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Right guys, Felix's part two to Two Years is being split into part two and part three because it's 18,000 fuckin words so far and that is just far too long for one part (and for me to focus on at once for editing and proofreading) lolol
Part two will be about 11.2k words, and part three will be the remainder!
Warnings: mentions of panic attack, reader has PTSD, angst but happy ending.
Word count: 1.6k.
a/n: you're all soppy buggers (affectionately) that wanted a happy ending, so here you go! [I dropped this in one sitting because I wanted to get it off my list of works in progress, so it's not proofread lolol xo]
[Just Like Him: Part One]
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
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Summary: Han likes you and you can’t believe it. Harsh words from the outside lead to extreme measures to feel worthy. Spoiler alert: you always were.
Warnings: MDNI suggestive language, reader develops an (implied) eating disorder, so much angst, poor mental health, reader has very unhealthy self-talk. PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU WILL BE TRIGGERED.
Word count: 11.2k.
a/n: this was my first ever request, and it was from the lovely @ilovesungie! Sorry Aish, I took your request and ran with it until it became it's very own full length fic! Even though it's full of angst, I tried to make the ending as beautiful and authentic as I could!
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
a/n: so this is part one of what will probably be a long ass, angsty, smutty, fluffy series designed to make you feel all the feels muhahaha. If you wanna be on my taglist for my works, lmk in the comments! ♥
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.
"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!
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Summary: it’s been two years since Felix left without a word and you still can’t move on.
Warnings: heavy drinking, angst angst angst
Word count: 3.2k.
a/n: this is probably dogshit compared to my others but I tried okay I’m sorry😭
You and Felix had been inseparable for as long as either of you could remember. Your parents joked that the two of you had come as a set because you always seemed to be attached at the hip. Every childhood memory seemed to include him somehow, whether it was school sports days that you both spent avoiding, or joint birthday parties, or family holidays that you always joined the other for.
As you grew up into awkward teenagers, he was there through every difficult phase of your modelling career, cheering you on when you were still doing awkward local catalogue shoots and pageant contests, and you'd been there for every dance and Taekwondo competition he'd dragged you to. By the time you were eighteen, nobody was surprised when friendship turned into something more. If anything, people were surprised it had taken so long.
For two years, being with Felix felt easy and comfortable, but never boring. It felt like coming home at the end of a long day when you didn’t realise how tired you actually were. It was probably why it felt so strange when he suddenly stopped answering your messages.
At first, you weren't worried. Felix was terrible at replying sometimes. You'd send him three messages in a row and get a response six hours later that simply read:
Sorry, sweetheart. I was distracted.
So, naturally, when an entire day passed without hearing from him, you rolled your eyes and assumed he'd misplaced his phone again. But then another day passed, followed by another. At first, you were annoyed; your calls went straight to voicemail, and your texts remained unread. By the time nearly a week had passed with no word from him, irritation gave way to concern, and you did what you’d always done when Felix was being impossible.
You drove to his parents' house.
His mother opened the door with a smile. "Oh, sweetheart! Where have you been hiding?"
Warmth flooded through you at the sight of her, and you couldn’t help the smile that was mirrored on your face. "Is Felix at home? He's not answering anything, and I haven’t heard from him for a few days now."
The smile vanished instantly. "What do you mean?"
You frowned, confused by the look on her face. "Is he… not in?"
She looked over her shoulder, calling deeper into the house. "Honey!"
His father appeared from the kitchen, frowning at the worry in his wife’s voice. "What's wrong?"
"She doesn't know."
A terrible silence settled over the doorway, and your stomach dropped.
"Know what?"
The two of them exchanged a look. It was the kind that made your pulse quicken, the kind you saw on occasions when they had to break some bad news to Felix.
You were about to ask what was going on when his mother sighed, then spoke.
"We thought he'd told you."
You felt your heart rate pick up when you saw the disappointment on both of their faces.
"Told me what?"
"About Korea."
You stared at her, brain stalling. "Korea?"
"He left three days ago."
The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking you back a step.
"What?"
His father looked just as confused as you felt. "He got accepted into a trainee programme. He's been working towards it for months."
Months.
You couldn't process that word. There’s no way that Felix wouldn’t have told you about something like this. You couldn’t believe it.
"Months?"
His mother looked increasingly horrified. "He never told you?"
You shook your head slowly, not knowing what to say.
Neither of them spoke for a moment before his mother spoke again, uttering a simple "Oh, Felix." The disappointment in her voice was immediate, and she pressed a hand to her forehead, clearly upset. "We assumed you knew everything."
"I didn't know he was applying anywhere. He… never told me."
His father swore quietly under his breath. "That boy."
You laughed. It wasn’t a genuine one, more a gut reaction to the disbelief you felt building within you. Because surely there had been some misunderstanding.
"He wouldn't just leave."
"He did leave," his mother said gently. "But he shouldn't have left without talking to you."
You felt strangely numb. You weren’t necessarily heartbroken, just confused and trying to work out how your boyfriend of two years had apparently been planning a move to another country without ever mentioning it.
"Did he say why he didn't tell me?"
Both parents looked uncomfortable. "No."
Even though you were somewhat expecting it, the answer somehow hurt more than anything else.
The weeks that followed were painfully awkward, because Felix wasn't missing, just… gone.
Whenever friends asked where he was, you found yourself stuck in the same, disjointed conversation again and again:
"Korea."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Long distance?"
"I don't know."
The answer never got easier because you didn't know if you were still together or if he'd intended to break up with you. You didn't know if he'd planned to call eventually or if you should just move on with your life as he’d clearly done with his own.
You didn't know anything.
Months turned into years, and your modelling career continued to grow. Felix's parents remained close with your family, and whenever they received updates, they passed them on. It was much the same: he was training, working hard, learning Korean. Chasing his dream. You were happy for him, or at least you tried to be. You tried to be happy for the Felix that you’d grown up with, who always wanted to perform, not the boyfriend that had suddenly up and left you without a single word. Yet with every update from his parents, you found yourself pondering the same thing.
Why hadn't he told you himself?
Out of everything that happened, that was the part you never understood. It wasn’t the fact that he left because you'd always known how much performing meant to him. It was the fact that you would have supported him, would have helped him pack. You would have driven him to the airport and kissed him goodbye.
What hurt was being left out entirely. You felt like, somewhere along the way, he'd decided you didn't deserve a goodbye.
Two years later, people assumed you'd moved on.
Your modelling career had taken off, and you were busier than you could have ever imagined. Your face was on billboards, and you walked runways in cities you'd once only seen in magazines. Your social media was full of glamorous photos, designer clothes, expensive hotels, and smiling selfies with friends.
From the outside, your life looked perfect. You'd become everything you'd dreamed of becoming. The only problem was that Felix wasn't there to see it, and somehow, even years later, that ruined every achievement enough that every milestone felt slightly hollow. Enough that every success came with the thought:
Felix would've loved this.
You stopped talking about him after the first year. It wasn’t because you stopped caring – you were still very much in love with him – but because people got tired of hearing about him. The reactions were always the same when you brought him up.
"You need to move on."
"It's been two years."
"Maybe he met someone else."
"Maybe he just wanted a fresh start."
"You deserve better."
Maybe they were true, but none of those answers explained why he'd left without a word. Eventually, you learned to keep it to yourself. It was easier that way.
Over the past two years, work became your escape during the day, but parties became your escape at night.
You convinced yourself you were having fun, and sometimes you almost believed it. You told yourself that you were meant to be enjoying yourself when there was always another event in another club with another afterparty full of beautiful people and expensive drinks. More often than not, the music was loud enough to drown out your thoughts. The alcohol certainly helped, too.
At first, it was just a couple of drinks. But then it became a few more, until it became difficult to remember the last night you'd gone to bed completely sober.
You were trying to self-destruct.
You were just tired of feeling everything.
The consequences of your vices eventually showed. There were constant dark circles beneath your eyes, a level of exhaustion that sleep never seemed to fix, and a constant ache behind your temples.
Your makeup artist, Sarah, became increasingly concerned. One morning in Paris, she looked at you in the mirror and sighed.
"Rough night?"
You winced, trying to avoid looking at your own reflection. "That obvious?"
"Only because I've known you for years."
You watched as she reached for yet another concealer palette.
"You're twenty-four," she muttered. "You should not look this tired."
You laughed weakly. "Thanks."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
The problem was that you didn't know how to stop, because whenever you were alone with your thoughts, they always found their way back to him.
By the second year after he’d left, you tried dating. Emphasis on tried. Friends set you up with people they thought you’d like, and managers introduced you to people that they thought would help your image. It was like a revolving door of attractive actors, athletes, musicians, and models. They were people you genuinely liked. People who were kind, funny, and interesting.
But they were also people who deserved more than what you were able to give them.
The dating never lasted longer than a few weeks, a month if you were really trying, because eventually they'd do something that reminded you of Felix. Or they’d fail to do something that reminded you of Felix.
And suddenly, in your mind, you were comparing them.
One man took you to dinner on a rooftop overlooking the city. The view was breathtaking, and the food was incredible. He spent the entire evening talking about himself, and you found yourself remembering how Felix used to ask about your day first.
Another sent flowers every week, and it should have been romantic. Instead, you remembered Felix showing up with a packet of your favourite snacks because he'd seen them while shopping and thought of you.
One date hated horror movies. Another refused to sing in the car. One never danced. One was always checking his phone. One forgot your birthday. One couldn't understand why you worked so much.
None of them were doing anything wrong… They just weren't him.
The worst part was that you weren't even sure you still loved the real Felix anymore, because you didn’t even know him. The version of him in your head had been frozen in time for two years. He could have changed. Maybe he wasn't the same person. Maybe if he walked through the door right now, you wouldn't even recognise him. Honestly, that didn't matter to you because the hurt wasn't really about losing Felix anymore. It was about losing the future you'd imagined with him. The future where he sat in the front row at your biggest shows, where you celebrated his debut together. The future where neither of you had to choose between love and your dreams.
A future that had disappeared the moment he boarded that plane without telling you.
One evening, after stumbling home from yet another party at three in the morning, you collapsed onto your sofa still wearing half your makeup. Your apartment was silent, dark, and empty. The only source of light came from the city lights that glowed through the windows.
You reached for your phone on autopilot. You didn’t expect anything; it was just a habit that you hadn’t been able to shake for the past two years. A stupid, pathetic one.
You opened the message thread you hadn't deleted – the one from two years ago, the last conversation between you and Felix. The final message still sat there unanswered.
Did you make it home okay?
You stared at it for a long time, numb, before you locked your phone and dropped it onto the cushion beside you.
After two years, one thing had become painfully clear. You weren't waiting for Felix to come back anymore; you were waiting for an explanation. Deep down, you were beginning to wonder if you were ever going to get one.
The article found you on a Thursday morning as you sat in your dressing room, waiting for Sarah to arrive. You’d caught a glimpse of your reflection and grimaced when you realised how much work she’d have to put in to make you look presentable. The article had come as a shock to you. You'd spent years avoiding news about Felix whenever possible in an effort to save yourself from any further heartbreak.
Your phone, however, didn’t get the memo.
A notification had appeared while you were scrolling through your Instagram. One of your friends had sent a link with no message, and you almost ignored it, assuming it was a scam. But then you saw his name, and your stomach dropped as panic seized you.
Had something happened? Was he hurt?
Without thinking, you opened it and immediately wished you hadn’t. The headline appeared instantly, engraving itself into your memory.
Felix And Nayeon: KPop’s Latest Dream Couple!
You stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar ache as your chest caved in. Instead, you felt suspiciously calm as you scrolled through the blurry photos in the article. Felix was laughing as he walked beside someone, and he looked happy. It wasn’t even the forced smile celebrities wore for cameras, but a genuine one. It was the same smile that you knew by heart, the same one you’d fallen in love with. You should have hated it, wanted to hate it. You wanted to feel angry at him for suddenly appearing on your screen with another woman after two years of ignorance.
Instead, you found yourself smiling sadly, because for the first time in years, reality hit you. Felix wasn't coming back, and it wasn’t because he wasn’t able to, but because he didn’t want to. He had built a life, a career and relationships. He’d built an entire future for himself like he'd always wanted to.
You figured that whether those dating rumours were true or not didn't actually matter. The point was that he'd moved on whilst you’d been stuck in the same rut for the past two years, waiting for answers that clearly weren't coming and for closure from someone who had never intended to give it.
The article couldn’t break your heart when it had already been broken years ago. Instead, it simply forced you to acknowledge that the person keeping you trapped wasn't Felix anymore.
It was you.
You didn't go out that night, or the next. For the first time in months, you decided to stay home. Alone. There was no music to deafen the noise in your head, no alcohol to numb the ache you’d been carrying around for years, and no distractions from the memories and questions that once plagued you.
You no longer wanted to shy away from your memories but embrace them before you let them go for good. So, you went into your bedroom, took a steadying breath, and pulled out an old storage box from the back of your wardrobe. You hadn’t opened it in two years, and a thick layer of dust covered it, obscuring the label on top that read: Felix. It contained everything you'd refused to let go of – photographs, movie tickets, birthday cards.There were little notes he'd scribbled during classes, receipts from dates, and souvenirs from places you'd visited together.They were all pieces of a life that no longer existed.
You sat cross-legged on the floor and looked through them for hours. Sometimes you laughed at the memories, and other times you cried, but your decision remained the same.
You had to lay your memories to rest.
Three days later, you held what you privately called Felix's funeral. You needed to put to rest the version of him that you held in your mind and in your heart - the version frozen at twenty-one. The same version who loved you and promised forever. You knew that that version had been gone for years and that you just hadn't accepted it. Until now.
You started with the photographs.
There were hundreds of them, dating from when you were babies all the way to just weeks before he left. You kept a handful of them – the ones with your families that held memories that belonged to more than just the two of you. The rest went into a fire pit in your garden. One by one. You watched the flames curl around smiling faces on summer holidays, beach trips, birthday parties and first dates.
Years of memories disappeared into smoke before your eyes, and it hurt. God, it hurt. But it also felt necessary, like removing a splinter that had been buried beneath your skin for years.
The hoodie was next. It was the oversized grey one he'd left at your apartment so many years ago. You'd slept in whenever you missed him, and it barely smelt of him anymore. You folded it carefully and placed it in a donation bag before immediately bursting into tears because, somehow, donating the hoodie hurt more than burning the photographs.
The hoodie had been comfort, a substitute for someone who wasn't there, but keeping it hadn't brought him back. It had only kept you stuck.
The necklace was last because it was by far the hardest.
He’d got it for you for your eighteenth birthday. It was a tiny, inexpensive silver pendant, but you'd worn it almost every day for years. You'd worn it to castings and interviews. You’d worn it to fashion weeks, award shows and photoshoots until you’d had to either take it off and hide it safely in your purse or tuck it under the collar of whatever top they’d put you in this time. You'd worn it through every heartbreak and every success. It had become part of you.
You stood in front of your bathroom mirror staring at your reflection. Your fingers found the chain automatically, just as they always did, only this time you unclasped it. The metal felt strangely heavy in your palm as you stared down at it. You realised you were crying when quiet tears dripped into your palm, landing on the pendant.
Removing the necklace felt like admitting something you'd spent years avoiding. You weren't letting go of Felix because you'd stopped loving him, but you were letting go because you still did, and you couldn't keep destroying yourself over someone who had chosen a life that no longer included you.
When everything was finished, your apartment felt different, almost lighter.
You weren’t suddenly happy or healed, and the grief wasn’t gone. The love wasn't gone either, but you suspected it never completely would be. Felix would probably always be one of those people who left fingerprints on your heart that couldn’t be erased. But for the first time in years, loving him wasn't the centre of your life. It was simply a chapter - an important one, a painfully beautiful one – but a finished one.
That night, before bed, you looked at yourself in the mirror. There was no necklace, no tears or alcohol. There was no hangover waiting for you in the morning. Just… yourself. Maybe you were still a little broken, still healing, but you were finally moving forward.
And for the first time since Felix left, the future didn't feel quite so impossible.
a/n: there will be a part two with a lot more Felix x reader interactions 🙂↕️
I HAVE MY FIRST EVER FULL LENGTH SERIES PLANNED OUT. [see below]
If you want to be on my tag list, lmk.
I’m gonna finish my SKZ Playlist, do a request and then I’ll be focussing on it properly (but I’ll post the first chapter as a teaser in the next week 👀).
Also I’ve never ever written smut and I’m starting with a series with smut with two different fucking characters [SEPARATELY] someone send fucking help and advice HAHAHA
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I HAVE MY FIRST EVER FULL LENGTH SERIES PLANNED OUT. [see below]
If you want to be on my tag list, lmk.
I’m gonna finish my SKZ Playlist, do a request and then I’ll be focussing on it properly (but I’ll post the first chapter as a teaser in the next week 👀).
Also I’ve never ever written smut and I’m starting with a series with smut with two different fucking characters [SEPARATELY] someone send fucking help and advice HAHAHA
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