salty air fills your senses as your bare feet tread over the sand. it's a clear moonlit night, the water glimmering faintly in its glow. the periodic crashing of the waves against the rocky shore provides a soothing background melody.

soft acoustic songs play through the singular earbud in your ear, the other one in jake's. you're walking hand in hand, enjoying a quiet walk on the beach. the cool night air flits through your hair, a blissful contrast to the stifling summer heat.

the song changes. the beginning of dance with me by beabadoobee crackles through your earbud and jake stops in his tracks. it's your song. his eyes twinkle as he breaks out in a smile, slow and soft. he turns to face you, holding out his other hand for you to take—a silent invitation.

and I know it's hard to tell

but I think I really like you.

you can't help the grin that forms on your lips as you playfully curtsy and place your hand in his. the moment your hands are joined, jake pulls you close, palms resting on your waist. a surprised giggle slips out at the sudden motion which only makes his smile widen. you bring your hands to lay flat on his shoulders.

just take it slow

and move your feet to the beat.

the two of you begin swaying to the beat, faces mere inches apart. you stay like that for a while, soaking in the moment.

you touch your forehead to his, closing your eyes as he does the same. jake chuckles at the way your eyes go wide when he kisses the tip of your nose out of nowhere.

'cause if we dance then

you don't have to speak.

he loves twirling you around to the point where you're nearly stumbling over your feet. you smack his arm lightly and he only has a sheepish smile to offer claiming he 'got carried away'. to make up for it, he asks you to put your feet on top his while you dance.

and I know it's hard to tell

but I think I really like you.

jake finishes the dance by swooping you off your feet in a disney princess-style twirl that leaves you breathless. you press your lips to his in a soft, delicate kiss as the final notes of the song fade out. but the moment you pull away? he's chasing your lips for more.

; cinny's corner: i've been sitting on this one for so long omg T.T i'm so sorry for the wait, personal life got in the way ;-;

There he was, the golden boy of your school, the valedictorian of your grade, the soccer team captain. Jake came up to you with a hand behind his neck, a slight grin glimmering on his face, eyes shining as he looked at you—a sight that you never expected to witness.

His simple "Do you wanna go out this Saturday? Like a date?" got you spiraling for days. You were ready to run away as the word 'date' escaped his mouth. And you probably would, if not for your friends who were chatting previously. They knew about your 'crush' on Jake Sim, so if you let this kind of opportunity pass, they would bash you for months, heck, maybe even years.

Thus, you're a nervous wreck right now. Looking at the mirror, you contemplate whether waking up 5 hours before the date was a good idea. You're not even sure if you look good. Sure, Yunjin said that 'she would hit' and Karina mentioned how letting you go 'feels like a divorce', but would Jake think that?

This question was playing over and over in your mind, right until you heard a quiet notification sound. Jake has texted you.

'I am here :) Take ur time, don't rush.'

Oh god. You felt your heart pound times faster, cheeks burning up, all from a single message. What are you gonna do?

After checking your appearance once again, you rushed to the front door, where you found Jake waiting in his car. Before you could open the door, he had already gotten up from his seat, walking up to you.

"Hey, how have you been?" he asked, giving you a side hug you couldn't not reciprocate.

"It's been alright, the usual, physics giving me a headache and stuff." You jokingly replied, not expecting his words that were said next.

"Really? I can tutor you sometime, if you want," he turned his head when speaking, a little habit of his that you noticed.

"That'd be nice." The only response you could think of right now. His hand was still lying on your shoulder. That prompted your stomach to do multiple flips.

"You got it, but let's not think of school right now, okay?" Sliding his hand down to your waist, he gave you another side hug.

This date was going to be a rollercoaster of feelings.

Knowing that he might actually go insane over this, he begrudgingly decided to pack his things, take a few weeks of leave from the studio, and left for Tongyeong-si, a seaside town far away from the hustle and bustle of the loud city. 

And now Dongmin is here by the beach, sitting on a fallen trunk of a palm tree, his pants dusted with fine sand and his thigh propping up his guitar. He’s lost in thought—his eyes stare blankly into the canvas of an orange and pink hued sunset in front of him, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore going into his ear and out another. 

He can’t even pinpoint what he’s really thinking about. His thoughts are disheveled, unorganised—he’s in desperate need of a new song, and he can’t be doing something like this right now; but at the same time, his body is relaxed. Like it’s finally getting the peace and the rest it’s been asking for. 

WEEK 1.

The first few mornings are the same repeated routine, but instead of rushing to the company’s studio or stumbling to the monitor as soon as his eyes open, Dongmin is sitting at the beach. He’s there early every morning, sitting on the sand, letting the sound of nature be the music to his ears. His guitar is on his lap, his fingers mindlessly strumming. He tried squeezing his brain for some melody—anything, even 3 seconds would do—but he just got himself frustrated in the end. 

Today was the same. He dragged himself out of bed, grabbing his guitar as he slipped a hoodie on. He doesn’t even bother to eat breakfast or anything. He just jogs straight to the beach, sits down on a fallen palm tree.

There, as soon as his body begins to rhythm with the melody of the ocean, his fingers start to pick the strings of his guitar. No thoughts, nothing planned, nothing significant—just a random melody, a bit odd, but somehow goes well with the crash of the waves.

The day went by as usual. When the sun starts to be more of a pain rather than a warm comfort, Dongmin slips back into his homestay. He rests his guitar against the wall and throws himself onto his bed, doing nothing—not falling asleep, not scrolling on his phone. Just staring at the white ceiling above him. 

It’s driving him crazy, sometimes, that it feels like he’s doing absolutely nothing here. But somehow, it feels weirdly okay. Like he’s not constantly pushing himself to work his bones out. 

Later that afternoon, after  a very late lunch of a half-assed sandwich, he goes out to the beach again. 

The cicadas are louder today, their relentless and annoying tune disrupting the calm hum of the sea. Dongmin is sitting alone on the fallen palm tree, the salty wind blowing against his face. His guitar rests on his thigh, his finger idly brushing against its strings, barely making any sound. He feels emptier today than he did the past few days—like the weight of his burnout is finally catching up to him. 

Dongmin lifts his head, and he sees her. She’s there, sitting on the sand just a few metres away from where he is. He doesn’t know her name, but he’s always seen her. She doesn’t speak a word, doesn’t approach him, but she’s always there, quietly listening to his meaningless chords and his half-thought melodies. 

Dongmin thought today was going to be like every other day—she’s going to stay with him until the sun went to sleep, and just before he got up to leave, she’d disappear first. 

At first, Dongmin felt uncomfortable knowing that she was there everyday to listen to him playing. It felt like she was there to disturb his long awaited tranquility, like she was going to make his life harder. But after his second day, suddenly, he didn’t mind it all. Her quiet company wasn’t too bad at all. 

When the sun is barely visible against the horizon and the waves begin splashing against his ankles, Dongmin turns to the girl. 

She’s going to leave anytime soon. 

Until she didn’t immediately get up and disappear like she always did. 

She scribbles something in the sand, her odd behaviour catching Dongmin’s attention even more. 

You play well.

He blinks at the words, heart stuttering slightly as he registers what they mean, but before he can respond, she’s already walking away.

Dongmin turns around so quickly his guitar slips out of his hold. “Thanks!” he exclaims, awkward. 

The girl freezes in her steps. She turns to him, smiling faintly before leaving Dongmin in a daze. A daze so strange he didn’t even realise his guitar was now wet against the sand. 

What?

WEEK 2.

That incident leaves Dongmin intrigued and more curious than ever. 

The next day, after about ten minutes of mindlessly strumming the guitar, Dongmin lifts his head up to the sound of footsteps approaching. He quickly turns around.

It’s her. 

She stops in her tracks just an arm’s reach behind Dongmin, eyes a little widened from surprise. She clearly didn’t expect to have Dongmin already looking at her. 

He smiles first, slightly. Then, slowly, she returns his gesture with a small nod. 

Before he can say anything, she brings out a small notebook and a pen from the sling bag on her shoulder. Dongmin watches, his words suddenly dying on his tongue, as she scribbles something. 

That was a D minor, wasn’t it?

Dongmin had a bunch of phrases he planned to say listed in his head, in case of an interaction with this oddly quiet girl. But this… this isn’t like anything he expected. 

To make things worse, now frozen in the moment, he remembers nothing. Not even a casual “hi, I’m Dongmin, and you are?” that he practiced in front of the mirror a few times. He sits there, his back twisted as he looks back at the girl, not knowing what to say. 

“Yeah…” he nods. 

Much to his surprise, the girl smiles to herself. She scribbles again before holding the notebook up to his face. 

Knew it. 

“You can smile…” Dongmin murmurs subconsciously, and as soon as he realises what he just said, his eyes widens. “WAIT-! I-I meant, yeah. You… know music too?”

The girl’s smile fades away, and the corners of her lips slightly tugging upwards is the only remnant left. Dongmin braces himself as she jots down her reply. 

A bit. 

Dongmin grins, and in one swift motion, he turns his whole body towards her. He props his guitar properly against his lap, and begins playing a short melody, a snippet from one of his latest songs. “This? Any observations?”

C major. 

Dongmin chuckles gently, and nods. “Then-”

But the way you played it made it sound lonely. 

Dongmin’s breath catches. A C major was supposed to be bright, full of sunlight—at least that’s what he always thought. But somehow, with one sentence, you’d cracked it open and showed him the shadows hiding inside.

Dongmin didn’t know anything about the ocean or the nature around him, but somehow, the sea seemed to respond to the turmoil in his heart that stirred as soon as he read her words—the waves crashing rather violently behind him spoke on his behalf. 

Dongmin presses his lips together, throat tight. “I guess…”

Promptly, he throws his gaze away, trying to find the words that could continue the conversation amongst the shells tucked in the sand. 

The sound of the pen scratching against the paper makes Dongmin look back.

I’m Y/N. You are?

The message came with a soft smile, barely there, but it was enough to pull Dongmin in. 

“Dongmin. My name is Han… Dongmin.”

WEEK 3.

DONGMIN sees you everyday, and slowly, you’re carved into his morning routine. For the past three weeks, you’ve brought him breakfast—each day a different one—because you somehow guessed that he didn’t fill his stomach before coming to the beach. He never told you, but seeing the sparkle in your eyes as you watched him devour the breakfast you brought him made his heart somersault in a way he never thought it would. 

Everyday goes by the same groove. You both would sit next to each other, sometimes across one another, on the beach. He’d play and you’d listen. You’d comment on his strumming of the guitar, talk about random things here and there. 

Through the small, quiet conversations he had with replying to your scribbles, he found out that your favourite flowers are pink carnations, you love vanilla instead of chocolate cake, and most importantly, you loved playing the guitar, just like him. 

Loved. 

The way it was past tense made Dongmin’s chest feel heavy.

Then, on a Tuesday afternoon in the third week of his stay, Dongmin asks, “by the way, Y/N, do you play?” 

You slowly meet his gaze, pen loose between your fingers. Hesitation clouds your eyes, and after a while, you show him your reply: 

Used to. Acoustic guitar. High school band. I loved it.

Dongmin nods, his interest piquing. For him, it’s hard to picture that such a timid and quiet girl, who prefers to communicate with scribbles on paper, once played in a high school band. “Oh, then what did you…”

His words fade into the air, falling off his mouth as soon as he sees the new words you wrote. You’re holding up the small notebook towards him, your hands slightly shaking. 

But then I couldn’t. 

“C-couldn’t?” Dongmin blurts, blinking rapidly, “...what do you mean?”

He watches without another word, silently observing your hand writing down each word. Each stroke of the pen is slower than the last.

I had an accident. Last year.

You hesitate, swallowing thickly before continuing. Dongmin, who’s in front of you, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t push for an answer. He just waits quietly. 

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say, either.

You flip the book back to him. 

I lost my parents. Everything. 

Dongmin glances up to your face. The calm expression you always wore was no more. Instead, something different is painted across your facial features—pain, or some kind of emotion you’ve been holding in for some time. More raw. 

Tears begin to collect in the brim of your eyes. 

My hand. My voice. 

The last bit comes later, the handwriting evidently shakier. Then, your hand freezes mid-letter. Dongmin blinks rapidly, panic rising to his throat as he processes the sight in front of him—your right hand violently shaking, frozen as the pen you’re holding drops to the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He gets up, the guitar forgotten. He reaches for your trembling hand. It doesn’t stop shaking, even in his hold. 

“Y/N.” 

Dongmin calls, looking up to your face, your eyes red and brimmed with tears threatening to fall. “What’s going on?”

You simply shake your head, a rough, incoherent sound escaping your mouth. Not quite a word, not quite a cry.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dongmin says, reaching for the pen. He slides it into your hand. “Here, I’ve got it for you. We can talk about something else, okay? It’s okay.”

The pen drops out of your grip, and again, Dongmin picks it up. His frown deepens, and your right hand is still shaking.

You shake your head again.

“C-can you at least tell me what’s going on?” Dongmin asks, his eyes fixed on your right hand. “Maybe we can go to the hospital-?” You smack him using your left hand. You shake your head firmly. 

Then, with that same hand, you manage to scrawl:

No. 

Injury. Hand.

“Oh,” Dongmin breathes, and his grip on your right hand loosens a little bit. “Then…”

It’s only been about 6 months since I could even hold utensils properly.

You write your reply on the notebook, your undominant hand causing your handwriting to be almost illegible. The letters form words very slowly, but Dongmin remains still, his hands still around yours, waiting for you.

Dongmin’s shoulders droop down. “Is it… because of the accident?” 

You sigh, nodding. You slip your right hand out of his clasp, now that it stopped vibrating like crazy. You grab the pen, fingers now steadier. You smile faintly, seeing the worried expression on Dongmin’s face. 

It’s okay. I usually can write. Slowly, most of the time. 

You smile to yourself—almost shyly, as if embarrassed by your own emotion, you add:

I guess… I was excited to talk to you about chords today. 

Dongmin stares at the writing engraved into the page, uncertain of what to say at first. His heart begins to tighten with feelings he can’t arrange into words. 

Well, it’s nothing, actually. 

The sentence you wrote isn’t something people would drop down on their knees and cry over. But it came from you—the girl he just met on his vacation away from the city—someone who had music ripped away from her life.

The words he’s staring at, carved onto paper, feels like an honest confession. 

Not a confession of love, not yet. 

Not of guilt. 

They were heavier than that—your words conveyed emotions of longing. 

Of wanting something that you can’t have no matter how hard you reach for it. Something that you miss too deeply it aches physically in your chest. 

And Dongmin, against all logic, finds himself aching right alongside you.

He looks down at your hands. One is still trembling, but still clutching the pen with so much effort. Like it meant the world to even be able to hold it between your fingers. 

He recalls the comments you made about his tunes and his melodies—the way you noticed why he put certain chords into his arrangements, the way even a minor change would affect the emotion the song carried. 

It wasn’t empty comments, made by someone who wanted to get on his good side. It was genuine. Casual, yet they were filled with knowledge—you know what you’re talking about.

And to be honest, Dongmin has never met someone like you. 

Then, for the first time in a while, he says what’s on his mind. 

“I’ve never met someone like you. Someone who listens so deeply like you do,” his voice comes out quiet, but it’s loud enough for you to catch.

You tilt your head, clearly not expecting that to come out of his mouth.

“I’d be honoured to have you listen to my music,” he continues, his thoughts escaping his lips, smooth like a waterfall. Unfiltered, genuine. 

“And, honestly… you deserve to do more than just listen.”

You blink. 

Dongmin takes a deep breath, the susurrus of the ocean breeze going through his hair. His hand brushes the back of his neck, and he hesitates. Only for a second. “Do… you want to learn how to play again?”

It might be a stupid decision. Something that he could greatly mess up—he never taught someone to play an instrument before. 

Honestly, Dongmin doesn’t know why he even offered. 

“I’ll help you.”

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the ocean and your sharp inhale. 

WEEK 4.

“WHY not?”

At first, your eyes widened—the flicker of hope in them was like a flame that was eager to burn after so long. The flame was strong despite being masked by thick walls built over time, and it made Dongmin feel hopeful too. 

But then you shook your head. Not firm, not many times. Not harshly at all. Just once. Slow. 

You pick up your pen again, writing with effort. 

Thank you. But I… 

The pen hovers above the paper for a while. 

I don’t think I can. 

Dongmin frowns. “I’m not–”

Your answer comes quickly, despite your shaky hand, cutting off Dongmin. 

I’m scared. 

There’s a pause. You don’t meet his eyes. 

“Y/N.” 

I’ll fail. I’ll mess up. I know. My hand will hurt again. I’ll remember… too much. Of the past.

“Hey,” Dongmin lowers his voice. He’s never been through what you have—but somehow, through the tremble present in your eyes as you avoid his gaze, he knows exactly how you feel. “It’s okay, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to ace it right away.”

You don’t write anything in reply. 

“But, Y/N, I think,” he continues, voice soft, “you can do it.”

You lift your head up, finally meeting Dongmin’s gaze. 

“You won’t be alone,” he adds, “I’ll be with you.”

The wind blows softly, caressing your cheeks. The salty breeze doesn’t sting your eyes this time, as if the sea is in agreement with the young man in front of you. 

“The whole time.”

You clench your jaw, grabbing your notebook. After a while, you flip it back to him. 

What if I can’t? 

You don’t know me. 

Dongmin looks at you. This time, he really does. 

And he notices everything that he didn’t catch before—the dark circles beneath your eyes that contained every secret you carry, the empty place in your eyes where flames of determination and cheer used to burn. Beneath the mask of the calm you always wear, there are scars and wounds poorly stitched together, some still bleeding. 

“Yeah. You’re right. I don’t know you.” 

But Dongmin, despite only knowing you for merely a few weeks, knew that the torn side of you didn’t define who you were. 

It’s a part of you, but it’s not the entire you. 

Because despite all the flaws, he sees the beautiful side of you—the way you smile to yourself, appreciating the world around you even when it feels like everything’s against you; the way you don’t let your injury get the best of you. The way you work hard for everything.

He reaches for your hands, pauses midair. 

“But I know… that you’re still you. You’re still Y/N, even if you’re not the same Y/N as before.”

Dongmin doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

He doesn’t know if he’s even saying the right thing. 

He lets his hands touch yours. 

It’s subtle, but he hopes it’s enough to convey what he means. His thumb brushes your knuckles, each touch lingering a little longer than he’d like. 

“Your fingers will shake. You won’t be able to play more than one chord a day. It will sound like nothing before,” Dongmin offers a small smile. “I’ll still be here to listen to it all.”

You stare at him, gazes locked into one another, for a long time. Your eyes are glassy with tears, unreadable underneath its storm. The world seems to be put on mute—the waves hush, the cicadas hold their breath, and even Dongmin forgets how to breathe. 

For a moment, he wonders if you’ll walk away. If you’ll give up when he’s already offering his hand. If you’ll shatter this fragile thing going on between the two of you before it even begins. 

The two of you sit in silence, facing each other, hands over one another’s, barely touching. The look in your eyes tells Dongmin everything—like you’re deciding if you want to laugh or cry. 

Then, finally, with trembling fingers, you slip your hand away and write your reply. 

Just one chord.

Dongmin grins. “Just one.”

DONGMIN opens the gate to his homestay, eyes almost popping out of their sockets at the sight of you. Awkwardness washes all over him—he’s still in his hoodie and shorts, and you’re already standing in front of him in a flowy sundress, hair clip tucked to the side. 

You show him your notebook. 

Good morning ^^ 

Dongmin grins slightly. “Yeah. Good morning,” he says, looking at you. 

He then continues in a teasing tone, “You’re early.”

You shrug before scribbling down your reply: I didn’t know what time to come. 

Dongmin mentally smacks himself. He was too caught up in his excitement to teach you yesterday that he forgot to set the time to meet. “Oh, um, then– any time works. I’m…”

He shrugs, his arms falling to his sides. “I have nothing else to do anyway.”

You give him a small smile, and almost instantly, he smiles too. 

“Well–”

You look up from your notebook, pen stopping mid-sentence. Dongmin, realising that you’re in the middle of writing something, widens his eyes. 

“Um- it’s okay, continue writing, I’m- I was gonna say nothing important,” he blurts, his cheeks suddenly getting flushed when the corner of your lips curl up a little. “D-do you want to come in for a bit? I need to… I need to get changed.”

You pause, nodding slowly afterward. 

After making sure you’re settled comfortably in the living room of the house, Dongmin rushes into his room. 

Dongmin has never changed that fast in his life before, not even when he was about to barely miss the commute to work. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, put on a fresh pair of clothes and even sprayed on some deodorant. 

He comes out of his room still ruffling his hair, suddenly wondering what the heck he is actually doing right now. You immediately perk up at the sound of his footsteps approaching.

“Have you eaten?” Dongmin asks, clearing his throat. 

You shake your head. Dongmin opens his mouth to reply, but is stopped when you hold your hand out, meaning stop. You slip your hand into your sling bang and bring out a small food container, immediately showing it to him.

Dongmin tilts his head slightly. “Is this for me? No, wait, you made breakfast?”

You nod, your hands still extending the container in his direction. 

“For us? Or for you?”

You nod, but then quickly, you shake your head. Dongmin blinks profusely. He runs his hand through his hair and ruffles it harshly, frustrated. 

“Oh my God, this is confusing–” 

You shove the container into his hands then grab your notebook. You show him the sentence you’ve written earlier. 

Can you sign? 

Dongmin’s eyes flutter rapidly again. “No…” he replies, sheepishly laughing. 

You snicker quietly before jotting down your reply. 

Idiot. You should’ve learned. How are you going to talk to me without looking stupid?

Dongmin scoffs, about to throw a remark into the conversation, but he is stopped by your laughter. There isn’t any sound, just pure joy displayed by a genuine grin and teary eyes. 

He has never seen anything like that before. He never knew that he could feel a sincerity behind such quiet, soundless laughter. That people could deliver emotions smoothly without making even the slightest noise. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles to himself, “I should’ve learned.”

AFTER finishing the potato pancakes you made for breakfast, the two of you find your way to the beach, the fallen palm tree where he first met you. You walk following Dongmin’s shadow, wondering, in the silence, how such a man could be so tall. 

Dongmin waits for you to settle yourself first before sitting down next to you, the distance awkward but somehow perfect—not too close, not too far from each other. 

He holds his guitar in his hands, and you notice that his hold on the guitar is tighter than it’s ever been. You feel his eyes trained on you as you put away your things, his breath exhaling slowly. 

“You ready?”

You nod, turning to him. 

He then gently places his guitar on your lap. 

“We’ll start with C major,” he says as you try to adjust the position you’re holding the guitar. “You know that, right?”

You nod.

“Okay,” he exhales shakily. He smiles, slightly, but his chest feels tight—too nervous. What if he messes this up—a chance for you to be able to do something you loved again? 

As soon as the guitar lands in your hands, you notice that they certainly seem to remember how to do it all, but it feels stiff. Slightly painful. 

“Just press down using your index finger,” Dongmin continues. Your eyes meet him briefly before continuing. “No pressure if it feels stiff.”

You hesitate, your eyes glancing at the strings like they’re sharp glass. You know what to do. You know how to produce the most effortless C major. You’ve done it many times before. 

But your right hand is trembling. It hovers above the fretboard, not quite touching, afraid to start. 

What am I doing? 

I used to be able to do this so easily. And now, I can’t even-

“You don’t have to play it,” Dongmin’s voice pops the bubble you’re in, “just hold it.”

You take one glance at Dongmin, then a deep breath. Your fingers press down, slowly. They miss. Slant. But you swallow it all—you try again. And again. 

Dongmin is quiet and focused, the feeling of eyes watching you breathe through it all is the only reminder that tells you he’s still here. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t correct anything. Just let you do it. Over and over again. Keeping you company alongside the soft, salty ocean breeze. 

He’s there—patient, quiet, observing. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t comment on anything. Doesn’t fix your grip or sigh in frustration. He simply waits—steady and forbearing—until the faintest melody hums against the strings. 

A C major that’s barely there. Fragile and broken. But it’s there. 

You can’t even properly hear it—but you feel it, and it’s just enough to make relief wash through you, leaving you feeling like you’ve just taken the best swim of your life. Like air filling in your lungs after being held underwater for so long. Raw, dizzying. 

A smile unknowingly blooms on your face. 

You look up, meeting Dongmin’s eyes. He’s already grinning, pride evident across his expressions. 

“Good job.”

WEEK 5.

The next day, Dongmin finds himself waking up earlier than his alarm. He knows his schedule, and he prioritises sleep above a lot of other things in his life, so to say he was surprised by his own behaviour was an understatement. 

He went to sleep with lingering thoughts of what to teach you next, and now, the first thing that he thinks of when he’s only half awake is whether you’re already making your way towards his place. 

Crap. 

Dongmin literally leaps off his bed, and rushes to get ready for the day. Today, he actually takes his time: doing his entire morning skincare routine (which is just brushing teeth, washing his face and slapping on some sunscreen and chapstick), and genuinely putting some thought into his choice of clothes. 

He’s halfway through a banana when he hears the gates of his homestay rattle, causing the banana to almost slip out of his hand. 

“What the hell,” he whispers to himself, massaging his chest with his free hand. 

Dongmin isn’t like this. He doesn’t flinch at anything that usually would scare people. He doesn’t really find himself reacting too much to things, with the exception of things that he genuinely is interested in and such. 

But why is every encounter with you making him giddy and jumpy like a teenager who’s excited to see his… crush?

What the hell, no.

Shoving the rest of the banana into his mouth, Dongmin runs to the gate. He swallows his grin. “Hi, Y/N. You’re early.”

You grimace, shaking your head. You pull out your notebook to write your reply, and after a while, you show it to Dongmin. 

Says you. Yesterday, you weren’t even dressed properly when I came. 

Dongmin glances at the girl in front of him. He scoffs, his amused grin betraying him. How can such a figure that he towers over contain sass the size of a giant twice his size? 

“Fine, you win, whatever the argument is about,” Dongmin huffs, his heart doing a little hooray when the corner of your lips twitch into a small smile. He clears his throat and immediately proceeds to swing the gate open. “Have you eaten?”

You shake your head. You point towards the obvious bulge of a food container in your sling bag.

“You brought food?” Dongmin asks, letting you in. “What’s the menu for today?”

He strolls behind you, letting you take a seat on the front stairs. He waits for you, patient, as you pull out your notebook to jot down your reply. 

“I should really learn sign language,” he mutters under his breath. He hopes you didn’t hear him, but the slight smirk on your face says otherwise. 

You show him your answer. 

I made some gimbap. 

Dongmin nods his head along. 

Is that too simple for you?

“What?” Dongmin gasps, “what made you think that?”

You write down your reply with a teasing grin. You’re a city boy. Figured you don’t like simple stuff like gimbap. 

“‘City boy’?” Dongmin scorns. He glances at his reflection by the window. “Do I really look like one?”

You nod, grinning. 

No sound escaped your lips, again, but this time, Dongmin could hear the way your voice would project your laughter. 

A melody. Soft and caressing. Gentle but strong. 

WEEK 6-7.

Two weeks passed by. It doesn’t feel like a lot of time has passed, but one thing was evident for Dongmin. 

He’s looking forward to seeing you every single day. 

You wore a different dress each day—sundresses, usually in floral or subtle pastel patterns, a white tee and shorts on the hotter days. Sometimes you’d tie your hair up, low messy bun or ponytail. Other times you’d braid it or clip it up, or when the weather was a bit more gloomier, you’d let it down. 

Each day went through the same routine, but there would always be—at least one—moment that managed to play in Dongmin’s mind all week long. 

Monday, he sat with you at the usual beach spot, side by side on the fallen palm tree. You’ve been trying to play the E minor chord for the past ten minutes, struggling to press the right positions. 

Dongmin, for the past ten minutes, had been alternating between staring at you and your fingers pressing against the neck of the guitar. Not knowing what to do or what to say. 

You grunted for the eighth time in a row. 

Then, Dongmin leaned in, gently taking your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, perfect like it was molded to fit—guiding you through the triad of E, G, and B chords like he’s tracing warmth into muscle memory. 

Your hands were overlapping against each other’s. 

Skin against skin.

Your breath catched. 

“Here,” he murmured. He wasn’t that close, but he swore he could feel his sleeve brushing against your arm. “That’s it.”

He lets go, and you finally manage it, and it’s clumsy. Of course. 

But it’s there. 

A full minor chord. 

Dongmin smiled, softly, and he watched as you slowly mirrored it. 

Wednesday: Dongmin was munching seaweed crisps as he’s watching you practice the C, A, and Em chords, then moving on to the D chord. 

You pressed the string, but your wrist cramps from all the tension. You winced—Dongmin promptly dropped the pack of crisps from his hand. 

You pulled your hand away and immediately reached for your notebook, probably wanting to write an apology, but Dongmin stopped you. 

“Don’t apologise,” he said, firm and kind. He closed the notebook. “You showed up, Y/N. You did well today. And that’s enough.”

You leaned back, your head lowering in clear disappointment. Dongmin took the guitar from you, propping it up on his lap. He glanced at you, his chest swirling slightly with emotions he can’t quite put a finger on. 

He handed you the pack of seaweed crisps. “Your fingers remember,” he said as the pack of crisps changes hands, “Let’s not rush them.”

You nodded, a smile barely pulling at your face. Looking away, you took a deep breath, letting the ocean’s breeze wash through you. 

Friday. You’ve been working hard at practicing every single basic chord. Dongmin was right—your fingers did remember how to play them. It was just a matter of getting them to do so again. 

Your fingers pressed down the guitar’s strings for a C7 chord. Shaky but steady. 

Dongmin nodded. “Okay. Good. Now, strum.”

You did. It’s there—faint, buzzy. Slightly off. 

But the sound that came out was still music. 

Still yours. 

Your eyes widened slightly. 

“There,” Dongmin said softly. You turned to look at him, your eyes locking. “That’s your first step back.”

You snorted quietly, frustrated—but you knew you can’t really do anything about it other than practice again and again. 

Saturday—you were at his homestay, mindlessly brushing your fingers against the strings of his guitar. Behind you, Dongmin was in the kitchen, trying to cook up two servings for army stew in that tiny, cramped space—the best of the best, he’d said to you moments before. 

You pressed down the strings again, aiming for a G major. You strummed. 

It sounded like a screeching donkey. If that was even possible. 

You winced, and before you could even retreat into embarrassment, you heard Dongmin gasp loudly from the kitchen. You turned around, seeing Dongmin failing to hide his lopsided smirk, clutching his chest dramatically with the ladle still in hand. 

“Was that a G?” he cried, disbelieving laughs escaping between his words, “because I feel… I don’t know, devastated? I thought I taught you better than that?”

You blinked at him. 

Then, you snorted—softly at first, then harder. Your shoulders began to shake uncontrollably in fits of silent laughter. 

He unleashed his full grin by now. He gestured to his guitar in your hold with the ladle. “Try again. Impress me like how you did before.”

That same day, an hour or two after late lunch, you two sat by the window of Dongmin’s homestay. The evening’s warm golden light streamed in, dancing between you and him. Dongmin’s guitar rested on your lap, and somehow you felt nervous as heck. 

Your fingers hovered above the strings. 

“Forget the whole chord,” he encouraged very gently, “Just press the bottom string. We’re going light now, we just had a whole meal.”

You raised a brow at his instructions. Is he being serious?

Dongmin nodded, as if he’s sensing your inner turmoil. 

“You can do it,” he said, “go on.”

You gulped slowly, your hands feeling stiff before you could even lift them up to the strings. 

You didn’t want to mess this up. You didn’t want to jinx the progress you’re having with Dongmin, especially after all the struggle you went through for it. 

You glanced at Dongmin. He’s waiting, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. 

Taking a deep breath, you put your fingers on the strings. The melody buzzed a little bit, but it held. 

Dongmin snapped his fingers, grinning. “Perfect. Very good. Just what I need.”

Then he started to sing softly—a melody you’ve never heard of before. Catchy and groovy, definitely would sound better layered with geomungo, janggu, drums and electric bass, instead of the bottom string of an acoustic guitar. You watched him, wide eyed, as he sang a short chorus: 

“Step by step, don’t leave me, summer Give me memories worth breaking for.”

Your breath catched at the tip of your throat, but you continued playing. 

It might just be lyrics to Dongmin, or to anyone else listening, but somehow… It meant so much more to you.

“Step by step, before the sadness finds its way Come back to me again.”

Your thumbs strummed again. He stopped singing, but began humming the melody instead. 

The sound that came from the guitar was small, imperfect—just a trembling chord. But with his humming and the way he looked at you with an amount of hope you could never have for yourself, it didn’t feel broken. It felt whole. 

And for the first time in a year, you felt like you were part of a song again.

WEEK 8.

So…rry.

Dongmin’s phone lay flat on his bed, displaying a chart of basic phrases in Korean Sign Language, its brightness at the maximum level. The sun had gone to sleep a long time ago, but Dongmin wasn’t about to join her in dreamland just yet. 

Over the past two months, Dongmin found himself growing fond of talking to you. He didn’t mind waiting for you to jot down your reply, no matter how long it took.  He enjoyed watching your expressions as you wrote, the small smile that lingered on your face long after a successful conversation. 

But he noticed the way you had to pause more often before writing or strumming the guitar, and realised that both activities at once are pushing your hand to its limit. He noticed the way you kept going despite all that, holding the pain in. It made his heart claw against his chest, and then, as every second being with you passed, he became more eager to find a way to talk to you a little more easily, in a way that wouldn’t strain you too much. 

He found out that you learnt KSL right after you recovered, and is using it to communicate with everyone else in the village who knows how to sign. 

Dongmin felt dumb. If he could spend hours at the beach, playing his guitar and producing meaningless melodies, then he definitely could learn KSL. Something meaningful, something that would grant him the ticket to talk to you even more. 

I’m… learning… K… S… L. 

His hands move slowly, stiff. He’s never done anything like this before, and for him, it is quite hard to master—his fingers fumble at every turn, and every sign he does looks a little too different than what he intended to make. He ends up going back and forth from a chart to Youtube videos, then rewinding the video three times in a row just to memorise the correct way to move his wrist for “I miss you”. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s learning that specific phrase. 

He mouths the word he’s signing slowly, mimicking the shape that the video is demonstrating, his fingers rather rigid and clumsy. 

“I… miss… you.”

The words slip out of his mouth slowly. Hesitant. But not empty. 

He rewinds the video once again, and imitates the sign. Not too bad. But not as good as he wants it to be.

Dongmin drops his hands into his lap, exhaling loudly. His brows furrow slightly, but it isn’t from annoyance. Not from frustration, but focus. He tries again.

He speaks the words as he signs them. 

“I’m… learning… K… S… L…”

“For… you…”

His fingers curve through each letter, each sign like they’re chords he’s never strummed before. It’s awkward, a little frustrating and rigid, but he does it anyway. 

Your words—the ones that catalysed the start to all of this—echoes through his mind. 

Just one chord.

Dongmin’s fingers freeze mid-sign. He hadn’t meant to fall. Not this fast. 

Not at all. 

He’d told himself he’d stay only a month; two months in, he was still surprised to be staying on. He expected none of this—nothing along the lines of teaching a girl around his age how to play the guitar. Nothing along the chords of having his heart race upon the thought of a stranger’s smile. 

Nothing that would’ve made him extend his stay here for more than a month.

But watching your smile made him freeze in his tracks. Watching you laugh soundlessly when your fingers slipped, trying to play the D chord for the first time this morning. Watching your eyes light up when he played the melody he created, but with the addition you asked him to put in… it undid something in him. 

Slowly. Steadily. So effortlessly he didn’t even notice. 

And now here Dongmin was. Sitting cross legged on the bed, deep into the night, memorising every sign that holds a chance of, one day, seeing your eyes truly light up again. 

He signed up for a class. Been following it religiously every single day for the past two weeks. 

A sigh escapes him.

Then, he signs your name. The one he saw a kid sign to refer to you once. 

“Y/N.”

Pause. 

Breath held. 

Then, slowly, “I hope I’ll see you again, even after I leave.”

The silence in the room leans into him, like it’s listening, agreeing to the wish Dongmin’s heart whispered. 

He glances at the mirror leaning against the wall across the bed. He sees his reflection: hair tousled, eyes red and tired, fingers frozen midair in an unfinished thought.  

He smiles to himself—small, almost too self-conscious. 

“You better not mess this up, Han Dongmin.”

WEEK 9.

IT’S the next day. Week 9 of his getaway. 

 “Y/N,” Dongmin exhales, a smile forming on his face almost immediately. 

He was waiting in front of your house, his guitar bag slinged over his shoulder, a tiffin carrier in his hands. 

You look surprised when you open the gates, your eyes widening as you see him already standing in front of your house. 

You take out your book in a rush, jotting down a quick but very shaky reply. 

You’re here already?

Dongmin nods.

His smile grows wider, more shyer.

He immediately retracts it. 

He winces, slightly, hoping you don’t notice.

Mentally, he’s cursing at himself. 

You and him are literally just friends, bonding over your shared love for music. 

He’s teaching you to play guitar again after years of not being able to. 

Just that. 

Nothing more.

“Yeah,” he nods, suddenly breathless. 

You blink. Pen hovering over the notebook.

Dongmin exhales shakily. “Oh. Right.” 

He awkwardly lifts his hand, bringing the tiffin carrier next to his face. “I brought food.”

You raise your brows, already scribbling your reply. 

You made them?

Dongmin flinches at the pen’s scratching against the paper as you underline “you” twice. 

He sucks in his breath sharply, looking down. He isn’t too sure how to answer this. 

“Well… yes? Kind of. Wait, no. Yes. I definitely did.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I made bibimbap,” he says, lowering the carrier to his side. “And some rice balls. Heart shaped.”

A beat. 

“Not on purpose. Wait, actually, yes, it is on purpose. I… thought you’d like them better if they’re heart shaped.”

You laugh, lowering your head slightly. It’s silent but visible—hitting him in the chest like an open chord strummed a little too hard. Your fingers then move through imagined strings, the pen still tangled between them, as you imitate a plucking motion. 

You point at the tiffin Dongmin’s still holding faithfully.

Dongmin blinks, waiting for you to write. 

Next time, make guitar shaped rice balls.

He grins, chuckling lightly. “Bet.” 

You step aside, pushing the gate open wider. You offer Dongmin a small smile, an invitation too quiet for such a vibrant soul like yours—like so many of your moments together—but it feels loud to him. 

Significant. 

He steps in. Waits for you to close the gate before syncing his steps with yours. 

As he’s walking next to you, he notices the calluses on your fingers again. Nothing he hadn’t noticed before, but this time, they seem more distinct. Faint, still, but it’s there. From hours of practice, writing, and physiotherapy. 

From holding on, even when your hand was begging to let go. 

Dongmin swallows thickly, moving his gaze away. 

It makes his heart ache in return. 

You pause when you reach the steps to your porch. You turn slightly to him. Write again. 

You slept. Right? 

You squint at him. Don’t lie. You look like you’re secretly a panda.

“Wow,” Dongmin says, mock-offended. He places the tiffin carrier on the floor of the porch. “There’s nothing wrong with being a panda, you know.”

You tap your cheek with your pen, frowning.

You’re avoiding the question.

He shrugs. His eyes linger elsewhere—suddenly finding the shady apple blossom tree planted on the other side of your porch interesting. “I was up late. You know—just… watching videos. Stuff.”

Is it KSL?

The pen hesitates.

Because I told you that you’re an idiot for not learning it?

Dongmin doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, earnestly hoping you won’t notice the obvious emotions swirling in his chest. 

He chuckles. Shrugs. “Maybe. It’s a secret.”

You stare at him. The moment stretches like a held breath.

Your fingers move, slowly. Carefully.

You sign something.

Dongmin freezes. He doesn’t understand. Not a single thing. 

Your hands move with a fluency he can’t keep up with—beautiful, elegant, but it’s familiar. He probably could guess what you meant. He knows it isn’t long, that he could probably name one or two words. 

For a split second, he convinces himself he could guess. Maybe it’s something really simple, maybe you’re teasing him again by signing it really quickly. But the way your eyes are holding his, patient and hopeful, makes him realise this isn’t a game. You wanted him to understand.

He doesn’t.

Not yet.

But that isn’t enough—it’s like a song he’s bopping his head to but doesn’t know its chords.

He blinks. Again. And again. 

The truth hits him harder than the waves destroying a sandcastle—he has no idea what you just said.  

Frustration fills his heart quickly. How many times has this happened already—how many things have you signed, to villagers, to friends, to yourself, that he’s missed completely? How many words has he stolen from you, just by being too slow?

All those hours, days, up learning KSL and he barely understands anything.

The anticipation on your face wipes out instantly, replaced by a grimace. 

You take out your notebook again and write, the letters a little messier now:

Yeah. You really should learn KSL.

Dongmin quickly breaks into a laugh that comes out cracked. He covers his face with his hand like it’ll conceal the sting in his heart. “Okay, fine, I will.”

WEEK 10.

The next few days went by the same checklist. Dongmin would pick you up at your house, and the two of you would walk together towards the beach for another guitar session—if Mr Kim, your godfather, didn’t run into you two and drag you both to the market to help with his tteokbokki. 

It was repetitive, but Dongmin loved every minute of it. 

Even though your walks with him would be filled majorly with you snorting at his stiff attempts to sign his way through a conversation. 

Another week passes by. 

The evening sun had already bid its farewell to the sky, leaving behind a mesmerising blush of orange dabbed onto a canvas of lavender. The last notes of the practice session still hangs in the air, despite you leaving to grab some snacks ten minutes ago. 

Dongmin packs up, sliding his guitar gently into its case. Then, he realises something. 

He’s going to have to leave soon. 

Seoul is his place. Not this tranquil seaside town, where he could do anything he wanted freely. 

He’s been here for almost three months now. A lot has happened, and many weren’t what he expected—but he’s thankful. The villagers love him now, often dragging him to do farmwork whenever they see him strolling towards the beach.

He’s annoyed sometimes, but he often finds himself happy after lending a hand.

But he knows he’s not meant to stay for long. 

He stares at the spot next to him, on the fallen palm tree where you sat for hours, learning and persevering—just to learn how to play the guitar again. His guitar propped against your lap, your notebook open in the space between you and him, your handwriting halfway through the page. 

It feels still.

Too… still.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling heavily. 

It’s been more than the month he told himself he’d spend in this village. 

That’s all it’s been, but it feels more than that. The same 24 hours he used to spend in Seoul feels different now—like every minute is stretched thin and every moment brings him something he’d cherish for a lifetime. 

It seems like the snacks were taking a little bit longer than he hoped.

He sighs, sitting back down. He’s alone now, with the sea and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears harmonising to compose a beautiful song. 

He reaches for his phone. Replays the KSL tutorial for the fifth time that same day. The millionth time for the week. 

He mouths the words as he signs them.

“I… miss… you.”

“I hope… to see you… again.”

“Good… job.”

He runs a hand through his hair, gaining his composure. Then, he tries again.

Again, and again. Repeating every single phrase he possibly could, lifting his hands, slowly trying to remember the angle of the palm for every single expression. 

It’s clumsy, for sure. A little too stiff. Unnatural, one could say. 

But he does it again. 

Lips moving silently with the words his hands are signing, heart beating faster with every single moment. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they stop behind him. 

His body tenses. He turns around, eyes widening slightly. 

You’re standing, just a few steps away, notebook clutched against your chest, lips parted slightly in disbelief. 

Dongmin’s hands are frozen mid-air, halfway through a sign. 

“Y/N,” he asks, a little breathless, “how long have you- how long were you…?”

You don’t answer him, of course.

Instead, you take a few steps closer, approaching him with widened eyes that were starting to sparkle. 

You lift your notebook and begin scribbling. 

You were practicing. 

Dongmin stammers, looking at his hands. “I- Y/N-”

For me?

A long pause settles between you and him.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, his hands plopping against his lap, “I wanted to learn… for you. So that I could talk to you without making you hold a pen all the time. I just–”

He exhales, shaky and filled with everything he couldn’t find the words for. 

“I didn’t want you to hurt yourself because of me.”

You don’t reply. Don’t scribble anything on your notebook.

Dongmin didn’t even notice at first. 

The notebook you’re holding slips to the ground, thudding against the sand. 

Tears begin to drip from your eyes, raining down your cheeks. 

Dongmin immediately stands up. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong? Are you okay–?”

Dongmin blinks—then freezes. Because your hands, trembling but sure, begin to move. 

Thank you.

I want to see you again too.

I will miss you too.

The last sign trembles between you, hanging thick in the air. 

For a moment, he forgets the tears streaming down your cheeks. He’s too busy watching your hands—watching them say the words he’s been breaking his fingers to learn, words he didn’t know he’d been desperate to hear back.

Dongmin stands there, his weight sinking in the sand, his chest twisting. 

Then, before he can stop himself, 

“Are you teaching me or–?” he blurts out, and it makes you snort. 

The soundless laugh that bursts out of you, even with your wet cheeks, hits him harder than any melody he’s ever written.

Dongmin looks up, feeling a tad guilty seeing you wipe your tears away. A smile blooms on your face as you shake your head. 

You pick up your notebook, writing down your reply. 

No, idiot, I was replying to what you said.

Dongmin snorts, rubbing the back of his neck like it’s going to save him from the embarrassment that’s starting to dawn on him. 

“You got me there,” he jokes half-heartedly, shrugging, but his eyes linger on you long after it settles. 

He’s going to learn KSL, for you, no matter how many sleepless nights it’s going to take. 

He won’t even think of leaving until he’s satisfied.

WEEK 12.

YOU work your way in the kitchen, cutting the zucchini into little matchsticks, pounding the ground beef, mincing garlic cloves, chopping onions. Your movements are like a ballad song, so smooth and subtle it’s almost comforting. Homey. 

You began cooking moments before Dongmin arrived, ringing your grandma’s doorbell with a grin on his face. You had already finished making the beef, noodles, mung bean sprouts and zucchini fillings when your grandma told you to answer the door. 

You went out and saw Dongmin. Through the gates’ bars, you could recognise him—his sharp jawline, the distinct shape of his nose, and the pair of eyes that looked like it contained a galaxy’s worth of stars. 

Your steps paused by the porch, unable to move forward. 

Today marks exactly three months since you first met him—twelve weeks filled with someone you’d never expect to plant his roots in your heart.

You remembered the first day very well—he didn’t even notice you. He was too carried away by the song of the waves he forgot about his very own melodies he was creating through mindless strums of the guitar.

The second day, you envied him. He looked like he didn’t appreciate his ability to play the instrument at all, muttering curses about music and production all day long. 

You almost swore to yourself you’d never come up to the beach to listen to him play again. 

But by the third day, you found your steps bringing you there anyway. Not too close. Not too far away. A perfect distance behind him—you could hear him singing along to the melodies he plucked on his guitar, but he couldn’t see you.

He possibly wouldn’t even notice you.

You were no one he’d want to pay attention to. 

Yet, he did. 

You weren’t even sure how that happened. How his guitar lessons—him being patient and encouraging through it all—happened. How he learned KSL for you, just so he could talk better with you happened.

“Y/N!” Dongmin exclaims, a huge grin forming on his face. He signs your name. 

It’s finally smooth and not awkward like it had been a week ago.

Oh.

It gives you flutters—the kind that settles on you like a butterfly on the cheek. 

Tingling.  

You run up to the gates and greet him, struggling to open them without getting your washed hands dirty again, but he beats you to it. 

“You’re cooking, right? I could smell it from here. What are you making?” Dongmin asks, closing the gates behind him. He jogs to catch up with you, who’s already at the porch by that time, his guitar bouncing in its case on his back. “Let me guess—rice balls?”

You frown, shaking your head. 

Dongmin chuckles, reaching for the door handle. “Too boring? Okay… bibimbap?”

You give him a deadpanned expression, and he bursts into laughter. He opens the door, letting you walk in first. Your grandma, who was folding laundry in the living room, immediately perks up. 

“Oh? Dongmin?” she approaches you two. “I didn’t know you were friends with my Y/N.”

“Hello Madam,” Dongmin replies, bowing slightly. He glances at you—you’re already looking at him, slightly wide eyed. 

He turns back to your grandmother. “Well, yes,” he nods, “we’re friends. I met her four months ago. You know, when I first came.”

You don’t know why you feel so happy hearing that. 

You bite back a smile, reaching for the mandu skins. 

“Y/N,” he calls, and you immediately turn to him, your hands pausing mid-air. 

He lifts his hands up. Signed. 

Want me to help?

You found yourself stuck. You don’t know what to say, what to sign back. 

Your heart stumbles. 

You should sign back—you know that—something easy, something simple. But your fingers won’t move. You just stand there, heat crawling up your neck, watching his hands like they’re the most beautiful melody you’ve ever seen.

You know he’d been learning KSL. It’s clumsy, still stiff and awkward most of the time. But it’s improving. 

But why are you finding yourself stuttering, forgetting how to breathe, every time he signs to you?

“COME,” Dongmin gestures to the empty spot next to him on your porch, facing the sunset. You could see the sun slowly sinking into the horizon, leaving behind a masterpiece as its parting gift to the sky. 

You slowly sit down, your grip on the bowl of mandu stronger. You glance at Dongmin, who’s sitting next to you, hands resting lightly on the floor behind him. You bring your knees closer to your chest. 

“I like it here,” Dongmin says, his voice low. “I don’t have to worry about anything.”

You purse your lips, staring at the way the palm trees are dancing with the wind. You shove a mandu into your mouth. Dangmyeon filling. 

Nothing is extraordinary here, you sign—pointing down toward the ground between you, tracing a small circle in the air, palms opening apart.

You’re not sure why he’s saying this. 

Dongmin replies, “I know. But you are.”

A beat. 

You slowly turn to look at him, the mandu that you always loved forgotten in your cheek. 

He’s already looking. 

His eyes swirling with emotions somehow identical to the ones raging a storm in your heart.

You quickly look away. 

You’ve gotten better at it, your hands move again, this time faster—finger aimed at him, fists tapping lightly, then a sweeping motion upward. 

“KSL?” Dongmin chuckles softly. “No, not as good as you.”

Your hands fall to your side, silence sinking between the two of you. You both don’t know what to say. 

But it doesn’t feel awkward, like what it’s supposed to feel. 

“Y/N, I…” 

You snap your head towards him. You know what he’s about to say. He’s about to leave soon, right—? 

“I wrote a song.”

Your eyes widen. Your hands immediately rise, your chin jerking upward to convey your shock: You did?

Dongmin smiles faintly. He nods. “Yeah. Shocking, right?”

You nod enthusiastically in return. You remember vividly how awful his composition was the past three months. You tried pitching in, fixing it here and there, but you had barely any knowledge and experience, so it was no use. 

“Do you want to listen to it?” he asks, a pendrive already in between his two fingers, extended to you. Casually. Like it doesn’t mean anything. 

But it means something. To you.  

You blink once. Twice. That small black pendrive, containing Dongmin’s music, suddenly feels like something so overbearing, so important. 

You don’t know what’s the meaning of the warm feeling that’s settling in your heart. You don’t know what’s making you hesitate. 

But you take it anyway. 

WEEK 13.

A week passed, and Dongmin still hadn’t heard back from you about the song he just finished composing after months of not being able to produce a single thing. 

Everything else was the same, he met you every single morning, spending the entire day either learning the guitar together by the beach or helping Mr Kim with his stall at the market. 

Was the song so bad that you didn’t want to talk about it ever again?

He also hadn’t been able to ask about it, despite spending the majority of his hours in a day with you.

But today finally gave him his chance.

In a way he didn’t expect. 

You had gone to Jeju with your godfather for your check-up that day, so Dongmin spent his hours alone. It felt weird—really weird, as he had gotten accustomed to having you by his side all the time. 

Dongmin didn’t want to admit it at first, but he missed you. 

He went out to the beach, sitting on the fallen palm tree as usual, making space for you. He strummed his guitar to get in the mood, but when he was done and wanted to pass it to you, you weren’t there. 

You were out of town for barely a day, but it felt like eternity. 

Dongmin quickly grew bored of his guitar. He spent hours practicing KSL in your absence, silently proud that he’s come so far—able to retell his day and can have an unbroken conversation with you for at least 10 minutes. 

By 7PM, his hands were aching, but he couldn’t wipe off the smile on his face. 

He’d gone so far. Into KSL. Into you. 

He didn’t expect his retreat to combat burnout would lead to this, but he doesn’t regret any of it. 

Ping! 

Dongmin immediately turns to his phone. It’s a text from you. 

Dongmin! I’m outside.

His eyes barely left your message before he jumps off his bed and bolts for the door. He opens it, barely steadying himself and catching a breath. 

“Hi,” he says through his panting, “you’re here?”

You nod, smiling. 

Your hands rise halfway, then falter. I had… 

Your fingers shift mid-motion, the sign dissolving. 

A small shake of your head restarting it. 

You start again, slower, deliberate—pointing to yourself, palms open as if you’re cradling an invisible ball, pulling it toward your chest. I want to give you something. 

Your hands push forward in a small offering.

Dongmin blinks, straightening up. 

“What?” he signs, his hands slightly cupped, shaken up and down, in a small, quick motion. A question that’s more worried than curious. 

You swallow, before letting your fingers curl into a simple two, then unfolding a flat palm. Two things.

You point to yourself again, draw your curved hands inwards, touching your chin and sending the gesture to Dongmin. 

I want to tell you two things. The “two” appears between you in the space your hands share. 

Your eyes meet his, and it feels like the world around you is paused—just you, Dongmin, and the wind gently blowing from the sea. 

You smile softly. Your index finger points at him, the movement small but very certain. Your hands flatten, palms facing each other, the right sliding upward against the left in a steady arc. Pause. Both hands open into a loose, curved shape, palms out, and you draw them toward your chest with a slow, deliberate pull, your head dipping in an earnest nod. You’ve improved. So much.

Dongmin’s eyes widen as soon as he registers the meaning of your signs. “Me?” he blurts, pointing to himself. His eyebrows shoot upwards, his mouth agape.

He quickly shakes his head. 

“No- no, no way,” he sighs. 

He lifts his hands, signing. A bit awkward, but it’s smooth. 

He points to himself. Both his hands form a fist, tapping against each other before quickly opening his palms, turning them down in a small shake. 

I’m not as good as you.

Dongmin stares at his hand for a second. He tries to not mouth his signs this time, wanting to speak to you solely through his gestures—clumsy and still a bit stiff, but he tries his best. 

You grin slightly, urging him to continue. 

Dongmin pinches his right hand upward from the palm of his left, his movements a bit jerky. His index finger does a circle in the air once.

I’ve only learnt this for…

He paused, murmuring. “What again?” 

He taps three fingers on the back of his left hand, sliding forward for “month”, after that. His “month” is slightly off—the arc is too short—but you’d understand.

Three months? 

He looks up, head slightly tilted. He flashes a sheepish grin at you. 

You mirror his smile, chuckling. 

You’ve improved so much! 

You continue signing, your hands moving gracefully—gesturing between yourself and Dongmin, index finger tapping your chin before pointing at him. It feels like we’ve been talking…

You open your hands in front of you, waving them in a small motion. …like this… 

You grin cheekily. 

 Your dominant hand circles slowly, outward, from your nondominant one, the motion small but deliberate. 

…since forever.

Dongmin feels his breath catching at the opening of his throat, his heart thumping loud in his ears. 

What is this feeling?

His fingers sign before his mouth could speak. 

He bends his index finger, pointing it downward, a small double movement. Then, he brings both of his index fingers upright, moving them towards each other until they meet. 

His spacing is a little too wide, too exaggerated. 

He points to you, sweeping “1” handshape in a short arc forward, slightly hesitant. 

“I needed to meet you first.”

Your eyes widen, again, but this time, it stays longer. Like you’re trying to process what you just heard.

The quiet between the two of you stretches long enough for the sound of the wind to slip in, teasing you as it stings the tip of your ears. 

Then, your hands move—quick for you, but steady enough for Dongmin to catch. 

You point to yourself, then curl your hand into a loose “C” shape, bringing it to your ear in a short twist—listen. Your finger flicks forward toward him, then you mime a small rectangle in the air—the pendrive.

I listened to the song. In the pendrive. 

Dongmin almost forgets how to breathe. A whole week he’s been carrying the silence of that pendrive around in his chest like a stone—and now, suddenly, you’re about to break it. His pulse hammers against his ribs, a mess of dread and hope and relief all at once.

“What?” he signs, his hands a little too sharp, betraying how badly he needs to know.

You grin slightly as you brush two fingers across your wrist then flip your hand palm-down. 

You switched from major to minor halfway.

Your fingertips press to your chest, eyes softened, nodding slightly. It feels more honest. 

You pause, then mimic slow steps with your fingers on your left palm, before closing your eyes briefly and lightly waving both hands forward in small arcs, palms down. 

It’s like walking barefoot in the dark, but in a good way.

But there’s a softness in your gaze that adds the unspoken: but with you, I’m not afraid.

Dongmin feels the air leave his lungs, a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. It hits him all at once—you’re not just talking about the song he made. 

You’re talking about him. 

Your face lights up like you just remembered something. Your hands move promptly. 

You point at him with your fingers, fingerspelling “verse”. Then, your right hand flicks outward from your chin—start—before you point to the imaginary fifth note from the line of musical notes in the air, tapping it twice. 

You always start your verses with the fifth chord, don’t you?

Your head tilts slightly, and Dongmin nods. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I guess I do.”

You don’t stop there. You drop your wrist, fingerspelling “chorus” afterward. A circling “6” near your temple. The drop before the chorus… was that a 6/8 timing? 

You smile slightly, hands precise and fluent. Your hands tilt like waves, then one hand curls towards your heart but freezes midair as your fingers reach out. 

It sounded like the sea. Longing. 

Finally, you sign as if trying to speak—hand at your lips—then pull it tight, as if holding it back.

Like someone trying to say something but is holding back. 

Dongmin stares. First at your hands, then at your eyes. He leans forward unconsciously, inching between the distance between you just to catch every flick of your fingers. His knee almost brushes yours. When your hands falter for a second, he doesn’t get why, but his instinct is to reach—just barely grazing your wrist before pulling back at the last second, before you could notice. 

The night air is cool, but the space between you feels unbearably warm.

“Thank you,” he manages, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “I… that means a lot, Y/N.” 

A smile pulls at the edge of your lips. Eyes slightly downturned. 

It’s not cheeky, not teasing. Not the usual crooked grin that you flash to Dongmin—this one is smaller, shy. But sincere. 

And that alone is enough to make him stutter. 

A dawning realisation sinks into Dongmin. He knows what this feeling is. 

Love, of course. 

You point to him using your index finger, then your left palm up, right hand imitating a conductor’s baton above it. Following, your right hand starts in front of the mount in a claw-like shape, palm in, and moves outward as fingers spread. Like breath escaping and warming the air.

Your songs are warmer now. 

Something in Dongmin’s chest stumbles, then corrects itself. He swallows. His hands itch to respond, but for a moment, he can’t. The words feel too big, too heavy for his clumsy signs.

What could ever explain the feeling that flutters in his heart? 

He lifts his own hands, a small breath escaping his lips before he begins. His index finger points toward you, then both palms open toward you in a slow, careful motion that mirrors your warmth. Like he’s giving you something fragile. 

So are you.

IT’S the next morning—Dongmin came by to fetch you for another of your usual guitar sessions together, but was instead greeted by your grandmother.

“I sent Y/N on errands to the market, don’t worry,” your grandmother assures Dongmin, patting his back as she ushers him inside. The door clicks shut behind her, settling into the atmosphere with a heavy weight. 

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” he asks carefully. He’s in the middle of the living room, his body in an awkward position—not knowing if he should plop down onto the couch or just stand by the coffee table. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

The grandmother shuffles to the kitchen, her steps unhurried. She doesn’t answer right away. 

Her hands move quietly, pouring two glasses of water—her fingers shaking just slightly, but it’s enough to make the light on the surface ripple. Even so, beneath the tremor, Dongmin could see her steadiness, a kind of strength that came from years of hard work and weathered loss. 

“She loved it all, you know,” she begins, setting a glass in front of him. She exhales shakily. 

“Music. The guitar, especially. She loved everything that I see you love now. She used to play the guitar in a band with her high school friends. They were a big thing here in Tongyeong-si, winning local shows. They went to Seoul too. Almost won.” 

Dongmin finds himself smiling faintly. 

“It was everything she was. She was so good at it—been playing since she was a kid… wouldn’t go to bed without playing a few chords.” Her voice is accompanied by a small smile. Proud. But it falters. 

Dongmin opens his mouth to speak—he didn’t even know what he’d say, but he wanted to say something about it—but the old woman’s eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the walls, and her voice dropped. 

“But my Y/N lost everything,” her words are softer now, like if she spoke louder, the wounds would hurt even more.  “Her voice. Her joy.”

Dongmin could hear his heart skipping a beat. Heavy. 

The grandmother takes a deep breath. Steadying herself. “It was last year,” she says, her fingers curling around the glass tighter than before, “after her graduation in Seoul…” her voice falters, like it physically pained her to say these words, “she was in the car. With her parents.”

A breath, tight and shallow. 

“There was an accident. A… terrible… accident.”

You had told Dongmin, briefly, about it. 

But somehow, it stings his heart more now. 

Silence stretches between them for a while. 

“They didn’t come back,” she lifts her hands slightly, but quickly drops it. “And Y/N’s hand… her vocal cords… it’s not what it was. What it used to be. She tried to live with it. She tried to play anyway.”

The moments—the countless times where he’d seen you wrestle with the guitar, grunting whenever the chord didn’t land right, pushing through with a clenched jaw—crosses Dongmin’s mind. He’s seen it. Helped you through it. 

But hearing it from your grandmother, the old woman who tried her best to keep everything together when her own granddaughter was falling apart—it makes something ache. Deep inside his chest. 

“She wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t come out of her room. She would cry until she couldn’t anymore. I begged her–” she pauses, swallowing thickly, tears brimming at her eyes, “I begged her to come back here. To live with me. Seoul had nothing left for her but the ghosts of her parents and the shadows of a future she could’ve had. Too cold. Too cruel.”

She pauses, and in the brief silence, Dongmin understands what she was talking about. 

His throat tightens. He remembers those mornings where you’d barely nibble at the snacks he brought, your smile faint but your eyes elsewhere. He thought it was just your shyness—but hearing it now, it was so much heavier than that. It was something heavier that you were trying to pull yourself out from.

“Here, at least, I could watch her. Keep her close, grounded.”

Finally, the grandmother looks at him fully. His eyes widen, the breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding slowly escaping. 

Her gaze, though tired, is unwavering. 

“But I’m glad you came here, Dongmin, for whatever reason you did. That day she first listened to you play at the beach—was it three months ago?—was the first time I saw her actually look forward to something.”

Her voice thins, almost breaking. Almost a whisper. “When she’s with you, I see something. Just a spark, but it’s there. You’re bringing her back. Just… please. Take care of her.”

Dongmin could only nod, his throat feeling tight. No words could amount to the weight of the moment, of what she’d just told him. 

He looks away, his jaw clenched against words that don’t exist. The plea truly feels like a weight pressed straight into his ribcage, like she’s handing him something sacred and fragile. He nods once again—any more and he’s sure his voice will crack open.

THAT night, Dongmin couldn’t sleep. 

But it wasn’t like the other nights he spent staring at the ceiling, feeling like he’s stuck in this hamster wheel of a slump—not able to do anything. 

He’s sitting at his desk, headphones on. His fingers type nonstop—fluently without major hitches as he’s transcribing the language his heart is speaking. 

Within a short amount of time, a complete song is born. 

He rereads it again. It’s too raw: a literal love confession.

Love, huh?

He closes his eyes, lowering his head as he feels a smile attack his cheeks. 

After a few deep breaths, he looks at it again. Stare at every word. An entire page of lyrics he typed out without properly thinking. 

His fingers hover above the keyboard. Maybe it’s too much. 

It probably is too much. Dongmin didn’t even know what he was feeling at first—his hastened heartbeat whenever he saw you sign, the way he couldn’t control his smile around you. 

He doesn’t know if it’s enough. If the words he used were even adequate to represent what he’s feeling. 

He stares at the page again. The words don’t just confess love—they promise. Not in the put together, polished way he usually writes songs, but messy and urgent. Like he’s telling you, I’ll take care of you. I’ll stay.

His fingers hit the keyboard again, rewriting some parts—trying his best to make it less direct. 

But no matter how many times he presses backspace and replaces words with every single synonym he could search, the truth still bleeds out. 

He likes you. 

The room is completely quiet—just the faint sound of insects outside and the soft buzz of his compact amp. He whispers the lines to himself, cringing slightly, almost embarrassed at how… honest they are. 

He laughs at himself. Hushed, but freely. 

The composition of the song comes very fluidly soon after that. But he doesn’t realise how much time has passed—the sun is now rising, painting the sky in soft hues of yellow and orange—and he hasn’t slept a wink. 

However, to Dongmin, that was fine. He doesn’t care because now, displayed on the screen in front of him, is the mp3 file containing the first song he’s ever written for and about someone else. 

Someone that makes his heart flutter every time she smiles. 

Someone that his heart holds dear. 

Someone that he loves.

6 MONTHS LATER...

THE spotlight dims, and all he can see now is the ocean of lightsticks and flashlights, sparkling like a faraway galaxy. The cheers still ring in Dongmin’s ears, like waves crashing onto the sandy beach, quiet and calming. But he could barely hear them anymore. 

The waves. 

No, the cheers. 

His mind is elsewhere—always elsewhere these days. 

Somewhere where the air was salty and filled with clumsy strums of the E chord. 

Somewhere where he could see her every day. 

Dongmin bows deeply, thanks the crowd, and gives his usual post-performance speech. His agency had let him officially play in a band with 5 of his other friends alongside being their main producer. And this stage was one of the many successful ones. 

And then, like he always did at the end of a particular song, he takes a step forward and raises his hands. 

He signs slowly. Deliberately. 

I miss you. 

I hope to see you again. 

He smirks slightly, knowing how corny it is. But he means it.

The crowd explodes into a plethora of screams and squeals. 

Some fans clutched their banners to their chests, some began to cry, some waved their hands, mimicking the signs he did earlier. The camera zooms in, broadcasting every angle of his signs to the world—like he just uttered the most life-changing poetry of the entire century. 

But they don’t know who the signs are for. 

They don’t know her name. 

He never told anyone. 

But she—you—was the muse behind the melody, the one person he kept playing this song for, the reason why he always fought to keep this song on their setlist. The person made him able to even write this song.

He waits, each time, just in case.

Just in case, somehow, life brings you back together. 

Tonight, he tells himself as he follows his bandmates backstage, it would be no different. 

Backstage is a blur of assistants, praise, and handshakes. He nods through it all, mind already drifting elsewhere—he’s grateful, of course, but evidently distant. The band’s manager is now talking about interviews and photoshoots, but he’s already thinking ahead—wondering if he’d get at least a few hours of quiet time to revise some lyrics he was working on. 

Maybe to tone it down a bit, make it simpler. Something warmer. Something she could play. 

He’s nearly out the exit of the stadium, his bag slinged over his back, when someone taps his shoulder. 

He turns around, already muttering a line of nonstop apologies. 

And freezes. 

You’re standing there, in front of him, in a soft cardigan, eyes shining beneath the low backstage light. 

Your hair is longer now, cascading past your elbows. But your gaze is still the same—sincere, sweet, and full of life. 

He drops his bag without realising. 

“Y/N…” he whispers. 

But before he can say anything else, you lift your hands. 

You point to yourself—small, steady—then taps the space between your feet with both hands, palms down, as if grounding yourself: here. Your hands sink slightly and settle, a quiet now that lands between you.

Your fingers are trembling, slightly, but the sign is clear. 

Or maybe it’s clearer now because Dongmin had spent every single day, for the past six months after departing from Tongyeong-si, learning KSL—even attending several certificate classes for it. 

I’m here now. 

His breath catches in his throat, and his vision begins to blur. 

And for a moment, the world around—the cameras, the noise, the flashing lights, the chatter of the rest of his bandmates, the chaos of Dongmin’s life–falls silent. 

It’s just you. 

He steps forward. Slowly. 

He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t rush, doesn’t say anything—heck, he’s afraid that if he breathed too loudly or blinked too soon, you’d vanish into thin air. 

Then, with hands that had plucked chords and learned words, aching just for you—he signs back. 

I miss you. 

He touches his chest, curls the feeling inward, and reaches toward you without quite touching—then pulls it back to his heart, the motion catching halfway like a held breath.

Every day. 

He repeats a simple day motion—edge of his hand crossing his other forearm—once, twice, three times, smaller each time, as if the days stepped closer toward you.

You smile. A real, wide smile. No hesitation, no underlying sadness hidden by a wall of teasing. Just pure happiness. 

Then you sign, quick and cheeky, like you always do with him—because it simply feels right. A quick flick at your wrist—signing ‘finally’—then you point at him with a barely-suppressed smile.

For his name, you trace a soft shape of his initials at your shoulder and let your hand drop in a tiny strum across your palm—his name sign that he used, found online courtesy of his band’s fans, music tucked into his initials.

Took you long enough, Han Dongmin. 

He pauses, staring at your hands—that literally just signed his name in KSL in the most beautiful way he’d seen. 

He never told you his KSL name, but somehow, you know what it is. 

He laughs slightly, half-choked by unshed tears. “You waited?”

You raise a brow, head tilting slightly. You gently sign—two fingertips walk across your open palm—‘step by step’. You tap your temple and bring the thought down into the space between you—‘remember’.

You show one, then shape your right hand like a loose pinched cluster over your left—fret and strings—giving the air a gentle strum: ‘one chord’, then a second small, slower strum: ‘at a time’. 

Step by step, remember? One chord at a time.

A moment passes.

Dongmin didn’t mean to cry.

He never does. Prefers not to. Publicly, at least. 

It wasn’t the overwhelming shutter of cameras, the lights, or the exhaustion the concert brought him. It wasn’t the pressure or the noise. It’s you—always you—standing there with that soft smile of yours.

The moment shatters something in him.

His body moves before his brain can do anything. He crosses the space between you in two strides, wrapping his arms around your body—pulling you as close as he physically can, careful but awfully desperate. Your head tucks perfectly under his chin—so flawlessly it’s like the two of you were tailored for each other. 

You don’t flinch. 

Instead, you wrap your own arms around his waist, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt as you try your best to contain your tears. 

“You’re really here, right?” he whispers, his chin shaking against your hair.

You swallow, nodding. Your cheek brushes against the wool of his sweater vest, warm. 

He pulls back soon after that, just enough so he could look at your face. His eyes still watering and cheeks wet, he asks rapidly,

“Are you hungry?” he laughs slightly, wiping his cheeks, “I wanna treat you. Don’t care if the food here is more expensive. You better be hungry, Y/N.”

You grin and immediately sign back.

Starving. 

THE two of you end up at a tucked away restaurant, a short drive from Gocheok Skydome. Nothing fancy, really—just two bowls of hot noodles, some mandu (because he knows you still love them), and a quiet booth near the window. The kind of place he knew, instantly, that you would’ve loved. 

He lets you eat in peace for a while. He watches you, his chopsticks empty in his hands, eyes tracing the familiar way your brows connected as you try to comprehend how delicious the broth is. 

You look up, and immediately catch him staring. Your eyes widen—Dongmin flushes and looks away sharply, suddenly very shy. 

He steals a glance, and one look at your expression tells him what you’re thinking: are you really supposed to be the one shy right now?

You chuckle soundlessly, pulling out your phone. Still chewing remnants of mandu, you type and then show him:

You know, Dongmin, I’ve been listening to your songs nonstop, ever since you left. I’m your fan now!

Dongmin pauses, raising a brow. “Really? You like my songs?”

You nod—quickly typing again before flipping your phone over to him. 

Today was my first concert ever. 

His heart flips. 

He could literally feel it.

He opens and closes his mouth, trying not to ramble—but shy Dongmin isn’t something even his brain can control. “I—I didn’t know. I mean, I always hoped… But I didn’t think—God, Y/N, every song I released since I met you—all of them—they were about you. Every single one.”

You pause, your eyes widening slowly as your cheeks begin to redden beyond the blusher you applied.

Dongmin runs a hand through his hair, flustered and avoiding eye contact—but his voice is soft, though it’s tumbling with years’ worth of affection. Saved for the right person. Now overflowing for you. 

“I mean, yeah, you couldn’t tell. I never say your name. But you’re in everything—every melody, every lyric. Every time I closed my eyes at the studio, every time I plucked my guitar at pracice—even though it’s not acoustic—I see you.”

He stops, clearly embarrassed now. 

You quietly chortle, your cheeks probably redder than a tomato now. 

But something certain clicks in you.

He rubs the back of his neck. “That sounds weird. Intense probably, huh…”

Before he could spiral any further, you reach out, catching his wrist lightly. He freezes instantly. 

Then—softly, boldly—you lean in. 

Your lips brushes his. Brief. Barely there.

But it’s warm enough to stop time. 

He stares at you, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his soul. 

You pull back just an inch, nose still slightly brushing, eyes sparkling. You then sign slowly:

I like you too. 

― © htaesan, 2025. all rights reserved.

It feels familiar that way. Like you were all seventeen again. Like the distance between friends was still measured in class periods and not kilometers.

Your cup is cold in your hand, condensation trickling down your fingers. Next to you, Minji bursts into laughter at the sight of Jaehyun flailing dramatically with a soda-soaked jacket. A chorus of voices joins in when Woonhak tries to help out but ends up smeared with a syrupy disaster instead.

“YAH!”

“Hyung, why would you—”

“That’s what you get for caring,” Haerin cackles.

Taesan’s practically wheezing, doubled over in his lawn chair, feet kicking in the air like a cartoon. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.

And right across the blanket—diagonal from you, half-lit in the gold of late afternoon—is Riwoo. One leg pulled up, a wrist balanced lazily on his knee. He’s leaning back on one hand, drink in the other, watching everyone with a small, quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s not laughing out loud like the others. But his eyes are soft, crinkled at the edges. Like he’s content just watching it all unfold.

You meet his eyes, and he lifts his drink slightly—just for you. Not dramatic, not showy. Just that little nod. A silent hey.

He mouths something, eyes gleaming.

You squint.

Then he says it again, this time barely louder: “Cheers to surviving a week without crying over math.”

You scoff through a smile. “That was oddly specific.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I’m just projecting.”

You roll your eyes, but he grins wider now—pleased with himself. That’s the thing about Riwoo. He says things so dryly sometimes that you’re never sure if you should be laughing or asking if he’s okay.

But that’s later stuff. For now? He’s just being Riwoo.

Your Riwoo.

The same boy who used to bring extra loose-leaf papers to school because he knew you always forgot to buy them. The same boy who still, to this day, types with two fingers because you taught him that once and he refuses to change it.

The laughter around you swells again, and someone yells about needing more ice. A few people start heading toward the convenience store across the street.

You don’t move.

Neither does Riwoo.

…

It’s just you and Riwoo left now, the others having peeled off one by one—waved away by sleepy grins and parents waiting in nearby cars. The summer air is still thick with humidity and the lingering scent of grilled food and bug spray, and the sky above has darkened into a soft bruise.

Rain threatens in the distance. Not quite falling yet, but close—you can feel it gathering, swollen in the clouds like it’s holding its breath.

Riwoo walks beside you in comfortable silence, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, sneakers scuffing the gravel. The path winds through your old neighborhood, and though neither of you says it, it feels weirdly small now. Smaller than it used to be.

“D’you think the treehouse is still there?” he asks, suddenly.

You glance over. He’s not looking at you—just up ahead, squinting at the shape of someone’s backyard tree.

“Probably got torn down.”

He makes a dramatic sound of pain. “A tragedy. That was our legacy.”

You laugh. “It was one plank and a bunch of zip ties.”

“And a broken ladder,” he adds. “Let’s not forget the broken ladder.”

You laugh.

It’s easy, being like this with Riwoo. Always has been. You grew up two doors apart. He came over so often that your moms used to joke they should just combine houses—said it every summer, usually when he stole a popsicle from your freezer and your mom caught him mid-bite.

“You two should just date already,” they’d say, with their matching mom-laughs.

You used to groan and roll your eyes. He’d throw the popsicle stick at you.

Now?

You don’t really know how to react anymore.

The rain starts lightly, barely more than a mist at first. You don’t even notice until Riwoo gently shrugs off his hoodie and offers it to you.

You blink. “I’m fine—”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs one shoulder again, hand halfway extended. “You’ll get sick,” he says lightly. “And then I’ll feel guilty. And then you’ll guilt-trip me into taking care of you. And then I will. And then I'll catch your sickness and die.”

You sigh, half-smiling, and take it. The hoodie smells like rain and something subtle, like cedar or soap. It’s way too big, but it’s warm.

He nods, satisfied, then gestures ahead. “Come on, dramatic movie-level rain isn’t going to walk us home.”

You walk in silence for a while, but it’s not awkward. Just..quiet. Even the rain seems gentle.

His elbow brushes yours. Neither of you moves away.

…

By the time you reach your porch, your heels are starting to ache. You slip them off as soon as you’re under the awning, one hand pressed to the doorframe for balance.

“Thanks for walking me.”

Riwoo nods. He’s wet now, hair clinging to his forehead, his shirt’s sleeves soaked where the rain got through. He gives you a small smile. It’s the tired kind. Not fake, not loud. Just…well—real.

“Get some rest,” he says. “Text me when your feet stop crying.”

You grin. “They’re hysterically sobbing, actually.”

He laughs under his breath. Then hesitates—like he might say something else. But instead, he just waves and steps down the stairs, rain now pattering harder against the pavement.

You step inside, pushing the door closed behind you with your heel.

But you don’t move.

You sit, slowly, on the little bench beside the entryway. Your foot stings from the blister forming under the heel strap, and you exhale—just a little—resting your head back against the wall.

Gosh, how much you love your kitten heels but hate the pain that comes with it.

Your hand makes its way to rub your sore ankle, trying to relieve it of the pain.

Through the wood of the door, the rain feels closer now.

But so does his voice.

You freeze.

At first, you think he’s on a call. But there’s no pause, no other voice. Just Riwoo’s low murmur, too soft and cracked to be a performance.

“…I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. Isn’t that dumb.?”

Your breath catches.

No answer. No one’s there but him.

“I used to write you letters, you know?,” he says, then laughs—sharp and embarrassed. “Back when I was too scared to talk. Too scared to mess it up. I thought if I just said it on paper, it wouldn’t feel real.”

Your hand slowly presses to the door, as if it could anchor you.

“You never replied, so I figured you knew. Figured you didn’t want to say anything. That it was your answer.”

A pause.

”And I’m sorry I had to make you pretend everything was normal because you didn’t want to reject me. If only I had been more reliable and kept it in..”

No. No, no, no—

“Still,” he whispers. “I… love you, [reader]. I really do.”

Your throat feels tight. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re afraid he might hear it.

And then—

Letters.

Your mind jolts backward. The ache in your heel, the jacket in your lap, all of it fades under the weight of that word.

What letters?

You didn’t get any.

You would have remembered.

Wouldn’t you?

You press your ear to the wood, pulse thudding in your neck. But it’s quiet now. Just the rain.

Your hands shake slightly, clutching the edges of his jacket. You don’t know what to think.

All you know is—you’re wide awake now.

ACT TWO: THE SEARCH

YOU DON’T CONFRONT HIM.

Not that night. Not the next morning.

Instead, you find yourself staring at the ceiling, eyes wide in the dark, feeling the rain from the night before still pooling somewhere in your chest. Every time you close your eyes, you hear his voice again—low, cracked, and far too close.

“…I love you, [reader]. I really do.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, but the words stay, looping. And underneath them—like a second heartbeat—those other ones.

The ones you can’t shake.

You never replied.

Letters.

What letters?

You would remember. You would have kept them. Even if they were awkward. Even if you didn’t know what to say back.

You’d at least talk to him about it, right?

You weren’t that much of a jerk to totally ghost your best friend even if it was an unfortunately difficult situation.

By morning, you’ve made up your mind.

…

You woke up bright and early the next day, anticipation keeping you from sleeping your full 8 hours. You didn’t even finish off your breakfast before you put your shoes on and trekked south of your house to a location which most probably had the answers you needed.

The post office smells faintly of paper, ink, and rain-damp cardboard. The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead, making the place feel like it’s been stuck in a Tuesday afternoon for years.

You hover in front of the counter, a little awkward, while the clerk finishes tapping something into their keyboard.

“Hi,” you start, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Um—this is going to sound weird, but…has any of my mail been misdelivered lately?”

The clerk blinks at you, expression unreadable. “What’s the address?”

You give it. They type. Wait. Shake their head. “Nothing recent that isn’t already in your box.”

Your shoulders sink a little. You had hoped, but what can you do when there’s nothing? “Right. Okay. Thanks, anyway.”

You start to leave, the automatic doors swishing open with a mechanical sigh, when it hits you.

A memory—small and silly.

You’re in sixth grade, sitting cross-legged on the curb outside school, watching Riwoo try to write “600m” on a worksheet. His 6 looked so much like a 0 you’d laughed until your stomach hurt. He’d thrown his pencil at you. It landed on your forehead and you had a red mark for approximately two hours. One that made Riwoo feel incredibly horrid enough to buy you two scoops of ice cream with his middle school allowance.

You stop walking. Turn back.

The clerk glances up when you reappear.

“Sorry—uh, one more question. If something was written with, like, a…kind of unclear number in the postal code…could it have gone to a different address?”

Their brow furrows, but they check again, muttering under their breath as their fingers click against the keys.

After a moment, their eyes light slightly. “We did have a bundle returned here for an address close to yours. Same name. Been sitting in the back a while.”

You grip the counter. “Can I see them?”

…

When they return, it’s with a small stack bound in a rubber band. The envelopes are a little weathered at the edges, like they’ve been shuffled from place to place. But it’s your name on every single one.

Your name—written in handwriting you know by heart.

The slant of the letters. The way the y curls in at the tail.

You slide your finger under the top flap before you can stop yourself.

Inside is a single folded sheet. Not lined paper—just plain, smooth white. His handwriting covers it in careful, slightly uneven rows.

“You wore the hoodie I left behind. I don’t think you realized how hard it was not to say you looked perfect in it.”

You stare at the words until they blur.

And just like that, you’re back in middle school, shivering under the brittle February wind in the courtyard. You hadn’t brought a jacket—thought you’d be fine—but Riwoo had shown up behind you, swinging his hoodie off his shoulder without a word.

It had swallowed you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. You’d hidden your face in the hood so he wouldn’t see you smiling too hard.

You remember thinking he smelled nice, though you couldn’t have put it into words back then.

You remember wondering—briefly—if he meant anything by it.

You press the letter back into its envelope like it might burn you if you keep holding it.

The rest of the stack sits in your hands, heavier than it should be. You don’t open them. You can’t—not here, under the cold buzz of fluorescent lights with strangers shuffling past.

You thank the clerk, tucking the bundle deep into your bag.

…

The walk home feels different now. The streets look the same—same cracked pavement, same faded chalk drawings still clinging to the sidewalk from some kid’s summer boredom—but your hands feel full in a way they didn’t before.

When you reach your room, you shut the door, lock it, and set the letters down on your desk.

They sit there, quiet and unassuming, like they aren’t holding entire years you didn’t know about.

You reach for one. Pull back.

You’re not ready.

Instead, you slide the whole bundle into the drawer by your bed. But when you lie down, you pull it out again—just to hold it.

Your fingers trace the loops of his handwriting, the places where the pen pressed darker into the page. He writes your name like it’s something soft.

You hug the letters to your chest, staring at the ceiling. You don’t know what to feel.

Only that it’s way too much.

ACT THREE: THE SPIRALING

YOU TRY TO GO ABOUT YOUR DAYS as if nothing has changed.

You wake up, brush your teeth, check your phone, scroll through group chats. Riwoo’s in there, sending memes and inside jokes like always. It should feel normal. It almost does—until you notice you’re reading his messages slower now, as if they’re encrypted and you just haven’t cracked the code yet.

It’s ridiculous. They’re just dumb jokes. That’s all they’ve ever been.

Except… there’s a letter in your backpack right now. And in that letter, his handwriting tilted a little to the right like it always does when he’s writing too fast, he wrote:

“When she cried after her goldfish died, I wanted to cry too. I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

You’d forgotten that day. Until now.

The image comes back clear—how you were maybe eight, sitting on the curb outside your house with an empty fishbowl between your knees. You’d been gulping sobs, and your mom tried to coax you inside, but you wouldn’t budge. Riwoo came out, hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, and didn’t say a word. He just sat next to you. Close enough that your shoulders brushed. Close enough that you felt less alone.

You’d thought nothing of it back then. That was just Riwoo—quiet when you needed quiet, loud when you needed loud.

But now? Now you’re wondering if he’d been holding something back even then.

You fold the letter, tuck it back into its envelope, but the words keep playing in your head.

At lunch the next day, you read another. You’re on the school rooftop, legs crossed, breeze tugging at the pages.

“When she got rejected by that guy in middle school, I almost told her right there. But she was crying, and it didn’t feel fair to make it about me.”

And that flashback hits you like a slap. The awkward, too-tall boy who’d given you the polite “I’m sorry” before walking away. The sting in your chest. And then Riwoo appearing, holding a convenience store ice cream like a peace offering. You’d assumed it was just his way of cheering you up.

Was it?

The more letters you read, the more the past starts shifting under your feet. Every laugh, every hug, every stupid little inside joke feels… heavier now. Was he thinking of you that way when you sat on the swings until dark? When you played rock-paper-scissors to decide who got the last popsicle?

And then there’s this one—one you almost wish you hadn’t found:

“When she got sick in winter, I skipped practice just to make sure she ate. I told her my mom sent me over. She didn’t.”

The memory hits like a cold wave. You’d been shivering in bed, barely awake, and there he was—quietly setting down a bowl of soup on your nightstand. You’d thanked him through a fog of fever, thinking it was just another one of those casual neighborly favors.

It wasn’t.

You catch yourself watching him more than you should. The way his hair sticks to his forehead after basketball. The way he fidgets with his sleeves when he’s nervous. You’ve seen all these things before, but now they’re… different. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s changed, or because you’re finally seeing him.

And then there’s the guilt. Because you don’t know what you feel yet. Not exactly.

One moment, you’re sure—your chest feels warm when you think about him, your stomach flips when his hand brushes yours by accident. But the next, you’re panicking, reminding yourself he’s your best friend, that things will never be the same if you admit it.

You lie awake at night, one letter open in your hands, reading the same line over and over:

“I didn’t know how to be just her friend when all I wanted to be was her everything.”

You don’t know when you started smiling at the thought of him. Or when the thought of losing him started to hurt more than anything else.

But you do know this—something inside you has already shifted. And no matter how much you want to pretend nothing’s changed, there’s no going back now.

ACT FOUR: AND WHEN YOU BREAK—

IT’S YOUR OWN FAULT, REALLY.

The spiral had started days ago and you hadn’t stopped it—letting your thoughts run circles, letting the late nights stretch into early mornings, letting your body sink into that familiar hum of exhaustion you kept brushing off.

By the time the fever hits, you’re already a mess. It’s the kind that clings—heavy and sluggish—your limbs aching like you’ve been carrying something too long. You try to sit up but the room tilts and you sink back into bed with a groan.

Mom’s at work. She’d texted earlier about checking the medicine cabinet, but even the thought of getting up makes you want to melt into the pillow.

Which is exactly why you almost don’t hear the knock.

It’s soft at first, then a little louder—two short raps, a pause, then another. You don’t even have to guess.

When you open the door, he’s standing there in his usual way—like showing up is the most normal thing in the world. A grocery bag in one hand, a thermos peeking out from the top, hair a little damp from the walk over.

“Your mom said you weren’t feeling well,” Riwoo says, like it’s the simplest explanation for why he’s here. “You should’ve told me.”

You blink at him. “…And what would you have done? Dragged me to the doctor?”

“Maybe,” he says without missing a beat, stepping inside. “Or at least brought you this.”

He lifts the bag and starts unpacking on your desk—cold medicine, a small bottle of warm water, a thermos that smells faintly like chicken soup. The domesticity of it all almost knocks the air out of you.

“Sit,” he says gently when you start hovering by the desk. “I’ll get it.”

You watch from the bed as he moves around your room like he’s done it a thousand times—because he has. Pulling open your drawer to find a spoon. Taking the spare towel from the top of your dresser. Setting everything within reach without asking where anything is.

It’s almost unfair how easy he makes it look—how easy being with Riwoo is.

He doesn’t say much, just brings the soup over and waits until you’ve had a few spoonfuls before placing a cool towel on your forehead. The relief makes you close your eyes for a moment.

And then the ache in your chest deepens—because this feels like one of his letters.

Your mind drifts, fever-hazy, to the one you read just last night.

“She looked like she was about to cry. And I couldn’t do anything except sit there and wish she’d let me hold her.”

It had been short, almost a fragment compared to the others, but the weight of it had sat with you long after you’d tucked it back into the bundle. You’d thought of all the times you’d been hurting in front of him—big or small—and how he’d always been there without pushing.

One memory sticks sharper than the rest: the afternoon you found out your cousin’s family was moving across the country. You’d been twelve, trying not to cry at the park bench, and he’d sat beside you, close enough for your elbows to bump. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch you. Just waited until you’d steadied enough to look at him—and he’d smiled that careful, crooked smile like he was holding something back.

You open your eyes now and he’s still here, rinsing the towel in a bowl of cool water. Like nothing’s changed. Like everything has.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur, the words slipping out in a voice weaker than you expect.

He looks up from dipping the towel. “Of course I did.”

“You were probably busy—”

“I wasn’t,” he interrupts, but it’s not sharp. Just…final. Like the thought of not coming here wasn’t even on the table.

And something in you tilts.

Your fever makes time slippery. Minutes stretch. He moves around the room, checking your temperature, swapping the towel, making sure you drink. You let yourself watch him in quiet—his brow furrowed slightly in focus, the way his hands are steady when they’re on yours, how he never lingers too long but never pulls away too fast.

He helps you position yourself from your sitting position to your sleeping. Fluffs the pillows. Tucks you to sleep. Bring your bedside chair over to your bed and sit down, never leaving too much space between you in any case you need him anytime during the night.

It’s in those small spaces, the in-between moments, that the truth settles in with the weight of inevitability.

Your hand moves before you realize it, resting lightly on his. His skin is warm, but it’s a different kind of warmth than the fever.

In your head, a hundred moments reorder themselves—letters you haven’t read yet, letters you’ve memorized, letters that match every glance, every quiet gesture he’s given you over the years.

It’s in those small spaces, the in-between moments, that the truth settles in with the weight of inevitability.

You love Riwoo.

Not in the soft, background way you thought you’d always loved your best friend. Not in the way that’s tangled with nostalgia and familiarity.

You love him in the way the letters say he’s loved you all along.

You almost laugh—except it’s not funny at all. It’s terrifying.

Because now you know that there’s no going back.

It’s absurd that you’ve only realized it now, lying here with your head aching and your nose stuffy and him looking at you like you’ve been the only constant in his life.

You want to tell him. You want to say it right now, raw and fever-dazed and messy, but your throat catches on the words.

You can’t. Shouldn’t. Not now, at least. The timing’s off. He deserves a better confession, not one laced with slurring dizziness.

Instead, you opted for a safer option.

He’s wringing the towel again when you speak, voice low. “You always took care of me… even when I didn’t ask you to.”

That makes him glance at you, towel dripping into the bowl. “Well, yeah. You’re my best friend.”

The words sting—not because they’re untrue, but because they’ve always been the safe answer. The answer that kept you from seeing this for what it is.

You swallow, heat prickling at your temples that has nothing to do with the fever. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

His hands still. “Say… what?”

It’s not that he doesn’t know. You can see it in the way he freezes, the subtle shift in his breathing. But he’s giving you room—to take it back if you want, to pretend this isn’t happening.

Goodness, Riwoo. Even in this situation, he’s giving you the way out when it should’ve been the other way around.

You don’t.

Your fingers find his before you can overthink it, curling lightly over his knuckles. He looks down at the touch, then at your face. Whatever he sees there—your flushed cheeks, your unsteady gaze—it’s enough.

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it,” he says finally, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “And if I said it out loud… I was afraid it’d change everything.”

Your grip on his hand tightens. “It kind of already did.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The room is quiet except for the hum of the fan and the faint clink of the bowl on your desk. His thumb brushes over your hand—once, tentative, like he’s still asking if this is real.

You think of the unopened letters still hidden away, of the years you spent not knowing, of all the tiny moments you’ve been replaying these past few days. And somehow, you’re not scared anymore.

“Riwoo,” you murmur, barely more than a breath.

He meets your eyes.

You don’t say it yet—you’re not ready to shatter the moment with words. But the look on your face says enough.

And the way he smiles—soft, relieved, like he’s been holding this in forever—tells you he’s heard it anyway.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

ACT FIVE: —HE’S THERE. ALWAYS.

THE MORNING LIGHT SEEPS into your room in a way that feels unfair—like it has no idea how heavy your chest still feels from last night. Your head’s clear, though, and the fever’s gone.

What’s not gone is the sight of Riwoo, slouched on the edge of your bed, chin resting on his palm. His eyes are closed, lashes faint against his skin, and he’s breathing evenly.

He stayed.

You lie there for a moment, memorizing him in the morning—hair a little messy, the faint crease on his cheek from the pillow, his shoulders curved like even sleep couldn’t make him relax completely. The hoodie he’s wearing isn’t his—it’s yours. He must’ve pulled it over his t-shirt when the cold caught up to him in the middle of the night. The sight makes your chest feel too full, like your ribs aren’t big enough to hold the warmth pressing inside.

You slip out of bed quietly, bare feet brushing against the floorboards.

The sight of your kitchen, covered by the morning glow, seemed peaceful. Like one of those ‘quiet mornings’ pictures come to life.

The rice cooker clicks when you open it, releasing a curl of steam that warms your face. Leftover rice. You can work with that.

A little hot water added, a stir here, a stir there—it’s nothing complicated. You move slowly, almost deliberately, like stretching out each step might make this moment last longer.

You open the fridge and find the container of soup Riwoo brought yesterday, the one that sat on your nightstand until you were too tired to finish it. You set it on the stove, the flame lighting with a soft whoosh. The broth simmers, sending up a smell that wraps around you like a blanket.

It’s such an ordinary thing—warming food, standing in your kitchen, spoon tapping against the pot—but your chest tightens at how much it feels like… something more. Something you could want for a lifetime.

It’s so easy to picture it, too. Waking up with him in your space, moving around each other without needing to speak, cooking side by side or taking turns. Maybe he’d always complain that you don’t let him make breakfast, and maybe you’d always insist you’re fine. Maybe he’d stand behind you and sneak a bite before it’s ready, grinning when you scold him.

Your hand stills over the pot.

The thought is so vivid it almost hurts.

You ladle the soup into the rice, watching the grains loosen and swirl. The smell rises again—warm, savory, a little salty from the soy sauce. You don’t even think about it when you set two bowls on the table. It’s automatic, instinctive. Like your body already knows how to make space for him.

You catch yourself smiling at that thought. A quiet, almost shy thing that’s just for you.

When you turn back, Riwoo’s awake. His voice is still soft from sleep.

“You shouldn’t be up,” he says, frowning as he pushes himself upright. “I was supposed to make breakfast for you.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. Fever’s gone. And besides, it’s just congee. Bare minimum effort.”

“You’re still recovering.”

“And you’re still bossy.”

That earns you the faintest curve of a smile, but he doesn’t push it.

“Thank you,” He says, taking the seat across from you, spoon in hand, blowing carefully at the steam before taking a bite.

Somewhere along those lines, you could imagine that thank you accompanied by a kiss on your forehead. Perhaps even having the word ‘darling’ complete that phrase.

You snap yourself out of your thoughts as you sit across him, finally trying the food that you made.

The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s warm. Like the soup, it seeps into you slowly. But it’s also heavy, because there’s something you’ve been carrying in your chest since last night.

When your bowl is half-empty, you set the spoon down and push your chair back just slightly.

“Ri, I found them,” you say, tentatively.

His head lifts. “Found what?”

You reach for the bundle of envelopes you’d tucked away in your desk drawer, place them on the table between you. Your name on every one. His handwriting on every one.

“All of them.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound is the faint bubbling from the pot still on the stove. You see his fingers twitch like he’s about to reach for them, then stop.

“I heard you,” you say quietly. “That night. Outside my door.”

His breath catches, sharp enough that you see his shoulders tense. You keep going before the moment can collapse.

“I thought I missed the moment. That it was gone. But it turns out it’s been waiting for me this whole time.”

He looks at you like the air’s been knocked out of him. His hands curl slowly into fists against the table. His voice, when it comes, is so quiet you almost miss it.

“I didn’t think I had a chance anymore.”

You smile as you move before you can think too hard about it, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. His breath hitches again, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you murmur. “You saved me. Over and over. And I never even noticed.”

There’s a pause, the kind that hums with something unspoken. Then you ask, voice barely above a whisper,

“If I ask you now… will you write me again? Just one more letter?”

His answer is immediate, low and steady.

“Only if you promise to read it while I’m holding you.”

You nod, and before you can blink, his lips brush your forehead. It’s light, almost reverent. Then he tilts his head just enough to find your mouth—soft, careful, and achingly warm.

It’s not perfect—your nose bumps his, your breath stutters—but it’s real. His hand comes up to the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. And that’s when you feel it—the tremor in his chest, the way his shoulders shake.

He’s crying.

”I love you,” He says in between his tears, breathless as if unbelieving that this is happening. There’s a bit of desperation in his voice, “Gosh, I love you so much. I can’t—“

He’s bawling by now, overstimulated with the feelings he’s been bottling up for years finally being able to flow out.

And then you’re crying too, because the weight of all those years hits you at once. The letters, the moments you missed, the quiet ways he’s loved you.

His head buries itself in your neck, and you’re clutching his hoodie like it’s a lifeline because oh my goodness, you and your best friend are together now?

The thought seemed unfathomable. Unreal.

But perfect.

Being together with Riwoo sounded right, like a missing puzzle finally completed.

Neither of you notices the front door opening until your mom’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Oh—”

Both your moms stand in the doorway, frozen mid-step. You and Riwoo are still clinging to each other like you’re kids again; teary-eyed, in the same spot you always ended up in after scraped knees or lost toys—tangled together, impossible to separate.

Except now there’s something entirely different in the way you hold on.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

FIN.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @uncasings @cherryblossomlovesblog @ivxae @lynnimini @hanninova @getoxo @liznvis @letwiiparkjay @w3willris3 @lvlyhiyyih @pluslandminun @muntitled @miumura @starriniqhts @clxssy1997 @ocemias @voucearse

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-films @k-labels

It feels familiar that way. Like you were all seventeen again. Like the distance between friends was still measured in class periods and not kilometers.

Your cup is cold in your hand, condensation trickling down your fingers. Next to you, Minji bursts into laughter at the sight of Jaehyun flailing dramatically with a soda-soaked jacket. A chorus of voices joins in when Woonhak tries to help out but ends up smeared with a syrupy disaster instead.

“YAH!”

“Hyung, why would you—”

“That’s what you get for caring,” Haerin cackles.

Taesan’s practically wheezing, doubled over in his lawn chair, feet kicking in the air like a cartoon. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.

And right across the blanket—diagonal from you, half-lit in the gold of late afternoon—is Riwoo. One leg pulled up, a wrist balanced lazily on his knee. He’s leaning back on one hand, drink in the other, watching everyone with a small, quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s not laughing out loud like the others. But his eyes are soft, crinkled at the edges. Like he’s content just watching it all unfold.

You meet his eyes, and he lifts his drink slightly—just for you. Not dramatic, not showy. Just that little nod. A silent hey.

He mouths something, eyes gleaming.

You squint.

Then he says it again, this time barely louder: “Cheers to surviving a week without crying over math.”

You scoff through a smile. “That was oddly specific.”

He shrugs. “Or maybe I’m just projecting.”

You roll your eyes, but he grins wider now—pleased with himself. That’s the thing about Riwoo. He says things so dryly sometimes that you’re never sure if you should be laughing or asking if he’s okay.

But that’s later stuff. For now? He’s just being Riwoo.

Your Riwoo.

The same boy who used to bring extra loose-leaf papers to school because he knew you always forgot to buy them. The same boy who still, to this day, types with two fingers because you taught him that once and he refuses to change it.

The laughter around you swells again, and someone yells about needing more ice. A few people start heading toward the convenience store across the street.

You don’t move.

Neither does Riwoo.

…

It’s just you and Riwoo left now, the others having peeled off one by one—waved away by sleepy grins and parents waiting in nearby cars. The summer air is still thick with humidity and the lingering scent of grilled food and bug spray, and the sky above has darkened into a soft bruise.

Rain threatens in the distance. Not quite falling yet, but close—you can feel it gathering, swollen in the clouds like it’s holding its breath.

Riwoo walks beside you in comfortable silence, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, sneakers scuffing the gravel. The path winds through your old neighborhood, and though neither of you says it, it feels weirdly small now. Smaller than it used to be.

“D’you think the treehouse is still there?” he asks, suddenly.

You glance over. He’s not looking at you—just up ahead, squinting at the shape of someone’s backyard tree.

“Probably got torn down.”

He makes a dramatic sound of pain. “A tragedy. That was our legacy.”

You laugh. “It was one plank and a bunch of zip ties.”

“And a broken ladder,” he adds. “Let’s not forget the broken ladder.”

You laugh.

It’s easy, being like this with Riwoo. Always has been. You grew up two doors apart. He came over so often that your moms used to joke they should just combine houses—said it every summer, usually when he stole a popsicle from your freezer and your mom caught him mid-bite.

“You two should just date already,” they’d say, with their matching mom-laughs.

You used to groan and roll your eyes. He’d throw the popsicle stick at you.

Now?

You don’t really know how to react anymore.

The rain starts lightly, barely more than a mist at first. You don’t even notice until Riwoo gently shrugs off his hoodie and offers it to you.

You blink. “I’m fine—”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs one shoulder again, hand halfway extended. “You’ll get sick,” he says lightly. “And then I’ll feel guilty. And then you’ll guilt-trip me into taking care of you. And then I will. And then I'll catch your sickness and die.”

You sigh, half-smiling, and take it. The hoodie smells like rain and something subtle, like cedar or soap. It’s way too big, but it’s warm.

He nods, satisfied, then gestures ahead. “Come on, dramatic movie-level rain isn’t going to walk us home.”

You walk in silence for a while, but it’s not awkward. Just..quiet. Even the rain seems gentle.

His elbow brushes yours. Neither of you moves away.

…

By the time you reach your porch, your heels are starting to ache. You slip them off as soon as you’re under the awning, one hand pressed to the doorframe for balance.

“Thanks for walking me.”

Riwoo nods. He’s wet now, hair clinging to his forehead, his shirt’s sleeves soaked where the rain got through. He gives you a small smile. It’s the tired kind. Not fake, not loud. Just…well—real.

“Get some rest,” he says. “Text me when your feet stop crying.”

You grin. “They’re hysterically sobbing, actually.”

He laughs under his breath. Then hesitates—like he might say something else. But instead, he just waves and steps down the stairs, rain now pattering harder against the pavement.

You step inside, pushing the door closed behind you with your heel.

But you don’t move.

You sit, slowly, on the little bench beside the entryway. Your foot stings from the blister forming under the heel strap, and you exhale—just a little—resting your head back against the wall.

Gosh, how much you love your kitten heels but hate the pain that comes with it.

Your hand makes its way to rub your sore ankle, trying to relieve it of the pain.

Through the wood of the door, the rain feels closer now.

But so does his voice.

You freeze.

At first, you think he’s on a call. But there’s no pause, no other voice. Just Riwoo’s low murmur, too soft and cracked to be a performance.

“…I miss you even when you’re right in front of me. Isn’t that dumb.?”

Your breath catches.

No answer. No one’s there but him.

“I used to write you letters, you know?,” he says, then laughs—sharp and embarrassed. “Back when I was too scared to talk. Too scared to mess it up. I thought if I just said it on paper, it wouldn’t feel real.”

Your hand slowly presses to the door, as if it could anchor you.

“You never replied, so I figured you knew. Figured you didn’t want to say anything. That it was your answer.”

A pause.

”And I’m sorry I had to make you pretend everything was normal because you didn’t want to reject me. If only I had been more reliable and kept it in..”

No. No, no, no—

“Still,” he whispers. “I… love you, [reader]. I really do.”

Your throat feels tight. Your heart is pounding so loud you’re afraid he might hear it.

And then—

Letters.

Your mind jolts backward. The ache in your heel, the jacket in your lap, all of it fades under the weight of that word.

What letters?

You didn’t get any.

You would have remembered.

Wouldn’t you?

You press your ear to the wood, pulse thudding in your neck. But it’s quiet now. Just the rain.

Your hands shake slightly, clutching the edges of his jacket. You don’t know what to think.

All you know is—you’re wide awake now.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @uncasings

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-films @k-labels

You nod and watch as the boys crowd over the display freezers, eyeing the assortment of ice cream, gelato, sorbet, and frozen yogurt.

Even though you swear your attention is divided between all of them equally, you can't deny that your eye is drawn specifically to a certain long-haired brunette in the group. The way he jokes, his mischievous comments, and the way his smile reaches his eyes, making them sparkle, all send you into awe, and you can't take your eyes off him.

Even as the seven boys all line up around the counter together and say their orders, your brain is only half-attentive: listen to the order, prepare it, give it, forget it.

However, time seems to slow down when the brunette that caught your eye tells you his order.

"I'd like a strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, please," he says coolly, flashing his dimples, although you can hear the subtle excitement laced in his words.

You nod, continuing like clockwork: grab the cone, scoop the ice cream, put it in the cone, grab the sauce bottle, drizzle it over the ice cream, wrap a paper towel around the cone, hold it out for the customer to take, and beam a smile. "Enjoy!"

"Thank you," the boy beams back (his happiness more evident this time) while one of his friends pays for all of their treats.

“Welcome to Sundae Waves!”

You look up with a smile to see the same boy you’ve been seeing every day for the past week.

“Hello,” he greets politely as he takes a seat on a bar chair near the counter.

“Strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, again?” You ask.

“Hmm, no. I think maybe two scoops of strawberry gelato, please.”

“Of course.” You nod. “I’m guessing strawberry is your favorite?” You add with a teasing edge.

“It’s just amazing,” he says, chuckling. You catch a hint of light red on the tips of his ears.

“I’m Jungwon,” he offers as you hand him his cup of gelato after gently stabbing a spoon into it. “What’s your name, ice cream girl?” He hands you a few bills that you put into the register after counting.

“It’s Y/n,” you reply, chuckling at the nickname he’s been using throughout the week. “I’m only telling you that so that you’ll stop calling me ‘ice cream girl’.”

“Nice to meet you, ice cream girl—I mean, Y/n,” he quickly corrects after seeing you narrow your eyes playfully at him. “I think I’ll have trouble dropping the nickname for you, though.”

He does drop it, contrary to his words.

Jungwon hums a tune as he sucks on a popsicle.

“You have a great voice,” you tell him.

You’re not wrong; you're not just saying it to flatter him. His voice sounds like a river of pure honey sliding down a cool mountain. He had the kind of vocal tone and control that could have landed him a job as a Grammy-winning singer.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I’m practicing for the musical showcase they’re holding at the beach for the summer festival.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great with that voice.”

“Are you participating in the showcase?” Jungwon asks.

“No,” you say truthfully.

“Aw. It’s alright. Everyone has some kind of talent; it’s okay if yours isn’t music. I’m sure it’s something else amazing.”

“I don’t think so,” you scoff.

“I do,” he beams, shrugging.

Jungwon ransacks his duffel bag, his friends observing.

“Hey, do any of you guys have 5 bucks?” He asks, looking up at them before letting his eyes fall back down as he hunted for his wallet. “I think I left it at home.”

“Sure,” Jay offers, as if it’s no big deal. “Why, though?” He questions, giving Jungwon the 5 dollar bill.

“I just wanted to get some ice cream.”

“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Sunoo pipes up.

“No! You can’t!”

The six boys look at Jungwon in confusion over his sudden outburst.

“It’s just ice cream, dude,” Heeseung says carefully.

“I-I’ll get you guys some if you want,” Jungwon says quickly, trying to cover up for his mistake. “I just…want to go alone.”

“You’re going to see that girl who works there, aren’t you?” Jake chuckles.

“No,” Jungwon said sharply. But he couldn’t hide the way his entire face flushed red.

“Oh, look at that,” Sunghoon teases. “He is going to see her.”

“Okay, fine. I am,” Jungwon confesses with a huff. “I’m gonna head down, now.”

He turns around and stalks down the beach, sulking melodramatically

“Don’t take too long, hyung!” Riki calls out from behind.

“I’m so excited for the showcase.”

You chuckle. “I know, Jungwon,” you laugh. “You’ve been telling me every day.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, shyly grinning. “My friends and I have been practicing every day. We’re just really pumped up.”

“Are you and your friends here on vacation over the summer?” You ask, stacking the dessert cups.

“Uh…sorry, come again?”

You look over your shoulder to see Jungwon busy scraping every last bit of his ice cream from his cup.

“You and your friends? Are you guys just staying here over the summer?”

“No,” Jungwon says, straightening up to look at you. “We all moved here permanently. We’ll be going to Decelis High after summer, well, except for Heeseung hyung, he’ll be going to Decelis Uni.”

You nod in approval. “Decelis Uni is prestigious, it’s also only a 10-minute ride from here. I’m happy for him.”

“We all are,” Jungwon states proudly. “You go to Decelis High as well, right?”

“I do.” You nod in response. “I’m a sophomore. What about you?”

“I’m also a sophomore,” Jungwon replies, tossing the empty cup in the garbage can. “I bet we’ll have a bunch of classes together. What are the teachers like?”

“Depends on what classes you have.”

“Hmm, how about the math teacher? Them math teachers always the worst.”

“Oh, they are,” you agree. “But, we’re lucky. Mr. Kim is hilarious when it comes to his outbursts of anger; no one takes them seriously.”

“Alright then.” Jungwon nods. “Doesn’t sound that bad, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Kim is an amazing math teacher.”

“I’m sure. Besides, I’m even more sure it won't be that bad if I have you with me in my classes.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, taken aback as your cheeks flushed red. You turned away, resigning to restacking the already neatly stacked ice cream cups so that Jungwon wouldn’t be able to see your flustered face.

You picked up the large tub of vanilla ice cream, kicking the door of the storage room open as you sang one of your favorite songs loudly.

“Wow,” a familiar voice echoes through the parlor, a voice filled with awe.

You were entirely sure that the parlor was deserted. If you had known Jungwon was there, you wouldn’t have been doing it.

“Your talent is singing,” he gushes.

“It’s no big deal,” you try to laugh it off.

“No, really,” he insists. “You’re amazing.”

“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, vainly attempting to divert the conversation onto him.

“It’s great. Seriously, did you take lessons as a child?”

You sigh, giving up. “No, I didn’t.”

“You should sign up for the showcase,” Jungwon urges, settling on his regular bar chair in front of you. “You’d probably win.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t. That would mean you guys wouldn’t win.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jungwon states elatedly, his eyes practically sparkling. “We’d still have fun performing. That’s the whole point! You should sign up too, it’ll be fun watching each other perform.”

“Listen.” You spin towards Jungwon, letting out a heavy sigh. “I get you’re thrilled about the showcase, and I’m happy for you. But, I’m not joining the showcase, and that’s final.”

Jungwon looks away, disheartened. “I’m extremely sorry.”

“Thank you,” you say solemnly. “What do you want today?” you ask, turning towards the display freezers.

“Uhm, it’s alright,” Jungwon mutters. “I have to get going now. The others will probably be waiting for me.”

“Oh.” Your voice is filled with disappointment. Why? You didn’t understand. “Um, okay. Have a good day then.”

You watched as Jungwon got up and walked out, flashing you a somber smile, and leaving your heart to sink to the pit of your stomach.

You hadn’t seen Jungwon for a few days at the shop.

You look up from your cleaning.

The sun was bright outside, shining like it had never seen a tragedy before, and all it had was ecstasy in its life. The trees down the lane to the beach danced along to the wind’s melody.

You couldn’t say you felt the same, however. Ever since Jungwon walked out on you, it felt like a storm convulsed inside you, and you were drowning in it.

The bells by the door rang, and your head whipped up, eyes widening in the hope that it was Jungwon.

But it wasn’t Jungwon.

The shimmer of hope in your eyes died out.

“Welcome to Sundae Waves,” you recite, forcing a smile for the lady who stepped up to the counter. “What can I get you today?”

“Frozen yogurt,” she says, smiling. “Cookies ‘n’ cream, please. The medium cup.”

You nod, preparing the order purely from muscle memory as your mind drifts off to other thoughts, like it does regularly nowadays.

“Here’s your order,” you say monotonously, setting the bagged cup of ice cream on the counter for the woman to take. “Have a good day.”

You shambled down the beach, forgetting your thoughts as you solely focused on the cool feeling of the sand between your toes and the echoes of the waves crashing onto land.

Staring at the night sky, you didn’t realize there was something in front of you, causing you to trip and plummet towards the ground, landing face-first into the sand.

“I’m so sorry!” Someone cries as they help you sit up.

“It’s alright,” you mumble, attempting to dust off the sand from your face frantically.

Your brain slowly catches up. You process it was Jungwon’s leg that you tripped over, and Jungwon helped you up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. “It’s late.”

“Back at you,” he retorts. “Or is it still noon from your perspective?”

You let out a half-hearted chuckle, shuffling to sit next to him.

For a while, neither of you speaks, simply letting the sound of the waves crashing wash over you two.

Finally, you decide to slice through the silence. “I’m sorry.”

A feeling of confusion emanates from Jungwon. “For what?” he questions.

“For snapping at you a few days ago.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. It wasn’t okay for me to—”

“Stop.”

You pause instantly. Jungwon’s voice isn’t filled with the usual playful warmth it holds. Instead, it’s stern and serious.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jungwon repeats. “It was my fault. Whether you want to participate in the musical showcase or not is your decision and not mine. You said you weren’t interested in participating, and it was wrong for me to try to coax you into joining when you made it clear you didn’t want to participate.”

He looks at you and then away. “You didn’t yell at me when I tried to force you to join. You told me calmly that you weren’t going to join, and that made me like you as a person a lot more. That was respectable.”

You look at your feet, tracing swirls in the sand with your fingers. Guilt overtakes you, and suddenly you feel awful for still having snapped at him a few days ago.

“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood.

Your heart drops when you see Jungwon’s face fall. You had tried to improve the situation, but it seemed that you had worsened it.

“We hit a dead end,” Jungwon states curtly.

“What…What do you mean?” you urge.

“Heeseung lost his voice,” Jungwon explains. “The doctors said it’ll take around a week or two for him to get his voice back.

“Oh. So you won’t be able to perform?”

“No. Not unless we find a good enough replacement for him. But so far, that isn’t going well. We haven’t been able to find someone even though a whole bunch of people auditioned.”

You hesitate, carefully considering your next words.

“What about me?” you blurt.

“Huh?” Jungwon seems taken aback by the sudden offer.

“I don’t know if I’ll be a good fit for your harmonies,” you drabble. “But, I could try and audition? If it works, I’ll fill in for Heeseung at your performance.”

“But, you said that you weren’t going to perform.”

“I’ll do it,” you cut him off.

“No. I don’t want you to do something you made clear you didn’t want to do.”

You let out a heavy exhale. “I didn’t want to perform in the musical showcase because I have stage fright. But if I were to perform with other people, it’d be easier on me. Because it feels like less of the attention is on me and is more spread out.”

You laugh. “Besides, you guys are handsome. So I’m sure I won’t have a lot of attention on me.”

Jungwon shares a laugh with you, red dusting his cheeks at your compliment. “What about your job?”

“Today was my last day for the summer. I was covering for a fellow employee who was on holiday for a month. I only have to work again when school reopens and I have my part-time shifts once again.”

You look at him. “So I’ll be there tomorrow to audition at the beach.”

Jungwon gets caught off guard as Riki barrels into him.

“Riki!” he yelps, the two of them tumbling into the sand.

“Your girlfriend’s here!” Riki declares, panting.

“My girlfriend?” Jungwon echoes, confusion lining his furrowed eyebrows. “I don’t have one.”

“The girl from the ice cream shop!” Riki clarifies. “I just saw her ask someone where the auditions for Heeseung’s replacement were happening, and then she started heading down towards our way.”

Jungwon quickly scrambles up, Riki following in pursuit as Jungwon quickly tries to dust himself off and make himself presentable.

“Jake!” Jungwon grabs Jake’s arm, spinning the latter to face him. “How do I look? Do I look good?”

Jake eyes him up and down, the corners of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “You look great. Why? Is the girl from the ice cream shop here?”

“No,” Jungwon quickly lies, his red cheeks, however, gave it all away.

“She’s here to audition for Heeseung’s replacement!” Riki pipes up, completely blowing Jungwon’s cover.

“Riki!” Jungwon hisses.

“What?” Riki shrugs.

“You weren’t supposed to say that!”

“Oh, c’mon,” Sunghoon intercepts, breaking the two up before either of them could get another word in. “She’s coming to audition. We were all going to see her anyway. There’s no point in lying.”

You stand in the corner, having auditioned for Heeseung’s parts, glancing at the group of huddled boys far away from you. You ran a finger through the water, feeling the cool water calm you down.

You hoped it would be good news, after all, a few of the boys did seem to be in awe of your singing.

After a while, the huddle broke, and Jungwon and one of the other boys came up to you.

“Congrats!” The boy flashes you a confident grin as he shakes your hand. “You’re officially our new Heeseung!”

A confused look crosses your features before happiness highlights them as realization dawns upon you.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “I got in?”

“Yep,” Jungwon confirms. “Congrats, again.”

“I’m Jake,” the other boy introduces himself, continuing to flash you his charming grin. “Jungwon talks a lot about you.”

“Ah, he’s joking,” Jungwon quickly covers up. “Jake’s quite the tease.”

Jake just snickers, at which Jungwon shoots him a whole-hearted glare that you miss.

“Come on, let’s go meet the others,” Jungwon guides, his hand instinctively taking yours as he leads you down. A tingle runs down your body, setting every nerve on fire as it passes. The fire reaches your cheeks, staining them red.

Jake is, however, oblivious to this exchange between you two and continues excitedly sauntering across the waves of sand towards the other boys.

“Meet ENHYPEN!” Jake announces as you two catch up.

“So,” Sunghoon cuts in with a casual tone laced with subtle seriousness. “I guess we should start practicing now,” he suggests.

You had now gotten acquainted with the boys, who were quite a friendly bunch.

You nod. “That’s a good idea, we should continue perfecting the performance. Jungwon has told me how much this performance means to all of you. It’d be awful if I messed it up for you,” you laugh.

“I’m sure you won’t,” Jay offers kindly. You can tell by his tone that he isn’t just saying to be kind, but is genuinely sincere about it, and it makes you feel more optimistic and less nervous about this whole venture.

“Thanks,” you reply. “But we should still practice so that I can get a better hang of everything.

Laughter fills the air as you and Jungwon walk down the dark street, cracking jokes at each other.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “For offering to walk me home.”

“Don’t say thank you,” Jungwon tells you. “It’s late out, I just wanted to make sure you get home safe. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Aww,” you croon, pouting. “You love me.”

Jungwon can’t hide the blood that rushes to his face. “No, I don’t,” he stammers.

“You love me,” you repeat singsongly, teasingly. “You wanna hug me, you wanna kiss me.”

Jungwon is quick to shut you up, your eyes widening as his lips press against yours. His plush lips moved across yours in devotion, each stroke painting unspoken words of endearment on your mouth, telling you how much he loves you, how much he wishes you were his.

His arm snakes around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let you go, never say goodbye. It’s like he believes the second you pull away, you’ll vanish into thin air.

The kiss doesn’t last long; something snaps inside Jungwon, and he abruptly pulls away. It feels like you’ve lost something monumental when his arm unwraps from around your waist.

His eyes are filled with remorse when they meet your perplexed gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, averting his gaze and continuing up the path.

Those two words established an invisible metre-thick brick wall between you two. And it’s one you don’t know how to pass. 

You adjust your pink and orange halter top, leaning into the mirror to double-check if your makeup is alright. Your denim shorts, slides, and the sunglasses perched on your carefully curled hair complete the look.

“Hey.” You spin around to see Sunoo standing by the edge of the backstage area, smiling infectiously. “It’s almost time to go out there. We’re next!”

“Coming,” you assure him.

“Alright! I’ll tell the others.”

You chuckle, watching him disappear into the small huddle of boys. Taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, you head towards the others.

You peek out onto the stage, watching the band before you perform. The audience is as enthusiastic as ever, and their energy doesn’t seem to diminish despite the hot sun beating down on them.

You snap out of your trance as Jay pats your shoulder.

“The stage is ours, now,” he informs, smiling, before heading up the stage.

You inhale deeply, trying to push away any negative thoughts your brain tries to implant in you.

“You can do it.”

“Huh?” You look over your shoulder, startled.

“You can do it,” Jungwon repeats. “Don’t be scared. We’re in this together. Just think of the crowd as a large cluster of potatoes.”

You let out a chortle. “Potatoes?” you echo.

“Yeah.” He mirrors your smile, knowing how absurd it sounds. “I know it sounds stupid, but it works. If it doesn’t work, just pretend all the attention is on us.”

You nod. “Thanks,” you pause for a second. “Really.”

He just gives you a monotonous nod in response, heading up on stage as Jay finishes tuning his guitar. You follow suit, taking your place behind one of the mics.

Think of them as potatoes.

The boys rush off the stage, cheering.

You follow behind, happiness bubbling inside you.

The performance had gone well. You had felt nervous at first, almost freezing up. But you ended up forgetting yourself to the music as Jay started strumming. Once you started singing, you felt yourself flow along with the notes of the music and the words of the lyrics.

“You were great, Y/n!” Sunoo squeals, hugging you.

“Thank you!” you beam back. “You guys were all amazing as well! And that song was as well! I can't believe you all composed and wrote it, you guys are amazing at this!”

“Aww, you’re too sweet!” Sunoo replies, grinning so widely you thought he was going to burst into rays of sunshine.

The other boys crowd around, and eventually, you forget the invisible tick-tock of time as you converse with them.

Eventually, the judges announced the winner of the summer musical showcase: ENHYPEN!

All of you rushed back onto the stage, hollering in ecstasy as you received the award.

Afterwards, you disperse to pack your bags, deciding to head down to a restaurant for lunch to celebrate.

Packing doesn’t take you long. You don’t like lugging around a lot of stuff, so your bag is quite small. Besides, you had barely taken anything out of it, so it didn’t need repacking.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you hesitantly head toward Jungwon, making up your mind to talk about the kiss you shared a week ago.

“Hey, Jungwon.”

Jungwon twirls around to see you standing behind him.

“I wanted to talk about—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jungwon cuts you off bluntly, returning to packing his bag. “What happened between us last week at night. It…” Jungwon trails off, like saying the next words were equivalent to prying his heart out of his ribcage with no anesthesia. “...it was nothing.”

Jungwon shoulders past you, leaving you astounded and hurt.

Jake watched Jungwon stare into the never-ending expanse of the ice cream parlor’s walls, repeatedly stabbing his melted ice cream with his spoon absent-mindedly.

“Y’know what? That’s enough,” Jake cuts through the silence, which causes Jungwon to jostle back into reality.

“What’s enough?” Jungwon asks tentatively.

“This.” Jake simply points at Jungwon, briefly at a loss for words to explain Jungwon’s recent demeanor. “You’re about as exciting as watching wet paint dry. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jungwon lies.

“No,” Jake drawls in his famous Australian accent. “Time to spill what’s wrong.”

“It’s noth—”

“What’s wrong?”

“No, really, it’s no—”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re not going to let me be until I tell you what’s wrong, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”

Jake brightens up at Jungwon’s words, straightening up and adjusting himself on the bar chair as Jungwon sighs in exasperation.

“It’s about Y/n,” Jungwon states simply.

“Okay, and,” Jake coaxes. “Normalize context, please.”

“The night after our first practice together, I walked her home because it was late, and then we…kissed.”

“I knew it!” Jake exclaims, almost toppling over in excitement. “I knew something went on between you two.”

“Yeah, but…” Jungwon pauses, a perplexed look closing his eyes as he looks down at the melted strawberry slush of strawberry ice cream in his cup. “...I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if she likes me back, or if there's anything else between us anymore. She asked to talk when our performance finished, and I just walked away from her after telling her there was nothing between us. I don’t even know if she’d want to give me a chance after I did that.”

“Then, the sooner you talk to her, the better. Don’t let it fester and give it a chance to go rotten. Go and fix things before her mind gets a chance to decide she doesn’t want you. Trust me when I tell you that she likes you back. We’ve all seen the way you two look at each other. Everyone knows you two like each other except the two of you. So go before she gets a chance to change her mind.”

Jungwon ponders over the idea for a split second before grabbing his jacket and running out of the store. “Thanks, Jake,” he yells over his shoulder, running off in high spirits.

“Hey! Wait!” Jake looks frantic. “You were gonna pay for the ice cream?”

You yelp in surprise as someone almost barrels into you, the saltwater of the sea splashing all over you as they crash into the water instead.

“What the hell?” You quip.

“Y/n!”

“Jungwon?” You look at Jungwon, dripping wet and out of breath.“What happened?”

“Y/n, I’m sorry. We need to talk, please.”

You reluctantly nod, seeing the desperation in his eyes. “What’s up?”

“The kiss,” he says bluntly. “I’m sorry. I know I said there was nothing between us. But I was scared of you rejecting me. I decided it was better for me to push you away than face you saying ‘no’ to me. The truth is that I really like you, Y/n L/n. I kissed you because I liked you. And I still like you. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you asked to talk. Really sorry. And I want to show you how much I care about you. So, please, will you go out with me?”

You recoil, taken aback by the sudden confession. “Jungwon, I—”

“Please, give me a chance! I’ll fix it. I promise I will. Just…one chance. Please, don’t say no.”

“Jungwon, wait!” you say, grabbing his shoulder to help steady him. “I was hurt when you pushed me away. But I get where you come from. I’m scared of rejection as well. Therefore, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“Thank you,” Jungwon gasps, a smile blooming on his face. “I’ll text you the details?’

“Sure.”

You finish fixing your gray chunky knit cardigan over the white crop top you donned. It's paired with light blue, wide-leg jeans, a cream-colored baguette-style shoulder bag, and white and beige sneakers. A delicate necklace with small star-shaped pendants from your grandma completes the look.

As you pick up your phone to text Jungwon about where he is, your mom knocks on your bedroom door.

“Y/n, your date is here.”

“Thank you, Mom,” you tell her, practically flying down the stairs as you rush to greet Jungwon.

When you reach the door, you’re greeted with the sight of Jungwon in an oversized chunky knit sweater in a navy blue shade, paired with matching beige cargo-style pants with practical pockets, and black Converse on his feet. On his face is the most dazzling smile he has given you to this day, and in his hands are a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a basket of strawberries.

You giggle seeing the strawberries. “What are the strawberries for?”

“It’s to symbolize how our love started, by me buying strawberry desserts at Sundae Waves every day. Also, it symbolizes my love for you because it’s as sweet as these strawberries are.”

You burst into a fit of laughter at that. “Jungwon, that’s so stupid. But you’re lucky it makes me fall harder for you. I love your stupid thoughts, they’re so sweet.”

You let Jungwon pull you towards him as your mom takes the flowers and basket of strawberries inside, leaving you two alone.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, rubbing circles over your knuckles.

You respond. But instead of using words, you use your actions to respond. Leaning up, you press your lips together, letting out a hum to appreciate the way his breath hitches at the feeling of your plush lips against his.

Jungwon’s hand slides to your hip, rubbing deep circles, easing you into his touch as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You pull away when he tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, afraid of things getting more serious right now while you were out in the open. You were going to save those moments for when you two were alone.

“Your lips taste like strawberries,” Jungwon remarks, still dazed by the kiss, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy with adoration.

“I know how much you like strawberries,” you hum, pecking his cheek. “So, I thought I’d use that to my advantage to woo you.”

“Sneaky,” he chuckles, licking his lips. “But I think I like it.”

“So, where are we going on our date?”

“It’s a surprise,” Jungwon says, leading you down the street, fingers entwined in your own. The sunset glows behind you, shining down on you two like you were two angels Cupid brought together with his arrows.

------ᝰ‧₊ taglist open — nets! @k-films — ©amatariki 2k25

by losing a bet with riwoo, he had to go to the convenience store to get some snacks. after going through the list that the guys sent him, all that was left are some chips. as it was midnight, he did not bother to check his surroundings, preferring to get familiar with the flavors on the display.

thump

all the things he held in his hands were now scattered across the floor, and jaehyun wished he had picked up the shopping basket. now, annoyed, he was prepared to glare at the person who was the cause behind this.

“i'm so sorry, i didn't see you!” ready to dismiss whoever it was, he lifted his head—

kathump, kathump

—it was a girl, a very pretty one at that. jaehyun completely lost the reason why he was mad in the first place, actually; he wanted to apologize himself for even looking your way.

but no words left his mouth, instead he was just staring at you, jaw going up and down, like a fish gulping.

you took it as the fact that he didnt even want to talk to you, so you quickly picked up your stuff from the floor and rushed off from the scene, slightly nodding in a parting way.

jaehyun still stood in the middle of an aisle like a fool, not comprehending what exactly happened. and when he finally realized, he just knew he had to see you again. but preferably, next time he could say a sentence, even a word will do.

THE SECOND TIME JAEHYUN sees you, he feels like the universe has heard him and gives him a redemption arc.

it was at a café near the company building — the one riwoo swore by. walking in, jaehyun prayed to all the gods he knew, and it paid off.

there you were.

sitting by the window, headphones in, sipping something iced. you didn't notice him, but he did instantly. his first instinct was to run away. it didn't matter that the only thing he wanted to see was you.

and he almost did walk out the door, but you looked up first.

your eyes met, and this time, you smiled. polite and hesitant, but sweet at the same time. jaehyun could feel the crippling emotions again. he couldn't form a single coherent thought. but still, he mustered up the courage and walked to your table.

"hi—uh—uhm—hi...?" he stuttered, way too loud for his liking.

you blinked at him, not expecting him to start a dialogue.

"i mean! from the store, me, i, uh...chips?" he whisper-shouted, then, after realizing what he just blurted out, jaehyun hid his face with his hand, too embarrassed to look at your eyes.

to his surprise, you laughed. not in a mocking way, but a genuine one.

"i remember," you said. "sorry for that again, were the chips alright?"

he nodded way too fast. "yes! no! i mean—some were. i-i'm jaehyun!”

"i know," you giggled. "i'm y/n"

before he could even question how did you know his name, you stood up.

“it was nice seeing you again jaehyun,” you smiled at him and walked out, sending him a little wave as a goodbye.

and just like that, the second meeting wasn't a complete disaster. jaehyun left with a warm cup of coffee and your name echoing in his head

THE THIRD TIME jaehyun was determined.

he spotted you outside a sleek office building, where he was dropping off a delivery for a friend. he wouldn’t be here otherwise.

he wasn’t even supposed to come in, but seeing you walk into the lobby, greeting some people, he knew that it was his chance.

the world slowed down, giving him a green light.

“jaehyun?” you noticed him. you tilted your head, surprised.

he squared up his shoulders, fixed his posture. ‘you can do this’, he told himself, ‘you’re a good talker!’

“h-hi!” his voice cracked. so much for a good talker.

you let out a small laugh again. “still nervous?”

“no!” he said quickly. “i mean, yes, but you know, not in a weird way, im not a creep by any means too! you know, i just saw you and wondered if i could get your number…? it’s alright if not, after all i was just wondering—”

your giggle stopped his ramble. you pulled out your phone, handing it to him.

“here, you deserved it,” you said, suppressing another laugh.

WHEN HE CAME BACK jaehyun swore he could fly that day.

when your name popped up in the text message he just received, he grinned so hard that riwoo asked him if he won the lottery.

in a way, he had.

third time’s a charm, right?

RIWOO: long hug

a hug you need after a long day at work. it doesn’t matter who is tired, each of you is ready to hold one another for eternity. there is no rush to let go, all the responsibilities fade away. riwoo just hugs you in silence, but silence that radiates calm and comfort. there might be not a lot of words, but you’ll feel all the affection.

TAESAN: back hug

he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you suddenly. even when you stand face to face, he will turn you around and hug you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. it’s playful, but vulnerable. taesan is not used to receiving affection, so he prefers giving it. in some cases, he can give you a quick kiss on your cheek too.

LEEHAN: eye-to-eye hug

leehan’s hugs feel like a time stop. very intimate and emotional moments: foreheads touching, arms draped over each others’ necks, eyes looking at one another. at these times, leehan wants to connect with you, feel you on another level. he believes you’re soulmates, so these hugs ‘reacharge’ him.

WOONHAK: side hug

it’s not like he’s embarrassed about hugging you, it’s just he got used to it. an effortless slide of his arm to your shoulder or waist became a second nature to him. it’s fun and casual, but you know he is genuine with them. you feel his arm lingering around your waist. it can be around your friends, or his members, he feels the most comfortable with this hug. and it makes you smile without realizing it too.

The only thing you knew for sure was that your phone wasn’t in your bag.

You patted down every pocket, dug through your things with increasing panic, even circled back to the hallway. Still nothing. Practice room 3, the one you always borrowed after hours, had already gone dark by the time you returned, your heart sinking.

But when you walked in, the lights were on.

And K was there.

He held your phone in one hand, brows drawn slightly as he glanced up. “I figured you’d come back.”

You stopped in the doorway, confused. “You… found it?”

“I heard it buzzing after you left.” He lifted it toward you. “You left your lock screen open. I saw your name.”

“Oh,” you said, your fingers curling against your palm as you walked forward slowly. “Thank you. I didn’t even realize I’d—”

“You dance here every night,” he said, his voice quiet, cutting through your words in the softest way possible. “You always stay after everyone’s gone.”

You froze, fingers brushing the back of your phone before you took it. “You… noticed?”

“I always notice.”

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it didn’t hold weight. But it did. You felt it in your ribs, like something shifting into place.

K stood there for a moment, looking at you. Then, voice a little gentler: “You practice more than anyone I’ve ever seen. Even when there’s no one to see it.”

You glanced down. “I just… I don’t want to fall behind.”

“You’re not,” he said. “But I get it. That drive. That fear.”

You looked up, and his eyes held yours like he’d been waiting for you to finally see him clearly.

“Do you want help?”

You blinked. “Help?”

“I’ve seen your choreography.” He said it simply. “It’s good. But you look like you’re dancing alone. You’re not supposed to.”

You wet your lips, hesitant. “You’d really… teach me?”

He tilted his head. “If you’ll let me.”

That night, you didn’t leave.

K dimmed the lights, just enough to take the edge off the fluorescent glow. The mirror caught his reflection in soft shards as he pulled his hoodie off and stepped toward you in a tank top and sweats, his hair slightly tousled.

“You lead,” he said, “and I’ll follow. Then we’ll switch.”

It was simple, at first—mirroring steps, matching rhythm. He moved cleanly, with purpose. You’d watched him dance before, sure, but it wasn’t the same as dancing with him.

Every time he stepped toward you, it felt like your breath shortened. Every brush of his hand near yours, every shared glance in the mirror—it all lit something in your chest that you weren’t ready to name.

He was close, but never too close. Sharp, but never harsh. When he corrected your posture, he did it with a featherlight touch on your lower back. When you stumbled, he steadied you with just a glance.

“You have good instinct,” he said, panting slightly between reps. “But you don’t trust your body yet.”

You looked down. “I’m trying to.”

“You don’t have to try alone.”

You turned to look at him, and his voice softened. “I meant that.”

The room felt heavier than before, weighted with the warmth between you.

You looked up at him, a question forming on your tongue, but then he reached forward and offered his hand.

“One more time?”

You nodded, letting your palm rest in his. It was warmer than expected—solid, steady, grounding. He spun you gently into place, guiding you through the start of the routine, but slowed his steps enough that it no longer felt like performance. It felt like conversation. Like something private.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his in the mirror. He was already watching.

Something buzzed low in your chest, something you couldn’t push down anymore.

“I keep wondering,” you said, breathless, “why you’re really doing this.”

He stopped moving.

“What do you mean?”

You swallowed. “You’re the last person I expected to care about someone like me staying late to practice.”

K turned, fully, facing you. “Then you haven’t been looking closely enough.”

Silence stretched.

He stepped in, just enough for you to feel it — the tension, the pull.

“I’ve seen you more times than you think,” he murmured. “But I never said anything, because I didn’t want to mess it up. You looked so determined. So lost in your own world.”

“I thought I was invisible.”

“Not to me.”

Your breath caught.

His fingers brushed yours again — lightly, hesitantly — and this time you didn’t move away.

“You came back for my phone,” you said, voice low.

“I came back for you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and honest and real.

You barely had time to react before he leaned in — slow, deliberate — like giving you time to back away.

You didn’t.

His lips touched yours, featherlight at first, then firmer when you leaned into it. His hand found your jaw gently, thumb grazing your cheek as he deepened the kiss. It was soft but purposeful — like he was pouring everything he hadn’t said into the space between you.

It felt like time stopped.

Like the room quieted, holding its breath.

His forehead rested against yours when he pulled away, your eyes still closed.

“That was...” you whispered.

“Me saying thank you,” he murmured. “And I like you. In case I wasn’t obvious enough.”

You laughed, breathless, your hand still curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Then here’s me saying it back.”

And you kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Like it was yours now, too.

That night, you didn’t dance to be seen. You danced with someone who already had.

And for once… you let yourself be held in it.