im scared i'll never sleep again - (c.hs)
Pairing: Vernon x f. Reader :D
You and Vernon have been inseparable since middle school, growing up side by side until the moment everything changes when you leave for college in New York. He stays home, pretending he’s fine with the distance, but the night before you leave, a simple sleepover turns into an emotional argument neither of you were prepared for. Vernon, unable to understand why he’s so affected by your departure, lashes out and says hurtful things about your choice to leave—words rooted in fear rather than truth. After you leave, silence takes over, and Vernon is left behind, quietly falling apart as he spends every day yearning for you, hoping for any sign that you might still come back into his life. And worst of all, he never wanted you to leave, and that was killing him.
Genre: angst,oblivious to love, oblivious to feelings, non-idol au, yearning vernon, like vernon yearning harder than anyone has yearned before
Word Count: 16.3k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: angst, a lot of angst, like the whole story is angst pretty much up until the end, verbal fighting, no smut!, heavy making out, mention of getting undressed, happy ending, yearning, crazy yearning, sad yearning. I ALSO DID NOT PROOF READ THIS WHOOPS!
A/N: hi! Its been a bit! End of semester got busy and crazy so i didn’t have much time to write!! My roommate and I love 5 seconds of summer and she had this idea for a vernon fic based on the 5sos song, im scared ill never sleep again which I immediately was like omg YES LETS DO IT. so we brainstormed the plot together and i got writing!!! I hope you all love it cutie little yearning vernon chwe hansol ugh cutie pie. Enjoy the story!!!
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If anyone asked how you and Vernon became friends, neither of you could ever remember the exact details.
The official story was that a seventh-grade science teacher had assigned a group project about ecosystems and stuck the two of you together. Vernon had forgotten half the materials, you'd had forgotten the poster board, and somehow the disaster had ended with both of you laughing so hard you got yelled at for disrupting class.
After that, you were just... there.
Lunch periods. Bus rides. Weekend hangouts. Study sessions that turned into movie marathons.
Every milestone from awkward middle school years to surviving high school had happened with Vernon standing somewhere nearby.
The friendship became so permanent that nobody questioned it anymore.
People who didn't know either of you would occasionally glance between the two of you and ask, "Wait, are they dating?" And every single time, someone who knew you both would laugh.
"No." The answer came immediately. Automatically. "No, they're just Vernon and Y/n."
As if that explained everything.
Because it did. Everyone knew you and Vernon would never catch feelings.
Not because there wasn't trust or affection between you. If anything, there was too much of it. You knew how he took his coffee, knew which songs he skipped every time they came on shuffle in the car, knew exactly what expression meant he was trying not to laugh, and knew exactly what jokes would make him laugh his little squeaky noises that makes you laugh even harder.
Vernon knew all your secrets, all your bad habits, all the things you never told anyone else.
You were best friends. The kind of best friends people pointed to when they talked about platonic soulmates. The kind of friendship that seemed untouchable.
Neither of you cried during the ceremony, but your family definitely did enough for everyone.
Afterward, life suddenly felt too big.
College acceptance letters turned into orientation dates. Texts filled with discussions about dorm assignments and class schedules. Everyone around you seemed to be preparing for some huge new chapter.
At first, neither of you thought much about it.
Of course you would both go to college. Of course you would still be best friends.
The less obvious part came when decision day rolled around.
You chose New York. The second you got accepted, you knew.
The city felt loud and exciting and terrifying in all the right ways. It was everything you'd spent years dreaming about whenever you felt trapped in your small hometown. New opportunities. New people. New experiences.
Vernon chose differently.
While everyone around him stressed over moving across the country, he picked a school in-state less than an hour from home. Close enough to visit home whenever he wanted. Close enough that his parents wouldn't have to help him move his entire life into a dorm room. Close enough that everything familiar would still be there if he needed it.
Neither choice surprised the other.
You had always wanted more, Vernon had always liked what he already had.
Still, for the first time in years, your lives weren't moving in the exact same direction.
You tried not to think about it.
Instead, you spent the entire summer together.
Some days were spent driving around town with no destination. Some days were spent lying on your bedroom floor talking about absolutely nothing. Most nights ended with one of you sleeping over at the other's house.
The friendship was so old that neither of your families thought twice about it anymore.
If Vernon stayed over, he took his usual side of the bed.
If you stayed at his house, you took yours.
No awkwardness. No weird tension. No wondering where to put your arms.
Just comfort. Just familiarity.
The two of you had practically grown up side by side.
A shared bed never meant anything more than being too lazy to drag out an air mattress.
The summer before college became a collection of routines.
One of your favorites happened almost every evening.
Music had always been your thing.
You'd spend hours sitting cross-legged on your bed with a guitar in your lap, replaying the same section of a song over and over until your fingers got it right.
Vernon would usually be nearby.
Sometimes stretched out on the floor, sometimes sitting against your headboard, sometimes scrolling through his phone while pretending not to pay attention.
Every wrong note, every lyric, every song you became obsessed with for two weeks before moving on to another one.
Occasionally he'd join in.
He'd just start singing a line under his breath from wherever he was sitting, making you grin before you inevitably messed up whatever chord you were playing.
That quiet laugh that always turned into those ridiculous squeaky little noises whenever something genuinely got him.
It was easy, everything with Vernon was easy.
Until suddenly there were only three days left before you moved to New York.
The night before you left, your phone buzzed while you were sitting on your bedroom floor surrounded by half-packed boxes.
Vernon:Sleep over tonight?
You stared at the message.
You:Vernon, I literally leave for New York tomorrow morning.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Vernon:That's kind of why I'm asking.
You:Wow. Getting sentimental on me?
Vernon:Don't make this weird.
Vernon:So are you coming or not?
You looked around your room, brown boxes lining the walls.
Tomorrow, you'd wake up, get in a car, and leave behind the town you'd spent your entire life in.
Leave behind your family, Leave behind your friends.
The thought settled heavily in your chest.
You:I'll be there in twenty.
His response came almost instantly.
The response was dry, more than usual.
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared, appeared again.
Vernon:Why wouldn't I be?
A read receipt appeared almost immediately.
The conversation ended there.
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Vernon wasn't exactly the world's most expressive texter, but he was usually easier than this. Lighter. He always had some dumb comment to make or some random thought to share.
Lately, though, he'd been different.
You couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started, maybe a few weeks ago?
Maybe when college became real.
Maybe when moving day stopped being some distant date on a calendar and started becoming tomorrow.
A little quieter, a little quicker to shut down conversations.
Sometimes you'd catch him staring off into space when you were talking and have to repeat yourself. Other times he'd get oddly annoyed over things that normally wouldn't bother him.
Nothing worth questioning.
You figured he was stressed. Besides, everyone was.
Your hands sat on the top of your steering wheel when everything set in.
Tomorrow night, you wouldn't be here. Tomorrow night, you'd be in a dorm room hundreds of miles away in New York. The realization hit harder than it had all summer.
You'd spent months talking about leaving. Planning for it. Getting excited about it.
But somehow none of it had felt real until now.
Until this drive. Your last drive to Vernon's house.
The route was so familiar you could have driven it blindfolded.
Past the gas station where he'd accidentally put diesel into his car during senior year and spent the next month insisting it wasn't his fault.
Past the park where the two of you used to waste entire afternoons doing absolutely nothing.
Past the convenience store where he'd buy the same snacks every single time despite claiming he wanted to try new things.
It wasn't like you'd never come back. It wasn't like Vernon was disappearing.
You'd text. Call. Visit during breaks.
Everything would be fine.
So why did it feel like something was ending? The thought lingered as you drove.
You parked in front of his house and grabbed your overnight bag from the passenger seat.
Then, after a brief hesitation, you pulled out your phone.
The read receipt appeared immediately. A few seconds later, the front door opened.
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You climbed out of the car and headed up the walkway, overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Vernon stood in the doorway waiting.
For a second, neither of you said anything, he just looked at you, then he offered a small smile.
Something tugged at your chest.
Maybe it was the porch light or maybe it was your imagination.
But he looked tired. Not physically tired, just somehow exhausted.
His eyes looked slightly puffy, like he'd been rubbing at them for a while. Like maybe he'd cried an hour ago and had mostly recovered from it.
Not enough that you felt comfortable asking about it, not enough that you were even sure you'd seen it correctly.
So you ignored it. The same way you'd ignored every other strange thing about him lately.
"You gonna let me in?" you asked.
He stepped aside immediately. “Right.”
The familiar smell of his house greeted you as soon as you walked inside. Everything looked exactly the same, which somehow made tomorrow feel even more impossible. You slipped off your shoes while Vernon closed the door behind you.
His parents were already asleep, the house quiet. Without speaking, he grabbed your overnight bag and started up the stairs.
By the time you stepped inside, the weird feeling from the car ride had settled heavily in your stomach.
Vernon's room looked exactly how it always did.
A little messy, movie posters on the walls, a pile of clothes occupying a chair in the corner. So comfortably familiar.
Usually you'd flop onto his bed immediately and start talking but tonight, you both just sort of... sat there.
You settled near the headboard.
Vernon sat beside you, not too close, not too far.
The silence stretched.. and stretched… and stretched.
"So." Vernon repeats, not making direct eye contact with you.
You turn your whole body to face him. "You're being weird."
The corner of his mouth twitched in a way you couldn’t really describe. The room fell quiet again. He was holding something back, why wasn’t he telling you?
His leg bounced restlessly, he played with the hem on the sleeve of his hoodie and suddenly, you couldn’t hold the question back anymore.
His eyes flickered toward you.
His expression immediately changed as he finally looked you in the eyes for the first time since he opened the front door.
"You know exactly what I mean."
You let out a short laugh. “See, that Vernon. You are being weird and distant and avoidant. Did I do something?”
“Nevermind.” You cross your arms over your body beginning to grow annoyed. “You clearly don’t want to tell me.”
"I don't know how to explain it," he finally admitted.
The honesty in his voice immediately took some of the anger out of you.
“Then try, I have one night left Vernon.” A slight nip in the tone of your voice.
Vernon stared down at his hands for a moment, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his blanket. The room felt impossibly quiet.
"It's just..." He sighed. "I don't get it."
You frowned. "Don't get what?"
He let out a dry laugh and shook his head. "New York."
"What about it?" he shot back. "I don't understand why you want to go so far away."
Your confusion immediately deepened. "What?"
"I'm serious." He finally looked at you. "I don't get it."
You stared at him. "Vernon, we've talked about this for years."
"Then why are you acting like this is new information?"
"Because it didn't feel real before." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Vernon looked away first. "I don't know," he muttered. "I just don't get why that's what you want."
"What do you mean that's what I want? It's New York."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, but there was frustration behind it. "I just don't see the appeal."
You laughed in disbelief. "Okay, but you don't have to. This is my life Vernon"
"So what are we even talking about right now?"
"I'm talking about the fact that you're moving eight hours away."
"Why does it sound like you're judging me for it?"
He ran a hand through his hair and stood up from the bed, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you. "I just think you're chasing this idea of something."
"New York isn't what people think it is."
"You've never even lived there."
The comment landed harder than either of you expected. You stared at him. "What exactly are you trying to say?"
He hesitated, and that hesitation told you there was more. A lot more.
Finally, he spoke. "I just don't think it's good enough for you."
His eyes dropped to the floor.
He laughed once, frustrated with himself. "You've spent years talking about New York like it's gonna solve everything."
"You do." The argument was building now. You could both feel it.
"It just feels like you're putting all your hopes into this place and—"
"And I don't think it'll be what you expect."
"That's not your fucking decision to make is it?"
“No but I-” he snaps his neck back up.
"Then why are we even having this conversation?"
And then finally said the thing he probably hadn't meant to.
"Because apparently what's here isn't enough."
The words seemed to echo off the walls, hanging between you long after he'd said them.
Vernon looked away immediately, like he wished he could take them back.
Like he'd been trying not to say them for weeks and they'd finally slipped out anyway.
You stared at him. "What?"
"No, don't do that." You shook your head. "Don't throw something like that out there and then tell me to forget it."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
He didn't answer. The silence made something ugly twist in your chest.
"You think I'm leaving because this place isn't enough?" you asked quietly.
Vernon rubbed both hands over his face.
"You literally just said—"
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to think?"
For the first time since you'd known him, he looked genuinely lost.
"I just don't understand it."
This hit you like a ton of bricks. It sunk into every crack of your heart.
“You are fucking unbelievable.” Your voice cracked halfway through, tears already burning at your eyes. “What does that even mean, Vernon? ‘You don’t understand me’? I’ve known you since we were twelve. What the fuck is there to not understand?”
He flinched at the volume of your voice, like it physically hit him. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. Your hands shook as you wiped at your face, only for more tears to come immediately. “Because all I’m hearing is you saying I’m doing something wrong by leaving.”
“You didn’t have to!” Your voice rose again, sharp and breaking. “You’ve been acting like this for weeks, Vernon. Weeks. Like I’m—like I’m leaving you behind on purpose or something. Like I’m supposed to just stay here and—what—what, just give up my whole life because you’re not ready for me to go?”
His expression tightened, jaw clenching like he was holding something back too hard. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” you shouted, and the sound bounced off the walls of his room. “Because you keep talking in circles and acting like I’m some stranger now and I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it!” Your voice broke on the last word, and the tears finally spilled over fully.
You hated how fast it happened, hated that it made you feel even more out of control. You stood up abruptly from the edge of his bed, moving closer until you were right in front of him.
“Look at me,” you demanded, voice shaking. “Say it. Whatever it is, just fucking say it.”
Vernon’s eyes finally met yours, and that was when you saw it clearly. The strain. The exhaustion. The way he looked like he’d been holding himself together by force alone.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I just- I literally don’t know.”
“You’re not trying hard enough,” you shot back.
He took a small step forward like he wanted to calm you down, like he always did when things got too loud between you two. Something in you snapped.
“Don’t touch me right now,” you said, and when he didn’t stop moving closer, you shoved him lightly in the chest.
It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it stopped him instantly.
His face changed, not anger. Something much worse.
“Okay,” he said quickly, raising his hands slightly like he was grounding himself. “Okay, I’m not—just listen to me for a second.”
“No,” you shook your head, tears still falling, breath uneven. “You listen to me. I’m leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow. And instead of spending tonight like a normal person, you’re standing here making me feel like shit for it.”
His throat moved like he was swallowing something sharp.
“I’m not trying to make you feel like shit,” he said, voice cracking more now. “I’m trying to tell you I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” you snapped. “Be my friend? Because you’re doing a pretty bad job right now.”
His eyes shone immediately, glassy in a way that made your stomach twist. He blinked fast like he could push it back down, but it didn’t work.
“Stop,” he said, quieter now. “Just stop yelling at me for a second. Please.”
“Then stop saying weird shit Vernon!” you shouted back, voice breaking again. “Stop acting like I’m doing something wrong just because I want to leave!”
“I’m not saying you’re doing something wrong!”
“Then what are you saying?”
And for a second, he looked like he might actually cry.
“I’m saying I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when you’re not here,” he said finally, voice low and raw.
“I don’t know how to make you understand,” he said, voice breaking fully now, “that you leaving doesn’t just feel like you are going to college. It feels like you’re—like you’re just gone from everything we know.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“That’s not what this is,” you said, but it came out weaker.
“It is for me,” he snapped back, louder now, finally breaking too. “Because you’re acting like this is just some exciting new chapter and I’m supposed to just be fine with it and I’m not—” He cut off, dragging a hand down his face, tears finally slipping out despite how hard he tried to stop them. “I’m not fine with it. What is there in New York that we don’t have here?”
Both of you were breathing hard now. Both of you were crying, neither of you looking away.
Your hands were shaking at your sides as you stared at him, chest rising unevenly like you couldn’t quite catch your breath.
It wasn’t just the question. It was everything underneath it. The way he said we. Like he didn’t know how to exist without you inside that word.
You laughed once, sharp and wet with tears. “Everything.”
The word landed wrong in the room.
“Everything,” you repeated, voice shaking harder now. “There’s everything there that isn’t here.”
His face changed instantly, like you’d hit him without touching him.
“That’s not what you mean,” he said, but it sounded less certain now.
“Yes, it is,” you snapped, wiping at your face angrily. “You think I want to stay in this town forever? Doing the same things, seeing the same people, going to the same places where nothing changes?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what you’re asking!” Your voice cracked again. “You’re asking me to stay like it wouldn’t kill me a little bit. Like I wouldn’t wake up every day wondering what else I could’ve been.”
Vernon shook his head quickly, tears still streaking down his face now, not even bothering to hide it anymore. “I’m not asking you to stay here forever.”
“Yes, you are,” you shot back immediately. “You just don’t want to say it out loud because it sounds pathetic.”
Vernon looked defeated, small.
And that made you angry all over again, because Vernon wasn’t supposed to be small.
The thing you shouldn’t have said.
“The point is, Vernon,” you said, voice shaking but sharp, “I don’t want to stay.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
For a second he just stared at you.
Then, quietly, almost desperate, he stepped forward.
“Just—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Just stay tonight. Please.”
The shift was instant. From argument to something softer. Something pleading.
You wiped your face again, laughing bitterly through tears. “Why should I?”
You stared at him for a moment longer, the tension still thick between you, the silence heavy and unbearable.
Then, finally, you exhaled.
“Fine,” you said quietly.
His eyes flickered up instantly.
It wasn’t forgiveness nor a resolution.
It was just exhaustion. Vernon nodded once, like he was afraid to say anything else would ruin it.
You grabbed your bag, setting it down near the bed, then climbed into your usual side without looking at him.
The space between you felt different now.
Vernon stayed standing for a second longer than necessary, then finally moved to the desk, grabbing the remote without speaking.
He hesitated before clicking the TV on.
A movie started playing—something random, something neither of you were really watching.
The sound filled the room just so there wouldn’t be silence.
He climbed into bed on his side, careful not to touch you.
There was no apology. No fixing it. Just the faint glow of the screen, the weight of everything unsaid, and the space between you that suddenly felt bigger than it ever had before.
At some point, your breathing evened out anyway. And even though you were still awake for a while longer, pretending not to feel him there beside you, you eventually fell asleep to the sound of a movie neither of you cared about.
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Vernon woke up to silence.
Not the soft, normal kind that came with early morning light filtering through his blinds. Not the kind where you could still feel someone beside you if you closed your eyes.
He blinked slowly, still half stuck in sleep, until it registered that the space next to him was different than the night before.
The blanket on your side of the bed was smoothed out. The pillow was placed back where it usually sat, like it had never been touched at all. Like you had never been there.
His stomach dropped instantly.
He sat up so fast the room tilted. “Y/n?” he called, voice rough and uneven. Nothing answered. He was out of bed before he even realized it, bare feet hitting the floor as he stumbled toward the door.
“Y/n,” he said again, louder now, walking through his room like you might just be hiding somewhere, like this was some stupid joke he hadn’t caught onto yet.
No footsteps downstairs. No bathroom light. No sound of your voice or your bag being zipped shut or anything at all.
Panic started rising fast, sharp and hot in his chest.
He went back into his room, pacing now, hands running through his hair again and again like he could physically reset what was happening. “No, no, no—” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “No, she wouldn’t—”
And then it came back, everything from last night crashing into him all at once.
Your voice breaking. His voice breaking. The argument looping over and over in his head like a broken recording.
The words punched the air out of him all over again. His breathing stuttered.
“No,” he whispered, quieter this time. “No, she didn’t just—”
His voice cracked completely.
He turned sharply, gripping the edge of his desk for balance, trying to ground himself in something real. Something that wasn’t this.
That’s when he saw it. A purple pen, lying neatly on the corner of his desk like it had been placed there carefully on purpose.
He had bought it months ago without thinking much of it, just because you kept stealing his pens every time you came over to do homework. You always claimed you didn’t have one. And every time you ended up using his anyway, complaining about how boring black ink was.
So he bought a purple one.
Because it was your favorite color.
He stared at it like it might disappear if he looked away, and then he saw the note. Folded once. Resting beside it.
His hands shook as he picked it up.
For a moment, he just held it there, not opening it yet, like he already knew whatever was inside would change something he wasn’t ready to lose.
Then he unfolded it, the handwriting was yours.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until a tear hit the paper.
I’m not doing this. We can’t leave it like that and then wake up and pretend everything’s fine and nothing happened.
You don’t get to make me feel bad for leaving my life behind when you knew exactly what I’ve always wanted. I needed you to be my best friend last night, not whatever that was.
His breath came unevenly as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed without meaning to. The purple pen sat beside the note, bright and stupid and painfully intentional.
“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “No, no—”
His hand pressed hard against his mouth like he could hold everything in. Like he could physically stop what was already happening inside him. But it didn’t work.
He bent forward, elbows on his knees, the note still clutched in his hand.
“You didn’t even wake me up,” he said to no one, voice cracking apart in pieces. “You just… left.”
He sat there for a long time after that, the note still in his hand and the purple pen unmoving beside it, until eventually he picked up his phone and just… waited. Hours passed in fragments of nothing—screen lighting up, going dark, lighting up again—every notification that wasn’t you hitting him in the chest a little harder than the last. He checked the time again and again, counting when your flight should’ve landed, convincing himself you were just busy, just tired, just not there yet. But eventually even that excuse ran out. It got well past the time you would’ve texted, and the silence started to feel deliberate. He laid down again without really deciding to, staring up at the ceiling like if he looked long enough it might give him something back, waiting for the call from the East side that never came.
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Since landing in New York, everything had gone almost exactly the way you'd hoped it would.
Moving into your dorm was surprisingly easy. A few boxes, a couple of awkward elevator trips, and suddenly your entire life fit into one small room overlooking a street that never seemed to quiet down. It felt strange at first, being somewhere so different from home, but exciting too. Like every time you stepped outside, something new was waiting for you.
Classes started a few days later, and somehow the first week flew by.
You found your lecture halls faster than expected, figured out the subway without getting completely lost, and settled into a routine almost immediately. Your professors seemed interesting, the coursework felt manageable, and every day introduced you to someone new.
You were where you'd always wanted to be. You were making friends. You were adjusting. You were happy.
And yet, every once in a while, usually during the quiet moments between classes or when you were walking back to your dorm after sunset, something felt... off.
Not wrong. Just incomplete.
You told yourself it was homesickness. It had to be. You were hundreds of miles away from everything you'd ever known. Anyone would feel strange after a move like this.
Still, some nights when your phone lit up with messages from new friends making plans, your eyes would drift toward the contacts you hadn't opened in days.
Toward the one name you kept avoiding.
And every time, that same uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest before you quickly looked away and convinced yourself it would pass.
It had only been a week. Eventually, you told yourself, everything would feel normal again.
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Vernon had been so sure staying home would be easier. At least that was what he'd told himself.
The first day, he got up before his alarm even went off. He showered, got dressed, grabbed his backpack, and went to class. Everything felt normal on the surface. His professors talked, students introduced themselves, and he nodded through conversations he barely processed.
And the second his bedroom door closed behind him, the silence hit. He ended up lying on his bed staring at the ceiling until dinner.
The next morning wasn't much different.
Wake up. Go to school. Come home. Wake up. Go to school. Come home.
The routine became mechanical, something he forced himself through because not doing it would require admitting something was wrong. His classes weren't even bad. They were fine. Interesting, sometimes. Easy enough to follow.
But every day felt heavier than the last.
By the middle of the week he wasn't sleeping properly anymore.
He'd lie awake until three or four in the morning, staring at the glow of his ceiling fan as his thoughts raced endlessly in circles. Every conversation replayed. Every mistake replayed. Every word from that night replayed. The worst part was that he couldn't even explain what was happening to him.
He was angry all the time.
Angry at himself, angry at how he'd handled everything, angry that he couldn't stop thinking about you and what happened that night. Every morning he looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. He hated how exhausted he looked. Hated how miserable he felt.
And people noticed, new people, new faces at school. The ones he'd met in classes. The ones who only knew the version of Vernon that showed up every morning looking exhausted and left every conversation early. At first they just thought he was shy, then they thought maybe he was stressed. Eventually they stopped trying to guess.
He wasn't rude. He wasn't unfriendly. He'd answer questions when people talked to him, laugh occasionally at the right moments, participate in group discussions. But it always felt like half of him was missing.
By the fourth week of school, Vernon barely recognized himself. Every day felt gray and just plain dull.
His friends would text. He'd ignore them.
People invited him places. He'd make excuses.
Eventually most of them stopped asking. And honestly, he couldn't blame them.
He hated being around himself too.
And the worst part was, he knew he was like this because of you.
Not that he would ever admit it. At least not out loud.
But every night told the truth for him.
Most mornings, Vernon wasn't waking up at six. He was still awake at six. The darkness outside his window would slowly fade into pale morning light while he remained exactly where he'd been for hours, staring blankly at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, his eyes burned constantly, but his mind refused to shut off. Thinking about you had become second nature.
Sometimes he'd replay old conversations over and over. Other nights he'd unlock his phone and scroll through old pictures of the two of you together. Photos from random afternoons, blurry pictures from late-night drives, screenshots of stupid things you'd sent him. He knew every picture by heart at this point, but he looked at them anyway.
It wasn't as simple as missing his best friend. It wasn't as simple as missing having someone around. It felt bigger than that, but every time he got close to figuring it out, he stopped himself. He just knew that life felt wrong without you in it. Like someone had quietly removed something important and expected him not to notice.
And maybe the saddest thing of all was the note.
The stupid note you'd left on his desk beside the purple pen.
A month later, the paper was worn soft from being unfolded and folded back together so many times. Every night before bed he'd take it out. Every morning before class he'd read it again. Eventually it found a permanent home underneath his pillow because he couldn't bear to put it anywhere else.
It was ridiculous, honestly. A part of him knew that.
But another part of him kept hoping that maybe if he read it one more time, maybe if he stared at your handwriting a little longer, maybe somehow his phone would light up with your name. Maybe there'd be a text waiting for him. Maybe you'd finally call.
Still, he kept reading it.
His mom noticed before anyone else. Of course she did.
She noticed the dark circles under his eyes. She noticed how quickly he disappeared into his room after classes. She noticed the untouched dinners, the way he barely spoke anymore, the way he looked like he was carrying something heavy that nobody else could see.
For weeks she never said anything. She never pushed. Never cornered him. Never demanded answers.
Then one evening she found him sitting alone at the kitchen table.
The house was quiet. The television wasn't on. The clock ticked softly from somewhere in the living room.
Vernon was staring down at his phone, not even really looking at it.
His mom stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.
Her expression softened immediately. "What's wrong?"
That was it. Just three words. And somehow they shattered whatever strength he had left.
His face crumpled before he could stop it. His breathing hitched violently and suddenly he was crying.
Not the quiet tears he'd gotten used to hiding at night. Not the controlled kind.
The kind that made his chest hurt. The kind that made it impossible to breathe. Weeks of exhaustion, loneliness, guilt, confusion, and heartbreak came crashing out of him all at once. He buried his face in his hands as sob after sob tore through him, his shoulders shaking so hard he could barely stay upright.
And through all of it, his mom never asked who.
She never asked why. She never asked him to explain. Because she already knew.
She knew whose name he kept checking his phone for. She knew who he was thinking about when he stared off into space. She knew why he suddenly hated being home. She knew who was missing.
So instead she sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
And she let him cry. She let him cry until his face hurt.
Until his eyes were swollen. Until there was nothing left inside him to hold back.
Not once did she push for answers. She simply sat there beside her son while he mourned something he couldn't fully understand himself, because she had watched it happen long before he did.
She had watched you become the first person he looked for when he walked into a room. The first person he texted when something funny happened. The first person he wanted to tell everything to.
And now she was watching him try to figure out how to live without that.
And he was so fucking sad.
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A month had gone by for you as well. At least that's what the calendar showed. For you, the days had blurred together so quickly that it was hard to believe you'd already been in New York for four weeks. And honestly? You thought you were doing pretty well.
You had friends now, too. Real friends. The kind that texted you at midnight asking if you wanted food, the kind that dragged you out on Thursday nights and convinced you one drink wouldn't hurt.
Most weekends, you found yourself somewhere loud. House parties. Tiny apartments overflowing with people. Music shaking the walls and red cups constantly finding their way into your hands. You told yourself it was fun, and it was, mostly. The alcohol helped too. Not because things were spiraling, but because it made everything quieter. The lingering thoughts from home. The memories you didn't want to unpack. The feeling that something had been left unfinished. You never let yourself sit with those thoughts for long.
You were here for a reason. This was your chance.
You wanted to reinvent yourself. You wanted people to meet you without already knowing every embarrassing story from your childhood. You wanted to become someone new. Someone exciting. Someone who wasn't constantly looking backward.
For the most part, it was working.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, you met Minghao.
You were sitting in class waiting for the professor to arrive when the guy beside you leaned over and pointed at one of the stickers covering your laptop.
You looked up and immediately forgot what you were about to say.
Minghao was ridiculously pretty. Long blonde hair that just touched his shoulders in a messy mullet-like style, silver rings on nearly every finger, light tattoos scattered on his arms.
You laughed. "Thanks. You too?"
He pointed toward the headphones hanging around his neck.
The conversation started there and somehow never stopped. By the time class began, you'd spent fifteen minutes talking about music. By the time class ended, you'd spent another ten. Favorite artists. Favorite albums. Concerts. Songs that changed your life. It flowed so naturally that it felt like you'd known him for months instead of an hour.
At one point you laughed and shook your head. "You know, I came here fully convinced I was gonna start a band."
Minghao's eyes widened immediately.
The excitement in his voice made you laugh.
"I'm serious," he said. "I have two friends who would absolutely lose their minds over this."
He sat up straighter as he spoke.
"Josh can play basically anything with strings. Guitar, bass, piano, whatever. And Seungcheol somehow knows every instrument under the sun."
You couldn't stop smiling.
"And I play bass," he added.
Suddenly he looked like he was already planning rehearsals.
Minghao gathered his things before casually clearing his throat.
"If we're gonna start this world-famous band, we're gonna need to communicate somehow."
You laughed. "Oh, obviously."
"So maybe I should get your number."
You narrowed your eyes immediately. "For band business?"
You handed him your phone, laughing as he typed his contact information in.
The truth was, Minghao would've asked for your number anyway. Band or no band.
The second you'd started talking, he'd been interested. Not enough to make it obvious. Not enough to openly flirt. But enough that he caught himself looking forward to hearing your laugh again. Enough that he'd already decided he wanted an excuse to see you outside of class.
Of course, he wasn't about to admit any of that.
Instead, he handed your phone back and shrugged.
"You know. For band stuff."
And neither of you mentioned how excited you both looked.
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Another month passed before you even realized it. Time was really flying. The leaves had started changing color, the air had gotten colder, and suddenly it was mid October.
And still, you hadn't heard a single thing from Vernon.
No text. No call. No apology. Nothing.
At first, you'd expected some kind of conversation eventually. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even after a few weeks. But eventually.
You'd left him a note. You'd given him space. And somehow that space had stretched into complete silence. You checked less and less as the weeks went on, but every once in a while you'd still find yourself opening your messages and staring at his contact.
At first it hurt. Then it confused you. Eventually it started making you angry.
Because what exactly had happened that night?
You'd replayed the argument so many times that parts of it felt scripted. Back then, you'd been convinced he was wrong, convinced he was being unfair, convinced he didn't understand you.
Now, months later, you weren't even sure he had understood himself.
Because if he had, surely he would've said something by now. Surely he would've explained. Surely he would've reached out.
Instead, he'd disappeared.
And somehow that felt worse.
The anger settled somewhere permanent inside you. Not enough to ruin your days, but enough to linger. Enough that every time something reminded you of him, irritation immediately followed.
Meanwhile, your life kept moving.
The band idea had somehow become real. You, Minghao, Joshua, and Seungcheol had become inseparable. Most days, if one of you was somewhere, the other three weren't far behind. You spent hours together in practice rooms, crowded into dorms, wandering through the city after classes, talking about music until two in the morning.
For the first time since arriving in New York, you genuinely felt like you belonged.
Naturally, your social media started filling up with them.
One post was a group picture from a night out. The four of you packed together on a sidewalk downtown, everyone's arms around each other, the photo slightly blurry because nobody could stop laughing long enough to stay still.
Another was a candid someone had snapped during practice. You and Joshua sitting across from each other with guitars in your laps, both laughing over a mistake you'd made halfway through a song.
Then there was the selfie Minghao took one afternoon.
Your arm was thrown over his shoulder while he shoved his face against yours at the last second, both of you smiling directly into the camera. Looking at it objectively, you had to admit it looked suspicious. Not intentionally. But if someone didn't know either of you, they could easily assume something was going on. They might even think you were dating.
The funny thing was that every single time you posted one of those pictures, the exact same thought crossed your mind.
Vernon is going to see this.
A small, petty part of you wanted him to see them.
Wanted him to wonder. Wanted him to look at the photo of you and Minghao and feel confused. Maybe jealous.
You hated admitting that to yourself, but why did you feel that way?
But after months of silence? After months of him acting like you didn't exist? Part of you wanted him to feel something. The same way you'd spent weeks feeling abandoned. So sometimes you'd hit post with that thought sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
But every single time, the feeling disappeared the second the post went live.
Because underneath the anger was something else.
You'd stare at the pictures afterward and feel it settle heavily in your chest.
The photos weren't fake. That was the problem.
The smiles were real. The laughs were real. The friendships were real. You genuinely cared about these people, and they cared about you.
Yet somehow it felt wrong that a small part of your motivation had been tied to someone hundreds of miles away who wasn't even speaking to you.
Someone who might not even see the post, someone who might not care.
And somehow that possibility bothered you more than anything else.
Because if Vernon really didn't care...
Then why were you still thinking about him every time your finger hovered over the post button? You didn’t have an answer for that.
So instead, you'd lock your phone, shove the feeling aside, and let Joshua drag you back into another conversation, let Seungcheol talk your ear off about music theory, let Minghao throw an arm around your shoulders while making you laugh.
While pretending it wasn’t eating you alive.
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Vernon saw every post. Every single one. Even though he never liked them, never commented, never reached out, he saw all of them. The group photos, the late-night outings, the practice sessions, the blurry snapshots of a life that seemed to be moving forward without him.
At first he told himself he was just curious. Just checking in. Just making sure you were okay. But curiosity quickly turned into something else entirely. Something he didn’t want to admit he was doing every night. Long after everyone else in his house was asleep, he’d lie in bed with his phone inches from his face, scrolling through your profile, looking for something that would make it feel less like he was being left behind.
And every picture only made it worse.
You looked happy. Genuinely happy. That should’ve comforted him, but it didn’t. Because it wasn’t a new smile. It was the same one. The exact same one from every memory he kept replaying in his head. The same smile from random afternoons, from old photos still saved in his camera roll, from moments where everything had felt easy.
Then there was Minghao. He didn’t know who Minghao was.
That selfie destroyed him.
He stared at it for so long the screen dimmed. Your arm was around Minghao’s shoulder, your faces pressed together, both of you smiling like it was effortless, like you belonged in that frame together. Vernon zoomed in, then out, then in again, analyzing it like it might give him an answer that made it hurt less. The way Minghao leaned in, the way you didn’t pull away, the comfort between you that looked so natural it made his chest feel tight.
Hours passed like that. Just staring. Thinking. Spiraling.
Until something inside him snapped.
He shot up from his bed so fast the blankets slid off, his phone dropping onto the mattress as he started pacing. “No,” he muttered under his breath, more panicked than angry, running his hands through his hair like he could physically reset his thoughts. Because for months he’d been avoiding the truth, pretending he didn’t understand what this feeling was, but now he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
Real, consuming jealousy.
Not of Minghao himself, not really, but of what Minghao had. Of the space he took in your life. By the way, he could make you laugh in real time. Of how easily he existed beside you while Vernon was stuck watching from a distance.
And once he admitted that, everything else followed too.
And it took him this long to realize that is what it was.
It hit him like something physical, knocking the air out of him as he stood there frozen in his room. Months of confusion suddenly made sense in the worst possible way. The constant thoughts. The inability to move on. The way everything felt wrong since you left. It all traced back to the same place.
Not as a friend. Not as something vague and safe he could tuck away and ignore.
He loved you in a way that made everything else feel like it had been a lie.
New York. New life. New people. A version of you he wasn’t part of anymore.
That realization sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift. Because while you were building something new, he was still stuck in the same room, replaying the same memories, realizing too late what he had actually lost.
Sleep stopped coming after that.
He’d lie awake until morning, staring at the ceiling, your posts still open on his phone beside him. His body exhausted, his mind refusing to shut off. Every night felt longer than the last, like time itself was stretching just to keep him in this state.
And somewhere between the jealousy and the regret and the love he should’ve admitted months ago, a quieter fear started settling in.
What if this never goes away?
What if he spends the rest of his life like this?
Lying awake. Thinking about you.
He was scared he would never sleep again.
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October flew by in a flash.
One moment it was still early fall, the city just starting to cool down, and the next it was already late in the month with winter quietly pressing in at the edges. The band had become real in a way you still sometimes couldn’t believe. You were writing music now, actually writing it, not just talking about it in class. You were playing gigs in small, crowded bars scattered around the city, places with sticky floors and flickering neon signs and audiences that didn’t always listen at first but eventually did.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, you started finding yourself on stage.
There were moments during sets where everything else disappeared. Just you, the music, the lights, the sound of the band behind you holding everything together. You’d step off stage afterward slightly out of breath, slightly shaking, adrenaline still buzzing through you, trying to convince yourself you looked as confident as people said you did in the photos.
Because you did post them.
Photos from gigs where you leaned into the mic like you knew exactly what you were doing. Photos where you laughed with Joshua between songs. Photos where Minghao stood beside you with his bass slung low, looking like he belonged there more than anyone else. Photos that made you look miles cooler than you actually felt.
From the outside, it looked like you were settling in perfectly.
But as October bled into early November, something started to shift.
You started feeling sick.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just quietly, constantly. A low heaviness in your body that didn’t go away. Homesickness that didn’t feel like nostalgia anymore but something sharper, more physical. You’d wake up tired even after sleeping. You’d sit in class and realize you hadn’t absorbed a single word. You’d walk through the city feeling like you were slightly behind yourself, like your body was moving but your mind wasn’t fully inside it.
It started to feel like you were watching your life from the outside instead of living it.
You tried to ignore it. You told yourself you were just adjusting, that this was normal, that it would pass. But the feeling stayed.
You tried talking to Minghao about it one night after practice. You didn’t even really know how to explain it, just that you felt off, like you weren’t fully present in your own life anymore. He listened, like he always did, and he helped in the moment. He made you laugh. He distracted you. He stayed with you until you felt a little more like yourself again.
But the moment he left your place that night, the emptiness came back.
That was the part you didn’t understand.
Because with Minghao, Joshua, and Seungcheol, you could feel better temporarily. You could feel lighter, distracted, almost normal. But it never stayed.
And you started noticing something you couldn’t un-notice.
That hadn’t happened with Vernon.
With Vernon, things didn’t just feel better for a moment. They felt fixed. Like whatever was wrong in your head would quiet completely when he was around. Like your thoughts didn’t just get lighter, they disappeared entirely. Like being with him made it feel like nothing was wrong in the first place.
Now, there was no silence like that anymore.
Because part of you started realizing how much of your life in New York didn’t include anything from home. Not mentally. Not emotionally. You were building something completely new, and on paper that was what you wanted, but in reality it left you feeling disconnected from everything you used to be.
But you also weren’t fully there anymore.
And that in-between space started to feel like the only place you existed.
You’d sit in your room at night after rehearsals, staring at nothing, feeling floaty in a way that made it hard to ground yourself. Like your thoughts were slightly delayed behind your actions. Like your life was happening a step ahead of you and you were constantly trying to catch up.
And the worst part was the guilt.
Because you were supposed to be thriving.
You were supposed to be happy.
You were supposed to have left everything behind cleanly, fully, without looking back.
Instead, you felt like you were slowly losing pieces of yourself in places you couldn’t name, surrounded by people you cared about, doing things you loved, and still somehow feeling like you were slipping out of your own life without knowing how to stop it.
At first, he thought it was just stress. Mid-semester exhaustion, maybe. New city fatigue. Something that would pass once things settled. But it didn’t pass. It just… shifted.
You were still there, physically, still showing up to rehearsals and gigs, still laughing at the right moments, still performing like you were supposed to. But between those moments, you were somewhere else entirely. Spaced out mid-conversation. Slow to respond. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel like comfort anymore, just absence.
And the worst part for him was that he remembered who you used to be.
The version of you from the beginning of the semester, when everything felt exciting and sharp and full of possibility. When you talked too fast about music ideas, when you lit up mid-sentence about starting a band, when you couldn’t sit still because your mind was always already three steps ahead of your life.
That version of you had felt alive in a way that was impossible to ignore.
And if he was being honest with himself, that version of you was the one he’d been drawn to in the first place.
The one he’d had a little thing for, even if he never fully admitted it.
Now, though, that spark only showed up in fragments. On stage. Under lights. When the music was loud enough to pull something back out of you for a few minutes at a time. The second the set ended, it dimmed again.
Outside of that, you were drifting.
Minghao tried not to take it personally. He really did. He knew people got overwhelmed, especially in a place like New York. But over time, it started to wear on him. He’d talk to you after rehearsals and feel like he was talking through glass. You’d nod, respond, even smile, but it didn’t feel like you were actually there.
You also weren’t spending as much time with him anymore. Not intentionally, not in a dramatic way, just slowly, naturally. Plans got shorter. Conversations got lighter. You started leaving earlier, saying you were tired, and he stopped pushing because every time he looked at you too closely, he could tell you were already running on empty. And he cared about you so fucking much.
So he swallowed it, all of it.
Until the night you were supposed to write together.
It was meant to be simple. Just the two of you working on a track for the band, something you’d talked about earlier in the week. You’d agreed on it casually, but even then, he could tell your enthusiasm hadn’t been there the same way it used to be.
He had a long day, he was tired, he was worried of the mood you would be in if you decided to write with him as planned.
Your phone screen lit up:
Hao: Hey I’m not feelin too great, can we postpone our writing sesh?
Y/n: Okay just let me know.
You stared at your phone for a long moment after reading his message. Not feeling too great. Can we postpone. It didn’t sound like an excuse. It sounded real. But still, your chest tightened in a way you didn’t immediately understand.
He’d never really cancelled on you like that before.
You sat there in your room, phone still in your hand, staring at the dim reflection of yourself on the screen. Outside, the rain had started again, tapping softly against the window, filling the silence in a way that made everything feel heavier.
Slowly, uncomfortably, a thought crept in. Maybe he didn’t want to deal with you like this. Not angry, not dramatic, just tired. Tired of your silence mid-conversation, tired of your spaced-out answers, tired of you showing up but not really being there. The realization didn’t come all at once, it came in pieces, each one quieter than the last until it settled in your chest.
You were exhausting to be around.
And you already knew you were exhausting to yourself.
You got up without really deciding to, pacing your room once before stopping at your desk. Everything felt slightly out of focus, like you were watching yourself from a distance. You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred. You hated it, hated how easily it came now, hated how often it happened, hated that you couldn’t even explain what exactly hurt anymore, just that everything did. Dull. Lost. Scared. Sad. It all blurred together into something you couldn’t shake.
Not suddenly, not cleanly, but like something you’d been avoiding finally pushing through. Your breath caught as you reached behind your phone case and pulled out a Polaroid you hadn’t looked at in weeks.
Last summer. The beach with both your families.
Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, face split into the brightest smile, wet salty hair everywhere, his hands locked around your waist pulling you in like he didn’t want any space between you at all. He looked happy. You looked happier.
You stared at it for too long.
The first sob came out sharp, like it surprised even you. Then another. Then another. Your hands shook so badly you could barely hold the photo as your breathing turned uneven and panicked, collapsing in on itself. It wasn’t just sadness anymore, it was realization, all at once, too loud, too clear.
You weren’t just homesick. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You weren’t just adjusting. You had been falling apart slowly for months without understanding why.
The thought hit you like something physical, stealing the air from your lungs. You sank onto your bed still clutching the Polaroid, crying harder now, unable to breathe properly through it, the rain outside louder than before, like it was the only thing steady in the room.
You shouldn’t have left. You shouldn’t have told yourself distance would make it easier.
Because all it had done was make everything clearer.
And in a shaking, rain-soaked room in New York, holding onto a summer you couldn’t get back to, you finally understood you hadn’t just missed him.
You had been in love with him the entire time.
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You sat there staring at your phone for a long time, the Polaroid still trembling slightly in your hand. Your brain wouldn’t stop moving in circles. Message him. Don’t message him. You already left. He already left you. But he didn’t really leave you, did he? He just stopped talking. And maybe you deserved that. Maybe you didn’t. The thoughts overlapped until you couldn’t tell which ones were yours anymore.
Hey, I’m sorry. Hey, I miss you. Hey, I think I ruined everything. Hey, I think I love you.
Your chest tightened harder at that last one.
You stood up, paced once, sat back down. Your phone screen lit up again in your hand like it was waiting for you to make a mistake or finally make sense of something. Your breathing was uneven now, thoughts speeding up instead of slowing down.
The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them.
Your fingers moved before your brain could catch up.
Y/n: Hey I was thinking about you, I hope you are doing well.
You stared at it for half a second.
Then sent it. No edits. No second guessing. Just gone.
States away, Vernon was asleep for the first time in what felt like weeks. Not deep, perfect sleep, but the kind his body finally forced him into after days of exhaustion piling on top of each other. He’d collapsed into it without realizing, like his system had simply given up resisting.
His phone lit up in the dark.
He groaned slightly, rolling over, dragging himself back into awareness. The room was still dim when he finally grabbed his phone, squinting at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes.
With the same little emoji you had put next to your contact in middle school that he never let you change.
His throat tightened immediately as he sat up too fast.
Then again, slower this time, like his brain was refusing to process the words properly.
“Hey I was thinking about you, I hope you are doing well.”
He said it out loud without realizing.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t controlled. It hit him all at once, his breath catching so hard it hurt as tears flooded his face immediately. His hands started shaking violently, phone slipping slightly in his grip as he pressed it against his chest like that would somehow make it real.
And suddenly all the sleep he’d finally managed to get felt like it shattered instantly.
What he didn’t know was that you were sitting in your room at the exact same time, staring at your own phone, waiting for something that didn’t come yet, your heart racing so hard you could barely sit still.
For the next week, Vernon barely functioned.
He went through the motions like a ghost. School. Home. Bed. Repeat. He didn’t meet friends. He barely spoke to his family. He didn’t open the message again after the first time because it hurt too much to read it without breaking all over again.
He didn’t respond either.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Every time he even thought about typing, his mind short-circuited. Because what was he supposed to say after months of silence? How do you respond to the person you’ve been in love with for months without admitting everything all at once?
And that was the problem.
He missed your presence in the smallest ways that had somehow become everything.
The way you existed beside him without needing words. The way your body would naturally settle next to his when you shared a bed, like it belonged there. The way he would wake up before you sometimes and just lie there watching the sunlight hit your hair, smiling to himself without even thinking about it.
The way your breathing would be soft and steady beside him when the world felt too loud.
He missed that. He missed all of it.
And somewhere in the middle of the exhaustion and panic and silence, it hit him so clearly it almost made him sick.
He hadn’t just been attached to you.
He had been in love with you the entire time.
He just hadn’t known how to say it until you were already gone. And that's what he wasn’t understanding the night you both had fought.
At first it was calm. You told yourself he was probably asleep, that he’d respond when he woke up, that maybe he just didn’t know what to say yet. Then hours passed, then a day, then two. Still nothing. No reply, no acknowledgment, no sign that your message had even landed the way you’d hoped. Just silence.
And the silence started to feel familiar in the worst way.
You tried to rationalize it at first, sitting there on your bed with your phone in your hand, replaying the moment you sent the text over and over. Maybe he needed time. Maybe he was overwhelmed. Maybe he just didn’t know how to respond. But each excuse felt thinner than the last, until there was nothing comforting left in them.
Eventually it settled into something heavier.
The realization didn’t come as shock anymore, it came as collapse. Like your body already knew before your mind caught up. Your chest tightened so hard you had to bend forward slightly, your breathing turning uneven as you stared at the screen like it might change if you looked long enough.
The thought that followed came quietly, but it was worse than everything else.
Am I going home to no one?
The question didn’t have an answer you could tolerate. You got up, pacing your room once, then again, trying to shake the feeling out of your body, but it only followed you. The space around you felt too open and too empty at the same time, like there was nowhere to put what you were feeling.
Anger tried to surface after that, sharp and unstable. He could disappear for months and still not say anything? After you finally reached out? After you actually tried?
But even that didn’t last. It folded back into something worse, something smaller and more personal. Not anger at him, but confusion about yourself. Why did this hurt so much? Why did everything feel so unstable just because of one unanswered message?
Before you could spiral further, your phone buzzed again.
Minghao: I’m coming over.
You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.
When he arrived, he didn’t bring his usual energy with him. No teasing, no lightness, no easy smile. Just quiet concern as he stepped inside, taking in your face before the door was even fully closed behind him.
He didn’t ask what was wrong immediately. He just stayed close enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, watching you for a moment as if confirming something he already suspected.
You could feel it in the way he looked at you, like he’d been noticing this build-up for a while but hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. The way you weren’t fully present anymore. The way your attention kept slipping away mid-conversation. The way even when you laughed, it didn’t reach all the way through you.
Minghao sat beside you eventually, not too close, but close enough that the space didn’t feel as wide anymore. He didn’t push you to talk, but he also didn’t let you completely disappear into yourself like you had been doing for weeks.
“You’ve been like this for a while,” he said finally, voice calm, not accusing. Just observant.
You let out a small breath, staring at your hands. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer immediately, like he was choosing not to say it too harshly. “Not here,” he said simply.
That made something in your chest tighten. You gave a small, almost defensive laugh, but it didn’t land. “I am here.”
Minghao shook his head slightly. “You show up. But you’re not really here. Not with us. Not with anything.”
You swallowed, looking away toward the floor. “I don’t know how to stop it.”
There was a pause. He shifted a little closer, still careful not to overwhelm you. “Stop what?”
Your fingers curled into your sleeve. You hesitated, then exhaled like you were giving up on holding it in. “Feeling like I’m… not in my own life anymore.”
That made him go quiet for a moment. His expression softened, but it didn’t turn pitying. Just understanding in a way that made it worse.
“Is it New York?” he asked gently. “The band? School? You don’t have to pretend if it’s too much.”
You shook your head quickly. “It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s not just that.” Your voice wavered slightly. “I should be happy. I am happy. I think. I don’t know why I still feel like this.”
Minghao studied you carefully. “Like what?”
“Like I left something behind and I didn’t realize how much it would hurt,” you admitted quietly.
The room went still again.
He didn’t interrupt. He just let you keep going if you needed to.
You let out a shaky breath. “And now it’s like everything is happening and I’m not fully inside it. Like I’m watching it instead of living it.”
Minghao nodded slowly, like he understood more than he was saying. “And it gets worse when you’re alone.”
That made your throat tighten immediately, because it was true.
You looked at him for a second, then away again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, a little firmer now, but still gentle. “You’re just not okay right now.”
You let out a small, broken laugh. “That’s basically the same thing.”
“It’s not,” he replied. Then, after a pause, softer, “It means something’s hurting you. Not that you’re broken.”
That made your eyes sting again, and you quickly looked down so he wouldn’t see.
He leaned back slightly, giving you space but not distance. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you just want me to sit here?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Both? Neither?”
“That’s fine,” he said simply. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
“I’m trying,” you said quietly, almost like an apology.
“I know,” he replied immediately. “I can see that. That’s why I’m not leaving.”
That made your eyes close for a second, because even that simple sentence felt like too much and not enough at the same time.
And for now, he just stayed there with you in the quiet, letting you exist without having to explain anything.
“You should try to sleep after this,” he said gently.
You gave a small nod, even though you weren’t sure sleep would actually come.
He stood up slowly, grabbing his things. There was a brief pause at the door, like he was checking one last time that you were okay enough to be left alone.
“If it gets bad again,” he said, “just text me. Okay?”
He hesitated, then stepped back toward you instead of leaving immediately. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden, just a quiet instinct. He opened his arms slightly, and you leaned into it without thinking too much.
The hug wasn’t tight or overwhelming. It was steady. Grounding. The kind of hug that didn’t ask anything from you except to exist for a second without falling apart. You didn’t realize how much you needed that until your shoulders relaxed slightly into him.
When he finally left, the apartment felt different again. Quieter, yes, but not as suffocating as before. More like space instead of emptiness.
For a while after the door closed, you just sat there. Staring at nothing. Letting the silence settle in a way that didn’t immediately crush you. And slowly, almost uncomfortably, something shifted.
The panic didn’t disappear, but it loosened its grip just enough for clarity to slip in.
You had a huge performance coming up with the band. A real one. The kind people actually showed up for. The kind that mattered.
You looked around your room like you were seeing it properly for the first time in days. Your gear. Your notes. The faint reminders of rehearsals you’d been half-present for lately. It all suddenly felt like something you were supposed to be part of again, not something happening around you.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you muttered to yourself, voice barely steady.
And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like a decision.
The next few rehearsals were different.You showed up earlier. You actually listened through entire takes without drifting away halfway. You started adding small ideas again, quiet at first, then more confidently as the days passed. Joshua noticed it first, joking lightly about how you were “back in the room,” and Seungcheol started leaning into your suggestions more seriously again.
Minghao noticed too, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just met your energy where it was, like he was glad you were coming back but didn’t want to scare it off by pointing it out too loudly.
And slowly, something in you started to flicker again.
Your spark didn’t come back all at once. It returned in pieces. In moments during rehearsals where a melody finally clicked. In small laughs between takes. In the way your hands stopped shaking as much when you picked up your instrument.
Vernon was still there, in the background of your thoughts. Still a dull ache sometimes, especially at night when everything quieted down. The absence hadn’t disappeared. It just stopped swallowing everything whole.
And for the first time in a while, you could breathe around it instead of drowning in it. You were still figuring it out.
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When the show got close, everything started moving faster again.
Rehearsals tightened up, setlists got finalized, and suddenly there wasn’t much room for spiraling thoughts in between sound checks and late-night practice sessions. You were still a little fragile under it all, but you were functioning in a way that finally felt intentional instead of accidental.
A simple Instagram post for the band. A flyer for the show, a few behind-the-scenes photos from rehearsals, a couple candid shots where you were laughing mid-break, trying to get as many people to come as possible. Your caption was light, casual, promotional. Nothing heavy. Nothing personal.
Still, your thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than it should’ve before you hit share.
You didn’t expect anything from it. Not really.
He’d been scrolling without thinking, the habit still there even if everything else between you had gone quiet. And then your post appeared. The date. The venue. Your face in motion again, alive in a way that looked slightly distant but still undeniably you.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in a while.
It was small. Almost meaningless. Just a tap. But for you, when the notification came through later that day, it stopped you mid-step.
The like sitting under your post like it hadn’t been gone for months.
You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering over the notification. For a second your mind raced in every direction at once, but nothing landed firmly enough to turn into a thought you could hold onto. In the end, you just exhaled shakily and whispered to yourself, “So… He is alive.”
That was all you let it be. A sign he existed. Not a message. Not an answer. Not a return. Just proof that somewhere out there, he was still there too.
What you didn’t know was that the moment Vernon saw the date of your show, something in him locked into place.
He didn’t overthink it. He didn’t ask anyone.
He didn’t tell his friends, didn’t explain it to his family, didn’t even fully process it in words. He just opened his laptop, searched flights, and booked one to New York.
The confirmation email came through, and he stared at it for a long moment without blinking, like if he thought too hard about it, he might talk himself out of it.
Because for months, he’d been surviving on silence and screens and memories that didn’t stop replaying no matter how much he wanted them to.
And now there was a date.
He closed his laptop slowly, hands still slightly shaking, and finally let himself admit the truth he’d been avoiding since the day you left.
He didn’t just want to see you. He needed to. So he didn’t say anything to anyone. Not a word. He just started packing like it was the most natural thing in the world, like this wasn’t going to change everything, like he wasn’t about to step back into a version of his life he hadn’t been able to leave behind.
Because in his mind, there was no real alternative anymore. He just needed to see you.
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The day of the show came faster than you expected, like the semester had collapsed in on itself all at once. One moment you were still running through rehearsals, and the next you were standing backstage, hearing the low hum of a packed venue on the other side of the curtain.
You didn’t have time to overthink it.
There was only movement, only soundchecks, only the familiar chaos of getting everyone into place. And somewhere in the middle of it all, something in you clicked back into alignment. Not fully healed, not fully steady, but present in a way you hadn’t felt in months.
When the lights hit, everything changed. Stepping onto stage felt like breathing again after holding it in too long. The noise of the crowd swallowed you whole in the best way, and suddenly there wasn’t room for anything else. Not New York stress. Not distance. Not silence. Just music.
And for the first time in a long time, your spark didn’t feel forced.
By the end of the set, something in you had fully come back online.
The crowd noise blurred together as the final song ended, and for a second you just stood there, breathing hard, letting it all hit you at once. This was it. This was what you had been trying to get back to.
Minghao was the first to reach you.
He pulled you into a hug right there on stage, tight and genuine, the kind that said more than words needed to. “You killed it,” he said, slightly out of breath, smiling wide.
For a moment, everything felt normal. Then you looked up. Past the stage lights. Past the haze. Past the faces in the crowd. And your body went completely still.
Real, unmistakable, standing in the crowd like he had been there the whole time you weren’t looking. Your breath caught so hard it hurt, and the sound of everything around you dropped out instantly. Your heart sank so fast it felt like your stomach followed it.
For a split second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe properly. It was like every part of you had been pulled in his direction at once.
You turned and ran off stage.
Minghao noticed immediately, his expression shifting as he called after you, confused and concerned, taking a step forward like he might follow you. But before he could, he saw someone already moving after you from the side of the venue.
He didn’t recognize him. But he recognized the urgency. And something in the way you reacted told him enough.
He slowed. Stopped. Watched instead. Because whatever was happening wasn’t his place to interrupt anymore
You pushed through the doors so fast they banged against the outside wall, the sound echoing into the night. Cold air hit you immediately, sharp against your skin, but you didn’t stop moving. You kept walking forward until you were far enough from the venue that the noise of the crowd dulled into something distant and unreal.
Your chest rose and fell quickly, breath still uneven from running. Streetlights stretched long across the pavement, flickering slightly in the wind, the city feeling too quiet after everything she had just felt on stage.
The anger came fast, sharper than the shock. It filled in the space where confusion had been seconds before. You turned slightly, jaw tight, breathing still unsteady. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “Of course you just show up.”
Before you even turned fully, you felt a hand lightly touch your shoulder.
You spun around immediately and slapped his hand away, the motion more instinct than thought. “Don’t,” you snapped, voice breaking slightly from everything you were holding in. “Don’t touch me.”
Vernon froze, his hand dropping instantly. “Okay—okay, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, stepping back half a pace like he was trying not to overwhelm you.
“You don’t get to just show up here,” you said, voice rising. “After months. After nothing. After I sent you that text and you just—nothing. Not even a reply. Not even a ‘I don’t know what to say’.”
Vernon opened his mouth slightly, like he wanted to interrupt, but he didn’t.
You pointed at him now, frustration spilling out faster. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you have any idea what it fucking felt like to finally say something and just get silence back?”
“I know,” he said quickly, voice low. “I know, I’m sorry—”
“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t do that. Don’t just say sorry like it fixes it.”
He stepped forward slightly, then stopped himself, hands half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Please,” he said quietly. “Just… stop for a second. Please.”
He wasn’t fighting you. He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t angry at all. He just looked… relieved. Like seeing your face was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I didn’t respond because I couldn’t,” he admitted, voice shaking slightly now. “I read it and I— I didn’t know how to say anything without messing everything up again.”
“That’s not an excuse,” you snapped, but your voice wavered.
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know it’s not. I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving you. “I came because I couldn’t not see you anymore.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “So you just show up? After everything? That’s your solution?”
“I didn’t come to fix it,” he said quickly, stepping forward again before stopping himself like he was afraid you'd run again. “I just needed to see you. That’s it.”
Your chest tightened, but you refused to let it show. “You left me in the dark for months, Vernon.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “I know. And it killed me y/n. It absolutely killed me. I didn’t sleep, I missed you by my side. I lost myself completely.”
The way he said it—like he meant it, like it was sitting on top of him just as heavily as it sat on you—made you pause for half a second.
You went quiet. Whatever fragile control he’d been holding onto finally started to crack.
At first it was just his breathing changing—shallow, uneven. Then his face tightened like he was trying to hold something back and failing. His eyes stayed on you for a second longer, like he was trying to memorize you standing there in front of him, whole and real and not a memory on a screen.
“I can’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head as his voice collapsed. “I can’t do this without you.”
His hand came up to his face for a second like he was trying to steady himself, but it didn’t help. The tears came fast after that, slipping down his cheeks before he could even turn away from you.
“I’ve lost myself,” he said, voice cracking hard now. “Because I lost you. I wake up and I don’t even feel like I’m inside my own life anymore and I—” He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to continue but failing. “I’m so in love with you it hurts every single day.”
That made your breath catch.
But you still didn’t speak.
His voice dropped lower when he spoke again, softer, almost broken into pieces.
“I tried to move on,” he admitted. “I tried to act like I didn’t feel it. Like it would go away if I ignored it long enough.” He shook his head slightly, a tear falling before he even finished the sentence. “But everything I did just kept leading back to you. Always you.”
His shoulders trembled as he exhaled. “And I was too late when I realized what that meant.”
That landed between you both heavier than anything else.
Your expression shifted slightly, anger finally thinning into something more fragile, more uncertain. Your voice came out quieter than before, careful like you were afraid of what it might unlock.
“Why didn’t you say it before I left for college?”
That question made him stop completely. For a second, he just stared at you like he didn’t deserve to answer it. Then his voice broke again, but this time it was softer, stripped down completely.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Back then… I didn’t know.”
He swallowed hard, stepping closer without thinking this time. You didn’t move away.
“I know now,” he whispered, like it hurt to say it out loud. “I know now.”
That was when it fully hit him again, and he broke down harder, tears coming faster, his breathing uneven as he tried to keep talking through it. “I know what it is,” he continued, voice shaking. “I know what I’ve been feeling this whole time and I just—” He shook his head, helpless. “I was so stupid. I was so late.”
You could feel your own eyes burning now, the weight of everything finally catching up. Neither of you were really holding it together anymore.
He stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was asking permission without words. You stayed where you were. His hand lifted carefully, hesitating for a second before he gently took yours.
You didn’t pull away. That alone seemed to wreck him even more.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely audible now. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it. I’m sorry I made you go through that alone. I’m sorry I lost you.”
There was a pause, shaky and fragile.
Then, through a wet, broken breath, you finally spoke again—half laugh, half disbelief, voice still trembling.
He let out something that almost sounded like a laugh through tears, but he didn’t let go of your hand. If anything, he held it tighter.
Your eyes dropped for a second, and when you looked back up at him, something in you finally cracked open fully.
“Did you think I wouldn’t feel the same way?” You say softly, bodies now closer than before. That made him freeze. A smile started to form on his face through tears. Then, quieter, almost scared to ruin the moment, you asked, “How did you even get here?”
He blinked at you, still holding your hand like it was the only real thing in the world. “Don’t worry about it,” he said softly, a hint of shaky humor in his voice. “I just needed to see you.”
His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked again, quieter this time, like everything else had already been answered.
You didn’t even answer him. Not with words, not with hesitation, not with anything you could overthink later.
The space between you disappeared in a single movement, your hand still half-trembling as it grabbed his shirt and brought him to you. His breath caught sharply like he hadn’t fully believed this was going to happen, like some part of him was still bracing for you to change your mind.
But then your lips met his.
And everything went still for a fraction of a second—like the world itself paused just to register it.
Immediately. Instinctively. Like something inside him had been waiting for this exact moment for months and finally stopped holding back. His hand dropped yours without hesitation, but only so he could pull you closer instead, arms sliding around your waist and locking you against him like he was terrified you might slip away if he didn’t hold on hard enough.
The kiss deepened in a way that wasn’t rushed, but desperate—years of unspoken things collapsing into one moment that finally made sense of everything else.
You moved like you already knew him again, like your body remembered what your mind had been trying to survive without. One hand slid up to his neck, fingers curling there as if anchoring yourself to him, the other moving into the back of his hair, tugging slightly as if to make sure he was real.
He let out a quiet, broken sound against your lips—half relief, half disbelief—but didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you tighter, like the idea of distance now was unbearable.
When you finally part, he laughs quietly to himself.
“You really are so beautiful, you know?” he says quietly, like it wasn’t a compliment he was trying to give, but something he had been holding in for a very long time.
You pulled him straight into a hug, tight and immediate, like your body made the decision before your mind could interfere. Your arms wrapped around him with everything you had left in you, and the second you felt him properly—his warmth, the familiar weight of him, the scent of his cologne that hadn’t changed since high school—it was like something inside you finally stopped resisting.
He held you back just as tightly, almost desperately, like if he loosened even slightly you might disappear again. His hand moved up your back slowly, grounding you, while the other stayed firm at your waist.
Eventually, without breaking the hold between you, he murmured, “Can we… go somewhere? Somewhere quieter?”
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The walk back felt unreal in the best way, like the city around you was moving normally but you weren’t part of it anymore. His hand stayed in yours the entire time, fingers occasionally tightening like he was reminding himself you were still there.
When you got inside, the door barely closed before everything softened again. The tension that had been sitting between you for months, even years, didn’t vanish—but it shifted into something warmer, something easier to hold.
You didn’t even really sit properly before he was pulling you toward your bed, like it was instinct. And once you were there, everything slowed down in the most natural way.
He laid down first, and you immediately curled into him like you’d done it a thousand times before. It felt wrong in how right it was. His arm slid around you instantly, pulling you close against his chest, and you let out a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
For a while, you just talked.
Not about everything heavy all at once, but pieces of it. Small updates. Random memories. Things you missed. Things you didn’t even know mattered until now. He told you about sleepless nights and half-written messages he never sent. You told him about New York, the band, the nights you didn’t understand what you were feeling.
Sometimes one of you would pause mid-sentence just to look at the other like you couldn’t believe this was real.
And then it would turn into something lighter again.
A little teasing. A little arguing over stupid things. Him stealing your blanket. You pushing him off and immediately pulling him back. Him pretending to be offended before laughing and pulling you closer again.
One moment you were trying to push him off your side of the bed, and the next he’d caught your wrist gently, not to stop you, just to hold you there. His laughter faded first—not abruptly, just slowly, like something in him shifted mid-breath.
You noticed it immediately.
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a second too long. Then he leaned in.
It wasn’t hesitant. Not really. It felt like something he had been holding back for so long that the decision didn’t even look like a decision anymore.
His lips met yours again, slower this time, warmer, deeper in a way that made your teasing thoughts dissolve almost instantly. When he pulled back just slightly, barely enough to speak, his forehead stayed close to yours.
“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” he admitted quietly, like it had been sitting in his chest too heavy to keep pretending otherwise.
That made something in you spark again—familiar, teasing, just enough to try and regain control of the moment.
“Oh wow,” you started, breath still uneven, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So what, you’ve just been suffering in silence—”
You didn’t even get to finish.
His hand slid to your waist, and he kissed you again.
The kiss deepened with every second, less about hesitation and more about everything you both hadn’t said finally spilling out without words. Months of distance, silence, confusion—it all collapsed into something immediate and overwhelming. Every time you tried to pull back just slightly for air, he followed you like it wasn’t even a thought, like stopping felt wrong now that he finally had you here.
And in between it all, when there was just barely enough space for words, he murmured against you, almost like he couldn’t help himself.
“Don’t tease me right now,” he said quietly, breath uneven.
You gave a soft laugh against his lips, but it faded quickly as he kissed you again, slower this time, pulling you back in like he was learning you all over again but refusing to stop.
You move your hands from around his neck to the bottom of his black t-shirt playing with the hem as he kisses from your lips, down your neck. A gasp leaves your mouth without even realizing as you feel a smirk form on Vernon’s lips.
You tug at the hem to then slightly lift it up so he gets the hint. He leans up grabbing the part of the shirt you just had your hands on to lift it over his head, throwing it on the floor in the process.
You grab the bottom of your own shirt, doing the same motion throwing it on the floor right next to his.
Vernon’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer than usual. not in a way that felt objectifying, but like he was genuinely taking you in—like he was trying to memorize you all over again in real time, now that everything was finally out in the open.
“You’re kind of unfair,” he said quietly, a small breath of a laugh in his voice.
You raised an eyebrow, still slightly breathless. “Me?”
He nodded once, stepping a little closer again. “Yeah. You do that thing where you act like you’re not affecting me.”
That made you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “I’m not doing anything.”
He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t believe you for a second. “Exactly.”
That got you to smile properly this time.
“Fuck you are so beautiful.” He says quieter in a low tone. The space between you disappeared again without either of you really deciding it. It just happened naturally, like gravity had reset itself.
Your fingers curled into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, and he responded immediately, like he’d been waiting for that exact signal. When you broke apart, just slightly, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing uneven but calmer now.
“I don’t think I’m leaving again,” he murmured.
You let out a small laugh, softer this time. “Good.”
“Besides, I kinda like New York.” He laughs mid sentence.
“Oh yeah?” You laugh back at the brown haired boy above you.
"It wouldn't be too awful to transfer to a nearby school… huh?” He jokes, but with a deadpan certainty that shows he definitely is not joking.
“I don’t see a problem with that.” You joke back.
He kissed you again, it felt less like chaos and more like certainty—like everything messy and painful and distant had finally folded into something that made sense.
And for the first time in a very long time, neither of you felt like you were missing anything.
You had each other, and you both finally realized, that's all you need.
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