lemonn!!

Hyunjin’s a sweet guy, he’s thoughtful, he’s full of kindness, and he’s nice to be around. 

Which is why you can’t understand why this is the fourth class in a row where he’s treating your desk chair like a footstool, leaving shoe prints all over your seat. It doesn’t help that whenever he decides to return to his own seat, your desk is drenched in the smell of him, which, while you might’ve appreciated it at one point, just pissed you off now. 

“Oh, hey,” Hyunjin throws over his shoulder, giving you a slight nod before returning to his in-depth conversation with Changbin about the most optimal exercises to grow his shoulders, “So you’re saying lat raises are great still, I just can’t have my palms or thumbs down?”

Changbin, who hasn’t yet noticed your presence, nods. “Yeah, so—”

“Hey, sorry,” you throw Changbin an apologetic look for cutting him off, before turning back to Hyunjin, “Do you think maybe you could, I don’t know, get off of my seat? I don’t really enjoy wiping your shoe dirt off my pants after class.”

Hyunjin raises a brow at you, clearly taken by surprise by your words. Usually, you opt for a few annoyed sighs and ‘I think I hear the professor coming,’ to get him out of your seat. Not to mention your tone, while he’s heard it a good few times since he returned, wasn’t something he was used to. “You know, you’ve gotten meaner since I left.”

“I just want to sit at my desk without huffing Byredo’s Blanche all period,” you spit back, not in the mood to deal with this imposter today.

You see an arrogant grin pull at the corner of his lips, something that unwillingly makes your heart stutter. It's only for a second, though, since anything you feel for him dissipates whenever he opens his mouth, like he’s doing now. “I would imagine you’d like that, it’s a good scent.”

“People have different tastes,” you pause, before mumbling the second part of your thought, “I liked your old cologne better.”

You’re pretty sure Hyunjin doesn’t hear that last bit, considering he doesn’t give you any smart remarks or amused looks. You honestly couldn’t care if he did, though. You did like the old one better, and it would be nice to have some part of the Hyunjin you knew come back from the grave. At first, you really thought Chan was right, and he was just taking a bit of time to find his groove again, but that clearly wasn’t true. The most you two ever interact now were odd little arguments like just now, or awkwardly bumping into each other and not really saying anything.

Plopping into your seat, you sigh. You were shocked by his new look at first, but you could get behind it. As much as you loved his more gentle frame and soft locs that framed his face so beautifully, his ever-growing muscles and sprouting mullet weren’t any harder to look at. His slightly bolder style wasn’t too bad either—it really highlighted his build and his individuality well, and his removable piercings were pretty cool too. 

You thought all of it was pretty cool, honestly. But what you couldn’t understand was, if he was going to change everything about himself on the outside, did he have to change everything on the inside, too?

While you mourn the death of the sweetheart that was your Hyunjin, the ungraceful rustling of papers and thumping footsteps stumbling into the lecture hall catches everyone’s attention. He clears his throat, straightening himself up a bit and putting on a nervous smile, before he starts, “Uh, the annual camping trip is r-ready to start gathering attendees. If you’re interested, please fill out one of these packets and return it t-to the planning committee's office. Thank you.”

He gives an awkward bow before leaving the haphazardly stacked pile of packets on your professor’s desk. 

You tug your planner out of your bag, flipping through a few pages before settling on one with a bright sticker of a tent and another of a barbecue pasted on November fifteenth. You tilt your head, wondering why they were sending out trip slips so early in the semester. The thing was a month and a half away, and you could swear that last year they didn’t even start emailing about it until it was three weeks away. 

Pursing your lips, you let it go for now, deciding it would be better to worry about when your professor wasn’t writing Pop Quiz on the whiteboard. 

——

“Hey, you,” you call out, jogging up to the clumsy brunette who had dropped off the trip slips to your class earlier, who’s perched compactly under one of the quad’s oaks. 

His head shoots up, his arms with it, bumping his guitar neck into his chin. Rubbing his chin with one hand, he points to himself with the other, “Are you, uh, talking to me?”

You nod, amused at how animated he is. “Are you on the trip planning committee? You handed out the packets earlier, right?”

He scratches his neck, “Uh, I mean, not really. I did hand out the packets, I’m just not actually part of the planning team. I just run errands for them here and there, you know? But no, technically I’m not, uh, on the committee… sorry.”

“Oh,” his ramble makes you absentmindedly smile a bit, but you choose to ask your question anyway, “I was just wondering why they’re sending out slips so much earlier this year compared to the others.”

“Well, um, from what I’ve heard, it’s because the budget is a little bigger this year. I think they want to give more people a chance to sign up, probably,” he says a little too fast, but you manage to understand him. The poor guy is a bundle of nerves. 

“I see, that’s pretty cool. Thanks…” you trail off, realizing you didn’t even ask the guy’s name yet. 

“Oh, uh, I’m Jisung.”

You give him a friendly smile, “Thank you, Jisung. My name’s [Y/N].”

“I know,” he blurts, before his eyes widen in surprise and maybe even a little anguish, “Not like, in a weird way! It’s just—we have Illustration together, and I swear I’m not a freak. You’re just really good and I—fuck, I remember seeing you present one of your pieces last week. I’m so sorry that was so weird of me to say, I—”

“I mean, it’s not the weirdest response I’ve gotten to introducing myself if that helps,” you shrug, “One time they didn’t even say anything, they just rolled up their window silently and drove off.”

He flushes red, letting his guitar lie flat on his lap and slapping his face with his hand, “I promise I-I’m not usually this, uh, well… like this.”

You almost have to look away when you see him gesture to himself with his free hand, trying your hardest not to laugh at the guy. Instead, you place a hand on your hip and hit him with a smooth, “Really? Guess I'd better run into you more, then, Jisung.”

“That uh, that would be cool,” he stammers, sinking back into his spot against the tree, failing to hide his excitement as he smiles nervously. “See you around then, um, [Y/N].”

You’re waving bye to Jisung when you feel eyes burning to the back of your head. You unconsciously look to your right, only to be met with familiar brown eyes. His head is still facing his group, but his sharp gaze is on you. You tilt your head down in a sort of annoyed-confused fusion expression, and he quickly fixes his gaze between you and Jisung, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. It was as if that look was supposed to mean something, but you couldn’t understand what.

But honestly, you don’t really care.

Settling on the idea that dealing with Hyunjin’s odd new behavior was not what you wanted to waste your energy on this afternoon, you shake yourself free from the tense eye contact and start back on your way to your apartment.

And as much as you try to keep Hyunjin out of your mind on the walk back, all you can think about is how much you hate how good he looked while ruining your day.

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“He did what?” Felix spits out, jaw on the floor. “What a punk!”

“Eugh…” You grimace at the few of his spit droplets that made their way to your arm, sanitizing it immediately as Chan hisses at him to relax. “He pulled that weird little stunt, and then just left… it was really unsettling.”

“I don’t think he meant anything by it [Y/N],” Chan pipes in, downing his iced americano. 

You shrug, sinking into yourself a little. “Maybe… It's just, this isn’t like us at all. Usually we’re really close and stuff, you know? It just feels like he’s playing some kind of game now.”

Felix nods in agreement, “She’s right, usually Hyunjin’s all over her, doting and stuff. I swear, he looks at her like she’s some Monet painting or something. Plus, he’s never had the confidence to approach her like that, either.”

Your cheeks redden ever so slightly, and you lean over the small counter to smack Felix’s arm to hide your embarrassment. He puts his hands up in defense, spewing loudly about how he isn’t wrong. 

Chan pulls you back by your shoulder, looking at you with a slightly amused look. “I haven’t seen him yet myself, but I still think you should give him a little more time. People don’t change that much [Y/N].”

Liar, you growl internally as you recall Chan’s advice once more.

It had been almost three weeks since Hyunjin’s return, and you felt that you had seen him more and less simultaneously than ever before. At every event, he was there. Previously, you were lucky if you managed to drag Hyunjin to a sports game. Now, he attended them so often, he was basically part of the cheer squad. When had you become so easy to leave behind? (I feel like this adds to the disbelief of his change. 

He was always dodging you with half-baked excuses now. Sure, in some ways, this was a step up from how he used to look physically sick at the idea of having to turn down hanging out with someone… but this was just getting ridiculous.

Not to mention, now it seemed he was somehow everyone’s friend–– except yours. Throughout the halls, you would catch him with different people every time you saw him.

Sometimes, you weren’t sure if they were just friends, either. Not that you cared that much about that, obviously. 

But it was starting to gnaw at you, with how he seemed so confident and comfortable without you. Almost as if he was better off without you, in some way.

You had been a little pissed when you first greeted him back, sure, but did that really warrant him to completely forget about you?

Yet, there was that other thing.

For some reason, you couldn’t help but feel eyes on you whenever he was in the vicinity. You never caught him staring at you, or looking in your direction in general, really, but you could always find his position in the crowd without a second thought. Maybe you were paranoid, or were just really good at finding Hyunjin in dense areas, but it almost felt like something was telling you where he was. And it was bugging you more and more as time went on. 

Still, you tried not to care too much. You didn’t want Hyunjin to consume you; you just missed your friend, that was all. It wasn’t even about how he used to hang out at your place every chance he got. Or how he used to flash that nervous smile of his whenever you two were a little too close. It was definitely not about how he used to cling to you in crowds either. It wasn’t about any of that, not at all. 

So you’ve instead resorted to ignoring him. It may not have seemed like the best solution–especially not to Chan or Felix–but it was yours and you were going to run with it for as long as you could. And for the past few days, it seemed to be working. You felt a bit less tense in Art History when you imagined he was still abroad, for instance. It wasn’t like he had been talking to you a bunch in the first place, but it made that an easier pill to swallow when you pretended he wasn’t there to talk to you anyway. 

Even walking through the halls felt like less of a burden when you ignored his presence. You couldn’t care less about who he was walking with, or from what direction you swore you could feel him from. It was truly starting to feel like he never got back, and you were finally starting to get comfortable again.

So comfortable, you had stopped your constant surveillance of your surroundings, burying your face in your art projects for Illustration class or scanning through your Lit notes whilst you wove through the halls to your classes most days now. Just like you were currently, smudging out some strokes you didn’t appreciate in your latest conte crayon piece, unaware of the figure approaching rapidly. 

With an oomf, you knock into the person in front of you, dropping your drawing pad and bag of media. You cringe when you hear the snap they make as they hit the tile, and you know that at least four of your crayons just cracked in half. 

Still a bit startled from the collision, you wobble, one hand placed firmly against your head that had unfortunately bumped straight into whoever’s shoulder was in front of you. Two large hands find their way to your shoulders, steadying you in place, much to your appreciation.  

That’s when you hear it. 

“Whoa there. You gotta watch where you’re going, [Y/N],” Hyunjin chuckles out a bit, leaning back to look at you more levelly. 

You freeze at the sound of his voice, eyes snapping open to see him looking at you with a slight amusement. It makes your heart race a bit, but you’re not sure if you like it or not. Quickly, you pull back from him, your eyes zeroing in on the way his smile didn’t seem to shine the way it used to. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.”

Hyunjin tilts his head a bit at your behavior, bringing his hands to rest in his pockets. Unwillingly, you miss their warmth. “What’s the matter? Stuck thinking about me?”

You roll your eyes, “Stop flattering yourself, Hyunjin. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he hums annoyingly, smirking at you. “Good thing my reflexes are so in tune now, y’know, to catch everyone tripping over me.”

“Oh, you’re so irritating,” you groan, snatching your bag off the floor and attempting to rush off, utterly done with him for the week.

“Wait,” he calls, making you turn back to him, hoping for him to give you something that says he isn’t just some shell of the boy you used to know. Something that makes your pulse stop stuttering within his grasp. He points at your art supplies still lying on the floor. “You gonna get that?”

And just like that, all hope dies within you. Your Hyunjin would have picked it up for you without a second thought and pushed to take you to the nurse. Not this guy, though. “Wow, what a gentleman, really. No, no, don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

He laughs airily at you, before turning on his heel to continue his stroll down the hall, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. 

Jerk.

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i wanted this to be a small (ish) oneshot but then got carried away in the introduction itself (being the angst and hurt/comfort simp i am), so its now a much longer fic, i hope ya'll like it tho!!

alsoo, i wanted to post this sometime just after rakshabandhan but unfortunately life got in the way and i couldn't finish it, so thats why this is coming out so late.

a quick rundown on rakshabandhan :)

for those who don't know, rakshabandhan is an indian festival that celebrates the relationship between a sister and brother. the sister tie a thread (traditionally known as a rakhi) on their brothers as a symbolic armour for his well-being and wish him prosperity and in return, the brother protects her.

it stems from an ancient traditional story when a queen named Rani Karnavati sent a rakhi to a powerful king, Humayun, asking for help — just like a sister would ask her brother. Humayun came to help her, showing that this bond of rakhi can bring people together like family, even if they aren’t born as siblings.

being a day off, something you all got to have sparingly, so everyone was doing their own thing. felix was making brownies in the kitchen, chan, changbin and hyunjin were at the gym, hyunjin had gone to an art exhibit he had seen a brochure for recently, han and leeknow had gone to a new 

icecream parlor they saw the other day while coming back from work, jeongin and seungmin had gone for a walk and to take some pictures for their individual instagrams. 

it was a few days before august started, your mother calling another year to ask if you would be able to make it to the puja, and you disappoint her again with the news that you wont, your mom expressing her dislike for your job once more, like she does every year, multiple times, almost every time you both conversed.

"maa, you know if i was able to make it, i would." you said, tired of all the complaining.

"well, it seems like you never try. ever since you've gone to korea, and started living with those boys, its like you don't have time for us at all. we never should've let you go." she said, disdain in her voice. You hated how she emphasized on the word, like it was something dirty, something to be picked on.

"the boys mean the world to me, don’t say anything against them. and no, i dont have a choice if i can come or not. im contract bound." i say, exasperated. 

“wow, you defend them over your family? Are they more important to you than us? The one that actually raised you? I knew you were a disappointment.” she said, bringing tears to your eyes.

“maa, dont say that. you know that’s not true.” you said, voice getting smaller.

“then how come your ‘boys’ get to go home when it's christmas or whatever their holiday is.” she demanded.

“they dont! many years they’ve stayed here instead of going to their homes, since we have to perform or have another variety show to go to. there is a lot that goes behind the scenes that the public doesn’t see. why cant you understand that? i know i havent been coming home as frequently as i used to, its cause we have so much more on our plates, and have so much more to prepare for! and i don’t come home for sometime, and i am a disappointment now?” you exclaimed. You could handle all her critics, her jabs, her comments that were aimed for you, but nothing against the boys, they all held a special place in your heart, you wouldn’t handle a word against them, no matter who it came from.

“well then, if your boys mean so much to you, you can have them. you are no longer welcome here. this isn't your home now. good luck finding one with this ungrateful attitude of yours.” she finalised and hung up the phone and your heart dropped. 

you just stood there, your phone in your hand. processing what she just said. 

“this number is no longer available”

no way

no way she blocked you

her daughter. 

saying that you weren’t expecting this would be a lie. You recognized your mom and her toxic behaviours, you could just never bring yourself to cut ties. She’s your mom. How could u? 

but apparently she didn't have the same woes. she didn’t have a second thought and just did it. 

you laughed, but it was a hollow one. you didn't know how to feel. on one hand, you were relieved because you didn’t have to deal with her toxic words and actions again, but on the other hand, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.

the boys used to point out her toxic actions and traits that used to wear you down, so you knew, it would be good for you in the long run. 

“heyy, is everything okay? heard you yelling a little.” felix asked, poking his head through your open door. seeing your red eyes he immediately panicked and rushed to you.

“Yes, im fine felix. I just need a moment.” you said, not wanting the literal sunshine to see you like this.

“okay, im not gonna push you but please know that you can tell me anything right? I wont judge you.” he said, holding my arms.

“its my mom, she wants me to come home, for rakshabandhan, but i can’t because of the schedule. When i told her, she told me that she’d had enough and then she blocked me.” i said, tears welling up in my eyes again, as i wiped my face.

“oh, im so sorry y/n.” felix said, bring me into his arms. I accepted the hug, breaking it off after sometime and taking me to the kitchen, insisting he make something for me.

“what’s rakshabandhan? I know its a festival but thats basically all that i know.” he asked after whipping a quick mug cake for me.

“It’s a festival for brothers and sisters. where the sister ties a thread of sorts - called a rakhi, on their brother’s wrist, wishing for his prosperity and well-being, and in return, the brother protects the sister.” i explained to him, showing stuff on my phone as well to help him understand, also having a bit of the sweet treat he made me and groaning at the taste.

“That sounds so beautiful, im sorry u couldnt celebrate it with your family this year.” he said, empathy evident in his eyes.

“that’s alright Lixie, i honestly was expecting this, i knew she didn’t want me, and was just looking for a reason to kick me out. It definitely hurts, but i am glad that she wont weigh me down as much anymore.” i said and he smiled. 

“that’s good.” he said as he got a spoon for himself and went in for a big scoop of my cake. I quickly snatched it away before he could have some.

“hey! I made that for you, let me have some!” he exclaimed. I just grinned in return, before i realised, someone had come up from behind me and picked me up, causing me to yelp in surprise as i kept the cup on the counter. Felix laughed loudly as he went for it.

“no! My cake!!” i exclaimed and the person put me down, i turned around and saw seungmin behind me, giving me an evil smile.  

“ugh!! kim seungmin you’re gonna have it!” i said as i chased him with my spoon.

“heyy! what’s going on here?” 3racha came from the studio room, seeing seungmin on the ground, me on top of him, threatening him with a spoon. 

“I don’t wanna know.” declared and walked to where felix was, chan was just laughing heartily at the situation while changbin was recording the whole ordeal.

han walked to felix, having some of the cake as well when his eyes fell on the phone kept open on the counter. Asking felix about what it is and he explained it to the producer. 

“ohh, that sounds so nice. do you think she’d want to celebrate it with us?” han proposed.

“i don’t know, but she might be open to it? let's ask her,” felix said, but stopped abruptly. 

“but after we finish this.” he completed his sentence. both sunshines laughed as they finished the remaining cake. by the time they did, the commotion outside had quieted down. 

both of them went out and found that others sprawled out on the couch. hyunjin, jeongin and leeknow had also joined them, the three of them looking like they had just come from dance practice.

“hey y/n, would u like to celebrate rakshabandhan with us?” felix proposed as he walked out to the couch. curious and confused voices rose in the room, everyone asking each other what ot meant, but not knowing anything, they turned to han, felix and you. 

“y/nnie what’s that?” hyunjin asked and you explained the festival to the rest of the boys as well, explaining how the topic came up and the recent conversation you had with your mom.

“Im so sorry y/n, but that does sound quite beautiful. If you like, we would love to spend it with you.” chan spoke up. 

“that actually sounds like a good idea. I would love that.” you said, smiling as all of them started asking you what the other had to do to help you with the preparations.

-----

The preparations started a week before the festival. the boys were ready to do anything y/n told them, even if she didn’t feel the need for them to do the work they were putting in, it definitely made her feel at home, she always did with them. 

“are you sure about that? you don’t have to.” y/n asked the boys when they said they wanted to wear indian clothing.

“Yes, i’ve always wanted to try them and see what they would look like on me!” jeongin said.

“okay, if you insist. i’ll order a kurta for each of you then.” y/n said excitedly and got to work immediately.

“yayy, im so excited. Is there anything else you need us to do?” jeongin asked, walking up to where you were making a list on the stuff that needed to be done.

“not really actually. we just need some stuff but that all can be made and we don’t need it unless the night before anyways. so no work needs to be done.” y/n explained while ordering all of them a kurta each.

-----

It was the night before rakshabandhan and the boys were looking at y/n curiously as she pasted small papers with various sentences on each side of all the doors of the house. 

“y/n what do these sentences say?” han asked, voicing what everyone was thinking.

“There r multiple sentences, this one means, rakshabandhan’s festival gives rise to the love between a brother and his sister, the others are chants in hindi.” y/n explained as the boys nodded their head, understanding.

“That’s so beautiful.” seungmin said softly and y/n smiled.

“Yea, it is isnt it?” 

-----

“Come on boys, its time for the puja! And i want to see all of you in the kurtas I bought for you!” y/n called out from down the stairs. All of them came down, wearing the same kurtas but in different colours. She was wearing a red salwar kameez herself with beading around the border and a red dupatta to match.

“Dang, y’all look good! We need to take photos once we’re done with the puja.” y/n said and all the boys agreed. 

“Do you want any help setting up for the puja?” Lee know asked.

“Yes actually, if you can help set up the plate for the puja, that would be great!” y/n said and gave instructions on what to set where and what all to put in the plate itself.

“Ouu, the rakis look so cool!” Felix exclaimed once he saw the set of rakis y/n had brought out.

“I’m glad that you like them!” y/n  exclaimed excitedly. 

-----

After a few misunderstandings, a couple mis placements and some confusion, everyone was finally ready for the puja. y/n led them to the mandir she had set up in the house where she prayed occasionally and instructed the others to put the plates down and to sit in an oval. She led the chants and mantras.

The boys were mesmerised by the melody and tune of the mantras and aartis that y/n sang. Even though it wasn’t meant to be a performance per say, it definitely felt like it to them, the way y/n looked entranced in the notes, singing the words so beautifully. Even if they didn’t understand the language, they were captivated by the way y/n portrayed it.

Changbin and Hyunjin were holding bells in each hand, shaking it to the beat of the mantra.

“Come, its time to tie the rakhis.” y/n declared, turning around towards the boys and their eyes lit up.

“I’ll start with you Innie.” y/n said as she smiled sweetly, he came in the front and held his wrist out like a little kid, so excited to see which rakhi he would get. Everyone watched as y/n’s nimble fingers gave him a red tika along with the rice on his forehead, handed him a dry coconut and fed him some sweets and then tied two rakhis to his wrist. 

“Smile!” Han cheered as he clicked a picture of both of them. Everyone slowly came up and did the same.

“Thank you for this Felix. I didn’t know I needed this.” y/n said to felix once he came for his turn. The sunshine smiled sweetly and said that he would do anything for y/n if it meant that he could see her smile.

“Let’s all take a picture!” y/n exclaimed once everyone had their rakis on their wrist. All of them gathered chaotically around y/n and yelled at the camera, while showing off their wrists and the red thread that decorated them. 

“Now, one last thing to do. The papers we stuck yesterday, we need to paste these strings called norte around them like a necklace.” y/n explained and all of them got to work. Within minutes, every door had norte around the papers.

“Now, we have something for you.” Seungmin announced. y/n looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean?” SHe asked as she saw everyone hiding something behind their backs.

“You know, you never told us that the sisters get gifts from the brothers on rakshabandhan as well?” jeongin said.

“Well, it slipped my mind?” y/n tried to salvage herself.

i wanted this to be a small (ish) oneshot but then got carried away in the introduction itself (being the angst and hurt/comfort simp i am), so its now a much longer fic, i hope ya'll like it tho!!

alsoo, i wanted to post this sometime just after rakshabandhan but unfortunately life got in the way and i couldn't finish it, so thats why this is coming out so late.

a quick rundown on rakshabandhan :)

for those who don't know, rakshabandhan is an indian festival that celebrates the relationship between a sister and brother. the sister tie a thread (traditionally known as a rakhi) on their brothers as a symbolic armour for his well-being and wish him prosperity and in return, the brother protects her.

it stems from an ancient traditional story when a queen named Rani Karnavati sent a rakhi to a powerful king, Humayun, asking for help — just like a sister would ask her brother. Humayun came to help her, showing that this bond of rakhi can bring people together like family, even if they aren’t born as siblings.

being a day off, something you all got to have sparingly, so everyone was doing their own thing. felix was making brownies in the kitchen, chan, changbin and hyunjin were at the gym, hyunjin had gone to an art exhibit he had seen a brochure for recently, han and leeknow had gone to a new 

icecream parlor they saw the other day while coming back from work, jeongin and seungmin had gone for a walk and to take some pictures for their individual instagrams. 

it was a few days before august started, your mother calling another year to ask if you would be able to make it to the puja, and you disappoint her again with the news that you wont, your mom expressing her dislike for your job once more, like she does every year, multiple times, almost every time you both conversed.

"maa, you know if i was able to make it, i would." you said, tired of all the complaining.

"well, it seems like you never try. ever since you've gone to korea, and started living with those boys, its like you don't have time for us at all. we never should've let you go." she said, disdain in her voice. You hated how she emphasized on the word, like it was something dirty, something to be picked on.

"the boys mean the world to me, don’t say anything against them. and no, i dont have a choice if i can come or not. im contract bound." i say, exasperated. 

“wow, you defend them over your family? Are they more important to you than us? The one that actually raised you? I knew you were a disappointment.” she said, bringing tears to your eyes.

“maa, dont say that. you know that’s not true.” you said, voice getting smaller.

“then how come your ‘boys’ get to go home when it's christmas or whatever their holiday is.” she demanded.

“they dont! many years they’ve stayed here instead of going to their homes, since we have to perform or have another variety show to go to. there is a lot that goes behind the scenes that the public doesn’t see. why cant you understand that? i know i havent been coming home as frequently as i used to, its cause we have so much more on our plates, and have so much more to prepare for! and i don’t come home for sometime, and i am a disappointment now?” you exclaimed. You could handle all her critics, her jabs, her comments that were aimed for you, but nothing against the boys, they all held a special place in your heart, you wouldn’t handle a word against them, no matter who it came from.

“well then, if your boys mean so much to you, you can have them. you are no longer welcome here. this isn't your home now. good luck finding one with this ungrateful attitude of yours.” she finalised and hung up the phone and your heart dropped. 

you just stood there, your phone in your hand. processing what she just said. 

“this number is no longer available”

no way

no way she blocked you

her daughter. 

saying that you weren’t expecting this would be a lie. You recognized your mom and her toxic behaviours, you could just never bring yourself to cut ties. She’s your mom. How could u? 

but apparently she didn't have the same woes. she didn’t have a second thought and just did it. 

you laughed, but it was a hollow one. you didn't know how to feel. on one hand, you were relieved because you didn’t have to deal with her toxic words and actions again, but on the other hand, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss.

the boys used to point out her toxic actions and traits that used to wear you down, so you knew, it would be good for you in the long run. 

“heyy, is everything okay? heard you yelling a little.” felix asked, poking his head through your open door. seeing your red eyes he immediately panicked and rushed to you.

“Yes, im fine felix. I just need a moment.” you said, not wanting the literal sunshine to see you like this.

“okay, im not gonna push you but please know that you can tell me anything right? I wont judge you.” he said, holding my arms.

“its my mom, she wants me to come home, for rakshabandhan, but i can’t because of the schedule. When i told her, she told me that she’d had enough and then she blocked me.” i said, tears welling up in my eyes again, as i wiped my face.

“oh, im so sorry y/n.” felix said, bring me into his arms. I accepted the hug, breaking it off after sometime and taking me to the kitchen, insisting he make something for me.

“what’s rakshabandhan? I know its a festival but thats basically all that i know.” he asked after whipping a quick mug cake for me.

“It’s a festival for brothers and sisters. where the sister ties a thread of sorts - called a rakhi, on their brother’s wrist, wishing for his prosperity and well-being, and in return, the brother protects the sister.” i explained to him, showing stuff on my phone as well to help him understand, also having a bit of the sweet treat he made me and groaning at the taste.

“That sounds so beautiful, im sorry u couldnt celebrate it with your family this year.” he said, empathy evident in his eyes.

“that’s alright Lixie, i honestly was expecting this, i knew she didn’t want me, and was just looking for a reason to kick me out. It definitely hurts, but i am glad that she wont weigh me down as much anymore.” i said and he smiled. 

“that’s good.” he said as he got a spoon for himself and went in for a big scoop of my cake. I quickly snatched it away before he could have some.

“hey! I made that for you, let me have some!” he exclaimed. I just grinned in return, before i realised, someone had come up from behind me and picked me up, causing me to yelp in surprise as i kept the cup on the counter. Felix laughed loudly as he went for it.

“no! My cake!!” i exclaimed and the person put me down, i turned around and saw seungmin behind me, giving me an evil smile.  

“ugh!! kim seungmin you’re gonna have it!” i said as i chased him with my spoon.

“heyy! what’s going on here?” 3racha came from the studio room, seeing seungmin on the ground, me on top of him, threatening him with a spoon. 

“I don’t wanna know.” declared and walked to where felix was, chan was just laughing heartily at the situation while changbin was recording the whole ordeal.

han walked to felix, having some of the cake as well when his eyes fell on the phone kept open on the counter. Asking felix about what it is and he explained it to the producer. 

“ohh, that sounds so nice. do you think she’d want to celebrate it with us?” han proposed.

“i don’t know, but she might be open to it? let's ask her,” felix said, but stopped abruptly. 

“but after we finish this.” he completed his sentence. both sunshines laughed as they finished the remaining cake. by the time they did, the commotion outside had quieted down. 

both of them went out and found that others sprawled out on the couch. hyunjin, jeongin and leeknow had also joined them, the three of them looking like they had just come from dance practice.

“hey y/n, would u like to celebrate rakshabandhan with us?” felix proposed as he walked out to the couch. curious and confused voices rose in the room, everyone asking each other what ot meant, but not knowing anything, they turned to han, felix and you. 

“y/nnie what’s that?” hyunjin asked and you explained the festival to the rest of the boys as well, explaining how the topic came up and the recent conversation you had with your mom.

“Im so sorry y/n, but that does sound quite beautiful. If you like, we would love to spend it with you.” chan spoke up. 

“that actually sounds like a good idea. I would love that.” you said, smiling as all of them started asking you what the other had to do to help you with the preparations.

-----

The preparations started a week before the festival. the boys were ready to do anything y/n told them, even if she didn’t feel the need for them to do the work they were putting in, it definitely made her feel at home, she always did with them. 

“are you sure about that? you don’t have to.” y/n asked the boys when they said they wanted to wear indian clothing.

“Yes, i’ve always wanted to try them and see what they would look like on me!” jeongin said.

“okay, if you insist. i’ll order a kurta for each of you then.” y/n said excitedly and got to work immediately.

“yayy, im so excited. Is there anything else you need us to do?” jeongin asked, walking up to where you were making a list on the stuff that needed to be done.

“not really actually. we just need some stuff but that all can be made and we don’t need it unless the night before anyways. so no work needs to be done.” y/n explained while ordering all of them a kurta each.

-----

It was the night before rakshabandhan and the boys were looking at y/n curiously as she pasted small papers with various sentences on each side of all the doors of the house. 

“y/n what do these sentences say?” han asked, voicing what everyone was thinking.

“There r multiple sentences, this one means, rakshabandhan’s festival gives rise to the love between a brother and his sister, the others are chants in hindi.” y/n explained as the boys nodded their head, understanding.

“That’s so beautiful.” seungmin said softly and y/n smiled.

“Yea, it is isnt it?” 

-----

“Come on boys, its time for the puja! And i want to see all of you in the kurtas I bought for you!” y/n called out from down the stairs. All of them came down, wearing the same kurtas but in different colours. She was wearing a red salwar kameez herself with beading around the border and a red dupatta to match.

“Dang, y’all look good! We need to take photos once we’re done with the puja.” y/n said and all the boys agreed. 

“Do you want any help setting up for the puja?” Lee know asked.

“Yes actually, if you can help set up the plate for the puja, that would be great!” y/n said and gave instructions on what to set where and what all to put in the plate itself.

“Ouu, the rakis look so cool!” Felix exclaimed once he saw the set of rakis y/n had brought out.

“I’m glad that you like them!” y/n  exclaimed excitedly. 

-----

After a few misunderstandings, a couple mis placements and some confusion, everyone was finally ready for the puja. y/n led them to the mandir she had set up in the house where she prayed occasionally and instructed the others to put the plates down and to sit in an oval. She led the chants and mantras.

The boys were mesmerised by the melody and tune of the mantras and aartis that y/n sang. Even though it wasn’t meant to be a performance per say, it definitely felt like it to them, the way y/n looked entranced in the notes, singing the words so beautifully. Even if they didn’t understand the language, they were captivated by the way y/n portrayed it.

Changbin and Hyunjin were holding bells in each hand, shaking it to the beat of the mantra.

“Come, its time to tie the rakhis.” y/n declared, turning around towards the boys and their eyes lit up.

“I’ll start with you Innie.” y/n said as she smiled sweetly, he came in the front and held his wrist out like a little kid, so excited to see which rakhi he would get. Everyone watched as y/n’s nimble fingers gave him a red tika along with the rice on his forehead, handed him a dry coconut and fed him some sweets and then tied two rakhis to his wrist. 

“Smile!” Han cheered as he clicked a picture of both of them. Everyone slowly came up and did the same.

“Thank you for this Felix. I didn’t know I needed this.” y/n said to felix once he came for his turn. The sunshine smiled sweetly and said that he would do anything for y/n if it meant that he could see her smile.

“Let’s all take a picture!” y/n exclaimed once everyone had their rakis on their wrist. All of them gathered chaotically around y/n and yelled at the camera, while showing off their wrists and the red thread that decorated them. 

“Now, one last thing to do. The papers we stuck yesterday, we need to paste these strings called norte around them like a necklace.” y/n explained and all of them got to work. Within minutes, every door had norte around the papers.

“Now, we have something for you.” Seungmin announced. y/n looked at him, confused.

“What do you mean?” SHe asked as she saw everyone hiding something behind their backs.

“You know, you never told us that the sisters get gifts from the brothers on rakshabandhan as well?” jeongin said.

“Well, it slipped my mind?” y/n tried to salvage herself.

Love was always there. It was in the ramen he cooked for you at three in the morning, apologizing for burning the eggs because he was too busy singing along to the radio. It was in the hoodie he draped over your shoulders when you were shivering, pretending not to notice that he’d be freezing on the walk home without it. It was in the way he listened when you ranted about your day, nodding solemnly before cracking a joke that made your anger collapse into reluctant laughter.

It was messy. Chaotic. Loud and tender all at once.

And somewhere along the way, you started believing in forever.

You didn’t know that night by the river would change everything.

The two of you had driven out in his beat-up car, the one that rattled every time he changed gears, the one that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and takeout containers. He claimed he wanted to show you the stars, even though the city lights drowned most of them out.

You lay side by side on the hood, your head tilted back, your hands brushing but not quite holding. The late-summer air was warm, the cicadas buzzing faintly in the distance. He was jittery in a way that was unlike him not playful, not restless, but anxious.

You noticed first in the rhythm of his breathing. Too shallow. Too fast.

“Are you okay?” you asked, turning your head to look at him.

He flinched at your voice, then gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Totally.”

You frowned. “Liar.”

He let out a shaky laugh, and for a moment, you thought that was the end of it. But then he shifted, sitting up abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. His leg bounced restlessly, his fingers twitching like they didn’t know where to rest.

“Jisung,” you said softly, reaching out to still his knee. “Talk to me.”

He inhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath for hours. And then he pulled something from his pocket small, velvet, trembling in his hands.

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t… I don’t have a big speech prepared,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I was gonna, I swear, but every time I tried, I just… it felt wrong. Too polished. Too—too not me.”

You blinked at him, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“So, uh…” His voice cracked, his hands shaking so hard you thought he might drop the box entirely. “Here goes nothing.”

He flipped it open. A ring glinted under the dim glow of the streetlamp, simple and imperfect, just like him.

“Y/N,” he said, eyes wet, voice trembling. “I don’t know how to do life without you anymore. And I don’t want to. So… will you marry me?”

The world tilted.

You didn’t wait. You didn’t hesitate. You were already nodding, already laughing through the sudden sting of tears. “Yes,” you choked out. “Of course yes.”

The box fell somewhere between you as he fumbled to hold you, both of you half-laughing, half-crying. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“You—you didn’t even let me put it on you,” he teased, voice breaking.

So you held out your hand, fingers trembling. And with all the clumsy care in the world, he slid the ring onto your finger. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. It was you. It was everything.

And in that moment, under the stars neither of you could really see, you believed that forever was yours.

The weeks after the proposal were a blur of joy.

Your friends screamed when you told them, some of them crying harder than you did. Your family embraced him like he’d always been theirs. Everywhere you went, people seemed to glow with your happiness, as though it radiated out of you, impossible to ignore.

You and Jisung spent late nights sprawled across the couch, talking about the wedding. He wanted it small, intimate, with just the people who mattered. You wanted flowers, not roses, too cliché, but maybe lilies, maybe daisies. You argued over playlists, over food, over the color of tablecloths, but it was always with laughter in your voices.

Sometimes, you caught him staring at you. Just staring, like he couldn’t believe you were real. When you asked him what he was looking at, he only shook his head, grinning that boyish grin that had hooked you from the start.

“Forever,” he would whisper, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

And you would smile, because you believed it too.

You still remember the night you wrote your vows.

You sat at the tiny kitchen table, a cup of tea going cold beside you, pen hovering over paper. The words felt too big, too heavy, but too necessary to leave unsaid.

You wrote about the little things, the way he sang in the shower, the way he held you when nightmares woke you, the way he believed in you when you didn’t. You wrote about the hard days too, because there had been plenty, and because you wanted him to know you weren’t promising perfection. You were promising choice. To choose him, over and over, even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard.

By the time you finished, your tears had smudged the ink, but you didn’t care. It was messy, like your love. And it was real.

When you slipped the notebook shut, pressing it to your chest, you felt light. Whole. Ready.

You thought he was too.

-

The morning of your wedding smells like lilies.

They fill the small room where you sit, tucked carefully into vases, their white petals bright against the pale sunlight streaming through the window. Your dress hangs from the door, a soft whisper of satin and lace, glowing faintly in the early light.

It doesn’t feel real yet.

Your best friend had texted you at dawn: Today is the day, Y/N. Today you get your forever.

And you’d smiled, your heart skipping at the thought. Forever. Jisung had promised it with trembling hands and teary eyes, and you had never doubted him. Not once.

You sip tea, your hands only slightly shaky. Nervousness bubbles in your chest, but it’s sweet, not sharp. Everyone says brides are supposed to be anxious on their wedding day, but you feel… ready.

Ready to walk toward him. Ready to hear his vows. Ready to build the life you’ve already been living, but with a ring and a promise and the certainty that nothing could undo it.

The hours blur into makeup brushes, laughter, clicking heels. Your dress slides over your skin like a sigh, heavy but perfect, every stitch a reminder of what today means.

When you catch your reflection in the mirror, your breath catches.

You look like someone who is about to be loved for the rest of her life.

Your mother squeezes your shoulders. Your friends squeal, snapping photos, telling you you’re glowing. And maybe you are.

Because you can already see it: Jisung waiting at the altar, nervous smile tugging at his lips, eyes shining the way they did that night by the river.

You hold onto that image as you step into the car, as the venue comes into view, as guests begin to gather in the small hall decorated with fairy lights and flowers.

You can already hear the music in your head.

You can already feel his hand in yours.

The ceremony is supposed to start at four.

At three forty-five, you stand in the small room behind the hall, your bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your best friend peeks through the door, checking if he’s there yet.

“Not yet,” she says, but her smile is easy, reassuring. “Don’t worry. You know Jisung. Probably freaking out about his tie.”

You laugh, even though your throat feels tight. “Yeah. Probably.”

At four o’clock, the music starts. Guests shift in their seats. You breathe in, steadying yourself.

At four ten, the music falters, then fades. Someone whispers something to the officiant.

Your stomach twists.

At four thirty, your best friend comes back into the room, her smile too wide, too brittle. “He’s just… running late. Traffic, maybe. Don’t panic.”

But your bouquet is heavier now, your hands clammy.

At five, the guests are murmuring. The lilies smell too strong, cloying.

Your mother’s voice is soft, careful. “Maybe he’s—maybe something happened.”

Something happened.

Your heart knows it before your brain does. A hollow kind of knowing, the kind that sits heavy in your bones.

At six, the officiant clears his throat, apologetic. “Perhaps we should… reschedule.”

Reschedule. As if forever can be penciled in on another day.

You tear the veil from your head, your chest burning, your breaths too sharp. The dress feels like a cage, the room too small. You push past the whispers, past the pity in their eyes, past the heavy silence that follows you like a ghost.

By the time you reach the parking lot, your bouquet is on the ground, petals scattered.

By the time your best friend’s car door slams shut, you are shaking so hard you think you might break apart entirely.

You don’t cry. Not yet. The shock is too thick, like frost coating your insides. You stare out the window as the city blurs by, streetlights smearing into gold and white.

Jisung isn’t there.

Jisung isn’t coming.

Forever was supposed to start today.

Instead, it ends before it even begins.

The tears come in the middle of the night.

You wake up in the guest room at your best friend’s apartment, the unfamiliar ceiling swimming above you. For one blissful second, you forget. You reach out, searching for him in the dark for his warmth, his hand, the comfort of his breath beside you.

But your hand meets only cold sheets.

And then it crashes back. The dress. The flowers. The empty altar.

You choke on the sob before you can stop it. And then another. And another. Until you are curled on your side, fists clenched in the sheets, your chest aching with every broken sound that rips free.

No call. No message. Not even a goodbye.

You cry until your throat is raw, until your body is too heavy to move, until the darkness feels endless.

And when the sun rises, pale and merciless, the dress is still hanging in the corner. White. Untouched. Mocking.

You don’t throw it away.

You don’t even try.

Because it’s the only proof that it was real once, that Jisung loved you enough to promise forever, even if he couldn’t give it to you.

It becomes a monument. A scar. A reminder you can’t tear down, no matter how much it hurts.

The calls start the next day.

Friends. Family. People who don’t know what to say but say it anyway: He must have had a reason. You’ll be okay. Maybe he’ll come back.

You don’t answer most of them. You don’t want comfort, not from anyone who wasn’t standing at the altar, not from anyone who didn’t see how empty it was.

You stare at your phone until your eyes ache, waiting for his name to appear. For an explanation. For something.

But nothing comes.

Not that day. Not the next. Not ever.

And somewhere between the silence and the sleepless nights, you realize:

He’s gone.

And he took forever with him.

-

Grief doesn’t arrive all at once.

It comes in fragments. Small, jagged pieces that cut you when you least expect it.

The first week after the wedding, you barely leave your best friend’s couch. The world outside moves on, people commuting to work, children laughing on their way to school, the seasons shifting like they always do. But inside you, time has stopped.

Your body feels foreign, heavy. Food has no taste. The television flickers with colors you don’t register. When people speak, their words are muffled, like you’re listening from underwater.

Every morning you wake with the same thought: Maybe it was a dream. Maybe you’ll check your phone and see a message from Jisung, something silly and sweet like he used to send. On my way, love you more than ramen.

But your phone stays dark.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Your apartment is worse.

You avoid it for as long as you can, but eventually you have to go back. The moment you open the door, it hits you, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, the shoes he left by the entrance, the sweater draped over the back of the chair.

It’s like he just stepped out for groceries.

Like he’ll be back any second, calling your name, complaining about the traffic, pulling you into his arms like nothing happened.

But the rooms stay empty.

The sweater stays where it is.

And you can’t bring yourself to move it.

Your apartment becomes a museum of him. Every corner carries his fingerprints: the chipped mug he insisted was his “lucky” one, the playlist he left queued on your laptop, the crumpled notes he used to stick on the fridge. Buy milk. Don’t forget your umbrella. P.S. I love you.

You touch them like they’re relics, fragile and sacred.

And when the weight is too much, you lock yourself in the bathroom, pressing your forehead against the cool tile, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest.

Friends try to help.

They invite you out for drinks, for dinners, for movie nights. They tell you jokes, send you memes, try to pull you back into the world.

Sometimes you go. You sit among them, nodding when they speak, forcing laughter when the silence becomes too heavy.

But it feels like you’re behind glass. Watching life happen without you.

Your family checks in too. Your mother brings food you can’t eat, your father lingers in the doorway like he wants to fix something but doesn’t know how.

You tell them you’re fine. You always say you’re fine.

But the truth is, you’re unraveling.

Months pass. The flowers from the wedding have long since wilted, but the dress still hangs in the closet, untouched. You’ve thought about throwing it away, but every time you open the door, your hands freeze.

You tell yourself it’s not because you’re waiting. It’s not because you still believe he’ll come back.

It’s because it’s the only proof that it was real.

That once, someone promised you forever.

Even if forever turned out to be a lie.

You drift.

Wake up. Work. Come home. Sleep. Repeat.

Some days you don’t even make it out of bed.

But then slowly, almost imperceptibly, something shifts.

It starts small. A morning when you open the curtains instead of keeping them drawn. An afternoon when you walk down to the market and buy fresh bread. An evening when you pick up a paintbrush and smear color across a blank canvas, not because you want to, but because the silence is unbearable.

You catch yourself breathing without thinking. Smiling at strangers. Humming along to a song on the radio.

And it feels like betrayal.

Like healing means erasing him.

But deep down, you know it isn’t erasure. It’s survival.

The idea of the café comes late one night.

You’re sitting at your kitchen table, staring at the chipped mug that was once his favorite. The apartment feels too empty, too heavy. You think about how you can’t stand the silence anymore, how you need something that feels alive, something that doesn’t just remind you of what you’ve lost.

You think about the little coffee shop the two of you used to visit after long days, how he always ordered the sweetest drink on the menu, how he’d make fun of your “boring” black coffee. How the barista knew your names, your orders, your story.

And suddenly you want that again.

Not the coffee, not the routine, but the belonging. The warmth.

So you start planning.

At first it’s only scribbles in a notebook, numbers that don’t quite add up, sketches of cozy corners and wooden shelves. But then it becomes meetings with landlords, endless paperwork, sleepless nights spent painting walls and choosing furniture.

Your hands ache, your back protests, but for the first time in months, your heart feels… something. Not joy, not yet, but momentum.

And when the little sign finally goes up, Open, you almost cry.

Because it feels like you’ve stitched together a piece of yourself again.

The café becomes your sanctuary.

The smell of coffee beans roasting in the morning. The hiss of milk steaming. The quiet murmur of customers settling into chairs, typing on laptops, laughing softly over shared pastries.

You learn the names of your regulars. The student who always orders iced americanos, even in winter. The elderly couple who split a muffin every Sunday. The young mother who comes in with her toddler, who loves the chocolate chip cookies.

You build a rhythm, a life.

And in that rhythm, you begin to breathe again.

But scars don’t fade easily.

Some nights, when the café is quiet and the city outside hums with neon light, you sit alone at one of the tables and let your mind wander. You think about the life you almost had. The vows you never spoke. The forever that slipped through your fingers like sand.

Sometimes you cry. Sometimes you don’t.

But always, always, the ache is there.

Like scar tissue healed, but tender.

And though you’ve built something whole again, some part of you knows:

You will always carry him with you.

Even if you never see him again.

-

Three years is a long time.

Long enough for seasons to cycle through over and over again, spring blossoms unfurling, summers blazing hot, autumn leaves falling, winters sharp with frost. Long enough for the whispers of pity surrounding your name to fade into background noise. Long enough for you to build something new, something that looks suspiciously like a life.

Your mornings begin the same way.

You arrive to the café before sunrise, when the city is still yawning awake, and unlock the door with a quiet creak. The air inside is cool, faintly smelling of yesterday’s coffee. You turn on the lights, flick the switch for the grinder, start a fresh pot brewing. The sound is comforting now, the low hum, the hiss, the steady drip.

Customers trickle in one by one.

Some days you laugh with your customers, hum to yourself as you wipe down the counters, feel a flicker of something close to happiness.

Other days, the weight presses back down.

It sneaks in through small cracks, a song on the radio you hadn’t heard in years, the sight of a couple sharing an umbrella outside your window, the faint reminder of laughter that doesn’t exist anymore.

There are nights you close the café early and sit alone at one of the tables, staring at the empty chairs across from you. You imagine him there sometimes, grinning over a caramel latte, teasing you about your taste in coffee.

And then you shake the thought away, angry at yourself for still letting him live in the corners of your mind.

You tell yourself you’ve moved on. You tell yourself the scars don’t ache anymore.

Most days, it’s even true.

But scars are funny like that. They fade, but they don’t disappear. Sometimes, in the right light, they shine brighter than ever.

Sometimes customers ask if you’re married. It always happens casually, in passing.

“Oh, do you and your husband run this place together?”

“Your boyfriend must love that you bring home pastries every night.”

You smile politely, laugh it off, change the subject. You’ve gotten good at dodging questions, at letting people assume whatever they want.

Because the truth is messy. The truth is complicated. The truth is a story no stranger deserves to carry.

So you tuck it away, along with the dress, along with the vows you never got to speak.

You serve another coffee. You wipe another counter. You breathe.

And most days, that’s enough.

But peace is fragile.

It holds, like glass, shimmering in the light. But one day, a rainy afternoon when the sky is heavy and the café is quiet, it will shatter.

The door will chime.

And the boy who once promised you forever will walk back into your life.

Rain is steady today.

It streaks down the café windows in silver lines, blurring the street outside into a watercolor of umbrellas and headlights. The air smells damp, earthy, like the world has slowed just a little.

Inside, the café is nearly empty. A couple huddles at a corner table, whispering over their drinks. A student types furiously on his laptop, earbuds in, mouthing silent words as he works.

You stand behind the counter, wiping down mugs, humming faintly under your breath. It’s one of those rare afternoons that feels soft, easy. You tell yourself you’ll close early if the rain keeps up.

The quiet is soothing. Safe.

And then the door chimes.

You look up, expecting another regular, maybe someone ducking in for shelter.

Instead, your heart stops.

He’s standing there.

Dripping wet, hood pulled low, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor. His chest rises and falls too quickly, as if he’s been running. His eyes find yours immediately, like he knew you’d be here like he’s been searching.

For a moment, you can’t breathe.

Your body doesn’t move. Your hands grip the counter so tightly your knuckles ache. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the soft café music, the patter of rain.

It’s been three years, but time hasn’t dulled the recognition.

Han Jisung.

Alive. Breathing. Looking right at you.

“Y/N.”

His voice is hoarse, ragged. It scrapes against the quiet like something broken.

The student at the back doesn’t notice. The couple barely looks up. But for you, the world has narrowed to this him, here, after years of silence.

Your mouth is dry. Words lodge in your throat, thick and useless.

So he speaks again.

“I know I’m the last person you want to see.” His voice shakes. His hands are fists at his sides. “But I need you to hear me.”

You want to scream.

You want to throw the rag in your hand at him, to demand where he was, how he could disappear, how he could leave you standing at an altar with forever burning in your chest.

You want to cry. To beg for answers. To demand why.

But you can’t do any of it.

Instead, you stand frozen, staring at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

He swallows, his throat bobbing. His eyes are wet whether from the rain or something else, you don’t know.

“I messed up,” he says, voice breaking. “I messed up so bad. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to understand.”

The words scrape against you like glass.

Understand? How could you ever?

He steps closer, hesitates when you flinch. His shoulders slump.

“The night before the wedding,” he begins, and already you feel your stomach twist. “I couldn’t breathe. My chest—my head—everything felt like it was caving in. I kept thinking I was going to ruin you. That I was going to hold you back, drag you down with me.”

His hands tremble as he speaks. “I was having panic attacks every night. I barely ate. I couldn’t sleep. And that night, I—”

He stops. His lips press together, his jaw trembling. But you understand anyway. The meaning hangs heavy in the silence.

Your breath catches, sharp.

He almost didn’t survive that night.

And suddenly, the empty altar, the silence, the abandonment it all shifts, takes on a shape you hadn’t considered. Not cruelty. Not rejection.

Desperation. Darkness.

But that doesn’t erase the ache in your chest.

It doesn’t undo the years of silence.

It doesn’t unbreak you.

“I thought I was saving you,” he whispers, voice small. “If I left, you’d be free. You’d get the life you deserved without me weighing you down. I thought—” He cuts off with a bitter laugh. “I thought it was love. To disappear. To let you go.”

Your hands tremble. Anger and grief collide in your chest, choking you.

“Love?” Your voice finally breaks free, harsh and sharp. The couple in the corner glances over, startled. You lower your voice, but the fury doesn’t dim. “Love isn’t leaving me at the altar. Love isn’t silence for three years. Love isn’t letting me believe I wasn’t enough.”

His face crumples. “You were always enough. You were—” He grips the counter like he needs it to stay upright. “It was me. It was never you.”

Your eyes sting, but you refuse to let the tears fall.

Because what do you do with this? With the boy who promised you forever, who shattered you, who now stands here with apologies dripping from his lips like rainwater?

Part of you wants to reach across the counter and touch him, to believe him, to hold him the way you used to.

Part of you wants to push him back out into the storm, slam the door, lock it, never see him again.

Both parts ache. Both parts feel impossible.

So you do nothing.

You just stare, your silence louder than any scream.

And Jisung, the boy who once held your forever in his hands stares back, tears sliding down his rain-soaked cheeks, waiting for a forgiveness that may never come.

-

You don’t see him for a few days.

After the storm of his return, you half expect him to linger at the door every morning, dripping apologies across the café floor, begging for another chance. But he doesn’t. The café is quiet again, the routine steady. Customers come and go. The rain clears.

And for a moment, you almost convince yourself it was a hallucination. That your mind, cruel and restless, conjured him from thin air to test you.

But then you find the first note.

It’s written on one of your café napkins, folded neatly, tucked beneath the sugar jar at the corner table.

The handwriting is his. You recognize it instantly, the loop of his Y’s, the way he presses too hard with the pen, leaving faint indents on the paper.

You stare at it for a long time before unfolding.

“You looked beautiful in white.
I’m sorry I never got to tell you that.”

Your breath stutters. Your chest aches.

For a second, you consider crumpling it up, tossing it in the trash, pretending you never saw it. But your hands refuse. Instead, you fold it back up, slip it into your apron pocket, and try to forget.

You fail.

The second note comes two days later.

This time, it’s slipped under a saucer when you clear a table.

“The song we danced to?
I still can’t listen to it without crying.”

The words burn. That song, the one you practiced your first dance to in the cramped living room of your old apartment, laughing as you stepped on each other’s toes, swearing you’d get it perfect by the wedding.

You hadn’t heard it since. You’d avoided it at all costs.

And now, with just a few scrawled words, he drags it back into your chest, alive again, pulsing with memory.

You clench the note in your fist until the paper creases, until your nails leave marks in your palm.

Still, you don’t throw it away.

The third note is left on the counter itself, weighted down with a coin.

“I never stopped loving you.
I just stopped believing I deserved to.”

Your vision blurs.

Customers chatter around you, the milk steamer hisses, the register dings. But all you hear are those words, echoing, relentless.

You tuck the napkin away with the others. You don’t know why you’re keeping them. Maybe as evidence. Maybe as punishment.

Maybe because, deep down, part of you still wants proof that you weren’t just a chapter he closed and forgot.

And then comes the envelope.

It’s slipped under the café door one night. You find it the next morning when you arrive to open. Plain white, your name written in his messy scrawl.

Your hands shake as you pick it up. You sit at a table before unlocking the rest of the café, heart hammering, breath shallow.

Inside are folded sheets of paper, yellowed at the edges.

His vows.

The ones you never got to hear.

You force yourself to read them. Slowly. Carefully.

Every word cuts.

He had written of forever. Of faith in your love. Of building a life together that no storm could undo. He had promised to hold you when you fell, to laugh with you when you soared, to never let you doubt you were his home.

He had meant it, you realize. Every word.

And still, he hadn’t been able to stand beside you that day.

The contradiction carves into you, sharp and cruel.

By the end, your tears blot the ink, bleeding the words into shadows.

You fold the vows back up, press them into the envelope, and clutch it to your chest.

Not because you forgive him. Not because you want him back.

But because they’re proof, just like the dress that once, for a fleeting, fragile moment, forever was real.

Even if it didn’t last.

That night, alone in your apartment, you whisper into the silence:

“You promised me forever, Jisung. And now I’m left wondering what forever ever really meant to you.”

The words hang heavy in the air, unanswered.

But in your pocket, the notes remain.

And deep inside, something begins to stir — anger, grief, longing, love. A storm you thought you’d buried.

-

You don’t plan to see him.

For weeks, you’ve ignored the notes. You’ve tucked them into drawers, slid them between books, shoved them deep into the bottom of your bag. But no matter how far you hide them, they live in you. His handwriting, his words, his unfinished forever.

And then the vows.

Those you couldn’t tuck away. Those stayed on your nightstand, like a weight pressing against your ribs every time you glanced over. You’ve read them more times than you want to admit. Sometimes to punish yourself. Sometimes because you wanted to believe that, even if he left, he once meant it.

Tonight, you decide you can’t carry it anymore.

So you call him.

The number is the same. You hate that you know it by heart.

He answers on the first ring. His breath catches like he wasn’t expecting you, like he’d stopped hoping.

And all you say is: “Meet me.”

The park is quiet at night. The lamps throw pale circles onto the path, and the air carries the faint smell of rain, damp earth, wet leaves. You sit on a bench, hands folded in your lap, the envelope with your vows clutched between them.

It feels strange, almost cruel, to meet here. This was your place, once. Nights of laughter, cheap takeout eaten cross-legged on the grass, Jisung with his guitar in his lap strumming softly under the stars. It had been a place of beginnings.

Now it feels like an ending.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. Hesitant. Slow.

“Y/N,” he breathes when he finally steps into the light. His face is pale, his eyes swollen, like he hasn’t slept. He looks thinner than you remember, but his presence still knocks the air from your lungs.

You don’t answer. You just pat the bench beside you.

He sits. Not too close. Not too far.

The silence stretches, thick, heavy.

Finally, you pull the envelope into your lap and slide out your vows. The paper shakes in your hands.

“I never got to say them,” you murmur, staring down at the words you once believed in with your whole heart. “And maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. But I need you to hear them.”

He swallows hard, nods. “Okay.”

So you read.

Your voice trembles, but you push through each line. Promises of laughter, of loyalty, of choosing him in every messy, imperfect moment. Words you had written with trembling hands, imagining a future built on love and faith.

By the time you finish, your cheeks are wet. You hadn’t realized you’d started crying.

Jisung is crying too. Silent, wrecked. His shoulders shake, his hands digging into his knees like he’s trying to hold himself together.

When you lower the paper, his breath shudders out.

“I don’t deserve those words,” he whispers. His voice cracks. “I never did.”

You close your eyes. “Then why write yours? Why promise me forever if you couldn’t stay?”

His face crumples. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands. His words come out broken, raw.

“Because I loved you. Because I still love you. And that night, I almost—” He chokes. “I thought the kindest thing I could do was disappear. To let you have a life without my darkness swallowing it.”

The sound of his sobs cuts through you, jagged and sharp.

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t beg. He just breaks open, right there beside you, the boy who once swore he’d never let go.

“I don’t want another chance,” he finally says, voice hoarse, ruined. “I know I don’t deserve one. I just… I don’t want you to carry this alone anymore. Let me carry the weight, even if that means loving you from a distance. Please.”

The night is quiet around you. A breeze stirs the trees, scattering droplets from the leaves.

You stare at him. The boy who left you. The boy who’s still here.

Your chest aches, torn between every wound and every memory. Between love that never fully died and the scars it left behind.

Slowly, almost against your will, you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch before closing around yours, trembling, desperate, reverent.

“I don’t know if I believe in forever anymore,” you whisper.

His head bows. “I know.”

You take a shaky breath. “But we can start with coffee.”

He lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His hand squeezes yours like it’s the only tether he has left.

The night doesn’t heal you. It doesn’t erase the past.

But for the first time in years, it feels like maybe, just maybe, the future isn’t a closed door.

//

masterlist.

Bangchan

You weren’t even scrolling for long.

Just a few seconds on Instagram. A few innocent swipes.

Then the photos appeared.

The lake. The matching hoodies. The firepit. The sisters you never got close to. The cousins from out of state. All smiling. All together.

All without you.

At first you just stared. Confused. Cold. Then your fingers went numb. Then your ears started ringing. You checked your phone history - again. Messages left on read. Calls never returned. Nothing said about a trip. Not even a fake excuse.

Something in your chest twisted - a feeling you thought you’d buried already. But it surged back, ugly and hot. You weren’t included. Again. Not because they forgot. But because they chose not to.

You should’ve stayed silent. Let it eat you up like always. But this time, you didn’t.

You hit call.

She picked up. Too quick. Too light. Like everything was fine.

“Hey, what’s up?” she said, chipper.

“Did you go on a trip?” Your voice was paper-thin.

“What?”

“I saw the pictures.”

A pause.

“Oh. Yeah. We went to the lakehouse. Just got back a few days ago.”

“And didn’t tell me?”

“Well, we figured you wouldn’t want to come. You’ve been distant lately.”

You scoffed. “Distant? I texted you three times last week. You didn’t even open it.”

“You always say that, but it’s exhausting. We shouldn’t have to chase you just to keep the peace.”

“I’ve called, I’ve texted, I try. I have countless screenshots of me trying.  A whole fucking folder of evidence! And I still get nothing back-”

“You’re always so dramatic-”

“NO, I’m not!” Your voice cracked. Your throat burned. “I’m not dramatic. I’m hurt. I try and you still treat me like I’m invisible-”

“You always make things about your feelings. You want us to feel bad for you. You’re selfish.”

“You left me out of the family vacation!" You were shouting now. Your whole body trembling. “You flew people in from other states but didn’t even text me-”

“Because you’re mentally unstable. You’d have made it uncomfortable for everyone else. You’re lucky we even let you call at all.”

Your voice collapsed into a sob. “What did I do that was so wrong?”

“I don’t even know why you’re calling,” she snapped. “You just want attention. You act like the world owes you something.”

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please stop-”

“You make everything about you..”

Your breath started to pick up. Hot and ragged.

“You never call,” she added. “You never text.”

Something inside you snapped.

“I’m always the one who reaches out! Matter of fact I'm the ONLY one!” you screamed. “Do you think I don’t notice? That none of you ever text first? That I sit there, waiting, wondering if I’m worth even a fucking check-in?”

Your chest heaved. The phone shook in your hand.

“I remember birthdays. I ask about your day. I try so hard just to feel like I exist to you! And I get silence! Or attitude! Or guilt tripped because I didn’t come crawling fast enough!"

You didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice the sound of a bag dropping by the hallway.

“You know what?” she hissed. “You're just exhausting. Even when you do call, it's always about you. It's always some meltdown or some guilt trip. You can't just have a normal conversation without making it heavy.”

You blinked, the rage in your chest boiling over.

"Because when I do call, you keep it under two minutes! You say you're busy. You rush me off the phone like I’m some telemarketer you didn’t mean to answer. Or you say you’ll call me back - and you never do!"

You could hear yourself getting louder, spiraling.

"You never check in. You never just text me first to ask how I’m doing. And when I do reach out, I get some cold one-liner or silence or sarcasm. And then you act like I’m the one who let go?"

You choked on a sob. "You think I want to be like this? You think I like crying on the phone with my own mother like I'm a problem you never wanted? Have to fucking beg to be treated like your daughter?"

“Y/N.” A voice behind you. Warm. Firm. Urgent. “Give me the phone.”

You gasped in a sob and spun around. Chan was in the doorway, eyes wide, chest heaving like he’d run up the stairs. You must’ve been screaming.

Or maybe just breaking.

“Y/N,” he repeated, stepping closer, “Please. Give me the phone.”

You shook your head, still clutching it, your breathing sharp and ragged.

“She said- she said- ” You couldn’t even finish. Just repeated, “Am I selfish? Do I make everything about me? Am I exhausting?”

“Y/N.” He gently reached out. Didn’t grab. Didn’t rush. Just waited. “I need you to give me the phone.”

Your hands were trembling. Your heart was barely functioning.

“Please,” he said. Voice softer. “Let me help.”

You gave it to him.

He brought it to his ear, not yelling, not raising his voice -  but there was steel behind every word.

“Don’t call her again,” he said into the speaker. Calm. Clear. Cold. “Don’t text. Don’t message. Don’t even think about rekindling anything. You’ve said enough to her for a lifetime.”

And then he hung up.

The silence afterward was deafening.

You stood there, shaking. Sobbing.

And Chan stepped in. Just held you.

He didn’t say “it’s okay.” Because it wasn’t.

He didn’t say “don’t cry.” Because you needed to.

He just let you fall into his chest. Let your tears soak his shirt. Let your grief tear out of your lungs like it had claws.

His hand ran slowly down your back. His voice broke as he whispered,

“You didn’t deserve that. None of it. I’m so, so sorry.”

And when your legs gave out, he caught you. Lowered both of you to the floor. Rocked you back and forth like you were the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted with.

Something you wished you mother would have done, maybe even just once. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Minho

You didn’t want to go back. But you needed those documents - birth certificate, social security card, insurance papers - the things that proved you existed.

You’d texted your mom ahead of time, kept it polite. Just said you’d be by for a few minutes to grab the folder. You asked if she could leave a spare key under the mat or behind the planter like she used to. It was a safe neighborhood. Familiar. She said no.

"No one leaves keys out anymore. It’s not safe," she snapped over the phone. And that was that.

So when you showed up to the locked front door, you weren’t surprised - just tired.

You called her again.

"Where is it?" you asked.

A pause.

"Check the grill."

You blinked. "The grill?"

"I put them there this morning. They’re fine. Just grab them."

You hung up and walked around to the backyard. The dogs barked through the window when they saw you. You smiled and waved.

"Hi babies," you said softly, tapping the glass with two fingers. "Missed you too."

You popped the grill lid open - and sure enough, there were your documents. No folder. No bag. Just loose, government-issued papers shoved between the cold grates. Soot clung to the edges. Grease spots stained the corners. Your birth certificate had a smudge across your middle name.

You didn’t even flinch. Just pulled them out carefully and dusted them off the best you could on your jeans. Shrugged to yourself.

Figures.

You arrived at Minho's apartment just in time for your dinner plans - a little sweaty, a little late, and smudged with soot you hadn’t fully noticed yet. You rang the bell. A second later, the door swung open, and Minho stood there in slacks and a soft button-down, eyes scanning your face - and then immediately, your clothes.

He blinked. "Y/N...what happened to you?"

You gave him a tired smile, still holding up the wrinkled, smudged stack of papers like a prize. "Oh, I had to pick up some documents for my new job."

He frowned. "That doesn’t explain why you look like you crawled out of a chimney."

You laughed lightly. "They were in the grill."

Minho's eyebrows pulled together. "Why would she put them outside?"

"Well, no one was home," you said, brushing soot off your fingers as you put the documents on the counter, and washed your hands.

He tilted his head. "Couldn’t you just let yourself in?"

You hesitated - then said, almost like it was obvious, "I don’t have a house key."

Minho’s face fell.

You continued, still trying to sound casual. "She said leaving a key out wasn’t safe. But apparently, leaving sensitive documents in a grill is perfectly fine. So. Mission accomplished."

"Mission accomplished?"

"Mmhm," you said, dropping onto a chair at the dining room table. "Apparently it’s the new filing cabinet."

He blinked. "She put your identity in the grill, but wouldn’t leave you a key to the house? A key she could have put in the grill if she thought it was a safe enough space for your legal papers?"

"Yup."

There was a long silence. Then:

"I’m gonna say something mean and then immediately follow it with love."

You smiled. "Okay."

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're mom is a bitch. Probably why her first marriage failed. Your're the only thing that is good that came from that wench. I love you."

You couldn't help but laugh. "Oh Minho..."

He turned back to you while plating the food. "0801."

You glanced up. "Hm?"

"That’s the code to the door," he said casually. "Should’ve given it to you earlier..."

He hesitated, then added, "I'm also getting a backup key made. You know, in case I’m not here or the code pad fails or something."

You frowned. "Minho, the code is enough. Even that was something you didn't have to do...you're always home when I'm over."

He gave you a half-smile - soft but unflinching. "Then come over when I'm not. Make it as much of your home as mine." He softened. "You deserve permanent. You deserve in. For someone to have their family...I...I'm sorry Y/N. So just...just let me be home now. Please?"

You didn’t speak right away. Just looked at him like he’d rewritten the meaning of something small and sacred.

"You deserve to never be locked out of somewhere you belong again."

You laughed softly - more disbelief than humor - then looked down.

Then quietly, you said, "You know what hurts the most? Even my aunt - who doesn’t live within a hundred miles - has a key to that house. My mom’s church friend. My brother who chose to leave, who didn’t even want to be around, has one."

You swallowed. The lump in your throat ached.

"I can’t even be there for three hours without her asking if I have anything else to do. Or suddenly remembering an errand. Or needing to 'rest' before dinner. It’s always some excuse to get me to leave without having to say it out loud."

Minho stayed quiet, but his arm curled tighter around you.

"And then she hid my birth certificate in a grill. But no key. No trust. Not even for ten minutes."

He didn’t rush you. Didn’t try to talk over the moment. He just  walked over rested his forehead against your temple and said, "You never have to prove you belong here. You don’t have to earn it. You’re not a guest, Y/N. You’re mine. I'm yours."

And thats all you needed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Changbin

It started off light - a quiet moment between the two of you on the couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the TV playing something neither of you were really watching.

You were talking about things that stick. Words people say to you that never leave.

Changbin had shared something first - a coach in middle school who said he was too short to ever be taken seriously. He laughed about it now, but you could still hear the pinch in his voice. The way it stung. The way it stayed.

"It’s funny how you remember the exact tone, too," he said, his thumb tracing idle shapes over your knee. "Like, I can’t even remember what I had for lunch last Tuesday. But that guy’s voice? The way he laughed when he said it? Burned into my brain."

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. It doesn’t even matter if they forget. You don’t."

He looked at you. "What about you? Something someone said that’s still stuck?"

You didn’t answer right away. You felt your throat start to close.

"You don’t have to tell me," he said gently, his hand giving yours a slight squeeze.

You swallowed. Then spoke.

"I was seven. We had just gotten into an argument - I don’t even remember what it was about. Something small. Something dumb. And my mom… she looked me dead in the eye and said she wished I had been a stillborn instead of my baby brother."

Changbin didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

You laughed once. Hollow. "Isn’t that crazy? Seven years old. I don’t even think I understood what the word meant at first. But I figured it out. Real quick."

The air changed.

His voice was low, rough. "She said that after an argument?"

You nodded. "Like she had that locked and loaded. Like it was waiting. Like she’d been holding it in until the right moment to make it land."

You turned your head to stare at the ceiling. Anything to avoid the pity in his eyes. "And I still don’t get it. What could a kid do - a seven-year-old - that would make a mother wish they hadn’t lived?"

"Nothing," he said immediately. No hesitation. No pause.

"Changbin-"

"No. Nothing. You could’ve cried too much, talked too loud, slammed a door or forgotten to say thank you — I don’t care. You were seven. There is nothing you could’ve done to deserve that."

You blinked fast. Vision blurry.

He shifted so he was facing you fully, hand resting gently over yours beneath the blanket.

"That’s not a wound, Y/N. That’s a scar she put there. That’s not something you carry because you earned it - it’s something you carry because she couldn’t love you the way she was supposed to."

Your lip trembled.

He took a slow breath. "You were a child. Children are supposed to be messy and loud and growing. You were becoming. And she... she wanted you gone. That’s not something a real mother says. That’s something someone says when they don't want to be held accountable for their own hate."

He looked right at you.

"I wish I could go back," he whispered. "I wish I could hold that seven-year-old. Tell her she didn’t do anything wrong. That she was good. And smart. And lovable."

He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"And I wish I could tell her she’d grow up into someone I care about more than she’ll ever know. That she’d meet people who would never, ever let her feel like she had to earn the right to be alive."

You let yourself fall forward. Into his arms. Into the kind of safety no one had ever made room for before.

He wrapped his arms around you tight - not in a way that crushed you, but in a way that said I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.

And when his hand curled gently around the back of your head and he whispered, "You deserved better - you still do," something inside you finally, quietly, exhaled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hyunjin

The studio was quiet except for the soft hum of Hyunjin’s playlist, some instrumental track with strings and breathy vocals drifting through the air. You were curled up on the couch against the wall, legs tucked beneath you, watching him paint.

He stood at the easel with his hair tied back, brush dancing across the canvas like it knew exactly where it was supposed to go. He didn’t look at you, not because he wasn’t paying attention - but because he always waited for you to come to him in your own time.

Your voice broke the silence first. Something that had been on your mind for a while. Your brain did that sometimes, just made you remember.

"Have you ever said something out loud that made you feel disgusting for even thinking it?"

Hyunjin turned his head slowly, brush hovering mid-air. "Yeah," he said quietly. "More than once."

You hesitated. Then, staring at your own hands, you whispered, "I told my mom once that I didn’t want to be alive anymore. That I was thinking about ending it."

He froze.

You swallowed hard. "She didn’t even blink. Just said, ‘Don’t make it messy.’ Like I was a problem she didn’t want to have to clean up."

The brush in his hand dropped to the palette with a faint click. Still, he said nothing.

You laughed weakly, eyes burning. "I don’t know what’s worse. That she said it. Or that part of me expected it. Like some part of me knew there wouldn’t be concern. Just…inconvenience."

Hyunjin stood silently for a moment, then picked up a blank canvas from the corner of the studio and brought it over to you. He set it gently in your lap - a fresh white square waiting for color, for chaos.

Then he crouched in front of you, looking up so your eyes had nowhere else to land but his.

"Make it messy," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

"The canvas," he repeated. "Mess it up. Smear it. Rip it if you want. Paint with your fingers, your fists — I don’t care. Let it out. Whatever's in you. Make it ugly. Make it honest. Make it real."

You stared down at the untouched white space. It looked too clean for the way you felt inside.

"She told me not to make it messy," you said quietly. "Like I was something she’d have to wipe off the floor."

Hyunjin’s voice didn’t rise, but it deepened - solid, warm. "Then we take that back. Right now. We reclaim it. Because messy doesn’t mean bad. Messy means alive. It means feeling. It means truth."

He tapped the edge of the canvas again. "This? This isn’t about her. This is about you. And I want your messy. I want your chaos. I want you, exactly as you are."

His smile then - soft, steady - landed on you like sunlight.

It wasn’t pity.

It was permission. With arms around you saying, ‘I’m so sorry you’re feeling this - we’ll get through it.’"

Your lip trembled.

"That sentence - what she said - it doesn’t get to stay in your head without context," he continued. "Because here’s the truth: you were crying out for help. You were offering your life to someone who should’ve cherished it, and she stepped on it. That’s not your shame to carry. That’s hers."

You looked down. But he reached up gently, fingertips brushing your chin until you met his gaze again.

"You have never been disposable, Y/N. Not to me. Not to the people who see you. And I swear - I swear - if I had been there that day, I would’ve sat on the floor with you and held your hand and told you how important you are until you believed it."

He didn’t ask for permission. Just leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you, tight and certain, like anchoring a ghost back into its body.

"You’re still here," he murmured against your hair. "And I am so, so glad you are."

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in a long time. It felt safe.

Like you were allowed to be here.

Like you were meant to be.

Even if the person you wished loved you most didn't believe so.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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Masterlist | you'll probably like: diamond

Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @dandelions-143 @sleepyleeji @jinnie-ret @sheraayasherrecs @rockstarkkami @urlocalmultigroupfan @aeinzzzketchup @queenofdumbfuckery @sarita-sunday @lezleeferguson-120

What just happened?

Your chest burned. Not with sadness but with fury. You were angry. No, scratch that, you were livid.

How dare he say those words—so easily, so suddenly—like he hadn’t spent weeks pushing you away. Like he hadn’t left you in that gray zone, hovering between hope and heartbreak, constantly questioning if you were the problem. You’d convinced yourself to move on. To detach. To protect your own heart. And now, after all of it, he wanted to say I love you? Just like that?

After everything. After making you feel like you were the fool for reading too much into the way his eyes lingered, the way he looked at you like you were everything—and then turned cold the moment you stepped a little too close, dismissed you like you were the problem, the one who “flirted too much.” You’d swallowed that hurt. You moved on. You forced yourself to. And now, suddenly, he loves you?

You let out a bitter laugh, pacing the room.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, with trembling hands, you grabbed your bag from the shelf where you’d left it earlier that morning. You needed to leave. Now.

*******************

Minho didn’t even realize how long he’d been standing there, his fingers tangled in his hair, his heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape his ribs. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and every moment since you’d walked away played on repeat in his head, like a broken record.

I lost her.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder with each passing second.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first. It wasn’t until Hyunjin’s voice cut through the thick silence that Minho finally snapped back to reality.

“Hyung?”

Minho didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his body hunched in on itself, trying to hold himself together when everything inside him was falling apart.

“Hyung, what’s going on?” Hyunjin asked again, softer this time, stepping closer. He bent down beside Minho, concern furrowing his brow.

Minho shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “I lost her, Hyunjin... I don’t know what to do.”

Hyunjin’s heart twisted at the sight of his hyung like this, a shell of the confident, playful Minho he’d always known. The way his hyung’s hands gripped his hair tighter as he let out a pained groan, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. It was raw—painful.

“You didn’t lose her yet,” Hyunjin said, his voice firm but gentle as he put a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “I know it feels like you did. But you can still fix this.”

Minho’s face twisted in anguish, his lips trembling as he let out a breathless laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “I don’t know if I can. I... I hurt her, Jinnie. I pushed her away when all I had to do was be honest. And now... now she’s gone. She walked away from me.”

Hyunjin stayed quiet for a moment, taking in Minho’s words. He could see it now—the weight of regret, the desperation in his eyes.

“I don’t think she’s gone,” Hyunjin said carefully. “You’re both stubborn, hyung. You’ve been dancing around each other for so long. You didn’t want to admit it, and neither did she. But I don’t think it’s over. Not yet.”

Minho looked up at Hyunjin then, his eyes searching, hoping, desperate for any kind of reassurance. “But what if it is? What if I ruined it beyond repair? What if she doesn’t want me anymore?”

Hyunjin paused for a moment, then spoke quietly, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, hyung. She’s scared, too. But you’re the one who has to be brave now. Not only for her— but for yourself too. Because if you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever. You know that.”

Minho let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. Hyunjin’s words hit harder than he expected. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a chance, but only if he had the courage to act.

Hyunjin stood up, offering his hand to Minho. “You’re going to fix this, hyung. But you have to start with telling her the truth. About everything. And you’ve got to be ready for whatever comes after. Don’t let her slip away without fighting for her.”

Minho’s hand trembled as he took Hyunjin’s, pulling himself up to his feet. His heart still ached, but the words hit something deep inside of him. Maybe it wasn’t too late.

*******************

You barely remembered how you got home. The keys slipped from your fingers twice before you finally managed to unlock the door. The moment you stepped inside, your knees gave out and you slid down against the wall, feeling the weight of everything crash over you.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Hyunjin kept calling again and again. You pressed your forehead against your knees, willing yourself not to break down, willing yourself not to hope. And when your phone buzzed for the tenth time, you simply reached over, turned it off, and tossed it into a corner.

You couldn't do this. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, your body moved on autopilot. You typed a message to your supervisor with trembling fingers, lying easily.

“I have a bad migraine. Won’t be able to work on fittings today. I’ll continue working on the designs remotely.”

A polite response came back almost immediately—“Take care. Focus on feeling better.”

You needed space—space from him, from the suffocating weight of everything. It was already the final month of your internship. Just a few more weeks, and you wouldn’t have to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over like a mantra as you buried yourself in sketches, swatches, sewing patterns. The living room became your sanctuary. You stayed hunched over your work for hours, sketching until your fingers cramped, trying to come up with excuses to tell your supervisor so that you do not have to step anywhere near their dressing rooms. Anywhere near him for the remaining internship period.

One step at a time—you just had to get through this.

The major stage collaboration was coming up, the biggest project of your internship, the one that could launch your career if you gave it your all.

Let the countdown begin.

*******************

48 Hours Before the Concert

You returned to work with your heart armored in ice. 

The company was in chaos. The stylists were rushing, the managers were running, the boys from both groups were rehearsing endlessly. No one had time to notice that you’d disappeared from their orbit—well except for Minho and Hyunjin.

You avoided their practice room like it was a battlefield. Instead, you locked yourself away in the design room, sketching out costumes, adjusting stitching details—anything to keep your hands busy, anything to keep your mind from wandering.

Minho tried to talk to you. At first, you heard his footsteps. You caught glimpses of him hovering by the door. Once, when you dared to glance up, you saw him standing just outside the window, his face tense, uncertain. But you dropped your head back down before he could gather the courage to step inside. You didn’t give him a chance.

Hyunjin also tried texting, looking for you after rehearsals, even poking his head into the design room but couldn’t find you since every time, you made yourself smaller, quieter, easier to miss.

You weren’t ready to face Minho. You weren’t sure if you ever would be. 

At some point, even Hyunjin gave up trying, swept away into the madness of final rehearsals, concept checks, and the insane pressure of the collaboration stage they were preparing.

You thought you were safe. You thought you could make it to the end.

24 Hours Before the Concert

Minho was unraveling. He didn’t even bother pretending anymore. He was searching for you like a man possessed. Between rehearsals, between fittings, between breaks—his eyes flicked around desperately, always hoping to catch a glimpse.

He sent messages—one after another.

Minho: "Can we please talk?" Minho: "Just for a minute. You don’t even have to say anything. Please." Minho: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Y/N."

You stared at the notifications, feeling your chest clench painfully.

You left them unanswered.

Because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know if you could survive hearing more empty words. Because some wounds weren’t meant to be picked open again.

That night, Minho sat in the darkened practice room, back against the mirror. The others had gone home. He stayed. The blue glow of his phone lit up his face, your unread messages staring back at him like ghosts.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

His thumb hovered over the send button for a long time before he finally pressed it.

Minho: "I miss you."

Short. Honest. Bare. You never replied.

12 Hours Before the Concert

The final rehearsal was a whirlwind of noise and energy.

Seventeen and Stray Kids crisscrossed the stage, voices overlapping, last-minute notes flying as everyone tried to perfect every second. Everyone was running around doing their assigned tasks– sound engineers hovered by the sides of the stage, tweaking mic volumes and running emergency checks, stage managers paced with clipboards, calling out timing cues and adjusting placements, stylists were doing last-minute fittings.

You stayed hidden behind the racks of costumes, keeping yourself busy threading last-minute repairs on stage outfits, sketching alterations for the collaboration stages. Minho saw you once—just a glimpse—and started towards you immediately.

You ducked behind a different aisle and disappeared before he could even call your name.

He slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair. His heart ached. He was trying. God, he was trying. But you wouldn’t even look at him. And he knew he deserved it.

That night, he sat alone again. Hyunjin found him there, in the same spot, legs pulled up, forehead resting on his arms.

"Hyung…" Hyunjin said softly.

Minho didn't look up.

"I don’t think she hates you," Hyunjin added after a while, voice low. "She’s hurt. But she doesn’t hate you."

"I hate myself enough for the both of us," Minho murmured.

*******************

Day of the Concert 

You were up before sunrise and rushed to the company, it was going to be a long day. You began helping the senior stylists prepare everything. You kept your head down, blending into the background.

Minho tried to find you again, between makeup, between fittings.

Once, you walked right past him. You felt his eyes—burning, aching—trailing you, but you didn’t turn around.

He watched your retreating figure with a helpless kind of yearning, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed dry.

He typed one last message.

Minho: "If you don’t want to forgive me... I understand. But I love you. I love you, Y/N."

He didn’t expect a reply. He just wanted you to know.

You read his message, but your fingers stayed frozen above the screen. You couldn't trust yourself to reply. Not yet.

Soon after, it was time to leave for the concert venue.

Everyone from your company piled into multiple vans, buzzing with pre-show nerves and excitement. Seventeen would meet you all there, coming straight from their own company.

You slipped into one of the vans early, picking a seat at the very back. You tucked your bag close, phone clutched tightly in your hands. Minho hurried behind you, heart hammering in his chest.

There was a small opening beside you. He didn't even think—he moved to sit there.

He was about to slide into the seat beside you but at the very last second, you shifted, scooting away from the aisle, pressing yourself impossibly closer to the window. Pretending like you needed more space.

Minho froze mid-motion.

He stood there, awkward, shattered, the empty space where you had been just a second ago feeling colder than anything he'd ever known.

His hand tightened around the back of the seat for a second, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. Without a word, he dropped into a seat several rows in front instead, boxed in between Jisung and Seungmin.

The van door slammed shut, the engine rumbled to life—but Minho barely noticed. He barely heard the others laughing, hyping each other up. He barely felt the road vibrating under the tires. All he could feel was you—silent, turned away from him, just a few feet out of reach.

When they finally pulled up behind the venue, staff started piling out. You were the first one to slip off the van, blending into the chaos of bodies and equipment and flashing lights.

Minho lingered for a second in the seat, swallowing thickly as he watched you disappear into the crowd.

He had the urge to call out your name. He almost did. But he bit it back, lowering his head, heart cracking silently in his chest.

*******************

The air backstage crackled with adrenaline—stylists rushing, cords tangling, outfits getting last-minute steamed.

You were helping your supervisor adjust Felix’s jacket, smoothing the sleeves, checking the fit one last time. Your hands worked automatically, your mind floating somewhere far away.

Across the crowded room, Minho kept staring at you longingly. For a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d let him. Maybe you’d glance at him. But when you shifted away, without even looking at him, it felt like a punch to the gut. Like watching a door slowly, painfully close in his face.

He sat down numbly at the makeup table, the bustling room fading into the background and all he could think was:

"I don’t blame you... but please, just once—look back at me."

Meanwhile, Hyunjin, sitting a few chairs away, was locked in the makeup artist’s grip, a brush sweeping across his cheekbones. But he still tried. He still tried to catch your eyes, frantic and desperate, needing you to see him. You lifted your head, sensing the weight of his stare and all you could offer him was a small, polite smile. Nothing more.

You could tell Hyunjin wanted to call out to you, to jump out of his chair, to explain everything he hadn’t been able to. But the makeup artist was sternly holding his chin still, murmuring warnings about smudging his foundation. He couldn’t move.

And so he watched you quietly, heartbreak pooling in his chest, as you finished adjusting Felix’s jacket...and turned away without another glance.

*******************

1 Hour Before the Concert

You had just grabbed a coffee from the catering area backstage, trying to escape the buzz of frantic preparations. The area was buzzing with energy, crew members darting from one spot to another, but you found a small moment of calm amidst it all. The food table was lined with snacks, coffee, and drinks, where you’d managed to find a brief respite. You were leaning against the counter, sipping your drink slowly, when the door to the room burst open with a loud bang.

Hyunjin stormed inside, his eyes wild and intense, looking like he had been running through the entire venue. His hair was slightly tousled, chest heaving with quick breaths as if he was on a mission.

Before you could even react, he reached for your wrist, gripping it firmly and pulling you out of the room.

“Come with me,” he commanded, urgency lacing his voice.

"Hyunjin—!" you gasped, stumbling after him. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"You’re done hiding!" he snapped, not even slowing down.

He pulled you into an empty band room backstage, and shoved the door shut behind you, trapping you inside. You barely caught your balance, turning to glare at him—but the look on Hyunjin’s face made your heart falter.

He looked furious. And desperate.

"You need to stop running, Y/N," he said, voice sharp, shaking slightly with emotion. "You think you’re protecting yourself? You’re just hurting both of you."

You crossed your arms, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from crying. "It’s not that simple, Hyunjin—"

"YES, it is!" he cut you off, voice cracking, "You’re mad. You’re hurt. I get it. But Minho hyung—"

His voice broke again and he punched the wall lightly with the side of his fist, breathing hard.

"He’s dying," Hyunjin said, lower now, almost broken. "He’s breaking in front of us. He can't sleep. He can't eat. Every time he sees you, it's like someone rips another piece out of him."

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting the tears threatening to spill.

"You think you’re the only one hurting?" Hyunjin asked, stepping closer, so close you could feel the sadness vibrating off him. "He’s been tearing himself apart for days, trying to find a way to fix this, and you won’t even LOOK at him."

You shook your head helplessly, voice cracking, "He’s the one who—"

"He knows," Hyunjin cut you off desperately, "He knows he fucked up. He hates himself for it. You think it’s easy for him to stand there and watch you pretend like he doesn’t exist?"

You stared at him, heart pounding, breath shaking.

Hyunjin whispered, “He loves you, Y/N.”

“No, he doesn’t.” you shot back. “He saw Mingyu and got territorial. That’s not the same thing as love.”

Hyunjin’s voice softened a little, but the intensity stayed, "Listen to me. Minho hyung…he’s dying inside. He’s been trying to talk to you for days. He's not playing games. He’s not saying those things because he's jealous of Mingyu or whatever else you think."

You bit your lip, hard. "Then why, Hyunjin? Why now? After everything?"

"Because he’s an idiot who thought he didn’t deserve you," Hyunjin said, voice raw. "He pushed you away because he was scared he’d ruin you. Because he thought you’d be better off without him."

Your heart stuttered painfully.

"And seeing you laugh with Mingyu made him realize exactly what he was about to lose," Hyunjin continued. "Not because of jealousy. Because he saw you happy and he wasn’t the one making you happy anymore."

The lump in your throat grew unbearable.

"He really loves you, Y/N," Hyunjin said simply. "He’s loved you this whole time. He just didn’t know how to believe he was worthy of it."

Your vision blurred.

Then, Hyunjin went on to explain everything — how Minho had been in love with you all along, how he had been miserable every time you avoided him backstage, how he stayed up at night overthinking every glance you refused to give him. How he regretted what he said at that freaking party every single day, hated himself for it, how the weight of it had been crushing him more and more every time you turned away.

Hearing it laid out like that shattered something inside you. It wasn’t just regret in Minho’s lingering stares. It was love — raw, desperate, aching love. And it had always been there, even when you were too hurt to see it.

You felt suffocated. 

"Don’t do this," Hyunjin whispered, almost pleading now, "don’t walk away without hearing him out. If you ever loved him…even a little, give him the chance to explain."

You felt your walls crumbling under the weight of it all. Without another word, you tore past Hyunjin, sprinting down the hall.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Not until you found him. You tore down the hall, nearly tripping over your own feet, chest heaving, heart racing so hard it hurt.

You didn’t know where you were going—you just knew you had to find him.

*******************

The greenroom was quiet—eerily so. Everyone else was getting hair and makeup in other room, doing last checks, hyping each other up. Minho sat there alone, away from everyone, for a moment. 

Meanwhile, you kept running— the backstage corridors blurred as you rushed past, heart hammering, breath coming in short gasps. Somewhere, you could hear the muffled sounds of last-minute chaos—stylists calling for touch-ups, managers barking out directions, the low hum of excitement—but it all felt far away, like you were underwater.

Finally, after checking room after room, your footsteps faltered in front of a greenroom tucked away from the rest. The door was slightly ajar, and you prayed he was inside. You pushed it open with trembling fingers, and your breath caught painfully in your throat.

There he was. Minho.

Sitting alone on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, the dark, sleek fabric molding perfectly to his figure. His mic was already clipped to his collar, earpieces in place, as if he were ready to go onstage any second. But he wasn’t moving.

He was hunched forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had already ended and he was the only one left to mourn it.

Sitting on the bench, fully dressed in his final concert outfit, mic already clipped, earpieces in. He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor like the world had ended.

The second he heard the door creak wider, his head snapped up.

He whispered your name, "Y/N..."

So soft. So broken. Like he didn’t believe you were real. It shattered you.

Before you even knew what you were doing, you rushed across the room, and before he could even speak, your hands were cupping his jaw and your lips crashed into his.

Minho stiffened for half a second, completely shocked and then his arms were around you, pulling you flush against him, kissing you back with everything he had. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your lips trembling against his with everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t dared to feel until now. 

When you finally pulled back, panting, you pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “I hate you.”

He laughed, hoarse and teary-eyed. “I know.”

“I hate how long it took you.”

“I hate me too.”

“But I love you.”

Minho stilled.

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter than they ever had. “I love you more,” he murmured. “And I swear I’ll prove it every day from now on.”

You smiled, your eyes full of tears and joy and relief. “You better.”

Minho’s voice was rough, barely a whisper as he spoke. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You blinked, your chest tightening with all the emotions that had built up. "I know, Minho. Just... show me. Show me you're not going to run away again."

His hand gently cupped your face again, his thumb brushing over your lips softly. “I won’t run. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, he leaned in again, this time more carefully, his lips brushing against yours with a softer, more deliberate motion, like he was savoring the moment, as if this was the first time.

The door slammed open.

"AHHHHHH! MY EYES!" Jisung screamed, dramatically throwing himself against the door frame like he was shielding himself from radiation.

You jolted apart, both of you wide-eyed and breathless.

Felix appeared behind Jisung, peeking into the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Hyung," Felix said, "We need to be on stage in like twenty five minutes." Then he glanced between you two and grinned brightly. "Also, um, HOW did this happen?"

Jisung gasped, "Like LIKE… you were literally at war yesterday! HOW are you kissing now? I need DETAILS!"

"Was it a secret make-up plan?? Did someone blackmail someone? TELL ME EVERYTHING—"

"Channie hyung’s gonna kill us if we’re late!" Felix laughed, tugging on Jisung’s sleeve, but he was also bouncing on his toes, eager for gossip.

"And Y/N, you have to explain later, okay? Like every single detail. Every single one."

Somewhere down the hall, you heard Chan’s voice yelling, "WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?"

Minho groaned under his breath, leaning down to quickly kiss your forehead—just one soft second—and then he grabbed his mic pack and jogged toward the door.

But as he passed you, he whispered under his breath, only for you to hear, "Don’t go anywhere. I’m not letting you slip away again."

You stood there, heart pounding, lips still tingling, while Jisung whined the whole way down the hallway, “Yah! I’m serious! I'm coming for answers after the show!”

And you just laughed, happier than you had been in days.

*******************

The final performance was just moments away. Ten minutes give or take. You stood backstage, heart racing—not from nerves, but from everything that had happened.

Minho adjusted his mic, glancing at you with a silent question in his eyes. You stepped closer, pulling him aside for a moment, fingers gently brushing against his as you whispered, “Earlier, when Mingyu and I were talking… he wasn’t flirting.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard.

“He said he could see something going on between you and me. That he’d back off. And… that maybe I hadn’t noticed it myself yet.”

Minho let out a breathy laugh, hand raking through his hair. “God. I really need to control my damn jealousy.”

You smiled softly, Minho flushed slightly before saying, “He wasn’t wrong, though. About the heart eyes.”

You blushed then gently nudged his arm. “Come on, make peace with him. You two are too handsome to be fighting in the middle of rehearsals.”

Minho rolled his eyes but smiled, nodding. He walked over to Mingyu, who was talking with Joshua by the corner while adjusting his blazer, and you watched from afar as Minho gave a sincere apology. Mingyu accepted it with a grin and a clap on Minho’s shoulder, flashing you a wink behind him. Everything just… settled.

And then, the concert. The adrenaline. The stage lights. The roars of the crowd.

Both the collaboration stages and the groups' individual performances were breathtaking— hours of relentless energy, passion, and magic spilling out onto that stage. The entire venue was electric, a sea of waving lightsticks and screaming fans, every second more exhilarating than the last.

You danced and moved like nothing else mattered. But every time your eyes found Minho’s on stage, there was a knowing smile—one only meant for you.

After the final bow, the cheers still ringing in your ears, you were barely backstage for a minute when Minho grabbed your wrist gently and whispered, “Come with me.”

"Minho," you giggled breathlessly, "where are we even going?!"

"Somewhere no one will find us," he muttered determinedly, glancing around until he spotted a half-open door.

Without warning, he pulled you inside.

“I’ve been waiting all night,” he said, breathless.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t careful.

It was urgent, desperate, his hands cupping your face as if he’d been starving for your lips. Your back hit the wall lightly as you gasped against his mouth, hands sliding under his jacket and gripping his shirt.

His lips moved feverishly over yours, like he was trying to pour every emotion he’d buried into this moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, he whispered against your lips, “You have no idea how crazy I’ve been going… not being able to do this.”

You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him back in. “Then don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

That kiss was everything—the apology, the promise, the confession, and the beginning. All in one.

*******************

The concert had ended, the cheers still echoing faintly in the corridors as everyone bustled around, packing up, high-fiving, celebrating.

Mingyu leaned against the wall near the dressing room door, sipping water and scrolling through his phone when a voice interrupted him.

"You were amazing up there," she said, her tone warm and teasing.

He looked up to see one of the stage crew members—someone he’d briefly chatted with before—smiling at him, her hands tucked behind her back, eyes bright.

Mingyu blinked, a little surprised. “Oh thank you. You too, the transitions were super smooth today.”

She giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I did my best. But I was watching you the whole time.”

Mingyu raised a brow, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She stepped a little closer, playfully nudging his arm. “You always smile so much when you perform. It’s contagious.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

She tilted her head. “You doing anything after this?”

For a second, Mingyu glanced toward the dressing room, where laughter echoed—where his bandmates were chattering.

Then he looked back at her, his smile softening. “Not yet,” he said. “But I could be.”

Her grin widened.

And just like that, maybe Mingyu’s heart started to heal too.

*******************

Minho’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw, his hands framing your face as if he still couldn’t believe this was real. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, breath mingling as you leaned into him, every inch of space between you practically non-existent.

The air was hot, your heart pounding louder than any concert speaker. His forehead rested against yours, breathless as he whispered, “I’m not letting go of you again. Ever.”

You smiled, pulling him back into another kiss — slower this time, but no less intense. The kind that made your knees weak and your brain fuzzy, the kind that left no question about how badly he wanted you — and how badly you wanted him.

Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms locked tightly around your waist, pressing you against the wall. It was messy and breathless, both of you still slightly shaking from the adrenaline of the concert.

"Missed you," he murmured against your mouth between kisses, voice hoarse.

You were just about to mumble "me too" when a loud knock rattled the door.

Minho froze mid-kiss, groaning against your lips. You stifled a laugh.

“Hyung?” Han’s voice called, too amused for your liking. “Minho hyung, will this continue all night or should we leave snacks outside the door?”

You buried your face in Minho’s chest as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Minho hyung is seriously down bad,” Hyunjin chimed in, voice loud and dramatic.

“Excuse you,” Han called out, raising an eyebrow. “Your bestie Y/N is equally down bad.”

You playfully smacked his chest, laughing into his shirt. “Did your wife just out me like that?”

Minho groaned, forehead dropping against your shoulder in defeat, "Kill me," he muttered. "Right now. Just kill me."

You both heard Han and Hyunjin start bickering again — something about who was more down bad between you and Minho — and you couldn't help but giggle quietly against Minho, your heart feeling so full you thought it might burst.

“YAH!” Minho finally shouted, voice filled with exasperated affection. “You want to die? Leave us alone!”

A pause.

Then shuffling footsteps and exaggerated gagging noises as they walked off. You and Minho looked at each other and were shaking with laughter, tangled in each other and unwilling to part.

You sighed happily, still held close. “We really are that bad, huh?”

Minho leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Maybe. But I’m not sorry.”

Minho tightened his arms around you, swaying you both lazily, “I love you, you know,” he murmured, so gently it melted into your skin.

A big smile broke across your face.

“I love you too, Minho,” you whispered back, like it was the easiest thing in the world — because with him finally, it was.

--------------

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