tropes: childhood best friends to strangers, idol!au, emotional reunion, one night only, hurt/comfort, unresolved tension, “i never forgot you”, hometown vibes
rating: teen+
warnings: emotional hurt/comfort, crying, mentions of stress & anxiety, soft confrontation, bittersweet tension, implied past abandonment, vulnerable moments
summary:
he said goodbye without saying anything.
now, years later, he’s standing in front of you again—famous, tired, and soaked from the rain.
but even with all the silence between you, part of you still wants to ask:
“did you ever think of me?”
a/n: idk what’s wrong with me but this literally fell out of my chest at 2:43am and I haven’t known peace since. Like why do they always come back when you’ve almost moved on?? anyway. If this hurts, good. That’s the point. drink water or cry more idk <33
title: “don’t say you missed me now.”
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
The rain had been falling for hours.
Not hard—just steady enough to blur the edges of everything.
You were the only one in the diner.
Same booth. Same cheap coffee. Same half-lit neon sign buzzing by the window. It was like nothing had changed in this town.
Until the bell above the door rang.
You didn’t look up right away. But something in your chest pulled tight.
And then you heard it—
A breath. Familiar, shaky.
“Hey,” a voice said.
Your stomach dropped.
You knew that voice.
Of course you did.
You looked up.
He was standing there in a black hoodie, soaked to the skin, curls wet and sticking to his forehead. His eyes were the same—dark, soft, tired.
Jungkook.
You didn’t say anything. Just stared.
He took a step closer.
“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, voice low.
You blinked. “You really think I’d be anywhere else?”
He looked down, like he didn’t know what to say to that.
You went back to staring at your coffee. “Why are you here, Jungkook?”
“I needed to get away,” he said. “I thought about this place. Thought about you.”
That made you laugh—just once, dry. “Now you remember.”
“I always remembered.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t know how to come back.”
“Funny,” you said, “you didn’t struggle when you left.”
That shut him up.
He slid into the booth across from you. Hesitant. Careful.
You didn’t stop him.
“You cut your hair,” he said.
“You got tattoos.”
You both went quiet again.
He glanced out the window. “I drove past your house earlier. Your mom still has those wind chimes on the porch.”
“She likes the sound,” you muttered.
“I used to hate them,” he said, smiling a little. “They were always so loud when we were trying to sneak out.”
You didn’t smile back.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
You studied his face. He looked older. Thinner. Sadder, maybe. Not like the boy who used to throw rocks at your window or sneak you snacks during study sessions.
“I watched every video,” you said quietly. “Every concert. Every interview. Just to see if you’d mention this place. Me.”
He looked up.
“But you never did,” you finished.
His voice cracked. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I missed it too much. I missed you too much. And if I said your name out loud, it would’ve made it real.”
You swallowed hard. Looked away.
The silence stretched.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You shook your head. “No, you’re not. You’re just guilty.”
“That too,” he admitted.
You leaned back. Crossed your arms. “You know I used to wait for you?”
He nodded slowly.
“Every time I heard a car, I thought—maybe it’s him,” you whispered. “Maybe he came back.”
“I wanted to,” he said, barely audible. “But the longer I stayed away, the harder it got. I didn’t know how to face you.”
“You don’t get to disappear and then act like the victim.”
“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I just—I missed my best friend.”
“You left your best friend.”
He went quiet.
And then he whispered, “I know.”
You looked at him again.
Really looked.
He was shivering a little. His hoodie clung to his skin. His hands were red from the cold.
“Do you want to dry off?” you asked, before you could stop yourself.
His eyes widened a bit, surprised. “Are you serious?”
You sighed. “You’ll get sick.”
So you stood up. Tossed a few bills on the table.
He followed without a word.
⸻
The walk to your house was quiet.
When you reached the porch, he paused.
“You sure?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. Just opened the door.
He stepped inside like he’d done a hundred times before.
It felt wrong how natural it was.
You handed him a towel. He dried his hair, rubbing at it like a kid again.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
You sat on the couch. Pulled your knees up. Watched him.
He looked around the room. Eyes landing on the old framed photo near the TV. It was the two of you at the lake—sunburnt, smiling, barefoot.
“I forgot we even had that picture,” he said.
“I didn’t.”
He sat down a few feet away from you.
Neither of you said anything for a long time.
Then, softly:
“Did you ever hate me?”
You glanced over. “Sometimes.”
He nodded. Like he deserved it.
“But I also kept wishing you’d walk through that door again.”
You didn’t know why you said it. But you did.
He didn’t answer right away.
“I never stopped caring about you,” he said finally. “Not for a second.”
You stared at him. At the way his hands clenched in his lap. At the way his eyes shimmered.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you admitted.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “I just wanted to see you. One more time.”
You hesitated. Then asked:
“Is this a one-night thing? A stop before the next city?”
He didn’t lie.
“Yeah.”
You nodded.
Then, quietly: “Can you stay until the rain stops?”
He looked at you like you’d just handed him something sacred.
“Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “I can do that.”
And maybe that’s all you needed.
Not forever.
Just one more night.
With the boy who once knew every version of you.
Even if tomorrow, he’d be gone again.
⸻
a/n: i’m still really new to writing on here, so if you’ve read all the way to the end—thank you.
this means a lot to me, and even though english isn’t my first language, i’m trying my best to let the feelings come through anyway.
i know it’s not perfect—i’m not a professional author, just a girl with too many thoughts and a heart that holds on too tightly sometimes.
i’m still learning, and i’m always open to kind & respectful feedback if there’s something i can do better.
i just hope… something in this made you feel something. even for a second. even quietly.
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warnings: death (revealed halfway), emotional intensity, grieving routines
word count: ~2.6k
summary: In her dreams, he never left. In her dreams, he still loves her. And every morning, she wakes up without him.
⸻
The kettle is whistling.
He’s standing at the counter, back to you, shirt clinging to his spine where his hair is still wet. You always told him to dry it better, but he never listened. Said it felt nicer when it air dried, like he was letting the day decide his shape.
He’s making tea. Yours. The jasmine kind. He always remembers.
“Morning,” you murmur, voice still caught in sleep.
Jungkook glances over his shoulder, eyes soft. “You’re up early.”
You shrug. “Heard you moving.”
“Sorry,” he says, though his mouth is tilted into a smile. “I was trying to be quiet.”
You cross the kitchen barefoot, and he opens his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You fit there like a secret. One hand slides around his waist, the other up under the hem of his shirt, resting against warm skin and steady heartbeat.
“Stay home,” you say against his chest.
“I have to go.”
“You don’t.”
He presses a kiss into your hair. “If I stay every time you ask me to, I’ll never leave again.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs under his breath. “You’d get sick of me.”
“Never.”
And you mean it.
—
Later, he’s looking for his shoes, half-dressed, hair a mess again. You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, watching him fumble through the hallway closet.
“Did you check by the door?” you call.
“I always leave them there, but they’re not—”
He stops.
Turns.
His eyes land on you like he’s seeing you for the first time again.
“What?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just walks toward you.
Drops to his knees in front of the couch and leans into you, resting his head in your lap. He doesn’t say anything.
And you don’t ask.
You just thread your fingers through his hair, soft and damp again. His hands are warm against your thighs. The kettle whistles again. Neither of you move.
“You okay?” you whisper.
His voice is quieter than it’s ever been. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then don’t.”
He nods. But you know he will anyway.
—
The door closes behind him.
You’re still wearing his sweatshirt. The sleeves are too long. It smells like the fabric softener he always pretended not to care about but secretly loved.
You sit on the edge of the couch, tea untouched. The light outside is pale. The world looks like it’s holding its breath.
You wait.
You wait for him to come back.
You wait—
—
You wake up.
The tea is cold.
The sweatshirt doesn’t smell like him anymore.
The apartment is still. Too still.
You don’t cry.
You don’t scream.
You just sit there and listen to the sound of nothing.
—
They called it an accident.
Wrong place. Wrong time.
One moment he was there—talking, laughing, living.
The next, he wasn’t.
It didn’t feel real. Not at first. Not even when you saw him.
Not even when they handed you the box with his watch and wallet.
Not even when you stood in front of a coffin that felt too heavy to belong to someone so light.
You kept waiting for him to walk back in.
To say “Got you.”
To wrap his arms around you and kiss your forehead like he always did.
He never did.
—
You don’t talk about him much anymore.
People look at you the way you look at broken windows.
Like you’re something they can’t fix.
You smile politely. Say you’re doing okay.
Eat when they ask you to. Sleep when the exhaustion takes you by force.
But you stopped living the day he did.
Now you just visit life in pieces.
—
In your dreams, he still makes tea.
Still leaves his shoes by the door.
Still tells you he’ll be back before dark.
In your dreams, you are whole.
You are happy.
You are loved by a boy who never learned how to stay dead.
And every morning, you wake up
and lose him
all over again.
—
You keep his hoodie folded on the couch.
His mug in the sink.
His toothbrush by yours.
It’s not denial.
It’s ritual.
You remember the way he held you in the kitchen that morning.
The way his silence felt heavy, like he already knew.
And sometimes, you wonder if he did.
If he felt it coming.
If that’s why he looked at you so long.
Why he kissed you like he was saying goodbye.
You didn’t know then.
But you know now.
And you’d give anything to go back and hold on just a little tighter.
Just a little longer.
—
You dream of him again the next night.
He’s laughing. His hair’s too long. He looks older. Softer.
He says your name and you feel it in your bones.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I miss you every day,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer this time.
Just pulls you into him and presses his forehead against yours.
