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The evening air in Seoul carried a crisp edge, the kind that hinted at autumn's arrival without fully committing to the chill. You adjusted the scarf around your neck as you waited outside the planetarium, the grand dome looming like a silent guardian against the city lights. Jisung had texted you twenty minutes ago, apologizing for being late—practice had run over, as it often did with NCT schedules. But you didn't mind. Moments like this, stolen from his whirlwind life, felt precious.

Your phone buzzed.

Tosung Park 🪐

here, look up!

You glanced skyward, and there he was, jogging across the plaza with that familiar lopsided grin. Park Jisung, all six feet of him wrapped in a black hoodie and jeans, hair tousled from the wind. His eyes lit up when he spotted you, and he quickened his pace, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of vanilla and exertion.

"Sorry," he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your ear. "Wouldn't blame you if you ditched me for the stars already."

You laughed softly, pulling back to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes, always so earnest, held yours for a beat longer than necessary. He looks down at your phone to see his contact on your screen. “Tosung Park?” he said through a stifled chuckle “you remembered the korean word for saturn I taught you and made it my nickname?” he smiles.

“Yeah..I thought it was fitting.. especially with all the rings you wear.” A faint smile and blush crept onto your face.

He blushed, a faint pink creeping up his neck, as he took your hand smiling. His fingers intertwined with yours seamlessly, calluses from guitar strings brushing your skin. "Come on. Show's starting soon."

Inside, the planetarium hummed with quiet anticipation. Jisung had booked a private dome viewing—just the two of you under the massive projector. He led you to the reclining seats, his excitement bubbling over as he settled beside you, arm draping casually over your shoulders. The lights dimmed, and the ceiling bloomed into an infinite canvas of stars.

Jisung's voice was a low whisper in the dark. "This is my favorite part of escaping. Space doesn't care about schedules or comebacks. It's just... endless." His thumb traced lazy circles on your arm. As constellations wheeled overhead, he pointed out Orion's Belt, then Cassiopeia, his words weaving facts with wonder. "Did you know neutron stars spin a thousand times a second? They're tiny but so dense, holding more mass than our sun."

You turned to watch him, the starlight casting soft glows across his face. His profile was sharp yet boyish, lips parted in quiet awe. "You're glowing," you said, half-teasing.

He glanced down, catching your eye. "Nah. That's you." The projector shifted to a nebula, swirling pinks and blues filling the dome. Jisung leaned closer, his free hand finding yours again. "This one's the Orion Nebula. Stars being born right there. Makes you feel small, right? But in a good way."

The show progressed, galaxies spiraling into view, black holes devouring light. Jisung's arm tightened around you during the cosmic collisions, his body a steady anchor. When the Milky Way unfurled in high definition, he sighed contentedly. "I could do this every night."

After the presentation, neither of you moved. The dome stayed dark, stars lingering like an afterimage. Jisung shifted, turning fully toward you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Thanks for coming here with me. It's better with you."

You leaned into his touch. "Always."

His kiss started slow, lips pressing softly against yours in the starlit hush. It deepened naturally, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you parted for him. He tasted like the mint gum he'd chewed earlier, mixed with something uniquely Jisung—warm, inviting. When you broke apart, foreheads touching, he whispered, "Your eyes... they look like the universe right now. All those stars reflecting back at me."

Heat bloomed in your chest. You kissed him again, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The dome felt like your own private cosmos.

Hand in hand, you left the planetarium into the night. Jisung suggested a walk along the Han River, the city lights mirroring the stars you'd just seen. Street vendors hawked hotteok and fish cakes, but he waved them off, more interested in stealing glances at you. "Hungry?" he asked, stopping at a bench overlooking the water.

"Starved," you admitted.

He pulled a thermos from his bag—homemade ramyeon, still steaming. "Figured we'd need fuel after all that cosmic energy." You ate side by side, knees touching, his shoulder against yours. Conversation flowed easy: his latest track ideas inspired by space sounds, your work stories, dreams of traveling beyond Seoul someday. Jisung listened intently, nodding, his eyes never straying far.

As the night deepened, he stood, offering his hand. "My place? It's closer, and I don't want this to end yet."

You nodded, heart racing.

His apartment was a cozy haven in the chaos of idol life—posters of space missions on the walls, a telescope by the window, vinyl records stacked neatly. Soft lighting from a galaxy projector painted the living room in purples and silvers. Jisung kicked off his shoes, pulling you into the kitchen for tea. "Chamomile? It’s my favorite."

You watched him move with quiet grace, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms honed from dance practice. When he handed you the mug, his fingers lingered on yours. "You know," he said, voice dropping, "I've been thinking about you all week. That date at the planetarium? I’ve been planning it forever."

"Romantic," you teased, sipping the tea. “What’s this?” You ask, gesturing to the massive telescope.

He follows your gaze to the telescope, and for a moment he looks almost shy—like you’ve caught him in a private corner of himself he doesn’t usually share. “That?” he repeats, setting his mug down carefully on the counter as if the answer deserves full attention. “That’s my escape hatch.”

You tilt your head. “Escape hatch?”

A soft laugh slips out of him, warm and unguarded. “From everything. From schedules, noise, people talking at me all day.” He walks over to it, fingers brushing along the metal frame with something close to affection. “Up there, it’s just… quiet. Even if it’s not actually quiet, you know? It feels like it is.”

You step closer, drawn in by the way the galaxy projector light spills over his face, turning his features softer, almost unreal—like he belongs more to starlight than to this room.

He glances back at you. “Come here.” You do. Jisung gently adjusts the telescope’s angle, motioning for you to stand beside him. His shoulder brushes yours, intentional or not—you can’t tell, but he doesn’t move away.

“Okay,” he says, voice quieter now, slipping into something patient and focused. “So this is a refractor telescope. It basically gathers light through lenses here—” he taps the front carefully, “—and focuses it so you can see things our eyes can’t really catch on their own.”

You lean in slightly, trying to follow, but your attention keeps drifting between the telescope and him. He notices. Of course he notices.

He smiles faintly. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you insist, though it comes out weaker than you intended.

He hums, unconvinced, but not teasing you for it. Instead, he steps closer behind you, guiding your hands gently onto the adjustment knobs. “Try it,” he says. “Slowly turn this one.” His fingers cover yours—warm, steady, patient. You feel the faint pressure of his guidance more than his touch, like he’s making sure you’re the one in control even while he’s right there with you. As you turn the knob, the telescope shifts with a quiet mechanical sigh.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now it’s aligned with the window.”

You hesitate. “With the window?”

He nods. “For now. The city lights are a little too bright to see deep space properly from here. But you can still see something.” He steps aside slightly, gesturing for you to look. You hesitate again, then lean forward.

At first it’s just darkness. Then slowly, your eyes adjust—and there, scattered through the haze of light pollution, a handful of stars begin to appear. Faint. Fragile. Still real. A quiet breath leaves you. Jisung watches your reaction more than the sky.

“They look closer than they are,” he says softly. “But they’re not. Some of them might not even exist anymore by the time their light reaches us.”

“That’s… kind of sad,” you whisper.

“Or kind of beautiful,” he counters gently. “We’re always seeing the past. Even when we think we’re looking at now.” You stay like that for a moment, hands still on the telescope, his presence just behind you like a steady gravity.

Then he adds, almost casually, “You know what I like about it most?”

“What?”

He pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter than before. “It makes me feel small in a good way. Like my problems don’t get to be the center of everything.” A beat passes. Then you glance back at him slightly. “That’s very philosophical for someone with a galaxy projector and vinyl collection.” He laughs, real and bright this time. “I contain multitudes.” The telescope clicks softly as he adjusts it again.

“Here,” he says. “Try this.”

He guides your hand upward just a fraction, and suddenly the view shifts. A brighter point of light settles into focus—steady, glowing more than the others. “That’s Jupiter,” he says. Your breath catches. “That’s… Jupiter?” “Mhm, you can’t see the stripes clearly from here, but sometimes—if the air is steady—you can catch a hint of them.”

You don’t look away. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“It is,” he replies. A pause. Then, softer he adds: “And you’re seeing it the way I see it when I miss you on tour.” You turn slightly at that, startled by the honesty tucked into something so simple. He doesn’t look embarrassed. Just calm, like he’s decided not to hide it. “I always come back to this,” he continues, nodding toward the telescope. “Because no matter how far I go, the sky is the same. It’s like… a reminder that distance isn’t the same as absence.” The room feels quieter than before. Even the galaxy lights seem to dim into something more intimate. You finally step back from the telescope, turning to face him fully now.

His hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him. "I mean it." His lips found your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your pulse. You tilted your head, a soft gasp escaping as his teeth grazed lightly. "I want to make you feel like you're floating among the stars." He whispered gently.

The tea was forgotten. Jisung guided you to his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you. Moonlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, mingling with the projector's glow. He kissed you deeply, hands roaming your sides, slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your spine. Clothes shed slowly—his hoodie first, revealing a plain white tee clinging to his lean frame. Yours followed, his fingers deft but unhurried, reverent.

Naked now, skin to skin, he laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours. Jisung's eyes roamed, dark with desire but softened by affection. "You're beautiful," he breathed, voice roughened. His mouth trailed down your collarbone, kisses feather-light, then firmer, sucking gently at the swell of your breast. You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He paused, looking up. "Tell me what you want." Always checking, always caring.

"You," you whispered. "All of you."

A low hum of approval. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting you with care, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. He watched your face, adjusting pressure based on your breaths, your soft moans. "Like that?" he murmured, slipping one finger inside, then two, curling them just right. Your hips bucked, pleasure building steady.

Jisung kissed you through it, swallowing your gasps. When you clenched around his fingers, trembling on the edge, he didn't rush. "I've got you," he promised, free hand stroking your hair. Orgasm washed over you gently, waves rather than a crash, his name on your lips.

He shed the last of his clothes, hard length pressing against your thigh. Condom from the nightstand—always prepared, always safe. He rolled it on, positioning himself at your entrance. "Ready?"

You nodded, pulling him down. He entered you inch by inch, stretching you perfectly, pausing to let you adjust. Fully seated, he stilled, forehead against yours. "Feels like home." Then he moved—slow thrusts, deep and measured, hips rolling in a rhythm that built heat without frenzy.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "Look at me." You did, and in the dim light, his eyes held galaxies—yours reflected back, endless and deep. "The universe is in your eyes," he whispered, voice breaking with emotion. He kissed you softly, pace quickening just enough, every slide hitting that spot inside you.

Sweat beaded on his skin, muscles flexing under your palms. Jisung's dominance was quiet, in the way he controlled the tempo, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand when you tried to touch, releasing them to let you claw at his back. "Good girl," he murmured, lips at your ear, breath hot. But it was laced with tenderness—kisses peppered across your jaw, your throat, praises whispered like secrets. "So perfect for me. Feel so good."

You wrapped your legs around him, urging deeper. He obliged, grinding against your clit with each thrust, chasing your second release. It hit harder, pulling him over the edge with you—his groan muffled against your shoulder, body shuddering as he spilled inside the barrier.

He didn't pull away immediately. Stayed buried deep, kissing your temple, your eyelids, murmuring, "You okay? Need anything?"

"Just you," you sighed, arms around his neck.

Jisung eased out carefully, disposing of the condom before gathering you close. The sheets tangled around you, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. He traced patterns on your back—constellations, you realized, from the planetarium. "That nebula we saw? This one's yours." His voice was sleepy, content.

You smiled into his skin. "Promise more dates like this?"

"Every chance I get." His fingers combed through your hair. "Space is infinite. So's this."

Morning didn’t arrive gently.

It slipped in like something unwelcome—thin light stretching across the room, touching everything you didn’t want it to. The galaxy projector had shut off at some point in the night, leaving behind no trace of the universe Jisung had built for you—no constellations, no soft glow, no illusion of infinity. Just morning. Just reality.

You stirred slowly, still caught in the warmth of sleep, instinctively curling closer to the heat beside you.

Except—there wasn’t any.

Your hand drifted across the sheets, half-asleep, searching for something familiar—his arm, his chest, the steady rise and fall you’d fallen asleep against. There was nothing. Cold.

Your eyes opened, lashes fluttering against the unfamiliar quiet. For a moment, your mind refused to catch up, refused to accept what your body already knew. You turned your head.

The space beside you was empty.

Not just empty—undisturbed. The pillow was barely creased, the sheets smooth in a way that didn’t make sense. It was like he hadn’t just gotten up. It was like he’d been gone for a while.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jisung?” Your voice came out soft, sleep-worn, fragile.

No answer.

You pushed yourself up slowly, the sheets falling to your waist, the cool air brushing against your skin where warmth had been hours ago. The room felt different. Too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t belong in a place where someone should be.

“Jisung?” you tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

A faint unease curled in your chest, tightening as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. You reached for the first thing you could find—his shirt from the night before—and pulled it over yourself, the fabric slipping down your thighs, swallowing you whole. It still smelled like him. That made it worse.

You stepped out into the hallway, each step too loud, like you were disturbing something that had already settled.

The living room came into view.

Empty.

The telescope stood by the window, unmoved. The vinyl records were stacked neatly. The faint imprint of last night lingered in objects—but not in presence.

Your stomach dropped.

“No… you’re here somewhere,” you murmured under your breath, as if saying it could make it true.

You checked the kitchen. Nothing. The bathroom. Nothing.

Your eyes flicked to the front door. Closed. But something about it felt final—like it had already been opened and shut again long before you woke up.

That’s when your chest tightened for real.

You turned back toward the bedroom, something pulling you there—instinct, maybe, or something quieter. Something that already knew.

And then you saw it.

A small piece of paper, folded neatly on the nightstand. Waiting.

Your breath caught.

For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it. Because somehow, deep down, you already understood—whatever was written there wouldn’t make this feel better.

But your hand moved anyway. Slow. Careful. Like you were afraid it might disappear if you touched it too quickly.

His handwriting. Messy. Rushed. Familiar.

You unfolded it.

I’m sorry.

The words hit you instantly, sharp and quiet all at once.

Your grip tightened.

Something came up. I had to leave early. I didn’t want to wake you. Last night meant a lot to me. I’ll explain soon.

-J

You stared at the note for a long time. Too long. Waiting. For more words to appear. For meaning to shift. For something to click. But it didn’t.

“Soon?” you whispered, your voice barely there.

The word echoed in your chest.

It felt empty.

At first, you tried to understand.

You told yourself this was normal. That his life wasn’t predictable. That things did come up. That maybe he really didn’t want to wake you, not after everything you’d shared. That maybe this was his version of being considerate. So you texted him.

Hey… I woke up and you were gone. Is everything okay?

You stared at the screen after sending it, your thumb hovering like you could pull the message back if you tried hard enough. It delivered.

You waited.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. You told yourself not to overthink it. He’s busy. He’ll reply. He always replies. Eventually, your phone buzzed. Your breath caught as you opened it.

Sorry. Practice ran over. I’ll explain soon.

Soon.

That word again.

You read it over and over, looking for something between the lines—something that sounded like him. But it felt distant. Flat. Like he’d typed it quickly without sitting in it, without feeling it. Your fingers moved before your thoughts could catch up.

Okay.

That was all you sent. Anything more felt like asking for something he clearly wasn’t giving.

The days that followed didn’t break you all at once. They wore you down slowly, like water against stone. At first, he still replied. Still answered. But something had shifted, and you could feel it. In the way his messages got shorter. In the way he avoided specifics. In the way every time you tried to bring up that morning, he redirected gently.

He’d tell you he’d explain properly. Not over text. That he just needed a little time.

Time for what?

You wanted to ask.

Time to find the right words? Or time to figure out how to say something he didn’t want to say? You started to notice the imbalance. You were the one reaching. He was the one responding. And even then—not fully. Never fully.

Two weeks in, something in you shifted.

You didn’t decide to stop texting first. You just didn’t. You waited. One day. Two. Three. Your phone stayed silent…that silence said more than anything he’d ever sent.

He knew exactly when you stopped trying. There was no final message. No confrontation. Just silence. And somehow, that felt worse…because it meant you were tired.

He sat in the back of the van, phone in his hand, your chat open. Your last message—Okay.

He hated that message. Because it didn’t ask anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t hold him accountable. It just… accepted. He didn’t deserve that.

He thought about texting you every day. He really did. He’d type something, stare at it, then delete it. Over and over again. Nothing felt like enough. Nothing justified the way he’d left. The truth sat heavy in his chest—he hadn’t trusted himself with something that real, with someone who made him feel like that.

So instead, he said nothing.

And watched the distance grow.

Spring came quietly. The city softened. The air lost its bite. Light lingered longer in the evenings, stretching across the river in gold instead of gray. Life moved forward, like it always does. You moved with it.

Not completely. Not easily.

But enough.

You still thought about him sometimes. In passing moments. In things that didn’t ask permission to remind you. A song. A night sky. The word soon. Jupiter, especially. Jupiter stayed. You didn’t mean to go back to the river.

It just… happened.

The weather was nice. The air felt light. Like something might change, even if you didn’t expect it to. You sat on a bench, watching the water move slowly under the fading light. You didn’t realize it was the same spot at first.

But your body did.

Your chest tightened before your mind caught up. You almost left.

But you didn’t.

The people of Seoul gathered at the river for spring, friendly neighbors catching up, children running happily, couples picnicking- everything went quiet. Behind you, footsteps. You didn’t turn.

“...You still come here.”

The world didn’t stop. But something inside you did. Your breath caught so sharply it almost hurt. That voice. You knew it instantly. Even after months. Even after silence. Slowly—You turned and there he was.

Park Jisung.

Standing a few steps behind you like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be closer.

His hair was longer now, brushing his forehead softly. His frame looked the same—but there was something different in the way he held himself. Less careless.

More… aware.

And his eyes—God. His eyes looked like he’d been carrying something for a long time. Neither of you spoke, how do you start again with someone who never really ended?

“You’re back,” you said finally.

Your voice came out steadier than you felt. He nodded.

“Yesterday.”

A pause. “I—” He stopped himself. Like the words were stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. You stood. Slowly. Not moving closer. Not yet.

“You said you’d explain,” you said.

No accusation. Just truth. His jaw tightened slightly.

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

The air between you felt fragile.

Like one wrong word could shatter it completely.

“I waited,” you admitted.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. His expression changed instantly. Sharp. Pained. “I waited longer than I should have.” Your voice wavered now. Not from weakness. From honesty.

“I know,” he said again—but this time it broke. Not loudly. But enough.

“Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” you asked.

And there it was.

The question that had lived quietly inside you for months.

He inhaled slowly. Like he needed the air just to say it.

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.” That wasn’t what you expected. It hit harder than anything else he could’ve said.

“What?” you whispered.

“I hurt you,” he said.

His voice was steady—but his hands weren’t. You noticed the way they curled slightly at his sides, like he was holding himself together. “I left without explaining. I made a decision for both of us and called it protection.” A small, bitter exhale.

“It wasn’t.” Your chest tightened.

“I thought giving you space would make it easier for you to move on,” he continued. “I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d stop waiting.” Your throat burned.

“And did you?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head.

“No.”

A beat.

“I didn’t stop waiting either.”

Silence. Heavy. Full.

“I tried,” he added. “I told myself I did the right thing. That it was better for you not to be tied to something unstable.” His eyes finally met yours fully. “But every city I went to… every stage… every night I looked up—” His voice faltered.

“You were there.”

Your breath caught.

“In everything,” he said softly. “The sky. The music. Silence.” A faint, broken laugh. “Jupiter, especially.”

That did it.

Your eyes stung.

“I kept thinking about that night,” he continued. “How you looked at it like it was something unreal… and how I told you it was real.” He swallowed.

“And then I went and made us the unreal part.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks before you could stop them. Quiet. Uncontrolled.

“You don’t get to say things like that now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Not after disappearing.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to come back and act like you didn’t break something.”

“I know.”

His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t defend. It just… accepted.

“That morning—” you started, then stopped, your chest tightening painfully.

“You left a note, Jisung.”

He flinched.

“A note,” you repeated, your voice cracking now. “Do you know what that felt like? Waking up thinking something changed overnight? Wondering what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quickly.

“Then why did you leave like that?” you demanded.

“Because I was scared of how much you meant to me.”

The words came out fast. Unfiltered. Raw.

Silence hit again. Harder this time.

“I knew I was leaving,” he continued, stepping closer now without realizing it. “Longer tour than I expected. No control over my time. No way to show up for you the way you deserved.” His voice dropped. “And I didn’t want to watch something real slowly fall apart because of distance.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“So you ended it before it could even try?” you whispered.

“I thought I was protecting it,” he said. Then quieter—

“I was protecting myself.”

That honesty hurt more than anything else. Because it was real.

“I would’ve tried,” you said. Your voice was softer now. Not weaker. Just… tired.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s what scared me the most.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.

“You would’ve stayed,” he said. “And I didn’t trust myself not to ruin that.”

You stared at him. Really stared. And for the first time— You saw it. Not just regret. Not just guilt. But fear. The kind that lingers long after the moment has passed.

“I hated myself for leaving,” he admitted. “Every single day.”

Your heart ached.

“Then why didn’t you come back?” you asked again, softer this time.

“Because the longer I stayed away, the harder it felt to face you.” A shaky breath. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I hurt you because I didn’t know how to love you properly?’”

“Yes,” you said.

Immediately. Firmly. He froze.

“Yes,” you repeated, stepping closer now. “That’s exactly what you should’ve said.” Another tear slipped down his face.“I needed the truth,” you said. “Not silence.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to decide how much I can handle.”

“I know.”

A long pause. The kind that doesn’t feel empty. Just… heavy with everything that came before it. “I don’t trust you the same way,” you admitted quietly. His expression softened. “I don’t expect you to.”

“But I still—” you stopped yourself.

Your chest tightened. He waited. Didn’t push. Didn’t interrupt.

“I still think about you,” you finished.

Something in him broke. You saw it happen. “Every day,” he said. Barely above a whisper. The space between you shrank. Not completely. But enough.

“I don’t want easy,” he continued. “I don’t want perfect.” His voice steadied. “I just want real. With you. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

Your heart pounded.

“And if you get scared again?” you asked.

“I tell you,” he said immediately. “No running. No disappearing. No ‘soon’ without meaning it.”

A small, fragile silence. “Come with me,” he said softly. You hesitated.

“Where?” He glanced up. The sky stretched above the city—faint stars fighting against the glow of Seoul.

“Somewhere we can actually see them,” he said.

The drive was quiet. Not awkward. Not forced. Just… careful. Like both of you were relearning something that used to come naturally. He took you outside the city. Far enough that the lights faded. Far enough that the sky opened up again. When you stepped out of the car—Your breath caught. The sky wasn’t just visible.

It was alive.

Stars scattered across it in a way you hadn’t seen in months. Clear. Endless. Real.

Jisung moved to the back of the car, pulling out a blanket. Of course he brought one. Of course he thought of that. You sat side by side. Close—but not touching yet. The space between you felt intentional. Respectful.

“There,” he said softly after a moment, pointing upward. You followed his gaze. A bright, steady point of light.

“Jupiter,” you whispered. He nodded.

You stared at it longer this time. Not because it felt unreal. But because it didn’t.

“I used to look for it,” you admitted. “I know,” he said. You glanced at him. “How?” He gave a small, sad smile. “Because I did too.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’d find it and think… ‘you’re probably looking at this too.’” A pause. “Even if you weren’t.” You swallowed hard. “I was,” you said. That was it. That was all it took..

The space between you closed.

Not all at once. But slowly. Naturally. His lips found yours. Carefully. Like before. But different this time.

More certain.

You didn’t pull away.

The kiss sealed unspoken words. I’m sorries, what ifs, should haves, could haves, would haves, all fading into black. He pulls away, searching, longing, lost in the reflection of your eyes.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted quietly.

“Me too.”

A small exhale. Then— “That’s okay,” he said. You leaned into him. Resting your head against his shoulder. The sky stretched endlessly above you. Stars burning quietly across something infinite.

“This time,” he murmured, pressing his cheek lightly against your hair, “I’m staying.” Your fingers tightened around his.

“Good,” you whispered.

Because this time— You believed him.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t start out as enemies.

That’s what makes it unbearable.

Because hatred is easy—it’s clean, sharp, something you can hold onto without questioning. But what you and Park Jisung have now isn’t clean. It’s tangled in memories that refuse to fade, in moments that still feel too close no matter how much time passes.

And the worst part?

You remember exactly when it started to fall apart.

Before everything, Jisung knew you better than anyone.

Not in a dramatic, all-consuming way. Not in confessions or late-night promises.

It was quieter than that.

He noticed things.

The way your left foot dragged half a second when you were exhausted. The way your confidence dipped when instructors watched too closely. The way you always stayed ten minutes longer than everyone else, running the same section over and over until your breathing turned uneven.

“You’re going to burn out,” he told you once, sitting on the floor while you kept practicing.

“Not if I get it right first.”

“You already are,” he said, watching you carefully. “You just don’t believe it.”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you stopped moving, you’d have to sit with the possibility that he was right.

And somehow, that felt worse.

The closer the showcase got, the worse you became.

Not physically—you were stronger than ever.

But mentally?

Every mistake felt louder. Every correction cut deeper. Every glance from the mirror felt like judgment.

And Jisung noticed that too.

“You’re overthinking,” he said one night, stepping in front of you to stop you mid-routine.

“I’m focusing.”

“You’re hesitating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You pause before the turn. It’s small, but it’s there.”

You clenched your jaw. “Then I’ll fix it.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’re dancing like you’re scared.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why do you look like you’re waiting to mess up?”

Your chest tightened.

“Why are you watching me so closely?” you snapped. “Focus on yourself.”

“I am focused—on us,” he shot back. “This is a duet, remember?”

“Then trust me to handle my part.”

“I do,” he said quickly—but then, quieter, “I just don’t think you trust yourself.”

That was the first crack.

Not loud. Not explosive.

But deep.

After that, everything between you shifted.

He still stayed late—but now there was tension. Conversations turned into corrections. Corrections turned into arguments.

You started noticing the way his tone changed when he talked to you versus everyone else.

Sharper.

Less patient.

Like he expected more from you—and resented you for not reaching it.

And you hated that it mattered so much.

Hated that his opinion carried more weight than anyone else’s.

Hated that when he looked disappointed, it stayed with you long after you left the studio.

The night of the showcase just… confirmed everything you were already afraid of.

You had told yourself all day: Don’t hesitate.

Don’t think.

Just move.

And for most of the performance, you did.

Until that one moment.

That one, stupid, barely noticeable moment where doubt crept in and your body followed it.

You felt it immediately—the misalignment, the shift in timing.

And worse?

You felt Jisung adjust.

Seamlessly. Professionally.

But not gently.

His grip tightened just slightly where your hands connected. His movements sharpened, compensating for you.

Anyone watching wouldn’t have noticed.

But you did.

And that was enough.

Backstage, the adrenaline hadn’t even worn off before he spoke.

“You messed up.”

No hesitation. No softness.

Just fact.

You stared at him, your chest still heaving. “It was one second.”

“It was enough.”

“I fixed it.”

“You shouldn’t have needed to fix it,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t have hesitated in the first place.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I said I fixed it.”

“And I said you shouldn’t have had to.”

Something in his voice—sharp, disappointed, final—made your throat tighten.

“I was nervous,” you admitted, quieter now.

“You can’t afford to be nervous on stage.”

“I know that!”

“Then act like it!”

The room felt smaller. Louder. Suffocating.

“I’m trying, Jisung!”

“Trying isn’t enough,” he said, and then—

The words that stayed with you long after everything else faded:

“You’re not ready.”

You think something in you broke right then.

Because it wasn’t just what he said.

It was how easily he said it.

Like all the late nights, all the effort, all the moments you thought meant something—

None of it was enough to change his mind.

Not ready.

Not good enough.

Not what he needed you to be.

After that, silence became your defense.

You stopped staying late.

Stopped asking for feedback.

Stopped looking at him unless absolutely necessary.

And when you did speak?

It was clipped. Controlled. Distant.

Because if you let even a little bit of that old familiarity back in, you were afraid everything would crack open again.

Meanwhile, he… didn’t try to fix it.

Not really.

He’d start to say something sometimes—your name, half-formed sentences—but he’d stop himself.

And that almost hurt more.

Because it felt like he chose the distance too.

Like losing you wasn’t worth the effort of explaining himself.

So yeah.

Now, standing in the dim studio months later, when he asks, “Why do you hate me?”—

It feels like a cruel question.

“You told me I wasn’t ready,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect—but steadier too. “Like everything I did meant nothing.”

His expression falters.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“I was frustrated.”

“And I was humiliated,” you snap, the memory rushing back all at once. “Do you know what it’s like to mess up on stage and then have the one person you trust most confirm your worst fear?”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.”

Silence.

Thick. Pressing.

“I thought pushing you would help,” he says finally.

You let out a hollow laugh. “Congratulations. It didn’t.”

His gaze drops for a moment, and when he looks back at you, there’s something raw there.

“I didn’t know you were that close to breaking.”

“That’s because you never asked,” you whisper. “You just assumed I could handle it.”

“I thought you could,” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. “So did I.”

That’s the truth you never wanted to admit.

You weren’t just hurt because of him.

You were hurt because, deep down, you believed him.

The space between you feels fragile now.

Like one wrong move will shatter whatever is holding this moment together.

“I watched you after that,” he admits suddenly.

You frown. “What?”

“After the showcase. When you stopped staying late.” His voice is quieter now. “You’d leave early, but sometimes I’d see you come back when you thought no one was around.”

Your breath catches.

“I saw how hard you were pushing yourself,” he continues. “Harder than before. And I—” He exhales sharply. “I didn’t know how to approach you without making it worse.”

“So you did nothing.”

“I gave you space.”

“I didn’t need space,” you say, your voice cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. “I needed you to tell me I wasn’t a failure.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. Vulnerable. Irreversible.

Jisung’s expression shifts completely now.

“You were never a failure,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“Then why did it feel like I was?”

He steps closer.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like you might disappear if he moves too fast.

“Because I said the wrong thing at the worst possible time,” he admits. “And I didn’t fix it when I should have.”

Your chest tightens.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask.

He hesitates.

And that hesitation tells you everything.

“Because I didn’t know how to face the fact that I hurt you,” he says quietly. “And because… I was scared you wouldn’t forgive me.”

Your throat burns.

“You didn’t even try.”

“I’m trying now.”

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Not the arguments.

Not the anger.

But this.

The honesty. The vulnerability. The way everything you buried starts rising back to the surface the moment he looks at you like that.

Like you still matter.

Like you always did.

And suddenly, hating him feels a lot harder than it used to.

The air between you shifts—subtle, but undeniable.

Like something long buried has finally cracked open, letting light in where neither of you expected it.

Jisung is still close. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the hesitation in it—like he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

And that’s new.

For the first time in a long time… he isn’t pushing.

“You don’t get to just fix this in one conversation,” you say, even though your voice has softened.

“I know,” he answers immediately. No argument. No defense. Just quiet acceptance. “I’m not trying to.”

That catches you off guard.

“Then what are you trying to do?”

His gaze flickers down for a second—your hands, your face, like he’s grounding himself—before meeting your eyes again.

“Start somewhere,” he says.

There’s something about the way he says it. Careful. Honest. Stripped of the sharp edges he used to hide behind.

And it makes your chest ache.

Because this—this version of him—is the one you remember.

The one you trusted.

The one who used to sit on the studio floor and watch you like you were something worth understanding.

“I don’t know if I can just… go back,” you admit.

“I’m not asking you to,” he says softly. “We’re not the same as we were.”

No.

You’re not.

You’re sharper now. More guarded. But also… more aware. Of yourself. Of him. Of everything that went unsaid before.

And maybe that’s why this feels different.

More dangerous.

More real.

Your eyes drop briefly—to his hands, flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.

“Then what are we now?” you ask.

The question lingers.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he takes a step closer.

Close enough that if you leaned forward even slightly—

“We figure it out,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

Because there’s something else in his voice now.

Something deeper than guilt.

Something that wasn’t there before.

Or maybe it was.

And you just never let yourself see it.

“You always do this,” you murmur, your pulse picking up despite yourself. “Act like everything can just be… worked through.”

“No,” he says, just as quiet. “Only the things that matter.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Your heart stutters.

“And this matters?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“You matter.”

It’s too much.

Too direct.

Too honest.

You should pull back.

You should say something sharp, something safe—something that puts distance back where it belongs.

But you don’t.

Because your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

A small step forward.

Barely anything.

But enough.

Enough that the space between you disappears.

Enough that you feel his breath hitch.

And suddenly, everything is louder.

Your heartbeat.

Your thoughts.

The past and the present colliding all at once.

“Jisung…” you start—but it comes out quieter than you intended.

Like a warning.

Or maybe a question.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Not this time.

His hand lifts slowly—giving you time to stop him, to step away, to rebuild the walls you’ve spent months putting up.

You don’t.

So his fingers brush your wrist first.

Light.

Testing.

Like he’s asking permission without saying it.

And when you don’t pull away—

He exhales, almost like relief.

His hand slides up, warmer now, more certain, until it rests gently at your waist.

Not pulling.

Just there.

Grounding.

Real.

Your breath falters.

Because it’s been so long since he’s touched you like this.

Not as a partner correcting your form.

Not as someone frustrated.

But like you’re something he wants to hold onto.

“You’re still overthinking,” he murmurs, and there’s the faintest trace of something familiar—teasing, but softer than before.

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “You’re still watching me too closely.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I never really stopped.”

That does something to you.

Something you’re not ready to name.

Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest—light at first, like you’re unsure if this is real.

But it is.

You can feel his heartbeat under your palm.

Fast.

Unsteady.

Matching yours.

And suddenly, the tension that used to feel like anger… doesn’t feel like anger anymore.

It feels like something else entirely.

Something that’s been building for a long time.

Unspoken.

Unresolved.

“You hurt me,” you whisper, needing him to understand—even now, even here.

“I know,” he says, his voice rougher now. “I know. And I hate that I did.”

Your fingers curl slightly in his shirt.

“Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he says immediately. No hesitation this time. “Not like that. Not ever again.”

You search his face.

For doubt. For uncertainty.

You don’t find it.

What you do find—

Is that same boy who used to believe in you before you believed in yourself.

And maybe… he never stopped.

The realization hits deep.

Your grip tightens slightly.

And before you can overthink it—

You close the distance.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It isn’t desperate.

It’s careful at first.

Like both of you are still figuring out where the edges are now.

But the moment it happens—

Everything else fades.

The months of silence.

The arguments.

The sharp words.

They don’t disappear.

But they shift.

Because this—this feels like something built from all of it.

Messy.

Complicated.

Real.

His hand presses more firmly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer as the hesitation melts away, replaced by something warmer, deeper.

Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

You respond without thinking now, your fingers curling into his shirt as you lean into him, grounding yourself in the moment instead of the past.

And when you finally pull back, just slightly—

Your foreheads rest together.

Breathing uneven.

Close enough that the world still feels small.

Still feels like just the two of you.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” you say softly.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“But…”

You hesitate.

Because this is the part that matters.

The part that decides what happens next.

“But it’s a start.”

His lips curve—just barely.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

And this time—

When you stay—

He doesn’t let go.

That’s the difference.

Before, everything between you and Jisung had been hesitation—missed timing, unsaid things, moments that slipped just slightly out of place.

But now?

Now you stay.

And he feels it.

His hand at your waist tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you there, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice low, brushing against your skin more than your ears.

It’s such a small question.

But it carries everything.

The past.

The hurt.

The risk of starting again.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, your fingers slide from his chest up to his collar, curling there, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you whisper.

Something in him shifts at that.

Not urgency.

Not impatience.

Just… relief.

The kind that settles deep.

His forehead presses gently to yours again, like he needs that closeness before anything else. Like he’s relearning you—not as a partner, not as someone he has to push—but as someone he gets to feel again.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing.

Just existing in the quiet.

And outside, somewhere far off, the world keeps going—but in here, it feels suspended.

Like that line from a song you once played on repeat late at night—

“Where were you while we were getting high?”

It drifts through your mind without warning.

Not about substances.

About this.

This feeling.

This suspended, dizzy, almost unreal moment where everything is too much and not enough all at once.

Your hand shifts slightly, brushing the back of his neck.

He exhales—sharp, quiet.

Like even that small touch does more than he expected.

“You feel different,” he admits softly.

You almost laugh. “That’s because I am.”

“I know,” he says. “I just—” he pauses, searching for the words, “I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Your chest tightens.

Not the tension from before.

Something softer.

Something that lingers.

“You don’t get to miss me like that if you’re the one who pushed me away,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it anymore.

“I know,” he repeats.

And this time, it sounds like he means more than just the words.

Your thumb brushes lightly along his jaw, almost absentminded.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit.

“I figured.”

“But I think,” you hesitate, the truth catching in your throat, “I mostly hated how much what you said stuck with me.”

His eyes close briefly at that.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

“And I hated that you still… mattered,” you add, softer now.

That makes him look at you again.

Really look.

Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to be given back.

“You still matter too,” he says.

And it doesn’t feel like pressure.

It doesn’t feel like expectation.

It just feels… true.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time.

It’s full.

Like something is building again—but slower now. More intentional.

His hand shifts slightly at your waist, thumb brushing just barely against your side in a slow, absent motion.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just there.

Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath catches again—quieter this time.

And when you lean in, it’s not to close distance out of uncertainty.

It’s because you want to.

The next kiss is deeper.

Still soft.

Still careful.

But no longer tentative.

There’s something steadier in it now.

Something that feels like choosing.

Over and over again.

Your fingers slide into his hair, and this time he doesn’t hesitate at all—his other hand coming up, resting at your back, pulling you just slightly closer.

Not consuming.

Not overwhelming.

Just enough that you feel the shape of him against you.

Familiar.

And new all at once.

You break apart slowly, breaths uneven again, but calmer now.

Grounded.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask suddenly.

“About what?”

“What it would’ve been like if we hadn’t messed it up back then?”

He huffs a quiet breath, almost a laugh—but softer.

“All the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, his thumb brushing your side again. “But I think… we wouldn’t have understood it like we do now.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Understood what?”

“This,” he says simply.

And maybe he’s right.

Because before, everything between you had been built on pressure.

On expectations.

On proving something.

Now?

It feels like something else.

Something slower.

Something that doesn’t need to be perfect to be real.

Outside, the night stretches on.

Inside, the studio feels smaller.

Warmer.

Like the world narrowed down to just this moment.

Just this closeness.

Just this quiet, fragile, undeniable beginning again.

And as you rest there with him—still not letting go—

That same thought lingers in the back of your mind, echoing like a distant refrain:

Someday you will find me… caught beneath the landslide…

Not buried.

Not broken.

Just… changed.

And finally starting to come back up for air.