gottawinwin

“Oh, golden boy, don't act like you were kind”

He was inevitable in the end. Like some invisible string connected the two of you together. Not the pretty, dainty kind of invisible string. Whatever held your lives together was made of barbed wire. Whatever line wrapped around your ribs, restricting your breathing, tying you to him was nothing pretty. It was what army men used in wars. 

You can’t hate your best friend, even if they end up hurting you. You just can’t.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper in the dark as you watch his dark silhouette get up. The clock on his nightstand was barely legible. 

You could hear him throwing a shirt on. “I’ve got to go.”

You open your mouth to ask him again, but the words die in your mouth. A couple days ago you would’ve begged, but the bubbling hatred in you pushed the words down your esophagus, momentarily choking you. Seungcheol noticed your silence. 

“I’ll be back before sunrise.” He leans over the bed and kisses your cheek, brushing a stray hair from it. “Don’t be mad.”

You shake your head in the dark. “I’m not mad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

That was just how the world spun. You, lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling you used to trace constellations on together. Sheets that smelled like him - aftershave and candles. Pleading words sewn shut in your mouth, hidden in your lungs, suffocating you. As you sank back into sleep, drowning under everything you’ve ever wanted to tell him. You knew it wasn’t his fault. After all - he barely knew who he was, hidden under all his responsibilities and his job title, he was barely a semblance of a man - tugged and stitched together. 

It barely registered in your mind that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. Part of you knew he wouldn’t be there to celebrate anyways. 

“You know this moment don’t ya And time is strangely calm now”

You could say what drew Seungcheol to you initially was your confidence. It illuminated you like a beacon, a moth to the flame, as his eyes followed your movements from across the crowded room. 

It was Christmas Eve in Korea, and everyone in the right circles knew Johnny Suh’s Holiday Bash was the place to be. 

At least, that was what your friends had told you, claiming they had a way in and convincing you to join them. 

You were pleasantly surprised to find that for untouchable K-pop idols, everyone at the party was oddly normal. Kim Sunwoo’s voice could be heard over all the chaos, forehead pressed up against Lee Haechan’s, caught in the middle of some intense drinking game. Jeon Jungkook took a love shot with a heavily drunk Kim Mingyu, the sounds of their glass cups clinking against one another catching your attention.

Drifting away from the noise, you moved upstairs, your hand tracing the natural engravings against the wooden banister. The dim lights made it difficult to see, as you searched for a respite away from the noise downstairs. You’d certainly never question a K-opo idol’s ability to party again.

It was Seungcheol’s quiet stare that made you approach him, noticing how he sat with his back against the smooth white wall, his hair falling into his eyes. It was odd to see him alone, unaccompanied by his usual entourage of rowdy members. When alone, he seemed oddly sad, as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in his eyes that urged you to sit next to him. 

“I’d like to be alone, please.” He mumbled, turning his big eyes towards you. The light from downstairs caught in his irises, refracting into a million tiny lights. 

“Me too.” 

Your reply amused him as he watched you, intrigued by the way you stared off into the distance. He hadn’t known how you had noticed his glassy, tearfilled eyes from the get go, or else he would’ve walked away. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

Your offhanded tone made the loaded question fall easier against his chest. He could feel himself breathing routinely once more, the tears in his eyes receding as he processed your question and figured out an answer. 

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” He admitted, finally turning the whole of his body to face you, moving his knees up against his chest as he leaned back against the wall once more. 

There was something about him that made you want to help him. Maybe it was the fact that he was famous for being the reliable leader, responsible for too many things at such a young age. Maybe it was because, based on the things you’ve heard about him, you knew you could relate. Maybe you had already known - even then - that the two of you were different sides of the same coin. That he was inevitable in the end. 

“I’ve got time.” You send him an open smile. “Lay it on me.”

Even to this day, Seungcheol had no idea why he confided in you, a total stranger, on the floor of a Johnny Suh Christmas party. He usually held his cards close to his chest - so close in fact, that the people around him often joked that he couldn’t read the cards himself. 

So maybe he knew you were inevitable in the end too. 

But neither of you could’ve ever predicted what would become of the two of you by the time the next Christmas rolled around. 

“Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home, And at your best you were magic; we were sold” 

By the time the next Christmas rolled around, everyone around Seungcehol would credit you as the one who had “fixed” him. It was a term they all danced around lightly - fixed. None of them knew how to describe it, but Seungcheol was happier, louder, and had magically learnt the art of self-confidence. 

“That is not my hyung.” Chan yelled into your ear from the side of the bar, eyeing Seungcheol, who was on the dance floor surrounded by an ecstatic Soonyoung and Mingyu. “My Seungcheol hyung does not dance.” 

You laughed, because you knew the amount of work that had taken him to get where he was now. No one, except the two of you, would know about the late nights Seungcheol had spent near tears as you knelt by him, soothing phrases leaving your lips only to crash against his back. 

“Look at him.” Chan was pointing an accusatory finger at Seungcheol, who had a wide grin on his face as he watched Soonyoung attempt to win over a girl on the dance floor. “He used to avoid the dance floor like it’d kill him. Hell, he avoided the bar in general.”

You followed his finger, a small smile drifting over your features as you witnessed Seungcheol laugh, the sound travelling straight to your core as you watched him. As if he had felt your stare, Seungcheol turned, his bright smile shining upon you as he reached out a hand, gesturing you towards him. 

“Hi.” His forehead pressed against yours as he spoke. 

“Hi.” You whispered back as he pulled you closer, relishing the safety you felt within his strong arms. 

“I love you.” He said, but there were other words hidden deep beneath them. Don’t leave. 

“I love you too.” Don’t hurt me. 

“And the toughest part is that we both know What happened to you”

You dreaded each time he was called in for work. You knew he loved his job, and more often than not, he would have a good time - singing, dancing, creating with his friends for his fans. But you also saw the heavy weight that followed him home whenever it wasn’t a good time. Each company meeting where he was yelled at, each unsettling encounter with a crazy fan, each hate post you knew your boyfriend had read multiple times over. 

You both knew the baggage that followed him home far outweighed the good he felt. But you couldn’t ask him to leave - because that would ruin him too. 

February 19 2022. The date forever seared in the front of your mind. It was the day Seungcheol had returned home after dropping out of his world tour. 

He had landed on your shared porch like a dead bird. 

“Cheol.” You grabbed at his shoulders, trying to get a good look at his face. 

He pushed past you into your shared home, kicking off his shoes and throwing his bags onto the floor. You watched him leave up the stairs. You heard the door of your shared bedroom swing close, the lock click into place. 

You didn’t mind sleeping on the couch that night. You knew he needed his space. 

“I’m sorry.” He had told you the next morning, his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. 

Handing him his breakfast, you shook your head. “Don’t apologize. Do you want to talk about it?” 

He shook his head. “Not really.” 

First crack in the glass. You really should’ve known. After all, Seungcheol told you everything.

“But you should know that I died slow Running through the halls of your haunted home” 

Seungcheol kissed you each time like he was afraid to lose you. His kisses were full of passion, firm and messy. He kissed you like he was constantly running out of time. 

His calloused hands ran gently against your bare skin, handling you like pieces of precious glass.

“I love you.” He’d murmur against your stomach as he inched his way down, looking up at you with shining eyes - akin to the way he once looked at you during your first meeting. That was something special about him: his eyes sparkled the same way whether he was crying or in love. You had yet to learn the difference. 

Seungcheol liked holding you as he pushed in, craving the feeling of closeness and how he was connected inside of you, with you. You were his escape and his solace, his mind numbing into a void of white as pleasure coursed through him. The usual jumble in his brain ceased to attack him and he was left with the sole thought of showing you how much he truly did love you. 

Seungcheol loved making love with you. It was the aftermath where he didn’t. 

“I love you.” You’d whisper as you threaded your fingers through his hair, your other hand drawing circles against his bare skin - and your voice would feel planets away. 

The loudness of his own mind was back, the mess of barely coherent thoughts intruding once again. Seungcheol knew it made no sense. 

“You were mine, but you were awful every time”

Choi Seungcheol was not good for your soul. You knew that. He was a man full of paradox, forever contradicting himself and everything you’ve ever felt for him. Even the way his coarse hands gently traced the bones of your back felt contradictory, when he had only just told you the two of you could never be together. 

“We won’t work.” His lower lip jutted out as he spoke, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. 

“I know.” You were tired of begging, the constant back and forth. Seungcheol would run, and then he would still find his way back to you in the following few months. That was just how this relationship worked, and you were used to it by now. 

“I’m sorry.” He would whisper, cupping his hands around your face as his thumbs traced your cheekbones, a gesture filled with silent love. 

Then don’t leave, you wanted to yell at him. If he really was sorry, if he really did love you, why would he still leave each time? But you knew that wasn’t how he operated. 

You knew Choi Seungcheol wanted you. But he barely knew what he wanted himself. 

“'Cause everybody's gone it's Just you and your anger”

You knew he’d be back like clockwork. You knew Seungcheol could never stray from you for too long, some hindrance keeping him from ever truly leaving you. 

He’d leave each time he felt like he wasn’t enough, each time you failed to convince him he was. Then he’d come back the moment that insecurity vanished, leaving him with his anger. At himself, at the world, at you. 

Seungcheol’s anger burned in white and blue. His anger was silent, suffocating, almost petty and petulant by nature. He would never yell or raise a hand at you but he’d push you away. Further and further until it felt like you never really knew him at all. 

“I love you.” You’d say, and he’d just hum in response. 

“Cheol.” You’d beg, because even when you said you were done begging, you knew you’d do it again. “Look at me, please.” 

He turned, although his eyes locked on some spot right above your head. 

“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” You’d ask him. “Let me help.” 

You knew your attempts at understanding were futile. Choi Seungcheol’s fatal flaw was his independence. He relied on no one but himself. 

“Merry Christmas, please don't call

Merry Christmas, I'm not yours at all”

You supposed Christmas Eve was as good a time as it could get. There would be no best time, you knew that now. You had been looking for the perfect time to leave and look where you were now. Six years deep, in love with a man who barely knew love himself. 

Merry Christmas. You wrote, leaving the letter tucked neatly beside his Christmas gift on the living room table. You knew you couldn’t say goodbye in person. One look at his shining eyes and you’d be begging for his love once more. 

I know none of this is anyone’s fault. You had begun the letter with. I know there are just some things nobody can fix. 

Your hand on the doorknob, your other hand clutched around the handle of your bags, you turned to take in the place one last time. Memories of you and Seungcheol circulated through the air as you lingered by the door, unable to step forward. 

Because that was the couch where he had said I love you for the first time, his face inches from yours. That was the kitchen lights that had flickered when broken, the same lights in which you had danced under, wrapped warmly in his arms. 

I really do wish you the best, Cheolie. And because at Christmas, you tell the truth - I hope you find everything you need to be happy in this life. Merry Christmas. Please don’t call. 

It’s a fairytale type of belief, a blind and misguided hope for something impossible, yet you choose to believe it anyways. You’ve spent your entire life stuck in the pockets of your small village, never once experiencing any type of loss, yet– something had always felt missing, as if a part of you had been stolen away without you even knowing. 

There was a hole in your life, and you were determined to find it– whatever it was. 

You take nothing with you but a cloth bag packed with the bare necessities: dried fruit for sustenance, rope, your leather-bound journal, a pot of ink and a pen. You clutch the rusting lantern tightly in your right hand and push into the light blue vines that covered the entrance of the infamous tunnel. The light illuminates the road in front of you and casts dancing shadows along the damp cave walls. 

Your stomach flips and turns, but you venture in anyways, searching amidst the ugly brown walls and scattered blue vines for whatever it was that was lost to you. 

Wonwoo swears he’s been searching for ages– at least a few decades or so. The boring scenery of the tunnel had long since transitioned into a sort of subway system, the walls tiled in blue and browning at the lines separating them like a badly maintained bathroom. 

It had taken Wonwoo approximately four days traveling the complex system to realize there was no way out. 

The first stop he got off at had taken him up a flight of stairs and into a grassy field, the crops dying from the glares of the sun shining above them. The field had been calm and quite serene, and Wonwoo had begun to enjoy the feeling of the sun on his face after days underground. Yet once the sky had darkened, wisps of shadow began to emerge, threatening to gnaw off his limbs whenever they got too close. 

The shadows seemed hell bent on getting him back into the subway system, clawing and slashing at him until he was forced back down the marble stairs– back into the cold and dampness of the tunnel system. 

The second stop was a little better, as Wonwoo found himself emerging into the middle of a bustling city, one mirroring the likes of New York in the 1930s— a time period he was all too familiar with. He found himself captivated by the glow of the city and the sounds of a thousand footsteps along the busy streets of Downtown. 

He had smoothed out the crinkles of his grey suit, doing his best to dust off the dirt, grime and blood– all reminders of his last stop in the tunnel system. He drew back his shoulders and fixed his hair, glancing at his reflection in a nearby storefront. He smiled, for he was quite pleased with what he saw, a dashing young man from the 30s, rich and perfectly poised. 

But no, he couldn’t be distracted. He had abandoned his timeline and ventured deep into the tunnel for one thing and one thing only: you. 

So Wonwoo forced himself to turn away, back underground, once again. 

On the third stop, the subway had screeched to a jolting stop, sending Wonwoo a few steps back as he tried to regain his balance. The doors slid open aggressively and he stepped out, racing towards the stairs and back into the light. He was excited to see what was at the surface this time, all the while picturing what you might look like once he’d found you. 

He was travelling through timelines, after all, and you might look drastically different than the girl he had once known before. But none of that mattered as long as your soul was the same. 

The shadows must have felt his enthusiasm however, as they swarmed the exit and refused to let him pass.

“Let me through!” He yelled, grabbing a fallen pipe off the ground and swinging furiously. “Let– me– through!” 

The shadows disperse for just a second before returning, stronger and angrier than before. A tendril curls around the pipe and yanks it from his hands, throwing it to the ground as another tendril swipes him off his feet. 

Wonwoo lands on the floor with a painful groan. He stays there, watching as the shadows danced through the dimly lit corridors of the subway system. 

I’m done, he thinks silently. It’s over and I’m tired. 

But something itches at him and pulls him back up. He boards the subway once again, pulling out his phone to note down the stops, keeping track of the directions. He searches stop by stop. He searches for you. 

It’s the damp smell of the underground tunnels that hits you first, as you note the sudden transition from narrow dirt cave walls to a large atrium, its walls lined with blue squares that looked old and weathered from age. You note the benches that line the walls, some broken and crooked, colored with brown paint that chipped at certain places. 

There’s a loud sound as the floor beneath you shakes, thunder running through the ground as you brace yourself against the wind that was picking up, breezing through your hair from the tunnel on the side furthest from you. 

A train blows past you and screeches to a halt inside the atrium, its metal doors opening for you in welcome. A strange voice sounds from the ceiling. 

“Train to 22nd.” 

You glance up, confused. A couple seconds pass as you hesitate, but you end up stepping into the enclosure of the train, taking a seat on the bright blue seats lining the insides. You hold on as the train embarks, picking up speed through the dark tunnel. 

It’s entirely new and absolutely thrilling to witness. 

You get off once the doors open again, stepping up into the light, emerging in a cornfield. You turn, confused, as the way back to the train station seemed to pop out of nowhere, completely out of place amidst the yards of wheat and corn. 

It’s pretty and much bigger than the fields you were used to. You’re busy taking it all in– the scenery, the breeze, the feel of the sun on your face– when something whacks you from behind and sends you flying, tumbling into the crops and onto the dirt. 

You barely have time to stand before it tries hitting you again. You dodge this time, running past the swirl of shadow and flying back down the stairs of the underground train station. 

It doesn’t follow you. Instead, it seems to stare at you from the top of the stairs, sending a silent threat right through your bones. It doesn’t want you to find it– whatever you had come here to recover. 

You stare down at the scrapes on your hands and knees, blood pooling and dripping down like uncomfortable tears. The train squeals to a stop behind you, as if it just knew. 

It takes you four more stops trying to find your way back home to realize it was impossible. The tunnel had laid claim on you now, and you were stuck– facing the shadows that wanted so badly for you to stay with them underground, a hole still in your soul and never finding whatever you were missing. 

It takes another two weeks for both you and Wonwoo to break. 

Wonwoo’s curled up underneath one of the benches lining the subway wall, his knees pressed against his chest and his arms holding them together. He shakes violently despite the humid heat surrounding him, his glasses fogging up with each heavy breath. His phone is dead– leaving his map of the subway lines on a brown paper bag, badly drawn and probably incorrect from his poor memory. 

He’s reluctant to admit it, for Wonwoo had always prided himself in being the most tenacious out of all his friends, yet it was more than obvious: the shadows had bested him. They had won, breaking his spirit and ripping apart his leg. 

It sat there, mangled and broken, held together with the remains of his tattered suit jacket. It was still connected to him, but the more Wonwoo stared at it, the more he felt as if it wasn’t his anymore. The tunnel had promised to return what was lost to him, yet it had taken everything left instead. 

And perhaps the cruelest thing of all happened once he fell asleep. Despite never finding you in his journeys across the subway lines– Wonwoo still saw you in dreams, each time he closed his eyes and sleep crawled out from the ground to find him. 

For just a moment, it would be as if he had never lost you in the first place. 

On the other hand, somewhere in the tunnel systems, you fought sleep like an old foe. You hated how nothing seemed to greet you on the other side, leaving all your dreams dark and gloomy– the void staring back at you until you woke again. 

It was an endless cycle, cruel and unusual punishment. So you sat, eyes listless as you leaned against the cold tiles of the wall, cradling your mangled arms filled with scratches and claw marks. You’re tired, adrenaline gone and running on fumes. You feel silly now– running headfirst into a scary tunnel, looking for something you didn’t even know you had lost. 

But you still stand up each time you wake, heading back into the train, allowing it to take you wherever it pleases. You stop trying to get to the surface, however, too drained to fight the shadows over and over again. 

Your only hope is that you’ll end up finding someone underground– a lost soul just like you, traveling amidst the brown and the blue. 

You blink once, twice, another time, staring through the dirty glass at what you think is a person. 

You can see the silhouette of him– bent over and slumped on the floor, his hair covering his eyes and a pool of red by his left leg. Your heart jumps to your throat as you stare at him– a person. You pray with everything in you that he’s still alive. 

The train slows to a stop by the platform and you wait for the doors to open, but it never does. 

A surge of panic rushes through you like a wave. “Open the door!” You scream up at the ceiling, at the voice you’ve heard a million times announcing each arrival and departure. “Please–” Your voice cracks and breaks, desperately prying at the doors with your fingernails. 

You keep your eyes trained on the man slumped on the floor, and for a moment, you think the train might pick up speed and you’ll never find your way back to him again. 

Then the doors slide open and you spill onto the train platform, face wet and sticky with tears and sweat. 

The train takes off, shaking the ground as you sprint towards the stranger like he was your saviour. 

Wonwoo thinks the universe must be glitching when he opens his eyes to see you. Your eyebrows are furrowed in worry as you fuss over him, hands grabbing at his bad leg and at his bruised hands, fingers tracing his battered knuckles with a sort of familiarity. 

“Y/N–” It comes out a croak, a little clumsy as he stumbles over the syllables of your name. “You’re here.” It’s a little unbelievable, as he raises a shaky hand to cup your face in his palms. 

He doesn’t miss the way you flinch at his touch, as if his hand burned your skin. He doesn’t miss the look you give him either. You don’t recognize him. You don’t have the faintest clue as to who he is. 

His hand retracts and drops to rest beside the rest of him. 

“You’re bleeding.” You whisper, choosing to ignore the fact that the stranger knew your name. “Your leg–” It’s an ugly sight, but you do your best to look at it instead of looking away. 

He lets out a sound that comes in between something of a groan and a sigh. “The monsters, they–” The rest of his sentence trails off, indescribable incidents too complex for words, but you know. 

“They’re ferocious, I know.” You offer up a weak smile, searching for humour in the midst of such gruesome things. “Nearly cut my arm off two stops ago.” 

The stranger’s lips twitch at the comment. It looks like a smile, or whatever remained of one– the rest lost to the tunnels a long time ago. 

You reach a tentative hand up to fix his glasses, rebalancing them on the bridge of his nose, wiping them clean with the sleeve of your shirt. 

He mumbles a quiet word of thanks before his eyes close again. 

You slump down to rest beside him, pressing your fingers against his wrist, focusing on the thready drum of his pulse. It rings in your ears, overtaking the loud wind of the train and the thunder coming from the train tracks. 

You drift off the sleep, your fingers still pressed against his pulse. 

You dream of big cities and the face of the stranger laying next to you.

Wonwoo doesn’t dream, not anymore– not when the focus of all his dreams is laying next to him, for the first time in a dozen years. 

You find the tunnels are easier to handle with someone to talk to. The walls no longer look as hideous and dull as they once did, the blue shining brighter than before, accenting the walls and making the grime and dust nearly invisible. 

There’s a structure, a sense of purpose– as the two of you work together to find your way out. You occasionally go up to the surface for food, water and other necessities. You come to learn that Wonwoo is smart and calculated, as he presents to you the list he had made, detailing which exits weren’t guarded and were safe to go out from. 

You make the train your home, laying tarps and blankets along the blue seats. Wonwoo does his best to help, limping beside you on his makeshift crutch, offering you random tidbits of advice and knowledge. He spends most of his time perched on the seats of the train, his bad leg stretched out on the seats and your journal in his hands. He catalogs the day, flipping through previous entries, cross-referencing them with the present day, looking for patterns in the tunnel’s system. 

You ask Wonwoo what he came down here to look for and he gives you a strange look. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to be looking for it anymore, as he helps you search for a way back to your village. 

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about what the tunnel’s entrance looked like when you entered?” He asks you again after a period of silence, tapping the end of your ink pen against his chin in thought. “Cause mine was covered in metals and copper wires when I walked in, before it transitioned to the subway station layout.” 

You frown at the foreign words. “Wires? Subway?” 

He looks up. “Right. I forget you’re from like wayyyy back.” Wonwoo had traveled through a variety of different timelines searching for you– eons worth. 

You shrug off the confusion. “I just remember it was covered in blue vines. The walls were muddy and cracked– like the inside of a cave.” 

You look at him, hopeful for any sign of recognition in his eyes. You don’t see it. 

“I guess I haven’t explored as much as I thought I had.” Wonwoo looks at you apologetically. “We’ll find it.” There is a glimmer of hope in his voice and you respect him for it. 

“Yeah.” You try to muster up the same kind of hope, yet it sputters out weakly. “Yeah, we’ll find it.” 

Wonwoo knew he had run out of luck when he told you his name and there was no glimmer of realization in your eyes. You had stared at him with the same stare one would give a stranger– a nameless face you were just getting to know, a clean slate of a soul. 

Yet once he had learned you had no clue why you had ventured into the tunnel in the first place, a spark of hope began to appear. You didn’t know what you were missing– yet you were here anyways. 

Up on the surface, Wonwoo had been a physicist. World renowned and revered by all his colleagues, he had turned to the theory of the multiverse after losing you– obsessed with the idea of traveling to a world where you were as lonely as he was. He had entered the tunnel on a hunch, hearing myths of a place that could return those lost to you. His original plan had been to find a version of you out there, in a world where he had died instead of you. He supposed the idea was that you could accompany each other– for any version of you was better than none of you at all. 

But everything had changed now. The tunnel was far more dangerous than he had predicted it to be. And you were right here, living and breathing in front of him. All he had to do was make you remember. Make you fall in love with him all over again. 

Wonwoo stares at you from his spot on the subway floor, a scavenged blanket covering his knees and pooling on the floor around him. You’re scrambling all over the place, mumbling about some markings along the wall. 

A small smile makes its way across his face at the familiar sight. He hasn’t met that many versions of you in his travels, but you seem to be frazzled and a ball of energy in every universe. 

“What are you looking at?” Your voice cuts through the fantasy, breaking the temporary bliss he had found himself in. 

“Nothing.” His lips lay flat once more. 

It was your voice. You might resemble his lost lover down to the minute details, but your voice, your tones and inflections– it was unmistakably different. 

Wonwoo could only delude himself for so long. 

There are sixty-two scratches embedded on the train wall by the time you think you had finally cracked the case. Sixty-two days underground. Sixty-two days stuck next to a strange man– one who stared at you so blatantly and still insisted he wasn’t. 

“You’ve got that look on your face, dove.” He drawls out from his spot on the train floor, an accusatory finger pointed at you. “Speak.” 

You roll your eyes, both at the affectionate name and at the demanding tone. There were still parts of Wonwoo’s old life that he couldn’t shake– his lofty way of speaking and the air of command that followed him into every room. 

Despite these flaws however, you had to admit the two of you had grown close. He had finally let you into glimpses of his old life around day thirty-three, vague stories about his time in the big city: solving complex equations, gambling, teaching at top universities. 

“I lived a lavish lifestyle.” He tried painting the picture for you in immense detail. “Imagine ladies in red dresses that flow down to the floor, wine in every corner, a room so large you can’t see each wall.” He chuckles at your curious eyes. “I was always working too– constantly holed up in my office, scratching numbers into the blackboard. I would have probably rotted in there, but Y/N–” 

You perk up noticeably at your name and Wonwoo pauses, eyes wide at the slip. 

“Me?” You ask, intrigued. “You knew me in your other life?” 

Wonwoo shakes his head, a firm answer with no room for argument. “No, just the same name.” 

“Who was she?” 

“My wife.” 

You recall the way his eyes saddened at the mention of her, how his shoulders slumped and made him look smaller than he really was. It contrasted heavily with the way he was looking at you now, shoulders drawn back and a demanding look on his face. 

You motion for him to join you in your corner of the train and wait for him to maneuver himself over, his bad leg awkwardly limp as he shuffled himself closer. 

“Look.” You point to the sketches in your journal, detailed markings of carvings you had seen along the wall at certain stops. “I was wondering what the weird drawings were on the wall– but I think I figured it out.” 

It’s easy to explain your hunch to Wonwoo. He catches on to the idea quickly, finishing your sentences and filling in the blanks with ease. 

The theory is simple– and with just a bit of luck, it could get you both home. 

The sudden prospect of leaving the tunnel sat in the pits of Wonwoo’s stomach, unsettling and looming in the horizon. 

He didn’t know how to feel about it: the chance that the two of you could escape this place, never to see each other again and without the thing you were looking for. 

Wonwoo didn’t voice this hesitation however, silently following you as you navigated the complex systems of the train by following the markings along the walls. He didn’t say anything when you threw him a reassuring and hopeful look from over your shoulder, promising him that he’d be okay soon. 

He didn’t know how to tell you that the pain– his leg, the absence of the sun– was nothing compared to the pain he had already been in, in a world without you. 

Please. He wanted to beg. Don’t make me go back up there. A couple weeks ago, Wonwoo would have shoved you aside without a second thought, snatching the leather journal from your limp hands and racing towards the stairs to his Y/N– to a version of you who knew and loved him. 

But that was not the case now. You seemed to buzz with hope and it pulled Wonwoo along, stumbling after you like a lost dog. 

The thought of getting out of the tunnel for good excites you, pushing you to keep going as you venture further into the depths of the train system. Wonwoo trails quietly behind you, occasionally tapping your back to get you to slow down. He is silent, for the most part, until you stop by the foot of the white marble staircase leading out into the light. 

“We’re here?” He asks, scrutinizing the way out with wary eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“No.” You admit. “But it’s our best bet.” 

He glances down at the journal in your hands and the scribbles that covered most of its pages. “How does it work?” 

You spend most of the night explaining to Wonwoo how the markings work as a guide, laying on the cold concrete of the station floor. 

“We’ll try going up to the surface tomorrow.” You propose, glancing at the shadows already beginning to form around the base of the stairs, as if sensing your plan. “It’ll work, as long as we do it together.” 

Wonwoo nods, but there’s something you can’t pinpoint behind his eyes. “Right. Together.” 

Wonwoo wakes up in cold sweat, bolting upright to see you still sleeping peacefully beside him, the journal clutched loosely in your arms. 

It’s clear, what he has to do. 

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles, getting up awkwardly from his spot on the floor. 

He snatches the journal from your limp arms and flips to a new page. He maps out a new route. 

Wonwoo would like to think he’s changed since meeting you– since the tunnel had claimed his life, but he knows he hasn’t. He’s still every bit as selfish as he was before. 

He boards the next train and counts the stops until his destination. 

He’s still looking for you. 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what he was expecting. More shadows to fend off, most likely. He imagined he would emerge from the subway station to a vibrant city, one with those aristocratic elements you had always enjoyed. 

He figured he’d find you and you’d love him once he explained it all to you. He figured you would love him despite it all. 

“I’m sorry, Woo.” Is what he gets instead, your eyes sad and holding pity for him. “I don’t know what you were expecting but–” 

“I came all this way.” He protests, and he knows it sounds weak. “I came all this way. I-” I came all this way. 

“I know.” He doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick to his battered leg, over and over again, as if you can’t quite believe what you were seeing. “I can’t– it’ll mess with the timeline, you know that.” 

He did know that. Yet he was selfish and wanted you anyway. 

“I’d burn down a hundred timelines if it meant I could have you again.” 

Your eyes grow sadder at his words. “And that is why I can’t.” There’s an emphasis on it, a finality. 

“Tell me to leave, then.” He takes a step closer. 

You can’t. Your mouth opens and closes with frustration. 

“Tell me to leave.” His heart beats louder, quicker now– as his hands reach out for you. He’s so close. So close. 

And then you say it. You spit out the word like a sour drink and it washes over Wonwoo’s face, paralyzing him. 

Leave.

And so he walks briskly, back along the city streets, past buildings that resembled his life before, back down those damn stairs. Back down into the darkness. Back to where he came before. 

You wake up alone. The silence of the tunnel– void of his breath– haunts you as you stir, sitting upright to look at the empty spot next to you. 

Your notebook is gone and so is he. 

“Don’t cry.” You chide yourself, picking yourself up from the cold floors and gathering your things. “You barely know the guy.” 

It was true. Despite having latched onto him like he was your lifeline, you and Wonwoo were still strangers. You tell yourself over and over again that it made sense for him to leave, if only as a way to soothe the anger quietly burning within you. 

“He wants his wife.” You remind yourself. “He’s not here looking for you.” 

The shadows churn along the bottom of the stairwell, the light from outside refracting onto the walls of the station, dancing like fireflies. You pick up the first weapon you find: a metal pipe. 

Fuck him, you decide. You’re getting yourself out of here, whether he wants to follow you or not. 

The shadows grow more aggressive as if taking on the silent challenge, beckoning you to fight them, to try. 

You let out a yell– a broken and insane one– unleashing from the pits of your stomach and releasing all the anger, pain and desperation. 

You picture what might await you at the top of those stairs. A secluded cottage house, flowers spanning on for miles, a friend waving at you from the porch. 

You take a deep breath. The shadows spin faster still. You charge. 

Wonwoo stumbles down the stairs like a ragdoll. He ricochets off the last step and lands roughly on the damp ground, cowering from the pain and embarrassment. 

He feels like dying, but he pulls himself back together enough to board the train again, navigating the system until he spills back onto the platform he had come from. 

He pictures what he might see as he raises his head from the ground. Your worried eyes, a wave of relief washing over them as they meet his. You, running across the platform to meet him. You, you, you. 

He raises his head and wishes he hadn’t at all. It is unmistakably empty. You are unmistakably gone. 

The tunnel is a distant memory now, resurfacing in your mind only when the rain gets hard and the farm starts to smell like the underground.

“You’ve got that look on your face.” He sets down a cup of tea on the table in front of you, bending down to press a kiss to your forehead. 

You smile. “Just thinking about how we met.” 

He pushes his glasses up with the back of his hand as his eyes crinkle with laughter at the memory. “When you stumbled into my garden, bloody and completely out of your mind?” 

You hum. 

“You thought I was a ghost. You knew my name.” 

You remember. The scratch of your throat when you had croaked out his name, stunned to see the man standing before you. The sinking feeling when you realized they were not the same Wonwoo. 

“No matter.” He shakes the memory away with a touch of his hand on yours. “That was a lifetime ago, my dove. And whatever it was, I’m glad it brought you to me. I love you.” 

You nod, and the memories of the Wonwoo you had encountered– loved– in the tunnels disappear. “I love you too.” 

You wonder vaguely where he is now. You hope he got what he was searching for too. 

day 170 

timeline #100

There is no way out. I was foolish to think there ever was. My mind spins back to that morning on the platform, a decision away from life and…whatever this is. Purgatory. Death. 

I should not have left. I know that. I grew selfish and discarded my chance at happiness. The tunnel, I’ve learned, gives you one chance and one chance only. 

Y/N was my chance. I should have followed her home. I should have…

It’s no matter now. I know now to stop searching. Timeline #100’s Y/N told me the truth. She had it all figured out, buried in research after her Wonwoo had died. 

There is no universe where both of us live. It is impossible. It is our canon event. Each time Y/N meets Wonwoo– she dies in the next 5 years. Each time Wonwoo seeks Y/N out— he dies in the next 3. 

It is impossible. I must stop trying. It’s time to be selfless– for once. My Y/N, wherever you are, I will stop looking. Live for me. For us. 

The shadows creep through the cracks towards me as I write this last entry. They are welcoming me home. 

Day 17132

timeline #4800 

research on the multiverse + subway system

Time does not flow the same underground, in the belly of the subway system. It has been 46.9 years since Y/N has disappeared and I have still not aged one bit. 

The tunnel makes no mistakes. It knows what it’s doing. 

The tunnel returns those lost to you. 

I have been stuck on this paradox for decades: the tunnel promises happy endings. Yet there is no universe where Y/N and I live happily ever after. None at all. 

Yet… time does not flow at all in the tunnel. And in these 46.9 years, I have not met another soul underground. 

We could have lived forever underground. Together. She would not have died in 5 years. I would not have died in 3. We…we could have had it all. 

There is a missing phrase from the legend: 

The tunnel returns those lost to you… but only ever once. 

Junseo had eaten four frozen lemonades and was now in the middle of what experts in the field might call “a sugar-induced sprint toward cardiac disaster.”

“Junseo, no running by the pool!” you shout, too late. He slips, recovers, and keeps going like a greased piglet on roller skates.

Across the concrete savannah of Carat Bay’s family pool zone, Junhee is in her usual position: crouched at the border between chlorinated civilization and murky wilderness, pool noodle in hand. She is attempting to commit amphibicide via repeated poking of a highly displeased frog.

“Junhee, love, leave the frog alone—he lives here!”

“His name is Boba!” she screams back.

The frog does not look like a Boba. He looks like he’s reconsidering all of his life choices, which, frankly, makes two of you.

Your sandals squeak—a mistake you didn’t realize you’d made until about an hour into your first shift. They’re cute, sure. But tractionless. Supportless. Flat as your social life ever since you moved back in with your parents and became, for lack of better options, an anthropologist in exile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Just a few months ago you were crossing the graduation stage in soft linen, clutching your master’s degree in anthropology like it meant something. You had been so certain academia would need someone like you—sharp-eyed, good at syntax, fluent in both fieldwork and feminist theory.

Turns out, the only people hiring anthropologists in this economy are tech companies doing ethics theater and pharmaceutical firms in need of plausible deniability.

You had been dying slowly on your parents’ couch for exactly three weeks when your friend Lexi sent the flyer:

Want to make $$$ babysitting rich kids all summer? Full access to country club, pool, catered lunches. No drowning allowed. :)

You had laughed. And then, somewhere between the fourth rejection email and your mother asking if you wanted to help organize her sock drawer, you’d sent in a resume. You even lied and said you liked children. Two days later, you were hired. The check had commas in it.

Now you’re standing in a wet Target swimsuit, sunburn blooming across your chest, wondering if the rash on your neck is from stress, sweat, or the “reef-safe, organic, mommy-formulated” sunscreen that smells like expired chamomile and four-day-old chlorine.

“Junseo,” you call again, “do not eat that bandaid!”

The bandaid goes into his mouth. The bandaid is chewed. You scream internally.

Your employer, Mrs. Cho,  the mother of these twin terrors, has not moved from her perch in the family cabana for the last forty minutes. She’d tossed you a dismissive “just make sure they don’t drown” before retreating into her kaftan and a Zoom meeting. She’s been there ever since: AirPods in, matcha sweating on the teakwood side table, gesturing wildly as she mutters about influencers and packaging aesthetics.

You, meanwhile, are the last line of defense between civilization and frog-assisted chaos.

Later, after bribing the children into a nap with gummy worms and a story you mostly made up about a magical flamingo who goes to therapy, you collapse onto a sun-warmed lounger just outside the cabana. It's one of the only moments of quiet you’ve had since arriving. The kind of quiet that rings a little in your ears.

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Maybe consider what a plane ticket to literally anywhere else might cost.

That’s when you feel it—a shift in the light. A shadow cast across your body.

You blink up.

There’s a boy—no, not quite. A man. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, expression unreadable. His nametag says Wonwoo. He’s wearing the Carat Bay staff polo, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. His left hand holds a chilled bottle of water, condensation trailing lazy rivulets down his fingers.

He offers it wordlessly.

You take it, startled. “Thank you,” you say, your voice hoarse from yelling and sun.

He doesn’t speak. Just gives you a single, small nod, and walks away.

You watch his back retreat into the shimmer of pool heat, the bottle already cold against your lips.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the last peaceful moment you’ll have for a while.

Entry #2: On Power Hierarchies and Poolside Social Climbing June 20th, 11:35 AM

In most pack dynamics, the alpha asserts dominance through elaborate displays of confidence. At Carat Bay, this involves hosting themed pool parties and knowing the regional manager’s golf handicap. Among the matriarchs, alliances shift over whose offspring made swim team and who dared to bring store-bought cupcakes to the birthday cabana. It is important to master the subtle art of pretending one is not competing.

You lose your hearing somewhere around the fifth time Junhee screams, “I DON’T WANNA BE A ZEBRA.”

Junseo, face flushed with fury and injustice, echoes her like a demonic chorus: “WE’RE NOT ZEBRAS! I WANNA BE A T-REX!”

“Fine,” you hiss, crouched on the cabana floor with one knee in a puddle of apple juice, “be a godda–dang dinosaur in a zebra onesie, just get in the outfit.”

Today is not your day.

Today is Savannah Safari Birthday™, an event as horrifying as it is aggressively coordinated. The themed party, hosted by one of the more alpha Carat Bay mothers (you learn her name is Seoyeon, but she goes by Stacie, spelled with an ‘ie’ like a threat), has transformed her family cabana into an influencer’s fever dream. Giant cardboard giraffes. Balloon arches in beige and gold. Matching straw hats for all children. And a disturbingly lifelike stuffed zebra standing near the dessert table like it's waiting for a sacrifice.

You wrangle the twins into their assigned costumes—faux-animal-print rompers with little ears on the hoods—while they shriek like banshees at a frequency NASA might want to study.

By the time you emerge into the main cabana area, sweating and frayed, the pool moms are already circling each other like predators in designer plumage.

“Did you hear?” one says, adjusting her visor. “Eunkyung got waitlisted for pre-competitive swim. Waitlisted. And they just redid their pool.”

A blonde with glistening shoulders gasps theatrically. “Waitlisted? Oh no. Maybe she can take up something less... saturated. Pickleball, maybe.”

There’s laughter, brittle as pressed glass.

You hover near the fruit skewers, pretending to supervise the twins as they pelt each other with animal crackers. That’s when you hear it: the first volley fired in your direction.

“Aw, is your niece helping you today?” one of the moms trills, gesturing at you without looking. Her sunglasses are enormous and opaque.

“She’s adorable,” another adds, tone sweet and scalding. “That suit is so… real. You just don’t see people being brave about texture anymore.”

You blink, mouth parting slightly. You’re not sure whether to laugh or start quoting Margaret Mead in self-defense.

“Actually,” you say slowly, “I’m their au pair.”

They blink back, uncomprehending. One finally nods. “Oh! Like an assistant.”

Sure. Like that.

You eventually find yourself corralled in a shady corner with the other au pairs and nannies—two from Portugal, one from Toronto, and one with an indeterminate accent who looks like she’s seen war. Together, you trade horror stories like wartime nurses. One saw a child try to feed a wedding ring to a koi fish. Another was asked to prepare an all-raw vegan lunch for a toddler who eats crayons. You are both horrified and comforted. Trauma loves company.

It ends, as all things do, in carnage. A child screams because someone else got to sit on the fake zebra. Another sobs over the injustice of the animal-shaped cupcakes melting in the heat. You grab the twins, now sticky with fruit and full on far too much cake for their afternoon nap, and make a beeline for the cabana exit just as one of the moms begins berating a nanny for not predicting her daughter’s alleged strawberry allergy.

You’re almost free.

Almost.

And then you crash directly into someone solid.

You go down like a bowling pin.

“Oh my god!” Junseo howls. “YOU FELL!”

“Like, BOOM!” Junhee adds, collapsing into giggles.

You are on the hot concrete, stunned, clutching your elbow and your remaining dignity.

And there he is again.

Wonwoo.

He’s traded his polo for a linen button-up, slightly wrinkled and unfairly flattering. He looks down at you, impassive.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

He offers a hand. You take it, and he pulls you up with barely any effort. His hand is warm. Callused. There’s a quiet strength to him, like a character in a Ghibli film who lives alone in the woods and speaks only in cryptic haikus.

Before you can say anything else, one of the moms descends like a hawk. Or a hyena that’s recently had fillers.

“Oh, Wonwoo,” she purrs, practically draping herself across his side. Her teeth gleam. “I didn’t know you were back from Singapore. Is your father joining us for the benefit this year?”

He gently disentangles himself.

“He’s expecting me for lunch,” he replies, tone polite and final.

Her lips purse. You watch her recalibrate in real time, already turning toward another potential social rung.

Wonwoo glances back at you. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something faint in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. Or just wind.

Then he’s gone.

Later, when the twins are face-first in naps (which took a significant amount of wrangling to achieve) and your phone finally has a signal, you search his name.

Jeon Wonwoo.

Son of the owner. Executive board. Dartmouth-educated. There’s a press photo of him at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a sustainability initiative.

Of course.

You drop the phone onto the lounge chair beside you and cover your face with a towel.

Maybe he’s not so different from the moms after all.

Or maybe worse—maybe he’s just better at pretending he isn’t.

Entry #3: On The Nanny Condition (Also Known As: “Doormat Syndrome”) June 30th, 12:47 PM

Subservience in child-rearing roles is often mistaken for passivity. However, this is more accurately understood as the practiced stillness of someone who has weathered too many juice spills and tantrums. It is not a weakness, but a form of strategic surrender – resignation honed into an art.

It starts the way all days start now: with screaming.

You don’t even flinch anymore. Junseo has weaponized volume as a strategy. Junhee has started using phrases like “I’m telling Mommy!” even though Mommy, at this point, might as well be a cryptid. You text Mrs. Cho about the lunch situation and get no response. You text again. Then once more, with slightly more passive-aggression. Still nothing.

Mr. Cho is presumably in a meeting, on a plane, or golfing through time. His only presence this week has been the sound of an engine disappearing down the driveway at six-fifteen each morning. You’re beginning to suspect he has never actually seen the twins awake.

By 11:30, it’s full meltdown hour. Junhee has decided to sob violently about the wrong flavor of juice. Junseo is lying on the pool deck and pretending to die of hunger. You make the tragic mistake of attempting to fix this by visiting the snack bar—only to find it’s out of chicken nuggets.

Of course it is.

The cabana attendant (your supposed lifeline in this glittering suburban dystopia) is nowhere to be found. Probably hiding behind a towel cart and Googling how to fake appendicitis.

A mom walks by, sipping iced espresso in a wine glass. She clocks the situation—the spilled juice, your panicked rustling through bags, the tantrum echoing off the water—and gives you the kind of look normally reserved for videos of shelter dogs.

Then, like a scene change in a commercial for laundry detergent, he appears.

Wonwoo. The cabana attendant from three down, and apparently some sort of summer camp MacGyver.

Without a word, he crouches beside your mess of a pool chair, reaches into his tote, and withdraws two juice boxes like they’ve been summoned by divine intervention.

“Trade secret,” he says, handing them over. “I keep a stash for emergencies.”

The twins freeze mid-wail. Their heads swivel toward the juice. Junhee actually snatches it like a raccoon who’s just spotted an unattended churro.

You mouth thank you as chaos briefly, miraculously, subsides. Wonwoo gives a small shrug, like it's no big deal that he's just singlehandedly de-escalated a Code Red tantrum. Then he starts rummaging through his bag again.

“Here,” he says, offering you a slightly squished protein bar. “You look like you might pass out before 2. Not a great look in front of the junior elite.”

You stare at the bar, then at him. “Are you always this prepared?”

He squints at the twins, now peacefully arguing over whether dinosaurs could swim. “Experience.”

He rises, but pauses. “Oh, and: sing to them,” he adds, like it’s obvious. “The nap goes easier if you sing. Something simple. Doesn’t matter what.”

You blink. “You know a lot about naps.”

He smirks. Whisper-soft, barely there. “Only the essential ones.”

And then he’s walking away. You’re about to call after him, maybe say something actually coherent, when you spot it. Just barely poking out of his overstuffed bag, next to sunscreen and a spare shirt:

A Secret History, cover creased, dog-eared, loved.

The twins fall asleep in your lap thirty minutes later, sticky fingers curled around juice boxes, heads tilted together like cherubs.

You hum a lullaby under your breath. It works.

Maybe this doormat thing isn’t about surrender, you think, watching the sun cut soft lines through their hair. Maybe it’s about endurance. Outlasting the storm. Knowing when to bend, and when to hum.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re not the only one pretending.

Entry #4: A Brief Field Guide to Cabana Boys (Genus: Mysteriousus Hotus) July 12th, 7:30 PM

Often underestimated, the Cabana Boy is a curious species: quiet, observant, and frequently found next to industrial-sized coolers. Contrary to popular belief, he is not just decorative. He may, in fact, be reading Donna Tartt during fireworks displays and composing short fiction between towel runs. 

You're not sure when you started paying attention. Not in the obvious way—wrangling two five-year-olds who are constantly on the verge of a sugar-induced existential crisis leaves little room for distractions. But somewhere between juice box negotiations and sunscreen reapplications, you noticed the pattern.

Wonwoo clocks in for his 1:00 PM shift at 12:53 on the dot, every day. Rain or shine.

He always brings a slightly crumbly granola bar at exactly 12:45 and hands it over without ceremony. He’s also taken to giving unsolicited (but disturbingly effective) child-wrangling tips.

“If you let them watch an episode of Clifford in the shade, they mellow out.” “Junhee will eat steamed broccoli if Junseo is watching.” “They nap better if you hum the Indiana Jones theme.”

When you ask how he knows this, he just shrugs.

“I’ve watched them grow up here.”

He folds towels into perfect thirds—perfect enough to undo the entire previous shift’s work, muttering about symmetry.

And he always—always—has a book in his bag. You’ve clocked A Secret History, Beloved, Middlesex, and now—somehow—Antigone. You, being a civilized person, use sticky notes. He dog-ears. He highlights. You try not to hold it against him.

Then one night, the miracle. A fireworks show lures both Mr. and Mrs. Cho into spending quality time with their children—together—and for the first time in thirty-one days, you are given a few hours off.

You wander the resort grounds in what you tell yourself is idle exploration. You're not looking for him, not exactly. You're just…curious.

You find him perched in the shade outside the Cabana Attendants' Shack, book open, fingers curled at the spine. The sunset drapes him in gold.

“Greek tragedy?” you ask, nodding at the cover.

He startles slightly. Then sees it’s you and offers that small, lopsided smile that always feels like a secret.

“Loyalty to family and all that.” He snaps the book shut. “Why, do you have a favorite?”

The conversation unfolds in sideways glances and thoughtful pauses. He’s more well-read than you expected—not that you ever assumed he was dumb, but you didn’t quite picture him as the kind of guy who casually references Antigone while sipping Gatorade.

You want to bring up the fact that he’s the rumored heir to the waterpark conglomerate whose name is literally embroidered on your staff polo, but you don’t. He doesn’t bring it up, either.

Instead, you trail him as he clocks back in and begins his closing duties. You talk as he refolds towels, delivers last-call lemonades, and waves kids off the splash pad.

He’s soft-spoken but sharp, a bit of a walking contradiction. He debates philosophy with the same tone he uses to explain popsicle storage procedures.

He quotes The Odyssey unprompted. You’re unsure if you’re gagging or swooning. Possibly both. He laughs. The good kind—the kind that makes you want to say something clever, just to earn it again.

And then:

A string of texts from Mrs. Cho.

Where are you? Can you be back in ten? Junseo is trying to drink the pool water again.

Three hours gone in a blink.

You sigh, brushing off your shorts. “Duty calls.”

He doesn’t protest. Just reaches into his bag and hands you a worn paperback with a faded spine.

“You’d like this,” he says. “Don’t worry. I only highlighted a little.”

As you jog back to the family villa, the book clutched under your arm, you catch yourself smiling. You don’t know what exactly just happened—but you know you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

The Cabana Boy: mysterious, mythological, mildly infuriating.

You’re definitely going to need another field guide.

Entry #5: On Emotional Labor (And How to Pretend You’re Fine) July 18th, 3:56 PM

Among caretakers, the phrase “I’m fine” functions less as a truth and more as a survival mechanism – an autopilot response honed through repetition, like muscle memory or disassociation. It’s not an admission of wellness so much as a polite way of saying: I have exactly six fruit snacks and half a juice box keeping me together right now, please do not ask follow-up questions. 

Today is the worst day on record. Not just this summer—ever.

Junhee is feverish and glassy-eyed. Junseo hasn’t stopped crying since 9:07 AM. The phrase “I want mommy” has been used with increasing volume and ferocity for six straight hours.

And still, Mrs. Cho floats in after breakfast, clacking away in her designer heels like you’re just another inconvenience in a long string of logistics. She deposits them into your arms with the same care one might give a bag of dry cleaning. She clacks off in Valentino heels without a glance back. She says “they’ve been so moody lately,” as if their tear-streaked faces and refusal to be peeled off your torso aren’t a screaming counterargument.

Even Wonwoo, usually the child-whisperer, strikes out. He tries Clifford. He tries juice box diplomacy. He even pulls out the secret popsicle stash. Nothing works.

The grand finale: Junhee vomits bright blue Slushie all over your shirt just as Mrs. Cho reappears.

She gasps, horrified—not at her child, no. At you. “This is completely inappropriate. What did you even feed him?”

You’re too shocked to speak.

Wonwoo watches from across the cabana, eyes wide, towel frozen mid-fold. And then—just like that—you snap.

Your eyes are already stinging, breath hitching. You mutter something about needing a minute, and walk fast. Not away from the cabana—out.

You don’t know where you're going, just that it needs to be anywhere else. You barrel through pool chairs, past shrieking toddlers, past lifeguards gossiping about hot guests, and you barely notice the quiet footsteps trailing behind you.

A hand catches your upper arm. Not rough, just... certain.

Wonwoo pulls you into the cool, echoey silence of the staff locker room and sits you down like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You don’t resist.

You sit, shoulders trembling. He turns to his locker, rifling through it. A few seconds later, he tosses a shirt into your lap.

“Here. It’s clean. Smells weird, though. You might smell like sunscreen and... me.”

You pick it up with shaking hands. Chlorine, citrus deodorant, rain. Wonwoo. It hits like a trigger.

And then— You lose it.

Not the gentle, single-tear kind of cinematic breakdown. No. This is a crash out. Full-body. Unfiltered.

You're pacing now, the shirt clutched in your hand like a lifeline, voice cracking with every word.

“I hate this family.” “I swear to God, if that woman says one more thing about how hard parenting is—while dumping her kids on me like they’re furniture—I’m gonna lose my actual goddamn mind.” “I’m twenty-three! I should be backpacking in Spain or studying abroad or—I don’t know—eating a yogurt in peace without someone screaming about their sock being too tight.”

You kick a locker.

“And I’m trying so hard. I’m doing everything right. I’ve read so many blogs, Wonwoo.”

You turn toward him, eyes red-rimmed and wild.

“And you know what I get? Vomited on. In public.”

He hasn’t moved. Just sits on the bench, legs spread, arms on his knees, staring up at you like he’s watching a fire he’s not sure how to put out. Like he knows he’ll burn if he gets too close—but also that maybe it’s worth it.

“Are you… done?” he asks, finally. Gently.

You stop. Blink. And then let out a small, wet laugh that sounds more like a sob. You sit down hard next to him, the adrenaline draining from your limbs all at once.

“I think so.”

He leans back slightly. Not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the calm radiating off him.

“Better?”

You don’t answer immediately. You don’t know. But you nod anyway. And he accepts it, like that’s enough.

You sit there, the two of you, in chlorine-scented silence. His shirt still bunched in your lap. Your breathing slows. You count your heartbeats.

And for the first time all summer, someone lets you be tired. Not “still smiling” tired. Not “push through it” tired. Just... human.

You think, maybe, that matters more than anything.

Entry #6: On the Sociocultural Function of Shared Snacks (And Other Low-Stakes Intimacies) July 25th, 6:23 PM

Anthropological theory suggests that the exchange of Goldfish and Capri Suns constitutes a primitive yet potent form of courtship. Especially when accompanied by verbal rituals such as, “You look like you need a break,” and, “Do you want the last one?” While not as elaborate as other mating rituals, these offerings appear to hold significant emotional currency. Further study is required, but initial findings suggest: this may be how modern love begins. 

There’s a rhythm now. He always saves the last piña colada juice box for you. You always act like you don’t care and then accept it anyway, muttering something about “fake cocktails for fake lifeguards.” He always laughs. You always drink it.

You make fun of the way he organizes the towel bins—by saturation level, apparently. “This one’s damp-damp, and that one’s wet-wet? You okay, Marie Kondo?”

Wonwoo shrugs like he’s heard worse, like maybe he’s even proud of it. “It brings me peace.”

It’s easy with him. He always finds his way to your cabana when things are quiet. No one sends him. He just appears. He drops into the lounge chair beside you like he belongs there, legs stretched out, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Sometimes he brings snacks—peanut butter pretzels, Goldfish, gummy worms he claims are “for the kids.” You both know better.

You talk books. Somehow he’s never read Magic Treehouse, which you find personally offensive. “It’s basically required reading for emotionally unstable gifted kids.”

He grins. “Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”

“You’d love it,” you tell him, tossing a pretzel at his face. “You’re such a Virgo.”

“I’m not a Virgo.”

“Spiritually, though.”

He makes you laugh at least once a day. Not a polite laugh. An ugly, tired, full-body snort—the kind that feels like exhaling something heavy.

One afternoon, your fingers brush when he hands you a juice box. The contact is brief, but it lingers. Just enough to make you glance up, and he’s already looking back. Not with some dramatic, swoon-worthy gaze—just steady. Familiar. Like he knows you. Like he sees you.

And then, inevitably, the twins start screaming about a grasshopper. One of them insists it’s going to bite their nose off. The moment cracks clean in half. Wonwoo groans, gets up, and trudges off to play bug bouncer. You watch him go, vaguely amused. A little disappointed.

Later, when the cabana is blissfully quiet again, you ask him something you’ve been holding onto for a while.

“Why do you work here when you don’t need to?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at the pool, unreadable. For a second, you think he’s going to deflect with a joke—but instead, he says, quietly, “It’s easier to know people when they’re not pretending.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s been sitting in the air this whole time, waiting for you to notice.

You don’t quite know what to do with that. But you don’t push.

Instead, you hand him the last peanut butter pretzel without a word. He takes it. And for now, that feels like enough.

Entry #7: On Burnout, Bus Rides, and the Quiet in Between July 31st, 8:39 PM

The much-awaited night off is often viewed as an unproductive lull in the performance of domestic labor. But for the emotionally fried caretaker figure, it is the only sanctioned absence where no one cries, no one spills, and no one demands apple slices cut the “right” way. It is the lone moment in which the help is not expected to perform servitude with a smile. In anthropological terms: a brief return to personhood. 

You end up at a bus stop just outside the waterpark. The sun’s long gone, and so are your responsibilities, at least for the next few hours. You’re not even sure where you’re headed. You just wanted to leave. To move. To breathe. You might be a little tipsy—courtesy of the fully stocked cabana bar—but that’s between you and whatever god watches over tired girls with aching feet and full hearts.

Wonwoo finds you under the weak, flickering light of the stop like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have the night off,” you say, nudging a pebble with the toe of your sandal. “Didn’t know where to go. I’m not from here.”

He looks at you for a moment, then smiles. “You’ve got the whole night off?”

You nod just as the bus pulls up. He doesn’t hesitate, just holds out his arm and asks, “Wanna do something fun?”

You giggle, loop your arm through his, and climb aboard.

The bus ride is a quiet kind of lovely. The kind that lets your bones settle after a day of noise and chlorine and children threatening to stage a coup over who gets the blue floatie. You’re too tired to flirt, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He offers his shoulder, opens a book, and lets you lean.

“I didn’t know you took the bus,” you mumble, sleep thick in your voice.

He chuckles. “Why? Thought I had a Porsche?”

You smile into the fabric of his shirt. “What kind of chaebol son doesn’t have a sports car?”

“I do,” he says, tapping his fingers as he leans in close enough for you to get a whiff of his cologne. It’s earthy. Warm. “It’s just hard to park.”

Eventually, the bus rolls into a small downtown area lit with fairy lights, where families drift between ice cream shops and late-night cafés. Wonwoo takes your hand and tugs you down a side street, stopping in front of what looks like an abandoned bookstore. The sign is faded. The windows are dark.

You squint. “On my one night off this summer, you brought me to a murder scene?”

He scoffs, already pulling keys from his pocket. “I clerked here in high school. The owner never asked for them back.”

Inside, the air smells like dust and old stories. He flips on a few lamps and the space flickers to life—messy and charming in a way that feels sacred.

What follows is, undeniably, a reading date. But you both pretend it’s not. It can’t be. Not when summer is almost over. Not when you’ve seen what happens to girls who let themselves want too much.

Still, you talk. You read. He shows you where he used to stash beanbags as a teenager and the corner of a shelf where he carved his name when he was seventeen. He pulls down a hollowed-out book that still contains an unopened bag of gummy bears. When he throws one toward you, you catch it in your mouth without breaking eye contact, and he laughs so hard he nearly drops the whole bag.

At some point, you sigh about how much you miss Cherry Garcia ice cream. He disappears, and a few minutes later, returns with a milkshake.

“It’s not ice cream,” he says, offering it to you, “but it is Cherry Garcia.”

You take one sip and groan. “You’re dangerous.”

“We can split it,” he offers, clearly pleased with himself.

You settle back into the beanbags with the milkshake between you. His shoulder brushes yours. Your pinkies touch. You’re pretty sure this is what love feels like—soft and slow and unbearably sweet.

You’re just about to lean in when your phone rings.

Mrs. Cho.

You answer, and before you can even say hello, her voice cuts through, sharp and desperate. “I need you back. They won’t sleep until you sing to them. Come back now.”

The twins are screaming in the background.

You shoot up, already apologizing, already stuffing your phone in your pocket and looking for your bag.

Wonwoo follows you to the door. Just as you reach for the handle, his hand wraps gently around your wrist.

“You’re the only person from the waterpark I’ve shown this store to,” he says, voice low, almost unsure, and it takes all the willpower in the world not to push him up against the stacks and kiss him stupid. “We should– we should do this again. If you want.” 

You should go. You have to go. But instead, you rise on your tiptoes and press a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

“I would love that,” you whisper.

Then you're gone, milkshake in hand, racing back to the chaos. But the softness of that night stays with you.

Entry #8: On the Perfect Family (And Other Bedtime Stories) August 12th, 1:56 PM

Anthropologists agree that the family unit, built on generations of blood and loyalty, is sacred. This theory begins to unravel around 1:07 PM, when the matriarch of the Cho family – Balenciaga-clad and Bluetooth’d – screams at her offspring for dripping popsicle juice on her Hermès towel. The offspring seek emotional refuge in the arms of the hired help. This only infuriates the matriarch further. Field notes suggest that the sacred family unit may, in fact, be a PR stunt. 

The cabana smells like sun-warmed linen and something floral—maybe Mrs. Cho’s perfume. You sit cross-legged on the floor, the twins clambering onto your lap, sticky popsicle juice glistening on their chins. Junseo hiccups, eyes wide, while Junhee presses her damp cheek against your arm, seeking shelter.

Then it happens.

A sharp, slicing voice cuts through the quiet: “Why is there juice dripping on my Hermès towel?” Mrs. Cho storms in, Balenciaga heels clicking like thunder on pavement. The Bluetooth earpiece flashes a faint blue as she glares at you, voice rising like a storm.

The twins flinch. Junhee blinks up at her mother like she’s seeing a stranger. Junseo presses closer to you, face buried in your shirt. You feel the warmth of their small bodies, the tremble in their chests. You are not their mother. You know that. But in moments like this, someone has to be.

Mrs. Cho snaps, “Do not coddle them. This is why they don’t respect me.”

You stand slowly, steadying the children behind you.

“I’m just trying to calm them down,” you say, carefully.

“Oh, please.” Her tone sharpens. “You don’t think I see what you’re doing? What everyone sees? The other mothers laugh behind your back — the little nanny girl and the owner’s son playing house.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m not—”

“I’m not finished.” She steps closer. “You are not their mother. Stop pretending to be. Stop making them believe you are.”

You blink once, twice. And then you break.

“No,” you snap. “You stop. You stop making them believe I’m their mother. You leave them with me for ten hours a day, five days a week. You miss their birthdays. You forget their allergies. You don't even know Junhee likes frogs or that Junseo has nightmares when it rains. You don’t see them. But I do.”

She stiffens. You press the twins behind you gently.

“For fuck’s sake, Mrs. Cho,” you whisper, too tired to yell anymore. “Do you really think this is how good mothers act?”

The silence that follows is jagged. Sharp.

You don't wait for her to respond. You turn. You walk — briskly, almost blindly — past the frozen faces in the walkway, past Wonwoo standing by the corner, unreadable.

You don’t stop until you’re outside.

Night comes like a soft blanket. You’re at the twins’ bedside again, tracing their damp hair, humming lullabies until their breathing evens out. Mrs. Cho sits stiffly across the room, staring at her phone. Her husband lounges on the couch, like nothing happened. As if nothing ever happens. 

You're walking beside the lazy river, hands stuffed into the pockets of your hoodie, when you hear the familiar tread of footsteps behind you.

Wonwoo.

You don’t look at him.

“I heard everything,” he says.

You don’t say anything. You keep walking.

“She was way out of line.”

You stop. “You don’t need to defend me.”

“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m angry.”

You turn to him. “Why? Why do you even care?”

He falters. “Because I—”

You laugh bitterly. “You what, Wonwoo? You care about me? You want to play the hero now? Where were you earlier? When she humiliated me in front of everyone? You just stood there.”

“I didn’t know what to do—”

“You never know what to do,” you snap, voice cracking. “You always wait until I’m falling apart and then you show up when it’s safe again. When I’ve already picked up my pieces.”

His jaw clenches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it sounds like sandpaper. “I should’ve said something. I wanted to.”

“And now what? You want me to pat you on the back because you chased me down after sunset?” Your voice breaks. “This isn’t a fucking romance movie, Wonwoo. You don’t get points for showing up late.”

He stares at you — really stares — and then he says, low and quiet, “I didn’t chase you down for points.”

You shake your head and look away.

“I came because I couldn't let you walk away thinking I didn’t care.” He takes a step closer. “You’re not just someone I flirt with by the pool. You’re not just the girl who helps with the twins. You’re...”

His voice falters.

“You’re the only person who makes this place feel real.”

You feel the ache of it — like something soft tearing.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper.

“Neither did I,” he says. “But I’m here.”

And then he kisses you.

It starts hesitant — a question, a breath — but when you don't pull away, he deepens it, slow and hungry. One hand slides to your jaw, the other finds your waist. You kiss him back like you’ve been holding your breath for two whole months. Because you have.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Come with me.”

You nod, breathless.

You stumble through the grass, past the empty lounge chairs, half-laughing, half-shaking. He kisses you again by the maintenance shed. Again near the outdoor shower. You lose track of where you’re going. You only know his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at you like you’re something he’s been dying to touch.

By the time you reach the locker room, he’s pushing you gently against the door, lips trailing fire down your neck.

“Fucking finally,” he groans, like it’s been killing him not to say it. His voice in your ear makes your knees buckle.

You grip his shirt, feel the muscles of his back flex under your fingers. He smells like chlorine and sunscreen and gummy bears and sweat and you want, want, want.

He kisses you again, deeper this time — all tongue and teeth and desperation. The kind of kiss that says I missed you, I wanted you, I want you still.

And then, suddenly — mid-kiss, mid-moment — the world crashes back in.

He’s the son of the owner. He drives a Porsche that probably never sees the road and reads Bukowski like it’s gospel.

You? You read bedtime stories and wipe juice off a Hermès towel. You’re an au pair with a paper degree and an expiring visa. Your chest tightens with a thousand what-ifs.

The summer is bleeding out. 

And you're kissing a boy who might not be yours when it ends.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Entry #9: On the Danger of Wanting More August 19th, 4:21 PM

In most societal structures, the help is expected to exist quietly on the periphery – present but visible, useful but never central. And falling for someone above one’s pay grade? Historically ill-advised, frequently humiliating, and almost always doomed. But anthropologists agree that humans are predictable irrational – no amount of emotional detachment can fully protect you from a boy that kisses you stupid and casually quotes Euripedes. 

You pulled away after the kiss, gasping. Dizzy. Brain short-circuiting.

The class divide. The logistics. The impossible futures.

He’s the son of the owner. He could never work another day and still live comfortably into infinity. You’re scraping together tips and spare change, trying to stretch your contract into a real life. He’s got gilded options. You’ve got a ticking clock.

So you avoid him.

When you see him walking toward the cabana for his daily granola bar pilgrimage, you redirect the twins toward the kiddie pool. When he shows up with your favorite pina colada — extra pineapple, no cherry — you pretend it’s nap time. You dodge, deflect, disappear. You rehearse polite excuses until they become muscle memory.

It takes a week for him to finally corner you.

You’re headed to the bathroom, sunglasses on, hoodie up despite the August heat. He intercepts you by the towel stand.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, not angry but confused.

You blink. “Nothing. Peeing?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“No…”

“You are,” he says, stepping closer. “Don’t lie. You won’t even look at me.”

You focus intently on a damp footprint on the pavement. “I’ve just been… busy.”

“What did I do wrong?”

He says your name like it matters. Like he means it. A question and a plea and a prayer all at once.

“I thought this was going somewhere,” he says. “Where did I go wrong?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow. Then:

“You didn’t.”

His shoulders drop in relief. He starts to move closer, arms lifting — but you stop him with a hand on his chest.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat. “I did.”

Now he looks confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Wonwoo,” you sigh. “One day, you’re going to take over. You’re going to be CEO of a global resort empire. And me? I’m going to be here. Covered in five-year-olds’ snot and banana crumbs, probably chasing a preschooler into a fountain.”

“So?” he scoffs. “I don’t want this.” He gestures broadly at the lazy river, the snack bar, the sunburned luxury. “I’m not staying. I got into an MFA program. I’m leaving at the end of the month.”

That throws you. “Wait—what? Really?”

He nods. “I want to write. Always have.”

You blink. “Okay… and?”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have it all figured out,” he says softly. “That’s okay. Neither do I. But what are you gaining from babysitting your own life?”

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or kiss him again. Maybe all three.

But you don’t answer. Not yet.

That night, you get a text.

[Attachment: IMG_0142.jpeg]

A photo of an email. Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the Creative Writing MFA program at—

[Attachment: PDF Lease Agreement]

Two bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Half a mile from the university. Your hometown.

Then a message from him:

You could write too, you know. I’d read every word.

Entry #10: On Exit Strategies (And the Beginnings We Don’t See Coming) August 23rd, 7:54 AM

In the study of human nature, we often assume that endings are marked, observable events – clean breaks punctuated by ritual. But fieldwork reveals a more complex truth: endings, like goodbyes, are rarely so precise. Sometimes the dissolve quietly, like mist off the surface of a morning pool. Sometimes they masquerade as beginnings. And sometimes, they don’t happen at all – not really. 

It’s your last day at Carat Bay.

The twins start kindergarten on Monday. Their regular au pair — a disheveled girl who looks like she once studied French literature and now only speaks in juice box negotiations — has returned.

You say goodbye to the kids, crouched low to meet their eyes. Junhee hugs you, sticky-fingered and sad. Junseo asks, “Who’ll sing to us now?” in a voice so small it nearly breaks you.

You press teary kisses to their damp little heads. Promise they’ll be okay. They’re good kids. You tell yourself that means something.

You say goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Cho.

Mrs. Cho barely glances up from her phone. She waves vaguely. Her acrylics glint in the sun.

Mr. Cho squints at you from over his tablet. “We had a new nanny this summer?”

You roll your eyes as you walk away, his confusion trailing behind you like bad perfume.

You drag your suitcase down the cobbled path toward the villa’s front gate, sunscreen and chlorine still clinging to your skin. The early morning air smells like pool chemicals and hotel pastries.

And then you see it — the Porsche, parked crooked in the drive like it doesn’t know it’s expensive.

Wonwoo is leaned against the side, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose like he’s auditioning for a commercial titled Regret Nothing.

He straightens when he sees you, already moving to grab your suitcase.

“So,” he says, like it’s casual. Like it’s not everything. “You comin’ with me?”

You pretend to think. Just for show. Just for the story.

Then you’re moving — fast, reckless — throwing your arms around him like you never learned how to say goodbye. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels like a collision — breathless, greedy, impossible. He laughs against your lips as you stumble back against the car, the heat of the hood warming your spine.

“You ever driven a Porsche?” he asks, his grin crooked, summer-sick and daring.

You break the kiss just long enough to smile. “Not yet.”

He presses the keys into your hand like a promise. Like a dare. Like the start of something you didn’t plan for — and maybe that’s the point.

You take the keys. Open the door.

And you drive — not toward an ending.

But into something new.

Epilogue: On Retrospective Analysis and the Unscientific Nature of Love Not Dated (yet)

Anthropologists caution against emotional entanglement with their subjects, citing compromised objectivity, blurred boundaries, and the potential erosion of professional distance. This author would like to report that such boundaries are far more porous when your subject brings you coffee and quotes Aeschylus. In the interest of full disclosure: This author ignored the rule. Repeatedly. And with alarming enthusiasm. 

Three years later, you live together in a house with creaky floors and a crooked porch light. Wonwoo brings you coffee before you've asked for it, sets it beside your laptop with the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. He reads your pages in silence, a red pen tucked behind one ear, and presses soft kisses to the back of your neck when you write too late into the night.

The work is fiction. Technically. But when he gets to the part about juice boxes and Clifford the Big Red Dog, his fingers find yours. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles that slow, knowing smile he saves for when he catches you pretending not to be sentimental.

He's finished his MFA now. Teaches English at the local high school, spends his afternoons grading essays about Of Mice and Men and trying not to laugh when his students call The Iliad “a chore to read.” He comes home smelling like school lunches and adolescent chaos, drops his bag by the door and finds you, always.

The Porsche sits untouched under your window—an inheritance he never asked for, gathering dust and sun-bleached leaves. He takes the train instead. Says he likes the time to read.

Sometimes, you still wake up waiting for someone to call your name and hand you someone else’s kids. Sometimes, you still flinch when your phone rings. But mostly, you write. And mostly, you’re okay.

There is no neat conclusion. Only this: You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to keep them, too.

-> A Seat Across From You by @nerdycheol

Pairings: Choi Seungcheol x reader

Warning(s): strangers to lovers, slow-burn, slice of Life, fluff

W/C: est. 9k+

Summary: Two strangers. One train. An unspoken connection.

Every morning, you and Seungcheol share the same ride—fleeting glances, silent routines, and a growing curiosity neither of you dares to voice. As days pass, the distance between you starts to shrink in quiet, unexpected ways. Could your daily commute lead to something more... or will you remain strangers, passing by like trains on separate tracks?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Bae-sically Fake by @mylovesstuffs

Pairings: Jeonghan × fem!reader

Warning(s): Fake dating au, modern au, romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing, mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, emotional trauma and flashbacks, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage, cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic]

*Advanced warning(s): grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], ptsd-like emotional responses

W/C: est 40k+

Summary: You swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check out. Now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. Jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Start A War by @sanaxo-o

Pairings: Joshua Hong x female!reader

Warning(s): angst, fluff if you squint, strangers to lovers, kissing, apocalyptic kind of au since it revolves around monsters, major character death, graphic description of a dead body

W/C: tbd

Summary: Getting stuck in a town with no way to escape was not a part of your plan—getting trapped in a town where monsters come out at night to hunt and rip you apart was not your plan either. It was as if living in a nightmare where you were not able to escape but despite all of that you managed to find a small place of comfort in a person who helped you throughout your chaos filled thoughts and anxious queries with his sweet and gentle eyes which always held warmth in them.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> 100 Ways To Lose Your Love(And 1 To Get It Back) by @cheers-to-you-th

Pairings: Joshua x Reader

Warning(s): Angst, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff (?), emotional slow burn, exes to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. The real question is, where is it found?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> 100 Ways To Love You by @bella-feed

Pairings: playboi!Jun, clg-student!jun, non-idol!bf jun x f!reader, clg-student!reader. *the reader's name is Nara*

Warning(s): fluff, black cat gf x golden retriever bf, smut (MDNI 18+ only), angsty (at the end) smut (MDNI 18+ only), mentions of food, and alcohol. mentions of seungkwan and few other members. seungkwan is jun's bestfriend. mentions of flowers, swimming, going on dates, drinking alcohol and shi. jun is a playboi. bit angsty in the end. hopefully there’s a part two. lmk if i missed any warnings

*Smut Warning(s): dom!jun, kissing, making out, unprotected sex (don't do it!!!), fingering, slight spanking and face slapping. body fluids (sweat, cum) oral (both m and f; both receiving and giving). lmk if I missed anything

W/C: tbd

Summary: A bet, with three prominent and important conditions, resulted in you and Jun ending up together. But is it a forever thingy?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Loving You For Days And Years by @kyeomofhearts

Pairings: Kwon Soonyoung x fem!reader

Warning(s): slice of life, romance, fluff, humor, non-idol au, swearing, suggestive, time-skips, tooth rotting fluff that might make you want to throw up :P

W/C: 2-3k(tbd)

Summary: You weren’t necessarily looking for love when you met Kwon Soonyoung. Loud, a little dumb, and always cracking jokes at the worst times–he wasn’t exactly your ideal type. And yet, somewhere between his ridiculous texts and the way he always made sure you got home safe, he somehow found a way to your heart. And you? You let him stay.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> All Twisted Secrets by @esrione

Pairings: -

Warning(s): Blood, corpse, gore, romance, psychopath survival games(aka dystopian games), poisoned, death, suicide, romance at some point, angst, gunshot fight, gambling(?), action, MDNI, 21+ NSFW

W/C: 52k+

Summary: 100 dollars in casino chips were needed to escape. Trapped in a deadly game, survival meant playing by the host's twisted rules—or breaking them entirely. As morality fades, Soonyoung and his classmates make a final gamble: kill or be killed. But when the blood dried and the bodies have fallen, one question lingers—was it ever about survival, or had they become the very monsters they sought to destroy?

Teaser | ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> In The Brown And Blue by @gotta-winwin

Pairings: Jeon Wonwoo x reader

Warning(s): Dystopian, fluff, angst, comfort, mentions of blood, injury, minimal gore, swearing, loss of memory

W/C: tbd

Summary: It’s the centennial of the tunnel’s existence, marking the legacy since its sudden appearance in the woods across your small town. Legends say entering the tunnel sends you back in time to find those lost to you– and as you travel deeper into the tunnel, you swear you can see him, hidden in the brown and blue.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Tour Date by @ppyopulii

Pairings: rockstar!lee jihoon x rising star!reader

W/C: tbd, hoping to be around 8k-10k

Warning(s): Cursing, hook-up culture, mentions of needles, mentions of drugs, mentions of dieting → body dysphoria

*Smut warning(s): making out, Perhaps some fingering (f!receiving)

Summary: The limelight is *yours*—you’ve been itching for it ever since your debut only six months ago, and your pathway to stardom is a straight-shot after being recruited to be the opener for the world-famous rock band CH33RS. This a hundred day tour is sure to bring you the fame you know you’re deserving of, especially after the announcement of your upcoming debut album. The only catch? WOOZI, lead singer of CH33RS, hates you.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> A Prescription For Romance by @shinysobi

Pairings: Lee Jihoon x reader

Warning(s): Established relationship (or is it) slice of life, fluff, comedy (reader has a name)

W/C: tbd

Summary: When the new residents join the Cardiothoracic Department, they're thrown for a loop when it comes to the two youngest professors of the hospital- Neurosurgeon Lee Jihoon and you, the Cardiothoracic surgeon. Fed up, they devise a scheme-which might be ingenious, which might be stupid. Will it work? Or will they continue to live under the thumbs of cruella and sauron?

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Until You Know Me by @diamonddaze01

Pairings: Seokmin x reader

Warning(s): reincarnation AU, soulmate au, angst, fluff, suggestive (?), discussions of death/reincarnation and heartbreak

W/C: tbd

Summary: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Coffee and Confessions by @gyubakeries

Pairings: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Warning(s): romance, fluff, slight angst, businessman!mingyu, barista!mc, journal entries and coffee as plot devices, unhealthy consumption of coffee, commitment issues (from mingyu), strangers to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: When Kim Mingyu, the no-nonsense businessman, meets you, the barista who laughs more in a simple exchange than he has in the past week, he feels his heart do something strange. Under the guise of understanding this foreign emotion, he keeps coming back to meet you with his journal concealed within the sharp lines of his formal blazers. Soon, the lines between research and attraction blur, and Mingyu finds the same word recurring in the pages of his journal --- your name.

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-> Si belle Homme List by @shinysobi

Pairings: Xu Minghao x f!reader

Warning(s): romance, fluff, comedy, angst, photographer!minghao, matchmaker!mc, slight coercion involved, copious referenes to smoking and drinking, friends to lovers

W/C: tbd

Summary: When Yewon's fiance dumps her before her wedding, she briefly contemplates murder, suicide, and arson--not necessarily in that order. Unfortunately, she has too many events to attend as a married woman, so she turns to her best friend, Xu Minghao, for a contract-100 days as her fiance, no strings attached.

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-> Love In Half Tones by @nerdycheol

Pairings: Xu Minghao x reader

Warning(s): Fluff, angst, bittersweet

W/C: tbd

Summary: You’re a ballerina with big dreams. Minghao’s an artist still waiting for his big break. You meet by chance and fall into something quiet, comforting, and...real. But when your career takes off and his doesn’t, everything starts to shift. You both want to hold on—but chasing dreams sometimes means letting go.

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-> 100 Days by @esrione

Pairings: Boo Seungkwan x reader

Warning(s): fluff, angst, sci-fi, enemies to lovers troop, horror, mentioned of death, explosion and fire flames, robotics

W/C: 11.6k+

Summary: A detective awakens in an abandoned, eerie facility with no memory of how he got there. Armed with a mysterious gameboy-style device, he must navigate dangerous floors filled with hostile robotic maids. As he searches for hidden remote controls to unlock the building’s secrets, every step brings him closer to a truth he never expected.

Teaser | ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

-> Lowkey, What Are We? by @vampsol

Pairings: Hansol Vernon Chwe x reader

Warning(s): fluff, angst, smut, fwb!au, brother's best friend!au, college au, feat! joshua hong and kwon soonyoung of seventeen and yang jeongin of stray kids, jealousy trope, two idiots in love but unwilling to admit it

*Smut warning(s): oral (m + f receiving), handjob, praise kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, etc), unprotected sex, creampie

W/C: tbd

Summary: Your brother's best friend wasn't exactly the perfect guy to start a sexual relationship with, but it's too late to turn back. Your heart may already be too entangled to let him go, no matter your rules, for better or worse.

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-> The Way The Cookie Crumbles by @studioeisa

Pairings: Lee Chan x food journalist!reader

Warning(s): Mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have). cussing/swearing. themes of food and memory.

W/C: est. 5k

Summary: You need one good story to get your career off the ground. Lee Chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in Seoul. Better start somewhere, right?