jayhz

⸝⸝ part 1 here!

& part 2 here!

& part 3 here!

⸝⸝ pairing: heeseung x afab!reader (ft. riki)

⸝⸝ status: completed (started since 15/09/25)

⸝⸝ synopsis: You grew up side by side with Lee Heeseung: books carried home from school, stickers pressed to the bridge railing, summers that felt endless. He took pictures of everything, but mostly of you. Years passed. He left for the city, you moved away, and what was once everyday turned into silence. Until the night you walked into a gallery on a rainy street. Walls lined with photographs: your laughter, your childhood, your life seen through his eyes. And suddenly you weren’t just looking at art. You were standing in the middle of a love that had always been there, waiting.

⸝⸝ genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, coming-of-age, slice of life, fluff, angst, mutual pining

⸝⸝ warnings: long stretches of emotional angst!!!

⸝⸝ wc: 6.7k

⸝⸝ a/n: i have a lot to say but i'll put in at the end of this chapter, love you guys a lot thanks for supporting me 🫶 divider by @cafekitsune

THE LAST ROLL

By twenty-four, Heeseung had learned that the city softened when it rained. Neon dulled to kindness, streets drew their own shadows, and windows behaved like patient mouths, opening and closing with the breath of strangers.

He had begun to make a name for himself in the city, though he never said it aloud. His professors had sent his prints to competitions, and sometimes they returned with certificates folded into envelopes stamped with official seals. Other times, they came back with rejection slips that he taped to the back of the shoebox, as if failure, too, deserved its place in the exhibition.

He had worked weddings and product shoots to keep the rent paid, but on weekends he shadowed mentors whose names were written in magazines. He carried tripods, adjusted light meters, fetched rolls of gaffer tape, and learned to listen harder than he spoke. Jay once told him, “You wait better than most. That’s why your pictures breathe.” It was the closest thing to a benediction he had ever received.

His work began appearing in places he hadn’t imagined when he was crouching on the schoolyard with a disposable camera. A black-and-white series of urban crosswalks was printed in a small student journal. A gallery downtown chose three of his frames for a group show, printed larger than he’d ever dared. He remembered standing in front of it that night while strangers debated the meaning behind his pictures. He didn’t tell them who was the girl in those pictures, he only thought, with a mix of awe and absurdity, that a girl’s gesture from years ago was now hanging on a wall as if it belonged to everyone.

When the invitation for a solo exhibition arrived, typed neatly on cream paper, signed by the curator who wore rings like punctuation marks, he almost set it aside, convinced it had been misdelivered. But the envelope had his name, not borrowed, not mistaken: Lee Heeseung.

The curator had explained it plainly. “You already have a body of work,” she said over coffee in a gallery café that smelled like varnish and burnt milk. “Not just pictures, a throughline. A voice. Do you know how rare that is at your age?”

He had stared at the foam collapsing in his cup and said, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“Then you are,” she’d replied. “The unready ones are the only ones worth showing.”

So he said yes. He spent the next months pulling prints from the shoebox, scanning contact sheets, wrestling with titles. He laid them out across his tiny dorm floor until Jake had to step like a cat between islands of memory just to reach his desk. The shoebox exhibition cracked open wider than it ever had, spilling its alphabet of exhibits into the room until Heeseung realized the show already had a name, had always had one.

My eyes adored you, he wrote it carefully. Not because he planned to explain it. Not because he thought the world needed to know the origin. But because the truth had carried him this far, and to name it otherwise would have been a lie too heavy for the walls.

The exhibition was scheduled to travel between two cities: The city where he lived now, and the smaller city that Y/N was living. When he read the itinerary, his throat caught on the second address. It meant he would bring the museum to her place.

And it meant there was a chance, slim, absurd, dangerous, that she might step inside.

He told himself not to expect it. He told himself exhibitions were about photographs, not ghosts. But the night before the opening, as he taped the last label to the wall, he felt the truth press against his ribs: every image was already hers. Whether she came or not, she had been here all along.

He arrived at the gallery a half hour early, camera bag on one shoulder out of habit, even though he had nothing left to shoot. The space was smaller than his nerves, white walls stitched together by track lights and wire. It had the polite reverence of a chapel that moonlighted as a bakery: warm bodies would make it better. For now, it belonged to the prints.

He walked it alone once, the way you walk a house before you invite guests in. The title card near the door had his name in a font that tried not to be proud:

MY EYES ADORED YOU

Photographs by Lee Heeseung

Beneath, in smaller type: A hometown seen by a boy who never stopped holding his breath.

He had argued the line down from something grander. The curator, a woman with rings like punctuation, had fought to keep it. “You earned a sentence,” she’d said. “Take the period.”

He drifted to the first wall, to the beginning he had chosen for them both.

Exhibit A: Our Territory (Bridge, Late Summer)

Silver gelatin print, 8×10

A simple rail, paint flaked into constellations no one had named; a crooked heart sticker tucked under the lip; water below turning light into secret handwriting.

He had taken it the week before middle school became a different language. He had written A on the back in pencil, not knowing he was starting an alphabet. Now, the wall label did the speaking. People would read Exhibit A and think: an index, a taxonomy, a boy who catalogued not the world, but the exact place it had decided to love him back.

Exhibit B: The day we promised the bridge

Archival pigment print, 13×19

Two shadows on the bridge, taller than the bodies that made them; a pinky-touch just at the bottom edge, almost a mistake, almost a map. Sky soaking itself in violet. The rail steady as a spine.

He had titled it later, when later had already arrived and had too much to carry. The curator had asked if it felt sentimental.

“Yes,” he had said. “I keep it anyway.”

She had nodded. “Good. Let your honesty keep its shoes on.”

He moved on. The second wall held the small ones, the memories with soft elbows.

Exhibit C: Gravity forgotten

Archival pigment print, 4×4

Heeseung paused longer at the third frame, the one the curator had tried to convince him to cut for being “too personal.” He kept it anyway. It wasn’t the sharpest photograph, not technically. The focus had slipped when he clicked the shutter, the edges blurred just slightly as if the air itself had been moving faster than his hand. But the center, was undeniable.

Y/N, sixteen, face turned toward Riki, open and bright, the wind tugging her hair like it wanted in on the secret. She wasn’t smiling for the camera, she hadn’t even noticed it. She was smiling for Riki, wide and unguarded, as if gravity had never been invented.

Heeseung remembered the weight in his chest when he developed it. The way his hands had trembled slightly as the paper image came to life in the tray, the two of them glowing in silver halide, suspended in a world where he was only the witness.

He had named it Gravity Forgotten not to punish himself, but because that was the truth of the picture. There had been no heaviness in her then, no anchor, she had belonged to the air, and to whoever happened to catch her in it.

Now, framed on the gallery wall, the photograph pulled him back into that ache. He traced her outline with the corner of a fingernail against the frame’s glass, a nervous habit he hadn’t managed to break. The gesture was so small the gallery attendant didn’t notice. To anyone else, it might have looked like a man checking for dust.

Exhibit D: Dynasty, retired

Silver gelatin print, 11×14

In the image, the paint of the rail peeled like old bark, exposing streaks of raw metal beneath. Y/N’s hand hovered against it, pressing down a single sticker: a heart from a sheet she had carried folded in half until the edges frayed into lace. The heart was crooked, tilted like a question someone hadn’t had the courage to ask. Behind her, Heeseung’s camera had captured the moment just as she leaned in, hair curtaining half her cheek, lips parted mid-sentence. The world looked paused, as though even the water below had stopped moving long enough for him to etch the instant into permanence.

Exhibit E: So close

Silver gelatin print, 8×10

It was the truest thing he had ever made. She had been only a breath away, yet already halfway out of reach. The bridge looked longer in the photograph than it ever had beneath their feet, as if time had stretched to measure the distance between them.

Exhibit F: Drifted, but still here

Archival pigment print, 24×36

On New Year’s Eve, fireworks scatter across the night sky and ripple over the bay. Heeseung waits on the bridge with his camera when Y/N arrives late, cheeks flushed from running. While the town gazes upward, Heeseung turns his lens toward her instead. The resulting photograph captures her profile illuminated by fireworks, eyes wide with wonder, a reminder that though their paths may drift, she is still beside him.

And so it went on. Every wall of the gallery whispered the same truth: his work had never strayed far from her. From the bridge railings scarred with stickers to fireworks reflected in her wide eyes, from blurred footsteps caught mid-run to the steam rising from a split bun, each frame was less about landscapes or light than about the shape of their shared childhood. The photographs were not simply images of a hometown, they were fragments of a single subject, a girl growing up at the edge of his vision, always close enough to capture, never close enough to claim.

He checked the sight lines, the height, the labels one last time, like an anxious host adjusting cutlery. The rain pressed its fingers against the glass; footsteps pooled near the door; the gallery manager flicked the lights one notch brighter.

People arrived, then more, then the body heat miracle happened and the white box discovered it had a heart. Former classmates slid around one another with careful smiles. A professor stood in front of Our Territory and made a small sound in her throat that could have been approval. Jay entered late, shook water out of his hair and tugged Heeseung into a one-armed hug that felt like an exhale.

“You did it,” Jay said.

Heeseung shrugged, the move he used for both pride and fear. “We hung pictures.”

“You made a room that remembers.” Jay nodded toward the long wall. “Look how quiet they get in front of it.”

They did get quiet. Couples reached for each other’s sleeves without discussing it. A child, bored to splinters in his mother’s arms, stopped wriggling when he reached Exhibit E and stared as if he had just been told a fact about the sky he could use later. An older man leaned close to Exhibit L and took off his glasses like the print had asked him to be polite.

The manager tapped his elbow. “Speech?”

He hadn’t planned to speak beyond thank you. He had written the words on a note card and then left the note card at home like a superstition. But bodies gathered in a loose crescent and looked at him with their listening faces, and the room seemed to tilt toward him the way rooms do when they decide you are allowed.

He cleared his throat, found the pocket of breath he kept for emergencies, and said, “Thank you for coming. I don’t—” He stopped, grinned at himself, started again. “I took these over a lot of years. They’re about a place that let me learn how to see. And… someone who taught me why to.”

Heads turned, looking for a figure he hadn’t named. He didn’t give them the shorthand. He let the prints shoulder the weight of their own biography. “I hope you find a version of your own place in here, too. That’s it. Thank you.”

Polite applause. Relief. The room returned to its murmuring, which was better than any ovation, ovations were endings; murmurs meant the day could keep going.

A woman asked him whether he preferred fiber paper or RC. A man told him his titles were unhelpful, which Heeseung took as proof that they were doing their job.

He slipped away when he could and stood in the doorway to watch people arrive. The rain made hats practical and umbrellas cinematic. Some guests shook themselves like dogs and laughed about the weather’s lack of imagination; others folded their umbrellas with patience and leaned them carefully by the door as if objects could be thanked for service.

He told himself to stop looking for a particular silhouette.

He failed.

It wasn’t that he had expected her. He hadn’t allowed himself the indulgence of hope in the precise shape that hurt most when it didn’t arrive. He had told himself: two cities, two openings, two chances. He had told himself: if she comes, she comes. If she doesn’t, the exhibition still continues.

A cluster of theater kids swept in, smelling of hairspray and rain. A barista from the café around the corner wiped his hands on his apron and made his way to the zine table. The gallery manager whispered to the intern about replenishing the toothpicks for the olives. Heeseung smiled at the thousand small parts that made a room behave itself.

“You should eat a cracker,” Jake said from behind him. “You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not vibrating.”

“Your aura is an anxious metronome.” Jake pushed a plate into his hand. “Protein. Or whatever goes on crackers.”

He took one to be polite and then forgot to eat it. He drifted back to the long wall and watched Exhibit M as if it could answer.

The door chimed. A gust of damp air, the soft chorus of umbrella tips tapping against the floor. He didn’t turn right away; he had learned, after years of photographing stages, that anticipation made you miss the first important frame.

“Excuse me,” someone said near the entrance, to no one in particular, and the word did what the rain had done earlier: softened the room without calling attention to itself.

He turned then.

She stood a pace inside the door, umbrella folded like a sleeping bird in her hand, water running off its ribs in a faint rhythm. Her hair was pinned up in a way that admitted it would fall soon. The coat she wore looked like it had been borrowed from another person. She scanned the walls the way a person reads a clock in a room they used to live in.

Y/N.

The years did the thing they did in movies and never in life: they folded. He felt the old bridge under his feet, the apartment stairwell under his shoulder blades, the ridiculous hair pin in his pocket like a talisman. Then the fold became a seam, neat and undeniable. She was not a memory wearing the present as a disguise. She was the present, and she was in his doorway, and the gallery lights decided, like good conspirators, to behave.

She didn’t see him first. That relieved him. He watched her do what he had built the room to let her do: find herself.

She moved to Exhibit A without a pause, like a migration route she hadn’t known she remembered. He saw the shape of recognition in the set of her shoulders: the permission you grant your own heart when you stop pretending not to know the place it belongs. Her fingers hovered near the frame, careful not to touch, the way she had hovered her hand beneath the rail all those years ago to keep a sticker from drowning.

He didn’t approach. He wanted the prints to speak before he interrupted.

She turned, finally, eyes searching for the author she had just met again across a dozen frames. He stepped forward and all the careful air he’d practiced keeping in his lungs left like laughter does when you’ve been brave for too long.

“Hi,” he said.

Her face did the thing it had always done when it knew exactly what to do and wished it could do something else: it brightened and softened at once.

“Hi,” she answered, and then added, with a disbelief she laughed at, “You hung our whole town.”

He swallowed. “I did.”

“You…” She gestured at the wall like a magician unmasking the trick and discovering it was lovelier with the mask. “You kept… all of it.”

“I tried,” he said. “I didn’t always succeed.”

She looked past him to Exhibit M, then back, the corners of her eyes pinched the way they got when she was keeping her footing in a room that had unexpectedly moved.

“Congratulations,” she said, as if anyone else in the room could hear the other sentence braided into that one: I see what you did. I see what you’ve been doing all along.

“Thank you,” he answered, and tucked his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for the rail that wasn’t there.

Around them, the gallery continued its quiet: people reading, breathing, eating crackers, inventing opinions. The rain slowed. Somewhere, a child laughed as if the sound would be useful later.

He didn’t ask how she had found the place. He didn’t ask where she had been. The room held the answers in a language both of them finally spoke. He gestured, instead, toward Exhibit L.

“There’s an audio guide,” he said, and then regretted the joke as soon as it left. But she smiled in a way that forgave and joined.

“I know,” she said. “I invented it.”

They stood for a moment with the entire alphabet between them, A through M, the room behaving like a bridge and the bridge behaving like a room. He felt, almost physically, the world place a period at the end of the sentence he had been writing since he was twelve. Not an ending. The honest punctuation that tells you you’ve reached the part where you’re allowed to begin again.

“Walk with me after?” he asked, surprising himself with the courage of saying the thing he wanted in the simplest possible grammar.

She didn’t pretend to consider. “Yes.”

He nodded, because anything more would have been a hurry that didn’t suit them. Guests still milled; the manager still did math with her eyes; Jake still moved olives as if arranging galaxies. There would be time to cross a city with wet shoes. For now, she turned back to the wall and he watched, not as a photographer, not as a curator, but as the boy who had been learning, frame by frame, that some devotions build their own rooms and then invite you to stand in them until you recognize the name of the place.

He let the evening go on. He let her look. And when the last guest found their umbrella and the lights dimmed one notch, he collected his bag, and together they stepped back into the rain-burnished street where the city had graciously left space for two people to walk side by side without hurrying.

The rain had been steady all evening, the kind that blurred neon into watercolor and turned every passing car into a ripple of white light. Y/N pulled her hood tighter as she hurried down the narrow street toward the theater, script pages sealed in a plastic folder under her arm. Her sneakers squeaked with each step, and she thought, half distracted, that the city smelled cleaner in the rain, as if every corner had been rinsed of its fatigue.

Her theater group was rehearsing late that night, and she was already behind schedule. She dodged under an awning, wiping her cheeks dry with the back of her sleeve, when she saw it: a poster plastered against the glass window of a gallery tucked between a stationery shop and a flower stall that had already pulled its buckets inside.

The title read in sharp, clean letters:

LEE HEESEUNG — MY EYES ADORED YOU

A Solo Exhibition

She stopped breathing for a moment.

The name was enough to drag her backward through years: to the railings of their bridge, to the sound of a shutter clicking somewhere behind her laugh, to the way he had always looked at the world like it was saying something only he could translate. She hadn’t said his name out loud in months, maybe years, but seeing it printed like that: framed, public, official, it felt like being caught under a beam of light with nowhere to hide.

Her feet moved before she decided. She pushed open the door, and the soft hush of the gallery folded around her.

Inside, the world narrowed to white walls, low light, and the quiet reverence of people moving slowly from frame to frame. Rain drummed faintly on the roof, a background percussion. The scent of fresh paper and varnish lingered, and the air felt cool, deliberate, like even temperature had been curated.

And there, on the first walls, she saw herself.

Not explicitly, not by name, not even in the obvious tilt of a face. But she knew. She recognized the curve of her hand pressed against the bridge rail; the halo of cotton candy around her hair; the way her body blurred mid-run with a crooked heart glowing in the background.

She stopped in front of Exhibit C: Gravity Forgotten, where her younger self leaned toward another boy, Riki, hair tugged by the wind, expression bright and unguarded. For a moment her stomach turned as if the floor had dipped. She had forgotten that day, the sticker clusters, the tug of divided loyalties. But Heeseung hadn’t. He had kept it, pinned it, displayed it here for strangers to see, not as an accusation, but as a record.

Her fingers twitched with the urge to touch the glass, to confirm that she was real in that frame, that this had once belonged to her. But she let her hand fall back.

The gallery curved into another room, and she followed slowly, each step heavier. The photographs weren’t chronological, but they felt like chapters of a book she thought she’d lost and now was forced to read again.

There was Exhibit D: Destiny, Retired, her pressing a crooked heart sticker beneath the rail, declaring the end of their “dynasty.” She remembered laughing, half-sarcastic, but in the photograph her face looked solemn, as if she already knew the weight of the word end.

There was Exhibit F: Drifted, but still here, fireworks exploding above her, her eyes wide, her face lit from below by the glow. Heeseung must have been looking at her instead of the sky. The thought made her throat ache.

She walked through the room slowly, absorbing each frame like an inhale she couldn’t let go. With every photograph, her chest tightened. She realized how thoroughly she had been inside his eyes all along. Even in the moments she thought she was alone, even when she had been distracted with someone else, even when she had run ahead without checking if he followed, he had been there, not just watching, but preserving.

The exhibition was less about her face than about her presence, the way she had shaped the landscape of their childhood. Every image hummed with it: the bridge rail, the stickers, the blurred footsteps, the small rituals they had performed like prayers. She hadn’t understood at the time. Or maybe she had, and she had chosen not to look too closely.

By the time she reached the final wall, her eyes stung with something she didn’t want to name.

On a low shelf beneath the last frame sat a glass case. Inside it: a shoebox, battered but carefully kept. She bent close, breath fogging the glass, and felt her heart buckle. She remembered that day: graduation, a photograph by the gingko trees, laughter that hid the fact they were standing on the edge of goodbye. She hadn’t thought he would keep it. She hadn’t known he would guard it like a relic.

Y/N stepped back, hand pressed flat against her chest as if to hold something from spilling out. Rain streaked the gallery windows, dimming the street beyond, blurring the world outside. It felt fitting, as if only inside these white walls, inside his eyes, their world could still exist.

A voice behind her made her flinch.

“Hi,”

She turned.

Heeseung stood near the doorway, black shirt damp at the shoulders from the rain, hair darker than she remembered. He looked older, sharper, but the softness in his eyes had not changed. He carried no camera now; it was the first time she had seen him without one slung at his side. His hands were empty, uncertain.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then she found her voice.

“Hi.”

It sounded like an echo, as if she had said it years ago beneath fireworks, and maybe she had.

Heeseung’s mouth twitched into something almost like a smile, though his eyes betrayed the storm beneath. “Do you… want me to walk you through it?”

She shook her head, blinking quickly. “You already did.” She gestured at the walls, at herself multiplied and preserved. “All of this… you already told me everything.”

Silence stretched, thick and trembling. Around them, other visitors moved quietly, respectful of the gravity that seemed to radiate from where they stood.

For the first time in years, Y/N felt the bridge beneath her feet again: the rail cold under her palm, the sound of cicadas, the weight of stickers pressed down like promises. She realized then, with a clarity that was almost cruel, that she had been part of his work all along, not just as subject but as center.

And somewhere deep in her, the ache shifted into something sharper.

For a moment after he spoke, the gallery seemed to blur: the soft lighting, the slow shuffle of strangers, even the rain beyond the windows. All of it dissolved until there was only him.

“You came,” he repeated, softer this time, as though he still didn’t quite believe it.

Y/N pressed her damp hood back, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re surprised?”

“Yes.” He glanced at the walls. “I didn’t know if you’d want to.”

She let out a shaky laugh. “And miss seeing myself on half the walls of this gallery? That would’ve been irresponsible.”

His lips curved, the barest hint of humor. “You recognized yourself?”

“Who else?” She gestured to Exhibit E: So Close, where her blurred figure seemed caught mid-flight. “That’s my bad posture. No one else runs like that.”

He huffed a laugh, low in his chest, then sobered quickly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d… mind.”

Her throat tightened. She looked back at the frames, her younger self preserved in light and shadow, in stickers and fireworks and the small ordinaries of childhood. “How could I mind?” she said quietly. “It’s… it’s beautiful. It’s like you remembered even the things I forgot.”

Silence fell between them. Not the sharp, cutting kind they’d had in the past, but something heavy, weighted with years.

Finally, she turned toward him. “Do you ever feel like you’ve been talking to a ghost?”

He frowned faintly. “A ghost?”

“Yeah.” Her voice wavered. “Walking through this… Seeing her everywhere. I almost didn’t recognize myself. I thought… maybe you’d kept the ghost of me instead of the real one.”

He shook his head immediately. “It was never a ghost.” His gaze held hers with a steadiness that made her chest ache. “It was always you.”

Her breath caught. She turned away first, unable to stand beneath the full force of his honesty.

They stood together in front of Exhibit F: Drifted, but still here. The photograph of her face lit by fireworks glowed softly under the gallery lights. She studied the way her younger self had looked at the sky, wide-eyed, unguarded, unaware of the boy at her side who had been looking only at her.

“Why this one?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“Because you came,” he said simply. “Even when I thought you wouldn’t. You came.”

The words landed like a weight in her stomach, not heavy with sorrow, but with the gravity of something that had waited years to be spoken.

“You kept everything,” she whispered.

“I didn’t know how not to.” he said behind her.

Her throat ached. She straightened, blinking hard, and finally turned back to face him fully. “Heeseung…”

But the words stalled there.

For years, she had imagined this moment: how she’d react if she saw him again, if they spoke again, if she ever had to look him in the eyes and answer for all the silence between them. But nothing in her imagination had prepared her for this: for the quiet hum of the gallery, for the way his name felt like a held breath in her mouth, for the fact that she could still read every shift in his expression like no time had passed at all.

She bit her lip, searching for something safe to say, and found none. Instead, she asked, “Do you ever get tired of holding on to the past?”

He considered, his gaze flicking briefly to the wall of photographs before returning to her. “Sometimes.” His voice was even, steady. “But then I look at it, and I remember that it wasn’t just the past. It was… everything. It still is.”

The honesty in his tone sent heat crawling up her neck. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the warm lighting.

“Walk me through it?” she asked at last.

He blinked, surprised. “I thought you said I already did.”

“I want to hear it from you,” she admitted, softer.

For the first time, he smiled fully. Not the small curve of politeness, but the real thing, warm and shy. He gestured toward the first wall.

They moved slowly, side by side, his voice quiet as he explained what she already knew. She listened, not because she needed the explanations, she had lived them all, but because it was his voice, his perspective, his truth layered over hers. Each word pulled them closer to the fragile thread that had bound them all along.

By the time they reached the final frame again, the gallery had thinned. Only a few visitors remained, their footsteps echoing softly in the hushed space.

Y/N turned to him, her heart hammering. “Heeseung…” This time, she didn’t stop herself. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He inhaled sharply, his shoulders rising. For a moment, she thought he might retreat, as he had a hundred times before. But he didn’t.

Instead, he said quietly, “Because I didn’t want to make you carry it. Not then. Not when you had your own life, your own… orbit.”

Her throat tightened. “And now?”

He met her eyes, steady as always. “Now I think you already know.”

Her pulse jumped. She did know. She had known from the moment she stepped into the gallery and saw herself reflected in every frame.

But still, the words hung unsaid, like the last photograph waiting to dry.

Before either of them could break the silence, the gallery attendant announced closing time. The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the end.

They exchanged a glance, a pause heavy with everything unfinished, and stepped out together into the rain.

The night was cool, the rain softer now, misting against their faces. The city blurred in watercolor around them. Neither opened an umbrella. They walked shoulder to shoulder, their footsteps in rhythm, silence stretching between them, not sharp, not cold, but warm and fragile, like the pause before a confession.

At the corner, Y/N finally broke it. “You know,” she said, voice trembling, “your wish that night, under the fireworks, I think I made the same one.”

He stopped walking. His hand flexed at his side as though resisting the urge to reach for hers. “And what was it?”

She smiled faintly, eyes glistening with rain. “That you’d still be here.”

The words hung between them, raw and unpolished, but truer than anything she’d said in years.

And for the first time in a long time, Heeseung let himself hope that they had finally stepped back into the same frame.

The rain slowed to a mist, soft enough to settle on their hair and clothes without urgency. The street stretched quiet before them, shopfronts shuttered, puddles pooling in the cracks. The world felt smaller, pared down to the two of them and the sound of water ticking against the pavement.

They walked until the gallery was only a faint glow behind them. Y/N shoved her hands into her coat pockets, half to fight the chill, half to stop herself from reaching sideways. Heeseung walked with his head slightly bowed, watching the reflection of the streetlamps in the slick asphalt, as if he were photographing the night without his camera.

When they reached the corner where the street forked, Y/N hesitated. “Do you… want to keep walking?”

He looked at her then, the question sinking into his chest with more weight than she’d meant. “Yes,” he said, almost too quickly.

So they kept on. Past the bakery that smelled of yeast even in the rain, past the closed newsstand with its stacks of unsold magazines. Neither of them spoke at first. The silence between them wasn’t empty, though; it was swollen, trembling, waiting to be cracked open.

Finally, Y/N stopped. They were standing under a flickering streetlight, its bulb buzzing like an insect trapped in glass. She turned to him, hair damp, lashes clumped with rain.

“Heeseung,” she said.

The way she said his name, like she had all those years ago, breathless across a schoolyard, soft on a bridge railing, sharp when she was teasing him. It undid him.

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, then let out a small, unsteady laugh. “Do you realize… everything in that gallery was us?”

“I realize,” he said quietly.

“All this time, I thought I was just living.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “And you… You were collecting it, piece by piece, until it was big enough to fill walls.”

He met her gaze, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “It was never just collecting. It was… it was the only way I knew to keep you with me.”

Her breath hitched. She looked down, rain dripping from her hood. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He inhaled, the air sharp in his lungs. For years, he had rehearsed this answer in silence, in the darkroom, in the quiet ache of the bridge. Now the words came, raw but certain.

“Because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid it would ruin everything. Afraid you’d feel trapped. Afraid that if I said it out loud, you’d pull away, and then I wouldn’t even have the friendship left.”

Y/N’s hands clenched in her pockets. “So you kept it all inside. For years.”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse. “Every laugh. Every stupid sticker. Every time you ran ahead and looked back to make sure I was still there. I kept all of it. Because I…” He faltered, breath shaking. “Because I adored you. From the start. More than I knew how to say.”

The words finally landed between them, naked and trembling in the rain.

Y/N froze. Her heart thundered in her ears, loud enough to drown out the patter of water on asphalt. She had known, of course, the exhibition had already told her everything. But hearing him say it, in his own voice, broke something open inside her.

She looked up at him, eyes burning. “Do you know what it felt like, walking through those rooms?”

He shook his head, waiting.

“Like being haunted,” she whispered. “Like seeing every version of myself I thought the world had forgotten. I laughed, I cried, I wanted to run, I wanted to stay forever. And at the end of it, I realized…” She trailed off, voice catching.

“Realized what?” he pressed, his voice barely audible.

“That you weren’t the only one holding it,” she said, her voice cracking open at last. “I didn’t keep photos, but I kept you. Every bus stop, every bridge walk, every afternoon you carried my books, every time you caught me laughing when I didn’t know anyone was looking. I kept all of it. And I…” She stopped, breath faltering, but the truth wouldn’t wait anymore. “I loved you too. I just didn’t know how to name it.”

Heeseung’s chest constricted so sharply it almost hurt. The rain blurred his vision, or maybe it was his eyes. He stepped closer, tentative, as though one wrong move might shatter the moment.

“You loved me,” he repeated, the words foreign and tender in his mouth.

“Yes.” Her laugh broke into a sob. “I still do.”

For the first time in years, the silence between them broke completely.

He reached out, finally, his hand trembling as it hovered near hers. She pulled her hand free from her pocket, damp and cold, and placed it in his. Their fingers slid together like the simplest thing in the world, like it had been waiting to happen all along.

Heeseung looked at her, really looked, the way he always had through the viewfinder, only now there was no glass, no frame, no distance to excuse him. Just her, close enough that he could see the pulse flutter at her throat, the way her damp lashes clung together, the way her lips trembled as if caught between a laugh and another confession.

He swallowed, and for a second, he hesitated. He thought of the years he had spent biting his tongue, of the walls he had built out of patience and silence. He thought of the bridge, of stickers pressed flat with careful fingers, of the cassette tape with her handwriting looping across it. All of it had been leading here, to this breath, this moment.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, eyes wide and waiting. “What?”

Instead of answering, he leaned in. Slowly, cautiously, as though he were still behind the lens and framing the shot. His forehead brushed hers, a question written in skin. She didn’t pull away.

So he closed the gap.

The kiss was not practiced, not smooth. It was rain-slick and trembling, a little clumsy, as if their years of restraint spilled out all at once. But it was real, achingly, perfectly real. Her breath hitched against his mouth before she kissed him back, her hand tightening around his like she was anchoring herself.

When they finally broke apart, their faces were still close, noses brushing, both of them laughing quietly, breathless.

“You took long enough,” she whispered, half-teasing, half-shaking.

He smiled, the kind of smile that had lived in his chest for years but never found its way to his mouth until now. “I had to make sure the light was right.”

She laughed then, watery and warm, and leaned in again, closing the distance once more without hesitation. The second kiss was slower, steadier, the kind that carried the shape of a promise rather than a secret.

Neither spoke for a long moment. They just stood there, beneath the flickering streetlight, rain misting around them, holding on as if anchoring themselves against the years that had tried to drift them apart.

When he finally found his voice, it was low, reverent. “I don’t know what happens now.”

She squeezed his hand, eyes glinting. “We don’t have to. We just… start here.”

He smiled then, wide and unguarded, and for the first time, he felt the weight in his chest lift. The shoebox exhibition wasn’t unfinished anymore. The last exhibit had finally been named.

And it wasn’t just witness. It was home.

and that’s a wrap — last chapter!! 🥹 thank you SO much for sticking with this slow-burn fic and loving these two as they grew up, drifted, and found their way back. i poured a ridiculous amount of heart (and shoebox-level nostalgia) into it. inspired by fujii kaze’s “my eyes adored you” — not referenced in-text, but absolutely humming under the surface while i wrote.

ye and I love love love LOVE your writings so much that I even took a screenshot of a small part i really liked and when you uploaded part 3 that day I was js looking at the screenshot again and when I opened Tumblr I saw you posted part 3 and I was so HAPPPYYY HEHEHE ILY 🫶

OMG MY FIRST ASK 😭😭😭 TYSM FOR LOVING THE FIC!!!!

⸝⸝ part 1 here!

& part 2 here!

& part 4 here!

⸝⸝ pairing: heeseung x afab!reader (ft. riki)

⸝⸝ status: completed (started since 15/09/25)

⸝⸝ synopsis: You grew up side by side with Lee Heeseung: books carried home from school, stickers pressed to the bridge railing, summers that felt endless. He took pictures of everything, but mostly of you. Years passed. He left for the city, you moved away, and what was once everyday turned into silence. Until the night you walked into a gallery on a rainy street. Walls lined with photographs: your laughter, your childhood, your life seen through his eyes. And suddenly you weren’t just looking at art. You were standing in the middle of a love that had always been there, waiting.

⸝⸝ genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, coming-of-age, slice of life, fluff, angst, mutual pining

⸝⸝ warnings: long stretches of emotional angst!!!

⸝⸝ wc: 6.7k

⸝⸝ a/n: okay hi 😭 thank you for sticking with this chapter—so much yearning energy and i’m not even sorry. i poured a ridiculous amount of love (and ache) into it, so i hope it lands for you too.

pls let me know what you think, comments & reblogs seriously keep me going 💌 and if you want more (confessions + consequences 👀), i’m already drafting. thank you for reading!! 🫶 divider by @cafekitsune and @omi-resources

THE THIRD ROLL

Heeseung’s last year of high school passed with the quiet rhythm of someone already half-turned toward the door. He was still the boy with the camera always slung at his side, but by then, his classmates had stopped teasing and started respecting it. When they needed the yearbook photos, when the volleyball team won their match, when the music club put on a farewell concert - it was Heeseung crouched at the edge of the scene, clicking the shutter, saving the moment. Teachers began recommending him for contests before he even volunteered. By the time entrance exams loomed, he already knew where he was going: a university in the city, a program in Photography.

The choice felt natural, inevitable. When he walked into the university’s small campus for the interview, carrying his portfolio, the examiners leafed through his photographs with careful fingers. The bridge at dawn. The blurred fireworks above a girl’s lifted face. The candid shot of Y/N balancing on the railing, her arms spread like wings. They nodded, murmured, and he left with the odd certainty that, for once, his eyes had spoken more clearly than his mouth ever could.

Graduation came in March. His classmates cheered, threw caps, hugged with promises they might or might not keep. Heeseung stood at the edge, watching it all, his diploma paper crinkling slightly in his hand. Y/N was there too, clapping loudly, her own blazer sleeves just a little too long for her arms. When she shouted his name across the crowd, he turned and smiled, and for a moment it felt less like an ending and more like the pause before another photograph, one where the subject hasn’t yet realized they’re being seen.

After the ceremony, the school courtyard became a messy river of uniforms and families. Bouquets leaned against knees, cameras flashed, teachers pretended they weren’t crying. Y/N found him by following the string of people who kept tugging him into group photos. She edged between two boys locking each other in a headlock and jabbed Heeseung’s arm with a rolled-up program.

“Photographer,” she said, breathless, “you forgot to take a picture of your own face.”

He laughed. “I took a selfie on the bus.”

“That doesn’t count. The bus lights are criminal.” She tugged his sleeve. “Come on. My rules. If you don’t record it, it’s like it didn’t happen.”

He let her drag him out toward the edge of the field where the late afternoon turned everything thin and gold. She held up the point-and-shoot he’d lent her for the day: old, temperamental, the shutter sticking on cold mornings, and chose the background with solemn deliberation: track lanes, battered podium, a strip of gingko trees just starting to show new green.

“Don’t pose,” she said. “Just… be how you are when you think no one is watching.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Shh. Three… two…”

He stood with his diploma under his arm and his camera at his hip and tried not to think at all. The shutter clicked. He blinked afterward, a little stunned by the way she had said it, like there was ever a version of him she hadn’t been watching.

“Again,” she said, then softer, “Turn a little. There. That’s you.”

He swallowed. “You talk like you invented me.”

She grinned. “I did.”

They traded places. He raised his own camera and caught her mid-laugh, hair caught by a stray breeze, program clutched like a pennant. When the picture printed later that week, the corner flare looked like a small comet streaking behind her shoulder. He taped it to the inside lid of the shoebox exhibition and wrote, in pencil too faint to read unless you knew where to look: EXHIBIT K: WITNESS.

The sun kept sliding down. Families peeled away. A janitor rolled the portable speakers back into the gym. When the courtyard thinned to the last small knots of friends, Y/N bumped her shoulder lightly against his.

“Bridge?” she asked.

“Obviously,” he said.

They walked the old route like it was muscle memory. The bay smelled faintly like tin and something sweeter, a bakery two streets over doing its night shift. Cicadas hadn’t started yet, but the air carried the preface of summer. The paint on the rail had flaked more since winter; the heart sticker was only a ghost of adhesive. She tapped the empty spot with two fingers, then pulled a fresh sticker from the small tin she had begun to keep for this very purpose. Stars this time, not a heart, and not the tidy pair. A cluster.

“For continuity,” she said. “And because sometimes two is stingy.”

He took a photograph of her hand pressing the new constellation flat. “We’re getting ambitious,” he said. “Whole galaxies now.”

“We have always been ambitious,” she replied, mock-offended.

They leaned on the rail, the way they had been leaning on it their entire childhood, and watched two kids on the far bank light sparklers that sputtered and died before they could be waved into letters. Y/N blew out a breath, cheeks puffed, and then unclasped the narrow string bag slung across her chest.

“I got you something,” she announced, and produced a cassette tape in a clear case, a paper insert inked over with tiny doodles: cameras, umbrellas, an extremely lopsided bridge. On the spine, in block letters, she had written: EXHIBITION AUDIO GUIDE.

He turned it in his hands, smiling. “Very high-tech.”

“Don’t scoff. My dad’s car still has a tape deck,” she said. “Also, I still have a tape deck. Found it in a thrift bin for what I’m pretty sure was illegal pricing. Anyway, curated by me. Liner notes included. Before you ask, yes, it has that song you told me about. The one you heard on the radio at Mr. Jay’s studio when the oldies station was on by accident.”

He remembered the day exactly: soft rain, the printer churning out proofs, a melody spilling from a dusty radio in the corner like a memory that had never belonged to him. The singer had sounded like he was leaning against a door he wouldn’t open, talking to it. He hadn’t told Jay the title, but later he had looked it up; the words had been absurdly simple and somehow vast.

He slid the tape back into its case carefully, as if he might break it with rough fingers. “Thank you.”

“Don’t act like it’s precious,” she said, though her voice softened. “It’s just a guide. For when pictures need sound.”

They stayed until their shadows thinned into the night’s larger shape. When they finally peeled themselves off the railing, Y/N touched the sticker cluster again.

“Promise me you’ll still come here on breaks,” she said.

“I promise.”

“And send pictures even when you think they’re boring.”

“They won’t be.”

“You don’t know. Sometimes boring is just… quiet waiting to be named.”

He smiled. “Okay. I’ll send the boring ones first.”

She grinned. “Good. I’ll send commentary. Brutal, constructive, tender.”

They parted at the bus stop where the bench still pretended to be a ship. She boarded, waved two-handed through the scratched window, and he stood there with the tape in his pocket, the bridge at his back, and the pleasant ache of a thing that was not an ending, not yet.

The weeks before moving were a choreography of packing tape and last errands. He catalogued the town the way people catalogue weather. Not for novelty, but for the stubborn continuity of it. He walked past the corner store with its new owner whose lanterns still glowed like patient fruit. He paused by the youth center bulletin board, where the bake sale poster from two autumns ago finally gave up and peeled itself to the floor. He pressed the shutter gently on ordinary corners: the mailboxes, the stair where her bag had always clipped, the school gate at 7:08 a.m. when no one was looking.

He bought a secondhand portable tape player and listened to the “audio guide” while sorting prints for the portfolio he would bring to orientation week. Her handwriting filled the liner notes: Track 3 : For rainy darkrooms; Track 5: For trains; Track 7: Absolutely not for crying but if you do I won’t tell; Track 9: You have to call me when you hear this one. The song he had told her about sat tucked between brash, modern tracks and the kind of old soul she had a secret weakness for. He didn’t play it all the way through the first time. He wasn’t sure if he could hold the meaning and still complete a task as simple as taping a box.

On the final night before he left, he and his mother ate noodles on the floor of the half-empty living room. She asked him questions like a stern interviewer and then cried anyway, wiping at her eyes with the narrow heel of her palm as if she could erase the sentiment behind a sharp gesture. His father stood in the doorway, rocking on his heels, pretending to inspect the paint along the baseboard.

“Call when you arrive,” his mother said for the fifth time. “Call when you need anything. Call when you don’t need anything.”

“I will,” he promised.

“And visit the bridge,” his father added, surprising them both. “So it won’t get lonely.”

He breathed out a laugh. “I think it’s used to us being ridiculous.”

“It had better be,” his mother said, and scooped noodles into his bowl like she was packing the city into his pockets.

He didn’t sleep, not really. He lay on his back and traced the ceiling cracks that had mapped his entire adolescence, the cassette player at his side. Around two in the morning he gave in, pressed play, and let the tape unspool.

Her voice arrived on the old radio: gentle, stubborn, threading memory of distance into the spine of a voice that sounded embarrassed to be this sincere. He stared at the dark, and at some point he laughed quietly at himself, at how perfectly ridiculous it was to listen to a her voice narrate something his own throat refused to say. When it finished, he flipped the tape and let the other tracks push air back into the room.

The city waited. He would go. The bridge would wait too, sticker constellation dimmed under the night.

The city did not announce itself with grandeur. It was not skyscrapers or neon that struck Heeseung first, but the texture: the way every wall seemed to be scrawled with handbills, every sidewalk patched and repatched like an old quilt, every café table carrying the condensation ring of a hundred brief conversations. The dormitory smelled faintly of wet concrete and detergent; his roommate, Jake, unpacked a disco ball with the solemnity of a religious artifact and declared, “This is how we survive exams.”

Lectures began before Heeseung had learned the shortcuts. The Photography program was small, only twenty students in his year, each carrying portfolios like they were fragile, living creatures. The professors walked the room slowly, examining prints laid on long tables.

“Don’t show us what you’ve seen,” one professor said, pausing over Heeseung’s photograph of the bridge rail at twilight. “Show us what only you could have noticed.”

Heeseung wrote that down, though he wasn’t sure what it meant yet. At night, he tacked his test prints to the wall above his desk, the collage spreading until Jake threatened to charge gallery fees.

Y/N’s world, by contrast, was still bound to the rhythms of high school. She sent him photos of her uniform skirt rumpled from rehearsal, of the youth center bulletin board plastered with audition flyers, of a cat sprawled over her math homework.

They want us to sing AND act,

She texted one evening, attaching a blurry picture of herself holding a script upside down.

I can only do one badly at a time.

He replied with a photo of his desk: negatives drying on a string above an open ramen cup.

Multitasking is a lie. Pick chaos and call it art.

She sent back a string of laughing emojis, then added,

Bridge looks lonely. I went yesterday and it creaked like it was sulking.

He typed and deleted three times before settling on.

Send me a picture?

The next day, she did: the sticker constellation dimmed by rain, the rail’s paint peeling. No one in the frame but her hand, palm flat against the iron. Beneath it she wrote: “Museum annex, field report.”

Weeks became months. Heeseung learned to navigate the city by light instead of street names: the orange wash of sodium lamps on the east side, the pale glare of storefront LEDs by the river, the dim warmth of alleys where people smoked and laughed as though time couldn’t touch them. He assisted Jay at weddings, crouched on damp lawns to capture veils, steadied tripods for older photographers who joked that his knees would never recover.

One weekend, his professor arranged a gallery visit. Heeseung stood before large-format prints of things that were both ordinary and impossible: a child’s hand clutching a balloon string, a subway car reflected infinitely in a warped mirror. He thought of Y/N balancing on the bridge rail, arms spread like wings, and realized with something like a thud that she was both: ordinary in his daily memory, impossible when caught by light.

He texted her later.

Saw something that reminded me of you. Will explain when I know how.

Her reply came hours later, probably after rehearsal.

That sounds like you forgot to buy me a souvenir.

He smiled at the screen longer than he meant to.

But the spaces between their messages grew. Sometimes she would send a flurry in the middle of the night — stories about drama club mishaps, about how she’d run into one of their old teachers who still mispronounced her name. Sometimes days passed without a word.

When they did call, the conversations ran fast and shallow at first, as though both were skimming stones across water. Only after silence stretched would they let it sink deeper.

“How’s the city?” she asked once, her voice crackling through his cheap dorm phone.

“Loud,” he said. “But sometimes the noise is… useful. Like a frame.”

“You make everything sound like photography.”

“That’s how I see it.”

She laughed softly. “Sometimes I wish I could see it too.”

“You already do,” he said, before realizing he had spoken too honestly.

There was silence on the line. Then she said, lighter, “I sound very poetic in your words.”

By October, the bridge was no longer their meeting place but their ghost. Heeseung visited once during a short trip home. The stickers still clung, though faded, the rail colder than he remembered. He took a photograph, not because he needed it, but because the act of raising the camera felt like greeting an old friend.

When he sent the photo to Y/N, she replied.

I stood in the same spot last week. Maybe the bridge thinks we’re playing hide-and-seek.

He wanted to say: No, the bridge knows we’re just learning how to be apart. But he typed instead.

Then let’s make sure we don’t lose.

The auditions at the youth center came in November. Y/N’s messages turned jittery: late-night rants about memorizing lines, about stage fright disguised as bravado.

“What if they laugh?”

She texted.

They’re supposed to.

He replied.

Just not for the wrong reasons.

She replied, felt relief.

“You’re so comforting. I feel healed.”

He laughed out loud in the empty dorm kitchen, startling Jake.

You’ll get in.

He texted.

The next week, a letter arrived in his campus mailbox. Y/N’s handwriting filled the envelope in uneven strokes.

H,

I got in. They said my voice carries, which is a nice way of saying loud. Rehearsals start next month. Weekends in the city. So you better save me a café seat or I’ll haunt your darkroom.

P.S. Don’t tell anyone, but I think the audition went well because I imagined you in the audience.

—Y/N

He held the letter long after he had finished reading, the paper softening under his fingers. He tucked it into the shoebox beside the cassette tape.

That weekend, he walked the city streets with his camera but every photo he took seemed to bend toward her: a girl waiting at a bus stop, hair loose over her shoulders; a sticker peeling on a lamppost, shaped accidentally like a heart; the shadow of two hands almost touching on a subway pole. He developed them knowing they weren’t about strangers at all.

December brought snow to the city, light at first, then heavy enough to muffle traffic. Heeseung spent nights in the darkroom, the red bulb haloing his hands, prints curling on drying racks. Y/N sent him a photo of her breath fogging against the bridge rail, a mittened hand tracing a star into the frost.

Our constellation survived the cold.

He typed back.

It always will.

But when he put the phone down, he felt the ache of how often “always” meant “not right now.”

Spring crept in. Y/N’s rehearsals grew longer, her messages shorter. Heeseung’s assignments piled up, exhibitions looming. The bridge waited, but less for them, more for the memory of them. When he thought of it now, he didn’t imagine the two of them standing there. He imagined himself alone, hand on the rail, knowing she had stood there the week before or would the week after.

And yet, in their rare calls, the rhythm returned as if nothing had changed.

“You sound tired,” she said once.

“I am. But in a good way.”

“Good. That’s the only kind that’s allowed.”

They laughed. And for a few minutes, the city and the town folded together, and the distance felt like a trick of perspective, a photograph taken from too far away.

But when the call ended, the quiet filled in again.

By the end of that year, both knew, though neither said it aloud, that something was slipping. Not affection, not care. But the easy dailiness. The “look what I saw” texts, the bridge meetings, the certainty that the other would always be just around the corner.

Now there were corners they couldn’t turn together. And though they pretended otherwise, both of them felt it.

The exhibition was still growing, but the exhibits had begun to look different. Not a shared ribbon in a window, but a shoebox on a high dorm shelf, a letter folded twice, a photograph of frost where two hands had once overlapped.

Unfinished, unspoken. Waiting.

The second year of university arrived like a tide. Heeseung barely noticed the summer vanished before he was back in classrooms, balancing critiques and freelance work. His professors pushed harder now. “Stop recording what you see,” one said, tapping her finger against his print of a crowded subway car. “Start deciding what you want the world to mean.”

It wasn’t easy advice. Meaning didn’t always arrive with light. Sometimes it arrived late at night when he couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling while a cassette tape spun beside him. Sometimes it arrived in a letter written in Y/N’s messy handwriting, a doodle of a bridge in the corner.

Y/N’s life shifted in its own messy orbit. She had graduated high school, diploma wrinkled in her grasp as she leapt down the stage steps. Her friends cheered. She laughed through most of the ceremony, but when she found Heeseung afterward, taller now, the city already clinging to his shoulders, she blinked back something heavier than laughter.

She stayed in town at first, adrift but buoyant. A café job three days a week, tutoring kids from the neighborhood two evenings, rehearsals at the youth center on weekends. She told Heeseung in a letter that her schedule looked like a puzzle box someone had kicked apart.

But at least it’s colorful.

She wrote.

He pinned the note above his desk until Jake muttered, “You’re going to end up living in a paper wall.”

“Better than glitter,” Heeseung shot back.

Jake only pointed at the disco ball. “Blasphemy.”

Heeseung’s photographs began to find small audiences. A street portrait series won a student competition; a gallery downtown offered him half a wall for a week-long exhibition. He stood in the white room on opening day, nervous, watching strangers tilt their heads at his prints.

One showed a child pressing her palm against aquarium glass. Another, two bicycles leaned against the same pole, chains tangled. A third: the bridge rail at dusk, the sticker constellation faded but still visible. Heeseung hadn’t titled it. The placard beside it read simply: Untitled (Home).

When Y/N came to see the exhibit at the weekeend, she tilted her head like everyone else, but her voice cut straight through the white silence. “You cheated. That’s not untitled. That’s us.”

He smiled. “It’s both.”

She grinned, proud. “Good answer.”

They walked the gallery together. She pointed at strangers, whispering fake backstories: “That guy is secretly a magician. That woman has seventeen cats.” He tried not to laugh too loudly, but she nudged him until he did.

When they stopped in front of the bicycles, she squinted. “You put this here just to make me jealous. Admit it.”

“Of what?”

“Of bikes having a better relationship than me.”

He rolled his eyes. “You don’t need a bike for that.”

“True,” she said. “But bikes are loyal.”

He wanted to tell her she was wrong. She was the loyal one, more than anyone he’d ever known, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked if she wanted to get dinner, and they spent the evening in a cramped noodle shop, steam clouding the windows until they both looked like sketches of themselves.

Their lives ran in different rhythms. Heeseung traveled with his camera: a seaside wedding, a countryside fair, a commissioned shoot for a local magazine. His weekends blurred into train rides and darkrooms.

Y/N stayed bright, restless. She tried guitar lessons again, volunteered at a children’s summer camp, even dyed the ends of her hair a reckless pink that faded to orange within a week. She sent him photos of every phase, scrawled captions across the margins.

Do not laugh at my mop head. Okay laugh a little.

Y/N drifted in and out of short romances the way some people tried on thrift jackets: curious, hopeful, and always a little skeptical of the fit.

The boy from the café was first. He worked the evening shift, had a smile like a practiced commercial, and thought the world revolved around playlists. For a few weeks, they walked each other home, sharing earbuds. He sent her songs with lyrics underlined in the notes app, as if music might do the confessing for him. She liked the attention, the warmth of it, but it ended when he asked her to skip rehearsal for his soccer match.

“I can’t,” she told him, apologetic but firm.

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

“Because it’s mine,” she said, and realized even as she said it that he would never understand.

She broke it off the next day, with a smile so soft he thought she was joking until she walked away.

The second was a boy from the youth center, a guitarist with calloused fingers and a laugh like static. He wrote her name on the corner of his notebook, over and over, as though repetition would make permanence. They dated two months, the longest stretch, and she let him carry her bag sometimes, though she teased him for looking like a pack mule.

But his temper showed in small bursts: snapping when she arrived late, sulking when she laughed too loudly with friends. Once, after rehearsal, he muttered, “Do you always have to be the center of attention?”

She tilted her head, smiled sweetly, and answered, “Yes.” It was the truth. It was also the end.

The third wasn’t really dating at all. Just a boy in her tutoring class who liked to walk her to the bus stop, who tried once to hold her hand. She let him, briefly, but it felt like wearing gloves in summer: unnecessary, uncomfortable. She slipped her hand free and joked, “I’m allergic to clinginess.” He laughed, not realizing she meant it.

Each time, she wrote to Heeseung less about the boy and more about the aftermath, not the heartbreak, because there wasn’t any, but the hollow feeling of not quite belonging.

H, They keep wanting me to shrink.

She scribbled once.

Like I’m supposed to fold myself into their pockets. Do you think I’m too much?

He answered with a photograph. A sparrow caught mid-flight, wings blurred into light. On the back he wrote: Some things only make sense when they’re moving.

She stuck it to her ribbon and didn’t ask again.

Still, when she called him late at night, her voice carried both defiance and doubt.

“They all want me to be quieter,” she sighed, “Like I’m supposed to come with a volume knob.”

“You don’t,” he said, firm.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Thanks. That’s why you’re my favorite person.”

The words hit the same way they always did: too much and not enough. He pressed his palm against the camera beside him as though it might steady the ache.

Letters became rarer, but heavier. She sent him a ribbon once, torn from the café’s delivery box, with “For exhibition expansion” scribbled on it. He mailed her a print of a city streetlamp haloed by fog, writing on the back: EXHIBIT L: WAITING, UNAMED.

She called the night it arrived. “It looks lonely,” she said.

“It’s not,” he replied. “It’s holding space.”

“For what?”

“For whatever comes back.”

Silence hummed, long and careful. Then she whispered, “You’re too good at this.”

He smiled faintly, though she couldn’t see. “At what?”

“Making things sound like hope.”

By their third year apart, they had grown used to the pattern: weeks without contact, then sudden bursts of closeness, long phone calls that stretched into dawn.

Once, she called from the city after rehearsal, her voice exhausted but exhilarated.

“They let me sing the opening this time,” she said. “I forgot the words halfway through, but I hummed until they laughed and clapped anyway. Maybe I should only hum.”

“Maybe you should trust yourself,” he said.

She groaned. “You’re insufferable when you’re right.”

“Then stop asking questions you already know the answers to.”

She laughed, tired and soft. “Fine. Next time I’ll only call to brag.”

“I’ll allow it,” he said.

Their laughter overlapped across miles of wire, filling the distance like a bridge rebuilt in sound.

But when the calls ended, the silence remained. Each of them carried the other like a weight tucked into a pocket: not heavy enough to break, but always there.

Heeseung’s shoebox exhibition filled with more prints, more letters. Y/N’s ribbon by the window sagged under the weight of taped photos and notes. Neither collection was complete, and both of them knew it.

Still, they kept building.

Because to stop would have meant admitting that what they had was already past. And neither of them, not yet, could bear to close the door on what still felt like possibility.

The summer festival returned to their hometown in a blaze of lanterns and oil smoke, the kind of annual ritual that pulled the streets awake. Stalls lined the main road: skewers hissing over charcoal, paper fans painted with cartoon foxes, goldfish trembling in shallow bowls. The air was thick with incense and the sharp crackle of fireworks warming up.

Heeseung had not meant to come. His parents asked, and he had hesitated, his calendar bristling with deadlines. A magazine feature in the city. An exhibition proposal. A client who wanted portraits of their newborn.

He said, “I’ll see,” but the week rolled itself over him until he was standing again on the familiar sidewalk, camera strap across his chest, as if the years had been a shutter blink.

He lifted the lens, habit stronger than hesitation. Children in colorful outfits darted between stalls, their laughter cutting through the haze. A vendor held a skewer aloft like a torch. A grandmother leaned on her cane, her smile brighter than the lantern beside her. The photographs came easily, but under each frame something restless stirred: the sense that he was circling a subject not yet in sight.

He spotted her before she spotted him.

Y/N stood near the goldfish scooping booth, her hair tied back loosely, the hem of her dress brushing her knees. She was laughing, but softer than before, as if the sound had grown selective about when to appear. A friend shoved a paper scoop into her hand; she crouched, eyes narrowing at the water. The boy she had once been with - Riki, was nowhere in sight. Neither were the others she had written about in brief, cutting letters.

For a moment, Heeseung didn’t lift the camera. He just looked. She seemed both exactly the same and utterly altered, like a melody replayed in a different key.

She turned her head then, catching him mid-thought. Her mouth fell open slightly, her hand freezing on the paper scoop. The water rippled, a goldfish darting away.

“Heeseung,” she said, his name the same shape it had always been, but fuller now, steadier.

He crossed the few steps between them. “Y/N.”

“You—” She laughed once, incredulous. “You’re here.”

“My parents bribed me with Shin ramen.”

“Good bribe.” She shook her head, still smiling. “You look… taller.”

He laughed. “I think that stopped years ago.”

“No,” she said firmly, squinting at him as if she could measure the difference. “You carry yourself taller.”

The words landed heavier than he expected. He shrugged, but his chest warmed. “And you… You look the same.”

“Liar.” She tapped the rim of the pool with her scoop. “I grew up. Unfortunately.”

He wanted to say fortunately. Instead, he crouched beside her. The crowd noise dulled for a moment, replaced by the sound of water sloshing against the plastic basin.

“Still terrible at catching goldfish?” he asked.

“Worse.” She dipped the scoop, too quick, the paper sagging instantly. “See? Hopeless.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin, and dropped it into the vendor’s hand. Another scoop was pressed into hers. He leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “Slow down. It’s not a race.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Something unspoken trembled there before she looked back at the fish. Carefully, she dipped the scoop again. The goldfish swam lazily, oblivious. With a patience she rarely displayed anywhere else, she slid the scoop under one and lifted. For a second, the paper held.

She gasped, triumphant, just as the scoop tore and the fish slipped back with a plop.

“Tragic,” he said solemnly.

“Heartbreaking,” she agreed, but she was laughing again, the fuller kind, the kind that shook her shoulders.

They stood, giving up on goldfish glory, and drifted down the row of stalls. Conversation came in bursts, filling the spaces years had left.

“How’s the city?” she asked.

“Loud. Fast. Good for pictures, bad for sleep.”

She snorted. “Sounds like you.”

“And you?”

She shrugged. “Still here. For now. I’ve been doing a little of everything: tutoring, rehearsals, café shifts. Trying things on, I guess.”

“You always tried things on.”

“Yeah, but now people expect me to keep them.” She smiled, but it tilted. “Commitment isn’t my strongest suit.”

They paused at a lantern stall, the paper globes glowing like bottled moons. Heeseung raised his camera. “Can I…?”

“You don’t have to ask,” she interrupted, the same words she had told him once before.

He lifted the lens anyway. The frame caught her face turned toward the light, her features painted in amber, her eyes glimmering with reflection. He clicked the shutter, and for the first time in months, the photograph felt like home.

Later, when the fireworks began, they found themselves at the bridge without planning to. The crowd had pulled them there, or perhaps memory had. The stickers were mostly gone now, weathered into fragments. The rail bore only faint outlines of the hearts and stars they had pressed into it.

Y/N touched the spot gently. “It’s almost clean. Like it never happened.”

“It happened,” he said.

She glanced at him, then back at the water where fireworks bloomed in colors that dissolved too quickly. “I used to think we’d always end up here. No matter what.”

“We did,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but…” Her voice caught, softened. “We’re not kids anymore.”

Silence stretched, filled with distant cheers and the echo of fireworks. She leaned on the railing, her sleeve brushing his.

“I’m moving,” she said suddenly.

He turned. “Where?”

“The city. Not yours. Different one. For theater program.” She exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Finally I decided to try being serious about something.”

“That’s good,” he said, though the words lodged like pebbles in his throat.

“Kinda scary, though. Leaving this place. Leaving… everything behind.” She gestured vaguely toward the rail, the town beyond, the years that lay heavy in both directions.

She looked at him then, long enough that he felt it like a weight. Her lips parted as if she might say something else, but instead she smiled, small and almost shy. “I’ll write. Sometimes.”

“Right,” he said, “and I’ll send pictures.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

The last firework burst overhead, scattering light across the river. They stood there, side by side, the bridge beneath them, the distance already growing like another season waiting at the edge of the night.

The crowd began to thin after the fireworks. Families packed up their folding chairs, children clutched half-melted candy apples, teenagers shouted their last dares across the square. The air smelled of extinguished sparklers, faint gunpowder and sugar.

“I should head back,” she murmured, but she didn’t move.

“I’ll walk you,” Heeseung said.

They left the bridge together, the sound of the festival trailing behind them like an echo. The streets grew quieter the farther they walked, lantern light giving way to the softer glow of streetlamps. Their steps fell into rhythm, the same old pace they had kept since childhood.

Y/N’s shoulder brushed his once, then again, deliberate the second time. He glanced at her, trying to catch her features. Her profile was steady, but her hand tightened on the strap of her bag.

“You’re doing good,” he said softly.

“You don’t even know if that’s true.”

“I don’t have to.”

Her laugh was short, brittle at the edges. “You always believed in me more than I did.”

He didn’t answer, because the truth of it pressed against his chest like something fragile. They turned a corner where the houses leaned closer, shadows making the street narrower.

At her gate, she stopped, her fingers tapping against the iron post. The night air hummed with cicadas. Heeseung felt the moment gather around them, heavier than silence.

She looked up at him, her eyes catching the faint lamplight. For a second, it was as if they were both standing back on the bridge at twelve, or fifteen, or seventeen, every age layered over this one, all the times they had almost said something but hadn’t.

“Heeseung,” she whispered.

“Mm?”

“I—” Her voice faltered. She bit her lip, looked away. “Never mind.”

“What?” His heart beat so loud he was sure she could hear.

She shook her head, smiling crookedly. “You’re leaving again soon. I’m leaving too. It’s… stupid timing.”

He swallowed. The words were right there, aching to be said: I like you. I always have. I don’t want us to be so far. But he saw the determination in her posture, the way she stood braced as if the world might demand proof of her decision to leave. To say it now would be to tug her back, to tie her to a weight she didn’t deserve.

Instead, he forced a small smile. “Then it’s good timing. For goodbye.”

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded. “Right. Goodbye.”

Neither of them moved. The night stretched, taut and trembling.

Finally, she reached out, hooking her pinky with his like she had when they were children. Her hand was warm, her grip firmer than before.

“Promise me something,” she said.

“What?”

“Don’t forget me.”

His throat tightened. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

She let go quickly, as if the gesture had burned. “Okay then. Goodnight.”

She stepped inside the gate, closed it softly behind her. For a moment, she lingered in the doorway, her outline framed by the dim porch light. Then she raised her hand in a small wave and disappeared.

Heeseung stood there long after, the echo of her voice clinging to him like smoke. He lifted his camera, pointed it at the empty gate, and clicked the shutter, a photograph of absence, of the thing he hadn’t said.

Later, when he developed the roll, that frame would be underexposed, nearly black. But he would keep it anyway, labeling it: EXHIBIT M: ALMOST.

Winter turned into spring without ceremony. The gingko trees budded pale green, the sidewalks grew noisy again, and still Heeseung found himself staring at his phone longer than he used to. The chats that once brimmed with Y/N’s restless stories: her half-finished projects, the café gossip, the jokes that spiraled into nonsense - came slower now, then thinner, then not at all.

At first, it was circumstance. She had rehearsals, part-time shifts, an exam looming. He had assignments, shoots, galleries to assist at. Days slipped through the sieve of “I’ll answer later” and she’ll understand.

But then a week passed. Then two.

Her name no longer floated at the top of his notifications. Her voice no longer rang into his evenings, punctuating his silence. He scrolled up sometimes, rereading old exchanges as though they were letters stored in a box, each line warming and stinging in equal measure.

He tried, once, to call. It rang four times before cutting off. Her reply arrived the next day: Sorry. Busy. Talk soon.

But “soon” stretched, elastic, until it snapped.

He threw himself into his work because that was what the city asked of him. His photographs found places to live: small magazines, gallery walls, a blog that praised his “lyrical patience.” He shook hands, accepted critiques, smiled at strangers who called his work “promising.”

And yet every roll of film betrayed him. No matter how far he traveled, no matter how different the subject, there was always one frame that leaned back toward her, the tilt of a girl’s head in lamplight, the curve of a railing against sky, the echo of laughter that belonged elsewhere.

But he stopped sending them.

Because she had stopped asking.

Y/N’s own world bloomed elsewhere. Friends saw her in the city sometimes, carrying props for a youth play, laughing with a circle of actors outside a theater’s side door. Once, Heeseung caught her name in a local newspaper clipping, not her face, just a credit, a single line at the bottom of the cast list. He cut it out, folded it carefully, and slipped it into the shoebox exhibition.

By summer, even holidays passed without exchange. No “Merry Christmas.” No “Happy New Year.” Their silence wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t anger. It was something quieter, heavier: a distance that grew not from malice, but from life pulling them in directions that didn’t allow room for bridges.

Heeseung returned home once that year. The town looked the same, stubborn in its refusal to change. The bridge still stood, stickers weathered into ghosts. He pressed his palm against the railing, the metal colder than he remembered, and wondered when it had last carried her weight.

The water below moved without care for who came or didn’t.

He took a photograph anyway: of the empty span, the rail without hands, the air without voices. The print developed dark, almost empty, the kind of image critics would call a study in absence. He titled it only for himself: EXHIBIT N: SILENCE.

And when he filed it into the shoebox, he realized the lid closed easily again. Not because the box had grown lighter, but because the weight inside had settled, pressed flat by time.

So close, and yet, so far.

⸝⸝ part 1 here!

& part 3 here!

& part 4 here!

⸝⸝ pairing: heeseung x afab!reader (ft. riki)

⸝⸝ status: completed (started since 15/09/25)

⸝⸝ synopsis: You grew up side by side with Lee Heeseung: books carried home from school, stickers pressed to the bridge railing, summers that felt endless. He took pictures of everything, but mostly of you. Years passed. He left for the city, you moved away, and what was once everyday turned into silence. Until the night you walked into a gallery on a rainy street. Walls lined with photographs: your laughter, your childhood, your life seen through his eyes. And suddenly you weren’t just looking at art. You were standing in the middle of a love that had always been there, waiting.

⸝⸝ genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, coming-of-age, slice of life, fluff, angst, mutual pining

⸝⸝ warnings: long stretches of emotional angst!!!

⸝⸝ wc: 8.6k

⸝⸝ a/n: okay hi!! thank you so much for reading this chapter 🥹 i really wanted it to feel like that weird, sharp summer when everything starts changing and you don’t have the words yet.

p.s. i promise there’s more coming. thanks for being here with me!! 🫶 pls let me know — comments + reblogs honestly keep me writing 💌 divider by @cafekitsune and @omi-resources

THE SECOND ROLL

The summer between fifteen and sixteen tasted different. Not sweeter, not bitter, just… sharper. Cicadas droned as if their throats knew something the children didn’t, and the air felt restless, waiting.

By September, Heeseung wore a new uniform. The blazer sat stiff on his shoulders, the tie knotted carefully by his mother’s hands. He looked older when he checked the mirror, though to himself, he felt exactly the same. His camera strap dug into the line of his collar as he slung it on, habit refusing to let newness erase what was constant.

Y/N, meanwhile, stepped into her last year of middle school. She twirled in her new skirt the morning of orientation, sending him a blurry photo through text:

[Image: Her reflection in a convex bus-stop mirror, hair in pigtails, the hem of her uniform swaying] Caption: Look! Official middle school menace

He saved it. He saved everything.

High school was louder than he expected. Not with noise, though there was plenty of that, but with ambition. His classmates talked about cram schools, college prep, part-time jobs. Everyone already seemed halfway to somewhere.

Heeseung moved through it quietly, taking notes in neat script, speaking only when he knew the answer. His shyness sharpened into reserve, though those who bothered to look closely could still find the gentle humor, the playful streak that showed itself like sunlight through blinds. Most didn’t bother.

What they did notice is the camera. At first, it was a curiosity. Later, it became an identity.

“Photographer,” some called him, half-mocking, half-admiring. He took it in stride, though he didn’t yet know if that word would ever belong to describe him fully.

Y/N’s last year of middle school, in contrast, was a carnival. Her texts painted the picture:

We elected a student council president who already got caught napping in the music room Someone brought fireworks to gym class (don’t ask) I joined drama club. Today I played a tree that fell asleep mid-scene. The teacher said it was “innovative.”

She darted from club to club, friend group to friend group, never staying still long enough to let one version of herself harden. Heeseung imagined her flitting through halls like a gust of air that rearranged everyone it passed.

On weekends, when schedules allowed, they returned to the bridge. It felt smaller now, though not weaker, like a childhood toy you pick up after years, surprised by how light it is.

One October afternoon, the bay reflected the sky’s gray. Y/N arrived balancing an ice cream cone, already dripping. She handed it to him wordlessly, then licked the second one she bought for herself.

“You don’t like chocolate,” he reminded her.

She shrugged. “It was brown. I wanted to eat something brown.”

He chuckled, holding the cone awkwardly as he shifted his camera strap. She leaned against the railing, watching gulls wheel above the water.

“High school making you mysterious yet?” she asked, glancing sideways.

He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m built for mysterious.”

“You could be,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just stop answering questions so fast. And wear more black.”

He laughed, the sound low and embarrassed. “You’d still know everything.”

“Of course.” She grinned, wide and careless. “I invented you.”

The sentence lodged in his chest. He wanted to say: No, you discovered me. But the words stayed behind his teeth.

Instead, he lifted the camera. She didn’t pose, didn’t even notice at first, licking ice cream, leaning forward, her hair catching the faint wind. He clicked the shutter. Another entry for the shoebox. Another exhibit in the exhibition that only he visited.

They still wrote, but the letters grew thinner. Y/N’s handwriting sprawled larger, filling the page with fewer words. She sent doodles of classmates, inside jokes scribbled in the margins.

One letter read:

H,

Middle school teachers think we’re scary. We made a substitute cry today (don’t worry, she laughed later). I’m learning the guitar. My fingers hurt.

Riki says I’ll never get it but we’ll see.

—Y/N

Riki. The name appeared casually, like a stone dropped in passing. Heeseung circled it with his pen, not sure why.

His own letters remained detailed, deliberate:

Y/N,

The photography club finally let me print on glossy paper. It changes the way shadows behave, like they’re alive. I want to show you.

There’s a stray cat near the school gate. It won’t let anyone close, but today it let me sit nearby. Maybe patience works after all.

—H

She replied a week later, two lines only:

Send me the cat next time.

Also glossy shadows sound dramatic, you’re dramatic, I approve.

He folded it into the shoebox, but the paper felt thinner in his hands.

In November, he entered another contest, regional this time. The theme: Journeys. He submitted a photo of the bridge at dawn, empty except for a single sticker glinting under the rail.

Weeks later, his name was called for second place. His photograph hung in the city hall foyer for a month, strangers pausing to look, tilting their heads as if the bridge belonged to them too.

Heeseung didn’t tell Y/N right away. He didn’t want to sound like he’s bragging. But she found out anyway, someone from her school saw the photo and recognized the bridge. She burst into his inbox:

EXPLAIN. YOU’RE IN A GALLERY AND DIDN’T TELL ME???

He replied with humbleness:

It’s not a gallery. Just city hall.

But when they met that weekend, she insisted on seeing it. They walked through the quiet marble building together, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

She stopped in front of the frame. The photo glowed under glass: the bridge at dawn, soft fog, a sticker clinging like stubborn hope.

She folded her arms, pretending to be an art critic. “Hmm. Promising young artist. Terrible at self-promotion.”

Heeseung tried to hide his smile.

Then she softened, tilted her head, and said quietly, “You made it look like the bridge is alive. Like it’s waiting for us.”

His throat closed. He only nodded.

By winter, the distance between them is harder to ignore. She was busy with rehearsals for the drama club, with friends who dragged her into karaoke booths, with Riki - whose name now showed up in her texts and letters like punctuation.

He, meanwhile, spent hours in the darkroom, perfecting exposures, experimenting with angles, studying the way light fractured through glass. His classmates asked him to take pictures of their soccer games, their concerts. He agreed, but it felt different from photographing Y/N. With them, it was just documentation. With her, it was devotion.

On New Year’s Eve, fireworks scattered over the bay. Heeseung stood on the bridge with his camera, trying to capture the explosions reflected in the water. Y/N arrived late, hair mussed from running, cheeks flushed.

“You should’ve waited,” she panted.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

“Of course I came.” She bumped his shoulder, then turned her face up to the sky. “Look, make a wish.”

The fireworks cracked open above them, gold raining down. He looked at her instead of the sky. She was lit by the bloom of light, eyes wide, mouth parted in awe. He didn’t need to make a wish. He already knew what his was.

But he didn’t say it. He just clicked the shutter.

Later, when the film developed, the fireworks blurred into white streaks. But her face was sharp, illuminated. He wrote on the back: EXHIBIT F: DRIFTED, BUT STILL HERE.

Spring broke open like a door kicked by laughter. Peach blossoms freckled the sidewalks, uniforms shed their winter layers, and everything smelled faintly of pencil shavings and hope. Y/N’s messages arrived like sparrows: short, frequent, chaotic.

I cut my bangs with sewing scissors, send help Drama club made me a lamp in act two. I deliver light with my whole body. Oscar worthy. Riki says my guitar playing could make a dog cry (compliment?)

Riki’s name appeared often now, not as a headline but as a kind of weather inside her sentences. When Heeseung read it, he felt the smallest tilt in the floorboards and steadied himself without making a face.

On a Saturday in April, Y/N texted.

Come to my school spring festival? pls? i’m doing a skit and then… idk, just come.

Heeseung then took the bus across town with his new DSLR camera in a padded bag, palms a little damp, shirt too carefully ironed for a middle school (that was not even his old school) event.

The middle school courtyard was a maze of booths. Paper lanterns bobbed from string lines, paunchy goldfish crowded plastic basins, a boy in a fox mask hawked skewers like a condemned poet. The stage had been assembled out of scuffed platforms and optimism; a handmade banner announced SPRING FEST!! in letters that leaned as if they were catching their breath.

“Photographer,” a teacher said with relief, spotting the camera. “You, please, capture the ‘spirit’.” Heeseung nodded and made no promises he couldn’t keep.

He found a corner near the stage where he could see without being seen. The drama club skit was first: something about a sleeping moon and three mischievous clouds. Y/N came on as a cloud wearing an enormous white tutu and a headband with cotton glued in a halo around it. She looked ridiculous and radiant. When she pretended to float across the stage, the tutu caught a draft and bubbles like laughter itself. Heeseung photographed the moment her eyes found the edge of the stage lights and widened, caught in her own weather.

After the applause and the bows that refuse to end, she skittered offstage, spotted him, and tackled him with a hug that collided his camera strap into his chest. “You came!”

“Your cloud was… persuasive,” he managed, stepping back to check that the lens cap was still on. “You generated weather.”

“Obviously.” She swiped at glitter that had colonized her cheekbones. “Okay, okay. Stay. I’m singing later with… some people.”

“Some people,” he repeated, mild.

“Drama friends,” she corrected, then wiggled her fingers and rushed away, leaving a comet trail of cotton fuzz.

Heeseung drifted through the festival like a moth who understood the assignment. He photographed a little kid coaxing a goldfish with a paper scoop, the sudden flick of a tail when the paper dissolved; two friends sharing a skewer too spicy for either of them, faces contorting to hide the burn; a teacher who couldn’t help dancing to the music from the speaker even while pretending to be in charge. He kept the light soft and close. He let the day come to him.

Just before sunset, Y/N returned to the stage, this time without cotton, guitar strapped high. Three others flanked her: two girls from drama, and Riki, hair messy in the intentional way, bass slung low. He had grown since the last time Heeseung met him at the bridge. He greeted the mic with the lazy confidence of someone who believed sound would like him.

Y/N leaned into her mic. “This next one is about… trying your best?” she said, then laughed at herself, turning the laugh into a chord. The audience cheered because they would cheer for her even if she declared a national lettuce holiday.

They began. The first chords stumbled and then stood. Y/N’s voice wasn’t trained; it was something better: honest, a little scratch at the edge like she had been laughing too much. She sang as if confiding. Riki’s bass threaded under her, anchoring her small storms. The other two added harmonies that made the chorus lift like birds.

When they reached the middle eight, Y/N closed her eyes to find a note and Riki watched her with a look that landed like the softest punch to the rib. Not a smirk. Not conquest. Something gentler, admiration with its defenses down. Heeseung took the picture because his hands knew to keep moving even when his chest paused.

After, while the crowd dissolved into sugar and conversation, Y/N reappeard, cheeks hot with excitement. “Did you see? Did you hear?”

Heeseung held up the camera. “I got the moon-cloud and the honest lamp. And the song.”

She groaned and covered her face. “If I look ridiculous, you’re deleting it.”

“You don’t,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I won’t.”

Riki wandered over, pushing hair from his eyes, two paper cups of soda balanced in one hand.

“Thirst aid,” he announced. He noticed Heeseung’s camera and flicked his chin up in greeting. “You take pictures for the newspaper or something?”

“For himself.” Y/N thumped Heeseung’s shoulder with friendly brutality. “He’s good. Don’t smirk.” She grabbed a cup. “Thanks.”

“I wasn’t smirking,” Riki said, but he was, and then, just as quickly, he wasn’t. He stuck out a hand. “Riki.”

“Heeseung.”

“Hyung,” Riki added after a beat, grin widening in a way that made the “older-brother” honorific sound both respectful and lightly teasing. “We stole your cloud.”

“She’s… not mine,” Heeseung said, more to the air than to the boy. Riki’s look flickered, he caught it, considered it, let it go.

“Anyway,” Riki said, pivoting, “Group photo?” He whistled, and the “some people” arrived in a flurry, two girls still wearing smudged stage makeup, one boy with a fox mask pushed up on his head. They piled in around Y/N, who yanked Heeseung by the sleeve until he was standing behind the group. Riki pressed his phone into a passing teacher’s hand, but Y/N insisted, “No, let him.” She nodded at the camera on Heeseung’s chest.

He swapped to a wider lens and steps back. “Ready,” he said, and they exploded into unmanaged joy: hands in the air, tongues out, the fox mask askew, Y/N in the middle, head thrown back. He clicked three frames, one after the other, because life blinked. The last was the best: Y/N’s face turned toward the right where Riki leaned into the frame, both of them not quite looking at the camera, as if the real photograph was happening in the split second they were about to share.

He sent her the file that night, along with a few others: the cotton halo, a tiny kid asleep under a table with a bag of goldfish like a warm water moon. Her reply was immediate:

THESE ARE SO NICE!!! I have cheeks I didn’t know I owned Can I post? Promise I’ll credit “Exhibition of us” (LOL)

He typed, erased, typed again. Sure became Sure. Post what you want. I’ll make prints for you. He added a second message: Save the halo. It has court-appointed authority now.

Sir yes sir. Goodnight, patient eyes.

He stared at the words a long time. He pretended they were not a benediction that ached.

The weeks after the festival arranged themselves into an ordinary he would later call a pattern. Y/N’s world accelerated: after-school rehearsals, impromptu street soccer in socks that ruined themselves, karaoke booths lit like fever dreams, long strings of messages at midnight that often ended with Oops fell asleep and began with Okay where were we. Riki was frequently there: Riki says this song is too sentimental; Riki lost rock paper scissors so he’s buying us tteokbokki; Riki dared me to dye the ends of my hair blue. She never did, but she sent a picture with a pen cap tucked behind her ear like a pretend streak, grinning as if she had gotten away with something anyway.

Heeseung’s days, by contrast, concentrated. He assisted the photography club advisor with cataloging prints; he learned to load film in the dark without panicking; he shot the boys’ volleyball matches and discovered that the sound of a perfect block was oddly satisfying to photograph; he saved for a better lens. When he wrote to her, he told the truth in descriptions: the way morning light ran downhill along the row of bikes at the school gate; the particular dignity of the custodian lining up chairs after an assembly; the grey cat who now tolerated having its picture taken from exactly one meter away and no closer.

He didn’t write the other truth, the one that ended with a period that looked like a stone: the exhibition was filling with pictures of a girl who was no longer looking at him when she laughed.

By early summer, Y/N and Riki were no longer something that might happen. They were a thing the hallways acknowledged. The way she said his name softened at the end. He learned the choreography of their orbit: how he waited for her at the bicycle rack, how she darted ahead and then walked back backwards to talk, how he took her bag without the two of them making it looked like a tradition.

“I like him,” she said one evening at the bridge, as if discussing a stray dog that had chosen her. Her voice was not shy. It was earnest in a way that could break you if you were not careful. “He’s… ridiculous.” A beat. “And kind.”

Heeseung looked at the water until he could put a smile on properly. “That’s good.”

“He told me my guitar playing doesn’t scare dogs anymore. Improvement.”

He searched for the joke and found enough. “Did he test it? Scientific method?”

“Controlled variables: same dog, same time of day, same terrible song,” she said, and grinned. “Independent variable: me.”

There was a little lilt on the last word, as if she surprised herself. He photographed the gull that chose that moment to carve itself through the sky; he photographed the sticker whose edges had frayed into a softness he admires; he did not photograph the way her face changed when she talked about Riki, because some changes you learned by heart or you did not learn at all.

He saw them together more. Not because he sought it, he avoided seeking it, but because their world was a sieve and everything threaded through. Riki teaching her to throw a baseball with her whole body; Y/N teaching him to lose at arcade basketball with dignity; the two of them splitting a drink and pulling faces at each other’s straw etiquette; a bus stop moment too far away to hear where she flipped his cap around and he bowed in exaggerated gratitude.

Heeseung took so many pictures that he began to worry about the line between devotion and trespass. So he drew one. He portraited their public happiness, the festival laughter, the bus stop from a respectful distance, the row of shoes at her doorstep that betrayed his presence by shape and size but never his face. He catalogued without stealing. And when he developed the frames where their heads leaned together, where intimacy fogged the air, he kept only the one where her smile tilted toward the horizon instead of toward him. The others, he convinced himself to let go, small white flags dissolving in the developer, a tenderness even in renunciation.

He gave her prints sometimes. She taped them to a ribbon that hung by her window, a line of weather pinned in place: cotton halo, fox mask, laughing kids under a table. The ribbon turned slowly in the breeze, an exhibit in a museum that pretended to be a room.

“Keep this one for you,” he said, handing her a small zine he made from contact sheets: a half-dozen images folded into a miniature book. The cover was the bridge rail, close-up enough that the paint might have been a blue sea.

She flipped through, stopped at a photograph of her hand, palm up, catching rain. “You caught the drops,” she murmured.

“You also caught them,” he answered before he remembered that restraint was a skill.

She looked up, amused, then tender. “Thank you, curator.”

In late July, the heat became a persona. People spoke of it like a demanding relative: Did you feed Heat? Have you apologized to Heat? The town moved slower, chose shade first. Y/N’s messages ebbed: camp, family trips, long afternoons where nothing existed beyond popsicles and fan blades.

One night, Heeseung messaged.

You alive?

A minute, two, five.

My phone melted. Then un-melted. Then Riki kidnapped me for ramen. Liberation soon.

He typed, deleted, typed: Bring me contraband noodles.

I bring you air. Fresher. Meet me tomorrow? Bridge? Sunset?

He went early because patience was not incompatible with eagerness; it was only better at hiding. He leaned on the rail and photographed the way humidity made the distance soft enough to bite.

She arrived with hair damped from a too-fast shower, a plastic bag twisted around her wrist.

“For you,” she said, setting down a paper fan painted like a koi. “I couldn’t bring the ramen. I ate it. But the fan looks like something that will forgive you when you’re dramatic.”

“Thank you.” He fanned her first. She closed her eyes, let her face tilted into the small wind, said, “Saint.”

They talked about nothing and about the future like it were both a rumor and an appointment. She said she might audition for a bigger youth theater group in the city across the bay. He said his club advisor knew a freelance photographer who needed an assistant for weekend shoots. They exchanged the unimaginable, that they were imagining themselves elsewhere, and then, they exchanged gummies from a crinkled bag, arguing over which colors tasted better.

On the way home, she stopped without warning and crouched to tie a shoe that wasn’t untied. “Practice,” she said when he looked confused. “Being sensible. Riki says I forget.”

“You do,” he said, and the word held no judgment because in his mouth it meant: you made room for something besides caution.

“Then you’ll remember for both of us,” she replied lightly, like assigning homework in a class no one dropped.

He watched her run to catch the walk signal, hair sticking to her neck. He thought: I am remembering. And I am not allowed to write down everything.

Summer closed with thunder that didn’t deliver rain. Y/N went quiet for a few days. When she resurfaced, it was with a picture of a paper crane army and a caption: We’re waging peace on the math teacher. He laughed, relief loosening the seam behind his ribs.

In September, middle school became heavier for her; high school became a corridor with fewer doors for him. The freelance assistantship materialized: weekend sessions chasing a bride’s veil in wind that refused to cooperate, shooting an elderly couple who were shy of the camera until they were allowed to speak to each other instead of the lens, a street portrait series where the rule was: ask first. He learned the weight of asking, how it could make a person feel spared instead of targeted. He began to apply the rule everywhere, even to the girl he loved by archiving.

“Can I take this?” he asked one evening as they sat on the curb eating steamed buns too hot for sense, grease wrapping their fingers in light. She nodded without glancing up. He photographed the way the bun opened under a thumb, steam like a ghost leaving a mouth, the smudge of sauce on her wrist that the camera would not capture, but his memory would. He labeled it later: EXHIBIT G: WARMTH, IMPRACTICAL.

By winter, Riki was stitched into her stories with a permanence that felt almost gentle. They weren’t drama. They were dailiness: study sessions that devolved into drawing mustaches on the textbook authors; bike rides where one of them (not naming names) forgot a reflector and the other (also not naming names) returned at dawn to affix a ridiculous glittering sticker in its place; the shared playlist that kept being hijacked by whoever got to the speaker first.

Heeseung saw them at the bridge sometimes. She brought Riki there like you brought someone to a childhood tree-house: tentative, proud, testing. They hung a new sticker, next to Heeseung’s and Y/N’s. Riki signed the napkin “certificate” with an exaggerated autograph; Y/N stamped it with cocoa again, her tradition refusing to be sensible. Heeseung photographed from the far end, then walked the long way home, counting his breaths like currency.

The confession came, as with most things in Y/N’s life, in the middle of something messy.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of winter day when the wind couldn’t decide what direction it wants to take, so it rushed everywhere at once. Y/N and Riki had been tasked with carrying back a crate of soccer balls from the field. Neither of them was doing it properly: she insisted on balancing three of them against her hip, and he kept trying to juggle one on his knees while walking. Predictably, one ball slipped, bounced once, and rolled down toward the curb.

“Got it!” Riki shouted, chasing after it with a grin so wide it looked like a dare. He leapt, caught the ball against his shin, then somehow managed to trip on his own shoelace and tumble straight into a puddle left from yesterday’s rain.

The other students roared with laughter. Y/N dropped her armful of balls, sending them skittering everywhere like startled sheep, and ran down to him, not to scold, but to laugh with him. She offered him her hand, palm out, wrist streaked with blue marker ink from drama club props.

“You look like a drowned cat,” she teased, voice bright.

“And you like picking them up, apparently,” he shot back, gripping her hand.

When he stood, their faces ended up far too close, his wet hair dripping onto her forehead. The laughter around them dimmed into a blur. For a moment, the world seemed to wait.

“I like you,” Riki blurted. The words landed with the clumsy weight of a mis-kicked ball, bouncing into the silence. “I mean… not like a friend. Like, like I like you.”

Y/N blinked, the way she always did when faced with something unexpected: twice fast, like shutters opening and closing. Then she burst out laughing, not cruelly, but as if the confession itself were a surprise gift she hadn’t known she wanted.

“You’re insane,” she said, still holding his damp hand. “But… okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, let’s try. But if you ever make me carry all the soccer balls again, we’re done.”

He grinned, dripping, triumphant. “Deal.”

The others whistled, hooted, sang nonsense blessings, and Y/N waved them off, still laughing. But when she pulled her phone out that night, the message she sent to Heeseung was shorter than usual.

He confessed lol We’re dating now I guess Don’t make that face through the phone

Heeseung read the words once, twice, again. Lol. Guess. He tried to imagine her face when she typed it: laughing, careless, maybe a little flushed. He wondered if she had told Riki about their bridge, their sticker, their museum. He wondered if Riki was walking her home now, carrying her books without needing to be asked.

He stared at the message so long that the screen dimmed and went black, his own reflection staring back at him. His ears burned as though she could still see him.

He typed: Congratulations.

Deleted it.

Typed again: I’m happy for you.

Deleted that too.

In the end, he sent:

Oh.

A single word. Bare as the bridge rail after a storm.

Minutes later, her reply came:

Don’t worry. You’re still my favorite person.

He closed his eyes. The words should have been enough. They were too much. Both.

That weekend, when they met on the bridge, she was different but not. Still laughing, still reckless, still balancing on the rail as if the drop beneath were a rumor. But when she spoke of Riki: his clumsy charm, the way he tried to teach her soccer tricks, how he carried her guitar case like it weighed nothing, there was a new brightness in her voice. A glow Heeseung recognized.

“You’re okay with it, right?” she asked suddenly, hopping down from the rail.

He forced a small smile. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You always look at me like…” She trailed off, then shook her head, dismissing the thought. “Never mind. I just don’t want things to change between us.”

“They won’t,” he said, steady but quiet. His camera strap tugged against his shoulder like an anchor.

She beamed, reassured, and slipped her backpack into his arms without asking. He held the weight, as he always had, and took the long way home after leaving her at the bus stop.

That night, he slept badly and dreamed of the bridge repainting itself: fresh blue swallowing rust, a new rail swallowing the old sticker seam. He woke with his throat thick and went to the darkroom before school, the red light and the chemical smelled like a chapel where the sermon was always about patience. He printed a photograph he took months ago: Y/N’s palm, rain beads suspended; the sticker’s soft fray; the river trying on iron-grey. He wrote on the back: Don’t repaint.

He did not give it to her. The exhibition was for keeping what couldn’t yet be said.

Near the end of middle school’s last year, the school threw a winter concert in a gym. Y/N sand harmony on a song about leaving and not meaning to. Riki counted them in, hair falling into his eyes, fingers confident on the neck of the bass. Heeseung stood near the back, lens set to f/2, ISO creeping higher than he liked, hand steady. The bridge did not physically appear in the frame, but it was everywhere: between one chorus and the next, in the way she tipped her face toward the ceiling to catch courage, in the way his shutter wanted to bless and could not.

As the last note dissolved into the thump of someone’s late-arriving footsteps, Y/N looked out over the crowd and found him. It was only a second, the kind of glance that in a different story would have been a declaration. Here, it was just proof. She smiled the small smile she gave when she recognized a thing without needing to mark it, and he smiled back, not big, not sad. Just present.

After, backstage hummed with congratulations, with paper cups, with the wet squeak of mopped floors. Riki wove through bodies and ended up at Heeseung’s shoulder.

“Hyung,” he said, easy like always. “You got a good one of the ending?”

“I think so.”

Riki scratched his neck, awkwardness making a cameo. “Send it to me? For… her.” He gestured, chin toward Y/N, who was currently attempting to bow four times to the same teacher while giggling.

“I will,” Heeseung said. He meant it.

Riki nodded, grateful, then added, “She listens to you.” A beat. “I mean- when you say she’s good, she believes you.”

It was meant as kindness, and it landed as both gift and sentence. “She is good,” Heeseung said, because the truth had never once needed his permission. “With or without anyone saying.”

“Yeah,” Riki said, and the softness from the spring reappeard for a heartbeat, the one that punched a rib gently. He clapped Heeseung’s shoulder, real, friendly, and was gone.

Heeseung sent the picture that night: Y/N mid-smile, hair caught by stage-light, a chord still vibrating in the air. He captioned it simply: For the ribbon by your window. Her reply arrived with a photo of the ribbon now heavier with winter: the concert shot clipped beside the cotton halo strip and the fox mask chaos, the bridge drawn in pen at the bottom like a signature they both recognized.

Exhibition getting crowded Don’t stop

He placed his phone face down and let the instruction fall into him like a snow that didn’t melt. He would not stop. He would keep the exhibition even when exhibits began to demand an admission fee he could not afford. He would keep it because it was the only honest way he knew to love without laying a hand: To adore with eyes and archive with care.

Outside, winter wrote its quiet on the town. Inside, in the red glow, he developed the day as if it were a roll of film with more frames than he deserves. The water hushed the pilings. Somewhere, two kids in a photograph were mid-laugh. And somewhere else, their future leaned, already asking to be looked at gently.

Winter dissolved into a brittle spring, the frost withdrawing from the earth like someone too shy to say goodbye. By then, the letters between them arrived less often. The envelopes were thinner, the paper filled more with doodles than words.

One afternoon after school, Heeseung found one letter slipped under his door, the envelope still warm from her hand. Inside, a single sheet:

H —

I learned how to braid my own hair. It’s crooked, but i like it. Riki says it looks “punk.” Do you think so?

Also, I saw our bridge in my dream last night. But this time, it had a roof. I don’t know why.

— Y/N

He folded the paper carefully and slid it into the shoebox. On the outside of the box, he wrote in pencil: Roof dreams.

That evening, he took his camera out to the bridge. The rail was rougher now, paint flaking more with each season. He pressed his hand to the iron as if it might remember hers. Then he angled the lens upward, framed the blankness of the sky where a roof might have been, and took the picture.

By May, his weekends belonged to the city. The freelance photographer, a man named Jay, had taken him on as an assistant. Heeseung carried equipment, held reflectors, and sometimes, when the man was too busy, was trusted with a second camera.

The city was louder than any cicada chorus. Cars honked like brass instruments, neon signs blinked as if trying to outshine each other, and people moved fast, their eyes always ahead. Heeseung found himself searching for the stillness he knew: sunlight slanting across stone, reflections in windows, hands brushing against hands.

One Saturday, Jay peered at the strip Heeseung had developed. It was the bridge at twilight, the crooked heart sticker glowing faintly against the blue rail. In the distance, two figures were just silhouettes.

“You have an eye,” Jay said, tapping the print with a finger. “You don’t just take pictures. You see.”

The praise landed heavily, like a responsibility rather than a reward. But it planted something too, a small root that would keep growing.

Jay encouraged him to submit to a youth art exhibition. Heeseung hesitated, then chose carefully: The photograph of Y/N with the cotton halo, the one of her palm catching rain, and the twilight bridge. He titled the set Exhibits from our territory.

Weeks later, an envelope arrived. His hands shook as he tore it open. He had been accepted, not just accepted, but awarded. His photographs would be hang in the city gallery for a month.

He sat at his desk, staring at the letter, the shoebox of photographs heavy at his elbow. He thought of telling Y/N. He thought of not telling her. He told himself she was busy. He told himself it didn’t matter. He tucked the letter into the shoebox anyway.

But she found out.

A message arrived that evening in a burst of exclamation marks.

LEE HEESEUNG. MY PARENTS SAW YOUR NAME IN THE NEWSPAPER. YOU ARE FAMOUS. YOU DIDN’T TELL ME.

He typed:

It’s not famous. Just an exhibition.

Then, another text:

Sorry.

Her reply:

Don’t be sorry!!! I’m proud of you!! Can I see them? Can I be your manager when you’re rich? I’ll take 80%

He didn’t know what to do with the word proud. It felt heavier than the letter in his lap. He didn’t know how to tell her that he had only ever pressed the shutter because she was in the frame.

They met the next weekend to visit the gallery. The train ride was quiet. She chattered at first about exams, about Riki trying to dye his hair blond and being caught, about a teacher who mispronounced “photosynthesis” and would never live it down. He nodded, smiled, stored the words.

When they arrived, the gallery felt too white, too polished. His photographs looked smaller framed than they had in the darkroom, surrounded by so much blankness. Y/N walked right up to the bridge photo, tilted her head, and whistled low.

“You made it look like it’s waiting for something,” she said.

“Or someone,” he almost replied. Instead he shrugged. “Light was good that morning.”

“Liar.” She glanced sideways at him, eyes bright with the kind of mischief that used to be for playground dares. “You’re hiding something in there.”

He pretended to adjust the focus on his camera. “Maybe.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, like she was trying to read the negatives behind his eyes. Then she smiled too widely and said, “Well, when you’re super famous, don’t forget your childhood manager.”

Her laugh bounced through the sterile gallery like it belonged more than his photographs did.

That summer, their meetings on the bridge were rarer. Once, twice. She arrived with her shoes dangling from her fingers, barefoot on the wood, and told him she tried karaoke with Riki and nearly broken the microphone.

“I think the machine gave up on me,” she said, grinning, but her eyes flicked away quickly.

He didn’t ask. He never asked about Y/N and Riki unless she offered. He photographed her silhouette against the water instead, her reflection broken by the ripples of passing fish.

“Do you ever get bored of looking at me?” she asked suddenly, surprising him.

He lowered the camera, startled. “What?”

“You’re always taking pictures.” She balanced on the railing, arms spread like wings. “Maybe I should start charging too. Manager’s fee, you know?”

He shook his head. “No… You’re not… boring.”

She studied him again, eyes sharp, almost searching. “Good answer,” she said, hopping down. But the way she turned away made him think she wanted something more than an answer.

That night, he developed the photograph. Her reflection in the water was fractured, doubled, like two versions of her were trying to exist at once. He wrote on the back: EXHIBIT H: THE GIRL WHO MULTIPLIES WHEN SHE MOVES AWAY.

Autumn arrived with the smell of roasted chestnuts curling through the streets. This year felt different, because Y/N was no longer in middle school. She wore her first high school uniform, the blazer a little too stiff on her shoulders, the skirt hem brushing knees that couldn’t sit still.

Heeseung saw her for the first time in the new uniform on the morning of the opening ceremony. They were now in the same school. She was standing by the school gate, tugging at her collar with mock despair, waving frantically when she spotted him.

“Look!” she called, twirling once so the pleats flare. “Do I look scholarly yet?”

Heeseung lifted his camera without thinking. Click. The photo captured the way her grin outshone the seriousness of the blazer, how she somehow made the uniform look like play instead of formality.

For him, the year had already been in motion: second-year classes, heavier textbooks, new club duties. He photographed the relay team that afternoon, crouched near the track as runners blurred into streaks of color, the baton flashing gold midair. But even as he tracked the motion through his lens, part of his mind stayed on that earlier image: Y/N at the school gate, spinning in her new uniform as though daring the year ahead to keep up with her.

And of course, Riki entered the same high school as her. Y/N didn’t come to the bridge as often anymore. When she did, it felt less like ritual and more like scheduling, like she was fitting him in between rehearsals and laughter that wasn’t his.

On one of those rare evenings, they leaned on the railing together, watching the river darken. She hummed something under her breath, a melody unfamiliar to him.

“New song?” Heeseung asked.

“Yeah. Riki wrote it. It’s silly, but it gets stuck in your head.” She kicked her heels lightly against the rail. “He’s good at that. Like you are with pictures. Always catching things before anyone else sees them.”

He nodded, hid behind the camera again. “Can I…?”

She sighed, then smiled. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

But he did. He always would.

The shutter clicked. The image that developed later showed her backlit by streetlamps, hair tangled, mouth half-open as she hummed. The bridge rail glowed faintly in the frame, the heart-sticker nearly gone now, only a whisper of adhesive left.

He wrote: EXHIBIT I: SO CLOSE, YET ALREADY FAR.

When he filed it into the shoebox, the cardboard lid no longer fit easily. The box was swollen, restless, like it might burst with everything it was holding.

And Heeseung thought: Maybe that’s what love is—trying to keep safe what refuses to stay still.

By the time summer broke open again, Y/N and Riki had become a fixture, like graffiti on a wall the town had stopped trying to scrub away. Everyone knew them: the high school girl with too much laughter in her lungs and the boy who grinned like he was in on a joke no one else had heard.

They were easy to spot: two bikes leaning against the same lamppost, two sodas bought from the vending machine, two shadows lengthening across the playground. When she talked about him, Y/N’s sentences grew brighter, her hands gesturing in midair as though Riki’s energy leaked into her veins.

“He taught me a song,” she told Heeseung one afternoon, plucking at her guitar until the string wailed out of tune. “It’s dumb. But kind of sweet. Want to hear?”

He nodded, as he always did. She strummed, offbeat but fearless, singing a silly chorus about paper planes that never landed. Her voice wobbled, but the joy in it was steady.

When she finished, she looked up, cheeks flushed. “What do you think?”

He hesitated only a second before answering honestly. “You sound like yourself.”

She grinned, satisfied. “Good. That’s the point.”

But even easy graffiti faded. By autumn, the paint began to chip.

The first crack was time. Riki’s soccer practices grew longer, his schedule heavier with tournaments. Y/N complained, half-joking, about being a “soccer widow.” Heeseung listened, offering small hums of sympathy.

The second crack was temper. Riki teased, sometimes too sharply. Y/N snapped back, sparks flaring into arguments that fizzled as quickly as they caught. Once, Heeseung watched from across the courtyard as she stormed off, her braid swinging like a whip. Ten minutes later, she was laughing at something he said, the fight already reduced to ash.

And then there were her texts, still frequent, still playful, but with edges.

Riki says I’m impossible. I told him that’s my brand. …Do you think I’m impossible?

Heeseung typed back carefully.

No. I think you’re reasonable.

She replied with a single heart, but he could almost hear the sigh behind it.

The cracks widened in little moments.

It happened in winter, when the air was sharp enough to cut.

Y/N and Riki, walking side by side, but not in step. She was talking, hands animated; he was silent, shoulders hunched.

Then Riki stopped, right there on the corner. His voice rose, not shouting, but sharp enough to cut through traffic. Y/N froze, her arms falling to her sides. No one heard the words, but he saw the way her chin lifted, proud even as her eyes wavered. Riki rubbed a hand down his face, said something else, and she turned away, crossing the street alone.

It was a week later when Y/N came to Heeseung.

The evening was brittle with cold, the river hard and dark under the bridge. She arrived in a hoodie too thin for the weather, sleeves pulled over her fists. For once, she didn’t say hello. She just leaned against the railing, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the water.

“He broke up with me,” she said finally. Her voice was flat, as though rehearsed.

He didn’t pretend surprise. “I’m sorry.”

Her laugh cracked, humorless. “Don’t be. It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. He said I don’t take things seriously. That I laugh too much, that I never know when to stop joking.” She tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Maybe he’s right. I can’t even keep my plants alive.”

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that her brightness wasn’t careless, her laughter was the reason the world kept turning. That her chaos was the reason the bridge breathed. That seriousness wasn’t the only way to love. But his throat closed around the words.

Instead, he asked quietly, “Do you believe him?”

She blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Do you believe him? That you’re… not serious enough?”

Her lips parted, then pressed together. She shook her head, quick and stubborn. “No. I’m just… me.”

He let out a slow breath. “Then that’s enough.”

Her eyes glistened, and she turned away quickly, biting the inside of her cheek. “It hurts more than I thought it would,” she admitted in a whisper.

He didn’t answer. He just let the quiet hold them, the camera heavy in his lap but unused. Some moments, he knew, were too raw to capture. They needed to breathe free.

When she finally stood, her eyes were rimmed red, but her chin was lifted. “Thanks for… just being here.”

Always, he thought. Out loud, he said, “Anytime.”

A week later, Heeseung found someone else on the bridge. Riki.

It was late afternoon, the sky already dimming. Riki leaned on the railing, kicking a loose pebble into the river below. His usual grin was gone; in its place was a tired frown, the kind that belonged to someone who had thought they were older than they were.

Heeseung approached quietly, unsure if he should speak. But Riki noticed and straightened, forcing a small smirk. “Hyung.”

“Riki.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the creak of the bridge in the wind. Then Riki sighed. “She told you, right?”

Heeseung nodded.

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Riki muttered, tracing the rail with his thumb. “She’s… she’s amazing. But she deserves someone who can keep up with her. Someone who doesn’t get frustrated when she’s… all over the place.” He laughed bitterly. “Guess that wasn’t me.”

Heeseung studied the boy, noting the slump of his shoulders, the way his bravado had leaked out. For the first time, he saw not a rival but just another kid, trying and failing to navigate something too big.

“She’ll be okay,” Heeseung said softly.

Riki glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness. Then he nodded. “Yeah. She will. Probably sooner than me.”

They stood in silence a while longer. Finally, Riki straightened.

“Take care of her, hyung. Not like…” He waved a hand awkwardly. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Heeseung said.

That night, Heeseung developed a photograph he had taken without meaning to: Y/N sitting on the steps, her face turned down, hair shadowing her expression. The light had caught the curve of her jaw, the shimmer of a tear just before it fell.

He labeled it carefully: EXHIBIT J: EVEN BROKEN, SHE SHINES.

He slipped it into the shoebox, closed the lid, and let the ache settle.

The heat of summer finally softened, and the gingko trees that lined the school courtyard began to blush yellow. Their fan-shaped leaves fluttered down in lazy spirals, catching in the folds of Y/N’s blazer. She stood beneath one of the trees with her lunchbox in hand, watching the upperclassmen run practice laps around the track. From across the field, she spotted Heeseung easily, his stride longer, more assured than it had been just a year ago. He looked older somehow. Not just taller, but steadier, as if the world had already started to listen when he spoke.

Her classmates gathered in small groups, laughing about clubs and cram schools, trading notes about which teachers were strict and which weren’t. Y/N nodded along, but her eyes kept drifting back to the track, searching for the familiar curve of his shoulders among the uniforms.

When the whistle blew and Heeseung crossed the finish line, he looked over, caught her gaze, and grinned, out of breath, sweat beading at his temples. Y/N’s heart gave a strange little jump she wasn’t prepared for. She wave back too late, her cheeks warm, and quickly sat down, pretending to fuss with her lunchbox.

Later, when the sun started to sink and the air cooled, they walked home together. The sidewalks were littered with yellow leaves, crunching under their shoes. Y/N hugged her books to her chest, still thinking about the way he had smiled at her.

It reminded her, suddenly, of a different walk home years ago: fifth grade for her, sixth for him, when he used to carry her notebooks because she always dropped them halfway across the bridge. She remembered the way she had teased him, skipping a few steps ahead and calling over her shoulder, “You look like my husband carrying groceries!” She had laughed until her stomach hurt, and he had flushed scarlet but never once let the books slip.

Now, the books were pressed against her own chest, but the weight of the memory made her stumble for a second. She glanced sideways at him, taller now, his shoulders broader. He didn’t look like the boy she had teased about playing “married for five minutes” anymore, but the warmth in his smile still the same, steady and patient as the boy who used to trail behind her with arms full of homework and quiet devotion.

For a moment, she almost called him by the same nickname she had invented that spring: “husband”, just to see the way his ears turned red. But the word stuck in her throat. Instead, she kicked a stray chestnut down the sidewalk, laughing at the hollow sound it made, and said, “Feels like we’ve been walking home forever, doesn’t it?”

He glanced at her, then back at the road ahead. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Forever sounds about right.”

“You look like you were going to faint out there,” she teased, trying to keep her voice light.

“I’m fine,” he said between sips of water. “Second year… it’s a lot. But you’ll get used to it.” He glanced at her, his expression softening. “How’s high school recently?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s… different. I feel like a middle schooler snuck into the wrong building.”

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured, and this time his voice carried an easy certainty that almost made her believe him.

They walked in silence for a while. The sky blended into shades of pink and violet, and the streetlamps flickered on one by one. Y/N kicked at another stray chestnut on the ground, watching it skitter ahead of them.

“You’re not scared?” she asked suddenly.

Heeseung thought for a second. “I am. But… I think that’s part of it. High school’s supposed to be bigger, scarier. Maybe it means we’re supposed to grow into it.”

Y/N chewed on his words long after they parted ways. That night, as she laid her new uniform neatly over the back of her chair, she realized that growing up didn’t just mean heavier books or stricter teachers. It meant noticing things she hadn’t noticed before. Like the way her best friend’s smile could make the autumn evening feel warmer, or the way she wanted to linger at the gate just to catch his eye again.

She pulled her blanket tight around her shoulders, stared at the ceiling, and whispered to herself, “Maybe the rest of high school… will be different.”

part 2 ends here guys !!! tysm for loving and supporting part 1, i'll update part 3 soon if people love this ;;

⸝⸝ part 2 here!

& part 3 here!

& part 4 here!

⸝⸝ pairing: heeseung x afab!reader (ft. riki)

⸝⸝ status: completed (started since 15/09/25)

⸝⸝ synopsis: You grew up side by side with Lee Heeseung: books carried home from school, stickers pressed to the bridge railing, summers that felt endless. He took pictures of everything, but mostly of you. Years passed. He left for the city, you moved away, and what was once everyday turned into silence. Until the night you walked into a gallery on a rainy street. Walls lined with photographs: your laughter, your childhood, your life seen through his eyes. And suddenly you weren’t just looking at art. You were standing in the middle of a love that had always been there, waiting.

⸝⸝ genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, coming-of-age, slice of life, fluff, angst, mutual pining

⸝⸝ warnings: long stretches of emotional angst!!!

⸝⸝ wc: 9.5k

⸝⸝ a/n: this one’s super close to my heart — i got inspired by fujii kaze’s my eyes adored you and it kind of spiraled into this long, soft, childhood-friends-to-lovers, slow burn. btw, way too much yearning 😭 i poured so much love (and pain) into writing this, so i really hope you guys feel it too. pls let me know what you think + reblogs/feedback would mean the world <3 hope you enjoy!! divider by @cafekitsune and @omi-resources

THE FIRST ROLL

The summer that Heeseung turned twelve, the cicadas began earlier than anyone expected. Their chorus poured down from the trees like someone shook a thousand rattles at once, filling the afternoons with a shimmer that made the air feel heavy. Heeseung spent the first week of vacation with his knees stuck to the living room floor, sketching in the margins of his notebooks and fiddling with the second-hand camera his uncle left behind after a visit. It was a small point-and-shoot, the casing scuffed, the strap knotted where it had torn once. But to him it was not junk. It was a promise that he could hold time in his hand, that he could catch a moment and keep it for later.

He took pictures of the ordinary: his older brother snoring with an arm flung across his face, the condensation dripping from a glass of barley tea, the shadow of laundry lines stitching across the wall. He didn’t think of these as art, he didn’t even know the word belonged to him. He only thought: What if I forget this?

That was when he first saw her, again, not the first time in life, but the first time his eyes noticed in the way that camera lenses taught noticing. Y/N, eleven. She carried a backpack that looked too heavy for her shoulders but she dragged it with a cheerfulness that defied the burden, humming to herself in a way that made the sound skip with every step. A thin ribbon tied crookedly around her wrist, the color already faded from too much washing.

The stairwell of their apartment building echoed with the sound of her sneakers. She stopped halfway, dropped her books in a flurry, sighed, and plopped down to reorganize the mess. Instead of groaning, she laughed, loud and careless, like the mistake was a gift instead of an annoyance.

Heeseung, balanced on the landing above with his camera dangling from his wrist, thought: I should take this picture. But he didn’t raise the camera. He just watched, storing it the way a collector placed something on the highest shelf.

The next day, their paths lined up again, both headed to school. He was in sixth grade, she was in fifth, one year apart that felt like an entire kingdom of difference to children. She skipped steps, half-ran to keep up.

“You’re tall,” she announced like an accusation, not even glancing at him before adjusting the straps on her school bag.

“And you’re loud,” he muttered, embarrassed by the attention.

She laughed as if he complimented her. “Guess we’re even.”

Heeseung - long-limbed and soft-voiced, the kind of boy who raised his hand a beat late but knew the answer and Y/N - quick on the turn, a magnet for scraped knees and unlikely luck. The buildings along the bay kept the wind like a secret, and after school the two of them walked the same route because the town didn’t offer many choices. The bridge they crossed was a simple thing: paint flaking, rail cool under their fingers, but children did not need grandeur to crown a place. To them, it was the center of the world. A gull yelped; water panted at the pilings; someone’s radio carried a far-off chorus of something a little sad. They walked, and the day kept going because they asked it to.

On the first walk together, Y/N decided they should trade snacks.

“Trade you for the grape,” She was already holding out the orange, eyes bright with the assumption he would agree.

Heeseung, who claimed he didn’t like grape jelly on principle, surrendered his triangle. He accepted the orange half she pressed back, and, like always, handed her the bigger wedge. No one discussed it. That was just how it had always been. She bit into the wedge, juice spilling down her chin. Instead of wiping it neatly, she tilted her face to the sky and let it dry sticky, laughing when the cicadas seemed to cheer.

During their free time, Heeseung carried his little point-and-shoot. He was careful with it the way you’re careful with small animals: alert, protective, tender. He photographed anything that might evaporate: steam rising from cart noodles, chalk dust hanging like a constellation over the blackboard, a spray of glitter that escaped a crafts classroom and colonized the hallway. And sometimes, when she wasn’t looking, he photographed her. The target of his attention was never startled or posed; the picture found her mid-gesture: fingers worrying the corner of a worksheet, shoe heel tapping a rhythm nobody else heard, head tipped to listen when even teachers gave up.

“Again?” she said the first time she noticed, trying to squint at the tiny screen. “What do you do with all those?”

“Keep them,” he said, as if the notion was simple enough to carry in a pocket. “If you keep things right, they don’t run off.”

“Does it work on homework?” She grinned. “Mine seems built to escape.”

He huffed a laugh he didn’t know was charming yet. “You hand it in. That’s different.”

She gasped. “Betrayal.”

On the bridge, their ritual was a kind of make-believe that returned like a tide.

“We’re married for the next five minutes,” she announced solemnly, “just to cross the road,” always the judge and the mayor and the main actress in this town. He played along without making a face; he had already learned that certain games were not about winning so much as learning where her laughter lived.

“Then I’m carrying the groceries,” he said, nudging her school bag up his shoulder.

“You’re carrying my books,” she corrected, and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow like she had seen in a drama once. It fit too easily, which was the first truth neither of them could name. “You have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk too,” she added, a rule she heard somewhere, the kind that pretended to be superstition but was actually a recipe for feeling safe.

“Okay,” he said, and did not say: I would, even if you didn’t tell me.

The bridge became their clock. Some days they ran across it, racing the gulls. Other days they leaned against the rail and spit sunflower seeds into the water, watching the ripples widen. Heeseung found himself carrying her books more often than not. She didn’t ask; she just placed them in his arms mid-conversation, distracted by some other thought, and he took them without protest.

On rainy days, he tilted the umbrella so it covered her more, leaving his own shoulder damp. She didn’t notice at first, too busy complaining about wet socks, but later, when she did, she said, “Thanks,” soft, like she handed him a marble she didn’t want to lose.

On hot days, he bought a popsicle from the corner shop and split it with her, peeling the wrapper carefully so it didn’t drip onto her wrist.

She groaned at the flavor. “Rainbow sherbet? It looks like a clown exploded.”

Heeseung smiled, a shy lift of his mouth. “Tastes like summer.” He offered her the first bite, watching her face tilt toward the sweetness, the exaggerated way she pretended to gag and then admitted, “Okay. Maybe just a little like summer.”

There was a softness to his habits that looks like shyness until you got close enough to feel the intent. Heeseung was not loud about anything. His fondness arrived like light through blinds: striped, patient, inevitable. “Take mine,” she said once, pressing a hair clip into his palm because his fringe kept tickling his eyelids. It was a ridiculous pink, shaped like a strawberry. He wore it all the way to his home, mortified and secretly pleased that the world could hold both states at once. Later, he clipped it to a ribbon loop inside his camera case, talisman beside talisman. Their stairwells smelled like dinner and detergent. His mother’s voice carried upward when she sang absentmindedly; her mother shuffled in slippers with a whispery grouse. Y/N left doorframes crooked with stickers: stars and cats and speech bubbles with no words. Heeseung’s father straightened the mail in the lobby slots as if the act would keep the town decent. People knew each other by the sound of their footsteps. The elevator paused more often when a neighbor’s baby slept.

When the school festival arrived, their classmates and teachers asked for volunteers, she grabbed his sleeve first.

“We’re doing the picture booth,” she said, all decision. “Paper crowns, fake bouquets, and a sign that says ‘SAY SOMETHING TRUE’ instead of ‘SAY CHEESE.’”

He blinked. “People don’t like truth.”

“They do if you make it simple.” She was already drawing a crown in the margins of her planner, points cockeyed. “They’ll like your pictures. You always make things look… the way they feel like they should.”

He looked at her. She was serious in a way that made him forgot how to balance his pencil. “Okay.”

The booth was a hit because it was earnest. Couples piled in; toddlers squeaked; a pair of janitors posed with mops like swords. Y/N made ridiculous faces and then very graceful ones, because she could, because she contained multitudes and refused to sort them by occasion. Heeseung took picture after picture until the camera they borrowed from school smelled faintly of warmed plastic and they had to switch batteries.

When nobody was waiting, she tied a paper crown around his head with yarn. “For the photographer king.”

He groaned. “Don’t.”

“Then take one with me.” He resisted, but she yanked him into the booth. They barely fit on the stool, shoulders pressed together. The flash popped, catching them mid-laugh, mid-lean, mid-breath. On impulse, she tipped her forehead against his just as the shutter snapped.

Later, when he printed the strip, that was the frame he couldn’t stop looking at. Two kids, eyes wide open, foreheads touching like they were testing the weight of a promise they didn’t understand yet. He tucked it between pages of a science book he pretended to understand. The page crinkled infinitesimally, a secret he could find by touch.

He had not named the feeling because he was good at leaving living things to choose their own names. He only knew it made the ordinary part gold around the edges. The way she pronounced his name when she was amused. The habit she had of tying hoodie strings into fishbones when she was thinking. The tiny freckle under her left eyebrow that looked like punctuation. He collected these like currency and spent none of it.

The first time she got into trouble for talking back, they walked across the bridge slower, words gone from her throat like she used them up. He didn’t ask what happened. He passed her his half of the orange without looking, pretended not to notice when she took all the pulp with her tongue and left him the rind. He saved the peel under his shoe for a whole block as if keeping something from falling apart might keep everything else together, too.

“Thanks,” she said, finally. It was a small word that trips everyone, but she said it like she meant to catch him before he hit the ground. “If you were more fun, I’d have to invented you.”

“I’m fun,” he said, insulted on a molecular level.

She barked a laugh that surprised even her. “You’re very serious.”

He tried on a scowl and failed. “I’m… careful.”

“Same thing,” she said, and meant it kindly. “It’s okay. We need one of those.”

He took her school bag and did the sidewalk rule and watched a boat nose into the bay with a stubborn grace he admired. Careful meant steady. Careful meant someone else could be messy and the floor would still be cleaned.

The year turned. They kept being themselves. At a class picnic, Y/N challenged three boys to a footrace she lost spectacularly and announced herself champion of the consolation prize. He photographed the moment she collected it: paper ribbon, crooked, triumphant. On a winter weekday, he learned to thread a needle so he could put a button back on his cardigan; she watched like it was a performance and clapped at the final knot. Spring arrived with ant armies and peonies, and they argued about which was cuter: the ant dragging a crumb larger than its body, or the round-shouldered flower head trying to remember how to open.

“The ant has a mission,” he claimed.

“The peony is shy,” she countered, which was apparently a valid argument in a world as elastic as theirs.

And always, the bridge. The water that did not care about their homework load. The hand that found his sleeve when a dog barked. The books he carried as if they were rare crystals. Make-believe spouses for five minutes at a time, long enough to learn where you’d stand if you had to stand for real.

Time kept moving, messy as chalk dust. Y/N’s father got a job that didn’t pay more but asked more hours; her mother started taking evening shifts twice a week; the building’s elevator broke for half a month and everyone learned new curses. On a humid morning, Y/N’s family packed boxes to shift across town for a better deal on rent and a kitchen window with a kinder view. It was only two bus stops farther, adults said. It was the length of an entire afternoon, children knew.

They stood on the bridge and inventoried what would change. He would be middle school; she would still be elementary for one more year. Their routes would diverge like forked lightning. She placed a sticker under the railing where nobody would think to look: two tiny star outlines, holding hands.

“For cartographers,” she said, as if the drawing could keep the map obedient.

“What if somebody peels it off?” he asked.

“Then they’re rude,” she said, which, in her mouth, was the meanest word she knew. “We’ll put another.”

They crossed one last time together from school like it wasn’t last at all. He carried her books. She tried to balance on the curb with closed eyes, failed, opened them, grinned, tried again. The town looked the same because towns were excellent at pretending.

On the evening before the movers came, she stopped by his door with two things: a folded paper crown and the photo booth print from the festival, the one where their foreheads nearly touch.

“For your archives,” she said, teasing, but the look she gave him was clear, like someone placing a pebble on a cairn so the path stayed visible to anyone who needed to pass. “So you don’t forget what to keep.”

He did not tell her that forgetting would require a surgery he was not eligible for. He took the crown with both hands, because paper was an honest burden, and he tucked the photo under the magnet that held up the electricity bill. His mother pretended not to see. His father hummed approval at the neatness of the magnet, not the picture.

Moving day announced itself with the clatter of tape and the soft thuds of decisions. Cardboard boxes arrived like small blank rooms; Y/N’s mother sat at the kitchen table sorting utensils with the authority of a librarian, while Y/N spun between rooms, promising to be helpful and somehow accomplishing exactly the most and the least at once.

Heeseung knocked at ten, holding his camera in one hand and a bag of bakery buns in the other. The door opened on a rush of warm air that smelled like soy sauce and something sweet. Y/N was barefoot, hair caught up by a pencil, a streak of dust on her cheek like a comical war-paint.

“You brought tribute,” she said, eyeing the buns with reverence.

“For the movers,” he lied, and she grinned because they both know exactly how many would survive her.

Inside was organized chaos. A box labeled ‘BOOKS (Y/N)’ was stuffed until its seams looked like they were practicing diplomacy. Another, ‘KITCHEN,’ was stacked with neatly wrapped bowls, the kind with blue fish swimming around the rim. A third sat empty, a marker lying across it like a baton ready to be passed.

“Here,” Y/N said, thrusting the marker at him. “Your handwriting is nicer. Label ‘IMPORTANT USELESS THINGS’.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Important or useless?”

“Yes.”

He wrote it exactly and drew a tiny cartoon crown in the corner. She noticed and didn’t comment, but the corner of her mouth lifted as if some invisible weight just shifted to a more comfortable shoulder.

For an hour they moved in and out of rooms carrying the past in armfuls. He learned how many hair ties a single person could lose and then find in one morning. He learned that she had a collection of tiny erasers shaped like fruit, each placed in an egg carton with more care than exam papers ever received. He learned that her mother refused to throw away microwave manuals because “you never know when you’ll be tested.”

In her room, the walls were paler where posters once hung. Sun had made silhouettes of her old obsessions: dancers mid-leap, a shelf of famous book covers, an explosion of postcards from places she hadn’t seen yet but had decided to miss in advance. The ceiling sticker constellation she placed above her pillow had shifted north, a galaxy that migrated to the corner after an ambitious breeze.

“Help me with this,” she said, plopping onto the floor beside a box of stickers and washi tapes. “We need to decide what survives.”

Heeseung sat cross-legged, steadying his camera against his knee. He hesitated. “Do you want… pictures? Of the room?” He gestured, meaning: of this exact arrangement of absence and mess.

She considerd. He expected her to wave it off, wind didn’t often stand still on purpose. But she nodded, a small, serious bob of her head. “Yeah. For the exhibition.”

“What exhibition?”

“The one we build when we’re rich and bored,” she said briskly, but there was a catch of something softer below the joke. “Our exhibition!”

He smiled. “Curated by two famous retired—”

“Whatever we want,” she finished, satisfied.

He stood and stepped back, not staging anything, just choosing what to honor: the pale rectangles where posters shielded the paint; the pencil tick-marks on the wall where her height was recorded, inches turned into witnesses; the window that framed the hint of bay like a polite cousin peering in; the sticker constellation, half-migrated, stubborn; the bed stripped down to its bones; the corner where a single bobby pin waited like a secret time capsule. He photographed it all. Softly, not greedy. The camera made a sound that felt a little like permission.

“Take one of my mom,” Y/N said, tugging him to the kitchen. “She won’t pose, but if you tell her it’s for the appliance manual—”

“I’m not scamming your mother.”

“You’d be saving history.” She leaned around the doorway and said loudly, “Mom! Heeseung’s making a manual for the microwave.”

Her mother looked up, suspicious and then amused, and gave a formal nod that would do for both refusal and consent. Heeseung lifted the camera. The frame was simple: a woman at a table, steam from tea curling like handwriting around an unspoken word; hands arranging rubber bands and twist ties with the gravity of someone who had always known how to make little order in a large world. The light from the window sketched a soft ladder up her cheek. She looked right at him for one frame, and in the photo her gaze was not stern, not coy, just exact.

After, she spread an orange peel into a star on the table and said to Y/N, “Tell him to take one of you, too. The helpful daughter.” The last two words arrived with a smile full of theatrical doubt.

Y/N obliged by putting on a bright play of competence: lifting a lamp, taping a box, writing with confident brains. Then, tiredness huffed out all at once. She slumped in a doorway and let her head thud back against the wood. He took that picture: the honesty of the slump, the pencil still somehow on her hair, the dust-streaked cheek, the half-moon of a smile at the corner of her mouth because even exhausted, she met the world like a co-conspirator.

“If you print that, I want two,” she said, eyes still closed.

“Why two?”

“So I can give one to Future Me,” she said, opening one eye. “So she remembers I’ve always been ridiculous and brave.” The eye closed again. “And that doorframes are comfortable.”

He stored the sentence with care. He would not know for years how often he would return to it.

By noon the movers came - men with shoulders like wardrobes who somehow moved like cats. It was funny. Neighbors appeared and disappeared: Mrs. Han with a plate of cut fruit, the twins from 3B who shouted good luck like they were blessing a ship, the student with headphones who nodded as if the beat demanded ritual. Y/N’s mother pressed envelopes of cash into the movers’ hands.

In the hallway, Y/N taped a final label to the Important Useless Things box. She snuck in a last item: the paper crown, folded flat, taped to the underside of the lid with a gentle care most people reserve for heirlooms.

“For luck,” she said when she noticed him noticing. “For the exhibition.”

“You sure?” he asked. “It’s yours.”

“It’s ours,” she corrected, as if pluralizing was the simplest kind of magic, and he decided to let himself be convinced.

When the door closed behind the last box, the apartment sighed. Y/N walked a slow circuit, trailing her fingers along the wall. In the empty bedroom, her sticker galaxy was the last holdout. She tested a corner with a fingernail, and a star peeled up obediently. She paused, then stoped.

“I’ll leave it,” she said. “Let the new kid inherit the sky.”

They stood at the window: just glass now, no curtains. The bay flashed its coins; the bridge hunched in patient blue. He pulled the camera up and lowered it again.

“Not this,” he said, and she knew what he meant.

Some things you kept with your eyes and the place in your chest that hummed.

At the building entrance, the neighbors assembled for the last small ceremony: a chorus of admonitions and blessings disguised as practical advice. “Call when you arrive.”; “Text if you need a trolley.”; “Don’t forget plant food.”; “Remember new bus routine.” Y/N, thrumming with a child’s terror and excitement at once, shook hands like a mayor and then finally turned to Heeseung.

“Walk me to the bridge?”

“Obviously.”

They went. The day had that shine that chose certain endings. The sticker under the rail was still there, slightly smudged. She pressed her thumb over it and then left a cloud of her fingerprint behind, a tiny fog that would evaporate before the end of the hour.

“Proof we were here,” she said softly. “Just in case the bridge gets ideas.”

“Bridges are loyal,” he said, not sure whether it was true but wanting to enroll reality in the cause.

On the other side, the moving truck idled, a beast with cardboard teeth. Y/N’s parents were already installed in the passenger seat like generals surveying a campaign.

Y/N squeezed his elbow once, quick and brave. “Write to me.”

“I will.”

“And send pictures.”

“I know,” he said, as if he didn’t make pictures the way other people made lists.

She hopped into the back seat, leaned out the window, and remembered something. “Hey, married for five minutes?”

He laughed, startled at how relief could sound like laughter. “We have three minutes left.”

They were wed by the road’s indifference and the gull’s unworried stare; then divorced at the truck’s turn signal. The city folded around the absence. Heeseung stood with his hands in his pockets until the truck was a small square, then a line, then a memory the air could carry without effort.

On the walk back, he took pictures of the empty places: the patch of hallway wall where her stickers sunned; the space on the mailboxes where her family name was no longer wedged between the Hans and the Parks; the scuffed corner of the stair where she always clipped her bag. It felt dangerous and correct, like telling the truth did when you were not sure it would be received kindly.

That evening, his mother slid a bowl of soup toward him and said, in a voice that hid smiles inside scolding, “You did a good thing today.”

“I carried boxes,” he said.

“You carried more than that,” she returned, and let him go back to his room.

The next day, the street felt wider. The place her bicycle used to be chained looked undecorated. The stairwell was quieter. He photographed the empty patch of wall where her stickers once clung and was embarrassed by his own sentimentality until the picture developed and the absence looked like a sentence that still meant something.

He walked home from a later bell now, along a route that delivered him to a different end of the same bridge. The water still practiced being the color of pewter. He considered mailing her the photograph of the empty patch and decided not to; it felt like telling on a heartbreak that was behaving itself. Instead, he recorded all the new small things he would want to tell her the next time she was walking beside him: the shop that changed owners and now sold paper lanterns; the cat with three white whiskers and one black who decided the bus stop bench was an altar; the old woman who watered the sidewalk before dusk because she said the pavement slept better when it was cool. He saved it all like a man harvested rain.

That evening, he wrote. Two lines, three, never heavy, never asking. They remained what they had always been: close enough to want to reach, far enough to learn how to speak across a gap. Children, not yet required to call their patience by its grown name.

Y/N,

I forgot to tell you that the ant at the bus stop dragged a whole chip today. It was bigger than its whole body and the wind kept changing direction, but the ant kept going. I took a picture and then I helped it with a breath. (Is that cheating?) The lantern shop is still closed at strange hours but now the owner leaves the little ones lit in the window like they’re guarding the door. I think you would like their faces. Also, your sticker galaxy migrated again. It’s in the corner over the door now. Weather patterns. Write back when you find the new kitchen window. I want to know the view.

—H

He hesitated. Too earnest? Too much? Then folded the paper. He slipped in two photographs: the ant with the chip (a blur, but with heroic intent) and the empty patch of hall wall where a pale square like a ghost of a poster floated. He thought about writing a caption and didn’t, because pictures were better when they trusted the person holding them.

He left the letter on the hall table for the morning post and went to bed under a sky of nothing, comfortable with that for the first time because he knew the new kid would have their stars inside her old room.

Her reply arrived three days later, slanted handwriting careening toward the margins:

Heeseung,

New kitchen window looks at a laundry line. Every day at 3 p.m., the neighbor hangs exactly six shirts and two towels. If it rains, he stands and watches them dry anyway. (My mom says his wife is very patient.) Our living room smells like cardboard and garlic. Every step makes a sound like a laughing cat (floorboards are a comedy duo). Enclosed: one very important photograph. It is the view from our bus stop bench. The bench is pretending to be a ship. You can tell because it is brave and a little splintery.

P.S. Ants accept help. That is a science fact.

—Y/N

Enclosed was a picture she took with a disposable camera bought at the corner shop. It was predictably disastrous. The horizon tilted like the bench was drunk. A stranger’s elbow took up an aristocratic corner of the frame. But the light was generous, and the bench did look like it could set sail if the road ever turned to water. He laughed, then put it on his wall beside the crown’s empty spot and found, to his surprise, that the bench stabilized the whole room.

They wrote like this for months, letters sneaking between texts like older siblings in a busy family. The texts collected small weather: memes, jokes, crisis about a math test, a picture of a sandwich shaped like a dinosaur because her mother was expressive in lunches. The letters held the slow things. In one, he enclosed a photograph of a pair of umbrellas left open to dry, one bent like a knees-out dancer, one straight-backed and new. In another, she slipped in a pressed clover between wax paper and warned him not to eat it no matter how much it looked like a cookie.

He began, without fanfare, to teach himself more than the point-and-shoot would allow. He found an old manual SLR at a secondhand store, its body dinged but sound, and spent a week’s saved allowance on it with the grime-haloed pride of an honest purchase. He learned the hello and goodbye of shutter speed and aperture, how the world changed when you asked it to be slower. He convinced the school custodian to let him into the darkroom after hours, a privilege granted because he always returned things better than he found them and because he once fixed the custodian’s radio by hitting it exactly wrong.

The first time he threaded film onto the reel, he swore softly and dropped it in the developer at an angle that would make a real photographer faint. The first prints were overexposed, the second too shy, the third suddenly right for two frames and then a disaster. But in one bath he saw Y/N’s mother’s hands clasped, veins making rivers; in another, the sticker under the bridge rail glowed as if it generated its own light. He felt unreasonably tender toward chemistry. It gave him back what he loved in a way he could share.

When the town’s youth center announced a small photography contest, theme: “Ordinary Days”, his hands went cold for a moment and then warmed again. He made three prints that felt true and laid them in the submission box like someone laying bread at a shrine. He said nothing to anyone. He hated the way hope made your mouth write checks your heart had to cash.

The results were announced a week later in the community room, in front of a kiosk that still advertised a bake sale from two autumns ago. He tried to look like someone who just happened to be passing. His picture of two umbrellas won third place. A woman with a bright scarf and an opinion about everything made a small speech about how the bent umbrella “reminds one that usefulness and tenderness are not mutually exclusive” and the photographer “has a patient eye.” He heard none of it past the first word: patient. He didn’t know his eyes could be called that; he flew on it for the rest of the day like a paper airplane that accidentally caught a thermal.

He texted Y/N a picture of the certificate, angled so the calligraphy looked accidental. She responded with forty-seven exclamation points, a voice note that was just her clapping too close to the mic, and then: you better put that in the exhibition.

He told her about the lady with the bright scarf; she told him about a plant at their new place that refused to die no matter where they moved it, the kind of stubbornness she respected. He sent her a print of the umbrellas with a penciled note on the back: sometimes bent looks like honesty. She sent him a polaroid of her knee after tripping during a three-legged race, captioned: sometimes bent looks like me.

They see each other as often as bus routes and parents permitted. The first reunion was at the bridge because rituals exist so you didn’t have to invent them on days when your throat was already doing too much. She arrived breathless, higher ponytail, thicker laugh. He arrived with the careful awe of someone who knew how quick a year could be.

“You got taller,” she said, sounding offended.

“You didn’t,” he said, sounding consoled.

They walked across in both directions twice, because some things deserved a repetition. The sticker was gone, peeled by rain, a rude hand, time. She mourned it theatrically for thirty seconds and then dug in her pocket for a new one.

“We bring our own constellations,” she announced, tucking it under the rail at a slightly different angle. He photographed her hand there, the sea making its little clapping sound against the pilings, and tucked the picture away for a day when he would need reminding that newness and sameness could hold hands.

On another visit, they tried to make their old games fit.

“Married for five minutes,” she said on instinct, then hesitated, and he felt the hitch like the car of a train catching. The game was too small and too big at once.

He rescued them both by deadpanning, “We’re getting a divorce in three. I want the orange wedge.”

She laughed till she hiccups, the tension dissolving into pure childish air. “You can have the wedge. I want the umbrella with personality.”

When it rained, he positioned the umbrella to shield her more, and she pretended not to notice in a way that said: I see you, and I will keep your gentleness unwrinkled.

The letters carried them through the school year. In them, she was both the chaos and the apology for the chaos. She mixed up due dates and then threw herself into extra credit with the zeal of a tiny saint. She started leaving herself notes in weird places: taped to the ceiling, rolled into a sock drawer like messages in bottles.

Reminders work better if they feel like surprises, she wrote him, and he considered tattooing the sentence on his brain.

In his letters, he was both observation and the warm edge of judgment that belonged to care. He wrote of the custodian’s radio, of the way the lane lines near the crosswalk got repainted not quite straight, of a flock of sparrows that seemed to hover only around the noodles shop at three p.m. There’s a schedule for everything if you’re patient enough to find it, he told her.

Is there a schedule for wind? she asked.

He wrote back, You. Tuesdays and always.

A winter sat in between them. Snow mad architecture of silence. He photographed children’s mittens left like flags, a single bicycle refusing to surrender its seat, the way breath made the city looked like it had a soul (or little ghosts). She mailed him a drawing so bad he kept it with superstitious reverence, the “bridge” in it warping like a dream, their stick-figure selves with hands that were too big, hearts tiny and ferocious in their chests.

On an early spring afternoon, they met at the photo booth attached to the corner store: a newer machine than the school’s, brighter, ruthless, less willing to let you got away with being earnest. “One frame,” she declared. “Truth instead of cheese.”

“Last time you said that, you invented a religion.”

“Found one,” she corrected, pushing coins into the slot.

They crammed inside, elbows, knees, old comfort. The screen counted down. She put a paper crown on his head again. A different one, smaller, the points soft with use. He pretended to groan and then the flash caught him mid-surrender. In the second frame she stuck a sticker on his cheek; in the third he stuck one on hers; in the fourth she leaned her forehead to his, eyes opened because closing them now would have been a different kind of sentence. The pictures that spat out were chaotic and unkind and perfect. They each took a strip like dividing a treat.

He walked her to her bus. At the curb, she bumped her shoulder against his lightly, the same way she did in fifth grade when the teacher told her to hush and she couldn’t.

“Thanks for writing,” she said. “Sometimes I think if you didn’t, I’d forget how to look.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, alarmed.

She shrugged. “Maybe. But this way I won’t.”

He wanted to tell her something grand, something that might make her stay in this exact minute, but the bus breathed a hot sigh and the driver lifted a bored hand.

Instead, he said, “Go. The plant that refuses to die needs witnesses.”

She snorted and boarded, waving like a tiny politician. He stood on the curb with the strip of pictures in his pocket, the crown crooked on his head because he forgot to take it off, and the town’s late sunlight tried to gild everything into mercy.

Night found him at his desk, developing in a basin the picture he took of her hand under the bridge rail. As the image arrived: fingers, sticker, a smudge of her thumbprint hovering like a ghost. He felt that specific ache that photography taught him: the moment when a thing turned from proof into presence. He wrote two words on the back: we were.

He could have ended the day there, properly. Instead, he pulled out the print of the two umbrellas and wrote something new: and we are.

Two days later, a letter arrived from her with a napkin tucked inside. On it, in felt-tip pen, in heroic capital letters: THIS IS AN OFFICIAL CERTIFICATE OF OUR BRIDGE. It was stamped with a circle she made using the bottom of a cup dipped in cocoa. I found the town office, she wrote. It is my desk.

He laughed, overjoyed by the kind of governance that let twelve-year-old declare jurisdiction with a napkin. He spent the rest of the evening photographing objects as if they were citizens: the strawberry hair clip, the bench polaroid, the bent umbrella. He pinned the “certificate” above his desk beside the crown, and the corner of the room developed a polite authority.

The final weeks of spring tasted like pencils and promises. Exams loomed. He wrote less, she wrote less, but what they wrote seemed to lean harder toward each other. On the last day of school, he pocketed the camera and walked home alone across the bridge. Halfway, he stopped, leaned his elbows on the rail the way adults did, and let his eyes unfocused until the water became a sheet of moving silver. A finger tapped his shoulder.

“What a coincidence,” she said, sounding like someone who planned a coincidence the way architects planned light.

He startled and grinned and said the thing that was always true: “I was thinking of you.”

“I was thinking of fruit-flavored ice and the law that says you have to share.”

He obliged, buying the rainbow sherbet and watching her made a face before she closed her eyes and took the first bite like a dare she was giving herself. The sky was a gentle disorder of blue, the water a language they didn’t speak but understood the gist of, and the bridge was only a bridge again, no longer a border but a place to stand.

When they parted, he carried the day home in the camera and in his mouth like a secret he was not allowed to say yet. He arranged the prints later in a shoebox lined with tissue from the bakery, because sometimes sacred things required ordinary closets. On the top, he wrote a label for himself and for the future exhibition: EXHIBIT A: OUR TERRITORY.

In bed, he lay awake and listened to new release R&B songs to sleep. Somewhere down the hall, a baby fussed, then fell back into that tiny whistled breathing that he could never quite capture on film. He thought about the napkin certificate and the sticker replaced and the way her thumb left fog that evaporated before he could photograph it. He thought about how some evidences were only for those who were there. He thought: I’m learning the long way to say one thing, and in the meantime, I will keep everything.

He drifted. The camera on his desk caught the first thin light of morning like a coin. In some other part of town, a girl lay under a window that watched laundry and dreamed of a museum none of them could draw yet. Between them, the bridge held the night as if it were holding hands.

Summer arrives like it didn’t know how to whisper. The air was a thick hum of insects, the pavement glimmered like it swallowed the sun, and children’s laughter ricocheted off every stairwell in town. Y/N spent her days making games out of nothing: hopscotch boards chalked on the sidewalk, competitions to see who could spit watermelon seeds the farthest, elaborate treasure hunts that ended with someone’s lost shoelace being declared “ancient relic.”

Heeseung spent his days with his camera. He was taller now, his shadow longer on the street, but he still moved with a kind of gentleness that made him seem younger than he is. He photographed the way the light fell through laundry lines, how the heat warped the horizon into a trembling mirage, how the bridge hummed under the soles of running children. And always, he photographed Y/N whenever they met and he had the chance.

Their letters grew fatter in the summer, since they had more time, each one an envelope swelling with scraps. Y/N sent a pressed flower taped into a notebook margin, a train ticket stub she insisted was “evidence of my first great journey” (though it was only two stops to visit a cousin). She doodled strange constellations that didn’t exist and labeled them things like “The Lazy Dog” and “The Girl Who Refuses Homework.”

Heeseung sent her strips of photo booth outtakes, contact sheets filled with blurred attempts, a folded map of the bay where he circled their secret sticker spot. His handwriting was tidy, but his sentences sometimes trailed off into ellipses, as if there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t yet name.

One letter from her read:

Heeseung,

My parents say heat makes people lazy, but I think it makes me alive. Yesterday I convinced three kids to race me barefoot across the sand near the bay, and we were all slipping and yelling and it felt like the earth was laughing. If you were there, you’d have made us look heroic.

P.S. I miss our bridge. Does it miss me back?

—Y/N

He folded the letter twice, smoothed it, and whispered aloud: “Yes.” He photographed the bridge that evening, the rail glowing red in sunset, and sent it to her. On the back he wrote:

It waits like a chair you never move from the corner, even when guests come.

She replied with:

That’s the fanciest way anyone’s ever called me a guest. I like it.

In July, the sky finally broke. Clouds tumbled in thick and close, thunder sounded like furniture dragged across heaven. The bridge, usually their playground, suddenly looked fragile, like a thread stretched between two hungry mouths.

Heeseung stood under the eaves with his camera, torn between common sense and devotion. Rain thrashed the pavement, washing chalk hopscotch into pale streaks. He remembered her words: does the bridge miss me back? He thought, maybe it will, if I visit it when no one else will.

He ran.

The rain was heavy, drumming his shoulders, sliding down his lashes. By the time he reached the bridge, his shoes squelched like soaked sponges. But the bridge was still there, stubborn and true. He leaned against the railing, snapping photos. Blurred water, ripples like fingerprints, a gull beating itself skyward against the downpour.

And then he noticed something small but insistent: the sticker. Their two-star sticker, half-peeling, but still clinging, water dripping down its glossy face. He knelt, shielding it with his hand as if that could help. His heart twisted with something fierce and loyal. Even if everything peels, we can always put another.

Later, dripping in the stairwell of his building, his mother sighed at the sight of him and pressed a towel into his hands without asking.

“At least tell me you caught something worth it,” she muttered.

He developed the film that night in the darkroom, the smell of chemicals sharp. On the photo paper, the sticker appeared: stubborn, small, shining in the rain like a promise that refused to wash away. He sent the print to Y/N with a single line:

Proof.

She replied with a sketch of two stick figures holding umbrellas, drawn so crookedly the rain seemed to be falling sideways. Underneath, she wrote:

Loyal, like you.

When they met again, late in the summer, it was on a day of cicadas so loud they nearly drowned out their own voices. Y/N came running from the bus stop, hair tangled from humidity, a notebook sticking out of her backpack like a flag.

“You’re taller again,” she accused, squinting up at him.

“You’re still loud,” he countered, but his voice was softer than the words.

They walked across the bridge slowly, no hurry. She told him about her new neighborhood: the old man who fed stray cats at dawn, the girl next door who sang so off-key it made birds scatter, the market stall that sold dumplings too spicy to eat but too cheap to ignore.

He told her about the darkroom, about learning how to time exposure, about how one mistake turned her mother’s hands into ghostly blurs of light.

“It still looks like her,” he said. “Just… the part of her you see when you’re remembering.”

She listened with her head tilted, biting her lower lip the way she did when she was trying not to laugh at something that wasn’t funny.

“You make everything sound like a story,” she said finally. “Even mistakes.”

He shrugged, embarrassed, kicking at a pebble. “I just don’t want to lose things.”

“Then you’ll never lose me,” she said without hesitation. “I’m terrible at being lost.”

The sentence hit him like the strike of a bell. He wanted to take a picture right then, but the camera hung heavy at his side. Some moments, he knew, couldn’t be caught without breaking.

September arrived, and with it the quiet rearrangement of their worlds. Heeseung entered his second year of middle school, Y/N started her first year at middle school. The difference in their ages had never mattered before, but now it felt like a gap: the way his uniform looked more serious, the way his classes piled work on him like weights, the way she was still running down halls with untied shoelaces.

They still wrote. They still met when they could. But the rhythm stuttered. His new classmates teased him for carrying a camera everywhere. Hers begged her to join games and dared her into silly competitions. She started talking about new friends, about teachers she loved and teachers she hated. He listened, smiled, wrote it down to remember later.

One evening, after a long day of exams, he passed the bridge alone. The sticker was gone, washed away or stolen. He stood there for a long time, feeling the rail cool under his palm, the water dark beneath. Then he pulled a new sticker from his pocket, he had been carrying one for weeks, just in case. Two small stars, holding hands. He pressed it firmly under the railing.

Later that night, he texted her, attached an image:

New stars tonight. Our bridge keeps its map.

Her reply came quick:

Told you. Loyal.

Long time after that, on the last night of summer, before the next school year tightened its grip, they met again. The sky was streaked with orange and lavender, the bay mirroring every color like it didn’t want to choose. They sat on the rail, legs dangling, a bag of shared chips between them.

“Do you think we’ll still walk here when we’re old?” she asked, tossing a chip to a gull that dived and missed.

“Yeah,” he said, before she even finished the question.

She grinned at his certainty. “Then let’s promise.”

He hesitated, then lifted his pinky. She hooked hers around it without hesitation. For five seconds, they sat there like that, two kids promising something they didn’t yet know the shape of.

And though he said nothing aloud, in his heart Heeseung thought: I’ll keep you, even if I never get to hold you. I’ll keep every piece of you my eyes can carry.

That night, he developed the photo he took just before the promise: the one where the sunset painted her hair gold, where she looked like she belonged to the horizon. On the back, he wrote: EXHIBIT B: THE DAY WE PROMISED THE BRIDGE.

And he filed it away in the shoebox exhibition, not knowing yet how full that exhibition would become.

By the time Y/N was fourteen and Heeseung fifteen, the apartment stairwell had stopped echoing with her sneakers. She still visited the bridge sometimes, but less often, because she got along well with her new school now and it had clubs, music practices and friends with bicycles. She started to wear her hair differently each week: sometimes twisted up with chopsticks stolen from her mother’s drawer, sometimes in two high ponytails that look like quotation marks around her head.

When she did appear, she arrived in a whirl of noise, telling stories about her day before her feet even reached the pavement.

“They made me class president,” she said one afternoon, dropping onto the bridge rail as if it were a throne. “Not because I’m responsible. I think because no one else wanted it.”

“You accepted.”

“Obviously. Who wouldn’t? It’s the only way to guarantee the good chalk during art period.”

Heeseung blinked at her. “You campaigned for chalk?”

“I campaigned for justice,” she corrected. “It just so happens justice looks like the biggest box of colors.”

He laughed quietly, and she beamed at him as though she had won twice.

At home, Heeseung’s desk has begun to look like a small print shop. The shoebox museum now had a younger cousin: a cardboard folder labeled Developments, its pockets stuffed with photo strips, negatives, failed exposures that looked like ghosts escaping their own outlines.

He tried to capture light more deliberately now. He read about the golden hour, about shadows long enough to drink from. He took the camera to the bridge at dawn, just once, when the town was still curled asleep. The fog rose from the water like breath, and for the first time he felt that looking could be an art, not only an act of hoarding. He pressed the shutter. The sound was soft, but in the silence it felt like a declaration.

Later, when Y/N visited, he showed her the prints. She didn’t laugh at the blown-out frames this time. She held the dawn picture by the edges, squinted at the pale mist.

“It looks like a secret that forgot itself,” she said, and he wrote the phrase down immediately in the margin of his science book.

Something began to shift in her the next year. She was taller, sharper, though still quick to laughter. Boys trailed after her in clusters, laughing too loud, daring her to skip classes, daring her to steal chalk from the teacher’s desk instead of signing it out.

One afternoon, Heeseung arrived at the bridge to find her already there, perched on the railing with her skirt catching the wind. Beside her stood a boy with a mop of black hair, younger than she was by a year. Nishimura Riki. He had that effortless grin of someone who knew he’d get away with anything.

“Heeseung!” she called, waving, not noticing the way his steps slowed. “This is Riki. He’s in my club. He can balance on the rail without holding on.”

Riki hopped up, arms out like wings, and walked the railing as if gravity had forgotten him. The other kids cheered. Y/N clapped until her palms turn pink. Heeseung’s stomach knotted. He raised his camera because it was the only thing he could do, framing the two of them against the sky. The shutter clicked, recording her laughter, recording the shadow of Riki’s arm slung too close.

Later, in the darkroom, the image appeared: Y/N’s face turned toward Riki, open and bright, the wind tugging her hair like it wanted in on the secret. He traced her outline with the corner of a fingernail, feeling both protective and left behind. He labeled the print: EXHIBIT C: GRAVITY FORGOTTEN.

By the following spring, Heeseung was preparing for high school entrance exams. His days blurred into pages and practice sheets, late nights bent over equations that didn’t hold still. Y/N’s messages still came, scattered and sudden: a joke about their neighbor’s singing cat, a complaint about math, a photograph of Riki trying to juggle apples and dropping them all. She wrote letters less often now. They texted more. When she did write, they’re brief, hurried, dotted with doodles of stars that looked rushed but not careless.

Heeseung replied, though not as quickly as he once did. He didn’t want to weigh her down with how heavy his new world felt, so instead he sent her photographs: the reflection of rain in puddles, the lines of his desk lamp cutting across a notebook, the curve of their bridge at night. She responded with “pretty” or “weird” or “what if we climbed it someday,” and he thought: She is already climbing, and I’m just photographing the ground she leaves behind.

On her fifteen birthday, she invited him to a small gathering at the new apartment. He brought film prints wrapped in newspaper: one of the bent umbrella, one of the stubborn sticker, one of her mother’s hands.

She opened the bundle, tilted her head, and said, “You’re going to be famous one day. And when you are, you’ll still owe me an orange wedge.”

He flushed, said nothing, but later that night when he got home, he photographed the folded wrapping paper she had smoothed flat before throwing it away.

The final summer before he graduated from middle school, they met less often. Clubs ate her afternoons; cram school ate his evenings. But once in a while, when calendars happened to miss each other, they found themselves side by side again.

One evening, after a thunderstorm, they walked to the bridge. The air smelled of ozone and wet concrete. She balanced on the rail, arms out like Riki did months ago, but wobbled dangerously. He caught her elbow without thinking. For a moment, their faces were inches apart, the rain dripping from her eyelashes.

She smirked, unbothered. “See? I’m not afraid.”

He let go slowly, his palm remembering the shape of her arm. He didn’t tell her that he was afraid enough for both of them.

At the railing, she pulled out a sticker sheet, now bent and worn. The stars were fewer; she stuck one more under the rail, this time a crooked heart. “To mark the end of the fifth-and-sixth-grade dynasty,” she declared.

Heeseung lifted the camera. The shutter clicked. Later, the heart appeared in the darkroom, a small crooked outline clinging to rusted blue paint. He labeled it EXHIBIT D: DYNASTY, RETIRED.

On the last day before he stepped into high school, they met again on the bridge at sunset. The sky was bruised purple, streaked with orange, and the bay looked like it had been set alight from beneath.

She held out her pinky, bold and certain. “Promise we won’t forget this place. No matter how many bus stops, no matter how many bridges.”

He looked at her, at the streak of light catching in her hair, at the way her face was already sharpening into something less child, more beginning. He lifted his hand and hooked his pinky with hers.

“I promise.”

She grinned, triumphant, and said, “Married for five minutes. But maybe… forever in the exhibition.”

The bus sighed at the curb, and she ran to catch it, hair flying, backpack bouncing like it was laughing at him. He didn’t follow. He stayed on the bridge, camera hanging, eyes burning with something he still didn’t dare name.

That night, he developed the last roll of film from the summer. One frame caught her back as she ran, the heart-sticker under the railing glowing faintly in the corner of the shot. He wrote on the back: EXHIBIT E: SO CLOSE.

He added it to the shoebox. The lid closed with a soft sigh. Childhood folded away like a paper crown, edges creased, waiting.

that's all for part 1 guyss !!! gotta work on and update part 2 soon if people love this ;;

⸝⸝ pairing: sunghoon x afab!reader (ft. heeseung)

⸝⸝ synopsis: A party, a breakup, a rebound gone wrong - then Park Sunghoon offers you strawberry candy and a dance under fairy lights. Between Lee Heeseung’s sharp lies and Sunghoon’s quiet warmth, you learn what it means to be seen. Two lonely dancers, one chance at love - uncertain, tender, and maybe exactly what you’ve been waiting for.

⸝⸝ genre: love at first sight, love triangles, college au, fluff, romance, angst, ive liz (jiwon) is your bestie

⸝⸝ warnings + disclaimer: breakups, betrayal/cheating, jealousy, heeseung is a bit asshole (sorry). purely fictional, not reflective of real idols, names used for storytelling only, no harm or disrespect intended!!!

⸝⸝ wc: 13.8k

⸝⸝ a/n: this has literally been sleeping in my drafts for like a whole year 😭 i wrote it last year, kept second guessing it, and then just… forgot about it?! finally decided to post bc conan gray’s lonely dancers was living rent free in my head and honestly inspired this entire thing. my first time ever uploading a fic here on tumblr so pls!!! feedback + reblogs would mean the world to me!! hope u guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it ⋆ divider by @cafekitsune and @omi-resources

Jiwon adjusted the strap of her dress in the mirror, lips pursed in concentration. The citrusy scent of her perfume lingered in the room, mixing with the faint hum of traffic outside their dorm window. She glanced at Y/N, who was still fussing with her hair.

“So, are you ready?” Jiwon asked, tilting her head as if to appraise Y/N’s look.

Y/N twisted another loose strand into place, cheeks puffing out with nerves. “I was born to do this… I guess?”

Jiwon grinned, all confidence and spark. “Tonight is gonna be so much fun!” The excitement in her voice made Y/N laugh despite herself. This was their first real university party, and the anticipation thrummed between them like static.

The car rattled lightly as it sped down the road, music leaking faintly from the houses they passed. Y/N kept picked at her sleeve, the cool night air brushing her heated cheeks through the cracked window.

“D-Do you think Sunghoon will be there?” She blurted, barely loud enough over the engine’s hum.

Jiwon raised an eyebrow, smirking. “That Snow White guy?”

Y/N’s blush deepened. “Don’t be rude! He has a name.”

“Meh,” Jiwon said, pouting dramatically. “Still don’t get the hype. His girlfriend even so mean that she acts like the witch from the movie.”

Y/N gasped, then dissolved into laughter. “Okay, that’s rude… but also kind of true.”

They giggled until Jay’s house - the place where they held the party, also one of the student council member, came into view, pulsing with music.

The bass vibrated through the ground before they even reached the door. Inside, the air smelled of soda, chips, and a faint trace of alcohol. Students clustered in small groups, talking and laughing, though it was still early.

Suddenly, Jiwon’s phone buzzed, and she excused herself, leaving Y/N to wander toward the kitchen. The counter was lined with cups and bottles that gleamed under the harsh light. She reached for one, her fingers brushing the cool glass.

“Hey, need help with that?” Y/N startled, turning to find Sunghoon leaning casually against the counter, a bottle of water in hand. His hair was slightly damp with sweat, his smile easy and unguarded.

“Oh, hi! Um, no, I’m good. Thanks,” she said quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear. Her heart raced louder than the music

“You sure?” He twisted his own bottle open with a soft snap.

Y/N hesitated, then laughed lightly. “Well, water’s always safe.”

“Exactly.” He handed her one, their fingers brushing briefly. The chill of the condensation bit at her palm.

“So,” he asked, tilting his head as he sipped, “how’s university treating you so far?”

Y/N swallowed, cheeks warming again. The room suddenly felt too small. “It’s been… great.”

“That’s good to hear.” His gaze lingered a beat too long before he smiled.

Just then, Jiwon appeared, phone still in hand. “Sorry, got caught up on a call.”

“No worries,” Sunghoon said smoothly. He glanced back at Y/N. “I should probably go find my girlfriend.” His smile softened before he disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N’s own smile faltered. She followed Jiwon, but disappointment tugged at her chest. She had enjoyed those few moments, wished they could’ve stretched longer. Still, Sunghoon was taken, so she couldn’t let her feelings get in the way of their friendship.

Hours blurred with laughter and dancing. The music pounded in her ears, but Y/N still found herself stealing glances across the room, searching for him.

“What’s on your mind?” Jiwon teased, ruffling the carefully styled waves of Y/N’s hair.

Y/N sighed. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, you do know.” Jiwon arched a brow. “You’ve been staring at Sunghoon and his girlfriend all night. Your face says it all.”

Y/N’s blush gave her away. Jiwon always saw straight through her.

“Come on,” Jiwon said, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Distract yourself. Look-” She nodded toward the corner. “That guy’s been watching you for ages.”

Y/N followed her gaze and blinked. “Isn’t that Lee Heeseung from our major?”

“Maybe,” Jiwon shrugged. “All I know is, he can’t stop staring at you this whole night.”

Y/N shifted uncomfortably. She had never noticed him before, but then again, she had been too occupied with Sunghoon to notice anyone else. “I’m not interested in anyone else,” she said firmly.

“What about me?” Jiwon teased.

“You’re my best friend.” Y/N rolled her eyes and pushed her playfully. “That’s different.”

Jiwon laughed, shaking her head.

The lights dimmed. A slow song hummed through the speakers, and couples drifted toward the dance floor. Y/N was about to retreat back to the table when a hand caught hers.

“Hey, have you seen my girlfriend?” She froze. Sunghoon stood there, breathless, strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

“Y-Your girlfriend?” Y/N asked, her chest tightening. “Did something happen?”

He gave a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… wanted to dance with her, but I can’t find her anywhere.” A blush rose on his cheeks.

Y/N’s voice lowered, feeling mixed. “Oh… I don’t think I saw her.”

“Ah. Okay.” He smiled gently, thanked her, and slipped back into the crowd.

For the rest of the night, Y/N’s thoughts refused to settle. His smile, his voice, the way his eyes softened when he mentioned his girlfriend - all of it lingered, bittersweet. She knew her crush was hopeless, but her heart had already chosen him, that’s why she’s been admired him from afar.

It had been love at first sight - her quiet, aching love for Park Sunghoon.

It was on a blazing summer day - the kind that clung to your skin even in the shade, when Y/N first met him. It was her first day at university, and she had gotten lost trying to find the gymnasium. Her footsteps echoed on the empty pavement, nerves buzzing in her chest, when a tall boy appeared out of nowhere. His skin looked pale under the sunlight, his frame graceful, almost delicate.

“Looking for the gymnasium?” He asked, waving a hand in the direction behind him.

Y/N startled, nearly jumping. She blinked, then gave a quick nod.

“It’s over there. Just turn left, and you’ll see it. Everyone else is already gathering, so you might want to hurry.” His smile curved easily across his lips, bright and warm, and it struck her instantly.

She mumbled a thank-you before rushing off, but that smile stayed with her. She didn’t know it yet, but Park Sunghoon would soon become her classmate, and from that moment on, she couldn’t help but notice him. The way he laughed with Jay and Jake and his group of friends; the way he listened kindly when others spoke;… He had this quiet radiance that seemed to light up any room, and Y/N found herself drawn to it again and again.

But she never had the courage to approach him, not after learning he already had a girlfriend. She refused to be the kind of girl who interfered in someone else’s happiness. So, she admired him silently, stealing glances, tucking her feelings away.

Still, as days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months, her crush only deepened. Her heart would skip whenever he smiled her way, or when he asked her the smallest question in any lecture. She told herself it was just a harmless crush. She told herself to be content with friendship. And yet, every night, a quiet part of her still wished, hoped, that someday he might see her differently.

Later that night at Jay’s party, Y/N found herself lost in thought again, her chest tangled with feelings for him. That was when someone grabbed her arm and tugged her into the crowd.

Her heart leapt, expecting Sunghoon, but when she turned, annoyance flared instead.

“What is it this time?!” She snapped, her voice raised over the music.

“Woah, woah, calm down.” The boy holding her hand lifted his arms in surrender. He wasn’t Sunghoon. Nor Jiwon. It was the guy she’d spotted sitting quietly in the corner earlier - Lee Heeseung. His grin was mischievous, his eyes playful.

“Lee Heeseung?!” Y/N blinked, confusion written across her face.

“Yeah, it’s me.” His smile widened. “You were hoping it was Sunghoon, right?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Why is everyone determined to embarrass me tonight?! She thought bitterly. She scowled, her forced smile slipping as she turned to leave.

“Wait.” Heeseung stepped in front of her, lowering himself slightly in a half-bow as he extended his hand. “Can I have this dance?”

Before Y/N could answer, the music cut abruptly. A wave of voices surged through the air, sharp and heated. The two of them turned toward the commotion.

It was unmistakable. Sunghoon’s voice.

“Sunghoon, please, listen to me!” a girl cried desperately.

“No, Minjeong! I can’t take this anymore!” Sunghoon’s shout tore through the noise.

Y/N froze, her breath catching. The crowd shifted uneasily around them, whispers spilling in every direction. Her heart hammered painfully. She wanted to rush to him, to ask if he was okay, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t her place. These were his problems, his relationship.

She took a shaky step backward, ready to flee, but Heeseung touched her arm gently. “Let them be, Y/N,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on Sunghoon.

Her gaze flicked back to the couple. Minjeong clung to him, begging, her voice breaking. And Sunghoon - his shoulders trembled as though the weight of the world had been placed on them. The sight pierced Y/N’s chest.

Just then, Jiwon appeared at her side, sighing as she glanced at the scene. “There you are. Do you want to go home? This whole party’s turning into a mess.”

Heeseung crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Guess the girlfriend made the wrong move.”

“It is what it is,” Jiwon muttered.

“And she got caught,” Heeseung added.

Y/N’s fists clenched. She couldn’t listen anymore. Her emotions were a storm, and their careless whispers only added fuel. With sudden force, she grabbed Jiwon’s wrist and pulled her out of the room, away from the party, away from the noise.

“Girl, are you okay?” Jiwon asked once they were outside. At first, she seemed confused, but her eyes softened when she caught the turmoil on Y/N’s face. “You know this isn’t on Sunghoon, right? It’s Minjeong’s fault. Sunghoon would never hurt someone he loved.”

“Of course I know that!” Y/N’s voice cracked, anger and sadness tangled together. “That’s why I’m mad. She hurt him.”

Jiwon exhaled, then wrapped her arms around Y/N, holding her tight. “Come on. Let’s call it a day.”

After all of that, the two of them slipped back to their dorm. The night air was cool now, carrying the faint hum of crickets. They changed into pajamas, crawled into bed, but sleep didn’t come easily to Y/N.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her mind replayed Sunghoon’s voice, his face, the anguish in his tone. She was worried, deeply worried. Would he be okay tomorrow? Would he even show up to class?

She turned to her side, clutching her blanket. Her heart ached for him, and all she could do was hope.

The next morning, Y/N’s heart sank the moment she stepped into the lecture hall. Sunghoon’s seat - the one she always found her eyes drifting to,was empty. Just as she had feared, he wasn’t there.

Before she could slip out to look for him, Jiwon caught her wrist. “Hey, where are you going? The lecture’s about to start.”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze still flicking to the door. The worry sat heavy in her chest, but she forced herself back into her seat. Her pen tapped uselessly against her notebook as the professor’s voice droned on. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t focus.

Meanwhile, across campus, Sunghoon sat slouched in another lecture hall. His usually sharp eyes looked dim, shadows carved beneath them. When Jay approached, Sunghoon barely lifted his head.

“Sunghoon,” Jay said softly, dropping into the seat beside him.

Sunghoon managed a weak smile. “Hey, Jay.”

Jay’s brows furrowed. “I’m sorry about last night. I should’ve… I don’t know, done something. I was worried about you.” His hand patted Sunghoon’s shoulder with awkward sincerity.

“It’s not your fault,” Sunghoon replied, his voice low. “Just because it happened at your place doesn’t mean you’re responsible for it.” He motioned for Jay to sit, then leaned back, letting out a long breath.

Jay folded his arms, concern etched across his face. “What happened with Minjeong?”

For a moment, Sunghoon said nothing. Then he spoke, his tone cracked but steady, explaining how he’d found out about her cheating, the hurt of betrayal still raw in his words. He told Jay how he had decided to end it because he couldn’t live in a lie anymore.

Jay listened in silence, eyes soft with empathy. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said finally.

Sunghoon gave a short laugh, though it was hollow. “I’ll get my shit together. Don’t worry.”

“By skipping classes?” Jay quipped, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

Sunghoon smirked faintly for the first time that day. “A great way to heal your wound.”

The lecture ended. Y/N was dying to look for Sunghoon. But before she could search, a voice cut through the hallway.

“Trying to find someone?” Y/N turned, startled, to see Lee Heeseung leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed. His smirk was infuriating.

“Have you seen Sunghoon anywhere?” she asked quickly.

Heeseung shrugged. “Meh. But how about you give him some space? The guy just went through a breakup.” His eyes glinted, teasing. “Or… you could spend that time with me instead.”

Her stomach twisted, annoyance flaring. “You get out of my way!”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling. “Fine. Don’t blame me if you miss your chance.” With that, he sauntered off, leaving her fuming.

Eventually, Y/N found Sunghoon sitting alone on a bench under the late afternoon sky. His gaze was fixed upward, where the clouds drifted lazily past, but his expression was heavy, like the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders.

Y/N’s footsteps slowed as she approached, her heart aching at the sight of him. She lowered herself onto the bench beside him.

“Hey,” She said gently.

“Hey.” His reply was soft, distant, and he didn’t look at her.

“Are you… okay?” she asked, her voice hesitant.

Sunghoon let out a long sigh, his breath trembling. “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m not good enough for anyone.”

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. How could he, of all people, think that? In Y/N’s eyes, Sunghoon was everything - kind, radiant, someone who made even the dullest days brighter. And yet here he was, broken.

She hesitated, then slowly placed her hand over his. His skin was cool, his fingers limp against hers. She looked at him, her eyes steady. “That’s not true, Sunghoon. You’re an incredible person. Anyone would be lucky to love you. Don’t let one betrayal make you doubt yourself.”

For a moment, the sadness lingered in his gaze, but then he finally turned to meet her eyes. His lips curved into a faint smile, fragile but sincere. “Thank you, Y/N. It… means a lot, hearing that from you.”

They sat in silence, watching the sky fade into hues of orange and gold. Neither of them spoke, but the quiet between them was comforting, a fragile peace in the middle of chaos.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, they rose and walked back toward campus, footsteps in sync.

“Thank you for being here today,” Sunghoon said suddenly, glancing at her with a small, almost shy grin. “It… kind of feels like magic.” He gave a short laugh, embarrassed at his own words.

Y/N’s cheeks burned, her heart fluttering. “Anytime, Sunghoon. You can always count on me.”

They walked on, side by side, their shadows stretching long behind them.

Neither of them noticed the figure watching quietly from a distance, eyes fixed on them with unreadable intent.

“So…” Heeseung’s voice broke through Y/N’s sleepy haze the next morning. She had barely settled into her seat when a cold bottle of strawberry milk landed on her desk. He leaned casually on the edge, grin cocky as ever. “If you don’t want to hang out with me, how about I help you out with Sunghoon instead?”

Y/N yawned so hard her jaw cracked, blinking at him like he’d grown two heads. “W-What…?!”

“Yeah, you heard me right.” Heeseung’s grin widened, his tone dripping with mischief. “Since you’ve rejected me, and I’m an angel, so I decided to become a cupid. My first target? You and Park Sunghoon.”

Y/N blinked twice, utterly thrown off. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Heeseung’s brows arched dramatically as he plopped into the seat next to her. “Give me a week, and you’ll be a lovey-dovey couple. Guaranteed. Angel’s honor.” He winked.

Y/N stared at the strawberry milk like it might hold the answers. Part of her wanted to laugh, part of her wanted to scream, and part of her… well, part of her was tempted. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Of course.” Heeseung leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “I don’t get called an angel for nothing, you know.”

Her lips pressed together. It was dangerous to trust him - this self-proclaimed cupid with a smirk that could melt steel, but the thought of Sunghoon, the chance of being closer to him, made her heart flutter.

“But I don’t want to force anything,” she muttered at last, voice small.

“What do you mean?”

“Ugh, never mind.” She tugged at her hair in frustration, then finally gave in and grabbed the strawberry milk. “Fine. But only if you don’t try to shove us together in some ridiculous way.”

“Deal.” Heeseung raised both hands in mock surrender, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed him. “You’ll see. Cupid’s got a plan.” He held out his fist, and Y/N hesitated before bumping hers against his. The pact was sealed.

“Buuut-” Heeseung suddenly leaned closer, tapping his finger against her forehead. “We need to exchange contacts.”

Her eyes widened. “W-What?”

“How else am I supposed to send you updates about Sunghoon?” he said smoothly, his smirk returning.

Y/N groaned but reluctantly handed him her phone. By the time she got it back, Heeseung had not only added himself to her contacts but followed her on every social media account he could find.

Over the next few days, their “updates” became an excuse to spend more time together. They met up under the pretense of talking about Sunghoon, but soon their conversations drifted.

At a café, Y/N found herself rambling about her favorite movies while Heeseung listened with surprising patience, occasionally leaning forward to ask questions. Somehow they even went to the arcade, and he dragged her into a racing game, only to sulk dramatically when she beat him by a landslide. She laughed until her sides hurt, and he claimed he let her win just to see her smile.

Each time, Y/N walked away with lighter shoulders, her heart warmed by the strange comfort Heeseung gave her. She reminded herself it was all for Sunghoon, but she couldn’t deny that she was starting to enjoy these little escapes.

One evening, Y/N’s phone buzzed as she lay sprawled across her bed. She snatched it up, expecting another one of Heeseung’s sarcastic “progress reports.”

But it wasn’t him.

Her heart nearly stopped. It was Sunghoon.

Hey, don’t know if you’re asleep. Just realized I haven’t seen you around much lately.

Y/N shot upright, her pulse hammering in her ears. SUNGHOON TEXTED ME FIRST?! She scrambled for a reply, her thumbs fumbling across the keyboard.

I’ve just been busy with errands lately, that’s all. (Errands that involved way too much time with Lee Heeseung to “updates” about him, but he didn’t need to know that.)

Almost immediately, his reply lit up her screen.

Ahh, I seeヽ(・ω・)ﾉ Feels like something’s missing without you around haha.*

Sunghoon sent the message with a cute emoji. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline. Does that mean he misses me? Heat rushed to her cheeks, her whole body tingling with giddy disbelief.

Another message followed.

Looking forward to talk to you again. Good night (~￣ ￣/)

Y/N pressed her phone to her chest, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Sleep didn’t come easily that night, her mind replayed every word until dawn.

The next afternoon, she burst into the café where Heeseung was waiting, practically glowing.

“HE TEXTED ME LAST NIGHT!” She blurted, her voice so loud that a few students turned to stare.

Heeseung nearly choked on his drink. “What-?”

“He texted me first!” Y/N spun in a little circle, her grin uncontainable. “The conversation was so smooth! Smoother than your stupid hair! And he said he wants to talk with me again!”

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, smirk curling. Watching her beam like that made something strange tug at his chest, though he quickly covered it with a shrug. “Told you I was a real angel.”

She blushed when he reached over to pat her head, then swatted his hand away with a laugh.

“Glad to see things are moving,” he said, smirk sharpening again. “Because, coincidence or not, Sunghoon told me he wants to meet you tomorrow afternoon.”

Y/N froze. “R-Really?”

He nodded.

Her eyes lit up like fireworks. “Then I’m going home right now and sleep as soon as possible! Tomorrow has to come faster!” She waved goodbye in a blur and dashed out of the café, her excitement trailing behind her like sparks.

Heeseung watched her go, his grin fading into something more complicated. Isn’t she… too excited?, he thought, his chest tightening with something he didn’t want to name. Hope she doesn’t end up disappointed.

With a sigh, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed back toward the dorms, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips.

That night, Y/N lay in bed, staring at the ceiling with wide, shining eyes.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would finally spend time with Sunghoon. The boy she had fallen for since that summer day. Her dream, her impossible wish, felt so close now. She hugged her pillow tight, heart racing, unable to imagine sleep.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

The next day, Y/N woke up earlier than usual, her stomach fluttering with nerves. She spent extra time getting ready: Choosing her outfit carefully, fixing her hair twice, even applying a touch of lip gloss. When she checked the mirror, she caught herself smiling like a fool. Today’s the day.

By the time she arrived at the designated meeting spot, her palms were sweaty, her heartbeat pounding in her chest. She stood there, shifting from foot to foot, scanning the crowd anxiously.

Then she saw him. Sunghoon’s tall frame came into view, his silhouette unmistakable. Relief washed over her, until her eyes shifted. He wasn’t alone.

A girl walked beside him, laughing at something he said. Sunghoon’s face lit up in response, his smile bright and easy, the kind Y/N had fallen for long ago. The two of them strolled together like they’d known each other forever, voices low, their shoulders brushing now and then.

Y/N froze in place, her excitement draining in an instant. Who… who is she?

Behind her, a voice sighed. “Oh my goodness…”

She spun around to see Heeseung standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes narrowed at the sight. He shook his head slowly. “What is Park Sunghoon doing?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening. “I-”

Heeseung tilted his head, voice laced with sarcasm. “He called you out… just so you could watch him laugh with another girl? Are you really sure he wanted to meet you, Y/N?”

The words sank like stones in her stomach. Her vision blurred with the sting of tears, anger welling behind her eyes. She had been so blinded by her feelings, so sure this day would be special, that she never even considered Sunghoon might not see her the same way.

Heeseung stepped closer, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. His touch was steady, grounding. “Come on,” he murmured softly. “Let’s go somewhere else. You don’t need to watch this.”

Y/N’s throat burned as she nodded, too choked up to speak. She let him guide her away, each step heavier than the last. Behind them, Sunghoon’s laughter echoed faintly, twisting the knife in her chest.

What was I thinking? she thought bitterly. That he’d choose me? That I had a chance?

She wanted to hate herself for being so foolish, but even more, she hated how much it hurt.

Later, in a small café away from the campus crowd, Heeseung slid a cup across the table toward her. The cold condensation dampened the napkin beneath it.

“Chocomint smoothie,” he said lightly, sitting down across from her. “It’ll help.”

Y/N stared at the cup, lips pressed tight. Embarrassment, heartbreak, and anger tangled in her chest until she couldn’t find words. The humiliation of it all, the way she had built up this day in her head felt unbearable.

“Hey.” Heeseung leaned forward, tilting his head until their eyes met. He gently lifted her chin with two fingers. “It was only me who saw it. Not anyone else. You don’t have to feel ashamed in front of me. I already know how you feel about him.”

Her cheeks warmed, eyes darting away.

“And it’s not your fault, okay?” he added, his voice softer now. “Park Sunghoon was the one in the wrong for making you believe you had a place in his world when maybe he didn’t mean it.”

Y/N’s lips parted before she could stop herself. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

The question startled him. His eyes widened for a second, before he leaned back, exhaling a quiet laugh. “What?”

“You’ve helped me so much,” Y/N said quietly. “But… for what? Why?”

For once, Heeseung’s smirk faltered. He looked at her, right in the eyes, and his usual mischief gave way to something raw and unguarded.

“It’s because I like you,” he said suddenly.

Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught, the words echoing in her head. “W-What…?”

Heeseung’s lips curved into a small, almost nervous smile. “I like you. I have since the day we met.” His gaze held hers firmly, no trace of teasing this time.

Y/N’s chest tightened, her thoughts scattering. Only hours ago, her heart had been crushed by Sunghoon, and now, here was Heeseung, laying his feelings bare.

“So,” he said, voice steady, “will you be my girlfriend? I promise, I’ll never let you feel humiliated the way Sunghoon did.”

Confusion swirled through her. She had been nursing her feelings for Sunghoon for so long, months of quiet glances, secret smiles, and daydreams of what could be. He had been her first crush, her first real spark of love. Every flutter in her chest, every skipped heartbeat, had been because of him. To let go of that felt impossible.

And yet… Heeseung was different. With him, she didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t make her heart race in nervous panic the way Sunghoon did. He made her laugh, he listened, he reminded her that she mattered. He had been there during the moments when she felt most invisible, most foolish.

Her mind tangled itself into knots. Is this what love is supposed to feel like? With Sunghoon, it was longing, aching, always reaching for something just out of grasp. With Heeseung, it was comfort, warmth, the feeling of being seen. One burned bright and distant, like a star she could never touch. The other was right here, steady and warm, offering his hand without hesitation.

Her chest tightened. Part of her screamed that she was betraying her feelings for Sunghoon, that saying yes to Heeseung would mean giving up on the boy she had admired for so long. But another part of her whispered that maybe she deserved to be happy, that maybe she didn’t have to wait for someone who might never choose her.

Her pulse quickened as Heeseung’s words lingered in the air: I like you.

And for the first time, she let herself imagine what it might be like to stop chasing, and instead… to be caught.

Her pulse raced as she took a deep breath. The words spilled out before she could overthink. “Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Heeseung’s smile widened, relief flickering in his eyes as he reached across the table to take her hand. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

For the first time of that day, Y/N smiled back. Warmth spread through her chest, numbing the ache left behind. Maybe this was the beginning of something new. Maybe, just maybe, things could change.

But little did Y/N know…

As they walked away from the café together, Heeseung’s thoughts lingered on the scene from earlier. The girl with Sunghoon - he knew exactly who she was. Yeji. Sunghoon’s younger sister.

He had recognized her instantly, the resemblance too obvious to ignore. But when he saw the look in Y/N’s eyes, the hope crumbling into heartbreak… he stayed silent.

If she knew the truth, she might run back to Sunghoon without hesitation. And Heeseung wasn’t ready to let her go, not now, not when she was finally within reach.

So he swallowed the truth, kept his smile steady, and let her misunderstanding take root.

“Y-You what?” Jiwon’s jaw practically hit the ground.

“I’m dating Heeseung,” Y/N said casually as she tucked her books into her bag, getting ready for their next class.

“Lee Heeseung?!” Jiwon’s voice shot up an octave, drawing glances from a few nearby students.

“Yeah. What’s the problem?” Y/N raised a brow, her tone cool.

Jiwon pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a long sigh. “Listen, I get it, you want to move on from Sunghoon. But Heeseung?” She lowered her voice, concern flickering in her eyes. “There are… rumors about him, Y/N. Weird ones. And not the good kind.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, shouldering her bag. “Those are just rumors. You know how cruel people can be.”

“But Heeseung? Really?” Jiwon caught up with her as she strode toward the door.

Y/N stopped, turned, and looked her best friend straight in the eye. “Yes, Jiwon. I like him. And I’m going to date him.” Her voice was firm, her confidence unwavering. “I hope you can support me.”

Jiwon’s lips pressed into a thin line before she sighed again. “Of course I’ll support you,” she said, forcing a small smile. “I just… want you to be happy.”

Y/N’s expression softened, and she squeezed her friend’s arm. “Thank you.”

As they walked side by side, Jiwon’s thoughts were less certain than her smile. She knew Heeseung’s reputation wasn’t spotless. But Y/N was no fool, she could make her own choices. All Jiwon could do now was hope that choice didn’t come back to hurt her friend.

That afternoon, Sunghoon wandered the campus with an unusual heaviness in his chest. It had been days since he last had a proper conversation with Y/N. She had been there for him when no one else was, quietly offering comfort when he was at his lowest. He never even thanked her properly.

Lately, though, something unsettled him. The thought of her smile, her laughter, it lingered in his head longer than it should have. He had brushed it off as gratitude at first, but now he wasn’t so sure. Deep down, a question gnawed at him: Was she becoming more than just a friend to me?

Lost in thought, he nearly collided with someone. “Oh- Hi, Jiwon.” Sunghoon smiled politely. “Have you seen Y/N? I don’t know why, but it’s been hard to reach her lately.”

Jiwon stopped in her tracks and gave him a sharp look, her patience snapping. “Wow. So you really don’t know anything.”

“What do you mean?” His smile faltered.

“Maybe it’s hard for you to contact her,” she said flatly, “because she has a boyfriend now.”

She smirked, pivoted on her heel, and walked away, leaving Sunghoon frozen where he stood.

The words hit him like a punch. A boyfriend? Y/N? His chest tightened painfully. When did this happen? The thought of her smiling at someone else, giving her time, her kindness, her warmth to someone who wasn’t him, it clawed at him.

Jealousy burned hot in his stomach, but beneath it was regret. Bitter, suffocating regret. He should have told her sooner. Should have shown her how much she mattered to him before it was too late.

Without thinking, he broke into a run, his pulse hammering.

When he reached the lecture hall, Y/N was already packing her things. She turned at the sound of her name.

“Sunghoon? What are you doing here?” Her brows lifted in surprise.

He stepped closer, still catching his breath. “I- I heard… from Jiwon. That you have a boyfriend.” The words scraped out rougher than he intended.

Y/N blinked before nodding with a small smile. “Oh. That. Yes. I do.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Sunghoon’s throat tightened as he looked down at the floor. He forced a smile, though it felt like glass shattering inside him. “I see. Congratulations, then.”

Y/N tilted her head, concern flickering in her eyes. “Sunghoon, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He looked up, forcing his voice steady. “I just wanted to congratulate you. That’s all.”

Her smile was gentle, but Sunghoon barely registered it.

As he walked away, a storm brewed inside him.

He was happy for her, at least, that’s what he told himself. Y/N deserved someone who cared for her. Someone who would protect her, treasure her.

But underneath the congratulations, underneath the mask of composure, jealousy gnawed at him. Regret echoed in every step.

Why didn’t I say something sooner? Why did I let her slip away?

For the first time, Sunghoon admitted to himself what he had been denying all along. He no longer saw Y/N as just a friend. Somewhere between her quiet support and her gentle smile, he had fallen for her.

And now… it might be too late.

For the first four months, things between Y/N and Heeseung were light and easy. He teased her endlessly, sent her late-night messages, showed up with her favorite food or gifts, and always found ways to make her laugh. He made her feel chosen, like she wasn’t invisible anymore.

But slowly, so slowly she almost didn’t notice at first - the warmth began to fade.

He didn’t stop being her boyfriend outright, but the little things disappeared. The random texts turned into delayed replies; their playful coffee dates dwindled until they were gone altogether; when she spoke about her day, he nodded distractedly, eyes glued to his phone; when she reached for his hand, sometimes he pulled away, claiming he needed both hands to type or carry something.

At first, Y/N told herself it was just stress, that university and work was draining him. She reminded herself how attentive he had been the whole time, and convinced herself it was only temporary. But the distance grew, an invisible wall rising brick by brick between them.

When she finally tried to bring it up, her voice small, her hands twisting in her lap, Heeseung only sighed and said he was busy with work and studies. His words were always calm, but his tone made her feel as though her worries were childish.

And so she swallowed them, one after another, until insecurity filled her chest like water seeping into cracks.

One afternoon, Jiwon caught her staring out the window, lost in thought.

“Hey,” she said gently. “I heard there’s a party this weekend.”

“Oh… really?” Y/N’s response was half-hearted, her gaze still distant.

“Come on, let’s go together. It’ll be fun!” Jiwon nudged her.

Y/N hesitated. The thought of another party didn’t excite her. But maybe, just maybe, it could be a chance to fix what was breaking. If I talk to him there… maybe we can go back to how things used to be.

So she texted Heeseung.

Before she could even press send, her phone buzzed.

Hey, the student council is holding a party this weekend. Mind if I escort you?

Her heart leapt. It had been so long since Heeseung texted her first. For a moment, relief bubbled up inside her.

Sure, I’ll be waiting.

She smiled faintly at the screen, clinging to that small spark of hope that he still love her deeply.

The night of the party, nerves returned in full force. Y/N stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of her simple but elegant black dress. Her half-up hairstyle framed her face, and a light layer of makeup gave her confidence she desperately needed.

“Go talk to him properly tonight, okay?” Jiwon said, fussing over the last strands of her hair. “I’ll be waiting for good news. And if he does anything wrong to you-” she drew her thumb across her neck, mock-threatening, “I’ll find him myself.”

Y/N laughed nervously, though a chill slipped down her spine. “We’ll be fine, Jiwon. Don’t worry about me. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Good. You look amazing, by the way. He’d be an idiot not to notice.”

Y/N hugged her friend, grateful for her steady support.

At the party, the music was loud, the lights dim, and laughter echoed from every corner. Y/N tried to steady her breathing, telling herself this was her chance. But as the night wore on, her chest grew heavier.

Heeseung was there, yes. He had escorted her, yes. But did it feel like a date? No. He kept drifting away, sliding into conversations with other people, laughing with different groups of friends, his hand never reaching for hers. He didn’t ask her to dance, didn’t compliment her dress, didn’t even check if she was having fun.

She might as well have been invisible.

Y/N sat by herself for a while, her heart sinking lower with each passing minute. Finally, unable to take it, she slipped outside. The cool night air rushed against her skin, sharp and bracing, but it did little to numb the ache in her chest.

Footsteps approached, and she glanced sideways. A tall, pale figure dropped into the seat beside her.

“Sunghoon?” she blinked, startled.

He offered her a gentle smile. “Thought I’d find you out here. Needed some air too?”

“Yeah…” She exhaled, hugging her arms around herself.

They began to talk, their words aimless but easy. Before long, she was laughing, genuine, unguarded laughter she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“By the way, you look pretty tonight,” Sunghoon said suddenly, his voice quieter than before. His eyes flicked toward her, then away again, almost shy.

Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

“How could he ignore you,” Sunghoon murmured, “when you’re looking this stunning?”

Her breath caught. “Y-You mean Heeseung? He’s not ignoring me. We’re just… having a fight, that’s all. I’ll go back inside when the slow dance starts.”

“Make sure he invites you to dance,” Sunghoon replied, his jaw tightening slightly. There was a hint of something else in his tone - frustration, maybe even anger.

Or I’ll be the one who does, he thought.

Y/N forced a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Sure. Okay. Let’s head back inside.”

Together, they walked back into the glowing house, until Y/N’s steps faltered, her eyes widening at the sight in front of her.

Inside the house, the laughter hit Y/N before the sight did. That loud, carefree laugh - it was Heeseung’s.

Her eyes followed the sound, and there he was, sprawled on the L-shaped sofa like he owned it. A bottle dangled lazily in his hand, his other arm draped over the shoulders of a girl pressed close to him.

Kim Minjeong.

The two of them were leaned in, their knees nearly touching, sharing some inside joke as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

“You know what?” Heeseung chuckled, his words slurred just enough from the alcohol to sting sharper. “That girl’s become so annoying. Spamming me with texts, stickers, all that clingy crap… I don’t even want to respond anymore.”

Minjeong let out a laugh that scraped against Y/N’s ears. “I know, right? You should just ignore her. Don’t waste your time.”

“Yeah,” Heeseung smirked, pouring another drink into Minjeong’s cup. “That’s what I’ve been doing. Let’s see how long it takes before she breaks up with me herself.” He laughed again, loud and careless.

The words hit Y/N like a slap across the face. Her chest constricted, breath caught somewhere between anger and heartbreak. Heat burned her cheeks, but her whole body felt cold at the same time. That girl. Annoying. Waiting for me to end it myself.

She wanted to scream, to confront him, to ask him how he could so easily humiliate her, but her voice refused to come.

Sunghoon, standing just behind her, clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened. He started forward, his eyes dark with anger. “I need to talk to him-”

“No.” Y/N snapped, swatting his hand off her wrist before he could drag her into a fight. Her voice was low, trembling, but firm. “It’s fine. I’m not in the mood to watch a scene. Don’t make this bigger than it already is.”

She turned away without another glance, her vision blurry, her body stiff with the effort of holding herself together.

Sunghoon stayed frozen for a moment, torn between chasing after Heeseung and following Y/N. His gaze dropped to the floor. With a deep sigh, he went after her.

The night air outside felt sharp against Y/N’s skin as she walked away from the party. She didn’t know where Jiwon was, but she needed to leave, to escape before the tears fell.

Minutes later, she found herself in Sunghoon’s car, the passenger seat cold beneath her legs. Neither of them spoke. The silence filled every corner of the car, heavy and suffocating. Her fingers twisted in her lap. She couldn’t look at him. Not now, not when her chest was raw and her pride was bleeding.

Finally, Sunghoon broke the silence, his voice soft, calling for her name. “Y/N.”

She flinched slightly. “Yeah?” Her gaze stayed glued to the road ahead.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, guilt thick in his tone.

Y/N sighed, pressing her nails into her palm. “It’s fine, Sunghoon. I don’t want to talk about it.” Her throat ached, the tears threatening to spill, but she forced them down.

He glanced at her, his chest tightening at the way her voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, forcing a smile that hurt to hold. “Don’t worry about it.”

He wanted to say more, to tell her she deserved better, to remind her that she wasn’t the “annoying girl” Heeseung made her out to be. But the words stuck in his throat, heavy and unsaid. Instead, Sunghoon gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and exhaled slowly.

The car was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the faint thump of bass still leaking from the party house they had left behind. Outside, the streets were lined with shadows, the glow of streetlights cutting through the dark like pale ribbons.

After a while, Sunghoon spoke again, his tone lighter, gentler. “You know, you zoned out so hard back there I thought you’d forgotten I was sitting right next to you.”

Y/N turned her head, startled. “What? I wasn’t zoning out…”

“You were,” he countered, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You didn’t even laugh at my joke about Jay’s playlist. That says a lot.”

She blinked, then let out the tiniest huff of laughter. “Maybe it just wasn’t funny.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest in mock offense. “And here I was, trying to be the comedian of the night.”

It wasn’t much, but her lips curved into a faint smile. Sunghoon noticed, and a small knot in his chest loosened. So he kept talking, steering the conversation toward safer, softer places. He pointed out how the stars looked unusually clear tonight, teased her about the way she kept fidgeting with her hair, and told her about the ridiculous excuse Jay and Jake once used to skip class.

The air in the car shifted, bit by bit. It was still heavy, but no longer suffocating. Their words filled the silence like careful stitches mending a tear.

By the time he pulled up in front of her dorm, Y/N felt different, not whole, not healed, but lighter. The ache was still there, raw and sharp, but it wasn’t crushing her anymore.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, then turned to him. The streetlight spilled through the windshield, painting his face in pale gold. His eyes weren’t playful now, but steady, watching her with quiet concern.

“Thanks for being with me tonight, Sunghoon,” she said softly. Her voice wavered, but her gaze didn’t. “I… I really appreciate it.”

For a moment, he only looked at her, as though memorizing her expression. Then he smiled, warm and gentle, the kind of smile that always made her chest flutter. “Anytime, Y/N. You can always count on me.”

Her breath hitched. The words sank deep into her, melting against the ache in her heart. As she reached for the door handle, she realized she didn’t want to leave, not yet. A part of her wanted to stay in that small cocoon of warmth, away from the world, where Sunghoon’s voice and presence were enough to quiet her storm.

But she forced herself to step out. The cool night air rushed against her, and she hugged her arms around herself. She waved faintly as he drove off, headlights disappearing into the distance.

Only when she entered the dorm did she finally press a hand against her chest, realizing how fast her heart was beating. It wasn’t from the heartbreak anymore - it was from him.

That night, lying in bed, Y/N stared up at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness except for the faint glow of her phone charging on the desk. She looked aside, Jiwon was sleeping peacefully, but sleep wouldn’t come to her, her mind was too loud, replaying everything like a non-stop film on repeat.

She saw Heeseung first. The image of him on that sofa burned into her memory: his arm casually draped over Minjeong, his laughter booming, his words sharp and careless. That girl’s so annoying. Let’s see how long it takes before she breaks up with me.

Every syllable echoed in her chest, each one a blade carving away at the affection she had once clung to. She thought about the way he used to text her first, how he used to make her feel special, and how quickly that tenderness had withered. Had she really been that blind? Or had she just refused to see it?

Then Minjeong’s smirk flashed before her eyes, mocking and smug, like she had been let in on a joke Y/N never wanted to exist. Y/N’s stomach twisted, shame mixing with anger. How humiliating, to know she had been reduced to gossip, a punchline shared between two people who didn’t care how much it might hurt her.

But after the bitterness, another voice emerged, quieter, steadier. Sunghoon’s.

Anytime, Y/N. You can always count on me.

His tone had been so gentle, his eyes so sincere. He didn’t try to tell her how to feel or what to do; he just sat beside her, letting her sadness spill out without judgment. He had made her laugh again, even when she thought she’d forgotten how.

The contrast between them made her chest ache. Heeseung’s neglect, his cruelty, his thoughtless words. Sunghoon’s patience, his warmth, his quiet way of making her feel like she wasn’t alone.

And in that moment, Y/N finally admitted what she had been avoiding for a while: she couldn’t keep holding onto someone who treated her like a burden.

Her pillow was damp by the time she turned over, clutching it close. She had poured so much of herself into this relationship, only to realize he had been slowly letting her slip away. No matter how much it hurt, she had to stop pretending it would get better.

She had to let Heeseung go.

The next day, her phone rang. His name flashed on the screen: Heeseung.

She almost ignored it, almost let it ring out. But something inside her pushed her to answer. Maybe she needed closure.

“Y/N, I didn’t see you anywhere last night. I was looking for you,” he said quickly, as if rehearsed.

Her grip tightened on the phone. “It’s fine, Heeseung. You don’t have to lie to me, I saw you with Minjeong. That’s why I left.” Her voice was flat, but inside she was shaking.

“Oh…” His voice faltered because now he knew that he’s been caught, but then quickly recovering. “Please, let me explain.”

Y/N hesitated, but she decided to give him a chance. “Make it quick,” she said coldly.

“I know I messed up,” Heeseung’s voice came rushed at first, then slowed, unsteady. “I shouldn’t have said those things about you… especially to Minjeong. It was stupid, thoughtless, and I regret it. Every word.”

Y/N sat frozen on the edge of her bed, her phone pressed to her ear, her chest tightening. His words tumbled over her, but they didn’t soothe the wound. They only pressed deeper into it. Her throat burned as she forced out, “But why, Heeseung? Why did you say it in the first placce?” Her voice cracked, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Why humiliate me like that? Was I really just… a joke to you?”

There was a pause on the other end, heavy with static and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Heeseung admitted at last, his voice low, strained. “I was angry. Frustrated. And I took it out on you when I never should have. I-” his breath hitched faintly “-I can’t take it back, but I swear I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m sorry, Y/N. I really am.”

She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. His regret was real,she could hear it in the tremor of his voice, but it didn’t erase the memory of him laughing with Minjeong, dismissing her like she was nothing. His apology couldn’t stitch back the pieces of her heart he had so carelessly broken.

Her heart ached so deeply it felt hollow, but her mind was clear in a way it hadn’t been for weeks. “I’ve thought this through, Heeseung,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t do this anymore.”

For a long moment, silence stretched. Then, so quiet she almost missed it, Heeseung spoke. “If that’s your decision… is there anything I can do to make it right? Please, Y/N. Anything?”

Her lips parted, but no words came. If she spoke again, her resolve would crumble, and she couldn’t afford that. So she pressed the call ended button before her voice betrayed her.

The silence in her room afterward was deafening. She let the phone slip from her hand and buried her face into her palms. The sobs tore out of her chest uncontrollably.

For all his faults, Heeseung had still been hers once - the boy who made her laugh, who brought her strawberry milk, who she believed cared for her. Walking away from that, even when she knew it was the right choice, felt like ripping out a piece of herself.

Heartbreak wasn’t clean. It was messy, raw, jagged. And in that moment, Y/N finally understood it in full.

The next morning, Y/N dragged herself into class, hidden beneath a hoodie and a mask. She wanted to disappear. But of course, fate had other plans.

“Y/N?” Sunghoon’s voice.

She froze. He had slipped into the seat beside her, concern etched across his face.

“You don’t look okay,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, eyes fixed forward. If she looked at him, she’d shatter.

“No, you’re not.” His voice was firm, but gentle. “What happened after I dropped you off? Did Heeseung… do something?”

Her lips trembled, but she stayed silent.

“Please,” Sunghoon urged, leaning closer. His eyes were filled with sincerity, worry written across his features. “You can talk to me. About anything. I want to help.”

Her walls broke. The tears she had fought so hard to hold back spilled, her shoulders trembling. And once she started, she couldn’t stop.

She told him everything, about the laughter, the words, the betrayal, the phone call that confirmed everything she feared. Her voice cracked, her hands shook, but Sunghoon didn’t interrupt. He just listened, every word soaking into him, his gaze steady and warm.

When she finished, she sat there, exhausted, hollow.

Without a word, Sunghoon pulled her into his arms. His embrace was steady, gentle, strong enough to hold her together when she felt like falling apart.

“You didn’t deserve any of that,” he whispered against her hair. “Not a single part of it.”

Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into him. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

Her heart fluttered painfully, but beneath the ache was something else, a warmth she couldn’t ignore.

Maybe, just maybe, her heart was finding its way back to him.

Jiwon slipped into the lecture hall late, her bag swinging against her hip. She scanned the room quickly, ready to slip into the first empty seat she saw, until her eyes caught Y/N.

Y/N was sitting with Sunghoon, their chairs so close their shoulders almost brushed. Jiwon froze for a beat, taking in the sight. Y/N’s head was tilted slightly toward him, her expression softer than it had been in weeks. For once, there wasn’t that heavy, clouded look in her eyes.

Jiwon’s lips pressed together. She thought about walking over, thought about teasing Y/N the way she normally would, but something stopped her. Instead, she let out a tiny smile and quietly found another seat. Maybe, she thought, Y/N needed this moment.

Later that afternoon, the two of them strolled down the street, the sounds of campus life were all around them. Jiwon pressed a cold cup of ice cream into Y/N’s hand.

“Sorry for not keeping an eye out for you last night,” she said as they walked. “Heard from Jay that you left the party with Sunghoon.”

Y/N didn’t answer, just scooped a spoonful of ice cream and let the sweetness melt on her tongue.

Jiwon studied her closely. “Did you… end things with Heeseung properly?”

“I hope so.” Y/N shrugged, eyes fixed on her cup. “I already told him. Hope that he knows it and won’t disturb me anymore.”

“I don’t know about that.” Jiwon sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. She slowed her steps, turning so she could look at Y/N more directly.

Y/N kept her gaze down, pretending to focus on her ice cream. She didn’t want to talk about Heeseung - not now, not anymore. She was too tired, too drained by his coldness and cruelty.

But Jiwon’s concern lingered, heavy in the air. “Hey,” she said softly, her usual sharp tone gone. “You know I’m not judging you, right? I just… I hate seeing you like this. You’re not yourself lately.”

Y/N blinked, finally glancing at her.

“I’ve been your best friend long enough to know when something’s eating you alive,” Jiwon continued, her voice steadier now. “And Heeseung… he wasn’t worth what you gave him. You deserve someone who doesn’t make you question yourself every single day.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She looked away again quickly, afraid that if she held Jiwon’s gaze too long, the tears would come back.

Jiwon sighed, nudging her shoulder lightly. “I’m not saying you need to move on right away. Just… promise me you won’t go through this alone. I’ve got you, no matter what. Okay?”

The corners of Y/N’s lips curved into the smallest smile. She didn’t say much, words felt too heavy, but the warmth in her chest told her Jiwon’s words had landed.

She nodded once, firmly.

And in that small, quiet moment, with melting ice cream in their hands and the weight of unspoken worry between them. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. A steady presence, a shoulder brushing close when the world felt too heavy.

The semester was drawing to a close, and with it came the buzz of prom. Spring had settled softly over campus, the kind of spring that was warm but still forgiving, sunlight filtered through fresh green leaves, the air cool enough to breathe easily. Excitement rippled everywhere. In the halls, whispers about outfits, about who would go with whom, colored every conversation. For some, it was a chance to confess long-held crushes; for others, just one last glittering memory before summer pulled them apart.

The student council worked tirelessly on decorations, string lights already being tested in the gymnasium. Professors rushed through final assignments, reminding everyone that classes didn’t end just because the prom was near. It felt like the whole school was holding its breath, waiting for one night to sparkle.

In the middle of a lecture, Jiwon leaned across her desk and nudged Y/N with her pen.

“So… do you have any plans for prom night?” she whispered, mischief in her eyes.

“Plans?” Y/N muttered back, her voice flat. “I don’t have a partner anymore, remember? What do you want me to do- dance on my own?” She tried to laugh, though it came out small and self-deprecating.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jiwon said quickly, her cheeks heating with guilt.

Y/N shook her head, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about it. Really.”

Still, Jiwon twirled her pen between her fingers, unwilling to drop it. “Come to think of it, Heeseung never really asked you to dance, did he?”

Y/N let out a dry chuckle. “Once. Back when we were just friends. Back when I still had that giant crush on Sunghoon.”

Jiwon’s eyes widened. “Speaking of… why don’t you ask him out?”

Y/N nearly choked on air. Her face flushed scarlet. “W-What? No way… We’re just friends.”

Are you sure you’re just friends? Jiwon thought but kept the question to herself. Instead, she patted Y/N’s shoulder gently. “It’s up to you. I just don’t want you to be alone that night. You’ll look stunning- I already know it.”

Y/N tried to brush it off and shot back, “What about you? You’re always glued to me, maybe you should find yourself a date.”

“Oh, I already have.” Jiwon’s grin spread wide.

Y/N blinked. “You do?”

“Jay asked me this morning,” Jiwon admitted, eyes sparkling. “I said yes, of course. Can’t wait.”

The lecture ended soon after. Jiwon hurried off to meet Jay, leaving Y/N to walk back alone, her thoughts spinning. Prom. The word made her stomach twist. She tried not to think about Heeseung and all the bitterness he left behind, but it kept crept in anyway.

“Y/N!”

She stopped at the sound of hurried footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Sunghoon jogging up, slightly out of breath, strands of hair falling into his eyes.

“S-Sunghoon?”

“Yeah,” he said, catching his breath with a small laugh. “I saw you in lecture but didn’t get the chance to talk.”

“Oh… I didn’t notice,” she admitted, smiling faintly.

“I was in the back.” He pointed behind him, then rubbed his neck awkwardly. “Anyway… are you busy now?”

“Not really. Just heading back to the dorm.”

“Mind if I walk with you?” His smile was shy, almost boyish.

Y/N’s chest warmed. “I could use some company.”

They fell into step, their pace unhurried. For a while, the only sounds were their footsteps and the whisper of a breeze drifting between budding trees. Sunghoon seemed restless, searching for words, glancing at her then back at the pavement.

“So…” he started, his voice hesitant. “Everyone’s buzzing about prom, right?”

Y/N smiled. “We can tell. What about you?” She asked.

“M-Me?!” He looked startled, his ears turning pink. “Well… I don’t have a partner. Honestly, I was thinking about not going at all.”

Walking beside him, Y/N noticed just how tall he was, how his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes stayed down, his ears flushed red. It was strangely endearing.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” she teased lightly. “I don’t have a partner either. But I still think I’ll go.”

Something in his shoulders relaxed. “Then what will we be? Lonely dancers?” He chuckled.

A soft breeze shifted between them, ruffling Y/N’s hair. When Sunghoon glanced over, their eyes met, and suddenly he couldn’t look away. The way her short hair framed her face, the curve of her smile, it hit him all at once. His chest tightened.

“No,” Y/N replied, smiling at him. “Not only you get to be lonely. We can be lonely together.”

They both laughed, the sound ringing easy in the cool spring air. The awkwardness between them melted, replaced with a surprising comfort.

As they walked, the conversation drifted as easily as the spring breeze around them. It started small, the safe kind of small talk: Classes, professors, the ridiculous amount of assignments dumped on them right before finals. But slowly, like a thread unraveling, it stretched into something deeper.

“Favorite song right now?” Sunghoon asked, kicking at a stray pebble on the path.

Y/N thought for a second, her lips pursed in mock seriousness. “Hmm… probably that ballad everyone’s tired of hearing already. But I still listen to it every night.”

“Really?!” He laughed, eyes widening. “I thought I was the only one keeping it on repeat. Everyone else says it’s too dramatic.”

“Too dramatic?” Y/N scoffed. “That’s the point. It makes you feel like you’re the main character in a movie.”

Their laughter spilled into the air, soft and unguarded.

From there, they moved to movies. Y/N confessed she could watch the same old animated films, the kind with talking animals and happy songs from times to times without getting bored. Sunghoon admitted, half-embarrassed, that he could watch the same cheesy rom-com a hundred times and still tear up at the ending.

“I knew you had a soft side,” Y/N teased, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Sunghoon’s ears burned red. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got an image to keep, you know.”

Their steps fell into rhythm as they teased and laughed, the street around them growing quieter, only the faint rustle of spring leaves filling the spaces between their words. It felt… easy. Like this was something they had done a hundred times before, not something new.

The conversation wandered further, into childhood memories and silly dreams.

“When I was ten,” Sunghoon confessed, staring up at the dusky sky, “I swore I was going to be a professional ice skater. I’d practice every morning, even when I’m sick.”

“And now?” Y/N tilted her head, curious.

He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Things just happen, you know.”

Y/N burst into laughter, the sound ringing out like bells, and Sunghoon felt a warmth spread through his chest at the sight of her.

She shared one too, how she once dreamed of becoming an artist. “I used to draw all the time when I was younger,” she admitted, a sheepish smile tugging at her lips. “But honestly, half of my ‘masterpieces’ looked like stick figures with extra arms. I think I traumatized my family by forcing them to hang my drawings on the fridge.” She covered her face with her hand, groaning at the memory.

“I’d still frame them,” Sunghoon said suddenly, his tone soft but certain. He glanced away quickly, as if embarrassed by his own words. “Even the ones with… extra arms.”

Y/N peeked at him from behind her hand, her cheeks heating. The warmth in his voice made her chest flutter, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

The world around them seemed to fade as they kept walking. Street lamps hummed faintly above, casting pools of golden light that stretched their shadows long across the sidewalk. Every now and then, their hands would swing just close enough that the air between them felt charged.

Sunghoon found himself stealing glances, at the curve of her smile when she spoke, at the way her eyes lit up when she laughed. He’d never realized how natural it felt to be next to her, how much he wanted this walk to stretch on forever.

And Y/N… she felt it too. With each joke, each quiet confession, the loneliness that had clung to her for weeks seemed to lift. Her chest felt lighter, her steps steadier. She hadn’t expected to feel this comfortable with him, hadn’t expected her heart to race at such ordinary moments, his laugh, the way he shoved his hands into his pockets, the shy curve of his lips whenever their eyes met.

The conversation never ran out. It just flowed. Songs, movies, dreams, silly stories, and with every shared laugh, the path back to her dorm seemed shorter and shorter, as if the night itself wanted to steal time away from them.

For both of them, it was just a walk home. Simple. Ordinary. And yet, it carried the quiet magic of something beginning, something neither dared name just yet, but both could feel in the warmth blooming between them.

When they reached the steps, Sunghoon suddenly stopped. His face was serious now, and Y/N’s pulse jumped.

“Y/N, I… I have something to tell you.” His voice was unsteady, and the way his eyes darted away only made her more nervous.

What is he going to say? Her heart raced.

But after a long pause, he only reached into his pocket, pressed a strawberry candy into her hand, and smiled with his eyes. “So… I’ll see you at prom? You convinced me to become a lonely dancer.” He chuckled softly.

Relief rushed through her, and she laughed, clutching the candy tightly. “S-See you.”

She waved quickly, then darted inside before her nerves could betray her.

Behind the closed door, she leaned back against the wood, her cheeks flushed, her heartbeat wild. She stared down at the candy in her palm, a simple sweet that suddenly felt like a promise.

She had dreamed of moments like this since her first day at university, but now that it was real, nervous excitement tangled inside her. She wanted it to be perfect, the dress, the night, the dance.

Outside, Sunghoon lingered on the sidewalk for a moment longer. Watching her disappear, he smiled faintly, but the warmth in his chest was tangled with guilt. He had wanted to say more, to confess what had been growing quietly inside him, but fear held him back.

Selfish, he thought. I just don’t want to lose her and this comfort that we’re having… that even if it means staying silent.

He sighed, turning to walk away, the night air brushing cool against his heated skin. Somewhere deep down, he hoped, when the music played and the lights dimmed, he’d finally find the courage.

As prom night crept closer, Y/N felt like her heart had become a restless bird, fluttering against the bars of her chest. Every night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her dorm room, the shadows of tree branches swaying outside her window. No matter how she tossed and turned, her mind dragged her back to that walk with Sunghoon.

The way his laughter had rung out, low and warm, wrapping around her like sunlight after rain.

The way his hand had brushed hers ever so slightly, leaving her skin tingling long after.

The strawberry candy he had pressed into her palm - such a small thing, and yet she had kept it tucked in the drawer of her desk as if it were a secret treasure.

Every detail replayed endlessly, and each time, her chest tightened.

Her heart thudded whenever she remembered his smile, not the polite one he showed to his classmates, but the soft, almost shy curve of his lips when his eyes had met hers. She could still see it clearly, like an imprint burned into her memory.

And yet, alongside the flutter of excitement, fear lingered like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

What if I’ve misread everything? What if he was just being nice? What if he doesn’t feel the same at all?

The thoughts twisted in circles, leaving her exhausted. She feared ruining the fragile balance they had built - their friendship, their comfort with each other. Losing that felt unbearable. So she held her hopes close, whispering them only into her pillow at night, where no one else could hear.

What Y/N didn’t know was that Sunghoon, too, was caught in a storm of nerves.

He had been sneaking into the practice room after hours, music pulsing low through the speakers, teaching himself steps he was terrified of messing up. Not because he wanted to impress everyone else at prom, but because of her. He wanted to be ready if she said yes when he asked her to dance.

In lectures, his attention drifted, not to the professor’s words, but to the way Y/N tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she scribbled notes furiously, the way her lips pursed when she concentrated. Even the most ordinary moments became extraordinary when she was in them.

He wanted to tell her.

Tell her that she was the reason he woke up with something to look forward to.

That she wasn’t just another classmate, not just a friend - she was the one who had slipped quietly into the center of his world without even knowing it.

But every time he opened his mouth, fear clamped it shut.

What if I ruin everything? What if she pulls away? What if she stops smiling at me like that?

The thought of losing what they already had was enough to keep the words caged in his chest. So he swallowed them down, carrying them silently, hoping that somehow, some way, prom night would give him the courage he had been missing.

The night finally came.

The ballroom glowed under strands of fairy lights draped from the ceiling, chandeliers shimmering like fallen stars. Music floated in waves, sometimes fast, sometimes soft, always filling the air with a promise that tonight could be unforgettable. Students milled around in their best outfits, laughter echoing against the polished walls.

Y/N stood in front of her mirror one last time before leaving. The dress she chose shimmered faintly when she moved, simple but elegant. Her hair had been styled into soft waves, and a touch of makeup made her features glow. She looked beautiful, but inside her chest, nerves tangled tightly.

At the entrance, she spotted him instantly. Park Sunghoon.

He stood tall beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers, the black suit tailored perfectly to his frame, the crisp white shirt bright against the dark fabric. His hair was swept neatly, but a few strands had fallen loose across his forehead in a way that looked effortlessly handsome, like he hadn’t even tried. For a moment, Y/N’s breath caught, it wasn’t just the clothes or the setting.

It was him. The way his presence seemed to anchor the entire room.

But what unraveled her most was his smile. Warm, steady, and just for her. It reached his eyes, softening them, making them shine brighter than the glittering lights above. When he extended his arm toward her, the world around them dimmed, as though the night itself was pausing to wait for her answer. And when she slid her hand into his, something inside her chest settled. Steadier. Safer. For tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.

Together, they stepped into the venue.

The ballroom was alive with chatter and music, the air buzzing with youthful excitement. Strings of fairy lights draped across the ceiling cast everything in a golden glow.

By the dessert table stood Jiwon and Jay, unmistakable even in the crowd. Jiwon, radiant in a flowing dark blue dress, leaned slightly toward Jay as he whispered something in her ear. Her laughter burst out, bright and free, and Jay’s grin widened in response. His hand hovered near hers, not quite touching, but close enough that it was clear they were both aware of the space between them, and how small it was. When Jiwon’s gaze flicked up and found Y/N’s, she raised her brows and shot her a mischievous thumbs-up, eyes sparkling with playful approval. Y/N’s cheeks burned, her lips twitching into a flustered smile.

The night blurred with the rhythm of conversation, laughter echoing like bells, and fleeting touches that lingered longer than they should have. Y/N found herself caught up in the magic of it. The music, the sparkling lights, the feeling of Sunghoon’s steady presence beside her.

And then, the spell faltered.

A weight pressed against her skin, not physical, but sharp, like a shadow falling where there shouldn’t be one. She looked across the room, her chest tightening when her gaze locked with his.

Lee Heeseung.

He stood half-hidden in the corner, his figure leaning lazily against the wall as though he had no care in the world. But his eyes betrayed him. Fixed on her, unblinking, unyielding. The intensity of it was suffocating, like he was trying to peel back every layer she had rebuilt since him. His stare didn’t hold warmth, or regret, or even curiosity. It was colder, unreadable, and it made her stomach knot in discomfort.

Y/N’s fingers twitched where they rested on Sunghoon’s arm. For the first time that evening, the warmth she had felt began to slip away, replaced by a creeping unease.

Sunghoon noticed the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her smile faltered. Without hesitation, he leaned close and whispered, his breath brushing against her ear:

“I know why you feel like this. But tonight… you have me.”

Her cheeks burned, but her heart steadied.

The music slowed. A romantic song filled the air, the kind of melody that made the world soften around it. Sunghoon bowed, extending his hand. “So… can I have this dance?”

Her lips curved upward despite her nerves. “You may.”

They moved to the floor, his hand warm against hers, his other settling gently at her waist. Her own hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and together they swayed in time with the music.

It was her first proper dance. The moment felt surreal, lights glittering above, the world fading at the edges until it was just the two of them, breathing the same rhythm.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Sunghoon murmured after a while, his head tilted closer to hers.

“What is?” Y/N frowned slightly.

“How your lover left you, and mine was kissing someone else behind my back. And now here we are, two lonely dancers, dancing together.”

The words might have been bitter, but his tone was soft, laced with something tender.

Y/N’s throat tightened. She wanted to say something, but the weight of his gaze stole her words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sunghoon saw Heeseung still watching, sharp and unrelenting. A smirk tugged at his lips. He leaned in, spinning Y/N gracefully, then catching her hand again.

“Forget him,” Sunghoon whispered.

“Huh?” Y/N blinked, startled.

“He doesn’t know anything about love.” His voice dropped lower, his eyes locked on hers. “You deserve so much more.”

Y/N’s laugh burst out, soft and bright. “Chill. I already deleted him from my mind.”

“That’s right,” Sunghoon said, his smile softening. His gaze lingered on her face, his words gentle but certain. “Tonight… you’re mine.”

Her face burned hot, but she didn’t look away. She couldn’t. Something in his voice. The firmness, the quiet protectiveness laced beneath it - struck her deeper than any sweet word ever could. It made her chest ache, but in the gentlest, most intoxicating way, like a string being pulled taut between them.

Around them, the ballroom shimmered under a canopy of soft golden lights. The song that had carried them through their slow steps was fading now, its last notes dissolving into the hum of voices and the clinking of glasses at the edges of the hall. Other couples loosened their holds, breaking apart with laughter and whispers, but Y/N and Sunghoon remained rooted in place, hands joined, as if the world beyond them had blurred into nothing.

He didn’t let go.

His fingers tightened around hers, warm and steady, as though letting go meant risking something irreplaceable. His breath ghosted against her temple as he leaned closer, his words barely louder than the hush of the dying music.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice trembling, caught between fear and hope. “Can I… can I be your boyfriend? I want to be the one to cherish you.”

The words fell fragile into the space between them, yet they rang louder than anything else she had ever heard.

Her breath caught, her entire body going still. It felt as though the chandeliers had frozen mid-glitter, the air itself holding its breath. She had dreamed of this. Late at night, staring at her ceiling, hugging her pillow as if it could carry her secrets - but never once had she believed she would hear those words from him.

Her eyes stung, the edges blurring with unshed tears. Not of sadness. Not anymore. This was something purer, sharper, relief so powerful it made her chest ache.

She swallowed, her voice trembling when it finally found its way out. “I’d love to, Sunghoon.” Her lips curved, though her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’ve always liked you. I just… never had the courage to tell you.”

The moment broke over them like light spilling into a darkened room. His breath hitched, his gaze softening in wonder, as though her words were the most precious gift he had ever been given.

For a second, he froze, stunned. Then his lips curved into the brightest smile she’d ever seen. He pulled her into his arms, holding her as if she were something fragile, precious.

“I promise I’ll make you happy,” he whispered against her hair. “I promise I won’t let you go.”

A soft kiss pressed to her forehead, lingering, sealing his words. Y/N closed her eyes, hugging him tighter, her heart soaring.

Later, they drifted out into the cool night, the echoes of music fading behind them. The moon hung low and luminous, casting its silver veil across the quiet streets. Their shadows stretched side by side, sometimes brushing, sometimes overlapping, as though even the light wanted to bind them together.

They walked slowly, not out of weariness, but because neither wanted the night to end. The silence between them was tender, a silence heavy not with absence but with everything unspoken: Promises, hopes, the fragile beginning of something beautiful. Each step carried a rhythm, their movements unconsciously aligned, like the remnants of their dance still lingered in their bodies.

They had stepped into the evening as two solitary souls, uncertain and hesitant. But somewhere between the laughter, the music, and the courage to finally speak their hearts, the loneliness had dissolved.

No longer just lonely dancers, they had found something greater. A love delicate as moonlight, new as spring, and yet so achingly real.

THAT'S ALL AODWOIHEFOIAWHEDI !! please leave feedbacks and reblogging is very much appreciated ♡