He used to come home and call your name before the door even closed behind him. It was a habit, like saying “I’m here” without the words. You’d reply from wherever you were kitchen, couch, sometimes half-asleep in bed and he'd find you, arms already opening like instinct. You were his place to land. And for a while, that was enough.

But then, the quiet started sneaking in.

It wasn’t sudden, which made it harder to notice. At first, you blamed it on the stress. He was always working, schedule packed with rehearsals, photoshoots, interviews, practice till midnight and up again before sunrise. You understood. You always had. You learned to make peace with the way love had to share space with ambition. His world was big, and you never expected to be the center of it. You just wanted to be his home base.

And for a time, he let you be.

But something changed. Gradually, subtly, like the slow shifting of tectonic plates beneath your feet. One day, he stopped calling out your name when he came home. You thought maybe he was just tired. Then he stopped coming home at all some nights, crashing at the dorm instead, with vague explanations over text: “Too late to drive back,” or, “Don’t wait up, early shoot tomorrow.” Still, you waited. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Love had to be flexible. You weren’t the kind of partner who demanded too much.

You told yourself it was just a phase.

You started noticing the silences at dinner. Long stretches where your words hung in the air and fell flat, unanswered. He would nod along half-heartedly while scrolling through his phone, eyes glazed with something far away. You made his favorite dishes, kimchi stew just the way he liked it, grilled mackerel, even that ridiculous peach-flavored soda he used to beg for like a kid. He ate, but didn’t react. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say thank you.

You started filling the silences yourself. Talking more than usual, recounting your day in exaggerated detail, laughing at your own jokes in hopes of drawing something, anything out of him. Sometimes, he’d offer a tired smile. Sometimes, not even that.

You knew better than to confront him. You convinced yourself it would pass. That bringing it up would only make it worse. That real love meant riding out the ebbs and flows, even if it meant swallowing your own needs in the process.

After all, love didn’t have to hurt to be real. But sometimes, silence feels like a scream.

You remember the night it hit you, really hit you that something had changed and might never return to the way it was.

It was raining. One of those heavy, relentless storms that seemed to soak through everything. You were curled on the couch with a blanket and an untouched cup of tea, watching the rain streak down the windows. It was late. He was supposed to be home by now.

You checked your phone, no message. You called him, and it rang twice before going to voicemail.

You didn’t panic. You were past panic by then. You just sat there, waiting. The thunder echoed the hollowness inside your chest.

When the door finally opened sometime after 2 a.m., he didn’t even look surprised to see you awake. He just kicked off his shoes and muttered, “Long day,” before disappearing into the bathroom.

You stared at the empty space where he had stood. The way he didn’t apologize. The way he didn’t ask why you looked so tired. The way he didn’t offer even a small, guilty hug. It told you everything you needed to know.

He’d already begun to leave you, long before the door opened that night.

The unraveling wasn’t dramatic. There were no explosive fights, no slammed doors, no cruel words. It was quiet, excruciatingly quiet. A steady fading, like colors leeching out of a photograph until all that’s left is grayscale.

He started talking less. Touching less. Coming home less. And when he was there, it felt like he wasn’t.

You found yourself shrinking in his presence, afraid to say the wrong thing, to push too hard, to ask too much. You stopped trying to kiss him goodnight. You stopped waiting up. You told yourself it was easier that way.

But it wasn’t.

You missed him. God, you missed him even when he was sitting right next to you. You missed the way he used to hold your hand during movies. You missed the way he’d fall asleep mid-sentence, head heavy on your shoulder. You missed the random texts during the day “Thought of you,” “Look at this dumb meme,” “Miss you.”

Now, your phone stayed silent most of the day.

And still, you held on.

Because what was the alternative? To leave? To admit that something so beautiful could fall apart without warning, without a fight? You weren’t ready to let go. You weren’t ready to mourn someone who hadn’t even said goodbye.

You told yourself that maybe this was what love looked like after a while routine, quiet, worn in like an old sweater. Maybe you were just being dramatic. Overly sensitive. Clingy.

You gaslighted yourself before he ever had to.

But deep down, you knew.

You knew when he stopped asking about your day. You knew when he forgot the anniversary of the night you met. You knew when his hugs became perfunctory, when his kisses were brief, distracted, obligatory.

You knew when his eyes stopped lighting up when he saw you.

The final straw wasn’t even a fight.

It was another silent dinner, another meal eaten to the sound of clinking forks and a TV playing quietly in the background. You’d made japchae, his mother’s recipe, the one she taught you when you visited Busan together. He barely touched it.

You asked, softly, “Are you okay?”

He didn’t look up. Just shrugged. “Fine.”

You tried again. “Are we okay?”

He paused for a second. Long enough to give you hope. Then he said, “Yeah, just tired.”

Just tired.

Two words that had become a shield. A mask. A lie.

You nodded and said nothing more. But inside, something broke.

Later that night, while he slept beside you, turned away, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. The sound of his breathing, once comforting, now felt foreign. Like sharing a bed with a stranger.

You didn’t cry. You just let the silence fill the space between your ribs until it hurt to breathe.

You knew you couldn’t keep pretending forever. That love, even real love, can’t survive on memories alone.

But you weren’t ready to let go.

So you stayed. Stayed through the cold mornings and the long, empty nights. Stayed through the quiet birthdays and forgotten anniversaries. Stayed through the ache, the numbness, the slow erosion of everything you once held sacred.

You stayed because you loved him.

You stayed because you remembered who he used to be. Because part of you still hoped he’d come back to that version. That one day, he’d walk through the door and call your name like he used to. That he’d look at you and see you again.

But that day never came.

And one morning, you woke up and realized: you couldn’t even remember the last time he said I love you.

Not because you didn’t believe he once did, but because it had been so long that the words felt foreign now like a language you no longer spoke.

That’s the thing about slow heartbreak, it doesn’t shatter you all at once. It chips away, little by little, until one day, you’re standing in the ruins wondering how you ever called it home.

You still haven’t left. Not physically. But inside, you're already halfway gone.

You still cook him dinner, even though he barely eats. You still wait for his messages, even though you’ve stopped expecting them. You still whisper “goodnight” into the darkness, even though he doesn’t answer.

You’re grieving something that isn’t even over yet.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.

You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to leave him.

It wasn’t some dramatic outburst or a single moment of heartbreak. There was no suitcase slammed shut, no tear-streaked goodbye at the door. The decision came in fragments quiet, deliberate, almost invisible. You began by withdrawing in small ways, ways he wouldn’t notice. That was the point.

You started by doing the laundry less often. Then you stopped washing his clothes altogether. When he asked where his hoodie was, the one you used to fold and tuck into his drawer with his favorite lavender sachets, you shrugged. “Probably in the basket.” You didn’t offer to find it. You didn’t care enough to.

He didn’t notice.

Next, you stopped buying the snacks he liked. Not to punish him, but because you couldn’t remember the last time he actually thanked you for them. You would wander the aisles of the store, basket in hand, staring at the shelves and wondering if there was even a point to choosing his favorite yogurt anymore.

You didn’t stop loving him overnight. You just stopped hoping he’d love you back the same way.

You began packing in quiet gestures, removing small bits of yourself from the apartment. Your favorite mug disappeared first. Then your books, slowly, one by one, tucked into a box in the back of the closet. Clothes that never left the drawers before now sat in a zipped-up suitcase under the bed. You deleted photos from your phone, but kept the hard drive hidden in the desk drawer, just in case.

You thought maybe he’d notice. Maybe he’d ask, Where’s your book? Where’s that silly sweatshirt you wore every weekend? Why do the shelves look so empty? But he didn’t.

Because Jeongin, for all his sweetness, had grown used to your presence. He had mistaken your silence for stability, your patience for permanence.

And so, you started leaving before you were really gone.

You remember the little moments where you waited achingly, hopefully for him to realize.

There was the day you waited for him at your favorite coffee shop. He’d said he’d meet you after his rehearsal. You waited an hour. Your tea went cold, and so did your hands. You texted once: Still coming?

No reply.

You walked home in the rain, your umbrella broken in the wind. When you got back to the apartment, you found him asleep on the couch, mouth open slightly, the TV still playing some game show on mute. Your soaked shoes squelched on the floor, but he didn’t stir.

You changed into dry clothes, dried your own hair, and curled up in bed alone.

The next morning, he didn’t even ask where you’d gone.

Another time, it was your anniversary.

Not your official one, not the kind you posted about on Instagram. It was the anniversary of the night he first told you he loved you. You’d made dinner, tried to recreate the dumplings you ate that night, even lit the exact same cinnamon candle he once said reminded him of you.

He didn’t come home until 11 p.m. Said he was out with the guys. You hadn’t heard from him all day.

You didn’t remind him. You just blew out the candle, scraped your uneaten dumplings into the trash, and nodded when he asked if you were okay.

And you were. Because by then, you’d stopped expecting him to show up for you.

But somewhere inside, some soft, desperate part of you still hoped. Every ignored message, every missed call, every quiet dinner felt like a question hanging in the air. Will this be the time he notices? Will this be the moment he remembers how to love me?

The answer was always no.

-

What you didn’t know, couldn’t know was that Jeongin had started to notice.

Too late, maybe. But he did.

It was something small at first. He came home one evening, late again, and reached for the charger you used to leave on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. He checked the drawer. Empty.

Then he noticed your hairbrush was gone from the bathroom counter. Your slippers, those ugly fuzzy ones with bunny ears weren’t by the door. The closet still had your coats, but the scent of your perfume, the little Post-it notes you used to leave him, the books stacked by the bed, gone.

He stood in the center of the apartment and felt something he hadn’t in a long time.

Alone.

Panic crept up his spine, but he told himself maybe you were just reorganizing. Maybe you took things to your studio or your friend's place. Maybe he was imagining it. Still, he found himself checking the calendar, the messages, the photos.

He scrolled through your chat history. Saw how many times you had texted first. Saw how many messages he left on read.

He scrolled and scrolled, realizing he couldn’t remember the last time he initiated a conversation. Couldn’t remember the last time he asked you how you were feeling, not just how your day was.

And then, one afternoon, while searching for an extra charger in the back of the hallway cabinet, he found something that stopped him cold.

A small box. Light blue. Tied with a ribbon that had slightly unraveled.

He opened it and found a silver keychain inside. It was engraved.

“Come home safe.”

A gift.

One he never received. One you must have bought weeks, maybe months ago. He knew your handwriting on the small note tucked underneath: Happy comeback. I’m proud of you.

His throat closed.

You had waited for the right moment to give it to him. He had never given you that moment.

Jeongin sat on the floor of the hallway for a long time, holding the keychain in his palm like it might burn through him. All the missed chances, the ignored texts, the silence, your silence it all made sense now.

He hadn’t just neglected you.

He had left you waiting with love in your hands, and now you had nothing left to hold.

That night, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t sleep.

He watched you as you curled away from him, your breathing slow and steady. You didn’t reach for him. He didn’t reach for you. There was a canyon between your backs, and neither of you had tried to build a bridge.

He whispered, barely audible, “I’m sorry.”

But you were already gone, even if your body still shared his bed.

Jeongin didn’t tell anyone. Not his members. Not his manager. He started working later, pretending nothing had changed, but everything had. The guilt chewed through his chest.

He realized he wanted to fix it. Needed to.

He thought about all the things you used to say, all the little details you remembered about him his coffee order, his fears, how he always hummed when he was anxious. You knew him. Loved him even when he made it hard.

He didn’t want to lose that.

So he made a plan.

He didn’t want anything flashy. That wasn’t you. He remembered how you once said that proposals shouldn’t be performative. That love should feel like coming home.

So, Jeongin quietly went to a small jewelry shop in Itaewon, one you once walked past together on a rainy afternoon. He remembered you paused at the window, admiring a ring with a quiet smile, then moved on without saying anything.

He bought that ring.

He planned to propose at home. Your home. Your couch. With takeout from your favorite place and maybe candles, if he could find the ones you liked.

He imagined it all: you crying, laughing, calling him an idiot, saying yes. He imagined holding your face in his hands and promising to do better. Promising to love you the way you deserved.

But what he hadn’t accounted for was the timing.

Because while he was planning to start again, you had already begun to end it.

-

You didn’t expect him to be home.

You were coming back from the store, arms full of a few essentials: toothpaste, ramen, some oranges. You debated buying more things but stopped yourself. You’d already packed up most of what mattered. The rest wasn’t worth carrying.

The sky was dusky, the air thick with humidity. Another Seoul summer pressing down on your skin. The quiet of the apartment hallway felt heavier than usual as you walked toward the door. You weren’t ready to be in the same space again, not tonight, not with all the thoughts swirling in your head.

But when you reached the door, your heart stumbled.

His shoes were there.

Neatly placed by the wall, laces untied just like always. His keychain, the one you never got to give him, the one that said Come home safe sat in the tray by the door. You stared at it for a second too long.

Once, that sight would’ve made your breath catch in your throat with joy. Once, you would’ve dropped your bags and rushed into his arms, pressing kisses to his cheek, wrapping around him like gravity.

But now?

You just felt tired.

You stepped in, locking the door behind you softly, but then froze. There was… music.

Not from the TV. Not background noise. It was soft, intimate, warm. A quiet jazz melody played in the air like a sigh. The lights were dimmed. Candles glowed on the coffee table. Fairy lights sparkled faintly above the window.

You blinked.

The apartment, your shared apartment looked different. Romantic. Like something out of a drama. The couch had throw pillows arranged just so, a small table was set with your favorite wine, takeout containers opened and plated as if he’d tried.

The scent of vanilla and something floral lingered in the air. The cinnamon candle you used to light on cozy nights was burning again. You hadn’t lit it in months.

Then, him.

Jeongin stepped into view, emerging from the hallway.

Dressed neatly. Crisp button-up. Nervous smile. That same dimple you used to love, peeking through the hesitation on his face.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, keys clenched in your hand, eyes moving over the room, trying to catch up with what was happening.

“What is this?” you asked, voice distant.

He stepped closer. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You shook your head slightly. “Why?”

He paused.

Then, slowly, with trembling fingers, he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

“I… I was going to ask you something.”

Your chest caved in.

No. No, no, no, not like this.

“I know I’ve been distant,” he continued quickly, sensing your retreat. “I know I messed up. I didn’t see how far we were drifting, but I do now. I see it. And I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve held on tighter. I know you’ve been holding us together alone.”

You didn’t move.

“I found the gift,” he added, voice softening. “The keychain. I found it, and it broke me. I didn’t even realize you were trying so hard, and I was just… coasting. Pretending everything was fine.”

Tears pooled in his eyes, and still he dropped to one knee.

“I don’t want to coast anymore,” he whispered, holding up the ring box, lid slowly opening to reveal the simple, delicate band you once admired in a rainy shop window. “I want to come home to you. I want to choose you. Every day. Forever.”

His voice cracked.

“Will you marry me?”

The words hung in the air, trembling.

And you, your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Because your chest was collapsing. Your throat was raw. And you couldn’t, you couldn’t lie to him.

“Jeongin…”

The look in his eyes faltered.

You stepped back. Just once. Just enough to shatter him.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“I can’t say yes.”

His hands dropped. The ring remained in the box, suddenly heavy. “W-Why?”

You swallowed hard. “Because I don’t think I love you like that anymore.”

Silence.

You could hear his breath hitch. He stood slowly, clutching the ring box like it was a lifeline.

“No. Don’t say that.”

You looked at him, really looked and he was already breaking. Eyes shining, lips trembling, fists clenched at his sides.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t say that. Not now. Not when I’m finally trying.”

Your heart cracked in two.

“You were trying to give me forever,” you said, your voice hollow. “I was just trying to survive the day.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything you had ever known.

Jeongin stood there, stunned, a soft gasp leaving his lips.

You continued, because if you didn’t now, you never would.

“I waited for you. I waited every night. I waited for texts that never came, for you to walk through that door and look at me the way you used to. I cooked, I planned, I held onto memories like they could build a future. But you weren’t there. You stopped seeing me, Jeongin.”

He flinched.

“I kept hoping it was just a phase. That if I stayed patient long enough, you’d come back to me. But you didn’t. You were in the same room, but I was alone. For months.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he choked out. “I didn’t know how far gone we were—”

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s the saddest part. You didn’t even notice me slipping away.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks now. Quiet. Controlled. But real.

“I started packing. Little by little. I started detaching because it was the only way to survive you forgetting how to love me.”

He stepped forward. “Then stay. Let me fix it. Please, let me try—”

“You’re too late,” you said, voice shaking. “I already left you. A long time ago. I just… hadn’t walked out yet.”

He sank onto the couch, face in his hands.

The ring box fell onto the table with a soft, final sound.

You stood for a while, unmoving. Memorizing the moment. This strange, beautiful, terrible goodbye.

Then, you turned.

As you walked toward the door, he looked up. Tear-streaked. Shaking.

“I thought we still had time,” he said, barely a whisper.

“I know,” you replied.

You placed your keys gently on the counter beside the ring.

“I thought so too.”

You closed the door softly behind you.

And left.

The music kept playing in the empty apartment, soft and slow. A romantic song for no one. The ring sat untouched, the candles flickering in a room full of things left unsaid.

//

masterlist.

But lately, it wasn’t just that.

He’d been distant. Not unkind. Just… elsewhere. Every conversation felt like you were knocking on a door he no longer heard you through.

You chalked it up to work, because it was work. He’d been spending long hours writing, recording, tweaking things late into the night, and barely looking up from his laptop when you came in. You were used to it, in a way. This was Jisung. He went hard when inspiration struck. He burned hot, fast, and completely.

Still, it stung in a way you didn’t want to admit.

Especially with your birthday just a few days away.

You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d made a quiet decision not to bring it up. Part of you thought it would be sweet if he remembered on his own, if he had something planned, something thoughtful, even small. Jisung wasn’t extravagant. He didn’t do grand gestures. But he knew you. He always knew you.

So you waited.

And waited.

Each day passed without a mention. No little comments. No suspicious texts. No asking if you were free. Just his head down, pen scratching across paper, headphones on, a world away.

But today, Tuesday, you couldn’t take the silence anymore. You weren’t going to outright ask him if he remembered. That would be pathetic, you thought. That would make it worse if he didn’t. But you could be subtle. Casual. Just ask if he had Friday off. Plant the seed. Give him a chance.

It was late afternoon when you walked into his studio. You could hear the low hum of a beat looping in the background, his fingers moving fast over his keyboard, pausing every so often to scribble something into his notebook. His back was to you, hunched slightly, hoodie pulled up over his head.

He didn’t hear you come in.

You walked over quietly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek lightly against his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away.

Yet.

"Hey, baby," you said softly, your voice almost lost in the music. "Do you have Friday off?"

You didn’t mention why. You didn’t want it to sound like a trap.

He didn’t turn around. Just shrugged, his fingers still moving.

"I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a lot going on right now."

You blinked. Pulled back a little. That was it? No follow-up? No “why do you ask?” Not even curiosity?

You bit your lip and tried again, stepping around him this time so you were facing him. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy from staring at the screen too long. You leaned down, gently trying to kiss his cheek, but he shifted just as you did, and your lips landed awkwardly at the corner of his jaw.

You let it slide. Forced a smile.

"Really no plans this weekend? Not even a day off?"

He finally looked up. Annoyed. The kind of look you’d only seen when he was dealing with customer service or slow Wi-Fi.

"Can you not right now?" he snapped, rubbing his temple. "I’m in the middle of something."

You blinked. Stunned for a second.

"I was just asking—"

"Yeah, and I said I don’t know." He exhaled hard, clearly irritated. "Why are you pressing me about this? I’m busy."

That one landed like a slap. You took a step back, arms folding tightly over your chest. You felt like you were shrinking.

"Sorry for bothering you," you said coldly, the tightness in your throat giving you away. "God forbid I ask my boyfriend a simple question."

You turned before he could say anything else, before the anger on your face melted into something worse. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want him to know.

The door slammed behind you harder than you intended. The echo rang down the hallway like a warning bell.

You stood there, frozen, in the hallway. Alone.

And that's when it hit you.

He’d forgotten.

He really, truly had forgotten.

Your birthday was in three days.

And Jisung, the boy who once remembered the exact day you first cried in front of him, the boy who had surprised you with ramen at 1AM because you offhandedly said you missed home, had forgotten.

Your chest burned.

You didn’t cry right away. You refused to. Crying meant giving it weight. It meant making it real. And maybe, maybe this was still salvageable. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe this was just a bad moment, a bad hour.

But the more you thought about it, the more the silence over the past week screamed in your ears.

Not one hint. Not one look. Nothing.

-

The house was quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that felt like tension stretched too thin. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavier.

You’d noticed it growing for a while now, the slow fade of warmth, like a candle burning down to its last inch of wick. Jisung had been lost in his work lately, immersed in melodies and metaphors, his mind trapped in the small studio tucked at the end of the hall.

He’d always done this. You knew his process. He dove headfirst into his music, sometimes forgetting meals, forgetting sleep. You’d loved him for that. For how deeply he loved creating. For how earnestly he got caught up in the things that mattered to him.

But this time… something was different.

This time, you felt like a stranger to him while he buried himself in lyrics.

And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.

Your birthday was in just a few days.

That tiny fact sat in the back of your mind like a needle under the skin. Small. Sharp. Unshakable.

You didn’t need much. You weren’t the type to demand gifts or parties or posts with long, poetic captions. What you wanted, what you hoped for was that he’d remember. That he’d do something meaningful, something that showed he still saw you.

You had convinced yourself that he did.

Even after the way he snapped earlier that day, the way he brushed you off when you asked if he had Friday free, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.

You had to. Because if he had forgotten, if he truly wasn’t planning anything… then what did that say about the two of you? About how far you’d drifted without realizing it?

That evening, the house remained mostly silent.

You moved around the bedroom without saying much, folding laundry you didn’t have the energy to care about, rechecking a calendar you’d already memorized. You hadn’t seen him much since the argument. He stayed locked away in his studio, headphones on, music leaking faintly through the door like a barrier between you.

You had hoped stupidly, maybe that he’d come out and say something. Apologize, even a little. Ask what was wrong. Notice that you’d been quiet too. That you didn’t eat dinner. That you didn’t sit on the couch like usual waiting for him to finish work.

But none of that happened.

It was nearly midnight when he finally came into the room. You were already in bed, the blanket pulled up to your chest, your body curled to one side, eyes closed. You weren’t asleep, not even close.

He moved quietly, but you heard every step. The rustle of his hoodie dropping to the floor. The faint creak of the mattress as he slipped in beside you.

You waited.

Your heart thudded.

Then, slowly, you inched toward him.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t push your luck with words this time. You just slid closer and gently wrapped your arm around his waist, your face nestling near his shoulder. A quiet attempt at truce. A silent please let’s forget the fight.

But before you could even settle into the comfort you craved, he flinched.

And then he sighed. Loudly.

“Seriously?”

The word hit you like a slap.

Your body stilled. “...What?”

“When I’m working, I really need you to not be all over me,” he said, voice flat, frustrated. “It throws me off. I was just about to write something important earlier and you came in, touching me, kissing me and I completely lost the line I had in my head.”

You pulled back slowly, staring at him in the dim lighting. His profile was hard. Tired. Detached.

You blinked once. Twice. Trying to process what he’d just said.

“I distracted you…?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.

He didn’t answer right away. Just let out another sigh and turned his back to you.

“I just… I’d appreciate it if you could give me space when I’m in work mode. That’s all.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

You lay there, staring at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath.

There was something hollow in your chest. A yawning emptiness where warmth used to live.

All day, you had been convincing yourself that this was just stress. That he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean to be cold or distant. That it wasn’t personal.

But this, this wasn’t just stress.

This was dismissal.

And that, somehow, hurt more than him forgetting your birthday.

Because this wasn’t about one day.

This was about being made to feel like you were in the way. Like your affection was an inconvenience. Like loving him gently, quietly, earnestly was a problem.

You blinked away the heat in your eyes and rolled onto your other side, facing the wall.

You didn’t say goodnight.
You didn’t touch him again.
You didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Lying there in the dark, you played the moment over and over in your head.

You weren’t sure what stung more:
That he hadn’t tried to fix the argument.
That he’d called your love distracting.
Or that he didn’t even realize he’d hurt you.

You thought about how he used to pull you into bed and kiss you like he couldn’t wait to tell you everything he’d written.
You thought about the nights when he would bring his lyric notebook to the couch just to be next to you.
You thought about the quiet way he used to hold your hand while working, like even in silence, he wanted to be tethered to you.

Now… you were a distraction.
And worse, someone who made you feel too much for wanting to be close.

You clutched the edge of the blanket and closed your eyes.

You didn’t want to cry.
You didn’t want to give it that power.

But the tears came anyway silent and slow, soaking into your pillow like an open secret.

In that moment, you realized something heartbreaking:

It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday.

It was that, lately, he’d forgotten you.

-

You woke up the next morning feeling like you hadn't slept at all.

Your eyes were sore, your body heavy from the weight of unshed words and smothered cries. There was a dull ache behind your ribs that hadn’t gone away since last night, since he turned away from you after telling you that your love was distracting. Since you’d reached out for comfort and got a complaint instead.

You lay still in bed, watching the gray morning light bleed into the room. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood floor. The clink of a mug. A spoon against a bowl.

Your heart didn’t race. It slowed. Because nothing felt worse than knowing he was acting like everything was fine.

And it was then that the decision made itself:
You wouldn’t say a word.
Not out of pettiness.
Not out of spite.
But because you had said enough.
And he had heard nothing.

Let him feel the silence he gave you. Let him hear it this time.

You walked into the kitchen wrapped in a hoodie, your face blank, your mouth a hard line. He was standing by the stove, eating cereal straight out of the bowl, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up briefly.

"Morning," he said, like nothing had happened.

You nodded once, tight, and opened the fridge. You could feel his eyes linger on you for a second too long like he was waiting for you to say more. But when you didn’t, he just turned back to his screen.

You didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask about his schedule.
Didn’t try to sit close.

You took your yogurt and left the kitchen, eating alone in the living room with the TV off and your thoughts screaming.

The silence grew louder as the hours passed.

He didn’t notice it at first. You were usually quiet in the mornings anyway. He probably assumed you'd snap out of it, give him a kiss on the cheek, ask how the lyrics were going, sit beside him with your head on his shoulder.

But you didn’t.

And by mid-afternoon, it had become clear that this wasn’t just a quiet morning.

You walked past him in the hallway when he emerged for coffee. He smiled faintly and said, “I think I figured out that chorus.”
You gave a nod that didn’t reach your eyes. No follow-up.
You didn’t even glance at him.

He paused. Just for a second.
And then kept walking.

By evening, you heard the subtle tone in his voice shift. A flicker of unease.

He called from the kitchen, “Hey… you want me to make pasta or something?”

You didn’t respond.

“...Y/N?” he tried again.

You were in the bedroom, folding the same shirt over and over just to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted.

He peeked into the room, holding the bag of pasta in his hand.
You didn’t look at him.

“I’m making something to eat,” he said slowly, carefully. “Do you want any?”

Still, you said nothing. You didn’t even shrug.

He exhaled sharply, clearly irritated now. “Okay. I’ll just leave you alone then.”

And he did.

The rest of the day passed the same way.
Cold. Wordless. Wide.

You were in the same rooms but worlds apart.
He started watching you more carefully. Furtively.
He asked small things throughout the day "Did you do the laundry already?" or "Hey, have you seen my hoodie?"
Each question met with nothing but the silence you were buried in.

You saw confusion start to shift in his face. His brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled taut. He’d ask something, and when you didn’t answer, his eyes would narrow slightly like he was starting to notice that something was wrong but still couldn’t connect the dots.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because to you, the answer was obvious.
You were bleeding right in front of him, and he was asking why the floor looked red.

You were brushing your teeth late that night when he leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.

"Are you gonna stay mad forever?"

You blinked once and spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiped your mouth without answering.

He waited.

"I seriously don’t know what I did," he said, his voice cracking a little with frustration. "If you’re not gonna tell me, how am I supposed to fix it?"

You turned off the bathroom light and walked past him.

The door didn’t slam this time.
It clicked shut, soft and final.

By the time Thursday night arrived, he looked exhausted. You couldn’t tell if it was from the studio or from trying to figure out what had changed. Probably both.

You sat on the couch with your arms crossed, the TV playing something you weren’t even watching.

He stood in the doorway for a while, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Then finally, he said it.
“I’m gonna go to the practice room for a bit.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

“Maybe you just need space or something,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep bothering you.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.

Space?

That’s what he thought this was about?

He thought you were ignoring him because you needed air? Not because he’d forgotten the one day you were silently hoping he’d remember? Not because he’d made you feel like loving him was a chore? Like your affection was an obstacle?

You blinked at the screen, your eyes glassy. The show kept playing. You didn’t even know what episode you were on.

He waited a moment longer.

Then the door shut.

And suddenly you were alone. Again.

The tears finally came, thick and hot, as soon as his footsteps faded. They weren’t quiet this time. You choked on them, the kind that made your chest heave and your throat close. Your hands shook.

Because you were tired.

Tired of giving the benefit of the doubt.
Tired of excuses.
Tired of being too scared to say it’s my birthday tomorrow and you’ve done nothing.
Tired of hoping he would see you, without you having to beg for it.

How could he not know?

How could he be so oblivious?

And still… you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.

Because wasn’t that the whole point?

You wanted to be chosen. Not reminded.

You wanted him to remember, not be told.

And tomorrow…

Tomorrow, when you woke up…

It would be your birthday.

And you had no idea if he would know it.

The practice room lights were dim, buzzing faintly overhead like the last nerve in Jisung’s mind, frayed and twitching. He stepped inside without much thought, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his whole body. His legs gave out near the far wall, slumping down onto the cold wooden floor beside Hyunjin, who looked like he’d just finished drowning in sweat and choreography.

Jeongin was sitting criss-cross at the center of the room, stretching lazily with one earbud still dangling from his hoodie. Felix lay flat on his back beside him, chest heaving with tired breaths, while Minho scrolled through his phone like he hadn’t just danced for two hours straight.

The energy in the room was comfortable. Familiar. But the second Jisung sat down, it shifted.

Hyunjin glanced at him sideways. “What are you doing here?”

Felix sat up halfway, his brow scrunched. “Don’t you usually spend your days off with Y/N?”

“Wait—yeah,” Jeongin chimed in, tossing his head back. “Isn’t this, like, a once-in-a-blue-moon thing for you to be here on a day off?”

Jisung didn’t respond at first.

He exhaled hard and let his head fall back against the mirror. “She’s not talking to me.”

That caught their attention.

“What?” Hyunjin blinked.

“Like... ignoring you ignoring you?” Felix asked, scooting closer.

“Yeah. Since yesterday. Full-on silent treatment. Not even a shrug. Just—blank face. No words.” Jisung pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And I swear to God it’s driving me insane.”

“Damn,” Jeongin muttered under his breath.

Minho looked up from his phone. “Did you do something?”

Jisung shook his head instantly. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? I don’t know.”

Jeongin snorted. “That’s not convincing.”

“I didn’t, though!” he snapped. “Like—okay, yeah, maybe I was kind of short with her the other night, but I was working. She came into the studio while I was trying to get this chorus down and I got frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t say anything bad.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“She tried talking to me a couple times that day and I just—I asked for space. I was in the zone.” Jisung rubbed his temples, groaning. “She knows how I get when I’m writing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“And then she just stopped talking to you?” Hyunjin asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. Didn’t even respond when I asked what she wanted for dinner. Hasn’t said a single word in two days. Like, is that normal?”

Felix frowned. “Sounds like she’s hurt.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t get why,” Jisung said, his voice raising without him meaning to. “I didn’t yell at her, I didn’t say anything cruel, I just... I was working! I asked for space!”

Jeongin gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Okay, but did you look at her?”

Jisung paused. “What?”

“I mean... when she came to see you, when she tried talking to you—did you actually look at her? Like—her face? Her energy? The way she was holding herself?”

Jisung frowned, caught off guard. “I mean... not really? I was focused.”

Felix leaned forward, soft but serious. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Silence fell for a moment. The kind that starts to crawl into your chest when people say things you aren’t ready to hear.

“You probably said something you didn’t even notice,” Hyunjin said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You do that when you’re in work mode. You push people away without meaning to.”

“I was just trying to finish my song,” Jisung muttered. But even he could hear the defensiveness in his voice.

Minho finally chimed in. “Then maybe ask yourself what’s more important—your music, or the way you treat the person who’s always there supporting it.”

The words hit harder than Jisung expected. They weren’t said harshly. Just plainly. Truthfully.

And they made his stomach twist.

He hated the idea that he had done something careless. That while he was focused on not forgetting a lyric, he might’ve forgotten her. Forgotten how hard she tried to love him even when he was too preoccupied to notice.

Jisung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together tightly.

“She looked so blank,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize how... quiet she really was. I thought she just needed space.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe she was waiting for you to realize something.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Jisung blinked down at the floor, the thought nagging at him like a weight on his back. He hated the way it made his chest feel tight. The way guilt started to form like smoke in his lungs.

And then..

Hyunjin, ever the emotional antenna in the room, turned to him with an almost casual question.

“So, anyway—what do you have planned for her birthday tomorrow?”

Jisung looked up, confused. “Huh?”

“Her birthday,” Hyunjin repeated. “Tomorrow, right?”

Jisung laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not tomorrow. It’s next week or something. The—uh—the 11th, right?”

“Tomorrow is the 11th,” Jeongin deadpanned.

Jisung froze.

His hands went numb.

He instinctively pulled out his phone, thumbing the lock screen, eyes scanning the date like it had betrayed him.

Thursday, July 10th.

Tomorrow: Friday, July 11th.

His world tilted.

“No…” he breathed. “No way.”

Felix’s face fell as realization hit him too. “You didn’t…?”

Hyunjin stared at him in disbelief. “You forgot her birthday.”

“I—” Jisung's voice caught in his throat. “No—I didn’t—I just—I thought—shit—”

The words splintered into chaos. He dropped his phone. His mind was spinning.

It wasn’t just the date. It was everything. The way she came to him asking if he was free Friday. The way she tried to kiss him, twice. The way she’d softened into his side that night in bed, begging silently for him to hold her. The way she hadn’t said a word since.

The way she hadn’t cried. Not where he could see.
But oh god, she had cried, hadn’t she?

He missed all of it.

He missed her.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Minho stared at him, arms folded. “Now do you get it?”

“She was trying to see if I remembered,” Jisung muttered, like he was trying to convince himself the sky was blue. “She didn’t even say it out loud. She just… asked if I had Friday off.”

“That’s the worst part,” Felix said gently. “She didn’t want to remind you. She wanted you to care enough to remember.”

A punch to the gut wouldn’t have hurt as much.

Jisung buried his face in his hands.

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin muttered. “Kinda bad.”

He didn't even argue.

Because he could see it now, all of it.
Her silence wasn’t punishment.
It was heartbreak.
It was the sound of someone giving up.

And tomorrow, her birthday, she’d wake up in a house full of silence, thinking the person she loved most in the world didn’t remember or care enough to say a single word.

The second the realization hit, Jisung couldn’t sit still.

He shot to his feet like the floor had burned him, nearly tripping over Felix’s outstretched legs. The others barely had time to register his panic before he was already moving, storming out of the practice room, heart pounding in his chest, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.

He barely heard Jeongin’s “Hey—where are you going?”
Didn’t stop to explain.
Didn’t even breathe.

He’d forgotten.

Your birthday.

Tomorrow.

No, today. It was past midnight now.

He had forgotten your birthday.

The one day he was supposed to remember. The one day you never reminded him of because you always wanted to be seen without having to ask.

And instead of showing you love, he’d brushed you off. Pushed you away. Told you that your affection, your literal presence was a distraction.

It made him sick to think of your face in that moment now. The softness of your voice when you asked him if he was free. The way you leaned in, tried to kiss him. How your touch lingered on his shoulder like you were silently begging him not to let go.

And he had.

Without a second thought.

He hurt you.

The company doors banged shut behind him as he ran into the cool night air.

The streets were mostly empty, the last few buses rumbling past. He tugged his hood up and darted toward the only place that made sense, the only place he could think of at a time like this:

Your favorite bakery.

Even though he knew it was close to closing. Even though the odds were against him.

He didn’t care. He had to try.

He arrived, chest heaving, legs burning, and nearly slammed into the glass door.

Inside, the lights were still on. But barely.

The workers were already cleaning up, putting chairs on tables, wiping down the counters. Their eyes shifted to him the second he pushed the door open.

He could see it on their faces. That “please don’t walk in” expression masked with tired politeness.

“Can I get a cake?” he blurted, breathless.

One of the girls forced a smile. “We’re just closing up, I’m sorry—”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t be here this late unless it was an emergency. I forgot something really important. Someone’s birthday. Someone I love.”

Something in his voice must’ve hit them.

Because after a beat, the girl sighed, glanced at the display case, and muttered, “I think we have one left. Lucky night, I guess.”

Jisung’s heart flipped.

She returned a second later with a small cake box in hand.

Your favorite flavor.

He could’ve cried.

He ran the whole way home. The cake safely in his arms. Careful. Intentional.

When he got back, the apartment was dark. Quiet.
You were already asleep.

He peeked into the bedroom, you were curled up, turned away from the door, your shoulders tense even in rest.
You looked… small. Worn out.

The guilt twisted inside him like a knife.

He closed the door gently. Didn’t make a sound.

Then he stared at the living room and kitchen like they were a blank canvas.

And he got to work.

He didn’t sleep.

He blew up balloons some crooked, some lopsided. He taped pictures of the two of you on the walls, printed ones he’d taken in secret during your late-night snack runs, your beach trip, even that one where you were brushing your teeth with a scowl.

He strung up a makeshift “Happy Birthday” banner, cut by hand with scraps of colored paper. He’d messed up the “R” three times. It still looked wrong.

He pulled out the small gifts he’d forgotten he had been meaning to give you, the lyrics he’d scribbled in the back of a notebook weeks ago, inspired by something you said while laughing. A hair clip you pointed at in a store once. He wrapped them in old sheet music.

He wrote a letter. Messy. Panicked. Honest. Full of crossed-out words and a giant smudge where he wiped his eyes.

He arranged it all by the time the clock hit 1:00 a.m.

And then he collapsed on the couch mid-balloon. One still half-inflated in his hands.

He didn’t hear the bedroom door creak open.

Didn’t feel the light of the hallway hit his face.

But the moment you moved,
He did.

His body shot up like he was jolted back to life.

There you were.

Standing in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, the expression on your face carefully blank, but your eyes spoke volumes.

You were still upset.

Rightfully.

You hadn’t forgotten. You hadn’t forgiven.

But he didn’t care if you hated him for another hour, another day, a week he had to show you something real now.

“Wait—don’t look yet!” he rushed, nearly tripping over a balloon.

You blinked slowly, unimpressed.

He walked up to you, gently reaching his hands to cover your eyes. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t soften, either.

He felt the chill in your posture. The hurt still lingering in your shoulders.

“Please,” he whispered. “Just... let me try.”

He guided you, quietly. Carefully.

His hands shook.

He stopped you in front of the living room, heart pounding against his ribs.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Now.”

He removed his hands from your eyes.

The lights were low. The table was covered in flickering tea candles. The little cake, topped with your favorite frosting. Photos taped to balloons hovered above.

Your name was scrawled across the banner in bright colors. The gifts sat nearby. His letter peeking out from under them.

He stepped in front of you.

“Happy birthday,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I know this doesn’t fix it, but I needed you to know, I know now. And I’m not going to forget again.”

You stared.

Expression unreadable. Chest tight.

He could see your jaw twitch like you were trying not to smile. But your eyes were glassy. The corners of your mouth shifted ever so slightly. You nearly cracked.

Nearly.

But the silence remained.

Because what he hurt wasn’t something decorations could patch up.

And still, you stood there.

Looking at him.

Looking at the effort.

The mess.

The truth.

And for the first time in days,

You didn’t look away.

The soft flicker of candlelight painted the room in warm hues, casting shadows over the clumsy decorations, the carefully placed gifts, the melting frosting on your cake.

It should have felt special. Thoughtful. Sweet.

But it didn’t.

Not yet.

Jisung stood just in front of you, his breathing uneven. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked nervous. Not in the cute, shy way he usually did when he surprised you, but the kind that made his whole frame feel like it was waiting to collapse.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t move.

Your arms remained crossed, your expression unreadable, carefully neutral, but your eyes were fixed on him. Not the decorations. Not the cake. Not the pictures or the presents.

Just him.

And that silence, heavier than any door slam or raised voice, pierced deeper than either of you were ready to admit.

He finally swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night working on this.”

You blinked slowly. Once.

“I ran all the way to the bakery before they closed,” he added, as if that explained anything. “They only had one cake left. I—I begged them.”

Still nothing.

He shifted on his feet, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something, anything to tell him he was getting through. That he hadn’t completely shattered the fragile thread between you.

But your face remained calm. Distant.

“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”

You finally moved. Not toward him.

Just your head, tilting slightly.

Your eyes flicked over the decorations. The half-deflated balloon on the couch. The misspelled banner. The crumpled wrapping paper around a small box. The cake. The candles, now half-melted.

And then back to him.

A beat passed.

And then your voice quiet, hoarse, deliberate cut through the air.

“You didn’t mean to forget,” you echoed, almost to yourself. “But you did.”

Jisung flinched.

Because hearing it said out loud like that made it feel real all over again.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse. You didn’t cry.

You just told the truth.

And somehow, that hurt more.

“I know,” he whispered, guilt tightening in his chest like a fist.

You finally stepped forward, walking past him, not bothering to ask if you could. You stood before the table, staring down at the small cake in the center. Your favorite flavor.

It looked perfect.

But it felt... wrong.

Uncomfortable.

Artificial.

You were quiet for a long time before you spoke again.

“You know what hurt the most?” you asked, eyes still on the table.

Jisung slowly turned to face you, but didn’t interrupt.

“It wasn’t that you forgot the date,” you said, voice trembling just enough to betray your restraint. “It’s that I came to you, twice, and you didn’t even look at me.”

He said nothing.

“I asked if you were free,” you continued, quieter. “And you brushed me off. I tried to kiss you, and you called me a distraction. You said you almost forgot your lyrics like I was in the way.”

The words cut like glass.

“And then you came to bed,” you said bitterly, shaking your head, “and instead of pulling me close, you scolded me again. You didn’t notice that I didn’t say anything back. You didn’t ask why I turned away.”

Jisung’s voice caught. “I didn’t know—”

“I know you didn’t,” you snapped suddenly, turning to face him now, arms still crossed but your chest rising fast, “because you didn’t care to know. You were too wrapped up in your music to notice that I was hurting. That I was right there in front of you, trying everything I could to be seen.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

“I didn’t want cake,” you said, softer now. “I didn’t want decorations or balloons or even a gift.”

Your voice cracked just slightly.

“I wanted you to remember me.”

A silence fell over the room that made even the candles seem to quiet.

Jisung’s heart felt like it had dropped out of his body.

Because now he saw it.

All of it.

This wasn’t about a forgotten birthday.

It was about what that forgetfulness meant to you.

That in the middle of his chaotic, music-fueled mind, you had fallen out of focus. And not just the date, you. Your presence. Your love. Your place beside him.

And the worst part?

You hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t begged.

You’d just gotten quiet.

And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but it sounded so small now. So empty in the shadow of everything you’d just said.

You looked at him for a long, long moment.

There was something raw in your expression now. Not anger. Not even sadness.

Just tiredness.

And then you gave a faint shrug.

“I know you are,” you said. “But I’m still hurt.”

You turned back toward the hallway slowly.

And before you walked away, you added one final thing,

“I don’t need grand gestures, Jisung.”

You paused.

“I just need to know I matter without having to remind you.”

And then you left him standing there.

Alone in a room full of balloons.

-

Morning came heavy.

The early light filtered in through the curtains in faded strips, casting muted patterns across the floor and walls. You were already awake, had been for hours. Lying still in bed, eyes on the ceiling, a dull ache stretching across your chest.

You hadn’t slept much.

Even after he decorated the night before. Even after the surprise. The effort.

The reminder that he cared, but only after he realized he’d forgotten.

There was something deeply hollow in the pit of your stomach. Something disappointment couldn’t fully name.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you.

It was that he didn’t see you when you needed him to.

And you weren’t sure a cake at 1:00 a.m. was going to fix that.

When you finally got up, you didn’t say a word.

You padded into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the decorations still up. They felt… false. Like remnants of something built on guilt rather than intention.

Jisung was already awake, curled up on the couch, eyes half-lidded and red from lack of sleep.

He sat up immediately when he heard you.

"Morning," he said, softly cautiously.

You didn’t respond. Not even a glance in his direction.

He frowned but didn’t push.

You passed him, quiet as ever, and walked to the kitchen. The clatter of a mug on the counter was the loudest sound in the apartment. You poured yourself water. That was it. No breakfast.

He stood a minute later, stretching awkwardly. He hovered, just a few steps behind. Like he wanted to be close but didn’t know if he had permission anymore.

The silence between you was crushing.

He trailed you throughout the day, always within sight. Always trying to stay near you like he could fix the damage just by being close.

He didn’t go to practice. Didn’t write. Didn’t open his laptop or touch his notebook.

Instead, he lingered.

Watching.

Waiting.

Hovering.

When you sat on the floor to organize a drawer you didn’t really need to organize, he sat a few feet away, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to you. Quietly hopeful. Painfully anxious.

You didn’t speak.

When you changed rooms, he followed.

Not in an overbearing way just enough to make it known he was still there. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how.

By the time afternoon crept in, you were still silent.

You didn’t eat.

Not out of pettiness, but because your emotions were so knotted, so close to the surface, that even chewing felt like a chore. Food would make this real. Food would be you accepting the day.

And right now, you weren’t ready.

Jisung noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything.

He just... watched you.

With a kind of quiet panic in his eyes that made it clear he was spiraling inside.

By late evening, the tension had become a third person in the room breathing heavily, sitting between you on the couch, pressing against your sides.

You were scrolling absently on your phone. You hadn’t spoken in hours.

He was next to you, knees pulled to his chest, a small cushion hugged against his stomach. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. He looked miserable, but kept pretending to be calm.

Then, in the quiet, your stomach growled.

Loudly.

Painfully loud in the dead silence.

You immediately stilled, eyes widening.

Jisung’s head whipped toward you.

There was a pause.

A long, too-long beat where his mouth twitched, like he was fighting it.

And then he laughed.

Not obnoxiously. Not teasingly.

But a soft, breathless, startled kind of laugh. Like the kind that slips out when the universe plays a joke on you.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he knew he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.

And for just one second, you cracked.

Your face twisted as you tried to stay stern. Tried to keep the front up. But the ridiculousness of it all, the dead silence, your growling stomach, the haunted look on his face, broke something loose.

You choked on your own breath, and suddenly a small laugh escaped you.

Not a big one. Not even a full sound. But enough.

His eyes softened instantly.

The tension snapped not fully, but just enough for the room to breathe again.

He stood, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might still bite. Then walked toward you, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "Look, I know you’re still pissed. And you should be."

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.

“I’ll apologize as many times as you want. I’ll keep groveling for the rest of the year if I have to,” he said, gently, kneeling in front of you now. His hands rested on the couch cushion beside your legs, not touching you. Just near.

“But right now… I need to celebrate you. Just a little. Just today. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t let yourself breathe. And I know I ruined the start of your day, but I’m begging you, please let me try to salvage the end of it.”

You blinked at him. Slow. Guarded.

“I know I messed up,” he said again, voice shaking. “But you don’t deserve to be hungry on your birthday. You don’t deserve to sit here feeling invisible. You deserve cake and your favorite food and someone telling you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”

His throat bobbed.

“I’m that someone. I swear I am.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. But your lip quivered.

And he saw it.

He saw that flicker. That tiny unraveling.

So he slowly reached out his fingers brushing yours, tentative, waiting for rejection.

But you didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

He let out a shaky breath, and his grip tightened slightly around your hand.

“I’m ordering your favorite,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting you lift a finger tonight. You’re going to eat, and if you want, we’ll sit in silence. Or we’ll watch that show you love. Or I’ll leave after. Whatever you want. Just… let me be here for you. Like I should have been from the start.”

Another pause.

Then, barely audible

“Please.”

The air between you had shifted, slightly, like clouds parting just enough for a patch of sun to warm the skin. Still cloudy. Still heavy. But there was warmth now. And that was a start.

You watched him as he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the food delivery app. “Your usual?” he asked gently, cautious but hopeful.

You nodded.

But just before he tapped the screen, you spoke, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“…Add a brown sugar bubble tea.”

He looked up at you, surprised.

Your eyes met his briefly.

A small corner of his mouth lifted, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if a smile was allowed, but when you didn’t pull away, it widened with quiet relief. That moment, tiny as it was, cracked something in both of you.

He tapped a few buttons and said, “Large brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, 50% sugar, less ice. Right?”

You nodded again.

“…Thank you,” you added softly.

His eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. “It’ll be here soon,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table.

Then he moved slowly like approaching a fragile edge of ice.

He sat beside you, close enough to feel his warmth again, but not crowding you. Not forcing anything.

And then, gently, he leaned his head on your shoulder. Slowly tilted further down until he was lying across the couch, his legs curled and head tucked carefully against your side. One arm draped loosely across your lap, his grip feather-light. His face pressed into the hem of your hoodie.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against you. “God, I’m so sorry.”

The words were hoarse. Choked.

Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just real.

Repeated again, like a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You ran your fingers through the sleeve hem of your hoodie for a moment, eyes staring past him, before you finally said, “I know.”

He turned his face a little, just enough to glance up at you.

“I forgive you,” you murmured, after a beat. “But I need you to know that you really, really hurt me.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded slowly.

You kept your voice steady. Firm but not harsh.

“I wasn’t even upset about the birthday anymore,” you said quietly. “You know I’ve never cared about birthdays that much.”

You paused.

“But when I asked if you had Friday off, you barely looked at me. And then I tried again, and you told me I was distracting you. Like I was bothering you. Like I was some kind of obstacle in your way.”

Jisung’s eyes dropped. His fingers curled tighter against your lap. He stayed completely still.

“That’s what hurt,” you said, voice finally cracking slightly. “Not the forgetting. But the pushing away. Like I was too much. Like I was getting in the way of your real priorities.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed, I should’ve stopped and seen you.”

“You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking to you,” you added, looking down at him. “I was right there. And you didn’t even ask.”

His chest rose sharply, his lips pressing into a thin, broken line.

“I’ve been kicking myself for that for two days,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking, ‘Why is she being so cold?’ And I didn’t even consider that it was because I had gone cold first. I made you feel like a burden when you were just trying to love me.”

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes softened at that.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re not a burden. You’re my peace. My home. And I treated you like you were noise.”

That hit something in you. Hard.

Because that was the truth you had no words for until now. You hadn’t wanted flowers or presents, you’d wanted to be met. To be held in mind and heart like you always did for him. You were asking to be cherished, just for a moment. And he hadn’t shown up.

But now, here he was.

Curled around you like an apology with a heartbeat.

You let your hand fall gently to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands.

And you finally said, “Just… don’t let me feel like that again.”

“I won’t,” he said immediately, his voice thick. “I swear, I won’t.”

You tilted down slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were red. Teary. He looked so small, so ashamed, but so present.

“I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even when I’m stupid. Especially then.”

You gave him a small, tired smile.

“You are stupid,” you whispered.

He exhaled a breath of a laugh. And then looked at you again, this time with a question in his eyes.

You didn’t answer with words.

You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently, and kissed him.

Not soft.

Not dramatic.

But real. Lingering. Quietly desperate.

His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer, holding you like something he thought he’d lost. He kissed you back like he was still apologizing through every movement like he didn’t deserve you, but would spend the rest of his life making it up.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing shallow.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered, barely audible.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time all day, you smiled.

“I still want that bubble tea,” you whispered.

He laughed into your shoulder, voice warm now, full of the relief he hadn’t dared hope for hours ago.

“You’re getting it,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll buy you ten. I’ll buy the whole damn shop.”

“You better,” you muttered, resting your hand over his.

And for the first time in days, the silence between you didn’t ache.

It simply held.

//

a/n: for 🌺 anon.

masterlist.