gonna go home," you mumble, sliding off the bed.
"already, jagi?" he asks, eyes wide with genuine surprise. "but we were having a good time. did i say something wrong?"
"no," you lie, your heart aching as you grab your bag. "i'm just tired."
"okay," he says, already reaching back for his sketches. "text me when you get back, pretty girl."
the nickname, which usually made you blush, now just feels like a label. a box he put you in the moment he saw you, and one he’s clearly not interested in letting you out of.
HAN
the arcade is loud, a chaotic mess of neon lights and electronic music that makes you feel alive. it's so nice to finally be on a date with him, to spend some time together. you’re sitting at a booth in the corner, waiting for your food while jisung finishes a round of some rhythm game.
he slides into the seat across from you a few minutes later, grinning and out of breath. "did you see that? i totally crushed the high score," he says, grabbing a french fry from the basket between you.
"i saw," you smile, because his happiness has always been contagious. "you're getting better."
he laughs, leaning back and looking at you with that bright, observant gaze he has. "it's funny, actually. i remember telling the guys when we first started hanging out that i was surprised we actually had things in common."
you tilt your head, confused. "why would you be surprised? we like the same movies, the same music..."
"no, i know," he says, waving a fry dismissively. "i just mean... look at you. you’re like, top-tier pretty. the kind of girl who usually just hangs out at expensive clubs or spends all day taking pictures for the 'gram. i definitely didn't think you’d be into the stuff i’m into."
the noise of the arcade seems to fade, replaced by a dull ringing in your ears. "so you thought i was... what? an instagram model with no interests?"
jisung chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the way your posture has stiffened. "i mean, kinda? it's just the vibe you give off. you're so put together. i just figured you were one of those girls who’s just there to be seen. i honestly expected you to be, like, totally watery and boring to talk to."
your heart sinks. out of everyone, jisung—who struggles so much with his own anxieties and how people perceive him—should know how much it hurts to be judged before you even speak.
"watery?" you whisper, the word feeling like a stone in your throat. "you really thought that little of me?"
"it's not that i thought little of you," he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice like he’s telling a joke. "i just thought you’d be a trophy type. i was actually kind of relieved when i realized you were a nerd. it made me feel way less intimidated. like, 'oh, she’s actually human, not just a pretty face.'"
he grins, waiting for you to laugh along with him. he thinks he’s being relatable, showing you his vulnerability by admitting he was intimidated. but all you can hear is that he looked at you and saw an object, not a person.
"so if i didn't have these 'nerdy' interests," you ask, your voice trembling slightly, "you would've just kept thinking i was a shell?"
"i mean, probably?" he shrugs, reaching for another fry. "but that’s just how it is with girls who look like you. you don't really expect them to have much depth. it’s like a hidden character unlock or something."
he stuffs the fry into his mouth, his eyes already wandering back toward the claw machines. "we should try that one next, i bet i can win you that cat plushie."
you look at him, the bright, funny boy you thought really knew you. he’s already moved on, excited for the next game, while you’re left sitting in the booth feeling like you’ve been stripped down to nothing but a set of features. a hidden character.
"yeah," you mumble, looking down at your food. suddenly, you don't feel too hungry. "maybe later."
"sweet," he says, not noticing the way you're blinking back tears. "this is the best date ever."
FELIX
the kitchen is warm, filled with the sweet, buttery scent of the brownies felix just pulled from the oven. he’s in a great mood, humming a soft melody as he carefully frosts them, his movements gentle and precise. you’re sitting at the table, watching him, feeling that familiar tug of affection for how much care he puts into everything he does for you.
"you know," he says, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room. he doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the swirl of chocolate. "i was talking to my mom on the phone earlier, telling her about you. about how we met."
you smile, resting your chin on your hand. "what did you tell her?"
felix pauses, a lopsided grin appearing as he remembers. "i told her that when i first saw you, i was actually kind of scared to talk to you. you just looked so... perfect. like a porcelain doll. i honestly thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just, you know, a bit empty."
the smile on your face wavers. "empty?"
"yeah," he shrugs, finally looking up with those bright, innocent eyes. "just because you’re so pretty. i think i told her you looked like you’d be the type to only care about your reflection. i didn't expect you to have such a big heart, or to be so kind to everyone."
it’s meant to be a compliment. you know it is. but the way he says it—like your beauty and your character are two separate entities that shouldn't exist in the same person—makes your heart heavy.
"so you just looked at me and assumed there was nothing inside?" you ask softly. "that i was just a doll?"
felix misses the hurt in your voice, already moving back to the counter to start plating the brownies. "i mean, can you blame me? you have that look—the it girl look. usually, girls like that don't really have to be nice or smart, right? they just get by on being beautiful. i just figured you were another one of those."
the air in the kitchen feels stifling now. it’s the same thing you’ve heard from the others, but coming from felix, it feels more like a betrayal. he’s the one who always talks about "staying true" and "inner beauty," yet he’d judged you by the exact standard he claimed to ignore.
"it's not just a look, lix," you mumble, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "it's just... me."
"i know, i know," he says, sliding a plate with a warm brownie in front of you. he leans down, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your forehead. "that’s why i’m so glad i was wrong. it’s like a secret, isn't it? that the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen is actually a real person with feelings."
he chuckles, sitting down across from you and taking a bite of his own creation. he looks so satisfied, so happy to be sharing this moment with you. he doesn't see that he’s just admitted he viewed you as a stereotype first and a human being second.
"a secret," you repeat, the brownie tasting like ash in your mouth. "is that what it is?"
"totally," he says, his mouth half-full. "the guys were all shocked too. we actually had a bet going about how long it would take for me to realize you were too much to handle. glad i won that one, huh?"
you feel nauseous. a bet?
he winks at you, bright and cheerful, completely unaware that he’s just confirmed your worst fear. he didn't fall for you; he fell for a face and decided to stay because the "extra" parts—your mind, your soul—turned out to be tolerable.
you look at him, the boy who smells like sugar and sunshine, and realize that even he hasn't really been looking at you at all.
he hasn't even seen you.
SEUNGMIN
the apartment is quiet, the only sound being the soft scratching of seungmin’s pen against his notebook. he’s focused, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he reviews his lyrics. you’re sitting on the rug at his feet, resting your head against his knee. it’s the kind of domestic silence you usually treasure—the kind that feels solid and sure.
seungmin reaches down, his fingers absentmindedly tangling in your hair as he reads over a line he just wrote. he lets out a small, huffed breath that might have been a laugh.
"i was looking at my old journals from when we first started talking," he says, his voice steady and calm. "it’s actually kind of embarrassing how much i misread you."
you hum, tilting your head back to look at him. "misread me how?"
he doesn't look down, his eyes still scanning his notes. "i just had you filed away under a certain category. i thought you were going to be one of those girls who’s just... there. you know? pretty, quiet, maybe a little bit self-absorbed. the kind of person who’s nice to look at but doesn't really have anything to contribute to a real conversation."
the words hit you with a dull, heavy thud. you pull away from his knee just an inch, the sudden distance feeling massive. "nothing to contribute?"
"i mean, be realistic," he says, finally meeting your eyes. his expression isn't cold—it’s just that typical, blunt seungmin honesty. "most people who look like you don't really develop much of a personality because they don't have to. i figured you’d be vapid. i thought i'd have to do all the heavy lifting in the relationship... intellectually speaking."
you feel the blood rush to your face, a mix of heat and a cold, sinking realization. "so you thought i was stupid?"
"not stupid," he corrects, his tone almost clinical, like he’s explaining a math problem. "just... shallow. i expected our dates to be a lot of you talking about yourself and me just nodding along because you were pretty enough to make it worth the boredom. glad i took that risk, though."
he says it like he’s proud of his own pragmatism. like it’s a funny story. he doesn't seem to realize that he’s essentially admitted he entered your life with zero regard for your mind.
"worth the boredom," you repeat, your voice sounding thin and foreign to your own ears. "so, if i hadn't, like, contributed enough, you would have just... stayed for the view?"
seungmin shrugs, turning a page in his notebook. "maybe for a while. but like i said, i was wrong. you actually have a brain. it was a pleasant surprise."
he says pleasant surprise the same way he’d describe finding an extra ten dollars in his pocket. it’s an added bonus, not the main event. he doesn't notice the way your heart is actually aching, the tears welling on your lash line, or the way you’ve tucked your hands into your sleeves to hide the fact that you’re shaking.
"you’re lucky you’re smart," he adds, finally offering a small, lopsided smile that’s supposed to be affectionate. "it would have been such a waste of a face if you were as boring as i thought you’d be."
he goes back to his lyrics, the pen scratching against the paper again, the sound now feeling like it’s scraping against your nerves. he’s settled back into the silence, perfectly content, while you’re left sitting on the floor feeling like a project he almost didn't take on because he didn't think the materials were high-quality enough.
you stay there, your head back against his knee because you don't know how to move without breaking, realizing that the person who prides himself on being the most observant was actually the most blind of all.
and it hurts so badly.
I.N.
the ferris wheel is moving slowly, the neon lights of the amusement park shrinking below you as you reach the peak. jeongin is sitting right next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours, and he looks more relaxed than he has in weeks. the wind is a bit chilly, but the atmosphere between you is usually so warm that you barely notice.
he’s looking out at the skyline, a small, genuine smile on his face. "this was a good idea," he says, his voice soft. "i needed a break from the studio. thanks for dragging me out here."
"anytime," you say, nudging him playfully. "you were starting to look like a ghost with how much time you were spending indoors."
he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he looks at you, his eyes reflecting the twinkling lights of the city. "you know, i was thinking about our first date earlier. when we went to that fancy cafe you liked."
you smile at the memory. "you were so quiet that day. i thought i was boring you."
"no, not boring me," he says, and his tone shifts—it becomes that easy, unfiltered honesty that usually makes you feel so close to him. "i was just... surprised. i remember telling the hyungs later that night that you actually had stuff to say. i really didn't expect you to be so well-spoken."
the smile on your face stiffens. "well-spoken? why wouldn't i be?"
jeongin shrugs, his gaze drifting back to the view. "i don't know. you're just so pretty, you know? i guess i just fell into that trap of thinking you were probably just another girl who’s a bit... empty-headed. i figured you’d be more concerned with your outfit than with having a real conversation."
the words feel like a cold draft hitting you. you pull your jacket tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help the hollow feeling in your chest. "empty-headed? is that really what you thought when you looked at me?"
"at first? yeah," he says, completely unaware of how the air has left your lungs. "i mean, can you blame me? usually, when someone looks like you do, they don't really have to develop a personality. i just assumed you were one of those types. i was actually kind of prepared for the conversation to be really shallow."
you swallow hard, your throat feeling tight. out of everyone, jeongin is the one you always felt most comfortable being yourself around. you thought he saw the real you from the start.
"so you were prepared for me to be boring?" you ask, your voice a little shaky. "you didn't think i had anything of value to say?"
"i just didn't think i'd have to listen that hard," he admits with a small, careless laugh. "i figured i’d just enjoy looking at you and call it a day. i was honestly shocked when you started talking about that book you were reading. like, 'wow, she reads?'"
he looks at you then, grinning like he’s giving you the world's biggest compliment. he thinks he’s telling you how much more amazing you are than his expectations. he doesn't see that he’s telling you his expectations were on the floor.
"oh," you whisper, the word tasting like lead. your face feels warm, and there's a lump in your throat.
"yeah! it was a great surprise," he says, reaching over to squeeze your hand. his palm is warm, but you feel oddly numb to the touch. "i’m glad you aren't like that. it would’ve been such a shame if you were just... boring. it's much better this way."
the ferris wheel starts its descent, the car swaying slightly. jeongin goes back to pointing out landmarks in the distance, his voice bright and cheerful. he’s perfectly happy, tucked into his own little world where he "lucked out" with a girl who has a brain.
you sit there, watching the ground get closer, feeling like you’ve been categorized and filed away. he doesn't realize he’s just told you he never would have bothered to find your heart if he hadn't liked the way your face looked first.
"yeah," you mumble, forced a smile that makes you ache. "it’s much better."
CONTENT: Angst, hurt/comfort (no comfort yet), jealousy, insecurity, idol!AU, emotionally heavy argument, open ending / temporary separation, set-up for future reconciliation?
SUMMARY: Dating an idol meant accepting rumors, edits and ships with every girl he stood next to. You thought you could handle it—until the media fixated on the "perfect chemistry" between Chan and another idol. One night, all your bottled-up jealousy and fear of not being enough explodes into an argument he's too exhausted to handle, and he walks out, leaving you alone with the question of whether love is really enough to hold everything together.
This is the second part of: BETWEEN THE NOISE AND US
He didn’t even make it to the elevator.
The echo of your door closing was still in his bones when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. By the time he dragged it out with a rough sigh, the screen was flooded with notifications.
[PD-nim]: Call me ASAP. Emergency with the track.
[3 missed calls – PD-nim]
[New message – Manager-hyung]
[Producer chat – 27 new messages]
“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, pressing his thumb hard against the bridge of his nose.
For a second—just a second—he considered ignoring it. Turning around. Knocking on your door again. Saying something that would stop the way your voice had broken on “You’re leaving?”
But reality landed like a weight on his shoulders. He was already at his limit before the fight. Now the universe was asking for more.
He hit call.
“Yeah, hyung” he said, voice flat.
“Chan, where are you?” His PD sounded stressed, more than usual. “We’ve got an issue with the pre-master. There’s a glitch in the vocal stem and the deadline’s in the morning. We need you at the studio. Now.”
He closed his eyes for a second, head tipping back against the cold wall of the hallway.
Of course.
“Okay” he answered mechanically. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
He hung up before he could think too hard about it. Before he could think about you on the other side of that door, probably still standing where he’d left you.
He stared at the wood for one heartbeat too long.
Don’t.
If you go back in now, you’re going to say something you regret. You’re already running on fumes.
He turned away, shoved his cap back on and headed down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Another night at the studio.
Another night of not sleeping.
Another night where you would be alone with your thoughts and he wouldn’t be there to hold you together.
He hated it.
He went anyway.
You didn’t know any of that.
For you, the last sound of him was the door closing. After that, there was nothing—no footsteps coming back, no quick knock saying, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Just silence.
You cried until your throat hurt, until your chest ached from the force of the sobs. At some point, the tears stopped being dramatic and just… leaked, slow and constant, soaking the fabric of your sleeves, the pillow you’d dragged to your chest on the couch.
Time blurred. The phone screen dimmed, brightened, dimmed again as you picked it up, put it down, picked it up again. The photo was long gone now, buried under your call log and the empty chat with his name at the top.
My love💞:
last seen: online
You stared at that tiny word—online—for far too long. Wondering if he was looking at your conversation too. Wondering if his cursor was blinking on an empty line just like yours and he didn’t know how to start.
You typed:
I’m sorry.
You erased it.
You typed:
Please come back.
You erased it.
You typed:
I know you need space. Just… let me know you’re okay.
You erased that too.
In the end, you didn’t send anything. You felt like you had no right to ask him for reassurance after how hard you’d pushed. After saying things that had sliced straight through his already thin patience.
You curled up tighter on the couch, wrapping a blanket around yourself even though you weren’t cold.
Your mind replayed the worst parts on loop.
“It feels like I lose to some damn edit online.”
“If that’s not enough… I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Right now I can’t be the answer to everything that hurts you.”
You’d wanted him to understand you.
You hadn’t realized how clearly he’d just told you: he was hurting too.
Guilt crawled into your chest, heavy and stubborn.
You’d been so focused on your own pain that you hadn’t really looked at him when he walked in. The deep shadows under his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way he’d said “It’s been a really long day” like it was the understatement of the year.
Of course he was tired of explaining himself. Of defending every smile.
Of reassuring you every time the world shouted that someone else would fit him better.
“Why am I here? How long will this last before he realizes there are better options out there?”
You cringed at your own words. They weren’t just unfair to him; they were cruel to yourself.
You loved him.
You knew he loved you.
And yet, when your fear took the wheel, you threw that trust onto the back seat.
You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, rubbing hard.
“I don’t want to be like this” you whispered to the empty room.
It didn’t answer. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and your uneven breathing.
Eventually, your body gave out before your mind did. You didn’t remember actually falling asleep; one second you were staring at the dark ceiling, the next your alarm was going off on the coffee table, sharp and violent after what felt like five minutes.
Morning was cruel.
You dragged yourself to the bathroom on autopilot. The light was too bright. Everything felt too loud.
When you lifted your eyes to the mirror, for a second you didn’t recognize yourself.
Your eyelids were swollen, the skin underneath tinted a bruised red-purple. The white of your eyes was veined and irritated, making your irises look dulled. Your cheeks were blotchy, your lips dry and chapped from biting down on them so much.
You looked like someone who’d gone to war and lost.
“Wow” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Nice.”
You splashed cold water on your face until your skin stung, hoping it would reduce the puffiness. It didn’t help much. You dabbed at your eyes with a towel, then just stood there, gripping the sink.
“I did this” you told your reflection quietly. “To myself. To him.”
The thought hit deeper than any headline ever had.
You’d always blamed the outside world—the fans, the edits, the media. And they were part of it. Of course they were. But last night… you’d handed them all the power yourself. Let strangers’ fantasies scream louder than the voice of the man who came home to you.
You picked up your phone with damp fingers.
No message.
The chat with his name was still there, stubbornly unchanged, the last thing in it something stupid and mundane from the day before. A meme he’d sent you during practice. Your “lmao I hate you” reaction.
You scrolled up, past jokes, voice notes, good morning texts, sleepy selfies. It felt like watching someone else’s life. A version of you that didn’t feel like a threat to her own relationship.
By instinct, your thumb hovered over the little circular icon at the top—his profile picture. It was one you’d taken, him half-asleep on the couch, hair everywhere, the softest smile on his lips.
Your chest constricted.
You backed out before you could start crying again.
The hours dragged.
You tried to keep busy. You made coffee and then forgot to drink it. You paced the living room. You opened Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, then closed them, then opened them again. You told yourself you wouldn’t search his name. You searched it anyway.
More clips. Same girl. Same narrative.
“Fate.”
“Meant to be.”
“Visual couple of the year.”
You stared at the comments until the words blurred. Then, with a sudden, shaky breath, you did something you wished you’d done a long time ago.
You opened your phone settings.
Notifications.
Apps.
You muted every app that had anything to do with social media. Turned off banners, sounds, previews.
Your thumb hovered over the option to delete the apps completely.
You didn’t. Not yet.
But the small act of silencing the noise, even just a little, felt like moving a chair in front of that screaming stadium door. Not enough to block it—but at least not standing right in the middle of the entrance anymore.
By 3 p.m., you were sitting cross‑legged on your bed, your phone in your hands, the impulse to text him pounding against your ribs.
He said he needed space.
You wanted to respect that. But the longer the silence dragged on, the more your brain filled it with everything you feared.
Maybe he’s decided it’s not worth it.
Maybe I pushed him too far.
Maybe he finally realized I’m more trouble than comfort.
Around 6 p.m., your restraint finally snapped.
Your fingers shook a little as you opened the chat.
You forced yourself to breathe slowly before typing, each letter deliberate.
You:
Hey. I know you said you need space and I don’t want to push you. I just wanted to know if you’re okay.
I’m sorry for the way I said things last night. Not for being honest about how I feel, but for throwing it at you when you were already exhausted.
I understand more now. And I’m going to try to do better.
You don’t have to answer right away. I just… didn’t want you to think I don’t see the weight you’re carrying too.
You read the message three times before hitting send.
It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t fix anything. But it was the truest combination of words you could find: acknowledging your feelings without invalidating his, apologizing for the how if not the what.
The little “delivered” tick appeared.
You stared at it as if you could will it to change into “read.”
Nothing.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.
At 8 p.m., you sent another message, shorter this time, because the silence was starting to scrape raw.
You:
If you’re home, I hope you’re resting.
If you’re at the studio, don’t forget to eat something, please.
That’s all.
Again: delivered.
Again: nothing.
By 10 p.m., your nerves were buzzing so loudly they might as well have been audible.
You lay on the couch again, phone on your chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Your mind spun theories, most of them ugly.
Maybe he saw your name and rolled his eyes and put the phone down.
Maybe he read it and didn’t know what to say because he’s already done.
Maybe he turned off his phone just to get away from you.
“Stop” you whispered to yourself, palm pressing to your forehead. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”
But the knot in your stomach didn’t care about logic.
You opened your chat again. The last seen status hadn’t changed.
You bit your lip, then hit the call button before you could talk yourself out of it.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
You hung up, waited ten minutes, tried again.
Ring.
Ring.
Nothing.
The paranoia sharpened into something like panic.
What if something happened to him?
What if he’s not answering because he can’t?
You forced yourself to stop. To put the phone down. To inhale deeply for four counts, hold for four, exhale for six, like one of those anxiety exercises you’d seen a therapist explain online but never really used.
You could taste salt on your lips again. You didn’t want to cry anymore. Your body was too tired for it.
“Please be okay” you murmured to the dark.
He was. Just not in the way you imagined.
Chan stumbled into the apartment a little past noon.
His body felt like it was moving through molasses. Every muscle ached, his eyes burned, his head throbbed with the echo of hours spent in front of screens, headphones clamped over his ears, fixing a track that refused to cooperate.
He’d spent the night in the studio with that argument replaying in the back of his mind like an unwanted sample on loop. Your voice cracking. Your tears. The way you’d said “I’m drowning” like you were confessing a crime.
He’d thrown himself into the work because that was the only thing he knew how to control when everything else felt like it was splintering.
Now, every bit of that choice hurt.
The door clicked shut behind him. He dropped his backpack by the entrance and toed off his shoes without looking where they landed.
“Hyung?” Jeongin’s voice floated from the living room, cautious. “You just got back?”
Chan grunted something that was supposed to be “Yeah” but sounded more like an exhale.
Jeongin stepped into the hallway, half‑eaten sandwich in his hand. He froze when he saw Chan’s face.
The leader’s eyes were red‑rimmed, not from crying but from sheer exhaustion. His jaw was tight, his shoulders hunched like he was carrying an invisible weight. He didn’t even try to paste on his usual reassuring smile.
“You okay?” Jeongin asked softly.
Chan opened his mouth to lie.
He closed it again.
“…No” he said instead. The honesty surprised even him. “But I’m too tired to talk.”
It came out flat, drained. Not sharp, not angry. Just empty.
Jeongin’s expression flickered with worry, but he nodded.
“Go sleep” he said. “You can yell at me later if I eat your food.”
Chan snorted weakly. It was the closest he could get to gratitude.
“Eat it all” he muttered, already heading for his room. “I don’t care.”
He didn’t change. He didn’t shower. He barely managed to pull his cap off and throw it somewhere near the desk before collapsing on the bed, face first, shoes still on.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket as he shifted. He ignored it. He didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone—manager, members, you, the world. Not when his brain felt like it was being squeezed from the inside.
Sleep hit him like a blackout.
No dreams. Just darkness.
When he finally surfaced again, the room was pitch black.
His phone screen was the only light source, a faint blue rectangle pressed against his thigh where he’d slept on it. His neck ached from the angle. His mouth tasted stale.
He rolled onto his back with a groan and pulled the phone out. The clock at the top read 00:07.
Twelve hours.
His notifications were a mess.
[14 new messages – Chan’s kids 👶🐺]
[5 missed calls – Manager-hyung]
[3 messages – PD-nim]
[You: Hey. I know you said you need space…]
[You: If you’re home, I hope you’re resting…]
His chest clenched around your name.
He tapped your chat first, thumb hovering just over the screen for a second like opening it would hurt more than not knowing.
He read your first message slowly.
Hey. I know you said you need space and I don’t want to push you…
I’m sorry for the way I said things…
I understand more now. And I’m going to try to do better…
You don’t have to answer right away…
His eyes burned for a completely different reason now.
The second message was simpler, softer, and somehow those few lines stabbed deeper than pages of argument.
If you’re home, I hope you’re resting.
If you’re at the studio, don’t forget to eat something, please.
That’s all.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
What was he supposed to say?
“Sorry I walked out on you and then disappeared for a whole day”?
“Sorry I couldn’t handle your pain on top of mine so I put you on mute without even telling you”?
He swallowed, your words about drowning echoing in his head.
He wanted to type back:
I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Last night I was at my breaking point and I handled it wrong.
I shouldn’t have left like that. I shouldn’t have made you feel like your feelings were a burden.
I need you. I love you. I’m scared too.
But the weight on his chest pressed the words down before they could climb out.
What if anything he wrote now only made it worse? What if you were asleep and woke up to his message in the middle of the night, heart jumping, mind spiraling again? What if he opened that door to another conversation he wasn’t mentally ready to have without snapping?
He was so tired.
So, so tired.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, staring at the cracked ceiling.
“I’ll answer in the morning” he muttered to himself. “Give myself some hours to think. She’s probably asleep anyway.”
He pictured you curled up in your bed, breathing even, phone on the nightstand. He clung to that image because the alternative—that you were awake, waiting—was too much.
He turned his phone face‑down on his chest, like that could muffle everything it represented, and covered his eyes with his forearm.
His throat tightened.
He wanted to cry. Really cry. The way he hadn’t let himself cry in a long time. Not as a leader comforting someone else, not as a producer frustrated with work—just as a man who loved someone and was terrified of not being enough for her, himself, his group, anyone.
His jaw clenched instead.
Leaders don’t fall apart.
Pillars don’t crack.
He couldn’t afford it.
He took a long, shaky breath and forced the tears back.
One more night of holding it in. Just one more.
Tomorrow, he told himself, like a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.
Tomorrow, I’ll talk to her. Properly.
No running. No defensive walls. No “this again.”
He rolled onto his side, phone still warm against his chest, and stared at the wall until his vision blurred again from sheer exhaustion.
He didn’t know that on the other side of the city, you were lying on your back too, eyes wide open, your phone clutched in your hand, staring at the last ticks next to your messages as if they could change if you just wished hard enough.
He thought he was sparing you another restless night.
Instead, both of you were awake.
Both of you were carrying the same weight in different shapes.
Both of you were wondering if the other was already slipping away.
If you’d seen him right then—curled up in the dark, your name the only lit thing in his world—you would’ve cried for a different reason.
If he’d seen you—eyes puffy, cheeks raw, social media silenced, clutching your phone like a lifeline—he would’ve broken the rule he’d set for himself and called you immediately.
You didn’t see each other.
Not yet.
The night stretched on, thick with unsent messages and uncried tears.
And somewhere, beneath all the hurt and exhaustion, the same quiet thought started to form in both your minds:
If we’re going to make it through this,
we can’t keep loving each other like this.
We have to learn a different way.
The next morning, you didn’t even pretend to have slept.
You’d stayed in that strange limbo between awareness and exhaustion, eyes gritty, body heavy, brain refusing to shut up. When the first weak line of daylight slipped around the edges of your curtains, it felt less like a beginning and more like a continuation of the same, endless night.
You were still in yesterday’s shirt. The fabric smelled like dried tears and your own skin, sour with stress. At some point around 4 a.m., you’d sat up, legs dangling off the side of the bed, staring at the floor.
Your phone lay next to you, screen dark. You hadn’t opened your chat with him again after the last unanswered call. The tiny “delivered” next to your messages was burned into your memory anyway.
He said he needed space. Give it to him.
You repeated it like a mantra every time your hand twitched toward your phone.
Give him space. Don’t smother him. Don’t punish him for being honest about his limits.
But space, after a certain point, stopped feeling like respect and started feeling like rejection. Like abandonment. Like punishment for needing too much.
By 9 a.m., your head hurt. The kind of dull, full ache that comes from dehydration and crying and no sleep.
You forced yourself up, one movement at a time. Bathroom. Water. Another look in the mirror that made you flinch. The swelling around your eyes had gone down a little, but you still looked like you’d lost a fight.
With yourself, maybe.
You pressed your palms to the sink and took a slow breath.
“Okay” you said out loud. Your voice sounded foreign, like you were listening to someone on a recording. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. Or to him.”
The thought had been growing quietly since last night, fed by every flash of guilt, every moment of clarity between waves of panic.
You loved him.
You wanted to be with him.
Those two things were still true.
But the way you were loving him—clinging through fear, measuring his every public interaction like it was a threat—was unsustainable. For both of you.
“I don’t want to be this person” you whispered at your reflection. “For me or for him.”
Your therapist—back when you’d gone, before you convinced yourself you were “fine now”—had once told you:
“Jealousy and insecurity don’t make you a bad partner. How you act on them, what you do with them, is what matters.”
You’d thought about going back. More than once. You’d always found a reason not to. Money, time, “it’s not that serious” “I’ll handle it on my own.”
Last night had made one thing painfully clear: you were not handling it on your own.
You grabbed your phone.
Your fingers didn’t open his chat. They typed your old therapist’s name into the search bar instead.
The number was still there.
You hesitated only a second before tapping “Call.”
It rang twice before she picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, uh…” Your throat closed for a second. “It’s me. I don’t know if you remember—”
“I remember you” she cut in gently. “Of course I do. Are you okay?”
No.
Yes.
Sort of.
Not really.
“I… think I need to come back” you managed. “If you have space. I’ve realized I’ve been asking someone I love to hold weight that… that I should be working on too. And it’s… breaking us both.”
There was a small pause on the other end. Not judgment. Just care.
“I’m glad you called” she said. “I have a slot opening this week. Can you come in on Thursday?”
Thursday. It felt like a lifetime away and tomorrow at the same time.
“Yes” you said. “Please.”
You hung up and stared at the “Call ended” screen for a long moment.
You hadn’t fixed anything. Not yet. But for the first time in a while, you’d done something other than refresh social media and interrogate your own reflection.
You’d moved one piece. For yourself.
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they weren’t wild or destructive. They were quieter. Sad and relieved all at once.
“Okay” you whispered again. “One step.”
Only then did you let yourself open his chat.
No new messages.
The hollow in your chest made itself known again, but there was a new voice alongside it now. Small, but there.
You’re doing what you can. He’ll answer when he can. You can survive not knowing for a few more hours.
You typed something into the text box, then erased it before any letter appeared. Not yet. You’d been the last one to speak. The next move had to be his, or this would never stop feeling one‑sided.
You put the phone down and, for the first time since everything blew up, you went to make yourself breakfast. Real breakfast, not coffee you forgot to drink.
You weren’t hungry. But your body needed something, even if your heart was busy starving itself on what‑ifs.
You toasted some bread, scrambled an egg, sliced an apple. It felt mechanical, like assembling a prop for a play you weren’t performing in.
Still, it was something living people did. People who planned to keep going.
You ate slowly, one small bite at a time.
You didn’t notice that, somewhere across the city, another pair of hands was doing the same thing, just as slowly, for the exact same reason.
Chan sat at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched.
Jeongin was at the stove, moving around with quiet efficiency—scrambling eggs, tossing bread into the toaster, humming something under his breath.
It was well past noon. After that brief, painful awakening around midnight, Chan had drifted in and out of a shallow, unsatisfying sleep, never enough to truly rest, always enough to sink him deeper into that gray, heavy fog.
He’d finally given up around 11 a.m. and stumbled out of his room. The apartment was filled with late‑morning light, soft and indifferent.
“Hyung.” Jeongin had turned, spatula in hand, giving him that half‑worried, half‑fond look he reserved for moments when he wanted to fuss but knew better than to push. “Sit. I’m making you food.”
“I’m not—” Chan started.
Hungry. Worth it. Anything.
Jeongin cut him off with a firm, “Sit” that made something like a laugh catch in Chan’s throat.
He sat.
Now, he watched the steam curl up from his mug, thinking of nothing and everything at once.
His phone lay face‑up on the table, a silent, rectangular accusation. The last chat he’d opened before putting it down was still yours, your messages staring back at him.
I’m sorry for the way I said things last night…
I understand more now. And I’m going to try to do better.
You don’t have to answer right away…
He’d read them again when he woke up properly, body less foggy, mind a little sharper.
In the slightly harsher light of nearly‑rested consciousness, a different kind of guilt settled in.
He hadn’t just walked out to cool down. He’d walked out, then let work swallow him, then let exhaustion knock him out, then chosen—chosen—not to write back when he saw your messages.
He’d told himself it was to protect you. To avoid saying something clumsy or defensive. To be responsible.
But now, the timeline looked different.
You: bleeding heart on your couch, watching the door.
Him: walking away, answering his phone, disappearing into the studio, turning his life into noise so he wouldn’t have to listen to what he’d left behind.
His fingers tightened around the mug.
He loved his work. Needed it. It was part of who he was. But sometimes, he wondered if he didn’t also use it as armor. As an excuse.
“I can’t handle this right now. I have too much on my plate.”
It had been true. And it had also been convenient.
He’d replayed your words too.
“I feel like I’m drowning.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like your love is enough because the noise is louder.”
“I didn’t know it would make me feel this replaceable.”
He’d gone through several emotional stages in response—defensiveness, frustration, hurt. But underneath all of that, when he let himself dig, there was something quieter, sharper.
Fear.
Fear that all of this would eventually be too much for you.
Fear that no matter how much he loved, gave, tried, the imbalance between his public life and your private anxiety would eat away at the relationship until there was nothing left but resentment.
Fear that his work, the thing that had given him everything, would be the thing that took you away.
“Here” Jeongin said, sliding a plate in front of him. Eggs, toast, a few cherry tomatoes, simple but warm. “Eat.”
Chan blinked, dragged back to the kitchen. He rubbed a hand over his face and offered a weak smile.
“Thanks, Innie.”
Jeongin sat across from him with his own plate, watching him for a moment before speaking.
“You fought with noona” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Chan’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.
He forced the bite down anyway.
“Yeah” he answered, voice low. “We did.”
Jeongin chewed thoughtfully, then tilted his head.
“Bad?”
Chan let out a humorless puff of air.
“Bad.”
Jeongin didn’t push for details. He’d learned from years of living with someone like Chan when to pull, when to wait.
“Are you going to fix it?” he asked instead, plain and direct.
Chan’s throat tightened. The simplicity of the question made it sound almost easy.
“Of course I am” he said immediately. The certainty in his tone surprised even him a little. “I have to. I… I want to.”
Jeongin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Good” he said. “Because you were walking around here yesterday like a ghost. It was scary.”
Chan grimaced.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry to me.” Jeongin shoved a piece of egg into his mouth. “Be sorry to her.”
Silence stretched for a moment. Comfortable, not heavy.
“Do you…” Chan began, then stopped, embarrassed by the direction his own mind was taking. “Do you ever think it’s… unfair? For them?”
“Them?” Jeongin echoed.
“People who date us” Chan clarified, poking at his food. “Idols. Trainees. Whatever. The people who have to deal with… this.” He gestured vaguely at the air—at the phantom cameras, the imaginary comments, the invisible expectations.
Jeongin chewed, swallowed, considered.
“I think it’s hard” he said honestly. “But unfair… I don’t know. If you go in blind, maybe. But your girlfriend… she knows you. She knew what your life was like when she chose you. And you knew it would be hard for her too.”
Chan nodded slowly. That much was true.
Jeongin continued, softer now.
“I think it’s only unfair if we expect them to be okay all the time. Like… ‘You signed up for this, so don’t feel anything.’ That’s not fair. They’re human.”
The words landed heavily. Chan stared at him.
He’d never wanted to be that kind of person. The one who weaponized “you knew what you were getting into” to avoid dealing with the fallout.
But last night, somewhere between his exhaustion and her pain, he’d—more or less—said exactly that.
You knew when we started.
The memory made his stomach twist.
“…Yeah” he murmured. “You’re right.”
Jeongin shrugged.
“And it’s also not fair if they expect us to be perfect” he added. “Or to close our eyes on stage or something so no one ever ships us with anyone.” A tiny smile ghosted over his lips. “But that’s why you talk. And listen. And… I don’t know. Be patient with each other.”
“You sound like a therapist” Chan muttered, but there was affection in it.
Jeongin grinned.
“I’ve been living with you. That’s like free field practice.”
Chan huffed a small laugh despite himself.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Both their gazes snapped to it.
A new message preview slid down over the lock screen.
Manager-hyung:
You alive? Call me when you can. Also, remember you have a blocked afternoon. Don’t come to the company unless it’s life or death.
Blocked afternoon.
Right.
He’d begged for that a few days ago, in a rare preemptive attempt at self‑care—one chunk of time with no schedules, no meetings. At the time, he’d imagined maybe taking you out somewhere quiet, or just lying on the couch with you, head in your lap, watching something dumb.
Now, it felt like the universe had circled that time slot in thick red marker and written: FIX THIS.
Jeongin’s eyes flicked from the phone to Chan’s face.
“What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.
Chan stared at the screen, jaw working.
What was he going to do?
He could text you. Call you. Ask to come over. Ask you to meet him somewhere neutral. He could also… not. Let the silence stretch one more day. Tell himself you both needed even more space.
But the image of you alone on that couch, cheeks wet, voice breaking on “You’re leaving?” shoved that thought away.
Running had felt necessary last night. Today, it only felt like cowardice.
“I’m going to talk to her” he said, more to himself than to Jeongin. “Today. Even if it’s messy. Even if I don’t have the perfect words. I owe her more than… this.” He gestured at the empty air between himself and his phone.
Jeongin nodded, satisfied.
“Good.”
Chan took a breath, picked up his phone, opened your chat.
The blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen stared back at him like a dare.
He didn’t overthink it this time.
I’m sorry I didn’t answer sooner. I was at the studio all night and then I crashed as soon as I got home.
That doesn’t excuse leaving you in the dark.
Are you home?
He watched the “delivered” tick appear. His heart thudded in his ears.
Seconds later, it changed.
Read.
His pulse jumped.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
His throat went dry.
I’m home.
Another message bubble popped up almost immediately, as if the first one had broken some invisible dam.
Thank you for writing.
Can we talk? Not right now if you’re busy or exhausted but… today, if possible. I think we need to.
Relief and dread washed through him in equal measure.
She still wants to talk. She hasn’t given up.
He swallowed.
I agree.
I have my afternoon off. Can I come over in an hour?
The reply was almost instantaneous.
Yes.
I’ll be here.
Of course you would be. Where else would you go when your entire world had shrunk to the size of a phone screen and the distance between two apartments?
Chan exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since last night.
Jeongin, who’d been pretending very hard not to eavesdrop, let his shoulders relax.
“Go shower” he said, voice light. “You smell like the studio.”
Chan snorted.
“Translation: like stress and coffee?”
“And sweat” Jeongin added helpfully.
“Wow. Romantic.”
Jeongin smiled, but there was warmth in his eyes.
“Hyung” he said, more serious now. “Don’t try to fix everything in one conversation. Just… be honest. Even if it makes you look weak. She loves you, not your leader image.”
The words hit deeper than they had any right to.
Chan looked at him for a long moment.
“Yeah” he said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll try.”
He stood, plate half‑finished, and headed toward his room.
For the first time since he’d walked out of your apartment, each step toward the shower felt like a step toward you, not away.
The hour between his text and his knock stretched longer than the night.
You’d read his messages so fast you almost dropped your phone.
I’m sorry I didn’t answer sooner…
Are you home?
Just seeing his name at the top of your screen, his words—soft, measured, not defensive—made something inside you unclench.
He hadn’t disappeared. He hadn’t decided overnight that you were too much. He was still there. Tired. Human. Reaching back.
Your fingers had trembled as you typed.
I’m home.
Thank you for writing.
Can we talk?
When he replied that he could come over in an hour, your entire body went into a different kind of alertness.
You had sixty minutes to exist with the knowledge that he was coming.
Sixty minutes to not spiral into rehearsing speeches, anticipating his reactions, staging the conversation in your head until it became an impossible, choreographed thing.
You stripped your bed, because the sheets smelled like anxiety. You opened the windows, even though the air outside was cold, because the room felt suffocating.
You took a shower. Not the ritual warm, comforting kind, but a brisk, practical one. Hot water on your face, fingers massaging the tension out of your scalp.
Under the stream, you let yourself cry a little. Quietly. Not from panic this time, but from the sheer emotional exhaustion of the last twenty‑four hours.
“I’m sorry” you whispered to no one and to him and to yourself.
By the time you turned off the water, your skin felt raw and new.
You dressed in something soft and simple—sweatpants, a plain t‑shirt. No pretense. No armor. You didn’t bother with makeup; there was no point in trying to hide what he would see anyway.
When you caught your reflection again, the redness had faded a little more. You still looked tired. But there was something else in your eyes now.
Resolve.
You checked your phone. Ten minutes left.
You used them to tidy up the living room in small, aimless movements—folding the blanket from last night, straightening the cushions, wiping a non‑existent stain from the coffee table. It wasn’t about the space; it was about trying to impose some order on a day that felt like chaos.
You sat on the couch, then jumped up. Sat at the table, then stood again.
The knock, when it finally came, made your heart slam into your ribs.
You walked to the door on stiff legs.
Your hand hovered over the handle for a second.
You inhaled slowly.
You opened it.
He stood there, hoodie and cap, mask pulled down to his chin. His eyes went straight to yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.
He looked… different. Not in any obvious way—same features, same posture—but in the way his expression held nothing back. No idol smile. No automatic reassurance.
Just Chan. Raw around the edges.
You stepped aside.
“Come in” you said, your voice soft and a little shaky.
He nodded and walked past you, slipping out of his shoes by habit. The familiar motion hurt in a new way.
You closed the door gently behind him.
For a moment, you both just… stood there in the entryway. The memory of last night’s argument flickered between you like static.
He turned to face you fully.
“Hi” he said quietly.
“Hi” you echoed.
It was absurd, greeting each other like this after everything you’d already been through together. But sometimes, the simplest words were the only ones that could bridge that first, impossible gap.
“Can we…” He glanced toward the living room, then back at you. “Sit?”
“Yeah” you nodded. “Of course.”
You went to the couch. He took the armchair across from you, like last night, but the energy between you was different this time. Less combative. More exposed.
You rolled the hem of your sweatshirt between your fingers, grounding yourself in the feeling of the fabric.
He rested his forearms on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head tilted slightly down as if he needed a second to gather himself.
It was you who spoke first.
“Thank you for coming” you said. “I know you’re exhausted.”
He let out a breath, a tired half‑laugh.
“I am” he admitted. “But… not coming would’ve been worse.”
Silence settled again, but it felt like the kind that could hold words, not choke them.
You swallowed.
“I’m going to mess this up if I try to make it pretty” you said. “So I’ll just say it how it is.”
His eyes lifted to yours, attentive.
“I’m sorry” you continued, voice steadying with every word. “I’m sorry for how I brought everything up last night. Not for telling you how I feel, because that needed to happen. But for throwing it at you when you walked through the door half‑dead, for making it sound like your job and your kindness to other people were a betrayal.”
Your throat tightened, but you pushed through.
“I know you weren’t doing anything wrong on those shows” you said. “I know she’s just a colleague. I know the edits and the headlines are out of your control. And I hate that I made you feel like no matter what you did, you’d always lose to some stupid video online. That… that’s not fair to you.”
He watched you, something raw and wounded and grateful flickering in his gaze.
You took a breath, went on.
“I’ve let my insecurities run the whole story” you admitted. “I’ve handed strangers all the power over how I feel, and then I dumped the consequences on you and asked you to fix them while you’re already carrying a thousand other things. That’s not the partner I want to be for you.”
His fingers tightened slightly, knuckles whitening.
“I called my therapist this morning” you said, almost as an afterthought, but it was the opposite. “I’m going back. Because I need help with this. I can’t keep pretending I can handle it alone and then exploding on you when I can’t. That’s… that’s my work, not yours.”
The admission landed between you like a quiet, solid thing.
You hadn’t planned to tell him that yet. But it felt important that he knew: you weren’t just apologizing; you were doing something.
His jaw flexed. He looked away for a second, blinking fast, then back at you.
“Thank you” he said eventually, voice low. “For… for saying all of that. For calling her.” He swallowed. “I’m proud of you. And I’m… sorry too.”
He shifted forward on the armchair, elbows braced on his knees, leaning slightly closer.
“I didn’t handle anything well yesterday” he said. “I walked in already at my limit and the second I saw that photo, I… shut down.” His lips twisted. “I know it came out as ‘this again,’ even though we’d never truly talked about it. You were finally saying out loud what you’d been holding in for months, and I made you feel like a broken record. That’s on me.”
You opened your mouth to protest, to say it wasn’t that simple, but he held up a hand, gentle but firm.
“Let me finish?” he asked.
You nodded, biting back the interruption.
“I kept hiding behind ‘it’s my job” he said. “Which is true… but it’s not the whole truth. Yes, it’s work. Yes, I can’t control who I stand next to, what the producers want, what fans ship. But that doesn’t mean your feelings about it are invalid, or that I get a free pass to dismiss them because they’re inconvenient. I did that yesterday. I made you feel like you were a problem I didn’t have time for. And I hate that.”
Your eyes burned again.
“I also said some really shitty things” he went on, voice roughening. “‘You knew what you were getting into.’ Like that excuses your pain. Like knowing something in theory makes living it easy. It doesn’t.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “I’ve always promised myself I would never say that to someone I love. And then I did. To you.”
You inhaled sharply. You hadn’t expected him to be that direct about it.
His gaze found yours again, unwavering.
“And walking out…” He winced a little. “I told myself I was protecting us. That if I stayed, I’d say things I couldn’t take back. There’s some truth in that. But I also walked out because I couldn’t handle sitting in your pain and mine at the same time. I chose the easier discomfort: the studio. Work. Fixing a track instead of facing the fact that I was hurting you by simply existing the way my career demands.”
You shook your head, tears spilling over.
“It wasn’t easy for you” you whispered. “You were dying in that studio too.”
He gave a broken half‑smile.
“Yeah. But that kind of dying, I know how to do” he said quietly. “The other kind… scares me more.”
Your chest clenched.
He took a breath, dropped his gaze to his hands.
“And then” he continued, “I saw your messages. And instead of writing back, I told myself you were probably asleep, that we both needed more time. That I’d answer in the morning when I could be ‘calm’ and ‘rational.’ But the truth is… I was scared.” His throat worked. “Scared that if we started talking again, we’d end up in the same place without having changed anything. Scared that whatever I said wouldn’t be enough.”
He laughed, bitter and soft.
“So I did nothing” he said. “And doing nothing is sometimes the loudest answer, I know. I left you alone in your head. And you already live there too much.”
You let out a small, wet laugh at that, because it was painfully accurate.
“I’m sorry” he repeated, voice breaking slightly on the word this time. “I’m sorry I made you feel like your pain was something I couldn’t bear to look at. I’m sorry I let my own exhaustion turn into cruelty. And I’m sorry that the place that’s supposed to be your safest—the space with me—ended up feeling like another stadium yelling at you.”
Your hand flew to your mouth, trying and failing to hold back a sob.
In two sentences, he’d shown you he’d really listened last night. That the stadium metaphor hadn’t just bounced off his frustration; it had gone in and stayed there.
He let you cry for a moment. Didn’t rush to shush you. Didn’t panic. Just sat there, eyes glistening, letting the silence wrap around your shared heartbreak.
When you could speak again, you dropped your hand slowly.
“You’re not… the stadium” you managed, voice shaking. “I know I said that it feels like your love isn’t loud enough sometimes, but it’s not because you aren’t trying. It’s because I keep… turning up the volume of everyone else. On purpose, almost. Searching my own wounds and then acting surprised when they bleed.”
He swallowed hard.
“And I’ve been… standing there, yelling ‘trust me’ over the noise, expecting that to magically fix it” he said. “Without realizing that trust isn’t just ‘believe I’m not cheating.’ It’s also ‘believe that I see you. That your fears are real, even if the cause isn’t.’”
You nodded, tears sliding down your cheeks more quietly now.
“I do trust you” you said. “I never doubted what you do or don’t do with other people. I doubted… myself. And then I twisted that doubt into accusations you didn’t deserve.”
You took a breath that trembled on the way in.
“I don’t want to keep hurting you every time something outside of us happens” you said. “But I also know I can’t just flip a switch and be okay instantly. I need time. I need help. I need to unlearn things. And… I need you. Not as a therapist, not as the guy who has to fix everything I feel, but as my partner. Someone who doesn’t walk away when I tell him, ‘hey, this part of loving you is hard for me.’”
His eyes shone, and for the first time since you’d met him, you saw one tear escape and slip down his cheek before he could wipe it away.
He didn’t.
He let it fall.
“I’m not going to walk away” he said, the words coming out raw. “I hated every step I took yesterday after I closed that door. I hated that the last thing you heard from me was ‘I can’t handle this’ like you were an extra weight I couldn’t carry. You’re not a weight. You’re… the reason all the other weights feel worth it half the time.”
Your breath hitched.
He continued, voice quieter but firm.
“But I also need you to know… I’m not unbreakable” he said. “Being the leader, the producer, the big brother, the boyfriend… I’ve worn all those roles like armor. And sometimes I forget that armor is heavy. I forget to take it off anywhere, with anyone. Yesterday, you saw what happens when I carry it too long and then try to hold your pain on top of it. I snap. I say shit I don’t mean. I choose the wrong door.”
He looked at you, eyes dark and earnest.
“I need a place where I can be just… Chan” he said. “Not leader, not Bang Chan, not the guy who always has it together. Just me. Tired, scared, stupid sometimes. I want that place to be here. With you. But that means I have to actually show you those parts, not only the strong ones. And it also means… I can’t be your entire support system. No one person can.”
You nodded, words he’d just said echoing exactly what had led you to call your therapist.
“I get that” you whispered. “It’s not fair to ask you to be everything. I don’t… want that anymore. I think part of me did without realizing it. I kept waiting for you to say something or do something that would magically erase all my insecurities. And when you couldn’t, I felt let down, like you’d failed. That’s… that’s so unfair.”
You managed a small, sad smile.
“I’m sorry I’ve made you feel like your love wasn’t enough just because it couldn’t silence the internet” you added. “That was never about you. That was about me not knowing how to turn the volume down myself.”
He let out a shaky breath that was half sob, half laugh.
“Can we…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Can we try to do this differently? Not the loving part. We’re good at that.” A faint, fleeting smile. “The… dealing with the world part. The talking before we explode. The telling each other ‘hey, I’m not okay today, can we be gentle with this topic’ instead of pretending we’re fine until we’re not?”
You exhaled, something loosening in your chest.
“Yes” you said, no hesitation. “Please. I don’t want last night to become our pattern. I want it to be… our warning. The ‘we’re never doing that again’ line.”
He nodded, relief flickering through his features.
“I know we can’t promise we’ll never fight again” he said. “We will. We’re both stubborn as hell.” Another hint of a smile. “But we can promise to fight… better. Cleaner. With less… collateral damage.”
You huffed a wet laugh.
“No more ‘you knew what you were signing up for’ lines” you said.
“And no more ‘your love isn’t loud enough’ metaphors that stab me in the soul” he added, but there was humor tucked under the pain.
“Deal” you whispered.
Silence settled again, but now it felt like a blanket, not a weight.
You looked at him for a long moment. At the slight puffiness around his eyes. The way his shoulders slumped, not in defeat, but in something like… surrender. Not to you, but to the reality that he couldn’t carry everything alone.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Anything,” he replied.
“Yesterday, when you left…” You swallowed. “For a second, at the door, you stopped. It looked like you were going to turn back. Why didn’t you?”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, meeting your gaze head‑on.
“Because I was a coward” he said simply. “Because turning back would’ve meant admitting on the spot that I was wrong, that I’d hurt you. And my pride… got in the way.” He grimaced. “Also because my phone rang and I let that be an excuse. Work has always been the easiest thing to run toward when everything else feels too complicated. That’s… something I need to work on.”
The honesty hurt and healed at the same time.
“Thank you for telling me” you said softly. “It… weirdly helps to know it wasn’t because you didn’t care enough to come back. Just that you didn’t know how.”
He nodded, shoulders sagging with relief.
You wiped at your cheeks with the back of your hand.
“Can I ask you something too?” he said.
“Yeah.”
He hesitated, then spoke.
“When you look at those edits, those headlines… what does your brain say to you exactly?” he asked. “Not about me. About you.”
The question landed right where your darkest thoughts lived.
You inhaled slowly.
“It says…” You stared at your hands. “It says, ‘of course. Look at them. They’re perfect together. She’s famous, beautiful, talented, adored. You’re just… you.’” Your voice shook. “‘It says he’s going to realize he can do better. That you’re… a placeholder until something more worthy comes along.’”
You risked a glance up at him.
Pain flashed openly across his face, not at the mention of the other idol, but at the way you spoke about yourself.
He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that” he said, voice thick. “Please. It… it kills me.”
“I know” you whispered. “I’m trying to change it. That’s… part of why I need help. Because telling myself ‘he chose you’ hasn’t been enough to shut up that voice. And that’s not fair to you, because it means I’m basically calling you stupid every time I doubt your choice.”
His mouth twisted, a half‑smile made of sadness.
“Yeah, you kind of are” he admitted. “I pick pretty well, actually.”
You let out a tiny, surprised laugh through your tears.
He softened.
“Listen to me” he said, more firmly now. “I am not with you because you were ‘available,’ or because you were ‘easiest,’ or because management told me to, or because there was no one ‘better’ around. I am with you because when I am with you—here, like this—I feel more myself than anywhere else. Even in the studio.”
You blinked, stunned.
“And I need that” he continued. “Not just want it. Need it. The world can ship me with whoever they want on stage. They’re shipping characters. Versions of me. But the version of me that exists in this apartment, with my hoodie on your floor and my toothbrush in your bathroom and my worst tired moods on display? He doesn’t want anyone else.”
The words hit you like a wave. You clung to them, letting them soak in, letting them argue with that cruel inner voice.
You nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
He watched your face, then added, softer:
“I’m going to remind you of that as many times as you need” he said. “But I can’t be the only voice you listen to. You have to find your own too. The one that says, ‘I am enough, with or without him.’ Then when you add me, it’s… bonus. Not proof.”
You laughed weakly, wiping at your cheeks again.
“You sound like my therapist” you murmured.
“I’ve been living with my own brain” he countered. “That’s like free field practice.”
The shared joke—mirroring what he’d said to Jeongin earlier without you even knowing about that conversation—made something in the room lighten.
You took a breath, steadier now.
“Can I… come over there?” you asked suddenly, the distance between the couch and armchair suddenly unbearable.
His answer was immediate.
“Please.”
You stood, legs a little shaky, and crossed the small space. He slid sideways in the armchair to make room, and you squeezed in next to him, your thigh pressed against his.
For a second, you didn’t touch beyond that point of contact. Just sat there, side by side, feeling the solid warmth of each other.
Then, slowly, he lifted his arm and draped it over your shoulders.
You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His t‑shirt was soft, his heartbeat a steady thud under your ear.
Your hand found his, resting on his knee, and intertwined your fingers.
He let out a breath you felt more than heard.
“I missed you” you whispered.
“I’ve been missing you even while I was angry at you” he confessed, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “Which is… annoying.”
You smiled into his shirt.
“I’m going to mess up again” you said quietly. “Not on purpose. But I will. I’ll see something online and it’ll sting. I’ll feel small. I’ll want to crawl into your messages and ask for reassurance. I’ll try to catch myself sooner each time, but… it won’t be instant.”
He nodded, the motion vibrating through your skull.
“And I’m going to mess up too” he replied. “I’ll have days when I come home empty, when I don’t have words, when I’m so tired I forget how to be gentle first and practical later,” he finished softly. “I might snap. I might say, ‘It’s just my job,’ when I should say, ‘I know this is hard for you.’ I don’t want to. But I know myself. I default to fixing instead of feeling.”
You nodded against his chest.
“So…” you said slowly, “we need… rules. Or not rules, but… anchors. For when we’re about to spiral.”
You felt his lips curve against your hair.
“Anchors” he repeated. “I like that.”
You shifted a little so you could look up at him without leaving the circle of his arm.
“Okay” you murmured, wiping your face with your free hand. “Anchor one: we don’t start heavy talks when one of us has just come through the door after a brutal day. We can say, ‘I need to talk about something important, but not right this exact minute. When can you?’”
He nodded immediately.
“Deal” he said. “Anchor two: if I need space, I say it better. Not ‘I can’t handle this right now’ and then disappearing. Something like… ‘I’m at my limit, I don’t want to hurt you with the way I talk when I’m like this. Can we pause and pick this up at [time]?’ And then…” He met your eyes, serious. “And then I actually come back at that time. No vanishing. No leaving you in limbo.”
Your throat tightened, but this time from relief.
“Okay” you agreed. “If you tell me when, I can survive the wait.”
You hesitated, then added, “Anchor three: I tell you sooner. Before it’s a tsunami. If something online bothers me, I don’t wait until it’s been festering for weeks to explode. I say, ‘hey, this thing stung, I know it’s not your fault, but I need a little extra reassurance today.’ And I don’t frame it like you’ve done something wrong just by… existing.”
His fingers squeezed yours.
“That would help me so much” he said honestly. “Because last night, I had no idea how… deep it went. I’ve seen you scrolling and… I’ve just been waiting for the explosion instead of asking, ‘Are you okay? What are you feeling when you see that?’ I was scared of the answer. That’s on me. So…”
He drew a breath.
“Anchor four: I ask” he said. “I don’t just watch you go quiet with your phone and pretend I don’t notice. I check in. Even if I’m afraid. Even if I don’t know what to do with what you say right away.”
You swallowed around a lump.
“Okay” you whispered. “That sounds… fair.”
You fell quiet for a moment, the weight of those small promises settling over you like a new kind of responsibility—lighter than the old one, because you weren’t carrying it alone.
Chan’s hand shifted from your shoulder to your hair, fingers combing through gently.
“What you said earlier” he murmured, “about going back to therapy… I’m really glad you did that. Not because I think you’re ‘broken’ or whatever stupid stigma people have, but because it means you’re not just hoping this will fix itself.”
You huffed a tiny laugh.
“If anyone here is broken, it’s probably both of us” you said. “But… yeah. I don’t want my fear to keep driving. I’m tired of letting people who don’t even know me dictate how I see myself. That’s… my work. Not yours. Not the fans’. Mine.”
He smiled, pride clear in his eyes.
“If it helps” he said quietly, “I talk to someone sometimes too. Through the company. Not as often as I should. But… it helps when I actually let it.”
You blinked, surprised.
“You do?”
He nodded.
“Leader stuff. Burnout. Pressure. The usual” he said, trying to play it off light, but you could hear the depth under it. “Maybe I should… go more. Not just when I’m at the edge. Hearing myself yesterday… I sounded like someone who thinks he has to be invincible. And that guy is… an idiot.”
Your heart swelled painfully.
“He’s not an idiot” you whispered. “He’s just really tired.”
He tilted his head, eyes searching your face.
“So are you” he countered gently.
You let out a breath that felt like it left through cracks instead of lungs.
“Yeah” you admitted. “I am.”
He leaned down and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t the automatic greeting you were used to, the one you’d flinched away from last night; it was a question.
You answered it by turning your face up and brushing your lips, just once, against his.
The kiss was careful, almost shy. No urgency, no trying to erase anything. Just a simple connection, a reminder: we’re still here.
When you pulled back, his eyes were a little shinier, his jaw a little looser.
“I’m still scared” you confessed in a whisper. “Of the rumors, the edits, the next girl they’ll ship you with, the next comeback, the next tour. I’m scared I’ll slip back into old patterns, even if I don’t want to.”
He nodded, no attempt to argue the fear away.
“I’m scared too” he said. “That no matter what we do, some days this life will feel… unfair to you. That you’ll wake up one morning and decide it’s too heavy.” He swallowed. “But I would rather face those fears with you—actually talk about them, actually prepare for them—than pretend they don’t exist until they blow up our faces again.”
You closed your eyes for a second, letting those words settle.
“This isn’t going to be a fairytale, is it?” you murmured, a humorless little smile tugging at your mouth.
“No” he agreed softly. “It’s going to be messy. Loud. With way too many people in the metaphorical stadium.” He paused, then added, “But we can still choose each other in the middle of that. Over and over. Not once. Not just at the beginning.”
You opened your eyes.
“Do you choose me?” you asked, needing to hear it, plainly, without metaphor.
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Every day” he said. “Even yesterday. Even when I was angry. Even when I was walking away. I was choosing you by not saying worse things. I just… chose the wrong way to take care of us after.” His thumb brushed a tear off your cheek with aching gentleness. “Do you choose me? Not the idea of me. Me, with all this chaos attached.”
You let out a breath that shook, but the answer itself was steady.
“Yes” you said. “Every day. Even when it hurts. Even when one part of my brain is screaming that I’m not enough. The other part looks at you and goes, ‘I want him. I want this. I’m willing to fight for it, even if I have to fight myself too.’”
His shoulders dropped with a relief so deep it was almost visible.
“Okay” he whispered. “Then… we keep going. Not pretending it’s easy. Just… going. Together.”
You nodded, then added, almost shyly:
“And when it gets really bad, maybe we remind each other that we are not… each other’s enemy. That it’s us and the problem on the same side of the table. Not us against each other.”
His lips parted in a small sound—half breath, half laugh.
“That’s anchor five” he said. “Us against the problem. Not against each other.”
You smiled through fresh tears.
“Anchor five” you echoed.
The room felt different now. Still heavy with what had happened, but also… lighter. Like you’d opened a window in a house full of smoke. The smell didn’t vanish instantly, but you could breathe.
After a while, he spoke again, voice softer.
“Can I ask you for something?” he murmured.
“Of course.”
“The next time you see a clip, or an edit, or a headline that guts you…” He hesitated, choosing his words. “Before you scroll the comments, before you search for more, will you try—just try—to do one thing for yourself first? Text a friend. Close the app. Go for a walk. Write it down. Anything that isn’t ‘let me hurt myself more and then go to Chan bleeding.’”
You let out a shaky sigh.
“Yes” you said. “I can’t promise I’ll always manage it. But I will try. And if I fail, I’ll tell you that too. I won’t lie and say, ‘I’m fine’ while my brain is on fire.”
He nodded, satisfied.
“And I’ll try” he answered, “when work is swallowing me, to say it straight. ‘Today I’m Bang Chan more than I am your boyfriend. I’m sorry. It’s temporary. Don’t think it’s about you.’ So you don’t fill the silence with the worst‑case scenarios.”
You looked up at him, and this time, your smile—though small—reached your eyes.
“I like it when you’re both” you said. “Bang Chan. And my boyfriend. But I’ll take turns. I can share.”
He laughed, the first real laugh you’d heard from him since before everything exploded.
“I’ll try to schedule a better balance” he said, mock‑serious. “Maybe submit a request to JYP: ‘need more boyfriend hours, leader overbooked.’”
You snorted, then immediately covered your mouth, surprised at the sound that had escaped you.
The corners of his eyes crinkled.
“I missed that” he said softly.
You took his hand and brought it to your lips, pressing a small kiss to the back of it.
“I missed you” you replied. “Not the idea of you. Not the version on stage. You. Here. Tired, stupid jokes and all.”
He watched you, something like awe flickering there, like he couldn’t quite believe you were still choosing him after seeing the worst of him last night.
You lowered his hand, still holding it between both of yours.
“Can we…” You hesitated, then pushed past it. “Can we do something ridiculously normal now? Like… order food and watch something dumb? Not as a way to avoid what we just talked about. Just… as proof that we’re allowed to be okay sometimes too. Even after a fight like that.”
His answer was immediate, almost relieved.
“Yes” he said. “Please. I think if we keep being profound for another hour, my brain will actually melt.”
You laughed, the sound freer now.
“Okay” you agreed. “What do you want?”
“Anything greasy” he said. “Something that would make our nutritionist faint.”
You grabbed your phone, thumb hovering for a second over your social media apps by habit… then deliberately moving past them to the food delivery icon.
Small, you thought. But different.
“Fried chicken?” you offered.
He gasped dramatically.
“Now I know you really love me.”
You rolled your eyes, your heart lighter than it had been in days.
As you ordered, he tightened his arm around you just a bit, enough to say without words: I’m here. I’m staying. We’re not done.
And for the first time since those articles had lodged in your brain like shards of glass, you believed—truly believed—that maybe love could be enough.
Not by itself.
Not as a magic cure.
But love, plus work.
Love, plus honesty.
Love, plus two tired, imperfect people choosing each other again and again, even when the stadium was screaming for other endings.
You hit “confirm order” and set the phone down, screen facing the table.
This time, you didn’t check for notifications.
You leaned into him instead, letting the quiet of the room settle around you.
Outside, the world still spun, still shouted, still edited, still shipped.
Inside this small living room, two people sat tangled in an armchair, bruised but together, anchoring themselves not to headlines, but to each other.
It wasn’t a fairytale ending.
It was something better:
a beginning again, chosen with eyes open.
CONTENT: Angst, hurt/comfort (no comfort yet), jealousy, insecurity, idol!AU, emotionally heavy argument, open ending / temporary separation, set-up for future reconciliation?
SUMMARY: Dating an idol meant accepting rumors, edits and ships with every girl he stood next to. You thought you could handle it—until the media fixated on the "perfect chemistry" between Chan and another idol. One night, all your bottled-up jealousy and fear of not being enough explodes into an argument he's too exhausted to handle, and he walks out, leaving you alone with the question of whether love is really enough to hold everything together.
NOTE: I cried a lot while writing this. I wanted to write about this because jealousy is something we all experience, whether we're famous or not, but I wanted to add the burden of dating someone famous. I adore Chan and his personality. I tried to write from both perspectives, but in the end, I admit that I ended up leaning more towards Chan's side. I may be wrong, but based on his personality, I think he would really feel that way. He is someone who loves and respects others and gives his all for them, but he also gets exhausted from trying to balance everything.
PART 2
Here's the song I had playing in the background while I was writing this!
You’d been staring at the same screenshot on your phone for almost twenty minutes.
It was a photo taken from some variety show, one of those fleeting interactions the media love to stretch beyond all logic. Him smiling sideways, leaning slightly toward her, and her laughing with her hand resting on your boyfriend’s arm. The show’s logo in the background, a fansite watermark in the corner, and right below, the headlines:
“New K‑pop couple? Fans go crazy over the chemistry between Bangchan of Stray Kids and famous girl group idol.”
Several portals were using practically the same photo. The title changed, the tone changed, but the content was always the same: the chemistry, the looks, “the way he looks at her,” “how good they look together,” “visual couple,” “they’d be a perfect match.”
And you, cross‑legged on the living room couch, were sitting alone, scrolling through comments like you were getting paid to hurt yourself.
—Look at the way he looks at her, he’s so obviously nervous, how cute.
—Been shipping them hard since that one award show stage.
—Him with her… next‑level visuals.
—They fit each other so well, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re secretly dating already.
You scrolled down, and it hurt more than you wanted to admit. Not because you didn’t trust him… or at least that’s what you kept trying to remind yourself. You trusted Chan, you trusted the person you shared a home with whenever the schedule allowed. But something corrosive settled in you anyway, a subtle doubt that never really left: why you?
Why you, when the whole world was looking at him, screaming for him, wanting him?
Why you, when there were girls out there infinitely prettier, more talented, more “suitable” for his image, for his career?
You’d asked yourself that question so many times, but always in silence. From the moment you started the relationship, you knew he wouldn’t have much time. You knew being an idol meant tours, impossible schedules, exhaustion, cameras everywhere, rumors, fanservice, people analyzing every move, every glance. You knew that and you accepted the whole package with him inside, no conditions.
“I can handle this,” you told yourself over and over.
And most days, you could.
Until you couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just this photo. It was months piled up.
You’d seen them at award shows, him leaning in to say something near her ear backstage while she nodded and laughed. You’d seen them in fancams of joint concerts, greeting each other from afar, sharing some small, knowing gesture when the cameras “accidentally” caught them. You’d seen them on variety programs where they were seated close, where the producers knew exactly what the audience wanted: chemistry, smiles, “moments.”
And, to make it worse, you knew the media didn’t help: Mnet, Inkigayo, Music Bank… fans clipping seconds and turning them into five‑minute videos with romantic music in the background. Edits on TikTok, edits on Twitter, edits everywhere.
“They’re meant to be.”
“He gets shy when she’s around.”
“Look at that little move, hello???”
You dropped your phone face‑up on the couch and pressed your hands over your face, pushing at your eyes until you saw little sparks of light. You tried to breathe slowly. This wasn’t the first time you’d felt this way, but it was the first time the anger and hurt climbed so high they felt like they were scraping your throat.
It wasn’t just jealousy.
It was insecurity.
It was fear of not being enough.
And you hadn’t wanted to say anything.
Because you didn’t want to be “the jealous girlfriend.”
Because you didn’t want to be a burden.
You’d let photos, fancams, fan clips, tweets slide. Whenever you saw him on TV laughing with other girls, you reminded yourself how professional he was, how kind he’d always been with everyone. You repeated to yourself that it was work. That it was his personality. That the fact he was like that was exactly what you fell in love with in the first place.
But tonight, the headlines felt like tiny blades.
Relentless.
Impossible to ignore.
The front door opened with a soft creak, yanking you back to the present.
“I’m home…”
His voice carried that familiar exhaustion from brutally long days. You dropped your hands onto your lap and stared ahead, your phone still lit up beside you, displaying the exact picture you wished you could unsee.
“I’m in the living room,” you answered, your voice drier than you’d intended.
You heard him take off his shoes, drop his backpack and jacket where they always went, walk toward you. When he turned the corner, he found you sitting stiffly on the couch, your shoulders tight.
He offered you an automatic smile, the one he always gave you when he saw you. He had his cap pushed back, hair slightly messy, a mask hanging off one ear, dark circles deep but eyes soft.
“Hey…” He leaned in to kiss your forehead.
You moved away just a fraction. It wasn’t harsh, but enough for him to notice. His lips brushed more against your temple than your skin. He paused, confused, then straightened a bit, studying you.
“Are you okay?” He frowned.
You saw his gaze drop to your lit screen. Then you watched the exact moment he recognized the photo. His whole expression shifted; the muscles in his jaw tensed, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“Ah…” he murmured, letting out something very close to a resigned sigh. “This again.”
You shrank a little, not sure whether the stab you felt was more because of the photo or because of his tone. He sounded tired, annoyed before you’d even spoken. And you hadn’t even begun.
“It’s not ‘this again,’” you managed, your calm forced. “We’ve never talked about this. Not seriously.”
He took off his cap and dropped it on the coffee table. He stayed standing in front of you instead of sitting, like he was bracing himself to put out a fire, not have a conversation.
“I know. Because there’s nothing to talk about,” he said too fast. “The media do what they always do. You know how this works.”
You know how this works.
It was true.
And yet it hurt to hear.
“It’s not that simple,” you replied. “Maybe it is for you. For me… it’s not.”
His gaze traced your features like he was checking for damage. You saw a flicker of concern there, but also something impatient. He was exhausted; he smelled like a long night, sweat and studio, fatigue. That only weighed heavier on your chest: he always looked tired; you didn’t want to be one more load to carry.
“Look…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been a really long day. Can we talk about this tomorrow? When we’re both calmer?”
“I am calm,” you lied, folding your arms.
He stared at you a second longer, unsure. Then he sighed and finally sank into the armchair across from you, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.
“Then tell me what you want to say,” he gave in.
It didn’t sound kind. It sounded resigned. As if he already knew the script and had accepted he had to listen to it yet again, even though you’d never actually said any of this out loud before.
The knot in your throat tightened.
“I’ve been seeing those articles again,” you began, gesturing vaguely at your phone without looking at it. “The ships, the edited videos, people saying how good you two look together. And seeing her with you everywhere… award shows, programs, photos…”
“It’s work,” he repeated, almost like a mantra.
“I know.” You did know. You truly did. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
Chan closed his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply through his nose. He looked like he was counting to ten inside his head.
“Hurt?” he echoed when he opened them again. “It hurts you that I do my job?”
You had to swallow.
“It hurts that I feel like…” The words weren’t coming out as easily as in your head, where you’d rehearsed this speech a thousand times. “Like sometimes it’s as if the whole world wants you to be with anyone but me. And when I see those things, when I read what they say about you two, how perfect you are for each other…”
Your voice shook, and you hated that.
“…it makes me feel small,” you finished in almost a whisper.
Chan stared at you in silence, blinking a few times. You saw him bite his lower lip, as if he were fighting something he wanted to say and trying to soften it.
“You’re not small,” he said after a few seconds. “And you know that. If you were, I wouldn’t be with you.”
“Do you hear what you just said?” you let out a laugh with no humor at all. “‘If you were, I wouldn’t be with you.’ Like you’re picking from a catalogue.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what you said.”
He leaned back in the armchair, letting his head drop against the backrest. Another heavy sigh.
“I’m exhausted, seriously,” he said, rubbing at his forehead. “I spent the whole day in recordings, meetings, practice… And I come home and the first thing that happens is I walk into this. Again.”
“Again what, Chan?” Now it was anger pushing through your chest. “My feelings? My insecurities? Do they exhaust you?”
“It exhausts me,” he shot back, too fast, “that what the internet says weighs more than what I say. That people have been shipping me with half the industry since before I even met you, and now every time I step on the same stage as a female idol I have to wonder how you’re going to feel when you see it.”
His words hit you like stones.
Because they were true.
And because they hurt.
“You wonder?” you asked. “Because sometimes it feels like you just ignore it, like I’m supposed to handle everything by default.”
“Of course I wonder,” his tone climbed. “I’ve spent days watching you stare at your phone with that look on your face…” He made a vague gesture at your expression, “…and wondering when this was going to explode. I’ve tried to be more careful, I’ve tried not to… not to look at her too much, not to stand too close on camera, and still…”
“I’m sorry?” Your disbelief almost stole your breath. “You’ve ‘tried not to look at her too much’? Are we seriously at that point?”
“Because if I don’t, this happens.” He motioned between you. “I come home and you greet me like I’ve done something wrong when all I’ve done is my job and be polite to a colleague.”
You went quiet, feeling the words “a colleague” hang in the air. You knew she was. You knew he wasn’t doing anything wrong. And yet…
“It’s not just her, and you know it,” you said at last, low but firm. “It’s not about one person. It’s about everything that comes with being with you. About watching the whole world adore you, want you, imagine you with a hundred other faces that aren’t mine. And I’m supposed to act like it doesn’t affect me. Like I’m made of stone.”
He shook his head, lips pressing together.
“I’ve never asked you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask,” you replied. “I feel it in every interview where they ask you about girls, in every fan comment, in every ‘ideal K‑pop couples’ video where they put you with someone else. And I’m here, on this couch, waiting for you to come home, trying not to turn into the paranoid girlfriend who complains about everything.”
His voice rose, not quite a shout, but definitely showing the threads of his patience were fraying.
“So what do you want me to do?” he demanded. “Stop going on shows with girl groups? Ask them not to seat me next to anyone? Pretend I don’t know my colleagues? Because it doesn’t work that way. You knew that when we started.”
The words hit like a slammed door.
“You knew that when we started.”
Of course you did.
But knowing in theory is one thing.
Living it is another.
“I did,” you admitted, feeling something crack a little more inside. “But I didn’t know it would make me feel this… replaceable.”
His eyes widened a little, hurt.
“You’re not replaceable.”
“Tell that to all those clips putting you together,” you shot back, waving at your phone again. “Tell that to the media selling you as the perfect couple. Tell that to that video of you two laughing at that award show while I’m watching from home, thinking it’s been weeks since we’ve had dinner together.”
Chan’s hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles went white.
“But I don’t control that,” his voice came out louder, harsher. “I don’t control what someone edits in their bedroom, I don’t control clickbait headlines, I don’t control the fantasies people make up. What I do control is who I choose at the end of the day. And I choose you. Isn’t that enough?”
There it was.
The question you feared most.
And the answer you didn’t know how to give without hurting him.
“Sometimes…” The knot in your throat made it hard to speak. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it is. Because the rest of the world is screaming louder than you.”
The silence that followed felt almost physical. You could see it enter his eyes, settle on his shoulders, on the tight line of his mouth.
“That’s not fair,” he murmured at last.
“I know,” you said, tears finally pooling in your eyes. “I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m just telling you how I feel.”
“And I’m here, trying to do everything right.” His voice cracked for the briefest moment, then hardened over with anger again. “I try to find time where there isn’t any, I try to come home even if it means three hours of sleep, I try to make you feel secure… and still, at the end of the day, I lose to some damn edit online.”
The way he said it made you feel guilty and furious at the same time.
“It’s not about winning or losing,” you protested. “It’s not a competition between you and a video. It’s—”
You cut yourself off. It felt like no matter what you said, nothing would sound right. He was exhausted, hurt, and so were you. That combination was never good.
“Then what do you want?” he pushed, staring at the floor now like it made it easier. “Tell me clearly. Do you want me to stop being nice to her? To be cold on camera so people won’t ship us? Do you want me to…?”
“I want you to understand that I’m drowning!” your voice finally broke. “That I’m drowning every time this comes up and I feel like I have no right to say anything because if I do, it looks like I don’t trust you!”
Your tears finally spilled over, silent at first, until you couldn’t hold them back. You wiped them away clumsily but it only made the sticky feeling on your cheeks worse.
Chan looked up at you and his expression shifted for a second, softening when he saw you cry. His shoulders dropped a little, as if all the air had been punched out of him.
He got up from the armchair and took a step toward you, hesitating for a moment like he wasn’t sure if coming closer was the right move. In the end, he knelt down in front of the couch, bringing himself to your height.
“I don’t want you to feel like this,” he said, gentler now. “I never wanted… this to be so hard on you.”
You blinked, thrown for a moment by the sudden shift. Your heart was beating fast, pain mixing with a small sigh of relief at seeing him finally let a little vulnerability through.
“Then listen to me,” you whispered. “Just… listen, without trying to fix everything in five seconds.”
He nodded once, slowly.
“I’m listening.”
You inhaled, trying to sort the chaos in your head.
“I knew it was going to be hard,” you began. “I knew there would be rumors, ships, that people would link you with thousands of others, guys and girls, because you’re you. But… when I see the media fixating on one person, on this… ‘chemistry’ between the two of you, when I see fans breaking down every gesture and saying how perfect it would be if you were together, I feel like… like the whole universe is pointing at me and saying: ‘Not you. It should be her.’”
Your tears kept falling, but you didn’t bother hiding them now.
“And I can’t help thinking: ‘Why am I here? How long will this last before he realizes there are better options out there?’ And yes, I know that sounds awful, and I know it’s not fair to you. But that’s what my brain keeps repeating over and over when I’m alone in this apartment, or when I see you on a screen sharing laughs with someone you supposedly ‘fit’ better with, according to literally everyone.”
Chan’s jaw tightened, but not from anger this time—pure helplessness. His hands, resting on his own knees, closed and opened again, unsure.
“I don’t feel that way,” he said, his voice rough. “I don’t feel like I fit better with anyone who isn’t you. I can’t picture my life… my rare free moments, my late nights, my days off… with anyone else. All those people talking don’t know anything real about me. You do.”
“I know,” you repeated, almost desperately. “I hold on to that. But the doubt still comes back. And the worst part is, I feel guilty for doubting. I feel guilty for being jealous when I know you’re not doing anything wrong. I feel guilty for being sad when I should be proud of everything you’ve achieved.”
His eyes softened even more; for a moment, it was just you, him, and that shared fragility.
But then, as if a different wave washed over him, his expression darkened again slightly.
“What about me?” he asked, his voice lower. “Do you ever think about how I feel, wondering if any of this is even worth it for you? When I think that no matter how hard I try, it will never be enough because the noise outside will always be louder?”
You looked at him, sniffing, heart twisting.
“I don’t want you to feel like that.”
“But I do,” he said flatly. “When you tell me my word can’t compete with a headline, I feel like… like I’m failing. Like my love isn’t heavy enough for you.”
The word “love” slipped out so easily it disarmed you. Because that’s what this was. Underneath all the noise, jealousy, insecurity, there was love.
“It’s not that it’s not heavy enough,” you whispered. “It’s just that sometimes…” You searched for an image that might make him understand. “It’s like it’s you and me in a quiet room, and suddenly someone opens the door and an entire stadium rushes in, screaming your name, holding up signs with pictures of you and other girls, shouting that you should be with them. And you look at me and say, ‘Ignore them, it’s just you and me.’ But it’s hard to ignore when they’re right there, shouting non‑stop.”
He went silent, considering the image. He ran his tongue over his lips, thoughtful, and for a brief instant you thought maybe, just maybe, you were finding some middle ground.
But then his eyes hardened again.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” he asked, the fatigue in his voice thicker than ever. “I can’t close the stadium door. I can’t shut them up. All I can do is keep looking at you and tell you you’re the only one who matters to me. If that’s not enough… I don’t know what else I can do.”
Your fingers dug into the couch cushion.
“I’m not asking you to fix everything,” you said. “I’m just asking that when I tell you I’m hurting, you don’t reduce it to ‘this again.’ That you don’t make me feel like I’m just a problem that shows up every time you’re on screen with someone else.”
His eyes narrowed a little, wounded pride shining through.
“And I’m just asking you to trust me,” his voice tensed again, rising. “To believe me when I say there’s nothing going on. Because if every time there’s a new article, an edit, a rumor, we end up like this… I can’t do it. Not right now.”
That last line cut like a knife:
“I can’t do it. Not right now.”
“What does ‘not right now’ mean?” you asked, your voice barely holding together.
Chan stood up abruptly, putting distance between himself and the couch. With his back to you for a second, he dragged both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots like he could clear his mind through pain.
“It means I’m at my limit,” he confessed, turning back to you. “It means I’m sleeping three, four hours. I’ve got comeback pressure, endless meetings, responsibilities with the group, the company, the fans. And when I get here, the only thing I want is to breathe, just a little, even if it’s for an hour. I don’t want to walk in and feel like I have to defend myself for something I didn’t do.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to start sobbing harder.
“You’re not on trial,” you whispered.
“It feels like it,” he shot back immediately. “It feels like I have to explain every smile, every glance, every interaction. Like my job is a constant threat to you. And it shouldn’t be.”
“You’re not the threat,” you tried to explain, desperate for him to understand. “It’s the noise. It’s what they build around you.”
“But in the end,” he cut in, no patience left, “I’m the one who pays for it. I’m the one standing here. The noise isn’t in this room. I am.”
The words hung thick between you. You, breathing too fast. Him, eyes burning with frustration and bone‑deep exhaustion.
You knew none of this came from a place of not loving you. It came from the opposite: from trying to hold everything together without breaking. That didn’t make it hurt less.
“So… what then?” you asked, your voice shredded. “Do I just shut up and swallow everything that hurts so I don’t put more weight on your shoulders? Is that what you want?”
“No,” he denied immediately, though it clashed with everything he’d just said. “I don’t want you to shut up. I want you to talk to me. Just… not like this. Not when you’re at your breaking point and everything comes out at once, and I can’t even tell if you’re mad at me, at the media, at yourself, or at the world.”
You stared at him, realizing that deep down, you were both saying the same thing from different sides:
“I need you to understand me.”
“I need you to hear me.”
But you were both too tired, too raw, too saturated to find the middle.
“I just…” You had no idea where you were even going with the sentence. “I just wanted you to know that it’s hard. That sometimes I feel invisible next to everything you are out there. That when I see you next to her, when I see how good you look together and everyone calls it inevitable, like fate itself decided it… I’m just the person waiting at home.”
Chan pressed his lips together. When he spoke, his voice came out colder than he probably meant it to.
“You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re you. But if you see yourself that way…” He shook his head. “There’s nothing I can say that will change it.”
His eyes shone for a second, like he was closer to breaking than he wanted to show. But instead of letting that crack open, he turned to the table, grabbed his cap and jacket.
The air left your lungs like a punch.
“What are you doing?” you asked, pushing yourself up from the couch.
“I need…” He swallowed, still not quite meeting your eyes. “I need to go out. Calm down. Clear my head. If I keep talking right now, I’m going to say things I’ll regret, and I don’t want that.”
Your heart lurched.
“You’re leaving?” You hated how small your voice sounded.
“Right now I can’t handle this,” he said, fingers shaking slightly as he zipped up his jacket. “Not like this. Not when every other part of my life is already about to overflow.”
You watched him walk toward the door. Every step echoed like he was stepping on your chest. You stood up almost on instinct.
“Chan…” you called.
He stopped for just a second in the doorway, his back to you. His shoulders were too tight, way too tight. You could see the way he was breathing deeply, like he was trying to hold something together that was slipping out of his hands.
For a heartbeat, you thought he’d turn around, walk back to you, let pride and exhaustion surrender to what he felt. That he’d come closer, pull you into his arms and tell you you’d figure it out together, that you’d try one more time.
But he didn’t.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said simply, without turning. “I just… need space. So I don’t mix this up with everything else I’m already carrying.”
Your hands hung useless at your sides.
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” you managed, your voice in pieces.
There was a short pause.
Only a few seconds.
They felt endless.
“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. The honesty cut deeper than anything else. “But right now… I can’t be the answer to everything that hurts you. Not when I’m… broken inside too.”
And with that, he opened the door.
The soft scrape of metal, the small click of the lock, the echo of his footsteps down the hall. The door shut behind him, leaving a physical empty space where his presence had just been.
You stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Silence wrapped around you brutally. Suddenly, the apartment felt too big, too cold. The couch, the table, the cap he hadn’t taken, your phone still showing the picture that had started it all.
You walked back to the couch, let yourself fall onto it and picked up your phone with trembling hands. The image was still there: him, smiling at someone else under bright lights, cameras, headlines. A version of him that felt so far away from you, from this empty room, from your tears falling with no one to see.
“Right now I can’t handle this.”
“I need space.”
“I’m broken too.”
You pulled your knees up to your chest, rested your forehead on them and let the sobs come, unfiltered, without trying to be strong, without trying to be understanding. It was just you, the noise in your head, and the echo of the door closing.
And for the first time since you started this relationship, a thought you’d always shoved away violently settled right in the middle of your mind, and you didn’t have the strength to push it out:
What if love wasn’t enough to hold all of this up?
The apartment stayed silent. He didn’t come back.
And you, alone on the couch, could only wait.
Wait for the knot in your stomach to loosen.
Wait for his words to stop hurting so much.
Wait for there to somehow be
a “coming back” after this “walking away.”
⟡ summary: Hyunjin's stress causes him to pull away from you. and the silence may cause you to pull you away too
⟡ w.c: 848 (sorry this is short too) + 5 s.s
⟡ a/n: based off of this request by @kpopgirliez y'all i'm backkkkkk bro alsoooo finals almost over i have 2 more next tuesday bro also i was crashing out the entire time writing this bc tumblr was actually tweaking out bro
masterlist
Bang Chan ✿ Lee Minho ✿ Seo Changbin ✿ Han Jisung ✿ Lee Felix ✿ Kim Seungmin ✿ Yang Jeongin ✿ OT8
You could always tell when Hyunjin was stressed.
He got quiet, withdrawn. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful — heavy, humming with thoughts he didn’t want anyone to see.
You used to pull him out of it with little things: sending him photos of things that reminded you of him, leaving doodles on his notebooks, sneaking him snacks during practice breaks. Most days, it worked — he’d roll his eyes, but you’d catch the corner of his lips twitching.
Until one day, it didn’t.
No reply.
You double-checked that the messages delivered — they had. So you waited.
An hour passed. Then two.
Finally, his read receipts appeared. You smiled — relief bubbling up — and immediately typed another.
Not a “good morning,” not a “see you later.” Nothing.
When you showed up to visit after practice, he barely looked at you.
“Rough practice?” you asked, softly.
“Yeah,” he muttered, setting his bag down. “I just... need to be alone, okay?”
You nodded. “Of course.”
He didn’t mean to sound harsh. You knew that. But it didn’t make the sting fade faster.
The next day it happened again — same distant tone, same faraway expression, same lack of eye contact. And it kept happening, until being near him felt like standing in a room slowly draining of oxygen.
It took him nearly a week to notice that the silence he’d built had trapped him, too.
At first, he called it relief — having no one to see his worst days, no one to accidentally worry. But relief dissolved into loneliness shockingly quickly.
He started scrolling through your chats late at night, watching the tone shift — from your bubbly “hi hiiii” energy to the quiet, uncertain are you mad at me? and eventually… nothing.
He stared at the empty chat bubble for a long time. The guilt sat in his chest like a brick.
The next time he saw you, you were helping Chan carry files into the studio. You laughed weakly at something Chan said, all polite smiles, careful tone.
But the second your eyes met Hyunjin’s, your laughter died.
You nodded once, professional. “Hey.”
Then you turned back to your work.
He wanted to say something — anything. But the words just sat in his throat, too heavy, too late.
By the time he finally knocked on the dorm room door that night, his heart felt like it was going to crack open.
You looked up when he stepped in, confusion flickering across your face. “Hyun?”
He froze. You hadn’t called him that in days. Hearing it hurt.
“I,” he started, voice shaky. “I think I messed up really bad.”
You tilted your head slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I thought I needed space,” he said quietly. “But I just... shut you out instead.”
You nodded, standing up slowly. “Yeah. You did.”
Your voice wasn’t sharp — just calm, resigned. It almost hurt worse that you didn’t sound angry.
“I didn’t want to drag you into my stress,” he continued, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. “Every time you tried to make me smile, I felt guilty for not acting fine. So I thought if I just... disappeared a little, you’d stop worrying.”
“Disappeared?” you repeated, eyebrows furrowing. “Hyunjin, you didn’t disappear. You froze me out.”
He flinched. “I know. I just didn’t realize how cold that would feel for you.”
For a second, the silence between you returned — that same awful, heavy quiet. But this time, he broke it first.
“You can hate me,” he whispered. “But please don’t go quiet like I did. I can’t stand it.”
You laughed faintly through the ache in your chest. “I don’t hate you. I was just... trying to respect what you wanted.”
“I wanted peace,” he said, stepping closer. “But there’s no peace without you.”
Your eyes searched his face. “You don’t get to say that after ignoring me for a week.”
“I know,” he said, voice trembling. “That’s why I’m here now.”
He hesitated, then gently reached for your hands — cold against his, still tense. “Please yell at me or something. Anything’s better than you thinking I don’t care.”
You looked at him — the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion in his frame — and sighed. “You’re still an idiot, Hyunjin.”
He huffed out a broken laugh. “Yeah. Yours, though.”
That earned him a weak laugh that cracked halfway through. And then, before you could think, his arms were around you — hesitant, tight.
He buried his face in your shoulder, whispering, “I’m sorry. I don’t want quiet anymore. Just you.”
Your fingers curled around his shirt. “Then stop making me feel like noise.”
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