Heeseung’s supposed to be sleeping before his flight to Japan—but instead, he can’t stop thinking about you. One text. One call. One night that proves maybe distance doesn’t matter when someone already feels like home.
Your phone lights up just as you’re settling into bed, the glow painting your room a dim gold. You expect a random notification — maybe a reminder or a spam email — but instead, you see his name.
You blink, surprised. Heeseung almost never texts you this late unless something is on his mind. Before you can reply, another message appears.
“I’m a couple hundred miles from Japan tonight.”
You stare at the words, confused for a second — until it clicks. Heeseung’s on tour. Japan’s his next stop. You type quickly
“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“Thinking about you too much.”
Your heart squeezes, warm and tight. You imagine him in a hotel room somewhere — dim lights, open suitcase half-unpacked, hair messy from travel, hoodie on, his voice probably raspy from rehearsing.
He answers instantly, like he was holding his phone waiting for you. “Hey,” he says softly, and you can feel his smile through the line.
“So… a couple hundred miles?” you tease.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “and every one of them feels longer without you.”
You pull your covers up to your chin, cheeks heating. “Heeseung…”
He laughs gently — that low, breathy sound that always melts you. “I mean it. Everyone else fell asleep, and I’m just here wishing you were next to me.”
Your heart flutters hard. “I wish I were there too,” you whisper.
There’s a little pause, then his voice drops even softer, like he’s confessing something he only wants you to hear. “If you called me right now and said you needed me…” He exhales slowly. “I’d get on the next flight. No hesitation.”
Your breath catches. “You’d really fly all the way here?” you ask.
“I already want to,” he says quietly. “Couple hundred miles isn’t that far when it’s you.” The line goes quiet for a moment — not awkward, just warm, like the two of you are sharing the same space, same air, same quiet heartbeat. He suddenly whispers, “Look out your window.”
The moon hangs low, silver and soft, the exact same one he’s seeing from his hotel room miles away. “We’re looking at the same sky,” he murmurs. “Feels like you’re closer.”
Your chest tightens in the sweetest way. “I miss you,” you admit.
Heeseung breathes out like he’s been waiting to hear that. “I miss you more.”
Another silence — comfortable, steady, full of unspoken feelings. “Promise me something,” he says.
“When I land in Japan tomorrow… stay on call with me? Even for a few minutes. I want the first thing I hear to be your voice.”
You press the phone closer. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll be right here.”
His voice softens, warm with relief. “Good. Then a couple hundred miles doesn’t feel like anything.”
And for a moment — just hearing him breathe, hearing your name leave his lips — it really doesn’t. Tonight, distance loses.
Tonight, it’s just you and Heeseung, connected across miles that suddenly don’t seem so far at all.
