Mimz

It was a good day at first.

Your interview had gone well, Chan finished working on a song, everything was truly great.

So why didn't it feel like it? Why did it feel like your throat was sandpaper, your heart weighed a thousand pounds and your soul like it was dead even as your heart kept beating?

You were all around a table, eating dinner, talking, laughing. Except you weren't hungry, your eyes were blurry, and your smile didn't quite reach your eyes. It hadn't in a while.

You didn't really understand what pushed you to do it, not that you wanted to know.

Maybe it was how they laughed at something you coudn't hear when you left to wash your hands, making you wonder if they'd heal eventually without you. Maybe it was all the comments and posts from anti's that stabbed you a little deeper each time. Maybe it was all of it.

But you got up again, and said you felt tired and didn't feel so hungry anymore. They all told you to sleep tight, to get rest, to get better, and when Felix asked if you'd be okay on your own you almost sobbed on the spot.

You assured him everything would be just fine, and you went to your room.

Closed the door.

Opened the drawer that stared back at you, taunting, everytime you were sat wide awake in bed, unable to sleep. Took out the letters you'd written time and time again before, placing them on your desk. One for each member, one for STAY's.

And you knew what they said; if you have letters to write, you have reasons to stay. But the reasons to leave just felt heavier, stronger, overtaking your mind and your body until you every step was so hard it made you want to cry, to throw up, to never move ever again.

So you put a bunch of pills in a cup, took a deep breath, and told yourself it'd be for the best.

That they'd be okay.

That they'd heal.

You went to the bathroom and prepared a bath, undressing and waiting for there to be enough water. You almost turned to look at yourself one last time in the mirror, but you knew it'd be useless. You didn't wanna spend your last moments seeing the thing you hated most, anyway.

When you got in, it was warm, soothing, almost calming as you put the earlier medication in your mouth and swallowed in one big gulp.

Your head filled with a thousand apologies.

Apologies for being too weak to keep going. Apologies for leaving them, mixed with apologies for not doing this sooner. Apologies for not being enough.

You closed your eyes, slowly letting your head sink under the water.

You didn't hear the knocking on the locked bathroom door, or Han's teasing voice calling out to you, saying you weren't in your room and he took your "secret love letters", starting to read the one with his name aloud.

Didn't hear the way his voice froze, before hesitantly, quietly continuing to speak, voice starting to tremble.

Didn't hear when he started hyperventilating, knocking like a madman, shouting at you that this wasn't funny and calling the others.

You didn't even hear when, minutes later, they managed to slam the door open, a sobbing Han and Changbin holding eachother while Seungmin stood frozen, tears silently spilling down his cheeks, wondering if it was his fault, if maybe he made one too many joke earlier.

Minho was calling the ER, Jeongin pacing and trying to muffle his sobs with his palm, thinking about every possible way he was going to lose a noona, his noona, while Chan tried calming everyone, panicking inside, the shiver in his voice giving him away.

Felix, the usually emotional one just stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on you like his brain just couldn't process what his eyes were seeing.

Hyunjin, the man who had always been stuck to your hip, ran inside the second the door opened, falling to his knees in front of the bathtub and ignoring the sharp pain as he grabbed your shoulders and pulled you out of the water, putting a towel over your body with shaking hands while he frantically sobbed out your name and begged variations of please don't leave me.

Didn't feel his hands beating rythmically over your chest, or the way his mouth covered yours to try and force air into your lungs.

Didn't feel the weight of him crumbling on your body, screaming his lungs out and sobbing louder than his voice ever was when you both sang in concerts.

The first time you entered the music room, on a friday afternoon, you had to physically remember how to breathe.

You knew your school was pretty good with funds for their clubs, but that was a whole another level.

Members already chatting, a girl talking with her friend while she sat on a table, dangling her legs. They laughed together like the world wasn't their problem at the moment.

A guy was at a piano, arms crossed on it while he observed the said girl with what could only be described as pure heart eyes.

His own friends were laughing, one sat on a beanbag with a guitar over his lap and the other leaned against the wall.

It all looked like some kind of scene from a movie, the golden glow of the slow sunset coming in through the window.

"Hey, newbie, are you gonna just stand there?" Asked a voice from behind you, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You turned around, face-to-face with Han. His shit-eating grin told you he'd probably make fun of you, but what he actually did was just chuckle and bump your shoulder playfully.

"Pretty cool, right? We managed to get the best room this year, again," he said proudly.

You blinked, surprised by how casual he seemed with you. "Uh... yeah. Pretty cool," you replied. "Wait–Where's the guy that was behind the desk, for the inscriptions?" You asked, brows furrowing as you looked around the room.

"Oh, he's not in the club! He's just a friend of the girlfriend of a cousin of Junseo–aka, the guy at the piano. He volunteered to do it 'cause we said it'd look good on his report card," he explained. "Which is total bullshit, by the way."

He held back a laugh at the instant, visible relief on your face. "Why? You know him?"

You winced and slowly nodded. "Uh... Yes, you could say that."

One of the girls from earlier glanced up and squealed. "Hannie! There you are!" She said, smiling like she was Colgate's favourite effigy.

She got up and ran to hug his arm. "You're still coming over on saturday, right?" She giggled, probably not noticing how Piano Boy's eyes seemed to sadden like a puppy.

You faintly raised your brows, eyes barely squinting in a what the..? expression. You blinked out of it and walked further into the room.

"So!" Han spoke, clapping his hands. Everyone stopped and looked at him. "We gotta distribute the instruments. I'm still the male singer and on the guitar, obviously, along with Sunghoon over there."

'Sunghoon' nodded from the beanbag, lazily raising a hand.

"Junseo, are you still on the piano?" He asked, glancing at Mister Loverboy.

He nodded. "Yup!"

Han kept calling out to different people with different instruments, then turned to you. "So, newbie, whaddya think?" He asked with a grin.

"Uh... You're all cool?" You said, confused, not having paid any attention at all.

The others burst out in laughter, and he chuckled too, brows raising and his eyes squinting as he slightly bent over.

"Tell us something we don't know. But I meant what do you think about you? What instrument d'you wanna play?" He asked, his words laced with chuckles.

You nodded slowly, lips pursing in pure embarassment. "Uhh...—" you barely started speaking when someone cut you off.

"Wait, what about singing? Jena graduated, so we dont have any girl voice anymore—except me, but I'm more background-chorus style," a brunette girl said, raising her hand.

Han blinked. "Oh, you're right..." His eyes widened like he had the best idea in the whole, wide world.

He turned to you and slowly grinned.

"Han, no–" You started, raising your hands.

"Han, yes," he replied, grinning wide and grabbing both your hands, shaking them.

"Come on! At least think about it? You told me you didn't know what instrument you wanted to play!" He exclaimed.

You groaned, telling him you'd think about it.

Then, he went with the three guys from earlier, who you'd learned were called Junseo–aka the Piano Loverboy, Sunghoon–aka Guitar Guy, and Jaewon–the one who leaned against the wall.

Miss Chorus with the Brown hair grabbed your hand. "Girl, you're litteraly so hot. Hang with us," she said.

Not asked.

Said, as she dragged you to the table with her other friend and sat up on it again.

"I'm Nari, by the way," said the brunette. "And this is Mi-hi," she pointed to her pastel-pink haired friend.

You spent an hour with the two girls, learning drama you knew Haneul would eat up like a shortcake. When people started leaving, you stayed behind, glancing at a remaining backpack.

Eyes narrowing, you crouched in front of it and took the small, dangling volleyball keychain from the side of it. "Does our school have a volleyball club now?.." You mumbled to yourself, examining the trinket.

"Nope," said the voice that you heard behind you way too many times for a single week.

You closed your eyes, wondering if the sky not-so-secretly hated you, and turned your head to face Han.

"It's from an anime my friend wants me to watch. It's called Haikyuu," he said. "By the way, what you're doing is pretty much backpack harassment," he said, pointing at his backpack.

You blinked. "Wha–harrassmen..?-No! I was just curious!" You defended yourself.

"She didn't consent to you touching her though," Han retorted.

"She's an inanimate object," you exclaimed. "Wait— did you give your backpack a gender?"

"Kita is very alive," he replied, pretending to be offended.

You both stayed in silence for a few seconds, before he cracked up and started giggling.

Which was apparently very contaminating, since you found yourself chuckling aswell.

"And... you talked about Haikyuu, right? Did you watch it?" You asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. It was pretty cool! I've still gotta watch a movie, though, i think."

You acted as nonchalantly as you could, tilted your head. "Soooo... who d'you think would win between Nekoma and Seoba Johsai?" You asked, silently praying to whoever was Up There he'd actually been interested in it.

Otherwise, you'd just look like a nerd—which, yeah, you were, but you didn't need him to know that.

His eyes widened, sparkling, and he stated grinning, plopping down to sit in front of you on the ground, finally at level with you.

"Oh, come on! It's obviously Nekoma. I mean, with Kenma's genius, if we're talking before-they-lost-to-Katasuno-Aoba Johsai against during-the-nationals-Nekoma... Yeah, it'd maybe be tough, but they'd win."

Your brows jumped up. "Thank you! My friend told me he thinks Seijoh would win–"

What started as an innocent question turned into a long, long conversation about sport animes, and eventually developped into Han telling you about the shit he and the Hot Guys Club did.

"Y'know, when we learned that this was our nickname, it became a running gag in our group. Like, everytime one of us would do something, the others would act like some of the weird chicks and go all high-pitched voice, real fangirl mode," he told you, laughing.

"Once, Chan loudly fangirled over Seungmin when he was playing base-ball for a match– next point he did was sent right to his face. Chan had a bruise on his cheek for three days," he told you. Your eyes widened.

"What? We thought it was some girl that shouted that!" You said, chuckling. "And rumors said that Chan had this bruise because he fought someone for his girlfriend," you said.

Which was seemingly the funniest thing in the universe from how hard Han laughed, throwing his head back and slapping his thigh so much you'd be surprised if he wasn't red later.

"Chan? Fight? For a girlfriend? First off, it'd be more likely to be Minho, me or Felix that'd fight. Second, he's single as shit."

Your brows jumped up. "Hold up, did you say Felix?"

Han blinked. Then, he chuckled, like he just now realized something. "Yeah, that guy fights. Once, he beat up a guy because he made fun of his gay friend."

Your eyes widened.

Felix? Fighting someone? Not even fighting–beating him up?

"Wait, really? He looks like the sweetest guy!"

"Oh, don't get me wrong, he is! He's just... not afraid to use his skills if needed," he said, barely concealing his grin.

You glanced out the window, just now realizing how late it'd gotten. "Shit," you whispered.

"What?" Han asked, raising a brow.

You shook your head. "Nothing, it's just late."

His brows furrowed. "Oh, want me to walk you home or something? I mean, I don't know how far you live but I'm guessing it can't be that far if you stayed in the room until I came back, like, one hour later or something..." He said.

_________________

He talked your ear off so much when he walked you home that you almost forgot who this was.

You were talking to one of the Hot Guys Club members.

And he was... not a dick, somehow.

He was nice.

He was funny.

He was human.

Gosh, you'd have so much to tell your friends monday...

You didn't remember how you ended in Sean's--the blondie's--bed. You mind was a blur of alcohol, dancing, and seeing his face absolutely everywhere. The more drunk you got, the more you thought he was here.

First, you saw him in the guy with the same nose and face shape, then it was the guy with brown eyes, then the one with just a similar haircut.

You didn't know what it was that made you miss him this much tonight. Wether it was the long day you'd spent, the song that played on the speakers back in the club. Maybe a mix of everything.

Who knew.

Whatever it was, the guy in your bed, the guy you were kissing just ten seconds ago, pulled away slightly and held your arms.

"Hey, you okay? I mean, like, yeah, I'm drunk, but not drunk enough to miss the way you're..." he motioned to your face awkwardly.

You furrowed your brows. "What? I'm what?"

"You're kissing me like you wanna kiss someone else."

"What..?" you mumbled. "No, no, you're hot, and- and you're fun. I swear."

Your comment made him pause then huff out a laugh. Then snort. Then straight up laugh with his whole chest. "You- bhwahaha! Yeah, no, I know I am, missy. But I also know what it feels like to miss someone when you're drunk."

You blinked. Had you been this obvious all along?

"Let me guess. It's that Chris, or uh... Chad... Well, the name you called me earlier-"

"Chan," you corrected immediately, almost by reflex. Old habits die hard, it seems.

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. That guy."

The nod you gave was so small that Sean thought he imagined it for a second. "Wanna tell me about him? If it makes you feel any better, I'm probably too drunk to remember tomorrow, and you're too drunk to hide how much his name sounds like music to you anyway.

"Well... He was just- ugh. He was cute and nice and we dated for like, years, and he had this dream and i always told him to follow it, and when he finally did it, he had to move to korea and we promisde we'd always love eachother but he broke our promise and-"

"Did he?"

"Now we don't talk an- what?"

"Did he break his promise?" Sean asked, tilting his head, the blonde hair falling in his eyes like a movie star. "I mean, you certainly didn't."

You whined. "Speak normally, I'm too drunk to understand hidden messages."

He chuckled. "You promised to love eachother. And, from what I'm hearing, it's not like you ever stopped. What makes you so sure he did?"

"We... He didn't... He doesn't have the time for love. Or, if he does, it won't be with someone like me. I just know it. He's amazing and the best guy I ever met and... And I'm just me."

You spent the whole night and a part of the morning talking about him.

You cried and you were sad and you were mad... Both at him and at yourself.

"I know we were kids, it feels like I'm missing a stranger, but I just... Is it selfish that I'm so angry he finally lived his dream?"

You were with your two friends, Haneul and Luka, walking towards the Club Inscription Desks (A/N: English isn't my first language, so I have NO idea what those are called but... yeah...).

You were all planning on joining a club. Haneul, Luka and you had made a promise to actually do something this year, all on your own– and it the first step was that you'd all join different clubs.

"Ooh, HGC is here," Haneul told you, smirking and nudging you with her elbow.

The HGC–or Hot Guys Club–was a friendgroup of eight boys that went to your school.

They were the popular kids, the fuckboy-reputation kids, the ones everyone knew, the ones that could make some extremely weird girls whimper with just a glance.

The ones who, rumor has it, all fucked the same girl that one week. One each day–and, since there were only seven days in a week, two of them at the same time once. Poor girl was gifted things for her "recovery" afterwards.

But what made them even more famous? They were all in different clubs. And, as stupid as that might sound, it was more than odd in your school.

To make it simple, there were seven official clubs at your school:

The Art Club: for the artsy, mostly gay and bullied kids. If you wanted to know tea, ask them–they'd draw you a picture. Litteraly.

The Choir: The daddy and mommy's children that sang so loud they burst your eardrums during math tests every friday afternoon.

The Music Club: a bunch of hot, teenage-dirtbag kids who somehow had free and unsupervised instrument use. If Art Kids were bullied, Music Kids were more likely than not the bullies.

The History Club: or, as students called them, the teacher's pet zoo. Rule-following smartasses who thought their good grades meant unlimited asshole behavior authorization.

The Book Club: To explain it quickly; the nerds, who mostly read comics and scolded couples that came in the Library to hook up (which was about 80% of the reasons anyone entered that room).

The Kindness Club (yes, that was litteraly the club's official name): Some volunteers that, once a week, went to different actions and sometimes put together trips for the school.

and The Robotics Club: Hot. Geeks. Mostly muscular. Make, break or fix gadgets and cars when bored. Need I say more?

The students, though, created a brand new club: The Hot Guys Club. It was composed of eight friends–no one knew how they'd became friends, or how they even talked to eachother in the first place.

Maybe pretty boys attracted pretty boys? Maybe they were from the same city? Maybe they were childhood friends? Maybe they were secretely hot robots brought in by some freak scientist as an experiment? Who knew.

The first guy was called Chan Bahng–leader of the Book Club, a pretty guy with dimples and a laugh that sounded more expensive than your entire family's networth.

Second, Minho Lee, or Lee Know–because that guy knew everything about everyone, somehow. Quiet, but attentive. He wasn't in any club–just hung out with Han in the Music Room every so often, or talking to pretty girls from the Art Club. Other times, he just disappeared and came back from God knows where.

Changbin Seo was in the Robotics club: a buff guy that had lines of girls wishing to be crushed between his arms, legs, or pecs.

Then came The Prince, as everyone called him. Hyunjin Hwang, the tallest one, was in the Art Club. Pretty face with an even prettier bank account.

Jisung Han was in the Music Group, and rumor had it he played with a group in a bar every now and then. Whiny boy, that one–he knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it.

Felix Lee, the school sunshine. It was no wonder he was in the Kindness Club, between his soft freckles, his bleached-to-death hair and his deep voice, he was an angel. He helped a girl pick up her stuff and smiled at her, once, asking her if she was okay. She cried.

Seungmin Kim was the sarcastic guy with a voice sent straight from Heaven—he could hit high notes that'd make a dog weep. No wonder he was in the choir.

And last but not least, Jeongin Yang, the youngest one. Sharp cheekbones, dimples, fox eyes. He skipped a grade, apparently, and teachers loved him. Seriously. Some to the point where it was weird. Maybe that's why he was in the History Club.

You groaned and pushed your friend back playfully.

"Oh, please. You don't get to whine... No matter which club you join, you're gonna be with a probably straight hot guy!" Luka said excitedly. "I hope at least one of them is gay," he whined.

"Hyunjin probably is. Most of the Artsies are, right? Or at least bi." Haneul's eyes sparkled like she'd found out a million dollars-worth information. "Ohh, yeah. I'm getting heavy bi-vibes from him. Didnt he screw that guy, Junghoon, from your class?" She asked you.

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your small smile, and shook your had. "Neulie, no hate, but that's the kind of things Jennie would say," you joked.

Haneul gagged and looked at you like you just insulted her entire family.

Jennie was a popular girl, the kind you usually only seein trashy american movies–her and her two stupid friends were the self-proclaimed queen od this school. Truth is, most people didnt even like them, but they pretended because... Well, she was close with Hyunjin Hwang, and she was filthy rich, too.

"Okay, back to the original topic... which club are you guys joining?" Luka asked, glancing around.

"I kinda wanna join the music club," you said. "And Han looks like one of the less-asshole-y ones. Along with Felix, but–and I say this as nicely as possible–I don't really want to spend my free time looking over old people."

"Oh, I'll take Kindness then!" Luka said excitedly. "Oldies can't be that bad, right? Plus, he probably looks so hot helping others," he said with a dreamy sigh.

"Hm... I don't know which one I could join," Haneul said.

"Seriously? Why don't you join the Artsies?" You suggested. "You're amazing at everything handy."

"And you're bi," Luka added. "And you live for drama. Perfect fit!"

Haneul punched his arm, scolding him about making assumptions about her sexuality, which she claimed was straight. You all went to join your clubs, Luka happily skipping over to where Felix was standing behind the desk.

Haneul walked to the Art Club, awkwardly greeting the extravagantly-dressed woman behind the desk.

And you?

You went over to the Music Club's desk, waving slightly at the guy standing in front of you. Of course, it was the dude you spoke to for a few weeks–the same one that swore you were meant to be, before having sex with his best friend. "Uh, hi... can I join?" You asked, glancing anywhere but him.

"Whaddya think–" he started, before looking up at you.

The guy looked at you. The papers on the table. You. Raised a brow. "Well, well. You again," He said sarcastically.

"All roads lead to Rome," you mumbled.

You were about to take the form when you heard an excited voice chirp up from behind you. "Not if you walk backwards!"

You turned around at the familiar sound, and you saw him. Han Jisung.

He grinned at you. "Hey, you're in Jeongin's class, right? You're joining the Music Club?" He asked, filling a paper like it was second nature.

He handed the form to the other guy, and shot you a wink. "See you this friday then?" He said, before going back to his friends.

Your eyes stayed stuck to him as he walked away–not for interest. Just because they were like glued to him, somehow.

You shook yourself out of it, signed the form and quickly pushed it to the boy in front of you, before going outside to wait for your friends.

Well.

Fuck.

Requests are open!!

Remember to eat, drink, and smile, people ! Don't forget to ask if you'd like to be tagged in works I might post in the future.

A trip.

That's the genius idea your friendgroup got for the first days off in a while. So now, you were all in a van, Minho driving while Han and Hyunjin sang their hearts out like this was a who can sing the loudest karaoke bet.

Chan was in the backseat, laughing so hard that the video he was taking would too shaky to be understood later at how ridiculous they sounded, Seungmin was muttering how stupid his hyungs were while trying (and failing) to hide a smile.

Felix soon joined the self-titled Karaoke Masters, making wide arm movements and unintentionally forcing a giggling Jeongin and a somehow sleeping Changbin to shift and squeeze awkwardly against the car doors.

And where were you?

Well, you were squeezed between Hyunjin and Chan, laughing so much your abs were working overtime, tears prickling at the corner of your eyes while Hyunjin wrapped an arm around you and swung you side to side, his voice so loud in your ear you'd probably have a headache once arrived at your destination.

Minho's shout at a random driver was followed by Han leaning over from the passenger seat, yelling at him to relax and sing with them, his gummy smile making the cat-dad crack a smirk.

You were a rough bunch. A found family of weird cool kids in adult bodies. But you all loved eachother so much that it was worth every muscle ache from dancing, every surprise-hug attack from Felix, every single minute you spent scribbling with a black sharpie over calories everytime you bought snacks.

It’s 11:11 again.

The glowing numbers blink on your phone screen, mocking you with their perfect symmetry—which was now disturbed by the way the alcohol was toying with your head. You tell yourself not to look. Not to wish. Not this time. But your thumb hesitates over the lock screen anyway, like muscle memory—like your body still remembers what your heart is trying so hard to forget.

But it's really just a habit now. Every time you see double digits, you close your eyes to make your wish, and before you can stop yourself, his name comes to mind.

It always does.

You hadn’t spoken in months—not since that night. The one with the rain, and the words that fell harder than the storm outside. The one that made you realize loving doesn’t always mean staying.

The one where Hyunjin’s promise of forever ended much sooner than expected.

And yet, despite swearing to yourself time and time again that you moved on, every night since, you’ve found yourself glancing at the clock and waiting for those four numbers to line up like the universe was giving you one last chance to ask for him back.

Tonight, though, something feels different. Maybe it’s the ache that’s quieter than usual. Maybe it’s the way the city lights blur through your window like they’re trying to erase his face. Maybe it's the way the alcohol is dancing around your mind and singing his name like an anthem.

But you close your eyes, clasp your hands together, and whisper his name under your breath, with a silent plea of,

“I wish I could love you one more time.”

And then, like a cruel trick of your mind, you see it—

that memory that refuses to fade.

---

You remember the first time he made you do it.

You’d laughed at him for it, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his messy room, the smell of paint still clinging to his hoodie.

“You actually do that? Make a wish at angel numbers on clocks?”

He’d looked up from his sketchbook, lips curling into that boyish grin that made your chest feel too small for your heart.

“Of course,” he said, pretending to be offended. “You’re supposed to! It’s like—universal law.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and that’s when he grabbed your hands suddenly, his fingers warm and slightly stained with blue paint.

"Do it with me,” he’d said, grinning so wide it was almost stupid.

You’d tried to pull away, giggling, but he only held tighter.

“No, seriously, you have to! C'mon, Jagi. Close your eyes. That’s how it works.”

His voice had softened then, a little lower, a little steadier.

“Okay... Just trust me.”

So you did.

His thumbs brushed against your knuckles, slow and gentle. You could feel him smiling even before he spoke.

"Alright,” he’d whispered. “I wish for us to be together, grow old, and love each other. Forever.”

You’d laughed at how serious he sounded, eyes still closed.

“Isn’t the whole thing to not say it aloud, or it won’t come true?” you’d teased, opening one eye.

He’d chuckled, brushing your hair from your face.

“Maybe it won’t work now,” he said, half joking, half something else. “But if it doesn’t, it just means I’ll have to wish harder next time.”

He grinned dumbly, looking at you. "You know... it's gonna work even better if we both do it. Right?" He said, wiggling his brows.

You chuckled. "Seriously, honey?"

He nodded quickly and extended his pinky finger. "Yeah! Come on. Promise me you'll always wish for me at least at 11:11, and I promise I'll always wish for you. Forever and every," he whispered the last words like a secret.

You smiled fondly, interlocking your pinky finger with his, whispering right back: "Promise. Forever and ever."

"You bet. You promised, and now, I'll make sure you keep it." He smiled like the happiest man on earth while you giggled at how cheesy he sounded.

And he did.

Every night at 11:11, he’d make you do it again.

And again.

And again.

He'd call you, send you text-reminders, pout playfully everytime you didn't say it with him and blamed it on ot not being 11:11 but 12:12, 05:05 and such.

Until one day, he stopped.

---

You open your eyes. The numbers on the screen flicker and fade—11:12.

Too late. Wish over.

You take a deep breath, setting your phone aside. The silence of your apartment hums in your ears, louder than it should be. The air feels heavier when you realize how empty the space around you is—how quiet the walls have been since his voice stopped echoing off them.

There’s a photo still on your shelf. One you keep meaning to hide but never do. The one he took of you—laughing, eyes half closed, hand reaching toward the camera. He said it was his favorite. You almost smile, and it hurts that you still can.

Your chest tightens as you reach for your phone again. As if on instinct. As if you’re still tethered to him somehow.

You open your messages. His name sits near the top, untouched, unread since that last blue bubble:

Hyunjin:

Don’t wait for me anymore.

You never replied. You didn’t have the words then. You’re not sure you do now.

Still, your fingers move on their own, slowly, like even they're hesitating.

You:

> I still wish for you.

You stare at the text, the little gray words on the white screen, and your throat burns. The cursor blinks. Your heart does too.

You don't hit send. Not that you really meant to.

You just put your phone face-down on the table, thinking you simply exited the app and kept the message as a draft.

You lean your head against your hands, sighing deeply, hand reaching for your glass of whisky yet again. The world outside keeps moving, unaware that yours stopped months ago.

You close your eyes, just once more, letting the memory of his laughter echo through the silence.

And somewhere deep down, where logic can’t reach and pride can’t silence, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s wishing too.

Then, you hear it.

A ding. From your phone.

"Who's texting me right now?" You whine to yourself, reaching for your phone.

You never sobered up faster than when you saw the notification.

You:

I stjll wish for ypu.

Hyunjin:

I do, too.

You think you're imagining it. There's no way. How could he know? You didn't send that text.

Wait.

You didn't... Did you?

It's deleted as soon as you open the message app, leaving you wondering if you read that right or if your drunk mind was playing you. Right as you're about to turn it off with a huff, finger hovering over the button, you see the telltale typing bubble appear. Then disappear. Appear again.

It goes on for a few seconds, like a back-and-forth between Hyunjin's fingers and his thoughts.

Then, the typing stops. As if he's hesitating.

Ding.

Hyunjin:

Where are you?

You bite your tongue, not sure if you should really answer him.

Your mind is at war with your heart, but the hard, quick pounding of the latter is drowning out any hint of rational thinking you'd have left.

You:

Home. Still didnr mive.

His answer comes quick.

Hyunjin:

I'm coming over. Don't do anything stupid. And this is only because You're probably drunk.

You:

Okzy

You stare at the screen after you hit send, still trying to process everything.

You slowly turned of your phone, put it face-down on your table, and take a deep breath.

After so many months, you were gonna see him again.

And you didn't know if the pounding of your heart against your ribcage was happiness, fear, anticipation, or all of the above and more.

(Spoiler alert: probably the last option.)

There you go @dove111111-blog ! :)

Requests are open!

It’s 11:11 again.

The glowing numbers blink on your phone screen, mocking you with their perfect symmetry. You tell yourself not to look. Not to wish. Not this time. But your thumb hesitates over the lock screen anyway, like muscle memory—like your body still remembers what your heart is trying so hard to forget.

But it's almost a habit now. Every time you see double digits, you close your eyes to make your wish, and before you can stop yourself, his name comes to mind.

It always does.

You hadn’t spoken in months—not since that night. The one with the rain, and the words that fell harder than the storm outside. The one that made you realize loving doesn’t always mean staying.

The one where Hyunjin’s promise of forever ended much sooner than expected.

And yet, every night since, you’ve found yourself glancing at the clock, waiting for those four numbers to line up like the universe was giving you one last chance to ask for him back.

Tonight, though, something feels different. Maybe it’s the ache that’s quieter than usual. Maybe it’s the way the city lights blur through your window like they’re trying to erase his face.

But you close your eyes, clasp your hands together, and whisper his name under your breath, with a quiet plea of,

“I wish I could love you one more time.”

And then, like a cruel trick of your mind, you see it—

that memory that refuses to fade.

---

You remember the first time he made you do it, and how ridiculous it seemed to you.

You’d laughed at him for it, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his messy room, the smell of paint still clinging to his hoodie.

“You actually do that? Make a wish at 11:11?”

He’d looked up from his sketchbook, lips curling into that boyish grin that made your chest feel too small for your heart.

“Of course,” he said, pretending to be offended. “You’re supposed to! It’s like—universal law.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and that’s when he grabbed your hands suddenly, his fingers warm and slightly stained with blue paint.

"C'mon, do it with me,” he’d said, grinning so wide it was almost stupid.

You’d tried to pull away, giggling, but he only held tighter.

“No, seriously. Close your eyes. That’s how it works.”

His voice had softened then, a little lower, a little steadier.

“Come on. Just trust me.”

So you did.

His thumbs brushed against your knuckles, slow and gentle. You could feel him smiling even before he spoke.

"Okay,” he’d whispered. “I wish for us to be together, grow old, and love each other. Forever.”

You’d laughed at how serious he sounded, eyes still closed.

"Isn’t the whole thing to not say it aloud, or it won’t come true?” you’d teased, opening one eye.

He’d chuckled, brushing your hair from your face.

“Maybe it won’t work now,” he said, half joking, half something else. “But if it doesn’t, it just means I’ll have to wish harder next time.”

And he did.

Every night at 11:11, he’d make you do it again.

And again.

And again.

Until one day, he stopped.

---

You open your eyes. The numbers on the screen flicker and fade—11:12.

Too late. Wish over.

You take a deep breath, setting your phone aside. The silence of your apartment hums in your ears, louder than it should be. The air feels heavier when you realize how empty the space around you is—how quiet the walls have been since his voice stopped echoing off them.

There’s a photo still on your shelf. One you keep meaning to hide but never do. The one he took of you—laughing, eyes half closed, hand reaching toward the camera. He said it was his favorite. You almost smile, and it hurts that you still can.

Your chest tightens as you reach for your phone again. As if on instinct. As if you’re still tethered to him somehow.

You open your messages. His name sits near the top, untouched, unread since that last blue bubble:

Hyunjin:

Don’t wait for me anymore.

You never replied. You didn’t have the words then. You’re not sure you do now.

Still, your fingers move on their own.

You:

I still wish for you.|

You stare at the text, the little gray words on the white screen, and your throat burns. The cursor blinks. Your heart does too.

You don’t hit send. Not yet. Maybe you never will.

Instead, you turn off your phone and lean back against the window, watching the city lights smear across the glass like constellations out of focus. The world outside keeps moving, unaware that yours stopped months ago.

You close your eyes, just once more, letting the memory of his laughter echo through the silence.

And somewhere deep down, where logic can’t reach and pride can’t silence, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s wishing too.

Because even if he stopped saying it, even if he stopped believing in it—even if he never did, some promises never really leave you.

They just turn into ghosts that visit every night at 11:11.

-------

Requests are open :)

The man in front of you was stunning. Gorgeous, really. He seemed nice, and made you laugh quite a bit.

With his pretty blue eyes and charming smile, his blonde hair faintly falling into his eyes.

You had went to the bar to keep your mind off things after a long day, one where you'd thought too much for your own head and felt too much for your poor heart–and it helped, between the laughs, stupid dances, flirts and many drinks. For a little while, at least, it did.

So, you didn't really know what it was. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing in your ears. Or maybe the way he laughed a bit too much like him, head thrown back and shoulders hunched slightly, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Maybe it was just late, and you were getting a bit tired.

Maybe it was a mix of all those things, combined with the song that started playing from the speakers. The song from a group you knew just a little too well. Especially one of the members.

Whatever it was, his eyes started looking a little too brown, his hair a little too black, his cheeks a little too creased with dimples when he laughed.

And you found your smile becoming... more genuine. You laughed at something stupid he said, shaking your head in a way so fond you'd forgotten you could even do that. "Oh my god, shut up, Chan," you chuckled, gently smacking his arm.

He smirked and raised a brow. "Chan? Damn, is that your boyfriend or something? Didn't know I was flirting with someone taken," said the blonde guy with blue eyes and no dimples you were talking to.

"Huh?" You asked, a little hazy, the smile still gracing your lips.

"You called me Chan," chuckled the man, tilting his head. "Don't know who that is, but it's definitely not me, sweets."

You blinked a few times.

Oh.

Right.

Chan had moved away years ago–how could you even forget that? Yeah, you were drunk, but still. You should know that.

You'd started dating in middle school, all the way to his departure. And when he moved all the way to Korea to become an idol, you kept in touch. Stayed together. Swore that you'd love eachother no matter what.

And it lasted, for about a year. Then, it got... weird. Messages got rarer and rarer, until they simply stopped. You knew it'd happen, in the very back of your mind–being an idol meant he'd get busy, but it still hurt.

Even years later, when you'd see him on your screen, singing his life out on stage, making crowds go wild like there was no tomorrow. His dimples, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, his voice, his lips–

"Hey! You listening to me?" Asked the stranger, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes. "You've been ignoring me for, like, five whole minutes. If not ten. I'm too drunk to know right now," he chuckled.

You shook your head. "Yeah, no. Uh, sorry. Not my boyfriend. I'm single. You, uh, just look alike," you said, chuckling. Liar.

Maybe Chan had forgotten about you by now. He probably did, since his current life was... hard to keep up with, to say the least. There was no use watering a dead flower.

There was no use longing for a name that didn't remember yours.

So instead, you kept laughing. Flirting. Drinking. Hoping maybe, just maybe, enough alcohol would finally fill up that hole in your heart. Hoping that the burning in your throat would maybe warm you up enough to feel good.

Today had started just like any other day for both Han and you. He'd been working on a future song with Chan, while you had went to work and decided to stop by a bar and get a drink on your way back.

Now, he was laid on his back in his bed with his very sweet, very pretty and very drunk partner laying on him with your chin rested on his chest.

He played with your hair absentmindedly, listening to you ramble on and on about something he'd stopped paying attention to about twenty minutes ago.

To be fair, how could he when you were just... laying there, your eyes unfocused, your slightly flushed cheek pressed right over his heart?

So now, he was letting out small hums and right's, or some other sort of agreement to whatever you were saying every now and then, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist and a hand running up and down your back.

"Jagi?" you asked, fiddling with the collar of his shirt, propping your chin in your hand, not even glancing up at him as you tilted your head.

He hummed, staring at you, admiring you with a fondness no ammount of acting talent and photoshopping could fake.

"If I'm in my body, and you're in yours, with no way to swap... How can we ever truly be together?" you asked, legs swaying behind you in the air.

"Yeah..." he mumbled, absolutely not paying attention.

"No matter how hard I press my face into yours, a space remains... So am I alone?" you asked, your voice soft as ever.

"Yep..." He said softly, a hand cupping your cheek as he ran his thumb just under your eye. Then, his brain replayed the conversation, and his brows slightly jumped up as he realized what he just said. "Nope," he added after a few seconds of silence, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel as he pursed his lips.

Another pause. "...God, no," he said quietly, almost to himself.

You glanced up at him, blinking, before dipping your head abd nuzzling in the crook of his neck. "...I guess I'm okay being alone if I'm alone with you," you mumbled. "Love you," you slurred slightly, eyes fluttering closed.

He couldn't help the lovesick dmile gracing his lips. "Ilove you too. But you do know you're gonna hate yourself tommorow morning, right?" he teased.

"Mmh... Worth it," you murmured, burrying your head deeper into him

You quickly fell asleep after that, while he kept looking at you for God knpws how long, thinking about how on earth did he get so lucky and how to make it last a lifetime?

How did he, Han Jisung, an anxious mess that was pretty much the living version of "a loser trapped in a hot body", get someone like you to fall for someone like him?