juloves

ꪑꪖ᥅ꪻ꠸ꪀ:

you stole the show

꠹ꪖꪑꫀᦓ:

missunderstood

ꪊꫝꪮꪮꪀ:

down bad

restless nights

ᦓꫀꪮꪀᧁꫝꪗꫀꪮꪀ:

you dont call anymore

softmomments

the soft place you return to

ƙׁׅ֑ꫀׁׅܻᨵׁׅꪀׁׅhׁׅ֮ᨵׁׅ:

Can I ask you a question?

left-waiting

left-waiting pt2

You were already halfway out the door, keys in hand, when Keonho suddenly popped up behind you.

“Can I come with you?”

You paused, turning to look at him. “No, babe. What do you need to come to the hair store for?”

He immediately started pouting, bottom lip out, big doe eyes activated. You tried to stay strong for all of five seconds before sighing. “Fine. Come on.”

The whole drive there he kept asking the dumbest questions. “Why do they sell so many different colors of hair?” “Do you really need that much hair?” “What’s the difference between yaki and deep wave?” “Is the lady on the front of the package the one who owns the store?” You were laughing so hard by the time you pulled into the parking lot that your cheeks hurt.

You’d only planned to run in and out the beauty supply real quick. Grab the bundles for your appointment tomorrow, maybe some edge control if they had your usual, and bounce. But the second you stepped inside, Keonho’s head was on swivel. The bright lights, the rows and rows of colorful products, the walls lined with hair packages — it was like he’d entered another planet. He stayed glued to your side, one hand lightly on your waist while the other kept drifting toward things that had no business in your cart.

“Keonho,” you warned softly when he dropped a random glittery lip gloss into the basket.

“It’s sparkly like you,” he said innocently, already reaching for something else.

You stopped in the middle of the aisle. “This store is expensive, babe. I am not paying for all this random stuff you’re collecting like Pokémon cards.”

He just grinned that sweet, mischievous smile and kissed your temple. “I’ll carry it.”

You sighed, but your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always does when he’s being soft and clingy.

As you moved through the aisles, he kept pointing at the mannequin heads and different bundles.

“You should do this one next time,” he said, holding up a pack of deep wave. “It’ll look really pretty when you put it half up. Or maybe the curly one? The one that bounces when you walk.” He demonstrated by shaking his head, making you burst out laughing.

“Boy, you don’t even know what half these terms mean.”

“I’m learning,” he said seriously, like he was taking notes in his head. “For you.”

You melted a little.

He kept tossing random things in when he thought you weren’t looking: a cute satin bonnet with stars on it (“for your curls”), some fancy shea butter (“your skin always smells so good when you use this”), even a pack of colorful claw clips. Every time you side-eyed him, he’d just pull you closer and press a kiss to your cheek or your shoulder, mumbling, “Let me spoil you.”

At one point you paused near the front door and pointed at the wall of printed photos.

“See those?” you said, trying to keep a straight face. “Those are the people who tried to steal. They put their pictures right on the door as a warning. So don’t get any ideas, mister.”

Keonho’s eyes went wide for a second before he realized you were joking. He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “I would never. I’m a good boyfriend. I pay for things.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh you’re paying for everything today, trust.”

He didn’t even argue. Just kept following you around, asking a million questions about everything he saw, recommending hairstyles like he’d suddenly become a YouTube hair guru, and stealing little kisses every chance he got.

By the time you got to the register, the cart was suspiciously full. The total made your eyes water a bit, but Keonho just pulled out his card with zero hesitation, wrapping his free arm around your shoulders while the cashier rang everything up.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you mumbled against his chest once you were back outside, bags in hand.

He shrugged, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I wanted to. Plus now I know where to take you on dates. Beauty supply store. Very romantic.”

You laughed, leaning into him as you walked to the car. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling down at you, eyes full of that quiet, warm love that always made your stomach flip. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

He opened the car door for you, helping load the bags like the gentleman he was. And as he pulled out of the parking lot, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, you couldn’t help but think that what was supposed to be a quick errand had turned into one of the sweetest, silliest dates you’d had in a while.

Keonho + beauty supply store adventures.

You were definitely bringing him again.

The mall is crowded, bright, and noisy

You walk through it like none of that matters.

Juhoon, on the other hand, is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay—wait—wait.” He grabs your wrist gently, stopping you in front of a store. “This place. Please. Two minutes.”

You glance up at the sign. Then at him.

“…Alright.”

His grin is immediate.

Inside, he’s gone within seconds moving from rack to rack, pulling things out, holding them up like he’s presenting gifts.

“This one,” he says, holding up a hoodie. “This color? On you? Crazy.”

You nod once. “It’s cool.”

Juhoon laughs under his breath. “You say that about everything.”

You shrug. “Because it is”

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks fond.

He picks up a jacket next, draping it over your shoulders without asking. You don’t react, just adjust it slightly

“You’d wear this,” he says confidently. “I can tell.”

“Mm,” you hum. “You know me well.”

That makes him pause.

“…I try to,” he admits, quieter.

At the fitting rooms, you take the pile of clothes from his arms and disappear behind the curtain. Juhoon waits outside, pretending to be casual while failing misrably.

When you step out, he looks up—and freezes.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Yeah. I knew it.”

You glance at yourself in the mirror.

“It’s fine.”

“Fine?” He shakes his head, smiling. “You look really good. Like—really.”

You meet his eyes in the reflection. Hold them.

“…Thanks.”

It’s subtle, but he notices. He always does.

The rest of the trip, he caries your bags, walks a little closer, keeps glancing at you like he’s checking you’re still real. At some point, he reaches for your hand without thinking.

You let him.

Outside, the air is cooler. The mall noise fades behind you.

Juhoon stops walking first.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I ask you something?”

You look at him. “Go ahead.”

“Do you ever get excited?” he asks, half-joking, half-serious. “Or is this just… your thing?”

You stare at him for a second too long.

Then you sigh.

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t freak out.”

He blinks. “What—”

You grab his sleeve, eyes lighting up, words spilling out all at once. “I’ve literally been holding it in all day because I didn’t want to seem weird but I loved everything you picked out and I was lowkey geeking the whole time and you looked so cute getting excited and I wanted to say something but—”

Juhoon stares at you, stunned.

“…You were?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

You nod, cheeks warm. “Yeah. For you.”

There’s a beat.

Then he laughs—soft, disbelievingand pulls you into a hug without thinking. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

You relax against him, smiling. “Told you I liked listening.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright.

“I’m never shopping without you again.”

You roll your eyes but you’re still smiling.

@userrrwhatt @uhbuhhbuhbbhu @iminthenewhell

You were there before the lights, before the applause, before the world knew his name.

Loving him felt easy then.

Loving him now feels like clapping from the dark.

You learned how to love Martin quietly.

Not because you wanted to, but because loving him loudly didn’t fit anymore.

There was a time when your presence didnt have to compete with anything. When you could sit next to him in silence and feel like that was enough. When his attention didn’t feel like a limited resource you had to ration carefully so you didn’t seem needy.

Now, everything about him was louder.

The apartment was crowded, warm with bodies and noise and excitement that buzzed under your skin. Someone had turned the music up too high. Someone was laughing near the kitchen. Someone kept saying Martin’s name like it was something special to hold in their mouth.

He stood in the middle of it all, bright and effortless, smiling so wide it almost looked painful. You watched people gravitate toward him without thinking, like they were pulled by something magnetic. He was used to it now. You could tell by the way he leaned into it instead of shrinking away.

You stood off to the side, shoulder against the wall, arms loosely crossed. Not closed off. Just… contained.

You told yourself this feeling was pride.

It had to be.

Because you loved him. You had always loved him. And this was what loving someone looked like when they got everything they ever dreamed of. You stepped back so they could step forward.

At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

You watched him laugh at something someone said, head tipping back, eyes crinkling at the corners. That laugh used to belong to quiet moments. To you sitting on the floor of his childhood bedroom while he struggled through chords, tongue caught between his teeth, glancing at you for reassurance every few seconds.

You used to be the first place he looked.

Now you were just… somewhere in the room.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from someone you didn’t really feel like responding to. You ignored it and slipped the phone back, eyes returning to Martin without thinking

Someone handed him a drink,Someone clapped him on the back. Someone hugged him too tightly. Martin accepted it all easily, grin never fading.

Then his phone buzzed.

You noticed immediately. You always did.

His expression shifted as he looked at the screen. Something electric ran through him, like a spark catching. He looked up, eyes wide.

“We charted,” he said, voice loud enough for everyone. “Top ten!"

The room exploded.

Cheering, shouting, people jumping up and down. Someone yelled something you couldn’t quite hear. Arms wrapped around Martin from every direction. He laughed, overwhelmed and glowing, hands gripping whoever was closest.

You clapped.

The sound felt too small. Like it disappeared before it reached him.

You kept clapping anyways

You didn’t stop when your palms started to sting a little. You didn’t stop when your throat tightened. You didn’t stop when you realized he hadn’t looked at you yet.

Eventually, your eyes met across the room.

Just for a second.

He smiled when he saw you. A softer smile than the one he gave everyone else. Familiar. Almost apologetic. He lifted his hand in a small wave, like you were someone he knew well but hadn’t spoken to in a while.

You waved back.

Your smile felt automatic. Practiced.

He didn’t come over right away. He stayed where he was, soaking it all in. And you didn’t blame him. You would have done the same if the roles were reversed. You would have wanted to hold onto that feeling for as long as possible.

Still, something settled heavy in your chest.

You remembered a different night. Years ago. Just the two of you sitting on the hood of his car, legs dangling, summer air thick and warm. He’d been nervous, rubbing his palms against his jeans, eyes fixed on the sky.

“I think I could really do it,” he’d said. “Like… really make something of this.”

You hadn’t hesitated. Not for a second.

“I know you can.”

He’d looked at you then, really looked at you. Like your belief mattered more than anyone else’s.

“I don’t think I could do it without you.”

You didn’t know then how dangerous that sentence would become.

Eventually, Martin pulled away from the crowd and walked toward you, energy still buzzing but quieter now. His smile softened when he reached you, like he was relieved you were still there.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He sounded sincere. He always did. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Here.

Not with him. Just here.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you said.

He squeezed your arm briefly, already half-turned back toward the room. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Just… a lot happening.”

Later had become a word with no shape. No guarantee.

You nodded anyway.

He left again, slipping easily back into the noise like he belonged there.

You stayed for another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Long enough to prove something to yourself. You weren’t sure what.

When you finally grabbed your jacket and slipped out, no one noticed.

The hallway was quiet. Cool. Your footsteps echoed softly as you walked, each one grounding and lonely all at once.

Outside, the night air hit your face and you inhaled sharply. You leaned against the building, head tipping back, eyes closing.

You hadn’t asked for this. For the slow erosion. For the way loving him started to feel like standing behind a curtain while the crowd screamed his name.

You wondered how long you could keep applauding before it broke you.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time when Martin’s life felt braided with yours so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. You grew up together in all the ways that mattered. Shared snacks, shared secrets, shared silence.

He used to climb through your bedroom window when he couldn’t sleep, landing awkwardly on the floor with a whispered apology. You’d pretend to be annoyed while scooting over to make room for him on your bed.

“You okay?” you’d ask.

He’d nod, then shake his head, then sigh.

You’d listen. Always.

You were the first person he played his songs for. The first person to tell him they were good, even when they weren’t yet. You watched him fall in love with music the same way you fell in love with him. Slowly. Completely. Without a backup plan.

When he got the call that changed everything, he cried.

He cried into your shoulder, hands shaking, voice breaking as he said your name like he needed you to anchor him to reality.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he said. “I don’t want to lose us.”

“You won’t,” you promised.

You meant it.

You just didn’t know that sometimes people don’t mean to leave. They just keep walking forward and assume you’ll follow.

At first, you did.

You adjusted to the late nights, the rehearsals, the missed calls. You told yourself it was temporary. That things would settle once everything became routine.

But the routine never came.

Instead, there were schedules taped to walls, meetings you weren’t part of, conversations that stopped when you walked into the room. Martin started checking his phone constantly. Started apologizing for things before you even had a chance to feel upset about them.

“Sorry, I have to take this.”

“Sorry, I’m late.”

“Sorry, I’m just really tired.”

You accepted every apology.

You didn’t want to be another thing pulling at him.

There were moments that almost felt like before. Late nights when everyone else was asleep and he’d sit beside you on the couch, head resting on your shoulder, fingers laced loosely with yours.

“You okay?” he’d murmur.

“Yeah,” you’d say.

He’d kiss your hair, soft and absent, already half-asleep.

You’d stare at the wall, heart aching, wondering when “almost” had become the best you could get.

The breaking point didn’t come with yelling or tears or slammed doors.

It came quietly.

A showcase. A big one. Industry people. Cameras. Bright lights.

You stood in the crowd, heart pounding, watching him on stage. He looked unreal under the lights. Confident. Alive. Like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And you were proud.

God, you were so proud.

When the crowd cheered, you cheered louder than anyone. When he smiled, it felt like the sun breaking through clouds.

But when he looked out into the audience, scanning faces, your chest tightened.

He didn’t find you.

Afterward, backstage was chaos. People congratulating him, pulling him into conversations, asking for photos. You hovered near the edge, waiting patiently like you always did.

When he finally spotted you, his face lit up. “There you are.”

You smiled. “You were amazing.”

“Thank you.” He leaned in, kissed your cheek. Quick. Distracted. “Did you see the crowd?”

“I did.”

“I can’t believe this is real.”

“I know.”

He glanced over your shoulder, already being called again. “I’ll find you later, okay?”

You didn’t answer right away.

“Okay,” you said eventually.

Later never came.

You went home alone that night. Sat on your bed in the dark, still wearing the clothes you’d picked out carefully, heart pounding in your ears.

You realized something then.

You weren’t part of his life anymore.

You were part of his past that he carried with him out of habit.

That realization hurt more than anger ever could.

So you started pulling back.

Not dramatically. Just… gently.

You stopped waiting up. Stopped rearranging your schedule. Stopped being the one who reached out first.

Martin didn’t notice at first.

Then one day, he did.

“You’ve been distant,” he said, brow furrowed. “Did I do something?”

You looked at him, really looked at him. At the tired eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The boy you loved, buried under a life that didn’t have room for you anymore.

“No,” you said softly. “You didn’t.”

That was the truth. And it hurt more than a lie.

The night you finally left, there was no argument.

You packed quietly. Left a note on the kitchen counter. Nothing dramatic. Just honest.

I love you.

I just can’t keep loving you like this.

You didn’t watch the show anymore.

But sometimes, late at night, you still remembered the sound of your hands clapping in a room where he shined brighter than anything else.

-

You thought leaving would hurt all at once.

Like ripping something out. Like screming Like finally letting the grief crash over you in one clean wave.

Instead, it hurt slowly.

It hurt in grocery stores when you reached for the brand he liked without thinking. It hurt when you heard his voice on the radio and didn’t turn it off fast enough. It hurt in the quiet moments when there was nothing to distract you from the empty space he used to fill.

You didn’t block him.

You told yourself that was maturity. That it meant you weren’t bitter.

The truth was simpler. You didn’t trust yourself to say no if he reached out.

At first,he didn’t.

Days passed. Then weeks.

You watched from a distance as his life continued to expand. New interviews. New performances. Smiling photos where he looked happier than ever. The comments filled with praise and hearts and people who thought they knew him.

You wondered if anyone could tell he was missing something.

You wondered if he even felt it.

Sometimes, late at night, you imagined him standing in his kitchen staring at the note you left behind, reading it over and over until the words lost meaning. Sometimes you imagined him shrugging, folding it up telling himself it was for the best.

Both versions hurt.

The night it finally happened, you were half-asleep.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Then again.

You stared at the screen, heart already racing before you even processed the name.

Martin.

You didn’t pick up right away.

You let it ring until it stopped. Let the silence stretch. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. That if you answered, everything you worked so hard to hold together would come undone.

The phone buzzed again.

A message this time.

"Can you please talk to me."

Your throat tightened.

You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around your shoulders like armor. The room felt too quiet, like it was waiting.

Another message.

"I didn’t realize how bad it was."

You closed your eyes.

Too late had a sound. It sounded exactly like that sentence.

You typed. Deleted. Typed again.

"What do you want me to say?"

The response came immediately.

"That you’re still here"

Your chest ached so sharply you had to press your pam against it.

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

"I was always here."

The typing bubble appeared Disappeared. Appeared again.

"I know"

"I just didn’t see it."

That hurt worse than anything else he could have said.

You didn’t answer.

Minutes passed Then longer.

Another message came through longer this time.

"I'm standing in the do right now and it’s quiet and I don’t know when it started feeling like this"

"I keep thinking you’ll walk in."

"You always did.."

Your hands shook.

You remembered all the times you had walked in. All the times you had waited. All the times you had stayed quiet so he could be loud.

You typed one last message.

"I can’t keep clapping from the dark Martin."

There was no reply right away.

You set the phone down, heart pounding, eyes burning. You didn’t cry. You felt past crying, like something hollowed out where the tears should be.

The phone buzzed again.

You picked it up.

"Then come back."

"Please."

Your breath caught.

You stared at that word. Please.

It was the word you’d been waiting years to hear. The one you’d imagined would fix everything if he ever said it.

And still, you didn’t move.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You thought about the lights. The noise. The way he shined. The way you faded.

You thought about how much it took to finally choose yourself.

The typing bubble appeared on your screen.

You waited.

And waited.

Then it disappeared.

No message followed.

The screen stayed dark.

You didn’t know if he was waiting for you to answer.

You didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep.

You didn’t know if this was the moment everything changed, or the moment it finally ended.

You sat there in the quiet, phone warm in your hand, heart split clean down the middle.

Somewhere, the show was still going on.

And you were no longer sure if you were meant to walk back into the light

or let the silence finish what the applause started.

Taglist!!

@userrrwhatt @uhbuhhbuhbbhu @iminthenewhell

Feedback & reblogs are appreciated

James doesn’t say anything at first.

That’s the thing about him—he never does when it matters most.

He notices it in fragments.

You laughing a little too freely with Juhoon in the kitchen.

Your shoulder brushing Martin’s as you sit closer on the couch.

Keonho handing you something and lingering just a second longer than necessary.

None of it is wrong.

None of it crosses a line.

But jealousy doesn’t need a reason. It just needs a crack.

James watches from across the room, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his side. He tells himself he’s being ridiculous. You’ve been together too long for this. You’ve chosen him every day since. Still, something ugly twists in his chest—quiet, persistent, whispering what if.

He hates that part of himself.

So instead of pulling you closer, he pulls away.

When you sit beside him, he shifts.

When you reach for his hand, he laces his fingers together and pretends he didn’t notice.

When you lean in to whisper something, he answers with a hum, eyes fixed anywhere but you.

You feel it. Of course you do.

Later that night, when the dorm finally settles into something calm and quiet, you find him alone in his room. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees. Head low.

“James?” you say softly.

He looks up, surprised—like he didn’t expect you to follow him.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, stepping closer.

He swallows. His voice comes out rough.

“…Nothing.”

You don’t buy it.

You sit in front of him anyway, knees brushing his. You tilt your head, searching his face—the way his brows pull together, the way his eyes look tired instead of annoyed.

“You’ve been distant all day,” you murmur. “Did I do something?”

That’s what breaks him.

His shoulders slump, breath leaving him like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He laughs once, quiet and bitter.

“I know it’s stupid,” he says. “I know you didn’t do anything.”

Then, softer—almost ashamed

“I just… didn’t like how close you were with them.”

Your chest aches.

“James…”

He finally meets your eyes, and there it is—raw, unguarded.

“I trust you,” he says quickly, like he needs you to know that. “I do. I just—sometimes I see them look at you and I forget how lucky I am. And I hate that it gets in my head.”

You don’t argue.

You don’t tease.

You don’t minimize it.

You reach for him.

You climb onto the bed, settling between his legs, and wrap your arms around his waist. His breath stutters when your forehead presses into his chest.

Then you cuddle closer. Intentionally. Possessively. Comfortingly.

“I’m yours,” you say simply. “I always have been.”

His hands hesitate—then slide into your hair, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I don’t care how close I am to them,” you whisper. “They’re family. But you?”

You look up at him.

“You’re home.”

James exhales shakily and buries his face in your shoulder.

God. That’s all he needed.

His arms wrap around you fully now, tight, protective. One hand rubs slow circles into your back. The other holds you like he’s relearning the shape of you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For pulling away.”

You smile against his chest. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling things.”

He presses a kiss into your hair, lingering.

Then another.

Then one to your temple.

“Stay,” he whispers.

You settle more comfortably into his arms, legs tangled, heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“Always.”

And just like that, the jealousy fades—replaced by warmth, reassurance, and the quiet certainty that no one else could ever take your place.

Because you already chose him.

And he feels it now.

The dorm is already too quiet when you decide that’s a problem

You’re standing in the kitchen in socks cabinet doors open, rereading the same recipe like it might change if you stare long enough. The clock on the microwave blinks past midnight. Somewhere down the hall a door shuts. You sigh dramatically

“Okay” you mumble to yourself “we’re fixing the vibe.”

That’s when Juhoon wanders in, hair still damp, hoodie a little too big, eyes tired in that familiar way. He pauses when he sees flour on the counter

“…What are you doing.”

You look up, instantly smiling.“baking. Obviously.”

“At twelve?”

“Don’t act like time is real,” you say, handing him a spoon. “Sit. You’re participating.”

He doesn’t argue just leans against the counter, watching you bounce around like the room runs on your energy alone. You hum, you spin, you nearly crash into him

“Careful,” he says, hand catching your wrist

You grin “See? You care"

You read the recipe out loud and absolutely butcher it.

“Teaspoon, tablepoon… same family.”

“That’s not how measurements work,” Juhoon says

You dump it in anyway“Too late!”

He groans. “You’re impossible

“And yet,” you say, pointing the spoon at him, “you’re still here”

The oven beeps and you gasp like it’s an enemy. You talk while mixing, jumping topics, laughing at nothing, filling the space wthout trying. Juhoon stays quiet but his shouders loosen, his breathing evens out.

“You’re tense today,” you say lightly

He shrugs. “Just tired”

You nod, then bump his hip with yours. “Then I’ll be loud for both of us.”

The cookies come out wrong. Burnt, raw tragic You bite one and immediately make a face

“Oh that’s bad.”

Juhoon laughs, real and sudden He freezes like he didn’t mean to.

You look at him, softer now “There you are.”

“…You’re annoying,” he murmurs.

You lean into him, flour smearing his hoodie. “Yeah...But I’m yours soo.."

He doesn’t move away The kitchen hums quietly, night pressed against the windows, and for once his head feels a little less heavy just by standing next to you

LA isn’t the kind of place where you expect fate to smack into you literally. But the door you swung open hit someone, and before you could even panic, a soft laugh slipped out of him.

“I i’m so sorry!” you blurt, reaching out.

The boy in front of you rubs his shoulder, smiling like he’s trying not to make you feel worse. “It’s okay. Strong first impression, though.”

He’s cute. Too cute. The kind of cute that makes you blink twice. Soft eyes, shy smile, gentle voice.

You tell him your name.

He tells you his: Seonghyeon.

And somehow you’re suddenly walking around the outdoor mall together like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

He doesn’t say what he’s doing in LA at first. You notice the way he keeps pulling down his cap, the way he checks over his shoulder.

“So you’re not famous,” you tease lightly, “but you act like someone will recognize you.”

He groans. “I’m a trainee. I’m… training to maybe be famous someday. Maybe.”

You just shrug. “It’s LA. Everyone’s chasing something.”

He laughs — really laughs and that’s how everything starts.

He notices your curls. More than notices he watches them bounce when you move. You catch him staring and raise an eyebrow.

“You’re staring.”

His ears turn red. “Sorry. They look really soft.”

You bite back a smile. “Do you… wanna touch them?”

His whole brain malfunctions. “I— what? No— I mean yes— I mean— only if it’s not weird—”

You laugh and lean closer. “Go ahead.”

He gently touches one curl, brushing it with the tip of his finger like it might dissolve. “Whoa,” he whispers. “It feels like a cloud.”

Your chest does something embarrassing.

He pulls away, flustered.

“It wasn’t weird,” you tell him softly.

After that, it becomes normal him walking with you, asking questions, smiling like you’re the best part of his day. Small touches. Soft glances. Sunsets that feel warmer because he’s standing next to you. Seonghyeon becomes a habit without either of you trying, and habits are dangerous.

He tells you he has to leave only when the day comes. There’s no “maybe later.” No slow fade-out. Just a suitcase, an airport, and a goodbye he doesn’t know how to say.

At the terminal, he hugs you like he’s memorizing the way you feel. “I’ll call,” he says quietly. “I mean it. I don’t want this to be over.”

You clutch the back of his shirt. “Then don’t let it be.”

His eyes soften, the kind of soft that hurts. “Don’t forget me, okay?”

You swallow. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

He smiles a sad, warm, fragile thing and then he walks away. It’s only when he disappears into the crowd that you let yourself cry.

He calls. A lot. At first every couple days, then every night, then multiple times a night. Voice notes, grainy selfies of him in practice clothes, little updates about ramen and dance practice and the weather outside the dorm. And he sends songs little clips of melodies he’s writing and he always says they’re “nothing special,” but you know they’re for you.

You send him pictures of LA sunsets, selfies when your curls are fresh, voice notes when you’re laughing. He melts each time.

He tries to keep you a secret.

He absolutely fails.

His members catch him smiling at his phone so much they don’t even need to ask. They call you “curl girl” before they even know your name.

He denies everything. He’s terrible at denying everything.

Then life shifts. You apply to an international school in Seoul on a whim. You don’t expect to get in. But you do. And when you tell Seonghyeon during a late-night call, he drops his phone.

“You’re WHAT?”

“I got accepted. I’m moving to Seoul.”

He chokes. “HERE? To— HERE?!”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Here.”

He doesn’t sleep that night.

You don’t expect him to show up at the airport when you land. You especially don’t expect him to sprint toward you like he’s in a drama. He crashes into you, arms around your waist, hugging you so tight you lose your breath.

“You’re real,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“So are you,” you whisper back.

He pulls away, scanning your face, your curls, your expression like he’s checking if you changed. “You’re even prettier in person. Again.”

Before you can answer—

“BRO JUST KISS ALREADY!”

You jump. He jumps harder. His members are standing a few feet away, watching like it’s a movie they bought front-row tickets to.

The dorm is chaotic in the best way. They ask you a million questions.

“So YOU’RE the curls!”

“He talks about you EVERY day.”

“He tried to write a song but refused to admit it was about you—”

“SHUT UP!” Seonghyon yells, turning tomato-red.

You end up on the couch beside him. Close. Too close. Your curls brush his shoulder and he goes still. You see it in his eyes — the muscle memory kicking in.

Then it happens.

His fingers reach into yor curls, slow and natural, twisting one around his finger like he’s done it a thousand times. Like he never stopped. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

The room freezes.

And then..

CLICK.

CLICK.

CLICK.

Four phones.

Four angles.

Four idiots grinning.

“BRO WE CAUGHT HIM.”

“This is going in the group chat FOREVER.”

“Look at him — he’s in LOVE.”

"IN A PUBLIC SEVER??"

Seonghyeon covers his face. “Delete it. Delete ALL of it.”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts. You gently pull his hands away. “You didn’t have to stop.”

He swallows, eyes softening entirely. “I missed you,” he says quietly. “More than I ever said.”

Your heart squeezes. “I missed you too.”

He leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. “Can I—?”

“IF YOU KISS IN FRONT OF US I’M LEAVING!” Martin yells across the room

You and Seonghyeon both break into laughter. He settles for resting his head on your shoulder, fingers sliding back into your curls like they belong there.

“You’re home now,” he whispers.

And for the first time in a long time you believe it.

The day after the argument felt like walking around with a bruise no one could see.

You moved through the apartment quietly, doing everything you could to avoid thinking about last night but it stuck to your ribs, tight and unmoving. Every time your phone buzzed, you almost hopd it was him… even though he was probably just as tired, just as unsure.

He didn’t text.

He didn't call.

Just absence and whatever you were supposed to do with it.

By the time he came home that evening, the sky already dark, you were sitting on the couch pretending to scroll through something you weren’t even reading.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, taking off his shoes too slowly, like he was scared to step any closer.

“Y/n…” His voice was soft. Hesitant. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t look up right away. “If you want.”

He walked closer, stopping a few feet away. You could feel him watching you, like he was trying to read whether you still cared or if last night truly broke something.

“I hated how we left things,” he said quietly.

“I hated what I said.”

That made your breath hitch, just a little.

“You hurt me,” you said honestly, still staring at your hands.

“I know.”

He sounded wrecked.

“And I hated myself the second the words came out. I didn’t mean any of it. I swear I didn’t.”

You finally looked up and the moment your eyes met, his shoulders dropped like he’d been holding his breath all day.

“I should’ve been there,” he said. “For the date. For you. I should’ve texted. I should’ve… tried. But I didn’t. And you had every right to be mad.”

You didn’t say anything yet.

You didn’t have to the redness in your eyes said enough.

Keonho stepped closer, slow like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“Can I sit with you?” he whispered.

You nodded once.

He sat beside you, knees brushing, but he didn’t touch you. Not until you leaned the tiniest bit in his direction and then he reached out immediately, gently, like his hands remembered you before his mind did.

His fingers laced with yours.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Not of the fight of losing you. I know I disappear sometimes. I know it’s unfair. But I don't want you to feel alone because of me.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t want you to lose me either. I just… want you to show up. Even a little.”

He nodded quickly. “I will. I’ll do better. Not perfect, but better. I promise.”

The room went quiet.

Not tense just full.

Then he shifted closer and rested his forehead against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“Please don’t stop loving me like this,” he whispered, voice trembling a little. “I don’t want to go to sleep again without knowing we’re okay.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m still hurt,” you admitted. “But I want us to be okay.”

His lips brushed your forehead, soft and slow — the kind of kiss that felt like an apology all on its own.

“Then we’re okay,” he murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You finally leaned into him fully, your head on his chest as his arms wrapped tight around you. He held you like he’d been waiting all day to breathe, his cheek pressed to your hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I love you more than schedules and stages and everything else. I’m here.”

And for the first time since last night, the heaviness in your chest finally loosened.

You weren’t fine.

You weren’t perfect.

But you were together and that was enough.

You had been at the restaurant for thirty-seven minutes.

Your water sat untouched, droplets sliding down the glass like they were running out of patience too. You checked your phone again, even though you already knew the screen would be blank.

No texts.

No missed calls.

Nothing from Keonho.

This was supposed to be your first real date in weeks a small break in his idol schedule. It was the one thing you’d been holding onto to feel close to him again.

Another minute passed. Then another.

By the time you got home, disappointment had hardened into something heavier, something sharp.

You unlocked your apartment door and walked inside. The moment you flicked on the light, Keonho stumbled out of the bedroom, hair still damp from a rushed shower, eyes wide like he only just realized the time.

“Y/n— wait. I can explain.”

You dropped your purse onto the couch a little too hard. “Oh, now you remember?”

He flinched, guilt flickering across his face. “We had extra practice— the choreo wasn’t landing and the manager—”

“You could have texted me.”

Your voice cracked at the end, which somehow made the sting worse.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t check my phone.”

“You didn’t check your phone for hours, Keonho. Hours.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Y/n… I’m trying. You know how my schedule is. You know how hard it gets.”

“And I’m not?” you shot back, hurt boiling over. “Do you think I just sit here doing nothing but waiting for you to remember I exist?”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t twist it like that.”

“I’m not twisting anything! I waited alone, like an idiot, because you couldn’t be bothered to look at your phone one time.”

That hit him. Hard.

He stepped back, frustration rising to meet yours. “You knew what dating me would be like.”

“And I didn’t think you’d stop showing up,” you said, voice low and trembling. “I didn’t think I’d matter less than your notifications.”

Keonho’s hands curled into fists. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is being stood up by your own boyfriend,” you snapped. “What’s not fair is you making me feel like I’m asking for too much when I'm literally asking for the bare minimum.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I’m doing everything I can. I’m exhausted every day, Y/n. I don’t have time—”

“There it is.”

Your heart dropped.

You hadn’t meant for tears to gather, but they did.

“You don’t have time for me.”

“That’s not—”

“You just said it.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Awful.

He opened his mouth, closed it. You could see the moment exhaustion mixed with defensiveness, twisting his expression into something you didn’t recognize.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

That was the sentence that broke you.

Your breath caught. “Right. Because caring that my boyfriend forgot about me is… difficult for you.”

You moved toward the hallway.

“Where are you going?” he asked sharply.

“Away from this conversation,” you said, choking the words out. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”

But he beat you to it.

“Maybe you should think about whether you can actually handle being with someone like me.”

You froze in the doorway.

The silence after that was colder than the night outside.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t cry in front of him.

You just whispered, “Wow,” and walked into the bedroom.

The door slammed shut behind you louder than you intended, but maybe that was the only thing that could speak for you anymore.

You could hear him mutter something on the other side.

You couldn’t make out the words.

And you didn’t want to.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, heart stinging, breathing uneven.

It felt like something between you had cracked straight down the middle.

Neither of you tried to fix it.

Not tonight.

Not after everything that had been said.

You were halfway through undoing the braids at the nape of your neck when your bedroom door clicked open and Seonghyeon peeked in.

“Baby?” he said softly, like he was afraid to interrupt you. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

You smiled without turning around. “I’m just taking my braids out. It’s gonna take forever.”

He crossed the room in seconds, sliding onto the bed behind you. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re doing,” you laughed.

“I can learn,” he insisted, already gathering one of your braids like it was something fragile.

You twisted around to look at him — hair messy, shirt slightly crooked, eyes warm with that soft concern he only ever gave you. “You really wanna help?”

He nodded, so serious he looked cute. “I wanna help with everything you do.”

You handed him a comb. “Okay… start at the ends. Be gentle.”

He nodded again, leaning in so close you could feel his breath on your shoulder. He worked slowly painfully slowly tongue poking out a little as he concentrated.

Every time he loosened a braid, he whispered, “Did I do it right?”

“Yes, baby,” you giggled, “you’re doing amazing.”

Feeling proud, he planted a kiss on your cheek. Then another. Then one on your temple for good measure.

When you leaned forward to get another braid, he slid his hands around your waist and pulled you back gently.

“Stay still,” he murmured. “I got you.”

His fingers were clumsy but careful, brushing your roots in a way that sent warm shivers down your spine. He hummed softly while he worked, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder like he couldn’t stand being too far away.

“You’re so patient with me,” he mumbled.

“You’re the one helping me,” you said, laughing.

“No,” he corrected, kissing the side of your neck, “you’re letting me take care of you. That’s different.”

Your heart melted instantly.

A few braids later, he whispered, “Your natural hair is so pretty, baby.”

And he said it like it was a secret meant only for you.

When the last braid came undone, he wrapped his arms fully around you from behind, pulling you into his chest.

“All done,” he announced proudly. “Am I the best boyfriend ever or what?”

“You are,” you said, turning your face toward him. “C’mere.”

He didn’t even wait — he caught your lips in a soft, warm kiss. Then another. Then another, because he couldn’t help himself.

“I’d do your hair every day if you let me,” he murmured between kisses.

You laughed, poking his cheek. “You’d cry after the first wash day and you know it.”

“Okay, maybe,” he admitted. “But I’d still try.”

And honestly?

With how he was holding you — gentle hands in your hair, lips brushing your skin, eyes soft and full of devotion

you believed him.