#myghostcanwrite

“Hey y/n, u free?”

You glanced at the empty chat for Jihoon.

“Always!!! Whats up”

Jihoon pushed the door open and immediately knew you weren’t home. The light in the kitchen was off. No keys on the hook. No leftovers on the stove, labeled with a sticky note describing whatever H/c- korean blend you came up with.

He dropped his bag and checked his phone. Nothing from you. He opened Instagram. Your story was mid-laughter, a group selfie: your eyes crinkled, cheeks flushed from laughing.

You looked…happy?

When was the last time you smiled at him like that?

He stared longer than he meant to. Then he texted: home?

Soon :)

He typed and deleted five different responses. "Where are you?" sounded too much. "With who?" sounded worse.

He locked the phone and stared at the ceiling.

A week had passed since then. You had come home full of tipsy giggles, hand clutching your oversized leather jacket. Nothing but a sloppy kiss on his cheek to explain your absence. You twirled your way towards the bathroom, yelling out “night Woozi baby” joyfully before the door slammed heavily. Followed by an offkey performance of “96ers,” muffled by the shower.

“Goodnight,” he muttered.

He didn’t mean to follow the crowd, but the gallery was on his usual route home and the idea of returning to the apartment knowing you weren't there didn't sound very appealing to him. He pulled his mask up and stepped into the modern space. Glancing around before pausing—you were wearing that brown jacket he liked. A sketchbook in hand. Head thrown back in laughter at something some guy with dyed hair said.

Jihoon approached slowly.

You looked up and smiled, surprised. "Jihoon? What are you doing here?"

"Didn’t know you were into this stuff," he said, looking around at the art-covered walls.

You shrugged. "You didn’t ask."

That hit a little too clean.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "He your new boyfriend?"

You blinked, eyes wandering to your classmate who started to chat up a nearby artist. "That guy? No. He’s in my class."

"You’re taking classes?"

"Yeah," you said, matter-of-fact. "I’ve been doing a lot lately."

Another week passed before Jihoon worked up the courage to ask questions.

You got home before him. For once.

He walked in around midnight and paused when he saw you at the table, headphones in, editing photos.

"Can we talk?"

You didn’t look up right away. You finished cropping the image before sliding one side of your headphones off. "About what exactly?"

He hesitated. "Are you... pulling away?"

You let out a short breath, barely a laugh. "Is that what this feels like to you? Pulling away?"

"It feels different."

"Good," you said, more sharply than you meant to. "It is different. I’m not rearranging my life around your schedule anymore. That’s not distance. That’s dignity."

He sat down across from you slowly, unsure.

"I noticed," he said. "And I don’t like it."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. "Why? Because I’m not home like a porch light every night? Because someone else is getting my attention for once?"

His eyes flickered. "Because I miss you. Because it’s not the same."

You narrowed your gaze. "It’s not supposed to be. You can’t keep showing up late to your own relationship and expect me to be waiting by the door."

"That’s not fair—"

"No," you cut in. "What’s not fair is me shrinking myself so small you didn’t even notice I was disappearing. I used to think love meant patience. But I’ve been patient enough, Jihoon. I’ve been invisible."

He looked stunned, but didn’t argue.

"I looked up today," he said quietly, voice breaking a little. "And you weren’t there."

You stared at him, jaw tight. "I was never gone. You just didn’t look up soon enough."

There was a long silence.

Then he reached across the table, not grabbing—just resting his hand open, palm up, in the space between you.

"I’m looking now," he said.

You looked at his hand, then at him. There was no apology in your eyes, but there wasn’t anger anymore either—just exhaustion. And care.

You didn't grab his hand, but what you said next was enough.

“Thank you.”

The next week, he didn’t just text. He showed up.

He brought you coffee. Walked with you to your workshop. Asked questions and actually listened.

One night, you were painting at the kitchen table. He came home late, again. But instead of retreating to his studio, he pulled up a chair beside you.

You didn’t stop working, but he stayed close, watching.

"I like this you," he said after a while.

You paused. Wiped a smudge from your cheek.

"This me was always here."

He took your hand. This time, you let him.

Back to the beginning. I'm not completely sure what my first fic posted here was, but i know it was a Woozi one. and in honor of that i wanted my first re-published fic to be my fav Woozi fic ive written.