#wonyyluvs

The weight of words

part 1

-enhypen

● when arguments turn into breaking points with enhypen

pairing: enhypen x gn!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort (minus the comfort)

warnings: not proofread, lowercase intended, emotional pain, mentions of arguments and breakups, this is fictional and for dramatic effect.

summary: it starts small—an argument here, a weird silence there. but suddenly, they’re saying things you never thought you’d hear. and you’re standing there wondering when forever turned into this. it’s messy, it’s painful, and it kind of feels like the end.

heeseung:

“you’re not the same person i fell in love with.”

his voice is low, cold in a way you’ve never heard before. and it’s terrifying, how quickly he shuts down. your mouth opens slightly, stunned silent—because heeseung’s the one who always held your face in his hands and promised forever. now he won’t even look at you. he doesn’t mean it—he’s angry, overwhelmed, saying whatever will hit the hardest. but he doesn’t stop himself. not even when you back away, tears already pooling in your eyes. “okay,” you whisper, voice cracking. “then i guess there’s nothing left to say.” the door clicks shut behind you, and still, he stays frozen.

jay:

“you’re always too much. always needing something. i can’t breathe.”

you stare at him from across the kitchen, heart in your throat, chest tightening like it’s physically caving in. jay’s eyes are stormy, but his words—his words are cruel. like he wants to wound you. and he does. you take a shaky breath, not trusting your voice to hold steady. “sorry,” you mutter, turning away quickly. “i didn’t realize loving you was exhausting.” your steps are quiet, careful, like you’re scared of breaking. he doesn’t follow you. he doesn't say your name. he just stares at the floor while the silence wraps around his throat.

jake:

“you’re so sensitive, i can’t even talk to you anymore.”

he says it fast, frustrated, voice raised. but it still echoes loud in the apartment, heavier than either of you expected. and it breaks something in you—something you didn’t even realize was holding everything together. your jaw tightens, breath caught halfway between a sob and a scoff. “then don’t,” you reply, barely above a whisper, eyes glistening. “you don’t have to talk to me at all.” the front door closes with a soft thud behind you. jake stands in the silence, every second without you twisting into regret—but he stays still, stupidly thinking you’ll come back on your own.

sunghoon:

“god, you’re so fucking annoying when you act like this.”

he throws the words out without thinking, running a hand through his hair like you are the problem. your face drops immediately, like something in your chest just split. you weren’t even yelling—you were trying to explain how you felt. and now, suddenly, you’re “annoying.” you blink a few times, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i hope you feel better after that,” you say softly, reaching for your keys. “because i don’t.” you’re gone before he can turn around, the door shutting behind you like punctuation. he’s alone. and it hits him way too late.

sunoo:

“i don’t know why i even bother with you sometimes.”

he regrets it the second he says it—but his pride doesn’t let him take it back. and you hear it. all of it. every crack in his voice, every ounce of bitterness he tried to spit out. your entire body goes still. “wow,” you breathe out, laughing through the pain. “okay.” there’s nothing left to say. you walk away slowly, like if you move too fast you’ll fall apart entirely. sunoo watches the door close, jaw clenched. he wants to run after you. wants to say he didn’t mean it. but he just stands there, afraid you won’t believe him anymore.

jungwon:

“maybe we should just stop pretending this is working.”

it’s not like him to raise his voice. it’s not like him to give up. but this fight is different. it’s layered, messy, and he’s tired. you blink, looking up at him with wide, broken eyes. “is that what i’m doing?” you ask softly. “pretending?” your voice wobbles, and he flinches, realizing what he’s implied. but it’s too late. you’re already walking away—out of the kitchen, out of the room, out of his reach. the silence that follows is suffocating. he doesn’t chase you. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t think he deserves to.

ni-ki:

“you’re so clingy. do you ever stop needing me for one second?”

"Half Past Midnight "

Woozi × Reader | Soft angst to comfort | Established relationship

a/n: kinda rushed this, I'll post a "woozi's pov" soon! i didn't know what else to write about hehe. Hope you like it <3

The first time he told you he was scared of love, it wasn’t poetic.

There were no candlelit confessions, no dramatic sighs or confessions whispered into the darkness. It was just him, sitting on the edge of his studio couch, eyes tired, fingers tapping against his knee, and voice soft with exhaustion.

"I don’t want to ruin the one thing I know I’m good at," he said, looking down. "And sometimes, being in love… it feels like I might have to choose."

You were curled up beside him, your legs tucked beneath you, the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from his closet pooling around your arms. You didn’t speak right away. You just looked at him. Not with sadness, or pity, but with understanding.

You knew how much his music meant to him. How it wasn’t just a job, or a dream, but a part of him. It was in the curve of his fingers when they danced across the keyboard. In the way his face softened when he talked about melodies and progressions. In how his eyes lit up when a track finally came together.

He loved music the way the ocean loved the moon—constant, quiet, deep.

So you never asked him to choose.

Not once.

You became a quiet fixture in his life the same way a favorite melody settles into the heart—subtle, warm, permanent.

You didn’t wait for invitations to show up at his studio anymore. You knew the code. You knew when not to disturb him and when to slip in with takeout or coffee and leave it by the desk. Sometimes, you'd fall asleep on the couch while he worked, lulled by the soft echo of bass through the walls. Other times, he'd pause to glance back at you and just… smile.

He didn’t say much, but you always heard him loud and clear.

He'd come home late most nights. Half past midnight, or later. You never complained. Your body adjusted, naturally syncing to the rhythm of his life.

He always found you.

Sometimes asleep on the couch, your phone still open to a playlist you’d made for him. Sometimes curled up in bed, a book resting on your chest. Sometimes awake, waiting for him with a sleepy smile and a bowl of warm soup.

“You’re still up?” he’d ask, voice rough from the night.

“Always,” you’d mumble, arms reaching out instinctively.

He’d melt into your embrace like he’d been holding his breath all day.

It wasn’t always easy.

There were days when you missed him. Days when you felt clingy, or when your fingers hovered over your phone, wondering if it was okay to text again. There were moments of doubt—not in him, but in yourself. Wondering if you were being too much, asking too little, hoping too quietly.

But never, not once, did you think he didn’t love you.

Because Woozi didn’t show love with grand gestures or flowery words. He showed it when he let you into the quietest parts of his world. When he played you unfinished demos and watched your face as you listened. When he started keeping your favorite snacks in the studio fridge. When he kissed your forehead before leaving and whispered, “I'll try not to be too late tonight.”

He loved you the way he loved music—deliberately, deeply, and without distraction.

One night, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making tea, your hair tied up messily, an old hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

He came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You leaned back into him without a word.

“I was thinking about what I said. That time in the studio,” he said, voice low against your neck.

You turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “I thought love would be a distraction. That it’d take me away from everything I’ve worked for. But it didn’t.”

He paused, then added, “You didn’t.”

Your eyes softened.

“I never wanted you to choose,” you whispered. “I just wanted to be beside you while you chased what you loved.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “You are what I love.”

Your breath caught, heart swelling with a warmth that settled into your bones.

He turned you around then, gently, holding your face in both hands. His thumb brushed under your eye, tender.

“I love you” he said. “I love you so much, darling.”

There would still be late nights, and busy seasons, and moments when the world pulled him in different directions.

But no matter how far the music took him, he always came back to you.

And you—soft, patient, unwavering—you were always there. Waiting. Loving him not despite his passion, but because of it. Loving all of him. Even the parts he once feared no one could love properly.

In the silence between his verses, in the breath between your kisses, in the space where love meets purpose—you both found something rare.