fictional escapes

“You’re impossible,” you shake your head.

“Leader duties,” he smiled at you softly.

“You need to take care of yourself, Chan, you’re taking too much stress.” You sighed.

“Well…” he said softly, his voice was rough with exhaustion, “you are here to take care of me.”

Your hands stilled. 

It’s dangerous, the way he says things. Dangerous because he’s warm in ways he doesn’t even realize. This is just who he is — gentle, respectful, attentive and impossibly kind. He treats everyone well, but sometimes it feels different with you. Different because it's the way he texts to make sure you got home safe. In the way he saves you a seat without thinking about it, like of course there’s always supposed to be a place for you beside him. In the way his eyes find yours first whenever he laughs, like your reaction is the one he’s waiting for. 

And maybe none of it means anything, and your heart is selfish enough to want to believe it means more, because he smiles at everyone like that. He always makes everyone feel a little chosen anyway.

But then when the room empties out, the noise fades, and he looks at you with an unbearably tender gaze that feels lingering and far too intimate to be called innocent.

And that’s the cruelest part of all. Not your feelings for him. Not the uncertainty. Not even the fear of rejection. But the quiet, devastating truth that he already belongs to someone else.

Everyone in the SKZ team knows about the relationship. It’s not publicly known, but enough people in the industry whisper about it. A female idol from another group. Beautiful, talented, sweet from what you’ve heard. 

You want to hate her. God, you want to hate her so bad… but you can’t. 

Because she makes him happy, there’s a softness in him whenever he talks about her that makes it painfully obvious how deeply he cares. And maybe that’s what destroys you most of all, that she’s good to him. That she makes him happy in ways you never could. 

They are perfect for each other because they belong in the same industry and live the same K-pop idol life. They go through the same exhausting schedules, the same pressure, the same understanding of what it means to live under constant scrutiny. She understands parts of him you never could. You’re just a girl trying to make it through the month without falling behind on bills. Quietly ordinary in every possible way. While she’s everything dazzling, like truly, she’s the kind of girl loved by millions. The kind of girl cameras adore, the kind of girl songs are written about.

And standing beside her, you’ve never felt smaller.

So instead of being jealous of her, you do the only thing you can. You stand there quietly as SKZ’s makeup artist, smile when you’re supposed to, and let yourself break a little more each day.

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

“Hyung,” Changbin called from across the room, “your girlfriend sent coffee again.”

The entire dressing room erupted into teasing.

Chan laughs, cheeks pink as he accepted the drink carrier from staff. “She said I sounded tired.”

“Whipped,” Hyunjin said immediately.

“Disgustingly whipped,” Seungmin added.

You kept your head down, pretending to organize brushes. You think you’re hiding it well, but Chan noticed the shift in your mood immediately — he always noticed.

“You didn’t have your morning coffee yet,” Chan said suddenly, walking and holding out the cup toward you. “Take mine.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s okay.”

“I can share.”

You finally looked at him, and that was your mistake, because there it is again… that gaze. That quiet, lingering fondness he always carries in his eyes, like looking at you is the most important thing in the world. 

And for one horrible, stupid second, you let yourself imagine this isn’t borrowed affection. That maybe, just maybe, the way he looks at you means something more and it wasn’t just in your head. 

Then his phone lit up.

my girl <3

The screen flashed with a new message.

Miss you already.

And just like that, reality crashed back so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You stepped away before anyone noticed the crack in your expression.

“I need to clean the other station,” you lied.

Chan watched you go.

That was the day you decided you needed to set strict boundaries with him. He was taken and you would never be a homewrecker. If you continued staying close to him, it would only get worse. Your feelings would deepen, settle in places you wouldn’t be able to scrape out later. 

God, you felt pathetic. Like why would you even let yourself think like this in the first place for a taken man. You were the problem.

So, you made a decision, you would avoid him. Not completely, of course. You still had a job to do. You still powdered his face before performances, still fixed his hair between takes, still smiled politely when the camera was around and when it wasn’t. 

But you stopped lingering and letting conversations stretch beyond what was necessary. You stopped replying to his jokes the way you used to, instead you kept your eyes on your work, hands busy, focused elsewhere, like anywhere but him.

And whenever he tried to pull you into ease, into familiarity, you didn’t follow.

You could tell it was getting to him.

The way his smiles didn’t come as easily around you anymore. The way his gaze lingered a second longer, like he was trying to figure out what changed and when he stopped being allowed to reach you the way he used to.

But it had to be this way, because if he knew, if he ever found out what you were really feeling — it wouldn’t just be messy. It would ruin everything. The team, the trust, the easy comfort that had always existed between you.

And worse than all of that… he would look at you differently, maybe with disappointment or even disgust, for daring to feel something like this when he already loved someone else.

So you swallowed it down, all of it, and strictly kept your distance.

It kept going for weeks, until one evening after rehearsal, he cornered you near the backstage hallway while everyone else packed up.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You’ve been distant lately.”

“I’ve just been busy—”

“You’re lying,” his voice was sharp when he cut you off.

You busy yourself stuffing products into your kit. “Chan—”

“Did someone say something to you?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable working with us?”

“No! God, no.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because I’m in love with you.

Because every time you smile at me I forget you’re not mine.

Because hearing your girlfriend call during touch-ups feels like swallowing glass.

Instead, you forced out, “You’re overthinking.”

Chan stared at you for a long moment, then quietly asked, “Am I?”

You couldn’t answer that, not when he’s looking at you like that.

His gaze didn’t move away from you.

“It doesn’t feel like I am,” he said sadly.

“I’m just focused on work,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Right,” he said, after a pause, but it didn't sound like he was convinced. “Just work.”

He studied you for a moment longer, like he’s trying to pull an answer out of you without words.

“Just…” he started, frustration creeping into his voice. “Just tell me what I did wrong.” 

You shook your head immediately. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you don’t elaborate further, you just let the heavy and suffocating silence stretch.

Then his phone lit up and her name flashes across the screen.

Neither of you move at first.

His eyes flick down to it, then back to you — like he’s still waiting for the ringtone to stop, like he’s desperately trying to hold this conversation.

You swallowed hard.

“You should answer her,” you said softly. “I should go. I’ll… catch you later.”

Before he can respond, before he can stop you, you turn away quickly and leave, forcing your feet to keep moving, not daring to look back.

Behind you, he exhaled faintly. Chan looked at the screen for a long moment before sighing, his thumb hovered over the call and then he declined it.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, but he didn't move right away. He was too exhausted and too overwhelmed to move, so he just stood there staring at the ceiling, his eyes stinging as tears built up. 

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

He tried again and then again the next day. And the day after that.

But it was always the same now. You found a reason before the conversation could even begin — work, schedules, something urgent that couldn’t wait. Anything that kept things contained and professional.

At first, he still tried to reach you through the gaps. Small questions and lingering glances. He showed quiet patience that seemed like it could stretch forever.

But slowly, even that faded.

Chan stopped trying to close the distance.

He stopped looking for you the way he used to between takes. He completely stopped waiting near your station after rehearsals and stopped turning casual moments into something more just by the way he stayed a little longer than necessary.

Now, when he spoke to you, it was strictly about work. He spoke in a way that was polite and detached, like there had never been anything softer between you to begin with.

It was what you wanted.

You kept telling yourself that.

That this was better. That you had done the right thing before anything could spiral into something messy and irreversible.

But still, the quiet that followed didn’t feel like relief. It felt more like an absence and you didn’t know what to do with that.

It went on for four days.

Four days of careful distance, professional exchanges and pretending that nothing had shifted, when everything clearly had.

And then the day before the weekend finally arrived. At the end of your shift, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

At least you could rest for a couple of days, and you wouldn’t have to keep pretending tomorrow. At least there would be space to breathe without having to carefully measure every interaction, every glance or every word.

You gathered your things a little quicker than usual, already thinking ahead to the quiet of your room, the comfort of shutting the world out for a while.

As you made your way toward the bus stand, the evening air felt softer than usual. The streets were busy, but not overwhelming. People were heading home, just like you, wrapped up in their own routines, and somehow, in that quiet in-between, your mind drifted again… to him.

You kept recalling the past and how it used to be easier. Chan would sometimes stay back after his schedules ended, casually offering you a ride home as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You used to laugh it off, decline politely, insist you were fine taking the bus. But you never won the argument and he’d always end up driving you home anyway. 

And somewhere along the way, those rides became something more than just a way to get back. Sometimes you’d make spontaneous stops at an ice-cream place, sitting in his car with the engine off, talking for hours about nothing and everything, ending up laughing over the smallest things. You’d make him try flavours his typical indecisive Libra self would never choose on his own, teasing him until he finally gave in, only to decide he actually liked them. And somehow, between shared scoops and easy conversation, it always turned into something warm, light, and effortlessly fun, like the world outside didn’t exist at all. 

Other times, he would buy you hotteok from a small roadside stall, that felt warm in your hands against the night air. He always preferred the ones filled with red bean paste, insisting they tasted better that way, while you argued the cinnamon sugar ones were superior.

Sometimes he would park his car in front of the Han River, the city lights stretching across the water in quiet reflections while everything else slowed down around you. You’d sit side by side, sharing snacks his mom sent him from Australia, unwrapping them carefully like they were something precious. He’d always insist you try first, watching your reaction with that small, expectant dimpled smile of his. And then he’d talk about his childhood back in Australia, the streets he grew up on, the sun that felt different there, the way home used to sound and smell. He spoke about it casually, but there was always a hint of softer nostalgia underneath.

You’d listen without interrupting, occasionally asking questions when his voice trailed off, while the river moved quietly outside the windshield like it had all the time in the world.

And in those moments, it never felt like anything complicated. It was just him and you, and a car full of borrowed stories, shared snacks, and a kind of peace you didn’t realize you’d start holding onto.

It was simple and mundane, easy in a way you didn’t realize you’d start missing until it was gone. Now, the memory sat differently in your chest. He doesn’t do that anymore and it’s your fault.

You swallow hard, pushing the thought down as quickly as it rises.

You ruined a good thing, you recall sadly. You lost a great friendship, all because you couldn’t control your damn feelings. In hindsight, you realized that feeling had always been there, quietly building in the spaces between conversations and shared silence.

Oh if only you had understood your own feelings back then.

By the time you understood you were in love with him, he already started falling for someone else. Or maybe even if you had realized and confessed back then, he would’ve rejected you anyway, because you were no match for him, his feelings for you were always platonic for sure. The thought settles heavily, but you don’t fight it this time, because it feels like the truth you’ve been avoiding. 

The bus arrives with a low hiss of brakes.

You step onto the bus, letting the doors close behind you with a soft mechanical sigh that feels louder than it should. The world outside is cut off in an instant, replaced by the dim, familiar interior of late evening travel.

You move down the aisle and take the seat at the very end of the row, near the window. From here, the city stretches out like a moving painting — streets glowing with gold and white lights, brake lamps bleeding into soft red streaks, buildings dissolving into blurred shapes as the bus pulls forward.

Everything keeps moving.

The hum of the engine fills the space around you, steady and low, vibrating faintly through the seat and into your bones. It should be comforting in its predictability, something to anchor you, something to keep your mind from drifting where it shouldn’t.

But it doesn’t work tonight. You lean your head against the cool glass beside you, letting the slight chill press into your skin. The movement of the bus rocks you gently, almost like it’s trying to lull you into stillness. Your body feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, and everything to do with carrying too much you don’t know where to put.

You slip your headphones on without thinking, more out of habit than intention, and let your playlist begin on its own.

At first, it’s nothing more than background noise. Familiar songs pass through your ears without meaning, soft melodies that don’t ask anything of you, that don’t require attention or emotion. They drift in one side and out the other, barely registering.

And then everything changes when you hear his voice.

Eternity by Bang Chan starts playing.

It hits you so suddenly that your entire body stills, like something inside you has paused without permission. It feels almost unreal at first, like your mind is playing a trick on you, like it shouldn’t be possible for him to exist here — in something so ordinary, so mundane, so far removed from where he actually is.

But he does.

He fills the space inside your headphones completely, as if there is no room for anything else. As if the world outside the bus, the people sitting around you, even your own thoughts, have all been pushed aside just to make space for him.

You remember adding this song. When he talked about his pet dog, Berry, and how much he missed her. A breath caught in your throat before you can stop it, small and unsteady, followed by another that you try to control but fail to steady. Your fingers curl slightly in your lap, pressing into your palms as if grounding yourself physically could stop what’s happening internally.

But it doesn’t.

The lyrics don’t simply play. They settle. They sink in slowly, deliberately, as if they’ve been waiting for you specifically. Each line feels heavier than the last, threading through every carefully built barrier you’ve spent weeks putting up, slipping through the cracks you thought you had sealed tightly enough.

Memories rise without warning, uninvited and sharp at the edges—quiet laughter during late schedules, shared silence that never felt uncomfortable, the easy comfort of sitting beside him without overthinking what it meant. And then, more recently, the distance. The careful politeness. The way everything between you shifted without either of you saying it out loud. 

You turn your face slightly toward the window, pressing your forehead more firmly against the glass. The cold against your skin is sharp enough to ground you for a second, to remind you where you are, to remind you that this is just a bus ride home and nothing more.

Outside, life continues in fragments. People get on, people get off, conversations begin and end without meaning to linger. No one looks long enough to notice anything beyond the surface. No one sees the way your expression tightens, the way something inside you quietly starts to break apart without sound.

You swallow hard, forcing your breathing into something steady, something controlled. But it doesn’t matter how still you sit, how tightly you hold yourself together, or how carefully you try to look away from what you’re feeling.

Because it’s already there and the tear slips anyway. 

God, you just want to go home and sleep.

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

Award show season becomes torture.

You stand backstage adjusting the clasp of Chan’s in-ear monitors when she arrives.

She’s even more breathtaking in person. The kind of beauty cameras never fully capture. And Chan’s entire face lit up when he saw her.

Not polite, it was just pure admiration. Deeply in love kinda gaze. 

“Baby,” he breathed.

Your chest caved in.

She wrapped her arms around his waist carefully, mindful of his outfit. “You look so handsome.”

“And you look so beautiful, baby,” he said quietly, eyes softening as if the world around them had faded out.

“I missed you.” She said cupping his face.

The intimacy of it felt private. You shouldn’t be standing here witnessing this. 

You step back immediately. “I’ll go check the others.”

Neither of them notice you leaving. Like you didn’t even exist and that hurt more than it should.

That night, after the performance, Chan finds you alone on the rooftop of the venue parking structure.

Cold wind whipped past as you stared over the city lights below.

“You disappeared.”

You didn’t turn around. “Needed air.”

A silence settled between you. 

“Did seeing her upset you?”

Your heart stopped. Slowly, you looked at him.

Chan’s expression was unreadable. He looked hesitant.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

You laugh weakly. “Chan—”

“You look at me like your heart’s breaking.”

The words shattered something inside you.

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

His brows pull together. “Why not? Isn’t that the truth?”

“No,” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes, “it’s not.”

The wind felt freezing now. Chan stepped closer, way too close. You stepped back immediately and he held your wrist to stop you.

“Stop running away from me, dammit,” he snapped, though his voice betrayed a slight shake.

“Chan, it’s… let’s not talk about it, please.” You sighed sadly, “my heart can’t handle this conversation.”

“I just…” he started, then stopped, like the sentence didn’t know where to go.

His eyes flicked away from yours. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, carefully stripped of anything that sounded too honest.

“I just don’t like when things feel different between us.”

“I’m sorry. I was just bu—”

“Busy with work,” he cut you off immediately, a faint edge slipping through before he could stop it. “Yeah. You said that.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face. 

“I know,” he said finally, quieter now. “I know you’re busy.”

The silence stretched.

You took a step back. “Chan, just… let it go, okay? This is getting too much.”

At that, something in his expression flickered, he looked pissed at this point.

“I’m not trying to make it ‘too much,’” he said, making air quotes around the word.

You swallowed. “Chan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then don’t say things like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Like what?”

His jaw tightened.

“Like you can’t handle talking to me,” he said, slower now. “Like I’m something you have to escape from.”

That landed heavier than it should’ve.

“I wasn’t trying to!” you said defensively. “I’m here minding my own business. You’re the one trying to make an issue out of a situation that’s nothing!”

“Oh yeah?” His voice snapped sharper now. “Stop lying.”

“I am not lying! I’m just doing my job. I’m giving you space. That’s all it is.”

His breath came out sharper this time.

“So it is space.”

“It’s not—”

“Then what is it?” he interrupted, frustration finally breaking through the restraint. “Because it feels like I’m being erased from your life one interaction at a time.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. For a second, neither of you moved.

And then his voice dropped, “I’m not okay with this.”

That was all he gave you. Just the raw and unfiltered truth. Your throat tightened.

“Chan…”

“Being not around you is making me lose my mind, can’t you see that?” He said shakily.

You froze slightly. “What… why does it matter?”

His breath came out uneven now, like he hated that he’d said it.

“Because I care about you,” he said, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t know how to deal with losing you.”

And there it is, the worst part, because you know he does. Chan loves deeply and fiercely. He gives pieces of himself to everyone he treasures. But not the way you ache for him, his one was purely platonic for you.

So you smile sadly and say the only thing that will save you both. 

“I know.” 

His face fell slightly. 

“You should go back to her,” you continue softly. “She’s probably waiting.” 

For a second, something flickers in his expression, it looked like a mix of conflict, guilt, longing. It’s gone almost immediately. 

Chan looked away first. 

“…Yeah.” 

That one word nearly killed you. He hesitates before leaving. Like he wanted to say more. 

But in the end, he walks away. And you let him, because loving him means accepting that sometimes someone can give you tenderness, trust, late-night conversations, lingering looks, just a little bit of their heart, while the rest belongs to somebody else. The one they truly want. 

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

Permanent Taglist 1:

“You’re impossible,” you shake your head.

“Leader duties,” he smiled at you softly.

“You need to take care of yourself, Chan, you’re taking too much stress.” You sighed.

“Well…” he said softly, his voice was rough with exhaustion, “you are here to take care of me.”

Your hands stilled. 

It’s dangerous, the way he says things. Dangerous because he’s warm in ways he doesn’t even realize. This is just who he is — gentle, respectful, attentive and impossibly kind. He treats everyone well, but sometimes it feels different with you. Different because it's the way he texts to make sure you got home safe. In the way he saves you a seat without thinking about it, like of course there’s always supposed to be a place for you beside him. In the way his eyes find yours first whenever he laughs, like your reaction is the one he’s waiting for. 

And maybe none of it means anything, and your heart is selfish enough to want to believe it means more, because he smiles at everyone like that. He always makes everyone feel a little chosen anyway.

But then when the room empties out, the noise fades, and he looks at you with an unbearably tender gaze that feels lingering and far too intimate to be called innocent.

And that’s the cruelest part of all. Not your feelings for him. Not the uncertainty. Not even the fear of rejection. But the quiet, devastating truth that he already belongs to someone else.

Everyone in the SKZ team knows about the relationship. It’s not publicly known, but enough people in the industry whisper about it. A female idol from another group. Beautiful, talented, sweet from what you’ve heard. 

You want to hate her. God, you want to hate her so bad… but you can’t. 

Because she makes him happy, there’s a softness in him whenever he talks about her that makes it painfully obvious how deeply he cares. And maybe that’s what destroys you most of all, that she’s good to him. That she makes him happy in ways you never could. 

They are perfect for each other because they belong in the same industry and live the same K-pop idol life. They go through the same exhausting schedules, the same pressure, the same understanding of what it means to live under constant scrutiny. She understands parts of him you never could. You’re just a girl trying to make it through the month without falling behind on bills. Quietly ordinary in every possible way. While she’s everything dazzling, like truly, she’s the kind of girl loved by millions. The kind of girl cameras adore, the kind of girl songs are written about.

And standing beside her, you’ve never felt smaller.

So instead of being jealous of her, you do the only thing you can. You stand there quietly as SKZ’s makeup artist, smile when you’re supposed to, and let yourself break a little more each day.

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

“Hyung,” Changbin called from across the room, “your girlfriend sent coffee again.”

The entire dressing room erupted into teasing.

Chan laughs, cheeks pink as he accepted the drink carrier from staff. “She said I sounded tired.”

“Whipped,” Hyunjin said immediately.

“Disgustingly whipped,” Seungmin added.

You kept your head down, pretending to organize brushes. You think you’re hiding it well, but Chan noticed the shift in your mood immediately — he always noticed.

“You didn’t have your morning coffee yet,” Chan said suddenly, walking and holding out the cup toward you. “Take mine.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s okay.”

“I can share.”

You finally looked at him, and that was your mistake, because there it is again… that gaze. That quiet, lingering fondness he always carries in his eyes, like looking at you is the most important thing in the world. 

And for one horrible, stupid second, you let yourself imagine this isn’t borrowed affection. That maybe, just maybe, the way he looks at you means something more and it wasn’t just in your head. 

Then his phone lit up.

my girl <3

The screen flashed with a new message.

Miss you already.

And just like that, reality crashed back so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You stepped away before anyone noticed the crack in your expression.

“I need to clean the other station,” you lied.

Chan watched you go.

That was the day you decided you needed to set strict boundaries with him. He was taken and you would never be a homewrecker. If you continued staying close to him, it would only get worse. Your feelings would deepen, settle in places you wouldn’t be able to scrape out later. 

God, you felt pathetic. Like why would you even let yourself think like this in the first place for a taken man. You were the problem.

So, you made a decision, you would avoid him. Not completely, of course. You still had a job to do. You still powdered his face before performances, still fixed his hair between takes, still smiled politely when the camera was around and when it wasn’t. 

But you stopped lingering and letting conversations stretch beyond what was necessary. You stopped replying to his jokes the way you used to, instead you kept your eyes on your work, hands busy, focused elsewhere, like anywhere but him.

And whenever he tried to pull you into ease, into familiarity, you didn’t follow.

You could tell it was getting to him.

The way his smiles didn’t come as easily around you anymore. The way his gaze lingered a second longer, like he was trying to figure out what changed and when he stopped being allowed to reach you the way he used to.

But it had to be this way, because if he knew, if he ever found out what you were really feeling — it wouldn’t just be messy. It would ruin everything. The team, the trust, the easy comfort that had always existed between you.

And worse than all of that… he would look at you differently, maybe with disappointment or even disgust, for daring to feel something like this when he already loved someone else.

So you swallowed it down, all of it, and strictly kept your distance.

It kept going for weeks, until one evening after rehearsal, he cornered you near the backstage hallway while everyone else packed up.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You’ve been distant lately.”

“I’ve just been busy—”

“You’re lying,” his voice was sharp when he cut you off.

You busy yourself stuffing products into your kit. “Chan—”

“Did someone say something to you?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable working with us?”

“No! God, no.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because I’m in love with you.

Because every time you smile at me I forget you’re not mine.

Because hearing your girlfriend call during touch-ups feels like swallowing glass.

Instead, you forced out, “You’re overthinking.”

Chan stared at you for a long moment, then quietly asked, “Am I?”

You couldn’t answer that, not when he’s looking at you like that.

His gaze didn’t move away from you.

“It doesn’t feel like I am,” he said sadly.

“I’m just focused on work,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Right,” he said, after a pause, but it didn't sound like he was convinced. “Just work.”

He studied you for a moment longer, like he’s trying to pull an answer out of you without words.

“Just…” he started, frustration creeping into his voice. “Just tell me what I did wrong.” 

You shook your head immediately. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you don’t elaborate further, you just let the heavy and suffocating silence stretch.

Then his phone lit up and her name flashes across the screen.

Neither of you move at first.

His eyes flick down to it, then back to you — like he’s still waiting for the ringtone to stop, like he’s desperately trying to hold this conversation.

You swallowed hard.

“You should answer her,” you said softly. “I should go. I’ll… catch you later.”

Before he can respond, before he can stop you, you turn away quickly and leave, forcing your feet to keep moving, not daring to look back.

Behind you, he exhaled faintly. Chan looked at the screen for a long moment before sighing, his thumb hovered over the call and then he declined it.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, but he didn't move right away. He was too exhausted and too overwhelmed to move, so he just stood there staring at the ceiling, his eyes stinging as tears built up. 

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

He tried again and then again the next day. And the day after that.

But it was always the same now. You found a reason before the conversation could even begin — work, schedules, something urgent that couldn’t wait. Anything that kept things contained and professional.

At first, he still tried to reach you through the gaps. Small questions and lingering glances. He showed quiet patience that seemed like it could stretch forever.

But slowly, even that faded.

Chan stopped trying to close the distance.

He stopped looking for you the way he used to between takes. He completely stopped waiting near your station after rehearsals and stopped turning casual moments into something more just by the way he stayed a little longer than necessary.

Now, when he spoke to you, it was strictly about work. He spoke in a way that was polite and detached, like there had never been anything softer between you to begin with.

It was what you wanted.

You kept telling yourself that.

That this was better. That you had done the right thing before anything could spiral into something messy and irreversible.

But still, the quiet that followed didn’t feel like relief. It felt more like an absence and you didn’t know what to do with that.

It went on for four days.

Four days of careful distance, professional exchanges and pretending that nothing had shifted, when everything clearly had.

And then the day before the weekend finally arrived. At the end of your shift, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

At least you could rest for a couple of days, and you wouldn’t have to keep pretending tomorrow. At least there would be space to breathe without having to carefully measure every interaction, every glance or every word.

You gathered your things a little quicker than usual, already thinking ahead to the quiet of your room, the comfort of shutting the world out for a while.

As you made your way toward the bus stand, the evening air felt softer than usual. The streets were busy, but not overwhelming. People were heading home, just like you, wrapped up in their own routines, and somehow, in that quiet in-between, your mind drifted again… to him.

You kept recalling the past and how it used to be easier. Chan would sometimes stay back after his schedules ended, casually offering you a ride home as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You used to laugh it off, decline politely, insist you were fine taking the bus. But you never won the argument and he’d always end up driving you home anyway. 

And somewhere along the way, those rides became something more than just a way to get back. Sometimes you’d make spontaneous stops at an ice-cream place, sitting in his car with the engine off, talking for hours about nothing and everything, ending up laughing over the smallest things. You’d make him try flavours his typical indecisive Libra self would never choose on his own, teasing him until he finally gave in, only to decide he actually liked them. And somehow, between shared scoops and easy conversation, it always turned into something warm, light, and effortlessly fun, like the world outside didn’t exist at all. 

Other times, he would buy you hotteok from a small roadside stall, that felt warm in your hands against the night air. He always preferred the ones filled with red bean paste, insisting they tasted better that way, while you argued the cinnamon sugar ones were superior.

Sometimes he would park his car in front of the Han River, the city lights stretching across the water in quiet reflections while everything else slowed down around you. You’d sit side by side, sharing snacks his mom sent him from Australia, unwrapping them carefully like they were something precious. He’d always insist you try first, watching your reaction with that small, expectant dimpled smile of his. And then he’d talk about his childhood back in Australia, the streets he grew up on, the sun that felt different there, the way home used to sound and smell. He spoke about it casually, but there was always a hint of softer nostalgia underneath.

You’d listen without interrupting, occasionally asking questions when his voice trailed off, while the river moved quietly outside the windshield like it had all the time in the world.

And in those moments, it never felt like anything complicated. It was just him and you, and a car full of borrowed stories, shared snacks, and a kind of peace you didn’t realize you’d start holding onto.

It was simple and mundane, easy in a way you didn’t realize you’d start missing until it was gone. Now, the memory sat differently in your chest. He doesn’t do that anymore and it’s your fault.

You swallow hard, pushing the thought down as quickly as it rises.

You ruined a good thing, you recall sadly. You lost a great friendship, all because you couldn’t control your damn feelings. In hindsight, you realized that feeling had always been there, quietly building in the spaces between conversations and shared silence.

Oh if only you had understood your own feelings back then.

By the time you understood you were in love with him, he already started falling for someone else. Or maybe even if you had realized and confessed back then, he would’ve rejected you anyway, because you were no match for him, his feelings for you were always platonic for sure. The thought settles heavily, but you don’t fight it this time, because it feels like the truth you’ve been avoiding. 

The bus arrives with a low hiss of brakes.

You step onto the bus, letting the doors close behind you with a soft mechanical sigh that feels louder than it should. The world outside is cut off in an instant, replaced by the dim, familiar interior of late evening travel.

You move down the aisle and take the seat at the very end of the row, near the window. From here, the city stretches out like a moving painting — streets glowing with gold and white lights, brake lamps bleeding into soft red streaks, buildings dissolving into blurred shapes as the bus pulls forward.

Everything keeps moving.

The hum of the engine fills the space around you, steady and low, vibrating faintly through the seat and into your bones. It should be comforting in its predictability, something to anchor you, something to keep your mind from drifting where it shouldn’t.

But it doesn’t work tonight. You lean your head against the cool glass beside you, letting the slight chill press into your skin. The movement of the bus rocks you gently, almost like it’s trying to lull you into stillness. Your body feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, and everything to do with carrying too much you don’t know where to put.

You slip your headphones on without thinking, more out of habit than intention, and let your playlist begin on its own.

At first, it’s nothing more than background noise. Familiar songs pass through your ears without meaning, soft melodies that don’t ask anything of you, that don’t require attention or emotion. They drift in one side and out the other, barely registering.

And then everything changes when you hear his voice.

Eternity by Bang Chan starts playing.

It hits you so suddenly that your entire body stills, like something inside you has paused without permission. It feels almost unreal at first, like your mind is playing a trick on you, like it shouldn’t be possible for him to exist here — in something so ordinary, so mundane, so far removed from where he actually is.

But he does.

He fills the space inside your headphones completely, as if there is no room for anything else. As if the world outside the bus, the people sitting around you, even your own thoughts, have all been pushed aside just to make space for him.

You remember adding this song. When he talked about his pet dog, Berry, and how much he missed her. A breath caught in your throat before you can stop it, small and unsteady, followed by another that you try to control but fail to steady. Your fingers curl slightly in your lap, pressing into your palms as if grounding yourself physically could stop what’s happening internally.

But it doesn’t.

The lyrics don’t simply play. They settle. They sink in slowly, deliberately, as if they’ve been waiting for you specifically. Each line feels heavier than the last, threading through every carefully built barrier you’ve spent weeks putting up, slipping through the cracks you thought you had sealed tightly enough.

Memories rise without warning, uninvited and sharp at the edges—quiet laughter during late schedules, shared silence that never felt uncomfortable, the easy comfort of sitting beside him without overthinking what it meant. And then, more recently, the distance. The careful politeness. The way everything between you shifted without either of you saying it out loud. 

You turn your face slightly toward the window, pressing your forehead more firmly against the glass. The cold against your skin is sharp enough to ground you for a second, to remind you where you are, to remind you that this is just a bus ride home and nothing more.

Outside, life continues in fragments. People get on, people get off, conversations begin and end without meaning to linger. No one looks long enough to notice anything beyond the surface. No one sees the way your expression tightens, the way something inside you quietly starts to break apart without sound.

You swallow hard, forcing your breathing into something steady, something controlled. But it doesn’t matter how still you sit, how tightly you hold yourself together, or how carefully you try to look away from what you’re feeling.

Because it’s already there and the tear slips anyway. 

God, you just want to go home and sleep.

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

Award show season becomes torture.

You stand backstage adjusting the clasp of Chan’s in-ear monitors when she arrives.

She’s even more breathtaking in person. The kind of beauty cameras never fully capture. And Chan’s entire face lit up when he saw her.

Not polite, it was just pure admiration. Deeply in love kinda gaze. 

“Baby,” he breathed.

Your chest caved in.

She wrapped her arms around his waist carefully, mindful of his outfit. “You look so handsome.”

“And you look so beautiful, baby,” he said quietly, eyes softening as if the world around them had faded out.

“I missed you.” She said cupping his face.

The intimacy of it felt private. You shouldn’t be standing here witnessing this. 

You step back immediately. “I’ll go check the others.”

Neither of them notice you leaving. Like you didn’t even exist and that hurt more than it should.

That night, after the performance, Chan finds you alone on the rooftop of the venue parking structure.

Cold wind whipped past as you stared over the city lights below.

“You disappeared.”

You didn’t turn around. “Needed air.”

A silence settled between you. 

“Did seeing her upset you?”

Your heart stopped. Slowly, you looked at him.

Chan’s expression was unreadable. He looked hesitant.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

You laugh weakly. “Chan—”

“You look at me like your heart’s breaking.”

The words shattered something inside you.

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

His brows pull together. “Why not? Isn’t that the truth?”

“No,” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes, “it’s not.”

The wind felt freezing now. Chan stepped closer, way too close. You stepped back immediately and he held your wrist to stop you.

“Stop running away from me, dammit,” he snapped, though his voice betrayed a slight shake.

“Chan, it’s… let’s not talk about it, please.” You sighed sadly, “my heart can’t handle this conversation.”

“I just…” he started, then stopped, like the sentence didn’t know where to go.

His eyes flicked away from yours. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, carefully stripped of anything that sounded too honest.

“I just don’t like when things feel different between us.”

“I’m sorry. I was just bu—”

“Busy with work,” he cut you off immediately, a faint edge slipping through before he could stop it. “Yeah. You said that.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face. 

“I know,” he said finally, quieter now. “I know you’re busy.”

The silence stretched.

You took a step back. “Chan, just… let it go, okay? This is getting too much.”

At that, something in his expression flickered, he looked pissed at this point.

“I’m not trying to make it ‘too much,’” he said, making air quotes around the word.

You swallowed. “Chan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then don’t say things like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Like what?”

His jaw tightened.

“Like you can’t handle talking to me,” he said, slower now. “Like I’m something you have to escape from.”

That landed heavier than it should’ve.

“I wasn’t trying to!” you said defensively. “I’m here minding my own business. You’re the one trying to make an issue out of a situation that’s nothing!”

“Oh yeah?” His voice snapped sharper now. “Stop lying.”

“I am not lying! I’m just doing my job. I’m giving you space. That’s all it is.”

His breath came out sharper this time.

“So it is space.”

“It’s not—”

“Then what is it?” he interrupted, frustration finally breaking through the restraint. “Because it feels like I’m being erased from your life one interaction at a time.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. For a second, neither of you moved.

And then his voice dropped, “I’m not okay with this.”

That was all he gave you. Just the raw and unfiltered truth. Your throat tightened.

“Chan…”

“Being not around you is making me lose my mind, can’t you see that?” He said shakily.

You froze slightly. “What… why does it matter?”

His breath came out uneven now, like he hated that he’d said it.

“Because I care about you,” he said, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t know how to deal with losing you.”

And there it is, the worst part, because you know he does. Chan loves deeply and fiercely. He gives pieces of himself to everyone he treasures. But not the way you ache for him, his one was purely platonic for you.

So you smile sadly and say the only thing that will save you both. 

“I know.” 

His face fell slightly. 

“You should go back to her,” you continue softly. “She’s probably waiting.” 

For a second, something flickers in his expression, it looked like a mix of conflict, guilt, longing. It’s gone almost immediately. 

Chan looked away first. 

“…Yeah.” 

That one word nearly killed you. He hesitates before leaving. Like he wanted to say more. 

But in the end, he walks away. And you let him, because loving him means accepting that sometimes someone can give you tenderness, trust, late-night conversations, lingering looks, just a little bit of their heart, while the rest belongs to somebody else. The one they truly want. 

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It starts as a joke.

The first time you say it is when he cooks dinner.

You’re sitting at the kitchen counter, chin in your hands, watching him move around and looking annoyingly good doing something as mundane as stirring a pan. His focused, dark brown eyes. The strands of hair falling over his forehead. The sharpness of his jaws. The slope of his nose.

He wipes his hands on a cloth when he’s done. Then slides a plate toward you.

“Eat before it gets cold,” he says without the slightest of zest.

“Thank you, my beautiful, private chef,” you teasingly say.

You pick up the fork, taking a piece of the pan seared salmon and shove it into your mouth. It tastes exactly as it looks. As you expected.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes widen dramatically.

He rolls his eyes immediately. “What.”

“This is amazing,” you gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve just been emotionally wounded by good food.

The compliment doesn’t seem to faze him much as he continues eating his own dinner. Yet he looks just as attractive when he’s eating.

You put your hands under your chin, tilting your head slightly to the side as you dreamily sigh, “You’re hot and good at cooking…”

He only looks at you, unimpressed. And yet, his indifference is the biggest part of his charm.

You lean forward and sweetly say, “Please, marry me.”

He doesn’t even look up from his own plate of dinner. “No.”

Your lips curl into a pout. “No?”

“I already cooked for you. That’s more than enough commitment,” he simply answers and ever so casually, taking a sip of water.

The answer comes out so smoothly, so unexpectedly but at the same time, it’s so Minho. You burst out laughing, completely amused. And ever since, you can’t help but teasing him with the same joke, anticipating what his answer will be.

-

A week later he comes home with a fresh haircut.

You’re on the couch scrolling through your phone when he walks in, casually kicking off his shoes like he didn’t just drastically increase the apartment’s attractiveness level.

It amazes you how Minho losing a few inches of hair makes you stare and feel warm all over.

He notices as he walks to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “What?”

“You look hot,” you say, biting your lower lip like it would help supress the dirty thoughts forming in your head. “Like… illegally hot.”

“It’s just a haircut,” he says, matter-of-factly.

You wait until he’s sitting on the sofa with you, scooting closer until you’re right there next to him and stare at him all over again with heart in your eyes.

“Gosh, I have the hottest man in the world as my boyfriend,” you sigh, a finger playfully tracing the prominent vein on his arm.

As usual, Minho is unfazed. He’s on his phone, typing on the screen with so much focus. You lean in closer, close enough to place light, little kisses along the side of his jaw and then a final one on the skin behind his ear, catching the hint of his perfume there.

“I’d destroy the world if you married someone else,” you feign seriousness as you whisper into his ear. “So please… marry me.”

That gets him turning his head toward you and stares at you for a long second. Then he shrugs and says, “Sounds like a you problem.”

With that, he turns his focus back on his phone, ignoring the way you pout and glare at him from the side.

But after a while, you smile as you soften around him again. You wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him despite him rejecting your playful proposal for the second time.

-

One evening you’re both sprawled on the couch. Minho is lying on his back with a cushion propped under his head and you — you lay on top of him with his muscular chest as your pillow, your legs are tangled with his. His arm wrapped around your back, fingers absentmindedly playing with the end of your hair.

Even doing something mundane like this — just watching a movie, cuddling on the sofa in a contented silence — feels special with him. It really is not about what you’re doing but who you’re doing it with.

You glance up at him and find him so focused on the TV, looking comfortable and warm and frustratingly boyfriend-shaped.

You sigh contentedly and softly call his name, “Minho.”

“Hm.”

“Please marry me.”

He doesn’t even look away from the screen. His tone flat and uninterested as he asks, “Why should I?”

You subtly shrug and say, “So we can do what married people do.”

One hand glides down to the base of your spine, threading his fingers there. He turns his head slightly. “Like what?”

You think about it seriously for a moment, humming in solemn. “We can open joint bank accounts.”

“Terrible idea.”

“Getting a mortgage.”

“Even worse.”

“Buying matching coffins.”

He finally turns fully toward you. “What?”

“So when we die we can be buried next to each other,” you explain matter-of-factly.

He stares at you like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him here. “You skipped a lot of steps.”

You coyly shrug and grin.

“I’d prefer to be cremated though,” he says, putting both hands on your back now.

“Oh?” You softly gasp, slightly surprised. Then, a second later—

“Oh!” you gasp again, the kind that comes with an idea. A strange, weird idea. “We can have our ashes pressed into diamonds and inherit it to our future children.”

Minho’s lips quirk into a half smirk. “That’s actually a good idea,” he agrees.

You beam and snuggle closer, feeling proud of yourself. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck and softly whisper, “So let’s get married, yeah?”

He pats your head like you’re an overly affectionate cat. “No.”

The proposal isn’t that serious but your head lifts anyway when he rejects you for the third time. “No?”

This time, he looks at you when he says it again. “No.”

“Why not?”

He holds your face with both hands like you’re a fragile object but the answer he gives you is nothing like it. “Cause you’re getting harder to tolerate,” he flatly replies.

Instead of feeling offended, you crack a laugh and bump your nose with his. “I hate you,” you say, affectionately.

“See? Hard to tolerate,” he says, smirking.

But with each rejection, you find yourself falling harder for him. And a tiniest bit of hope that he’ll marry you. For real.

-

The joke continues.

Every time he does something nice.

When he brings you coffee.

“Please marry me.”

When he fixes the loose cabinet door you’ve been ignoring for months.

“Please marry me.”

When he wordlessly hands you a blanket because he noticed you were cold.

“Please marry me.”

His responses are always the same level of unimpressed.

“Unlikely.”

“No thanks.”

“Absolutely not.”

Or his personal favorite:

“I’m not in the mood.”

Even when you’re already tucked in bed, drowsy and tired, ready to sleep. You look at Minho who’s peacefully lying beside you with eyes closed. You lean in to his ear, whisper while half asleep.

“Please marry me, Minho.”

Minho’s eyes snap open and slowly, he turns his head toward you. He gives you a look of disbelief. Then he runs his fingers down your face to force you to close your eyes.

“Go to sleep.”

“But—”

This time, he cuts you off with by pressing a sudden, hard kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he mutters, “Your proposal has been postponed.”

And you can’t really complaint when he shut you up like that. So instead, you snug closer to him and try to sleep. At the same, you’re already planning on proposing again tomorrow.

-

Weeks pass.

The joke never really stops. It just becomes part of your routine now.

As Minho is busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, you hug him from behind. You wrap your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and feeling comforted already by the mere feel of his body against you.

Minho continues cutting ingredients like this is just another Sunday afternoon. The sounds of his knife hitting the cutting board are the only thing filling the silence. Until—

 “Please marry me,” you say, voice a little muffled as your mouth pressed to his neck.

Minho sighs but continues cutting the carrot now. “You’ve proposed to me twelve times today.”

You grin and teasingly say, “So?”

He turns his head, looking at you like he’s both impressed and bewildered that you haven’t given up already.

You don’t waver. Instead, you feel encouraged. “Statistically one of them will work eventually,” you confidently say.

He smirks and simply says, “Good luck with that.”

-

One night you come home exhausted. Work had been long and irritating and your brain feels like it’s running on fumes. When you open the apartment door, the smell of food greets you immediately.

Minho stands in the kitchen, the sleeves of his dark sweater rolled up to his elbows, putting too much focus on plating dinner.

Just the sight of him is enough to make the weight of the day vanishes into thin air. “I’m home,” you weakly announce.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.

You walk up to him, giving him a quick hug while letting out a sigh. Like you’re trying to exhale all the heavy, worried minds out of your head. When you pull away, you offer him a small smile.

“I’m just going to put my bag away and wash up,” you say.

He seems to notice that you’re more exhausted than usual. He gives you a quick kiss on the lips before letting you go.

When you return, he’s already set everything on the dining table and now, filling your glass with red wine. You take your seat, stomach grumbling at the mouth-watering smell of the food in front of you.

It’s when Minho takes his seat, you finally allow yourself to start eating. It feels good to come home to the man you love and eat the food he cooked. You couldn’t be luckier than this.

“Good?” he asks.

You have to stop yourself from shoving more food to properly answer him. “So good,” you say with stuffed cheeks.

He smiles at that, warm and affectionate, before getting back to his own plate of dinner.

At the end of the dinner, you feel so content. Literally. Figuratively. You have a small sip of wine before leaning in to the side until your shoulder meets his and stay there.

You tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “Thank you for dinner,” you genuinely mutter.

Minho puts an arm around your shoulder. “Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, followed with a quick kiss to the top of your head.

You have another sip of wine and feeling playful when you look at him again. Then you hesitantly ask, “Marry me?”

For once, he doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks back at you. He studies your face for a moment. Then, finally answers, “Okay.”

Wow! That’s a first.

But you know him too well to know that he’s only saying that as a joke, to boost your ego. Or lighten up your mood after a long, tiring day.

“You’re not supposed to say yes. You’re supposed to reject me,” you tell him, half-laughing.

He tilts his head slightly and blinks his eyes a few times. “Well, I changed my mind.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious now or just messing with you. You nervously laugh and decide to entertain the idea. “Okay, let’s go to the city hall tomorrow and get a marriage certificate.”

“Okay,” he repeats.

Your heart starts beating faster. “You’re joking, right?” you carefully ask.

“I’m not,” his voice is calm. Serious.

Your stomach flips. “Minho…”

The arm around your shoulder feels warm and steady. He looks you in the eyes as he says, “I though you always wanted me to say yes.”

Your brain struggles to catch up. “Wait, are you actually—”

“Yes.”

You sigh, a part of you still struggling to believe this. “Minho, I need to know if you’re serious.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why would I joke about that.”

You stare at him, completely stunned. “But I thought—”

“That it was just a joke?” he finishes.

You nod weakly.

He nonchalantly shrugs. “It started that way. But I thought about it.”

“And?” you whisper.

He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “And I decided I wouldn’t mind doing those things with you.”

Your voice comes out small. “Even the cremated part?”

He sighs like he’s fed up of you doubting his proposal. “If that’s what you want.”

A shaky laugh escapes you, half disbelief and half overwhelming emotion. “You’re really proposing right now?”

“You’re the one who proposed first.”

“That was a joke!”

“And this isn’t.”

The room feels very quiet suddenly. Despite the confusion, the suddenness of this moment, and the fact that it hasn’t sunk into you… your eyes start to sting.

“You’re serious…” you mutter to yourself while laughing in disbelief.

He gently squeezes your shoulder. “Do you want me to ask properly?”

You nod quickly.

He takes a small breath. Then, in the most Minho way possible, he says, “Do you want to marry me so we can open a joint bank account, get a mortgage and have our cremated ashes turn into diamonds?”

You burst into tearful laughter. “Yes. A thousand time yes,” you say immediately.

He nods once, satisfied. “Okay.”

With that, he pulls you into his arms like this was the most normal conversation in the world. That this is not him finally asking you to marry him and said yes to marrying you.

You cling to him, still laughing in disbelief. “Told you, one of them will work eventually,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“I know.”

You tilt your head up, looking at him in love and disbelief that you’ll have your forever with him. “Marry me, Minho,” you softly murmur it’s almost a whisper.

He leans in and places a chaste kiss on your lips. when he pulls away just enough to look at you, he smiles and says, “Already working on it.”

-

Lee Know

Seo Changbin

Hwang Hyunjin

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Lee Know

Seo Changbin

Hwang Hyunjin

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