Seraphine

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୨ৎ 𝐵𝑒𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑜 ! The archives of my heart. I’m Sera, and these are my emotions, written in ink.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀

୨ৎ 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐅𝐅 | 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓 | 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 (𝐑𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬) ୨ৎ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀

Sera's Portal - 🗝

Thank you so much for supporting "Bad At Being Bad" <3

I haven’t updated in two weeks, and honestly? Summer camp + writer’s block is a deadly combo. T_T

But I’m using this semi-hiatus to overhaul the upcoming arcs. I’ve decided on a massive change in how things will turn out for the boys. To compensate for the radio silence, I’m preparing a 3–5 chapter marathon for the next update.

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۶۟ৎ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴅ ɪɪɪ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ! : ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏᴜʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.32ᴋ

۶۟ৎ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Following the final stop of their world tour, the members return to Seoul for a month-long break, but the transition to domestic life only heightens the simmering friction between Jake and Heeseung. While the group attempts to celebrate their success, Jake struggles to balance his growing private resentment with the performance of harmony he’s forced to maintain for his teammates. Seeking a distraction from the suffocating atmosphere of the dorms, he prepares to step out into the night, desperate to reclaim a sense of self that isn't dictated by his reputation.

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

The Seoul Olympic Stadium was a sea of light sticks, a shimmering ocean that felt like home. My throat was finally healed, thanks to the aggressive amount of medicine Jungwon had practically forced down my throat, and I was ready. I wanted to reclaim every note Heeseung had "borrowed" in Singapore.

When the encore hit, Shout Out started, and I poured everything into that bridge. I sang with an added exaggeration, my voice clear and powerful, a silent middle finger to the man standing across the stage. See? I don’t need you. I never will.

But Heeseung wouldn't let me have the moment.

Before the second belt, I felt a hand snake around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. He leaned into my mic, his voice blending with mine as he interacted with the fans, looking like the perfect, supportive "hyung." I played along, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes because I knew the cameras were watching. Every time I tried to subtly pull back, the scumbag would just find me again—pulling me by the neck or wrapping a heavy arm around my shoulder. To the fans, it was the ultimate "Heejake" moment. To me, it was suffocating.

When the final bow was taken and the confetti settled, the adrenaline was replaced by a frantic excitement. We finally had a one-month break before the next album cycle began.

The ride back to the dorms was cramped. I had intended to sit beside Sunoo to talk about our club plans, but through some stroke of bad luck, I found myself squished in the back row between Sunghoon and Heeseung.

“You good?” Sunghoon asked, noticing my sudden, rigid quietness.

“Yeah, just…” I subtly tilted my head toward Heeseung, who was scrolling through his phone as if I wasn't there.

“Oh, I get it.” Sunghoon smiled faintly, unfazed, as he continued eating his snack. He leaned forward slightly, peeking past me to look at Heeseung. “Heeseung-hyung. Rare to see you in the car back. Usually, you’ve got... sidequests.”

Heeseung didn’t even look up, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. “Yeah, well. Tonight’s an exception.”

“Picky huh,” Sunghoon snorted. “What happened to the club tonight?”

“I usually go for foreigners,” Heeseung smirked, finally pocketing his phone and leaning back. His shoulder pressed firmly against mine, and he didn't move. “And since we’re back in Seoul, I think I’ll stay in tonight. At least for a few hours.”

“Of course,” Sunghoon replied, clearly used to Heeseung’s 'international' tastes. 

By the time we reached the dorms, the exhaustion was being fought off by pure adrenaline. Jungwon had made it clear: everyone was to meet in his room to celebrate the tour’s success. I ducked into my room for a quick change, swapping my stage gear for a hoodie and sweatpants, and headed back out.

Of course, timing was never on my side.

Heeseung stepped out of his room at the exact same moment. I didn’t even look at him, keeping my eyes glued to the hallway floor as I walked, but a low, smooth voice rang out from behind me, echoing in the quiet corridor.

“Jake.”

I didn't respond. I just picked up my pace, but he caught up to me easily with those long strides of his.

“Are you avoiding me?”

“No. I just don't find any purpose in talking to you. It’s a waste of time,” I snarked, scrolling through my phone to look busy. “And for the record, I didn’t appreciate you being so touchy-feely on stage earlier. Acting like we’re best friends? It was disgusting.”

Heeseung didn’t even flinch. He just let out a dry, amused huff. “You call it disgusting, I call it fanservice,” he said, that signature smirk playing on his lips. “It’s part of the job, Jakey. Don’t be a bitch about it.”

“Fuck off,” I snapped, reaching Jungwon’s door and pushing it open before he could get another word in.

He followed me closely, practically stepping on my heels. Turns out, we were the last ones to arrive. The room was already a mess of pillows and excitement; Jungwon was on his phone finalizing a massive food order, while Jay was expertly lining up drinks on the nightstand.

“We heard you two fighting outside the door like an old couple,” Sunoo chirped from his spot on the bed. He was sprawled out comfortably, fanning his wet, skincare-covered face with a look of pure mischief.

“We weren’t fighting,” I lied, dropping onto a beanbag as far from Heeseung as possible. “Just talking.”

“Right. ‘Talking,’” Sunghoon echoed from the floor, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Heeseung didn’t bother defending himself. He just smirked at the room before sliding down to sit on the floor between Sunghoon and Ni-ki, looking entirely too relaxed for someone I had just told to fuck off. The "Heejake" war was officially moving from the stadium to the dorm, and with Sunoo watching us like a hawk, I knew I wasn't going to get a moment of peace.

The night went on surprisingly normal. We settled into the rhythm of the break—eating, drinking, and laughing as the exhaustion from the tour finally started to lift. But not even an hour into the drinks, Jungwon shifted into "Leader Mode."

“Okay, before we get tipsy and forget about this. Jay-hyung, Heeseung-hyung,” Jungwon said, his voice cutting through the chatter. “You two need to make up. Properly.”

Jay froze, his chopsticks hovering mid-air over a piece of fried chicken. He slowly retracted them, his face going uncharacteristically stiff as he stayed silent.

Heeseung, ever the one to take the lead, didn't let the silence linger. “I’m sorry,” he started, his voice dropping into a sincere, lower register. “You really didn’t have to worry about anything. I understand you were just stressed about our schedule. In all honesty... I just overslept at that French girl’s house.”

Jay let out a long, shaky breath, looking sheepish. “I’m sorry too. I was mad, but I know it wasn’t an excuse to say those things to you.”

The two of them chuckled lowly, the tension that had been simmering since Paris evaporating in a single toast. I stayed quiet, focused entirely on my food and trying to ignore the way my skin crawled at the mention of Heeseung’s "sidequests."

“And you too, Jake-hyung,” Jungwon added, turning his gaze toward me.

I stopped chewing.

“I’m sorry, what? Why me?” I forced a laugh, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Heeseung and I never fought during the tour. In fact, we’re doing great! This is probably the only time we haven't been at each other’s throats.”

It was a blatant lie. My pride was still sitting at the peak of Mount Everest, and there was no way in hell I was going to apologize for anything.

Sunoo and Sunghoon immediately burst into muffled chuckles, while Jungwon and Ni-ki shot me looks of pure suspicion. They weren't buying it for a second.

“Yeah! Come here, my bro. Give me a dap,” I said, my voice dripping with a fake, over-the-top brotherly energy. I raised my hand toward him, expecting a sarcastic remark or a cold shoulder.

Surprisingly, Heeseung just smiled—that same infuriatingly calm smile—and leaned across the circle. He met my hand, dapping me up with a firm, solid grip.

“To being bros,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine for just a second too long. There was a challenge in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that we both knew this was a performance.

I quickly pulled my hand away, my skin still buzzing from the contact. Jungwon just nodded, but I swear I caught the faintest hint of suspicion in his eyes before he moved on to the next topic. The night shifted into something fun and calm. For once since the tour started, we were just being our normal selves—no cameras to dodge, no need to force a smile every second.

I kept reminding Sunoo about our club outing, and he promised we’d go tomorrow. I must have drunk more than I realized, because my vision started to blur at the edges. The last solid memory I had was the feeling of Jungwon’s mattress beneath me before everything went black.

However, I woke up in my own bed.

I blinked at the ceiling, wondering if I’d hallucinated the entire ending of the party. Whatever. I dragged myself out of bed, a dull hangover throbbing behind my eyes, and tried to get on with my day. I heard Jay scrambling in the hallway; he was likely using the break to visit his parents. I felt a sharp pang of envy. I missed mine, too.

As I was brushing my teeth, my phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Sunoo:

“Club later. Don’t forgettttt ^^”

Right. The club. I typed back with a shaky hand:

“Alright, alright. Still kinda buzzed from last night. 😵”

I spent the day nursing myself with water and painkillers, trying to get my head right. By the time 10 PM hit, I started getting ready, pulling on a fit that screamed "effortless" despite how long it took me to pick it out. An hour later, a knock echoed through my door. I opened it to find Sunoo looking sharp.

“You look like an easy target,” I joked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Whatever, hurry up,” he laughed, checking his reflection in my hallway mirror.

I went back to finishing my hair while Sunoo waited. Suddenly, his voice went quiet, that mischievous lilt returning. “You don’t remember anything from last night, do you?”

I shook my head, focused on the mirror. “What are you on about?” I laughed. “Not much. I’m pretty sure I was hallucinating about being in Jungwon-ah’s bed.”

“Well, that part’s true. You did fall asleep on Jungwon’s bed,” Sunoo trailed off, a giggle bubbling up. “Heeseung-hyung carried you out of there like a sack of potatoes.”

I froze, the comb mid-air. “What?!”

“Yep. He hauled you out of there because apparently, and I quote: ‘I’m the most sober one here and his room is on my way.’” Sunoo started laughing harder at the memory. “You were out cold, Jake. It was tragic.”

I stood there, not saying a word. My stomach did a weird flip—not from the hangover, but from pure, unadulterated annoyance. Heeseung had carried me? He had touched me while I was unconscious, probably smirking the whole way back to my room? Ridiculous.

I finished my hair in record time, refusing to give Sunoo the satisfaction of seeing me lose my mind. I grabbed my leather jacket and headed for the door.

“Let’s just go,” I muttered. “I need a drink that I’ll actually remember.”

I was worried about hauling a cab. The chances of being spotted by a fan were higher than most people realized, and a "leaked" photo of us headed to a club in Gangnam was the last thing our PR team needed. However, Sunoo was always one step ahead. He had invited his cousin, Haeun-noona, to drive us.

As we pulled out into the night, the vibe in the car was surprisingly light—until Haeun opened her mouth.

“Jake-ah! I have to tell you, I’m a huge fan of Ramyeonz,” she squealed, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror with an excited glint as she navigated the Seoul traffic.

Ramyeonz. The ship name the fans had slapped on us just because Heeseung and I happened to share a love for ramen. I heard Sunoo stifling a chuckle beside me while I just sat there, my face going stiff.

“That’s... great, Haeun-nim,” I managed, trying to be polite while internally screaming.

“So, tell me,” she continued, leaning into the gossip. “Is it pure bromance? A platonic friendship? Or is it something... more? Like, is it the same vibe as Sunoo and Ni-ki?”

My heart skipped a beat. I whipped my head toward Sunoo, my eyes wide. “You told her about you and Ni-ki?”

Sunoo just shrugged, looking entirely too unbothered. “What? She’s family! And Haeun, if you’re asking about them? They're worse than us,” he chuckled, shooting me a look that said 'good luck getting out of this one.'

“No need to worry about me, Jake-ah,” Haeun laughed, oblivious to the fact that I was currently having a crisis. “My only real concern is that reality might ruin the fanfic fantasies I have for my ships. I need the drama to stay high-quality!”

I sank lower into the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing neon lights. If only she knew. If she knew about the way we were actually at each other’s throats the moment the cameras stopped rolling, her fantasies would be dead in a second.

“Trust me, Haeun-noona,” I muttered under my breath. “Reality is a lot more annoying than any fanfic.”

Haeun-nim glanced at me through the rearview mirror, her hands steady on the wheel. “Any big plans for the break, Jake?”

“Not really,” I said, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ll probably just bed-rot until my soul leaves my body.”

“Typical Jake,” Sunoo interjected from the seat beside me, his tone fond but teasing.

I shifted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped cabin. “What about the others? Anyone actually doing something productive?”

“I know Jay-hyung and Sunghoon-hyung are heading to their parents' places,” Sunoo said, checking his phone. “The rest? Probably nothing.”

I nodded, turning my gaze to the windshield. The sea of brake lights ahead was blinding, and Haeun-nim let out a frustrated huff as she tapped the brakes again. We hadn't moved more than an inch in five minutes.

“Damn. Talk about bad luck,” I muttered, watching a motorcycle lane-split past us.

Haeun-nim sighed, her fingers drumming rhythmically against the steering wheel. “You’re telling me. At this rate, the break will be over before we even get to that darn club.”

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

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۶۟ৎ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴅ ɪɪ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ! : ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏᴜʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.81ᴋ

۶۟ৎ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The humid air of Singapore only heightens the tension when Jake’s voice suddenly fails him, forcing him into a humiliating silence. With a three-night residency on the line, he’s left with no choice but to let Heeseung—the one person he can’t stand—step into his spotlight and claim his lines. Between viral TikTok edits and a bruising backstage confrontation, Jake realizes that being "saved" by his rival is a price his pride can’t afford to pay.

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

The final leg of the flight was a blur of Sunoo’s giggles and the low hum of the jet engines. By the time the wheels hit the tarmac at Changi, the adrenaline had long since drained out of me, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.

Stepping out of the airport was like walking into a warm, scented embrace. The Singapore air was thick—humid and heavy with the smell of damp earth and tropical greenery, a sharp contrast to the crisp, dry chill we’d left behind in Paris. It felt lush, expensive, and somehow more suffocating than the crowd we’d just escaped.

When we finally reached the hotel, the room assignments were posted. My roommate: Sunoo.

“Are you kidding me?” I groaned, though there was no real heat in it. I threw my bag onto the nearest bed. “I have to deal with your skincare vlogs for the next three days?”

“Excuse you, my vlogs are educational,” Sunoo chirped, already testing the bounce of his mattress. “Besides, would you rather be stuck with Heeseung-hyung? I hear he’s in a mood.”

I stiffened at the name but forced a casual shrug. “Fair point. You’re the lesser of two evils.”

Despite the chill atmosphere of the suite, a cold knot of unease was tightening in my chest. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. We had a three-night residency starting tomorrow, and right now, my voice was barely a whisper.

“Sunoo-ya,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I think I’m in trouble. My throat is shot.”

Sunoo stopped mid-sentence, looking at me with a mix of pity and pragmatism. “Just mark the rehearsals and lip-sync the high notes. It’s a stadium tour, Jake. No one’s going to execute you for being human.”

“And get dragged to hell on Weibo and Twitter? Absolutely not,” I retorted, rubbing my neck. “I’ll be fine. I just need total vocal rest. No talking, no shouting, nothing until soundcheck.”

Sunoo let out a mischievous little laugh, his eyes glinting with that familiar fox-like energy. “Vocal rest, huh? Well, good luck with that. If you get desperate, you could always ask Heeseung-hyung to cover your harmonies. He’s the only one who can hit your range.”

“Knock it off!” I snapped, though the lack of volume in my voice made it sound more like a desperate plea than a command.

Sunoo just grinned, scrolling on his phone. “I’m just saying. If you can’t use your voice, you better hope your favorite hyung is feeling charitable.”

“He’s not my favorite.” I hissed, every word feeling like a serrated blade against my vocal cords. “Besides, I don’t need him. You can hit my range, Sunoo. You help me out.”

Sunoo didn’t even look up from his phone, his lips curling into a judgmental little smirk. “No thanks, I’ll pass. Figure it out yourself—maybe it’ll finally knock some sense into you.”

Silence fell over the room, heavy and awkward. My throat felt like it was being rubbed with steel wool, and I was starting to feel genuinely like shit. I was just about to close my eyes when Sunoo suddenly started laughing like a maniac.

“Yo, hyung!” Sunoo barked out, doubling over. I jumped, clutching my chest. “Yo, you have to see this. Seriously.”

“What now?” I rasped, shooting him a glare. “Should I call the mental asylum or are you going to share it with me?”

Sunoo was still laughing hysterically when he shoved his phone into my face. It was a TikTok—already sitting at half a million likes. It was a high-def, slow-mo edit of the Paris airport, set to some overly romantic ballad, focused entirely on Heeseung’s hand on my lower back as he navigated me through the crowd.

“I knew it!” I groaned. The ship edits were already surfacing like a plague. Heeseung didn't have to be that dramatic; he was such a shameless attention seeker.

Sunoo was laughing so hard he started coughing, but he still managed to read the caption out loud in a mocking, dramatic voice: “‘Heeseung guiding his omega wife through the crowd...’ Oh my god, Jake, they're calling you his wife! You’re the omega!”

“Shut up!” I snapped, but the lack of volume made me sound pathetic.

“Oh, my Heejake heart,” Sunoo teased, clutching his chest. “Look at the comments! 'The way he protects him...' 'Heeseung looks so possessive...'”

“Whatever!” I turned my back on him, burying my face in the pillow. I could still hear him giggling behind me until I finally passed out.

The next morning was a total disaster. I woke up feeling like I’d swallowed a handful of sand. No matter how much I gargled warm water or swallowed honey, the damage was done. This was officially the worst day of my life.

When we finally piled into the car for the drive to the stadium, the energy was chaotic. Sunghoon was already hyped, and Sunoo was still scrolling through his phone, probably looking for more edits. Jungwon, ever the diligent leader, started handing out snacks.

“Thanks,” I blurted out instinctively.

The word was barely out of my mouth before I realized my mistake. My voice didn’t just sound hoarse—it sounded like a dying engine. The car went dead silent.

“Hyung?” Jungwon asked, his brow furrowed in immediate concern. “What’s wrong with your voice?”

I shot a desperate look at Sunoo, pointing at my throat and then at him, signaling for him to do the talking.

“It’s been like that since last night,” Sunoo filled in, his voice dripping with fake drama. “He was too stubborn to say anything because he didn’t want to be a ‘burden.’ Too much of a hero complex, and look where it got him. He also wouldn’t seek help from his alpha husband Heeseung-hyung. How prideful.”

Sunghoon snorted, nearly choking on his water.

Jungwon sighed, rubbing his temples as he looked at the setlist on his tablet. “We need someone to fill in Jake-hyung’s lines. Especially the Shout Out bridge. We can’t let him strain it.”

“I’ll sub,” Sunghoon and Heeseung said in a chorus.

Sunoo let out a sharp, amused hum, his eyes darting between the two. “Wow. Choice of the day, Jake-hyung? The bestie or the husband?” Sunghoon caught the vibe immediately, a slow, playful smirk spreading across his face. “Oh, uh… actually, never mind,” he said, pulling back with a fake-innocent shrug. “Let Heeseung-hyung do it. They’re so ‘close’ lately, aren't they? Especially according to the entire internet. Besides, Heeseung can keep up with you in every department... and he's already used to taking care of you, right?”

Heeseung didn't say a word, but I could see that dark, triumphant glint in his eyes. He looked at me—knowing I couldn't even talk back—and the smirk he gave was pure evil. He wasn’t just covering my lines; he was revelling in the fact that I was finally silenced, forced to sit back while he took over my spotlight.

“Knock it off, you two,” Jungwon said, his voice firm enough to silence the giggling. “It’s settled then. Heeseung-hyung will sub in Jake-hyung's lines. And Jake-hyung, strictly no talking until the concert. Take it easy at soundcheck.”

I nodded, leaning back and closing my eyes, but the silence didn't bring any peace. I could hear Heeseung warming up his voice in the seat behind me, his scales perfectly smooth and resonant. Jungwon and the others joined in, their harmonies blending effortlessly in the cramped car. It sucked—being the only one silenced, stuck on the sidelines of my own life.

When Heeseung started humming my specific harmonies, I felt a surge of pure irritation. He wasn't just hitting the notes; he was doing it effortlessly, with that signature "Ace" polish that made everything he touched look easy. 

Annoying.

I stayed silent, staring out the window as the National Stadium came into view. Even this early, fans were already lined up at the entrance, their lightsticks and banners glinting in the Singapore sun. I kept eating spoonfuls of honey from a small jar, praying that at least an ounce of my voice would return.

Soundcheck was even worse. Standing on that massive stage, feeling the bass rattle my bones while I barely mouthed the words, was humiliating. But what really set me off was Heeseung. Every time my parts came up, he overlapped his voice against mine—rich, stable, and loud. I knew he was just following Jungwon’s orders, but I could feel the smugness radiating off him from across the stage.

The second the soundcheck ended and we retreated backstage, I snapped. My voice was a shredded whisper, but I poured every bit of venom I had left into it.

“Seriously, what is wrong with you?” I rasped, turning on him the moment the staff were out of earshot. “I don’t need you playing hero for me every damn time. I hate that smug smirk on your face. You think you’re saving me? It’s pathetic.”

Heeseung stopped mid-stride, his jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. He turned slowly, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What’s wrong with me? I’m the problem now?” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “I’m not the one who sounds like a broken gear, Jake. Be grateful I even agreed to help you.”

He trailed off, his expression shifting from amusement to something much more predatory. He strode toward me with purpose, not stopping until there were only a few inches between us. I could smell the faint scent of his cologne and the heat radiating off him from the stage lights. He was deep in my personal space. Damn it.

“You would’ve been cancelled before the first chorus if I hadn't listened to Jungwon-ah. Hmm?” he taunted, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that made my skin crawl.

“No, I wouldn’t. I can handle it,” I retorted, my heart hammering against my ribs. He leaned even closer, his shadow looming over me, and I instinctively started backing away until I hit the cold surface of an equipment trunk.

“No, you won’t,” he whispered, his eyes locked on mine.

“Yes, I will.”

“No.”

“Yes! I don’t need you singing my lines for me. Leave me be.” I forced the words out, my throat screaming in protest.

I tried to shove past him to leave, but he was faster. His hand shot out, fingers clamping firmly around my arm, pulling me back toward him. The grip was strong—unyielding.

“You’ll need me,” he said, his voice echoing with a terrifying amount of certainty.

I looked down at his hand, then back up at his dark, challenging gaze. “Bet you I won’t.”

The others heard the commotion and immediately swarmed us. Jay was the first one to break the circle, his eyes darting between my hoarse frustration and Heeseung’s unbothered stance.

“What’s going on?” Jay demanded, his voice low and suspicious.

“Nothing,” I rasped, trying to play off the heat in my face.

“Nothing at all,” Heeseung chimed in, suddenly draping a heavy, possessive arm over my shoulder. I stiffened instantly. “Jake here was just telling me how great I am for subbing in for him. Right, Jakey?”

I immediately pried his hand off like it was made of lead. “That’s not it. I want Sunoo or Sunghoon—literally anyone besides this scumbag—to sub for me.”

I didn't wait for a reply. I turned on my heel and left, feeling Heeseung’s gaze burning a hole in the back of my neck.

A few hours later, the lights dimmed and the roar of the Singapore crowd filled the stadium. To my relief, my voice was holding up—not perfect, but enough to get by. I spent the night playing it safe, letting Sunghoon or Sunoo lean into the mic whenever they noticed me struggling. But the one constant was Heeseung. He never looked away. Every time I moved, his eyes followed, tracking my every breath like he was waiting for the exact moment I’d break.

By the time the Shout Out bridge arrived, I managed to pull it off. Barely.

Night two was similar, but by the time the third night rolled around, the humidity and the strain had finally won. I was waking up with a voice that sounded like a ghost. During the final show, the cracks started appearing. Sunoo was a lifesaver, jumping in to cover me so smoothly the fans barely noticed, but as the bridge approached, I knew I was done.

I glanced at Sunoo, a silent plea in my eyes. He gave me a sympathetic, pained look and shook his head slightly. He couldn't do it—his own throat was strained from covering me all night.

I swallowed my pride, a literal groan echoing in my chest. When the bridge hit and the spotlight found me, I lifted the mic reluctantly. But before I could even push out a sound, Heeseung’s voice was already there. It was rich, powerful, and perfectly on pitch.

I joined him, my voice a ragged shadow of his, swallowing every ounce of my dignity just to get through the song. I could feel his smug smirk without even looking at him. That infuriating, predatory gaze was everywhere.

When the concert finally ended and the adrenaline faded, Jungwon huddled us backstage.

“Good work, everyone,” our leader said, his face glowing with sweat and pride. “One stop left before the tour ends. I’m proud of all of you.”

The guys started cheering, the usual post-concert chaos erupting, but I felt a shadow fall over me. Heeseung.

Please don’t bring it up. Please don't bring it up.

“Told you you’d need me,” he whispered, his smirk practically audible.

“I didn't,” I shot back, my voice barely a thread. “You sang on your own. I didn't ask.”

“Yes, you did.” He stepped closer, mocking me. “You looked like a lost cat, Jake. Giving those desperate, pathetic eyes to Sunoo and Sunghoon. It was tragic.”

My blood boiled. I wanted to scream at him, but my throat wouldn't allow it.

“But hey, at least I helped,” he continued, tilting his head. “Don’t I at least deserve a thank you?”

“No.”

"Wow, how ungrateful," Heeseung murmured, his voice a smooth, low contrast to my jagged breathing. "But just so we’re clear? You owe me one."

"Like hell I do," I forced out, the words feeling like glass in my throat as I met his smug gaze with as much fire as I had left.

He scoffed, a short, dry sound, then turned toward Jungwon. “Jungwon-ah. Don’t wait up. I’m leaving early—I’ll be back at the hotel by sunrise.”

“Alright, alright. Be careful,” Jungwon said, waving him off. “Don’t let the fans see you.”

As Heeseung disappeared into the night, Jay let out a harsh breath, muttering under his breath, “Horny bastard.”

Sunoo caught my eye, drifting over with a playful grin. “How’s the throat?”

“It’s fine. It’ll heal,” I snapped.

“I thought you said you wanted Sunghoon or me subbing?” Sunoo snickered, leaning against a flight case. “But guess what? Only Heeseung-hyung can actually keep up with you when things get loud. You two are like a match made in heaven.”

“In hell, you mean,” Sunghoon interjected, walking past us with a towel over his head.

“Right, in hell,” Sunoo laughed. “You’re each other’s only fillers. If he’s gone, you’re there. If you’re gone, he’s the only one who fits. It’s an observation.”

“Whatever,” I said, trying to act like his words didn't hit a nerve. “I’m still holding you to that club outing after the tour. Don't think you're getting out of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I haven't forgotten,” Sunoo said, already distracted by his phone.

That night, as I lay in the dark of the hotel room, Sunoo’s words kept looping in my head like a broken record. A match made in hell. If this was hell, then Heeseung was the one keeping the fire burning just to watch me squirm. It wasn't just the fact that he took my lines, or the way he looked at me like I was something he could just "fix" whenever he felt like it. It was the arrogance—the way he walked through life thinking everyone owed him a thank you, especially me.

I stared at the ceiling, my throat still burning, but my pride felt even worse. He thought he won because he caught me when I stumbled. He thought that grip on my arm and that "lost cat" comment made him the superior one. But all it did was solidify the one thing I knew for sure.

It didn't matter what the fans said or how well our voices blended on stage. I hated Lee Heeseung to his core. Not because he was better than me, but because he was the only person who had the nerve to act like I actually needed him.

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

─────────────────────────────────────────────

─────────────────────────────────────────────

۶۟ৎ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴅ ɪ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ! : ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏᴜʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛɪᴇꜱ

۶۟ৎ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.28ᴋ

۶۟ৎ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Paris wasn't about romance; it was about the talk-shitting that happens when the cameras stop rolling. Between Heeseung’s disappearing acts and Jake’s lethal tongue, the flight to Singapore is officially a disaster waiting to happen.

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

Panic was pulsing through the suite like a physical weight. Jungwon, usually the picture of composure, looked ready to snap his phone in half as he paced the length of the carpet.

“Where the hell is he?” Jungwon muttered, his thumb hovering aggressively over the redial button. “Heeseung-hyung isn't answering. Again.”

Last night had been a blur—the Paris leg of our Walk The Line tour was a massive success, but the high was wearing off fast. Knowing Heeseung? The most infuriating casanova in the industry? The guy was likely curled up in some French socialite’s silk sheets. He’d been MIA since the final bow, leaving no trace behind except a headache for the rest of us.

We had ninety minutes before the flight to Singapore took off. Between the Parisian traffic and the airport security, we needed a miracle.

“Any updates?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe and watching the chaos. Jay was frantically checking the Kakao logs, his jaw set in that way it does when he’s five seconds away from a lecture.

“Nothing,” Jay snapped, not looking up. “He’s completely off the grid.”

While the members scrambled to save our schedule, I slipped out of the room without a word. I didn't need to call him; I had a feeling. Sure enough, as I turned the corner of the hallway, there he was—walking toward the suite with that characteristic, languid stride, looking entirely too refreshed for someone who had just sabotaged a world tour.

I didn't give him a chance to speak. I yanked his sleeve and hauled him into a secluded alcove near the ice machine.

“Are you actually stupid?” I hissed, the anger seething under my skin. “Everyone is busting their asses trying to find you. Where the hell were you?”

Heeseung didn't even flinch. He just leaned back against the wall, a slow, infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know how it is. Just a little late-night hospitality.” He tilted his head, eyes scanning me with a mocking playfulness. “Calm down, Jakey. Don’t act like you don’t do the exact same thing.”

“I don’t do it with a death wish,” I retorted, my voice low and dangerous. “Now, get in there and apologize. Jungwon has been losing his mind for two hours. Don't make the kid carry your baggage.”

I shoved him toward the door, my palm flat against his chest for a second longer than necessary. As he brushed past me, a cloyingly sweet, expensive perfume wafted off his skin.

Disgusting.

I trailed a few steps behind him, watching the back of his head with a simmering heat in my chest. The moment the door swung open and Heeseung stepped into the suite, the room practically deflated with a collective groan of relief—followed immediately by a surge of pure electricity.

Jay, his fuse already burnt to a crisp, didn't even wait for the door to click shut. He lunged forward, fists curled so tight his knuckles were white.

“Where the fuck were you?!” Jay’s voice cracked like a whip across the room.

Heeseung didn’t even blink. He just adjusted his collar, a sharp, cold smirk playing on his lips. “I was having fun,” he hissed back, his voice low and dangerous. “Unlike the rest of you, who are too terrified to actually let loose for once.”

“Because we aren’t reckless like you!” Jay snapped, stepping into Heeseung’s personal space. “Do you actually not give a shit about the image we’ve spent years building? Our reputation?” He let out a harsh, dry laugh. “So what was it this time? Some French socialite’s premium silk sheets? Did she make it worth the risk of ruining us?”

Heeseung opened his mouth to retort, but Jay wasn't finished.

“Do you not care if one of those fans you’re fucking snitches to the media?!” Jay’s voice rose, the unfiltered vitriol pouring out. “You’re negligent. Every tour, every stop—you can’t leave a city without leaving your seed in some groupie. You’re going to end up with an STD or a scandal that ends us all, and for what? A quick high?”

“Jay-hyung.”

The voice was quiet, but it cut through Jay’s tirade like a knife. Jungwon stood in the center of the room, his eyes dark and tired. He looked older than he was, the weight of the leadership pressing down on his shoulders.

“Heeseung-hyung,” Jungwon started, his tone eerily calm. “We know you always say this is your ‘temporary escape,’ but this isn’t the time or the place. We’ve all worked too hard to get here. It’s disheartening to see you act this way… to see you be this negligent with everyone’s future. Just be punctual—more rational. That’s all I’m asking.”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened. He didn't look at Jungwon; instead, he leveled a venomous glare at Jay, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to make my skin crawl.

“Fine, fine,” Heeseung snarked, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll tone down the ‘activities’ next time. Happy?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heeseung’s eyes flickered toward me, a silent, knowing glint in his gaze that made my blood boil. I didn't wait for him to speak.

“Why are you looking at me?” I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “I might play in the same field, but I do it smartly. I’m out.”

I took a step closer, lowering my voice just enough so the others wouldn't catch the full venom of my words, though the bite was unmistakable.

“Besides, I actually have standards—unlike you. I don’t just go for any fan who throws themselves at me in a hotel lobby.”

Heeseung’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, his head tilting as his eyes darkened. “Are you saying—”

“Yes,” I bit back, cutting him off before he could even finish the sentence. I leaned in, my voice a cold, sharp whisper. “I’m saying you’re cheap.”

“Knock it off, Jake.” Sunghoon’s voice cut through the room. “Let’s go, guys. Car’s outside.”

The ride to the airport was suffocating. The tension between Jay and Heeseung practically vibrated against the windows, a low-frequency hum that made my teeth ache. Jungwon and Sunoo were doing their best to lighten the mood, but their jokes fell flat against the deadpan expressions of everyone else. We weren't just tired; we were done.

When we pulled up to Charles de Gaulle, the world exploded into camera flashes. It’s the idol’s curse—the moment those doors open, you’re forced to flip the switch and crack a smile, no matter how much you’re rotting inside. Jungwon nudged me, sliding a black face mask into my hand. “Give this to Heeseung,” he whispered. “He’s not hiding his face well enough.”

As much as I didn’t want to breathe the same air as that scumbag, the leader’s word was law. I handed him the mask without meeting his eyes and immediately pivoted, creating as much distance as the crowd would allow.

God, I was so sick of it. I was pissed at myself, but mostly at management. Back in the I-LAND era, the directors pulled us aside and laid it out: Heeseung and Jake, you’re the duo. Act close. They didn’t care that we were basically biting each other’s heads off the moment the red light went dark. They just buried the footage of the fights and sold the world that “Heejake” bullshit.

I’d rather be shipped with Sunghoon—at least he’s the undisputed king of the “second lead” trope in every fanfic ever written. But management had a script for everyone. It was the same prompt for Sunki: Act close. Get shipped. Get engagements. And we were all just puppets following the wires.

I was jolted back to reality by the suffocating heat of the crowd. The Paris airport was a war zone—camera flashes blinded me, and the frantic screams of fans turned the air into a wall of noise. Somehow, in the chaos of the scramble, I’d been separated from the group. The bodyguards were struggling to reach me, and for a split second, the panic was a physical weight in my chest.

Jake, you idiot. This is exactly what you get for being distracted.

Just as the crowd felt like it was going to swallow me whole, a rough, possessive hand clamped onto my lower back. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but the grip was firm, steering me with a terrifying level of authority through the sea of bodies.

I looked back, expecting a frantic manager. Instead, I met Heeseung’s eyes.

He was flanked by three bodyguards, looking entirely too calm for someone in the middle of a riot. He didn't look at me; he just kept his gaze fixed ahead, his hand staying heavy and low on my back, pulling me flush against his side to shield me. My stomach did a disgusting somersault. I could already see the slow-motion "Heejake" edits, the frantic tweets, and the shippers losing their minds over how ‘protective’ he was being.

The moment we cleared the madness and reached the relative sanctuary of the immigration check, I wrenched myself away from his touch, my skin crawling where his palm had been.

“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, my voice low enough to stay under the radar of the nearby staff. “I had it under control.”

Heeseung didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back, adjusting his mask with a slow, deliberate movement before leveling me with a look that was pure, concentrated arrogance.

“How ungrateful,” he snarked, a sharp, mocking edge to his voice. “I literally just saved your career from a stampede, Jakey. A ‘thank you’ would be a lot more appropriate than a tantrum.”

“I didn't ask for a savior,” I snapped. “Especially not a cheap one.”

Heeseung’s eyes narrowed, the "hero" mask slipping just enough to show the devil underneath. “Watch it. We have a very long flight to Singapore, and I’m not gonna deal with your bitchiness in that span of time.” 

I just rolled my eyes, refusing to give Heeseung the satisfaction of a response as I followed Sunoo into the cabin.

The atmosphere on the plane was surprisingly chill. I was settled into my seat with Sunoo as my seatmate—a relief, since he was the easiest to distract—while Heeseung and Ni-ki occupied the row directly in front of us. We were halfway through a bag of snacks, laughing at some chaotic stage photos from Paris, when my phone vibrated against my thigh.

A notification popped up on the lock screen from a random French number.

[1 New Message] “Still thinking about how you whispered in my ear at the bar last night... Are you sure you had to leave so soon? I kept your drink waiting. xoxo”

I didn’t acknowledge it, quickly swiping the preview away, but Sunoo’s eyes were already twice their normal size.

“Ooh, still in contact with her?” Sunoo teased, nudging my shoulder.

“Sunoo-yah!” I hissed, glancing at the back of Heeseung’s headrest just inches away.

“What? I’m just asking!” Sunoo laughed, leaning in. “You know, you’ve led on so many people this tour, and yet you always end up back at the hotel alone. It’s a waste of that face, Jake.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, leaning back and trying to regain my cool. “They weren’t exactly the ‘long-term’ type. I like the chase, not the commitment.”

Sunoo went back to his iPad, humming a melody, but my mind stayed stuck on that text. I didn’t even remember the girl’s name—Clara? Chloe?—but I remembered the way I’d looked at her across the rim of my glass.

That was my specialty. I didn’t need to do much. A lingering gaze, a hand grazing a waist for a second too long, a whispered “you’re different” into a shell-pink ear—it was a formula. I’d perfected the art of the Prologue; I made them believe that if they just stayed five minutes longer, I’d finally be theirs.

But the truth was, the moment I saw that look in their eyes—the “I’m ready to leave with you” look—I felt a familiar flash of panic. I was a master at the introduction but terrified of the first chapter. I loved the power of being wanted; I just didn't want the responsibility of fulfilling the promise.

I smirked to myself, a cold, practiced expression. It was better this way. If I kept them at arm’s length, I was the "Mysterious Playboy." If I let them in, I was just a twenty-something kid who had no idea what he was doing.

“You know, after the tour, maybe we should go have some real fun,” Sunoo said, snapping me out of my thoughts with a happy dance.

“The club?” I asked, a smirk finally tugging at my lips.

“Hell yeah!” Sunoo chirped.

We both broke into a quiet fit of giggles, looking like the nation’s sweethearts in our designer hoodies while plotting our next escape. We still had to land, still had to perform, and still had to pretend to be the perfect, untouchable idols the world wanted us to be.

But as I laughed, I noticed the seat in front of me shift. Heeseung hadn’t moved an inch, but I could feel his attention focused entirely on our row. He was listening. He was cataloging every word about my "chase," and for the first time, the "Mysterious Playboy" act felt a little less like a shield and a little more like a target.

𝜗ৎ ──────────────────────────────────────── 𝜗ৎ

۶ৎ 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: ᴊᴀᴋᴇ x ʜᴇᴇꜱᴇᴜɴɢ ۶ৎ 𝙵𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜: ᴘʟᴀʏʙᴏʏ!ᴊᴀᴋᴇ, ᴘʟᴀʏʙᴏʏ!ʜᴇᴇꜱᴇᴜɴɢ, ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀꜱ, ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴏxɪᴍɪᴛʏ, ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴜᴛᴜᴀʟ ᴘɪɴɪɴɢ (ᴅɪꜱɢᴜɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜᴀᴛᴇ, ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜰʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

“Angel’s face, devil’s thoughts”

To the millions watching, Lee Heeseung and Jake Sim are the industry’s "soulmate" duo—a perfect symphony of synchronized choreo and fan-service smiles. But the moment the stage lights dim, the masks shatter. Off the record, they are locked in a relentless, ego-driven war. It’s a race to see who can be the most reckless, who can talk the most shit, and who can collect the most hearts before sunrise. They hate each other’s tactics, they hate each other’s pride, but most of all, they hate how well they know each other’s game. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ೀ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ೀ

I. BAD HABITS ◀

II. VOCAL DEBT ◀

III. IDLE HOURS ◀

IV. 

Hello!

I sincerely apologize for the long hiatus. Unfortunately, Case 666 will be officially discontinued due to personal circumstances affecting the author.

Thank you so much for your patience and understanding—it truly means a lot. While this series is coming to an end, I’ll still be sharing mini-series and one-shots moving forward.

I hope you’ll continue to support my works. Thank you! 🤍

HEESEUNG || CASE 666 - II || WORD COUNT: 1404

Five years.

Five years of silence, of empty hallways, of a home that still smelled like her perfume on the first night he came back without her.

Heeseung stopped practicing law in the way the public remembered him. Technically, he was still a lawyer—no one could erase the legacy he built; no one had ever matched the precision of his mind or the force of his arguments. But after that night—that night—people looked at him differently. His brilliance became overshadowed by the image the media replayed mercilessly: Lee Heeseung, the untouchable prodigy, breaking down in front of flashing cameras as the world watched him lose the one person he loved more than his own future.

He rejected most cases now. He only accepted ones that mattered, ones that were impossible, ones that reminded him of what justice used to feel like.

Tonight was supposed to be one of those rare nights where Jake and Jay force him to “socialize.” They dragged him to Jake’s newly bought house—spacious, clean, annoyingly cheerful. Heeseung expected alcohol, loud laughter, maybe some attempt at forgetting the world for a few hours.

Instead, the coffee table was buried under stacks of files.

Folders. Photos. Statements. Circled names. Highlighted inconsistencies.

Jake, as usual, couldn’t resist cracking some high-profile case he had stumbled upon. Jay was the silent muscle behind the brain, connecting dots Jake always missed.

But Heeseung…

He couldn’t focus tonight.

His fingers kept pausing.

His gaze kept drifting.

His heartbeat had been wrong all week—too fast at midnight, too slow at dawn.

Three months.

Three whole months of dreams.

He saw Suhyun the way she used to be—hair soft across her shoulders, eyes curving into crescents when she smiled at him, hands warm on his face like she was reminding him she existed. Sometimes she spoke. Sometimes she didn’t. But every dream left him breathless, waking up with the ghost of her touch on his skin.

He missed her.

Not in the poetic way people romanticize grief—no.

He missed her like an ache that grew teeth.

Her voice in the morning.

Her footsteps echoing in the halls.

Her laugh humming through the kitchen.

Her perfume clinging to his clothes long after she hugged him.

Her warmth beside him every night.

He missed the way she’d press her forehead to his胸 and whisper, “We’re going to grow old together, Hee.”

He missed the future they built.

Now, there was only a bed where he slept sideways.

A house museum full of memories.

And a case file that had been shut down like it was nothing.

He sighed, leaning back, rubbing his trembling thumb over the edge of a paper.

“What if…”

His voice cracked, barely audible.

“What if I try to open Suhyun’s case again?”

Jake and Jay froze.

The room felt heavy, like everything inside it suddenly knew to stop breathing.

“Hee,” Jake whispered, “it’s been five years.”

“I know,” Heeseung whispered back, but this time his voice carried something desperate—something raw.

“But she’s been appearing in my dreams for three straight months. Every night. I just… I know something’s wrong. I know someone silenced the government into closing my wife’s case.”

Jay exchanged a look with Jake, then sat forward.

“Hee, whatever you decide, we’ll support you. But lawyer-to-lawyer—we need solid evidence it wasn’t self-inflicted. We know Suhyun wouldn’t kill herself. Especially not on your anniversary.”

Heeseung’s breath shook.

The vulnerability he had buried for years climbed back up his throat, tearing him open.

“I just…” He swallowed. “I miss her. I miss my wife. I miss holding her. I miss her smile. I miss her scent. I miss the peace we had. I miss the stupid arguments. I miss everything—every single thing that felt alive because she was in it.”

Silence.

Then Jay, gently:

“When’s the last time you checked her case file?”

“Last week.”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened.

“I have a gut feeling it’s not even complete. Like someone removed things. Or altered them. But I’m not giving up.”

Jake flipped open the main folder.

“Okay. Let’s segregate everything. Piece by piece. Maybe we’ll see the gaps.”

And that was when the night truly shifted.

They divided the documents into piles.

Timeline. Evidence. Witness accounts. Crime scene photos. Autopsy. Government directives. Statements. Forensics.

Except—

“Where’s the autopsy?” Jay muttered, frowning.

Jake checked under another pile. “It’s not in this folder.”

Heeseung stiffened.

“It should be there. When I first saw the file five years ago, the investigator told me the results were ‘inconclusive.’ But he never showed me the full report.”

They flipped through again.

Still nothing.

“Where the hell is the autopsy?” Jake snapped. “This is impossible. They legally can’t close a case without—”

Jay suddenly stopped.

“Look at this.”

He slid a paper toward Heeseung.

It was a government seal.

A directive.

Stamped and signed.

ORDERED TO BE WITHHELD. CLASSIFIED UNDER NATIONAL CONFIDENTIAL ACT. CASE FILE 01987–B: BAE SUHYUN.

Jake’s eyes widened.

“They classified her autopsy? Why? She wasn’t a government official.”

Jay added, “Not even chaebols get this level of sealing. This is like… high-treason level confidentiality.”

Heeseung’s hands curled into fists—not in anger, but in fear.

“What are your in-laws hiding?” Jake whispered.

“They told me to accept it and move on,” Heeseung said.

“But that’s impossible. They loved Suhyun. She was their only daughter. They can’t be willingly burying her justice.”

“Unless,” Jay said, voice carefully low, “they’re being forced.”

Forced.

Silenced.

Threatened.

Heeseung felt his pulse hammering as he stared at the classified stamp.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

And for the first time in five years, he felt it—

A spark.

Not hope.

Not fury.

But purpose.

“We start here,” Heeseung whispered.

“We find the missing autopsy. We find who ordered this. We find the people who shut the case down.”

He looked at the photo of Suhyun—her smile soft, her eyes bright.

“Someone killed my wife,” he said, voice steady but trembling.

“And someone is going to pay for it.”

He flipped through the pages again, brow furrowed.

Jay drew a line down the middle of a blank paper.

“Column one: official records.”

“Column two: anomalies.”

“Column three,” Jake added, “things the police never released to the public.”

“Time of death says 10:53 PM,” Jay murmured. “But you mentioned the call…”

“12:47 AM,” Heeseung confirmed. “From Suhyun’s number.”

Jake sat straighter. “You sure?”

“I have the phone log.”

Jay scribbled that into the ‘anomalies’ column. “That means someone had her phone two hours after Suhyun was already dead.”

“And not the killer,” Jake added. “The killer would’ve fled.”

“Unless,” Heeseung whispered, “they didn’t flee.”

Silence steeped the room.

Jake exhaled, shaking his head. “Hee… if someone stayed in the house after killing her, that means—”

“They were waiting for something,” Jay finished. “Or someone.”

“Or,” Heeseung said, throat tightening,

“they didn’t expect police to arrive so early.”

Jake nodded slowly. “So the timeline is wrong.”

“Everything is wrong,” Heeseung said. “Everything was manipulated before the world even knew she died.”

Jay looked down at the file, then back at him.

“Hee… what exactly do you want to find?”

Heeseung’s gaze darkened — grief sharpening into resolve.

“I want to find,” he said softly,

“what they tried so hard to bury.”

Jake leaned forward. “Then we start with the missing autopsy. Someone must’ve done it.”

“They did,” Heeseung murmured, eyes distant. “And they hid it. I can feel it.”

Jay circled the word autopsy on the page.

“That’s our first target.”

Jake quickly added, “Second target: the phone call. Trace the records, access the blocked logs, check the telecom towers around the Bae estate.”

“And third,” Jay said, “we interview the people who were at the house before the official responders arrived.”

Jake looked up.

“But the report says no one was there.”

“The report is a lie,” Heeseung said.

His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

“And I know exactly where to start.”

Jake’s breath hitched. “Who?”

Heeseung finally looked at both of them.

And the answer was simple.

“The first person,” he said,

“who told me not to come home.”

Jake froze. Jay stiffened.

It was the same person who claimed Suhyun was ‘busy.’

The same person whose voice cracked with fear.

The same person who should have fought for justice — but didn’t.

“Kang Minjee,” Heeseung whispered. “Suhyun’s mother.”

And for the first time in years —

HEESEUNG || CASE 666 - I || WORD COUNT: 1924

The name Lee Heeseung carried weight—not just in the courtroom, but in every corridor of justice that dared whisper his reputation. They called him the man with steady hands, a voice that could dismantle testimonies and bend logic until the truth stood naked. If Heeseung was your lawyer, you didn’t just win. You conquered.

The newspapers loved him. The public adored him. But those who truly knew him—the very few who managed to get close enough—knew there was something missing behind those calm eyes.

Heeseung lived in glass and shadow. He could stand in front of a thousand people and feel utterly alone.

Jay and Jake, his colleagues and oldest friends, were the only ones who had seen him in moments of quiet—sleeves rolled up, laughter slipping between sips of whiskey, exhaustion softening the edges of his usual precision. But even then, he never completely let his guard down. Not with them. Not with anyone.

Because there was only one person who ever saw him stripped of all armor.

Bae Suhyun.

His wife. His beginning and his undoing.

They had met when the world still felt small, back when they were just high schoolers too young to understand the gravity of their own dreams. He remembered the first time he saw her—standing by the library window, sunlight weaving through her hair, looking at the world as if she already knew she was meant to belong to none of it.

She had been untouchable even then—Bae Suhyun, daughter of the empire.

The Baes were the kind of powerful that didn’t need to raise their voices to be feared. Their family name alone could end careers, silence journalists, or shift the economy of a city overnight. Bae Group Holdings, a conglomerate spanning pharmaceuticals, finance, real estate, and media. They didn’t chase influence—they defined it.

Suhyun was their only daughter. The crown jewel of a dynasty built on ice and inheritance. She grew up surrounded by chauffeurs who bowed lower than necessary, dining tables that stretched longer than most people’s homes, and a mother whose smile had been perfected for magazine covers but never reached her eyes.

In their world, love was a deal. Trust was a gamble. And affection—if given at all—came at a cost.

But Suhyun was different. Too kind for the empire she was born into. Too fragile for its cruelty.

And that’s what drew Heeseung to her—her quiet rebellion against the life that had already been chosen for her. She laughed at rules. She dreamt of anonymity. She wanted to live without the weight of her last name.

For her, Heeseung became a promise of freedom. For him, she was salvation.

Her parents didn’t see it that way.

To them, Heeseung was just a boy—sharp, ambitious, but disposable. Someone who would burn out before he reached the top. They didn’t forbid the relationship; they simply dismissed it. And that hurt more.

So Heeseung made a vow. If power was the language the Baes spoke, then he would learn to speak it fluently.

He clawed his way up, case after case, verdict after verdict. The youngest lawyer to win an international criminal trial. The only one to be undefeated across seventeen countries. By twenty-eight, he had built an empire of his own—not in money, but in reputation.

When he finally asked for Suhyun’s hand, the Baes could no longer say no.

Their wedding was a spectacle. The kind of event the world watched through live broadcasts and glossy covers. Doves released at twilight. Violins echoing across the Han River. Every frame screamed perfection—the heir of Bae Group and the man who defied odds to reach her.

To the public, they were a symbol of devotion. To Heeseung, it was proof that love could survive power.

And for five years, it did.

Until it didn’t.

August 24, 2030. Paris, France.

The sound of static filled Jay’s apartment as Heeseung and Jay leaned over the listening device. On the other end of the feed, Jake’s voice echoed from a courtroom in Seoul — sharp, confident, unstoppable.

“Your honor,” Jake said through the wire, “the evidence submitted by the prosecution lacks credible foundation. I move to dismiss.”

Jay grinned. “That’s our boy.”

Heeseung’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “He’s toying with them.”

Jake’s trial was one of the biggest of the year—The Murder of Kang Seugi. The victim was Suhyun’s first cousin. The case was supposed to land on Heeseung’s desk, but without warning, management reassigned it to Jake. Officially, due to conflict of interest. Unofficially, no one dared ask why.

An hour later, Jake won. The crowd erupted.

And miles away, in a quiet Parisian flat, laughter filled the air.

“Bro, you were flawless,” Jay said as Jake entered, tossing his coat onto the couch.

Jake groaned. “You guys heard that? God, that was exhausting. They should’ve given it to Hee.”

“Stop it,” Heeseung muttered, amusement flickering in his tone. “You had it handled from the start. You were just entertaining yourself.”

Jake laughed. “You’re not wrong.”

For the first time in a while, they laughed like they used to. No pressure, no headlines, no ghosts of cases past. Just three men too good at what they did—and too tired to admit how lonely it felt.

Then, mid-conversation, Heeseung’s gaze drifted to his phone. The screen lit up with a familiar name. Suhyun ❤️

He excused himself, stepping into the hallway.

“Hey, Suhyie.”

Her voice came soft through the line, warm enough to melt the miles between them. “Are you done working?” she asked.

“Almost. I was listening to Jake’s trial.”

“Tell him congratulations for me,” she said gently. “And come home soon, hmm? I miss you.”

He smiled. “Just one more night. I’ll be home tomorrow. Anniversary dinner, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she said, laughter in her voice. “Now hang up, go sleep. You sound tired.”

“Alright, alright. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The line clicked.

The next morning, Heeseung woke up to the vibration of his phone. Kang Minseo flashed across the screen—Suhyun’s mother.

“Jangmonim?” he greeted, still half-asleep.

Her voice was trembling. “Heeseung, don’t come home for now.”

He sat upright instantly. “Why? What’s wrong? Where’s Suhyie?”

“I’m… I’m fine. Suhyun is busy. Just—don’t come home yet.”

“Jangmonim—”

The line cut.

He stared at the phone, confusion turning to unease. It wasn’t like her. Kang Minseo never sounded afraid.

All day, something felt wrong. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop checking his phone. Even Jay and Jake noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched as if he were waiting for a verdict he couldn’t name.

That night, he broke.

He called his pilot. “Prepare the jet. I’m flying back to Seoul tonight.”

The air outside was thick, heavy with the kind of silence that warns you something terrible is waiting on the other side.

As the plane ascended, Heeseung tried to steady his thoughts. Maybe it was just business. Maybe Suhyun’s mother was overreacting. Maybe everything was fine.

But deep down, he already knew.

By the time Seoul’s skyline shimmered beneath him, the unease had become dread. He checked his phone one last time as the plane descended.

An unread message blinked on the screen. Unknown number.

“Mr. Lee, we regret to inform you—”

He stopped reading. The words blurred. The ground fell away.

Because when the plane’s wheels touched down, the screens in the airport terminals were already flashing with breaking news.

BAE SUHYUN FOUND DEAD IN HER RESIDENCE. POLICE INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.

The world around him faded into static. All he could hear was her voice—soft, from last night’s call. “I miss you. Come home soon.”

The plane landed under a sky that looked almost bruised — purple clouds pressing down on Seoul like the city itself was holding its breath.

Heeseung barely remembered getting into the car. His hands were cold, his mind caught between disbelief and denial. Every traffic light felt like a lifetime. And when the car finally turned toward the Bae estate, the sight hit him like a blade through the ribs.

Flashing lights. Police barricades. Dozens of reporters pressed behind yellow tape, microphones raised like weapons.

Cameras clicked relentlessly as soon as his car stopped.

“Attorney Lee Heeseung! Is it true your wife—” “Mr. Lee, how do you respond to the reports—”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

He pushed through the sea of bodies, ignoring the shouts, ignoring the way flashbulbs stung his eyes. The gate of the mansion loomed ahead, guarded by uniformed officers who immediately moved to block him.

“Sir, you can’t enter.”

Heeseung’s voice cracked as he barked, “That’s my wife in there!”

“Mr. Lee, please calm down—”

“Move!”

The officers held firm. The sound of his fury shattered the composure he was known for—the calm, articulate lawyer replaced by a man stripped of reason. Reporters caught every second of it: Heeseung, eyes bloodshot, fists slamming against the barricade as he shouted her name again and again.

“Suhyun! SUHYUN!”

And then— A flicker through the half-open doorway.

Her hand. So pale. Lying limp beneath the white sheet.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped.

Heeseung froze, breath gone, the world tilting on its axis. The ringing in his ears drowned out the reporters, the police, the chaos. All he could see was the silk of her hair spilling from the stretcher, the gold wedding band still on her finger.

His knees gave out.

The man who had never lost a case, who never faltered in front of judges, collapsed before the cameras—reaching toward her as if the distance could still be crossed.

“Let me see her,” he whispered. “Please… let me see my wife.”

But the officers didn’t move.  And somewhere behind them, someone zipped the body bag closed.

The sound tore through him.

The next day, every major headline carried his face.

LEE HEESEUNG BREAKS DOWN AT CRIME SCENE.

TOP LAWYER COLLAPSES IN FRONT OF MEDIA.

BAE FAMILY SILENT. INVESTIGATION SEALED.

The legal world called it his fall from grace.His composure—gone. His credibility—questioned.

For the first time, the man untouchable by the law became consumed by it.

When the police refused to release details, Heeseung demanded the case. He begged. Threatened. Pulled every string he could reach.

“Let me handle it,” he told the authorities. “She was my wife. I deserve to know what happened.”

But a week later, the government made an announcement:

Criminal Case No. 24-317: Bae Suhyun - Closed. Cause of Death: Self-Inflicted

Just like that. No trial. No evidence. No justice.

Even the Baes —with all their power, their money, their control—couldn’t move it. The system that once bowed to their empire now refused to open its doors.

Whispers spread. Rumors grew.

And Heeseung’s career—the empire he built with precision and pride—began to crumble under the weight of suspicion.

Yet beneath the silence, one truth burned in him like an ember that refused to die:

Suhyun wouldn’t have done it. Someone made it look that way.

And if the law wouldn’t find them, he would.

That night, he sat alone in his office, city lights reflecting off the glass. The world saw a man defeated. But inside, something darker had taken root.

He opened the drawer where the envelope still waited—the one marked in red.

Criminal Case No. 24-317: Bae Suhyun 

He traced the letters with shaking fingers.

And for the first time in ten years, he let the rage consume him.

HEESEUNG || CASE 666 ||

“Why did you give up on me?!” Suhyun’s voice split through the haze like glass shattering in slow motion. Her figure trembled beneath the downpour, eyes burning with grief that had long turned into fury.

“Why did you stop fighting for me?” she cried, voice raw, almost unrecognizable. “I thought you loved me. How could you let them walk free—when you knew their hands were stained with what’s left of me?”

Heeseung couldn’t breathe. Her words struck deeper than any blade. “Suhyie…” he whispered, the name escaping him like a prayer. “I didn’t give up—they did. They said the case was hopeless. Please, believe me. Please… don’t leave me.”

But the rain was louder than his pleading. The darkness moved first—slow, deliberate—swallowing her figure until all that remained was the echo of her weeping.

“Wife, please…” His voice broke. “Don’t leave me!”

“HEESEUNG!”

He awoke with a jolt. The room was drenched in silence, the sheets clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. His breath came uneven, sharp. “It was a dream,” he muttered, his voice trembling against the dark. “Just a dream.”

“Heeseung, you okay?” Jay’s voice drifted from the couch. “If I hadn’t stayed over, you’d probably be dead from that nightmare. You’re drenched, man.”

Heeseung forced a weak laugh. “I’m fine. You worry too much. Stop scolding me like you’re older.”

Jay smiled faintly, though his eyes told another story. “Was it her again?”

“What?”

“Was it Suhyun?”

Heeseung’s gaze dropped to his hands—cold, trembling. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was her.”

Jay sighed. “You should move on. It’s been five years, Hee.”

Heeseung didn’t answer. His eyes wandered to the clock on the wall—3:06 a.m.—then to the folder on his desk, marked with a crimson label. Criminal Case No. 24-317: Bae Suhyun

Some sins wear the face of salvation

Lee Heeseung loved Bae Suhyun like a prayer—quietly, desperately, as if saying her name too loudly would break the spell. She was his calm in a world that never stopped demanding, the only thing that ever made him believe he could be soft. And when she was gone, the silence that followed wasn’t grief. It was punishment.

Now, years later, he lives carefully—a man shaped by discipline and absence. Every smile rehearsed, every word measured, every night haunted by the echo of a voice he can’t forget. They say time heals, but Heeseung knows better. Time only teaches you how to pretend you’ve forgotten the sound of her dying.

Prologue

I. Her Name In Red Ink

II. Reopening the Dead

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

LEE JENO X OC || Letters Never Sent - The Finale || Word Count: 2111

She never meant to find that folder again. It was buried beneath years of work—case notes, client files, and the quiet detritus of a life that looked perfectly in order. A folder named unsent sat untouched at the corner of her desktop. Unassuming. Innocent. The kind of name that hid entire worlds.

When she opened it, the screen glowed with words written in another lifetime—back when she still believed that love, if spoken softly enough, could last.

Back then, Hikari was a girl who mistook silence for safety. She wrote letters because saying the words out loud felt too dangerous, too irreversible. Each unsent draft was a confession suspended in time—a love preserved in its most fragile form.

Now, years later, she was someone else entirely. A woman who learned to speak in courtrooms, not through trembling paragraphs. A lawyer living abroad, with a view of a foreign skyline and a heart that had learned to carry itself with grace. She thought she had outgrown that version of her—the one who prayed for someone who had already stopped listening.

And yet, as she clicked one file open, the room tilted slightly.

i like you.

The words stared back like ghosts. Familiar. Merciless. She could almost hear her younger self typing them in the dim light of her dorm room, heart pounding with both fear and relief. That was the night she decided to stop hiding. That was the night she confessed.

She remembered it clearly—the way the world felt too quiet afterward. The way silence became sharper than rejection. The way he called hours later, his voice careful, kind, but unsure. He didn’t say no. But he didn’t say yes either.

And she mistook that in-between for hope.

For weeks after, she prayed. Not for him, but for more moments like the ones they used to share—quiet calls, inside jokes, a sense that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t alone in what she felt.

She prayed for messages that still came. For warmth that lingered. For little signs that she hadn’t ruined everything. And for a while, God answered.

A month passed like that—soft, tender, almost cruel. Every night ended with laughter. Every morning began with his name lighting up her screen. She told herself it was friendship. He never said otherwise.

But sometimes, he’d say things that sounded like maybe. And she kept every maybe like a promise.

Years blurred after that. The ache dulled, then quieted, then disappeared entirely—or so she thought. Until the envelope arrived.

It was a pale cream, embossed in gold. Elegant, expensive, familiar. She almost didn’t open it. But curiosity was a cruel thing.

Inside was an invitation. Lee Jeno & Uchinaga Giselle.

The names shimmered under the light, beautiful and final.

For a second, the world around her lost sound. Not from heartbreak—she had survived that long ago—but from realization. It all made sense now.

Giselle. Her cousin. Her childhood companion. The one who always joked that Hikari shouldn’t get “too close” to him. She had laughed it off back then, thinking it was teasing. Now, it read like warning.

Their families’ business ties. Their quiet compatibility. The way Giselle always avoided talking about him when Hikari mentioned his name. It was never coincidence. It was pre-written.

The wedding day arrived with sunlight and violins. Tokyo was drenched in gold—the kind of warmth that made everything look softer, even the things that hurt.

Hikari stood among the bridesmaids, her hair swept neatly to one side, the lavender fabric of her dress catching the light. From afar, no one would know. No one would guess that she was once the girl who wrote letters to the groom.

Giselle looked radiant, laughter spilling easily as photographers called her name. Jeno stood beside her, composed, gracious, his smile practiced yet genuine.

When their eyes met across the crowd, time hesitated—just long enough for memory to whisper: once, it could have been us.

But the moment passed—and she let it.

During the reception, he approached her. It was brief, polite, like two people acknowledging a shared history neither wanted to reopen.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said softly.

“I almost didn’t come,” she replied, smiling faintly. “But I promised Giselle I’d stand by her. I keep my promises.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to the glass in her hand, then back to her face. “You look… different.”

“Older?” she teased, half-smiling.

“Wiser,” he said.

There was a pause—the kind that used to feel like gravity. Now it was just air.

“I read your speech earlier,” he continued quietly. “It was beautiful. Thank you… for being part of this.”

She tilted her head, her voice soft but steady. “You don’t have to thank me, Jeno. Some stories are meant to end this way.”

For a moment, his expression faltered—something unreadable flickered there, then vanished. He nodded, almost sadly, and walked away.

She watched him go—not out of longing, but closure.

Later that night, when the music softened and the city lights shimmered against the windows of the hall, Giselle approached her. Her cousin’s eyes were teary, her makeup smudged from laughter and joy.

“Thank you for coming, Hika,” she said, pulling her into a hug. “I know this might’ve been… complicated.”

Hikari smiled, hugging her back. “You deserve to be happy. That’s all that matters.”

And she meant it.

When she got home, she placed the lavender bouquet beside her desk—right next to the sealed red envelope that held all her unsent letters. Then she whispered, almost to herself, “this is the last thing i’ll keep.”

For the first time, she didn’t feel the urge to write him again. No letters, no prayers, no ghosts of almosts.

Just peace.

Because some endings aren’t tragic— they’re simply quiet, necessary, and finally kind.

But peace, she would learn, is never truly quiet.

Weeks after the wedding, while sorting through old accounts she’d long abandoned, Hikari stumbled upon an unread message notification—buried deep in an email she hadn’t opened in years. Her breath caught when she saw the name. Lee Jeno.

The timestamp was from three years ago.

Curiosity won. She clicked.

Hika, I don’t know if this will ever reach you. Maybe you’ve already moved on, maybe you’ll never read this. But I just wanted to say—I’m sorry for how things turned out. I was scared of losing everything, but the truth is, I lost you anyway.

If you ever reach out… I’ll call it off. Whatever there is with Giselle, I’ll end it. I mean that.

I just need a sign that you still care.

The message ended there. No follow-up. No second email. Just that single letter—unsent in spirit, though delivered.

She leaned back, staring at the screen until her reflection blurred over the words. For a second, the old ache stirred—small, familiar, almost tender. But it didn’t consume her. Not this time.

Because now she understood. That love, if it was meant to last, wouldn’t have waited for signs. And if he had truly chosen her, he wouldn’t have needed her silence to prove it.

She closed the email, heart steady.

For a moment, she imagined replying. Something simple—it’s okay, I understand—but even that felt unnecessary. The woman she had become didn’t need to resurrect what time had already buried gently.

So she opened a new tab, drafted her resignation from the firm she’d been with for years, and booked a ticket home.

There were more.

Dozens, actually.

When she scrolled further down her inbox, she found a thread—each message stamped months apart, like a man too afraid to stop hoping. Each one sent to an address that never replied.

August 18, 2027 — Subject: I still think about that night.

I saw something today that reminded me of you. There was a girl on the train reading “Letters to the Lost,” and I remembered how you said you wanted to write one of your own someday. I didn’t answer you properly then. I wish I did. I wish I said that I would’ve read every letter you’d never send.

October 31, 2027 — Subject: Three years.

It’s been three years since that night. I still remember the time. 3:00 a.m. I replay it more than I should. You said you liked me. I didn’t say it back. I thought I was being kind—careful, even. I didn’t realize silence could break someone, too.

December 24, 2027 — Subject: She asked if I loved her.

I couldn’t answer right away. Giselle. She knows me too well. Maybe that’s why she noticed. She asked if I was thinking of someone else. I told her no, but it was a lie. I was thinking of you, Hika. The way you laughed at small things. The way you prayed for small moments to last.

March 3, 2028 — Subject: If you read this.

If you read this, just know—I was ready to call it off. Everything. I just needed to know if you still cared. I didn’t want to ruin her, or the families, or what they built around us. But I swear, I would’ve left it all if you told me to.

The words blurred before her eyes, though not because of tears. She felt nothing. Not anger. Not longing. Just a quiet ache—like the echo of a wound that had already healed but still remembered where it hurt.

She closed the laptop, then reopened it again. Read one more.

April 27, 2028 — Subject: You deserved more than confusion.

I think I understand now why you stopped writing, why you disappeared. Maybe you realized I only ever loved you halfway—too afraid of the consequences, too tied to what people expected of me. You were brave enough to say it. I wasn’t.

I see you sometimes online. You look happy. I hope you are.

And she was. Not the loud, wild kind of happy, but something gentler, steadier. She’d grown into her own silence—learned to find comfort in the spaces where his voice used to fit.

For years, she’d blamed herself for feeling too much. For praying too hard for someone who could never choose her back. But now, reading his words, she realized— she hadn’t been the coward.

He was.

The kind who confused love with timing, and regret with devotion.

She closed her laptop for the last time, the weight of it soft against her palms. The city outside was already drenched in morning light, the kind that stretches slow and golden across glass windows.

“Three years,” she whispered. A statement. Not a memory.

She stood, smoothed her dress, and picked up the wedding invitation once more. She’d RSVP’d weeks ago—“attending, with peace.”

At the ceremony, when their eyes met across the crowd, Jeno froze first. She smiled—gentle, unreadable. The kind that said I forgave you, but you’ll never have me again.

Later that night, when the music swelled and confetti fell like slow rain, she lifted her glass slightly toward the couple. “To closure,” she murmured. To every letter that was finally read too late.

And somewhere between the laughter and the applause, Jeno looked her way one last time, as if to say what his letters never could.

She didn’t look back.

Because this time, it was her turn to leave something unsent.

Years later, in a quiet apartment overlooking a foreign skyline, Hikari found herself sorting through old files on a Sunday afternoon. The folder was still there—tucked between case drafts and travel photos. jeno — do not open.

For a long time, she just stared at it. Her reflection glimmered faintly on the laptop screen: older, calmer, untouched by the girl who once stayed up at 3:00 a.m. waiting for a reply that never came.

She clicked it open anyway. Hundreds of messages. Fragments of a past life—her letters, his letters, all the words that once held her together. She read the first few lines of one before stopping.

They didn’t hurt anymore. They didn’t heal, either. They just… existed. Like echoes that had finally found silence.

Her cursor hovered over delete.

For a second, she almost hesitated. But she smiled instead—a small, peaceful kind of smile that came from knowing she had already let him go long before this moment.

Click.

Gone.

The screen went blank, but her chest didn’t feel empty. It felt light. Whole.

Outside, the sky was turning a shade of lavender, soft and endless. Somewhere, she imagined, a new story was beginning—one no longer written in unsent letters or unanswered prayers.

And for the first time in years, Hikari didn’t feel the need to write anything at all.

ONE SHOT | WINRINA | Word Count: 5.41k

"Was I just an afterthought?"

Events were loosely adapted from real-life occurrences

The rain had just stopped when Kim Minjeong stepped through the university gates for the first time. The air still smelled like wet concrete and new beginnings, and she wasn’t sure if she liked either.

She’d transferred from a small high school where everyone knew everyone—where she could blend into the background without anyone really noticing. But here, in one of Seoul’s most prestigious colleges, she was suddenly the new girl. The quiet one with the neat handwriting, soft voice, and eyes that never stayed long enough to meet anyone’s.

Her first class was Introduction to Communication Studies. She slipped into the last empty seat near the window, clutching her ID like it could anchor her.

That’s when she heard a voice beside her, smooth, slightly accented, playful. “You’re new, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Minjeong turned. The girl beside her had bright, confident eyes and an easy smile that reached them. “Yeah,” Minjeong said, adjusting her bag. “I just transferred.”

“I’m Aeri, by the way. But everyone calls me Giselle.” “Minjeong.” “Cute name,” Giselle said without missing a beat. “Where were you before this?” “Daegu. It’s… quieter there.” “Ah,” Giselle said, leaning on her elbow. “No wonder you look like you hate this city.”

Minjeong blinked, startled, then laughed quietly. “Maybe a little.”

That was the start of it—small talk that didn’t feel forced, shared snacks during breaks, random debates about music, and laughter that echoed past classroom walls.

By the second week, people started pairing them up during group works because they clicked so naturally. Minjeong never noticed the way Giselle’s smile lingered a little longer on her, or how she’d always wait by the gate just to walk her to the bus stop.

But the others did.

One lazy afternoon, Minjeong walked into the campus café and spotted Giselle sitting with two girls. Both looked like they belonged there, polished, confident, the type who turned heads without trying.

“Minjeong!” Giselle waved. “Over here!”

Minjeong hesitated but joined them anyway.

“This is Ningning,” Giselle said, pointing to the girl with dyed blonde hair and a mischievous grin. “And this is Karina.”

Karina looked up from her phone and smiled, and that was it.

That single smile.

Something in Minjeong’s chest fluttered, then sank. Karina had the kind of beauty that was impossible to ignore: sharp eyes softened by warmth, a voice that carried calm even when she wasn’t saying anything. Minjeong tried to return the smile, but it came out a little too late, a little too shy.

“Hi,” Karina said, extending her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” “Oh? From who?” Minjeong asked. “From your biggest fan,” Ningning teased, gesturing toward Giselle, who groaned. “Shut up,” Giselle muttered, cheeks red.

Karina chuckled, resting her chin on her hand. “So it’s true, huh, Gigi? You’ve got a crush on the transfer student?” “Yah!” Giselle hissed, throwing a straw wrapper at her.

Everyone laughed—even Minjeong—but her heart was pounding for a different reason.

Because when she dared to glance at Karina again, she realized something dangerous.

It wasn’t Giselle’s laughter that made her stomach twist. It was Karina’s.

And that scared her.

Because in that small café, surrounded by teasing and laughter, Minjeong already knew—this was how it started. Quietly, softly, like a secret blooming where it shouldn’t.

Weeks passed, and Minjeong began to settle into her new routine—early morning lectures, coffee breaks at the café, and lunch under the acacia tree behind the music building. Somewhere along the way, she stopped being “the new transfer student” and simply became part of their circle.

Karina, Ningning, Giselle, and Minjeong. Four names that were always said together, like they fit.

They spent their afternoons sprawled across the campus lawn, talking about anything and everything. Ningning would scroll through her phone, laughing at memes; Giselle would hum whatever song was stuck in her head; and Karina—Karina would always sit quietly, half-listening, half-lost in thought.

It was on one of those afternoons when the teasing began.

“So, Gigi,” Ningning started, her tone sing-songy. “How’s your favorite transfer student?” Giselle choked on her drink. “What the—Ning, not this again!” Karina chuckled softly, twirling her straw. “Come on, we’ve all noticed. You literally light up when Minjeong walks in.” “I do not!” Giselle protested, but her blush betrayed her.

Minjeong, caught mid-sip, blinked in confusion. “Wait, what are you guys talking about?” “Nothing!” Giselle said quickly, glaring at her friends.

But Ningning wasn’t done. “She means she adores you. Like, in a crush kind of way.”

Minjeong froze. Her heart did a weird flip, not out of excitement but out of panic. She glanced at Giselle, who looked mortified, then at Karina—who was smiling, amused, her chin resting on her palm.

“Oh,” Minjeong said softly. “I… didn’t know.” Giselle groaned. “Great. Thanks a lot, Ning.”

Karina laughed quietly. “Don’t worry, Gigi. We’ll help you win her over.”

Minjeong’s breath hitched.

The teasing became a daily thing after that. Whenever Minjeong and Giselle walked together, Karina and Ningning would exchange knowing glances, whispering jokes just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Careful, Gigi, your girlfriend’s leaving you behind.” “Minjeong-ah, don’t make Giselle jealous!”

It was harmless—at least to them. But to Minjeong, every word felt like a needle.

Because no matter how many times they teased Giselle, her eyes would always drift toward Karina. Every time Karina laughed, Minjeong’s chest tightened; every time she smiled at her, it felt like the world shifted a little too close, a little too bright.

Giselle started texting her more, calling her Minjeongie in messages. She’d share playlists, buy her snacks, wait by her classroom after class. Everyone thought it was sweet.

But Minjeong couldn’t feel it. Not really.

She appreciated it, yes—but it wasn’t the same warmth that bloomed in her chest whenever Karina said her name.

“Minjeong,” Karina would call out after class, voice smooth, soft around the edges. “You’re coming with us, right?” That alone was enough to make her forget how to breathe.

She knew it was wrong—to feel this way while Giselle’s heart was pointed straight at her—but Minjeong couldn’t help it. Karina wasn’t just beautiful. She was effortless. She had this quiet confidence that drew people in, made them feel seen without even trying.

And Minjeong? She was falling. Fast, and quietly, in a way that no one noticed.

But Karina did.

She’d catch Minjeong staring sometimes—during lectures, or while they sat across from each other at the café. Karina would tilt her head, smile just a little, and Minjeong would look away, cheeks flushed.

“Are you okay?” Karina would ask. “Yeah,” Minjeong would lie.

Because what was she supposed to say? I like you, even though I shouldn’t. Even though they all think Giselle’s the one who does.

The teasing continued, but the laughter started to sound different.

And one rainy afternoon, when Minjeong found herself standing under the same umbrella as Karina—Giselle nowhere in sight—she realized something terrifying.

For all the teasing and pretending, she wasn’t just part of the game anymore.

She was the one losing it.

It started with silence. Not the comfortable kind—the kind that hums between two people who understand each other—but the kind that sits heavy in the air, pressing down until breathing feels like effort.

Minjeong noticed it first. Giselle wasn’t as loud anymore. The jokes stopped coming, and the teasing that once filled their days faded into soft, hesitant smiles. Even Ningning picked up on it, her usual energy dimming whenever the group sat together.

Karina, on the other hand, stayed the same—or at least, she seemed to. She still laughed at Ningning’s dumb puns, still shared her fries with Minjeong, still nudged Giselle whenever the room got too serious. But Minjeong could feel it—the shift in the air, the unspoken tension between them all.

It finally broke one late afternoon.

They had just finished their last class, the sky bruised with rain clouds when Giselle asked, “Can we talk?”

Minjeong blinked. “Yeah, sure.”

They ended up under the covered walkway, rain tapping gently against the pavement. Giselle looked nervous, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her usual confidence nowhere to be seen.

“I don’t wanna make things weird,” Giselle began, “but I can’t keep pretending anymore.” Minjeong’s stomach sank. She already knew what was coming.

“I like you, Minjeong.” The words came out shaky, vulnerable. “I’ve liked you for a while now. I know it’s probably obvious, and maybe you don’t feel the same, but I just… I needed you to know.”

Minjeong’s lips parted, but no words came out. The rain filled the silence between them, soft but relentless.

“Giselle…” she finally whispered. “You’re really important to me. You are. But I—” She stopped. Her throat tightened around the truth she couldn’t say. But I like someone else.

Giselle smiled, a little too quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. I just wanted to get it off my chest.” She turned to leave, and Minjeong’s heart cracked at the sight of her retreating figure—brave and breaking all at once.

For the next few days, things were off. Giselle started avoiding her, not completely, but enough to make it hurt. Ningning tried to lighten the mood, but the group didn’t feel the same anymore.

Then came Karina.

It was raining again—Seoul seemed to have a cruel sense of timing—when Minjeong found herself alone in the café, staring at the untouched cup of coffee across from her. Giselle was supposed to meet her, but she hadn’t shown up.

“Mind if I sit?”

Minjeong looked up. Karina stood there, rain still clinging to her hair, eyes soft in the café light.

“Sure,” Minjeong said, moving her bag aside.

Karina sat down, watching her quietly for a while before saying, “You’ve been quiet lately.” “So has everyone,” Minjeong replied, forcing a smile.

Karina leaned back, studying her. “Did something happen between you and Giselle?” Minjeong hesitated. “She told me something… and I didn’t really know what to say.” Karina nodded slowly. “She likes you.” Minjeong froze. “You knew?” Karina’s lips curved faintly. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

They both laughed softly, but it didn’t reach their eyes.

“Minjeong is too formal,” Karina said after a pause. “Do you have a nickname?” “Winter,” she answered, hesitating. “Okay then,” Karina said, voice low and steady. “Winter.”

The way she said it—like she was testing the weight of it—made something flutter in Minjeong’s chest.

“I’m actually glad you rejected Gigi,” Karina added, tracing the rim of her cup. Minjeong blinked. “Glad?” “Yeah,” Karina said, looking up. “She’s had a suitor for months now. Wonbin. Poor guy’s been trying so hard to win her heart, and it really broke him seeing her pine over you instead.” “Really?” “Yeah,” Karina sighed. “Giselle can be a red flag when she knows what she wants.”

Minjeong didn’t know what to say to that. The words lingered, heavy and strange. She wanted to defend Giselle—but somehow, hearing Karina speak so casually about it made her chest ache in a different way.

Then Karina said something that made Minjeong forget to breathe. “She’s not the only one who’s been acting different, you know.” Minjeong’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?” Karina tilted her head. “You avoid my eyes when I talk. You stutter when I tease you. You don’t do that with anyone else.”

Minjeong’s heart stopped.

She wanted to deny it, but Karina’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “I’m not judging,” Karina said, her voice gentle now. “I just want you to know you don’t have to hide it.”

Hide what? The longing? The way her heart ached every time Karina smiled? The guilt that came with wanting someone she shouldn’t?

Minjeong looked down, gripping her cup tightly. “It’s not that simple.” Karina leaned closer, voice low. “It never is.”

The rain outside turned heavier, thunder rolling faintly in the distance. For a second, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them—two people standing on the edge of something neither could name.

Minjeong finally looked up, meeting Karina’s eyes. And that’s when she knew.

Whatever this was, it was already too late to stop.

After that afternoon in the café, things changed—but not in the way Winter expected. Karina didn’t pull away. If anything, she drew closer.

It started small—texting more often, lingering after class, walking her halfway to the dorm even when it was out of her way. They called it coincidence, but both of them knew better.

“Morning, Winter.” Karina said it with that teasing lilt again, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You sound too cheerful for 8 a.m.,” Winter mumbled, hiding a smile behind her tumbler. “I had coffee.” “You always have coffee.” “Then maybe it’s because I saw you first thing today.”

Winter rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curving upward. “Smooth, Yoo Karina.” “I try,” Karina said, grinning.

They started sitting next to each other in lectures, whispering comments about professors, trading doodles on the corners of their notes. When Karina laughed, she’d nudge Winter’s shoulder lightly, and Winter would pretend not to freeze every time.

To anyone else, it looked harmless—two friends sharing easy comfort. But to Winter, every word felt like stepping closer to a line she shouldn’t cross.

One afternoon, they stayed behind in the empty classroom to finish a project. Rain drummed softly against the windows, the golden light outside turning the room hazy.

Karina leaned back in her chair, stretching. “You know, Winter, you get this focused face when you’re working.” Winter glanced up. “That’s supposed to be a compliment?” “It’s supposed to be dangerous.” Winter blinked. “Dangerous?” “Yeah,” Karina said with a grin. “It makes people stare too long.”

Winter bit her lip to stop a laugh. “Then stop staring.” “Can’t. You told me to be honest.”

It wasn’t just banter anymore. The air between them pulsed, heavy with something unsaid. Karina looked at her the way people look at things they’re afraid to lose.

Winter looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” “Why not?” Karina asked softly. “Because someone might take them seriously.” Karina’s smirk faltered for a heartbeat—then she smiled again, slower this time. “Maybe that’s the point.”

From then on, their friendship lived in that fragile in-between: stolen glances, lingering touches, words that meant too much.

They’d sit too close at lunch. Karina would rest her chin on Winter’s shoulder when she read. Sometimes, she’d brush a strand of hair from her face and say it was “in the way,” when it clearly wasn’t.

Every time, Winter told herself not to read into it. Every time, she failed.

Because Karina made it easy to forget about boundaries—easier still to cross them.

One night, as they walked out of the library, Karina held out her umbrella and said, “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like spending time with me.” Winter smiled faintly. “Maybe I do.” Karina’s eyes softened. “Then I’m lucky.”

Winter laughed quietly, but something in her chest ached. Because for once, it didn’t feel like flirting anymore. It felt like the truth pretending to be a joke.

It happened on a Thursday. The kind of day that felt too ordinary to hold something life-changing.

Winter and Karina were sitting on the steps outside the lecture hall, watching the sky burn orange. They’d been laughing about something stupid—something that didn’t matter—when the laughter slowly faded, replaced by silence that stretched too long.

Winter’s heart was pounding so loud it felt like a warning. She knew she was about to ruin something good.

“Karina,” she said quietly.

Karina hummed, her eyes still on the fading sun. “Hmm?”

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Karina turned to her, puzzled. “Pretending what?”

Winter forced herself to meet her gaze. “That this—whatever this is—doesn’t mean something.”

Karina froze. The world around them went still, the laughter of students in the distance fading into white noise.

Winter continued before she could lose her nerve. “I like you, Karina. Not in a ‘you’re fun to be around’ kind of way. I—actually like you.”

Karina’s brows furrowed, her lips parting slightly in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Come on, Winter.” She laughed, but it sounded brittle. “You always tease back. You flirt. That’s just… what we do.”

Winter’s chest tightened. “You think this is a joke to me?”

“I just—” Karina looked away, her voice softening. “You don’t mean it.”

That stung more than Winter expected. She stood up, clutching her bag. “Maybe you just don’t want me to mean it.”

Karina didn’t respond. She didn’t reach out. She just sat there, staring at the ground, her silence louder than any rejection could ever be.

Winter turned and walked away before her voice could break.

—

The next day, Karina found an envelope on her desk. Six folded pages, written in Winter’s neat, looping handwriting.

She hesitated before opening it.

The letter wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t bitter. It was honest.

Winter wrote about the first time they met, about the café where Karina called her name like it meant something. She wrote about the way Karina laughed, how she memorized her favorite color without trying, how she hated herself for falling for someone who’d never look at her the same way.

On the last page, the ink had smudged slightly, like she’d hesitated before finishing it.

“You don’t have to feel the same. I just needed you to know it was real.”

Karina reread that line again and again, each word heavier than the last.

Outside, it started to rain. The kind of rain that blurred everything it touched—ink, paper, the edge between love and almost.

She sat there until the pages wrinkled under her fingers, realizing too late that some things aren’t meant to be fixed—only felt.

It took three days for Winter to talk to her again. Three days of avoiding eye contact in the halls, of swallowing down every word that wanted to escape.

When she finally did, it was after class—just the two of them, the room dim and quiet except for the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

Karina looked up from her notes, startled. “Winter.”

Winter’s palms were clammy. “Hey.”

They stared at each other for a moment, unsure which version of themselves they were supposed to be. The one before the confession, or the one after.

Winter broke the silence first. “Did you read it?”

Karina nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“And?”

Karina exhaled, the kind that sounded like surrender. “It was beautiful.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Karina smiled faintly, eyes soft. “You’re brave, you know that?”

Winter swallowed hard. “Then let me be brave again.”

She took a step closer. “Can I court you?”

Karina’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m not asking you to say you love me back. I just… want to show you what it could feel like. I want to try. Even if it’s just one chance.”

Karina’s lips parted, words catching somewhere between yes and no. Finally, she looked down, cheeks tinged pink. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Karina nodded, voice small. “Okay.”

And just like that, Winter’s chest filled with something bright and reckless.

For a week, it felt like everything was right.

Winter brought her coffee in the mornings, waited after class, walked her to the gate. Karina smiled more often now, laughed at the smallest things. There were moments—small ones—that made it feel mutual.

They’d hold hands in public, their fingers intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world. When they crossed streets, Karina would tug her closer without thinking. They hugged often—briefly at first, then longer each day. Winter could still remember the warmth of Karina’s hair against her cheek, the way she’d whisper “thank you” after every little gesture.

There were times they’d sit under the trees near the campus fountain, Karina resting her head on Winter’s shoulder as they shared earphones. It wasn’t grand, but it was real—or at least, it felt that way.

Until it wasn’t.

One morning, Karina stopped replying to messages. At lunch, she sat with Ningning and Giselle instead of Winter. By Wednesday, she had started leaving class early. By Friday, she was a ghost in the hallways—always just out of reach.

Winter tried not to notice, but even silence has a way of screaming when you care too much.

By the end of the week, she was sitting in the cafeteria with her head down when Yunjin slid into the seat beside her, Ryujin following quietly behind.

“Minjeong,” Yunjin said softly, “you need to stop.”

Winter blinked. “Stop what?”

Ryujin exchanged a glance with Yunjin before sighing. “The courting. Whatever this is.”

Winter’s throat tightened. “She didn’t even say anything. She just—left.”

“That’s the point,” Yunjin murmured. “If she wanted it, you wouldn’t be the only one trying.”

Winter stared at the untouched drink in front of her, the straw sinking into melted ice. “I just thought… maybe she needed time.”

“Or maybe she already made up her mind,” Ryujin said quietly.

Winter didn’t respond. The world felt heavier, like the air itself was pressing down on her.

Because deep down, she knew they were right.

It had only been a week—but love, even when it’s short, has a way of leaving a mark that doesn’t fade easily.

Days bled into weeks, and somehow, life kept going.

The group—Winter, Karina, Sullyoon, and Mark—still met for their project, still sat in their usual corner of the campus café. Same chairs, same playlist humming in the background, same sunlight dripping through the windows.

But it wasn’t the same.

Not for Winter.

Karina sat across from her, neat as always, her laptop open, her eyes focused on the screen as if the world began and ended there. Not a glance. Not a word outside of the project. Not even the small smiles she used to throw across the table when their eyes met by accident.

“Okay,” Mark said, scrolling through his notes, “we need to finish the survey results by next week.”

Winter nodded. “I already sorted the data.”

“Great.”

Karina typed quietly. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Just the faint click of her keyboard and the rustle of her hair when she moved.

Winter told herself she was fine with it—that this was what Karina wanted, and she had to respect that. But every second of that silence scraped against her chest.

Sullyoon tried to fill it with small talk, with laughter that never quite reached either of them. Mark, bless him, tried to pretend he didn’t notice the invisible line drawn down the table.

But Winter noticed everything.

The way Karina would pass her a document without their fingers touching. The way she’d speak to Sullyoon or Mark with her usual warmth, only for her voice to cool when it was Winter’s turn. The way she’d leave first, always—before Winter could gather the courage to say goodbye.

It was indifference, sharp and deliberate. And it hurt more than any rejection ever could.

Winter stayed late one afternoon, long after the others had gone. The table still smelled faintly of Karina’s perfume. She stared at the empty seat across from her and whispered under her breath, “I wish you’d just yelled at me instead.”

Because silence, she realized, didn’t mean peace. It meant absence. It meant being erased slowly, politely.

When she finally stood to leave, she caught a glimpse of Karina by the vending machines outside—laughing at something Sullyoon said, her face soft and alive in a way it never was around Winter anymore.

Winter smiled bitterly to herself, clutching the strap of her bag tighter. Karina looked happy. And that should’ve been enough. But it wasn’t.

Not when Winter was still learning how to breathe through the ache of being treated like nothing happened— when for her, it was everything.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking toward the cafeteria, hoping the movement would drown out her thoughts.

The smell of coffee hit her before she even reached the counter. She ordered her usual: iced Americano, half-melted ice, too bitter to finish. It didn’t matter. She just needed something to hold. Something to do with her hands when her heart wouldn’t stay still.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Yunjin. “You good?” Winter typed, deleted, then typed again. “Yeah.” A lie that had begun to roll off her fingers too easily.

She sat down at an empty table, trying to focus on the noise—the clinking of spoons, the shuffle of trays, laughter bouncing from table to table. Ordinary life. Safe distance.

And then, like a cruel coincidence, she saw her.

Karina.

Across the cafeteria, by the doors, framed in that familiar soft light. Hair tied back, lips parted in mid-laughter. For a second, Winter’s breath hitched. Maybe—just maybe—Karina had come looking for her.

But then Yeji appeared.

Yeji, with her easy confidence, her familiar grin, her eyes lighting up when she saw Karina. Karina’s expression softened immediately—something in her whole posture shifting. Her face opened in that rare, unguarded way that Winter had memorized once.

Without hesitation, Karina stepped forward and hugged Yeji.

Not a friendly pat-on-the-back kind of hug. The kind that felt like home. The kind that said I missed you.

Winter froze.

The sound of the cafeteria dulled around her, as if someone had pulled her out of the world and left her floating on the edge of it. The chatter blurred, the laughter turned distant. All she could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.

Karina said something—something light, something that made Yeji laugh again. That same laugh Winter had once worked so hard to hear.

And in that moment, every unanswered question collapsed into a single truth. It was never confusion. Never mixed signals. It was Yeji. It had always been Yeji.

Winter stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping the floor. Nobody looked. Nobody cared. She was just another student leaving. Just another girl realizing she’d been loving someone who’d already chosen someone else.

Outside, the air was sharp and cool. The sky was gray again, the kind that promised rain.

She didn’t cry. Not there, not where anyone could see.

She just walked—past the hallway, past the empty benches, past the version of herself that still hoped.

When she finally reached her car, the first drop of rain hit the windshield. Then another. Then more, until everything blurred.

Winter sat there, motionless, watching it pour. The world outside trembled and bent through the glass, and for the first time in a long while, she let herself feel it all— the loss, the ache, the quiet kind of grief that comes when someone moves on without you.

Inside the cafeteria, Karina was probably still smiling.

And that, Winter thought, was the cruelest kind of ending— the one where you’re the only one who realizes it’s already over.

The rumor started during lunch. By the time Winter entered the cafeteria, it wasn’t even a rumor anymore.

“Karina’s transferring,” Sullyoon said, tone careful. “She’s leaving for Ewha next week.”

Winter froze, her hand tightening around her tray. “What?”

“It’s official,” Ningning added quietly. “Full scholarship.”

Winter nodded slowly, the air leaving her lungs. “That’s… good for her.” She sat down, pretending to eat, pretending not to hear the whispers, pretending it didn’t feel like the floor had just opened beneath her feet.

Then the noise around her dimmed. Heads turned toward the entrance.

Karina had just arrived.

She looked untouchable — the crisp uniform, the calm smile, her usual composure wrapped perfectly around her like armor. And beside her was Yeji, coffee in hand, eyes soft in the way that said everything Winter didn’t want to see.

Someone joked, “You’re really leaving us, huh?”

Karina smiled. “It’s about time.”

Yeji laughed beside her, nudging her shoulder. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.”

Karina turned toward her, eyes light. “Now you know.”

And before anyone could react, she leaned forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t showy. But it was enough.

Enough for the cafeteria to go quiet. Enough for Winter’s world to stop moving.

She didn’t stay to see what happened after. The sound of her chair scraping against the floor echoed too loud as she stood and walked out. No one followed her.

Outside, Seoul was drenched in rain. The streets glowed silver and gold under the city lights, but Winter barely saw any of it. Her chest felt hollow. Every step hurt.

By the time she realized where her feet had taken her, she was at the old overpass near Hongdae — Karina’s favorite spot. The city stretched below, endless and indifferent.

Winter sat on the bench, her hair dripping, her fingers trembling around the strap of her bag. Inside it were letters she never sent, pages filled with everything she couldn’t say.

She was still trying to breathe when a familiar voice cut through the rain.

“Minjeong.”

Winter turned. Karina was there — dry under an umbrella, as if the storm had spared her. Her face was unreadable.

“What are you doing here?” Winter asked, voice raw.

Karina’s tone was calm, almost too calm. “You always come here when you’re upset.”

Winter let out a breathy laugh. “You still remember that?”

“I remember many things,” Karina said simply.

Winter’s voice hardened. “Then you probably remember how it felt to be honest with me.”

Karina didn’t react. “I came to tell you goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Winter repeated, laughing without humor. “You already said goodbye when you kissed Yeji in front of everyone.”

“That wasn’t about you.”

Winter’s eyes widened. “Then what was it about?”

“It was about me,” Karina said, steady and emotionless. “I’m moving on, Minjeong. That’s all it was.”

Winter stared at her. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think I owed you that,” Karina said flatly.

Something inside Winter cracked. “You didn’t owe me anything? After everything? After I—” Her voice broke. “After I loved you?”

Karina’s expression didn’t change. “You shouldn’t have.”

Winter swallowed hard, her hands shaking. “So that’s it? You’re leaving and I’m supposed to just—what—pretend none of it mattered?”

Karina shifted her umbrella slightly, her gaze fixed somewhere past Winter. “It mattered. But it’s over.”

Winter laughed bitterly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m realistic.”

“No,” Winter said, stepping closer, her eyes wet. “You’re afraid.”

Karina’s jaw tightened. “Afraid of what?”

“Of feeling anything real,” Winter hissed. “You push people away the second it stops being convenient for you. Giselle, Yeji, me. You only stay where it’s easy.”

Karina’s eyes flickered, but her tone stayed cool. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night, fine.”

Winter’s voice cracked. “You’re really this heartless?”

Karina exhaled quietly. “I just learned not to confuse intensity for love.”

Winter’s breath hitched. “You said you liked me.”

“I did,” Karina said, and for a brief second, her eyes softened — but only slightly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted to stay.”

Winter’s throat tightened. “Why? Because Giselle got distant? Because Yeji was easier?”

“Because you were too much,” Karina said finally, evenly. “Too loud. Too honest. Too everything I wasn’t ready for.”

Winter blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. “So you replaced me.”

“I moved on,” Karina corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The silence between them was sharp, the rain falling heavier. Seoul glimmered around them — beautiful, uncaring.

“Do you even feel guilty?” Winter whispered.

Karina’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

Winter let out a trembling laugh, half disbelief, half heartbreak. “You really don’t, huh?”

“I’m happy with Yeji,” Karina said, her tone final, unshaken.

And just like that, Winter stopped speaking. The words caught in her throat and never made it out.

For a long moment, she just looked at her — the girl she loved, standing there like the rain didn’t touch her, like none of this ever meant anything.

Winter’s voice was barely a whisper when it came. “I hope she makes you quiet, too.”

Karina didn’t reply.

Winter gave her one last look before turning away. “Goodbye, Karina.”

“Goodbye, Winter,” Karina said, calm and unbothered.

Winter walked off into the rain, shoulders trembling, the city lights blurring around her. The letter inside her coat pocket bled through with water, ink running like tears she refused to shed.

And that was how it ended — not with shouting, not with closure, but with indifference.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t die. It just hardens in the chest of the one who no longer cares.

LEE JENO X OC || Letters Never Sent VI || Word Count: 2695

Double Update! 16-10-25

tokyo next month.maybe we could meet.

She had read it a hundred times before sleeping, then again upon waking, just to make sure it was still there. The words hadn’t disappeared, though she almost wished they had. It would’ve been easier to pretend they never came.

Now, standing in front of her mirror, she didn’t know what to do with her reflection. Her uniform hung loosely; her hair refused to fall the right way. Her hands shook as she fixed the small ribbon on her blouse. She wasn’t meeting him today, she told herself. Probably not even this week. And yet, her pulse betrayed her.

In class, her pen tapped against the page, rhythm matching the quiet drum in her chest. Yuki noticed.

“You’re fidgety,” she said, leaning over.

“I’m not.”

“You so are,” Yuki grinned. “He texted again, didn’t he?”

Hikari’s silence was answer enough.

After school, the clouds hung low and gray, threatening rain. She was halfway to her dorm when her phone buzzed again.

I’m here.

Two words. The same simplicity as before, but heavier this time. Her breath caught. Her fingers hovered over the screen before she finally typed:

Where?

The reply came almost instantly.

Tokyo. I have the afternoon free. Coffee?

The world spun quietly. Her legs moved before her thoughts did.

When she arrived, the café was tucked into a quiet corner of the street, far from the chaos of the main crossing. The door chimed softly when she entered, the scent of roasted beans and warm pastries wrapping around her like a memory.

And there he was.

Jeno looked almost the same—still in his black cap and hoodie, trying to disappear into the background—but she could tell. There was a tiredness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a certain weight in his smile when he saw her.

“Hikari,” he said, standing halfway as if unsure whether to wave or reach for her.

Her name in his voice still did something strange to her chest. “Hey,” she managed, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be.

He motioned for her to sit. “You found it easily?”

She nodded. “You picked the quietest café in Shibuya. That’s impressive.”

“I missed quiet places,” he said.

The conversation started awkwardly—small talk, laughter that tripped over itself. But slowly, the rhythm found them again. He talked about the city’s noise, the long rehearsals, how sleep had become a luxury. She listened, the way she always did.

He noticed her silence and smiled faintly. “Still listening more than talking?”

“Still talking too much?” she countered softly.

They both laughed, and for a second, the months between them disappeared.

At one point, he reached for his drink at the same time she did. Their hands brushed—barely—but the warmth lingered longer than it should have.

“Do you ever think,” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now, “how strange it is that we’re here again?”

Hikari looked at him, then at the window where the rain had started to fall, tracing thin lines down the glass. “All the time,” she admitted. “I prayed for it, I think.”

He tilted his head. “You prayed?”

She nodded. “Not like… asking for forever. Just for another moment. Something like this.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. But when he did, his voice was soft enough to get lost in the rain. “Then I’m glad you prayed.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It felt full—like all the words they never said had found a place to rest.

When they finally left, the rain had stopped. The city smelled like new beginnings.

And as she walked beside him, Hikari found herself whispering another quiet prayer into the damp air.

Please let this last, just a little longer.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Anywhere quiet,” Hikari replied. “You probably don’t get that much.”

He smiled behind the mask. “You’d be surprised. Silence follows me a lot these days.”

They walked side by side through the narrow backstreets of Shibuya, where the smell of rain clung to shopfronts and power lines hummed softly overhead. They passed a record store, a flower stall, a small bookstore tucked between two vending machines. Hikari slowed there, eyes catching on a display of secondhand poetry books.

“You still read these?” Jeno asked, following her gaze.

“I never stopped.”

He waited as she went inside, the bell chiming softly above the door. The shop was warm, the air thick with paper and dust and nostalgia. Rows of worn spines leaned against each other like old friends.

Hikari ran her fingers across the titles until one stopped her—an anthology of love letters written during the war. The corners were bent, pages yellowed, but it felt alive somehow, like each word had waited decades for someone to read it again.

“Do you still write?” Jeno asked behind her.

She hesitated. “Sometimes. Just not things I can send.”

He nodded as if he understood. “The things you’ll never say?”

Her head snapped up, startled. “You remember that?”

“Of course,” he said, quietly. “I read every one you showed me.”

Her throat tightened. Those letters—the ones she wrote but never sent—had always been her safest confessions. To hear him recall them now felt like someone touching something sacred.

They left with one book each: his a thin volume of modern poems, hers the anthology. Outside, the drizzle had stopped, the air carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt. They stopped at a convenience store, bought canned coffee and rice balls, and found a bench by the river to sit.

The water glimmered faintly under the overcast sky. Jeno tipped his head back, eyes closed, breathing in.

“Feels like the first real break I’ve had in months,” he said.

“Do you ever get used to it?” she asked. “The noise, the cameras?”

He thought for a moment. “You don’t get used to being seen all the time. You just learn how to disappear while being watched.”

Hikari looked at him then—not the idol the world adored, but the boy who once stayed up talking about constellations and loneliness and the shape of silence. He was still that boy, somewhere beneath the exhaustion.

She said softly, “You sound tired.”

He opened one eye, smiling faintly. “I am. But this—” he gestured toward her, the river, the faint hum of cicadas returning after the rain—“this helps.”

They sat there for hours. The city faded into soft motion around them—buses sighing, voices echoing faintly across the bridge. Their conversation flowed easily now: what they’d been reading, her classes, his favorite ramen shop that changed owners, the new film she wanted to see.

At one point, Hikari turned to him and said, “You always make the world feel slower.”

He chuckled quietly. “That’s funny. You’re the one who does that for me.”

The sky deepened into a dusky lavender, light dripping away behind the high-rises. Hikari felt time folding in on itself, hours compressing into moments she wanted to keep. She prayed silently, her fingers curling against the spine of her book.

Please, let this day not end too quickly.

When Jeno finally stood, stretching his arms overhead, she felt that familiar ache settle in again—the one that came every time life reminded her that joy was temporary.

“Dinner?” he asked.

She smiled, small and certain. “Yeah. Dinner.”

The word tasted like borrowed time.

The days after that small encounter didn’t feel like days at all. They slipped quietly through her fingers, soft and trembling, like light that refused to stay.

Everything began to echo him—

the late afternoon sun, the quiet hum of the vending machine outside her dorm, even the pauses between her friends’ laughter.

It wasn’t that he was everywhere.

It was that he had been, once, and her world hadn’t figured out how to stop remembering.

Sometimes, she’d wake before her alarm, her chest heavy with that familiar ache—the kind that doesn’t hurt sharply, just lingers, patient, persistent. She’d lie there, staring at the pale ceiling, tracing the cracks of light that spilled through the curtains, wondering if somewhere, he was doing the same.

At night, when the city softened into a hum, she prayed.

Not with folded hands, not with tears—just quiet words that barely reached her own ears.

“Please,” she’d murmur, eyes closed,

“Let me see him again.” 

“Let him think of me, even for a second.”

“Let something—anything—remind me that it wasn’t all in my head.”

And somehow, it always happened.

The universe seemed to answer her in the smallest ways, as if mocking her tenderness.

A song he mentioned once would play in a café.

A word he liked would surface in a stranger’s conversation.

A passing ad would flash his name.

Tiny things, nothing extraordinary—yet each one felt like proof that the thread between them hadn’t snapped completely.

It went on for a month like that.

A month of coincidences and quiet mercy.

A month of pretending she wasn’t waiting for something that wasn’t coming back.

Her friends would talk about plans for summer, laugh about new crushes, complain about grades. Hikari smiled where she needed to, nodded when spoken to, laughed when laughter was expected.

But inside, she was still counting prayers instead of days.

Every morning felt like standing at the edge of a cliff she’d already fallen from.

She tried to busy herself—volunteering for library duties, taking longer walks to class, learning new recipes she never finished. But her thoughts always circled back to the same gravity.

The warmth of his voice. The steadiness of his gaze. The way silence didn’t scare her when it was him beside her.

Sometimes, she’d imagine bumping into him again by accident—at a crossing, at a bookstore, at some nameless street café. The thought didn’t make her hopeful; it only made her ache more gently.

Because she knew it wouldn’t happen.

Because she knew she would only ever meet him in echoes now.

She learned to take it all as grace—the way time softened the edges, the way longing didn’t fade but learned to breathe quietly beside her.

One evening, the rain started just as she reached her dorm.

She didn’t rush inside.

Instead, she stood by the gate, eyes closed, letting the drizzle soak into her sleeves.

For a moment, the air smelled like that night by the river, like warm broth and quiet laughter and the faint electric hum of almost.

Something inside her ached with recognition.

Not grief anymore—just a quiet surrender.

She tilted her face to the sky and whispered,

“If I can’t have more days like that, at least let me remember this one clearly.”

The rain answered with soft insistence.

And she smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t need witnesses.

That night, she slept with the window open, the sound of water filling the spaces where his voice used to be.

And for the first time in weeks, her heart didn’t beg for more.

It simply—finally—listened.

It took her longer than she’d like to admit to realize he wasn’t coming back.

Not as a message, not as a call, not even as a passing thought in her notifications.

Just—silence.

The kind that stretches across weeks until it starts sounding normal.

At first, she tried to make excuses for him.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe he saw her message and didn’t know what to say.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

She filled the quiet with endless reasons, building walls of hope that kept crumbling the moment she remembered how easily he had looked at her that night—like she was someone who mattered.

That was the part that hurt the most: he had made her believe she did.

Not through words, but through those small, careful gestures that people use when they’re not thinking. The soft tone, the unguarded smile, the way he remembered details she didn’t expect anyone to.

He never promised her anything, but the way he treated her made it easy to imagine that he might.

And that was its own kind of cruelty.

Hikari didn’t hate him for it.

She couldn’t.

But there was a slow, dawning understanding in her chest now—like watching a candle burn itself out.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

He had just moved on.

And she… had stayed.

There’s a certain kind of love that exists only in the quiet spaces between words—the kind that doesn’t ask for recognition, only presence. That was what she’d been living in all this time: a space he’d already left behind.

The first few weeks after their last encounter, she kept waiting for him to reach out.

She’d glance at her phone when it buzzed, heart leaping before she saw someone else’s name. She caught herself drafting replies to messages that never came.

By the second month, the hope had dulled into habit.

She still looked, but she didn’t expect anymore.

One night, as she walked home past the shuttered shops near her dorm, she stopped in front of a record store window.

A familiar song was playing from the inside—something he once mentioned in passing, something he said “felt like rain.”

It made her smile, then ache, then laugh quietly to herself.

It wasn’t that he lied.

He just never meant what she thought he did.

And somehow, that felt heavier than a goodbye.

The realization didn’t come all at once—it arrived in fragments.

The way he’d pause before replying, the way his eyes drifted elsewhere mid-conversation, the way he’d say, “You’re easy to talk to,” instead of “I missed you.” Little signs she once chose to ignore because she wanted to believe the warmth was mutual.

He had given her pieces of himself, just enough to keep her hoping—but never enough to stay.

And now, she was left with echoes.

Still, when she thought about him, it wasn’t with anger.

If anything, it was tenderness.

Because somewhere between their messages and silences, she had found parts of herself she didn’t know existed—someone capable of loving quietly, deeply, without needing to be chosen in return.

That was what she carried now.

Not him, but the version of herself she had met because of him.

As autumn crept in, the air turned cooler. The mornings became slower, softer.

Hikari began to find peace in the in-betweens—the walk from class, the smell of rain on concrete, the soft hum of her aunt’s radio.

She started to let go in pieces too, the same way she had once learned to hold on.

One evening, she stood on her balcony watching the city lights flicker against the darkening sky. She wondered if he ever thought about her—if she’d ever been a quiet ache for him too, or if she’d just been another gentle face in a passing crowd.

The thought didn’t sting anymore.

It only made her chest feel warm, like a memory settling into its final shape.

She whispered into the wind, almost smiling,

“You gave me mixed signals, you know.”

“But maybe that’s on me. Maybe I was the one who kept reading meaning into the pauses.”

The wind didn’t answer, but it didn’t need to.

It just carried her voice somewhere she couldn’t reach, and that was enough.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and pictured him—not the version she built from hope, but the one who existed as he was.

Tired, kind, unreachable.

Someone she was lucky to have known, even briefly.

When she opened her eyes again, the sky had turned completely dark.

The lights below blurred into small constellations of movement and sound.

And Hikari finally understood—

some stories don’t end. They just fade quietly, like songs played past midnight, like conversations that stop mid-sentence.

Maybe that was what theirs was always meant to be.

She stepped back inside, turned off her lamp, and let the night hold her.

The silence no longer frightened her; it just felt full—of what was, of what could’ve been, of everything she had learned to live without.

And somewhere deep inside her chest, the ache softened into gratitude.

Because even if he never came back, he had once reached her.

And that, somehow, was enough.

LEE JENO X OC || Letters Never Sent V || Word Count: 2025

The morning sun poured through the lace curtains like liquid gold, too bright, too warm—almost mocking. Hikari stirred beneath her sheets, blinking at the harsh light flooding her room. The cicadas were already screaming outside, their shrill chorus echoing across the narrow streets of her neighborhood in Tokyo.

It was Monday again—another long, hot day that reminded her how fast life kept moving, even when her heart refused to.

She sat up slowly, brushing her hair out of her face. Her phone lay face down on the nightstand, motionless. No new notifications. The silence burned in a way she didn’t expect.

It had been three days since Jeno last replied. Three days since their nightly conversations came to an abrupt stop—no explanation, no goodbye, just a quiet fade into nothing.

She shouldn’t care. She told herself that as she slipped on her uniform and packed her bag, neat and methodical. But her chest felt tight, like there was something she forgot to exhale.

The train ride to Shinjuku was longer than usual. The crowd pressed close, the sound of chatter and steel wheels filling the car. Hikari’s reflection on the window looked distant—she barely recognized the calm, expressionless girl staring back. The kind of girl who used to laugh at late-night messages, who used to wait for a “good morning” that never came anymore.

By the time she reached her dorm, the heat had settled into her skin. Yuki greeted her with a lazy smile, headphones hanging from her neck. “You look tired,” she said. “I’m fine,” Hikari murmured, setting her bag down by her bed.

But fine was a word she used when she didn’t know what else to say.

Classes blurred. The library was too quiet, the cafeteria too loud. Every sound, every voice, felt distant—muted by a longing that refused to name itself. She tried to lose herself in literature, in essays, in fleeting laughter with friends. Yet her thoughts kept slipping back—to his smile in the restaurant, his tone when he said her name, the way he listened like her words mattered.

At night, she sat by her dorm window, the city lights reflecting in her eyes. She could almost see him in the distance, across countries and static and silence—a soft presence she couldn’t touch anymore.

She whispered a prayer before she slept, the same one she repeated every night since that silence began. please, let this feeling fade.

But she knew she didn’t mean it. Because deep down, she didn’t want it to.

The bell rang, breaking the hush of midday lectures. Students spilled into the courtyard, their laughter spilling like sunlight through glass. Hikari followed Ichika and Rin to their usual table under the cherry blossom tree that never quite bloomed right in summer.

The air smelled faintly of warm rice and wilted petals.

Yuki was already there, waving a chopstick lazily. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, Hika.” “I did,” Hikari said, opening her lunch box. “Just thinking.” “About him?” Rin teased, resting her chin on her hand. “Because that’s what it looks like.”

Hikari didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to her food, neatly cut tamagoyaki and rice shaped into small hearts. Her aunt made it for her that morning, cheerful and unaware that her niece’s heart was somewhere between Tokyo and Seoul.

Ichika was the one who spoke next, quieter than the rest. “It’s been a while since he last messaged, right?” “Five days,” Hikari admitted before she could stop herself. “Not that I’m counting.”

Yuki groaned, pointing her chopstick at her. “Girl, that is counting.” The table burst into laughter, but Hikari didn’t join in fully.

She sighed and twisted the cap off her water bottle. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? We’re not even anything. I just thought…” She stopped herself, her voice softening. “He used to listen. Even when I talked about random things, he’d reply with something thoughtful. It made me feel like I wasn’t just talking to a screen.”

Ichika reached across the table and nudged her lunch box closer. “It’s not stupid. You cared. That’s not a crime.” “Still,” Hikari said quietly. “He’s him. And I’m just me.” Rin frowned. “What does that even mean?” “You know what I mean.” Hikari forced a small smile. “He’s living that kind of life. Spotlights, rehearsals, people orbiting around him. And I’m just a scholarship student trying not to drown in essays.”

The silence that followed felt full of understanding, almost gentle.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Her phone stayed facedown on the desk, charging but lifeless. Every minute stretched thin.

She thought about messaging him first—typing, deleting, typing again—but the thought of being met with more silence was heavier than not knowing at all.

So instead, she wrote.

dear jeno, you once said silence can be comforting. but this kind isn’t. this one sounds like goodbye wearing someone else’s clothes.

Then she slept, or at least pretended to.

The next evening, the dorm lobby was a haze of warm lights and vending machine hums when Yuki called her name. “Hey, Hika—someone’s looking for you outside.”

Her heart tripped over itself.

She stepped into the dusk, the air heavy with humidity and memory. And there he was.

Jeno stood by the gate, cap pulled low, mask half-hiding his face—but she’d recognize him anywhere. That stillness. That quiet gravity.

For a heartbeat, she thought she was dreaming.

He looked up when he heard her footsteps. His eyes softened, and she hated that they still made her breath hitch. “Hi,” he said, voice low, careful.

It wasn’t enough. It was everything.

They sat by the small park near the train station, the world around them dimming into neon and passing chatter. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Hikari broke the silence. “You disappeared.” Jeno’s hands tightened around his cup of canned coffee. “I didn’t mean to.” “You didn’t mean to stop talking to me?” she asked. “Or you didn’t mean for me to notice?”

He flinched, eyes darting to the pavement. “Everything got too loud. Work, schedules, expectations… I thought maybe stepping back was better.” “For who?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

The cicadas filled the pause, their cries sharp and endless.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. “I missed you, though.”

Her chest tightened. “Then why did you stop?”

He looked at her then—really looked. And she saw it: the exhaustion, the longing, the quiet fear. “Because,” he said, “you make it too easy to forget who I’m supposed to be.”

Her breath caught.

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. “You talk to me like I’m just… me. Not the version everyone wants.” “Isn’t that what you wanted?” “It’s what scared me.”

The wind moved gently through the leaves, carrying their silence like something fragile.

“I wrote to you,” she said after a while. “Letters I never sent.” He smiled faintly. “You always had a way with words.” “Then maybe you should’ve stayed long enough to hear them.”

They walked back to the dorm quietly. The night smelled like rain that never came.

When they reached the gate, Jeno turned to her. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I know.” He hesitated. “I don’t know if I can fix it.” She met his gaze, tired but tender. “You don’t have to. Just don’t disappear again without saying goodbye.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

And then he was gone—back into the city, into everything she couldn’t follow.

Later, in the stillness of her room, Hikari opened the wooden box again. The letters waited patiently, folded in neat stacks. She slipped one new page inside.

dear jeno, you came back tonight. maybe that’s enough for now. maybe it isn’t. but i’ll keep this one, too—just in case you ever ask what i was trying to say when i said nothing at all.

She closed the lid gently. Outside, the cicadas finally quieted.

And for the first time in weeks, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like waiting.

That night, she dreamt of quiet places—train windows, dim cafés, empty parks where sunlight leaked through leaves. In every one, he was there. Not saying much, just there. And for once, that felt enough.

When she woke, the city was still half-asleep, painted in the pale blue of early morning. Her phone buzzed once. A message.

good morning.

Two words, nothing more. But Hikari felt the air leave her lungs.

She typed, you’re up early, then deleted it. Typed again. Erased again. Finally, she settled for:

morning.

It was simple. Safe. But her hands trembled a little before she pressed send.

That day moved slower, softer. She caught herself smiling at small things—the hum of the train, the wind threading through the curtains. The ache in her chest didn’t vanish, but it shifted. It began to hum like quiet hope.

That night, she prayed again. Not the kind of prayer you say in temples or chapels, but the kind whispered into the dark, folded between breaths.

“Please,” she murmured, her palms pressed together beneath her chin, “let it stay this gentle. Let him reply again tomorrow. Just… let this not fade too soon.”

And the next morning, he did.

did you finish your essay? i saw something today that reminded me of you. you still drink your coffee black?

Small things. Fragments of conversation that didn’t carry weight—but to her, they did. Every message felt like a thread pulling her back toward the light.

The days blurred into weeks. She found herself waiting less out of desperation and more out of quiet anticipation. The ache softened into something almost sweet.

At night, her prayers began to change.

“Thank you,” she whispered one evening, tracing the rim of her glass of water with her fingertip. “For letting this last another day.”

“If you can hear me,” another night, “please… let me stay in his thoughts a little longer. Just until I stop shaking when he says my name.”

“I don’t need forever,” she said softly into the quiet. “Just a little more time.”

And somehow, the universe kept listening.

Their messages grew longer. He sent pictures of sunsets behind rehearsal buildings, blurry shots of stray cats near convenience stores. She sent back snapshots of her notebook margins, tiny sketches of stars and rooftops.

Some nights, he called. The line would hum between them, full of soft static and shared silence. He’d talk about sleepless nights, the noise of fame, the exhaustion that came with pretending to be fine. She would listen, her voice a small anchor.

“You make it sound peaceful,” he once said. “Like the world slows down when I talk to you.”

She laughed quietly, unsure what to say. “Maybe it does.”

And later, when she was alone again, she prayed once more.

“If he’s tired, let me be the place he can rest, even just for a moment.” “Don’t let this turn into something I’ll have to mourn.” “Please… let it be okay to want this.”

A month passed before she realized how much had changed. The silence no longer felt empty—it had become a rhythm. She still checked her phone first thing in the morning, but now it was out of habit, not fear. She smiled more, spoke softer, carried herself like someone who knew she was remembered.

One late afternoon, she walked home under the slow fall of golden light. The cicadas were quiet for once. A message lit up her screen.

tokyo next month. maybe we could meet.

Her breath hitched. The world seemed to narrow down to that single glowing text.

She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she looked up—the sky flushed pink and honey-orange, the air warm against her cheeks.

And quietly, she prayed again.

“Please, if this is meant to end, let it be kind. But if it’s meant to stay… let it stay gently.”

The wind carried her words away, threading them into the hum of the city. She smiled to herself, small and knowing.

For the first time, she didn’t pray for him to stay. She prayed for her heart to be ready—no matter what he chose.

And in that stillness, the world felt soft again.

LEE JENO X OC || Letters Never Sent IV || Word Count: 2185

The rain had been falling since morning, streaking the windows of Waseda University with gray. By the time Hikari made it back to her tiny dorm room, her shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the day. Her bag was heavy with books, her head heavier with thoughts she couldn’t silence. She dropped everything onto the floor and collapsed onto her mattress, staring at the ceiling as the city hummed faintly outside.

Her phone buzzed. Once. Twice.

She didn’t need to check who it was. She already knew.

Jeno.

The corner of her lips tugged upward before she even unlocked the screen. His message glowed against the darkness of her room:

“Dance practice ended late again. I swear I’m half-dead.”

Attached was a photo—his hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him, grin exhausted but alive.

Her chest tightened. She typed back quickly: Half-dead, but still pretty alive to me.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

“That’s because I don’t lose discipline.”

A winking emoji followed, so casual, so him.

And just like that, the fatigue of her day loosened its grip. One message became two, then five, then a stream of words bouncing back and forth until the hours blurred. They talked about nothing and everything—his frustration with choreography, her embarrassment over a professor mispronouncing a Japanese idiom, the small joys, the small annoyances that made up their separate lives.

Hikari wasn’t the type to open up. She hated vulnerability, hated the thought of being seen too clearly. But with him, it didn’t feel like exposure. It felt like breathing. Like she’d found someone who wouldn’t judge, who just listened—and sometimes that was enough.

By the time the clock struck midnight, the rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, but inside Hikari’s chest the storm only grew. She blinked at the date glowing faintly on her phone screen and froze.

One month.

Exactly one month since Jeno’s first message had slipped into her notifications like it was nothing. One month since “hi” had stretched into conversations that lasted until dawn. One month since her once-quiet world had been filled with snapshots from his life—practice rooms with mirrors fogged from sweat, half-empty water bottles, blurry selfies of him and the boys laughing at something she’d never hear the punchline to.

In return, she had shared pieces of herself she never thought she’d give away so easily—photos of campus hallways bathed in morning light, her messy notes scribbled between classes, even the vending machine coffee she complained about but bought every day anyway.

It wasn’t just conversation anymore. It was routine. A rhythm. The first thing she looked for when she woke up, the last thing she checked before her eyes finally closed. Somewhere between the ordinary exchanges and the quiet confessions, she had fallen into the kind of attachment she used to scoff at.

Her chest tightened as she scrolled back through their messages, the record of a month that had flown by in words and laughter and comfort she hadn’t known she needed.

How could it only be thirty days when it felt like she’d been leaning on him for years?

She curled into her blanket, phone still warm in her hand, and whispered into the empty room as though it might carry across the distance between Tokyo and Seoul:

“I like you.”

But the words dissolved in the air, unsent.

So instead, she opened her laptop. A blank Google Doc blinked back at her. The cursor pulsed like a heartbeat, daring her to confess what she would never dare send.

At the very top, she typed the title:

“The Things I’ll Never Say.”

Date: 11-30-25

Dear Jeno,

It has only been a month since we started talking, but somehow it feels like my heart has carried this for much longer than the calendar allows. Every small detail of you lingers with me. The way your words remain gentle even when you are tired. The way your presence through a screen can still feel like calm. The way your eyes in pictures seem to hold both discipline and quiet humility.

Most people see only the medals, the stages, the endless hours of practice that prove your brilliance. But what I see is something softer, rarer. I see kindness that never demands attention. I see faith guiding you in ways that words cannot always describe. I see respect that flows naturally from who you are.

And here I am, fully aware of the truth. You stand in a world of light, while I am still learning how to carry even the smallest flame. You move forward with victories behind you and more ahead, while I am still a student struggling to hold on to a scholarship in Japan, feeling the weight of pressure every single day. You are already everything admirable, while I am still trying to find my place.

I would be lying if I said it does not ache. There are moments when I wonder if this admiration is foolish, if it belongs only to hidden letters like this and silent prayers no one else will ever hear.

Yet despite the ache, I cannot turn away. There is something about you that makes me want to grow, not to possess. I like you not because of how far above me you seem to stand, but because in you I see the kind of person I hope to become. Someone disciplined, humble, and anchored in faith. Someone who inspires without even trying.

Still, I am afraid. Afraid of what would happen if these words ever left the page. Afraid that if you knew, the kindness you give so naturally would be replaced by distance. That respect might turn into walls. I do not want to lose what I have now—the quiet comfort of admiring you safely, the steady hope your presence has given me.

So I will keep this feeling here, a hidden flame that is both painful and beautiful, both heavy and light. I will be grateful, because even unspoken, it has already changed me. Grateful that God allowed our paths to cross, even through small screens and messages exchanged in passing moments. Grateful that, in you, I see not just someone to admire but also the person I want to grow into. Grateful that, even in silence, you have already left a mark.

And so I will carry this quietly, holding on to the tender ache as if it were a gift. A reminder that sometimes the people who inspire us most are not meant to be reached, but remembered.

Always, Hikari

The next morning, Hikari was still groggy from staying up too late, the glow of her laptop screen etched in her mind. She shoved her phone into her bag, hoping no one could tell how little sleep she had, but Yuki was too sharp for that.

“You’ve got that face again,” Yuki said as they walked through the crowded campus hallway.

“What face?” Hikari tried to sound casual, hugging her books to her chest.

“The Jeno face,” Yuki teased, grinning as she tilted her head. “The one where you look like you’re replaying a text conversation in your head and fighting the urge to smile in public.”

Hikari nearly tripped over her own shoes. “Yuki!” she hissed, cheeks burning. “Can you not—?”

But Yuki only laughed, looping her arm around Hikari’s. “Relax, I’m not judging. Honestly, it’s kind of cute. You’re usually so guarded, but with him? You’re like…” She tapped her chin, pretending to think. “…soft.”

Hikari rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “It’s stupid. We barely even see each other. It’s just—” She stopped herself, her throat tightening. She wanted to say, it’s just words, but they mean everything.

Yuki gave her a knowing look. “You don’t have to explain it to me. I can tell. He makes you happy.”

The simplicity of the statement hit harder than she expected. She looked away, the words from her unsent letter echoing in her head, each line heavier than the last.

Yuki squeezed her arm. “Just… be careful, okay? And, hey—if it really gets too much, you can tell me. Or write it down like you always do. Doesn’t have to leave the page.”

Hikari smiled faintly, her heart caught somewhere between aching and grateful. She thought of the Google Doc hidden in her laptop, titled The Things I’ll Never Say, and wondered if someday she’d be brave enough to let anyone—let alone Jeno—see the words bleeding out of her.

For now, though, she only whispered, almost to herself, “Yeah… he makes me happy.”

Hikari hadn’t expected it to get this bad.

At first, it was harmless. A few stolen glances at her phone between lectures, a small smile when Jeno messaged her “good morning” despite rehearsals starting at dawn. But as the days stretched on, he started to live rent-free in every corner of her day.

In the library, she would sit at her usual corner table, textbooks open, highlighters scattered, pages filled with notes she couldn’t even remember writing. Her professors’ voices rang in her head, yet none of it stuck. Instead, she found herself lost in the memory of Jeno’s laugh when Yeji failed at the ice cream machine, the way his voice dipped low when he said that’s my type, the way his rare smiles felt like secrets meant for her alone.

Her pen hovered mid-sentence over her notebook, frozen. In the quiet of the library, with only the sound of turning pages and the faint hum of the air conditioner, she whispered in her head like a confession she couldn’t let slip out loud: Why do I miss you this much when I barely know you?

At the cafeteria, it was no different. Yuki had to snap her out of a daze more than once. “You’re staring at your rice again,” she teased, poking Hikari’s tray with her chopsticks.

Hikari flushed, hurriedly mixing the food she hadn’t touched. “I’m just… tired.”

“Tired? Or distracted?” Yuki asked, smirking knowingly.

But how could Hikari explain that every time she looked down at her tray, she imagined what Jeno might be eating at rehearsal? That she pictured him leaning back with his water bottle, hair damp from dancing, scrolling through his phone—and maybe, just maybe, thinking of her too?

The ache followed her even into ordinary places. On Saturday, when she and Yuki went shopping, they ended up in Uniqlo. Hikari drifted through racks of clothes absentmindedly until her steps slowed near the men’s section. Her fingers brushed over a hoodie—plain, oversized, gray. She thought of how it would look on him, sleeves bunching around his wrists, the hood loose around his shoulders. Her chest tightened painfully as she quickly let go, pretending to study something else.

Yuki caught the way her eyes lingered and smirked but said nothing.

At night, when the world was finally quiet, it was the worst. Hikari lay on her mattress in the dark, her phone glowing faintly in her hand. Sometimes their conversations stretched late into the night—him sending photos of the studio, her snapping pictures of her scattered notes. Other times, it was silent. And in those silences, her heart throbbed with longing so sharp it almost hurt to breathe.

She’d reread old messages, tracing the curve of his words, wondering if he typed them quickly or if he paused before pressing send. Wondering if his heart raced like hers did when her phone buzzed with his name.

Hikari buried her face into her pillow that night, the faint glow of her laptop still open beside her on the desk with the untitled Google Doc—the things I’ll never say. She hadn’t written much yet, only fragments of feelings, half-finished lines about the way his voice echoed in her thoughts or how his smile lingered longer than it should. But even those pieces felt too raw, too revealing. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, clutching her phone to her chest like it was the only anchor she had. Jeno’s name glowed at the top of her screen, their chat frozen in time until the next notification arrived. And as exhaustion pulled her under, a quiet truth settled in her chest: she was falling deeper, faster, and harder than she ever intended—and she didn’t know if she would ever find a way back.

When she finally set the phone down and folded her hands in prayer, she slipped his name in like a secret offering.

Please, God. Let him be happy. Let him keep shining. And… if it’s not too much, please let me stay beside him somehow—even if it’s just like this.

Her chest ached as tears pricked at her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away. And in the stillness of her room, she realized it—he had become part of her prayers, part of her routine, part of her heart.

Everywhere she went, Jeno was there. In the silence of the library. In the buzz of the cafeteria. In the racks of Uniqlo. In the rhythm of her nights.

It was terrifying. And yet, she didn’t want it to stop.