Peaches

Pairing: Choi Su-bong x The Reader

Summary: a Halloween night encounter turns into a nightmare when you find yourself cornered by a stranger in a Ghostface mask who twists your despair into his leverage

Warnings: dark themes, dubcon, coercion, choking, humiliation, horror vibes — read at your own risk, besties

minors and weak-nerved owners, i beg you, not to interact. i cannot be responsible for your therapy..

>>>>>

You tell yourself it’s a prank at first. Halloween, after all—masks, haunted laughter, the clink of plastic cups from inside the room. The terrace glows with jack-o'-lanterns and a string of orange lights, the music muffled and distorted through the sliding door. Below, the city breathes in slow pulses. You stand at the railing because you needed air. Because the noise felt like a lie. Because you were ready to let go.

You don’t know how long you’ve been leaning there, toes curling at the ledge, when a hand clamps hard on your shoulder and yanks you back. You whip around, breath snagging. He is impossibly still for a person; the Ghostface mask tilts toward you, a mounted lens glinting. A voice you don’t recognize—smooth, mocking, sharp as a knife—cuts through the air.

“You were about to jump, weren’t you?” he says, tone flat like an executioner’s judgment.

Your throat works, but no words come. Inside, the party blares louder, oblivious. You pull back, spine meeting the cold wall. “Get away from me,” you whisper, brittle. It sounds pitiful even to your own ears.

He steps closer, crouching until the grotesque grin of the mask fills your sight. His cologne—expensive, clinical—burns your nose. “I just saved your life,” he murmurs. His grip on your hair anchors you in place, tugging your scalp until pain blooms hot. “And I don’t do charity.”

“You didn’t save—” you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp tug that makes your neck snap back.

“Don’t lie.” The mask tips, head cocked like a predator studying prey. “You wanted to fall. I stopped you. That’s a debt. And debts demand payment.”

“I didn’t promise you anything,” you gasp, clawing at his wrist.

“Oh, but you did.” His voice sharpens, iron beneath velvet. “You whispered it. ‘Whatever you want.’ Don’t deny it.”

You flinch. Maybe you said something like that, in some drunken spiral, a throwaway phrase. Maybe he’s twisting it. But his voice leaves no space for protest.

“I can’t—just let me up,” you try, the plea raw.

“No.” He slams the heel of his palm into your back, forcing you to kneel on the rough tile. “What I want happens in this position.” His words cut like a brand, merciless. The party is a glass wall away, but the city below swallows every sound.

Your fight is useless, every defiance smothered by escalation—his grip twisting, his tone turning crueler, naming obscenities like promises. Each test is designed to break you. You feel it in your bones: this isn’t about saving you. It’s about owning you.

“And what do you want?”

“Your lips around my cock.”

Your mouth falls open, praying it’s a nightmare. That this is some twisted joke gone too far. But the air around him says otherwise. One wrong move and the situation will escalate to something far worse.

“If you’re not into that option, I have alternatives in mind.” His hand slides down from your head to your cheek, then to your lips. His touch is cold, callous, terrifying. His fingers trail down to your throat, squeezing until lightheadedness creeps in. Control. Ownership.

“You can get on all fours so I can stick my cock in one of your remaining holes. Probably both, and in no particular order. That also would be much appreciated.”

The realization strikes you with icy clarity: he will follow through. This is not a bluff. This man—this psycho—will devour you alive.

“Which option will you go for?” His voice is casual, aristocratic. Unnervingly at ease. Yet beneath it is volatility, escalation waiting to erupt.

You sense his grip loosen slightly, and you seize the moment. You lunge upward, adrenaline exploding in your chest as you feel him lose his hold. For a fleeting second, you think you’ve won.

Then a violent squeeze at your throat slams you back down. Your knees crack against the rocks, air whooshing out of your lungs. You can’t breathe. He forces your head down, choking you with brutal intent.

“The running away option wasn’t on the menu, now, was it?” His voice is deeper now, darker than the colorless night. His dim eyes behind the mask are colder than any hue you’ve known. Predator eyes.

“P-please…” you croak. The word echoes like a ghost song in the wind.

“Please?” he drawls, tasting the sound. “Please beg louder. " he brushes his thumb against your bottom lip.

"Please use your lips or please use your cunt and ass?” He pauses, then pushes you closer toward the railing. “Or please turn you into a masterpiece?”

Choked noises escape your throat. Struggling only makes it worse. And yet a shameful part of you wonders what happens if you stop fighting. Heat coils in your thighs, betraying you. You hate it.

“If you don’t choose, I’ll do it for you—”

“Lips,” you gasp, unsure how the word even escapes with his fingers still crushing your throat.

Slowly, deliberately, he eases the pressure but doesn’t let go. You inhale greedily, lungs burning from the rush of oxygen. He studies you with unnerving calm, as if your survival is his to grant—or to take.

“You’ll let me stuff my cock between these lips and fill your throat with my cum?” His voice is edged with sadistic amusement.

Heat creeps up your neck, betraying you again. You refuse to show him. You lift your chin, meeting his gaze. “I’m not doing it because I want to. I’m doing it because you’re threatening me with worse. If it were up to me, I’d never let you touch me, you sick bastard.”

“Good thing it’s not up to you.”

He keeps his grip firm, sliding down his zipper with the other hand. The sound is louder than the wind. He forces you to watch. He presses against your lips. You clamp your mouth shut.

“Open,” he orders, yanking your hair tight. You resist. For a moment, you think he might change his mind. But you know better. Demons don’t change. They escalate.

“I can always use your ass and cunt. In that order. So unless you’re willing to soak my dick with your blood and lick it clean, I suggest you open your mouth.”

He strikes your lips with himself, and pain explodes in your scalp as he tightens his grip. You have no choice but to part your mouth. He slips inside, your stomach knotting in rebellion.

“Don’t gag when we haven’t even started yet.” His voice is falsely gentle. “You can enjoy this if you want, but if you fight, it’ll only get worse. Now, suck and make it good.”

Fear freezes you, but defiance burns hotter. You meet his gaze, hating the way he looks at you, as if you’re complicit in this. And then, in a flash of reckless courage, you bite down.

Hard.

A grunt escapes him—but instead of recoiling, he hardens. He yanks your hair, pain ricocheting through your skull. He tilts you back, looming with eyes that blaze through the mask like they could kill.

“Use your teeth again and I’ll switch to your ass. I’ll tear through you while your head hangs over the edge.” His voice strains with contained violence. “Now, fucking suck.”

Tears sting your eyes as you realize you can’t win. Not like this. So you obey, mechanical, desperate to end it quickly. His groan confirms your effort pleases him. He instructs you with the tone of a lover, and the sick irony makes your stomach twist.

“That’s it. Use your tongue.”

You do, even as humiliation burns you alive. He grows bored of your tentative attempts, his grip tightening as he takes over completely. He drives himself into you with brutal rhythm, suffocating you, drowning you. Tears spill, drool and salt choking you as waves crash below. He holds you at the edge, your body bent backward, his control absolute.

You think you’ll die like this. Used, discarded, your body left for the sea. But then he finishes, and you seize the chance—you spit it out, splattering him, defiance burning in your glare. For the first time, light flickers in his eyes. Sadistic delight.

He releases your hair, then jams his fingers into your mouth, smearing the rest on your lips. Forcing you again and again until your body convulses in refusal. When he’s satisfied, a flash blinds you.

You stare up at the lens of the camera, realization dawning like another kind of death.

by the end of August, i'll have a final edition of my second book. and i though that i want to connect more with you guys.

i’m so deeply grateful for everyone who has been with me on this tumblr journey, showed support, and I wanted to find a way to share a little bit of the process with you — and show my appreciation in a special way. So, I’m inviting you to become beta readers for my next book.

if you want to be a part of it, please fill this form and i'll contact you!

thank you again, from the bottom of my heart, for helping me bring these stories to life. you make this dream possible, and i can’t wait to share this next adventure with you.

lots of love,

⊹Pairing: Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x The Reader

⊹Summary: a broken girl gives everything to the boy she's loved her whole life, only to fall into tragedy when he can't give anything back

⊹Warnings: emotional abuse, sexual content, self-harm, eating disorders, suicide, and toxic relationships

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You don’t remember what city you’re in—only that the streetlights outside Su-bong’s apartment flicker like dying stars and that your heart has been beating too loud since the show ended.

His voice is still echoing through you. Raw. Raspy. Angry. Alive. The crowd worshipped him, chanting his name like a gospel, drowning in bass and flashing lights. But you were the only one who noticed the slight tremor in his hand when he passed the mic, the way his jaw clenched tight when the spotlight hit.

You followed him home. Like always.

The night air is thick with silence as you walk beside him. He doesn’t reach for your hand. Never has. But you keep your steps in rhythm with his, like maybe he’ll notice that you remember how he walks when he’s hurting. You glance sideways at him under the dull neon buzz of a convenience store sign. His hood is pulled low, casting shadows over his face. All sharp edges. Hollow eyes.

He doesn’t speak until he’s unlocking the door to his apartment.

“You coming in or just planning to stand there like a ghost?”

The words sting more than they should. You step in quickly.

His apartment is a dim cave of cigarette ash, half-empty soju bottles, and lyrics scribbled on napkins and pizza boxes. The curtains are drawn, the air stale. There’s incense burning on the windowsill—sandalwood and sorrow.

He shrugs off his coat and lets it fall to the floor.

“You looked pathetic out there,” he mutters, moving to the kitchen to grab a drink. “Standing in the crowd like some obsessed fan.”

You flinch.

“I just wanted to see you perform,” you say softly.

“You’ve already seen me perform a hundred times.”

You force a smile. “I moved three times this year. Just to be closer.”

He turns slowly, leaning against the counter, glass in hand. The look in his eyes isn’t anger. It’s worse. It’s indifference.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

The silence after is brutal. It claws at your throat, makes your hands shake. You want to scream, or cry, or grab him and shake the numbness out of him. Instead, you whisper, “I know.”

And then he’s kissing you. Hard. Urgent. Not tender. His mouth bruises, his hands grip like vices, fingertips digging into your hips like he wants to anchor himself in the pain. It’s breathless, desperate—a collision more than a kiss. He tastes like vodka and menthol, all sharpness and bite. It feels like he’s trying to erase something—maybe himself, maybe you. You let him. Because if you’re honest, even pain is something when it comes from him.

He spins you roughly, your thighs catching the edge of the counter as he lifts you onto it with a grunt. The cold tile bites into your back, and a sharp clatter fills the room as a half-empty bottle of soju topples, crashing to the floor in an explosion of glass. Neither of you look down. He doesn’t even flinch.

His hands roam like they’re searching for something buried beneath your skin. He kisses like he raps—fast, unrelenting, messy with emotion. His tongue tangles with yours, desperate and angry, teeth occasionally clashing. Your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, bunching it in your fists, because this is the only moment he touches you like you matter.

His voice is ragged when he speaks, broken between gasps.

“You only exist when I want you.” He rips your dress off. Buttons pop, scatter like bones across tile.

“You think dressing up makes me care?”

“You’re good for one thing, and it ain’t love.”

"I know." You whisper.

The words fall from your lips like a confession. He stills for a second. Then his mouth is back on yours. Desperate. Angry.

Your throat tightens, but you keep your eyes on him. Always. You memorize the way the light hits his cheekbone, the flicker in his pupils. You drink it in like poison. It’s still him. Still your Su-bong. Somewhere under the venom.

He pulls back from your mouth, panting, pupils blown wide. His hands slip down to your thighs and lift you off the counter with a grunt, his grip firm but trembling. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your bodies collide again, half-naked and gasping, as he stumbles blindly through the narrow hallway.

The world becomes a blur of breath and sweat and desperation. You knock against walls, shoulders grazing framed photos with curled edges. His mouth finds your neck. You arch into it, clutching the fabric of his shirt until it's tugged free. He kicks open the bedroom door with a careless shove.

You fall into the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat. The sheets are rumpled, the air thick with incense and leftover smoke. He pauses at the edge of the bed, chest heaving, and looks at you like he’s trying to see through you. His lips are red from kissing, his knuckles white from gripping. You feel the heat between you—more than physical, it’s desperation, fear, longing, shame.

“I can’t think,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You reach up and touch his jaw, tentative, like he might shatter. “Then don’t think.”

He exhales, a broken sound, and collapses into you.

You tumble back together, all friction and aching breath. The bed creaks as you fall into it, bodies tangling in a knot of raw hunger. His fingers trace the edge of your ribs, linger on the hollow space between your collarbones, like he can feel the things you gave up just to be here.

“You starved yourself for me,” he whispers suddenly, not a question. His lips press against the corner of your mouth. “That’s fucked.”

“So fuck me,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “Make it worth it.”

He curses under his breath, grabbing your waist like he’s angry with himself. You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his hips, holding on to this terrible tenderness.

There is no ceremony. No pretense. Just the sound of your breath and the way your bodies meet like waves crashing into rock. A raw need to forget, to feel, to burn it all down.

Later, you lie in his bed, body sore, heart bruised, staring at the cracked ceiling. He’s already halfway out of reach. Smoking at the window, back turned.

“Do I make you feel anything?” you whisper. “Even a little?”

He exhales a cloud of smoke. “You make me feel tired.”

You get up without a word. The sheet slips from your body like silk and shame. You walk to the balcony and step out into the cold. The city below hums like a distant lullaby, glittering and indifferent.

You sit on the railing, legs dangling, a cigarette trembling between your fingers.

He joins you. Naked, too. The night wraps around you both like a secret you can’t tell anyone. His hand finds your waist. Loose. Present. Barely.

“I stopped eating, chewed on ice,” you say. You try to make it sound light, but it lands heavy. “Not because I wanted to. Just... felt like I had to. To look like the girls you like. To be someone you might actually see.”

Su-bong doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches. Unbearable.

“I didn’t ask you to do that either,” he mutters finally, voice low.

You laugh, a bitter, cracked sound. “I know. I know you didn’t. But I did it anyway. I did everything. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Your voice breaks. You hate how small it sounds.

“I gave you all the pretty parts of me. Starved away the soft. Painted my lips red. Wore the dresses you liked on other women. I thought if I became your dream, maybe you’d look at me like I was real.”

The cigarette slips from your fingers.

You feel his hand tighten around your waist, just slightly.

“Don’t,” he says.

You lean back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

“Let me go,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. His grip on your waist tightens for a moment, trembling. You can feel his breath catch against your shoulder. But he still says nothing.

You tilt your head, just enough to glimpse his face in the faint light. He looks at you the way people look at ghosts—like he’s already mourning something lost.

And then, you lean.

The air shifts.

His arms jerk around you too late.

Your body slips through his hands like water.

He screams your name, hoarse and broken, the sound ripped from somewhere deep. The night swallows it. A dull thud echoes below.

For the first time, Su-bong crumbles.

He stays at the edge, knees buckling, face pale and hollow under the city’s glow. Smoke still clings to the air.

And he finally says your name—not like a curse, not like a command, but like a prayer.

Too late.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader

⊹ Warnings: themes of heartbreak, mental health struggles, emotional trauma, substance use, and a bittersweet, tear-jerking conclusion

⊹ Summary: emotional journey of reader and Seung-Hyun, whose once passionate relationship collapses under the weight of fame, a personal scandal, and Seung-Hyun’s mental health struggles

⊹ Author's note: that's one hell of a rollercoaster. buckle up🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You were just another face in the classroom. A girl with average lines and average features, wearing a uniform that smelled like starch and borrowed ambition. The kind of role people forget even existed. You weren’t even credited.

But he saw you.

It started small—barely a nod when you passed each other in the hallway between takes. Then, a full glance. Then, lunch.

“Mind if I sit?”

The first time, his voice was a surprise—smooth and deeper than you remembered from interviews, disarming when paired with that lazy, crooked smile.

You blinked, almost said “Why?”, but your nod came faster. The table was too narrow. His knee touched yours under it.

He asked your name. Then he used it every time he saw you, like it meant something.

“Y/N, you ever get tired of sitting in that second row?” “It’s where they put me.” “You don’t look like you belong there.”

Your hands had tightened on your chopsticks.

The days blurred. His schedule was heavier—always running to rehearse, to change wardrobe, to be seen. But he kept returning, sitting beside you, even when he barely had ten minutes to eat.

On wrap day, you waited. For a goodbye. A text. Anything.

But no one called you. No one thanked you.

You watched the trailer on your cracked iPhone in a sublet with mold in the corners. You weren’t in a single frame.

They were right. You were nothing.

But you knew—he never thought that.

And you left, moved overseas. Booking small, later bigger roles in commercials or TV shows. Trying to leave everything behind, until you couldn’t. You missed Korea too much and your manager brought to much shit over your head. 

“Y/N, thing about the opportunities. Think about the spot light. They mightn’t have recognised you then, but now you are stronger.” He used to say.

And now, you are back.

The air is too cold in the studio. Typical. You hug your arms as the stylist pinches fabric at your waist, muttering something about natural curves and compression gear.

You spot him before he spots you.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, laughing with a PA who looks like she’s about to melt. His hair is darker now. Sharper jawline. Broader shoulders. Same presence, like a thunderstorm caught in a designer hoodie.

Your throat tightens.

You turn away before he catches your stare, but it’s too late.

“This is Y/N,” the director says cheerily. “You two will play the couple. I expect real chemistry, real heat.”

“We’ve met,” he answers without missing a beat.

Your pulse stutters. You don’t look at him.

You just nod. “I’m not sure. Nice to meet you.”

His expression flickers. Just for a second. Then it smooths into something unreadable.

That day, you don’t speak beyond what’s written in the shot list. You smile when the camera’s on, rest your hand on his chest like it’s scripted—because it is.

But under your palm, his heart is beating fast.

Between takes, you're in the wardrobe, trying to fix a stubborn zipper, when you feel him behind you.

You freeze. The air changes. You see his reflection in the mirror, the way his jaw is clenched. The way his eyes are fixed on you like you’re an answer to a question he didn’t know he still had.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “We’re strangers now?”

You don’t turn around. “We were never anything else.”

The zipper jerks. You hiss. He’s there in an instant, his hand catching yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do this. Not here.”

He leans in close, his breath warm on your neck. “You really forgot everything?”

You lift your eyes to meet his in the mirror. “No. I just buried it better than you did.”

He doesn’t back away. Not even when the door creaks open and someone calls for him on set.

“You owe me,” he says, voice low. “One night. One real conversation. You disappeared.”

“So did you.”

But even as he leaves, your skin remembers every inch of him.

You don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

He sent the address in a text you didn’t respond to. But you showed up. You always do when it’s him.

The restaurant is quiet, lit by soft lamps and filled with low jazz. Not his usual scene, you think. Maybe that’s the point.

He stands when you walk in. His smile is cautious, but real.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

You sit across from him. The space between you feels like an open wound.

Dinner is slow. You talk about the industry. About mutual directors. How much has changed. How much hasn’t.

Then it happens.

“I looked for you,” he says, cutting through grilled mackerel like it’s nothing. “After the film. No social media. No credits. You disappeared.”

You sip your wine. “People like me don’t leave footprints.”

“People like you?” he leans forward. “You mean the ones who steal every scene they’re in without saying a word?”

You bite your lip.

He doesn’t stop there.

“They erased you from the movie. But I didn’t forget. I still have a photo from set. The one where you're laughing at something I said. You looked so—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks.

He falls silent.

You don’t finish your food.

But you stay until closing.

The night smells like rain and gasoline. You both linger on the sidewalk like teenagers with nothing left to say but everything left to feel.

Your rides haven’t come yet.

He steps closer.

“I asked everyone about you. The makeup team. Extras. Nobody knew where you went.”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“Why?”

You pause. Wind pushes your hair across your cheek, and you let it. It’s easier than facing him.

“Because I was tired of being treated like an accessory. A body. A set piece.”

“That’s not what you were to me.”

His voice is thick now, rough around the edges.

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought I’d see you again. I didn’t know it’d take five goddamn years.”

You turn. The streetlight pools behind him, casting his face in gold.

“You were the only person on that set who made me feel seen,” you whisper. “And it terrified me.”

He steps closer.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, almost breathless. “Don’t look at me like a stranger.”

You let him pull you in—just a fraction. Just enough that the heat of him fills your lungs again.

“Then don’t leave me like one.”

It started in halves. One dinner turned into two. A late night phone call that became a habit. Then a weekend where you never really left his place, your toothbrush leaning next to his, too domestic, too easy.

You both tried to be careful. Tried not to let it look like something real—because the spotlight hated real things.

But he’d kiss your forehead while you scrolled scripts in bed. You’d run your fingers through his hair while he mumbled lyrics into his phone’s recorder. You began building a language that didn’t need words.

Then, you moved in.

Not officially, not with boxes or contracts. Just little things. A coffee mug, your favorite lotion, a robe slung over his chair. Then more. Until home was wherever he was.

Sweet mornings became rituals. He made coffee exactly how you liked it, even when he had to leave before sunrise. You’d find sticky notes on the fridge with hearts and scribbled lyrics. On days off, you curled into his chest on the couch, laughing at old variety shows and stealing kisses between yawns.

When he came home late—sometimes at dawn, sometimes hours after you’d fallen asleep—he’d always stop in the doorway and just watch you. You’d wake to his hand brushing your hair back, soft kisses to your temple, the press of his forehead to yours like a silent promise: still here.

The rumors always came fast.

A new actress seen with him at a showcase. A kiss on screen that lingered too long. And for you—it was worse. The way they talked about your "chemistry" with other co-stars. The way tabloids pitted you against idols with perfect skin and public smiles.

“You looked good with him,” he said once, too quiet, one night after your drama premiere. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, half in shadow, the unopened soju bottle between you like a line neither of you wanted to cross.

You had laughed, short and brittle. "That's your takeaway from my first lead role?"

He pushed off the counter. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice low.

“Don’t what?” you asked, not quite ready for the answer.

“Pretend like it doesn’t affect us.”

You met his eyes, and they were sharper than you'd seen in weeks. Not stage-hardened or camera-smooth. Just real. Hurt.

“I hate it too,” you whispered. “But it’s part of it.”

“Then let’s change it. Or fight for it. Or something. Because pretending it doesn’t matter—it’s tearing pieces off of us.”

And that night, in the small silence after his words, you kissed him like he was oxygen and you had been drowning. Not to fix it. But to feel him. To remind him.

Still, the cracks appeared.

They always do.

In silence at breakfast, when he’d read articles about your co-stars without looking up. In the way you smiled a little too wide at red carpets, because it was easier than explaining the ache in your ribs. In how sometimes, you both fell asleep with backs turned, not because you were angry—but because saying the right thing was too hard, and saying the wrong thing might break the fragile quiet.

But love stayed.

In forgiveness. In shared earbuds on long-haul flights when words failed you both. In comfort when the cameras turned off and your hands found each other like instinct. In how he waited three hours outside your shoot in the rain, hood up, shivering, just because your text said: "rough day." In how you showed up at his studio past midnight with kimchi stew and a sweatshirt that still smelled like him, because you knew he hadn't eaten, and he hated being alone when the lyrics wouldn’t come.

It was messy. And beautiful. And real.

And one night, when you caught him watching you in the mirror as you took off your makeup, red carpet glitter still clinging to your collarbone, you finally broke the silence.

“You’re it for me,” you said. Soft. Scared. Fierce. “Even when I hate everything else—when I hate the fans, and the makeup, and the lies, and the constant pretending—I never hate you. Not once.

I think about that night in the stairwell at the Commitment set, when we sat on the metal steps and you gave me half your sandwich because the staff forgot extras need to eat too. You asked me why I always wore those threadbare gloves with holes in the thumbs, and I told you they were my brother’s. You didn’t laugh. You just touched the frayed edge like it meant something. No one else ever noticed.

I think about the way you’d text me lyrics at 3 a.m., not asking for help, just… wanting to share them with me. You said I was your filter. That I made things sound like they were worth hearing.

I think about that morning after your showcase when you came home and collapsed on the floor instead of the bed, and I laid down next to you because neither of us had the energy to speak, but we needed the closeness like breath.

You know me. You know I hate peaches but I eat them when you cut them up. You know I pretend not to cry at dramas, but I do, and you always hand me tissues without saying a word. You know I lose sleep over every audition, and you never tell me I’m overreacting. You just sit beside me until the storm quiets.

And I know you. I know that you bite your lips when you’re nervous but pretend you don’t. That you hum to old Big Bang tracks when you think no one’s listening. That you always sleep facing the door when I’m not home, like you’re waiting for me.

I love how you love. Fierce. Whole. Scared but unwavering. You see the parts of me I try to bury and never look away. I love the way you say my name like it’s a vow. The way you kiss the spot behind my ear like it’s instinct. The way you never ask me to shrink myself to fit the shadows of your world.

I love you.

I love you in every tense. Past, when I didn’t believe I mattered. Present, now, when I see you and it feels like light. And future—yes, future—whatever we become, however this ends or grows, you are in it.

You’re it for me. You’ve always been.”

He crossed the room with purpose, slow but sure, as if each step burned through the layers of fear and silence you'd both worn like armor. The tension hung thick between you, electric, ready to break. When he reached you, he paused—not for breath, but for clarity—as if seeing you under this soft light, bare-faced and brave, carved something deep inside him.

His hands lifted with reverence, not haste. They trembled as they cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he was afraid you'd disappear. Your breath caught. His eyes locked on yours, not demanding, just present—heavy with everything he hadn’t said.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or wild. It was deliberate. A vow. A plea. A memory. A promise.

You felt it in every cell—that this wasn’t just lips on lips. It was his way of saying, I see you. I still choose you. Again and again.

And when you kissed him back, it wasn’t surrender. It was recognition.

You were home.

You didn’t sleep that night. You just held each other in the dark, hearts speaking a language louder than fame.

He’s sitting on the couch, guitar in his lap, no shirt, just sweatpants and bare skin. Light spills through the balcony like it’s been painted just for this moment—gold against the curve of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach, the familiar freckle near his left shoulder you’ve kissed a hundred times.

He’s humming softly, plucking at strings with no real melody. Just the sound of him, raw and unguarded. You’re watching from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized hoodies that smells like cedarwood and his shampoo. Your feet are bare. Cereal box in hand. The spoon forgotten somewhere nearby.

He looks up. Sees you. Really sees you.

“You’re staring,” he says with that boyish smile, the one that made you fall in love.

“You’re beautiful,” you reply, soft but certain. It’s not a compliment. It’s a truth.

He grins wider, strums a lazy chord, one that echoes through the sunlit apartment like a sigh. “Marry me.”

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so him. “That’s not how you ask.”

He sets the guitar down. Stands. Walks toward you with that slow, deliberate grace that still unravels you, all long limbs and quiet gravity.

“It’s how I feel,” he says again, voice lower now, fuller. He stops in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face with a reverence that almost hurts.

You blink. And for a second, the room tilts.

“You don’t believe in marriage,” you murmur. “You said it was a cage. That it ruined love.”

He nods, then leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “It is. For most people. But with you... it feels like flying. Like maybe love could finally be something I build instead of something I run from.”

Your hands find his chest, warm and steady. “Say it again,” you whisper.

“Marry me.”

Not a command. Not even a question. A prayer.

Tears sting your eyes. You bury your face in his neck, inhale the comfort of skin and sweat and music and safety.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

And for the first time—not in your career, or on red carpets, or under studio lights—but here, in the golden silence of a shared life, you don’t feel like nothing.

You feel like his everything.

And he feels like yours.

The apartment felt like a tomb. The silence that had settled over the space was suffocating, a cold, haunting presence that refused to be ignored. The smell of his cologne lingered faintly in the air, but it was no longer comforting. It was a reminder. A cruel one.

You had always thought that if you lost him, you’d somehow feel the break coming. You’d know when it was happening, feel it in your bones. But you didn’t. It just… happened. Gradually at first. He pulled away with the excuse of his military service, then with the scandal that broke everything he had worked for. And then came the cold silence—days without calls, without texts, without the sound of his voice.

The first night he left was the hardest. You couldn’t bring yourself to say goodbye, so you didn’t. You just held him that last time, memorizing the way his warmth felt against you, the rhythm of his breath, the way he pressed a kiss to your forehead like it was an unspoken promise.

But that promise slipped away with the first headline. The first accusation. You saw the words written in bold, his name smeared across gossip magazines like a stain, and your heart shattered a little with every passing minute. They painted him as a monster, a man who had everything and lost it all, and with him, they tried to take you too. They questioned your love, your loyalty, your very right to exist beside him. And as much as you tried to ignore it, tried to shut it out, the whispers and rumors were louder than your own heartbeat.

When his mom called, her voice tight with worry, you felt a flicker of hope. She said he wanted to see you, that he had asked for you specifically. And for a brief moment, you thought that maybe he was going to come back to you. That maybe this was all a mistake, and he’d still remember what you meant to him.

But when you arrived at the hospital, his cold silence crushed that hope like a house of cards. His mom escorted you in, but her eyes were already red from crying. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You could feel it—the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, thick and unbearable.

The hospital room was a sterile, unforgiving space. The air smelled of antiseptic, and the pale white walls reflected nothing but the exhaustion on his face. Seung Hyun was sitting by the window, looking out, his back hunched as if the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders.

For a moment, you stood frozen, trying to process the man before you. The man who had once been the light of your life, now a stranger in the room. His eyes were distant, as though he was trying to disappear into the cold glass. He didn’t turn when you walked in. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

But you weren’t going to give up on him. Not this easily.

You took a tentative step forward, your heart racing in your chest as you approached him. “Seung Hyun…” Your voice broke in the middle of his name, your throat tight with the effort to hold back the flood of emotion that threatened to consume you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. It was like he couldn’t hear you. Or didn’t want to.

You took another step. This time, you reached out, your hand brushing his shoulder. He flinched. The first real response you’d gotten from him since he’d left. And yet, it was as if it hurt him more to be touched than to be alone.

“Why are you doing this?” You whispered, voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes still fixed on the window. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, feel the cold panic rising in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice so quiet you could barely hear it over the hum of the hospital machinery. “I’m sorry for everything.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” you said, desperation rising. “I’m not angry. I’m just… scared. I don’t understand. Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me in?”

His voice cracked. “You don’t get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this… this love. I’ve ruined everything. And I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

You felt the sting of those words like a physical blow. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Your voice was shaking now, your chest tight with the force of the emotions you could no longer keep inside. “You’re everything to me. You’ve always been everything to me. How can you say you don’t deserve me when you’ve never once made me feel anything but loved?”

He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever. His gaze was raw, filled with so much pain it made your heart ache.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his voice strained. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. To feel like you’re nothing. And I don’t want you to watch me destroy myself. I don’t want to drag you into this mess.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. The tears were welling in your eyes now, blurring your vision. “But I’m already here. I’ve been here. I never left you.”

And that was when he finally broke.

Seung Hyun stood up so suddenly, you barely had time to react. He moved away from you, walking toward the far corner of the room, his fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t care who you think you are,” you shouted, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t care about the mistakes or the scandals or the lies. I care about you. I care about us. And I still love you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and aching, as if they had taken everything you had to say. He stood there, his back to you, shoulders shaking with the weight of his own grief.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t bear to see him like this, so broken, so lost. And yet, he wasn’t coming back to you. Not now. Not ever.

You stood there in the silence, your body shaking with sobs you couldn’t contain anymore. “I can’t do this,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t lose you.”

But you had already lost him.

And it was the hardest thing you’d ever had to face.

Later, when his mom took you home, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The two of you didn’t speak, didn’t share words. The only thing that passed between you was a shared understanding of the heartbreak that weighed you both down.

The apartment was empty. His presence still lingered in the corners of the room, in the smell of his cologne, in the warmth of his favorite sweater you had folded and left in the closet. But it was empty, like you were empty. The place where you had built your life, where you had imagined a future, was gone.

You didn’t have the strength to stay in that place anymore. The thought of walking past the walls that had once held the laughter, the quiet moments, the love you had, made you sick. So you packed your bags, slowly, one item at a time, as if each piece you took was one more part of you that was being ripped away.

Your heart broke with every step. Every time your hands touched something that once belonged to him, you felt that fracture deepen.

When you walked out the door for the last time, it wasn’t just the door to the apartment that closed. It was the door to your future, the one you had believed in. The one where you and Seung Hyun were together.

But it was over. He was gone.

You couldn’t fix him. You couldn’t save him.

And it hurt more than you could ever have imagined.

The pain didn’t come in waves. It came in an endless, suffocating tide. And as you walked down the hallway, past the door that had once been home, you knew that you were leaving a piece of your soul behind.

But you had to. You had no choice.

And when you stepped out into the night, you didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you knew you might never leave.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him, since you visited him at the hospital, since he pushed you away—like he was doing what he thought was best for both of you. But you didn’t understand it then, and you don’t understand it now. All you know is that the silence between you feels like a never-ending void.

You tried calling, sending texts, leaving voicemails. But there was nothing—no response, not a single word. Nothing. Just silence. And you knew. You knew that silence was more than just the absence of sound. It was the space he’d created between you two, an invisible wall that seemed impossible to climb.

You found a new place. A small, quiet apartment, much smaller than what you shared with him, but it’s yours. And as much as it feels like a fresh start, it doesn’t feel like home. Not yet.

You didn’t know where he was—what he was doing—but you couldn’t stay where he had once been. You couldn’t pretend that the apartment was still the place where you were a part of his world. And even though you were miles away from that life, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the promise he’d made, the love he said he’d never let go of.

And still, nothing. No sign of him. Not a message, not a call.

Letter #1

May 10, 2018

Seung-Hyun,

I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?

The truth is, I left. I left our apartment. It didn’t feel like our home anymore, not after everything that happened. After the hospital, after you pushed me away. I couldn’t stand being there. It hurt too much to see your things—the things that reminded me of what we were—and to know you weren’t coming back.

I found a new place. It’s small, quieter. I thought that maybe if I started over somewhere else, it would help. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel like a home without you. It’s just a place. A lonely place.

You told me to leave, Seung-Hyun. You told me you couldn’t do this anymore. And I wanted to understand, I really did. But I can’t. I still don’t get why you walked away like that. You were hurting, I get that now. I know you were going through something I couldn’t fix. But you never let me in, not even when I begged you to.

And now, I don’t know where you are, or if you’re even okay. I hear nothing. No word from you. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. And it hurts, more than I could ever put into words.

I just want to know that you’re okay. That you’re still out there. I want to believe that you’ll come back, that you’ll remember what we had. But maybe I’m just fooling myself. I don’t know anymore.

I’ll always be here, Seung-Hyun. Even if you don’t want me to be.

Y/N

Letter #6

March 20, 2019

Seung-Hyun,

It’s been a few years since I moved into this new apartment. The silence is deafening. I thought it would be easier, I thought maybe being away from the place we shared would give me some kind of peace. But it hasn’t. It’s just made everything worse.

I keep going over the last time I saw you. The look in your eyes when I walked into the hospital room, how distant you were. It felt like you were already gone, even before you said those words—"I can’t do this anymore." You wouldn’t look at me. You wouldn’t let me be there with you. And I think that’s what’s killing me the most. You shut me out when I needed to be there for you the most.

And now, I’ve shut myself out too. I can’t stay in that apartment. I couldn’t breathe there without you. It felt like the memories were choking me, pulling me back to a time when things were simple, when we were just happy.

I don’t know where you are. I don’t know what you’re doing. But I can’t help but feel like you’ve disappeared from my life for good. That what we had, what I believed in, doesn’t matter to you anymore.

I’m scared, Seung-Hyun. I’m scared that I’ll never hear from you again, that I’ll never get the answers I need. That I’ll never understand why you left, why you pushed me away when I wanted nothing more than to help you.

I’m trying. I’m really trying to move on, to let go of the hope that we’ll ever find our way back to each other. But I don’t think I can. Not yet.

I just want you to be okay. Please, take care of yourself. Please don’t shut the world out completely.

Y/N

Letter #13

June 1, 2020

Seung-Hyun,

You won’t believe, but I’m still waiting for you to call me, for you to send me a message, anything. But I know you won’t. You haven’t. I know this silence is intentional. I know you’re trying to push me away, to push everything away.

But I can’t do it. I can’t let go of you, not yet. I still see you in everything—when I walk into the coffee shop we used to visit, when I hear our song on the radio, when I think about the way you’d smile at me just before we kissed.

I don’t want to believe that everything we shared was a lie. I don’t want to believe that it was just a fleeting moment in time. But I can’t keep pretending that I don’t miss you. That I don’t still love you. I do. I always will.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why you pushed me away. I don’t know what I did wrong. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not. I’m broken, Seung-Hyun. I’m empty without you.

I just want you to come back. I want to see your face again, to hear your voice. I want us to figure this out, even if it takes time.

I don’t want to move on, Seung-Hyun. Not if it means giving up on us.

Please, come back.

Y/N

You don’t know if he’ll ever read these letters. You don’t know if he’ll even ever know that you still care. But as long as you keep writing, as long as you keep sending them to the old apartment, there’s a tiny, fragile part of you that believes he’ll come back. 

Letter #27

August 10, 2023

Seung-Hyun,

I’m writing this letter, and it’s different than the others. I’m not writing this out of sadness, or desperation, or out of longing to hear from you. This is my last letter to you.

I’ve learned so much these past years, and I want you to know that, even though we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives, I’ve healed. Or, at least, I’m in the process of it. It hasn’t been easy—hell, there were times I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get through the pain of losing you. But here I am, sitting with a sense of peace I never thought I’d have. It feels surreal, but it feels real.

I’ve been seeing a therapist, and I’ve learned more about myself than I ever thought I would. I didn’t know how much of me I was holding onto, waiting for you to come back, waiting for things to be the way they were. I didn’t know that I had been keeping myself in a state of limbo, not truly moving on because I was so afraid of saying goodbye. But my therapist told me that I’ve finally reached a place where I can say goodbye—and I’m ready.

I’ve made peace with everything, Seung-Hyun. I understand now that sometimes people just need to walk different paths, no matter how much it hurts. I needed to walk mine. And you needed to walk yours. And while that truth doesn’t erase the love I had for you, it does help me let go of the weight I’ve been carrying around.

You were my everything for so long, and for a while, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. But now, I can. I’m creating a new life, one that’s all my own. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. I’ve started picking up pieces of myself that I’d forgotten, pieces that got lost in the person I was with you. And I’m discovering who I am again, outside of the love we shared.

I’ve started a new job too, one that challenges me in ways I never thought I’d be capable of. And I’m starting to find joy in the little things again—the quiet mornings, the late-night walks, the sound of my own laughter.

But the truth is, there’s still a small part of me that will always remember you. Always love you. You were a huge part of my life, and that won’t ever change. You taught me so much about love and about who I am, even if we didn’t end the way we thought we would. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

I guess this is my way of saying goodbye—not just to you, but to everything we were. I’m not angry anymore, Seung-Hyun. I’m not sad. I’m just… letting go. I’m setting myself free, and I want you to do the same. I hope that, wherever you are, you’re finding peace, too. I hope you’re healing. I hope you’re becoming the person you were meant to be, just like I’m learning to become the person I’m meant to be.

Take care of yourself, Seung-Hyun. I’ll always wish you well, even if we never speak again. And though I will carry our memories with me, I’ll carry them in a way that’s lighter now—because I know that it’s okay to move on.

Goodbye.

Y/N

As you write the final words, a sense of quiet settles in your chest. You fold the letter carefully, slipping it into an envelope one last time, and as you seal it, you finally realize—you’re not looking for anything in return. You’re no longer waiting for him to read it, no longer clinging to the hope that he might come back.

You’ve let go. You’ve said goodbye, not just in the words you’ve written, but in your heart.

Seung-Hyun pushed open the door of the old apartment, the one he hadn’t set foot in since everything came crashing down. The space was different from what he remembered —dusty, untouched, silent. The air felt thick with the weight of years, of memories that had settled into the corners like cobwebs. He hadn’t wanted to come back. He had convinced himself that returning here, to this place, would be a kind of self-inflicted punishment. But now that he was standing in the doorway, he realized it wasn’t the apartment that held him captive.

It was the memories of you.

He didn’t know what he expected, walking into the apartment where so much had unfolded, where your love had bloomed and then withered. Maybe he had hoped for some kind of relief, some clarity to wash over him, like the turning of a page. But instead, he was met with the same heavy silence, the same haunting stillness that had followed him in every other room of his life. The space was too quiet, too empty, and yet it was filled with everything he had tried to forget.

The walls, once adorned with pictures of your time together—birthday dinners, lazy Sundays, random selfies and pictures from film sets—now felt bare. The frames were gone, the once-colorful walls now washed with the dull gray of neglect. Everything you had left behind felt like a lifetime ago, a distant, unreachable place. His fingers brushed against the old coffee table, worn from use, but it felt like he was touching a ghost.

He moved slowly through the apartment, the echoes of his footsteps louder than they should have been. His gaze fell on the small kitchen, where you’d once spent hours cooking together, laughing over spilled ingredients and burned toast. The thought of how you had once danced around this kitchen, your laughter bright, your spirit so alive—it hurt in a way he didn’t know how to explain.

The apartment was no longer yours. You had moved on. He had pushed you away, and you had left. You had to. It wasn’t just the scandal that broke them. It wasn’t just the fame or the distance or the expectations. It was his inability to face the truth. His fear. His brokenness.

He was still broken.

But something had shifted in him during the past months, something had changed. Maybe it was the therapy, maybe it was the time away from everything, or maybe it was the sheer weight of everything that had happened. But the man who had walked away from you was different now. Not fixed, not healed—but better. He knew that now.

As he wandered through the apartment, he noticed a stack of mail that had been left unopened on the counter. He hadn’t expected anything, but something caught his eye. Small, yellow envelopes with a familiar handwriting on them. Your handwriting.

His heart stopped.

There were several others. All addressed to him. Some had already yellowed with age, others still crisp and fresh. He hesitated, staring at them as if they were fragile, as if touching them would make them disappear. He had thought that if he kept avoiding you, if he kept pretending like he didn’t care, it would all go away. But it hadn’t gone away. It had only made the guilt worse.

He picked up the first letter and read the words that felt like a punch to the gut.

"I don’t know where to even begin. How do I write to you when it feels like you’re a ghost? How do I tell you everything that’s happened when I don’t even know where to start?"

His chest tightened. He put the letter down, his eyes blurry. That one simple sentence—"I still think about you every day"—was enough to crack him wide open.

The tears came quickly after that, and before he knew it, he was crying. Not for the man he used to be, but for the man he had become in your absence. He had shut you out, pushed you away, and in the process, had torn apart the only good thing he had ever had in his life.

He read every letter. All twenty-seven of them. Each one a painful reminder of what he had lost. Of what he had taken for granted. Of how much you had loved him, how much you had fought for him, even when he hadn’t deserved it. You had poured your heart out, over and over, each letter a piece of yourself you had given to him.

And now, he was finally hearing you.

When he had finished reading the last letter, he was a mess. His emotions were all tangled—regret, guilt, sorrow, but also something else. Something he hadn’t felt in years: peace.

You were moving on. You had healed. You had said goodbye, even if it had taken you time to get there.

And he?

He was still here, still holding onto the past, still holding onto the love he had never allowed himself to fully feel. He wasn’t sure what to do with all of it, but one thing was certain: he had to tell you. He had to let you know how much he had changed, how much he had grown, how much he had learned.

He had to say goodbye, too.

That’s when he grabbed the pen and began to write.

March 5, 2025

Y/N,

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came back. It’s been seven years since everything changed. Seven years of silence that felt like a lifetime, each day growing heavier than the last. But when I walked through the door of our old apartment today, I wasn’t expecting this.

I wasn’t expecting to find the mailbox full of your letters.

Twenty-seven letters. 

I sat down right there in the hallway, with the stack of envelopes in my hands. At first, I didn’t know what to feel. I almost didn’t want to open them. I thought, "What could they possibly say that could make me feel any less guilty?" But I couldn’t leave them unread. Not when you’d written every word with such care. With such honesty. With your heart laid bare.

I started reading.

It took me hours. The wine bottle beside me slowly emptied, and with each letter, I found myself feeling a little more. Regret. Sadness. Anger—at myself. But most of all, a sense of loss. Not just for what we were, but for the person I used to be. The person who thought he had everything figured out.

I didn’t have anything figured out.

I didn’t have you.

I don’t even know how to begin. How do you explain years of silence? How do you apologize for the hurt you caused without sounding like you’re trying to justify it? How do you say that you were broken, too, but never even tried to fix yourself until it was too late?

I didn’t deserve your letters. I didn’t deserve your patience. Your love. The fact that you spent all these years waiting for me to come back, while I was lost in a place where I couldn’t even recognize myself anymore.

I know it’s not enough to say "I'm sorry," but I need you to hear it. Because for the first time in years, I can actually say it and mean it. I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry for how I treated you. For pushing you away when all you ever wanted was to be there for me. I’m sorry for not being the person you needed. I’m sorry for taking you for granted when you deserved so much more.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I am a better person now. I’ve taken the time to work on myself, to heal in ways I never thought I could. And that’s why I’m able to write this to you now—not out of guilt, but because I truly want you to know that I’m in a better place. Mentally, emotionally… everything. I’m not the man who left you behind. And I know that doesn’t change what happened, but it’s the truth.

When I look back at everything—the good times, the bad times, the love we shared—it’s clear to me now that I was never the person you needed me to be. You deserved someone who was whole. Someone who was ready. But instead, I was broken, and I broke us both in the process.

I’m sorry for that.

And now, as much as I wish I could ask for your forgiveness, I know I don’t have the right. But I hope, one day, when you look back on our time together, you’ll remember the good parts. The love. The laughter. The moments when we both felt like we were more than just two people in the same space. I hope you remember those times with warmth, and not just the hurt.

I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t expect a response. I don’t even expect you to forgive me. All I want is for you to know that I have always, and will always, care about you. I wish you nothing but happiness. And peace. You deserve everything good in this world, Y/N.

Maybe one day, our paths will cross again. But if they don’t, I want you to know that I’ll always carry the love we shared with me. I’ll never forget it. You’ll always have a place in my heart, even if we never speak again.

Goodbye. But this time, it’s different.

Take care of yourself. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

Seung-Hyun

This was his goodbye. The letter he had never thought he’d write, but knew he needed to.