miorrtae

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After sitting for a while i started to think about how could i forgive her after everything. i had to leave to protect myself from hurting so much. i had to leave the very country i just started my career in because i was heartbroken.

It wasn’t just the heartbreak that drove me away—it was the constant replay of moments that used to make me feel alive, now turned into reminders of what I’d lost. Every corner of that city whispered her name. Every familiar street felt like a wound reopening. I told myself distance would be the cure, that if I could just get far enough away, I might be able to breathe again.

But the thing about pain is that it doesn’t respect borders. I carried it with me across oceans, tucked somewhere between my passport and my pride. Some nights, I still wake up with her voice echoing in my head, and I wonder if forgiveness is something I owe her—or myself.

Because maybe forgiveness isn’t about letting her back into my life. Maybe it’s about releasing the version of me that was trapped in the aftermath, the one who couldn’t see beyond the ruins of what we had. Looking down onto my lap where her head laid brushing her hair out of her face. I remember how peaceful she looked then, as if the world had never touched her. The way her eyelashes fluttered when she dreamed, the faint smile that would appear without warning—it made me believe in something gentle, something safe. Back then, I thought love was supposed to look like that: quiet, unshakable, infinite.

But looking at her now—if I could—I’d see it differently. That moment wasn’t proof of forever. It was a fragment of time, one of those rare pauses life gives you before everything shifts. I held on to that image for too long, mistaking it for permanence when it was only a glimpse of what once was.

Maybe that’s why forgiveness feels so complicated. It’s not about excusing what she did; it’s about untangling myself from the illusion I built around her. She wasn’t my salvation—she was my lesson.

And as much as it hurts to admit, maybe walking away wasn’t the end of our story—it was the beginning of my becoming. The silence that followed her absence was unbearable at first—loud in its emptiness, echoing through every part of me that had once been filled with her laughter. But over time, that silence turned into something else. It became space. Space to think. To heal. To understand that love doesn’t always mean staying, and letting go doesn’t always mean giving up.

I started to see pieces of myself I’d neglected while trying to hold us together. The dreams I’d postponed, the parts of my identity I’d dimmed just to keep the peace. Leaving her, leaving that country—it wasn’t just escape. It was reclamation.

And maybe that’s what forgiveness truly is. Not a moment, but a slow unfolding. A quiet decision to stop bleeding from old wounds. A choice to let the memory soften instead of scar.

Because somewhere between losing her and finding myself, I realized: some goodbyes are just disguised beginnings.

And this was our second chance. Feeling her lift her head slightly off of my lap and turn to face me, I could see everything in her eyes — the fear, the regret, the longing. Her small, trembling movements reminded me of why I had left and why I had come back at the same time.

Her hands rested lightly on my thighs, gripping just enough to keep herself steady, and I could feel the warmth of her body against mine. My own hands hovered over her, uncertain where to rest, wanting to hold her but afraid of breaking what little fragile peace we had.

“I… I didn’t think we’d get here again,” she whispered, voice so soft it almost vanished into the quiet of the room.

I let out a slow breath, my fingers brushing lightly against hers, tracing the tremor in her hands. My chest felt heavy, every heartbeat reminding me of the distance we’d traveled—the years of absence, the nights of silence, the ache of remembering.

“I… Taeyeon,” I began, my voice soft but firm, “I’m going to forgive you.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of hope mixed with disbelief. She leaned a little closer, as if afraid the words might vanish before they reached her.

“But,” I continued, drawing a careful line between us even as her warmth pressed against me, “it’s not going to happen all at once. Forgiveness… it’s going to take time. I’m not just letting go of the hurt—you have to understand, I have to untangle myself from everything we were, everything I lost, everything I carried across oceans.”

She nodded slowly, her lips parting in a soft, almost breathless acknowledgment. “I… I understand,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I’m telling you this because I want you to know I’m trying,” I said, my hand finally resting lightly at the curve of her back. “I want to let you back in, but I can’t erase the past overnight. Some days will feel like progress, others like I’m right back at the start. And you’ll have to accept that—that’s the only way I can forgive without losing myself in it again.”

She swallowed hard, the fragility in her eyes softened by gratitude and the faintest trace of relief. “I’ll wait,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I just… I just want a chance.”

I let her rest her head back against me, exhaling slowly. “This is your chance,” I murmured, “but it’s ours too—if we take it one step at a time. No rushing. No pretending we’re past it all. Just… learning to trust again.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a quiet space between us that wasn’t defined by hurt or longing or absence. It was a space where forgiveness could grow—fragile, hesitant, but real. And I was willing to see where it led, even if it took forever.

The practice rooms had no clocks, only mirrors—long, unblinking glass that reflected every stumble back at them. Fluorescent lights hummed above, a sound so constant it disappeared until silence made it obvious. That was where they grew up, in the hum and the glass, where time bent itself around repetition.Taeyeon was there from the start, small enough to vanish into the corner yet impossible to overlook once she opened her mouth to sing. She carried herself like someone who already knew the weight of promises, steady in ways the others weren’t. Heavier, maybe. She laughed less often, but when she did, it had the strange quality of breaking something open in the room.

No one remembered exactly when Y/N began gravitating toward her. It could have been the night Taeyeon slid a bottle of water across the floor after noticing the tremor in Y/N’s hands. Or the afternoon she wordlessly tore a granola bar in half and left one piece on top of Y/N’s notebook. Small things, almost careless, until they weren’t.

What happened between them didn’t announce itself. It lived in the pauses—two sets of footsteps falling into rhythm on the way back to the dorms, shoulders brushing without comment. It was the way Y/N lingered in the hall after practice ended, pretending to tie a shoelace until Taeyeon emerged so they could walk together.Nobody would have called it love then. Not yet. But in the long hours where no one else was watching, something unnameable began to take root.

Taeyeon sat cross-legged on the floor, head tipped back against the mirror, strands of hair sticking to her temples. Y/N lingered by the speaker, pretending to scroll through playlists, though the screen hadn’t changed in minutes.

“You’re staying again?” Y/N asked finally, voice carrying in the empty space.

Taeyeon cracked one eye open. “You’re still here too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m waiting for you.”

Her laugh came out soft, startled, like she hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Maybe I want to.”

She tilted her head, studying them as if weighing whether to argue. In the end, she only said, “You’re stubborn.”

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, crossing the room to drop beside her. Their shoulders brushed, the contact so small it could be ignored. Neither of them moved.

For a while, the only sound was the hum of the lights. Then Y/N spoke again, quieter this time. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

“Leaving?”

“The company. All of this.” They gestured vaguely at the mirrored walls.

Taeyeon’s answer didn’t come right away. She tapped her fingers twice against her knee. “Sometimes. When it gets too heavy. But then I remember why I’m here.” She looked at them, a faint challenge in her gaze. “Don’t you?”

Y/N wanted to answer honestly—that they stayed less for the dream and more for the way she made it bearable—but the words jammed in their throat. Instead, they gave a half-smile.

Y/N turned to her, but she was already looking away, eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror—two figures side by side, blurred at the edges by the dim light.

“I think it is,” Y/N said finally, voice lower now. “At least… right now. With you here.”

Taeyeon’s lips pressed into something between a smile and a wince. She didn’t reply, but her shoulder leaned the slightest fraction closer, brushing against theirs, as if to say she’d heard.

They left the practice room long after the building had gone quiet, their steps muffled against the narrow hallway. The air outside was sharp with winter, cold enough that Taeyeon immediately pulled her hood tight around her face. Y/N shoved their hands into their pockets, watching the way her breath curled white in the dark.

The city didn’t sleep, not really. Neon signs flickered, buses hissed past, convenience stores hummed with low fluorescent light. But this hour felt gentler, as if the noise had softened just enough to give them space.

“Hungry?” Y/N asked, nodding toward the corner store across the street.

Taeyeon hesitated, then shrugged. “Always.”

Inside, the heater buzzed like a tired insect. Y/N grabbed two ramen cups off the shelf, setting one into her hands without asking. She looked down at it, lips tugging into something small, almost a smile.

“Do you do this with everyone?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Buy them food. Wait for them after practice. Pretend you’re not tired when you are.”

Y/N ripped open the packet of seasoning a little too fast. “No. Just you.”

That earned them a look, steady and unreadable. She didn’t answer right away, only poured hot water into the cup and stirred it with the flimsy fork. Her fingers, pale from the cold, brushed against theirs when she handed it over. Neither of them pulled away.

They sat on the curb outside, the heat of the ramen warming their hands. The street was almost empty, the occasional car breaking the stillness before disappearing again.

“I don’t think I’d last here without you,” Y/N said suddenly, surprising even themself with the honesty.

Taeyeon slurped her noodles, swallowed, then tilted her head. “You would.”

“No,” they said. Firmer this time. “Not at all.”

She studied them in the glow of the streetlight, steam rising between them. For a moment it seemed she might reply, but instead she dropped her gaze, hiding whatever flickered there.

“Eat before it gets cold,” was all she said.

But her knee, drawn close under the hem of her hoodie, shifted until it brushed against theirs—light, fleeting, enough to feel like a secret.

The ramen cups were drained down to cloudy broth, the steam long since thinned into the night air. Taeyeon set hers on the curb with careful fingers, as though even that small motion required effort, and pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes. A faint sigh slipped out, unguarded.

“You’re going to fall asleep right here,” Y/N said, half-teasing, half-serious.

“I might,” she murmured, voice raw with exhaustion.

“Let’s get you back to your dorm then.” Y/N said, not wanting to to have to carry her after 9 hours of practicing.

They rose slowly, stretching legs stiff from sitting too long. The city’s hum pressed soft around them, muted by the hour. Under the pale glow of the streetlamps, their shadows trailed long and thin across the pavement.

Taeyeon’s steps were uneven, smaller than usual, her hood tugged forward until it shadowed her face. Y/N adjusted their stride without thinking, falling into her pace.

“Your dorm’s another five minutes from mine, right?” Y/N asked.

Taeyeon’s reply came faint, almost a hum. “Mm.”

“You’re probably too tired for that.”

“I can manage.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.” Y/N glanced sideways—her lashes fluttered as if every blink fought to stay shut, her breath rising in fragile bursts of white against the dark. “How about staying at mines tonight.

Her head turned at that, sharp enough to register protest, but Y/N’s tone carried no space for refusal. “It’s closer. Just crash there.”

For a stretch of pavement, she said nothing, the silence punctuated only by their footsteps. Then, reluctant, barely above the cold:

“Won’t it… look strange?”

“It’s late. Nobody will notice,” Y/N said, softer now, as though coaxing her into the thought. “Besides, you need sleep more than you need to worry.

A car passed at the far end of the street, headlights sweeping across them before fading back into shadow. The world felt suspended, as though even the city itself had given them permission to exist unnoticed. Y/N slowed their pace just slightly—not enough for her to call it out, but enough to match the drag in her steps.

Taeyeon’s hands stayed buried deep in the pocket of her hoodie, shoulders hunched as though the cold might climb inside her. Y/N watched her fight against another heavy blink, the way her steps faltered just enough to betray her stubbornness.

At last, her voice slipped out, almost lost to the night air. “I’ll only stay if you have an extra blanket.”

“I do.” Y/N’s reply came too quickly, betraying how ready they had been for this moment.

Her mouth tugged, almost into a smile, but she ducked her head before it could fully form. “Then… just for tonight.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence—not the hollow kind, but the kind weighted with everything neither of them dared to say. Boots scuffed against pavement, breath rose in faint clouds, and the city hushed around them as if listening in. At the corner near Y/N’s building, the streetlight cast a soft glow across Taeyeon’s face. She looked worn down to something fragile, and the flicker of protectiveness that stirred in Y/N was so sharp it almost hurt.

Inside the dorm, the air was warmer, tinged faintly with detergent and the ghost of instant coffee. The hallway lay dim and quiet, lined with closed doors, the silence of other trainees folded deep into sleep. Y/N unlocked their room with careful fingers, easing the door open until it gave way with the softest click.

Taeyeon lingered at the threshold, her weight balanced as though crossing it meant more than just stepping into a room. The crease between her brows betrayed the thought she didn’t voice.

“You’re safe here,” Y/N whispered.

She gave a small nod, and then she followed, tugging her hood down as though finally letting herself exhale. The room wasn’t much—one beds, a desk cluttered with notebooks and half-empty water bottles, the kind of mess born from too many nights of not caring. Yet in the thin wash of light seeping through the window, it felt like its own world, tucked away from the rest of the city.

Y/N flicked on the dim desk lamp and immediately felt their stomach drop. Clothes draped over the chair, an open bag of chips slouched on the desk, notebooks scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

“Wait—” Y/N blurted, nearly colliding with Taeyeon as she stepped forward. They darted past her, scooping up socks, shoving stray pages into a stack that only half-looked organized. The chips went into the drawer with a crunch, the chair cleared with one frantic sweep.

Taeyeon leaned on the doorframe, watching without moving. “You always live like a storm passed through?”

“Not always,” Y/N muttered, shoving a hoodie under the bed with their foot. “Just… most of the time.”

Her mouth curved faintly, but she didn’t press, only crossed the room and lowered herself onto the mattress. The springs creaked beneath her small weight. Y/N froze, suddenly aware of how intimate the sight was—her sitting there, hoodie rumpled, hair slipping loose at her temples.

Taeyeon looked up, eyes half-lidded. “I’ll take the floor.”

“What? No.”

“You need your bed.”

“You need it more.” The words came out sharp, too quick, like instinct.

Her brow arched, but she didn’t argue. Not yet. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, gaze flicking to the thin blanket folded at the end of the mattress. “I’ll be fine.”

“Taeyeon.” Y/N’s tone softened, but it held. They crossed the room, pulled a blanket free from the stack, and laid it gently across her lap.“You’re not sleeping on the floor. Not when you can barely walk straight.”

For a beat, she stared at them as if testing for cracks in their resolve. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the heater and the faint city noise outside the window. Then, with a sigh that sounded like a surrender she gave in.

For a beat, she stared at them as if testing for cracks in their resolve. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the heater and the faint city noise outside the window. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost like surrender, she gave in.

Still, she lingered—hovering, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie as if buying herself time. Finally, she muttered something about washing up and slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her.

The dorm bathroom smelled faintly of toothpaste and cheap soap, the kind they all bought in bulk. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed, relentless in its brightness. Taeyeon stood at the sink, sleeves shoved up, splashing water onto her face in slow, deliberate motions, like rinsing away the weight of the day required more strength than she had left.

Y/N leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to watch her too closely but failing anyway. There was something almost disarming about her like this—hair damp and messy around her temples, hoodie hanging loose, movements stripped down to the barest essentials of exhaustion.

“You don’t have to brush your teeth like you’re in a drama,” Y/N teased softly.

Taeyeon froze mid-motion, foam clinging to the corner of her mouth. She glanced at Y/N through the mirror, eyes narrowing, though the effect cracked when a laugh slipped out, faint and unwilling. She rinsed, spat, and shook her head. “You talk too much.”

“Somebody has to keep you awake,” Y/N murmured, the words gentler than they meant them to be.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she pulled the towel from the rack and pressed it slowly to her cheeks, dragging it across her skin with weary care. When she lowered it, her eyes looked heavier, the kind of tired that had settled deep inside, past anything a towel or toothbrush could wash away.

When they returned to the room, Y/N nodded toward the bed. “Go on. Lie down.”

But Taeyeon stalled at the edge, gaze darting from the mattress to the folded blanket, then back to Y/N. Her hands tightened around the fabric of her hoodie. “I said I’d take the floor.”

Y/N was already kneeling on the ground, dropping a pillow as if to prove the point. “And I said you’re not.”

Her brow creased, a flicker of resistance left in her. “This is your bed.”

“It’s just a bed, Taeyeon. You need it more than I do.” Y/N tried for casual, but the insistence in their voice betrayed them.

The air hung thick between them. Taeyeon bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the sheets like lying down in them would cross some invisible line she wasn’t sure she could. Finally, a sharp breath slipped from her, brittle around the edges.

“…You’re stubborn,” she said again, though the fight in her voice had dulled.

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, lowering onto the floor with exaggerated ease. “But you’ll thank me when you wake up without a sore back.”

This time, she didn’t argue. She slid carefully beneath the blanket, curling toward the wall, her body drawn in tight like she was trying not to claim too much space.

Y/N lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Every faint creak of the mattress reminded them she was just above, close enough to reach if they stretched out their hand.

For a while, the room held its silence. Then, barely audible, her voice slipped down from the bed.

“…I feel guilty.”

Y/N turned their head, eyes searching the faint outline of her shoulder in the dark. “Why?”

“Because this is your bed,” she whispered into the blanket. “Because you’re on the floor.”

Y/N smiled into the shadows, though she couldn’t see it. “I told you. It doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

The room held that delicate quiet again, the kind that made every small movement feel louder than it was. Y/N could hear the faint rustle of Taeyeon shifting under the blanket, and the soft sigh that followed.

“…I don’t want you on the floor,” she murmured, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the heater. “It’s… not fair.”

Y/N turned slightly, peering toward the bed’s shadowed shape. “Taeyeon, I said it’s fine. Really.”

A pause. Then, so soft it barely carried: “…What if… we… just…?”

Y/N blinked, waiting, unsure what she was suggesting.

“…We sleep together,” she finished, voice trembling as if even saying it made it fragile. “Just… so we’re both comfortable. Nothing else. I’ll make sure you’re not crowded.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. The thought—intimate, careful, protective—hung between them. Respectful as they always tried to be, they shook their head gently. “I… I can’t. I’m not comfortable with that. Not like that.”

Taeyeon’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Right,” she whispered, almost to herself. She sat up slowly, shoving the blanket off one shoulder, then slid carefully to the edge. “Floor, then.”

Before Y/N could protest, she eased herself down onto the carpet beside them, curling into a small, tight ball. Y/N’s stomach twisted at the sight—her small, fragile figure there, trying to make do with the floor.

“…Taeyeon,” Y/N said, softer now, their voice more insistent but gentle. “You don’t belong there. I can’t— I can’t let you sleep on the floor.”

She lifted her head just slightly, dark hair falling over her eyes. “…I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You’re not an inconvenience,” Y/N said firmly, letting themselves reach out a hand but stopping just short of touching her. “I mean it. You’re tired. You need comfort. I… I’ll make it work. Don’t argue with me.”

With a small sigh, Taeyeon pushed herself upright. “Fine,” she murmured, almost to herself, tugging the blanket free before climbing onto the mattress. She kept to the edge, cautious, leaving deliberate space between them.

Y/N watched her settle there, the gap between them sharp and unnatural. For a moment, they considered leaving her be—but the thought of her lying there alone, exhausted and curled so tightly into herself, twisted something in their chest.

Quietly, Y/N pushed herself off the ground and eased down onto the empty side of the bed. The springs dipped beneath their weight, the blanket shifting as they settled. They kept their distance, careful not to crowd, but close enough that the mattress carried them both.

“Better?” Y/N whispered, half-teasing, half-serious.

Her eyes, half-lidded, flicked toward them, a faint, weary smile tugging at her lips. “…Yes,” she said softly. “Better.”

The room settled around them, the hum of the heater and the distant city blending into a soft lullaby. Every breath, every subtle shift, carried the quiet intimacy of two people learning to move carefully around each other—without words pressing too far.

Y/N sank into the mattress, their shoulder brushing hers as naturally as if it had always been that way. The day’s weight, the city’s noise, the exhaustion pressing on both of them—it all softened, absorbed by the mattress and blanket, folded into the fragile warmth they shared.

For the first time in hours, maybe days, Taeyeon’s body relaxed. She allowed herself to rest fully, trusting that Y/N was there, that they cared, that even in silence, she was safe.

Outside, the night deepened, but the small shared space of the bed held something more intimate than the world beyond—a gentle closeness, steady enough for both of them to finally exhale.

The darkness wrapped around them, rising and falling with each inhale, each tiny movement of the sheets. Faint echoes drifted from the dorm—snoring down the hall, pipes sighing—but here, in this corner, time seemed to pause.

Taeyeon’s breathing evened first—not quite asleep, but no longer resisting the pull of rest. Y/N stayed awake a while longer, tracing the faint outline of her face in the dim light spilling through the blinds, letting the stillness settle over them.

She looked softer like this—fragile in ways she never allowed during practice, when her voice was sharp as glass and her eyes carried the weight of expectations none of them were old enough to bear. Here, curled toward the wall, hair spilling across her cheek, she seemed younger. Just a girl, too small for the promises already pulling her apart.

Y/N shifted slightly, careful, the mattress dipping just enough to brush their shoulder against hers again. A gesture so small it could be mistaken for an accident, yet enough to whisper: you’re not alone.

For a long moment, nothing stirred. Then Taeyeon exhaled—a shiver of sound—and, almost imperceptibly, her hand slid under the blanket, fingers brushing the edge of Y/N’s wrist. Barely there, tentative, like she was testing if the world would allow her this closeness.

Y/N stayed still. Didn’t pull away, didn’t press closer. They simply let the contact exist, fragile and fleeting as it was.

The heater clicked softly, settling into its low hum. A car passed outside, headlights gliding briefly across the ceiling. The city moved on, but in this bed, time seemed to stretch and fold in on itself, the moment suspended, untouchable.

Taeyeon whispered something then, so faint Y/N almost thought they imagined it.

“…thank you.”

It was a thread of sound, unraveling into the dark, carrying more weight than the words themselves.

Y/N’s throat tightened. They wanted to answer, but the words caught, too heavy, too dangerous. Instead, they let their wrist tilt, letting her fingers catch more securely against their skin, a wordless answer.

Taeyeon shifted at that, not closer, not farther, just… at ease. And slowly, with the quiet certainty of someone who finally trusted the ground beneath her, she slipped into sleep.

Y/N lay awake a little longer, listening to her breathing, memorizing the fragile peace of it. Because some part of them already knew—nights like this didn’t come often.

Not here—these moments weren’t meant for them, and yet, somehow, they were.

The morning didn’t arrive all at once. It seeped in—thin light slipping past the blinds, the quiet shuffle of the building stirring awake. A door shut somewhere down the hall, pipes groaned, a bird landed on the sill with a faint thud.

Y/N’s eyes opened slowly, heavy with the kind of sleep that didn’t feel real. For a moment, they didn’t know where they were, only that something warm was pressed against them, soft and steady, with the faint rhythm of breath against their skin.

Then it registered.

Taeyeon.

Her face was tucked into the curve of Y/N’s neck, hair spilling in ticklish strands across their jaw. Her breath fanned out warm and steady, every exhale brushing against their collarbone. One of her arms had wound itself around Y/N’s waist sometime in the night, loose but certain, holding on without asking.

Y/N froze. Not out of fear—something else. A careful kind of stillness, as though moving too quickly might break whatever spell had formed overnight.

Their own hand had found its way to Taeyeon’s lower back, palm splayed across the small rise of her hoodie. They hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even remembered placing it there, but the weight of it now felt inevitable, like it belonged. Each slow breath Taeyeon took shifted against it, pulling Y/N deeper into the quiet rhythm of her body.

The room smelled faintly of detergent and ramen seasoning, the heater still humming low. The sheets were tangled, twisted between them, but neither moved to fix it.

Y/N tilted their head just slightly, enough to see the delicate line of her profile—the lashes pressed to her cheek, the faint crease smoothed out from her brow. She looked… unburdened. Peaceful in a way Y/N had never seen in the practice rooms or under the stage lights.

Something in Y/N’s chest clenched. They wanted to stay like this. To freeze the morning exactly as it was.

But then Taeyeon stirred, just barely, a small sigh against their neck. Her arm tightened once before loosening, like even in sleep she couldn’t decide if it was safe to hold on.

Y/N’s thumb shifted instinctively, brushing once over the fabric at her back. A silent reassurance. It’s okay. Stay.

Her breath caught, different now—not quite the rhythm of sleep anymore.

And that was when Y/N realized: she was awake.

Taeyeon didn’t move at first. Her breath stayed shallow, carefully measured, like she thought she could trick them into believing she was still asleep. But the tiny tremor in her arm gave her away—the way her fingers curled tighter against Y/N’s side before loosening again, guilty, as if she’d been caught stealing warmth that didn’t belong to her.

Y/N’s throat went dry. The air between them felt fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering. They could have pulled back, could have shifted away and spared her the embarrassment. But something in them resisted. Instead, they kept still, hand steady at her back, thumb tracing another small arc against the fabric of her hoodie.

Taeyeon shifted then, the tiniest motion, her face turning just enough that Y/N felt the brush of her nose against their collarbone. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse from sleep, small enough that it barely carried past the space between them.

“…I should move.”

Y/N swallowed, heart hammering against their ribs. “Do you want to?”

Her silence was answer enough. She didn’t move, didn’t even lift her head. Only tightened her arm a fraction more, a reluctant kind of hold, like she was bracing herself for them to pull away instead.

Y/N let out a soft breath, lips curving before they could stop themselves. “Then don’t.”

Her shoulders rose, stiff at first, then eased slowly beneath their hand. She breathed in again, longer this time, as if settling into the shape of them. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to this single breath, this quiet corner where the city couldn’t touch them.

But then Taeyeon whispered, barely audible, almost ashamed: “This isn’t fair to you.”

Y/N closed their eyes, pressing their palm firmer against her back, grounding her. “Let me decide what’s fair.”

The heater clicked, a pipe groaned in the walls, the building reminding them both that morning was still coming. But neither moved. Taeyeon’s lashes fluttered against her cheek, her face hidden against Y/N’s neck, her voice so small it nearly broke apart.

“Just… a little longer.”

And Y/N—heart aching, body still, hand steady at her back—thought, I’d give you forever if you asked.

Neither spoke. Neither moved. It was as though they were holding the last fragile seconds of a night they both knew couldn’t last.

And then it came—the sharp rap of knuckles against wood. Not loud, but enough to cleave through the quiet like a stone breaking water.

“Y/N?” The voice was unmistakable—Sooyoung, pitched low but carrying. “You awake? I need my charger back before practice.”

Taeyeon froze, her body tensing all at once. The careful steadiness of her breathing faltered against Y/N’s neck. For a suspended beat, she stayed utterly still, as though if she didn’t move, the knock—and the world that came with it—might pass them by.

Y/N’s hand remained at her back, grounding, their whisper a thread of calm. “It’s okay.”

Another knock followed, sharper this time. “Y/N? Come on, I know you’re in there.”

The moment fractured. Taeyeon pulled back with reluctant motions, the warmth of her body retreating until it left nothing but cool air between them. She ducked her head, hair falling forward like a shield as she tugged her hood over her face.

Y/N pushed up on their elbows, raking a hand through sleep-tangled hair before calling out, “One sec, Soo!”

By the time they swung their legs to the floor, Taeyeon had already slipped to the far corner of the room, crouching low, fingers fussing at her shoes as though tying invisible knots. Her posture was careful, rehearsed, as if invisibility could be willed into existence.

When Y/N cracked the door open, Sooyoung leaned against the frame, brows arched, hair sticking up like static had claimed it.

“You sleep like the dead,” she muttered, brushing past without waiting for permission. She snagged the charger from the desk with practiced ease. “Didn’t think I’d have to wake you myself.”

Y/N forced a laugh, scratching at the back of their neck. “Yeah. Long night.”

Sooyoung glanced around the room, eyes skimming past the clutter without pause, without suspicion—or maybe without caring. She hooked the charger around her wrist and gave Y/N a look that landed somewhere between teasing and warning. “Don’t be late. You know how they get when you drag in tired.”

“Got it.”

She was gone a moment later, door clicking shut, leaving the room in silence again.

But it wasn’t the same silence. It was heavier now, stretched taut like a thread ready to snap. Taeyeon still sat by the wall, hood shadowing her face, shoulders hunched. Her fingers twisted restlessly in her sleeves.

Y/N crossed the room and sank beside her, close enough to feel the faint tremor in her breath. Their voice came low, even, meant only for her. “You okay?”

Taeyeon didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, lashes lowered, shoulders tight as if she could fold herself small enough to vanish. Her hands worked restlessly inside the sleeves of her hoodie, twisting, untwisting, never still.

Y/N didn’t push. They sat with her in the hush of the room, the weight of the morning pressing against both of them. When they finally spoke, their voice was barely more than a thread.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know she would come over here.”

Her lips pressed together, a fleeting crease forming between her brows. “Oh no— it’s not that. It’s just I thought about if she saw us—” She cut herself off, shaking her head like the word itself was too heavy to finish.

Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Hey…” They shifted slightly, enough so their shoulder brushed hers, trying to ground her without making it obvious. “It wasn’t like that. We weren’t—” They stopped themselves, exhaled. “I mean, it’s not like there was anything to see.”

Taeyeon gave a tiny shake of her head, hair still falling forward like a curtain. “People don’t care about that. They see what they want to.”

“I know.” Y/N’s voice cracked with how quickly the words left them. “I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve… thought it through. I just—” They scrubbed a hand over their face. “I didn’t want you to walk home alone. That’s all. Nothing else. I didn’t even think about someone barging in.”

Her fingers paused mid-twist, then resumed, slower this time. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“I do, though.” Y/N’s laugh was low, a little unsteady. “Because you’re sitting here looking like you’re about to disappear, and I hate it. I hate that I’m part of the reason you feel like you have to hide.”

That earned them a flicker of her gaze—a quick glance from under her hood, gone as soon as it appeared. But it was enough to make their chest tighten.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Y/N said softer. “I just… I care about you, Taeyeon. That’s it. I didn’t plan any of this, I just… wanted you to feel safe.”

The room stretched quiet again. The hum of the heater filled the gap where words wouldn’t go. Taeyeon shifted, her knees drawing up slightly, chin dipping.

“I know you didn’t mean it like that,” she murmured at last. “It’s just… it’s hard. Being seen. Even when nothing’s happening, it feels like it is.”

“I get that.” Y/N let their hand drop to their knee, palm up, a silent offer but not a demand. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

Her fingers stilled completely this time. For a moment she just stared at the floor, then—slowly—her sleeve brushed against their palm, not quite a touch but close enough to feel.

Y/N stayed still, breathing out a faint, steadying exhale. “You don’t have to be invisible here,” they said quietly. “Not with me.”

Her hood dipped, hiding her face, but her shoulders loosened a fraction, and when she finally spoke again her voice was soft enough to almost be a sigh. “Okay.”

Her breath caught, sharp and quick, before she managed to swallow it back down. She lifted her gaze then, just enough to meet theirs, and in that look was everything she couldn’t say: fear, exhaustion, the ache of wanting something she wasn’t supposed to want.

The silence stretched, fragile and unbearably alive.

Y/N let their hand rest, palm up, between them on the floor. Not reaching, not asking—just offering.

Taeyeon’s eyes flicked to it, lingered, then darted away. Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. And then, with a hesitation that made it feel like stepping over a cliff, she let her fingers slip into theirs.

Her grip was light at first, cautious, as if she might need to pull away at any second. But Y/N closed their hand gently around hers, steady, grounding, refusing to let the moment slip through the cracks.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

Because in that quiet, hand in hand, the truth of it hung between them—unspoken, undeniable, and impossible to take back.

The practice rooms swallowed the morning whole. By the time Y/N and Taeyeon arrived, the others were already mid-warm-up, the air heavy with the sound of scales and footsteps smacking the floor. Mirrors reflected a dozen tired faces, each one holding its own brand of hunger.

Y/N kept their head down, but their hand still hummed with the ghost of Taeyeon’s from earlier, the faint press of her fingers threaded through theirs. That single contact had lodged itself under their skin, stubborn and alive.

Across the room, Taeyeon moved through stretches with mechanical precision, every gesture crisp, practiced. To anyone else, she was the same as always—stoic, unreadable. But Y/N had learned to watch closely. The smallest cracks showed now: the slight drag in her arms as she raised them overhead, the pause in her breath when she lowered into a split.

She wan’t hiding from them anymore. Not fully.

The coach clapped his hands. “Pair work today. Vocal harmonies. Taeyeon, Y/N—you’re up.”

The words struck like a match. Y/N glanced at her, caught the way her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly before she nodded. They stepped forward together, standing side by side before the mirror.

The piano struck its first chord. Y/N began, voice steady, but it wasn’t until Taeyeon joined that the room shifted. Her tone slid against theirs like glass over water—fragile, sharp, impossibly clear. But halfway through the run, her voice wavered, breaking at the edges.

A murmur rippled through the room. The coach frowned. “Again.”

Taeyeon’s jaw clenched. She drew breath, ready to force it.

But Y/N reached out, barely brushing her elbow. A whisper, low enough that no one else could catch it: “Don’t push. Just breathe with me.”

Her eyes flicked to theirs, startled, caught off guard by the steadiness in their voice.

The piano began again. Y/N inhaled slow, deliberate, and this time she matched them. Their voices rose together—not perfect, not flawless, but alive. A sound that leaned into the cracks instead of covering them.

When the last note faded, the coach nodded, already moving to correct another pair. But Y/N caught the quick look Taeyeon gave them, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile, exactly. Something rarer.

Later, in the hall, the others scattered toward the cafeteria, chattering about food and aching muscles. Y/N lingered, waiting. Taeyeon emerged a beat after, hoodie tugged up, steps dragging.

“You didn’t have to cover for me,” she said quietly, without meeting their eyes.

Y/N adjusted their bag strap. “I didn’t cover for you. I sang with you.”

That made her pause. She glanced up, a faint crease softening between her brows. For once, she didn’t deflect, didn’t laugh it off. Instead, she let the silence hang, heavy but not hostile.

And then, almost too soft to catch: “Thank you.”

Y/N wanted to answer, but the words caught in their throat. So instead, they fell into step beside her, their shoulders brushing as they walked down the long fluorescent hallway. Neither pulled away.

It was small. Barely noticeable to anyone else.

But Y/N felt it.

The shift.

Taeyeon was letting them in.

By the time night came around the sky became heavy with rain, thin drops whispering against the dorm windows, a sound that made the corridors feel lonelier than usual. Practice had run late—later than it should have—and Y/N slipped back into their room after washing up, damp hair sticking to their neck.

They thought the day was done.

It wasn’t.

The door clicked open again, too quickly, too urgently, and Taeyeon was there. Not the careful, composed Taeyeon they knew—the one who folded herself neatly into expectations—but a girl unraveling at the seams. Her hoodie was pulled half-off one shoulder, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed, and her breath came too sharp, like she’d run all the way here.

“Where have you been?” she blurted, voice trembling, pitched somewhere between scolding and pleading.

Y/N froze. “Taeyeon—”

“You weren’t in the practice room. You weren’t in the hall. I checked the cafeteria, the roof, everywhere—” Her words broke off, catching against the tears already streaking down her face. She pressed her fists against her chest as if trying to hold herself together. “Why weren’t you there?”

The sound of her crying was jagged, unpolished. Not the silent kind of grief she tried to hide during training, but something raw, breaking through in uneven gasps.

Y/N crossed the room before they even realized they were moving. “I—I didn’t know you were looking for me,” they murmured, reaching for her, but stopping just shy.

Her eyes snapped up, shining and furious in their vulnerability. “I needed you.”

The words landed like a confession. Not careful, not rehearsed. Just the truth, spilled bare.

And then she folded. The fight drained out of her all at once as she crumpled forward into Y/N’s chest. Her forehead pressed against them, hot with tears, her hands clutching weakly at their hoodie like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to push them away or pull them closer.

“I can’t—” Her voice broke, muffled against the fabric. “It’s too much. They keep saying I’m ready, but I’m not, Y/N. I’m not. I mess up, I forget, I can’t sing the way they want and I—” Her words dissolved into sobs, shoulders shaking under Y/N’s hands.

Y/N gathered her up, steady arms wrapping tight around her, one hand cradling the back of her head. “Shh, it’s okay,” they murmured, gentle but certain. “You don’t have to be ready tonight. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone right this second.”

Taeyeon shook her head against them, hiccuping through tears. “That’s not enough. It’s not—”

“It is enough,” Y/N said firmly, brushing their thumb along her damp hairline. “Taeyeon, you’re enough. Even when you stumble, even when you think you’ve failed—none of that changes what’s in you. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not be perfect.”

Her sobs didn’t stop—not at first. But slowly, the frantic edge softened. Her fists loosened in the fabric of their hoodie, her body melting heavier against them as though her strength had finally run out. Each tear that struck their chest was warm, searing, as if carving itself into memory.

And Y/N thought, holding her close in the dim light of the room, that this was the moment everything shifted—when Taeyeon stopped hiding the parts of herself she thought no one should see, and gave them to Y/N instead.

“I’ll hold you through it,” Y/N whispered, their own voice tight with feeling. “As long as it takes. Just breathe with me. That’s all you have to do right now. Nothing else matters.”

Her breathing slowed first.

Not steady—never steady—but enough that Y/N could feel the shudder of it ease against their chest, like the storm in her ribs had finally burned itself out. She was still trembling, damp lashes clinging to her cheeks, but her weight had settled into them fully now, no longer half-held back.

Y/N stroked a hand through her hair, careful, almost reverent. “You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” they murmured.

Taeyeon’s voice was hoarse, muffled into the fabric of their hoodie. “But I’m supposed to. That’s what they expect.”

“Maybe.” Y/N’s tone carried quiet defiance, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to feel unshakable. “But I don’t. I’d rather you fall apart with me than carry it all by yourself.”

Her breath caught—sharp, fragile, like she didn’t know what to do with words that soft. She pressed closer, as though hiding her face deeper might protect her from the weight of being seen.

The room was dim, the rain outside tapping against the window like it had nowhere else to go. Y/N shifted them slowly toward the bed, guiding her down until she sat on the edge. Her hands clutched at theirs immediately, desperate, as if letting go meant the ground would give way beneath her.

Y/N knelt in front of her, their knees pressing into the carpet, holding her hands firmly between theirs. “Look at me.”

It took effort. She lifted her face inch by inch, eyes red, lips bitten raw. For once, the walls she carried weren’t there—only the fragile truth of a girl breaking under weight she shouldn’t have had to bear.

Y/N’s chest tightened. “You don’t have to be perfect for me, or for anyone for that matter Taeyeon.”

The words seemed to split her open all over again. Her hands shook harder, her mouth trembled like she wanted to argue but couldn’t form the words. Instead, she leaned forward, collapsing into Y/N’s shoulder this time, arms wrapping tight around their neck.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered, voice wrecked, the plea breaking somewhere deep.

“Never,” Y/N whispered back. The promise left their lips before they could think, but they didn’t regret it. Not when she clung to them like this, not when her entire body begged for someone to believe in her.

Minutes passed. The rain thickened outside, drumming harder against the glass, a rhythm that filled the silence. Y/N stayed kneeling on the floor, arms locked tight around her waist, holding her as though anchoring them both.

Eventually, her sobs dimmed into shaky breaths. Her grip loosened, but she didn’t pull away. Her head rested heavy against their shoulder, her hair damp against their skin.

“…you make it feel less impossible,” she whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Y/N closed their eyes, pressing their cheek against her temple. “That’s all I want. To make it bearable for you.”

She exhaled, trembling but steadier now, her breath fanning warm against their collarbone. Her voice came again, quieter, frayed around the edges:

“…then don’t go anywhere.”

Y/N’s arms tightened, grounding them both. “I won’t.”

The storm outside raged on, but in that little room, with her curled into their chest, Y/N knew the shift had already begun.

This wasn’t just about survival anymore.

This was trust.

This was the beginning of something neither of them had a name for at that time.

At some point, the quiet between them grew comfortable. Y/N shifted slightly, tilting their head so their forehead rested gently against hers, careful not to startle her. Her lashes brushed their skin, and she exhaled, a small puff of warmth mingling with theirs.

“I can’t believe you let it get this bad,” Y/N said softly, voice low enough that only she could hear. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You don’t have to carry all of this alone,” Y/N murmured, “Not with me here.”

Her lips pressed together, trembling faintly. “…I didn’t think you’d want to see me like this.”

Y/N’s fingers brushed slow along her arm, grounding her. “I’d rather see you like this than not see you at all. You don’t have to hide, not from me.”

Her fingers tightened around theirs. “I don’t… I don’t want to hide from you anymore.”

“Don’t,” Y/N replied, a faint smile tugging at their lips. “I’m not going anywhere, not for a second.”

She let out a shaky breath and leaned further into them, folding against their chest in a way that felt both desperate and deliberate. The room smelled faintly of rain and detergent, and Y/N felt the pull deep in their chest—something fiercer than care, stronger than responsibility. Connection, raw and alive.

“You make it easier,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Even the stuff I hate about myself.”

“Let me,” Y/N said, pressing a hand to her back. “Let me carry some of it for you. I’m not saying it’s permanent, I’m not saying it’s simple… but I’ll be here.”

Her lips parted slightly, breath hitching, leaning closer until their foreheads touched. “…I want that,” she murmured. “…I really do.”

Y/N shifted a little, brushing damp hair from her cheek. “So we’ll figure it out. Together.”

She let herself relax against them, trembling slightly but anchored. Minutes passed with the soft rhythm of her breathing, the rain against the window, their hands entwined.

“You promise me something?” she said after a while, voice fragile.

“Anything,” Y/N said immediately.

“Don’t let me forget that it’s okay to need someone,” she murmured.

“I won’t,” Y/N replied, brushing their thumb over hers. “I’ll remind you every time you forget.”

Her head lifted slightly, eyes glimmering with unshed tears but calmer now. “And… can I stay over tonight?”

“Of course,” Y/N said, letting a teasing warmth edge their tone. “I mean, unless you’ve got a secret plan to kick me out of my own dorm room , in which case I’ll negotiate my terms.”

She let out a small, shaky laugh, resting her head back against their chest. “No kicking out,” she whispered. “Just… stay.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Y/N said, adjusting slightly so she could settle comfortably.

She breathed in again, longer this time, and Y/N dragged her hand across the top of her head calmly. “I mean it,” they said. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

And for the first time since she’d arrived in their world, Taeyeon let herself believe it. Not fully, not entirely—but enough to stay. Enough to let the beginning stretch out before them, uncertain but real.

The rain outside softened, tapping faintly against the glass, and inside, the storm felt like something they could weather together.

Days blurred into each other, but Y/N started noticing the little patterns that made Taeyeon hers—the soft sighs when she settled against the bed, the way her fingers always found theirs, the tilt of her head when she leaned into a shoulder. They spent evenings in quiet corners of the dorm, talking just enough to fill the space without shattering the fragile calm that had begun to settle between them.

Sometimes it was reading together, Y/N perched on the edge of the bed while Taeyeon sprawled against the pillows, a book open but forgotten as her gaze drifted toward them. Sometimes it was sitting on the floor, backs pressed together, letting the rain fall outside while the dorm felt entirely their own.

Y/N began to realize they didn’t just want her close—they needed her. Not in a fleeting comfort sense, but in a way that wrapped around the chest and pulled tight, a kind of ache that wouldn’t ease even in sleep. When she laughed softly at some small thing, the sound lodged in their chest. When she sighed, exhaling worries that had nothing to do with them, Y/N felt hollowed out in all the wrong ways, wanting to fix it, to shield her from every impossible expectation.

One night, Taeyeon fell asleep with her head resting on Y/N’s shoulder, hair damp from the shower. Y/N stayed awake, tracing idle patterns on the back of her hand, heart thudding. The weight of her trust, of her body leaning against theirs, pressed down in a way that was tender and terrifying all at once.

I love her.

The thought struck like lightning, sudden and impossible to ignore. Y/N froze, staring at the curve of her jaw, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks. Their hand twitched slightly, itching to touch her hair, to brush a damp strand away from her temple. But more than desire, more than touch, there was fear—the fear of what it meant to admit it, even to themselves.

Because it wasn’t just affection anymore. It wasn’t the quiet comfort of being near her. It was the realization that without her, without this connection, they wouldn’t know how to navigate the rest of their life.

And yet, the thought of telling her—of confessing and risking it all—was terrifying. Y/N’s chest tightened. If she doesn’t feel the same… if I lose this… The mere idea made the nights suddenly colder, the rain tapping sharper against the windows.

Still, every small laugh, every brush of fingers, every hesitant smile Taeyeon offered wove the impossibility of denial tighter around Y/N’s heart. They found themselves watching her in practice, noticing the way her jaw clenched during a difficult note, how her shoulders slumped when she was tired, how the faintest spark of frustration passed over her features before she smoothed it out. All of it made Y/N ache.

And slowly, almost painfully, they understood the truth: it wasn’t enough to just be there for her. They wanted more. They wanted to be the one she leaned on, the one she trusted completely, the one she loved—not just in fleeting moments of comfort, but fully, openly, without reservation.

It was terrifying. And exhilarating. And entirely unavoidable.

Y/N could feel it in the small seconds, the in-between moments, the quiet spaces of dorm rooms and practice halls: if they didn’t have Taeyeon as more than this… if she wasn’t theirs in the way their heart ached for… they wouldn’t know what to do.

Because love wasn’t always about declarations, or fireworks, or perfectly timed confessions. Sometimes it was this—hours spent in shared silences, hands brushing, hearts pressing close, and the slow, steady realization that someone had become your entire gravity.

And Taeyeon was theirs. In every breath, in every touch, in every moment that stretched into the night.

Y/N just had to figure out how to admit it—without breaking what they already had. And having that gravity pull them into a sinking black hole.

The realization didn’t leave Y/N—it lingered, heavy as breath in their lungs, seared into their ribs like a secret they couldn’t set down. Even when they tried to throw themselves into drills, pounding the floor with every beat, it pulsed steady beneath the surface. Even when they strained their voice on endless runs, chasing perfection that never felt close enough, it hummed like a second rhythm.

Taeyeon.

It wasn’t love in the simple way people whispered about. It was sharper, heavier, something that pressed into Y/N’s bones and made every ordinary moment glow with dangerous clarity.

They told themselves it was fine to wait. That patience was safer. Taeyeon didn’t need their confessions—she needed their steadiness, their quiet consistency, their ability to stand firm while the world demanded she bend herself into something unrecognizable. And yet, every passing day pulled Y/N deeper into a gravity that felt impossible to escape.

And Taeyeon noticed.

Not with words—she was too careful for that—but in the tiny, deliberate shifts of her body, her presence. She started drifting closer when they sat together, shoulder brushing theirs until it became a silent habit. She hummed absentmindedly when they were near, little threads of melody slipping past her lips like her body needed to fill the air for them. She held their gaze longer than she should, until the tether between them felt like it might snap if either of them moved.

The first real break in the pattern came late one night.

The dorms were quiet, lights dimmed, the kind of silence that only fell after the exhaustion of practice had claimed everyone. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, notebook open, phone casting faint blue light over the scribbled training notes they’d written earlier. The air was damp from rain, the smell of wet concrete drifting through the half-open window.

On the bed, Taeyeon sat curled against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, her gaze fixed on the streaks of water trailing down the glass. Her expression was too heavy for someone her age, eyes shadowed with something she couldn’t name.

“Y/N,” she said suddenly, voice soft, thin around the edges.

They looked up. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, fingers worrying the hem of her hoodie like she was unraveling it one thread at a time. “…What if I fail?”

The words were so small, so unguarded, they didn’t sound like hers at all.

“You won’t,” Y/N said, the answer instinctive, immediate.

But she turned then, and in the dim light, her eyes caught them. Glossy, fragile, breaking at the seams. “But what if I do?”

The notebook slid closed as Y/N moved, settling on the edge of the bed. Close enough for her to feel the warmth, not close enough to overwhelm. “Then you fail,” they said gently. “And then you get back up. And I’ll still be here.”

Her lips parted in a tiny, disbelieving curve, as if she hadn’t expected reassurance without conditions. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is.” Y/N’s voice was calm, steady, a tether. “You’re the one making it heavier than it needs to be. You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

For a long moment, the only sound was rain tapping against the glass. Then she shifted—barely, but enough—her head leaning until it brushed Y/N’s shoulder. The contact was feather-light, tentative, but deliberate.

“…You really mean that?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I’ve never meant anything more,” Y/N answered, their chest tightening with the truth of it.

Her breath escaped in a shaky exhale, the tension in her frame unspooling bit by bit, like she’d been waiting for permission to release it. She didn’t move away. Didn’t disguise the way she leaned. Instead, she stayed, letting her body rest where it wanted to.

Y/N stayed perfectly still, every nerve burning with her nearness, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

The night didn’t end in confessions. It didn’t need to.

But something shifted.

After that, Taeyeon’s quiet seeking became more deliberate. She began showing up at Y/N’s room without knocking, slipping inside and settling on the floor like she belonged there. Sometimes she talked—about the endless repetitions, the weight of expectations, the bone-deep fear that she wasn’t enough. Sometimes she said nothing at all, just sat with her knees pulled tight, humming under her breath while Y/N worked on lyrics or stretched sore muscles. But always, she stayed.

And Y/N noticed the truth beneath it all: she was choosing them.

With every unguarded sigh, every unspoken admission, every night she ended in their presence instead of hiding alone, she was choosing them.

The more she let them see—the cracks in her armor, the exhaustion etched into her shoulders, the laughter that slipped free when she forgot to hold it back—the harder it became for Y/N to keep the secret caged inside.

For a few breathless, golden days, it felt like the world had tilted just enough for them to catch each other. Taeyeon was smug and tender in equal measures—teasing about croissants, stealing the warm-up space, curling into Y/N’s shoulder like it was the place she belonged. Y/N answered with small, careful demonstrations: little breakfasts shared, hands finding each other without thinking, private smiles traded in the mirrored practice rooms. It was clumsy and fragile and perfect.

And then, as quietly as the first tremor of a storm, something inside Y/N shifted.

They didn’t notice it at first. It began as tiny omissions—a delayed reply to Taeyeon’s text, a distracted “sorry” when she leaned in to tell a joke, a shrug that sounded like indifference and tasted like avoidance. Y/N told themself they were tired, that the schedule was brutal, that this nervousness was simply the aftershock of finally admitting something so true out loud. Those reasons were partly true. The rest of it was older, harder to name.

Fear had a way of taking shape inside them: the fear of being the one who clings, the fear of being the one who gets left when the lights go on; the fear that if they asked for more—commitment, permanence, unbearable tenderness—they would scare away the safety they’d built. So, without deciding to, Y/N started to sabotage.

At first the sabotage was small enough to pass as accident. They scheduled extra practice blocks and accepted late-night runs that left them too exhausted to text back. They ducked out of group hangouts with an “I have to work on lines” that felt like a legitimate rehearsal excuse and nothing more. When Taeyeon reached for their hand in the hallway, Y/N’s fingers would unconsciously tighten, then pull away a half-second too soon—an almost-imperceptible recoil that landed between them like a stone.

Where there had been teasing warmth, Y/N’s replies grew clipped. A playful touch became a corrective one, meant to deflect attention rather than invite it. If Taeyeon asked about a lyric or a line, Y/N answered with practicality—notes, breath, timing—never with the softness that had come naturally before. The steady, grounding presence they’d promised started feeling like a weight Y/N was terrified of sinking beneath.

Taeyeon noticed—because she noticed everything—but she didn’t name it at first. Instead she tried to meet it with more of herself: an extra cup of coffee in the morning, a text with a stupid meme, an affectionate squeeze when they passed in the corridor. Those gestures landed with diminishing returns. The more she reached, the more Y/N retreated.

One evening after grueling vocal runs, Taeyeon found Y/N packing to head to the roof alone. The sky was bruised with dusk and the city lights were just coming up—exactly the kind of stupid-romantic moment they’d once laughed about sharing. Taeyeon paused at the door and said, quiet and small, “You okay? You’ve been… quiet.”

Y/N’s hands froze in a stack of sweaters. “Yeah,” they lied, voice flat, already sliding the backpack higher. “Just—need to clear my head. Don’t wait up.”

She watched them go. The way Y/N’s shoulders hunched as they walked away turned a thin ribbon of worry into a rope she couldn’t ignore. Later that night she lay awake counting the spaces between their texts like stars in a sky that was going out.

Confrontation—when it came—was not cinematic. It arrived as a bruise in the day. At breakfast, Taeyeon nudged a piece of toast toward Y/N and said, softer than she’d meant to be, “You’ve been leaving. A lot.”

Y/N stared at the toast like it had become a small, explosive thing. “Yeah,” they said. “Busy. Lots of… stuff.”

She studied their face, searched for the calm anchor she used to find there. What she found instead was a jittering, caged look—eyes that darted away when she tried to hold them. “Is it me?” she asked, voice unadorned. “Did I do something?”

Y/N wanted to say yes—because being around her lit up every dark corner in their head, because each time her eyes found theirs, it made them want to drop everything and never look back. But the weight in their chest followed its familiar pattern of self-betrayal: better to push her away than risk being left behind. So they reached for the easier lie.

“No,” they said quickly. “It’s not you.”

She watched them, mouth folding, the question unasked filling the air between them. “If you want some space, say it,” she said finally. “I’ll understand.”

The words were laced with an offer and a plea both. Y/N heard them and, in their fear of being needy, did the thing they had always done when a relationship tilted toward intimacy: they stepped back farther than necessary.

“I—” they began, then stopped, the truth lodged behind a throat suddenly dry. “No. I don’t want space,” they lied again, but the apology that followed was for themselves. “I just have a lot on my mind.”

Taeyeon’s gaze softened and hardened at once. She believed them—because she wanted to—but even belief can’t rearrange the small details of a relationship: the timing of replies, the ease of touch, the way attention is given. Over the next week, the distance Y/N put between them became a pattern.

There were sharper incidents. A rehearsal where Y/N, exhausted and brittle, snapped at Taeyeon for missing a cue. They meant it to be a one-off—stress talking, nerves fraying—but Taeyeon flinched like pain had found its map. Another night, when Taeyeon reached for their hand across the table, Y/N pulled away and made an excuse about emails, eyes busy on their phone. Each avoidance achewed little notches into Taeyeon’s patience.

At first she met it with questions: “Did I mess up?” “Are you tired?” “Do you want me to—” Each question folded into silence when the answer didn’t come. Then, increasingly, she met it with hurt: a tightening at the corners of her mouth, a tone that was polite but guarded, the kind of small, quiet defense people build when they’re tired of being the only one trying.

Jealousy, too, found its way into the edges. Taeyeon noticed how Y/N’s posture changed when someone else—another trainee, a visiting songwriter—laughed at their jokes, how their smile softened, how their absent-handed compliments landed different. It stung in a way that confused and frightened her. She had to remind herself they’d chosen each other. She had to remind herself she hadn’t been dreaming. But then Y/N would pull away again, and the reminders felt like talismans against a hurricane.

In private, Y/N tried to figure out the why. They watched themselves in the mirror and saw patterns inherited from a past where wanting more meant asking to be left behind. They catalogued old wounds—parents who left in stages, friends who burned out, a history of adoring and then being abandoned—and realized that the terror of being the one whose needs drove someone else away was wired into their bones.

The paradox was cruel: the deeper their love grew, the more certain they became that love would cost them everything, so they undermined it to protect themselves.

The first time Taeyeon said the word “we” in a way that assumed permanence—“We should take that afternoon off together next week”—Y/N paused and felt sick. The future, even in small doses, felt like an invitation to vulnerability they weren’t sure how to accept.

They hugged themselves in a bathroom stall after practice and wished for a reset button they didn’t have.

Taeyeon, intuiting something but not knowing the shape of it, stopped teasing as often. Her jokes became quieter, edged with an anxiety she didn’t always mask. When she did press—gently, carefully—Y/N deflected. The deflections were like slow erosion to her.

Finally, one night, while the dorm hummed with low conversation and the rain kept time on the windows, Taeyeon sat on the edge of their bed and said, all at once, “Why are you pulling away?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. Their first instinct was to reach for the ready-made answers—workload, stress, being tired. But even those felt too close to the bone, too much like admitting something was wrong.

So they forced a small shrug, eyes darting anywhere but her. “I’m not,” they said lightly, too quickly. “You’re imagining it.”

Taeyeon didn’t move, didn’t buy it. Her gaze stayed fixed, searching.

Y/N felt the pressure of it and laughed once, brittle and thin. “Really, it’s nothing. Just a lot on my mind. Don’t worry.”

But the tightness in their chest only grew, because every word felt like paper covering a fault line. And they knew—if Taeyeon kept pressing, if she saw too much—the whole thing might break open.

Taeyeon’s silence stretched, heavier than the rain outside. She didn’t look away, and that steadiness made Y/N’s skin prickle.

“You think I don’t notice?” she said finally, her voice soft but edged. “You disappear in the middle of practice. You won’t meet my eyes half the time. You laugh when I know you’re not laughing. How is that nothing?”

Y/N shifted, pulling their knees up, curling into themselves as if the right posture might shield them from her gaze. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not.” The firmness in her tone was quiet, but it pinned Y/N in place.

Y/N pressed their lips together, refusing to answer. Anything they said could be the wrong thing—could snap the fragile thread they were both pretending not to see. So they kept their eyes fixed on the floor, heart racing, and hoped silence would be enough to make the question fade.

But Taeyeon leaned closer, close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of her presence. “Then tell me what it really is,” she whispered.

Y/N’s throat worked, but no sound came. The truth pressed at the edges of their ribs, clawing to get out, and still—they swallowed it down.

“I can’t,” they said at last, barely audible. “Not right now.”

Taeyeon drew back just enough to look at them, her expression crumpling at the edges. For a moment she seemed to steady herself, but then the words came out low, uneven.

“Do you know what it feels like?” she asked. “Every time you pull away, I replay everything I’ve said, everything I’ve done. I keep asking myself what I missed, what I did wrong. I tell myself it’s me—that I must’ve hurt you somehow and you just won’t say it.”

Her voice thinned, fragile in a way Y/N had rarely heard. “I don’t even know what I did. But I still blame myself.”

The air punched out of Y/N’s chest. “No—no, Tae.” The words tumbled fast, too sharp in their urgency. They lifted their head, finally meeting her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. You haven’t hurt me. Not once.”

Taeyeon’s lips pressed tight, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Y/N reached out before they could second-guess themselves, fingers brushing against hers, grounding. “Listen to me. This is mine to untangle, not yours. Don’t carry it. Don’t think for a second that you’re the reason I… struggle sometimes. You’re not.”

Taeyeon blinked, her breath hitching. “Then why—”

Y/N shook their head quickly, cutting her off with a small, pleading smile. “Just know it isn’t you. Please. That’s the one thing I need you to believe.”

Taeyeon’s fingers curled tighter around Y/N’s, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “That’s not enough,” she whispered, the tremor in her voice cutting straight through. “Unless you tell me what’s wrong, I’m going to keep blaming myself. I can’t stop. Every time you shut me out, it feels like I’ve done something to lose you.”

Her words pressed close, raw and unguarded.

Y/N’s chest seized. They wanted to spill everything—the fear, the want, the way being near her felt like balancing on the edge of something that could change their entire world. But the weight of it, the risk of shattering what they had, locked the truth behind their teeth.

“I don’t want you blaming yourself,” they said instead, voice low, pained. “You don’t deserve that. You’re the last person who should.”

Taeyeon’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then trust me enough to let me in.”

Y/N swallowed hard, their pulse racing. The silence that followed felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, the ground uncertain under their feet.

Y/N’s hands tightened in their lap, nails digging crescent moons into their skin. The words pressed hot against the back of their throat, fighting to stay hidden, but Taeyeon’s face—so open, so sure she was the one at fault—broke something in them.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Y/N said at last, halting, their voice barely audible. “Not because you did anything wrong. You didn’t. It’s me. It’s… how I get.”

Taeyeon’s brows drew together, confusion flickering through her worry.

“I mess things up,” Y/N went on, the admission ragged. “I pull back before people can leave me, because they always do. It’s easier to make the cut myself than wait for it to come. That’s why I… disappear. Joke around. Walk away. It’s not you—it’s me trying to protect myself.”

Taeyeon’s breath caught, sharp, but she didn’t speak.

Y/N risked a glance at her, eyes burning. “I didn’t tell you because I thought—if you knew how messed up I am—you’d leave too. Just like everyone else.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. Taeyeon’s gaze stayed locked on them, fierce and unflinching, like she was holding the weight of every word without letting it crush them.

“Do you think I’d leave?” she asked, voice small.

Y/N’s laugh was a hollow thing. “I don’t know. I’ve been left before. I know how it starts.”

Taeyeon’s expression shifted, tired and fierce. “You think I don’t know how scary this is for me, too?” Her voice steadied. “You think I haven’t been awake planning for the worst-case, the what-ifs, the things that could go wrong? I have. But I chose you. I chose to stay.”

“I don’t deserve—” Y/N began, but failed. Shame pricked at them; the instinct to explain, to make reparations, flooded their mouth. They swallowed it down.

“Don’t say that,” she interrupted, softer, almost a command. “Don’t tell me what you deserve or don’t. You belong here as much as anyone. You don’t get to punish yourself by running.”

Y/N’s hands trembled in their lap. They wanted to be held, to be told they were forgiven for the ways they had already hurt her. They also wanted to be untouched, to shrink into the safety of not-existing enough to cause any damage.

“What if I break everything by staying?” they whispered. “What if wanting you is the thing that ruins it? I don’t think I can handle losing you. So I push, and maybe—”

“Maybe you hurt me now?” Taeyeon finished for them, voice fracturing. “Yeah. It hurts. It confuses me. But I’d rather deal with that than with the idea of you being someone who leaves before they even tried. If we want this—if this is real—then we have to try. And trying means screwing up and apologizing and trying again.”

Her honesty was a kind of mercy. It also put the responsibility squarely back in Y/N’s chest, where it both belonged and was terrifying.

They wanted to leap across the bed then and collapse into her arms, to promise and to mend and to be braver than their history allowed. Instead, fatigue and fear and a deep, reflexive need to protect themselves turned their limbs to stone.

“I don’t know if I can stop doing this,” Y/N confessed, voice barely there. “It’s automatic. I didn’t even mean to hurt you. I just—when I picture asking for more, I can’t help but see you walking away.”

Taeyeon’s face crumpled with something like grief and fierce tenderness. She reached out, and this time Y/N didn’t recoil. Her hand covered theirs, warm and sure.

“Then let me help you learn,” she said. “Not by forcing you, but by staying. Tell me when you need space. Tell me when you’re scared. Tell me when you’re—messy. I’ll remind you you’re allowed to want things. I’ll be clumsy too. But if you keep running, I don’t know how long I can keep running after you.”

The last line landed with the weight of truth: not an ultimatum so much as a boundary. Y/N felt their stomach drop and a raw shame flare—this was the consequence of their pushing: the person they wanted more from was asking for reciprocity, not unlimited forgiveness.

That night Y/N went to the roof for the solitude they thought they craved. The city below glittered, indifferent. They sat with their knees drawn up, thinking of every small act of pulling away they’d committed, cataloguing the cuts they’d made on someone they loved. The logic that had kept them safe now felt like a prison: they could keep themselves small to avoid pain, but in doing so they erased the possibility of the very thing their heart ached for.

Alone, knees pressed to their chest, Y/N finally let themselves cry—quietly, without performance. The tears were not only for the fear of loss but for the cruelty of protecting oneself by hurting another. They saw, painfully, how much of themselves they were willing to sacrifice to prevent being abandoned, and wondered how to stop.

5 minutes away, in her room, the lamp was left on. Taeyeon laid awake, turning the conversation over again, missing the easy answers and wanting to find the patient ones. She believed in them—believed in Y/N’s goodness, in their honesty when it came, in the promise they’d made. But believing didn’t make her immune to the ache of being pushed.

The next morning was tentative. They exchanged messages with a new kind of caution: honest, imperfect, vulnerable. Y/N texted first—an apology, clumsy and precise. Taeyeon answered with a gif and then, after a pause, a single sentence: “I’ll stay if you’ll try.”

It was the most dangerous thing Y/N had ever been offered: not a guarantee, but a choice.

They accepted. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. They accepted with guilt and fear and a fierce resolve to unlearn the reflexes that had once kept them safe. Taeyeon met them in the hallway later that day and squeezed their hand—a small, physical promise—and Y/N squeezed back, feeling the warmth of the grip as both comfort and covenant.

The path forward would not be neat. There would be nights when Y/N would fail and push and be small, and there would be apologies, and there would be Taeyeon, sometimes patient, sometimes hurt, sometimes daring them to be better. But for the first time in a long while, Y/N could imagine a future in which they didn’t have to choose between safety and love.

They could imagine learning how to be wanted instead of fearing it.

And when Taeyeon hummed under her breath that evening while they worked through harmonies together—close enough that their shoulders brushed and neither flinched—Y/N realized that the gravity pulling them toward each other was not a trap. It was a force. One they still had to respect, but also one they could choose to inhabit together.

It wouldn’t be easy. It would require breaking old patterns with fierce, clumsy tenderness. But Y/N felt, for the first time in a very long time, willing to try. Try to let go of her destructive tendencies and let in the unsure of what this may bring.

The weeks that followed were easy in ways neither of them had anticipated. Easy, but deliberate—deliberate in the way you fold into a rhythm with someone, learning the shape of their hands, the pitch of their laughter, the small tics that made them human and undeniable.

They went on dates that were unspectacular to anyone else but entirely their own. A quiet café where Y/N would watch Taeyeon push milk froth to the edge of her cup before drinking, the way she crinkled her nose at the taste of bitter espresso, and the small, almost imperceptible sigh that followed every sip. Evenings at the bookstore, fingers brushing over the same spine, stealing glances when one of them read a passage aloud. A night spent on a worn bench by the river, rain-soaked and laughing at nothing in particular because they could, because the world hadn’t demanded perfection from them there.

And with each moment, trust deepened. It wasn’t flashy—it wasn’t proclamations of love in grand gestures—but in the way Taeyeon let Y/N hold her hand across a crowded street, the way Y/N stopped mid-sentence to make sure Taeyeon’s shoulder was covered in her hoodie on chilly evenings, the quiet assumption that if one fell, the other would be there.

It was a gravity neither had ever felt before. A trust so absolute that they could be messy, clumsy, unsure, and still exist together without fear of rejection.

Until the news came.

The announcement hit quietly, a whisper in the dorms before it became official: Taeyeon was going to debut.

The excitement should have been electric. Everyone congratulated her, everyone smiled, everyone anticipated the music, the choreography, the first stage. But for Y/N, the words felt like a knife sliding against their chest.

They found her later that night, sprawled on the bed with her phone glowing in the dark, scrolling through the teaser images that had started circulating online. Her lips were tight, and for the first time, she didn’t turn to smile at them when they entered the room.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly, perching on the edge of the bed.

Taeyeon didn’t look up. “I’m debuting,” she said, voice flat but brittle. “Everything changes. Everything.”

Y/N’s heart ached. “I know.”

“I mean… everything,” she whispered, finally letting the weight of it hit. Her hands curled in her lap, shaking slightly. “I won’t be able to… you know. Have anyone. Not publicly. Not at all. If anyone knew—” Her voice broke off, swallowed by fear she hadn’t fully acknowledged before.

Y/N moved closer, dropping to the floor so their shoulders pressed against hers. “Hey. Hey,” they murmured. “Look at me.” Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes brimming. Y/N cupped her face, thumbs brushing over damp lashes. “It won’t change what we have. Not what we’ve built. We trust each other, right?”

Her lips quivered. “…More than I’ve ever trusted anyone,” she admitted.

“Exactly,” Y/N said, voice low and steady. “Then that doesn’t go away just because the world gets loud. We’ll figure out the rest—how to survive it, how to be us in the cracks of the chaos.”

She exhaled, small but full of relief. “I don’t… I don’t want to lose this. Lose us.”

Y/N shook their head firmly, pressing their forehead to hers. “You won’t. You’ll debut, we’ll be careful, but this? This stays. I’ll make sure it does.”

Taeyeon’s hand crept into theirs, fingers tangling without hesitation, a lifeline neither wanted to let go of. “Even if it’s secret?”

“Even if it’s secret,” Y/N confirmed. Their thumb brushed along the back of her hand, anchoring her to this moment. “Because what we have… it’s ours. Nobody can take that. Not schedules, not cameras, not expectations. Not even the world.”

A shaky smile, fleeting but genuine, curved across Taeyeon’s lips. “…Then we’ll do it. We’ll make it work.”

“Yes,” Y/N whispered. “Together.”

For that night, at least, the weight of debut, contracts, and the world outside the dorm didn’t exist. There was only the quiet gravity of two people who had learned to trust each other, who had found something rare enough to fight for, even in secret.

The first weeks after the debut announcement passed in a blur. Schedules filled every waking moment—early morning rehearsals, fittings, recording sessions, endless meetings with managers. The dorm felt less like a home and more like a revolving door of stylists, trainers, and exhausted girls clutching takeaway cups.

Through it all, Taeyeon still found her way back to Y/N.

The night before her official debut stage, she called at nearly 2 a.m., voice hushed and trembling with nerves.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

Y/N, half-asleep but alert the second they heard her, smiled into the dark. “For you? Always.”

She exhaled, shaky. “I’m scared.”

Y/N shifted onto their back, pressing the phone closer. “You’re ready. You’ve been ready. Just breathe, Taeyeon. You’ll be brilliant.”

There was a pause, then the faintest laugh. “Say it again.”

“You’ll be brilliant.”

It became a kind of ritual—late-night calls squeezed into the cracks of her schedule. Sometimes they lasted ten minutes, sometimes only two. Taeyeon’s voice would drift through static on the line, telling Y/N about the new choreographer who never smiled, or how the stylists kept trying to dye her hair a shade she hated. Y/N listened, offered small reassurances, stored every detail like a secret diary.

When she debuted, Y/N sat in front of the TV with the other trainees, heart thundering as the lights hit Taeyeon on stage. She looked untouchable in that moment—bright, flawless, every line of her performance sharp as a blade. But Y/N also saw the girl behind it, the one who hummed when nervous, who leaned into their shoulder at night, who whispered fears only in the dark.

That night, Taeyeon called again, voice buzzing with adrenaline. “Did you see?”

“I saw,” Y/N said, grinning. “You set the whole stage on fire.”

Taeyeon giggled, a sound so small and unguarded it broke the image of the idol flashing across news headlines. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

The calls kept coming, though gradually, the time between them stretched. At first, it was easy to explain. A missed call because she had a variety shoot that ran late. A text delayed because her manager confiscated phones before interviews. Y/N understood—really, she did. This was the life Taeyeon had worked for, the dream she’d bled into every practice room.

So Y/N didn’t sweat it. They answered when she called, and when she didn’t, they filled the silence with work—writing lyrics, pushing through drills, convincing themselves this was just what it meant to love someone in the spotlight.

Weeks turned into months, and the rhythm shifted almost imperceptibly.

Where once Taeyeon called nightly, it became every other night. Then every few days. Then sometimes a week would pass, her name lighting up Y/N’s phone just when the ache of missing her started to set in.

When she did call, it was often between shoots, her voice quick, rushed. “I only have a second, but—how are you? Did you eat? I miss you.”

Y/N clung to those scraps, smiling through the sting of the clock. “I’m good. Yes, I ate. Don’t worry about me—focus on your stage. I’m proud of you.”

And Taeyeon would breathe relief into the line, “Thank you,” before she was whisked away again

Y/N told themselves it was enough. That love didn’t have to mean constant presence—that it could be built in glimpses, in the knowledge that when the world calmed, she’d still come back.

But late at night, lying in a bed that felt too big, Y/N would scroll through old messages, hear her laughter in their head, and wonder how long they could live on echoes.

The distance wasn’t sharp. It was gradual. A gentle erosion. Like the tide pulling slowly at the edges of something once solid.

And Y/N—steady, patient, understanding—kept waiting. Kept believing.

Because she had promised: Even if it’s secret. Even if it’s hard.

And Y/N had promised back: Together.

The erosion continued, steady as the tide.

Y/N noticed it most in the details. The calls that used to come with laughter, with playful teasing, now came clipped, squeezed between managers’ voices in the background. Her goodnight whispers, once warm and lingering, grew shorter, rushed—sometimes replaced with a single text that came hours too late: Sleep well. I’ll call tomorrow.

Tomorrow sometimes didn’t come.

Still, Y/N didn’t break. They convinced themselves this was what it meant to love someone like her—someone who belonged to the world before she belonged to herself. They made excuses on her behalf, stacked justifications like bricks around their own heart. She’s tired. She’s busy. She’ll come back when it slows down.

But the ache grew sharper, harder to disguise.

One evening, the dorm was buzzing—trainees sprawled across the common room, gossiping about Taeyeon’s variety show appearance that had just aired. Y/N watched from the corner, pretending to laugh along, but their chest tightened as the others replayed clips on their phones. Taeyeon was radiant, all sharp wit and dazzling smiles, the kind of presence that filled a screen so completely it left no room for shadows.

It felt like a version of her Y/N barely recognized.

Later, when the noise died down, Y/N retreated to the practice room, the mirrors catching their reflection under the harsh fluorescent lights. They dropped onto the floor, stretching until their muscles burned, but nothing quieted the storm inside. Not until their phone buzzed, Taeyeon’s name flashing across the screen.

They answered too quickly. “Hey.”

Her voice was tired, thin. “You’re still awake?”

“Yeah. Practicing.” Y/N hesitated. “How was filming?”

“Long,” she sighed, a faint rustle of fabric in the background. “I just got back. My feet are killing me.”

“Then lie down. You should rest.”

There was a pause, a silence filled with something unsaid. “I miss you,” she admitted quietly. “But… I don’t know when I’ll see you.”

The words stabbed, but Y/N forced steadiness into their tone. “You don’t have to know when. Just… don’t stop calling, okay? Even if it’s short. Even if you’re tired. Let me be here, even if it’s just through a phone.”

Another pause. Then, softer: “Okay.”

But even promises fray under pressure.

Over the next few weeks, her calls dwindled further, replaced with hurried texts. Sorry, schedule’s insane. I’ll call soon. Next time, promise. Miss you.

Y/N reread those words until the screen blurred, trying to convince themselves they held the same weight as hearing her voice.

Until one night, when the silence stretched too long, Y/N typed out a message they hadn’t meant to send:

Do you still want this?

Their thumb hovered over the screen, heart hammering, before they locked the phone and shoved it under their pillow.

The question lingered anyway, burning through every rehearsal, every sleepless night.

And for the first time since Taeyeon leaned her head against their shoulder and whispered her fears into their skin, Y/N wasn’t sure they knew the answer.

On the other side of the city, Taeyeon had told herself from the beginning that it wouldn’t be easy. That chasing the spotlight meant sacrifices—privacy, rest, pieces of herself she’d never get back. She had braced for the exhaustion, the criticism, the endless comparisons.

What she hadn’t braced for was how much it would hurt to feel Y/N slipping through her fingers, not because they were leaving, but because she didn’t have the time to hold on.

At first, she told herself Y/N understood. The late-night calls, the stolen minutes between rehearsals, the rushed I miss you’s whispered in hotel rooms—all of it was proof they were still trying. But the longer it went on, the more Taeyeon began to notice the cracks.

Y/N’s voice on the phone had changed. Still warm, still steady, but there was something beneath it now, like a tiredness that didn’t come from practice. When Taeyeon would laugh, sometimes it didn’t echo back the way it used to. When she promised, I’ll call tomorrow, she could almost hear the quiet hesitation in Y/N’s reply: Okay.

She hated herself for it.

Because Taeyeon knew this was the life she had wanted—had fought tooth and nail to have—and Y/N had been there for every stumble, every doubt. The thought of them debuting next should have been a shared dream, something to celebrate. But instead, Taeyeon felt dread curling in her chest. If she could barely hold onto them now, when they still had evenings free sometimes, what would it be like when Y/N was the one disappearing into endless schedules?

It wasn’t jealousy. Not really. It was fear.

Fear that the two of them would become ships passing in the night, waving across oceans of rehearsals and cameras, surviving on the memory of what they had built in stolen hours.

The night Y/N didn’t answer her call, Taeyeon sat alone in her dorm room, staring at the ceiling with the phone clutched against her chest. The rest of the girls were asleep, the manager had long since checked in, and the silence pressed down on her harder than any stage light ever had.

Her thumb hovered over Y/N’s name again and again, but she couldn’t bring herself to dial. Because she realized it wasn’t just about missing them—it was about what that distance was doing to them both.

The next morning, she watched herself in the mirror as a stylist pinned her hair into place, foundation smoothing over the exhaustion carved under her eyes. She looked every bit the idol they wanted her to be—polished, perfect, untouchable. But all she could think about was Y/N’s hand against hers, the quiet promise they’d made: Together.

And for the first time, Taeyeon wasn’t sure if she was keeping her side of it.

When the stylist stepped away, she pulled her phone from her lap, unlocking it with trembling fingers. Her screen lit with old messages—some long, some short, some silly, some aching. She scrolled through until her eyes blurred, until the ache inside her sharpened into resolve.

She couldn’t let this be the way it unraveled. Not with Y/N.

But how could she ask them to wait, to bear this silence, when she could barely bear it herself?

That night, after her schedule ended, Taeyeon sat in the van with her manager scrolling through emails on the phone beside her. The city lights flickered against the tinted glass. Her hand shook as she typed out a message, one she deleted and rewrote three times before sending:

I know I’ve been distant. I don’t want us to lose what we have. Tell me what you need, and I’ll find a way. Please.

She hit send and locked the phone before she could second-guess it.

The van sped on, her reflection caught faintly in the window. For the first time in weeks, her chest hurt in a way that wasn’t just exhaustion—it was hope, fragile and terrifying.

Because she realized she wasn’t afraid of loving Y/N in secret. She was afraid of losing them before she even had the chance to fight for them.

Y/N’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. They had been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, the question they never sent still burning behind their ribs: Do you still want this?

When the screen lit up, their first instinct was to brace themselves for another apology wrapped in excuses. But when they opened it, the words were different this time.

I know I’ve been distant. I don’t want us to lose what we have. Tell me what you need, and I’ll find a way. Please.

For a moment, Y/N just stared, the sting of tears pricking their eyes. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t erase the ache of weeks, the missed calls, the quiet doubts. But it was something they hadn’t felt in too long—Taeyeon reaching back.

They typed, erased, typed again. Everything felt too small for the weight sitting in their chest. Finally, they sent:

I just need you to let me in. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re tired. Don’t shut me out, Tae. That’s all I want.

The reply came faster than they expected.

Then come see me tomorrow. After practice. Please. I’ll wait.

⸻

The next day stretched endlessly. Rehearsals dragged, voices of trainers and other trainees blurring together until Y/N was moving on autopilot. Their mind was elsewhere—on the text, on the fact that Taeyeon had asked them to come.

When practice ended, Y/N barely bothered showering. They tugged a hoodie over their head, shoved essentials into a bag, and slipped out. The walk to the building where Taeyeon stayed felt longer than usual, nerves tangling in their stomach.

They knocked once.

The door cracked open almost immediately, like she had been standing there, waiting. Taeyeon’s eyes were rimmed red—not from makeup, not from exhaustion alone, but from crying.

“Y/N,” she whispered, like the word itself was a relief.

They stepped inside without hesitation. The dorm was quiet, the other members out. Taeyeon closed the door, then leaned against it as if her body couldn’t hold itself upright anymore.

Y/N crossed the space between them and cupped her face gently, forcing her to look up. “Oh honey, I missed you” they said, voice steady despite the tightness in their chest.

Taeyeon pressed her forehead against Y/N’s chest, letting herself be carried by the steady rhythm of their heartbeat. She exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders slowly loosening.

Y/N’s hands moved over her back in slow, deliberate circles, grounding her without needing to speak. The silence wasn’t empty—it was a tether, a place where she could be exhausted, scared, and still held.

“I hate that I’m like this,” Taeyeon murmured, voice muffled. “That I can’t just… handle it all. That I can’t—”

“Shh,” Y/N interrupted gently, tilting her head so her lips hovered near Taeyeon’s ear. “You’re allowed to feel it. You just don’t have to fix it alone.”

Her fingers twined in Y/N’s hoodie strings, clinging to something real, tangible. “It’s just… every day I’m on stage, smiling at everyone, I keep thinking about you. About what I’m leaving behind. And I’m scared that one day… you’ll give up on me.”

Y/N tightened their hold, tilting her chin up just slightly. They didn’t answer immediately—words weren’t necessary. Instead, they brushed a strand of hair from her face, lingering long enough for her to see the patience in their eyes.

Taeyeon closed her eyes, resting against their chest again, and let herself absorb it. The exhaustion, the fear, the longing—it all pooled there, held without judgment.

Finally, her voice came, quieter, steadier: “I don’t want this to destroy us. I don’t know how to… balance everything.”

Y/N wanted to be that voice of reassurance and say “it’s fine, we’ll have our time together in no time. We will spend the rest of our lives together.” But she knew it wasn’t true. She knew that the time they have now would be the only moment they would have together in a very long time.

She wanted to say she would always be here, but when will she get the time to be there for Taeyeon. This would be the most logical thing she could say, “And it won’t, but..” she cautiously replied.

Taeyeon eyes lift to her scared of the next words to come from her lips. “What if we took a pause on us , just so that you can only focus on your goals and leave us for later ?”

Taeyeon froze, her forehead still resting against Y/N’s chest, heart hammering at the words. She could feel the hesitation in Y/N’s tone, the careful way she framed it—not as a rejection, but as a shield.

“A… pause?” Her voice was barely audible, trembling with something between fear and disbelief. “You mean… you want me to just… wait? To put us on hold?”

Y/N’s hands lingered on her back, warm but trembling slightly. “Not because I don’t want you. Not because I’m giving up,” she said carefully. “I just… I know how much you’re giving right now, Tae. And I can’t ask you to split yourself—I can’t ask you to choose between your dream and us. I… I thought maybe if we paused, I could survive this distance without letting either of us get hurt.”

Taeyeon lifted her head slowly, eyes wide, wet from unshed tears. “Pause… us?” she repeated, voice breaking. “You want to put what we have on hold… for me? For me?”

Y/N swallowed hard, gaze dropping for a moment. “For both of us. Because I don’t know if I can do this—see you disappear into the world while I’m left holding pieces of you. I can’t… I don’t want to resent you for chasing your dream. And I don’t want you to feel guilty for needing it.”

Taeyeon’s hands found Y/N’s, gripping them tightly, knuckles white. “You think I’d ever resent you? That I’d let this… us… slip because I’m scared of the distance?” Her voice cracked further, the raw emotion slipping past her usual control. “Do you know how many nights I’ve stared at my phone, just praying you’d call? Wondering if you’d be there when I needed you?”

Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line, guilt and love twisting together. “I’m here, Tae. I’ll always be here. I will wait for you for however long. But I don’t know if I can survive the slow erosion… the waiting and the missing and the silence. I thought maybe—just maybe—pausing could protect us both.”

Taeyeon blinked, her chest tightening as she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. The words were logical, reasonable even—but they felt like a knife pressed softly against the pulse of her heart. She could feel the ache in her bones, the echo of Y/N’s caution reverberating in her chest, and yet… she didn’t want it. She couldn’t want it.

“I… I don’t know if I can do a pause,” she whispered, voice trembling, raw. “Even if it’s supposed to protect us… it just feels like letting go a little, doesn’t it? Like you’re trying to save me from something I don’t want saved.”

Y/N’s hands tightened slightly on hers, nails pressing into palms—not as a warning, but as a tether, a lifeline in the storm of emotion between them. “I’m not letting go,” she said softly. “I’m… trying to survive with you in a way that doesn’t destroy us. I’m trying to be honest with you, Tae. I love you too much to pretend the distance won’t hurt me.”

Taeyeon’s head sank back against Y/N’s chest, tears slipping freely now. “I hate that you feel like you have to protect me from my own life,” she murmured, the words muffled by the fabric of Y/N’s hoodie. “I hate that we’re even at this point where love feels like… like it needs a pause.”

“It’s not because I don’t want you,” Y/N whispered, thumb brushing against the back of her hand. “It’s because I do. Too much. And I can’t let the erosion… the slow fade… take something I’ve fought for just by loving you.

Taeyeon pressed herself closer, letting the tears fall unchecked, her body trembling with the raw, unfiltered ache that had been accumulating for months. Every hug, every late-night call, every stolen moment now felt fragile—precious, and terrifyingly impermanent. She buried her face against Y/N’s chest and whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t know if I can survive the thought of losing this… losing you.”

Y/N’s hands cupped her face again, thumbs tracing the lines of her jaw, grounding her. “You won’t lose me,” they said, voice steady, even as their own heart thudded painfully against their ribs. “I’ll wait. I’ll fight. I’ll be here. But I can’t promise I’ll be okay if we keep trying to live in the cracks, Tae. That’s all I’m saying. That’s why… this pause… it’s not giving up. It’s surviving. So that when we come back, we can really be together.”

Her arms tightened around Y/N instinctively, the weight of the words settling between them. “Survive… with me?” she repeated, voice small, brittle. “Even if it hurts? Even if it’s lonely?”

“Yes,” Y/N whispered, pressing their forehead against hers. “Even then. We endure. We wait. We hold onto the promise that matters: that we come back to each other.”

Taeyeon lifted her head slightly, eyes glassy but bright, searching Y/N’s face for some unspoken truth. She could feel the honesty in those steady eyes, in the careful way Y/N had chosen their words, in the way they hadn’t pulled away despite the fear and the tears. And somewhere deep in her chest, where panic had been clawing for months, a small ember of hope flickered.

“So… this pause,” she said slowly, testing the word on her tongue. “It’s not… the end?”

“No,” Y/N said firmly, brushing hair from her damp forehead. “Not the end. It’s survival. So that we can come back, stronger, intact. So that we don’t break under all the pieces we can’t control.”

Taeyeon’s lips quivered, a small, shaky smile tugging at the corners. “And you… you’ll wait? Really wait?”

“Always,” Y/N murmured, holding her gaze, feeling the warmth of her pulse, the quiet gravity of her presence. “I’ll wait. And I’ll come back to you. No matter how long it takes.”

They stayed wrapped in each others arms for a while. Hoping to have all the time in the world to just stop. So that the feeling of holding each other could stretch indefinitely—so that the world outside, with its schedules, expectations, and relentless pace, could be paused too. They didn’t speak anymore, not because words weren’t there, but because silence had become their language. A language of presence, of grounding, of reassurance without pretense.

Eventually, Taeyeon lifted her head just slightly, resting her forehead against Y/N’s collarbone. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper: “I hate that this feels like… surviving instead of living.”

Y/N pressed their lips to her temple. “It’s not living without love—it’s living with love in the way we can manage right now. We carry it with us. That’s still ours.”

A small laugh, choked and wet, escaped Taeyeon. “You make it sound… noble.”

“Maybe it is,” Y/N replied, their hands cradling her head. “Or maybe it’s just love being stubborn.”

She closed her eyes again, letting the tension of weeks slip from her body. “Stubborn… I like that,” she murmured.

And for that night, they let themselves stay there. Time didn’t matter. Schedules didn’t matter. The world outside didn’t exist. There was only the slow rise and fall of each other’s breath, the warmth pressed against skin, and the promise that this pause wasn’t the end—it was a holding pattern, a waiting room for the moment they could fully return to each other.

Y/N rested their cheek on hers and whispered, “No matter how long this takes, we come back. You and me.”

Taeyeon’s fingers curled into their hoodie, anchoring herself. “You really mean that?”

“Every word,” Y/N said, voice low but unshakable.

She let herself believe it, letting the quiet gravity of trust and love seep back into her chest. And in that small, sacred space, the ache softened—not gone, but tempered by certainty. They had survived this far. And as long as they both held on, they could survive the rest.

And they did until Y/N debuted.

The night Y/N debuted with F(x) was electric, the kind of night where every second feels heavier than a heartbeat and lighter than air. Months of waiting, of silent endurance, of stolen late-night calls and whispered promises, had led to this. The lights, cameras, and roaring crowd were overwhelming—but none of it mattered as much as the quiet tether they had kept with Taeyeon.

Backstage, amidst the whirl of makeup artists and stylists fussing with costumes, Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as they checked their earpiece and adjusted the mic. They could feel the familiar pulse of adrenaline threading through their veins. But the thought that grounded them wasn’t the debut, wasn’t the screaming fans, wasn’t the flashing lights—it was Taeyeon, somewhere out of sight, waiting, keeping her promise.

The music hit, the stage lights flaring across the arena, and Y/N moved like a living rhythm, each step precise, each note hitting exactly as it should. The audience was a sea of glowing phones and waving hands, but Y/N’s eyes found nothing in that blur except for the image of Taeyeon in their mind: her laugh, her hum, the tiny quirks they had memorized over countless nights together. Every breath became a reminder of why they had endured the waiting, the silences, the longing.

After the performance, as the adrenaline settled and the cheers still vibrated in their chest, Y/N retreated to the quiet of their dressing room. Their phone buzzed almost immediately. It was a message from Taeyeon:

You were brilliant. I saw everything I knew you could be, and more. Proud doesn’t even cover it.

Y/N’s lips curved in a tired, exhausted smile. The message carried weight—not just praise, but the quiet presence of the person they loved, the one who had waited, the one who had anchored them through months of absence.

They typed back, fingers slightly shaking:

I couldn’t have done it without knowing you were waiting.

The reply came quickly:

Always. Now… we survive the rest together, yes?

Y/N stared at the screen for a long moment, the lights of the dressing room flickering across their reflection. Then, with a quiet certainty that only came from months of shared patience and sacrifice, they typed:

Yes. Together.

And for the first time since Taeyeon’s debut, the distance that had seemed so insurmountable felt manageable—not because the world had slowed, not because schedules had bent, but because the gravity between them had not wavered.

Later that night, after the crowd had dispersed and the echoes of cheers had faded, the girls and the management decided to get drinks to celebrate. When a text came through from Taeyeon:

“Are you guys at ‘bar and wine’ ?”

Y/N’s lips curved into a tired, rueful smile as she glanced at the message. Bar and Wine. Of course. They’d been planning a small post-debut celebration, and the thought of Taeyeon joining—even briefly—made her chest tighten. She typed back:

“Yeah. We’re here. Come?”

Minutes passed. Then the familiar buzz. On my way.

The air in Bar and Wine was thick with warmth—laughter spilling, glasses raised, congratulations echoing in waves. Y/N let herself smile when the girls teased her about nearly tripping during choreography, even rolled her eyes when one insisted it made her look “endearing.”

But beneath the laughter, her chest held something quieter. A steady hum of anticipation that pulsed louder with every tick of the clock.

Taeyeon was coming.

After a while, Y/N excused herself, slipping into the dim press of bodies and chatter until she found the bathroom. The noise dulled as the door closed behind her. For a moment she leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection.

Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes bright with leftover adrenaline from the stage—and with something else. The thought of Taeyeon walking in. The thought of her being here, close enough to touch.

She splashed water on her hands, shook them off slowly, exhaled. She needed to breathe. Needed to look less like she’d been waiting all night for this. But when she pushed the door open again, her heart was still buzzing.

At that same moment, Taeyeon stepped inside the bar.

Her coat was still buttoned, her shoulders held tight. She stopped just past the entrance, eyes scanning the room. The place was lively—small groups huddled over bottles, bursts of laughter breaking through the low hum—but she didn’t see Y/N. She didn’t see anyone familiar at all.

Her chest pinched. Was this even the right place? Had she misunderstood?

She lingered, her teeth tugging at her lip, uncertainty flickering across her face. Just a second more—then she turned, slipping back out before anyone could notice.

And the door swung shut.

Y/N stepped back into the bar, smile poised, heartbeat quickening as her eyes swept the room. She caught the faintest trace of perfume on the air. Familiar. Too familiar.

Her breath stuttered.

She wove toward the entrance, dodging waiters balancing trays, but by the time she reached the door and pulled it open, the sidewalk outside was bare. Streetlamps glowed against empty pavement. A car passed. That was all.

She lingered longer than she should have, framed in the doorway with the muffled cheer of the bar behind her and the night air pressing cold against her skin. That scent still clung faintly to the doorframe. That shadow she thought she’d glimpsed—it couldn’t have been anyone else. Taeyeon had been here.

But she hadn’t stayed. She hadn’t called.

By the time Y/N returned to the table, the celebration had shifted slightly, her own smile thinner, her laugh forced. She placed her phone face-down beside her glass and didn’t touch it again. If Taeyeon wanted her, she would have said so.

Somewhere across the city, Taeyeon walked briskly down the block, her coat pulled tight. Every step seemed heavier than the last, torn between turning back and keeping on. She wanted to go back. God, she wanted to. But shame gnawed at her ribs. She’d gone in, and Y/N hadn’t been there. What if she’d been wrong?

Her phone buzzed suddenly in her pocket. She snatched at it too fast, her grip slipping. The device hit pavement with a sharp crack.

Taeyeon froze, crouched, picked it up. The screen was a spiderweb of black, nothing responding no matter how hard she pressed. The tether to Y/N—their calls, their quiet texts—shattered in her hands.

By morning she was at a phone shop, exhaustion clinging to her. She powered on the new device the second it was handed to her, her thumb flying through setup, searching for comfort. One by one, her contacts reappeared. Family. Members. Managers.

But not Y/N.

Not in recents. Not in favorites. Not anywhere.

Taeyeon’s hand hovered over the screen, scrolling and rescrolling as though her eyes might have missed it. They hadn’t. The truth sat there in its absence—Y/N’s name nowhere, their number gone like it had never existed at all.

Her breath snagged in her throat. For a moment she just sat in the plastic chair of the shop, people moving around her in muffled shapes, the hum of fluorescent lights filling her ears. She pressed her palm over the phone, as if touch alone could conjure the missing name back into existence.

Nothing.

When the clerk asked if everything was alright, she only nodded, too quickly, and slipped the device into her coat pocket. Out on the street, the morning was washed pale with thin sunlight, the air damp with last night’s rain. Every corner of the city looked sharper, lonelier, as if she’d been nudged half a step outside of it.

Her hands itched to type out a message, to hear Y/N’s laugh through the receiver, even just to see the little typing dots appear on her screen. Instead, her pockets felt empty. Unmoored.

Across town, Y/N sat curled on the dorm couch, the TV flashing highlights of their debut stage. The others shouted playfully at the screen, nudging each other, teasing about expressions or dance mistakes. Y/N forced a grin when they were teased again, but their gaze kept sliding to the phone on the table.

It hadn’t moved all morning. No buzz. No message. No sign.

She told herself not to look, but every few minutes her hand twitched toward it anyway, flipping it over, finding only a black screen reflecting her own tired face.

Her chest tightened with a thought she refused to voice—not yet. Maybe Taeyeon had seen the message too late. Maybe she’d been busy. Maybe.

But beneath the excuses, a darker whisper dug in: maybe she’d come and left. Maybe she’d changed her mind.

The city moved around them both, hours slipping into one another. Taeyeon walked with her phone clenched in her hand, trying and failing to recall the digits she had dialed a hundred times. Y/N laughed when the others laughed, nodded when they planned for the next stage, but her ears buzzed with the silence of her phone.

Days bled into each other, the same way stage lights bled into shadows.

Schedules filled Y/N’s hours—practice, fittings, interviews—but in the cracks between all that noise, the silence grew louder. Every morning she woke with her hand reaching for the phone, every night she set it down facedown on the nightstand, telling herself she didn’t care. That if Taeyeon wanted her, she’d be here.

But the absence kept cutting deeper.

One week passed. Then another. Taeyeon’s name never lit her screen. Not a single message, not a single call.

Y/N’s excuses wore thin, peeling like paper in her hands. She knew what the others saw—a bright smile, a debuting idol lost in the rush of everything new. But what they couldn’t see was the way her stomach dropped every time her phone vibrated, only to find it was a manager or a spam alert.

By the tenth day, she couldn’t stand it anymore.

She curled up in bed long after the dorm had gone quiet, the glow of the city seeping weak through the curtains. Her thumb hovered over her phone, trembling, before she finally tapped the number she had memorized long ago.

The line clicked, a soft hum of static filling her ear. Y/N’s breath hitched, hope prickling sharp and urgent in her chest.

But then—

The caller you are trying to reach is unavailable.

The voice was flat, mechanical, final.

Her heart plunged, fingers tightening around the device as though holding harder could will the connection back to life. She ended the call, waited, tried again. The same cold voice answered her. Again. And again.

By the fourth attempt, her eyes were burning.

She dropped the phone against her chest, staring up at the ceiling where shadows moved like water. The thought pressed heavy and relentless: maybe this was her answer. Maybe Taeyeon wasn’t coming back—not to the bar, not to her, not at all.

Still, her thumb twitched, and before she could stop herself, she pressed call one more time.

The same voice. The same silence.

Her breath cracked as she whispered into the empty line, “Please… just pick up.”

But there was no one there.

Taeyeon’s nights stretched long too, though they looked different from Y/N’s. No shared dorm laughter, no teasing over variety clips—just the echo of her own footsteps in an apartment that felt too big, too hollow.

She tried not to pace, but her body betrayed her. Every evening she found herself by the window, staring at the city lights below as if they might arrange themselves into an answer. Her new phone sat heavy in her palm, her thumb brushing over the smooth glass where Y/N’s name should have been.

She had tried. God, she had tried.

The first time, she asked a stylist quietly after a shoot if she still had the trainees’ numbers. The woman blinked, hesitated, then shook her head with an apologetic smile. “We don’t really keep those. Privacy, you know.”

Taeyeon smiled back, too polite, but inside something twisted.

The next chance came at a rehearsal. She lingered near one of the younger managers, rehearsing the words in her head—just a simple, casual question. Do you have Y/N’s number? But before the words left her mouth, another staff member called the manager away, dragging him into a flurry of schedules and phone calls. When she turned again, the moment was gone.

A few days later, she tried with another member—someone who might have had it saved, someone she trusted. She opened her mouth, but the words snagged in her throat when she saw the cameras rolling nearby. One wrong question caught on film, one slip of her mask, and speculation would spread like fire. She swallowed it down. The opportunity slipped away again.

Every attempt ended like that. A voice interrupting, a door opening, someone watching too closely. It was as if the world itself conspired to keep her from dialing that number, to keep her and Y/N just out of reach.

But the need didn’t ease.

At night, when the world finally quieted, Taeyeon sat at the edge of her bed with the phone pressed to her forehead. She tried to reconstruct Y/N’s number from memory—digits blurred with time and repetition—but no matter how many times she typed them out, the calls never connected. Wrong number. Error tone. Dead ends.

One night, she broke and whispered into the unyielding dial tone, “Please… just let me hear her voice.”

The silence on the other end mocked her.

And so the days mirrored Y/N’s—both of them reaching, both of them failing. Both convinced the other had chosen to disappear.

Promises had been made once, whispered in the quiet safety of a dorm room when the future still felt theirs to shape. No matter what happens, we won’t leave each other. It had been simple then—easy to believe, easier still to cling to.

But as weeks stretched into months, the silence between them hardened into something heavier. Taeyeon told herself Y/N could have found a way to reach her if they really wanted to. A letter, a message passed through someone—they weren’t powerless. They had chosen the silence. That thought festered like a bruise, tender and bitter all at once.

Y/N, on the other hand, replayed the same tape in their head every night: if Taeyeon had truly wanted to stay, she would have. She had the connections, the pull, the access Y/N never did. Yet no knock had come, no call, no word. The ache of missing her soured into anger, sharper because of the promise broken.

Neither of them knew how hard the other had tried. Neither could see the near-misses, the almosts, the invisible walls that had kept them apart. All they knew was the empty space, and it grew harder to forgive.

So when word finally reached them—casual, almost cruel in its simplicity—that they would both be attending the same award show, their first thought wasn’t relief. It wasn’t hope.

It was why now?

For Taeyeon, it was a twisting in her stomach, part dread, part yearning. She rehearsed what she might say, then scrapped it all, because what could possibly explain months of silence?

For Y/N, it was fire under the ribs, the kind that burned hot with resentment. Seeing her again meant seeing the one person who swore never to leave—and then did.

And so the stage was set. The same red carpet, the same flashing cameras, the same gilded room heavy with applause and polite laughter.

But beneath the surface, two people moved through the night with matching ghosts in their chests—both bracing for the moment their eyes would inevitably meet.

The award show glittered around them like a world designed to dazzle and distract. Taeyeon moved through it with measured poise, every smile at every camera calculated, but her eyes kept flicking to the crowd, scanning, searching for a flash of familiarity. Somewhere in the sea of gowns and tailored suits, Y/N had to be.

She caught herself pausing mid-step whenever a performer passed her table, or a friend waved hello, only to remind herself that maybe—just maybe—Y/N hadn’t arrived yet. Or worse, maybe Y/N was here and deliberately avoiding her. The thought made her chest tighten.

Y/N, seated across the room in her own cluster of peers, was doing the same. Her gaze swept over faces she knew well enough to recognize from magazine spreads and backstage chats, but she wasn’t seeing any of them. She was looking for Taeyeon. The memory of the last time she’d reached for her, only to find silence, pressed heavy on her shoulders. And now, seeing Taeyeon somewhere in the crowd—alive, smiling, glowing—it only made the absence feel sharper.

When SNSD’s name was called, the collective buzz around the room surged like electricity. Taeyeon’s heart thumped, caught in a strange rhythm between dread and anticipation. She rose gracefully, letting herself be swept forward with her group toward the stage. Cameras flashed, applause roared, and she kept one half of her mind alert for any sign of Y/N.

But Y/N’s seat was empty.

Not surprising, Taeyeon reasoned, forcing herself to focus. F(x) was next. That meant Y/N was backstage, preparing, waiting—or maybe pacing. Taeyeon felt the familiar tug of disappointment, a gnawing emptiness that had nothing to do with the applause around her. She wanted to call her name, to reach for her, to collapse all the months of silence into one desperate hug—but the stage demanded her attention, and there were millions of eyes expecting perfection.

The music swelled, lights painting the stage in waves of gold and violet. Taeyeon sang, moved, smiled on cue—but beneath the practiced poise, her gaze kept darting toward the audience. Every time she turned her head, her eyes swept the front rows, her heart thudding with the stubborn hope that she’d catch even a flicker of Y/N’s face in the sea of strangers.

But there was nothing. Just rows of unfamiliar expressions, cameras flashing, heads turned toward her and her group.

Her chest tightened with every verse, with every step that carried her across the stage. Maybe Y/N was avoiding her after all. Maybe the empty seat wasn’t chance—it was choice. “Every word,” Y/N said, voice low but unshakable.

Still, she kept looking. Kept stealing fragments of seconds in between choreography, as if she might trick fate into giving her the glimpse she craved. But the more she searched, the more certain it became: Y/N wasn’t there to see her.

The performance ended in thunderous applause, the kind that should have filled her with pride. Instead, as Taeyeon bowed with the rest of her group, the ache in her chest pulsed louder than the ovation. She lingered a beat too long, scanning one last time before the lights dimmed and the curtains began to close.

And still—no Y/N.

The disappointment was sharp, enough to make her steps falter as she followed the others offstage. She kept her head high, smile intact, but inside it felt like the silence between them had stretched wider, heavier.

She told herself it was foolish to expect otherwise. And yet, walking into the wings, her throat tightened with the quiet, impossible wish that she’d been wrong—that maybe, just once, their eyes might have found each other across the distance.

Backstage, at that exact moment, Y/N was fighting her own war.

She had been in her seat—ready, waiting—when the call had come. A stylist’s whisper sharp with urgency, the sudden tug at her wrist, the breathless words: “We need you now—zipper’s broken.” Before she could protest, she was swept into a whirlwind of fabric and hands pulling her in every direction. “Every word,” Y/N said, voice low but unshakable. “Every word,” Y/N said, voice low but unshakable. “Every word,” Y/N said, voice low but unshakable.

She had been in her seat—ready, waiting—her eyes fixed on the stage as the lights shifted for SNSD’s set. Her pulse quickened, every fiber of her bracing for the moment Taeyeon would step into view.

But when she rose to adjust her dress, a sharp rip broke the air. The zipper at her side gave way, fabric tugging loose against her ribs. Her stomach dropped.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath, fumbling to pull the fabric together. Panic flared hot in her chest—she was supposed to be on right after.

Before she could even think of Taeyeon, hands were suddenly at her shoulders. A stylist who’d been watching from the aisle swooped in, whispering fast and sharp. “We need to fix this now—come on.”

Y/N tried to glance back at the stage, desperate for one glimpse, but the stylist was already ushering her out, half-running toward the dressing area. The roar of the crowd swelled behind her, the first notes of SNSD’s performance vibrating through the walls.

Her heart twisted. Taeyeon was out there. Right now. She had waited months for this moment, just to see her again—and instead, she was being pulled away, trapped in the chaos of pins, zippers, and frantic adjustments.

She sat rigid in front of the mirror, stylists swarming her, fabric biting at her skin as they stitched her back into place. Through the muffled speakers she could hear the faint thread of Taeyeon’s voice soaring, achingly familiar, and it made her chest ache.

She wanted nothing more than to break free, to run to the wings and catch even a second of her. But the mirror reflected only her own tense face, framed by frantic hands.

By the time the music swelled toward its end, Y/N knew she had lost the chance.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She had wanted so badly to see her. Just once.

But by the time Y/N was released—dress secured, hair smoothed, smile practiced—Taeyeon had already disappeared into the wings, her disappointment heavy as silence.

By the time Y/N stepped onto the stage with her members, her heartbeat was a roar in her ears. The lights hit her, hot and blinding, and the screams of the crowd rolled over her like a tide. She slipped into formation, the rehearsed choreography kicking in automatically, but beneath the flawless smile and sharp moves, her eyes kept flicking to the audience.

She told herself she just needed one second. One look. Just to see Taeyeon—proof she was really here, proof that the silence hadn’t erased everything.

Her gaze swept the crowd, past familiar faces, label staff, industry peers. Her chest leapt when she found SNSD’s table. The girls were there—clapping, cheering, bright-eyed with support.

But not Taeyeon.

Y/N’s step nearly faltered before she caught herself. The spotlight was ruthless; she couldn’t let it show. Still, the absence carved into her, sharper than the ache in her lungs from singing.

Where was she?

Y/N forced her voice steady, her movements sharp, but the question beat in time with the music. She had wanted this moment to be different—to sing knowing Taeyeon was watching, to feel the pull of her eyes in the crowd. Instead, she found only the hollow space where Taeyeon should have been.

Between spins and steps, she kept searching, scanning every row within sight. Maybe Taeyeon had just shifted seats. Maybe she was watching from the shadows, hidden behind the glare of the lights. Maybe—

But each pass of her gaze ended the same: SNSD was there, but Taeyeon was missing.

The song swelled toward its chorus, and Y/N poured herself into it, the ache twisting into fuel. If Taeyeon wasn’t there to see her, then maybe the song itself could carry across the space between them. Maybe her voice could find its way to her, wherever she had gone.

Still, with every note, the emptiness pressed heavier, the realization setting in: just as Taeyeon hadn’t found her, she wasn’t going to find Taeyeon either.

Two stages, two chances, both missed.

But why

The question burned in Y/N’s chest long after the award ceremony ended, when the bright lights dimmed and the cheers faded into a blur. She smiled for cameras, posed with her group, bowed where she was supposed to—but inside, she was restless, raw.

How could the universe be so cruel?

For weeks she had clung to this night, told herself it would be the bridge across the silence. Just one shared glance, one undeniable moment to prove that all those months hadn’t been for nothing. Instead, she had been stitched into her dress while Taeyeon’s voice bled through the walls, and then she had sung her heart out to an empty space at SNSD’s table.

By the time the event wound down, the ache in her chest had settled into something heavier—an exhaustion that wasn’t just physical.

Her members filed into the van, laughter rising and falling around her, but Y/N sat pressed against the window, eyes searching the parking lot as if Taeyeon might still appear. She saw staff hurrying with garment bags, fans gathered at the gates, cameras flashing—but no familiar silhouette.

Not surprising, she told herself, echoing Taeyeon’s earlier reasoning without knowing it. And yet the disappointment carved deeper.

Because it wasn’t just bad luck. It couldn’t be. It was starting to feel like fate itself was conspiring against them.

She tried to make sense of it, tried to believe there had to be a reason. Maybe they weren’t supposed to meet yet. Maybe the distance was protecting them somehow. Maybe—

But how could she think of reasons when her body still ached to hold Taeyeon again? When every cell of her being screamed to close the distance, to collapse the silence into touch?

Her reflection in the window blurred with the city lights, her own face staring back at her as if daring her to admit the truth: no excuse would ever be enough. No reason could ever soften the raw want gnawing at her chest.

Still, the van pulled forward, carrying her farther into the night, and Taeyeon remained just out of reach.

Time moved differently after that night.

Days blurred into rehearsals, flights, stages. Both of them kept moving, kept smiling for cameras and fans, kept performing as if their hearts weren’t pulling in opposite directions. But beneath the surface, the silence between them had hardened into something sharper. Not just distance—loss.

At first, Y/N clung to hope. She told herself the missed moment was just that—a miss. That someday, somehow, their paths would cross again. But weeks stretched into months, and nothing changed. Every award show, every festival, every whispered rumor of “SNSD will be there too” ended the same: a glimpse too far away, or no glimpse at all.

Taeyeon told herself the same lies. That fate wasn’t finished with them yet. That the silence didn’t mean ending—it just meant waiting. But the longer she carried that hope, the heavier it became. The longing turned sour, and the ache that had once been sharp dulled into something that simply hurt to live with.

They had been supposed to be forever. Or so they thought.

But forever, it turned out, wasn’t theirs to claim.

When the first song came, it felt like a confession dressed in melody. Taeyeon’s voice trembled through the airwaves, soft and aching, wrapped in lyrics about distance, about someone she could no longer touch but couldn’t let go of either. Fans called it a love song, a sad one—but those who knew her best saw the fracture beneath the performance.

Months later, Y/N released hers. Different genre, different tone—more fire than sorrow—but the words carried the same ghost. A love that once felt like destiny, now smothered by silence. A promise broken not by choice, but by life itself.

And though neither of them said a name, the echoes were clear.

The world devoured those songs, attached their own meanings, but neither Y/N nor Taeyeon ever spoke of the truth. They couldn’t.

Time didn’t heal—it reshaped. The jagged wound became scar, the ache became memory. They learned to live with it, to perform, to laugh, to smile as though their worlds hadn’t been tied together once so tightly that the unraveling nearly destroyed them.

And maybe that was the cruelest lesson of all: that love could be real, soul-deep, undeniable—and still not enough.

Because sometimes forever is only a season. And when it ends, you don’t get to go back.

You just learn how to move on, carrying the echo of what might have been.

And somewhere, buried beneath all the noise of stages and years, lay the truth neither dared speak aloud: their last meeting had been their final one. They hadn’t known it then—hadn’t felt the clock running out, hadn’t realized the weight of goodbye hiding inside ordinary words and touches.

If they had, they would have held on a little tighter. Stayed a little longer. Let silence fall away, let the world wait.

But they hadn’t.

So their forever ended quietly, without fanfare. Two people walking away, believing they’d see each other again.

Not knowing that was the last time.

⋆ read now ⋆

The rain had been falling all day.

Not the kind that screamed against windows or came with thunder and lightning — nothing dramatic or cinematic. Just a steady, quiet drizzle that made the city feel heavier. It slid down rooftops, gathered in gutters, and turned streetlights into gold smudges through the windows. Outside looked blurred, distant, like a world that had softened at the edges.

Inside the apartment, it was warm and still. The only movement came from her voice — soft, tired, and too familiar in its ache.

She was curled up on the couch like she’d been there forever. Legs tucked under herself, sleeves pulled over her hands, a mug resting loosely between her fingers. She smelled like rain and something floral — the shampoo she always used. Her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks in loose strands she didn’t bother to fix. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, not loud or dramatic, just… worn. The kind of tired only visible to people who looked too closely.

Y/N looked too closely all the time.

“I don’t know why it got to me,” Irene said after a pause. Her voice was small, the kind you use when you’re not sure whether you’re asking someone to listen or trying not to cry. “He wasn’t even being that harsh. I’ve heard worse. But it just… it stuck.”

She smiled, barely. The kind of smile that was meant to hide something but didn’t quite succeed.

“I just… I didn’t know what to say to him,” she continued. “You ever get that? Like your throat just closes? And you know exactly what you should say, but it gets lost on the way up, so you just sit there pretending it doesn’t matter?”

Y/N nodded.

Not because they’d lived that exact moment, but because they understood. They always did. That was their role. The listener. The person who stayed. The person who made things feel a little less heavy — at least for her.

Irene took a sip of the tea they’d made for her — the same way every time. Sweet, no lemon. She’d mentioned it once in passing, and Y/N had remembered like it was a secret. She never said thank you anymore. She didn’t have to. It had become a ritual. Something Y/N just did — like breathing around her.

And then she looked up.

That was when it happened. That same thing she always did — unknowingly, effortlessly — that left Y/N feeling like they were standing too close to a cliff’s edge.

Her gaze met theirs, and the room seemed to go still. Her eyes were soft, full of something like trust — like warmth, like comfort. She looked at Y/N like they were the only steady thing left in the world. And God, it hurt. Because she didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know what it cost Y/N to be that for her.

She saw someone solid. Someone calm and unshaken. She didn’t see the way Y/N’s hands trembled after she looked away. She didn’t hear how their voice always caught when they told her she’d be okay. She didn’t feel the way Y/N’s chest ached every time she said their name like it meant nothing more than friend.

She didn’t know any of it.

And they couldn’t tell her.

Because if they did — if they started talking, really talking — they wouldn’t be able to stop. And then she’d know.

She’d know how Y/N watched her laugh like it was the first light they’d seen in years. She’d know that every time she leaned her head on their shoulder, every time she reached out to touch their arm, it took every ounce of strength not to lean in just a little closer. She’d know that they loved her — deeply, hopelessly — in a way that made everything else feel dim by comparison.

And if she knew, she’d leave.

So Y/N just smiled. They nodded. They said, “You handled it better than I would have,” in a voice that sounded steady even though it was anything but. They didn’t care about the man who made her feel small. They barely registered what she said. All they cared about was the way she was looking at them — like they were something gentle. Like they were something good.

Because they didn’t know how to say the truth. That they were the one breaking. That they needed saving too. That they needed her.

But instead of saying any of it, Y/N reached forward and took her empty mug from her hands, letting their fingers linger just a little too long against hers.

“Want a refill?” they asked, quietly.

Irene blinked, like she’d just come back to the room. Her fingers were still warm against Y/N’s when they pulled the mug away, but she didn’t seem to notice the way the touch lingered.

“Yeah,” she said, offering a tired smile. “If you don’t mind.”

Y/N nodded again — always nodding, always agreeable — and walked toward the kitchen.

Behind them, the apartment stayed quiet. The hum of the kettle, the faint tap of rain against glass, the soft creak of the couch as Irene shifted. It was too easy to imagine her sitting there the way she always did — curled into herself, holding her knees, eyes scanning the floor like maybe the answers she never said out loud would appear in the cracks.

Y/N set the mug down gently on the counter. Their hands moved on autopilot — open the cabinet, reach for the tea, fill the kettle. All the while, their heartbeat was too loud in their chest, too close to their throat. They focused on the small things. The sound of water. The way the steam curled up like smoke. Anything but the memory of her gaze.

You always know what I need.

She had said that so easily. Like it was fact. Like it didn’t undo something inside them every time.

Because the truth was, Y/N didn’t know what she needed — not really. If they did, they’d be enough. She’d reach for them with purpose, not convenience. She’d stay, maybe. In the ways that mattered.

But instead, they just kept being the place she landed when the world got too loud. The silence she ran to when she didn’t want to explain.

And Y/N kept letting her.

Because it was better than nothing.

Even if it wasn’t enough.

They stirred in the honey slowly, carefully, like it mattered. And maybe it did. Small things were all they had with her. The kind of love that lived in quiet gestures. Remembered preferences. Refilled mugs.

When they returned, Irene hadn’t moved much. She’d pulled her sleeves further over her hands, and her head was tilted back now, eyes closed, like she was trying to breathe herself back together. Y/N hated how beautiful she looked like that. Fragile. Real. Somewhere between exhausted and honest.

They set the mug down in front of her and sat back on the other end of the couch. The distance was small, but tonight it felt like an ocean.

“Thanks,” Irene murmured after a while, her voice rougher now. Barely there.

Y/N looked at her, and for a second, they almost said it.

Almost said, Don’t thank me. Just stay.

Almost said, You’re breaking me, and you don’t even see it.

Almost said, I love you.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they leaned back against the cushion, eyes fixed on the space between them.

“Long day?” they asked.

She nodded, pulling the mug close.

There was a pause — the kind that stretched and softened between two people who’d filled a hundred silences together.

Then Irene spoke again, quieter this time. “I think I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.”

The words hung in the air like fog. Heavy. Still.

Y/N swallowed hard. Their fingers curled against the cushion, nails digging into the fabric.

You’re not fine. I know.

I see it in your eyes. I feel it in your voice.

I feel it, and I wish I didn’t.

But what they said was, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Irene didn’t answer right away.

She turned slightly, looking at them — really looking. Her brows drew together in the smallest furrow. There was something about the way she studied their face, like she was about to say something, maybe even ask something. Something important.

Y/N held their breath.

But then she blinked and looked away, reaching for her tea again.

“I know,” she said, softly.

Y/N didn’t breathe until she looked away.

Didn’t realize they’d been holding on to that moment like it could change something.

But it hadn’t.

And maybe that was the most painful part — how easy it was for Irene to turn her eyes elsewhere, like nothing had passed between them. Like she hadn’t just looked at Y/N like she was about to say something that could’ve cracked the room open.

The mug was warm between her hands now, cradled close to her chest like a shield. She stared down into it, eyes distant, shoulders curved inward. Quiet again.

They used to think her silence was peaceful. Now, it just made it harder to breathe.

“You ever think,” Y/N started, unsure why the words were coming out now, “that maybe you’re not supposed to be fine?”

Irene looked up, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Y/N kept their eyes on the wall, somewhere past the bookshelf, past the fogged-up window. “I don’t know. I just think we try too hard sometimes. To act like nothing touches us. Like we’re not allowed to fall apart unless we’re alone.”

A soft exhale. “I’m not good at falling apart.”

“I know.”

That made her smile — not a happy one. A broken thing, crooked and small. “You always know.”

Y/N didn’t answer. They wanted to.

They wanted to say, I know because I’ve made you my world. Because I watch you more closely than I’ve ever watched anything. Because even when you think I’m not looking, I am.

But they just sat there. Still. Quiet. Distant in the way people are when they’re trying not to drown in their own feelings.

Irene’s smile faded. She looked down again.

“I’m sorry I dump this stuff on you,” she said softly. “I don’t know who else to talk to sometimes.”

That one cut.

Y/N swallowed it down. Let it settle where all the other things they never said lived. “It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

“I just…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know. It’s easier with you. You make it easier.”

God, Y/N thought, you make it harder.

But they didn’t say that either.

They just forced a smile and said, “That’s what I’m here for.”

Irene looked at them again. Her eyes were soft — so soft — and full of something Y/N couldn’t name. Or maybe they could. But it was too dangerous to.

“Seriously,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Y/N almost broke.

It would’ve been so easy.

Just three words. That’s all it would’ve taken.

“I love you.”

But they didn’t.

Because the words felt like fire in their throat — warm and deadly.

And she was still looking at them like they were her peace, her calm, her constant.

Not her heartbreak.

Not her undoing.

So Y/N looked away again. Let the silence swallow the moment whole.

Eventually, Irene shifted, curling deeper into the couch. The tea rested against her knee now, cooling slowly. She closed her eyes.

Y/N watched her like they always did. Memorized the curve of her mouth, the flutter of her lashes, the way her breath evened out when she thought no one was watching.

But inside, something splintered.

Because she didn’t realize what she was really saying.

That Y/N was the shelter, not the storm. The one she ran to after the damage was done — not the one she ever burned for.

And the worst part?

She didn’t mean it cruelly. She never had.

That was what made it unbearable.

She saw them as steady. As someone she could always return to, even if she never stayed. And Y/N had let her — time and time again — hoping that if they held the door open long enough, maybe one day, she’d walk through it and choose to remain.

But now it just felt cruel.

Not on her part — but on Y/N’s.

Cruel to themselves.

They looked down at their hands, resting useless in their lap. The same hands that had held her coat when she cried too hard to stand. That had buttoned her jacket, picked hair from her lashes, poured tea like it was an apology for everything they couldn’t say.

And suddenly, all of it felt like pretending.

So when it became too much — the closeness, the quiet, the ache of almost — Y/N stood.

“I should head out,” they said, voice barely above a whisper.

Irene opened her eyes, blinking slowly. “Already?”

“It’s late.”

“Oh.” She paused. “You can stay, if you want.”

God, Y/N thought again. Don’t do that. Don’t make this harder.

They smiled like they hadn’t just lied to her with every breath they took.

“Maybe next time.”

Irene didn’t fight it. She just nodded, fingers tightening around the mug as if that might keep them there a little longer.

Y/N grabbed their coat, pulling it over their shoulders slowly, carefully — like dragging weight back onto their body.

At the door, they paused. Looked back.

Irene was still watching them, eyes tired, lips parted like she might say something else. But she didn’t.

And Y/N didn’t wait for her to.

They stepped into the hallway. The rain was still falling outside.

Still soft. Still endless.

And for the first time in a long time, they let it hit them full in the face.

The door clicked shut behind them with a softness that somehow felt louder than it should have.

Irene sat still for a long time.

The mug in her hands had gone cold. She hadn’t taken a sip since she — since Y/N left. It just sat there, untouched, like a metaphor she didn’t have the heart to face.

The apartment was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t soothe. It pressed in around her, settled into the cushions beside her like a shadow she hadn’t invited.

Something felt wrong.

Not wrong in the way that demanded panic. Just… off. A shift she couldn’t quite name. A door closing somewhere she didn’t know existed until now.

She set the mug down and leaned back, head tilting against the couch. The ceiling didn’t offer much in return, just dim lighting and the faint hum of the rain against glass.

They always left eventually. That wasn’t new. But tonight — tonight had felt different.

She replayed it in her head. The small things.

The silence between his words.

The way she hadn’t quite looked at her the same.

Not cold, exactly. Not distant in a way that was cruel.

But restrained. Heavy.

Like she was holding something so tightly inside that she might shatter if she let go.

Irene pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She should’ve asked her to stay.

No — she had asked. But not like she meant it. Not like she needed her to. Just casually. Just the way she always did.

Maybe that’s why she didn’t.

A thought stirred somewhere in her gut — unsettling and quiet.

Had she taken too much without realizing?

It was easy to lean on Y/N. Too easy. She never made her feel like she was asking for too much. Never made her feel like she needed to explain the weight she carried, or apologize for it.

But now…

Now that she was sitting in the hollow space she left behind, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d missed something.

That maybe, she had needed her, too — and she hadn’t seen it.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Thought about the look on his face before she walked out.

Not angry.

Not sad, exactly.

But tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from long days, but long silences. The kind of tired that builds in places you don’t talk about.

She stood up slowly, walking over to the kitchen without really thinking. She picked up his mug from the counter. Still warm. The tea he’d poured for himself, but never drank.

Her hand hovered over it.

Then, gently, she poured it down the sink.

The rain didn’t stop.

Y/N didn’t either.

She walked, head down, soaked through, the city’s dull orange glow bleeding into the puddles around her feet. She didn’t know where she was going — just that every step away from that apartment made it harder to breathe, and somehow, that felt fair.

She could still feel Irene’s eyes on her. Still feel her voice echoing in the hollow places.

“Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

God, she wished she hadn’t said that.

Not because she didn’t mean it — but because she did.

And because Irene didn’t understand what it meant to Y/N. How deep it cut. How cruel it was, without even trying to be. Because she said it like Y/N was furniture. A fixture. A part of the atmosphere she’d grown used to leaning on — soft, dependable, unchanging.

But Y/N was not unchanging.

She had changed. Quietly. Gradually. Line by line, minute by minute — until every piece of her belonged to Irene, and she hadn’t even noticed it happening until it was far, far too late.

She ended up at the bridge.

The one that overlooked the river, just a few blocks from the bookstore they used to visit. The water below was dark, rippling under the soft light of traffic and storm clouds. She leaned over the railing, arms folded tight to her chest, letting the rain run down her cheeks like it belonged there.

She didn’t cry.

Not because she didn’t want to.

But because she couldn’t.

There was nothing left to spill.

Just the ache. Just the knowing. Just the hollow silence she’d earned for loving someone too quietly.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She didn’t check it right away. She didn’t want to hope.

When she finally did, it was a message from Irene.

IRENE: Let me know when you get home.

That was it.

Just a simple check-in. Warm. Polite.

Safe.

And Y/N wanted to throw the phone into the river.

Not because the message was wrong — but because it was exactly what Irene always did.

Carefully caring. Close enough to be kind, but never close enough to see her.

She typed back, fingers shaking more from emotion than cold.

Paused.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Then she locked the phone without sending anything at all. 

Her fingers stayed wrapped around the phone a moment longer, knuckles white, breath uneven. The screen had gone dark, but the message she didn’t send still echoed in her chest.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

But she couldn’t send that. Because it would mean pulling the thread that unraveled everything. And even now — even here, alone in the rain, with Irene miles away and still somehow everywhere — she didn’t want to lose her. Not completely.

Instead, she slid the phone back into her coat pocket and pressed her palms to the cold metal of the railing. The rain had soaked through everything now — her coat, her hair, the soles of her shoes. She couldn’t tell where her skin ended and the cold began.

And still, she stayed.

Below, the river moved steadily, uncaring.

Above, the city kept glowing — not bright, but consistent. Traffic hummed in the distance. A siren wailed faintly. Somewhere behind her, someone laughed.

The world was still turning.

And she was still stuck.

She let her eyes close. Just for a second. Just to imagine what it would be like to forget. To not feel the weight of every unspoken thing between them. To stop being the version of herself that held space for Irene and start being the version that asked for something in return.

But she couldn’t. Because that version of her didn’t exist. Not with Irene. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

A gust of wind swept across the bridge, slicing through her soaked clothes, and she shivered.

She should go home.

Should.

But even the thought of her apartment — the silence, the leftover tea bags, the sweater she kept of Irene’s because she said she forgot it but never asked for it back — made her feel hollow.

The rain was lighter now. Less a downpour and more of a mist. The kind of weather that clings. Stays. Lingers longer than it should.

Just like everything else.

She pushed herself off the railing and started walking again. No direction. Just motion.

Feet on pavement. Hands in pockets. Head down.

Her phone buzzed again.

Another message.

This time, she didn’t ignore it. She didn’t look, either. She just pulled the phone out and held it loosely in her hand as she walked — like maybe if she carried it long enough, the answer would come.

But it didn’t.

Because she already knew what it would say.

Probably something simple.

“Are you okay?”

“Did you make it home?”

“Let me know.”

And she hated that even those small messages hurt. Not because they were cruel — but because they weren’t. Because Irene cared. She really did. But not in the way that mattered. Not in the way Y/N needed her to.

She reached a bench near the edge of a park and sat down hard, the kind of tired that lived in your bones. Water pooled beneath her, but she didn’t flinch. She just sat. Breathing. Feeling.

Waiting for the ache to soften.

It didn’t.

But something else did.

A new thought, small but loud enough to hear this time:

Maybe it’s not her fault.

Maybe Irene never meant to hurt her. Maybe she really didn’t see it — the weight of her presence. The way her trust had become a kind of currency Y/N couldn’t spend without going bankrupt.

But if she didn’t know… whose fault was it, really?

A whisper of an answer came then, quiet as the rain: Mine.

Because Y/N had let it happen. Had let the silence stretch between them. Had made it her job to read every need, meet every feeling, hold every piece of Irene that the world had broken — without ever asking her to carry anything in return.

Because deep down, she’d believed it would be enough.

To be near her. To be needed. To be wanted — even if it wasn’t in the way she wanted back.

But it wasn’t.

And sitting here now, soaked and shaking on a park bench under a gray August sky, she realized something she’d been afraid to admit for a long time:

She couldn’t keep doing this.

Couldn’t keep being the one who always stayed, always listened, always poured and poured until she was empty.

She needed to stop.

Not because she didn’t love Irene.

But because she did.

Too much.

Too quietly.

Too completely.

And Irene didn’t see it.

Or maybe she did, and she just couldn’t give it back.

And either way, Y/N finally knew: that had to be enough of a reason to let go.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Not like in the movies where someone slams a door and walks away into something new.

But slowly. Honestly. With intention.

With grace.

She reached into her coat, pulled out her phone again, and opened the unread message.

IRENE: You okay? I know I talk too much when I’m tired. I hope I didn’t make things worse.

Y/N stared at it for a long time.

Then she typed back.

There it was — Irene doing what she always did. Soft concern. Gentle guilt. Just enough to show she cared, not enough to see what was breaking.

Y/N read it twice. Then a third time. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

And finally, she typed:

Y/N: You didn’t do anything wrong. Just tired. Long day. I’ll text when I’m home.

Short. Warm. Safe.

A lie that didn’t feel like a lie — just another kind of kindness.

She hit send before she could second guess it.

No cracks. No confrontation. No chance for Irene to worry or ask too many questions. Just enough to keep the illusion intact — that nothing was wrong. That Y/N wasn’t the one unraveling.

Then she turned off her phone.

Not on silent. Off.

Because she couldn’t risk another message. Couldn’t bear a “thank you” or an “I’m glad you’re here” or a “sleep well.”

Not tonight.

Not when she’d spent the whole walk trying to convince herself that being needed was enough — and realizing, finally, that it wasn’t.

The quiet around her deepened.

Not peaceful. Not gentle. Just… final.

She stayed on the bench a little longer, watching the way the streetlights flickered in puddles. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A siren moaned.

The city kept moving.

And Y/N didn’t.

She sat still, wrapped in rain and silence, hoping that Irene would forget to miss her.

Because the truth was

She wasn’t ready to be seen.

Not like this.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that.

Long enough for the rain to become a mist. Long enough for the streetlights to buzz and blink, one by one, flickering tired like they were ready to give out. Long enough for the cold to settle so deep into her that it didn’t sting anymore — just… existed.

Y/N didn’t move.

She let the hours pass.

The city’s sounds blurred into a low, breathing hum: cars rolling over wet pavement, distant music from a bar closing its doors, someone’s muffled laughter cutting through the stillness like a memory. The world kept spinning — unbothered, unaware — while she stayed motionless on a soaked wooden bench, trying to forget the shape of someone else’s name in her mouth.

When her body finally started to ache — shoulders stiff, fingers numb — she stood.

Not with purpose. Not with clarity.

Just with the knowledge that she couldn’t stay here forever.

Her steps were slow. Heavy. She walked like her heart had weight. And maybe it did. Maybe it always had, and she’d just been too busy carrying everyone else’s to notice.

By the time she got home, it was nearly three.

The building was quiet — that too-still kind of quiet that only ever existed at this hour. She let herself in, tossed her keys on the counter, peeled her wet coat off like she was shedding skin.

Everything looked the same.

The mug on the table where she’d left it yesterday.

The scarf still draped over the back of the chair from the last time Irene had borrowed it.

The ghost of a memory that hovered somewhere near the doorway — Irene’s laughter, barefoot and wide-eyed, saying something dumb about soup and poetry.

It hurt.

Not the memory itself — but the knowing that it meant something different to her than it had to Irene. That they had lived in the same space, shared the same air, and somehow still managed to be miles apart.

Y/N stepped into the bathroom. Turned on the light.

She didn’t look at the mirror.

She didn’t want to see it — the damp hair, the tired eyes, the face that looked too much like someone who gave too much away.

Instead, she stripped out of her clothes, piece by piece, and stepped into the shower. The water was hot, almost scalding, and it shocked her system back into something like feeling.

She leaned her forehead against the tile.

Breathed.

Waited for the ache to loosen its grip.

It didn’t.

But the warmth helped. A little.

When she got out, the fog on the mirror had settled in thick. She ran her fingers through it — not to clear it, just to make a mark. Just to leave something behind.

She changed into dry clothes. Sat on the edge of the bed. Reached for her phone, powered it back on.

The message lit up instantly.

Irene had responded again.

IRENE: Okay. Just text when you’re safe. And hey… You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?

Y/N stared at it for a long time.

Longer than she should have.

She didn’t answer right away.

The cursor blinked in the message box, like it was daring her. Asking.

Would you tell me if something was wrong?

It shouldn’t have been a hard question.

But it was.

Because yes would’ve been a lie.

And no would’ve been a truth too sharp to carry.

So instead, Y/N set the phone down.

She sat there in the low hush of early morning, surrounded by soft shadows and the faint drip of water from the shower still echoing through the pipes. The room smelled like rain and lavender shampoo. Her skin felt raw, like she’d been scrubbed down to something too thin.

She thought about answering. She thought about pretending again.

Yeah, of course.

I’m fine.

Just tired.

But something in her — something quiet and exhausted and done — refused to type it.

Not this time.

So she turned the phone face-down on the nightstand and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Not to sleep. Not yet. Just to feel covered. Grounded. Held by something, even if it was only fabric and silence.

Maybe tomorrow she’d answer.

Maybe tomorrow she’d say something real.

Or maybe she wouldn’t.

Maybe this was the beginning of a different kind of silence — not the one she filled for Irene, but the one she chose for herself.

A silence with boundaries.

A silence that healed.

Outside, the city exhaled under the soft hush of rain.

Inside, Irene sat awake in her apartment, phone still in hand, unread message thread open, eyes scanning a screen that stayed unchanged.

She bit her lip.

Waited a little longer.

But no reply came.

And somewhere in the stillness between their rooms, between two tired hearts too full of unsaid things, something shifted.

Not loudly.

Not suddenly.

But permanently.

Like a door closing just enough to notice.

read now.

The kitchen was dimly lit, the only light coming from the stovetop as the kettle began to hum.

You sat at the table, shoulders hunched forward, elbows resting on your thighs. Not collapsed, exactly. But folded. Like a tent that hadn’t quite fallen in, but was no longer standing tall either.

Irene didn’t say anything at first.

She just moved around the kitchen quietly. Familiar. Efficient. Two mugs. One teabag each. Honey, not sugar. No questions.

The silence wasn’t tense. It wasn’t heavy. It was just… there. Like a soft ceiling over your head. Enough to remind you you were safe. That someone else had the wheel, at least for a moment.

She placed the mug in front of you. Sat down across the table.

You didn’t say thank you. Not because you weren’t grateful. Just because you were too tired to find the words.

Steam curled upward between you.

And then, without preamble, Irene said:

“We need to agree on something.”

You blinked. Lifted your eyes slowly. “…Okay.”

Her fingers curled around her mug, calm and deliberate.

“If I notice you’re burning yourself out—really burning out—you have to let me take care of you. No pretending. No brushing it off. You let me in. Deal?”

You stared at her. Not surprised by the offer—she had always been like this. Quietly present. Steady. Kind in a way that didn’t ask to be seen.

But something about hearing it put into words—you have to let me take care of you—felt like someone had reached inside your chest and wrapped their hand around something fragile.

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Irene’s expression didn’t change.

“I know.”

You looked down at your mug. Watched the steam rise. Your voice came quieter.

“What if I don’t know how?”

A pause.

Then her hand reached across the table. Stopped just short of yours.

“Then I’ll remind you. Every time.”

The air felt still again, but this time it wasn’t isolating. It was… close.

Careful, you turned your hand so your fingers brushed hers. Just barely.

Not a promise.

But close enough.

You nodded once. Small. Honest.

And with the music video shoot so close ahead. Could you get the promise she so desperately wanted.

Two Days Later – MV Shoot, Day One

The soundstage was cavernous—high ceilings, thick cables underfoot, ringed with staff and flashing monitors. The set glowed under LED rigs, every corner painted in dreamlike neon.

You had danced this routine so many times it was muscle memory.

But muscle memory didn’t stop the tightness in your chest.

The choreography director called, “Reset! One more for tempo!”

The music cut. Your body slowed to a halt, but your breathing didn’t. It came in short, uneven pulls, sharp against the collar of your outfit.

You didn’t sit.

You didn’t rest.

You walked straight to the playback monitor and crouched beside the screen like you were studying surveillance footage. Eyes narrowed. Jaw set.

The others laughed softly behind you—Joy cracking a joke, Yeri teasing her back. Seulgi stretched her arms. Wendy crouched beside a stylist to fix her mic.

You didn’t hear any of it.

All you could hear was the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears as the playback rolled again.

You watched yourself miss the tiniest beat—half a second of hesitation in your left arm during the transition into the chorus.

There.

You caught it. No one else had said anything. No one probably noticed.

But you did.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your pants. You rewound the clip again, breath uneven.

From behind you, Irene’s voice came, quiet:

“That was take eleven.”

You blinked. Didn’t look back.

“It wasn’t clean,” you murmured.

She didn’t respond.

You played it again. Slower. Watched your shoulders. Watched the slight stutter in your step on beat four.

You felt her before you saw her—her shadow stretching just beside yours, arms crossed lightly, eyes scanning the screen with you.

“You’re pushing too hard,” she said softly.

You stood up abruptly. Brushed imaginary dust from your thighs.

“I’m fine.”

Irene didn’t argue. Not at first.

She looked at you. Long enough for the words you didn’t say to start piling up between you.

Then:

“You’re breathless. You haven’t taken a full break since we started. You’ve barely blinked during playback.”

“I just want it to be right.”

“It is right.”

You didn’t answer. Your jaw locked tighter.

That’s when she stepped in front of you—gently, deliberately—and lowered her voice.

“You remember what we said. In the kitchen.”

Your stomach clenched.

She didn’t wait for you to respond. She just said it again, quieter this time.

“You’re burning out. Let me take care of you.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

The words were right there—“I’m okay”, “I just need one more run”, “I can handle it.”

All rehearsed.

But none of them made it out.

Instead, you looked down—really looked. And saw your hands trembling again, just slightly.

Not from fear.

From depletion.

You swallowed hard.

You didn’t have time to rest.

You knew you needed it but what about the pity that came along with it.

So you did the most rational thing you could think of in that moment…. break the promise.

“No, i’ll just do one more and then i can rest.” you try to reason with her after just breaking something she held onto.

“No, I’ll just do one more and then I can rest.”

You said it fast. Like if you got it out quickly enough, it wouldn’t count as betrayal.

But Irene didn’t flinch. She didn’t argue, either. Just looked at you—for a beat too long—and stepped aside.

She didn’t say, “Fine.”

She didn’t say anything.

Which somehow felt worse.

You turned back toward the set before your hands could betray you again. Before she could see how much they were shaking now.

“Final reset,” the director called.

You nodded. Didn’t look at Irene.

You didn’t need to. You could feel the weight of her watching you as you took your mark.

Then the music started.

And just like that—you disappeared again.

It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t flow. It was force. You drove yourself through every move. Nailed every beat. Your expression locked in place, sharp and camera-ready.

You didn’t breathe between counts. You didn’t allow a single doubt in.

You hit the chorus with everything you had left, forcing your body to move like it was someone else’s. You pushed your chest higher. Your limbs cut cleaner. You danced like someone was holding a stop-watch to your worth.

And when the final note rang out and you dropped into that last pose—

The silence after was louder than the music.

No one said anything for a full second.

Then applause. Loud. Immediate.

“That’s the one!” the choreographer called. “Cleanest take all day.”

“You killed that,” Joy shouted from off-camera, half-laughing, half-awed.

Yeri whooped. Wendy clapped with both hands above her head. Seulgi gave a sharp whistle.

You stayed in place for a moment, chest rising hard, arms burning, sweat clinging to your jawline like armor.

There it was.

Exactly what you needed.

Perfect.

That word—unspoken, but clear in their faces. In the playback monitor. In the crew’s nods and quick notes.

You felt your body go still. Just for a breath.

This was supposed to feel good.

It did, in a way. You’d done it. You proved it. You proved you belonged.

So why didn’t it feel like enough?

Why did the back of your throat still sting like you were holding something in?

Why did your legs feel like they were seconds from giving out?

And then you turned, slowly.

Found Irene.

She wasn’t clapping.

She wasn’t smiling.

She was just watching you.

And that—that—was what caught you off guard.

Her expression wasn’t cold. Wasn’t disappointed. But it was… unreadable.

Not admiration.

Not even concern.

It was something else.

Something closer to hurt.

You blinked. Your body caught up to the moment all at once—your knees wobbling slightly, your breath cutting short.

Your mind screamed: You did it. You got it perfect. So why—

But her eyes.

There was something in them that didn’t match everyone else’s praise.

Not resentment.

Not pity.

It was understanding.

And it looked almost like grief.

You dropped your gaze first.

For the rest of the day, no one said a word about your performance other than that it was “the one.”

You said thank you. Smiled where you were supposed to. Took your notes during wrap-up like a professional.

But Irene’s silence clung to you like a second skin.

And later, when the cameras were packed and the makeup was wiped and you were sitting alone in the back of the van with your hands finally still—you let yourself think back to what her eyes had said.

They didn’t say, “You failed.”

They said, “I saw you break yourself trying not to.”

And somehow… that stung more.

You’d gotten what you needed.

You’d been perfect.

But at what cost?

You shifted in your seat, pulled your hoodie tighter, and leaned your forehead against the window.

And maybe that’s when it started—

Not the collapse. But the quiet undoing.

Because for the first time, perfection hadn’t fixed it.

For the first time, it hadn’t been a balm. It had been a mirror.

And all you could see in it was how much it took.

How much of yourself you’d traded in for a nod.

The window was cold against your temple, the outside world sliding past in muted colors. But inside the van, everything was still.

You glanced down at your hands again. Still. Finally.

And for once, they weren’t trembling because they were holding something in.

They were trembling because they weren’t holding anything.

Not tension. Not focus.

Not purpose.

Just… air.

You didn’t notice Irene had moved until the seat across from you dipped slightly.

She didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Just opened a small paper bag and set it beside you on the seat. You recognized the bakery’s logo. The one she always stopped by when things were too much, even if she never said so out loud.

You didn’t reach for it.

But you looked up.

She met your gaze, soft and certain, like she’d already had the entire conversation without words.

Then she said, low:

“You did it.”

You swallowed. That should’ve been enough.

But she wasn’t done.

“And I’m proud of you.”

Your jaw tensed.

There it was. The kind of phrase that was meant to heal. That should’ve made you feel seen, validated, held.

But your chest burned with something closer to guilt.

“I broke the promise.”

Irene didn’t deny it. She didn’t try to soften it with excuses.

She just nodded, once. “You did.”

And for some reason, that honesty was more comforting than anything else could’ve been.

You blinked. “Why are you still here, then?”

Her answer came without hesitation.

“Because promises break sometimes. People don’t.”

You stared at her. That old ache returning—some mix of shame and longing.

“Even when they choose to break it?”

“Especially then,” she said. “That’s when people need someone to stay.”

You looked down again. Your hands were still in your lap, fingers loose.

You didn’t reach for her.

But you didn’t pull away, either, when she leaned in just enough that her knee touched yours.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

It didn’t have to be.

It was… presence.

It was the offer to stay.

Your hands, still trembling slightly, found the hem of her sleeve. You held it—not tightly, just enough to feel something solid beneath your fingers.

“I’m trying,” you whispered.

And you were.

Trying to believe in safety.

Trying to believe in her.

In this.

The van rocked slightly as it turned another corner, the streetlights outside casting slow-moving shadows across your face.

Irene still hadn’t moved.

Her hand rested on her knee now, not reaching. Just there. Open. Like she wasn’t waiting for you to say anything, but she’d hear you if you did.

You shifted, just enough that your thigh pressed against the warm paper bag.

“You always know,” you said quietly.

Irene tilted her head.

“Know what?”

“When it’s not just tired.”

You traced the edge of the bag with one finger. “When it’s not just me trying to do better. When it’s me… disappearing into it.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Because I’ve done it.”

You looked up.

She wasn’t dramatic about it. Just matter-of-fact. Like a truth she carried in her pocket with the same familiarity as her keys.

“I’ve pushed myself to the point of breaking. Smiled through it. Danced through it. Thought it was the only way to deserve what I had.”

Her eyes met yours, steady.

“But it’s not.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The question wasn’t new—but it hurt every time.

“Then what is?”

“Deserving it?”

You nodded once.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Being here. That’s all.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath. “That doesn’t feel like enough.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But it is.”

The van rolled to a stop. Red light. Brief pause in motion.

Outside, the world kept moving. But in here, everything felt paused again—just long enough for honesty to exist.

You turned your body slightly, shoulders angling toward her for the first time all day.

“I meant it, you know. When I said I’d try.”

Irene’s expression softened.

“I know.”

“And I broke it anyway.”

“You didn’t break it,” she said, after a beat. “You bent it. Because you were scared. Because habit is loud. That doesn’t erase trying.”

Your throat tightened again.

Not from shame.

From relief.

From the way she worded things—gently, without blame. Like the version of you that didn’t quite succeed was still welcome. Still worthy.

“I think I just…” You trailed off, searching for the right shape. “I think I just wanted to feel like I had control. Even if it meant burning out.”

Irene nodded. “That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you said. But there was no fire behind it. Just quiet fatigue. “Not when it hurts you, too.”

Her gaze flickered—just slightly. Like the words had landed somewhere close to bone.

Then she said, softer: “It doesn’t hurt me to care. It only hurts when you won’t let me.”

You looked down at the space between you. Just a few inches. But filled with every unsaid thing from the past few weeks.

Then you reached for the bag. Pulled it into your lap. Slowly opened the fold.

Two small pastries inside. Your favorite. The kind she always remembered, even if you never said it out loud.

You broke one in half. Handed her the bigger piece.

She raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged, just a little. “I didn’t earn the other half today.”

Her voice came quiet, but firm.

“You don’t have to earn softness.”

You held her gaze. This time, you didn’t drop it.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“Me too,” she said.

You blinked.

“I’m scared that one day, you’ll forget how to reach for me. That you’ll get so good at pretending you don’t need anyone, you’ll forget you ever needed me at all.”

The van started moving again.

But inside, something stilled.

You leaned your head against the window again. But this time, after a pause, you shifted your hand—slowly, tentatively—until it found hers again.

This time, you laced your fingers through hers without shaking.

“I won’t forget,” you said.

Irene didn’t reply.

She just squeezed your hand once.

Then again.

You ate the pastry in silence.

Not a hollow silence.

Not a performance.

Just two people. Side by side. Holding on.

Not perfect.

But present.

MV Shoot, Day Two

The next day you arrived before call time.

Not to impress anyone. Not to get ahead.

You just couldn’t sleep again.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when the car dropped you off at the lot. The set was still quiet—half-assembled, cameras in sleep mode, crew sipping early coffee and murmuring over clipboards.

You liked it this way.

Before the noise. Before the lights.

Before you had to put the version of yourself back on.

You walked through the maze of cables and scaffolding until you found the small tent marked Wardrobe. The stylists weren’t even in yet. Just neatly organized racks of sequined stage outfits and shoes lined in order. You stood there a moment, not touching anything. Just breathing.

“Couldn’t sleep again?”

You didn’t jump. You knew that voice now.

You turned. Irene stood a few feet behind you, coat draped loosely over her shoulders, coffee in one hand. Her hair was still tucked under a hoodie, face bare, quiet.

You shrugged. “Habit.”

She walked closer.

No makeup, no lights, no expectation between you. Just Irene, soft in the quiet, her gaze steady as the low morning light filtered through the fabric of the tent.

She handed you the coffee without asking if you wanted it. She already knew.

You took it, fingers brushing hers. The warmth seeped into your skin like something older than comfort. Like memory.

She didn’t ask if you were okay.

You didn’t lie and say you were.

You both just stood there. Breathing in the morning silence like it might buy you a few extra seconds of stillness before the world started asking for things again.

“You’re not here to prove anything,” Irene said quietly.

You didn’t answer right away.

The wardrobe tent was still, filled with color and costuming and versions of yourselves the world had fallen in love with.

And yet here you were—sweats, hoodie, undressed, unmade.

“I know,” you said finally, voice low. “I just… needed to be somewhere before the noise started.”

She nodded. Like she understood. Like she’d been doing the same thing for years.

You stared down at the coffee in your hands. The sleeve had a little heart drawn on it in black pen. It wasn’t yours.

“Did you—?”

She nodded again, this time with the faintest tug at the corner of her mouth. “The barista knows my order. I told her to write it this time.”

You blinked. “Why?”

Irene’s gaze softened. “Because I knew you’d get here before I did.”

You laughed once—quiet, surprised. Not joy, exactly. But not sadness either. Something in between.

“What if I hadn’t?”

“I still would’ve brought it,” she said. “You just would’ve gotten it later.”

Something about that stuck in your ribs. The patience of it. The trust.

You sipped slowly, letting the heat press into your chest. It didn’t fix anything. But it stayed with you, quietly. Like her.

Then, after a beat: “I’m still scared, you know.”

Irene looked at you. Didn’t interrupt.

“I’m scared that if I stop trying so hard, I’ll disappear.”

“You won’t.”

“I feel like all I have is what I do. The work. The performance. The part of me that gets praised.”

Irene took a small step forward.

“And what about the part of you that breaks?”

You met her eyes.

“That’s the part I’m scared people will leave.”

She shook her head, just once.

“That’s the part I stay for.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t say anything. Just… stood there with her. Let her words settle. Let them wrap around the part of you that never learned how to rest.

After a moment, she reached forward and fixed the edge of your hoodie where it had slipped off your shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” she said again, voice like silk over a bruise.

You nodded slowly. “Even when I mess up?”

“Especially then.”

You exhaled, long and quiet.

There were hours to go still. Makeup to sit through. Choreography to run. Takes to perfect.

During the first take, you did as you normally did. You moved with precision, every limb calibrated, every expression perfected.

The choreography flowed from you, sharp and unyielding.

The tightness in your chest was a familiar companion, a dull ache that fueled your every move. You didn't allow yourself to feel tired, or slow, or anything less than perfectly in sync with the pulsing beat.

You hit the final pose, sweat tracing paths down your temple, and held it.

The silence stretched for a beat, just like the day before, before the choreographer's voice boomed, "Great! Let's get one more, just to be safe!"

You felt a familiar pull to dissect the playback, to find the imperceptible flaw, to push for an even more flawless take. Your jaw tightened, your eyes darting towards the monitor. But before you could take a step, Irene's hand was on your arm, light but firm.

You looked at her. Her expression was calm, unwavering. "Take a breath," she said, her voice a low murmur.

The words were simple, yet they felt like a sudden gust of wind, scattering the intense focus that had consumed you. Your shoulders, without conscious thought, dropped an inch. You realized you were holding your breath.

"Just one minute," she continued, her gaze gentle. "Come sit."

The practiced "I'm fine" rose to your lips, but something in her eyes, that knowing, understanding gaze, stopped it. It wasn't pity. It was just… an invitation.

You hesitated, caught between the ingrained need to push and the quiet pull of her presence.

The rest of the members were already heading for the water bottles or stretching. For the first time, you didn't feel the urgent need to keep up.

You nodded, small. "Okay."

Irene led you to a quiet corner of the side stage, away from the immediate buzz of the crew. She didn't ask if you were tired, or if you needed anything. She simply sat beside you on an overturned crate, offering you a bottle of water.

You took a long, deep drink, the cool liquid a welcome shock to your parched throat. The frantic rhythm in your chest began to slow, replaced by a dull throb in your calves.

You exhaled again, slower this time, letting the tension seep out with the breath.

Irene didn’t say anything else, just sat with you—quiet, steady, like a lighthouse in a storm.

The noise of the set buzzed in the distance but felt somehow muted here, in this small pocket away from the chaos.

You glanced at her, finally. “Thank you,” you whispered.

She shrugged lightly, but her eyes softened.

“No need.”

You wanted to say more. To explain that it was hard, harder than anyone else could see. That this kind of pause felt like weakness, a crack in the armor you’d spent years building.

But you didn’t have to.

She already knew.

After a moment, you let your head fall back against the wall behind you, closing your eyes.

Not asleep. Not quite.

Just… still.

For once, not running.

Not chasing perfection.

Just breathing.

The music was still playing somewhere far away, but here—now—it was just silence.

And that was enough.

After the rest you needed you moved differently.

Not less. Not slower.

But softer.

The sharp edges of your movements softened without losing their power.

The routine still demanded everything.

But you gave yourself permission to be human within it.

To falter and to recover.

Irene watched from the sidelines, a small smile touching her lips when your eyes met.

You nodded once, quiet but full of meaning.

You’d kept the promise, not perfectly, but honestly.