#dreamzen

thank you to @viviansturns for the divider

taglist: @aquas-heart (lemme know if you only want to be tagged in wish content, or anything in general)

taglist is open btw

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t start out as enemies.

That’s what makes it unbearable.

Because hatred is easy—it’s clean, sharp, something you can hold onto without questioning. But what you and Park Jisung have now isn’t clean. It’s tangled in memories that refuse to fade, in moments that still feel too close no matter how much time passes.

And the worst part?

You remember exactly when it started to fall apart.

Before everything, Jisung knew you better than anyone.

Not in a dramatic, all-consuming way. Not in confessions or late-night promises.

It was quieter than that.

He noticed things.

The way your left foot dragged half a second when you were exhausted. The way your confidence dipped when instructors watched too closely. The way you always stayed ten minutes longer than everyone else, running the same section over and over until your breathing turned uneven.

“You’re going to burn out,” he told you once, sitting on the floor while you kept practicing.

“Not if I get it right first.”

“You already are,” he said, watching you carefully. “You just don’t believe it.”

You didn’t answer.

Because if you stopped moving, you’d have to sit with the possibility that he was right.

And somehow, that felt worse.

The closer the showcase got, the worse you became.

Not physically—you were stronger than ever.

But mentally?

Every mistake felt louder. Every correction cut deeper. Every glance from the mirror felt like judgment.

And Jisung noticed that too.

“You’re overthinking,” he said one night, stepping in front of you to stop you mid-routine.

“I’m focusing.”

“You’re hesitating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insisted, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You pause before the turn. It’s small, but it’s there.”

You clenched your jaw. “Then I’ll fix it.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’re dancing like you’re scared.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

“I’m not scared.”

“Then why do you look like you’re waiting to mess up?”

Your chest tightened.

“Why are you watching me so closely?” you snapped. “Focus on yourself.”

“I am focused—on us,” he shot back. “This is a duet, remember?”

“Then trust me to handle my part.”

“I do,” he said quickly—but then, quieter, “I just don’t think you trust yourself.”

That was the first crack.

Not loud. Not explosive.

But deep.

After that, everything between you shifted.

He still stayed late—but now there was tension. Conversations turned into corrections. Corrections turned into arguments.

You started noticing the way his tone changed when he talked to you versus everyone else.

Sharper.

Less patient.

Like he expected more from you—and resented you for not reaching it.

And you hated that it mattered so much.

Hated that his opinion carried more weight than anyone else’s.

Hated that when he looked disappointed, it stayed with you long after you left the studio.

The night of the showcase just… confirmed everything you were already afraid of.

You had told yourself all day: Don’t hesitate.

Don’t think.

Just move.

And for most of the performance, you did.

Until that one moment.

That one, stupid, barely noticeable moment where doubt crept in and your body followed it.

You felt it immediately—the misalignment, the shift in timing.

And worse?

You felt Jisung adjust.

Seamlessly. Professionally.

But not gently.

His grip tightened just slightly where your hands connected. His movements sharpened, compensating for you.

Anyone watching wouldn’t have noticed.

But you did.

And that was enough.

Backstage, the adrenaline hadn’t even worn off before he spoke.

“You messed up.”

No hesitation. No softness.

Just fact.

You stared at him, your chest still heaving. “It was one second.”

“It was enough.”

“I fixed it.”

“You shouldn’t have needed to fix it,” he snapped. “You shouldn’t have hesitated in the first place.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I said I fixed it.”

“And I said you shouldn’t have had to.”

Something in his voice—sharp, disappointed, final—made your throat tighten.

“I was nervous,” you admitted, quieter now.

“You can’t afford to be nervous on stage.”

“I know that!”

“Then act like it!”

The room felt smaller. Louder. Suffocating.

“I’m trying, Jisung!”

“Trying isn’t enough,” he said, and then—

The words that stayed with you long after everything else faded:

“You’re not ready.”

You think something in you broke right then.

Because it wasn’t just what he said.

It was how easily he said it.

Like all the late nights, all the effort, all the moments you thought meant something—

None of it was enough to change his mind.

Not ready.

Not good enough.

Not what he needed you to be.

After that, silence became your defense.

You stopped staying late.

Stopped asking for feedback.

Stopped looking at him unless absolutely necessary.

And when you did speak?

It was clipped. Controlled. Distant.

Because if you let even a little bit of that old familiarity back in, you were afraid everything would crack open again.

Meanwhile, he… didn’t try to fix it.

Not really.

He’d start to say something sometimes—your name, half-formed sentences—but he’d stop himself.

And that almost hurt more.

Because it felt like he chose the distance too.

Like losing you wasn’t worth the effort of explaining himself.

So yeah.

Now, standing in the dim studio months later, when he asks, “Why do you hate me?”—

It feels like a cruel question.

“You told me I wasn’t ready,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect—but steadier too. “Like everything I did meant nothing.”

His expression falters.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“I was frustrated.”

“And I was humiliated,” you snap, the memory rushing back all at once. “Do you know what it’s like to mess up on stage and then have the one person you trust most confirm your worst fear?”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.”

Silence.

Thick. Pressing.

“I thought pushing you would help,” he says finally.

You let out a hollow laugh. “Congratulations. It didn’t.”

His gaze drops for a moment, and when he looks back at you, there’s something raw there.

“I didn’t know you were that close to breaking.”

“That’s because you never asked,” you whisper. “You just assumed I could handle it.”

“I thought you could,” he says.

“Yeah,” you nod, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. “So did I.”

That’s the truth you never wanted to admit.

You weren’t just hurt because of him.

You were hurt because, deep down, you believed him.

The space between you feels fragile now.

Like one wrong move will shatter whatever is holding this moment together.

“I watched you after that,” he admits suddenly.

You frown. “What?”

“After the showcase. When you stopped staying late.” His voice is quieter now. “You’d leave early, but sometimes I’d see you come back when you thought no one was around.”

Your breath catches.

“I saw how hard you were pushing yourself,” he continues. “Harder than before. And I—” He exhales sharply. “I didn’t know how to approach you without making it worse.”

“So you did nothing.”

“I gave you space.”

“I didn’t need space,” you say, your voice cracking despite your effort to keep it steady. “I needed you to tell me I wasn’t a failure.”

The words hang there.

Heavy. Vulnerable. Irreversible.

Jisung’s expression shifts completely now.

“You were never a failure,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“Then why did it feel like I was?”

He steps closer.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like you might disappear if he moves too fast.

“Because I said the wrong thing at the worst possible time,” he admits. “And I didn’t fix it when I should have.”

Your chest tightens.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask.

He hesitates.

And that hesitation tells you everything.

“Because I didn’t know how to face the fact that I hurt you,” he says quietly. “And because… I was scared you wouldn’t forgive me.”

Your throat burns.

“You didn’t even try.”

“I’m trying now.”

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Not the arguments.

Not the anger.

But this.

The honesty. The vulnerability. The way everything you buried starts rising back to the surface the moment he looks at you like that.

Like you still matter.

Like you always did.

And suddenly, hating him feels a lot harder than it used to.

The air between you shifts—subtle, but undeniable.

Like something long buried has finally cracked open, letting light in where neither of you expected it.

Jisung is still close. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the hesitation in it—like he’s waiting for you to decide what happens next.

And that’s new.

For the first time in a long time… he isn’t pushing.

“You don’t get to just fix this in one conversation,” you say, even though your voice has softened.

“I know,” he answers immediately. No argument. No defense. Just quiet acceptance. “I’m not trying to.”

That catches you off guard.

“Then what are you trying to do?”

His gaze flickers down for a second—your hands, your face, like he’s grounding himself—before meeting your eyes again.

“Start somewhere,” he says.

There’s something about the way he says it. Careful. Honest. Stripped of the sharp edges he used to hide behind.

And it makes your chest ache.

Because this—this version of him—is the one you remember.

The one you trusted.

The one who used to sit on the studio floor and watch you like you were something worth understanding.

“I don’t know if I can just… go back,” you admit.

“I’m not asking you to,” he says softly. “We’re not the same as we were.”

No.

You’re not.

You’re sharper now. More guarded. But also… more aware. Of yourself. Of him. Of everything that went unsaid before.

And maybe that’s why this feels different.

More dangerous.

More real.

Your eyes drop briefly—to his hands, flexing at his sides like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.

“Then what are we now?” you ask.

The question lingers.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he takes a step closer.

Close enough that if you leaned forward even slightly—

“We figure it out,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

Because there’s something else in his voice now.

Something deeper than guilt.

Something that wasn’t there before.

Or maybe it was.

And you just never let yourself see it.

“You always do this,” you murmur, your pulse picking up despite yourself. “Act like everything can just be… worked through.”

“No,” he says, just as quiet. “Only the things that matter.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Your heart stutters.

“And this matters?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“You matter.”

It’s too much.

Too direct.

Too honest.

You should pull back.

You should say something sharp, something safe—something that puts distance back where it belongs.

But you don’t.

Because your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

A small step forward.

Barely anything.

But enough.

Enough that the space between you disappears.

Enough that you feel his breath hitch.

And suddenly, everything is louder.

Your heartbeat.

Your thoughts.

The past and the present colliding all at once.

“Jisung…” you start—but it comes out quieter than you intended.

Like a warning.

Or maybe a question.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Not this time.

His hand lifts slowly—giving you time to stop him, to step away, to rebuild the walls you’ve spent months putting up.

You don’t.

So his fingers brush your wrist first.

Light.

Testing.

Like he’s asking permission without saying it.

And when you don’t pull away—

He exhales, almost like relief.

His hand slides up, warmer now, more certain, until it rests gently at your waist.

Not pulling.

Just there.

Grounding.

Real.

Your breath falters.

Because it’s been so long since he’s touched you like this.

Not as a partner correcting your form.

Not as someone frustrated.

But like you’re something he wants to hold onto.

“You’re still overthinking,” he murmurs, and there’s the faintest trace of something familiar—teasing, but softer than before.

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “You’re still watching me too closely.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I never really stopped.”

That does something to you.

Something you’re not ready to name.

Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest—light at first, like you’re unsure if this is real.

But it is.

You can feel his heartbeat under your palm.

Fast.

Unsteady.

Matching yours.

And suddenly, the tension that used to feel like anger… doesn’t feel like anger anymore.

It feels like something else entirely.

Something that’s been building for a long time.

Unspoken.

Unresolved.

“You hurt me,” you whisper, needing him to understand—even now, even here.

“I know,” he says, his voice rougher now. “I know. And I hate that I did.”

Your fingers curl slightly in his shirt.

“Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he says immediately. No hesitation this time. “Not like that. Not ever again.”

You search his face.

For doubt. For uncertainty.

You don’t find it.

What you do find—

Is that same boy who used to believe in you before you believed in yourself.

And maybe… he never stopped.

The realization hits deep.

Your grip tightens slightly.

And before you can overthink it—

You close the distance.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

It isn’t desperate.

It’s careful at first.

Like both of you are still figuring out where the edges are now.

But the moment it happens—

Everything else fades.

The months of silence.

The arguments.

The sharp words.

They don’t disappear.

But they shift.

Because this—this feels like something built from all of it.

Messy.

Complicated.

Real.

His hand presses more firmly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer as the hesitation melts away, replaced by something warmer, deeper.

Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

You respond without thinking now, your fingers curling into his shirt as you lean into him, grounding yourself in the moment instead of the past.

And when you finally pull back, just slightly—

Your foreheads rest together.

Breathing uneven.

Close enough that the world still feels small.

Still feels like just the two of you.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” you say softly.

“I know,” he murmurs.

“But…”

You hesitate.

Because this is the part that matters.

The part that decides what happens next.

“But it’s a start.”

His lips curve—just barely.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

And this time—

When you stay—

He doesn’t let go.

That’s the difference.

Before, everything between you and Jisung had been hesitation—missed timing, unsaid things, moments that slipped just slightly out of place.

But now?

Now you stay.

And he feels it.

His hand at your waist tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you there, like he’s afraid this might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice low, brushing against your skin more than your ears.

It’s such a small question.

But it carries everything.

The past.

The hurt.

The risk of starting again.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, your fingers slide from his chest up to his collar, curling there, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you whisper.

Something in him shifts at that.

Not urgency.

Not impatience.

Just… relief.

The kind that settles deep.

His forehead presses gently to yours again, like he needs that closeness before anything else. Like he’s relearning you—not as a partner, not as someone he has to push—but as someone he gets to feel again.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing.

Just existing in the quiet.

And outside, somewhere far off, the world keeps going—but in here, it feels suspended.

Like that line from a song you once played on repeat late at night—

“Where were you while we were getting high?”

It drifts through your mind without warning.

Not about substances.

About this.

This feeling.

This suspended, dizzy, almost unreal moment where everything is too much and not enough all at once.

Your hand shifts slightly, brushing the back of his neck.

He exhales—sharp, quiet.

Like even that small touch does more than he expected.

“You feel different,” he admits softly.

You almost laugh. “That’s because I am.”

“I know,” he says. “I just—” he pauses, searching for the words, “I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Your chest tightens.

Not the tension from before.

Something softer.

Something that lingers.

“You don’t get to miss me like that if you’re the one who pushed me away,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it anymore.

“I know,” he repeats.

And this time, it sounds like he means more than just the words.

Your thumb brushes lightly along his jaw, almost absentminded.

“I hated you for a while,” you admit.

“I figured.”

“But I think,” you hesitate, the truth catching in your throat, “I mostly hated how much what you said stuck with me.”

His eyes close briefly at that.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

“And I hated that you still… mattered,” you add, softer now.

That makes him look at you again.

Really look.

Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect to be given back.

“You still matter too,” he says.

And it doesn’t feel like pressure.

It doesn’t feel like expectation.

It just feels… true.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time.

It’s full.

Like something is building again—but slower now. More intentional.

His hand shifts slightly at your waist, thumb brushing just barely against your side in a slow, absent motion.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just there.

Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath catches again—quieter this time.

And when you lean in, it’s not to close distance out of uncertainty.

It’s because you want to.

The next kiss is deeper.

Still soft.

Still careful.

But no longer tentative.

There’s something steadier in it now.

Something that feels like choosing.

Over and over again.

Your fingers slide into his hair, and this time he doesn’t hesitate at all—his other hand coming up, resting at your back, pulling you just slightly closer.

Not consuming.

Not overwhelming.

Just enough that you feel the shape of him against you.

Familiar.

And new all at once.

You break apart slowly, breaths uneven again, but calmer now.

Grounded.

“Do you ever think about it?” you ask suddenly.

“About what?”

“What it would’ve been like if we hadn’t messed it up back then?”

He huffs a quiet breath, almost a laugh—but softer.

“All the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, his thumb brushing your side again. “But I think… we wouldn’t have understood it like we do now.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Understood what?”

“This,” he says simply.

And maybe he’s right.

Because before, everything between you had been built on pressure.

On expectations.

On proving something.

Now?

It feels like something else.

Something slower.

Something that doesn’t need to be perfect to be real.

Outside, the night stretches on.

Inside, the studio feels smaller.

Warmer.

Like the world narrowed down to just this moment.

Just this closeness.

Just this quiet, fragile, undeniable beginning again.

And as you rest there with him—still not letting go—

That same thought lingers in the back of your mind, echoing like a distant refrain:

Someday you will find me… caught beneath the landslide…

Not buried.

Not broken.

Just… changed.

And finally starting to come back up for air.