Sam🫰🏻

B A N G C H A N

How Do I Tell Him? ≈

Just Like Him [part one] [part two] ≈ ∞

L E E M I N H O

Stuck Wanting You [part one] [part two] ≈ ∞

S E O C H A N G B I N

Cash vs Chemistry (AU) ≈ ∞

H W A N G H Y U N J I N

No Feelings ≈

H A N J I S U N G

Misunderstandings (AU) ≈ ∞

[REQUESTED] Fat, Funny Friend ≈ ∞

L E E F E L I X

The Table By The Window ∞

K I M S E U N G M I N

Never Too Much ≈ ∞

Comfort After Cancellation ∞

Y A N G J E O N G I N

Time Changes Everything (AU) ∞

S E R I E S

The SKZ Playlist: Rosie edition ≈ ∞

The confusion on his face lasted approximately two seconds before it disappeared, replaced by something closer to annoyance.

"What?"

"The letters." You folded your arms. "What letters?"

Now it was his turn to stare.

"You know what letters."

"No, Felix." Your voice rose. "I very clearly do not."

A frown appeared on his face, annoyance building at your denial. "The letters I sent you."

The words hit like a physical blow. Neither of you moved as you tried to process what he was saying. You were sure there was no way he could have sent you letters, because you would definitely have received them.

He continued, unaware of your inner turmoil. “I sent you one every month, Y/N."

You blinked. "What?"

"For a year."

Your stomach dropped. "No."

His expression hardened. "Yes."

"No."

"I did."

The certainty in his voice made your pulse quicken. "No, you didn't."

His jaw clenched. "I did."

"You're lying."

The words escaped before you could stop them, and your stomach dropped at the look on his face. Genuine hurt flashed across his face, but he held eye contact as he answered you, refusing to shy away from your words.

"I'm not lying."

The alley suddenly felt too small. Too narrow. Too quiet. You stared at him as he stared back, and slowly, a horrible realisation began to creep into both your expressions.

Your voice came out quieter this time. "...I never got any letters, Felix."

Felix froze - actually froze – and you saw the colour drain from his face as he stared at you in disbelief. "What?"

You shook your head, repeating yourself. "I never got anything."

The silence that followed was deafening, and for several seconds, neither of you spoke. You couldn’t believe what he was saying. You could understand one missed letter – accidents happen all the time – but more than that? How was that even possible?

Felix’s voice brought you out of your thoughts when he asked, "What do you mean you never got anything?"

The question came out almost breathless, and you shrugged your shoulders helplessly in response, unsure of what more you could tell him.

"I mean exactly what I said."

His eyes searched yours desperately, like he was trying to determine whether you were joking or whether this was some elaborate attempt to hurt him. When he found nothing but confusion staring back, his expression slowly crumbled.

"I sent twelve."

Your heart stopped at the heartbreak in his voice. "What?"

His voice grew distant as he continued, stuck in the past, thinking about it. "Twelve letters. One every month."

You felt sick at his words, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

A year.

A whole year.

A year of letters you'd never seen. A year of words you'd never read. A year of explanations you'd never received.

"I never got a single one of them, Felix."

Felix looked away first, running both hands through his hair. For the first time since Paris, he looked genuinely shaken. Long gone was the guilt, the sadness. It was replaced by sheer disbelief – at the situation, at how different things could have been had you received even one of them. He looked as though the ground beneath him had suddenly disappeared when the next words came out of his mouth.

"I thought you were ignoring me."

The confession was so quiet you almost missed it, and you were taken aback by what he said.

“Ignoring you? Felix… I was too busy missing you.”

His laugh was humourless, broken. His eyes started watering as he continued, "I thought you hated me."

The words landed heavily between you, but he wasn’t finished. It was as if you had reached inside him and uncapped years’ worth of bottled emotions.

"After the first few months, I thought maybe you were angry." His eyes met yours again. "Then after six months... I thought you never wanted to hear from me again."

You couldn't speak, because suddenly pieces of the puzzle were rearranging themselves. Pieces that had never fit before, that you'd spent years trying to understand.

Then anger surged back.

"What kind of idiot sends letters?" you snapped.

Felix blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You had a phone."

"I got a Korean number."

"So?"

His frustration matched yours immediately. "So I couldn't just hand it out!"

You threw your arms into the air. "You couldn't text me?"

"No."

"Email?"

"No."

"Social media?"

His laugh this time was genuinely disbelieving. "Y/N, I was a trainee."

You opened your mouth, but he continued, ranting now.

"I barely had access to my own accounts. I wasn't allowed to share my private number. I was already risking things by sending you so many letters! Letters you didn’t even get."

By the end of it, his voice had risen to bounce off the walls of the dark alley around you. To some, it might have been intimidating, but to you, it was refreshing. Felix had always said more when he was angry.

You were still confused, though, because out of all the things he could have done-

"Letters?"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

The question echoed through the alley, joining the rest of his annoyance. And frustratingly... You didn't actually have an answer. Because when you thought about it, letters did make sense. They were definitely old-fashioned and annoying, but possible. If he genuinely couldn't contact you another way.

You hated the whole situation because it made everything more complicated. And complicated was the last thing you wanted. Your chest felt tight, and your head hurt. Nothing made sense anymore. You had spent years missing him, trying to get over him. Years convinced that he had left without a word. And now, you were learning that those years spent in silence had possibly been a lie.

Finally, you looked at him. "If you were trying so hard to contact me..."

Your voice cracked slightly, but you had to carry on. You had to know.

"Why did you leave?"

The question you'd carried for two years. The question at the centre of everything.

Felix immediately went still, and the tension between you shifted. Changed. It became something heavier, more suffocating. His eyes dropped briefly, then returned to yours. He looked terrified suddenly. But not of your anger, you thought, but rather the answer.

"You still don't know?"

A chill ran down your spine. "Know what?"

Felix stared at you for several seconds, refusing to answer. He looked away, and you could see the fight behind his eyes about whether he should tell you the truth or not.

“Felix… Please. Tell me.”

He sighed, a slow exhale, before he cleared his throat and spoke. "The night before I left."

You frowned. "What about it?"

His expression twisted into a mixture of pain and regret and instantly, your heart was racing.

"I came to your house."

Your heart skipped. "No."

"I came to tell you."

The world tilted. "No."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"I did." His voice was firm now, certain. "I packed my bags. I went to your house."

You stared. Every instinct told you he was telling the truth, and you started to pace, unsure of what to do with yourself.

He carried on regardless. "I spoke to your mum."

Everything inside you stopped and you froze in your tracks, staring at the wall opposite you. You couldn’t breathe, and with each new piece of information, it only got worse.

"I told her about Korea. I told her about the opportunity."

The alley seemed to spin slightly.

Your mum.

Your mum knew?

"No."

His eyes filled with something resembling heartbreak. "She knew."

The words shattered something inside your chest. You took a step backwards, trying to process, to understand. Trying to make it make sense.

"What did she say?"

The question came out sharp - dangerously sharp – and Felix hesitated for a moment before breaking your heart all over again.

"She told me to leave."

"No. No, she wouldn’t-"

His gaze remained locked on yours, desperate for you to understand. "She told me that if I stayed..."

His voice cracked.

"...you'd never follow your own dreams."

Your entire body went numb.

No. No. No.

That wasn't possible.

Your mother would never—

Would she?

Suddenly, memories resurfaced. Conversations you’d once considered unimportant filled with comments you'd never thought twice about. The way your mum had pushed you towards opportunities after Felix left. The way she'd insisted you move forward. The way she'd always changed the subject whenever his name came up.

Your stomach lurched, and you grabbed the nearest surface to remain standing.

Felix looked miserable. "I thought she was right."

The words barely registered because fury was already rising. The response was fast. Violent. Uncontrollable. Only this time, it wasn’t directed at Felix. It was directed at the person who had apparently made a decision about your life without ever asking what you wanted.

Your hands clenched into fists, and your voice trembled as you spoke. "You're telling me... that my mother decided what was best for me?"

Felix immediately looked alarmed. "Y/N—"

"And you listened?"

His expression collapsed. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"The right thing?" Your laugh was sharp, disbelieving. "You left me!"

"I know."

"You let me think you abandoned me."

"I know."

"You let me spend two years believing I wasn't worth an explanation."

The guilt on his face was immediate, devastating in its intensity. Yet somehow, in this moment, it wasn't enough. Because right now, all you could think about was the fact that somebody had stolen your choice, your future, and your relationship. But the thing that hurt the most?

They’d taken your chance to decide for yourself.

Suddenly, for the first time in two years, your anger wasn't pointed entirely at Felix anymore. It was somehow the most terrifying revelation of all.

The moment Felix had finished speaking, you’d turned and walked away. Not because you were done with the conversation, or because you believed him and suddenly forgave him. You walked away because if you stayed in that alley for another thirty seconds, you genuinely thought your head might explode.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Nothing.

For two years, you'd carried a very specific version of events. Felix had left. Felix had disappeared. Felix had chosen his dreams over you and never looked back. Whilst they were painful, they were also simple. Understandable at your strongest. Now, in the space of ten minutes, that entire narrative had been shattered.

Letters. Twelve letters. A visit to your house. A conversation with your mother. A decision supposedly made without your knowledge.

The ground beneath everything you thought you knew was shifting, and you hated it.

You pushed back through the side door and re-entered the club, and music immediately hit you. People were still laughing, still celebrating. They were still living in a reality that made sense. You marched through the crowd with single-minded determination. Behind you, you could hear Felix following, calling your name. You ignored him, though.

Your bag was exactly where you'd left it, and you grabbed it so quickly you nearly knocked over a chair. You immediately pulled out your phone. One call – one answer – was all you needed. Your mother's contact appeared on the screen, and you pressed call without hesitation. Your temper flared when it rang out to voicemail. You ended the call and immediately tried again, and again. When you noticed the time, you realised. It was one o'clock in the morning, and most normal people were asleep. Unfortunately, normality felt completely irrelevant right now. You lowered the phone, your heart hammering. Your thoughts were racing so fast you could barely keep up with them.

"I need to go home."

The words escaped before you'd fully processed them. Felix was standing a few feet away, watching you carefully.

"Y/N—"

"I need answers." Your voice shook, thinking out loud. "I need to know if he's telling the truth."

He flinched slightly at the word he, but you didn't care.

"I'm driving there.”

The decision had already been made. Your childhood home was only a couple of hours away. You could be there before sunrise, wake your mother up and finally get some answers.

You turned towards the exit but paused when you felt gentle fingers close around your wrist. Slowly, you looked down, and then up into Felix’s worried gaze.

He released you, stating with certainty, "I'll drive."

"No."

"I'll drive."

"I can get a car."

"Y/N."

You shook your head. "No."

His expression softened, but the stubbornness remained. Your heart unhelpfully skipped a beat when you noticed how concerned he looked, too.

"Please."

Just one word. That’s all it took to break your resistance. Not an argument or an explanation, just please. If you were honest with yourself, your thoughts were a complete mess right now, and you probably shouldn't be behind the wheel, but you hated that he was right.

Eventually, you exhaled – once, slowly - then nodded.

The drive was strange, but surprisingly not awkward. After everything you'd learned, awkwardness felt far too small a word. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, thoughtful. Tense. The sort of silence that existed because both people were trying to process something too large to put into words.

Streetlights passed rhythmically outside the windows, and the motorway stretched endlessly ahead. Occasionally, Felix glanced at you, but most of the time, he didn't. Most of the time, he simply focused on driving. You, on the other hand, stared out of the window, your thoughts spinning endlessly.

Your mother knew.

The sentence repeated over and over. Your mother had known that he was leaving – why he was leaving – and where he was going. Known he'd come to say goodbye. If Felix was telling the truth... The thought made your stomach twist. You couldn't think like that yet. Not until you heard it from her, until she confirmed it herself.

The hours slipped by, and at some point, exhaustion finally began catching up with you. You hadn't slept properly since Paris, and then there had been the concert, followed by the party and the argument with its revelations. Your body was running on fumes, and you desperately tried to fight it at first, but eventually your eyes began drifting shut.

When Felix glanced across a few minutes later, you were asleep. You were curled against the passenger door, one hand loosely wrapped around your phone. Your expression had finally relaxed for the first time all evening, and all the anger, frustration and confusion was finally gone. He knew it was only temporary, but he was glad of the break that sleep provided for your mind.

He swallowed hard before tearing his eyes away, back to the road. Seeing you like that hurt, he thought. He didn’t think that you looked vulnerable, but you definitely looked exhausted, and he knew exactly why.

By the time he pulled up outside your childhood home, it was after three in the morning. The house sat in darkness, every window black, and everyone inside asleep. Felix killed the engine, and silence settled around the car. You didn't even stir, completely at rest in his passenger seat. For several seconds, he simply sat there, watching the house whilst he listened to your soft breathing.

Eventually, he reached into the back seat slowly and retrieved his jacket, afraid of disturbing you. He draped it over you, the oversized material immediately swallowing half your frame. You shifted slightly, and his breath hitched for a second. He smiled sadly to himself when you just snuggled deeper into his jacket.

He settled back into his seat to wait.

When you woke, it took several seconds to remember where you were.

The first thing you noticed was the sunlight - soft golden morning light filtering through the windscreen. The second thing you noticed was the jacket. The third—

Everything.

The letters.

The conversation.

Your mother.

The house.

The revelation hit like a train, and you sat upright immediately. Beside you, Felix was still there, exactly where you'd left him. He was sitting in the driver's seat, awake. His eyes looked tired. The sort of tired that came from not sleeping at all, you realised.

"Did you sleep?"

A small smile appeared. "Not really."

You looked at the dashboard clock.

6:03am.

Your stomach dropped. "You stayed awake?"

He shrugged, as though sitting in a parked car for three hours wasn't remotely unusual. You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again, because suddenly, none of that mattered.

The house and the answers. That was what mattered.

You shoved his jacket into his arms, unbuckled your seatbelt, and climbed out quickly. The cool, sharp morning air hit your face immediately, wiping away any lingering fatigue. Behind you, Felix emerged from the car, but he didn't say anything or try to stop you. You marched straight up the path, past the flower beds and the familiar windows. Past every memory you'd ever made in this house. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you felt the weight of years of unanswered questions sit heavily in your chest.

Finally.

Finally.

You reached the front door, hand raised to knock.

For the first time in two years, you were about to hear the truth from the person who owed it to you most.

The door opened almost immediately. Your mother had always been an early riser, so you weren’t surprised.

What was surprising was how quickly her expression changed.

One second, she was opening the door with sleepy confusion. Next, she was staring at you. You watched her eyes drift past you, towards the driveway, towards Felix. He was standing beside the car with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, looking just as tense as you felt. For a moment, nobody spoke, but you saw the look of anxiety on your mother’s face. In that instant, before a single word had been said, you knew.

She knew exactly why you were here.

A long silence stretched between the three of you before your mother closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, she looked tired. Not sleepy, but the kind of tired that came from carrying something for a very long time.

"Come inside."

You walked past her without speaking, Felix following several seconds later. The familiar scent of your childhood home hit you immediately, and for a brief moment, memories threatened to surface. Christmas mornings, school mornings, family dinners. The countless evenings you'd spent sitting in this kitchen. You shoved all of it away, though, because right now, nostalgia felt like the last thing you needed.

Your mother led you through to the kitchen. It was the same kitchen with the same table and worn wooden chairs, but everything felt different now. You sat automatically, and across from you, Felix hesitated before lowering himself into the seat beside you. Exactly where he used to sit years ago.

The familiarity of it made your chest ache.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. Now that you were here, you weren’t sure whether you should let your mother start or say something yourself. You didn’t know whether to mention your argument with Felix or how angry you were.

Your mother stood before you had to decide, disappearing from the room with a simple "I'll be right back."

A cupboard opened somewhere, then another. You heard drawers slide open, followed by something shifting. Beside you, Felix remained completely silent, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, his eyes fixed on the table as he waited. Eventually, your mother returned, and in her hands was a bundle of envelopes.

Your breath caught.

The room suddenly felt smaller as she placed them carefully on the table between you. For a moment, nobody moved. You stared until your vision went blurry. Even from where you sat, you recognised the handwriting. Your heart dropped. There were twelve letters, maybe more, all tied together with a faded ribbon. All unopened. All untouched. The sight made you feel physically sick.

Slowly, your gaze lifted towards your mother. She looked older than she had thirty minutes ago, smaller somehow.

"I kept them."

The words sounded fragile, and you felt your face twist in anger.

"Why?"

Her eyes filled immediately, but it only made you angrier. Why was she upset when you were the one who had suffered for years? When both you and Felix had suffered?

Your voice rose. "Why, Mum?"

"Because I thought I was doing the right thing."

A bitter laugh escaped you. The sound surprised everyone, including yourself.

"The right thing?"

She swallowed. "I knew what would happen."

You folded your arms. "Oh, I'd love to hear this."

Beside you, Felix shifted slightly but remained silent.

Your mother looked at both of you, then down at the letters. "When he came here that night... I saw the way you looked at him."

The room fell silent.

"I knew what you would do."

You arched an eyebrow. "What I would do?"

"You would've followed him."

"No."

"You would've tried." Her voice strengthened. "You would've put your life on hold."

"I wouldn't have."

"Yes, you would have." The certainty in her tone hit like a slap. "You loved him. I knew you'd try long distance."

You looked away, away from her and away from Felix, because part of you hated how accurate that sounded.

Your mother continued. "I knew you'd spend every day waiting for him."

Felix's head dropped slightly, pained by your mother’s words.

"And I knew that every dream you'd ever talked about would become secondary. I didn't want that for you. I wanted you to have your own life."

The kitchen felt suffocating by the time she was finished, and you couldn’t stop the frustrated years from welling up in your eyes.

"Really?"

Her expression faltered. "Y/N—"

"No." You shook your head. "No." The years of hurt suddenly surged forward. Every sleepless night, every unanswered question, every lonely moment. Every piece of yourself you'd spent years rebuilding. "You thought that was what was best? Was it for the best when I spent months wondering why I wasn't enough?"

Your mother's face crumpled, but you had to finish now, you had to say everything that was on your mind whilst you had the chance.

"Was it for the best when I couldn't sleep? Was it for the best when I drank myself unconscious just so I wouldn't think about him?"

The words echoed through the kitchen, and you realised your mistake a second later because Felix had gone completely still. The room seemed to freeze with him. You hadn't meant to say it. Not like that, and not in front of him. But it was too late now because the words were out, and Felix had heard every single one.

Slowly, you turned your head to face him. His face had gone white, and the devastation there was raw, unfiltered.

"What?"

The word barely emerged from him above a whisper. You immediately regretted it because you'd never wanted him to know. Those months had belonged to the version of you that you'd worked so hard to leave behind. The version that couldn't function, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep.

The version that couldn't understand why she hadn't been enough.

Felix looked like he couldn't breathe, voice cracking as he asked:

 "You were drinking?”

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes. The silence answered for you.

"Oh, my God."

The horror in his voice made your stomach twist. Beside you, Felix dragged a hand across his face, looking completely shattered. This was clearly news to him, but it obviously would be. You hadn’t had any contact because of your mother, who was looking equally horrified.

"I didn't know it was that bad."

You laughed sharply. "Of course you didn't."

"Y/N—"

"No."

You stood so abruptly that your chair scraped loudly across the floor, the sound echoing through the kitchen. Your mother stood, too.

"I was trying to protect you!"

The words snapped something inside you, and the tears broke free, rushing down your cheeks. "Protect me? Protect me? You took away my choice! You decided what my future should look like!"

Your mother winced, trying to explain. "I thought—"

"Exactly." Your voice broke. "You thought."

The room fell silent. Your mother looked heartbroken, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care right now. Not when the hurt was still burning so fiercely, and not when two years of your life suddenly looked completely different.

Your gaze dropped to the letters. The bundle was sitting untouched on the table, waiting. You grabbed them, and the ribbon dug into your fingers, somewhat grounding you. Your mother opened her mouth, but you didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to hear her explanations, her apologies, or her defence. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Without another word, you turned and rushed out of your childhood home, the front door slamming behind you. You barely noticed the cold morning air anymore. Your vision was blurred, your hands shaking. The letters felt impossibly heavy in your hands, the weight of years of silence trapped in a simple bundle of paper.

The front door opened behind you, but you didn’t need to look because you already knew who it was. Even after all this time, you still recognised the sound of his footfall on the paving slabs outside your home. For several seconds, neither of you spoke, simply existing side by side in the early morning sunlight. Birds chirped somewhere nearby, and the world carried on as though nothing had happened. As though everything hadn't just changed.

You stared down at the bundle of letters clutched against your chest. Twelve months of words, twelve months of explanations, twelve months of him trying to reach you, stolen from you by the one person in this world who was meant to protect you and your happiness. Beside you, Felix was silent. Neither of you knew what to say exactly, because after everything you'd just learned, there weren't really any words left.

Only the truth.

And the wreckage it had left behind.

The drive back to your hotel was quiet. Not the comfortable sort of quiet that settled naturally between two people who knew each other well, and not even the angry silence that follows an argument. This felt different, loaded. As though neither of you quite knew how to exist in the aftermath of what had happened.

Your mother's confession sat between you, and the letters sat on your lap. Twelve unopened envelopes that somehow felt heavier than anything you'd ever carried. You spent most of the journey staring at them, at Felix's handwriting and the dates carefully written in the corners. Month after month, year after year. Proof that the story you'd spent two years believing wasn't the whole truth. Beside you, Felix kept his eyes fixed on the road. Neither of you attempted a conversation. What was there left to say? Every time you thought about speaking, another memory surfaced. Every time you looked at the letters, another piece of your anger shifted.

By the time the hotel came into view, you felt emotionally exhausted, the sort of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. Felix pulled into the car park and switched off the engine. You sat there for a few seconds, dredging up the energy to move before slowly reaching for the door handle.

"Thank you."

Your voice sounded small, rough from disuse and the tears you’d shed.

Felix nodded. "Of course."

You swallowed, then pushed the door open and turned to step out. Warm fingers wrapped gently around your hand, and you froze, eyes dropping to where his hand held yours. You didn’t say anything as you met his gaze, heart breaking at what you saw. Felix was, and always would be, beautiful, but right now he looked awful.  The sleepless night mixed with the drive and everything you’d both learnt was written all over his face. There was something in his eyes, though. You weren’t sure if it was hope, fear, desperation or a mixture of everything, but you knew what he wanted. He wanted reassurance, a sign that you weren’t about to disappear on him.

Your chest tightened painfully at the sight, because despite everything, despite what the letters might contain, despite what you'd learned, you couldn't do this right now.

"Felix."

His expression softened immediately, and you hated just how much more difficult it made things.

"I need space."

The words hurt coming out. You saw the disappointment immediately in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, but you had to say this.

"I need time." Your voice cracked. "Please."

The silence stretched as his eyes took you in before slowly – very slowly – his fingers loosened, letting you go. You knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to, but because he was respecting what you'd asked, the same way he had for the past month.

His jaw tightened, but eventually he nodded. "Okay."

The word sounded reluctant, painful even, yet sincere. You managed a small nod in return, then turned and walked away.

This time, he didn't follow.

The second you entered your hotel room, the carefully maintained composure you'd been clinging to finally shattered.

You didn't bother turning on the lights, didn't bother unpacking or changing clothes. You kicked off your shoes and crawled straight into bed fully dressed, still clutching the letters. The curtains remained closed, the room remaining dark. And for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to fall apart. Quietly. The way heartbreak always seemed to happen when nobody was watching.

Hours passed, and your phone buzzed repeatedly, but you ignored it. Food arrived outside your door at some point, and you ignored that, too. The world continued turning whilst you remained curled beneath the covers, thinking and remembering. Trying desperately to make sense of everything. Eventually, sometime late that afternoon, your gaze drifted towards the bundle of letters resting on the bedside table.

Suddenly, you couldn't avoid them anymore.

Your heart immediately started racing because part of you wasn't sure you wanted to know. For two years, those letters had been trapped in limbo. They were left unopened, frozen in time with their unread words. The version of Felix who wrote them no longer existed, and neither did the version of you they were intended for. Somehow, they still felt terrifying.

Slowly, you sat up, reached for the ribbon and untied it. The paper felt fragile beneath your fingers, and you noticed that the first envelope was dated only weeks after he'd left. Your hands trembled as you opened it, then you began to read.

Y/N,

I miss you already.

The first line alone was enough to make your eyes burn, but you continued anyway. Letter after letter, month after month, you watched a year of Felix's life unfold through ink and paper. He told you about training, about being lonely, about missing home and missing you.

Always you.

Every letter carried the same thread running through it. There were stories about terrible meals, about exhausting schedules, about sleeping on buses. Stories about moments he'd wished you were there to see. The details changed, but the feelings never did.

You read until your vision blurred, then kept reading, because you couldn't stop. Not anymore. One letter described seeing something that reminded him of you in a shop window. Another described hearing a song he'd immediately wanted to send you. One talked about dreaming he'd come home and found you waiting for him. Your tears landed on the paper, but you barely noticed.

It was one of the final letters that broke your heart completely.

Y/N,

I don't know if you're reading these anymore. Maybe you're angry, or maybe you've moved on. Maybe you never want to hear from me again. I wouldn't blame you, but I still need to write this.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to stop the sob building in your throat. It didn't work.

I love you. I think I always will. And maybe that's selfish, maybe it's unfair, but I can't imagine a future where I don't.

The tears came harder, faster, but you kept reading.

I know people say long distance never works, and I know everyone thinks we're too young. But I don't. I still think we're meant to find our way back to each other.

Your chest ached from the hurt because this wasn't the Felix you'd imagined. This wasn't the selfish boy you'd spent years resenting. This was someone who had been writing into silence, someone who genuinely believed you were ignoring him. Someone who had continued loving you anyway.

And the worst part – the absolute worst part - was what wasn't there in any of his letters. He never once even alluded to the conversation he’d had with your mother. He never hinted at her asking him to leave. There was no attempt to use it against her or to excuse himself by making you blame anyone else. He could have. One sentence would have changed everything, and you would have known the truth years ago. Instead, he'd protected her, respected her, even when it meant letting you hate him. Even when it meant carrying the blame alone.

Your vision blurred completely, and the final letter slipped from your fingers. You were crying harder than you had in years. For the first time, it wasn’t because Felix had left, and it wasn’t even because of your mother or the letters. It was because, for the first time, you realised how alone he'd been and how convinced he'd been that you were choosing silence. Yet he'd kept writing anyway, month after month, letter after letter, holding onto hope long after most people would have given up.

The thought shattered what remained of your heart.

Curled beneath the covers with twelve letters scattered around you, you finally allowed yourself to mourn everything that had been stolen from both of you. Not just the relationship, or the years, but the future you might have had if someone had simply trusted you enough to choose it for yourself.

By the time evening arrived, your eyes ached from crying. The letters were scattered across the bed around you. Some lay folded neatly, whilst others had clearly been reread multiple times. You had spent hours working through them, tracing familiar handwriting with trembling fingers and mourning a version of the past that neither of you had ever been allowed to have.

At some point, your phone began vibrating. You ignored it and then ignored it three more times before you grabbed it, groaning.

It was your best friend, and the second you answered, she immediately said, "You're crying."

You sighed. "Hello to you too."

"You've been crying for hours."

"I hate that you can tell."

"I've known you for a while now. We talk every day. You cry a lot."

And okay, fair.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. For a few moments, neither of you spoke before you quietly told her everything, from the letters to your mother and the conversation to the drive. You explained that Felix had been writing to you for an entire year while believing you wanted nothing to do with him.

Your voice cracked more than once, but your best friend listened, for once not interrupting or joking. She simply listened.

When you finally finished, silence filled the line before-

"Oh, sweetheart."

You closed your eyes, the sympathy almost making you cry again.

"I know."

"No." Her voice softened. "I mean it."

You swallowed hard. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"No."

"It wasn't."

You knew when she paused this time that she wanted to say something that she knew you wouldn’t like to hear. The thing you loved most about your best friend was that she’d go on and say it anyway.

"You need to talk to him."

You groaned immediately. "There it is."

"There it is."

"I knew you were going to say that."

"Because I'm right."

You covered your face with one hand. "He left."

"Yes."

"He listened to my mum."

"Yes."

"He made a terrible decision."

"Yes."

You sat up, huffing in frustration. "Then why am I the one who has to go and talk to him?"

Your best friend didn’t even hesitate. "Because he was twenty."

You frowned in confusion. "So was I?"

"Exactly." The answer caught you off guard, but she continued before you could interrupt. "He was twenty, in love, terrified, halfway across the world and being told by your mother that leaving was the best thing for you."

You stared at the wall. "He should've fought harder."

"He should have."

"He should've told me."

"He should have." You sighed heavily, and when your friend spoke again, her voice was softer. "But people don't always make the right decisions when they're young."

The words settled heavily. You knew she was right, and you hated it.

"You've spent years imagining that he stopped loving you." Your throat tightened at her words. "And now you know he never did." When she was met with silence, she continued gently, "You don't have to forgive him today."

You looked down at the letters, the first one sat open on your lap.

"But I think you owe it to yourself to hear everything."

Two hours later, you found yourself standing outside Felix's hotel room. You had changed clothes, brushed your hair, and washed your face. Not because you cared what you looked like, obviously! Definitely not.

Your best friend would have laughed herself unconscious at that lie.

For several seconds, you simply stared at the door before you took a deep, calming breath and knocked before you could change your mind. A few moments later, the door opened, and there he was.

Felix.

The second he saw you, his eyes widened. "Hi."

Your chest tightened. "Hi."

His expression immediately softened, as though simply seeing you there was enough.

"Do you want to come in?"

You nodded.

The conversation lasted hours. Longer than either of you realised.

At first, it was awkward, and not because there was nothing to say but because there was too much. There was years' worth of mess to sort through. Eventually, though, the walls began falling away one at a time until suddenly it wasn't awkward anymore. It was just honest in the way it used to be. The way it had always been before everything went wrong.

You sat cross-legged on the sofa while Felix occupied the armchair opposite. The letters rested on the coffee table between you - evidence. Proof. History. He looked at them for a long moment, then laughed softly.

"I can't believe she actually kept them."

Your chest tightened. "I can."

The smile faded, and silence followed for a minute before he spoke again.

"I missed you."

The words were simple, uncomplicated, yet still painful. You looked down as he continued. "There wasn't a day I didn't think about you. I looked for you everywhere." A small laugh escaped him. "You'd probably find that creepy."

You smiled despite yourself. "It is a little creepy."

His grin appeared briefly, then disappeared. The honesty in his voice when he spoke again made your throat tighten.

"I always thought I'd see you again. I didn't know how, but I knew I would."

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. He glanced towards the letters.

"You?"

The question hung between you. You knew what he was asking, and you knew he deserved the truth, no matter how messy or painful that truth would be. You told him about the loneliness, the sleepless nights, and the months spent feeling like you weren't enough. His expression slowly fell apart when you told him about the drinking. The words felt ugly and embarrassing, but you forced them out anyway. You told him how it started and how it became easier to sleep after a few drinks. How eventually it became easier to do everything after a few drinks. How you stopped recognising yourself.

By the end, the room had gone completely silent. Felix looked devastated, as if every word had physically hurt.

"You should've hated me."

The sentence emerged quietly, broken, and you looked up in surprise.

"What?"

His eyes were shining now. "I would've."

Your chest tightened. "Felix—"

"I would've hated me."

The honesty nearly broke your heart, and for a few brief moments, you simply sat watching the man across from you battle with his own inner demons.

"I missed you, too."

The confession seemed to steal the air from the room. His eyes closed briefly, like hearing those words meant more than he could explain. When he looked at you again, he seemed younger somehow, more vulnerable. More like the boy you'd fallen in love with.

Suddenly, you realised something. You weren't angry anymore. You were still hurt and confused, but not angry. At least, not the way you'd been after everything you'd learned.

You looked down at your hands. "I don't know what happens now."

The admission felt terrifying, because it was true. The future suddenly looked completely unfamiliar.

Felix was quiet for a moment before hesitantly saying, "We try again."

You looked up, but his gaze never wavered.

"Please."

The vulnerability in that single word almost undid you. "Felix..."

"Please." His voice wobbled. "I know I messed up."

You smiled weakly. "That's one way of putting it."

A surprised laugh escaped him, and the sound filled the room with familiar warmth.

God.

You'd missed that laugh.

"I know." His smile faded again. "But if there's even the smallest chance... I'll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it."

Your chest hadn’t felt this full in years, but there was one thing still bothering you. One thing you'd never gotten an answer about.

You tilted your head. "What about that idol?"

Felix blinked. "What idol?"

"The article."

Realisation hit immediately. Then - to your complete surprise - he started giggling. Actually giggling.

You stared, frowning. "What?"

His laughter only worsened. "Y/N."

"What?"

"Oh, my God."

You folded your arms. "What?"

Finally, he managed to compose himself, barely.

"She's a lesbian."

You blinked. Once. Twice.

"...what?"

That immediately set him off again. "She's literally a lesbian."

The sheer relief that flooded through you was so immediate that it was embarrassing – and apparently obvious - because Felix noticed. The grin that spread across his face was impossible to ignore.

"Oh."

"Don't."

"Oh, that's interesting."

"Felix."

"You were jealous."

"I was not."

"You absolutely were."

You threw a cushion at him, and he caught it, still laughing. Suddenly, just for a moment, everything felt normal. Not perfect or fixed, but… normal. The way it used to be before life complicated everything. Looking at him across the room, laughing at his own terrible jokes, you felt something settle inside your chest. You realised that you hadn't just missed your boyfriend. You'd missed your best friend. He was the person who understood you better than anyone and could make you laugh when you least wanted to. The person you'd spent years convincing yourself you didn't need.  Maybe that was why this felt different now. Not because everything was magically okay, but because for the first time in years, you weren't imagining a memory. You were sitting across from him, and he was still there.

Eventually, the laughter faded, but the smiles remained. Felix looked nervous, suddenly, almost boyish.

"Can I ask you something?"

You immediately became suspicious. "That's usually dangerous."

He smiled, then took a breath. "Would you go on a date with me?"

The question hung between you. It was simple, hopeful, yet terrifying. You stared at him for a long moment before a soft, genuine smile slowly spread across your face.

"Yeah."

The relief that crossed his face was almost comical. "Yeah?"

You laughed. "Yeah."

For a moment, he looked completely overwhelmed. Then he smiled, too, and somehow, for the first time in a very long time, the future didn't seem quite so frightening. You didn't know what would happen next or whether things would be easy. You didn't know how long it would take to rebuild trust, or whether either of you would get everything right. But as you looked at Felix sitting across from you, smiling like he'd just been handed the entire world, you realised something.

For the first time in years, you wanted to find out.

And whatever the future held, you found yourself hoping it held him, too.

a/n: phew! That became a lot more complex than I was originally planning. The majority of you wanted a happy ending and I tried to deliver! What do you all think? Lmk in the comments! xo

The flash of cameras barely registered anymore.

Once, it had made your heart race. The shouting, the attention, the feeling that one wrong move could end up splashed across every social media account by morning. Now, as you stepped out of the black car in front of the venue, it felt as routine as checking the weather.

"Over here!"

"Y/N!"

"One more!"

You turned automatically, offering a practised smile while camera shutters rattled like applause. The photographers got their shots, your publicist looking relieved. Everyone was happy.

The moment you stepped inside, the smile softened into something real at the sight of your agent.

"You're late."

You laughed as she appeared at your side, already holding out a glass of sparkling water.

"Three minutes isn't late."

"It is when the creative director of Louis Vuitton is waiting to meet you."

You accepted the drink, taking a sip. Two years ago, every event had ended with champagne. Then another glass. Then another. It had been easier not to think when there was always something to numb the silence.

Now you prefer water. It was much cheaper and much less likely to make you wake up with regrets.

The ballroom buzzed with conversation and designer fabrics, familiar faces moving between jewellery displays and carefully curated displays of wealth. You recognised actors, musicians, and models. Surprisingly, several people recognised you. It still felt strange, and not because you weren't successful. You were. You'd spent the past two years working harder than you ever had in your life. Campaign after campaign. Covers. Runways. International shoots that had left your passport bursting with stamps. What had started as modelling was becoming something bigger.

Luxury brands were reaching out now, and not because of your follower count, but because they wanted you. You’d worked your arse off, and you felt secure in the knowledge that you’d earned your success. The thought made you smile into your drink.

"What's got you looking so pleased with yourself?" your agent asked.

"Nothing."

"Liar."

"Maybe I'm just happy."

That earned a raised eyebrow from her. "Well, that's suspicious."

You laughed again.

The truth was that happiness had become surprisingly uncomplicated. You liked your work and your friends. You had an apartment you loved, a routine that made sense, and enough confidence to stop apologising for taking up space.

Life wasn't necessarily perfect, but it was yours, and that was enough.

Your phone buzzed, and you grinned when you saw the notification for a message from your best friend, Isla. You’d met her not long after you’d started turning your life around, and you’d both been practically inseparable ever since.

How many rich people are you pretending to like tonight?

You snorted, angling the phone away from your agent, typing a hasty reply.

All of them.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Good. Make connections. Become obscenely wealthy. Buy me a horse.

You don't even like horses.

That's not the point.

You shook your head, slipping the phone back into your clutch with a smile on your face.

A few years ago, there had been a time when every notification had made your heart jump. A time when you'd checked your messages more often than you'd checked your own reflection. Always waiting. Wondering. Hoping. But now? You couldn't remember the last time you'd thought about him. Not really, and definitely not in a way that hurt.

Your memories still existed; they always would. You couldn't erase someone who had once meant that much to you. But the memories were just memories now. Old photographs tucked away in a drawer you rarely open, and nothing more.

"Ready?" your agent asked.

Across the room, one of the brand executives was waving you over.

You straightened your shoulders, plastering your business smile to your face. "Ready."

And for the first time in a very long time, you meant it.

The café was tucked away on a quiet side street, one of those places that somehow always felt warm no matter what the weather was doing outside. You were halfway through stealing chips from your best friend's plate when she casually dropped a bombshell.

"So."

You immediately narrowed your eyes; that tone never meant anything good. "What?"

She pointed a chip at you. "Before you leave for France next week, there's something I should probably tell you."

"Oh, God."

"Don't do that."

"You're doing the tone."

"What tone?"

"The tone that means you're about to ruin my day." She looked entirely unrepentant, and you sighed dramatically. "Fine. Ruin my day."

She set the chip down. "You know Felix is an ambassador for Louis Vuitton, right?"

The world seemed to pause as your stomach dropped - so fast it was honestly impressive.

"What?"

Her expression immediately softened. "Oh, no."

"What do you mean, oh, no?"

"You genuinely didn't know."

"No, I didn't know!"

Several people glanced over as your voice rose. You lowered it immediately.

"I didn't know," you repeated.

"Right."

Your best friend looked guilty now, and you couldn’t help but feel suspicion gnaw at you. You stared at her, watching her fiddle with a fork as she avoided eye contact, and realisation dawned on you.

"How long have you known?"

"A week."

"A week?"

Your voice had risen again, but you couldn’t find it in you to care as you avoided the looks from disgruntled customers.

"I found out the same day you called me screaming about Louis Vuitton."

"You've known for a week and you're only telling me now?"

"Because I also found out that he's on tour."

You froze. "...What?"

"He's on tour."

You blinked. "He's what?"

"On tour."

The panic that had exploded through your chest moments ago screeched to a halt. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

You sat back in your chair, thinking. Several moments passed before, slowly, feeling returned to your limbs. Your best friend watched you carefully.

"I literally checked the second you told me."

"You checked?"

"Of course I checked." She looked offended. "As soon as you told me Louis Vuitton wanted you for the Autumn-Winter show, I immediately searched where he was."

You couldn't help laughing despite yourself. "That's slightly insane."

"It's called being a good friend."

"It's called stalking."

"It's called research."

You rolled your eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her hand on top of your own. "Seriously, though. He's in the middle of a world tour. Louis Vuitton confirmed attendance lists weeks ago."

"You spoke to Louis Vuitton?"

"I know people."

"You absolutely do not know people."

"I know Google."

You laughed, and the tension in your shoulders finally began to loosen. "You scared me."

"I know."

"No, genuinely. For a second there—"

"I know."

She squeezed your hand, smiling as you reassuringly. "You don't have to pretend with me."

You looked down at your coffee. It wasn't that seeing Felix would destroy you. At least, you didn't think it would. The problem was that you had spent two years building a life that didn't revolve around unanswered questions. A life where his name didn't determine whether you had a good day or a bad one. A life that belonged entirely to you.

You liked that life. You'd fought hard for it.

The idea of suddenly being confronted by him again felt like someone opening a door you'd deliberately locked - not because you wanted to go back, but because you weren't sure what would be waiting on the other side.

"You'll be okay," your friend said quietly.

You looked up. "Yeah."

"And if by some miracle he does show up?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"

She grinned. "Then you walk that runway looking so incredible that he spends the rest of his life regretting every decision he's ever made."

You laughed so hard you nearly spilt your drink. "That is an awful plan."

"It's an excellent plan."

"It's petty."

"It's iconic."

You shook your head, smiling at her fondly. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're walking for Louis Vuitton."

That immediately wiped the smile from your face. You still couldn’t believe that you were walking for Louis Vuitton. The name alone still made your chest tighten. You remembered watching their shows online when you were younger, and you were convinced that people who walked those runways belonged to a completely different world. Now you were one of them. The thought sent a flutter of excitement through you.

Your friend caught it immediately. "There she is."

"What?"

"That look."

You frowned. "What look?"

"The one where you remember you're kind of a big deal now."

You groaned. "Oh, my God. I’m not a big deal! It’s work."

"No, seriously." She pointed at you. "You're acting like the important part of this conversation is Felix."

"It isn't."

"Good," she smiled. "Because the important part is that next week you're flying to Paris to walk for one of the biggest fashion houses in the world."

For a moment, everything else faded away – Felix, the past, all of it - leaving only the reality of what was waiting for you.

Paris. Louis Vuitton. A dream you'd carried for years.

And for the first time since his name had entered the conversation, you found yourself smiling, not because Felix wouldn't be there, but because you would.

Paris was simultaneously everything you remembered and nothing like you remembered at all. The city itself hadn't changed. The streets were still the same, and the views from the hotel you stayed in every time you visited were identical.

It was you who had changed.

Long gone was the shy girl who doubted her worth in a room full of models. She was replaced by a mature, confident young woman who knew her place in the world.

A week ago, you had landed with a suitcase full of excitement. Since then, the days had blurred together in a whirlwind of fittings, rehearsals, castings, and last-minute adjustments. Every second had felt worth it, especially when you'd walked into your fitting room and seen the Louis Vuitton pieces hanging there waiting for you.

You'd actually laughed, and the stylist had looked genuinely concerned, like maybe the clothing wasn’t to your liking.

You'd just pointed at the garment bag. "I get to wear that?"

The stylist had smiled, relieved by the wonder on your face. "You do."

The collection was stunning. Every piece felt like art, from the structured silhouettes to the dramatic tailoring and intricate details that made you want to stare at them for hours. You'd spent the fitting grinning like an idiot while everyone else remained perfectly professional. You didn't care. This was Louis Vuitton. You'd dreamed about this moment since you were young, and now your dreams were coming true.

Nothing could ruin this moment…

Or so you thought.

The morning of the show arrived before you knew it.

Backstage was absolute chaos as stylists hurried between racks, and makeup artists darted around with brushes and palettes. Hairdressers wielded sprays and pins like weapons, and models clustered together in little groups, chatting in half a dozen different languages.

The atmosphere buzzed with nervous energy.

You loved it.

You were talking with another model you'd met during rehearsals when movement caught your eye. A flash of blond hair, a familiar profile as someone moved quickly through a gap between changing stations. Your heart stopped, the glimpse lasting less than a second, then he was gone.

You blinked.

"...No."

The model beside you frowned, looking over her shoulder at the place your eyes were still fixed on.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Your pulse had suddenly doubled, because no. Your friend had checked and checked again. She'd been certain. There were tour schedules and appearances, and enough idol business to definitely keep him away from Paris. From Louis Vuitton. From you.

You'd probably imagined it or seen someone who looked vaguely similar. There were thousands of people backstage. It meant nothing.

Before you could think about it any further, someone called your name, and before you knew it, you were passed between workstations. Hair, then makeup, then final adjustments.

The day swept you along before your brain could catch up, and eventually, there was no room left for thoughts of Felix.

Only the show.

Only the runway.

Only the dream you'd spent years chasing.

Your stomach fluttered as you waited in line with the other models. You were to be the last model, closing the show. You could hear the music thundering through the walls, the audience beyond the curtains little more than a distant roar.

One by one, models disappeared onto the runway, and the butterflies in your stomach fluttered up a storm. It wasn’t nerves exactly; you'd been doing this too long to be nervous. You knew how to walk, how to pose. You knew how to command attention.

But this felt different.

This was the runway. The one you'd imagined countless times, the one you'd watched online from tiny apartments and hotel rooms and backstage corners of much smaller shows.

Your fingers flexed at your sides.

You could do this.

You belonged here.

You repeated the words silently.

You belong here.

The line moved forward, and you counted down the models between you and the curtain.

Three models ahead of you.

Two.

One.

You took a slow breath, straightened your shoulders, and lifted your chin. You were ready. Until—

"Y/N?"

The voice came from directly behind you, close enough to send a shock through your entire body. Every muscle locked, and your breath hitched, face already contorted in disbelief.

No.

Slowly, you turned, and the world tilted beneath your feet as you made eye contact with the last person you’d wanted to see here.

Felix was standing barely a metre away, and for a second neither of you moved. Neither of you so much as breathed, for that matter. His eyes were wide with shock - genuine shock - like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Your own heart had dropped somewhere into your stomach.

Three years. Three years without a phone call. Without a message. Without an explanation.

Three years of silence… and suddenly he was here. Not as a memory you carried in your head, or a photograph hidden in a shoebox shoved into the back of your closet. Not even as a name you'd carefully trained yourself not to think about.

He was here in the flesh, and you couldn’t help but notice the differences from a few years ago. His hair was darker than before. His features were a little sharper, older. He looked more confident. But underneath it all, it was still him.

You saw recognition flash across his face. Saw the disbelief morph into relief to something else. Something you couldn't identify before voices suddenly erupted around you.

"Go, go, go!"

"Next!"

"Move!"

The backstage coordinator was practically pushing people forward. The model in front of you stepped onto the runway, which meant you were next. Now.

Felix looked like he wanted to say something, and you opened your mouth to stop him, but nothing came out. Neither of you got the chance to say anything before a hand landed on your shoulder.

"You're up."

The curtain opened, and the lights exploded into view. Before either of you could speak a single word, you were swept forward onto the runway, leaving Felix standing behind you with the same stunned expression you'd seen reflected in every mirror backstage.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs - not because of the audience, or the show - but because after two years of silence, Felix was suddenly here.

And when you walked back backstage, he would probably still be there, too.

The moment you stepped backstage, reality came crashing back.

None of it mattered anymore. Not the lights, the music, the audience. All you could think about was the fact that Felix was somewhere behind you.

He was actually here, actually real.

He wasn’t a memory, nor was he a ghost trapped in the past. He wasn’t even some distant person that you’d spent two years trying not to think about.

You barely made it three steps before a stylist grabbed your arm.

“Quick change!"

Right. The show. You still had a job to do, so you forced yourself into motion. Your first outfit was practically ripped off by a team of assistants while another stylist held up your next look. It was like second nature to you: arms up, step through, turn, zip, move. Everything happened at lightning speed.

You were halfway into your second outfit when you caught movement from the corner of your eye, and your stomach dropped when you saw that it was Felix walking towards you.

"Y/N—"

You immediately turned away. "Sorry!"

The word came out automatically, the epitome of polite professionalism. You stepped away without looking at him, allowing yourself to be swept away by another stylist before he could say anything else. You heard him stop behind you, felt his stare on the back of your head. But you didn't – couldn’t - look back. Not right now. Not when your pulse was already threatening to burst through your skin.

The second walk was somehow harder than the first, and not because of the runway, but because you knew he was there, watching. Every step felt heavier, every turn sharper. By the time you returned backstage again, you were exhausted, yet there were still more looks to go.

The entire show became an exercise in avoidance. You learned exactly where Felix was standing and somehow managed to always be somewhere else. If he moved left, you went right. If he approached, you found a stylist to hide behind. If he looked your way, you suddenly became fascinated by absolutely anything else. It was ridiculous. Childish, even. But it was working.

The final walk eventually arrived, the designers emerged, and the applause thundered through the venue. And finally – finally - the show ended. Relief hit you so hard you nearly laughed. You were done, you could get changed and leave. You were going to get back to your hotel and hide under a blanket, pretending today had never happened.

You were halfway to the changing area when you spotted Felix across the room talking to someone. Your survival instincts immediately kicked in, and you suddenly decided that you needed the bathroom. Urgently. You slipped away before he could notice, locking yourself inside a stall to call your best friend.

She answered on the first ring. "How'd it go?"

You laughed, a slightly hysterical sound.

"Oh, my God."

A pause, a sharp intake of breath and then: "Oh no."

"He was there."

"What?"

"He was there."

"What do you mean he was there?"

"You told me he was on tour!"

"He was supposed to be!"

"Well, apparently Louis Vuitton found a way to teleport him because he was standing behind me before the runway."

By the end of the sentence, you were practically shouting, your voice sounding more hysterical by the second. You waited for her to say something, anything, to help ease the panic you were feeling. Not-

"Are you serious?"

"DO I SOUND LIKE I'M JOKING?"

"No."

You covered your face with one hand. The panic you'd been suppressing all afternoon suddenly surfaced.

"He tried talking to me."

"Oh."

"I ignored him."

"Oh."

"He keeps looking at me."

"Oh."

"Stop saying oh."

"I'm processing."

You groaned, and the line went quiet again before your friend sighed.

"Okay."

"What?"

"First things first."

"No."

"Y/N."

"No."

"You just walked for Louis Vuitton."

You closed your eyes. "Don't."

"No. Absolutely not."

"I can't deal with this right now."

"Yes, you can."

You slid down against the stall door. "I want to leave."

The words hung heavily between you, the truth in the words weighing you down.

"I know," she said gently.

You tried to swallow past the lump in your throat. "I really want to leave."

"I know."

The problem wasn't fear, and it wasn't heartbreak, not anymore. The problem was that Felix represented two years of questions. Two years of confusion and of wondering what had happened. And suddenly, he was standing ten feet away as if none of it had happened. You didn't know how to process that.

"You don't get to leave."

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't get to run away from your own success."

You stared at the bathroom door, and your friend continued relentlessly.

"You just achieved one of your biggest career goals."

"That's not—"

"It is." She cut you off immediately. "This is important."

You hated it when she was right. Because she usually was.

"There are photographers there." You sighed, and she carried on, relentless. "There are executives there, designers. People who could change your career."

"I know."

"And you deserve to celebrate that."

The words landed harder than expected, and you closed your eyes, absorbing them. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Her voice was quiet from the other end of the phone when she said, "Don't let him take this from you."

You knew that she was right. Again. The show had been everything you'd dreamed about: the collection, the runway, the atmosphere, the accomplishment. And somehow Felix's sudden appearance had overshadowed all of it.

You hated that.

You hated that after two years, he still had the power to derail your thoughts so easily.

A slow breath escaped you, then another. Eventually, you stood, adjusted your outfit, and left the stall you’d hidden away in. You looked at yourself in the mirror and admired how composed you looked, how professional and successful you appeared. You looked nothing like the girl who had spent two years waiting for answers.

"Okay."

Your friend immediately sounded smug. "Okay?"

"I'm staying."

"Good."

"But."

"There's always a but."

"I'm not talking to him."

She laughed. "You probably should eventually."

"Eventually."

"Right."

"Today?"

"No."

"Fair."

You grabbed your bag, straightened your shoulders, and headed for the door. One hand rested on the handle as you took one final, calming breath.

You could do this.

You'd faced bigger crowds, bigger opportunities, bigger challenges. Felix was just a person. A person you used to love, but nothing more.

You opened the door and walked back into the celebration, making a silent promise to yourself. You would be polite and professional. Civil. If he spoke to you, you would answer. If circumstances forced a conversation, you wouldn't cause a scene. But tonight wasn't about him.

Tonight was about you.

And for the first time since spotting him backstage, you were determined not to forget it.

The afterparty was everything you'd expected.

Champagne flowed freely, music pulsed through the venue. Models, designers, executives, ambassadors, celebrities—all mingled together beneath soft golden lighting, and for the first time all day, you actually managed to enjoy yourself. Everywhere you turned, someone wanted to congratulate you.

"You were incredible."

"That second look suited you perfectly."

"We should talk after fashion week."

"You've had an amazing year."

The compliments came one after another, hand in hand with opportunities. You exchanged numbers, accepted business cards, and made connections. You laughed more than you had expected to.

But through it all, you could feel him. Not physically, just… there. Across the room. Every time you glanced up, Felix seemed to be somewhere nearby. He was talking to executives, speaking with photographers, laughing with other ambassadors.

Looking at you.

Always looking at you.

You ignored it. You became very good at ignoring it. When he moved toward one group, you found another. When he seemed about to approach, someone else inevitably stopped you first. The room was crowded enough that avoiding him wasn't difficult.

By midnight, you were almost impressed with yourself. By one o'clock, you started believing you might actually pull it off. By the time you finally left, exhausted but satisfied, you were convinced you'd succeeded. There had been no conversation, no confrontation, and certainly no drama.

Perfect.

The cool Paris night air felt wonderful against your skin as you climbed out of the car outside your hotel. You thanked the driver, adjusting the strap of your bag, before heading inside.

The lobby was mostly empty, with a few guests lingering near the bar. The receptionist offered a polite smile. You were halfway across the marble floor, feeling rather smug with yourself, when—

"Y/N."

Your entire body froze.

No.

Slowly, you turned. Felix was standing just inside the entrance, breathing slightly harder than normal. As if he'd rushed to catch up.

Your eyes widened. He'd followed you. Not followed you, followed you. But close enough. Apparently, he'd left the party right after you had. Of course, he had. You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them again, smoothing your expression into one of polite indifference.

"Hello, Felix."

His expression tightened. The politeness clearly hurt more than anger would have.

"Hi."

A silence settled between you. It was the first real silence you'd shared in two years. You shifted your bag higher onto your shoulder, avoiding his eyes as you waited for him to speak.

"Congratulations on the show."

"Thank you."

"You were amazing."

"Thank you."

His jaw clenched when you didn’t say anything more, and you almost felt bad, because you knew he heard the lack of warmth and affection where it used to be in abundance. There was no invitation for further conversation, either. Just polite responses you'd give a stranger.

"I'm glad you're doing well," he said.

"Thank you."

"Y/N—"

"I should go."

The disappointment on his face was immediate and painfully visible, but you couldn't make yourself care. Not after everything.

"Can we talk?"

Your grip tightened around your bag. "No."

His face fell, and he took a small step towards you.

"Please."

"No."

"Just five minutes."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Y/N."

You exhaled heavily. "I'm tired, Felix."

"I know."

"I've had a long day."

"I know."

"I don't want to do this."

The words came out sharper than you'd intended, and Felix looked like you'd struck him, but still, he didn't leave. Instead, he took another step closer - not enough to invade your space, but enough to make it clear he wasn't giving up.

"I need to apologise."

Your chest tightened immediately, because those were the words you'd wanted for so long. But not now. Now they just felt late.

"So apologise."

His throat bobbed. “I'm sorry."

The sincerity in his voice almost made you look away.

"I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry I disappeared. I'm sorry I hurt you."

Something flickered in his eyes. You think it might have been regret, raw and ugly. The kind that looked like it had been carried for a very long time.

"I think about it every day."

You laughed, but it was a small, disbelieving sound lacking any mirth.

"Felix—"

"No."

His voice cracked. "Please let me finish."

For the first time all night, you didn't interrupt. Maybe you were just curious, or maybe a part of you needed to hear this.

His eyes never left yours, and your stomach dropped as he started to speak. "There hasn't been a single day I haven't missed you. I've thought about you every day."

You looked away immediately. The lobby suddenly felt too warm, too bright. It was all too much. His voice shook as he carried on, regardless.

"I missed everything. Birthdays, achievements. Your career. And now you're standing here and you've built this incredible life and—"

He stopped, struggled to find the words, before finally whispering:

"And I don't get to be part of it."

The words landed between you, heavy, painful, and true. For a moment, neither of you spoke before he asked a question that left you dumbfounded.

"Can we start again?"

You stared at him blankly, noticing that he looked terrified. Probably more terrified than you’d ever seen him.

"Please."

The word sounded almost desperate.

"Just—"

His voice cracked again.

"Please."

You tried to understand what you were hearing, what he was asking.

Start again?

After two years?

After disappearing without explanation?

After leaving you to rebuild yourself from the ground up?

A laugh escaped you. This one wasn't amused, nor was it kind. It was just pure disbelief, and you couldn’t help the words that came out of your mouth.

"You can't be serious."

His face fell. "Y/N—"

"No." You shook your head. "No."

"Please listen—"

"Start again?"

Your voice rose, and the receptionist wisely pretended not to notice. His face crumpled as you spoke, finally releasing two years of frustration and upset.

"You vanished- disappeared."

"I know."

"You left me without a single explanation."

"I know."

"For two years."

Every word hurt you more than the last.

"For two years, I had no idea where your head was at."

His eyes glistened, but you didn't stop.

"You don't get to show up in a hotel lobby and ask to start again. You messed up. You don't understand what it took for me to get here. I had to rebuild my entire life! I had to learn how to be okay. I had to learn how to stop waiting for answers."

The silence that followed felt endless. Your voice was trembling, and Felix’s eyes were full of unshed tears as he never took his eyes off you, despite the harsh truths you were throwing at him.

You didn’t see the boy you'd loved in the man standing in front of you now. For the first time, you realised they weren't entirely the same person. Maybe he'd changed, or maybe he hadn't. It didn't matter.

Because you'd changed.

"I like my life, Felix."

His eyes closed briefly. "I know."

"I worked hard for it."

"I know."

"And I can't trust you."

The words came out quieter, more devastating. His eyes snapped open, but you held his gaze, steady and certain.

"I can't trust you not to break me again."

The pain on his face was immediate, but you couldn't soften it. Not this time. Trust wasn't something you could rebuild with an apology, not after two years of silence. Not after everything.

The lobby fell silent around you, and for the first time since seeing him backstage, Felix had no response, because deep down, he knew exactly why you felt that way.

The next morning arrived far too quickly.

Despite how exhausted you had been after the show, sleep had proven almost impossible. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind drifted back to the hotel lobby and the look on Felix's face when you'd told him the truth—that he had broken your trust, and that no apology, no matter how sincere, could erase two years of silence.

You hadn't cried, which surprised you the most. Two years ago, a conversation like that would have left you devastated. Instead, you had simply lain awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word until the pale Parisian dawn began creeping through the curtains.

By the time your alarm sounded, you felt drained in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Still, there was a flight to catch. The show was over. Paris Fashion Week would continue without you, and there were already emails waiting in your inbox regarding campaigns, fittings, and meetings back home. Your life hadn't stopped simply because Felix had unexpectedly reappeared in it.

After checking out of the hotel, you found yourself sitting in one of the elegant armchairs scattered around the lobby, a large coffee warming your hands while your suitcase stood beside you. The hotel was quieter than it had been the night before. Most of the fashion crowd had either already left or were still asleep after celebrating long into the early hours.

For the first time since yesterday, you began to feel yourself relax. The worst was over. You had survived the show, survived seeing Felix, survived his attempt at an apology. Soon, you would be on a plane home, and Paris would become another chapter you could neatly file away alongside everything else.

Then a familiar voice called your name.

"Y/N?"

Your head snapped up so quickly you almost spilt your coffee. For a moment, your exhausted brain couldn't quite process what it was seeing. Then recognition hit.

"Mrs Lee?"

Before you could stop yourself, you were already standing. Felix's mother looked exactly as you remembered her, perhaps a little older around the eyes, but still carrying the same warmth that had made you feel welcome from the very first day you'd met her years ago.

The smile that spread across her face was immediate.

"Oh, sweetheart."

The next thing you knew, she was wrapping you in a hug. Not an awkward greeting, not a polite embrace. A real hug. The sort that instantly transported you backwards in time. For a brief moment, you were no longer standing in a luxury hotel in Paris after walking one of the biggest runways of your career. Instead, you were eighteen years old again, sitting around the Lee family's dining table while Felix's mother insisted you take another helping of dinner despite your protests that you were already full. The memory hit harder than expected.

You gently pulled away before nostalgia could settle too deeply.

"It's so good to see you," she said, holding your hands.

"You too."

And it was true. Seeing her hurt in a way you hadn't anticipated because it reminded you of everything you'd lost when Felix left. Not just him, but his family, too.

His father appeared beside her a moment later, offering the same kind smile you remembered. "Congratulations on the show."

You blinked. "You watched?"

"Of course we watched," his mother replied as though the answer should have been obvious. "We've watched all of them."

Something tightened unexpectedly in your chest. You weren't sure why that affected you so much. Maybe because there had been a time when his family had felt like your family, too. Maybe because, despite everything, they had still been quietly supporting you from afar.

Before you could respond, movement behind them caught your attention.

Felix stood a few feet away with one hand resting on the handle of his suitcase. For a second, nobody spoke. His eyes met yours, and the memory of the previous evening flashed instantly between you. The apology, the pleading, the hurt. You looked away first.

"Morning."

His voice sounded rough, as though he hadn't slept much either.

"Morning."

That was all. No attempt to continue the conversation, no apology. Just a simple greeting.

His mother looked between the two of you and immediately sighed. The sound was so familiar that you almost laughed. Some things truly never changed.

Ten minutes later, your taxi arrived. Unfortunately, that was when you discovered the universe apparently possessed a particularly cruel sense of humour. Not only were they travelling to the same airport and on the same airline, but they were on the exact same flight.

You stared at the departure details on your phone, then at Felix, then back at the phone.

"No."

His father chuckled. "I'm afraid so."

You closed your eyes briefly. Of course, this would happen. Meanwhile, Felix looked almost as unhappy about the situation as you did, which, admittedly, made you feel marginally better.

The journey to the airport was quiet; not awkward exactly, just careful.

Felix sat opposite you in the larger airport transfer vehicle, his attention fixed almost entirely on the passing streets outside. He didn't try to start a conversation, didn't interrupt. He didn't attempt to revisit what had happened the night before. Part of you had expected him to. Part of you had even spent the entire morning preparing for it. Instead, he simply sat there in silence. The dark circles beneath his eyes suggested he hadn't slept either.

You hated that you cared enough to notice.

His parents, however, were significantly less committed to silence. At first, the conversation stayed comfortably neutral. They asked about your work, your upcoming campaigns, and your plans for the rest of the year. You told them about recent shoots and future projects, carefully avoiding any subjects that felt too personal.

For a while, it actually felt surprisingly normal, but then Mrs Lee sighed, and the moment she did, you knew you were in trouble.

"You know," she began, looking out the window, "I've missed you."

Your expression softened instantly, guilt settling uncomfortably in your chest. Unlike Felix, she had never hurt you. She had simply become collateral damage in the aftermath.

"I missed you, too."

The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Her smile was gentle when she looked back at you.

"I know."

The simple response carried far more understanding than you would have liked. Because she did know. She knew why you had stopped visiting, why you'd gradually disappeared from their lives. Why every phone call and family dinner had become unbearable after Felix left. She had never pushed or demanded explanations, and she was too kind to make you feel guilty. For that, you would always love her.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop her from being incredibly observant.

After a moment, she glanced toward her son, then back to you. The movement was subtle, but not subtle enough.

"I worry about him."

There it was.

You almost smiled despite yourself. "I think he'll survive."

"He works too much."

You looked out the window, hoping to end the conversation, but she carried on regardless.

"He barely sleeps. He forgets to eat."

That finally earned a raised eyebrow. "Sounds familiar."

From across the vehicle, you heard what sounded suspiciously like Felix trying not to laugh.

His mother ignored him completely before delivering the final blow. "He talks about you."

The words landed like a stone in a calm river, sending waves through the once-still water. You stared straight ahead, desperate to escape the now uncomfortable vehicle. Beside you, Felix visibly tensed.

"Mum."

His warning came immediately, but she continued as though he hadn't spoken.

"He always has."

"Mum."

"He follows your career."

You swallowed, fiddling with the rings on your hands.

"He watches every interview."

"Mum."

"He still—"

"Mum."

This time the warning carried genuine desperation. The vehicle fell silent, and for several seconds, nobody spoke. You kept your eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead because looking at Felix felt far too dangerous.

Eventually, Mrs Lee reached across and gently squeezed your hand with a gentle: "No pressure."

When you finally looked at her, her expression was entirely sincere. Kind. Almost apologetic.

"I just don't want you to think he forgot."

The words lingered in the silence that followed. Against your better judgement, your eyes drifted toward Felix. He was staring out of the opposite window now, jaw tight and shoulders rigid. He hadn't argued with his mother. Hadn't corrected her or defended himself. If anything, he looked embarrassed, sad even. The sight stirred something uncomfortable deep inside your chest. It wasn’t forgiveness, not even close. It felt more like a remind that things weren’t as simple as you’d spent two years convincing yourself they were. You looked away before the feeling could settle.

Outside, the airport was coming into view, and for the first time in your life, you found yourself genuinely grateful to see it. Sharing a flight with Felix was one thing, but sharing your thoughts about him was something else entirely. And you weren't ready for that conversation. Not yet.

The airport was busy enough that it should have been easy to focus on anything else.

Announcements echoed overhead every few minutes. Suitcases rattled across polished floors. Families hurried between terminals while business travellers marched determinedly towards security checkpoints with coffees in hand.

Yet despite all the noise and movement around you, your attention kept drifting back to the fact that this was it.

This was where Felix was leaving. Again.

The thought irritated you immediately because it shouldn't matter. You'd spent two years building a life that didn't revolve around him. You had survived his absence. Thrived, even. You'd become someone stronger, someone happier, someone who no longer measured her worth by whether a certain person chose to stay. And yet…

As you stood beside his parents near the security entrance, watching him check his watch and adjust the strap of his bag, there was an ache in your chest that you couldn't quite ignore. You didn’t want him back, nor had you forgiven him. But once upon a time, airports had meant saying goodbye to him, and apparently your heart remembered your missed chance even if your head didn't want to.

You folded your arms tightly across your chest and focused on a family arguing over whose passport had gone missing. You wanted to focus on anything else. Anything except him.

Felix hugged his father first. The embrace was brief but affectionate, accompanied by a promise to call when he landed. Then his mother wrapped her arms around him and immediately began fussing.

"Make sure you eat properly."

"Mum."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"You look tired."

"Mum."

"And sleep."

"Mum."

You could hear the smile in his voice despite himself.

His mother eventually released him with obvious reluctance, and then there was a pause. A strange one. The sort that only existed because everyone present knew there was one final goodbye left.

You suddenly became fascinated by the departure board behind him - very fascinated. The departure board was incredibly interesting. Far more interesting than Felix could be.

Oh wow, who knew you could fly to-

"Y/N."

Unfortunately, the universe disagreed.

His voice was quiet. Gentle in a way that was far too familiar. You slowly looked at him, and you both froze. The crowd seemed to blur around the edges, as if highlighting how strange this moment was. Yesterday morning you'd thought you would never see him again, now here you were. Standing in an airport saying goodbye.

For once.

"Safe flight," you said eventually. It was polite, neutral. The sort of thing you might say to anyone.

The hurt that flickered across his face was immediate, and you almost regretted it, before you remembered why you were here even feeling like this in the first place.

"You too."

Silence settled again before he shifted his weight slightly, clearly debating something. You immediately became suspicious. That expression never used to mean anything good.

"Do you still have the same number?"

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. That wasn't what you'd expected at all.

"Why?"

His gaze dropped briefly before returning to yours. "I was wondering..."

For the first time since Paris, he actually looked nervous. "I was wondering if maybe we could talk sometimes."

You stared at him and he cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes darting away from you, as he continued. "Just talk. As friends?"

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, like even he could see the irony in the statement. You, on the other hand, were shocked by the man’s audacity.

Friends.

The word almost made you laugh. Friends? After everything. After two years, and after the hotel lobby conversation when you’d told him clearly.

Your answer was already forming – an instinctual No, absolutely not – when you caught sight of something over Felix's shoulder. His mother was looking at you, and the expression on her face could only be described as open, hopeful desperation. You nearly groaned. That wasn't fair. That was incredibly unfair, in fact. Mrs Lee had always known exactly how to get to you.

You looked back at Felix and he hadn't noticed his mother, or perhaps he was wisely pretending not to. His expression remained carefully neutral, like he was already preparing himself for rejection. For some reason, the look on his face made things even worse.

You exhaled slowly, muttering, "I'll think about it."

The relief that crossed his face was so immediate it caught you off guard. You hadn't said yes. You hadn't even come close to saying yes. Yet, somehow, he'd reacted as though you'd handed him a winning lottery ticket.

"Okay."

A small smile appeared on his face; it was the first genuine one you'd seen from him since Paris.

"Okay."

Before you could change your mind, he glanced towards his parents, then back at you. "There is something else."

You were immediately suspicious again. "What?"

His smile faded slightly. "Mum and Dad are coming to one of our shows next month."

You blinked. "Oh."

"They've been talking about it nonstop."

His father looked completely unashamed, and his mother looked delighted.

Traitors, the lot of them.

Felix rubbed the back of his neck. Then, carefully, as if he were afraid of rejection, he said, "I'd love it if you came too."

The words landed between you, unexpected. You stared at him, and for a moment, you genuinely didn't know what to say. A Stray Kids concert? The idea felt impossible, like something that belonged to a different version of your life. A different version of yourself. A version that hadn't spent years trying to move forward and then stood in a hotel lobby explaining why she couldn't trust him.

Your silence stretched long enough for his expression to shift from anxious to a disappointed sadness. You saw the moment that he realised exactly what he was asking.

"You don't have to." His voice softened as he carried on, "I'm serious. There isn't any pressure."

The smile he offered this time was small, a little fragile. "I know I've probably used up all my chances already. I just thought I’d ask."

Something tightened painfully in your chest. For a second, neither of you moved. An announcement echoed across the terminal, calling final boarding for his flight, shattering the moment. Felix glanced towards the gate, then back at you. Time was up, leaving you with a mess of relief and disappointment that was too confusing to analyse at the moment. He picked up his bag, then looked from his parents to you one last time.

"Take care of yourself."

The words were simple, but dangerously sincere.

You nodded once. "You too."

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he simply smiled - small and sad and familiar - then turned and walked away. You watched as he disappeared into the crowd beyond security, and despite everything you'd said to him, despite every wall you'd built over the last two years, you found yourself staring at the empty space he'd left behind for far longer than you meant to.

"He's really missed you, you know."

Mrs Lee's quiet voice broke through your thoughts, and you forced your eyes away from the gate and back to the woman at your side, murmuring a simple: "I know."

What no one knew, however, was that that was the problem.

The first text arrived three days later. You were sitting in the back of a car on your way to a campaign shoot in Milan when your phone buzzed. At first, you barely glanced at it, assuming it was your agent or your best friend. It could have even been one of the dozen work group chats that seemed permanently active.

What you didn’t expect – and perhaps you should have – was for it to be Felix’s name on your screen for the first time in years.

Your stomach immediately dropped. You stared at the screen, then out of the window, then back at the screen again. For one ridiculous second, you genuinely considered throwing your phone into traffic, and not because you hated him. Hating him would have been easier. The problem was that seeing his name still did something to you. Maybe not with the same devastating intensity as three years ago, but enough for your chest to tighten and for old memories to stir. Enough to remind you that no matter how much healing you'd done, some wounds left scars.

The message itself was painfully simple.

Hope you got home okay.

You stared at it, then locked your phone. You weren’t going to reply; you didn’t need to.

Ten seconds later, you unlocked it again, scanned the message, then quickly relocked it. There wasn’t even a question. Only questions needed answers, right?

By the time you arrived at the studio, you still hadn't replied.

Your best friend was deeply unhelpful.

He's literally just checking you got home alive.

I know.

Then answer him.

I don't want to encourage him.

You sound like he's a stray cat.

Maybe he is.

Y/N.

What?

Mrs Lee would be disappointed in you.

You hated when people weaponised Mrs Lee against you, because it worked. Every single time.

That’s how you found yourself replying three hours after the original message. You typed and deleted your message, unsure of how to reply, until you settled on something simple.

Got home fine. Hope the rest of the tour goes well.

You expected that to be the end of it. You’d sent a polite response, nothing more. Instead, his reply appeared less than a minute later.

Thank you.

Then, after a pause:

Congratulations again on Louis Vuitton.

You closed your eyes. You could practically hear his voice saying it, practically see the sincerity in his eyes.

You sent your own simple Thank you. It was short and polite, but most of all safe.

He surprised you with how well he respected your boundaries. It wasn’t that he’d ever pushed them in the past, but you didn’t know this Felix, the idol. If you'd expected a flood of messages, apologies, or desperate attempts to win you back, none of them came. Felix never pushed or demanded your attention. He never guilted you for taking hours—or sometimes days—to respond.

Instead, he simply...existed. Like a quiet presence on the edge of your life. A reminder that he was there. Sometimes it was a message wishing you luck before a show, sometimes it was a photo of a city he'd arrived in, and sometimes it was a quick comment about an interview you'd done. But it was always brief, respectful; he always left you room to ignore him if you wanted to.

His respect made it so much harder to maintain your distance, because it would have been much easier to be angry if he'd acted entitled to your forgiveness. Instead, he behaved exactly like someone trying very hard not to lose the small amount of access you'd allowed him.

The weeks passed quickly.

Your schedule remained relentless: London, Milan, New York, back to London. It was full of meetings, shoots, events, campaign launches. Life continued moving at the same breakneck pace it always had, but somehow, Felix quietly threaded himself through it. He didn’t make himself so overbearing that he dominated your thoughts or disrupted your routine. You were just always aware of him.

One evening, after a jewellery campaign wrapped late, you found yourself scrolling through messages while waiting for your car. A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Immediately, you frowned because why were you smiling at his texts?!

That wasn't good.

You reread the conversation. It wasn't even particularly interesting, mostly photos, including a meal he’d managed to burn and a blurry sunset from an aeroplane window. There was a video of one of the members – Lee Know, your brain supplied – attempting something stupid backstage.

There was nothing life-changing or significant about what he sent you, yet the familiar warmth that came from sharing small moments with someone was there in your chest, pushing at the walls you’d built around your heart.

Secretly, you hated how much you'd missed it.

The worst part about your time messaging Felix was that he never mentioned the hotel conversation.

Not once.

He never asked if you'd changed your mind or whether you trusted him yet. He never brought up starting over or tried to push the topic of having a relationship again. It was as though he'd accepted your answer and accepted that whatever happened next would happen on your terms.

The patience unsettled you, because you didn't know what to do with that.

One evening, about three weeks after Paris, you were sitting on your sofa when another message arrived.

Mum asked if you've decided about the concert.

You immediately groaned.

The woman was relentless.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

Tell your mum I'll be there.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. Then disappeared. Then reappeared. You smiled despite yourself, imagining what that deleted message might have said.

Eventually, two messages arrived in quick succession.

She'll be very happy.

So will I.

The ache in your chest returned immediately. It was sharp, unwelcome. Dangerous.You stared at the screen for a long moment. The old version of you would have melted at those words, would have built entire futures out of them.

But you weren't that girl anymore.

Instead, you locked your phone, setting it face down. You ignored the way your heart had reacted to his messages. Liking that he was there wasn't the same thing as trusting him, and missing him wasn't the same thing as forgiving him. Talking to him wasn't the same thing as letting him back into your life.

At least, that's what you told yourself as his name slowly stopped looking out of place on your screen.

You repeated it to yourself as his messages became part of your routine.

It was your mantra by the time you found yourself noticing when a day passed without hearing from him.

The concert was still weeks away, but despite every effort you'd made to keep your distance, you had a feeling it was going to complicate things far more than either of you were prepared for.

The day of the concert arrived far quicker than you had expected.

In truth, you'd spent most of the previous month trying not to think about it. Every time Mrs Lee mentioned it over text, every time Felix casually brought it up in conversation, every time you saw tour photos appearing online, you'd immediately redirect your attention elsewhere. It wasn't that you didn't want to go.

Honestly, the problem was that you wanted to go far more than you wanted to admit to yourself.

You'd watched Felix chase this dream from the very beginning. You remembered late-night conversations as kids, when he’d tell you that he’d be on a big stage one day. You remembered him showing you videos of performances and dance practices by famous groups, talking so enthusiastically about how it would be his future that it was impossible not to get swept up in his excitement.

Back then, success had felt like a distant possibility, but now he was performing in sold-out arenas. And despite everything that had happened between you, there was a part of you that wanted to see it with your own eyes. You wanted to see the life he’d built for himself, the person he’d become.

Mrs Lee had invited you to spend the day with them before the show, but you'd declined immediately, claiming jetlag. Whilst it was technically true – flying from Milan to Sydney - it wasn’t the whole truth. The reality was that spending an entire day with Felix before the concert sounded like an absolutely terrible idea. You needed time to prepare yourself in every way that mattered: emotionally, mentally, physically.

Especially physically.

If you were being completely honest with yourself, there was a reason you'd spent nearly two hours getting ready that evening, and there was a reason you'd changed outfits four separate times.

A reason your best friend spent twenty minutes laughing at you over FaceTime.

"You know he's going to lose his mind."

"I'm not dressing for Felix."

"Sure."

"I'm not."

"You're literally wearing that outfit."

You looked down, and okay. Maybe she had a point.

The outfit was stunning. Sophisticated enough that you couldn't be accused of trying too hard but fitted enough that it left very little to the imagination. You'd paired it with boots that made your legs look ridiculous and jewellery from a recent campaign. The overall effect was annoyingly effective.

You looked incredible… But not for Felix.

Obviously.

Absolutely not.

Definitely not.

You flipped your best friend off when she cracked up at you saying that.

The arena was already buzzing when you arrived, and Mrs Lee immediately engulfed you in a hug the second she spotted you.

"Oh, sweetheart."

You laughed. "Hello to you too."

His father greeted you warmly as well, and before long, you found yourself seated beside them while thousands of fans gradually filled the venue. The atmosphere was electric, and excitement seemed to pulse through the entire building. You'd attended plenty of concerts, fashion events, and award shows before, but this felt different.

The moment the lights dropped, the entire arena erupted, and suddenly, there they were. The crowd's reaction was deafening, the energy unbelievable. You found yourself staring, and not because of the choreography or the production, but because of Felix.

Because for the first time, you were seeing him where he belonged.

He was completely in his element. The shy, ambitious boy you'd known years ago was still there somewhere beneath the confidence and stage presence. But he'd grown into something else, too. Someone who commanded an arena full of people without even trying, who’d achieved every dream he'd once spoken about.

Sitting there in the audience, watching him perform beneath the lights, you felt something unexpected settle in your chest. Pride – pure and uncomplicated. It wasn’t the fact that he was famous or successful. It was the fact he’d done it, against all odds.

At one point, Felix's gaze swept across the audience, and for a brief second, you thought he'd spotted you. The smile that appeared immediately afterwards made your stomach flip. You quickly looked away, focusing on the fans around you.

You weren’t ready to examine those feelings yet.

By the time the concert ended, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Mrs Lee was practically glowing, and his father looked equally pleased. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't stop thinking about how happy Felix had looked on stage.

Backstage afterwards was chaos. Staff members rushed around everywhere as family members congratulated the group, and managers attempted to maintain some level of organisation. You'd barely stepped into the designated guest area before a familiar Australian accent called your name.

"You're Y/N, right?"

You turned to come face-to-face with Bang Chan. You recognised him immediately from photos and videos.

His grin widened. "Oh, thank God."

You blinked. "What?"

"Felix talks about you so much, I felt like I already knew you."

Your eyes widened, darting to the man in question. Across the room, Felix suddenly looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

Chan burst out laughing. "That face is exactly why I said it."

You couldn't help laughing, too. The conversation after that flowed surprisingly easily. Chan was warm, funny, and effortlessly charming. Before long, the two of you were exchanging stories and experiences of coming from Australia but living and working abroad, while Felix remained trapped elsewhere, speaking to family members and staff. You found yourself genuinely enjoying the conversation. For the first time in a while, you were laughing – properly laughing – hard enough for your stomach to hurt.

Chan had just finished telling an embarrassing story about Felix from their trainee days when you doubled over laughing.

"No."

"I swear."

"You're lying."

"I'm absolutely not."

"Felix did that?"

"Oh, it gets worse—"

"Chan."

The voice came from behind him. It was sharp and immediate. The smile dropped from Chan's face almost instantly as he slowly turned around. Felix stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable.

But his eyes weren't.

His eyes were fixed on you, and they looked irritated. Chan immediately looked between the two of you, then visibly decided he wanted absolutely no part of whatever was happening.

"Right." He pointed towards the opposite side of the room. "I suddenly have somewhere else to be."

"Chan—"

"Nope."

And just like that, he disappeared.

Traitor.

Silence settled between you and Felix. You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow when he mirrored the motion almost immediately. Neither of you spoke first, but eventually you sighed, wanting to know what his issue was.

"What?"

His jaw tightened. "Nothing."

You stared at him, unimpressed by the blatant lie.

"Felix."

"Nothing."

"You're annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

A beat passed before he snarked, "You seemed to be having fun."

You blinked. That was it?

"Yes."

His expression darkened slightly. "Clearly."

Realisation hit, and you stared at him for a second before you laughed. It wasn’t the same, warm laugh that had come about from your chat with Chan, but a disbelieving, annoyed sound that forced its way from your throat.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You're jealous."

His eyes widened. "I'm not jealous."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Felix."

"I'm not jealous."

The denial came far too quickly, and you laughed again. This time, he looked genuinely offended.

"You were laughing with him."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Immediately, his expression suggested he regretted saying them.

You just stared. "Are you hearing yourself right now?"

His face hardened. "I'm just saying."

"No." You shook your head. "No."

The familiar frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks suddenly surged forward.

"You don't get to be jealous."

His expression faltered, but you continued anyway.

"You don't get to disappear for two years."

His shoulders stiffened.

"You don't get to walk back into my life."

His eyes dropped briefly.

"You don't get to ask for friendship."

The room suddenly felt smaller, quieter. More dangerous.

"And then get upset when I talk to another man."

The truth landed heavily between you both. Felix swallowed, and for the first time since approaching, he looked uncertain.

"I know."

You shook your head. "No, I don't think you do."

The hurt on his face was immediate, but you couldn't stop. Not now. Because this wasn't really about Chan, and it never had been. This was about everything - the silence, the waiting, the unanswered questions. The trust he had broken.

"I spent two years rebuilding myself." Your voice softened, no less angry, but tired. "So, if we're doing this—whatever this is—you don't get to act like you have any claim on me."

Felix looked away, jaw clenched. The crowd continued moving around you both, blissfully unaware of the conversation unfolding in the corner. Finally, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.

"You're right."

The admission surprised you, but you tried not to let it show as his eyes met yours again. They were filled with regret.

"I'm sorry."

The words sounded genuine - painfully genuine – and it just made everything worse. For one brief moment, standing backstage after the concert, looking at the man who had once been your entire world, you realised that neither of you really knew what came next. Only that whatever it was, it wasn't going to be easy.

The tension between you and Felix lingered for only a few more seconds before a familiar voice cut straight through it.

"There you both are."

You looked up. Mrs Lee was approaching with the determined expression of a woman who had absolutely no intention of allowing either of you to continue whatever awkward conversation was happening. Her eyes darted between the two of you once and then narrowed.

"Oh dear."

You immediately groaned. "No."

She pointed at you. "Don't 'no' me." Then she pointed at Felix. "And don't look at me like that either."

Felix looked genuinely offended. "What look?"

"The exact look you're giving me now."

His father snorted from somewhere behind her.

Mrs Lee immediately hooked an arm through yours. "Come on."

"Mum—"

"No."

The two of you exchanged identical looks of resignation as she grabbed Felix's wrist, too. Neither of you missed the fact that she'd practically dragged you together. Unfortunately, neither of you were brave enough to point it out.

For the next twenty minutes, you found yourself surrounded by the rest of the group, family members, staff, and friends all talking over one another as the post-concert excitement continued to buzz through the venue. Thankfully, it gave you an excuse not to think about the argument. Or Felix. Or the fact that every time you accidentally looked his way, he seemed to already be looking at you.

Eventually, people began gathering bags and jackets. You assumed everyone was heading home, until there was mention of transportation, of reservations and – oh no – “after-party”.

You blinked. “After-party?"

Several heads turned, and Chan looked horrified. "You didn't know?"

"I didn't know there was an after-party."

The entire group immediately looked towards Felix, who suddenly became very interested in the floor.

"Felix."

He winced. "I forgot."

"You forgot?"

"I meant to tell you."

You stared at him, but he had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Sorry."

Before you could decide whether or not to be annoyed, Mrs Lee patted your arm. "You're coming."

It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. No room for argument. You looked down at your outfit, then back to his mum. Fortunately, unlike most surprises involving Felix, this one worked in your favour. You had definitely dressed for an after-party (or at least for the possibility that Felix might see you).

Not that you would ever admit that.

The venue chosen for the celebration was elegant enough to feel exclusive without being intimidating. Music drifted through the space as people mingled with drinks in hand. The atmosphere felt relaxed in a way the concert hadn't. Everyone seemed lighter, freer. The performance was over, and the pressure was gone.

The celebration had begun.

Unfortunately, you spent most of the evening doing what had become your speciality over the past few months.

Avoiding Felix.

You weren’t dramatic or obvious about it. You were simply… efficient. If he moved towards one group, you found another, and if he seemed about to approach, somebody else conveniently distracted you. The last thing you wanted was another argument, especially after the one backstage. You knew that your words had clearly hurt him, and while a part of you believed he deserved to hear them, another part hated seeing that look on his face.

That’s why distance felt easier. Safer.

Across the room, Felix seemed equally uncertain. Several times, you caught him glancing your way, looking like he might approach before he changed his mind and stayed where he was. The whole thing was becoming ridiculous.

You were halfway through a conversation near the bar when someone appeared beside you.

"You know."

You turned. Seungmin, Felix’s roommate. You’d heard about him in passing, but you hadn’t had the chance to speak to him yet. You noticed that unlike Chan, whose energy filled every room he entered, Seungmin seemed to have mastered the art of appearing out of nowhere.

He offered you a small smile. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

You immediately became suspicious. "That sounds dangerous."

"It probably is."

"Wonderful."

Seungmin laughed, then took a sip of his drink, eyes flitting to Felix across the room. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as though he was debating whether he should actually say whatever was on his mind. Eventually, curiosity won.

"Why didn't you ever reply?"

You frowned. "Reply to what?"

His expression shifted, confusion replacing amusement. His eyes moved quickly to the other side of the room, to where Felix was now glancing back.

"The letters."

Your stomach dropped. "What?"

"The letters."

You stared at him. the noise of the party fading around the edges.

"What letters?"

Seungmin blinked, before his entire face went pale. "Oh."

A horrible feeling settled in your chest, the kind that arrived moments before disaster. Slowly, Seungmin looked between you and Felix, before he seemed to calculate his escape options from the conversation. You, however, were unable to let it drop.

Your pulse quickened as you repeated, "What letters?"

The question came out sharper this time and you saw Seungmin swallow nervously in response.

"What letters, Seungmin?"

His eyes widened as your volume increased. The poor man looked like he'd accidentally stepped on a landmine as he shushed you, the people around you suddenly seeming interested in your conversation.

"Felix never told you?"

The world tilted slightly, but you stared at him, feigning calm.

"He never told me what?"

Seungmin closed his eyes. The expression on his face suggested he was already planning his own funeral, because whatever he had just revealed? It was clearly something he had never been supposed to reveal at all.

Across the room, completely oblivious, Felix was still smiling, unaware that the foundation beneath the carefully rebuilt relationship between the two of you had just cracked wide open.

The moment Seungmin finished speaking, you didn't think. You simply moved. Your drink was abandoned on the nearest table, the conversations around you fading into meaningless background noise. Before your brain could catch up with what was happening, you were already crossing the room. You were fast, purposeful in your approach to Felix. 

He was midway through a conversation with Chan and one of the managers when he looked up and saw you approaching. For a split second, his face brightened. Then he saw your expression and the smile vanished immediately.

"Y/N—"

"Outside."

His eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"Now."

The tone of your voice was enough. Chan immediately took a step backwards whilst their manager looked alarmed. Felix, on the other hand, looked confused but you were thankful when he followed you. You didn't wait for him. You pushed through a side door leading away from the music and lights of the club and into the cool night air beyond.

The alley behind the venue was quiet, dimly lit. Empty. The door slammed shut behind you, and a second later, Felix emerged after you.

"What happened?"

You spun around.

"What letters?"

a/n: I apologise if this was dogshit, I just could not get my head into this part at allllll. Part Three won't take as long to post xo

The panic attack finally released its grip nearly an hour after you'd left Chan standing outside the aquatics centre.

You didn't remember getting home. One minute you were walking through campus with tears blurring your vision, and the next you were fumbling your keys into the lock of your flat door with numb fingers.

The second the door closed behind you, silence settled over everything. You were free from the echoes of whistles and shouting, free from the afterimage of blood.

Free from Chan.

The last thought hurt the most. You’d never once thought you’d feel this way about him; he was your safe place, your calming eye in the middle of the storm that was your mind.

You slid down against the door and buried your face in your hands. The flashbacks came in waves for a while longer, but eventually they slowed. Your breathing steadied, and your shaking limbs stopped.

The guilt came not long after – overwhelming and crushing in a way you’d never felt before.

You'd left him.

The image of his face kept replaying in your mind. His split knuckles, his red eyes. The way he'd looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers. You rubbed at your eyes harshly, trying to erase the image from your mind. You loved him. God, you loved him. But every time you thought about seeing him again, your chest tightened.

What if he'd realised you were too much work?

What if you'd overreacted?

Had you just destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to you?

Your phone buzzed, and you nearly dropped it when you saw his name on the screen. For several seconds, you simply stared at it, worried that you’d never get the chance to see it there again after today.

Did you get home safely?

In all the mess, you’d forgotten to do the one thing he asked. You couldn’t help but think that, once again, he was having to do the work.

There was nothing but concern in his message, and fresh tears gathered instantly in response.  Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for nearly five minutes, debating what to say or even if you should reply. Finally, you settled on being polite, feeling unable to ignore him.

Yes, thank you.

The typing bubble appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared. You gnawed at the skin around your nail, accidentally making it bleed, as you waited for his response. Eventually, another message arrived.

Okay. I'm glad.

Your heart broke at the simple response.

Chan wasn't sleeping; everyone around him knew it, the dark circles beneath his eyes growing worse every day. He stopped hanging around after training, stopped laughing, and stopped eating properly. Even swimming seemed different. His teammates watched him push himself harder and harder in the water like he was trying to outrun something… Or someone.

Most nights, he found himself staring at your last message. Two words – polite, distant - like he was a stranger, like he hadn't spent months loving you.

He'd replayed the fight a thousand times in his head. He knew why you'd reacted the way you had, knew trauma wasn't logical. He knew you'd been terrified. But there was a small voice in the back of his mind that kept whispering the same thing.

You scared her.

The thought made him feel physically sick.

The first accidental encounter happened three days later.

You were leaving the library carrying a stack of books when you spotted him across the courtyard. Your heart stopped as you took him in. He was standing near the steps talking to one of his teammates.

You missed him so much it physically hurt.

As if sensing it, Chan looked up. Your eyes met for a fraction of a second before you turned on your heel, rushing back into the library.

Chan didn’t chase after you, just watched you run from him as you did three days earlier, his heart breaking in his chest once more.

The second encounter was worse. Much worse.

You were cutting across campus near the aquatics centre when you saw him, and instinctively, your feet slowed.

Chan was standing near the entrance, looking more refreshed than he had days earlier. He was actually smiling, eyes crinkling in the way you loved. A girl stood beside him.

A pretty girl, your brain supplied.

She looked comfortable around him, laughing at something he’d said. You froze as you watched the two of them together, noticing how good they looked together. The familiar ache returned instantly.

Why wouldn't he move on?

You were the one who walked away, the one who couldn't handle being loved properly. The one who'd broken both your hearts.

You watched them for another second before turning around, tears welling up in your eyes.

What you didn't see was the girl hand Chan a stack of paperwork. You didn’t see the university staff lanyard around her neck or hear her explaining registration details for the upcoming swim meet.

Most importantly, you didn't see Chan finally glance up and spot you disappearing around the corner.

Or his entire expression collapse.

By the end of the week, you'd convinced yourself he deserved better. He deserved – needed - someone uncomplicated. Someone normal who didn’t run away when things got difficult.

The thought made you cry every night, but you convinced yourself it was the right thing.

Because loving him and being good for him weren't necessarily the same thing.

The reconciliation happened by complete accident. Or maybe fate had finally decided you'd both suffered enough.

You were leaving a campus café carrying a takeaway coffee when you nearly collided with someone coming through the door. The cup slipped, but strong hands caught it before it hit the floor.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You’d recognise those hands anywhere. They were the hands that had held yours as they trembled, the hands that had wiped your tears away, the hands that had run through your hair as you lay in his lap, recovering from another unexpected panic attack.

Your eyes travelled upwards until they connected with his.

Chan.

His breath caught at the same time as yours, and neither of you looked away. Not this time. Not after a week of missed chances and heartbreak.

"Hi," he said quietly.

The sound of his voice nearly destroyed you.

"Hi."

Neither of you moved, frozen by the weight of each other’s gaze.

Chan spoke first, and your eyes widened at his words. "You thought I was with someone."

"What?"

"The girl outside the aquatics centre."

Understanding hit instantly, and you tried to deny it straightaway, not wanting to discuss it. "Oh, no! Not at all! It’s fine, anyway, if you are-"

You snapped out of your rambling at the sound of his laugh, soft and fond.

"She works for the university."

Heat flooded your face. "Oh."

Chan rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I saw you leave."

Your chest tightened, and you shrugged, saying, "I thought you'd moved on."

His head snapped up so fast it was almost comical. "What?"

"I mean—"

"You thought I'd moved on?"

You stared at the floor. "I thought maybe you should."

You felt awkward in the silence that followed, trying to plan your escape before the ground swallowed you whole.

"No."

The word came immediately, firm and certain. You looked up, and Chan was staring at you like the idea itself offended him.

"No," he repeated. "Absolutely not."

Your eyes immediately filled. "Chan—"

"I love you."

The confession came so fast it almost stole your breath. His own eyes had gone glassy now as he continued. "I still love you."

Tears gathered in your eyes because, despite the fear and the guilt, you loved him too. Completely.

"I miss you," you whispered.

Chan's face crumpled, and the distance between you suddenly felt unbearable.

"I miss you too."

You let out a shaky laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I'm sorry."

Instantly, Chan shook his head. "No."

"But I left."

"You were scared."

"I hurt you."

"You were scared," he repeated softly.

You stared at him, and he stepped closer - not enough to touch you, but enough to be near.

"I understand."

The simple acceptance broke something inside you, and the tears you’d desperately been trying to hold back finally escaped. Chan looked moments away from joining you.

"I should never have lost my temper like that," he said quietly. "I was angry because of what he said, but that's not an excuse. I never want you to look at me and feel afraid again."

"You weren't him."

His jaw tightened. "I know."

"You weren't."

"I know."

You swallowed hard. "I'm grateful you wanted to protect me."

His eyes immediately softened, and you fought to get the next words out.

"But I think I need more help."

The admission felt terrifying, but it was a relief to finally tell him how you’d felt the past week.

"I thought I was doing better."

"You are doing better."

Your eyes lifted.

Chan's voice was gentle now as he smiled at you softly. "So much better. You go inside the aquatics centre, and you come to my swim meets. You’ve met my team!"

Tears slipped down your face. "But I still need help."

"Then we’ll get you help."

The answer was immediate, free from hesitation and frustration. There was no disappointment in his voice, either. Just certainty.

"And I'll be here."

Your throat tightened. "What if it takes a while?"

A sad smile appeared on his face, before he reached very slowly for your hand, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn't, his fingers carefully intertwined with yours. You felt yourself relax instinctively as the warmth, the familiarity.

"I waited three months to hold your hand the first time."

A tearful laugh escaped you, and Chan's smile finally became real.

"I can wait as long as you need."

a/n: I hope this ending was okay my darlings, lmk in the comments xo

You’d always been on the larger side, ever since you were a child. Whilst boys were crushing on your friends, you fell easily into the role of the funny one, the one there to break the ice. As you grew up, you got used to watching from the sidelines as girls got the guys they liked, and you didn’t.

It wasn’t that nobody ever liked you. At least, that’s what your friends insisted.

“You just don’t notice it.”

“You’re intimidating.”

“People assume you’re already taken.”

The excuses changed depending on who was saying them, but none of them ever felt true. The truth was much simpler. You weren’t the girl people noticed first. So eventually, you stopped expecting them to notice at all… Which was why meeting Han felt so ridiculous.

People like Han weren’t supposed to exist in your life. He was famous, and not to mention beautiful - the kind of beautiful that made people stop walking when he appeared on a screen. Even before he debuted, before the awards and world tours and screaming fans, he’d been attractive. The cameras only amplified it. You, meanwhile, worked a normal job, lived in a normal flat, and spent most evenings convincing yourself that takeaways counted as cooking. Your worlds should never have crossed. Yet somehow, they did.

It started when your company partnered with his agency for a promotional campaign. You’d been assigned to help coordinate schedules. It was nothing glamorous - mostly emails, spreadsheets, and trying not to scream whenever deadlines changed at the last second.

The first time you met him in person, you’d expected arrogance, or at least indifference. Instead, he walked into the conference room, immediately bowed to everyone present, and introduced himself as though nobody knew who he was.

“Hi, I’m Han.”

As if he wasn’t one of the most recognisable idols in the world.

The room practically melted around him, colleagues flocking to meet his every whim (not that he had any, he was too humble for that). You remained determinedly professional… For approximately seven minutes. Then he ruined that professionalism you were striving for by making a joke. A joke that your brain found funny enough to snort out loud at. Before you could die of embarrassment, Han was grinning and chuckling at your reaction.

Before long, he was sitting beside you instead of across the room. The whole thing felt suspicious, especially when he was even more kind than he had first appeared.

Months passed as the campaign continued. You had expected to work quietly in the background, taking notes and turning them into ideas for him to pitch to his management. Han, however, seemed to have other ideas. It started with him constantly finding reasons to talk to you, about both work and you. He’d stop by your desk, drinks in hand for both of you, like he was the employee. You were mortified the first time he did it, telling him that it should have been the other way around, but he’d simply smiled and carried on each day like he hadn’t heard you the first time.

The time at your desk coincided with evening text messages about work-related questions that absolutely could have been emails. The conversations developed into an easy friendship when he’d ask how your day was or remember details from previous conversations.

The first time he brought you a snack without asking what you liked, you nearly accused him of witchcraft.

“You remembered my favourite snack?”

He looked genuinely confused and slightly offended. “Of course I remembered.”

He said it like it was obvious, as though remembering things about you wasn’t unusual.

You spent weeks convincing yourself he was just friendly - months, actually - because the alternative was absurd. The alternative was believing that someone like Han, who was handsome, talented, and adored by millions, might actually enjoy your company. So, whenever your colleagues raised their eyebrows, you ignored them. Whenever he sought you out in a crowded room, you dismissed it. Whenever your stomach fluttered, you told yourself it meant nothing.

Then came the night everything fell apart. Or rather, everything changed.

The team had gone out after a successful event. Most people were drinking, and music played softly in the background. You’d shaken your head and smiled softly to yourself as you realised it was Han’s music playing, before slipping outside for air, enjoying the peace and quiet.

A few minutes later, the door opened behind you, and Han stepped onto the balcony. You immediately sighed and turned back to the view, avoiding his gaze.

“There are like thirty people inside.”

“And?”

“Yet somehow you found me.”

He smiled. “I was looking for you.”

Your heart betrayed you with a violent thud, and you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth his simple words brought to you. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath you, and you found yourself wanting to know-

“Why?”

The question came out before you could stop it, and you regretted asking when Han went quiet, face solemn when you glanced at him quickly from the corner of your eye.

“Do you really not know?”

You laughed - a short, humourless sound. “No.”

He stared at you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked frustrated.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe someone could like you?”

The words hit harder than they should have, and you tensed at his directness. Years of being overlooked surfaced instantly, and you crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to put a barrier between yourself and the awkwardness you felt as you replied.

“Because that’s not how my life works.”

Han’s expression softened immediately, and you hated how close his pity looked to kindness.

“You think I haven’t noticed you making yourself smaller in every room you walk into?” he asked quietly.

Your throat tightened enough that you couldn’t answer. For years, without realising it, you’d learnt to make yourself small, to blend into the background rather than risk standing out and attracting attention.

Han took a step closer, and your breath hitched as he started talking, taking another step towards you with every compliment he gave you.

“You make everyone laugh.”

“You’re kind.”

“You’re smart.”

Your eyes burned, and you felt the need to interrupt him, not knowing how to process what he was saying.

“Han—”

“And you’re beautiful.”

The words stole every thought from your head, and you actually laughed at the impossibility of the situation; at the fact that this man had come into your life months ago and was now calling you beautiful when no one else ever had before.

Han didn’t laugh with you; he simply looked at you. His gaze was steady, his eyes certain. His expression showed that he couldn’t understand why you were questioning it, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world to you.

The silence stretched between you before Han closed the final distance between you, reaching to slide his fingers between your own gently before asking:

“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you to notice I’m flirting with you?”

Your jaw dropped at his words, and Han groaned dramatically and covered his face.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

Despite yourself, another laugh escaped - a real one this time - and when Han peeked through his fingers and saw you smiling, his own grin returned instantly. He leaned against the railing, tilting his head at you as he spoke again.

"So."

"So."

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Now that we've established what I think about you..."

Your heart began hammering. "Right."

His eyes met yours, and suddenly this felt very real. You could no longer tell yourself that he was just being nice, no longer write off his seeking you out.

"I like you," he said quietly.

The words settled over you, no room for misunderstanding, and it felt even scarier than all the flirting you’d missed.

You looked down at where your fingers were still laced together. "I don't really know what to say."

"That's okay."

"No, it's not."

You laughed nervously. "I should probably have a normal response."

Han's expression softened. "There's no normal response."

You took a breath, then another, trying to shift the heavy sensation in your chest. It was something you'd been carrying for weeks – months, maybe – without ever properly acknowledging it.

"I think..." you started.

The words immediately disappeared, doubt catching your tongue and forcing the words back. Han waited patiently, though, face calm and eyes understanding.

You tried again. "I think part of the reason I didn't realise you were flirting..."

Your fingers twisted together as you forced the second part of your sentence out, your face heating at your own honesty.

"...was because I couldn't imagine why you'd flirt with me."

His face fell slightly, but you hurried on. "I know you must hate it when I say things like that."

"I do."

"I know." You smiled weakly, barely holding eye contact. "But it's true."

The confession tasted awful. It was embarrassing, leaving a new feeling of vulnerability, but you had to be honest. Han remained quiet, listening to what you had to say.

"Every compliment just got filed under 'Han is nice.'"

A small laugh escaped him. "That explains a lot."

"Right?"

"A concerning amount, actually."

You laughed, but your smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "Because if I admitted you might mean it..." Your voice softened. "I'd have to admit that I wanted you to."

Han froze, expression shocked. The words hung in the air, and your heart immediately tried to evacuate your body.

"Oh, God." You covered your face, releasing his hand as you did so. "I wasn't planning on saying that."

Han's eyes widened. "You weren't?"

"No."

"You just accidentally confessed?"

"Apparently."

A grin began spreading across his face, and you groaned.

"Please don't look so happy."

"I can't help it."

"Han."

"You like me."

Your entire face burned. "You already knew that."

"I suspected." He pushed himself away from the railing. "But hearing it is different."

You peeked through your fingers and smiled at the look of pure delight on Han’s face.

"You really had no idea?" he asked.

You lowered your hands. "No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

Han shook his head. "Incredible."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

The two of you laughed, and as it faded, you realised that he was suddenly standing closer. Not close enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you could see the warmth in his eyes and the way he looked at you. Like he genuinely couldn't believe this was happening either.

"You know," he said softly, "I've liked you for a while."

Your stomach flipped. "How long?"

Han winced. "Long enough that your colleagues threatened intervention."

You burst out laughing, but you felt your face flush bright red at how oblivious you must have really been.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Oh, my God."

"They were tired of seeing me all the time."

You shook your head and giggled. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city lights still glowed around you, and music still drifted faintly through the doors, but it felt different now than a few minutes ago. Like maybe the lights were that little bit brighter, the music that little bit sweeter.

You swallowed before reaching out and taking his hand once again. His eyes immediately dropped to where your fingers intertwined, and you were over the moon to see a smile tug at his lips.

"Hi," you said softly.

Han laughed. "Hi."

"I like you, too."

His smile grew. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His fingers squeezed yours, and for a second, he looked so ridiculously happy that you couldn't stop smiling back.

The second you walked back into the party together, every coherent thought vanished from your head. Han was still smiling - not his usual bright, mischievous smile – but a softer one. The kind that kept appearing every time he looked at you (which was constantly).  The noise of the party washed over you as people greeted you both.

Someone called Han’s name from across the room, and he answered without taking his eyes off you. You tried not to notice, but you failed. Completely.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, and his expression immediately softened.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You look overwhelmed.”

“Maybe because you confessed your feelings to me ten minutes ago.”

His ears turned pink; the sight made something warm bloom in your chest.

“Fair.”

Before you could react, his hand settled gently against the small of your back. The touch wasn’t possessive or demanding. It was almost hesitant, as if he were checking whether you would pull away. You didn’t, and Han visibly relaxed.

“Come on.”

You followed him farther into the room and quickly discovered that, now that he’d admitted his feelings, he apparently had no intention of pretending otherwise. At all. When people spoke to you, Han drifted closer. When the crowd became busy, his hand found your waist. When somebody squeezed between you, he immediately moved back beside you again. You weren’t even sure he realised he was doing it. It seemed instinctive, natural even. As though being near you was simply where he wanted to be.

The longer the evening went on, the bolder he became.

At one point, you were standing beside the drinks table listening to a story from one of your colleagues. Han appeared beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. You tried (and failed) not to react as his hand brushed yours. Once. Twice. A third time. Until eventually his fingers hooked loosely around yours.

Your entire train of thought derailed as you stared at your joined hands, Han following your gaze.

“Oh.”

He sounded completely unashamed. “Sorry.”

He made absolutely no effort to let go.

You looked up. “Han.”

“What?”

“You aren’t sorry.”

A grin spread across his face. “No.”

You laughed despite yourself.

The colleague speaking to you rolled their eyes dramatically. “Are we interrupting something?”

Both of you froze, and Han looked delighted. You, on the other hand, wanted the floor to swallow you whole. The colleague laughed and wandered away before either of you could answer. The moment they disappeared, Han leaned closer.

“I think they know.”

“You think?”

His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. God. You were never going to survive this.

As the evening continued, more people joined conversations and drifted away. Han never strayed far. Not once. If he were talking to somebody else, he somehow remained beside you. If someone pulled him into another conversation, his hand would find your arm before he moved away. There was always a brief touch, always a silent reassurance that he’d be right back.

And every single time, he came back.

You were standing with a small group near the balcony doors when somebody asked Han a question. His answer was automatic, distracted, because he was looking at you. Again.

You finally shook your head. “What?”

His smile appeared instantly. “I like looking at you.”

The conversation around you stopped dead. Your eyes widened at the same time that Han realised what he’d said, tips of his ears turning red.

The group immediately erupted into laughter. “You are down catastrophically.”

Han groaned. “I’m aware.”

“You said that out loud.”

“I’m aware.”

You covered your face, but he gently pulled your hands away, murmuring, “Don’t hide.”

“I’m hiding.”

“No.”

“Han.”

His grin softened, and for a brief moment, with everyone else fading into the background, he squeezed your hand. Just once. A quiet little gesture that somehow felt more intimate than all the flirting. The party continued around you, yet somehow, the two of you seemed caught inside your own little bubble. One where every smile lasted too long, every glance lingered, and every accidental touch became deliberate.

Hours passed far more quickly than they should have. Eventually, you checked the time and realised how late it was.

“I should probably head home.”

Han looked disappointed immediately. The expression appeared so quickly that you almost laughed. “Already?”

“It’s late.”

“You’ve become incredibly responsible.”

“Someone has to be.”

“Certainly not me.”

You rolled your eyes, but he smiled. Then, without thinking, his hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The tiny movement made your pulse stumble.

“Can I walk you home?”

The question came out quieter than everything else he’d said all evening. For the first time since his confession, he actually seemed nervous.

You looked at him, at the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours, at the hopeful expression he was trying and failing to hide. Suddenly, the answer felt easy.

“Okay.”

His entire face lit up, and the smile that followed was so bright it was impossible not to smile back.

“Okay?”

“Yes, Han.”

He laughed before he squeezed your hand once more and reached for your coat.

"Wait here for a minute?"

You nodded.

The work party was beginning to wind down. People were collecting coats, finishing drinks, and exchanging goodbyes.

Han smiled. "I'll just say goodbye to your colleagues before they think I've kidnapped you."

You laughed. "Very considerate."

"I know." He leaned down slightly. "Don't disappear."

The warmth that had become so familiar over the last few weeks spread through your chest.

"I won't."

Satisfied, Han headed across the room, immediately getting intercepted by three different people. You smiled to yourself and wandered towards the front door, eyes on his face as he laughed at what one of your colleagues had said.

It still felt surreal - the fact that Han liked you, that he held your hand without hesitation, that he looked at you the way he did.

You were so distracted by your thoughts that you almost didn't notice someone approaching. A woman stopped beside you. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked like every inch of her was perfectly styled, an expensive-looking dress adorning her perfect figure. She was the kind of woman who seemed effortlessly put together.

She smiled, and at first glance, she seemed friendly.

"You must be Y/N."

"Oh." You smiled politely. "Yeah."

"I'm Ara."

You didn't recognise the name. "Oh, nice to meet you."

Her smile remained in place, though something about it felt slightly forced. "I've known Han for years."

"Oh." You brightened immediately. "Really?"

"Since before all this."

You nodded. "That's nice."

Ara glanced across the room to where Han was talking, then back at you. "So, how did this happen?"

Something about her tone made your stomach tighten.

"What?"

"You and Han."

She gestured vaguely between you.

You laughed awkwardly. "I don't know."

"No, seriously." Her smile sharpened. "I genuinely don't understand."

The warmth in your chest began cooling. "Oh."

Ara folded her arms. "I mean, Han's always had options."

You stared at her. The comment landed heavily, and you instantly started doubting yourself yet again. Maybe she didn't mean it badly? Maybe—

"He usually dates models."

Never mind.

Your stomach dropped, and you looked away, from both her and Han. "Oh."

Ara gave a small shrug. "Not that looks are everything."

The classic phrase people said right before making looks everything. You suddenly felt very aware of yourself - of your dress and the body contained in it, and of every insecurity you'd managed to ignore tonight.

"I just think everyone's surprised."

She said it casually, like she was discussing the weather. As if she wasn't twisting something sharp directly into your ribs.

Your throat felt tight. "Right."

"Like genuinely shocked." Ara laughed lightly, continuing. "I mean, when he first mentioned you, I thought he was joking."

The words hit harder than you wanted them to, because they sounded suspiciously similar to things you'd told yourself. Things you'd believed. Things you were still trying to unlearn.

She tilted her head. "Don't you think it's strange?"

You frowned. "What?"

"That someone like Han would suddenly be interested in someone like—"

She stopped, looking you up and down, her perfectly manicured eyebrow arching in thinly veiled disgust. The unfinished sentence somehow hurt more than if she'd said it.

For a second, you couldn't speak. Your chest felt hollow. This was exactly what you'd always feared everyone was thinking. Exactly what the cruel voice in your head whispered whenever Han looked at you. The only difference was that now someone had actually said it aloud.

Ara sighed dramatically. "I'm just looking out for him."

Your jaw tightened. "Looking out for him?"

"Of course." She smiled again. "I'm his friend."

Friend.

The word felt ridiculous. Friends didn't speak about people like this.

"You know," she continued, "I just think he's getting caught up in attention."

Your eyes snapped back to hers. "Attention?"

"Well." She shrugged. "People like being needed."

The implication hit immediately - that Han pitied you, that he was rescuing you, that whatever existed between you couldn't possibly be real. Your stomach twisted painfully, and for a moment, you couldn't think of a response. You couldn't figure out what to say, because part of you hated how much it hurt, how easily her words found every insecurity you'd ever had.

By the time she walked away, your stomach felt sick. You hated how much her words hurt, hated that a stranger had managed to find every insecurity you’d spent years burying.

Han appeared across the room, smiling as he looked for you. For one awful second, relief had surged through you. Until he reached her, and she smiled up at him. Until he pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek. It was a normal greeting between close friends, a completely innocent interaction. But through the lens she’d handed you? It looked devastating.

She fit beside him, looked right beside him. They looked like celebrities did in magazines and couples did in advertisements. Ara looked like a girl who always got chosen. And suddenly you were fifteen again, standing against the wall at a school dance, watching somebody prettier get everything you’d secretly wanted.

The ache in your chest became unbearable, and you made the quick decision to leave. You slipped out before Han could reach the door, before he could find you. Before you could embarrass yourself any further.

The cool night air hit your face immediately. You walked faster, then faster still. As though distance could somehow stop the hurt. Your phone buzzed once in your pocket, but you ignored it. You ignored it the next four times they buzzed, too.

By the time you reached your flat, your eyes were burning. You kicked off your shoes and immediately headed for your bedroom. Your phone was buzzing nonstop now, and you finally gave up, pulling it out of your pocket with a frustrated groan.

Han: Where did you go?

Han: I can’t find you.

Han: Are you okay?

Han: Did something happen?

Han: Please answer.

You stared at the screen, reading the messages again and again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, then locked the phone instead, because what were you supposed to say?

Your friend pointed out everything I’ve spent my entire life believing about myself, and now I think you’re going to realise she was right?

The thought was pathetic, humiliating even. So instead, you curled up beneath your duvet, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Your phone rang again and again, the screen lighting up over and over until eventually it stopped. Silence settled over the room, only broken by your uneven breathing. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry or to think. Willing yourself not to imagine Han laughing with her right now, no doubt looking at her the way someone should.

Your phone buzzed one final time, and you froze at the voicemail notification.

Han.

You knew it would be him, just like you knew you shouldn’t listen. The sensible thing would be to delete it, to ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Instead, ten minutes later, you found yourself staring at the notification like it had personally offended you. Then another five minutes passed, followed by another. Eventually, you decided that you couldn’t avoid it any longer and, with a shaky breath, you pressed play.

For a second, there was only background noise – music, voices, the sounds of the party. Then Han sighed, and your chest tightened instantly.

“Hey.”

His voice sounded breathless, like he’d been moving around looking for you.

“I don’t really know if you’re listening to this, but I’m hoping you are.”

There was more muffled noise followed by a door opening somewhere in the background. The music became quieter, and you realised that Han had clearly stepped outside.

“You disappeared.” His voice softened as he continued, “And that’s not like you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’ve checked every room in this building.”

A small laugh escaped him, but it sounded tired.

“I even checked the bathrooms.”

His tone changed to a more serious one. “I know something happened. Maybe I’m wrong, but you looked different before you left.”

There was a pause, and it was long enough that you could hear him exhale.

“If somebody said something to you…” His voice faltered. “…I need you to tell me.”

Your throat tightened painfully because somehow, he knew. Not what, but that something had happened.

The recording crackled slightly as he shifted the phone, and his voice came through the phone again, quieter this time.

“I know you don’t see yourself the way other people do.”

Tears immediately blurred your vision. You hated how quickly they came, and you hated how accurately he’d hit the wound.

“But I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because every time you laugh, I want to be the reason. Every time something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. And when I walk into a room…”

His voice softened even further.

“…you’re the person I look for.”

You couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, too warm. The voicemail continued regardless.

“No matter how many people there are. No matter how famous they’re supposed to be.”

He paused again at the end of the phone before letting out a soft sigh.

“I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”

The words landed directly in the centre of your chest. There was no hesitation or embarrassment, just certainty in his voice, as though they were the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.

The recording went quiet for a moment, and when Han spoke again, his voice sounded smaller somehow. More vulnerable.

“I don’t know why you left. I just know that you looked upset… And I hate the idea of you sitting alone somewhere thinking you have to deal with that by yourself.”

Your vision blurred completely at his words, and you were struggling to hold back your sobs as you finished the message.

“If you want space, I’ll give you space. But please don’t think you have to disappear.”

The final words came softly, almost hesitantly.

“As much as you don’t seem to believe it… I really, really like you.”

There was a brief silence from the other end of the line before he huffed out a small, nervous laugh.

“God, that sounded awful.”

Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. The recording ended a second later, and your room fell silent once again. You stared at your phone through tear-filled eyes. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how loudly that cruel voice echoed in your head, you couldn’t stop replaying one thought.

Han had spent the entire evening surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the industry. And yet when he’d realised you were gone…

You were the person he’d looked for.

The following morning, your thumb hovered over Han’s contact. You should call him; you knew that. You should tell him what happened, what she’d said. Give him a chance to explain.

Instead, you scrolled past his name, past the missed calls and the messages. And stopped on another contact.

Sarah.

You hadn’t spoken properly in months - years, maybe – not beyond birthday messages and the occasional comment on social media. But she’d been there for all of it: school, college, the endless years of being overlooked. If anyone would understand why you were spiralling, it would be her.

So, you called her.

The line rang twice before she answered.

“Hey, stranger.”

Her cheerful voice almost made you cry.

“Hi.”

Immediately she paused. “Oh.”

You heard concern enter her voice.

“What’s happened?”

The words poured out before you could stop them, and you found yourself telling her everything. You told her about meeting Han and working together. About the flirting that you’d mistaken for kindness until the confession. Your voice had cracked as you told her about the party and Ara, about the comments that had left you cut up inside.

Sarah listened quietly throughout, only making the occasional noise to show she was still there. By the end, your throat hurt, and you sat anxiously as silence stretched between you before she finally spoke up again.

“Can I be honest?”

Something in her tone made your stomach drop, and you sat up straighter in preparation.

“Sure.”

A sigh crackled down the line before she started talking. “I think that girl was harsh.”

You nodded immediately. “Exactly.”

“But…”

The word hit like ice water. Your grip tightened on the phone as you waited for her to carry on.

“Sarah?”

She hesitated long enough that you already knew you weren’t going to like what came next.

“I kind of understand what she meant.”

The room suddenly felt very still.

“What?”

“I’m not saying she’s right,” Sarah said quickly. “I’m just saying…”

She trailed off, then tried again.

“Han’s a celebrity.”

You stared at the wall, feeling the pain creep back into your chest, into your heart. “And?”

“And look at the women around him.”

Your chest tightened because you knew where this was going. You hated that you knew.

“Sarah—”

“They’re gorgeous.”

There it was. The familiar ache, the familiar humiliation. The same thing you’d heard your entire life. They were different words, but the message was always the same.

Sarah laughed awkwardly before continuing. “You’ve always been insecure about this stuff.”

The comment stung because she sounded so certain, like she’d always known. Like everyone had.

“I mean…” She hesitated but decided to continue. “You remember school.”

Your stomach dropped because, of course, you remembered school. You remembered everything. Every dance. Every crush. Every time a boy wanted one of your friends. Never you.

“You were always the funny one.”

Funny. Always funny, but never pretty. Never desirable.

Sarah continued speaking, oblivious to the emotional turmoil she was causing for you. “People loved you because you were easy to be around.”

The words landed wrong, terribly wrong. People loved you because—

Because what?

Because you made them look better? Because you were safe? Because nobody had to compete with you?

A memory surfaced suddenly from when you were sixteen. You were sitting at lunch, listening while your friends complained about boys asking them out. You’d laughed along, making jokes, playing your role as the harmless one. The funny one. The one nobody worried about.

Sarah sighed, bringing you back to the present.

“I’m just worried you’re getting your hopes up.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

There was another pause as Sarah debated what to say.

“What if he likes the attention?”

The words hit like a slap. “What?”

“You know how kind people can accidentally lead someone on.”

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest. “He told me he likes me.”

“He might think he does.”

You closed your eyes, a horrible feeling growing in your chest now. It wasn’t sadness but recognition, because suddenly you weren’t hearing Ara anymore in your head. You were hearing Sarah. And the more she talked, the more something felt wrong.

“Look,” Sarah continued gently, “you’ve never been the type guys go for.”

The room went silent, and your mind ground to a halt. She’d said it so casually, so naturally, as though it were an established fact. As though she wasn’t saying something devastating. As though she’d always believed it.

You thought back over years of friendship, or what you’d assumed was friendship. You thought about all the jokes she’d made. The compliments that never quite felt like compliments. The way she’d introduce you with a “This is my friend. She’s hilarious.”

Never beautiful, or gorgeous.

Never anything else but funny.

The realisation settled slowly, painfully. You’d always thought that Sarah understood your insecurities, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d helped build them.

Your eyes burned, but on the other end of the line, Sarah kept talking. “You can’t be too proud about these things.”

The phrase caught your attention immediately.

“You’ve got to be realistic.”

Realistic.

Another word you’d heard your entire life. Realistic meant knowing your place, meant expecting less. Realistic meant understanding that some girls got chosen and others didn’t.

You stared at the dark screen of your television at your reflection, and for the first time, another thought crept in. A horrible one. One that hurt more than Ara’s cruelty.

Do they keep me around because I’m safe? Because standing next to me makes them feel prettier? Because I’m useful?

You remembered every time you’d laughed at yourself first. Every joke you’d made at your own expense. Every moment you’d made yourself smaller so everyone else could shine.

Sarah was still speaking when you realised you hadn’t heard a word she’d said for nearly thirty seconds.

“…are you there?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.

“We’re just worried about you.”

We - not I -as though there had always been a group discussion you weren’t part of.As though everyone had reached the same conclusion about you years ago.

You swallowed hard, then looked down at your phone. At the unanswered messages waiting from Han. The voicemail you’d listened to three times already. The man who had spent months choosing your company, looking for you, remembering things about you, caring about you. As you sat there, a question popped into your mind about Sarah.

If someone genuinely cared about you, would they be speaking to you like this? Or had you spent years mistaking familiarity for friendship?

The answer sat heavily in your chest, because for the first time, Sarah sounded an awful lot like the girl at the party.

And neither of them sounded anything like Han.

The first day after the party, you told yourself you just needed time - time to think, and to calm down. To get your head straight before you spoke to Han again.

When the receptionist called to tell you he was downstairs asking for you, you took a shaky breath and said you were in a meeting. It was a blatant lie; you sat at your desk staring blankly at an unopened spreadsheet while your colleague went down instead.

You hated yourself for it.

But not enough to stop.

The second day, he came back. The third day, too. By the fourth, people in the office had started teasing you about it. They weren’t malicious in their teasing; they just walked around with knowing smiles, jokingly asking questions about why a world-famous idol kept appearing at the reception, looking disappointed.

You laughed it off, tried to change the subject. You avoided looking out the window whenever he arrived. But every evening your phone still lit up.

Han: Hope your day wasn’t too awful.

Han: You looked after yourself today?

Han: I miss talking to you.

Han: Did I do something wrong?

That one sat unread for nearly an hour before you finally opened it.

Did I do something wrong?

The answer was no, because Han really hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the problem. If he’d hurt you, this would have been easier, or if he’d lied or mocked you or revealed himself to be cruel, you could have walked away angry. Instead, he’d been kind, but every cruel thing anyone had said about you had started sounding louder than his kindness.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Mentally. The constant battle in your head was becoming unbearable - one side replaying Han’s voicemail, the other replaying what Ara had said, the way Sarah had agreed. You were assaulted with every school memory you’d spent years trying to forget.

“Be realistic.”

“Look at the women around him.”

“You’ve never been the type guys go for.”

At some point, the fear stopped being about whether Han liked you and turned into something much uglier. It became about what would happen when he stopped liking you, because he surely would. Sooner or later, once the excitement wore off, he’d realise. Once he looked around and saw all the women who fit naturally into his world - the women who didn’t have to worry about angles in photographs, the women who looked effortless.

The women who belonged.

You found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror one morning, staring at every part of yourself. All you could see was your every flaw, every softness, every insecurity. The comments echoed again and again in your skull, poisoning your mind and your eyes and twisting your own body into a source of disgust so profound that you felt sick to your stomach.

By lunchtime, you’d convinced yourself there was only one solution.

Change.

Immediately.

Drastically.

At first, you were just skipping meals. It was nothing major in your mind, just breakfast becoming coffee and lunch becoming “I’m not hungry.” Dinner became something small, easy to control from the safety of your own flat.

The first day of your new routine felt awful; the second was worse. By the third, hunger had become something you almost welcomed. It was a strange sort of punishment. Proof you were trying, fixing yourself. Every ache in your stomach became evidence that you were finally doing something. You were finally becoming better, more worthy of Han’s attention and a place in his world. The scale became the first thing you checked every morning, the number determining your mood for the entire day. If it dropped, relief flooded through you, and if it didn’t, panic followed.

Soon, your entire life began revolving around it. It was an ongoing mess of calories, numbers, and portion control. Excuses became second nature. You stopped meeting friends after work, stopped accepting invitations, and stopped doing things you enjoyed. Everything became secondary to becoming someone who belonged beside Han. It’s all that mattered to you. In your mind, you needed to be the kind of person that nobody would question or laugh at. Someone nobody would pull aside at parties and warn away.

A few weeks after the party, you were sitting alone at your kitchen table when your phone buzzed again.

Han.

You almost ignored it until your eyes landed on the preview on your screen.

Han: I’m worried about you.

Your chest tightened painfully, so you locked the phone, setting it face down as you tried to focus on anything but the man waiting at the other end for a reply.

A few seconds later, more messages arrived. Guilt mixed with panic, and you froze when you read his words.

Han: If you need space, I’ll respect it.

Han: But please stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

Your throat burned with emotion because he wasn’t supposed to notice. Nobody had ever noticed. Sure, people noticed when you were funny or when you were useful, and they definitely noticed when you were making everyone else’s lives easier.

They just didn’t notice when you were quietly falling apart.

Yet somehow Han had.

And that made ignoring him infinitely harder.

You pushed away from the table and headed for the bathroom. The scale sat waiting in the corner, calling out to you. You stepped onto it immediately, heart pounding, and watched the numbers settle slightly lower than they had been the day before. It was a tiny amount – barely anything – yet relief flooded through you so intensely that it was almost embarrassing.

There.

See? It was working!

You just had to keep going. Keep trying. Keep fixing yourself. Then maybe one day you’d be the kind of person who deserved someone like Han.

The thought felt comforting for all of three seconds before another memory surfaced of Han’s voice from the voicemail.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. At the tired eyes and the dark circles sat underneath them. The tension in your shoulders made you look small, a perfect manifestation of the way you’d spent the last week shrinking your entire life down to a number on a scale.

For the first time, a quiet, uncomfortable question appeared.

If Han walked through the door right now and saw what you were doing to yourself, would he think you were becoming someone worthy of him? Or would he be heartbroken that you believed you had to?

The wine had been a mistake; you’d known that when you’d poured the second glass and became certain by the third. But for the first time in days, your thoughts had felt quieter. Not gone, just blurred around the edges.

The scale hadn’t given you the result you’d wanted that morning. You’d spent the entire day carrying that disappointment around with you, letting it grow larger and larger until it consumed everything else. By the evening, your flat was silent except for the television playing something you weren’t really watching.

The Sharpie had appeared almost absentmindedly. One moment, it was sitting in a drawer. The next, it was in your hand.

You stood in front of the mirror wearing only a robe, slightly open at the front. You were staring at yourself as you had weeks ago, eyes critical and expression judgmental. The same way you had every day for the last week.

Only this time, you’d started drawing.

It was just a few marks at first – lines, shapes, outlines. An impossible version of yourself sketched directly onto your skin. You drew a body that took up less space that nobody would question. A body that belonged beside Han. The alcohol made it easier to pretend, to stand there and imagine everything outside those lines simply disappearing.

As though life could be that simple.

As though years of insecurity could be solved with a marker pen.

You were so focused on your reflection that the knock at the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your heart stopped when it was followed by another, this time louder. You dropped the Sharpie immediately, and panic surged through you because nobody visited unannounced. Nobody.

You fumbled the robe closed and tied it so quickly your fingers slipped twice. There was another knock, and you called out this time.

“Coming!”

Your voice sounded strange, even to your own ears. It was too high, too breathless. You hurried to the door, mentally running through the possibilities of who it could be. Maybe it was your neighbour, or a delivery? Anyone but-

“Han?”

You’d opened the door and froze. Han stood on the other side, and for a second, neither of you spoke. His hair was slightly windswept, jacket hanging open. He looked as though he’d come straight from somewhere else, straight to you.

Your stomach dropped as you realised that this was the first time you’d seen him in weeks, and you weren’t ready for it. It hadn’t been long enough, you hadn’t dieted enough yet. Hadn’t lost enough weight to belong at his side.

“What are you doing here?”

The words came out sharper than intended, a consequence of your inner panic.

Relief flashed across his face despite your tone, like he’d genuinely been worried you wouldn’t answer.

“Hi to you too.”

You tightened your grip on the door. “Han.”

“I got your address from your colleague.”

Of course he had. You made a mental note to murder that colleague later.

“What are you doing here?” you repeated.

His smile faded slightly, realising you weren’t happy to see him, even now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You immediately looked away. “No, I haven’t.”

The lie was pathetic, and you both knew it.

Han sighed. “You have.”

An awkward silence settled between the two of you; you didn’t know what to say, how to get out of this without admitting the truth. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too bright. You felt too exposed. Every second he stood there increased your awareness of what was hidden beneath the robe - the marker pen lying abandoned in the bathroom, the lines still covering your skin.

Your pulse hammered. “I’ve just been busy,” you tried.

Han stared at you, then snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh almost escaped you. His expression softened, concern replacing frustration.

“You disappeared.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“You stopped answering my messages.”

“I know.”

“You won’t see me.”

“I know.”

The quiet honesty seemed to catch him off guard. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Han took a careful step closer.

“Talk to me.”

The gentleness nearly broke you. You looked down at the floor, hiding the glassiness in your eyes.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Because if you started talking, everything would come out: Ara, Sarah, the dieting, the spiralling. The fact that every time you looked at him, all you could think was that eventually he’ll realise they’re right.

Your eyes burned, and you shook your head. “Please just go home.”

Han’s face fell, and the sight hurt more than you expected. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, and panic sealed your throat shut as it stopped at your neck. You already knew what he’d see but prayed that it was something – anything - else.

A dark line of marker was visible above the collar of your robe, just enough to be noticeable.

Han frowned. “What is that?”

Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed as you lied again before they moved lower to where another black line disappeared beneath the robe near your ankle.

The colour drained from your face. “No.”

Han’s voice was careful now – confused, concerned when he asked, “What happened?”

You instinctively pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the lines from view, even though it was too late. “It’s nothing.”

The concern on his face deepened. It was the kind of concern that comes from realising something is very wrong. Not physically, but emotionally… Mentally. The silence stretched, and for the first time since arriving, Han looked genuinely frightened.

Not of you; for you.

“Can I come in?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Because suddenly all your excuses felt exhausted, all your energy gone. Standing there under his worried gaze, you realised something.

For weeks, you’d been trying desperately to become someone worthy of Han. Meanwhile, Han had spent those same weeks trying desperately to reach the person he already cared about.

The person standing in front of him now.

Not some future version, or some smaller version.

Just you.

The realisation hurt enough to make the tears in your eyes finally spill over, and Han’s expression immediately crumpled.

“Oh.”

His voice softened.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

The endearment shattered what little composure remained. You looked away, embarrassed by the tears, but Han didn’t move, and he didn’t judge or look disgusted. He simply stood there, waiting, like whatever was hidden beneath the robe wasn’t what mattered. Like the thing he cared about was the fact that you’d been hurting alone.

The moment you stepped aside, Han entered the flat without hesitation. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, neither of you spoke as you stared at the floor, and he watched you carefully. The silence felt fragile, like just one wrong word could shatter it entirely. You stood awkwardly in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Terrified of saying anything at all.

Han looked at you for a long moment, then quietly said, “Come here.”

And somehow that was your undoing – not because of the words, but because of the gentleness. The patience. The fact that he wasn’t angry. You crossed the distance before you could stop yourself, and the second his arms wrapped around you, a sob tore from your throat.

Han held you immediately, firmly. You felt safe in his arms as one hand slid to the back of your head, the other settling around your shoulders. You buried your face against him, and for the first time in over a week, you stopped trying to hold yourself together. Everything hurt - your chest, throat, head – from the exhaustion of carrying so much shame around every second of every day. Han just held you through it, asking no questions and making no demands, just providing a steady warmth that you could sink into.

Until that horrible voice slithered back in.

He can feel you.

You froze.

He can feel how big you are.

Your stomach dropped.

He can feel every fat bit of you.

Immediately, panic flooded through you, and you pulled away so suddenly that Han nearly stumbled.

His hands fell away instantly, confusion crossing his face. “Hey—”

You took another step back, then another. “No.”

Your breathing became uneven. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

You shook your head violently. Han looked completely lost now, concern replacing confusion.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been avoiding me for over a week.”

You looked away. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s obviously not true.”

You started pacing. The energy felt trapped beneath your skin, like if you stood still for even a second, you’d explode. Han watched carefully, waiting for you to speak. The patience only made it worse, because eventually there was nowhere left to run. Nowhere left to hide.

“It was that party.”

The words came out suddenly, surprising even yourself.

Han straightened, though, latching onto your sudden outburst. “What about it?”

You laughed miserably because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. “Your friend.”

Immediately, understanding flashed across his face. You could see that he didn’t understand fully, but enough to help. Enough to get to the bottom of what had been affecting you for weeks.

“Who?”

Ara’s name left your mouth, and Han’s expression darkened instantly.

“What did she say?”

The question was a catalyst to your pain, and everything came spilling out. You told him about the comments she’d made, the implications. You mentioned the warnings that she’d given and explained the way she’d looked at you and how she’d made you feel. You sobbed as you recounted the way you’d watched him hug her afterwards and suddenly felt fifteen years old again, watching prettier girls get everything while you faded into the background.

By the time you finished, your eyes were burning, and Han looked furious. You laughed shakily and dragged a hand through your hair.

“You know the worst part?”

His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“I believed her.”

The confession hung in the room, raw and ugly. You swallowed hard, knowing that you needed to continue. You wanted him to finally understand after hiding for so long.

“Then I called Sarah.”

Han frowned, confused. “Is that your friend? The one from school?”

You nodded, feeling sick as you admitted, “She agreed.”

The silence that followed was deafening, because saying it aloud somehow made it real. Han stared at you, mouth hanging open, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Meanwhile, the words you’d spent all week swallowing came rushing out.

“I’ve spent my whole life being the funny friend. The one everyone likes but nobody wants.”

You winced as your voice cracked when tears blurred your vision again, but you had to finish now that you had started.

“And maybe they’re right.”

Han immediately shook his head. “No.”

“Maybe they are.”

“No.”

You laughed bitterly. “Han, look at your life.”

His expression hardened. “I’m looking at you.”

The tears spilt over once again, quieter this time, more resigned. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

The desperation in his voice caught you off guard. You were expecting frustration, maybe anger, but instead, he seemed to genuinely want to know. So, you told him everything, the words tumbling out between sobs.

“I’ve… drawn out in Sharpie - where I’d take the scissors. If that’s what it took for me to look in the mirror.”

Han’s face drained of colour, and your chest hurt at the horror on his face.

“I’ve done every diet to make me look thinner.”

A tear rolled down your cheek as you asked the question that had plagued your mind your whole life.

“So why do I still feel so goddamn inferior?”

The room went completely silent. For a moment, Han didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at you. You could see that he was heartbroken by your words, by your pain. It looked like hearing your words caused him his own physical pain. Then, his gaze slowly dropped. To your robe. To the marker visible at your collar, your wrists, and your ankles.

Realisation dawned on his face, and you let out a shaky laugh.

“There.”

Your fingers twisted into the fabric.

“That’s what’s under here.”

Han closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his jaw jumping. When he looked at you again, his eyes were shining with grief.

“You’ve been carrying this by yourself?”

The question broke something inside you, because even after all of that, he wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. He hadn’t confirmed that the girls had been right. He was just sad that you’d been hurting.

You nodded, a tiny movement, but Han still saw it. His shoulders fell, as though the answer hurt him, before he slowly crossed the room. He was giving you enough of a chance to stop him, you realised. But this time, you didn’t want to.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the moisture in his eyes, hear his uneven breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“I wish you could see what I see.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks because after weeks of starving yourself and hiding while you tried to become someone else, Han wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was looking at you like your pain was the thing breaking his heart.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood in the middle of your living room, tears drying on your cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Han was close enough to touch, to see every flicker of doubt crossing your face.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered.

His expression softened. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to.”

You swallowed. The shame was still there, sitting heavy and familiar in your chest, but for the first time all week, there was something else alongside it.

Trust.

Slowly, Han reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours, warm and steady, as he gently pulled you towards the mirror hanging in your hallway.

He stopped in front of the full-length mirror, tugging on your hand with a gentle “Come here.”

You hadn’t looked in this mirror for weeks, preferring to restrict your view of yourself with the mirror in the bathroom. That one already gave you enough to critique, without bringing your whole body into view.

Immediately, your stomach twisted. “No.”

Han squeezed your hand gently, eyes imploring you to trust him. “Please.”

You took a deep, steadying breath before you stepped in line with the mirror, eyes slowly raising to land on you both in the reflection. You could see your red eyes. Your tear-stained face. His worried expression.

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

His voice was so quiet it almost hurt. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, Han loosened the belt of your robe. His eyes never left your face, checking. Waiting to see if you were okay with this.

When you didn’t pull away, the fabric slipped from your shoulders, leaving you in a simple vest and underwear. You immediately wanted to hide, to cross your arms and curl in on yourself until you disappeared. Han gently caught your wrists before you could, gently stopping you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

Your eyes filled again. “Han—”

“Please.”

The look on his face stole the rest of your words. He wasn’t looking at you with revulsion, or with judgment, but with an almost desperate need for you to see yourself differently. For you to appreciate yourself as he did.

Slowly, he turned you towards the mirror, and you tried looking at the floor. He noticed immediately, gently bumping your shoulder.

“Look.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I hate what I see.”

The words came out broken, raw from their honesty. Han’s jaw tightened, and he stepped behind you. You couldn’t help but tense as one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other lifting to your shoulder. His touch was gentle, reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing into his grip more.

“You see flaws,” he said softly as you stared stubbornly at the floor. “Because they’re there.”

The hand resting on your shoulder squeezed softly.

“I see somebody who always takes care of everyone else.”

A tear slipped down your cheek at his words, and his fingers traced lightly along your arm as he carried on softly.

“I see somebody who makes people feel safe.”

You shook your head, but his grip tightened slightly around your hand. He wasn’t letting you retreat or disappear. His gaze met yours through the reflection.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, you did. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you.

“I love your smile. The real one that you try to hide when you’re embarrassed.”

Your throat tightened, a shaky laugh escaping you. His own lips twitched in response to the noise.

“There it is.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, immediately looking down again. Han sighed, before gently tilting your chin upwards.

“Stay with me.”

The plea in his voice was unmistakable.

Stay with me. Believe me. Please.

His hand settled against your side, warm through your skin, and instead of criticism, instead of the catalogue of faults you’d expected, he spoke with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.

“I love how soft you are.”

You immediately tried looking away, and Han caught your eye again.

“No.”

The word was gentle but firm.

“You don’t get to run away from that one.”

Fresh tears filled your eyes because he wasn’t saying it despite your body. He was saying it because of it.

As though softness wasn’t something shameful.

As though it was something worth loving.

His forehead creased. “You spend so much time being cruel to yourself. Would you ever speak to somebody else the way you speak to yourself?”

You didn’t answer because you knew the answer.

Never.

His hand squeezed yours. “You are kind.”

Another squeeze.

“Funny.”

Another.

“Beautiful.”

Your eyes closed immediately, and Han made a quiet sound of frustration. Not at you, but at the wall of disbelief you’d built around yourself. When you opened your eyes again, he was already looking at you. His eyes hadn’t left you since you’d stepped in front of the mirror, watching you with nothing but patience – like he would have stood here all night if he had to.

“You keep waiting for me to change my mind.”

The words landed directly in your chest. You’d been waiting for it since the moment he confessed. Waiting for reality to catch up, for him to realise he’d made a mistake.

Han’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to.”

Your breath caught, but he carried on regardless. “I’m not looking at you and wishing you were somebody else.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek, and he wiped it away gently. “I’m not standing here imagining a different version of you.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I’m standing here looking at you.”

The room felt impossibly quiet as you stared at your reflection, at the woman you’d spent years criticising.

Years shrinking.

Years apologising for.

And for the first time, you weren’t seeing her entirely through your own eyes. You were seeing her through Han’s - through the eyes of someone who had searched an entire party looking for her. Who had shown up at her workplace every day. Who had tracked down her address because he was worried. Who looked at her now as though she was worth every bit of that effort.

Han brushed away another tear before he moved to rest his forehead on your own.  “You don’t have to become somebody else.”

His eyes searched yours, begging you to believe him.

“You never did.”

That night, after all the tears and confessions and raw honesty, the distance between you and Han felt smaller than it ever had before. You were still standing in front of the mirror, still emotionally exhausted and feeling vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. But this time, you had Han next to you, brushing a final tear from your cheek. Neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say right then, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm and safe in a way that you only felt with him.

His eyes drifted briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Slowly, he lifted one hand to cradle your face. The touch was impossibly gentle, as though you were something precious or breakable. His other arm wrapped around you, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.

And then he kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t desperate or urgent. It was soft; the kind of kiss that felt like a question and an answer all at once. You melted into it almost immediately. All the months of uncertainty, the weeks of pain and days of spiralling seemed to quiet down for those few moments. Han kissed you like someone who wanted you to understand something, like he was trying to communicate every reassuring thing he’d said that evening without using words.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and a small smile touched his lips.

“There you are.”

Your eyes immediately filled again, and Han laughed softly.

“No more crying,” he said.

“I’m trying.”

“You are terrible at it.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you, and his smile widened.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him when he looked at you like you were beautiful.

After that night, things didn’t magically become perfect. Years of insecurity don’t disappear overnight, but they become easier to carry when you aren’t carrying them alone anymore.

Han remained stubbornly, consistently present. The following week, you were there when he confronted Ara. You’d tried to avoid the conversation, but Han hadn’t allowed it.

“You’re coming.”

“Han—”

“You’re coming.”

And so, you had.

The woman looked uncomfortable the second she realised why she was there. Han wasn’t cruel - that wasn’t who he was - but he was firm. Disappointed. Protective in a way that made your chest ache. By the end of the conversation, there was no confusion about where he stood.

He chose you.

Openly.

Without hesitation, embarrassment or apology.

Talking to Sarah was harder - far harder - because, unlike Ara, Sarah had been part of your life for years. You’d spent so long believing she was your friend that accepting the truth felt almost like grief.

Han sat beside you before the call, supportive in his silence with his hand resting over your own. He was a quiet source of strength in a painfully illuminating conversation. For the first time, you noticed things you had overlooked for years. The dismissiveness, the backhanded compliments, and the subtle ways she’d always encouraged you to expect less from yourself.

By the end of the call, your hands were shaking. You stared at the blank screen afterwards feeling strangely hollow.

Han immediately pulled you against him. “You okay?”

You nodded, then shook your head before laughing. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

His arms tightened around you, and for the first time, ending the friendship felt less like losing something and more like putting down something heavy you’d been carrying for years.

The first time Han told you he loved you was six months later.

You were sitting together on his sofa, neither of you doing anything particularly interesting. A film was playing in the background, and your head was resting on his shoulder.

It happened so casually you almost missed it.

He kissed your forehead, smiled, and just… said it.

“I love you.”

As natural as breathing, as saying good morning.

You froze instantly, and Han immediately noticed. Panic surged through you, your brain racing.

Too fast.

Too much.

What if he means it now but not later?

What if I don’t deserve it?

What if—

“Hey.”

Han’s voice interrupted the spiral immediately. You looked up, and he was smiling softly. He wasn’t offended by the hesitation, or upset, or frustrated. He was just patient like always.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he explained.

Your throat tightened. “What if—”

“Don’t.”

His hand found yours.

“What if I scare you away?”

His expression melted completely. “You won’t.”

“What if—”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice made your eyes sting. Han kissed your forehead again, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. You laughed in spite of yourself, and Han grinned at you fondly.

“There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, and Han smiled.

“I love you,” he murmured.

The words felt less frightening the second time. Less like pressure and more like a promise.

And eventually, when you said it back, his smile was so bright it looked painful.

As your relationship deepened, intimacy became another place where Han’s patience showed itself.

When you were physically intimate together for the first time, he seemed far more focused on making sure you felt safe, wanted, and comfortable than anything else. Every hesitation was met with reassurance, every moment of insecurity was met with kindness. The same man who had stood beside you in front of the mirror was still there, still looking at you with the same affection, still treating your body as something worthy of care and admiration.

Afterwards, wrapped together beneath blankets, you found yourself tracing patterns across his arm, feeling content in the silence that enveloped the room. Han pressed a kiss into your hair, then another, and another, until you laughed and shoved his shoulder.

“Stop.”

“No.”

“Han.”

“No.”

You groaned, and he grinned before pulling you closer, as though even after everything, he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have you there. And for once, lying safely in his arms, you found yourself thinking something that would have seemed impossible a year earlier.

Maybe you weren’t the only lucky one.

Maybe you were worth someone feeling lucky enough to have you.

a/n: so I think this is the angstiest, yet realest, fic I've written yet? what do we think? lmk in the comments bcos I love hearing all your thoughts xo

The bar was rammed full with people escaping the end of another week of lectures and assignments. Music pulsed through the speakers loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet, while conversations blended together into a constant roar of laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses.

Your group had somehow managed to claim a booth in the corner hours ago, and now all eight of you were squeezed around a table clearly designed for half that number. Your legs were tangled beneath the table, jackets were piled in one corner, and empty glasses were scattered between baskets of chips and half-finished appetisers.

The longer the night went on, the louder everyone became. It had started innocently enough with a couple of drinks and catching up, but now the conversation was splintering into five different arguments at once.

"No, because that's literally not what happened," Seungmin was insisting from your left.

"It is exactly what happened," Changbin argued back.

"You weren't even there!"

"I heard about it."

"That's not the same thing!"

Across the table, Hyunjin was laughing so hard he nearly spilt his drink while Felix was attempting—and failing—to tell a story nobody would let him finish.

"Can I please finish?" Felix demanded.

"No," Jeongin replied immediately.

The entire table burst into laughter at the look of outrage on Felix’s face. You could barely hear yourself think over the noise, but you didn’t mind. It had been so long since you’d been out with them all, head buried into books in the library or under a duvet as you tried to catch up on hours of sleep lost from studying.

The booth was warm from too many bodies packed together. The air smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and whatever expensive cologne Hyunjin had drowned himself in before coming out.  Another round had appeared at some point, though you couldn't remember who ordered it; you were too focused on the leg pressed against yours under the table.

Han, your flatmate and the guy you were desperately in love with, was leaning into you to try to join the argument happening between Seungmin and Changbin on your left. Your breath hitched as he rested his hand on your thigh under the table, palm warming bare skin as he subtly moved it higher.

Probably not the best time to think about what those fingers could do.

You can’t remember how, or even exactly when, it happened. You were both in your second year of university, and you had met through Seungmin in your first year. You’d instantly clicked, and you fell for him fast and hard. With the chemistry you had, sex seemed like the natural next step. The first time you’d had sex was when you had started living together, along with Seungmin. You’d thought all your dreams had come at once, that maybe your feelings were reciprocated. It became abundantly clear afterwards, when he rolled off you and pulled his pants up to leave, that they weren’t. You’d managed to hide your tears and laugh the whole thing off until he’d left, when you’d crawled into Seungmin’s bed, and he’d held you as you cried to him.

It didn’t stop you from sleeping with Han the next time he initiated it, or the next. It had become a routine that you’d stuck to because, as much as it hurt, in those moments, you had Han’s attention all to yourself.

God, you felt pathetic.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by Han cracking up next to you, fingers tightening on the inside of your thigh. You were hitting the stage of the night where every joke became funnier than it actually was, and every story grew more exaggerated with each retelling. Even Seungmin, usually the voice of reason, was starting to lose his composure as laughter kept interrupting his attempts at conversation.

You leaned back against the booth, drink in hand, watching the chaos unfold around you. You couldn’t help but feel fond of the group of friends you’d built for yourself. They’d welcomed you in with open arms, a simple “any friend of Seungmin’s is a friend of ours”, and the rest was history.

Changbin took a break from arguing with Seungmin long enough to turn to Felix and ask, “When’s Lee Know getting here?”

You’d heard of Lee Know, but you'd never met him. You knew that he was one of Felix’s friends and that he sometimes joined the group for drinks, but you’d never had the chance to meet him yourself. You also knew that he didn’t get on well with Han, who had tensed next to you at the mention of his name, but you didn’t know why.

Felix, who was too busy smirking down at his phone, didn’t respond, and as you opened your mouth to tease him about it, a girl appeared next to the table.

"Hey," she said, smiling at Han. "Aren't you Han Jisung?"

The table immediately erupted with teasing, used to how this would play out.

"Here we go," Changbin muttered, smirking into his glass as he took a sip.

Han laughed at the teasing and looked back at the girl in front of him, his signature smirk coming to his face.

The girl tucked her hair behind her ear, blushing now. "I think we’re in the some of the same seminars."

"Yeah?" Han grinned.

You hated how easily his attention shifted from the conversation, from you, to her.

She nodded. "You’re really good. Really… clever."

You cringed at her attempt at flirting, nearly scoffing, but Han’s hand had already slipped away from your thigh as he turned his body towards her. The sudden loss of contact shouldn't have bothered you, but it did.

The girl glanced at the empty seat beside him. "Can I sit?"

Han shrugged. "Sure."

She slid into the booth without hesitation. Immediately, Seungmin nudged you and raised an eyebrow, a worried look on his face, but you looked away. You couldn’t bear to see the look of pity on his face when your heart was too busy aching from the conversation taking place next to you.

The girl and Han were already talking as if they'd known each other for ages. You tried to focus on Felix explaining something about Lee Know, but every few seconds Han's laugh cut through the noise. You watched as the girl touched his arm, and Han smiled, not moving away as she leaned in closer. You took a long drink, downing it in the hopes of numbing the uncomfortable feelings in your chest.

You shouldn’t care. You were just friends. Friends that fucked-

"Someone's grumpy," Seungmin murmured beside you, disrupting your thoughts.

"I'm not grumpy."

"Sure."

You kicked him under the table and managed a small smile as he complained, rubbing his shin.

A few minutes later, the girl said something that made Han laugh loudly, before she asked, "Want to get another drink with me?"

You didn't mean to listen, but you just couldn't help it.

Han looked at her. "Yeah, why not?"

You stopped yourself from reaching for him as he stood up, pretending to be busy with your phone. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the booth, and the girl smiled triumphantly. You hated her smugness.

"See you later," Han called casually to the table, not even sparing you a glance.

Nobody seemed surprised at the change in plans. Well, nobody except you. You watched as he disappeared into the crowd with her, heading towards the bar, hand resting at the base of her back. The seat beside you felt strangely empty.

"Well," Felix said, watching them leave. "That was quick."

"Five minutes," Changbin replied. "New record."

The group laughed, and you forced a smile through gritted teeth. The conversation moved on, but your attention drifted, watching as Han and the girl now moved together on the dance floor. You could see his hands on her hips, see the way they moved together in sync. It made you sick, because you knew how those hands felt on your body, how well your own body could move in sync with his.

You stared into your drink and tried to ignore the annoying feeling in your chest. Friends with benefits. That was all this was. You knew that, that Han didn't owe you anything. So why did watching him leave with someone else feel so much worse than you expected?

As soon as the door closed behind them, you stood up from your seat. You needed another drink, maybe five. You’d try anything to get rid of the jealousy you felt burning through you.

You turned to Seungmin, who was looking at you worriedly, and forced a smile on your face. “Just gonna get another drink, I’ll be right back.”

You tripped over your feet on the way to the bar, surprised by how tipsy you felt from the drinks you’d already had. You dodged the guys trying to drag you in to dance with them, uninterested in their attention. As you reached the bar, you flagged the barman down and ordered three shots and another double vodka lemonade. You downed the shots in quick succession and grimaced at the burn down your throat, rinsing it down with your drink. You smiled at the pleasant buzz that filled your system, feeling more relaxed than just minutes ago.

The third shot was definitely a mistake, you thought to yourself not long after. You knew it the second the burn disappeared from your throat and the buzz that filled your body rushed straight to your head. The tipsiness from earlier had turned into the room spinning slightly every time you turned your head.

"Another?" Felix asked.

You shook your head immediately, the movement making you dizzier than before. The table was still loud when you'd made your way back, the guys still laughing and arguing about something stupid, but suddenly it wasn't fun anymore. Probably because every time you glanced toward the entrance, part of you expected Han to come back. He never did, and you knew he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the night. The thought made you sick, and the empty seat he'd left behind hours ago felt like it was mocking you.

You stared down at your drink, the same one from earlier, and became only mildly concerned when your vision blurred.

"Oh no."

You blinked, and a tear landed on the table.

Seriously? Now?

You quickly wiped at your face, but another tear followed, more flowing not long after.

"Okay," you muttered to yourself. "Time to leave."

Nobody noticed as you slid out of the booth; Seungmin was in the toilet, and everyone else was too drunk and distracted. You were thankful for it because the last thing you needed was Changbin loudly announcing to the entire bar that you were crying over Han.

You grabbed your jacket and headed for the exit, shocked when the cold night air hit you like a truck. The second you stepped outside, you inhaled deeply… Then immediately stumbled.

"Oh. Shit."

The pavement shifted beneath your feet. Or maybe you shifted? Honestly, it was hard to tell, and you were too drunk to care. You steadied yourself against a wall. Everything felt emotional, like it was taunting you in your drunkenness. The music still echoed faintly from inside, and people laughed as they passed. Everyone seemed happy, and you suddenly felt very, very alone.

A fresh wave of tears appeared as you thought about how badly you wanted him to come back, to magically realise his feelings for you.

"Stupid Han," you mumbled, kicking the heels off your feet.

You weren’t sure when it started raining, but you slowly became aware of the dampness underfoot, of the rain dripping from the guttering you’d tried your best to hide under. The sound of a taxi pulling up to the curb nearby pulled you from your spiral, and you watched as the door opened and a man your age stepped out. You barely registered dark clothes and broad shoulders before your drunk brain came up with a solution.

A ride home! Perfect.

You immediately marched toward him. Well, ‘marched’ was generous. You wobbled like a newborn giraffe finding its feet for the first time.

The man looked up from his feet in surprise just as you collided with his chest. "Whoa."

Strong hands caught your shoulders before gravity could win, and you blinked up at him as he blinked down at you. Pretty eyes, you thought to yourself before blurting out:

"Can you drive me home?"

The man stared at you, confused, hands still on your shoulders. "What?"

You pointed at the taxi behind him. "You have transportation."

He looked genuinely confused before his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in your tear-stained face.

"...Are you crying?"

"No."

You immediately started crying harder. Brilliant, absolutely fantastic. Well done, me.

The man sighed. It was a long, tired sigh and part of you, the tiny shred of self-awareness left in you, felt bad for a second.

"Great."

You pointed a finger at him, nearly poking him in the nose as you did so. You smiled as he went cross-eyed, staring at the finger in his face.

"You're very nice."

"I haven't agreed to anything."

"You look nice."

"That's not the same thing."

You swayed dangerously, and his grip tightened on you. For a second, he looked like he was considering putting you back inside the bar, but then he glanced through the window, and whatever he saw seemed to change his mind.

"Do you know where you live?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?"

You nodded confidently. "Most of it."

The man pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, surprisingly, he laughed. It was just once, almost like he couldn’t help it, but you were taken aback by how your heart fluttered in response.

"Okay."

You brightened immediately, smiling through the tears left on your cheeks. "Okay?"

"I'll take you home."

"You're my favourite person."

"That's concerning."

He guided you towards the back seat of his taxi and opened the door for you. You didn't question why he waited - you were far too drunk - but you quickly realised that he was waiting for you to buckle yourself in. When he realised you were lacking the coordination for even that, he sighed again and leaned over you to do it himself.

“You smell nice,” you murmured. And he did. Like oranges, you thought to yourself helpfully.

You realised too late that you should probably be embarrassed by what you had just said to a stranger, even one so good-looking, when he leant back and raised an eyebrow at you, face mere inches from your own. Once you were buckled into the backseat, the man took his own seat behind the wheel and pulled out his phone. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen, and you caught a glimpse of a message being sent, but you couldn't make out the contact name. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a reply, and he read it before rolling his eyes and putting it away.

You were already half-asleep against the window when you caught his eyes in the rearview mirror.

"What's your name?" you asked suddenly.

The man glanced over. "You don't know who I am?"

You frowned. "Should I?"

That earned another strange look. "No. I’m Lee-Minho. Minho."

You were too drunk to notice the slip-up, and you were happy to have a name for such a pretty face. "Okay. Don’t kidnap me, Minho."

He didn’t respond, but you could see he’d raised an eyebrow at your words as he started to drive. A few minutes passed, and you couldn’t help but stare at what little you could see of him in the mirror, intrigued, before once again speaking your mind.

"You have sad eyes."

Minho nearly missed a turn, surprised by your words. "What?"

"You do."

"You've known me for thirty seconds."

"I notice things."

"You're drunk."

"Never said I wasn’t."

Silence settled over the car as you tore your eyes away long enough to look out of the window. The city lights blurred, and the rain was coming down even heavier now, raindrops running down the window like the tears had done on your own face earlier.

How poetic, you mused drunkenly.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, but the sadness was returning quickly now that you were no longer distracted.

You slumped further into the seat. "...Han left with another girl."

The man sighed, and if you weren’t so distracted, you would have realised that there was a suspicious amount of understanding in it.

"You don't say."

"I don't care."

"You sound like you care."

"I don't."

You immediately started crying again, completely invalidating your own lies. The man reached into the cup holder, grabbed a packet of tissues, and handed them over without taking his eyes off the road.

"Here."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

A few seconds passed before he added quietly, "For what it's worth, Han's an idiot."

You sniffled. "Do you know him?"

The man looked straight ahead, not replying. You hadn’t even noticed his lack of reply because you'd locked onto the music that was playing softly through the car speakers. You hated it. You hated every happy lyric, every stupid love song, every reminder that the world kept spinning while yours had fallen apart.

Your throat tightened at the thought of going home, of having to lie awake and hear the noises coming from his room. "Minho? Can you just... drive?"

He glanced at you through the rearview mirror, confusion in his eyes. "Drive?"

"Please. I don’t want to go home yet."

Something in your voice must have convinced him because he simply nodded and turned off his maps, choosing instead to take random roads. You curled up against the door, hugging yourself. You sat in silence for all of thirty seconds before the tears came back. They weren’t the ones from earlier - the composed, public kind – but rather ugly tears. The kind that made your chest hurt and left you gasping for breath. You pressed a hand over your mouth, hoping Minho couldn't hear, but you knew he definitely could.

You saw his eyes flick briefly to the mirror. "You alright back there?"

A laugh escaped you. A horrible, broken sound. "No."

The honesty surprised both of you.

"No," you repeated. "I'm really not."

The radio hummed softly between you, continuing with the same taunting music. You sat forward suddenly, leaning between the front seats as best as you could.

"Can you change it?"

Minho blinked. "The station?"

"Please."

Every station that he clicked through seemed determined to remind you that love was beautiful. That love lasted forever. That love always came back. You wanted to scream in frustration, balling up your hands against your eyes.

"Nothing?" he asked.

You shook your head. "I just want one sad song." Your voice cracked as you continued. "One person singing about how awful this feels."

Minho didn't answer immediately, thinking. Outside, rain rolled down the glass in endless streams. Finally, he said quietly, "Did he break your heart?"

You laughed again. "That obvious?"

"A little."

You looked out the window before answering. "I don’t know how much longer I can do this. He didn't even say goodbye. He just… left. He always just leaves. Like, my feelings don't matter. Like, I don’t matter."

Your chest tightened, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, finally sitting back in your seat.

"I don’t know what to do right now," you finished, avoiding Minho’s gaze.

"What do you mean?" he asked, quietly.

You swallowed, voice trembling as you replied. "I mean right now, at one in the morning. While it's raining, and my makeup's ruined from crying so much. While every song on the radio is about finding someone." You laughed through another sob. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

Minho was quiet for a moment before reaching over and turning the radio off completely. The car fell silent except for the rain.

"You know," he said, "sometimes people think they need advice."

You looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"But sometimes they just need someone to sit with them while it hurts."

A fresh wave of tears hit at that. You weren’t expecting to receive such kindness from a stranger, or such compassion. You leaned your head against the cool window as the taxi kept moving through the sleeping city. The wet roads seemed to stretch endlessly ahead when you had no destination in mind, the rain tapping softly against the glass providing a gentle backdrop to your drive.

You were surprised when Minho asked if you wanted to keep driving, assuming that he’d want the random drunk girl crying in his taxi out of it as soon as possible. But you agreed, voice barely a whisper, pleading:

"Please don't take me home yet."

He nodded, and together you disappeared deeper into the rain, chasing empty roads and borrowed time, while somewhere in the darkness, your broken heart beat in time with the windshield wipers, waiting for a song sad enough to understand it.

The rain never stopped, even when your own tears eventually dried up. It drummed softly against the roof of the taxi as the city blurred past in streaks of orange and white.  

You were simply exhausted, too tired to even cry. You supposed that heartbreak could only wring so much out of a person before there was nothing left. Your head rested against the cool window, eyes heavy as the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers pulled you closer and closer to sleep.

Minho glanced at you through the mirror. "You still awake?"

A tired hum was your only response, and you didn’t notice one corner of his mouth twitch fondly at your tired reply.

"Barely, then."

You blinked slowly. "Minho?"

His eyebrows lifted, wondering what would come out of your mouth next. "Yeah?"

“I think..." You yawned. "I think I'm done driving."

"Yeah?"

You nodded, mumbling sleepily, "Wanna go home."

Minho felt relieved to hear that, not because he couldn’t wait to get you out of his taxi so he could go home, but because he was glad to get you home to rest safely in your own bed. The address came out slurred and half-mumbled, but he managed to piece it together.

You must live with Han, or at least in the same building, he realised.

The rest of the journey passed in silence with Minho occasionally checking on you in the rearview mirror as you drifted in and out of consciousness, your need for sleep finally winning out. By the time the taxi pulled up outside your apartment building, you were practically unconscious.

"We're here."

"Hm?"

"We're here."

Your eyes opened slowly, your vision unfocused. "Oh."

You stared at the building, then at him, then back at the building. "Oh," you repeated dumbly.

Minho laughed softly, getting out of the taxi to open your door for you. "Come on."

Getting out of the taxi in itself was an adventure. You nearly left your phone behind, then you forgot your bag, before somehow getting tangled in the seatbelt despite already removing it.

Minho eventually leaned across and helped untangle you. "There."

"You're nice."

"I know."

You squinted suspiciously. "That wasn't humble."

"No."

You giggled at his bluntness, and the sound caught him off guard. For the first time all night, you sounded genuinely happy. It made him strangely happy in return.

As you turned to your building, you spotted someone standing outside the apartment entrance, pacing back and forth. You couldn’t see clearly due to the poor lighting, and you felt Minho’s hand come to gently wrap around your wrist as he squinted into the darkness. He hovered even closer, ready to pull you behind him, as the figure started running towards you.

"There you are!"

Minho took a step back as Seungmin stopped in front of you both, looking somewhere between furious and relieved. His hair was damp from the rain, and his hoodie was soaked. His phone was clutched tightly in one hand, and he waved it in your face as he started to vent his frustration at you.

"Do you have any idea how many times I called you?"

You blinked, one eye remaining closed as you thought. "Mmm... Seven?"

"Eighteen, Y/N."

"Oh."

"You disappeared!"

"I got in a taxi."

"I know you got in a taxi!" Seungmin shouted at you in frustration, running the hand that wasn’t holding his phone through his hair.

You considered this - way too drunk for confrontation - and tried to figure out how to respond.

"Good," you decided on, nodding your head once and immediately regretting it when the world tilted on its axis again

Seungmin stared at you. Minho even stared at you.

You smiled proudly, wagging a finger in Seungmin’s direction. "I remembered."

"Oh my god," Seungmin muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

You swayed slightly on your feet, suddenly, fatigue and alcohol taking your balance from you. The ground felt suspiciously uneven, and you decided that you wanted nothing more than your bed at this moment.

Before either man could react, you turned back toward Minho, and your sleepy brain supplied only one thought:

Goodbye.

So, you hugged him as you would with any of your friends - just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his middle. Minho froze completely, arms still by his sides, his body locked up.

Behind you, Seungmin looked equally shocked. "What—"

"Thank you," you mumbled into Minho's leather jacket, words muffled. Definitely oranges. "And for the sad music."

"We never found any sad music."

"You listened, though."

Minho swallowed as something unexpectedly warm settled in his chest. Slowly, awkwardly, he patted your shoulder. "Yeah, no problem."

You smiled against him before letting go. Unfortunately, the moment you let go, your balance disappeared completely. You stumbled sideways and nearly walked into a bush. You corrected too hard and started toppling toward the building. Seungmin caught you before gravity could finish the job.

"I've got her."

"Good."

Minho shoved his hands into his pockets, trying very hard not to think about how small you'd felt hugging him. Or how much trust had been packed into that simple gesture.

You were already half-asleep against Seungmin's shoulder. "Night, Minho."

"Night."

You waved without turning around, then allowed Seungmin to guide you toward the entrance. The door opened, and warm light spilt out, highlighting the dried tear tracks on your face. Just before it closed, Minho spoke quietly enough that he was fairly certain you wouldn't hear. But Seungmin did.

"Take care of her, Minnie."

Seungmin paused. The nickname was familiar. Old. Comfortable. He looked back to where Minho stood beside the taxi, rain collecting in his dark hair. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Then Seungmin nodded, smiling softly.

"I always do."

The door shut behind you both, and Minho stood alone on the pavement for several seconds longer than necessary before finally climbing back into the taxi. As it pulled away, he caught one last glimpse through the apartment window.

You were still leaning heavily against Seungmin, exhausted and heartbroken. But you were safe.

For some reason, knowing that made it much easier for Minho to drive away.

a/n: erm... hi? how was that? yay or nay? lmk in the comments!