#han fic

The first time you heard Han Jisung’s voice on the radio, you almost dropped your phone.

It wasn’t the song itself.

It wasn’t even the lyrics.

It was the way he laughed in the background—soft, slightly breathless, the same way he used to when he couldn’t finish a joke without giggling halfway through.

For a second—just one—you were ten again.

Sitting on the cracked pavement outside your old apartment building, sharing a pair of cheap earphones, his shoulder pressed against yours as he tried (and failed) to rap faster than the original track.

“Bet I can do it better than them one day,” he had said, grinning.

You had rolled your eyes. “Yeah? Then don’t forget me when you’re famous.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“As if,” he scoffed. “You’re stuck with me forever.”

The memory ended there.

Because reality didn’t match it.

-

Jisung had always been… everything.

Too loud. Too emotional. Too full of dreams that barely fit inside your small neighborhood.

You were the opposite.

Quiet. Grounded. The one who remembered things when he forgot, who pulled him back when he ran too far ahead.

You balanced each other.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Until the day he told you he was leaving.

“I got in,” he said, breathless, eyes shining. “The company—I passed.”

You stared at him.

“Wait… seriously?”

He nodded so fast you thought his head might fall off. “I’m gonna be a trainee. I’m gonna debut someday, I know it.”

Your chest tightened—but you smiled anyway.

“That’s amazing, Ji.”

“I’ll still see you,” he added quickly, like he could read your thoughts. “It’s not like I’m disappearing.”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”

And for a while—

He didn’t.

He texted.

Called.

Showed up when he could, collapsing next to you with stories about practice rooms and evaluations and how tired he was but how worth it it all felt.

“I wrote something today,” he’d say, pulling out his phone. “Listen.”

You always listened.

Even when the quality was rough.

Even when he restarted halfway through, frustrated.

Even when he asked, “Is it good?” like your answer mattered more than anyone else’s.

“It’s amazing,” you told him every time.

Because it was.

Because he was.

But slowly—

The messages got shorter.

The calls got less frequent.

The visits stopped.

“I’m just busy,” he said once, over the phone, voice distant.

“I know.”

“I’ll come see you soon.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t.

-

You stopped asking after a while.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because caring started to feel… one-sided.

You still followed everything.

His debut.

His performances.

His interviews.

You watched from a distance, cheering quietly, pride tangled with something heavier you didn’t want to name.

And every time he smiled at the camera—

You wondered if he remembered.

If he remembered the kid who used to sit next to you, talking about dreams like they were promises.

If he remembered you.

But he never reached out.

Not once.

Until years later—

When you saw him again.

-

It happened on a random Tuesday.

You weren’t expecting anything.

You were just trying to get through your shift, balancing too many things at once, your mind already on everything you had to do after work.

“Excuse me.”

The voice hit you first.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Your hands froze.

Slowly—

You turned around.

And there he was.

Han Jisung.

Standing right in front of you like he hadn’t been gone for years.

Like nothing had changed.

Your heart stuttered.

“…Jisung?”

His face lit up instantly.

“Hey!”

Hey.

Just—

Hey.

Like you’d seen each other yesterday.

Like he hadn’t disappeared.

Like he hadn’t left you behind.

“You work here?” he asked, glancing around.

“…Yeah.”

“That’s crazy,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t know.”

Of course you didn’t.

Because you never asked.

“Yeah,” you repeated.

There was a pause.

Then—

“It’s been a while,” he said.

You let out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” you said again. “It has.”

-

He stayed.

That was the worst part.

He didn’t just say hi and leave.

He stayed.

Talked.

Smiled.

Asked questions like he hadn’t missed years of your life.

“How have you been?”

“Good.”

“What have you been up to?”

“Work. Stuff.”

“Same,” he laughed. “It’s been hectic, you know?”

You nodded.

Of course you knew.

You’d been watching.

From afar.

“Do you still—” he started, then stopped. “You still listen to music a lot, right?”

Your chest tightened.

“Of course.”

“Nice,” he said. “You always had good taste.”

You almost laughed at that.

Always.

Like he remembered.

Like he hadn’t forgotten everything else.

“Do you remember that time—” he began.

“I remember,” you cut in.

He blinked.

“Oh.”

A beat.

Then he smiled again, softer this time.

“Yeah… me too.”

But something about the way he said it—

Told you he didn’t.

Not really.

-

“You didn’t call.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Silence fell between you.

Jisung’s smile faltered.

“…What?”

“You said you would,” you continued, voice quieter now but steady. “You said you’d come see me.”

“I—” he hesitated. “I was busy. Training was—”

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.

“You stopped replying,” you said.

His gaze dropped slightly.

“I thought you were just… focused,” you added. “That you’d come back when things settled.”

“I—”

“But you didn’t.”

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology hung in the air.

Too late.

Too simple.

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” you said, stepping back slightly. “Really. I am.”

“I want to fix this,” he said quickly.

You shook your head.

“You can’t fix something you forgot.”

That hit.

You saw it in his expression.

The way his eyes widened slightly.

“I didn’t forget you,” he said.

You held his gaze.

“Then why did it feel like you did?”

-

After that—

Things changed.

He didn’t come around as often.

When he did, he was quieter.

More careful.

Like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Which, honestly—

He was.

And you?

You kept your distance.

Not out of anger.

But because getting close again felt… dangerous.

You’d already lost him once.

You didn’t think you could do it twice.

-

It took time.

Weeks.

Maybe months.

Before he finally said it.

“You think I forgot you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked up at him.

“…Didn’t you?”

He shook his head immediately.

“No.”

“Then what happened?”

A pause.

Long.

Heavy.

“I was scared,” he admitted.

That wasn’t the answer you expected.

“…Scared?”

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Everything was changing. Fast. And I didn’t know how to keep up.”

You frowned slightly.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Because you didn’t change,” he said softly.

Your breath caught.

“You were the same,” he continued. “Same place. Same person who knew me before everything.”

“And that’s… bad?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s the opposite.”

“Then why—”

“Because I didn’t think I could be that person anymore.”

Silence.

“I thought if I came back,” he added, voice quieter now, “you’d see how much I’d changed.”

You stared at him.

“And I didn’t know if you’d still like me.”

The words hit harder than anything else.

“…So you just left?”

“I thought it would be easier for you,” he said.

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

“You thought disappearing would be easier?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

-

“You should’ve trusted me.”

Your voice wasn’t angry.

Just… tired.

“I would’ve stayed,” you said. “Even if you changed.”

“I know that now.”

“But back then?”

“I was an idiot.”

You huffed slightly.

“…Yeah. You were.”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re still here, though,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You hesitated.

Then—

“Because I didn’t forget you.”

That was the truth.

No matter how much it hurt.

No matter how much time had passed.

You never forgot.

Him.

Us.

Everything.

Jisung’s expression softened.

“…I don’t deserve that.”

“Probably not,” you admitted.

He laughed quietly.

“Fair.”

A pause.

Then—

“But I want to try.”

You looked at him.

“To remember properly this time,” he added. “To be here. For real.”

Your heart wavered.

“…And when things get busy again?”

“I won’t run,” he said.

“How do I know that?”

“You don’t.”

Honest.

At least he was honest.

“But I’ll prove it,” he said.

-

It wasn’t instant.

Trust doesn’t work like that.

But slowly—

He showed up.

Not just physically.

But emotionally.

He listened.

Actually listened.

He asked about your day—and remembered the answers.

He told you things—real things, not just surface-level updates.

And sometimes—

You caught glimpses of the boy you used to know.

The one who laughed too loud.

The one who talked too fast.

The one who made promises like they meant something.

And this time—

They did.

-

“You’ve been quiet,” Jisung said, tilting his head slightly.

You blinked. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “You get like that when you’re thinking too much.”

You huffed. “You talk like you know me.”

“I do know you,” he shot back lightly.

“…Debatable.”

He laughed under his breath, nudging your shoulder. “You missed me.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“You definitely did.”

“…You’re annoying.”

“And you didn’t deny it,” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes.

“…Shut up.”

He laughed—that same soft, breathless laugh you remembered.

And this time—

It didn’t hurt.

Because he was here.

Actually here.

Not a memory.

Not a voice on the radio.

But real.

“I won’t disappear again,” he said quietly.

You looked at him.

“…You better not.”

He held your gaze.

“I won’t.”

A pause.

Then—

“Hey,” he added, nudging your shoulder. “You’re still stuck with me, you know.”

Your heart skipped.

The words—

The same ones from years ago.

You smiled slightly.

“…As if.”

And this time—

It felt like a promise again.

The plan had not accounted for the fact that you'd gotten comfortable on the couch.

You were still there when you heard the key in the lock, legs tucked under you, the TV murmuring at a volume that was more company than entertainment, a blanket pulled up to your chin. You blinked at the door as it swung open.

Jisung looked exactly like someone who had spent the last six hours in a recording studio. His hair was doing three different things. His hoodie- well, your hoodie, the oversized grey one you'd given up trying to reclaim- was half falling off one shoulder. He had that glassy, slightly elsewhere look in his eyes that meant he'd been in the middle of something in his head even on the drive home.

He saw you and his whole face changed.

Not dramatically. Just. Softened. Like something in him exhaled.

"You're still up," he said.

"Brilliant observation."

He toed off his shoes without untying them, the little shit, and shuffled over to the couch. He didn't sit so much as collapse, dropping down beside you with the full, boneless weight of someone whose bones had quietly resigned. His head found your shoulder immediately, like it knew the way.

"Hi," he said, into your shoulder.

"Hi yourself." You shifted to make room, tucking the blanket around both of you without thinking about it. "How was the studio?"

"Good. Long." A pause. "I finished something."

"Yeah?"

"Mm." He turned his face slightly, not quite looking up. "It's about… I don't know what it's about yet. That sounds stupid."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

"It felt like something. I'll figure out the words for it later."

You'd learned, over time, that this was how Jisung worked. The feeling always came first. The language for it arrived later, sometimes days later, and usually at an inconvenient hour when he'd scramble for his phone to type before it disappeared. You'd woken up more than once to find seventeen voice memo notifications from him at two in the morning, all variations of the same melody hummed slightly differently each time.

You loved him for it, the way you loved anything that was genuinely, helplessly itself.

"Are you hungry?" you asked.

"I ate at the studio." A beat. "I might eat again though."

"I figured. There's leftover rice in the fridge. And I think there's still some of the soup from yesterday."

He lifted his head. Looked at you with an expression that was very difficult to describe but that you had privately categorized as the one that makes your chest do something embarrassing.

"You kept the soup."

"It was good soup, Jisung."

"You kept it for me."

"Don't make it weird. Next time I’m just gonna eat it."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh- soft and low, more breath than noise- and dropped his head back onto your shoulder. "Thank you," he said, simply, the way he said things when he actually meant them.

Your cheeks burned. You were grateful he couldn't see your face.

"Go eat," you said. "You get weird when you're hungry."

"I'm not hungry yet."

"You just said-"

"I'm hungry later. Right now I'm comfortable." He pulled the blanket more firmly over himself, or possibly over both of you, it was difficult to tell. His hand found yours under the blanket and held it in the easy, unthinking way he always did, fingers loosely threaded together. "Five minutes."

"You said five minutes at the studio door yesterday, too, and then we stood in the cold for twenty."

"That was different. I was telling you about the melody."

"You hummed the same four notes at me for twenty minutes."

"They were important notes." He paused. "Did you get them? You should have them memorized by now."

"I have them memorized against my will."

He hummed them now, quietly, just to prove a point, that same looping little phrase you'd been hearing for three days, gentle and slightly wistful, the four notes that got stuck in your head while you were washing dishes. You felt it in your chest, the way his music always hit you before you'd registered you were listening.

"It's nice," you said, honestly.

"You think so?"

"I've thought so every time you've asked, Jisung."

"I know. I just like hearing you say it." He said this without embarrassment, which was one of the bestworst things about him, he'd say something that should be mortifying with the same easy calm as commenting on the weather. You had no defense against it.

The TV murmured. Outside, a car passed. The apartment was warm.

"What did you do tonight?" he asked.

"Not much. Read for a bit. Called my mom." You thought about it. "Oh, the plant is looking better."

He perked up slightly. "The sad one by the window?"

"The sad one by the window."

"I told you it just needed more light."

"You did tell me that, yes."

"And you doubted me."

"I expressed measured skepticism-"

"Doubt," he said, with the gravity of someone delivering a verdict. You could feel him smiling against your shoulder even without seeing it. "Full doubt. No faith in me whatsoever."

"I have like, so much faith in you."

"The plant says otherwise."

"The plant is fine now, which is exactly what I just said."

He laughed for real this time, an easy, delighted sound. He squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.

The five minutes came and went. Neither of you moved.

You watched the TV without watching it, aware instead of the small, ordinary details: the weight of him against your side, the slow evening out of his breathing as the studio tension left his shoulders, the way his thumb traced an absent pattern against your knuckles that he probably didn't know he was doing.

This was the part no one warned you about, when it came to loving someone. Not the big moments- really, those were easy to anticipate, easy to recognize when they arrived. It was this, the unremarkable Tuesday nights, the leftover soup, the blanket pulled around two people on a couch while some forgotten show played in the background. The simple accumulation of someone else's presence becoming indistinguishable from home.

"Hey," Jisung said, quietly.

"Hey."

"I'm glad you were still up."

Your chest did the thing again. You'd stopped trying to reason with it.

"You'd have woken me up anyway," you said. "You always come in loud."

"I come in with energy."

"At midnight."

"Creativity doesn't have a curfew." He tilted his head up finally, chin resting on your shoulder now, looking up at you with that expression that you'd never fully learned how to receive gracefully. Open and warm and completely unguarded. "I had a good day," he said. "I made something real. And I came home and you were here." He paused. "That's a good day."

You looked at him. He looked back.

"Go eat your soup, Jisung."

He grinned bright and sudden, the squirrel grin, the one that was completely at odds with how sincerely he'd just spoken and somehow perfect because of it. He unwound himself from the blanket with considerable dramatic effort, pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and shuffled toward the kitchen.

"Do we have those little weird crackers?" he called.

"Cabinet above the microwave."

"You're the best person I know!"

"You say that every time I buy those crackers."

"And I mean it every time!"

You pulled the blanket back around your shoulders and looked at the TV, and felt the warmth in your cheeks, and listened to him rattle around contentedly in the kitchen, opening cabinets, running the tap, humming that same four-note melody to himself like he couldn't help it.

You couldn't help smiling either.

Some things, you thought, are just like that.

His presence lingers beside you. He doesn't say a word, simply sitting steady and patient, just watching and waiting while you take your time to gather yourself.

It shouldn’t be this hard. The random blank spaces in your mind, the glaring absences, the aching sense that something is missing. Lots of something is missing.

You can practically physically feel the gaps inside your head. Kind of like pages torn from a book. Kind of like a puzzle spread out before you, with crisp edges and colors blending where they should be....all except for the empty spaces where pieces are missing.

You know what the picture is supposed to look like. You can guess the shapes, try to fill in the blanks with logic, but there’s no certainty, no way to know for sure what once belonged there. The worst part isn’t even the emptiness -- it’s the knowing that something should be there, but being unable to remember exactly what. It's the knowing that he has seen the full image while you’re left staring at the gaps, hoping for a glimpse of what’s been lost.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally, the words heavy, useless.

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t right away. “You don’t need to be.” His voice is kind, but you hear the strain behind it. "Please don't apologize. Just talk to me....what are you thinking about?"

"There's two iced coffees in the fridge. Is one of them mine?"

"Yes."

"Where is it from?"

"Holly's," he says with a small smile, as if expecting some excited reaction from you. But you're unsure what the name Holly's is supposed to mean.

You stare at him. After a few beats, he realizes there's something missing from your eyes.

"You love Holly's...remember?"

"I was supposed to meet you there, wasn't I? It's routine for us, isn't it?"

"It's okay--"

"The ice is all melted...how long did you wait for me to not show up?"

Jisung doesn't immediately reply. This time, he places a gentle hand on yours, but the skin-to-skin contact only sparks guilt in your gut. The feeling of his touch is familiar, but you can't instantly recall the last time he held your hand like this.

"It's okay if routine changes."

You stare at your intertwined hands, searching for something, some memory, some feeling that will heal your mind. But the scattered pieces of time don’t quite fit, no matter how hard you try, and you can’t force them into place.

Jisung’s thumb moves in slow, comforting circles against your palm, as if he’s trying to gently rub the memories back into your system. The coffee in the fridge, the cafe's name, the routine Wednesday date night....it’s all just out of reach, blurred at the edges like a dream slipping away more and more the harder you try to remember the details.

“Does it?” You don't mean for your voice to crack, but it's difficult to remain steady when you didn't ask for any of this.

He hesitates, and that tells you more than words could. “If it needs to.”

The way he looks at you is devastating. Like he’s waiting for you to remember, but bracing himself because he knows it's not likely.

"I don't want anything to change," you whisper as the threat of tears steals your voice, repeatedly memorizing the lines of his palm just in case your brain decides to drop those in the trash next. "I don't mean to forget things, and I don't mean to make things hard on you, Ji. I'm not doing this on purpose."

"I know, baby, I know that," Jisung exhales slowly, his fingers tightening just enough around yours to ground you, to assure you that he’s still here. That he’s with you, even when your own mind isn’t. His voice is warm but heavy, and you can only assume he’s holding back his own grief for your sake. “It’s not your fault.”

But that doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at you. It doesn’t make the missing pieces any less frustrating. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might somehow hold everything in place, keep what’s left from slipping through the cracks. But it only forces the tears in your eyes to fall down your cheeks.

“I just…” you swallow, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “I don't want to wake up one day and have nothing left. No routines, no memories...no us. There's so many memory gaps in my personal life since the episode, a-and I'm worried that the rest of our life is gonna fall apart because of me. I can't remember routines, I can't remember dates, I can't...I can't remember a lot, and it's really scary, Ji, what am I supposed to--"

Before you can even finish, his arms are around you, pulling you close, and tucking you into the warmth of his chest. He hides you there, your body beginning to tremble. His steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, a safe rhythm that’s been there all along, even now when everything else feels uncertain, as his shirt soaks up your tears.

"Listen to be, baby. I'm not in love with the routines, or the dates, or even the memories. I'm in love with you. Okay?"

The words are like a bandaid, but they can't magically heal the ache in your chest. You press your face deeper into his shirt in an attempt to disappear from the world. You just want to breathe him in and let his presence make the panic go away, even if only for a moment. His hands move to your back, gentle and steady, with one stroking the back of your head. His hands are two things you do remember, and you cling to that memory like it's your lifeline.

“I’m so desperately in love with you, and I’m not going anywhere. Not now, now ever," he repeats, his voice soft but unwavering.

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of his words finally sinking in. Your heart thunders in your chest, the tightness in your throat loosening just a little, but the fear doesn’t entirely fade. You want to believe him, but the unknown of a forgetful future keeps your tears flowing freely.

“I don’t want to lose you like I lost my memories,” you whisper, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt, unsure if it’s the fear of forgetting him or the fear of never being enough for him that makes your heart ache.

“You won’t,” he says firmly, pressing his lips to your forehead, the gentleness of his touch sending sparks through your nerves. "Even if your memory gives up on you, I’m never giving up on us. I promise."

And in that moment, you genuinely believe that even if the memory of his promise slips away from you one day, Jisung never will.

::