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genre: royalty au, soulmate au, fantasy elements, friends to lovers, angst
word count: 20.7k
warnings: jealousy, copious amounts of yearning, complicated family dynamics, swearing, magic and prophecies and other fantasy elements, arranged marriage, mild depictions of injuries and blood, a disgustingly romantic kiss
soundtrack: echoes - enhypen / no way back - enhypen ft. So!YoON! / ivy - taylor swift / too much is never enough - florence & the machine / if only - raveena / die 4 u - dean
note: Here it is! The second and final part to echoes. If you haven't already, read the first part (which you can find on my masterlist). If you have, then buckle up and enjoyyyyy ♡
⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
In a kingdom marred by instability and unrest, a prophecy is made. Your bloodline - common, ordinary, unremarkable as it may be - will bring peace to the nation and ensure the long-lasting success of the royal family. As such, your elder sister has been in an arranged engagement with Jungwon, the crown prince, since before either of you could walk.
But despite the prophecy, people continue to suffer. The kingdom continues to decline. Cracks continue to form. And when time eventually reveals that you, not her, have a strange, supernatural connection to the prince, everything begins to change.
or, you’re in my head like echoes. I don’t know how to let go.
⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
Jaeyun is pacing when you finally pull Nabi’s reigns to a halt, the city unfolding beneath you as you finish your ascent up the familiar hill. This time, however, you have one overly curious crown prince in tow.
“___,” Jaeyun breathes as you dismount. “Finally. What happened? Why are you so la—”
The word dies on his lips as Jungwon follows in your wake, carried by Maeum. Even without his crown, he rides with the unmistakable posture of a royal. You do your best not to wince.
“Who the fuck,” Jaeyun’s lips flatten into a tight line, “is that?”
“Jaeyun, look at me,” you plead. “You have to promise me you’ll listen.”
But his eyes are already past your shoulders, watching Jungwon dismount with a practiced grace.
Immediately, he straightens his spine. Neither him nor Jungwon is particularly tall, but the way he stretches his neck makes you think he’s hoping for a sudden growth spurt.
“Listen,” you try again, urgent to say as much as you can before Jungwon has the chance to approach. “I promise I’ll explain everything later, but it’s okay. Really. It sounds absolutely inconceivable, I know, but this is—”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Jungwon interrupts, although his tone is rather tight. Stepping forward, he doesn’t stop until he’s in line with your shoulder, directly at your side. “I am Crown Prince Yang Jungwon, son of the king and heir to the throne. May I know with whom I am conversing?”
Jaeyun’s gaze slides to you, a mix of incredulous and shocked. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Jungwon,” you hiss, “I think Maeum might want a treat.” Pulling a carrot from your bag, you all but shove it into his hands. “Why don’t you go feed him and meet us back here in a minute.”
Jaeyun’s mouth is still hanging open. “You’re on a first name basis with the fucking prince?”
Much to your horror, Jungwon opens his mouth as if he wants to answer that question for you.
“Please,” you beg before he has the chance.
Letting his lips fall shut, he gives a minute nod. Looking only at you, he concedes. “Very well.”
Jaeyun watches him retreat, shock still widening his features. And then, once he’s made it a few paces away—
“What, and I really do mean this, on the graves of my ancestors, do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s a terribly long story,” you try to explain. “But I wasn’t going to be able to come tonight unless he came too. But listen, Jaeyun. He found out. About the resistance network and me sneaking out from the castle at night. He discovered all of it.”
“What?” You’ve never seen your friend so pale.
“But it’s okay.” Switching to a whisper, you add, “At least I think it is. He says he wants to be different, Jaeyun. He’s not his father. He wants to listen to his people. Learn the problems of the kingdom and make a true attempt at resolving them.”
“And you believe him? Are they putting something in the castle water supply? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about what you said. About how maybe sometimes we just have to believe in something to make it real. You said it yourself. Everyone’s desperate for a chance at a better future. A little bit of hope. What if this, what if he, is exactly that?”
“That’s… He’s the prince, ___.”
“Exactly. What if this didn’t all have to be some dark, treasonous attempt to change things? What if we could work with someone with real power instead of just of against them?” His expression is still marred with distrust, and you can’t blame him entirely. “Look, I don’t know how fully I trust him yet either, but I do believe that he wants to try making things better. I’ll pass you the notes I have. You can review them later, if you want. I haven’t shown him anything. But,” you add, “he is expecting some information. I was planning to just divulge something small, but if you’d prefer, we can feed him a lie. See what he does with it and reassess from there. Maybe just something small to st—”
You wouldn’t dare.
You freeze as if you’ve been submerged in water. It’s him again. Wincing, you adjust your neck, as if that can make the sensation of whispers against your ear disappear.
“What?” Jaeyun frowns. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” You shake your head. “I just—”
You’ll tell me the truth. The reports you have. All of them. I don’t care what your friend thinks.
Forcing a smile for Jaeyun, you direct a scathing return message.
Would you stop that?
What? Even in your head, he manages to sound smug. Should I have just walked over an interrupted instead? I’m happy to, if you prefer it so. Maeum’s done eating.
He doesn’t bother waiting for a response. Before you can send any thoughts his way, Jungwon is once again taking long strides until he’s at your side.
“Jungwon,” you breathe. If tension were tangible, you would be able to cut the space between them with a knife. “This is Jaeyun. Jaeyun, this is Jungwon.”
“Prince Jungwon,” he corrects.
That little shit. “I thought you weren’t interested in maintaining titles.”
“I’m not,” he agrees. “With you.”
You can practically see the vein throbbing in Jaeyun’s neck.
“That’s not how this works.” You shake your head. “In our resistance efforts, we’re all equal. Status doesn’t exist, much less matter. If you truly want to be part of this, you’ll have to follow our rules.”
“Very well,” he agrees. “Just Jungwon will suffice then.” A beat of silence passes. Jaeyun looks to you, a mix of helplessness and agitation. “Well,” Jungwon finally speaks. “Don’t let me stop you. What reports have you received this week?”
Sighing, you pull your notes from your pocket. “Let’s sit.”
Sat on the grass, the three of you form a haphazard circle. In the center of it, you place your first gathered tidbit.
“From the kitchens,” you explain. “J— I mean, the informant—”
“Who?” Jungwon’s mouth pulls down in thought. “Jay?”
You balk. “How did you—?”
You practically shouted it at me.
Even as you look at him, confirm with your own two eyes the respectable distance between your bodies, you can’t help the heat that rises on your cheeks at the uncanny sensation of him whispering directly into your ear.
It’s hard not to panic at the insinuation. You resolve to keep a tighter reign on your thoughts.
“Anyway,” you press on. “Jay told me that they’ve been using potatoes in almost every meal, despite the king’s insistence on variety. It could point to crop shortages, or at least a lack of diversification. Sunoo confirmed this.” You pull out another report. “He looked through the ledgers, and potato crops have replaced multiple vegetables, both in the castle’s private gardens and in the fields allocated for common food production.”
Jungwon frowns. “I hadn’t even noticed. We have been eating more potatoes than usual.”
“Revolutionary,” Jaeyun drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Life must be so hard for you.”
“But in a recent agricultural strategy meeting,” Jungwon presses on, ignoring him, “the senior groundskeeper advised this switch. He explained that the relatively lower cost and high nutritional profile of potatoes would mean a higher overall food production, especially in the common fields. It’s a good thing, no?”
“That is one possible explanation,” you agree. “Jaeyun, has there been any increase in food rations? Or potatoes specifically?”
Jaeyun shakes his head. “I wouldn’t call it an increase, exactly. Rations are just more limited now. The only vegetable most people can access is potatoes. The overall amount is comparable to before. If anything, it’s actually slightly lower, especially in the outer districts.”
“So the switch to potatoes may be an effort to bring more food to people,” Jungwon starts.
“But overall production is still likely decreasing,” you finish for him.
“Well, hopefully full production will be restored soon,” Jaeyun adds. “With your wedding approaching so soon.” He nods towards Jungwon.
The two of you freeze, equally statuesque where you sit in the grass. You’re not sure why it catches you so completely off guard. The man at your side is to be married in less than a month. And you’ve had an entire life to become accustomed to that knowledge. Still, something in you stirs at the reminder. Something not entirely pleasant.
Jungwon is the one to gain his composure again first.
Looking at you, he ventures, “You told him of the prophecy?” You can’t quite decipher if the narrowness of his gaze is scrutiny or disapproval. Either way, your answer remains.
“Of course,” you nod. “I trust him with my life.”
“That prophecy,” Jungwon begins, “was made by a seer on her deathbed, far before any of us were old enough to understand the gravity of it. Of course,” he reasons, and you see his training in diplomacy bleeding through the cracks, “I hope nothing more than for it to be true. I hope, with every fiber of my being, that this union will bring unshakeable peace and abundance to our kingdom. But,” he pauses, gathering his thoughts. You see a lone muscle in his jaw tick. “In a month’s time, I will wear a different crown on my head. Regardless of what magic may awaken, this kingdom and its people will be in my care. It is my duty to be informed and prepared, regardless of the manner in which this prophecy may or may not manifest.”
You admire it, the way he speaks with such conviction. He’s well-spoken, yes, but his words are rough around the edges. They lack the polish of rehearsal. You’re confident that when he speaks, it’s from the heart.
“That’s probably wise,” is all Jaeyun says, but you can tell he’s more satisfied with Jungwon’s response than he expected to be.
As the night continues to deepen, the three of you go through the rest of the reports in a similar fashion. At some points, you’re pleasantly surprised by Jungwon’s perspective. His attendance at royal strategy meetings offers an insight you and Jaeyun aren’t accustomed to.
By the end of it, Jaeyun’s eyes aren’t burning with quite as much hatred, his words aren’t dripping with quite as much distrust, as when you started.
Still, hours later, he catches your gaze. Dawn is on the horizon, and the town beneath you is just beginning to stir. Your unlikely trio is too exhausted to ponder any more hypotheses, to create any more plans for change.
When Jungwon stands to check on Maeum, Jaeyun’s gaze follows him. And then his eyes slide to you. “I still don’t like it.”
“I don’t expect you to.” You smile ruefully. Exhaustion weighs heavy on your bones. “Thanks for doing it anyway.”
“He’s…” His eyes fall to the space over your shoulder before returning to you. “He’s weird around you.”
“He’s just like that.” You roll your eyes. “You know royals. I think we ought to give him some grace. Growing up with those expectations on your shoulders must make anyone a little strange.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Jaeyun shakes his head. You don’t like the way he’s looking at you, as if he’s trying to dissect your very thoughts. “You’re weird around him, too.”
“I’m not weird,” you deny, even though the observation has something uncomfortable settling in your gut.
“Just…” He trails off, searching for the right words. “Just be careful, okay? And be safe. You’ll send a note next time you’re ready to meet?”
“Of course,” you agree. “Just like always.”
“You won’t keep me waiting too long, will you?”
You grin. Scoffing, you reach out to push against his shoulder lightly. “Do I ever?”
A bit of playfulness drains from his gaze. Jaeyun is far too serious for your liking when he responds, “Always.”
A glimmer of confusion flickers across your face. “I’ll do my best,” you promise, not entirely sure what else to say.
“Good,” he nods. “I’ll see you soon.”
Spinning on your heel to meet Jungwon near the horses, you hear your name once again.
Turning your head back to Jaeyun, you’re surprised to find him already closing the distance. He brings his hands up, lets one land on your shoulder as he spins you fully, pulling you close as he brings you into a hug that’s almost crushing.
“Be safe,” he whispers again, this time against your hair. You feel the way his mouth moves against the crown of your head.
Behind you, a throat clears. It’s loud in the predawn stillness.
Jaeyun lets you go. Slowly, as if he doesn’t want to. As if he isn’t quite ready to say goodbye.
But your brain is exhausted and your body is heavy. You’re too tired to ponder it now. Instead, you follow Jungwon, accepting the hand he offers in assistance as you mount Nabi.
Handing you the reins, his fingers brush yours. Linger for just a fraction of a second.
“Goodbye, ___.” Jaeyun calls one last time. You wave to him, a small smile on your lips.
“Jungwon,” he nods, with decidedly less warmth in his eyes.
“Jaeyun,” he returns, inclining his head in a small bow.
And then, just as the day begins to break over the horizon, the two of you begin your journey back to the castle, Jaeyun fading further and further until he’s nothing but a speck in the distance.
…..
The following weeks continue in a similar fashion.
Despite the strangeness of it all, the unlikely routine surrounding Jungwon, Jaeyun, and the other palace informants you keep in touch with begins to feel routine.
Your sister wiggles her way in, too. With the wedding drawing closer and closer, you’ve been asked to attend more dress fittings, more cake tastings, and more salon appointments that you can count with your fingers.
Oddly enough, the impending ceremony has yet to make its way into a conversation between you and Jungwon. Other than Jaeyun’s brief mention on the hilltop, both with your words and inside your minds, the subject has never been breached.
But as the days continue, your abilities sharpen. Until speaking to him through your mind becomes almost second nature. Even when the physical distance between you is significant.
Where are you now? He asks one afternoon, nearly startling you off of Nabi’s saddle.
Riding, you tell him. And you?
In a meeting. Defense strategy. Terribly boring, I fear.
Pay attention, you urge. You might learn something useful.
Or I might perish before the hour is done. Tell me, ___, have you ever heard of a person dying of boredom?
You roll your eyes. Don’t be dramatic.
Easy for you to say. You’re out riding. I’d kill to be out with Maeum right now.
I’m sure you would.
A moment of silence passes. And then, Where are you going, anyway? Just taking her out for some exercise?
No, you explain. I’m going to see Jaeyun.
RIGHT NOW? It’s difficult to describe, the sensation of someone shouting at you inside your own skull. You can practically feel the way he suddenly sits up straight in his seat. It’s daytime. Are you trying to get caught?
Relax, you urge. I’m allowed to leave the castle. I’m not a prisoner. And now that I have a horse of my own, I don’t have to steal someone else’s. Besides, a daytime errand will draw far less suspicion than a midnight one, no?
Still. It’s not safe.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. I’ll be fine.
With what? That tiny dagger you carry around? I doubt you even know how to use it.
Of course I know how to use it.
Really? He’s goading you now. How?
With the pointy end.
The silence is deafening.
You’re incredibly irritating.
Me? If you were face-to-face, your mouth would drop open in indignance. I’m not the one interrupting a perfectly lovely afternoon ride right now.
You should consider yourself lucky, he argues. And let me know when you’re back. I’ll have to add dagger lessons to my schedule today.
Yes, Your Highness.
We’re back to this again?
Well, you are ordering me around.
I’m trying to keep you alive.
A noble task.
I think you’ll find I’m very altruistic. Although…
What?
I do rather prefer it when you say my name.
Despite the fact that the conversation is in your brain, there’s nothing imaginary about the way your heart skips a beat.
Very well. Yes, Jungwon.
Much better.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was smiling.
Jungwon is waiting for you when you return to the castle. This time, you aren’t blindfolded for your descent into his secret chamber.
Although, you are rather distracted for other reasons. You’re not sure you’d be able to remember your way on your own.
The two of you fall into silence. It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but something in you is restless, begging to fill it.
“All is well with you?” You ask, turning down yet another impossibly maze-like corridor. Jungwon walks in step with you, following your stride, matching your pace.
“As well as it can be, I suppose.” But he sighs on the final syllable.
Not for the first time, you consider what daily life must be like for him. Strategy meetings, physical training, preparations for his upcoming coronation. For his wedding. It must be tiring in a way even you can’t quite imagine.
“Your coronation is less than a month away now, no?” Your words are quiet, not loud enough to echo in the halls. “You must be quite busy.”
“There’s much to prepare,” Jungwon agrees. “Although the majority of it does not fall under my scope of duty, actually.”
“That’s a relief.” Your words trail off into silence again. Only the sound of light, quick footsteps fills the space. And then, “And your… your wedding?”
Beside you, Jungwon’s steps nearly falter. He’s quick to correct the error. If you hadn’t been watching, you would have missed it.
“With that,” he finally says, voice quiet but sure, “I have even less involvement.”
He, much like you, does not seem interested in pressing the topic further.
Instead, after a few more paces, he informs, “We’re nearly there.”
You haven’t yet begun the descent, but you suppose that is the final step.
Desperate to bring back a bit of the lightheartedness, you ask, “You’re not going to blindfold me this time?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Jungwon smiles.
But your sight remains intact as you round one final corner, feet coming to stop in front of a nondescript door.
Jungwon steps forward, hand wrapping around the handle as he heaves it open. The lithe muscles of his back strain beneath his shirt with the effort.
In front of you is a set of stairs. Peering into the darkness, light swallows your line of sight before you can see where they end.
“I suppose it’s a bit ironic to ask if you’re afraid of the dark.”
All you offer is a knowing smile. You might be accustomed to the dark, and yet, your heart is pounding. “After you,” you nod.
The downward climb doesn’t feel quite so long the second time. Eyes forward, you can barely make out Jungwon’s shadowy silhouette in front of you. Instead, you focus on keeping your footsteps measured, even. The last thing you need is to go tumbling down these stairs.
After a matter of minutes, the two of you finally reach the bottom.
Jungwon strikes a flint and uses it to ignite the first torch.
You watch, in nearly as much awe as the first time, as the flame sets off a chain reaction, one torch giving light to the next. Before the next minute is done, the room is bathed in a warm glow once again.
Glancing around, you can’t help but offer a compliment. “You have excellent taste in secret chambers.”
“It’s not much,” is all he says. But the slight flush dusted across his cheekbones disagrees. After a moment, he clears his throat, then adds, “So, about that dagger.”
“I told you,” you remind, “I already know how to use it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t find ‘with the pointy end’ satisfactory evidence of that statement.”
“Still,” you protest, “I don’t n—”
Are we going to argue all evening or will you just allow me this one peace of mind?
He doesn’t ask you out loud. And despite the growing familiarity of your connection, you can’t help but gasp at the sudden sensation of his words against your ear.
“Very well,” you tell him, not daring to use your mind.
Bending down, you begin to lift the hem of your skirt to retrieve the weapon strapped to your light.
Across from you, the crown prince of the kingdom coughs. Loudly.
When you look up to ensure he’s okay, you find his gaze already pointedly averted. That same pink flush is rising high on his cheekbones, this time more pronounced.
Undeterred, you free the blade from the holster at your thigh, letting your skirts fall back into place.
“So,” you begin, “other than the pointy end, what should I be aware of?”
Jungwon’s gaze is still lost somewhere on the tapestries on the opposite side of the room from you. You watch as he takes a long, shaky breath before turning back to face you.
With a voice that only trembles slightly, he says, “Show me.”
Your brow furrows in confusion. He sighs. Adds, “Show me how you would hold your dagger, if approached by an enemy.”
Frowning, you begin to sink into a stance that feels natural. Knees bent, you try to keep your weight evenly distributed between both legs. Extend the dagger outwards, it does feel more foreign in your hand than you’d like to admit.
Jungwon turns his eyes to the ceiling, expression marked with exasperation. “Gods have mercy on us all,” he mutters beneath his breath. “The pointy end.”
Turning back to you, he assesses you once again. “That’s a good way to get disarmed.”
Despite yourself, you bristle at the insult. “Don’t be dramat—”
In one silent movement, he’s lunging towards you, knocking the dagger from your outstretched hand. It clatters to the carpeted floor with a muted thud.
Mouth open in surprise, you bend down to reach for it. Jungwon beats you to it. Before you can retrieve your weapon, he kicks it, just outside your reach.
Then, with a flourish you’re positive is more for show than function, Jungwon stomps on the handle, sending the blade spinning upwards into the air and landing perfectly between his fingers.
For a moment, shock renders you immobile. It all happened so fast, and your mind spins to keep up. Finally, you cross your arms over your chest.
“That’s hardly fair. I doubt most of my foes will have spent years training in royal… theatrical dagger flipping.” You wave him off dismissively.
“Don’t underestimate them.” Jungwon shakes his head. “There has been nearly constant small-scale warfare along every one of our borders for as long as anyone can remember. You’d be surprised what a man learns to do with a blade when he has things to protect.” He pauses for a moment, considering. “Although you’re not entirely wrong. I am highly competent in most forms of combat.”
“And exceedingly humble about it, too,” you mumble lowly.
Ignoring you, Jungwon presses forward. “For you, we’ll focus on the basics. Your stance is too low. Try not to bend your knees so much.”
Sinking back into your stance, you make an effort to keep your legs straighter.
“Good,” Jungwon praises, “but you’re still too tense. A dagger can only be used in very close combat. You need to be agile, light on your feet. Ready to move at a moment's notice. Before your opponent can predict it.”
Exhaling slowly, you try to release tension from your lower body.
You must be at least somewhat successful, because the only feedback Jungwon offers is a small nod of approval.
“And your arms,” Jungwon continues. “You’re holding them out too far. Your movements have to be quick, precise. You have no control when your limbs are extended. Keep them close to your body and only reach at the final moment of your attack.”
Nodding, you draw your arms up again, this time keeping them close to your chest.
“Right,” Jungwon nods. “Like that.” Stepping closer to you, he doesn’t stop until he stands directly before you, close enough to touch. Taking the dagger, he places it back into your hand, wrapping your fingers around the handle.
He’s still in your space. If he were to learn just a few inches closer, it would be just like it is when he speaks in your mind. His words ghosting along the shell of your ear.
“Out there,” he says, “your most likely enemy will be a man. Brute force and strength are on their side. You have to be quick,” he advises. “And you have to use this.” Reaching up, he taps the side of your temple with his fingertip. “You have to be smarter than them. Faster, on your feet and in your mind. Keep your core braced. Keep your chest up and your chin down. Aim for the weak points on the body, and keep yours protected.”
He’s so close. You can see the way his eyelashes flutter as he blinks. His voice grows more fervent as his instructions continue. “If circumstances allow, you run. All the way back here.” He inhales, a shadow crossing his features. “And if they don’t, you protect yourself at all costs. Even if it means doing the unthinkable. And with whatever is left in your mind, you scream for me. Do you understand?”
Your breath is shallow in your chest. “You act as though I’ve been getting in dagger fights daily. I’ve never even—”
“Do you understand?” He repeats, cutting you off.
“Yes,” you breathe, taken aback by the urgency in his tone. “I understand.”
“Good.” The lesson is over, the agreement is done, but he doesn’t back away.
It’s all a bit preposterous, this strange version of reality your life has become. You wonder what Jaeyun would say, if you told him you were receiving private dagger lessons from the crown prince himself. You wonder what Mina would say—
Mina.
It’s as if you’ve been doused in a bucket of water from the lake in the dead of wintertime.
You’re not doing anything… untoward, but Jungwon’s proximity is suddenly a difficult thing to miss. While she prepares for a wedding, you meet her fiancee in secret chambers. Letting him crowd your space as he insists on keeping you safe.
It’s necessary, you tell yourself. Not treasonous in the slightest. And yet. Something unpleasant simmers in your gut at the thought of your sister ever becoming privy to any of it.
Disentangling yourself from the prince, you step backwards until reasonable space separates the two of you once again.
“It’s getting late,” you say, even though you have no concept of time this far from the sunlight. “We should return.”
“Indeed,” Jungwon nods. “I will escort you back to your chambers.”
“That won’t be necessary,” you assure. “Besides, as you said, it’s probably best that the two of us are not seen together.”
Jungwon just shakes his head softly. “I know this castle more intimately than you could imagine. We will not be seen.”
Despite the nature of your relationship, something in you still hesitates to go against his wishes. And deeper yet, something in you mourns the thought of parting ways.
“Very well,” you nod.
True to his word, the path Jungwon leads is winding in its secrecy. You pass forgotten hallways, echoing chambers, an atrium filled with dust reflected by the starlight above.
After long minutes, you tell him, “I never knew any of this existed.”
“It’s by design,” he nods. “These passageways are intentionally difficult to navigate. Full of dead ends and false doors and hidden detours. You can reach nearly every corner of the castle this way.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen. “Where are we now?”
“Just behind the throne room, actually. It’s empty now, of course, but—”
Suddenly, you hear the sound of voices, muffled but near. Jungwon’s words die on his tongue.
The two of you turn towards one another, equal expressions of confusion on your faces. Jungwon motions you silently forward a few more steps.
Pressing your ear to the wall, the voices are still still difficult to make out, although you do catch some fractured fragments.
“...Proceeding as normally,” you hear one voice say, “considerations to be made in regards to the dowry…”
You frown. A dowry? The only upcoming wedding of royal concern is your sister’s, and it has long been accepted that her hand comes with no dowry.
“Avoiding retaliation,” the voice continues, “...ensuring the union can be blessed without formal annulment.”
Your frown deepens. Turning to look at Jungwon, you wonder if he can make sense of any of this.
“And the prince?” you hear a voice ask.
The response is too muffled to catch.
“...New trade routes, and a strong, unified ally,” is the last thing you manage to make out, until the voices fade, further and further. Then, they’re gone entirely.
You part your lips to speak. Jungwon just shakes his head, a deep line etched between his eyebrows. Wordlessly, he begins to move forward again. You follow silently.
A handful of moments later, the two of you reach a dark alcove. Only then does Jungwon stop, turning to face you.
“What was that?” you ask, still not daring to speak louder than a whisper.
“I don’t know.” Jungwon shakes his head. “But one of those voices belonged to my father. The other, I cannot be sure.”
His father. The king.
“Why was your father speaking of marriage dowries?” you wonder, trying not to let unease settle too heavily. Maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of it. “And annulments?
But Jungwon’s expression is no reassurance. “I have no idea.”
Despite yourself, a seedling of distrust begins to sprout at the edge of your mind. Regardless of what claims he makes about trying to rule the kingdom with a gentler hand, the man in front of you is the prince. There are far more things that would motivate him to remain loyal to his father than to you.
“Truly?” you ask. “None at all?”
Jungwon bristles, as if he can sense your thoughts. “Yes, truly. As I told you before, I have little to do with this marriage besides finding my place at the end of the aisle.”
“Okay,” you placate him. “Okay. I just don’t understand the purpose of such discussions. Considering the involvement of my sister, I’m sure you can understand my unease.”
Jungwon sighs, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “I do understand. But I swear to you, on this matter, I truly know nothing.”
“Well then,” your eyes meet his, “I suppose we’ll just have to find someone who does.”
Your search begins fruitlessly.
It starts with Jay, who has heard nothing. And in an unfortunate stroke of bad luck, he’s been tasked by the king himself with locating a rare fruit that hasn’t grown locally for nearly a century. Although Jay makes time to talk to you, his answers are short and his time is limited as he tells you he cannot be late for his meeting with the royal importer.
Sunoo is equally clueless. You know crops have little to do with marriages, and you leave the fields empty handed and thoroughly disappointed.
Even Riki, who has the most direct involvement with the upcoming wedding, has no information for you. Dressmaking is proceeding normally, and no strange royal orders have reached his ears.
When he offers to let you try on your gown, you wave him off. “Later.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. Even more than I thought it would be. I think you’re going to love it.”
But you’re already halfway out the door.
Walking through the gardens as fast as your legs will carry you, you make a beeline for the stables. The sun is just beginning to dip on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the earth.
Were your head less jumbled, perhaps you could enjoy it more.
Frustrated to no end at all of the dead ends, you figure maybe a ride with Nabi will help to clear your thoughts. But when you finally reach the stable, you’re not the only one paying a visit to the horses.
This time, it is no crown prince that disturbs your peace.
“Sunghoon,” you startle, even though you’re the one that snuck up on him.
“___,” he turns to greet you. “It’s been a while. How is Nabi doing for you?”
“She’s perfect,” you nod. “I couldn’t have selected a better horse myself.”
“The prince does have excellent taste,” he agrees. His words surprise you. You suppose Jungwon did say he asked Sunghoon to look after Nabi in the daytime, but something about the stable hand knowing the crown prince all but gifted you a horse has you shifting your weight uncomfortably.
“So does her owner,” you nod to the horse currently in Sunghoon’s care. With light, fur that shines even in dying light, she truly is a sight to see. With short golden fur, she’s not as stark white as Maeum, but she’s just as striking within her own right.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she,” Sunghoon agrees. “Princesses tend to be picky.”
“Princesses?” you echo. Jungwon has no siblings, no sisters to speak of. And he is not yet married. Unless you’ve missed something terribly important, the kingdom has no princess.
Sunghoon nods. “The princess from the northern kingdom. Her horse has been sent here to be cared for. To acclimate.”
“Acclimate?” At this point, you’re little more than a parrot. But why would the princess of the northern kingdom send her horse here to acclimate? Even if she were part of some political envoy or trade negotiation, it wouldn't make sense to send a horse here for such a short visit.
Sunghoon only shrugs. “I only know what I’ve been told. I’ve been asked to take good care of this horse until future notice.”
“Right,” you nod, gears in your mind beginning to spin. “It’s alright if I take Nabi out?”
“Of course,” he concedes. “She’s all yours.”
You wait until the castle is far enough away for comfort. No stray patrols or royal guards to be seen. And then you send a message.
Meet me at the edge of the forest outside the eastern gate. As soon as you can.
It takes less than a heartbeat for his response to come to you.
I’m on my way.
…..
Jaeyun is already waiting for you by the time you reach the hilltop. Again, the greeting he gives you is far warmer than the one he offers the prince, but your mind is far too jumbled to notice.
A handful of moments later, the three of you are sitting, facing each other in a loosely formed circle. And then you tell them what you know. All of it.
You tell Jaeyun what you and Jungwon heard, that night in the secret alcove. The voice of the king, discussing dowries and allies.
You tell them both about what you just heard from Sunghoon - the princess of the northern kingdom’s horse that has been placed in his care. To acclimate.
At that, the crease between Jungwon’s eyebrows becomes so deep you have to fight the urge to smooth it away with your fingertips.
“Did you visit the kitchens?” he asks.
“Yes,” you nod. “But Jay didn’t have much to tell me. He was busy actually. Something about a rare fruit.”
Jaeyun nods, waving it off as dismissively as you had. But Jungwon’s frown remains.
“What fruit?”
“Hm?” You’re not sure why you’re wasting time on this, when other matters feel far more pressing. “I don’t remember. Something exotic, I think. He said he’d have to talk with the royal importer.”
Jungwon won’t let it go. “Was it moonberry?”
“Yeah,” you nod slowly. “That does sound right, actually. Why? Do you know it?”
Jungwon nods, jaw tight. “It used to grow in the northern kingdom in abundance. Until they destroyed nearly all of their natural flora and fauna nearly three decades ago. Now, it’s considered a rare delicacy. It’s… it’s common, in marriage gifts for noble families.”
“Oh…” you trail off, trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling beginning to form in the pit of your stomach. “That could be fine, then. Maybe they’re just preparing a gift. For Mina.”
Jungwon shakes his head. “It is not a tradition in our kingdom.” He avoids your gaze when he adds, “Only in the northern kingdom.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Your hands flip in exasperation. Turning to Jungwon, you add, “Unless you have some secret brother none of us know about, the only royal marriage happening anytime soon is between you and my sister. There’s no reason for the king to be thinking of dowries or preparing royal marriage gifts—”
Jaeyun is the one to interrupt. “Unless they’re not planning for the marriage to last.”
“What do you mean?” Your eyes widen, voice thinning. “Taking more than one wife is forbidden. And royal marriages cannot be annulled once the sacred oaths are taken.”
Jaeyun’s gaze holds no joy. But it does offer a fraction of understanding. “Unless…”
Jungwon’s gaze snaps to his, a flicker of shock crossing his features. Between them, something passes. A realization still outside of your grasp.
“Unless what?” you ask.
Jaeyun remains silent, something pained in his eyes when he turns to look at you.
The desperation in his gaze only makes you panic further. “Unless what?” you repeat.
“Unless my wife is dead,” Jungwon finally says, eyes trained directly on you. “There is no violation of the sacred oaths,” pausing for a moment, he repeats, “if my wife is dead.”
For a moment, the space around you is still. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t.
Mina was discovered; she was brought to the castle to be the bride of the future king. To fulfill the prophecy the king worked so hard to obtain.
She’s a promise, a beacon of peace and prosperity. Of course the king would have every reason to protect her, to ensure that any enemies never have the chance to touch so much as a hair on her head.
So why on earth would the king feel the need to make alternative arrangements? To prepare for her death? There might be instability among the people, yes, but there has been no real insurrection. It doesn’t make sense.
You cannot think of anyone in the kingdom who would want her dead, and even less of someone who would have the ability to do so.
Mina is protected by the castle, by the crown.
No one would be able to end her life except for—
No. You don’t say it out loud, but Jungwon’s eyes turn to you all the same.
“They’re going to kill her.” It’s hardly a whisper, but in the silence of the hilltop, it feels like you’re screaming. Realizations are churning through your mind, dots connecting in a way that makes you sick. “The king never had full faith in the prophecy. He’s been planning this. But he couldn’t just abandon the marriage fully, just in case the seer was right. He wants to see this marriage through but it isn’t enough for him.”
Your voice mounts in desperation, every sickening realization like a blade against your heart. “He still wants more. More resources. More power. Peace and prosperity were never enough. A common girl with no name and no gold was never going to be allowed to rule alongside his only son.”
You don’t know much of the northern kingdom. Neither friend nor foe, your neighbors have only limited interactions with you, primarily in the form of trade.
Even that is kept quite discreet, as their… methods used in ruling are far from favorable. Torture, forced servitude, food rations that are become even more scarce than your own.
The northern kingdom has funneled its resources into only two things over the last handful of decades: the royals’ lavish lifestyles and its increasingly large military.
They’ve accumulated massive amounts of wealth and power through terrible means. The thought of Jungwon’s father idolizing their methods, of killing your sister for a chance to superimpose them here, is enough to have your stomach rolling with nausea.
“Or maybe there’s something we’re missing,” Jaeyun suggests. “This prophecy… so much seems to be riding on it? I know the gist, but what does it say exactly?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, helpless. “I’ve never heard the original form. I was only told that we were brought to the castle to ensure the prosperity of the kingdom. That a marriage between Mina and the prince would instill great favor upon his reign and all that come after.”
“That is what I know as well,” Jungwon agrees. “I have also never heard the prophecy verbatim.”
“Is it possible then,” Jaeyun asks, “that this could be part of it?”
You raise your eyebrows. “You believe a seer instructed the king to marry my sister and then murder her?”
“I don’t know.” Jaeyun shakes his head. “But we need to hear the original prophecy, not just what the two of you have been told.”
“And how should we go about that?” Your anger is misdirected, but you can hardly contain it now. It stings like a sharp blade. “What would you have us do? Roll the seer out of her grave and ask her ourselves?”
“That might not be necessary.” At your side, it’s the first time Jungwon has spoken in minutes. Despite the revelations of the night, his expression betrays little. All you see is a set determination as his lips draw into a thin, straight line. “The castle keeps archives of everything related to the royal family. Medical histories, anomalies, anything deemed worth noting. It’s possible an original transcription of the prophecy is housed in the archives as well.”
“The palace archives?” you echo. “Your wedding is in five days. How could we possibly begin to locate—”
“Heeseung can help,” Jungwon interrupts. Heeseung. You’ve nearly forgotten. Your escort to the prince’s chambers, all those weeks ago. Now, you remember. Jungwon had mentioned it, too. When he’s not running covert errands for the prince, he’s a scribe. In the royal archives. “He spends most of his time there. He’s well acquainted with the system of organization.”
“Okay, then.” Jaeyun nods. “We’ll start there.”
…..
It takes Heeseung two days to locate the prophecy in the archives. Two days of which you spend every waking moment so restless you think you may actually implode.
You’re summoned for a dress fitting with Mina. You hardly feel the fabric against your skin, can barely force a stilted smile when Riki asks if you like it. Can hardly even brush him off when he ventures further to ask if everything is alright.
And Mina. Gods, you can’t even look at your older sister. You’re certain she’s a vision of radiance. How could she not be, with so much careful attention on her? When she’s been prepared her entire life for this very moment?
But no matter how hard you force yourself to smile, all you can see when you look at that pristine, sparking, white dress is red.
Ruby red crimson that starts at her stomach and radiates outwards like some kind of sickening bloom. Staining the front of her dress, dripping down to her satin shoes. Her expression, forever frozen in a picture of youth.
Of muted horror. Because even in her last moments, she’s expected to be a lady.
The vision follows you, your sister, mutilated in her wedding gown, as you trace the familiar path back to your bedroom. Time feels like a thing suspended. Every ticking second is torture.
Lost in the violent visions of your head, you barely even remember arriving back at your room, closing the door firmly behind you. Sliding the lock into place.
It’s getting late now. The end of another day.
Where is Heeseung? Where is Jungwon? You’ve tried calling for him, but your mind feels like an endless spiral. Without something to tether you to reality, your control over your connection slips. Until it fades almost entirely.
You said it yourself: you’re no prisoner. But trapped in your bedroom, haunted by the confines of your own mind, it certainly is beginning to feel that way.
You’re not nearly ready to face another sleepless night, not prepared to toss and turn in anxious agony once again, but you’ve resigned yourself to it.
Maybe your sleep tonight, when it eventually finds you in the darkest hours of the night, will be dreamless. Maybe it will spare you some of your waking torture.
In the end, you never find out.
Long before sleep finds you, the knock comes to your door.
Sharp, rapt, and light, it’s the opposite of the pounding that summoned you weeks ago. Still, it puts the last of your nerves on edge, has even your bones trembling beneath your skin.
With shaking hands, you stand, drawing your robe tighter around your body. Securing it with a flimsy knot.
For a moment, you pause, just on the inside of your door. You take a deep breath in. Force it back out. You have to face this. You know you do. But the anxiety clawing at your throat is difficult to ignore.
It’s me. You hear, right against the shell of your ear. It’s okay.
Is it? You wonder. Some of the fear dissipates, but it’s replaced with a certain kind of sadness, a deep sort of longing. You don’t know how to put into words the way you suddenly feel like crying.
Still, you swallow your tears, hoping the last of your frayed nerves will go down with them. Sliding the lock to the side, you open your door. Slowly, as if this can be delayed any longer.
Jungwon, too, seems hesitant. Teetering at the edge of your doorstep, his eyes make quick work of scanning you head to toe.
In the deepest corners of your mind, you’re aware of the impropriety. Despite the fact he’s seen you in this state before, it’s hardly appropriate to be wearing nothing but nightclothes and a robe, hair loose around your face.
Jungwon, too, has foregone his formal clothing. Similar to the night in the stables, he’s dressed in nondescript, dark clothes. His head bears no crown. In his left hand, he holds a scroll.
This time, it feels different. Heeseung isn’t here to serve as a buffer. It’s just you and the prince. Clothing aside, it’s hardly appropriate for him to be in your bedroom.
He seems to sense it as well. “May I…” He clears his throat, voice suddenly scraped raw. “May I come in?”
Wordlessly, you open the door wider. You take a step back, a silent invitation for him to follow.
Closing the door behind him, it’s just the two of you. Moonlight streams in through the window. Along with the single candle on your bedside table, it’s the only light in the room.
Jungwon breaks the silence. “Heeseung found it,” he tells you, sparing theatrics as he holds up the scroll in his hand. “A transcription. Taken on the date the prophecy was foretold. Written by a royal scribe at the side of the seer’s deathbed.”
You can hardly get the words out, voice a shadow of a whisper. “What does it say?”
“I don’t know.” Jungwon matches your eye, the scroll still suspended between you. “I waited for you to read it.”
“Very well,” you nod.
Despite the way your heart hammers in your chest, you know you can’t delay any longer.
Now it is the prince who hesitates. “Perhaps…” he starts. “Perhaps we should sit down.”
Looking around your room, embarrassment enters your swirl of feelings. Your room is comfortable, yes, but it was not designed to be luxurious. You were not the sister afforded extra amenities. You have no table. No chairs.
Your voice is small. “I’m afraid the bed is the only place where we could.”
Jungwon’s breath is shallow. Still he nods, “It will do.”
Sitting at your side at the foot of your bed, Jungwon turns to you, eyes earnest. “This doesn’t…” He struggles for a moment, searching for words. “This doesn’t change anything. I still mean every word I’ve ever told you. I have resolved to be a good king, to make things better. No matter what this scroll contains, that remains my sole intention.” He pauses, looking at you. “And if some part of this implies any sort of harm towards you or your sister, I vow to do everything in my power to stop it.”
Moonlight dances over his resolve. All you can manage is a nod.
You tell him, afraid your voice may fail you if you delay too long, “Unfold it.”
Slowly, the scroll unravels. Until he must hold his hands in front of his body, one across from his chest, the other parallel to his navel.
In the faint light, the words are just decipherable. With a voice that trembles only slightly, he reads aloud in the silence of your bedroom,
“A kingdom torn is a kingdom lost.
Even royal blood is ruined by frost.
But salvation will come through an unlikely pair.
A royal prince and a blacksmith's heir.
She will bear no wealth, no gold, no fame.
But the kingdom will prosper all the same.
You'll find her where the river flows,
With braid full of flowers, and a heart that knows
The name by which you call your heir.
Despite never hearing it,
She’ll whisper it there.”
For a moment, neither of you says anything. Jungwon tugs at the bottom of the scroll, as if he expects it to unfold further. “That’s…” Jungwon frowns, “more vague than I hoped. But this doesn’t answer our questions. At least we now know there is no mention of anything… deadly.”
There’s not. It should provide a bit of relief. But your heart is dropping in your stomach for an entirely different reason.
Like Jungwon said, the prophecy is vague. It sounds more like a child’s nursery rhyme than a foretold fate. So much so that you can hardly believe the king would hinge the livelihood of an entire kingdom on its fulfillment.
And he was right, you think. All those years ago. Even with nothing but rhymes to work with, he found who he was looking for.
The prophecy matches Mina. A blacksmith’s heir. No wealth, no gold, no fame. The two of you had been playing, next to the bank of a river. And you had spent the afternoon finding the most beautiful flowers to weave into the identical braids your mother had given you that very morning.
But the last stanza. It echoes now, inside your mind. Like a death march on loop.
With braid full of flowers, and a heart that knows
The name by which you call your heir.
Despite never hearing it,
She’ll whisper it there.
The day was so long ago. The details are blurred, hazy around the edges. But there are things you know for certain. Call it memory or intuition or the same strange magic that allows you to speak with the prince inside your mind, you’re sure of it.
When the man, the king, approached the two of you, you were terrified. Barefoot in the grass, you were shaking. One year older, Mina was always the braver one between the two of you.
Even with the river roaring behind you, the king’s voice boomed like thunder. It made you flinch, tucking yourself even further into your sister’s shadow.
He had asked only one question. “What is my son’s name?”
For a moment, the two of you were silent. His request was strange, preposterous. You didn’t know what this man’s name was, much less that of his son. All you knew was that he dressed funny. Full of gold and furs and a strange looking hat.
Crown, you think your mother had told you once.
And as was tradition in your kingdom, the prince’s name had not yet been revealed to the public. Jungwon’s name would remain a mystery until his fifth birthday. Even if you had known this man to be the king, neither of you would have any way to name his son.
He repeated his question, even louder this time. It frightened you so much you thought you might die. In front of you, even Mina began to tremble.
“I don’t know,” you wanted to shout, desperate to do anything to make the man go away, leave you alone. You were too far from your parents. Even if you screamed, they would never hear you.
It started with a tickle, a strange sensation against the back of your mind. You craned your neck to the side, as if you could escape your own thoughts if you stretched just right. Your hand flew to the back of your head, as if that strange feeling would have some sort of physical manifestation.
It didn’t. But it grew stronger. Until sensation became sound. And sound became a word.
Jungwon.
The king repeated his question a third time, and you swear you saw even the trees tremble.
“Jungwon,” you whispered in Mina’s ear.
“What?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at you.
“Jungwon,” you repeated. You didn’t know where it came from and were even less sure of what to do with it. But you knew, somewhere deep down, that it would make his shouting stop.
Mina’s eyes were clouded with confusion, but she still nodded at you. Still gathered the last of her bravery and turned back to the king, shoulders straight in an effort at bravado.
“Jungwon,” she shouted, loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the river.
The king’s draw dropped open in surprise. And then he smiled.
It was done.
Now, sixteen years later, back in the sanctity of your bedroom, a different mantra whispers through your mind.
It was me.
It plays like a sickening loop, only grows louder the more you try to stop it. You have to get a reign on your thoughts. He can’t know.
You can’t tell him. You can’t say it. You can’t.
But Jungwon, much to your horror, turns to you and, breaking the silence, asks, “What?”
You shake your head. You feel three years old again, shaking in fear at the side of a river. “I… I didn’t say anything.”
But it’s already too late. He heard you, loud and clear. As if you had leaned in and whispered it, lips pressed against his temples, words ghosting over his skin.
“It’s not her,” he shakes his head, eyes darting over the scroll. Rolling it back into place, he sets it aside. “It was never her.” There’s something akin to wonder in his gaze when he turns to look at you. “It’s you.”
And then, like a stack of dominoes falling one by one, he’s clicking pieces of a magical puzzle into place with certainty. “That’s why we can hear one another in our minds. Why I feel this… this sort of magnetism whenever you’re near—“
He meets your eye, pleading. You can practically see the gears in his mind turning. You can feel the way they whir a million miles a minute. “It’s why the kingdom still suffers. The prophecy wasn’t being followed. It still is not being fulfilled. Of course.” He’s hardly pausing to breathe. “This will change everything—”
But you cannot listen to him any longer, can’t let him continue to draw his own errant conclusions. Before his realizations can continue to tumble out, you interrupt, “Mina can never know.” Your voice, quiet and steady, cuts through your bedroom like a knife.
At your side, Jungwon goes suddenly still. His brow furrows, confused. “Of course, you may be the first one to speak to her if you wish, but—”
You shake your head, expression resolute. You repeat, “She cannot know, Jungwon. Not from my mouth or yours or anyone else’s.”
For a moment, Jungwon’s lips do nothing but open. Close again. As if there are things he would like to say but can’t quite remember how to form words. “But you— but the prophecy—“
You force your voice into something cold, detached. “The wedding is in three days.” You shake your head. “A few moments ago you said this would change nothing. That you were willing to overlook such fickle magic. You said it yourself, it’s your new crown and title that will give you the power to make real change for your people, not the words of a dead seer.”
“This was before…” Jungwon trails off. It’s strange, you note offhandedly, just how favored he truly seems to be. With moonlight streaming in through your window and confusion overtaking his features, he still manages that effervescent sort of beauty. It feels too potent, too overwhelming, here on the foot of your bed, among the threadbare decorations of your room. “I was making adjustments based on what I knew then. But this… this changes things.”
Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing. You pray you’re misunderstanding. “I don’t see how.”
Sensing your unease, Jungwon ventures lightly, “Perhaps if the prophecy were to be followed truly, then—”
“Then what?” You shrug helplessly. “Then I can become a prop, a doll for the castle? Then my sister can despise me for all eternity? Then I can lose my connections and ability to help the resistance as I spend my days at your side, nothing but a false figurehead? Then your father can kill me too?”
“That won’t happen,” Jungwon shakes his head. “This will change things. People won’t suffer anymore.”
His naivety frustrates you to no end. Where has your level-headed prince gone? “It will change nothing! Your father has decided that peace and prosperity aren’t enough. Don’t you see, Jungwon? He wants power. Money. It doesn’t matter which one of us walks down the aisle toward you. I doubt he can even tell my sister and I apart. Whichever one of us it is, he’s going to murder, just as soon as he thinks the prophecy has been sealed into place. In fact, maybe he’ll just kill us both. We both know I’m just dead weight without her anyways.”
“Don’t say that.” His brow dips in frustration. “This isn’t… You’re not dead weight.”
“Whatever I am, I won’t be a prop for royals to use and discard as they see fit.” You shake your head, resolve tightening. Even if you can’t quite look him in the eye as you say it. “I won’t forever ruin the life of my only living family.”
Jungwon is begging for a bit of your understanding. Trying to chip away at an unbreakable wall. “Even if it means saving a kingdom? Preventing unnecessary violence and death?”
“I am not the one tasked with ruling the kingdom,” you remind him.
“No,” he agrees, “but you are one half of the prophecy designed to save it.”
It’s as if he forgot his earlier words. You remind him, “A prophecy you decided to place no faith in until mere moments ago.”
Jungwon suddenly rises from the edge of your bed. Standing, he turns to face you, forcing your gaze to his. “And even then I was willing to sacrifice everything on the feeble hope that it could be true!” His eyes are wide, chest heaving. “I wouldn’t do you the dishonor of complaining about my life, not when my circumstances are more favorable than most men could dream. But if you think that for even one moment, I rejoiced in the idea of being forever wed to a woman for which I hold no affection, you are sorely mistaken.”
In the dim light of your bedroom, it’s a confession that feels dangerous.
As his words heat, you force yours into ice. Your tone is considerably cooler when you reply, “I’m terribly sorry for your misfortune. The duty of marrying someone so far beneath your status is truly an unthinkable task—”
“Her status has nothing to do with it—”
“I didn’t pin you to be such a bleeding romantic,” you finish, sarcasm laced through every syllable.
The tension, the fight, drains from his shoulders. He’s not arguing now. He’s begging. And he’s looking deep into your eyes when he asks, helplessly, “How could I not be, when I’ve met someone who speaks to me inside my own head?”
For a moment, your bedroom is silent. Save for the sound of your breaths, heavy, heaving, mingling with his. You won’t ask him to clarify. You know what he means. You’d be a fool not to feel it too.
The first time you spoke, hidden beneath the castle. The orchids. The night in the stables when he gifted you a horse of your very own. Your silent arguments in front of Jaeyun. Checking in on one another no matter what distance kept you apart. Every moment in between.
This bond, this connection, is more than just functional. It’s tied you to him in ways you can’t explain, with feelings you’re afraid to admit.
It’s the most damning piece of evidence that the seer, all those years ago, was still lucid in her prophesizing.
It’s why you can’t look at him when you say, “I think it’s best if you take your leave.”
“___,” he says your name. Soft, quiet, pleading.
“Please,” you beg, shaking your head. You still won’t match his eye. “Please, just go.”
With your eyes trained on his shoes, you watch as they remain motionless for moments longer. “Very well,” he finally says. You wish you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the pain etched into his voice. “Call upon me, when you’re ready.”
He doesn’t tell you where, how to find him. You already know. All you have to do is think it, and he’ll be at your side.
But your lips and your mind remain equally guarded, motionless, as you watch his footsteps turn from you. Then disappear.
The door shuts behind him with a resounding click.
And you let the single, heavy tear fall onto the fabric of your robe.
…..
No matter how deeply sorrow burrows itself into your heart, the day of your sister’s wedding somersaults forward with little grace until it’s in an undeniable heap at your feet.
It’s both agony and sheer relief. With every passing second, you find yourself more and more tempted to do something. Anything. Some action that will make the restlessness beneath your skin disappear. Something that will have your mind cease its war with your heart.
It would be so easy to tug at that familiar connection. To send a message to Jungwon with your mind. But what would you tell him?
Please don’t marry her. It’s a selfish, vile wish. One with ugly green horns and a steadiness that remains even when you forget the prophecy.
Fulfill the prophecy. Marry me instead. It’s even worse. You can frame your desires as altruism, but you know yourself better than that. The guilt, the shame, regardless of the outcome would eat at you forever.
I’m sorry. For what exactly, you're not sure. But you hate the expression that was on his face when he left you three nights ago. Hate the way that it’s still burned into your mind, etched across your vision every time you close your eyes.
“Call upon me,” he’d told you, “when you’re ready.”
But now, sitting in your sister’s dressing room, watching her prepare for the ceremony that will bind her to Jungwon forever, you doubt you ever will be.
You don’t think you can stomach it, the polite distance expected between a prince and the sister of his bride. You don’t think you can ever look at him again and feel anything resembling detachment.
So instead, you forced a smile this morning when you dragged yourself out of bed. It was another sleepless night, full of dreams that felt more like mirages than rest.
You made your way to her dressing room at the time you were summoned, dressed in the gown Riki completed for you.
Sitting here now, looking at her, you pretend the unease in your stomach is something other than jealousy.
You try your best not to hate that version of you at the river’s edge, all those years ago, who wasn’t quite brave enough to look the king in the eye and whisper the name in your mind.
And then, on your next exhale, you do your best to let it go.
The dressing room, at least, does provide some distraction.
You’re not sure how the tailor managed to do it, but Mina’s gown is somehow even lovelier in the light of her dressing room than it was in his salon.
It’s white, starkly so, and the intricate beading that covers the corset only stands to make it more blinding.
You’re still having a hard time looking directly at her, though. Mostly because every time you do, that awful vision returns. The one where her dress, right at the center, begins to bleed crimson.
Your own reflection is difficult to observe, too. Riki was right. Gold is your color. And the attention the ladies maids paid to your hair and makeup have made you hardly recognize yourself.
You’re not sure if it’s pride you swallow or merely nerves, but you turn to sit in a way that angles you away from the mirror. This choice puts your older sister in your direct line of sight. She’s beautiful, truly. And it’s her wedding day, death sentence or not. You should tell her as much.
Once again, she beats you to it.
“You look beautiful, ____,” she says. “Truly stunning. That gold looks wonderful on you.”
“Please,” you shake your head. Your voice still sounds rusty, raw. You cough lightly in an effort to disguise it. “It’s nothing compared to you.”
She looks at you for a moment, as if she can’t quite decide what to say. For a moment, you feel transparent. As if she can see all the way to your bones, to the desires you swore to hide from her forever. But the moment passes as quickly as it comes. Eventually, she settles on, “I did not intend to compare.”
You’re sure she didn’t. But it happens anyway. Murmurs behind hand. Gossip between the castle ladies. Rumors at the dinner table. Your existence here has always been one of comparison. One you fall short of every single time.
“How could I not be, when I’ve met someone who speaks to me inside my own head?”
Well, except in one case, perhaps. Even now, Jungwon’s words echo in your brain like an omen. It feels like treason to sit here and trade pleasantries with your sister when less than three nights ago, you were sitting at the foot of your bed with her husband-to-be, trading secrets in the dark.
You shake your head, as if the action alone can clear your illicit thoughts. It’s no use. Your mulling, your questions, your feelings. They don’t matter. In the span of hours, your sister will be married and the prophecy will be left to die in your memory.
Then, your only objective will be to figure out the rest of the king’s plan. Discover exactly when he plans on murdering your sister.
For now, you simply need a moment.
Standing, you excuse yourself for some fresh air. You feel Mina’s eyes on your back until the door to the dressing room shuts firmly behind you. Leaning back against it for a moment, you place a hand over your hammering heart. Try to catch your breath.
It’s little use. The air outside the dressing room is just as stifling.
Deciding you’re in need of something fresher, you let your footsteps carry you further, all the way until you reach a small, secluded balcony overlooking the garden you’ve become so very fond of.
A fresh ache begins in your heart. Despite it all, the castle is your home. Even if it wasn’t of your own volition. Even if it never truly opened its arms to you fully.
This is the place where you grew up. It holds all of your memories, your secrets. Your deepest fears, your greatest desires.
And now, you fear it may steal the rest of your life just as surely. Something in you aches at the thought of growing old here. Living out the rest of your days as nothing more than the sister of the queen. Watching your sister and Jungwon build a life, a family.
You decide then, with your eyes on the roses and wind in your hair, that you hate prophecies. Magic and sorcery and seers, all of it. Who was the old seer to decide your fate? Who was the king to seal it in stone?
For a moment, you wonder privately if you’re glad the king set his sights on the wrong sister. The only thing worse than watching this marriage from the periphery, you suppose, would be existing at the center of it.
Then again, if things were different, you might disagree. Would the prophecy do to you what it’s done to Mina? Would time make you indifferent and malleable and perfectly suited to supporting the future king from the sidelines? You’re not sure. And somehow, that stings even more.
Silently, you watch as the wind plays with the flowing fabric of your sleeves.
Not for the first time, you imagine leaving all of this behind you for good. Closing your eyes, it’s all too easy to picture. Abandoning the castle. Leaving your sister a short note that conveys your affection but betrays nothing of your whereabouts.
Letting Jay, Riki, Sunoo, and Sunghoon learn through rumors that you’ve escaped into the night. Joining Jaeyun for good, living out the rest of your life as far away from the palace walls as the wind will carry you.
Letting Jungwon discover you missing. Mourning the loss, perhaps. Eventually moving on.
But whatever the fantasy is, it’s too late now.
No matter how you picture it, no matter what escape route this particularly mutinous version of yourself takes, he is always there. In the shadows. Echoing through your mind.
You’d have to escape on horseback, of course. And you can hardly look at Nabi without wondering what exactly made Jungwon know she’d be so well suited to you.
You can hardly return to the hilltop, once your favorite sanctuary, knowing that the ghost of his footsteps would only follow.
And even if you could find somewhere outside the incumbent king’s reach, you can never escape your own mind. No, peace will certainly never have you. Not as long as he keeps hold of the space he’s been given there.
Would he try, you wonder. Reaching out to you through that strange connection in your mind? Would it fade with time and distance? Or would it just lay there, dormant, unused, but always waiting?
He’s left you in peace the last three days, and you can quite decide if it’s a blessing or a curse.
Regardless of the prince, even if you truly wanted to, it’s not as if you can abandon the castle now. Not when Mina’s life could possibly be in jeopardy.
So instead, you open your eyes. Let them gaze over the garden just a moment longer. Try not to think too hard about what the roses would think of you, if they could speak.
And then, with one final breath and the last of your aching resolve, you turn on your heel.
Or, at least, you try to.
The sound of voices below has your feet faltering in their tracks. The hushed, secretive cadence reminds you of that day in the hidden corridors with Jungwon. Only, this time, they’re far easier to distinguish.
There’s no thick stone wall to serve as a barrier. Only the garden air.
“It’s a shame,” the first voice says. You don’t recognize it, but it sends a chill down your spine. It’s a man, you think. But that is all you can decipher. “I still don’t understand why it has to be today. It’s a wedding, for gods’ sake.”
At the mention, your breath stutters.
“I know,” the second voice responds, far more detached. Another man, you’re sure. This one with a sharper tone of haughtiness. “But the king’s orders are iron bars.”
The first speaker still isn’t sure. “It just isn’t right. Why should she die today—”
“Keep your voice down,” the second interrupts, voice bitingly cold. “It isn’t our place to question. Besides, you know how this works by now. It’s her or it’s us. Are you willing to take that risk?”
The first must shake his head. Or nod. Whatever his response is, it’s inaudible.
And your heart hammers in your chest, pulse pounding in your ears, for an entirely different reason.
Desperate for a glimpse, a clue, you lean as far over the balcony as balance will allow you. But it’s not enough. You can’t see anything but roses and empty space. Panic begins to claw at your throat.
Why should she die today? It’s a wedding.
Like a demented chant, snippets of their brief conversation echo in your mind. It doesn’t matter how you look at them, how you spin them. You don’t need a gut feeling or a strange stroke of intuition to guide you now. You know, no matter how terribly you wish you didn’t, exactly what they mean.
The clues you put together, they were right. Mina's life is in danger.
And for whatever terrible reason, despite the prophecy, the king is no longer waiting. Whatever death they’ve planned for your sister, it will happen before she says her vows.
Panic takes a firmer root now, somewhere deeper inside you. Through the haze in your mind, you search. Until it’s there. Like a muscle you’ve begun to train, a mechanism you’re starting to understand.
Desperation rising, you only hope his anger or hurt or whatever emotion he left with three nights ago isn’t enough to sever what lies between you.
Jungwon, you try. It’s as easy as ever, a practiced motion.
For a moment, there is nothing in your mind but silence. And then—
I’m here.
You can almost envision his expression. That gentle warmth. Those damn eyes. No matter what terms you ended your last conversation on, you knew it would come to this. He would never leave you to drown in your own silence.
I need you to do something, you tell him, mind spinning a million miles a minute. His response takes less than an inhale.
Anything.
Stepping back inside, you let your feet make quick work of carrying you back to the dressing room where Mina puts on the last of her finishing touches.
This is the day she’s trained for, prepared for, her entire life. Her childhood was stolen too, her parents left to die in the cold. This wedding, this future, is the only thing that's ever belonged to her.
And you're about to ruin it.
Bursting through the door, several pairs of eyes turn to you, widening at the sudden interruption.
“Mina,” you say, breathless as a plan begins to take shape in your mind, “I need you to trust me.”
…..
The grand hall is nearly blinding. Above you, the ceiling has been replaced with windows at intermittent points. Sunlight, high in the daytime sky, streams through in long, bright beams.
Even if the sky were more melancholy, the thousands of candles filling the room would illuminate it all the same.
The hall is filled with flowers. Rare, exotic blooms that catch your eye. And among them all, scattered in intentionally placed bunches, are orchids.
Looking down at your sleeve, you see them embroidered there too. It’s beautiful beadwork, truly. The tailor has outdone himself. Light reflects from every square inch of fabric, making you nearly as radiant as the sun.
Along the aisle, members of the royal court stand, eyes on you. For a moment, you’re grateful to the way your dress has become all but reflective. It makes it easier to ignore their assessing stares.
They’re all doing it, you know. Whether they’re smiling, frowning, or some odd mix of both. They’re scanning every inch of you for the sole purpose of finding something to criticize behind closed doors.
It’s a strange feeling, and one you certainly aren’t accustomed to. Like a zoo animal in a cage, meant for observing and picking apart.
Shaking their stares away, you look straight ahead.
Your vision is obscured, only slightly, by the thin, white veil that covers your face. It flutters against your skin as onlookers take a hushed gasp at your entrance. And, you hope, it conceals your identity.
Eyes trained on your feet, thoughts consumed with not tripping over your own skirts, the sudden intrusion in your mind nearly startles you into stumbling.
Your name. You hear it in your mind, clear as daylight, in a voice that doesn’t belong to you.
For a moment, you remain silent. You don’t even dare to look up at the end of the aisle where you know he stands, waiting.
He told you once, weeks ago, that his only role in this ceremony was to wait for his bride at the end of the aisle. You never imagined you would be the one walking towards him.
This time, it doesn’t matter. He tries again. It’s you. You pretend not to hear the hope in his voice.
Despite it all, you can’t leave him in silence forever. It is, you reply.
The orchestra’s march is agonizingly slow. Your steps are small, measured. The aisle that extends before you is still long. The space that separates you decreases slowly, in tiny increments.
Why—
I need you to listen to me. You cut him off. You were right, that night on the hilltop. They’re going to kill Mina. I heard voices, just now, before the ceremony. Your heart beats in your chest, pulse in your throat, thrumming in your ears. They won’t wait until after you’re married. They’re going to kill her now.
What do you mean they’re going to kill her now?
I heard them, you explain. Assassins, I think. They said they had orders from the king. To kill her today. At the wedding.
That means…
Under the veil, you nod. I think they’re here now.
Only then do you lift your chin. Only a matter of footsteps separates you now. The prince, Jungwon, is within reach.
Across from you, he looks every bit the royalty he is. Dressed in well fitted garments, color as deep as midnight, he is every bit your opposite. Your equal. Where your gown flows, his ensemble sits against his skin with structure, a rigidness meant for rulers. Where yours is light, airy, his is dark, stable.
On his head, he wears his crown. Golden, heavy, impossibly intricate where it rests across his forehead. His hair, dark and well groomed, barely brushes the tops of his shoulders. And his eyes, full of constellations, are trained directly on you.
Where? He asks. The desperation in his voice is difficult to mix as you step onto the small, raised platform. Stand directly across from him. He’s so close now, within reach. Where are they?
You shake your head, a minute motion. I don’t know.
To your right, the royal minister begins his speech. The traditional marriage rites of the kingdom.
Above him, in the only seat higher than the two of you in the room, sits the king. In his throne, he looks almost bored. Lazy with the indulgence of it all.
Beneath him, Jungwon and you stand facing each other. At the front of the grand hall, in the dead center. The position is intentional. Meant to provide a clear view for onlookers.
Now, you feel like little more than sitting ducks.
You watch as Jungwon does his best to remain inconspicuous, as his eyes rake over the audience, the room. For a moment, a deep sense of hopelessness overwhelms you. The room is too full, too crowded.
An assassin, especially one hired by the king himself, is like a needle in a haystack.
It strikes you then, in the middle of a marriage ceremony in a stolen gown, that you are not ready for death. Your life is something you mull over only occasionally. You’re not sure what impact you’ve made, what lives you’ve touched.
It’s a bit of a selfish desire, perhaps, to hope that it will extend longer than today. But there are things, so many of them, that you still want to do. Words you still want to say. Days, simple, unremarkable, routine, that you still want to experience.
Your dagger is still strapped to your thigh, even beneath a wedding dress. But what use is a dagger against what you’re sure will be a trained assassin? Fleetingly, you remember your lesson. The adjustments Jungwon made to your posture. The advice he gave you. To be smart. To be quick.
It’s useless now. On the precipice of what very well may be your death, your mind spins. It’s hard to concentrate, difficult to gather your thoughts into something rational. And your gown is as restrictive as it is gorgeous. It would be difficult to run in skirts these heavy, these long, much less flee for your life. Reality settles with a chill.
Grief feels like a sudden punch in the gut, a cold sense of clarity that cuts through the adrenaline and has you wanting to run back down the aisle the way you came.
Mina, you hope, will be safe. You pray she listened to your instructions, that she’s heeding them now. If life is waiting for her on the other side of this, you suppose you can make your peace with your decisions.
Looking at Jungwon for a moment, his eyes are still darting around the room, frantic in his search. You would join him, but there’s little use. The veil obscures too much of your vision. Besides him, you can’t make out much of anything. Not clearly, anyway.
With a startling suddenness, his gaze is back on you. You doubted him. Forgot, perhaps, that he has the vision of a trained hunter.
Again, you hear him in your mind. The balcony, he says. Behind you. Two men in dark clothes. Their faces are concealed.
Something akin to hope blooms in your chest. Maybe, you think, even if you hardly dare to believe it, you won’t die on this pedestal. A gruesome vision of crimson over white come to life.
Across from you, Jungwon’s eyes narrow. Almost as if he’s suddenly furious. You’re not going to die.
His words are sharp, angry. You hadn’t meant to send your thoughts to him, but as always, he heard them regardless.
Beside you, the minister’s words are beginning to slow. He motions for the rings, a symbol of your eternal devotion and connection to one another, to be brought forth. For the crown that will soon belong to you to be placed on a pedestal next to you.
The ceremony is drawing to an end. Whatever the king has planned, it must be happening soon.
Jungwon’s eyes fall back to the space above your shoulders, where you’re sure the assassins must be lying in wait. Next to you, the minister instructs the two of you to join hands.
Removing your gloves, your fingers tremble slightly. Placing them on a cushion next to you, you reach out, interlacing your bare fingers with his.
Beneath your touch, his skin is warm. Your hands aren’t quite sure what to do. They can’t decide if they should settle into his heat or jolt at the sudden contact. It strikes you then that despite the connection in your minds, the way it feels as if his lips are well acquainted with the shell of your ear, this is the first time you and the prince have truly touched.
His skin is smooth under yours. Calloused in the places he holds reins, a sword. Gentle as his fingers envelop yours.
Again, his eyes narrow in on the balcony behind you. You watch as his jaw sets in determination, a resolution made.
Next to you, the minister instructs you to release your hands, to gather your rings and place them on one another’s respective fingers.
You begin to disentangle your grasp to follow his direction, but Jungwon holds strong. His fingers suddenly a vice grip against your own. Looking to him, confusion marrs your features.
You reach for the connection, about to ask in your mind what he’s doing, but you never get the chance.
Before you can draw another breath, he pulls.
So suddenly, so firmly, that your center of gravity is thrown entirely. Unable to regain your balance, you fall. Down, down, down, impossibly fast towards the ground nearly a foot below the platform.
You close your eyes, bracing for impact that never fully comes.
Instead of hitting the stone floor of the grand hall, solid and unyielding, your fall is cushioned by the body beneath yours.
Jungwon.
Pulled tight to his chest, your head rests right over his heartbeat, legs tangled on the castle floor. Lifting your head, your vision is still partially obscured by your veil.
Your pulse hammers, blood rushing in your ears. Distantly, you hear the sound of screams. Chaos erupting around the hall as realizations begin to settle. Turning your head to the side, you can just make out the shape of a singular arrow, long as sharp, lodged into the podium. Exactly where you’d been standing seconds ago.
Your lips part in surprise. A hand over your head pulls you tight to his chest once again. You feel your body flip through the air, a sudden motion that nearly knocks the air from your lungs as you’re spun onto your back.
Eyes screwed shut, you open them slowly. Above you now, Jungwon hovers, caging you in with his body. Above you, desperation laces through his eyes as they bore into yours, every nerve a live wire.
His crown, lost somewhere in the chaos, lies alone in the space you’d been in moments ago. Next to it, a second arrow rests, useless on the ground.
Jungwon’s hair falls over his face, brushes the tops of his eyelashes. Your foreheads are nearly touching.
Around you, the room explodes as royal guests begin to flee, their terror echoing through the hall.
In your private sanctuary of Jungwon’s making, you hardly hear them. Your focus rests entirely on him. With one swift motion, he lifts his hand, pushing your veil back from your face. There’s no barrier between you now.
“We have to run,” he whispers, breath caressing your cheekbone. Even now, he’s gentle with you, delicate. It’s a stark contrast to the horror that unfolds around you.
“I know,” you nod, heart in your throat. “This dress—”
You don’t need to explain further. Before you can form another coherent thought, you feel his hand slide under the back of your knee, pulling it up until it rests next to his ribs, caging him in.
One palm rests by your ear, supporting his weight above you. The other you feel brush against your ankle. Suppressing a shudder, you feel it traveling higher, beneath your skirts now.
Despite everything, you feel heat on your cheekbones, confusion in your brow. Your throat is dry, nearly choking around a swallow.
Jungwon doesn’t leave you in the dark for long.
You feel the moment he finds it, long fingers wrapping around the dagger holstered to your upper thigh. It’s horribly intimate. It’s indecent, it’s obscene. It’s a matter of survival as he draws it out of its sheath, pulling it free and letting your skirts fall back into place as he removes his hand from your skin.
You feel the resistance as he puts his blade against the fabric, cutting away at months of effort. You pray the tailor forgives you as you hear beads scatter over stone, silk fraying as he cuts in frantic, uneven strokes.
And then he’s done. With the train of your gown gone, your legs are far less restricted. You can move. You can run.
We have to go, he repeats, this time in your mind.
You nod in lieu of replying. He stands first. You take his outstretched hand, placing your fingers in his.
And then you’re running. Only once, before leaving the grand hall, do you glance back. Your eye sweep over the upheaved seats, the strewn flowers. The candles that have begun to fall, flames extinguishing as wicks kiss stone.
And the king, high on his throne at the center of it all, has his furious, enraged gaze trained directly on your unveiled face.
Jungwon leads you with practiced speed, weaving once again through secret passageways and hidden chambers that he knows like the back of his hand.
Minutes blur in your mind. The only marker of time is the growing burn of exertion in your legs.
Just a little further, he assures in your mind.
True to his word, the two of you reach an exterior exit less than a minute later. Immediately, you recognize the eastern gardens. Crouching low behind the thickest of the foliage, the two of you follow the outskirts until you reach the stables.
Nabi is gone when you arrive, and you allow yourself a sigh of relief. Mina, you hope, is long gone by now.
Jungwon makes quick work of saddling Maeum. Holding you steady, he helps you mount him before following suit.
And then, the two of you are off, reins in his hands and wind in your hair as the castle turns to nothing but a speck on the horizon, far in the distance behind you.
…..
“Oh, thank the gods.” Jaeyun is nearly beside himself, pacing across the hilltop by the time you and Jungwon arrive.
Jungwon waits back for a moment, tying Maeum next to Nabi. He ensures he has plenty of water and food after carrying you both all the way here.
Meanwhile, Jaeyun pulls you into a hug so tight you think your lungs might be robbed of all their remaining air. Releasing you after another long moment, he pulls back, mouth opening. His words die on his lips as he scans you head to toe.
You imagine you must be quite a sight to behold. Hair coming undone haphazardly, dress a tattered mess around your legs, skin full of scratches and shallow cuts, you’re quite a striking image.
In the commotion of your arrival, your older sister breaches the crest of the hilltop, eyes glassy as she runs towards you. Again, you’re pulled into a hug, this one less crushing, albeit only slightly.
“Thank goodness,” she breathes against your ear. Pulling back, she keeps her hands on your shoulders. Looking directly into your eyes, Mina scolds, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
You’re not sure why the sight of your older sister has you wanting to burst into childish tears. It’s sheer relief, perhaps. Or maybe residual guilt. A stew of feelings you’re not quite ready to observe.
“You’re okay,” you whisper, emotions plain on your face.
Mina nods. “Sunghoon helped me. Brought me here. Introduced me to your…” she trails off a moment, looking at Jaeyun, “friend.”
“Good,” you nod. Looking around, you ask, “Where is he now?”
“Back to the castle,” Jaeyun explains. “Said it would be too suspicious for him to stick around for long.”
A new thread of worry weaves its way through your heart. Wherever he is now, you hope he’s safe.
It had been difficult, back in Mina’s dressing room, asking Jungwon through your mind to send Sunghoon to you. You prayed that you weren’t sending him and your sister both to their doom when you asked, no begged, him to help her escape before the ceremony.
Quietly, Jungwon joins the three of you, coming to stand at your side.
If Mina notices your proximity, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she drops into a deep curtsey.
“My prince,” she greets, eyes trained turned the grass.
“You don’t have to do that out here,” Jaeyun smirks. In a voice that’s nearly a sing-song, he adds, “We get to call him Jungwon.”
“Oh,” she flushes, facing Jaeyun as she stands. “I could never—”
“Really, Mina,” you interrupt after giving your friends a withering glare. Your voice is gentle. “It’s alright.”
“I…” She trails off, eyes flickering between you and Jaeyun. Just once, they dart to Jungwon before lowering again in deference. “I don’t understand.”
You sigh, heart suddenly heavy in your chest. “Did Sunghoon explain anything?” you ask. “Or Jaeyun?”
“No.” She shakes her head.
“I wasn’t sure it was my place to tell,” Jaeyun says, voice suddenly solemn.
You nod at him, thankful for his tact. Turning back to your sister, you suggest, “Maybe we should sit down.”
In the grass, sat directly across from her, you find eye contact a difficult thing to maintain.
“Mina,” you start, trying to deliver your blows gently. “Today, at your wedding.” You pause, lips sealing. You can’t think of a way to make the truth cut any less sharply.
“What,” Mina presses. “What is it?”
“The king,” you start. “The king was going to have you murdered.”
Mina recoils as if you’ve slapped her. “What?” She shakes her head. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s true,” Jungwon says. Sitting at your side, his voice is solemn. “There were assassins at the ceremony. Two of them. With arrows. The grand hall has only one entrance. They must have been invited in.”
“But why—” she pleads, eyes wide.
“Sunghoon confirmed our suspicions,” Jaeyun nods. “He told me when he brought Mina. The northern kingdom gave an ultimatum yesterday. The king wouldn’t allow his daughter to be married to anyone who had already taken a wife, regardless if she was…” he trails off, looking at Mina, “you know.” The implication hangs heavy in the air.
“The northern kingdom?” Mina frowns. “I don’t understand. What do they have to do with this?”
“We think,” you start, “that our king was hoping to unite our kingdom with theirs. For more power, resources, maybe. We thought at first that he would still want to see the prophecy through, that he would proceed with your marriage ceremony and then later…”
“What?” Mina laughs, no trace of humor in her voice. “Kill me?”
“Yes,” you nod. The time for mincing words has come and gone. A flicker of shock, of hurt, crosses your sister’s features. “But with these new demands from the northern kingdom,” you nod towards Jaeyun, “he must have changed his mind. He would rather have this new alliance than a chance at peace.”
“That’s not all,” Jaeyun’s voice is grim. “Sunghoon also heard that the public nature of the assination was intentional. The plan was to frame it on vigilantes. Resistors. To use it as an excuse to superimpose the northern kingdom’s justice system along with the union between Jungwon and the princess.”
“The justice system?” you echo.
“Is barely even an excuse for justice,” Jungwon’s eyes are narrow. “The northern kingdom has long shunned any form of opposition. People are not allowed to speak freely, especially not about the royal family. Citizens are sentenced to death with neither evidence nor trial. In recent years, movement between cities has been restricted. Trade that doesn’t directly serve the crown has come to a near standstill. Any form of dissent, even if it’s only rumored, is punished,” he looks towards you. “Heavily.”
“But the prophecy,” Mina protests. “It was meant to change things for the better. Why would the king risk losing that?”
You can’t help but look at Jungwon. When you turn to find his eyes already on you, you’re quick to turn your gaze back to the grass.
“Did you two ever find it?” Jaeyun asks. “The original prophecy?”
“The original prophecy?” Mina echoes, breathless.
“We did,” Jungwon confirms, voice steady.
“And…?” Jaeyun presses.
A beat of silence passes.
Jungwon finally speaks. “It was what we knew, more or less. The seer foretold that a marriage between myself and…” he trails off for just a moment as your vice echoes suddenly in his mind
Don’t tell her anything.
“… A blacksmith’s daughter,” he finishes, “would bring peace and prosperity to the kingdom.”
“You must be wrong then,” Mina concludes. “The king wouldn’t make orders against that.”
“I think he would, Mina,” you argue, not unkindly. “He chose power over peace. Control over prosperity.”
“The prophecy,” Mina says. “I want to read it too.”
“Mina,” you sigh.
“Don’t Mina me,” she tells you. “I’m one half of it, aren’t I? I have just as much right as anyone.”
“It’s impossible,” Jungwon shakes his head. “The scroll is back in the castle archives.”
But the explanation isn’t satisfactory. She stares at you a moment longer, gears turning in her mind.
Then, so low you almost miss it, she says, “It isn't me.” It’s not a question.
“What?” You nearly gasp.
“Earlier,” she turns to Jungwon, “you didn't say me. You said a blacksmith's daughter.”
“He only meant—” you try, but Mina was raised among the court ladies. She's well versed in the language of secret glances and hidden meaning and conveying the truth with something more palatable. She sees right through you.
“Don’t tell me what he did or did not mean. You're my sister. I know when I’m being lied to. It isn't me, is it?”
“Mina…” you plead, eyes wide. You try to hide your surprise, your guilt, but it’s too late. She sees it all. She sees you. Everything you’ve been trying to bury ever since you learned the truth yourself. It’s no use now. She knows.
The wind on the hilltop whips against your skin, scatters your hair. Across from you, your sister wears an expression of shock. Of betrayal.
“It’s you.” She breathes.
“It’s not,” you shake your head fervently, lying through your teeth. “It’s not, I swear—”
“Stop,” she says. It’s the most authority you’ve ever heard in your sister’s voice. It’s not unkind, but it is firm. “Stop,” she repeats. Addressing Jaeyun and Jungwon, she adds, “I’d like to speak to my sister. Alone if we can.”
Jaeyun sends the two of you a wary look before nodding, making himself scarce. Jungwon lingers a moment longer but eventually follows suit.
In your mind, you hear, Are you okay?
I am, you assure. And then you turn to face your sister.
“Please,” she urges, “speak plainly with me. I am not the one named in the prophecy, am I?”
“No,” you shake your head. When eye contact becomes unbearable, your gaze falls back to the grass.
Mina’s lips draw into a thin line, but there is no trace of anger in her voice when she asks, “Is it you?”
It’s as if you’re a child again. Helpless, at the mercy of your own fickle emotions. You feel like crying, like shouting. You do neither. Instead, you nod slowly. “It is.”
Mina exhales, a sound that gets lost in the wind. “Why did you… why did you lie to me—”
“It didn’t mean to,” you rush to explain, words tumbling out faster than you can contain them. “I only found out myself a few days ago—”
“But you had no intention of telling me.” She sees right through you. “Did you?”
“Mina, please,” you beg. “How could I? You gave up your entire life for this—”
“Gave up?” she echoes, mouth falling open as she scoffs. “From the moment we were taken from that river, my life was never my own. You know as well as I do that I had nothing to give.”
“Which is why I could never tell you.” You fight the urge to reach for her. “This wedding, your marriage, was meant to be a perfect conclusion to your story. I couldn’t—”
“And what a story it was! Was this truly better? To let me live the rest of my days as a lie? To leave the prophecy unfulfilled and rule over a kingdom that continued to suffer? Alongside a man who will never truly love me? To take the choice from me and make it yourself?”
“Mina…”
“Did you think I would be angry?” she asks. “I’m not. Well, I am,” she amends, “but not for the reasons you think.”
For a moment, she says nothing. She simply looks at you, really looks.
You’re struck with the sudden realization that you may have misjudged your sister terribly. That all these years you spent thinking her life must be some kind of fantasy, full of material comforts and doting attention and lessons in royal etiquette, maybe she was suffering too.
Your suspicions are confirmed when she asks you, “Do you know what it's like to live a life that feels like it will never truly belong to you? To be prepped and pampered to become the perfect doll from someone else’s vision? I don’t even like embroidery,” she laughs. “I can barely tolerate tea ceremonies, and I find studying table manners and posture a terrible bore.”
She looks at you, gaze imploring. “The prince has never treated me with anything but polite, detached kindness. He owes me nothing more, nor do I think I truly want it from him. But do you know what it feels like to be told that you will marry someone who holds no affection for you? For whom you hold no affection? To know that you will spend the remainder of your life as little more than a prop? Even I was not delusional enough to think I’d ever be allowed to rule, no matter what title or crown they put on my head.”
“I thought…” you trail off, lost for words. You’re seeing your sister more clearly than you have in your entire life, and the adjustment has you feeling off-center. “I thought you enjoyed palace life. I thought you were excited for the wedding.”
“I did not wish my burden to become yours. I cannot imagine life was easy for you either.” She looks at you, voice gentle. “You know, I blamed myself for it all these years. For damning us to this fate.” She’s not angry, just in disbelief when she adds, “But it was always you, wasn’t it? Even that day at the river, all those years ago, you had to whisper his name to me.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do. His name felt wrong in my mouth even then. It always has.”
“I wish I knew.” You shake your head, tears in your eyes. “All these years…”
“What’s done is done,” Across from you, her eyes are glassy, too. You’ve spent so long thinking your sister frivolous, in need of your protection. Now, you remember your age. Your birth order. She sounds wiser, older, when she says, “From here, we can only go forward.”
“You don’t hate me?” You hate how small your voice sounds, how unsure.
“You’re my little sister,” Mina smiles. “I always have a little annoyance wherever you’re concerned. But not nearly as much as I have love.”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles in your throat, falls from your lips. And this time, the tears do spill over. Across from you, Mina too begins to cry.
The sun begins to set on the horizon. The end of a day, the fall of an illusion. The hilltop glows with the last golden rays of the day, and the two of you reach for each other. You’re not sure who initiates the embrace, but your sister holds you close, just as you do her.
Eventually, the two of you separate again. Mina leans back on her hands, gaze conspiratorial when she asks, “So how exactly do you know - what’s your friend’s name again - Jaeyun?” She presses on before you can begin to answer. “And how are you on a first name basis with the prince? The two of you looked awfully cozy on that horse, you know.”
“Mina!” you whine, even as color begins to rise on your cheeks.
Your older sister only laughs. Leaning in to ask you another question that will make you blush, the two of you stay there, seated in the grass for hours longer.
There’s a kingdom to uphold and an insurgency to address, but for now, you’re here on this hilltop, making up for lost years with a sister you think you may finally be beginning to understand.
…..
Jungwon finds you late into the night. Despite the hour and the exhaustion weighing at your bones, sleep can’t seem to find you.
Your sister, luckily, rests a bit easier. She’s asleep in one of the makeshift beds Jaeyun prepared. Afraid to draw unwanted attention with a fire, you’re sure she’s grateful for the warmth. Even with the lingering heat of the season, the open air carries a certain chill at night.
Jungwon must sense your cold. He finds you where you sit, looking out towards the city. Settling in next to you, he wraps one of the blankets around your shoulders.
Grateful, your gaze settles on him as he sits beside you.
“It went okay?” he asks. “With your sister.”
“It did,” you nod. “Better than I could have hoped. This whole time, I thought I understood her, but I had no idea what she was feeling, what she was thinking.” There’s optimism in your voice when you add, “I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I think she may actually have a chance to be happier now.”
“She’s not interested in returning to the castle?” Jungwon asks.
“No.” You shake your head. You’re done putting words in her mouth. You tell him only what she told you, earlier this evening as the two of you passed hours together. “The king wants her dead. She doesn’t want to step foot there again.”
“Of course,” Jungwon agrees. “That must be difficult.” A beat of silence passes. He breaks it. “And you?”
“Me?” you question.
Jungwon nods. “Will you be going back to the castle?”
Will you? You’ve been warring with the same question all evening.
Instead of answering, you ask, “Is there a place for me there?”
It’s not the castle you’re concerned with now. Then again, neither is Jungwon.
He doesn’t hesitate for even a moment. “There is. There always will be, so long as you will have it.” He sighs, head dipping. “I cannot pretend it will be easy. It could even be dangerous. My father is… difficult. But the kingdom has suffered enough. I think we all have.”
“You have a plan, then.” You nod. You suspected as much. You’ve been running probabilities of your own, trying to craft the best steps forward. “What will you do? Marry the princess of the northern kingdom to appease him and then—”
“The northern kingdom and its princess,” Jungwon interrupts, “will never step foot here. And marriage,” he continues, “is not something I wish to use as a bartering tool. Ever.”
“What is it?” you ask, breath suddenly shallow.
“My plan?” he asks, “or marriage?”
“Either,” you feign nonchalance. “Both.”
“My plan,” he begins, “shall be revealed in due time. And as for marriage,” he pauses, turning his eyes to the stars, “I suppose that too shall be revealed in due time. When the proper… sentiments are involved.”
“Oh, my,” you tease. Here in the starlight, under the cover of partial darkness, it’s easy to pretend your heart is skipping beats for reasons unrelated. “Is the crown prince of our kingdom trying to say that he wishes to marry for love?”
“It could never be anything less,” he says, turning now to look at you, “when I know what it feels like to have a voice in my head.”
To that, you have nothing to say. At least none you're brave enough to tell him yet.
Instead, you join him in putting your eyes on the stars, focusing on the days ahead.
It won’t be easy, you’re sure. But there’s something there that wasn’t before. Hope perhaps, that your life is something you will take part in shaping, instead of being tossed around at the whims of others.
Dreams that you will have decisions of your own to make. Choices that may be wrong or right or exist somewhere in that gray space between. It hardly matters now. They'll be yours to make.
There is duty on the horizon, the threat of an uncertain future. But sitting here next to Jungwon, gazing down at the town below, you can’t help but think that no matter what outside forces conspire against you and what prophecies attempt to steer your destiny, the two of you will be alright.
…..
The end of summer always brings heavy rains. This season is no exception.
You watch in fall now, in heavy, thick, unrelenting sheets from your makeshift shelter in the garden gazebo.
Typhoons are unpredictable, and late summer rain is the same. The sky had been bone dry when you ventured out without so much as an umbrella to shield you.
You don’t mind so much, though. It’s become rather entertaining, in a mundane sort of way, to watch as raindrops gather on the leaves that snake around the gazebo. The vines that twist and turn, nearly covering the stone completely.
You only hope that Mina, wherever she and Jaeyun are now, is staying dry as well. She’s always been prone to catching terrible colds this time of year. Although maybe some fresh air is doing her well.
It’s been less than two days since you left her on the hilltop, waving goodbye until she and Jaeyun were nothing but specks on the horizon. She looked happier even then. Lighter, somehow. Unburdened and full of that same sense of freedom you’ve come to know rather well.
You only hope it lasts. That before too much time passes, the two of you will be able to see one another often. Speaking freely of topics as frivolous or serious as you please.
For now, you have the gardens. And its endless supply of rain-soaked flowers.
I hope I’m not disturbing you.
The voice against your ear is so sudden you nearly jump in your own skin. Spinning on your heel, you find Jungwon, closing the last of the distance between you as he ascends the gazebo’s steps.
He wears no crown, no regalia. Only the dark, fitted attire of someone who prefers to go unnoticed. Who chooses to let his actions, not his title, speak for themselves.
“You frightened me,” you admonish.
“My apologies,” he bows slightly, but his grin gives him away. He meant to startle you.
It would seem you’re not the only one who forgot an umbrella. Although you’re not sure what Jungwon’s excuse is. He didn’t come to find you until after the rain had started. And now, he’s just as thoroughly soaked as the petals outside.
“I hope I’m not disrupting you,” he repeats, this time out loud.
“Not at all.” You shake your head, trying to act as if you haven’t been waiting for him, for news, since the moment you stepped foot back on the castle grounds and the two of you parted ways.
Jungwon won’t leave you in agony of wondering any longer. “It’s done,” he tells you as a stray drop falls from his hair to his shoulder. “My coronation is to be held in three day’s time.”
You remember his father’s earlier conditions. The path to fulfilling the prophecy. The original claim that Jungwon must first marry before he can ascend the throne. You say, only partially teasing, “I hope you haven’t come here to ask me to marry you.”
“Without the prerequisite of a marriage this time,” he amends.
“How did you do it?”
“A good old-fashioned threat.” Jungwon smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “I told my father that I would expose his plan, his attempted murder, if he did not let me proceed with the coronation. He knew it was a losing gamble. Public favor is a currency more valuable than gold, and he knows he has little to spare.”
There are a million questions you could ask. How did he do it? How did he gather enough evidence of his father’s involvement to make him agree so easily? What will he do, now that the throne is nearly within grasp?
Above it all, another question rings in your mind. “And the prophecy?”
Your breath falters. You almost regret asking. You’re not sure you’re prepared for a response.
Jungwon just looks at you. “The prophecy remains.”
“Jungwon…” you sigh, trying to gather your spinning thoughts.
He presses forward before you have the chance. “But you were right. I refuse to use it as a crutch. I will have a kingdom in my care in three days.” His jaw sets, suddenly solemn. “There is plenty I can do, with or without ancient magic.”
You release your breath, not sure if the sudden feeling surging deep within you is relief or disappointment. “You’ve abandoned it, then.”
“I’m…” Jungown weighs his words carefully, “letting it rest. For now, at least. Although, I do have a favor to ask.”
That intrigues you. “What is it?”
“I won’t ask for your hand in marriage.” Despite yourself, a thrill races through your spine at the mere prospect. “But I do request that you stay here with me, if you so will it.”
You arch a brow. “If I will it?”
Jungwon nods. “You’re not a prisoner. But you are a rather well-connected source of information. I could use that brain of yours to help make the transition to my reign smoother, more peaceful. I meant it, that day in my chamber. I want to be different. I want to be better.”
It’s an echo of a similar request he made, not so long ago. You had been so unsure then, frightened of the prince’s true intentions. Too terrified of your strange connection to trust it fully.
Now, it’s easy to accept.
You mean it when you reply, “And for that very reason, I have every confidence you will be.” Around you, the rain begins to slow. Torrential downpour transitions to a gentle patter of scattered drops. Moisture strikes the earth in erratic patterns. It makes you bold. “Is my brain your only point of interest?”
Jungwon turns his head to the side, eyes widening in surprise. Between the two of you, he’s always been bolder, more giving in his confessions. His gaze makes quick work of scanning your features, searching for any sign of misunderstanding. Finding none, he tells you, “You know the answer to that question.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” But the smile that stretches across your lips is playful, teasing. It only grows as you lean back from the gazebo’s rail, taking a handful of steps backwards towards the entrance. “You’ll have to elaborate.”
You’re nearly halfway down the stairs by now, stray raindrops catching in your hair, sliding against your skin.
Jungwon follows, first with his eyes. And then with his feet.
You take another step back, just as he reaches you at the base of the stairs.
You’re teasing me. He doesn’t say it aloud.
I wouldn’t dream of it. You send back.
Still, when he steps forward, you fall back. It’s like a dance now. A game. One that leaves you more and more soaked with every inch you put between you and shelter.
Jungwon fares no better. His hair is dripping again, weighed down across his forehead.
He follows your movements with the practiced ease of a hunter, gaze never straying from you.
It’s a terrible offense, you know, to torment a prince.
I should be careful, then. I can only imagine the extent of Your Highness’s wrath.
He’s nearly caught up to you by now, just as you reach the edge of the rose bushes.
But the garden and your boldness and the prince can only spare you for so long.
Just as you step to the left, ducking under the branches of a weeping willow, Jungwon decides he’s had enough of your game.
You feel it first. Warm fingers circling your rain soaked wrist. He always manages to catch you off guard, though. You expect him to pull you out, to continue this game of tag you’ve begun.
Instead, he uses your arm as leverage, until he too is half concealed beneath the branches of the willow.
“Pray tell, my prince,” you whisper as he closes in on your space, hair dripping, eyes locked on your mouth, “what is my punishment for such impudence?”
“You must think me terribly cruel,” he whispers, breath fanning over your cheek, “to be giving out punishments so easily.”
“I think nothing of the sort,” you shake your head as his hand comes to rest against the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His fingers splay against your jaw. Soft, desperate. “I only meant to prepare myself.”
“For what?” he asks, voice barely audible. He’s so close you think you could count the stars in his eyes.
Your hand comes to his elbow. To maintain distance or ensure he never breaks it, you’re not sure. “For whatever Your Highness sees fit.”
His lips are nearly brushing yours now. You feel his words as much as you hear them. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“Very well,” you nod, eyes fluttering shut. “Jungwon.”
The pressure of his mouth is undeniable then. Light at first, he hardly dares to breathe against you. Almost as if unbidden, his second hand comes to rest at your waist, bunching your skirts near the hem.
His fingers against your cheek widen, tilting slightly, angling you. And then, the pressure increases. His mouth becomes more insistent against yours.
It’s no longer a ghost of a kiss. Not with his hands in your hair and yours splayed helplessly against his chest.
Not as he presses you against the base of the tree, gasping in forgotten breath with his mouth still against your own, unwilling to break contact. Until he decides he finds the pulse point just under your jaw fascinating, that is.
Then, his attentions are on your neck, learning which places make you gasp, which make you whine, and his favorite of all, which make you say his name in that breathy little whimper he wants to taste right off your lips.
Beneath the branches, skirts soaked and hair loose, the rest of the world fades into a comfortable sort of nothingness. There’s nothing here now but Jungwon and the blossoming feelings that lie between you.
It doesn’t matter if it’s prophecy or your own doing or some wonderful mix of them both. You’ve had enough of magic, of bending to its whims, forcing yourself into something that will please it.
You won’t marry Jungwon just because old magic foretold your fate. Instead, you’ll spend long minutes, hidden beneath the branches of a weeping willow, with his lips against yours and his teeth making you gasp. Not because an old seer willed it, but because it feels good.
Because no matter what titles or crowns or royalty he wears on his shoulders, he will always be Jungwon. A name you knew even before you had a face to put it to. Magic is there somewhere, too. Whether it’s of your own making or far beyond your control, you’re glad it’s brought you here. To this.
Feelings blooming in your heart and echoes of a voice inside your mind, the future feels like something worth hoping for.
The kingdom is still in turmoil. People still suffer. There is work yet to be done.
But this feels like change, like progress. You won’t have to hide your wishes for better days to come in secret letters and illicit meetings. You’ll get to be part of something, someone with the power to enact real change.
You don’t know what Jungwon’s coronation will bring. If the king has truly left his scheming to rest or not. You’re not sure what the next year or day or even hour will bring.
But regardless of what comes to pass, you’re sure, now more than ever, that you have what you need to face it.
…..
epilogue
Keeping your footsteps light and your breath silent, you follow the familiar, winding path of the castle corridors.
It’s not that you’re hiding, not really. It’s just that you have a rather important errand to run. One that you don’t wish to delay. Not even for the latest report on crop yields in the newly planted fields near the southern border. Certainly not for the details of the recently reinstated trade routes with your neighbors to the west. Even if they’re the reason your personal favorite variety of strawberry is now widely available for all.
You don’t even wish to be stopped to hear about the progress of the schoolhouses you helped open a matter of months ago, the literacy rates that are beginning to boom across the country as citizens, old and young, gather to learn the rather ornate reading and writing system of your kingdom.
Mina’s been hard at work there, if the latest letter from Jaeyun is anything to go by. She’s nearly developed an entirely new strategy for teaching letter formation to children.
It’s amazing, your friend had reported, and you could sense his wonder even in writing. The kids actually like learning to write with her.
Even now, on your own stealthy mission, the thought makes you smile.
Finally, a handful of minutes later, you arrive at the closed door you’d been seeking. Knocking on it twice, you smile when a familiar face greets you.
“Riki,” you grin, “is the tailor in today?”
Riki gasps, feigning disbelief. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence today? Did I miss a holiday? A birthday? A special occasion?”
“Hardly,” you roll your eyes. “My presence is nothing special.”
“Are you kidding?” he asks. “You’re practically the most sought after person in the castle these days. Well, besides the king, I suppose.” You can’t quite help the small smile that threatened the corner of your lips at the mention of Jungwon. “I mean, that’s why you came here at the crack of dawn, isn’t it? To avoid running into anyone.”
“It’s not the crack of dawn,” you argue. “Breakfast was served an hour ago.”
“Regardless,” Riki points out, “it’s early. To answer your earlier question, no, he’s not. You even beat the tailor here.”
“Hm,” you hum, considering. “Could you pass along an order, then?”
“Sure,” he nods, “your stack of dresses isn’t sufficient these days?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you shake your head. “You know I have more than I could possibly need. Mostly thanks to you. I just… don’t quite have the right thing for this.”
“For what?” His brow furrows. “That upcoming ball? When is it, again? Next month? I can do something green again, if you like.”
You shake your head.
“No?” Riki turns towards the stack of fabrics. “Alright, what color then? Blue,” he suggests. “Or we just got this really gorgeous maroon silk from abroad. Drapes like a dream.”
“What about something…” you trail off for a moment, “white?”
In front of you, Riki falters, hands freezing halfway towards his stack of silks.
Slowly, he turns back to you. “White?” he echoes, eyes wide.
“Yeah,” you nod, teeth pulling at the inside of your lip as your smile widens. “I think I need something white.”
Hey, man, c'mere. Listen. Get in real close, this is important.
You're gonna make stuff again. You're gonna make stuff you're proud of. You're gonna make stuff you're excited to share. You're going to feel that overwhelming drive to create, not just the frantic I want to want to you're stuck in now. You're going to have awesome ideas, and you're going to make them into reality. You're going to create again. You're still an artist. You're still a writer. You're still home to the same passion you had before. You'll find it again. It's not gone. It's just resting. Let it rest. You're going to make stuff again. I promise.
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genre: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, superhero au
synopsis: you never thought you’d meet spiderman. hell, you didn’t even like him. but thanks to a very unfortunate web malfunction, you’re now stuck—literally tethered—to him for three whole days. surely it can’t get worse… right?
warnings: kissing obviously, making out, mentions of blood and blasts, reader is lowkey mean, cursing, not proofread
note: hi so i wrote this in like 2 days because all i could think of was the upside down spider-man kiss everytime i listened to upside down kiss. so here's a kind of rushed?yeonjun version, enjoyy!
word count: 5.6k
i made the yeonjun gif out of a tiktok video by user yeonjun_fp, so credits to them for the art!
if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3
you were dead on your feet.
after back to back lectures, a surprise quiz, and a final group project meeting where no one did their assigned slides, all you wanted was to go home, kick off your shoes, and disintegrate into your bed for the long weekend. you had no intentions of making any plans or attending parties, you just wanted sleep, junk food, and whatever show netflix decided to shove in your face.
you put on your headphones the moment you stepped onto the subway platform, letting the music drown out the evening rush. when the train arrived, you shuffled in, found a seat by the window, and slumped into it like a corpse, your limbs aching in that warm, heavy way that begged for rest.
you were half-dozing by the time the train screeched into the next station. but then—everything jolted violently.
the brakes screamed louder than your music. your body lurched forward. the lights overhead flickered and died. people gasped. someone screamed. and then, before you could even register what was happening, a deafening boom tore through the air. the floor shook, making the train car tilt slightly to one side. your heart jumped into your throat.
“everyone out! get out!” someone shouted.
panic swallowed the crowd like wildfire. passengers shoved, tripped, yelled over each other. in the blur of limbs and chaos, you were pushed out of your seat and jostled toward the open subway doors.
your headphones were ripped from your ears. you barely heard your own gasp as you stumbled out onto the platform, trying to get your bearings, when another explosion rocked the tunnel, stronger this time. dust and smoke poured through the gaps in the ceiling.
you saw it before you could react. a massive chunk of cement was hurtling straight toward you, fast and unstoppable. your legs refused to move. time stalled, every second stretching thin with the awful realisation that this was it. this was how it ended—for no reason, on a thursday, because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
but just before it hit, something yanked you backward, hard.
you cried out as the world blurred around you, a blur of wind and sound and pressure crushing into your chest. you were flying.
your brain screamed that it wasn’t possible, that none of this made sense, but your body was already curled tight against something solid and warm. it took a second to understand that it was a person. no—not just any person.
the red and blue suit. the stupid mask. the goddamn glowing web.
spider-man.
your stomach flipped violently as the city skyline whipped past, your legs dangling uselessly. his arm was locked around your waist, firm and annoyingly confident. a glowing thread of web tech was attached to your wrist, pulsing faintly as it connected you to his suit like a leash. below you, the chaos on the street was a distant noise. above you, the clouds were streaked orange from the setting sun. around you, the wind roared.
and you hated all of it. you had always hated spiderman. he was a self-righteous, cocky, reckless menace. always showing up to destroy half the street in the name of “saving” it. and now here you were, clutched to his chest like some helpless civilian in a comic book.
“put me down!” you screamed over the wind, squirming against his grip. “what the fuck are you doing? put me down, you freak!”
“you’re welcome,” he yelled back, voice muffled through the mask.
“i didn’t ask you to save me!”
“i noticed!” he shot back, and the smirk in his voice made your blood boil.
you struggled the entire way up—clawing at his suit, kicking your legs, swearing every curse you knew under your breath—until finally, he landed with a smooth, practised thud on the rooftop of some high-rise building. your feet hit solid ground again, but your balance didn’t catch up in time. your knees wobbled, and you stumbled forward, dizzy from the whiplash and adrenaline.
“i’m going to throw up,” you groaned, doubling over.
“do it away from the suit, thanks,” he muttered.
but before you could stagger farther, a sharp tug pulled you back—your wrist yanked mid-step until your body collided with his chest again. his arm caught you instinctively, steadying you, but you immediately shoved him away, heart still racing from the fall. that’s when you noticed it.
the thread was still glowing and your wrist was still tethered to it.
“what the hell is this?” you shrieked, holding it up.
the web stretched and shimmered faintly in the light, a sickly silverish glow like it was straight out of some alien movie. it wasn’t even sticky anymore, just fused into your, skin buzzing faintly where it made contact.
“why is this still on me?! get it off!”
“working on it!” he snapped, kneeling to inspect where it fused into his own suit. “it wasn’t supposed to... uh... attach like that.”
“attach like what?” you cried, tugging violently at it. it didn’t budge. “is this a leash? did you just fucking leash me like a dog?”
“you think i wanted this?” he shot up again, exasperated. “i was in the middle of stopping a building from collapsing when you ran into the line of fire!”
“i was just trying to take the subway!”
“and i was trying to stop a criminal from levelling the station! sue me!”
the shouting echoed across the rooftop, both of you standing there like idiots with a literal glowing string binding your bodies together. your breath came out in shaky huffs. your heart was still racing—not just from fear now, but fury, embarrassment, complete disbelief that this was actually happening.
he let out a long sigh, suddenly sheepish. “look... it’s an experimental prototype. a bio-thread. reacts to certain electrical signals. and, apparently, to heartbeats.”
you blinked. “you’re kidding.”
“wish i was.”
your eyes widened as the realisation sank in. “you mean this thing is connected to—”
“your heartbeat, yeah,” he said grimly, arms crossed now.
you stared down at your wrist, horrified. “that’s disgusting.”
“that’s science,” he corrected.
you gave the web another tug, desperate and annoyed. “so how do i get it off?”
he hesitated.
“no,” you said, already dreading it. “no, don’t tell me—”
“we wait,” he muttered. “should dissolve naturally in... seventy-two hours.”
“seventy—?” you choked. “seventy-two HOURS?!”
he raised both hands in defence. “give or take. the tech’s a little moody.”
“you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“i’m really not.”
you groaned so loudly it echoed. then you slumped down onto the edge of the rooftop, cradling your head in your hands, trying not to scream into the skyline.
this couldn’t be real. it was some fever dream. you were probably still on the subway, passed out from exhaustion, hallucinating everything. because there was no way you were actually tethered to the city’s most annoying masked menace for the next three days. you refused to believe it.
but the soft glow from your wrist said otherwise.
“take me home.”
he groaned the second you said it, but you didn’t care. you crossed your arms and tilted your chin up, staring at him stubbornly as the wind from the rooftop whipped around the both of you, the glowing thread still tethering your wrist to his suit like some ridiculous sci-fi leash.
“no way,” he snapped. “i still have to go after that guy. he bombed the train platform—he’s probably already halfway across the city.”
you gaped at him. “are you dumb? you're gonna go fight a criminal—with me attached to you?”
he made a guilty little noise and glanced at the still pulsing thread between you. “...i mean. maybe.”
“maybe?” you hissed. “the police can handle him! you’re not dragging me into some vigilante war zone.”
he hesitated, shoulders slumping, and finally, with a sigh of defeat, muttered, “fine. but where the hell are we gonna live for the next three days?”
you blinked. “we?”
“we,” he said firmly, pointing between the two of you. “we’re literally bonded now. unless you wanna cuddle on a fire escape all weekend, we need somewhere to stay.”
you narrowed your eyes. “there’s no way i’m going wherever you stay. i don’t even know you. you could live in a sewer or like… some creepy underground lair.”
he looked genuinely offended as his mask scrunched up. “i don’t live in a sewer. and it’s not a lair. it’s a… small apartment. cozy, even.”
“yeah, no,” you said flatly. “you’re coming to my place.”
his shoulders sagged even further. “ugh fine. but we’re walking. i’m not swinging again with you screaming in my ear.”
and that’s how you found yourself dragging spider-man—spider-freaking-man—down the street by your wrist like some weird, reluctant pet. you ignored the way people looked. it was late, and luckily, his suit was mostly covered by the hoodie you’d given him. though he kept trying to duck into shadows, mumbling under his breath like a sulking child. the glowing thread shimmered faintly between you, pulling taut every time one of you stepped too far away.
when you finally reached your apartment building, he stared up at it with a kind of wary awe. “damn. you got a high paying job or something?”
you snorted as you opened the door. “i’m a uni student. my parents are just rich.”
he tilted his head at you as you stepped into the elevator. “what uni?”
you told him your school name without much thought, and immediately, his whole body stiffened.
“...wait,” he blurted. “me too.”
you turned to look at him slowly. “what?”
his eyes widened behind the mask. he cursed under his breath and looked away, like he’d just admitted state secrets. “shit. i didn’t mean to say that. ignore that.”
you were about to push him further when the elevator doors opened. just then, your phone buzzed. “takeout’s here.”
he startled like you’d just hit him. “you ordered food?”
“yeah,” you said, tossing your keys onto the counter as you entered the apartment. “i was starving and figured you’d eat too, unless you’re part spider and eat bugs.”
he didn’t dignify that with a response.
you handed him a pair of clean sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt you figured would fit—he disappeared into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, looking annoyingly good in your clothes. he was tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves pushed up his forearms as he sat across from you at your dining table.
you opened the takeout boxes and passed him one. “pad thai. extra spicy.”
he didn’t move.
“uh, you’re gonna have a hard time eating that with your mask on.”
his arms crossed defensively. “i don’t take off my mask in front of people. especially not people who hate spider-man.”
you scoffed, twirling a noodle around with your chopsticks. “i don’t hate you. i just think you're an annoying menace who causes more problems than he solves.”
“...that’s literally what hating me is,” he muttered.
you rolled your eyes. “look, i don’t care. you saved my life, remember? i won’t tell anyone. just… do it. you won’t survive three whole days eating through the mask.”
he was quiet for a second too long, but then hesitantly spoke up.
“...you won’t tell anyone?”
“swear on my meal,” you said solemnly.
he hesitated one last time, and then with a reluctant sigh, his gloved fingers reached up. you watched as he peeled the mask off in one smooth motion—and everything inside you short-circuited.
because holy. shit.
his face was devastatingly pretty. sharp cheekbones, soft pouty lips, golden skin that caught the light in all the right places. his hair was ruffled and messy, sticking out a little from the mask, and his eyes—big, brown, framed by thick lashes—blinked at you nervously.
“i… did not expect you to be that hot,” you blurted, mouth full of noodles.
he choked on air. “what—”
“no like—i was expecting some weird nerdy guy with maybe a beard.”
he blinked. “wow. thanks.”
you pointed at him with your chopsticks, narrowing your eyes. “wait. i know you.”
he froze at that.
“you’re… that guy from my discrete math lecture. choi yeonjun. you’re always sitting in the front row. you literally answer every question like a damn TA.”
his mouth parted slightly. “you’re the girl who sits in the column next to me. with the giant water bottle and all the highlighters.”
you paused. “...so you’ve noticed me.”
he blinked fast. “uh. yeah. i mean—you stand out. not in a bad way. just—pretty. you’re pretty. not that i notice or anything. well obviously i noticed because i just said it but—”
you snorted. “you’re really awkward without the suit.”
“i’m not—” he groaned, face turning pink. “okay maybe a little. it just gives me a different type of confidence you know?”
you grinned down at your food, heart ticking slightly faster. you didn’t know what was more surreal—sitting across from spider-man, or discovering spider-man was the hot math nerd who sat fifteen feet from you every tuesday and thursday. either way, it was going to be a very long seventy two hours.
you had come to terms with the fact that you were never going to get any real sleep. not when you were forced to lie right at the edge of your own bed, arm dangling pathetically over the side like some kind of human offering.
the glowing web tether was still stuck to your wrist, stretching toward the air mattress yeonjun had flopped onto with a dramatic sigh of exhaustion. you could barely move without yanking his entire body with you, so the only position you could settle in was an awkward sideways curl, with one arm constantly pulled down like gravity itself was trying to remind you of your very stupid, very spider-shaped problem.
you tried to sleep. really. but around three in the morning, right as your eyes were finally starting to blur at the edges, you felt a sudden hard tug on your wrist and then you were falling.
you yelped as your body was jerked right off the mattress, falling with a startled oof directly onto the unsuspecting man on the floor. yeonjun barely even stirred. he let out a sleepy little grunt and instinctively wrapped his stupid, warm, surprisingly toned arms around you like you were some oversized body pillow.
you struggled, wriggling against his grip like a bug under a glass, but it was useless. his arms were locked around your waist, one of his hands now tangled in your shirt, and you could feel the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck.
you hissed his name, trying to peel his fingers off you, but all you got in return was a sleepy pout and a grumbled, “five more minutes.” it would’ve been cute if it wasn’t so infuriating.
and okay, maybe it was a little warm. and his chest was kind of…comfortable. his stupid heartbeat was strong and slow under your ear, and you were so damn tired from the chaotic whirlwind of your spiderweb-tethered day that you just…gave in. your body melted into the warmth of his, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his borrowed hoodie, and for the first time in hours, your eyes slipped shut. surprisingly, it felt safe and grounding. like being held together by something solid in the middle of all the mess.
the next morning though, was...less cute.
“you pulled me off my bed,” you deadpanned as you sat up, pushing off his chest with an elbow. your wrist still glowed faintly, the web tether warm between your skins.
yeonjun blinked up at you, hair sticking in every direction, a blanket half-kicked off the mattress.
“huh?” he said groggily, then sat up fast as memory caught up with him. “wait—shit, did i yank you down?”
you narrowed your eyes. “yes. and then you cuddled me.”
his entire face flushed red. “i did not cuddle you.”
you crossed your arms. “you were purring.”
“that’s slander.” but he looked horrified.
the next twenty four hours were a disaster.
you tripped over the tether so many times that you started to wonder if it had a personal vendetta against your toes. brushing your teeth was like a weirdly synchronised dance of tangled arms and accidental elbow jabs. showering was even worse.
he stood frozen outside the bathroom door, your glowing lifeline stretched taut through the crack, his voice drifting through like a very flustered ghost. “i’m not peeking, okay?!”
“you better not be!” you snapped as you held up a towel like a makeshift curtain while trying to lather shampoo one-handed. “don’t test me, spiderboy, i will kill you.”
“this is humiliating for me too!” he yelled back. “i’m an icon of justice!”
“you’re an icon of annoying!”
you fought like bickering siblings who had never met before yesterday and yet were somehow stuck together for life. every time you tried to do anything, you’d hear him mutter something under his breath like, “why couldn’t i have been bonded to someone normal?” and you’d throw a couch pillow at him.
it was exactly at the point of your worst argument—over whether or not he could eat directly out of the peanut butter jar—that his watch beeped. he glanced down, cursed under his breath, and without any warning, leapt off the couch.
“wait—what the fuck—!” you screamed as your body was yanked clean off the floor.
“shit, sorry!” yeonjun called back mid-air, swinging out the open balcony door like it was a tuesday stroll. “emergency call!”
“emergency call your ass, PUT ME DOWN!”
“can’t! you’re tethered! my bad!”
you flailed helplessly as you were flung through the air, wind screaming in your ears, the skyline of the city blurring past. each time he swung, your body would arc toward him, face practically slamming against his as you bumped into him with every motion. your nose brushed his chin, your cheek scraped his jaw, and one time—one time—your lips accidentally brushed the side of his mask.
you shrieked. “stop swinging like a lunatic and hold me!”
“oh? now you care about being close to me?” he teased, voice gleeful, mask slightly lopsided.
you scowled. “if i throw up, it’s going straight into your face.”
he just laughed, and then like a showoff on steroids he flipped mid-air, feet planting against the side of a glass building, body upside down. the web between you tightened instantly, pulling you forward until your face hovered just inches from his. he didn’t move. neither did you. the air thinned between you, your breath catching as your eyes flicked to his masked face.
your lips were right there.
he grinned.
then dropped you very unceremoniously onto a nearby rooftop with a thud.
“careful, pretty,” he drawled, voice smug. “you almost kissed me.”
you gaped at him. “what the hell?”
“what?” he said innocently, crouching on the edge of the roof like the cockiest bastard alive. “don’t blame me. you’re the one who’s all over me lately.”
“you pulled me into the sky like a rag doll!”
he tilted his head. “and yet, you’re still clinging to me. hmm.”
you chucked a loose brick at him, but he dodged it and just laughed again, sunlight catching his suit as he rose higher on the building’s edge. the way he stood, so confident and self-assured, was almost unrecognisable from the shy, stammering boy who slept in your apartment and accidentally blurted compliments with red cheeks and soft eyes.
because here, like this, in the suit, yeonjun wasn’t flustered. he wasn’t awkward. he was bold and flirtatious and impossible to pin down. and it was beginning to drive you crazy.
“god,” you muttered under your breath, trying to smooth your wind-tangled hair. “your split personality is insane.”
“you like it,” he said with a wink and leapt off the rooftop again, dragging you behind him with a scream echoing into the morning air.
he was heavy in your arms—well, technically you were mostly dragging him, but still, he made a pretty pathetic sight with one arm slung over your shoulder and his mask balled up in your fist.
yeonjun winced with every step as you practically hauled him down the hallway to your bathroom, grumbling under your breath about superhero idiocy and your web-chained fate. his face was pale but smug, which made it hard to feel too bad for him, even with the deep gash on his side bleeding through the slick fabric of his suit.
“could’ve just let me bleed out on the roof,” he joked weakly, slumping down onto the toilet seat. you shot him a look and flicked the bathroom light on.
“how could i? we’re attached to each other because of your stupid web.”
he groaned dramatically as you rifled through the cabinet for your tiny first aid kit. “god, i forget how mean you can get.”
“you’ve known me for two days.”
“and i’ve never known peace since,” he mumbled, hissing when you unzipped the top of his suit. it peeled down like a second skin, sticking slightly to the dried blood at his side, and then it was suddenly just there—his torso, sculpted and gleaming faintly with sweat, all defined lines and soft curves where his skin dipped between muscle. he was flushed down to his chest, breaths short and laboured, and you hated yourself for noticing. your eyes stuttered somewhere between his collarbone and the trail of blood slashed across his ribs. he was stupidly attractive, in that way people weren’t supposed to be when they were bruised and bleeding and shirtless in your bathroom.
you blinked hard to cover it up. “you’re disgusting.”
he grinned. “you’re staring.”
“i’m assessing the wound,” you snapped, even though your voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.
you knelt beside him, pulling out antiseptic and gauze, trying very hard not to notice the way his thigh brushed your knee. he was warm and so very there, and the web tether between you pulsed quietly, glowing with soft light that gradually brightened as your hands made contact with his skin.
you swore under your breath as the tether suddenly shortened, dragging you even closer until you were practically perched on his leg, trying to clean the gash with shaking fingers.
“stop moving,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.
“you’re literally sitting on me.”
“and you’re literally whining like a baby,” you shot back.
“sorry, i didn’t realise getting stabbed meant i had to also deal with you sitting on me and insulting me,” he grumbled, but there was no bite to it. his voice had dipped lower and softer, with a strange edge of tension beneath the banter, which curled around your lungs and squeezed.
you froze when he tilted his head to look at you, eyes dark and voice barely above a murmur.
“you gonna kiss me or just keep staring?”
you froze at that, heartbeat thudding louder making the web glow brighter. you stared at him, caught between the heat of his skin under your hands and the dare in his voice.
but then your hand shot up and smacked his chest, hard enough to jolt him, and you scrambled off his lap, trying to hide your flaming face behind pure rage.
“get dressed, freak!”
he laughed as you stormed out of the bathroom, muttering something about how you were the weirdest civilian he’d ever met. you didn’t respond with youe usual snarky response as you were too busy pressing your hands to your face and praying the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
later, the both of you ended up back in your bed this time, lying stiffly on either end like two strangers forced to share a lifeboat. the air mattress plan was abandoned mutually, after both of you admitted it had been a disaster the night before. this was... better. except for the thing between you. the glowing thread, taut and warm, stretched like some cursed lifeline from your wrist to his. you turned to your side, glaring at the ceiling.
“this is insane,” you muttered.
“you think?” he sighed. “i was testing a prototype, not... roping myself to a civilian.”
you glanced over at him. his face was turned toward the ceiling too, dark in the low light, jaw sharp and brows furrowed in thought. then he spoke again, voice quiet and strange.
“it’s supposed to sync with biological emotion markers. that’s what the tech does. it connects based on stimulus—heartbeat, adrenaline, whatever.”
he then paused as both of you looked down at the web connecting your wrists. it was glowing again.
brighter.
“is it—” you swallowed, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. “—is it reacting to me… or to you?”
his eyes flicked toward you. something unreadable settled into his expression as he shifted, leaning slightly closer. the tether pulsed, light blooming a little brighter between your wrists. you felt your skin heat where it touched the sheets, the air between your bodies shimmering with something you didn’t want to name.
his hand moved, slow and hesitant, fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid of scaring you off. it was the first time he touched you that gently. like he wanted to. like this was something he wasn’t allowed to want.
your breath hitched.
but then he blinked, the moment cracking in half as he leaned away quickly and gave a sheepish laugh.
“sorry, i’m being so weird,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “goodnight.”
you stared at him as he rolled to his side, facing away, shoulders tense.
your hand drifted to the tether between you which was glowing faintly now. like it, too, was pretending none of that happened.
the next morning, you woke with a heavy feeling in your chest, the warmth of yeonjun's body pressed against your back where he'd somehow started spooning you during the night.
the cursed bio-web glowed faintly between your wrists, its light weaker now but still stubbornly connecting you to the sleeping superhero whose arm was currently crushing your diaphragm. you tried to shift away, but the movement yanked yeonjun's wrist sharply toward you, jolting him awake with a grunt.
"mmph—w'shappening?" he slurred, blinking sleepily as his free hand came up to rub his eyes. then he froze, suddenly very aware of how his body was molded against yours, his nose buried in your hair.
"oh. uh. morning."
"morning," you muttered, refusing to acknowledge how nice his sleep-rough voice sounded this close to your ear. the web pulsed between you, responding to your elevated heartbeat like the traitor it was.
yeonjun cleared his throat and attempted to roll away, only for the tether to snap taut, dragging you both into an awkward mid-air collision of limbs.
"right. forgot about that," he mumbled, his cheeks pink as he untangled himself. "three days can't end fast enough."
the words shouldn't have stung, but they did.
the day passed in strange pockets of silence and unexpected intimacy. making breakfast was, again a clumsy dance of coordinated movements—you cracking eggs onehanded while he reached across you for the spatula, his chest brushing your back in a way that made the web flare brighter.
by afternoon, you'd developed an unspoken rhythm. studying on the couch meant yeonjun's legs thrown over your lap, his toes occasionally flexing against your thigh. you told him about your classes, the professors you loved and hated, the little things that made you feel like home. he told you about his family, his friends’ relentless teasing, and how sometimes being spider-man meant missing out on the simplest moments. you laughed more than you expected, but the heavy feeling in your heart didn’t go away.
as sunset painted your balcony in gold, you stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the web's glow grow fainter.
"think it'll hurt when it breaks?" you asked, trying to sound casual.
yeonjun flexed his wrist. "dunno. never stuck myself to a pretty girl before."
"shut up," you said without heat, your traitorous pulse making the thread brighten.
right as you said that, without any ceremony it suddenly dissolved. one moment the connection was there, thrumming with energy. the next, there was nothing. your wrist felt strangely light, the skin unmarked as if the tether had never existed. the sudden freedom was more disorienting than the fall from the subway platform three days ago.
yeonjun cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. "so. uh. guess i should..." he gestured vaguely toward the skyline.
"yeah," you agreed too quickly. "crime to fight. people to save. all that."
an awkward beat passed before he suddenly pulled you into a stiff hug, his hands patting your back like he was unsure of what he was doing. "see you in class," he mumbled into your hair before releasing you like you'd burned him.
you nodded, a little breathless. “yeah.”
you watched quietly as he slipped the mask back up, eyes meeting yours one last time before he waved goodbye and launched himself into the air with a graceful swing. the sight left a hollow ache in your chest, the cool evening breeze whispering around you as you leaned on the balcony railing and closed your eyes.
just as you were wondering how the hell you were going to say hi to him on campus, a shadow suddenly blocked the fading sunlight in front of you. you opened your eyes and smiled. there he was—spider-man, hanging upside down right before you. the mask’s white eyes blinked slowly, hesitating.
"miss me?"
you let out a startled yelp which turned into a punch that sent him swinging backward with a laugh.
"you absolute asshole!" you hissed, heart hammering. "what the hell are you—"
"forgot something," he interrupted, catching himself on the railing. his voice was oddly nervous as the white lenses of his mask stared at you. "the web's gone but... my chest still feels kinda tight? like there's still a tether there. that's... not normal, right?"
you blinked. "your... chest?"
"yeah." his gloved hand came up to rub at the black spider emblem. "right here. it's weird. hurts a little. think i need you to check—"
"you're such a terrible liar," you breathed, but your hands were already reaching for his mask. this time, you pulled it all the way off.
yeonjun's face was flushed, his lips slightly parted as he stared at you with an expression so open it made your knees weak. there was no smugness behind it, just nervous hope.
"so?" he whispered. "you gonna check or what?"
your fingers curled around his jaw. "shut up and kiss me, spider-boy."
he didn't need to be told twice.
the first kiss was messy—yeonjun still upside down, your hands fumbling with his hair as he gripped your waist to keep you both from toppling over. your upper lip brushed against his lower one first, that plush swell of his mouth impossibly soft against yours, and then he was kissing you back properly, his lips moving with a desperate hunger that made your head spin. the contrast was intoxicating—the way your upper lip caught slightly on the perfect curve of his lower one before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that had you clutching at his shoulders for balance. when you bit his lower lip, he actually whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises.
"fuck," he panted when you broke apart, his pupils blown wide. his lower lip glistened where you'd nipped it, that perfect pout even more swollen now. "was that—are we—"
"if you don't kiss me again in the next three seconds, i'm pushing you off this balcony."
he grinned, wild and bright, before surging forward. this time, he flipped mid-kiss, his body twisting until he was pressing you back against the railing, his thigh slotting between yours. your upper lip caught on his again in that delicious way, the sensitive skin tingling where it dragged against the fuller curve of his lower lip before his tongue swept into your mouth.
the heat of him was everywhere, his hands roaming your back with none of the hesitation he'd had while tethered. when you moaned into his mouth, he swallowed the sound greedily, his lower lip catching on yours as he pulled back just enough to tease before diving in again.
"still think i'm a nuisance?" he murmured against your lips, his teeth scraping your jaw, his lips brushing yours with each word.
"shut up," you gasped, arching into him. your lips dragged against his as you spoke, the fleeting contact making him shudder. "just because i want to make out with you doesn't mean i approve of your reckless vigilantism."
yeonjun laughed, the vibration travelling straight through your chest as he lifted you effortlessly onto the railing. your legs locked around his waist on instinct, his hands gripping your thighs as he kissed you again, deeper this time. his lower lip slotted perfectly between yours, that plush softness yielding to your teeth when you bit down gently, and the groan it tore from him was better than any sound you'd heard in your life.
"good thing i don't need your approval," he teased between kisses, each brush of his lips against yours more deliberate now, his upper lip catching on yours in ways that made your toes curl. "just your mouth. and your hands. and maybe—"
you cut him off with another kiss, your fingers tightening in his hair. the city stretched out below you, endless and bright, but all you could focus on was the way yeonjun shuddered when you tugged him closer, the way his heart pounded against yours —no web needed this time to prove you were connected.
﹙ 💤 ﹚ ぃ ──── ❝ IN A WORLD THAT NEVER FELT LIKE HOME, RIKI WAS THE ONLY PLACE YOU BELONGED ❞
PAIRING : best friend ! riki × afab reader
SYNOPSIS : When your parents see perfection in everyone but you, even the boy who’s been your best friend since you were five becomes a painful reminder of what you’re not. Riki has always been nonchalant, always protecting you in quiet ways—even when you didn’t notice—but years of comparison have left you bitter. Between after school badminton matches, whispered rants, and the moments he almost says more, you’ll have to decide if the one person you’ve always had is also the one person you can’t lose.
GENRE : comfort, teen angst and some more angst.
WARNING(S) : mentions of blood/periods, child abuse, teenage angst, reader is neglected as a kid, breach of privacy (reading diary), lack of communication, reader blames riki of all people, use of profanity... if there's more please lmk.
WORD COUNT : 37.4K (got too attached...)
NOTE FROM RIRI , my first ever long published fic on here. and I know this is probably gonna flop lol but let's be honest, instead of throwing it in the dustbin—i wanted to give it a try. so here you go, I know some of it is really repetitive but I tried and I wanna grow. so, please throw some feedback in my direction 🌀
You sit on the swing, your sneakers brushing the sand beneath as you sway gently, back and forth, back and forth. The playground feels loud with other kids’ laughter, yet somehow it’s quiet for you. Your eyes keep darting toward your parents, who are standing a little distance away, lost in conversation with the other grown-ups. Their voices overlap—laughing, nodding, chatting about things you don’t understand.
It makes your chest feel heavy, like maybe you don’t belong here at all. Maybe you shouldn’t have even come with them. What was a five-year-old supposed to do at a gathering where no one seemed to notice her? You thought, just maybe, your parents would find someone who also had kids so you’d have company. But no. They’re too busy, and you’re stuck here, swinging alone, pretending it doesn’t bother you.
“Hey! Why you sitting alone?”
The sudden voice startles you, and your swing slows. You turn your head and see a boy about your age standing a few feet away. He’s holding a chocolate bar—well, what’s left of it—and half his tiny hands are smeared with melted brown streaks. His lips too, shining with chocolate like he’s been eating without a care.
For a second, you scrunch your nose in disgust. Sticky hands, sticky mouth—ugh. But then he bites off another piece, chewing happily, and somehow you can’t help staring.
“Mama and Dada are too busy talking,” you mumble, your lower lip jutting out as you pout.
The boy tilts his head, then suddenly brightens up. “Then why don’t you play with me?”
He grins so widely it almost looks goofy, then marches toward you like he’s on a mission. He extends his little chocolate-stained hand with way too much seriousness for a child. “Riki,” he says, as if introducing himself in a board meeting.
You blink at his hand, hesitate, then carefully slip yours into it, ignoring the stickiness. He shakes it firmly, proud of himself.
“Wanna be friends?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
Something warm flickers in your chest. Maybe kids don’t need big reasons to be friends—just a smile, a question, a hand held out. So you nod, shy but certain, a smile tugging at your lips too.
“Cool,” he mutters, sounding satisfied. Then without warning, he tugs you right off the swing. The chains creak and the swing sways wildly behind you as you stumble after him, tiny feet scrambling to keep up.
A laugh bubbles out of you despite yourself. “You’re not gonna kidnap me, right?” you tease, eyes wide but playful.
Riki gasps dramatically, pressing his messy hand against his chest like you’ve just accused him of the worst crime in the world. “Me? Kidnap you? Do I look like a bad guy?”
You giggle, shaking your head, your smile refusing to fade. The swing is forgotten, your parents’ laughter in the distance no longer stings. Because right now, you’re not alone anymore.
You let him pull you across the park, his small hand sticky in yours, until you stopped in front of two adults sitting on a bench. You guessed they were his parents.
The lady had a soft glow about her, cheeks pink like she’d just come from the sun. The man rose with an easy smile, kneeling down just as Riki barreled into his arms.
“Dada!!”
“What’s up, my little boy?” his father’s voice was warm, the kind that made your chest tighten. You frowned without meaning to. Why was he so nice? Wouldn’t that spoil him? Your dad never hugged you like that—he always said too much affection would ruin you.
“I made a friend!” Riki pointed at you proudly. His father pulled back just enough to look at you, still crouched at his son’s height. His smile didn’t falter even when you shifted awkwardly in your little pink dress, twin ponytails bouncing as you bowed politely, the way your parents had taught you.
“Aww,” his mother cooed, her eyes soft as she watched you. You tilted your head, confused but shy, lowering your gaze to your shoes.
“How respectful. Such a sweet friend you have,” she murmured, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a small chocolate and held it out to you.
You froze. “But aunty, mama said not to take things from strangers.”
Her smile didn’t waver, not even a flicker of offense. “But I’m your friend’s mother, aren’t I? Still—it’s okay if you don’t want it.”
Before you could answer, Riki snatched it from her hand with his sticky fingers. “I’ll give it to her!” he grinned, holding it out like he’d solved the problem. His mother sighed, part amused, part disappointed, but said nothing. He was only a kid, after all.
“Come on, let’s go,” Riki said, brushing his hands against his shorts and reaching for yours again. You glanced back at his parents, bowed once more, then let him lead you away from the bench.
“Your dad is so weird,” you muttered once you were out of earshot.
“Why do you think so?” he asked absently, his little arms full of tiny badminton bats and a shuttlecock his dad had handed him. You hadn’t even noticed when.
“Because he’s too sweet,” you mumbled, following him back to the swings. The park felt quieter now, almost empty.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Riki asked as he unwrapped the chocolate, holding it out to you again. You shook your head, but his face fell a little. “Take it—you’re my friend, right?” His eyes searched yours with such simple honesty it made you hesitate.
You sighed softly, sitting back on the swing. “How is that good? Aren’t dads supposed to be strict and cold? So we don’t grow up spoiled?” You pointed at a man sleeping on a bench nearby, clothes wrinkled, face tired. Maybe he’d lost another job, maybe he had no home. “Like that uncle…”
Riki didn’t answer right away. He frowned, fiddling with the chocolate wrapper. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “But that’s not his fault. And… isn’t being sweet the best thing a person can be?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The thought was too big, too strange for your little mind to untangle. Instead, you finally took the piece of chocolate from his hand and nibbled on it.
Riki watched you with a small smile, happy you accepted it, but still puzzled by the way you thought. Maybe you’d understand someday. For now, you were just kids—kids who didn’t know yet how the world really worked.
“Forget it. You wanna play?” Riki asks suddenly, brightening up again as he thrusts one of the mini badminton rackets toward you. It’s so small that it looks like a toy, but to you, it feels like something out of the television.
“Woahhhh…” you mutter in awe, eyes wide. You hold the racket carefully with both hands, almost like it’s too precious to touch. You’ve only ever seen players on TV during sports matches, their rackets tall and shiny. This one is tiny, childish—but real.
Then the amazement fades, and a small wave of sadness creeps in. Your lips tug downward as you whisper, “But… how are we gonna play if I don’t know how?” Chocolate smudges your lips as you frown, feeling a little embarrassed.
Riki tilts his head, studying you. For a moment, he looks very serious, as if his little brain is working way too hard for a problem like this. Then his face lights up. “Easy! I’ll teach you. Tomorrow, okay? You’re gonna be at the playground, right?” His grin stretches from ear to ear, full of excitement.
You blink at him in confusion. “But why not now?”
“Because…” he drags the word out dramatically, almost guilty, “it’s time to go home. I wanna watch my favorite cartoon.” His voice softens, like he doesn’t want to admit he’s choosing cartoons over playing.
“Ohhh…” you murmur, your shoulders sinking. Your face drops into disappointment so quickly it surprises even you. From the corner of your eye, you see your parents finally starting to walk toward you, and your chest grows heavier. For the first time that evening, you don’t want them to reach you. You want to stay here, standing with Riki, holding the silly little racket.
Your throat tightens. To your horror, your eyes water, a sting you don’t know how to stop. You sniffle quickly, wiping your face with the back of your hand.
Riki notices immediately. “Are you crying?” he asks softly, his sticky little fingers brushing against your cheek in concern. His touch is gentle, hesitant, almost protective.
You shake your head fast, not wanting him to know. “I just… tired,” you lie, trying to smile even as your voice cracks a little.
He studies you, then slowly pulls his hand away, still giving you that tiny frown of worry. He doesn’t push it though. Kids don’t always ask too many questions when they don’t understand.
By then, your parents are close enough to hear. Riki straightens suddenly, shoulders back, enthusiasm bubbling in him as he blurts out, “Hello, aunty! Hello, uncle! I’m her new friend!” His white little teeth shine as he grins, proud of himself for saying it.
Your mother’s eyes crinkle in surprise before she smiles warmly. “Aww, did our daughter make a new friend? What a little gentleman, hmm?”
Relief washes over you. For once, your mother isn’t frowning, isn’t scolding. She doesn’t even mention the rule about no male friends at home. You breathe easier, your tiny fists unclenching at your sides.
Then you glance up at your dad. He’s smiling too, polite, approving even, at Riki. Bitterness twists in your chest. Why couldn’t he smile at you like that? Why was it always easier for him to show kindness to strangers than to you, his own child? The urge to stomp your tiny fists against his legs flares inside you, though of course you don’t. You just swallow it down, like always.
Meanwhile, Riki’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink, his grin still sheepish. “I’ll go now, uncle, aunty! My mama and dada must be waiting for me!” He bobs his head respectfully before running off, clutching the rackets and shuttlecock like treasures.
You watch him dash back toward the other side of the park, his small figure shrinking the further he goes. A pout tugs at your lips as you sink into yourself. It hurts—more than you expected—to watch him leave. You know he has to, of course he has to, but that doesn’t stop the selfish wish that he’d stay just a little longer.
For the first time all day, you feel the weight of something you don’t have words for yet. A quiet ache that lingers as you stand in the fading sunlight, chocolate still sweet on your tongue.
“Stupid girl! Can’t even wipe off the chocolate? And what have I told you about taking food from strangers?” Your mother’s voice cuts sharp the moment Riki is gone, no trace of the soft tone she’d used before.
You flinch at the sudden change, your tiny shoulders curling in. Tears prick your eyes, but you bite them back, refusing to cry here in the middle of the park. She kneels in front of you, pressing a handkerchief so roughly against your mouth that it almost hurts, scrubbing away the smudges of chocolate.
You lift your gaze to your father, watery eyes pleading, your bottom lip jutting out in a small pout. It’s the kind of look that would melt anyone else’s heart—but not his. He glances once, then turns his face away, as if it doesn’t matter. The sting in your chest deepens, heavier than your little body knows how to carry.
“Sorry,” you whisper, voice so small it nearly disappears. You lower your head and let your mother grip your hand tightly, leading you out of the playground. Your father follows silently, his footsteps steady but distant, like he isn’t really there.
Your eyelids grow heavy as you shuffle along, fighting against the sleep pulling at you. Your mother keeps talking, her voice filling the silence. “He was such a cute little boy. But if he knew how messy you were, he wouldn’t like you at all.”
Her words sting, though you’re too tired to answer. Your steps wobble with each drag of your feet, the ground blurring beneath your sleepy eyes. You barely notice when your body gives up, when your legs stop holding you up.
Then suddenly, you’re lifted. Strong arms scoop you off the ground, and before you know it, your head is resting against your father’s shoulder, your tiny legs dangling on either side of him. His back is warm, his stride steady, and for the first time today you feel… safe.
Half-asleep, your small arms loop around his neck, clinging to him. “Daddy… you’re my hero,” you mumble, voice slurred with drowsiness.
His reply is quiet, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “Is that so?”
Your mother glances over, and for once her lips soften into a smile, a moment of warmth slipping through.
You sigh, nestling into your father’s shoulder. And even though chaos always waits for you at home, right now, in the fading light of afternoon, you let yourself smile too. For a little while, it feels like home.
⪩⪨
The next day, you spend the morning pacing around the house, clutching your little hands together, trying to think of how to ask. How could you convince mom? She was always tired, always busy. But you had made a promise. You told Riki you’d come. And breaking a promise wasn’t something friends did.
Taking a deep breath, you shuffle into the kitchen where she’s standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, her hands busy in the soapy water. You pad over on your small feet and wrap your tiny arms around her legs, pressing your cheek against her thigh—because that’s all your height allows.
“Moooommy?” you draw out the word sweetly, hoping it will work.
She sighs, not even looking down, already guessing what’s coming. “What is it?” Her voice is tired, her shoulders slouched from the morning chores.
“Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna go play with my new friend!” you beam up at her, eyes sparkling. You squeeze tighter around her legs, trying to look as cute as possible.
Finally, she glances down at you, her expression weary. “You just want to run off again? After everything I have to do in this house?” She shakes her head, annoyed, and turns back to the dishes.
You pout, puffing out your cheeks, but you don’t let go. “Please, Mama! Just a little while! He’ll be waiting for me…” Your puppy eyes shine as you tilt your head, your lips curling into your very best begging smile.
But she only sighs louder, flicking her wet hands once in frustration. “If you have so much free time, why don’t you help me with chores instead? The laundry is sitting there, the floor needs sweeping, and here you are thinking of playing.”
Your shoulders slump immediately. You loosen your arms from around her legs and step back, staring at the ground. You know better than to push. When mom uses that tone, pleading more is dangerous.
So you turn, your little heart sinking, and spot your father on the couch. The television glows in front of him, the news humming in the background. He sits quietly, half-listening, phone resting beside him. Your last hope.
Biting your lip, you shuffle over, tugging at his shirt sleeve since that’s all you can reach. “Daddy,” you call softly. When he doesn’t look, you climb awkwardly onto the couch, your tiny hands gripping the cushions as you pull yourself up until you’re sitting right beside him. “Daddy,” you say again, more hopeful this time.
He hums absently, eyes still on the screen.
You lean closer, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Can you take me to the playground? Please? I wanna play with my friend.” Your voice wavers, the words tumbling out quickly like you’re afraid he’ll say no if you don’t get them all out at once.
He blinks, glancing from the television to you, then to your mother still clattering dishes in the kitchen as she mutters to herself about housework and how no one helps her. He presses his lips together, clearly torn. Staying here meant more of her complaining in the background. Taking you out meant peace.
“Okay,” he mutters finally, grabbing the remote and switching the TV off with a click.
Your eyes widen, disbelief flooding in before joy explodes across your face. “Really?!” you squeal, bouncing a little on the couch. Without thinking, you throw your arms around him in a hug, squeezing tightly.
He chuckles quietly, patting your head once before standing up.
You hop off the sofa, practically skipping to the door, your grin stretching ear to ear. “Thank you, Daddy!”
Pulling on your shoes in a hurry, you rush out, your little feet tapping against the pavement as you skip ahead. Behind you, your father follows at his steady pace, phone in one hand, his gaze occasionally lifting from the screen to keep an eye on you. The playground isn’t far, but to your excited little legs it feels like the most important journey in the world.
Your heart pounds with anticipation. You can already picture Riki waiting, badminton racket in hand, that goofy grin on his face.
You promised. And you kept your promise.
Once you reached the park, you glanced back at your dad. He was still glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily, barely noticing you as you skipped faster toward the swings. The second your eyes caught Riki sitting there, kicking the dirt as his swing rocked back and forth, you forgot all about your father.
“Yah!” Riki huffed the moment he spotted you, jumping off the swing with an exaggerated frown. “Do you know how long I waited? I thought you weren’t coming!” His arms crossed like he was about to stomp away, but his lips twitched at the corners.
You pressed your lips together, puffing your cheeks before muttering stubbornly, “I promised.” Then, louder, prouder: “And I keep my promises!”
His pretend scowl broke into a bright grin. “Okay, okay. I believe you now.” He nodded seriously, as if stamping approval on your words, before holding out the tiny racket in his hand.
Your eyes lit up. “We’re really playing?” you asked, almost bouncing in place.
“Yep.” He puffed out his chest, looking very much like a little coach, and stepped a few paces back. Holding the shuttlecock in one hand, he called out, “Ready?”
You clutched the racket, nodded eagerly, and then—whiff. The shuttlecock fell flat at your feet.
“Oh,” you mumbled, biting your lip. You tried again. Miss. Again. Miss. After six straight misses, you plopped down on the ground, hugging your knees and pouting so hard your cheeks trembled. “I’m sorry I keep missing. I’m just… bad at this.”
Riki tilted his head, his eyes softening. He walked over and crouched down in front of you. “Hey. It’s okay,” he said with a little shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “When I played with dad the first time, I missed sooo many shots. Like, more than you.”
You peeked at him through your knees, unconvinced.
“You only feel sad if you’re not even trying,” he reasoned, leaning closer, his tiny voice gentle. “But you’re trying. So why be sad, huh?”
Before you could answer, his fingers reached forward, pinching your cheeks just enough to tug your lips into a goofy smile. “See? Like that.”
You couldn’t help it—you giggled, swatting his hands away. “Okay, okay! I’ll play again.” You stood up, dusting off your shorts, determination back in your eyes.
“That’s the ghost!” Riki declared suddenly, pointing at you with a grin.
You blinked at him. “…It’s spirit, Riki.” You corrected him seriously, like a teacher.
He just shrugged, unconcerned. “Yeah, yeah. Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, because fighting with your only friend felt silly.
The game went on, and you lost more times than you could count. Still, Riki never complained. He cheered when you hit the shuttlecock—even if it flew the wrong way—and clapped whenever you tried again. His encouragement made the air light and warm, and you forgot how bad you thought you were.
So much so that you didn’t even notice how late it had gotten until your dad finally walked over from the bench.
“Time to go, sweetheart,” he called gently.
Your lips drooped into a tiny frown, and you waved your hand in a slow goodbye. Riki mirrored your frown, raising his own little hand and wiggling his fingers at you until you turned away.
Even as you trudged back to your dad, a small smile tugged at your face. You had learned something new that day—not just badminton, but the strange, wonderful way a promise could tie you to someone.
Your legs feel heavy as you trail behind your dad, his eyes glued to the glowing screen in his hand. You tug at his pants with your tiny fingers, your voice soft and tired, “Daddy… can you carry me? My legs are soooo tired.”
He finally looks up from his phone, sliding it into his pocket as he crouches down in front of you. “Come on, hop on.”
With a small grin, you climb onto his back, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a sleepy little koala. Your cheek presses against his shoulder as you murmur happily, “Riki taught me badminton today.”
“Is that so?” he hums, his voice warm in a way it rarely is these days.
“Mhm. He’s sooo cool, Daddy. Just like you,” you mumble, half-proud, half-dreamy.
That makes him chuckle softly, his pace slowing as something catches his eye. He points ahead, mischief in his tone. “Does my baby want some ice cream? But no telling Mama, alright? Our little secret.”
Your head pops up instantly, eyes sparkling as you spot the vendor. “Ice cream?! Yes, yes, yes! Ice cream!”
He laughs—an honest laugh that makes your little heart flutter because it feels so rare. “Alright then. What flavor does my princess want?”
“Strawwwberry!” you squeal, tripping over the word but too excited to care.
Still perched on his back, you beam as the vendor scoops the pink swirl into a cone and hands it over. Your dad pays, and you immediately lick the melting sweetness, humming in delight. “Mmm! So yummy.”
The night air feels softer with the ice cream in your hand and your dad’s steady back beneath you. Between licks, curiosity bubbles up, and you blurt, “Daddy? Why did you marry Mama?”
He stiffens just slightly, but you don’t notice, too busy giggling at the strawberry smudge on your lips. “Mama’s always mean,” you complain innocently, “but you’re not. Well, you’re also mean sometimes, but not always.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer, his steps slower now, quieter. The smile he had a minute ago slips away into the shadows, but you’re too busy munching the cone to see.
When you’re done, he gently sets you down a little away from home, wiping your sticky mouth with a handkerchief. “Here,” he says softly, slipping a mint candy into your palm. “So mama won’t know.”
You giggle, unwrapping it quickly. “Best day ever,” you whisper through tiny crunches.
Hand in hand, you step into the house only to hear mom’s sharp voice cut through the air, scolding and frustrated. Your dad says nothing this time, sinking onto the couch with the news playing in the background.
The laughter from earlier feels like a fading dream. Your chest feels tight, like something caged inside, but you don’t quite understand why. You just quietly slip into the big bed you share with them, curling into the middle spot because you’re too scared of sleeping alone—too scared the monsters might find you.
To you, your parents are still heroes, no matter how much they fight. They’re your shield, your safe place. And lately, you’ve found another small safe place too. The playground. Riki. The boy who swings beside you and smiles when you smile, who doesn’t laugh at you when you fail.
He’s only been your friend for a little while, but somehow, with him, you don’t feel so lonely anymore.
At home, things were always confusing. One moment the house would be filled with laughter—your mom clapping her hands at something your dad said, your dad teasing her back—and you’d think, maybe this time, everything will stay like this. But it never did. The laughter would be swallowed up by shouting, voices clashing in the living room, throwing around words you didn’t even know yet
Words too sharp for your tiny ears. You’d sit on the edge of your parents’ big bed, clutching your stuffed toy to your chest, wondering if maybe you were the reason they were angry. Wondering why you felt so small in a place that was supposed to make you feel safe.
⪩⪨
You couldn’t keep it inside anymore. So the next day, when you dragged your feet to the playground, shoulders slumped, badminton racket hanging loosely in your hand, Riki noticed right away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his little brows furrowing, placing one small hand on your shoulder. His touch was gentle, careful, the way kids do when they don’t know how to comfort but want to anyway.
“I’m gonna be a big sister,” you mumbled, your lips twisting into a pout.
For a moment his face lit up. “Oh! Isn’t that good?” His smile was wide, his voice bright, like the news was a celebration.
But you just shook your head hard. The happiness in his eyes faltered when he saw the way yours were glistening with tears.
“Everybody only talks about the new baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “They only care about him. It’s like I don’t even exist anymore.” The words spilled out with the frustration you didn’t even know how to name, your palms covering your face as if hiding could stop the tears from slipping out. You were just a kid, but even kids could feel what it meant to be forgotten.
Riki’s small hands awkwardly patted your back. “I notice you,” he said, his voice soft, almost like a secret.
A broken laugh escaped your lips, muffled against your palms. “I know you do… but you’re not big like them. You can’t make them listen.”
“Why does being big matter?” he asked simply, tilting his head.
You had no answer. Just silence, your shoulders shaking as you sniffled, and his tiny hand still on your back, steady like an anchor.
It was in moments like these, sitting side by side in the half-empty park with your rackets forgotten in the grass, that something unspoken tied you together. A bond you didn’t know how to describe but knew you’d keep forever.
⪩⪨
Afternoons became your escape—chasing shuttlecocks across cracked pavement, your laughter echoing louder than the silence of your home. Riki always had snacks tucked into his bag, biscuits or candy his mother slipped in for both of you. He never seemed to notice the way your eyes softened whenever he handed them over, but you noticed the difference between his world and yours.
His house felt warm, not because it was bigger or brighter, but because his parents treated him and his sisters with a kind of love you couldn’t imagine. The way his mom called him in for dinner with a smile, the way his dad ruffled his hair, the way his sisters giggled with him—it was so normal for him, but for you, it felt like a dream.
And then there was Jiho. Your baby brother. Two years old, stumbling around with that endless grin. Everyone adored him. Your parents’ voices softened for him in a way they never did for you. And though you wanted to hate him for stealing away all the love you once had, you couldn’t. He was too small, too innocent. None of this was his fault. Still, every time you watched your mom cradle him close, every time your dad’s eyes lit up when Jiho babbled his name, your heart ached with something you didn’t have a name for yet.
It wasn’t fair. It was never fair.
So you stayed at the park longer. You stayed at Riki’s house longer. Because being with him didn’t feel like being invisible.
The TV was loud, voices from a drama spilling into the room, but your mom’s own voice was louder to you.
“Stop messing around near Jiho while he’s sleeping.”
Her words came tired, like she didn’t even want to say them, but they still pressed heavy on your chest. You sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping biscuits into the warm milk like you always did, trying so hard to be careful, to be quiet.
But then she said it again, sharper this time.
“Can you be quiet? Don’t wake up Jiho with those sounds.”
You peeked toward the crib where Jiho stirred in his sleep. You didn’t want to wake him, not when mom already looked like she was about to snap. She lay on the couch, her eyes half-closed, like the glow of the TV was more important than you. So you tried to stand, tried to tiptoe away before you could ruin anything.
But your foot hit the cup.
The hot milk spilled across your foot, stinging like fire, and you couldn’t help it—the scream ripped out of you before you could swallow it down. “Mo-m!”
Jiho woke with a wail, his little cry filling the room, and everything seemed to break at once. You thought maybe she’d come to you first. She always did, even if she was mad, even if her words hurt. You thought she’d grab a cloth, wipe your foot, blow on it, say something soft. But instead.
A sharp sting exploded across your cheek.
Her hand.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS WITH HIM OR AROUND HIM!”
Her voice cracked like thunder in your ears. You froze, your tears mixing with the burning on your knee, but the slap hurt worse. It wasn’t just your skin that stung. It was the way her eyes looked at you like you were the problem, like you were too much.
You stared down at your feet because you couldn’t look at her anymore. Your voice was small, shaky, and broken when you whispered, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” but she didn’t even hear it. Or maybe she did and didn’t care.
Your whole body shook as you ran, stumbling toward the door, leaving the spilled milk on the floor, leaving her anger behind, leaving Jiho’s cries echoing in your head. You ran like you always dreamed you could—away, far away, somewhere nobody could tell you you weren’t enough.
The park was empty. The sun was dipping, shadows stretching across the swings. You crawled under the big green dinosaur slide, the plastic still warm from the day. Your cheek throbbed, your foot burned, and you pressed your face against the cool metal floor, trying to make the pain stop.
Your sobs echoed under the hollow slide. Loud, ugly cries that you couldn’t hold in. You wanted someone—anyone—to scoop you up and say you mattered. But no one came. Not your mom, not even Riki.
So you curled yourself small, like maybe if you were tiny enough, nobody would notice you or yell at you or hit you again. Your eyes stung, your body ached, and slowly, slowly, you drifted off to sleep to the sound of your own crying.
And even though you were only seven, somewhere deep inside, you already knew: home wasn’t really home.
After about an hour, you’re woken up by that same sweet voice you always wait here for. “What are you doing here so early?”
You blink, rubbing your swollen eyes with the back of your fists. The voice feels like safety—warm, familiar. “Riki…” you mumble, his name coming out small as you see him standing there. Your cheeks are sticky from dried tears, lips pushed into a wobbling pout as you try so hard not to cry again. But the moment you see him, it breaks.
“Riki…” you repeat, this time a shaky sniffle escaping before your tiny chest caves in. “I– I’m not okay!” The words crack as you burst into messy sobs, the kind that hurt your throat.
Riki just stares at you, wide-eyed and worried. He doesn’t really know how to fix it—he’s just a kid too—but his little heart knows enough. “I know… I’m here… I’m listening.” His hands, small and clumsy, reach forward to hug you. You collapse into him right away, burying your face against the spot where his heart beats. His shirt smells faintly like soap and sunshine, and even though he doesn’t understand everything, he holds you as if he does. His own eyes grow glassy, tears slipping out without him even realising, because seeing you hurt makes him hurt too.
You ugly cry into his chest, hiccupping against him as the words pour out. “Momma… she… she yelled at me… I was only trying to help with brother…” The sobs shake your whole little body, but Riki’s hands keep patting your back in uneven circles, the way he’s seen adults do.
His voice is quiet, careful. “What about your foot?”
You sniffle, following his gaze down to where the skin is red and blotchy. You’d almost forgotten about it, the sting in your chest swallowing everything else.
“I burnt it… I spilled the milk,” you mumble, wincing when his fingers brush too close. “It hurts—don’t touch.”
Riki frowns, his brows scrunching up. His eyes dart between your feet and your face. “Did you… get yelled at because you spilled the milk?”
You nod, lips trembling. His arms tighten around you, and for a moment he hides his face in your shoulder as if he’s the one about to cry harder. He wipes his own tears quickly before using his palm to wipe yours, clumsy but gentle, smudging away the salt from your cheeks.
“Come,” he says firmly, tugging your hand. “You need ice.”
“I don’t wanna go back home…” you whisper, your voice raw from crying. Your nose is runny, your eyes too puffy to open all the way. What hurts most isn’t the burn, it’s that your mom didn’t even notice—and your dad didn’t come looking.
“Then… come to mine.”
You freeze, blinking up at him. “But your parents…?”
Riki shakes his head fast, a faint smile tugging at his lips through the tears. “My mom always says to bring you home. So this would be the first time.” His little hand tightens around yours, not giving you the choice to hesitate.
He pulls you along the tiny streets, both of you sniffling but together. His house isn’t far, and when he stops, you see a simple, neat home, smaller than yours but standing proudly.
“My home!” he announces, chest puffed out as though he’s showing you a castle.
You nod slowly, your hand still in his. The hesitation lingers, but as you step closer, the warm air from inside drifts out, smelling of soup and laundry soap, nothing like the heavy silence you left behind.
“It’s… happy,” you whisper, eyes wide as you take it in. You want to say pretty, but happy feels better—happier than your own house has ever been. And you know Riki wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Riki!! Are you back?”
You flinched at the sound of his mother’s voice. Your hair was tangled, your eyes swollen from crying, and your dress was ruined with sand and dirt from sitting on the ground for so long. You expected her to wrinkle her nose, maybe even scold you for being messy. But instead, her face softened with concern. She looked from her son to you, spatula still in one hand like she had rushed out in the middle of cooking.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did Riki do something? Why are you so…” she trailed off, her lips pressing together. She didn’t want to say “dirty,” even though that was the word hovering on her tongue. She searched for something gentler, more respectful.
“Her mother yelled at her. She spilled milk on her foot, so it’s a little burnt,” Riki answered all at once, too calmly for someone his age, though you could see the traces of dried tears on his cheeks.
His mother’s breath hitched. For a moment, she just stared at you, like the air had been knocked out of her chest. Then she knelt, free hand reaching out to cup your chin and tilt your face up toward her. Her touch was warm, so unlike the sting still burning on your cheek. When her eyes dropped to your feet, her expression crumpled.
“Oh, gosh…” she whispered, her voice breaking. She almost looked hurt herself as she went back inside the kitchen. Before you could say anything, Riki tugged at your hand, urging you gently toward the door. “C’mon.”
“My clothes are dirty,” you murmured, hesitant. The floors inside their house were clean, shining as if someone had spent hours scrubbing them. You didn’t want to ruin them, not when you already felt like trouble.
“Mama won’t mind. C’mon,” Riki insisted, pulling you forward without a second thought. Dirt clung to your dress, flaking onto the spotless floor, but he didn’t care.
Inside, you avoided the couch, too scared of leaving marks on it. Instead, you sank onto the floor, curling up like you were trying to disappear. Your body felt heavy from all the crying, exhaustion pressing down on your little shoulders.
Riki’s mother returned quickly, a small bowl of ice cubes in her hands. Her eyes stayed on you, full of a quiet, aching worry. She knelt again, lowering herself to your level. “Poor girl,” she whispered, more to herself than to you, as she pressed a cold cube against your reddened skin.
You whimpered and tried to pull your leg back, the sting of the ice too sharp, but her hands held you gently, steadying you. Not rough. Not angry. Just firm enough to help.
“Mama…” Riki’s voice was soft, almost pleading. “Can you call her mama and tell her she’s here? She’ll be worried.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. How could he? Riki still believed all mothers worried the same way his did.
His mother’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but she closed them again. She only nodded, though the look in her eyes gave her away—she knew more than she let on. Maybe she wanted to call, maybe she wanted to march over there and scold your mother, but she didn’t. Because people didn’t. They told themselves, what happens in someone else’s home stays there.
And so she said nothing. She told herself it was just this once. That maybe it would never happen again. After all, you didn’t show up like this afterward. Not crying. Not broken like that day. But she was wrong. It never really stopped.
⪩⪨
Instead, things only grew worse as you got older. But somehow, with Riki beside you, it never felt unbearable. He had this strange way of making the weight on your shoulders feel lighter, like life wasn’t just about surviving—it was about finding little reasons to be alive. The roof over your head might have been called home, but it never felt like one. The air there was heavy, the walls held too many raised voices, and yet all of that faded into background noise the moment you were with him.
When his parents decided to switch him to your school, it felt like the universe had handed you a miracle. You still remembered how excited you’d been, buzzing with energy in class, waiting for him to walk in and take the empty seat beside you. That decision—simple as it was—felt like one of the best things his family could have ever done. From then on, your days weren’t just bearable, they were good. Really good.
Your mother and his mother began talking more often after that. Usually it was small exchanges—arrangements to pick you up from Riki’s home, or polite smiles when they crossed paths. Oddly enough, Riki never once set foot in your house. He never insisted, and you never invited him. Some things didn’t need to be explained; you both just understood. He was as much a stranger to the cracks in your home as you were.
Your little brother didn’t make it easier. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you treated him gently at first, the way you thought an older sibling should—patient, protective, forgiving. But he grew into everything you hated. At five years old, he was already testing every ounce of your patience.
He tore your books apart, page by page, laughing while you tried not to cry. And your mother? She brushed it off as innocent curiosity. “He’s just a child,” she’d say, lifting your things onto a higher shelf instead of correcting him. That was what stung the most—not his little hands ripping your hard work apart, but the silence that followed. The refusal to tell him it was wrong. And like a sponge, he absorbed that silence, learned from it.
Soon, he began to cry whenever you were near, twisting the narrative until you were the troublemaker. You got scolded, he got away with it.
Badminton became your escape. You and Riki, rackets in hand, the sound of the shuttle cutting through the air—it was your little therapy session. You’d rant about your brother, about your mother, about all the unfairness packed into the small corners of your house. Riki would listen, really listen, his forehead damp with sweat, his silence full of understanding rather than judgment.
Your father, though, was a ghost. He left early, came back late, his presence measured in shoes by the door or the faint smell of cologne clinging to the air after he brushed past you. It wasn’t suspicious—both you and your mother knew he was working hard, harder than most, to keep food on the table and a roof above your heads. You told yourself you should be grateful. You tried to be.
But there was still this invisible wall between you and him, this widening gap you couldn’t bridge. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe it was. You didn’t know. What you did know was that the disconnect ached in quiet ways—you wanted him to see you, but he always seemed too tired to.
Still, on weekends, he tried. He really did. You’d catch him sitting on the sidelines while you and Riki played, his face unreadable, his hands folded over his stomach. Maybe he was proud, maybe he was just catching a rare breath from the chaos of his work life. Either way, those moments became the threads you held onto—the proof that he hadn’t given up entirely.
⪩⪨
“You’re gonna participate, right?” Riki asked, the two of you slouched in your usual hideout—that corner of the school where no one could see you, but you could see each other just fine. Badminton rackets lay abandoned beside you, both of you too drained to move after playing until your legs wobbled.
“In the kids’ badminton tournament?” you asked back, voice muffled as you took a bite of the sandwich Riki’s mom had packed. The bread was soft, the edges a little warm still, and it almost felt like comfort more than food.
“Yeah, that one.” He leaned over to steal a bite from your half without asking, chewing with that casual ease that said this is normal. It never made him jealous when his mom did things for you—in fact, it felt like an unspoken pact between the two of you. His mom filled a role yours never did, and neither of you ever talked about it out loud. You just knew.
“Not joining,” you said without hesitation, wiping your fingers on your skirt. “I don’t wanna get humiliated publicly after losing.”
“Who says you’d lose?” His brows furrowed, as if your words personally offended him.
“Riki,” you sighed, shaking your head. “If my opponent was you, I’d walk off the court before I even tried. You’re way too good. But hey—if you need a hype girl, I’ll scream the loudest for you.” You smirked around another bite, crumbs sticking to your lips.
“That’s not what I meant, dumbo.” His voice dropped into a grumble, but his frown gave him away. “If you won’t participate, I won’t either.” He stood up as if he were really about to leave, racket in hand, but then hesitated, his head tilting in that way he always did when his brain was spinning too fast. “Wait… would your mom yell at you if you signed up?” he asked carefully.
You shook your head, lips twitching at his attempt to connect the dots. “Wrong guess,” you murmured, amused at his determination.
“Then… oh! Is it because if you join, you’ll have to place first, otherwise your parents won’t be happy?”
You didn’t even bother denying it, just muttered, “Bingo,” brushing crumbs off your palms like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.
Riki’s face fell. He sat back down, mumbling, “Then don’t tell them. We’ll just… keep it a secret.”
“Oh yeah?” You gave him a pointed look, smacking the top of his head lightly. “And when they ask for a guardian’s number and signature, who exactly am I supposed to write? Yours?”
He rubbed the spot you hit, lips pushing into a pout. His voice came quieter, almost sulky. “So you really wouldn’t try? Not even for me?”
That one stung. You froze, sandwich halfway to your mouth, guilt twisting in your chest. You wanted to tell him you wanted to, that you wished things were different—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you shook your head, because saying anything else felt like a betrayal of the rules your parents had written into you.
He didn’t wait for more. With a huff, he grabbed his racket and the shuttlecock, stomping away without looking back.
And that emptiness? It settled heavy in your chest, pressing until your throat burned and your eyes watered. You told yourself not to cry, but by the time you walked home, your cheeks were sticky with tears you kept trying to wipe away. By the time your house came into view, you’d forced yourself quiet, but your eyes were still puffy and raw. You kept your gaze fixed on your shoes, praying no one noticed.
“Mom! Noona’s back!” your little brother’s voice rang out the second you stepped through the door.
You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached. Of course he’d notice. Of course he’d announce it like it was breaking news. You turned, glare sharp with all the exhaustion and hurt bottled up in you.
For a split second, he froze, wide-eyed. Your red, swollen eyes must’ve scared him enough that he actually shut up. He looked like he thought you’d kill him right there if Mom wasn’t in the next room. He gulped and quickly looked away, keeping a safe distance as you climbed the stairs. You didn’t even bother hiding your glare—it was sharp enough to make your younger brother freeze for a second before deciding it was best not to push his luck. By the time you reached your room, you slammed the door shut, locked it, and collapsed face-first onto your bed.
The tears came harder now, muffled into your pillow as your chest heaved. Everything felt too much—the pressure at home, the tournament, and that stupid Riki. He didn’t even bother texting you after storming off, and the thought made your stomach twist. You almost wanted to learn every curse word in Japanese just to spit them at him for acting so immature. (Not that ten-year-olds really knew better.)
Instead, you cussed under your breath in your own language when you heard footsteps in the hallway. Yes—three languages: Korean, English, and the language of footsteps. You could always tell who was coming by the rhythm of their steps, and right now, the steady, heavy pace made your shoulders sink. Mom.
“Not even a hello when you came home?” her voice scolded from behind the door.
You pressed your lips together, biting back the words you wanted to say. Go away. Leave me alone. But instead, you exhaled and tried something else—something you’d picked up from all the soap operas she watched. You delivered it flatly, not as a question but as a statement: “I’m joining a badminton kids’ tournament.” There was a pause. “That’s what this is about? Jiho told me you were crying when you came in.”
Your heart clenched. You hated how fast it beat whenever she brought Jiho into things. You wanted to scream at that brat for ratting you out, but instead you muttered, “I wasn’t crying because of that.”
“Then open the door.”
“No. Go away.”
Her sigh was heavy before her footsteps retreated. Relief washed over you, though it didn’t stop the ache in your chest. There was no point in letting her in—she wouldn’t comfort you anyway. She’d probably call you weak for crying over something “so small.” And you weren’t ready to hear that. You hadn’t been ready for years.
Still, at least she hadn’t forbidden the tournament. Small victories. Your dad? He wouldn’t show up either way, buried in his work as always. You doubted he even cared. But somehow, even that faint permission—her not saying “no”—felt like a tiny crack of air in the suffocating space you lived in.
⪩⪨
“Riki!” you yelped, stumbling back a step as you tried to keep up with his hits. He was way too energetic today, smacking the shuttlecock like it had personally wronged him. The tournament was tomorrow, and ever since he found out your mom had finally agreed to let you play, he’d been bouncing off the walls with excitement.
“What? Can’t a guy be happy?” he grinned, smug and mischievous, as you returned the hit with equal force. Your chest tightened a little, the memory from yesterday creeping back in, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Why did you want me to play in the tournament so bad, huh? Do you even know how much it hurt when you just… left like that?”
The shuttlecock shot past him before he could react, and with his usual clumsy grace, he stumbled back, swung too late, and ended up crashing straight onto his butt. You froze for half a second, concern flickering in your eyes—then broke into uncontrollable laughter at the sight of him sitting there in the sand, glaring like a sulking puppy.
“You’re such a meanie. Not even gonna help me?” he whined dramatically, brushing at the dirt on his shorts. Rolling your eyes, you trudged over and offered your hand. He smirked as if the universe had just handed him a golden opportunity. Instead of standing, he yanked you down beside him.
“Riki!” you shrieked, landing hard on the sand. Pain shot up your knee, and you winced as you realized you’d scraped it. “You hurt me, idiot!” You swatted at his arm, glaring at him.
He laughed at first, that same carefree laugh that always got under your skin—but when he noticed the smear of red forming on your skin, his smile dropped instantly. His eyes widened, his hand hovering awkwardly, guilty and panicked all at once.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no—” he stammered, his voice high-pitched in panic. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to prank you, I didn’t think you’d actually get hurt—oh my god—” He reached out without thinking, brushing the edge of the scrape with his thumb. You flinched and smacked the back of his head.
“It hurtssss!” you cried dramatically, clutching your knee.
He blinked down at the little droplet of blood staining his fingertip, frowning at it like it was some dangerous discovery. You gave him a look of absolute disgust. “You’re not about to lick it like a vampire, are you?” you deadpanned.
His head shot up, his face twisting in horror. “What?? Ew! No! Who even does that? I was just—just checking how bad it was!”
You burst out laughing despite the sting in your knee. It was ridiculous, really—if it had been anyone else, you probably would’ve cried and sulked. But with Riki, even pain somehow felt… bearable. “Don’t worry,” you said with a crooked grin. “I’m a strong girl, remember?”
He rolled his eyes at your bravado but didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned closer, his hair falling into his eyes, and gently blew over the scrape like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You squealed and kicked your feet. “That tickles! What are you doing?” you laughed, though you didn’t stop him.
“Shh, it helps,” he muttered seriously, mimicking what he’d seen his mom do countless times.
And maybe it was silly, maybe it was childish—but with the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin, and the sand clinging to both your clothes as you sat side by side, none of it really mattered. The world was small and simple in that moment. Just you, him, and the thought of tomorrow’s tournament that made your hearts race in unspoken sync.
⪩⪨
The next day, your mom tied your hair into a neat ponytail — maybe the first time in forever she was actually in a good mood. But, of course, standing right beside her was that little menace, your younger brother, smirking like the devil himself had given him private lessons. You swear, if looks could smack, he’d already be rolling across the ground crying. How could a five-year-old be so good at getting under your skin?
Junhee stood on your other side, beaming like the human version of sunshine, her palm warm as she patted your back. You’d been friends since the moment you stepped into school — or maybe more like she decided you were her friend and that was that. Either way, she stuck. She didn’t know the mess waiting for you at home, but she understood enough.
“You’re gonna do amazing!” she grinned, giving your back another encouraging pat before nudging you gently toward the court.
You silently prayed. Like really prayed. That if God actually existed, He’d spare you the humiliation of going up against Riki. But the universe clearly had jokes, because the moment your name was called, there he was—racket in hand, calm and cocky like losing wasn’t even in his dictionary.
“All the best,” he said casually, like he wasn’t your biggest nightmare wrapped in a ten-year-old’s body.
You tried to smile back, but your face cracked somewhere between courage and panic. Turning quickly, your eyes found Junhee, your mom, and—ugh—your annoying little brother, all watching from the stands.
Your palms were sweaty against the racket handle. The first serve flew, sharp and clean. You hit it back, gritting your teeth. Rally after rally, your arm burned, your legs wobbled, and then—you missed. Once. Twice. A third time. Enough to end it. Enough for him to win.
Losing wouldn’t have stung so bad if it was just between you and him. But losing in front of everyone? In front of your mom? That was a whole new level of misery. Your eyes darted toward the stands, desperate for even one glance of reassurance. Instead, you found clapping hands—not for you. For him. Your mother’s smile stretched wide, your brother cheering like he’d personally won. Not even a flicker in your direction. Not even one.
When the announcement rang out declaring Riki the winner, you trudged off the court, face set in a scowl, your throat tight with words you couldn’t say. “Hey!” you heard him call after you, but you didn’t turn. Not when Junhee was already waiting. Not when shame still burned hot in your chest.
“To a ten-year-old me,” you thought bitterly, “this was the end of the world. Proof that I just wasn’t good enough.”
“You did good, don’t worry,” Junhee murmured, her hand finding its way to your back again. Maybe it was her tone, or maybe it was just the way no one else even tried, but before you knew it, you wrapped your arms around her. No words. Just quiet.
Meanwhile, your mom was busy gushing over Riki, her voice soft and sweet in a way it never was with you.
“You’re my only friend now,” you muttered into Junhee’s shoulder, refusing to spare even a glance in Riki’s direction.
Junhee groaned, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You always say that. And then, like, two days later you’re back on the court with him.”
“Yeah, whatever. I don’t wanna talk about it.” You plopped into the nearest chair, sulking hard.
But no matter how much you tried to brush it off, the truth clung to you like thorns. Watching your mom fuss over someone else’s kid—your best friend of all people—it was like a nail driven straight through your chest. You wanted to scream: Make it make sense. But you didn’t. Because by now? You were already used to it.
Her words cut sharper than she realized.
On the way back home, she couldn’t stop talking about Riki—how she always knew he was bound to win, how he was a “gifted child,” how you should learn from him. Every sentence left a bitter taste in your mouth. You stared out of the car window, trying to tune her out, but the way her voice carried, the way she sounded almost proud to say you should “be more like him,” it made your chest tighten until all you could do was roll your eyes.
⪩⪨
When you turned twelve, it worsened.
She’d hit you playfully, jokingly, for things your brother had done. But it didn’t feel like a joke. Not when her palm stung against your arm, not when your cheeks burned from humiliation. At twelve, you couldn’t help but think—maybe it really was your fault. Everything was always your fault. So, you hugged your pillow at night, burying your cries into it, biting down hard on your lip to keep from sobbing too loud. Slowly, you even grew distant from Riki—not because of something he did, but because he was the root of the comparisons. If he wasn’t so perfect, maybe things would be different. Maybe you wouldn’t feel like you were always falling short.
When sports day rolled around, you wished your parents would stay home. The thought of them watching, of their disappointment if you failed, made your stomach twist. But of course, they showed up. Your brother tagged along too, his little smirk making your insides churn. You could already imagine the taunts waiting for you if you didn’t place at least third.
You stood on the court, gripping your racket so tightly your knuckles whitened, shaking from the weight of all the what-ifs. Across from you was Minjae—your classmate, someone undeniably good at badminton. Maybe not as good as Riki, but better than you. Much better.
“What? Scared?” Minjae smirked, leaning on his racket.
You narrowed your eyes, forcing your voice steady. “You should be.”
He raised a brow, amused. “Ohh?”
The round began.
Riki was on the sidelines, cheering you on with every hit. His voice gave you courage you didn’t think you had, and for once, you were playing well—shockingly well. Each strike of the shuttlecock made your chest swell with pride, even as Minjae started panting from the effort. Both of you were one point away from winning, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.
And then it happened.
You swung your racket—missed by an inch.
Your heart sank. The shuttlecock hit the ground. Minjae threw his hands up, shouting in triumph. His cheer echoed louder than the crowd’s, louder than Riki’s encouragement, louder than anything else. To you, it sounded like confirmation—confirmation that someone had beaten you. Again.
Back with your parents, you forced a frown into something more neutral, though it didn’t work. You hoped, prayed, they wouldn’t say anything. But of course, they did.
Not in public.
At home.
It was almost cruel how casual it sounded when your mother muttered, “Why did you have to miss that last shot? You were going to end up placing at least third.” She stirred the pot on the stove like she hadn’t just stabbed you in the chest. Your father sat in the living room scrolling through his phone, only shaking his head in disappointment. Your brother giggled. The sound made you want to disappear.
“I tried, okay? I did try!” The words burst out of you. You didn’t even know where the aggression came from—maybe from years of being treated like you weren’t enough. Maybe from realizing you never would be.
“And trying doesn’t matter unless you win,” your dad called out, his voice sharp and dismissive.
Your mom nodded, glaring at you. “Now, you’re going to apologize for raising your voice. Or should I make you?”
Your gaze flickered to the slipper resting near her foot. The air left your lungs. Still, you found yourself whispering, trembling but stubborn: “Why should I apologize when it’s not my fault?”
The words weren’t even fully out before the sting of the slipper landed on your skin.
⪩⪨
“Wait—she hit you with the slipper for that?” Riki’s voice was heavy with disbelief through the phone. You lay curled up on your bed, face buried into your pillow, tears soaking the fabric.
“Yeah,” you sniffled. “She said I shouldn’t yell. But then she went and hit me.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. You hated how powerless you sounded, how small.
You’d tried telling Junhee once, but all she said was, “I don’t believe it. Your mom’s so sweet.” Of course she was sweet—to everyone else. To the neighbors, to your teachers, to anyone who wasn’t you. Sometimes you wondered if you and your mother had been enemies in another life and she alone remembered it.
And your dad? He used to stand up for you. Used to. Now, all he did was nod along with her, back her up, call you a spoiled brat for daring to ask why you were always treated differently. If this was what caring looked like to them, you didn’t want it.
⪩⪨
“How long can I stay here?” you whispered later, sitting on the edge of Riki’s bed. Your eyes were still swollen from crying, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You’d run away—kind of. You weren’t sure how long it would last.
“As long as you want, of course.” He paused, lips twitching into a grin. “As long as you do my homework.”
You smacked his arm, huffing. “You’re so selfish.”
“Am I?” he giggled, before lunging forward to tickle you. The suddenness of it knocked a laugh out of you, and for a moment, you both rolled onto the mattress, giggles spilling into the air.
But then—A knock on the door.
You froze. You weren’t used to parents knocking. At home, doors were barged into, no privacy spared. But here, in Riki’s house, his mother stepped in gently, carrying a tray.
Fresh strawberries.
Your eyes widened. Strawberries were a once-a-year kind of thing at your home, a rare treat. Here, she offered them casually, like it was nothing.
You sat up straight, bowing your head, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like you had to shrink to be accepted.
“Always so respectful,” his mother muttered with a fond smile before adding, “You can stay as long as you want, sweetie.”
Your heart warmed at her words, and you bowed your head politely. “Thank you so much, aunty,” you said, your smile stretching wide.
As soon as she left, though, Riki’s expression changed into his usual unimpressed stare. “You’re so respectful to everyone else but treat me like your personal servant,” he complained, dropping onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. A tray of strawberries and a little bowl of melted chocolate sat between you two, and he immediately picked one up, dunked it into the chocolate, and popped it into his mouth like a king at a feast.
You scrunched your nose. “Well, if anything, shouldn’t I be the servant? Look at you, having a rich boy snack like you’re in some drama.”
He smirked and without warning shoved a strawberry into your mouth, making you nearly choke. “Just eat, dummy. I bet you skipped lunch again.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “How’d you even know?”
“It’s obvious,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, his tone laced with that annoying mix of smugness and care. “Your stomach’s been growling since you got here. You were too busy crying and complaining to notice, but I did.” His playful expression faltered slightly, his brows tugging together. “But… I’m kinda upset you didn’t tell me. Do you not consider me a friend?”
You stopped mid-bite, staring at him. His words sounded so earnest that it almost caught you off guard. You forced a smile, teasing lightly to keep the air easy. “If I didn’t consider you a friend, why would I be here, huh? I’ve known you for seven years, Mr. Nishimura.”
“That’s not the right way to eat it, idiot,” he cut in, ignoring your answer as he grabbed another strawberry—half-bitten by him, of course—dipped it generously into the chocolate, and held it up to your lips. “Here. Like this.”
You leaned in reluctantly, took a bite, and immediately recoiled, your eyes narrowing at him. “Gross. Don’t ever do that again. Peasant.”
His grin widened, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Why? Afraid you’ll get addicted to my saliva?”
Your hand immediately grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked it against his face. “Yeah, exactly that.”
“Ah—violent grandma strikes again,” he said through his laughter, pulling the pillow away and watching your irritated expression with delight.
You rolled your eyes and grabbed another strawberry, this time dipping it into the chocolate the “proper” way. When you looked back, though, he wasn’t reaching for food. He was just… staring at you. His grin had faded, replaced with something softer, almost serious.
“Can you promise me something?” he asked quietly, eyes locked on yours.
You paused, blinking. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll always come to me when something bothers you. No matter what it is.” His voice was low, steady, almost too mature for the boy who just joked about saliva.
Your lips tugged into a small smile, though your chest tightened at the sincerity in his gaze. “Of course, duh. Who else is gonna listen to my endless complaining?” you joked, nudging his arm lightly to push the weight of the moment away. “I really hope you’re not pranking me right now.”
“I’m not,” he said simply, still holding your gaze. No grin. No teasing. Just him being Riki in the most honest way.
The room fell into silence after that, but it wasn’t awkward. It was… nice. Comforting. The kind of silence where you didn’t need to fill it with words. You dipped another strawberry into the chocolate, and for once, he didn’t complain about how you were doing it wrong. He just sat there, watching, like that promise meant more to him than he wanted to admit.
⪩⪨
Since that day, it became an unspoken rule. For you, because sneaking into Riki’s room had turned into a habit—even though technically, you didn’t have to sneak anymore. His parents never minded; they adored you, often joking that you were their extra child. But you liked the thrill of rebellion, the way your heart raced as if you were breaking some secret law every time you crept upstairs after a late-night practice session. And for Riki, he had gotten so used to your presence that he would leave the window unlocked without ever asking. It was your little secret.
Many small and big things happened as you both stumbled closer toward their teenage years, but one particular memory stood out in a way you would never forget.
It happened on a regular weekend afternoon. You had been at Riki’s house, hanging around after practice like always. One moment, you had gone to the bathroom. The next, you were locked inside, breath shaky, eyes wide as the sight of dark red stained your underwear.
You thought you were dying.
“Are you mad at me?” Riki’s muffled voice broke through the wooden door, nervous and unsure. His knuckles tapped against it gently, then harder when you didn’t answer. “Why are you not opening? Do you wanna poo poo? Is that why you’re taking so long?”
Your chest tightened, tears spilling over as you clutched your knees. The words escaped in a trembling sob. “I-I’m gonna die. I’m bleeding.”
Riki froze on the other side of the door. His mind scrambled, his small hands shaking even as he pressed them against the cool surface of the wood. “...Bleeding? From where?” His voice cracked, trying so hard to stay calm even though he was on the edge of crying himself.
“My private part.” The words came out barely above a whisper, humiliation burning your cheeks.
“What? I couldn’t hear you. Say it again,” he urged, because he thought maybe—just maybe—he had misheard.
You bit down on her trembling lip before whispering louder, “My private part.”
Riki’s face turned pale. His thoughts went wild—blood was dangerous, blood meant injury, meant danger, meant losing you. And yet, in his panic, his mouth betrayed him. “I should let Auntie know so she can apologise to you before you—”
“RIKI!”
He winced at your shriek, heart hammering in his chest. “Okay, okay, no time for jokes,” he muttered quickly, though the nervous humor had slipped out without meaning to. He thought for a second, voice shaky. “How would you feel if I made jokes while you were bleeding from your—” He swallowed hard, words cutting off. “...Okay, actually don’t say it. I’d die on the spot if that happened to me.”
Your sobs grew louder, echoing in the bathroom. The sound cut right through him. He couldn’t stand there anymore. His legs moved on their own as he ran down the hallway. “Riki! Don’t leave me alone!!” your broken voice cried after him, desperate.
“I’ll be back, I promise!” he shouted over his shoulder, skipping down the stairs two steps at a time. “I’m going to get my sister!”
The urgency in his voice made his older sister’s door rattle with his pounding. Inside, Konon was half-lost in her music, bobbing her head with oversized headphones when the noise finally made her rip them off with annoyance. She swung open the door, ready to scold him—until she saw his face.
Riki was sweating, breathing like he’d just outrun a ghost. His wide, frantic eyes darted up at her as if she were his only lifeline.
“What happened? Why do you look like you saw a demon?” Konon asked, eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s about my friend!” Riki’s words came out in a rush. “She—she’s bleeding from her private part.” His voice cracked on the last words, eyes glossing with tears again. “Should we call an ambulance? Please, I don’t want her to die! We—we even have a school project to finish!” His voice broke, small and raw, as he wiped his tears messily with his sleeve.
Konon blinked. And then—she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Not at you, never at you—but at the sheer panic twisting Riki’s usually calm face.
“Why are you laughing??” Riki snapped, glaring at her as if she were the cruelest sister alive. “Do you not care she’s gonna die?”
“Riki,” Konon said between small giggles, “she’s not dying. She’s just on her period.”
He stopped dead. His eyebrows furrowed, his lips parting as if she had just spoken a language he didn’t understand. “...Her what?”
Konon just sighed, rolling her eyes in amusement before heading back into her messy room. She rummaged through her drawer, pulling out a pad. “It’s called menstruation, idiot. It’s normal. She just needs this.” She waved the pad casually in his face, not even phased by his confusion. “Now, where is she?”
Still unconvinced, Riki hesitated, but his heart ached too much at the thought of you crying alone. “Upstairs,” he muttered skeptically, pointing toward his room. His steps were quick, leading her back, every fiber of his body screaming that he had to protect you—even from something he didn’t fully understand.
The sound of your sobs still leaked under his door when they reached it. Inside, you were a trembling mess, tissues clutched in your fists as you tried wiping blood that wouldn’t stop, underwear ruined, fear clawing at you that something was fatally wrong.
And then came the soft knock. Konon’s voice, calm but firm. “Hey. It’s me. Can I come in? I’ll help you, I promise.”
For the first time in minutes, you felt a sliver of relief. Riki stayed hovering by the door too, fists balled tight, as if guarding you from the world—even though he didn’t yet understand it was the world of growing up you were stepping into.
“Sweetie? Are you in there?” Konon’s voice breaks through your panicked sobs, and you take a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to the cool bathroom door before whispering a broken, “yes.”
The door cracks open just enough for her to slide her hand through, holding out a pad. You blink at it, sniffling as though it might bite you. “What is this?” you ask, staring at the plastic-wrapped mystery.
“Take it,” she says softly. Her tone is gentler than usual, patient even, and you accept it because… well, what other option do you have? You clutch it like it’s some kind of lifeline. “…Am I gonna die?” you whisper, your voice trembling with genuine concern.
“No, you’re not gonna die,” she assures you, crouching slightly so her voice meets you at eye level even though the door is still mostly shut. “It’s just periods. It happens to every girl when she grows up.”
Your brows furrow as you sniff again, whispering, “But… but I didn’t bleed through my private part before…”
Before Konon can answer, Riki—who’s been lurking like a curious cat—blurts, “Wait, wait, wait. She’s BLEEDING?!” His tone is so dramatic that it only makes your panic worse.
Konon shoots him a sharp glare. “Riki. Leave.”
But of course, he doesn’t. He leans against the wall, wide-eyed, whisper-yelling like this is some horror movie. “You mean she’s gonna bleed every month?! Like… every single one?!”
“YES. Now shut. up.” Konon grits her teeth, trying to stay sweet for your sake, but her eyes are promising Riki a very slow death later.
You’re too busy trying not to cry again, fiddling nervously with the pad in your hands. “…But how do I even use this?” you mutter, peeking through the crack in the door.
Konon freezes. Clearly she wasn’t ready for that question. “Uh… okay… so, you… um, you unwrap it, stick the big side at the back of your underwear and the smaller one in the front. It’s… it’s like a diaper, but not. It’ll soak up the blood.”
You nod slowly, not fully understanding but trusting her word. Inside the bathroom, you clumsily follow her instructions, biting your lip in concentration like you’re solving a math problem. When you finally step out after konon had left, your eyes are red and puffy, your nose is still running, but at least you’re dressed again. Riki stares at you like you’ve come back from war. He remembers Konon’s warning and wisely keeps his mouth shut… for all of two seconds.
“You okay?” he asks as you flop onto his bed dramatically, curling into a ball and clutching your stomach.
“Fuck no,” you groan, your voice muffled against his pillow. “My stomach hurts like hell.”
Riki blinks, then concludes with all the seriousness of a scientist. “So this is what turns girls scary every month, huh? My sissy turns into a monster too. You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He freezes, like a deer in headlights, before whispering, “…Yep. Definitely scary already.” The glare intensifies. He gulps and quickly offers you a cookie from his drawer as a peace offering.
⪩⪨
Later, when school lessons finally cover periods properly, you’re absolutely furious. Sitting in the classroom, your pencil snapping in half as you mutter, “Why the hell didn’t they teach this BEFORE when it actually happened?” Riki snickers, elbowing you. “Told you it was like a monster power-up.”
You jab him in the ribs.
But if that was embarrassing, nothing tops what he does at fourteen.
One afternoon, he comes your home bruised, shirt collar crooked, one knee torn open and bleeding. You gasp when you see him limp inside, cotton and antiseptic already in your hands before he can even sit down. “What happened?!” you scold, kneeling in front of him.
He shrugs, wincing as you press the cotton to his wound. “Some guy sat in my seat.”
“…And?” you ask slowly.
“…And I wanted to sit beside you. So I fought him.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “You WHAT?”
He tries to play it cool, lifting his chin. “I wanted to sit there, beside you.”
You let out an exasperated tssch, blowing on his scraped knee before dabbing it again. “You idiot. You could’ve just asked me to sit with you on another bench! Was there any reason to fight someone twice your size?”
Riki winces again but smirks like he thinks he’s cool. “Look, I could’ve won, okay? He’s just… a little stronger.”
“Yeah, yeah. At least you admit it.” You shake your head, trying to suppress a laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. Your laughter slips out anyway, and his cheeks flush pink as he shoots you his best glare. “Don’t laugh at your hero.”
“Oh, so now you’re my hero too?” you tease, grinning as you tape a bandage onto his knee.
He grumbles something under his breath, and even though you pretend you don’t hear it, you catch the words “…Always will be.”
⪩⪨
Junhee had been leaning against the railing for a while, eyes following you and Riki. She nudged Minjae with her elbow, whispering like she’d just uncovered the biggest secret in school. “Dating or not?”
Minjae tilted his head, squinting in the most exaggerated detective-like way as if the truth would suddenly appear if he stared hard enough. “Has to be dating. Have you looked at her—she’d literally be blowing on his wound like some drama heroine.” His tone was smug, like he’d just solved a crime.
Junhee rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Please. They’ve been doing that since they were kids. Every time one of them tripped, scraped, or cried, the other would be there. It’s just… them.” She said it with a sigh, like she was tired of explaining the obvious.
“Yeah, but doing it as kids and doing it as teens?” Minjae raised a brow, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Totally different thing. They’re probably dating and just keeping it secret. Wanna bet? A full month of homework on the line.”
Junhee finally turned to look at him, unimpressed. “You’re too confident for your own good.” But she extended her hand anyway, that competitive spark in her eyes. “Fine. If they’re not dating by the end of the year, you’ll be my homework slave. If they are, I’ll be yours.”
They shook on it, sealing what might’ve been the most intense deal of the semester.
Safe to say, Junhee walked away victorious. By the end of the year, Riki and you were still… Riki and you. Chaotic, inseparable, loud, but oblivious to every outsider’s assumption. Minjae groaned through every assignment he had to finish for Junhee, and for weeks, he’d glare daggers at the two of you whenever he spotted you together. Sometimes he’d throw in a muttered, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.
You noticed, of course. One day you asked Junhee about it, since she was good friends with him. She just shrugged with that “don’t ask me” look. So you let it go. Maybe Minjae was just being his usual weirdo self.
That evening, you dragged yourself home, body heavy with the kind of exhaustion only fourteen-year-olds seemed to feel after a long day of school and drama. All you wanted was to collapse into bed, bury your face in your pillow, and pretend the world didn’t exist. But then your mom’s voice cut through the quiet of the house, sharp and expectant.
“Did you finish your homework?”
You froze for a second before answering. “Just doing it, Mom!” you called back, hoping your voice sounded convincing enough. Dragging your feet to your desk, you pulled a random math book out of your bag, flipping it open. A pencil found its way between your fingers, tapping on the paper as though deep thought was happening—even though you hadn’t solved a single equation.
A moment later, your door swung open. The hinges creaked, and even though you’d been expecting it, your heart still jumped. Privacy wasn’t a concept in your house. The “no locking doors” rule wasn’t just a rule—it was law. You’d argued about it once, but where else could a fourteen-year-old go? You learned to live with it.
Your mother stepped in, her eyes scanning the scene: you at your desk, pencil poised, homework open. She gave the briefest nod. “Good.” That was it. No smile. No pat on the back. Just that single word before she turned and left, the door swinging shut again.
It was rare, her saying anything close to approval. “Good” was the highest form of praise she allowed herself, like the word might burn her tongue if she lingered on it too long. And as much as you told yourself it didn’t matter, it always stung. Which was probably why, every time Riki told you he was proud of you—no matter how casually, no matter if it was over something as small as answering a quiz question right—you felt the burn of tears behind your eyes. You’d bite your lip and laugh it off, but deep down, his words filled a space that had been empty for a long time.
Badminton had long slipped out of your life, and you couldn’t help but miss it. Back then, it came with the crushing weight of expectations, yet you still found comfort in the sound of the shuttlecock, in the way your body moved instinctively across the court. Now, it was forbidden territory. Your days weren’t spent chasing birdies across a net but staring blankly at diagrams of the human heart, all the while wondering why the one beating in your chest felt so hollow and lonely.
It was just you and your pitifully low grades. Not because you were stupid—you knew that much—but because somewhere along the way, you had lost the will to even try. And when you did try, when you sat down to actually study, your mother’s sharp words—“What’s the point of studying if you can’t bring in the grades?”—would slice through the fragile focus you’d built. They made you want to give up entirely, so eventually, you did.
Riki noticed. He always noticed. He tried to rope you in with group study sessions, dragging Minjae, Junhee, and you together in one room. But the truth was, those evenings ended up being less about textbooks and more about whispered gossip, inside jokes, and laughter that never stayed quiet. Still, he tried. He explained the topics you stumbled over, walked you through problems patiently. But even he couldn’t keep sacrificing his own grades for the sake of yours.
⪩⪨
Slowly, you began to feel the space between you grow. He still waited for you after school, still walked you home, still made time for you the way he always had—but the bond felt… thinner. You clung to the rituals, though, as if they were proof that nothing had changed.
By sixteen, everything else about you had. Your bob cut was long gone, replaced by silky black hair that fell down your back, always tied up in a ponytail to prevent shedding (your paranoia after googling about hair loss was unmatched). You had bangs now, cut professionally—because the last time you’d tried to do it yourself, the mirror had nearly made you cry. That memory alone was enough to swear you off scissors forever.
Riki had changed too. Taller, sharper features, and—according to everyone else—undeniably attractive. The steady stream of confessions he received from other girls should have been easy to ignore, but instead, they left an ugly bruise on your self-esteem. You weren’t jealous because you wanted him, but because nobody had ever confessed to you. Nobody had looked at you like that. And it left you wondering if maybe you weren’t good enough to be seen, to be chosen.
So you turned to paper. A diary became your confidante, soaking up the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say aloud anymore. You stopped telling Riki about the cracks in your home life, about the little battles that left you exhausted before the day even began. Instead, you pressed those secrets between pages and ink, letting your thoughts bleed into lines only you would ever read. It wasn’t that Riki was replaced—he was still there. Just… not for everything anymore.
“Read it!!” your mother screams, her voice slicing through the walls like a blade.
Your cheek burns from where her palm struck, the sting spreading across your skin until it feels like your whole face is on fire. You hold it with trembling fingers, stunned, the echo of the slap ringing louder in your ears than her words. Your father stands beside her, stiff and unreadable, anger tucked behind his frown. Your brother, Jiho, watches wide-eyed—half shocked, half entertained, as though he’s enjoying the spectacle of you breaking apart.
You don’t cry. You can’t. The shock cages your tears in your throat, suffocating you from the inside out. The diary shakes in your hands. That little book that held your secrets, your quiet desperation, words you never said out loud—your only safe place. And now, ripped open. Violated.
“Read it!” she shouts again, louder this time, her voice raw enough to rattle you. You flinch so hard it feels like your bones crack. A single tear escapes anyway, sliding down your cheek as your lips part to obey. You force the words out, your voice stuttering, cracking, fragile: “m-my mom… she… she makes me not want to live and she—”
The sentence dies in your throat. Another slap lands. Harder. Your diary slips from your grasp, pages fluttering as it crashes to the floor. Tears finally spill freely now, blurring your vision, and you stare at her through them—stare at the same sharp glare she’s always had for you. But for a second, just one second, her eyes flicker. They hesitate. And then she doubles down.
“You ungrateful brat!” she spits, voice breaking but cruel all the same. “What have I ever not done for you? I just wish you were never born!”
The words are a knife twisting into your chest. Her arm lifts again, her palm ready to strike, but your father catches it midair. His grip is firm, his expression tight, as if he’s urging her to calm down. And when you glance at her, you see it—tears in her eyes. Tears. Why? Why is she the one crying when she’s the one shattering you piece by piece? Why does she get to weep and play the victim while you’re left bleeding silently inside?
Jiho just shakes his head, disappointment etched across his features. But what does he know? He doesn’t understand a damn thing. If this is family, if this is what family means—then you don’t want it. You really don’t.
“Stop crying!” your mother yells, her voice cracking like thunder. “You did this! It’s your fault!”
Something inside you snaps. You lift your head, voice shaking but louder now, daring to fight back: “Yeah? My fault? I don’t even get the grades, so what? That makes me useless to you?”
Your words quiver, your lips trembling as you choke them out. You turn desperately to your father, eyes searching, pleading, hoping he’ll be different. That maybe he’ll stand by you. But he doesn’t. He looks away. Cold. Detached. And then his voice comes, low and cutting, sharper than any slap. “What? Stop looking at me. Your mom is right. You don’t help in household chores and you don’t get good grades either. So what are you good at, if you're not useless like you say?”
The words gut you. They gut you deeper than her hands ever could. You don’t even feel the tears anymore—they’re just pouring, endless, leaving you hollow. “Is that what you think?” you whisper, lips quivering, heart breaking open in front of them. “Then okay… I’m useless.”
You can’t breathe in this house anymore. Your legs move before your brain catches up. You grab your phone with shaking hands and rush toward the door, the walls around you closing in as though they’re eager to trap you here forever. But you break free.
The world outside feels too big, the air too sharp. Your legs tremble as you stumble forward, wiping your tears, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. And there he is. Riki. Waiting, just like always, leaning against the familiar spot with that patient calmness only he seems to carry. His eyes catch yours instantly, his brows furrowing, that frown you dreaded and needed all at once. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s always known. And you don’t even have to say it.
“Did you hear that?” you asked awkwardly, wiping at your wet cheeks as you stepped out of the gate. Your steps were rushed, desperate to leave the house behind before you broke again. You knew they wouldn’t chase after you—your parents were far too proud for that.
“I did,” Riki said softly.
“The entire thing?” you sniffled, glancing up at him. He nodded, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. You could see him hesitate—half wanting to hug you, half afraid that if he did, you might shatter completely.
“She slapped me…” The words came out bitter, almost like a joke you’d told too many times. By now, the sting of it wasn’t new. And Riki… he was almost used to hearing it. “Why?” His voice was quiet, careful, as if afraid he’d scare you off.
“Because I wrote about her in my diary.” You shoved a Kopiko into your mouth, the sweetness doing nothing to hide the sour burn in your chest. Punished for just writing down what you felt. For just speaking your mind. What kind of messed-up logic was that?
“Oh…” he mumbled. And then, as the two of you reached the empty playground you used to haunt as kids, Riki finally gave in. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He was taller now, broader too, so when you cried into him, it was like leaning into a wall that wouldn’t collapse. Your “cool girl” mask slipped, and you sobbed until your throat ached.
“Stop pretending you’re fine. I know you’re hurt…” His voice was quiet, rough. One of his hands cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over the faint, angry mark her slap had left
“Riki… why is it always me? Why am I the only one who has to hurt like this? Why couldn’t I just have a normal family like yours, or Junhee’s, or Minjae’s? Everyone else runs home after school, but me? I… I dread it. Because home doesn’t feel like home. It feels like hell…” You hiccuped through the words, pressing your cheek harder against his chest, like maybe if you stayed there long enough, the ache would go away.
“I know,” he muttered, and there was so much helplessness in those two words that it made your chest tighten. He let his hand fall, watching you burrow closer into him, desperate for warmth. “Does it hurt?” he whispered, almost childishly. “Like… mentally or physically?”
“It hurts both,” you admitted before he could question more. “Inside and outside. All of it.”
He sighed, tightening his hold for a moment. “I’m taking you home. A little ice will help.” His chin rested gently on top of your head before he pulled away.
Your tears had slowed by then, replaced by the hollow grumble of hunger. You patted your pockets and found them empty. Great. No money either.
“Don’t worry,” Riki said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “My mom probably already made snacks.” He expected you to protest, to tease that they were his snacks, but instead you just nodded. That small shift made his throat ache. He turned away quickly, blinking back tears you weren’t supposed to see.
“Why are you crying?” you nudged his shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. You were so used to pain, you brushed it off like it was nothing. Forgave too easily. It scared him.
“I’m not crying,” he muttered. “I’m just… angry. Angry this happened to you. They’re supposed to protect you, not…” He trailed off, jaw tightening, hand reaching instinctively for yours. His grip was firm, like he needed to tether himself before he drowned in your sadness.
You squeezed back gently, almost smiling. “I’m fine, Riki. Really.”
But he knew better.
“I’m fine. I’m really fine,” you murmur, though the words wobble as if they’re too fragile to stand on their own. By the time you and Riki reach his house—a place that has always felt more like home than your own—you’re already slipping into the familiar rhythm. No knocking, no pretending. Just the two of you rushing upstairs before anyone can ask questions.
He closes the door behind you with a quiet click, the sound strangely heavy in the air. You drop onto his bed in a starfish sprawl, limbs spread out like you’re trying to claim some piece of comfort for yourself. The ceiling blurs above you, but when you glance over, his eyes are fixed on you—unmoving, unrelenting, as if he’s trying to memorize every crack in your armor. Your heart stutters. For the first time all day, not because of fear, but because of him.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, pushing yourself upright, suddenly hyperaware of every flaw on your face, of the redness around your eyes.
Riki doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand lifts—hesitant at first, then certain as his palm cups your cheek. You close your eyes, a sharp breath escaping when the warmth of his touch meets the sting that still lingers beneath your skin. You bite hard against the tears threatening to spill again. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. The slap, the words—I wish you weren’t born. They echo louder inside your skull than any physical pain.
“Maybe she’s just stressed,” you whisper, clinging to excuses like lifelines, your voice brittle, breaking.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you against him. His chest is solid, grounding, but his voice is anything but calm. “That doesn’t give her the right to slap you.” His tone trembles with frustration, his hand rubbing circles against your back, desperate to soothe but unable to disguise his anger. “You’re always stressed because of her—do you lash out at people? Do you hit anyone when you’re breaking down?”
You swallow, guilt clawing at you. “But… Riki, that’s my mom.”
He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes burning, his voice almost sharp. “So what? If you were stressed, would you hit a little kid? Would you break someone smaller than you just to unload what’s eating you alive?” His words dig deep, stripping away the fragile defenses you’ve built, forcing you to face the truth you don’t want to admit.
“I… wouldn’t.” The confession falls out, small, unsteady, but true.
His chest rises and falls unevenly, as though every second of silence between you is choking him. Then it spills—the words he’s been holding back for far too long. “Do you know how much I fucking dread seeing you cry? Do you know what it does to me? I’d lie awake at night thinking about what I would’ve done if I were you, and I can’t. I can’t, because none of it makes sense. The people who are supposed to protect you—why the hell are they the ones breaking you?” His voice cracks, raw and furious all at once.
You can only stare, breath hitched, heart pounding at the sheer weight of his anger—for you, never at you.
“I even told my mom,” he admits, softer now, as though confessing a secret. “She wanted to step in, but you always begged me not to push. I respected it, even when it killed me. But you need to understand—family isn’t supposed to feel like this. Family isn’t chains that keep you trapped. Family isn’t meant to tear you down until you hate yourself.” His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “Family is the people who stay through the storms. Family is the ones who make sure you’re not alone when it gets unbearable.”
Your lips part, but no words come out. Your chest tightens, a mix of shame, grief, and something else—something warmer that burns under your ribs when you look at him.
“I don’t know why I’m saying all this,” he breathes out, pressing his forehead lightly to yours for a second. “But I want you to know—if they can’t be your family, I will. I’ll be it. I’ll always be it.” His arms close around you again, firm but tender, one hand stroking your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.
Anyone walking in would never believe you’re just friends. The way he holds you—careful, precious—says more than words ever could. And maybe, for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re replaceable.
“Please,” his voice trembles as he rocks you gently. “Please don’t let their words be the measure of your worth. You’re more than that. You always were.”
Something inside you breaks, but in the gentlest way. Your hand lifts, almost on instinct, clutching the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face against his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath your ear, steady, grounding, a lullaby you never knew you needed. It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to grow heavy. Exhaustion drags you under, but not before you hear him murmur against your hair, soft and resolute, “I promise this pain won’t last forever.”
You hum faintly in response, already slipping into sleep. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, his fingers tracing soothing lines across your hair. His lips twitch, not quite into a smile—because he can’t bring himself to—not yet. Not until he finds a way to end this pain for you.
⪩⪨
And so, after Riki’s stubborn insisting—on his parents, on you, on everyone—you find yourself sitting at the dinner table, fidgeting with the loose cuff of your sweater. Your family and Riki’s family all gathered in the same space, around the same table, as if this were just some normal evening. The excuse for the dinner was simple: “It’s been too long since the families met in person.” Maybe the last time was when you and Riki were still running around playgrounds, your hands sticky from popsicles and your knees bruised from climbing too high. But this? This feels nothing like that innocent memory.
You’re restless, your leg bouncing under the table, but then your eyes catch the spread before you—and despite yourself, your stomach flutters with excitement. The table is covered with steaming bowls and plates of authentic Korean food. Dishes that take hours of effort, the kind of food you don’t get to eat often. You had helped a little here and there, chopping vegetables, stirring broth, but most of this was your mom’s doing. And as much as there are days you wish you could distance yourself from her, you can’t deny that her cooking is the one thing that still feels like home. It’s frustrating—how you can resent someone and still crave the taste of what they make.
“The kids have grown so much,” Mrs. Nishimura says warmly, breaking the silence as she folds her napkin across her lap. Her voice tries to glide over the heaviness in the room, trying to smoothen the edges. Your mother hums, a polite smile tugging at her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “And as they are teenagers, we should be a little more understanding of how they feel,” she continues, still smiling as she glances between you and Riki.
The words sting like a dart hitting the bullseye. Your mother’s head snaps toward you instantly, her glare sharp and accusing. You flinch before you can stop yourself, shaking your head quickly under her gaze. It wasn’t me. I didn’t tell her anything. You want your eyes to say it for you, to plead it, but you already know she won’t believe it.
Under the table, Riki’s fingers find yours. His hand closes around yours firmly, steady and grounding, as if he knows exactly what that silent exchange meant. You squeeze back once, clinging to that little comfort while your heart beats too fast.
Across the table, the men seem unaffected by the tension. Your father and Mr. Nishimura are already deep in conversation about politics, their voices rising and falling in animated agreement. It’s strange how easily they bond, like they’ve known each other all their lives. The mothers, though—your mother and his—eat in near silence, every move sharp, deliberate, the air thick with unspoken words.
You try to focus on your food instead, dipping your spoon into the hot soup, savoring the rich, layered flavor you’ve missed. It tastes like home, like the past, like something that could have been safe if only the circumstances were different. When you glance sideways, Riki is wolfing down his food without hesitation, chopsticks moving quickly, cheeks puffed slightly as he chews. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but when his eyes flick up and catch yours, there’s something in them—a reassurance, a quiet “I’ve got you.”
He told you this would be just a normal dinner. Just two families eating together, catching up after years. What he didn’t tell you was that his mom had no intention of letting your mom’s behavior slide quietly. That her comments tonight would be knives hidden in smiles. And from the way your mom’s knuckles are white against the chopsticks she’s gripping, you know—deep down—you’re going to pay the price when this dinner ends.
“You’re lucky to have a son like Riki. Good at sports, good at academics. Our daughter just keeps… slagging off.” The familiar words sliced through the air like they always did, sharp but dulled from repetition. You should’ve been numb by now—God knew you’d heard them often enough—but somehow they burned more when said in front of others. Said in front of him. Your chopsticks froze mid-air, rice slipping back into your bowl. A flicker of shame and irritation sparked in your chest, and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend you’re used to it.
“She draws really nicely, though,” Mrs. Nishimura said, voice warm as she tried to cushion the blow. “And her English is excellent.” you looked up at her in surprise, that small kindness striking harder than expected. Someone noticed. Someone saw something worth defending in you. But before the gratitude could settle, your mother’s scoff flattened it. “Those skills aren’t useful.” The words landed like a slammed door.
Mrs. Nishimura, however, didn’t back down easily. “They can absolutely be turned into a successful career, Mrs. Yoon. Art, design, translation—”
“She’s going to be a doctor,” your mother cut her off, tone sharp as she looked at you, daring you to contradict her. “Not an artist, or whatever else. Right? I’m not forcing this on you, am I?”
Your throat tightened. The rice in your mouth felt like gravel as you hurriedly swallowed, choking a little before Riki’s hand rubbed circles on your back. The tiny gesture kept you from bolting from the table altogether. “R-right. I… I want to get into medical school,” you murmured, voice small and brittle.
Riki’s eyes flicked toward you, disbelief written plainly on his face. He knew. You could see it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, in the storm gathering behind his usually calm gaze. His mother, too, seemed to catch on—but she said nothing, likely aware that interfering further would only make things worse.
You lowered your gaze and focused on the food, suddenly tasteless despite its richness. One by one, you gathered empty plates and stacked them, muttering that you’d clear the table. Riki wordlessly followed, carrying dishes into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Once the door swung shut behind you, the silence broke. He set the plates down, then pulled you into a hug so sudden you stiffened before melting into it. His chin rested against your hair as his frown deepened. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt dripping from every syllable. “I didn’t know it’d turn out like this. I thought… I thought it would help. I thought it would make things better for you.”
You laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “Hey, don’t apologize. You tried, Riki. You actually tried. No one else bothers.”
“But still,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to cup your face, his hands warm against your cheeks. His voice dropped lower, soft but heavy with conviction. “I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me. I know how much you already go through.” his eyes searched yours, as if memorizing the cracks in your mask. You pushed his hands gently away, forcing a small smile. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
Before he could reply, the door creaked and in waddled Jiho—your eleven-year-old nightmare of a brother—clutching his stomach and letting out a dramatic burp that echoed through the kitchen.
“Ugh, seriously?” you muttered under your breath.
Jiho grinned wickedly, ignoring your glare. “Enjoyed the food, dear sister?” His tone was sugary sweet, the kind that made your skin crawl.
You gritted your teeth. “Enjoyed being a pig, dear brother?”
Instead of biting back, he smirked and turned his attention to Riki. “Hyung, you should stay away from her. She beats people up like a beast. She’s just pretending to be nice in front of you.”
Riki’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and discomfort. You groaned and smacked the back of Jiho’s head lightly. “Go upstairs before I actually prove your point.”
Jiho yelped but didn’t retreat just yet. Instead, he tiptoed closer to Riki, cupped his hand around his mouth, and whispered something in Riki’s ear—something that made Riki’s brows furrow instantly. Then, with a devilish grin, Jiho dashed out of the kitchen and thundered up the stairs, leaving only his laughter echoing behind.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, groaning. “I hate him. So much.”
Riki looked at you, still processing whatever Jiho had said, his expression a mix of discomfort and—something else.
You nudged Riki with your elbow, eyebrows raised. “What was that? What did that little brat whisper to you?” you muttered, your stomach twisting with curiosity, almost growling for the truth.
Riki shook his head with a tiny laugh, brushing it off too easily. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, that gentle smile tugging at his lips before he turned away and slipped back into the kitchen. But you weren’t convinced—not even a little. You knew Jiho, that devil in disguise, and you had a sinking suspicion he had spilled one of your secrets. The dread sat heavy in your chest like a stone.
From the dining room, you heard the scrape of chairs against the floor—your parents were standing up, their voices mingling with polite goodbyes. You lingered at the edge of the hall, awkwardly hovering by the door before bowing to the Nishimuras as they prepared to leave. They bowed back politely, and you felt your lips curve into the faintest smile. At least Riki seemed to have enjoyed the food—even if it wasn’t what he usually ate. Being japanese, he probably didn’t have korean food like this very often, so in some twisted way, you counted that as a win for the night.
By the door, you noticed your father still in conversation with Mr. Nishimura, his face lit up with an ease you rarely saw. Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time your dad smiled that much—he was usually the quiet type, a little too comfortable hiding in his shell. You figured you must’ve inherited that introvert gene straight from him (lucky you). Seeing him with a friend—actually connecting—was strangely heartwarming.
Your mother though… she was another story. The way she kept glancing at you, lips pressed thin, made your stomach churn. You could practically feel the scolding simmering in her throat, waiting for the Nishimuras to leave so she could unleash it.
The door clicked shut behind them, and immediately, Riki shot you a look. The kind of look that said, I’ll keep ice packs ready in case you have to crash at my place tonight. You rolled your eyes. Clearly, this boy had zero faith in your ability to defend yourself. Still, you weren’t about to wait around to see if his prediction came true. Quick escape was the best strategy, so you spun on your heel, ready to bolt upstairs before the storm hit.
“Wait.”
The single word froze you in place. You turned back slowly, bracing yourself. The sharp edge in your mom’s voice told you all you needed to know—she wasn’t finished with you yet. “Do you… badmouth me to your friend’s mother? Is that what you do now—talk about family matters outside of home?” your mom’s voice came sharp and steady, each word hitting harder than the last.
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t tell them anything… I swear, Mom… I didn’t,” you said quickly, shaking your head like the faster you denied it, the truer it might become. But she didn’t say anything else. She just turned and walked away toward the bedroom she shared with your dad. No yelling, no lecture—just silence. And somehow, that silence was worse. Because yelling meant she cared enough to get mad. This? This was like you weren’t even worth the words.
Your dad lingered for a second, his expression unreadable, then followed after her. The lump in your throat burned now, and you blinked fast. It was almost a relief when Jiho spoke. “Hey, noona… don’t think too much.” His voice was small, almost hesitant, and when you turned to him, your eyes were already glimmering with the tears you’d promised yourself you’d only let out in your room.
You couldn’t stand the softness in his voice. Not from him. Not right now. “Shut up,” you muttered, brushing past him, climbing the stairs before he could see more of your face. He trailed after you, his footsteps light but insistent, until you slammed the door shut between you.
Leaning back against the door, you exhaled. He was the reason this happened. If he hadn’t opened his mouth downstairs, you wouldn’t be standing here with your chest heavy and your stomach in knots. Your life had been so much simpler before Jiho was born. But no matter how many times that thought crossed your mind, you couldn’t make yourself hate him. At the end of the day, he was still just a kid—like you.
A knock came a moment later. No voice. Just the dull thud against your door. You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Who’s there?” you asked, your tone dripping with irritation. No answer. Just silence. You frowned. “I’m not in the mood for your taunts, Jiho. I swear I’ll hunt you down if it’s you.” Still nothing. You waited a minute, maybe two, until curiosity got the better of you. Pulling open the door, you looked down.
On the floor sat a pile of snacks—chips, cookies, candy packets—and a folded note. Blinking in surprise, you crouched to pick it up. The handwriting was messy, rushed, definitely Jiho’s. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You held the note for a long moment, the words blurring as your eyes filled. A shaky sigh left your lips, the kind you let out when you’ve been holding too much inside. Carrying the snacks in, you shut the door quietly this time.
Tears slid down before you could stop them. Maybe it was just the shock of Jiho being kind for once. Maybe it was that you’d been bracing for cruelty, and kindness felt like a trap. It wasn’t comforting, not the way you thought it should be. It felt… strange. Unsettling. Like you were the odd one out for not knowing how to accept it. You wiped your eyes quickly and even laughed a little at yourself before setting the snacks aside on your desk.
The homework on your bed sat untouched. Biology. Not even a subject you cared about. And tomorrow you wouldn’t even have that period. You could always copy Riki’s work anyway. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be annoyed, and then hand it over.
But your mom’s words wouldn’t stop circling in your head. Doctor. As if. As if you were even cut out for that kind of future. You couldn’t imagine yourself saving lives. If anything, you could picture yourself sitting on the other side of the table, a patient, not the one in the white coat. And the way she’d asked if she was forcing it on you—like she didn’t already know she was.
Your feet carried you to the window before you even realized. Outside, a couple walked slowly down the street, sharing an ice cream, their hands brushing before finally intertwining. Their laughter floated faintly in the summer air. “I wish that was me,” you whispered, lips tugging into a pout.
Life had been nothing but bitter lately, every day tossing you something harder to swallow. Was it really too much to want something sweet for once? Something that felt like it belonged to you? Didn’t you deserve that too? “Would I even experience that at all?” you whispered to no one, the thought hanging heavy in the dim room.
And suddenly, like a dam breaking, you were washed over by a wave of emotions you couldn’t stop. The sobs ripped out of your chest before you even realized it, your knees giving in as you stumbled toward the bed. Grabbing the nearest pillow, you hugged it tight against you as though it could fill the emptiness pressing on your ribs. Your body shook with every sob, muffled into the fabric, and for a moment the world blurred with tears.
You had always told yourself you’d never fall for someone. That love wasn’t for you. That you were better off keeping your walls high, your heart locked away. But deep inside… you wanted it. God, you wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted someone’s arms around you, someone whispering that it would all be okay. You wanted the simple, stupid intimacy of sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone who cared, of kisses that didn’t feel like fantasy, of hands that would reach for yours in silence.
And yet—your heart twisted—how could you ever have that? With the way your luck had been since birth, with the way life seemed so determined to break you down, wasn’t that hope already stolen from you? Why would anyone choose you? What was there to even choose?
You couldn’t name a single thing you were good at, not one thing that felt like a redeeming trait. Your parents’ words echoed cruelly in your ears—you weren’t pretty enough, not smart enough, not athletic enough. Not enough. Never enough. You pressed the pillow harder against your face, crying harder, the ache in your chest almost unbearable. It felt like you were doomed forever, like you’d already been sentenced to live without the warmth you longed for.
⪩⪨
By morning, your eyes were swollen and raw, your face blotchy no matter how much you tried to fix it. You lingered in front of the mirror, dabbing at your reflection as though you could erase the proof of your weakness. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you cried—it felt humiliating. Vulnerability wasn’t a luxury you thought you deserved.
At the table, your parents didn’t speak to you. Not even a glance. The silence was louder than shouting, and somehow it stung worse. You didn’t bother eating breakfast, your throat too tight, your stomach too heavy with anger and sadness. You shoved on your shoes, glaring at the house once before stepping outside, as if your anger could burn holes into its walls.
The flowers that usually softened your mornings stood in their usual place, swaying gently with the breeze. On any other day, their colors and fragrance would’ve tugged a small smile from you. But not today. Today, even they annoyed you—their cheerfulness, their beauty, their resilience felt mocking. You hated them for daring to be bright when you felt so utterly dark.
At the gate, Riki was waiting. He noticed you instantly. “Did you get beaten last night?” he asked, half-serious, half-trying to lighten the mood with a laugh. But the smile faltered when he saw your face. His brows drew together, concern flickering in his eyes. “...Did you not?”
“Shut up, Riki.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, thick with leftover hurt. “Nothing happened. They were just… disappointed. And that hurt way more, not gonna lie.” You bit down on the tremor in your throat, looking at him with a frown.
Without a word, he reached for the bag slung on your shoulder and shifted it onto his own, so now he was carrying two. “You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off.
“Just let me. You’re already carrying too much… including the guilt of thinking you’re doing something wrong by telling me your problems.”
You froze, blinking at him. “How do you—?”
He only smiled faintly. “I just figured. Guess I know them better, huh?”
Something in your chest cracked open, a small smile breaking through your tears despite yourself. He knew. He really knew.
But as the two of you reached the school gate, your thoughts shifted again, sourness creeping in. You frowned at him, unable to stop the words spilling out: “Why’d you pick computer science and not arts?” He just shrugged with a soft smile. “It’s okay. We still get to walk back home together after school, right?”
When he handed your bag back, you stumbled under the weight shift, managing to steady yourself, but the sudden absence of his help left you feeling oddly hollow. “Sure,” you muttered, upset, though you weren’t sure at what—or who. Him? Your parents? Yourself? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. You walked ahead of him, forcing your feet forward, even though the knot in your chest stayed.
Math was first. The shared class every student had to suffer through. You used to love math—numbers had once felt like puzzles waiting to be solved, a rare place where you found comfort. But now? Now math was just another reminder of how you didn’t fit anywhere. Another subject demanding too much from a brain that was already exhausted. You couldn’t help but wonder why you had to learn any of this. Wasn’t knowing how to add and subtract enough? It wasn’t like solving equations would fix your life, or teach you how to heal, or show you how to stop aching inside. And yet, you dragged yourself into the room anyway, carrying your bag, your puffy eyes, and the invisible weight no one else could see.
“Here!!!”
Your head snapped toward the voice, that familiar brightness cutting through the otherwise half-empty classroom. “Junhee!” you called, rushing to her side. Relief washed over you just seeing her, and without a second thought, you plopped your bag down next to hers and sat beside her. “I thought you weren’t gonna come,” she muttered, confusion clear in her tone as her eyes scanned your face.
“Why would I not come?” you frowned, already pulling out your math notebook, trying to act casual.
“Well… that’s what Riki said. That you’d… you know, need ice packs after last night.”
Your jaw dropped. For a second, you just stared at her, heat rising in your face as your eyes shot to the back row. Sure enough, Riki was there, lounging on the last bench like he owned the place. The second he felt your glare burning holes into his skull, he raised his hands defensively, mouthing a silent not my fault—as if he hadn’t just doomed you.
“Do you two… do dirty things together?” Junhee blurted, leaning closer, her voice lowered but her curiosity blatant. You practically choked on air. “W-what?! No!!” you shook your head so fast it almost hurt, your hands flailing like that would somehow erase the image she’d just implied.
“Then why’d you stutter?” she teased, eyebrows wiggling as if she’d caught you red-handed.
“Because you caught me off guard!” you hissed, your cheeks flaming.
“Then what did he mean by ice packs?” she pressed, leaning her chin into her palm. “Does it mean he went too rough on you or—”
“Junhee!!” you nearly yelled, smacking her arm as your eyes widened to saucers. She was way too amused by this. “Okay, okay, fine,” she giggled, clearly enjoying your suffering.
Taking a deep breath, you forced your voice steady. “It’s not like that. Riki just… he thought I’d hurt myself or something. I’ve been having nightmares lately, so he said it as a joke. That’s all.”
The lie slipped out smoother than you expected, but it still left a bitter aftertaste. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Junhee—if anything, she was the one person at school who made you feel seen—but… telling her meant exposing a part of you that you weren’t ready to show. You’d learned the hard way that people didn’t always handle your truths with care. And when you’ve been hurt enough times, keeping things locked inside feels safer than handing someone else the key.
“ohh, I see.” Junhee mumbles, still kind of suspicious, but her attention drifts away when the teacher finally walks in.
You let out a quiet sigh of relief, though in your head you’re already making a note to smack Riki later.
The class drags on, chalk scratching against the board, footsteps echoing with every move the teacher makes, and your stomach growls loud enough to make you want to curl up. You forgot lunch—of course you did. And now every sound feels sharper, every second heavier, until it’s unbearable.
Junhee leans closer, her voice a soft whisper, “you okay?”
You barely open your mouth when the teacher’s gaze flicks toward you, suspicion already in her eyes. Junhee reacts faster. “Her head hurts. Can she just keep her head down?” she blurts out.
The teacher narrows her eyes, clearly not convinced. “really?” The word stretches out, and suddenly you feel every single classmate staring at you. Heat rises in your cheeks. You just nod weakly, wishing you could disappear under the desk. The teacher mutters something about “kids these days being so weak” before turning back to the board, chalk tapping again like nothing happened.
You bury your head into your arms, shutting the world out. The irritation, the exhaustion—it all just folds over you, pulling you into an unexpected sleep. Somewhere through the haze, you feel Junhee slip her uniform jacket around your shoulders, tucking you against the chill of the wind sneaking through the windows. She pats your back once before returning to her notes, letting you rest.
Behind you, Riki watches in silence. He wants to do something—anything—but you’re the one who set the rule: no talking at school, no rumors, no shipping. So he waits.
Another period ticks by. Chemistry. The air smells faintly of chemicals, the teacher’s voice rising and falling, but you don’t stir. Junhee glances at you now and then, deciding it’s better to let you sleep. Whatever’s weighing you down must be heavy enough if you’ve given in to rest in the middle of class. And so she just lets you be.
“Hey, wake up. It’s lunch.” Junhee’s gentle nudge pulls you out of your hazy sleep, and the loud growl of your stomach betrays just how empty it is. The bell rings a second later, sharp and echoing through the classroom, making you flinch as you sit up too quickly. “Already?” you mumble, rubbing your eyes as you glance around the room—beside you, in front, behind—trying to piece together how much time has passed.
Junhee raises a brow, her lips tugging into a faint smile. “Girl, you’ve been sleeping since morning. Were you really that tired?” She pulls her tiffin out of her bag and starts unwrapping it, clearly planning to head to the cafeteria once you’re ready.
“I guess my body really needed that break,” you admit, stretching your stiff arms before sighing. Then the thought hits you, uninvited and annoyingly sharp. “By the way, where are Riki and Minjae?” You frown under your breath, the irritation bubbling up at the idea that Riki didn’t bother waiting for you. Seriously, how mean does he have to be sometimes?
“They went early,” Junhee says simply, organizing her food. “Minjae was starving.” You gape at her, the annoyance growing. “He didn’t wait up for me?”
Junhee just shrugs, unfazed. “Hey, chill. They knew I was here with you, so they figured there was no need for him to stick around. Don’t overthink it.”
You nod, though you’re far from satisfied. If anything, the mental tally of how many smacks Riki deserves has now doubled. Maybe even tripled.
When you unzip your bag, the disappointment sinks in all at once. No lunch box. You only now remember how angrily you stomped out of your house that morning, storming past the rows of flowers your mother had carefully tended in her shop’s front yard. The thought stings—you’d walked right past her world of blossoms, but she hadn’t even noticed you’d left without lunch. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care. That possibility makes your chest feel heavy. You take a deep breath, trying to bury the ache before it spills over.
“I forgot lunch,” you mutter quietly, half-hoping Junhee won’t hear, half-expecting her to just leave you to deal with it. But she doesn’t. Instead, she slips her hand around your arm and tugs you up from the bench. You blink at her in confusion as she pulls you along the hallway.
“And?” she says simply, her tone leaving no space for arguments. “You’re sharing with me.” By the time you realise where she’s leading you, you’re already inside the cafeteria. She drops her bag onto an empty table, sits down, and without hesitation shoves a foil-wrapped sandwich across to you.
“Jun, I can’t.” You stare at the sandwich like it’s contraband, guilt tightening in your throat. The thought of taking her food makes you feel small.
“You’re eating it,” she interrupts firmly, eyes narrowing in that no-nonsense way only she can manage. “No arguments.” Something about her tone silences you completely, and for once you feel tiny in front of her. With a sigh, you peel the foil back and finally take a small bite.
And God, it tastes good. Maybe it’s the fact you haven’t eaten since morning, or maybe it’s just because Junhee is Junhee, but it feels like the best thing you’ve ever had. She hums softly, munching on her half of the sandwich, and though she doesn’t say it out loud, the smile tugging at her lips tells you she’s glad you’re eating.
You drop your gaze to your lap, chewing slowly as the warmth spreads in your chest. It’s not sadness this time—not the kind you usually drown in when you think about your family—but something gentler. Something heavier, too. You never expected this much kindness from anyone, not when even your own family couldn’t show you half of what Junhee just did without thinking twice.
“Hey, cry baby, just eat up. No time to cry.” Junhee teased, nudging your elbow with hers as if it were the easiest thing in the world to pull you out of your thoughts. Her grin was playful, but her eyes were softer than she let on. You puffed your cheeks and shook your head, forcing a smile. “I’m not crying.”
“Oh, you were! Don’t lie—I saw you.” She exaggerated her voice, even scrunching her face into a ridiculous expression that made you laugh. Honestly, if someone took a picture right now, it’d be meme-worthy.
“Fine,” you admitted between chuckles. “So what if I was? Not like everyone has such a great friend, you know.” That wiped the smug look right off her face. She looked away instantly, cheeks turning a little pink, and you smirked. Pushing your luck, you added, “Yeah? Ever heard of someone sharing their lunch when they’re still hungry? Even Riki wouldn’t.” Junhee waved her hand like you were being dramatic, though the corners of her lips twitched in the tiniest smile. “Stop it.”
But oh, how wrong you were. If Riki knew you hadn’t eaten, he probably would’ve shoved his whole lunchbox at you without blinking. He just… wasn’t here, and maybe it was better you didn’t know that side of him yet.
Before you could tease her again, a voice cut through the cafeteria hum. “Isn’t that the girl who keeps topping from the last?” You froze. The words weren’t even whispered that quietly. They slid under your skin, sharp and cold.
Junhee’s head snapped up immediately. “Who was it?” Her tone wasn’t playful anymore—it was dangerous, the kind that silenced the tables nearby.
“Junhee—” you tried, but she was already standing, her chair scraping back.
“I ASKED WHO WAS IT?” she barked, her voice echoing across the room. Conversations around you died mid-sentence. People turned to stare. You could practically feel the tension thickening around the tables. Your stomach flipped as her eyes locked on a nearby bench. One of the girls there shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact, and that was all Junhee needed.
“Junhee, please, no.” You tugged her arm, voice low, desperate, but her glare at you was sharp enough to make you swallow your words and let go. You could only watch helplessly as she strode over, her presence towering. The girl shrank back instantly, her face pale.
“You were the one who made that comment on my friend, weren’t you?” Junhee’s voice was low but steady, laced with steel.
The girl stammered, trembling. “I—I didn’t know she was y-your friend.”
Junhee’s lips curled into something close to a scoff. “And? Even if she wasn’t my friend, that doesn’t give you the fucking right to insult her.”
The sharpness in her words made the girl flinch, nodding furiously, eager to make this end before Junhee’s infamous temper proved the rumors true.
And there you were, standing just a few feet away, your heart pounding in your chest. Junhee was brave in all the ways you weren’t. Somehow, that was exactly why you’d clicked—her fire balancing out your quiet fear.
“what? Cat got your tongue? A nod isn't gonna do it. Get up and go to her. On your knees. And apologize.” Your head shoots up in shock, eyes widening as Junhee’s voice slices through the murmurs in the room. A few students gasp, some stifling laughter, but no one dares say anything. The girl who had been giving you a hard time freezes in her spot, her face draining of color as every gaze shifts onto her.
Your eyes flick back to Junhee, half-stunned, half-worried. “umm, Jun… isn’t this too much?” you whisper, tugging lightly at her sleeve, but she doesn’t even look at you.
“just shut up. I really need to teach these people a lesson so that nobody bothers someone else like this ever again.” her tone leaves no room for argument. Sharp, final. And you know better than to push when it comes to Junhee—her word has always carried weight, even when she’s saying it casually. So you shut your mouth, pressing a finger against your lips as if sealing them. Your stomach twists with guilt and surprise as you watch the girl slowly stand, trembling, the sound of her chair scraping against the floor echoing far too loudly in the silent cafeteria.
Every step she takes toward you feels heavy, forced. Her fists clench and unclench at her sides, and when she finally stops in front of you, her pride crumbles. She sinks onto her knees, shoulders hunched, voice shaking as she mutters through gritted teeth, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, shame burning across her face, and for a second you almost want to tell her it’s fine—that she doesn’t have to do this. But the words don’t leave your throat. You’re too stunned, too thrown off by the weight of what just happened.
Junhee leans back in her seat, satisfied. She doesn’t gloat, doesn’t smirk, she simply nods like justice has been served. The girl quickly scrambles back up, not daring to look anyone in the eye, and bolts out of the cafeteria—probably to cry in the bathroom where nobody can see.
Your heart twists uncomfortably. The image sticks with you, and yet, in the same breath, you can’t deny the relief that follows. Relief that Junhee had stood up for you so fiercely, even if her way was… intense. Odd, maybe. But effective.
That day, one thing becomes painfully clear—Junhee’s methods might not be the gentlest, but she knows how to silence anyone who tries to mess with you. And somehow, that makes you admire her even more.
The rest of the day blurs past. Teachers drone on about formulas, reactions, and paragraphs, but your mind isn’t really there. It lingers on the girl’s trembling voice, Junhee’s unwavering tone, and the way everyone looked at you after. By the time the final bell rings, your chest still feels heavy. You don’t even notice Riki until he’s walking beside you. His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “why are you looking at me like that?”
He notices the glare you’re giving him, the way your lips press into a thin line, and for once, you don’t hand him your bag like you usually do. Instead, you sling it onto your own shoulder, jaw tightening. “why am I looking at you like that?” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes. “you didn’t wait up for me during lunch.”
He blinks, taken aback by your sharp tone. “i thought you had Junhee. And besides, Minjae wanted to eat early.” His voice is calm, almost casual, but it only fuels your irritation.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “oh really? Then she’s my best friend from today onwards. You’ll just be a friend.” You walk ahead, quickening your pace like you want to put distance between the two of you. Riki immediately skips a few steps, catching up, his pout evident as he nudges your arm.
“really? You gonna forget your best friend of years for a girl you just met a few grades back?”
But you don’t respond. You just keep fast-walking, stubborn, avoiding his gaze. The silence between you stretches, prickly and awkward. So he cuts in front of you suddenly, blocking your way, making you bump into his chest. You try to swerve past, but his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist, holding you still.
“am i seriously not your best friend anymore?” His voice is quieter now, softer, paired with those stupid puppy eyes that always used to make you cave. But this time, you don’t. You meet his gaze and answer, firm: “yeah. You’re not. Have you ever even taken my stand? She’s probably the only person who has taken my stand and that too… verbally.” The memory of the cafeteria flashes in your mind. You know he understands what you mean. You know he remembers the way he stood frozen while Junhee raised her voice.
“oh.” It’s all he says. Just that one word. His grip loosens, fingers slipping away from your wrist as he takes a step back.
You try to lighten the push against his chest, but he doesn’t fight it. He just turns, walking a different path home. His voice is barely audible as he mutters, “then be best friends with Junhee only.” And then he’s gone, leaving you standing there with your heart sinking into your stomach.
You continue walking alone, the quiet settling over you like a heavy blanket. Each step feels slower, heavier, as the guilt creeps in. You curse yourself under your breath. Why did you even get so mad? Why did you say all that? He was a kid too. He didn’t know what to do back then. He didn’t know how to stand up for you. How could he?
But even as you reason with yourself, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers: Junhee would’ve. And that thought lingers all the way home.
You step into the house, the faint chill of sweater weather still clinging to your skin. All you want is to disappear into your room, bury yourself in the safety of your blanket, and forget the world. But as you take your first step toward the stairs, you hear it—crunch. Your heart sinks.
You glance down, and your eyes widen in dread. Under your foot lies a crushed model car, its shiny red paint scratched and wheels bent out of shape. Jiho’s car. That idiot still plays with it like he’s six, and of course today—out of all days—you had to step on it.
“NOOO!” a scream erupts behind you. Jiho stands frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, a glass of water slipping from his hands. The shatter rings out across the living room, water spraying across the tiles. And then—his loud, piercing wail.
You mutter under your breath, “Fuck.” The last thing you want is another family drama. “Jiho, it’s just a car. Shut the fuck up.”
“MOM!” Jiho howls like he’s been stabbed. “She broke my car and she’s swearing at me!”
You barely have time to roll your eyes before your mother comes storming out of her room, panic and irritation written all over her face. But the moment her gaze lands on Jiho, she softens—like always. “What happened, baby?” she asks, crouching by his side.
“She broke it,” Jiho hiccups, “and she doesn’t even care.”
Your mother’s eyes flick to you, sharp and cold. “Of course she did. After all, she doesn’t consider us her family anymore.” The words hit you like a slap. Not again. Not after last night.
“When have I ever said that, Mom?” you snap, your voice cracking, but not from fear—from frustration. From exhaustion. Jiho immediately falls silent, his crocodile tears drying up as he senses the tension. He knows when to shut up, when to let the storm move away from him.
“Your actions tell enough,” your mother shoots back, her tone laced with bitterness.
Something inside you twists. Your chest burns. “Oh, really? Then what about your actions? Did you even notice you didn’t give me lunch today?” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to keep it steady.
Her arms fold across her chest. “I thought since you’re always so bothered by me, you’d cook for yourself.”
The air leaves your lungs. For a second, you just stare at her, the weight of her words pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe. Then, in a voice lower, quieter, but edged with raw hurt, you whisper, “Fine. Then know this—your daughter is dead to you from today.” And you leave before she can say anything else.
You take the stairs two at a time, vision blurring as the first tear slips free. The door slams behind you, muffling the world outside. And then you crumble. You throw yourself onto your bed, face buried in the pillow, the sobs tearing out before you can stop them. “Why? Why me?” Your voice is muffled and shaky, hiccups catching in your throat. Your phone lies abandoned beside you, screen dark and empty. No calls. No texts. Not even a single notification from Riki. The boy who used to be your safe place feels a million miles away.
“Guess even you’re gone,” you whisper, hugging your pillow tighter, tears soaking the fabric.
Dinner comes and goes downstairs, but you don’t move. You just curl up under the blanket, body trembling as waves of loneliness wash over you. “God, do you hate me that much?” you whisper to the ceiling, voice breaking. “Isn’t this much personality development enough? Why are you still hurting me?”
Your chest heaves, each sob making you feel smaller, more fragile. You sneeze once, then twice, but you don’t even care enough to reach for tissues. You just hold your pillow like it’s the only one left who’ll listen, shivering as the night grows colder. Your mind spins in cruel circles. Would anyone ever marry me for me? Would anyone ever love me without gold to pull them close? And if I have no gold… will I just stay alone forever? The thoughts are sharp, cutting into you, and you cry harder, biting your lip until it stings.
Eventually, exhaustion takes over. Your tears slow, your sobs turn into sniffles, and your body sinks deeper into the mattress. Wrapped in your blanket, with your pillow hugged tightly against your chest, you drift into a restless, shivering sleep—empty stomach and all. Maybe this is just training for the future, you think drowsily before sleep swallows you half.
“I don’t want to die alone… there must be someone for me, right? Or—” your voice cracked as you buried your face into the pillow, “—do you want me to date women?” The words slipped out, half a sob, half a joke, but they fell flat in the silence of your room. All that came back was the sound of your own shaky breathing. You were so tired of feeling alone, of carrying that weight in your chest. But were you really alone?
A bitter thought pressed against your heart: you had Riki. He’d been there since you were five. Always there. And yet—your chest ached in the hollow places that even his presence couldn’t fill. The ache pulled you down into an uneasy sleep, your body curled tight beneath the blanket, shivering even though the room wasn’t that cold.
⪩⪨
When you woke, it was to silence. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful but wrong. The house was still, no hum of conversation, no creak of movement—just the low, haunting calls of owls perched outside, their glowing eyes catching in the dark like tiny lanterns. You hugged your phone close, already dialed to 112, thumb hovering in case something—someone—was waiting for you in the shadows.
The kitchen tiles were freezing beneath your feet. You opened the fridge carefully, its dim light spilling out like a secret. It was ridiculous—sneaking in your own home. You almost laughed at that thought, but hunger clawed harder than humor. Your eyes landed on the frozen fish. Already cooked. Good enough.
The pan hissed as you placed it on the flame, the sharp crackle of oil filling the quiet. You clutched the spatula like a weapon, flipping clumsily. You didn’t care about technique—you were starving enough to chew your own arm if it came to that. And as the smell filled the kitchen, so did the ache in your chest. Not because of hunger this time, but because of him.
Your dad.
How he never checked on you. How somewhere along the way, he had stopped being your father and had simply become your mother’s husband. You’d stopped expecting anything from him, but still—the disappointment clung.
By the time you turned the gas off, your legs were trembling from weakness. You plated the fish quickly, sprinkling over some chopped onions and tomatoes that had been sitting in the fridge, squeezing lemon across it like you’d seen on TV. It looked messy, but to you it smelled like salvation.
You crept back to your room with the plate, shutting the door softly behind you. The main light stayed off—too risky. Your brother had a radar for food. So instead, you turned the lamp on the dimmest setting, creating a cocoon of faint gold.
The first bite nearly made you cry. Not because the fish was good—maybe it wasn’t—but because it was warm and yours.
You ate slowly, savoring each piece like it was the last thing you’d ever get. Then, with the plate licked clean and your stomach finally quiet, you rinsed your hands in the tiny sink in your room. Still… even full, even safe in bed, something felt off. A heaviness sat in your chest, pressing down. You brushed it away, told yourself it was nothing. Curled up under the blanket again.
And eventually, you drifted off.
The next morning, you woke up with a blocked nose and swollen red eyes.
“Not again,” you groaned, glaring at your reflection in the mirror. You dabbed some cream over your puffy eyelids, silently wishing they’d settle down for once. Still, you forced yourself into your uniform, ignoring the weird heaviness in your body. With a deep sigh, you hurried out of your room and down the stairs—nearly slipping midway.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, catching yourself before you tumbled. Shoes half-laced, you rushed out the door, already rehearsing the apology you owed Riki for unloading on him last night. But he wasn’t there.
You froze for a moment, staring at the empty spot where he should’ve been waiting. The air suddenly felt colder. “This fucker,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. “What, is he on his period or something?”
Irritation flared as you stomped toward the nearest convenience store, refusing to go back home and beg for breakfast when your mom had already made it clear she wouldn’t cook for you. You grabbed a handful of snacks and stuffed them into your bag, jaw tight. Fine. Lunch problem solved. And knowing Riki, he’d probably show up later anyway, begging for a share. Greedy bastard.
By the time you passed through the school gates, a wave of dizziness made you slow down. You shook it off. No big deal. Just hunger or lack of sleep, whatever. You slipped into class, ready to collapse into your seat—only to find Junhee sitting right next to Riki.
Of course she was. And he wasn’t even looking at you. Not once. Just smiling and chatting away with her like you didn’t exist.
Your fists clenched. Your chest tightened. The petty, ridiculous urge to march over there and rip his hair out nearly won.
“Are you even listening?”
A hand on your shoulder jolted you out of your spiraling thoughts. You blinked, realizing how deeply you’d been invested in a conversation you weren’t even part of.
“Why? You like Riki or something?” Minjae asked, leaning back in his chair beside you. His eyes studied you, a little too amused for your liking.
“What? No, obviously not.” You groaned, tugging at your sleeve as your lips pulled into a pout. “I’m just pissed they’re both ignoring me. Especially when I needed to vent.” Your voice softened into a mutter as you dramatically rested your head against his shoulder. “Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be sitting next to Riki?”
“He told me he wanted to sit with Junhee.”
Your frown deepened, the muscles in your jaw tightening. Of course he did. “Does he… like her or something?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Immediately, regret clawed at your chest, making you want to crawl back into your room and bury yourself under the covers.
Minjae shrugged. “Not sure. But look at him—he’s literally smiling at her like she’s the funniest person alive.”
You didn’t dare look. The burn in your eyes was already too much. Quietly, you buried your face in Minjae’s shoulder, whispering against the fabric of his uniform, “You’re my only true friend, Minjae. Don’t betray me like those two rats.”
He froze for a moment, clearly taken aback. His hand lifted, hovering, before gently brushing against your forehead. “You’re burning up. You’re sick. You should’ve stayed home.”
But you only sank deeper into his shoulder, muffling your words through your small sobs. “Maybe it would’ve been better if I had stayed in bed instead of witnessing… this heartbreak.”
Then something weird you felt in your lower abdomen. You gasped and pulled back immediately, eyes wide. Did you just—you scrambled, fumbling through your bag until you found what you were looking for, then bolted from the classroom. Luckily class hadn’t started yet.
Minjae sat there stunned, his arm still half-raised from when you’d been leaning on him. He debated chasing after you, but before he could move, Riki suddenly shot up from his seat and rushed after you. Junhee, still beside him, raised a brow and turned toward Minjae, confusion written across her face.
“What just happened? Why did she run out like that?”
Minjae let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Not sure. But why are you sitting with Riki? She was on the verge of tears.” His voice carried disappointment, like he hadn’t expected this from Junhee at all.
Junhee blinked. “Wait—what? Riki just said he wanted to get back at her. I didn’t realize it would make her that upset.”
The two exchanged a bewildered glance, both looking toward the door where you and Riki had just vanished.
“Wait!” Riki’s voice echoed down the hall as he ran after you. But you had already disappeared into the women’s restroom. He stopped dead in his tracks, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. It was almost time for class, and he was pretty sure no one else was inside—but still, he couldn’t exactly storm in after you.
Riki taps his foot against the tiled floor, shoulders pressed to the wall, hoodie pulled low over his face like it can somehow hide the embarrassment of standing outside the girls’ washroom. His ears burn every time someone passes by. He looks like he’s plotting a heist, not waiting for you.
When you finally step out, wincing slightly, his head snaps up. “Riki. Just leave,” you mutter, brushing past him.
He falls into step beside you, lowering his voice. “...red days?”
You stop mid-stride, glaring up at him. “Why would you care? You shouldn’t care about that.” Your voice is flat, but there’s a sharp edge to it, the kind that threatens to cut.
He exhales through his nose, eyes darting away. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just—upset after yesterday. I handled it stupidly. Immaturely.”
“What’s the difference, Riki? How are you any different from them?” you snap, your steps quick and uneven. “You say you’re there for me, but honestly, it feels like a lie. You’re slowly becoming just like the rest—hurting me just because you’re upset.”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks a little, harsher than intended. “Don’t compare me to them.”
“It’s the truth,” you fire back, blinking away the sting in your eyes. “You know what’s going on at home. And yet—you still had to pull that stunt this morning. I thought you were the one person I could trust with this, but if you’re just gonna be petty and take revenge too…” Your throat tightens. “How am I supposed to trust you then?”
“Please don’t say that.” His voice softens as he turns to you, holding out his hands. When you don’t move away, he laces his fingers through yours, grounding you. His gaze is heavy, searching your face. “You don’t mean it.”
“Maybe I don’t,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “But I was upset. I even prepared how I wanted to apologize. And then—you weren’t there. Not outside my house. Not waiting. And when I got to school, trying so hard to pretend it was just a normal day—you were with Junhee.” Your voice breaks as tears spill before you can stop them. “You took the only other person I could talk to. You’re so bad.” Your words crumble into a quiet sob.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, pulling you against him before either of you can think. His arms lock around you like if he lets go, you’ll vanish. “I knew what you were going through and still—I messed up. I’m sorry.”
You bury your face into his chest, clutching his uniform shirt. “No… I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You’ve been here since we were kids, and I—” Your voice shakes. “I’m so sorry.”
He presses his face into your hair, trying to hide the way his own eyes burn. “Let’s not fight again, okay?” he murmurs into your hair, his hand stroking it gently.
The shrill bell cuts through the moment, forcing you both to step apart. He frowns when he sees your flushed face, presses his palm lightly to your forehead, and winces. “You’re burning up. Why couldn’t you just stay home?”
You try to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he mutters, but he still holds your hand as the two of you walk back to class. Inside, the teacher’s not there yet, but all heads turn. Nobody misses the sight of your hands locked together. Riki ignores them and pulls you down into the seat next to his. For once, he doesn’t care about rumors.
You whisper, anxious, “Everyone’s staring.”
He shrugs, shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over your shoulders without hesitation. The class immediately erupts into a chorus of teasing “ooohh”s like they’re watching a live-action drama.
“Just shut up,” Junhee’s voice cuts from the back row, surprisingly sharp. The noise dies down at once. You silently thank her before leaning toward Riki. “…Do you like Junhee?”
His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “What? No. Ew. Why would I ever like her?”
You smack his arm lightly. “You could’ve just said no. Why ‘ew’? She’s a nice girl.”
“Of course you’d say that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.
⪩⪨
The day drifts by in a blur after that. Riki ends up caught with his phone in class, sentenced to detention. You shake your head, disappointed, though you know deep down you were the one begging him earlier to check the time for Illit’s new song premiere.
Junhee leaves school early, her schedule different from yours. And somehow, even with everything that happened, you realize—you don’t feel as heavy as you did this morning.
And you wished you had just left with her earlier—because now it was raining. Raining hard. And, of course, you hadn’t brought an umbrella. Not that you would’ve anyway, even if you’d known. Why would you? The sun had been shining like it was mocking you all morning, and now suddenly the skies decided to throw a tantrum.
“No umbrella?”
You turned at the sound, blinking up at Minjae as he placed a warm hand on your shoulder. You shook your head sheepishly. Without hesitation, he shoved his umbrella into your hands. “Wait—no, no. Take it back. How are you gonna get home?” you asked, panicked, fingers curling around the handle but already trying to hand it back.
He just shook his head, almost amused. “I’ve got good immunity, don’t worry. But you—” his eyes softened as they scanned your tired face, “you’re already sick. I don’t want your fever to get worse. So just… take it. Go.”
And before you could argue again, he turned and walked off into the downpour. No hood, no hesitation. Just striding through sheets of rain like some kind of main character in a drama, the water soaking into his uniform but not once making him falter.
You stood frozen, guilt twisting in your chest, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Carefully, you opened the umbrella and stepped out, watching his figure shrink in the blur of gray.
The rain hit the ground so heavily it made tiny puddles burst at your feet. You hated it—the way muddy water could splash up on your clothes, the way it clung to your shoes. Rain was only nice when you were inside, wrapped up in blankets, not when it turned the world outside into a soggy, cold mess.
Somewhere nearby, frogs croaked like they were celebrating. You kicked a pebble, sighing, one hand tightening on the umbrella handle. That’s when you realized. Oh, hell. You still had Riki’s uniform jacket draped over you. You pulled it closer instinctively as the wind whipped against your skin. It smelled faintly like him—soap and something fresh—and the realization made your chest ache in a way you didn’t want to name.
The streets were quiet, everyone else having already run for cover. By the time you reached your gate, you noticed how alive the garden looked—flowers glistening with raindrops, colors brighter as if they loved the storm. You folded the umbrella, toes curling against the cold porch as you slipped off your shoes and socks. That’s when you noticed a frog trying very hard to climb your stairs. With a squeak, you darted inside and slammed the door before it could follow.
Unfortunately for you, the little creature hopped right into your abandoned shoes on the porch, curling up like it had just signed a rental lease.
You pressed your back to the door, catching your breath, before your thoughts wandered back to Riki. A pang of guilt twisted in your chest. He was out there—probably still being punished, still getting drenched—all because of you. And that thought sat heavy in your heart, no matter how warm Minjae’s umbrella and Riki’s jacket kept you.
“Noona! Whose jacket is that? You got a boyfriend?” Jiho’s voice cut through the hallway, his grin wide and irritating as always.
“Just go do your homework,” you muttered, brushing past him. You didn’t have the energy to deal with his teasing. Upstairs, you shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft thud, peeled out of your damp uniform, and changed into something warm before collapsing on the bed. The day had drained every last bit of you. Too many odd, heavy moments—the way Riki had acted out of character, Minjae handing you his umbrella so casually—it all swirled in your head until your eyelids grew too heavy to fight.
You slipped into sleep curled on your side, the sound of rain steady against your window. Somewhere in the haze, you felt the blanket shift, tugged higher around you, and the faint aroma of chicken soup drifted in. Your forehead burned, and through the fever haze you caught snippets of sound: slippers brushing against your floor, the faint clink of a faucet turning on and off in the bathroom. Even in sleep, you knew someone was there.
When you woke, there was a damp cloth cooling your forehead and a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup waiting by your bedside. You sat up slowly, your body aching, and cradled the bowl in both hands. The warmth seeped through your fingers as you slurped at the broth, each sip grounding you. That’s when your gaze dropped to the pair of worn slippers at your door—your father’s. A lump formed in your throat. He must’ve come in quietly, set the cloth, left the soup. And if he had… then mom must’ve made it for you.
You hated moments like these. They always left you raw. Because if they were capable of this kind of tenderness—of showing you warmth and care—then why not more often? Why only now, when you were too weak to fight back? A single tear slipped down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away quickly.
So you just kept eating, letting the simple comfort of hot soup chase away the overthinking. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was enough that mom had cooked this with you in mind.
Your phone buzzed, breaking the silence. The group chat lit up with messages, your classmates reminding you about unfinished biology homework. You sighed, dropped the bowl on the side table, and reached for your phone, the rain outside still drumming on the glass like an unshakable rhythm. “Guys, I’m too tired to write it. I’ll just take the punishment instead,” you texted in the group chat, tossing your phone aside before closing your eyes. You wanted to sound calm, unbothered, maybe even bold—but your heart told a different story.
⪩⪨
The moment you woke up the next morning, panic hit you like a storm. Your hands shook as you flipped through your untouched notebook, dreading what would happen.
Beside you, Riki slid into his seat like nothing in the world could faze him. He glanced at you once, catching your restless expression, then silently pulled your notebook toward himself. Without a word, he began copying his homework into yours.
On the other side, Junhee raised her hand with practiced innocence. “Ma’am, I’m a little confused about this question… isn’t rough endoplasmic reticulum because of the presence of ribosome?” Her tone was serious, almost too convincing.
The teacher, Ms. Kwan, adjusted her glasses and leaned over Junhee’s desk, ready to correct her. All the while, Minjae sat sprawled in his chair, doing his best to look invisible, one leg bouncing nervously under the desk.
You watched the three of them in silence, your chest warming despite the tension. These were your friends—the kind who would bend rules, distract teachers, and risk trouble just so you didn’t have to face it alone.
By the time Ms. Kwan circled back to your row, Riki slid your notebook across the desk as if nothing had happened. You straightened in your seat, forcing composure as she flipped through your work. Her sharp eyes lingered on your pages a moment too long before she gave a skeptical nod and moved on. Relief washed over you, though you caught her frown when she checked Riki’s work right after. She didn’t say anything, though—just clicked her pen shut and strode to the front. “Alright, class. We’re starting a new project. Pair up—groups of two.”
Immediately, chatter filled the room. You barely glanced at Riki before your hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Don’t even think about teaming with Minjae. You’re with me.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by how serious you sounded, but he didn’t fight it. Your grip only tightened until you saw your names recorded together in the teacher’s diary. Victory.
The rest of the day blurred. Classes were dismissed so everyone could get a head start, which left you sitting in the library booth with Riki, surrounded by notes, books, and scattered pens. Your fever had lessened after the soup last night, but fatigue still weighed you down.
For a while, you tried to focus—scrolling through your phone for research, typing out fragments of information—but your thoughts drifted. Questions you didn’t want to face bubbled up: What are you even doing with your life? What if you fail? What if everything collapses?
The weight of it all pressed on you until you let your head drop against Riki’s shoulder. He shifted under you, clearly confused, but said nothing and continued working, letting you lean. You sighed, staring at the screen without really seeing it. At one point, you even considered using ChatGPT, but the thought of risking suspension made your chest tighten. You couldn’t drag yourself—or him—into that kind of trouble.
“...I’m hu—” Before you could finish whining, a small packet hit your lap. You looked down to find chips, tossed carelessly by Riki. He didn’t even look up from his notebook. You shot him a glare but ripped the packet open anyway, munching between words. “Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks puffed. He didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Hours slipped by like that—you watching him, him working steadily. There was something about his calm, the quiet way he focused, that pulled you in. It was strange how just existing beside him eased some part of your chaos.
At some point, you must’ve drifted off. The last thing you remembered was the soft scratch of his pen. When you woke, his handkerchief brushed your lips, wiping away a faint trace of drool. His voice was low, gentle. “Hey. Time to leave.”
You blinked at him sleepily. “Already?”
He nodded once.
Stretching, you sat up and finally noticed the mess of papers and wrappers you two had left behind. You groaned at the sight, but Riki was already tidying, stacking papers neatly, tossing trash aside. You watched him, exhaustion weighing your shoulders down. “I’m so tired of everything,” you whispered without meaning to. The words slipped out raw, heavy with more than just schoolwork. “Like… so damn tired of it all.”
Riki paused mid-movement, his gaze lifting to yours. For a long moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable. His lips parted, like he was about to say something—something important. But he stopped. Swallowed hard. And whatever truth sat on his tongue that night never made it out.
⪩⪨
After that day, the rumors started spreading like wildfire. Whispers in the hallways, snickers behind cupped hands, and the occasional bold classmate asking directly—everyone seemed convinced that you and Riki were secretly dating.
“Are you two not together?” one of your classmates asked, eyes glimmering with curiosity as though they already knew the answer and just wanted to hear you confirm it.
You shook your head quickly, a small laugh escaping as you tried to brush it off. “No, of course not. We’re just friends.”
The words left your mouth easily, like second nature, but the weight of them was different for Riki. He stood a few steps away, pretending not to care, but his jaw tightened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, almost as if he was waiting for you to say something else—something more. He didn’t understand why your answer made his chest feel heavy. It was the truth, and yet it stung like a lie.
That afternoon, he didn’t walk home with you. Neither did Minjae. Only Junhee tagged along, and though you didn’t want to admit it, the absence of the other two left the walk home strangely quiet. Too quiet. “This is weird,” you muttered under your breath.
Junhee glanced sideways at you before draping an arm casually around your shoulders. Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp with curiosity. “Be honest with me. Do you really not like Riki? Not even a little?”
You froze for a second before giving her the most logical answer you had. “Of course I like him. He’s a great friend of mine.”
Junhee raised a brow. “So you wouldn’t mind if I dated him, then? If I held his hand, hugged him, maybe even—”
“Junhee, stop.” You cut her off immediately, a little too quickly, your voice sharper than intended. “Don’t say stuff like that about him. It’s… weird.” The word hung in the air, heavier than you expected. You walked a bit faster, hoping she would drop it, but Junhee only smirked knowingly.
“If it feels weird, then it means you like him.”
You rolled your eyes, brushing off her words. “That’s not how it works.”
“Oh, but it is.” Her tone was playful, yet there was a hint of truth behind it that made your stomach twist. “Think about it. All the things you’ve done with him that feel normal, even comfortable… now imagine doing the same with Minjae. If it feels different, if it feels wrong—then maybe you’ll finally understand.”
She let go of your shoulder and split off toward her house, leaving you alone with her words. You sighed, heading toward your own home, but the theory echoed in your mind. Against your will, you began running through moments in your head—moments that felt too natural with Riki but would’ve felt strange with Minjae. Like sharing snacks without a second thought, or leaning against him when you were tired, or the way he’d grab your wrist lightly to guide you through crowded halls. With Minjae, those things would feel awkward. With Riki, they felt… right.
Meanwhile, across town, Riki was dealing with the same kind of pestering—but from Minjae. “You feel your heart flutter when you see her, don’t you?” Minjae pressed, his grin mischievous as he leaned closer, as though he were interrogating him.
Riki scoffed, brushing past him. “What’s that got to do with her?”
“Everything.” Minjae’s voice sing-songed, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s the most obvious sign, idiot. You like her. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Listen,” Riki muttered, his tone firm though his ears warmed. “If I liked her, I’d know. I’m not that dumb.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking away with his bag slung over his shoulder. And yet… Minjae’s words lingered in his head. Because now that he thought about it—there were times. Small times. Times where he did feel something flutter in his chest when you smiled, when you looked at him longer than a second too long, when your laugh bubbled out unexpectedly.
That night, you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. At his home, Riki lay in his own bed, headphones in but no music playing. And despite the distance between you, both of you were thinking the same exact thought. What if I actually liked my best friend? The question didn’t feel as strange as it should have. And maybe that was the scariest part of all.
One of the memories that stood out was how you once fell asleep on your desk in the middle of class. Your cheek pressed against the notebook, pen slipping from your fingers, exhaustion clear on your face. Riki, without saying a word, had quietly reached over and turned your notebook so that the cover would hide your face from the teacher’s view. He even leaned forward a little, blocking the line of sight with his own shoulder. And when the teacher eventually caught on and narrowed their eyes at your desk, he had casually rested his head too—like he’d been the culprit all along—ready to take the punishment in your place.
At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it. You’d just laughed it off later, wondering why he would do something so dumb for you. And truthfully, Riki himself couldn’t explain it either. It wasn’t something he’d planned or even thought through. It was instinct—like his body moved before his mind could.
Then there were the times you’d show up at his house after another one of those exhausting days, eyes red and voice shaky from holding in your tears at home. You’d collapse onto his couch or bed, unable to carry the weight anymore, and he’d just pull you into his chest without asking questions. His arms would hold you steady, his chin resting lightly on your hair, as if to remind you that no matter how chaotic everything else was, you belonged somewhere—right there, in his arms. You never saw it as anything unusual before. He was just Riki, your best friend. But now, looking back, you realized… if someone else had held you like that, if someone else had been the one to make you feel safe enough to break down—you might have fallen for them without even noticing.
There were his doodles, too. Silly little things scrawled across the margins of your notebook during class. Tiny stick-figure versions of you smacking him with a badminton racket, or a crooked drawing of a family with him circled in red, proudly labeled as the “real protector of all.” You had scolded him countless times for scribbling over your notes, rolling your eyes at his nonsense. But now that you thought about it, it had been his quiet way of cheering you up, his way of leaving pieces of himself for you to find later when you were bored or tired. He never explained why he did it, and maybe he didn’t even know himself—but the thought warmed you now more than you wanted to admit.
Or the way you’d reach out to fix his tie without even realizing it. It was just habit by now—he’d show up half put-together, and you couldn’t stand it. So you’d tug his tie straight, smooth the wrinkles, and step back like it was nothing. But if you pictured doing that with Minjae, or any other guy, the idea immediately made you cringe. With Riki, though? With him, it had always felt natural. Comfortable. So much so that when your classmates teased you both with dramatic “oohs” and “aahs,” you’d rolled your eyes and brushed it off… but secretly, you wondered if you’d react the same way if it were someone else fixing someone else’s tie in front of the class. Probably. Maybe even louder.
And then there were the library moments. When you’d rant endlessly, blaming him for things that weren’t even his fault—like getting scolded because of something he started. Anyone else would have grown tired, would’ve walked away or snapped back. But not Riki. He’d stay. Always. Sitting beside you with his chin propped on one hand, tapping his pencil against the table. Every time you zoned out mid-rant, he’d poke your cheek with the eraser, grinning when you snapped back at him. It had been his little ritual, one you hadn’t thought twice about. But now… you realized how rare that patience was. How rare it was for someone to stay, even when you weren’t being fair to them.
That night, lying in your bed, hugging your pillow to your chest, your mind kept circling back to these little fragments—these small, ordinary things you had brushed off for so long. They didn’t feel ordinary anymore. They felt precious. They felt like pieces of something bigger, something you were only just beginning to name. And when your heart fluttered at the thought of his laugh, or your chest ached at the idea of him with someone else… you finally admitted to yourself that maybe Junhee was right. Maybe this wasn’t just friendship. Maybe—just maybe—you’d been in love with your best friend all along.
During matches, you were always the loudest one cheering for him. It didn’t matter if he won or lost—you were the first voice he heard, screaming his name, clapping until your palms stung. And no matter the result, your arms were open for him afterwards, wrapping him in the same warmth that always made the world a little softer.
He would look at you after every match, eyes scanning the crowd until they found yours. You’d quit the sport long ago, but he hadn’t—and though part of you sometimes missed playing together, you never once blamed him for staying. If anything, you wanted to support him in the way he always supported you.
Now, lying on his bed with his arms folded behind his head, Riki thought about those little moments and couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. He thought about the both of you as kids, about the way nothing had really changed between you—except for the way his heart felt heavier now whenever he thought of you. Somewhere along the way, without realizing, he had lost his heart.
Because why else would he have spent his entire pocket money at the arcade just to win you a bunny keychain? Why else would he have insisted on getting himself the matching bear one so you could clip them to your bags, side by side, like a secret sign that you belonged together? Friends, he told himself at the time. They were just matching friends. But now, the word sat wrong in his chest. “Friend” didn’t feel big enough anymore.
Even on FaceTime, he found himself slipping. That one study session with you, Junhee, and Minjae had proved it. You were bent over your book, hair falling into your face, and he hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Minjae called him out. Everyone laughed, and you brushed it off like a joke. But later, lying awake, you couldn’t help but think: What if it wasn’t a joke? What if he really was looking at me the way I look at him? The session had ended awkwardly, and though everyone said goodnight as usual, there was a strange tension that clung to the silence afterward. You went to bed with those memories buzzing through your mind, and for the first time, you let yourself admit: maybe you did like him. Maybe Junhee had been right all along.
But another fear came crashing down just as quickly—what if it wasn’t real? What if you only liked him because he was always there for you? What if it wasn’t love but just… attachment? That thought scared you more than anything else. Because hurting him… was the last thing you’d ever want.
⪩⪨
“Read the instructions properly and solve the questions.” Miss Kwan’s sharp voice echoed through the exam hall, pulling you back to reality. You swallowed hard, staring at the pre-final exam paper in front of you. Your mind was blank. Not because you hadn’t studied, but because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the boy just two rows away, calmly solving his paper as if nothing in the world could shake him.
You glanced at Riki, frowning. He looked so focused, pen scratching smoothly across the page. How can he concentrate so easily? Doesn’t he think about me the way I think about him?
The truth was—he hadn’t studied at all last night. He’d spent the entire evening tossing and turning, mind circling around you, around the way your laugh lingered in his ears and the memory of your hand brushing his. The answers he was writing now were purely things he had memorized before, running on autopilot while his heart refused to quiet down.
Desperate, you glanced at Minjae. Maybe he’d at least pass you some hints. But the boy’s page was almost entirely blank. He was staring at the paper like it had betrayed him. “I’m doomed for sure,” you muttered under your breath, fighting the urge to cry.
Minjae, already halfway to giving up, pressed his palms together as though in prayer. Miss Kwan’s taunt wasn’t far behind. “If you can’t solve this paper, don’t even dream about passing the finals.” You and Minjae exchanged a look that said it all—you were both done for. Meanwhile, Junhee scribbled furiously, and Riki’s pen never seemed to stop. It felt unfair. So unfair.
That unfairness followed you to dinner that night. Your parents’ voices were sharp, comparing you once again to Riki. “Look at him. So good in school, so disciplined. Why can’t you be more like?”
“So what if he’s good?” The words burst out before you could stop them. “Maybe I’m just good at something else!” The silence that followed was worse than the scolding. Your father’s voice cut through, cold and final: “Pass the finals. Or don’t bother showing your face here.”
The appetite drained from you instantly. Pushing your plate away, you walked out into the night, the weight of their words pressing down harder than the dark sky above you. And then—you saw him. Riki. Standing outside with an umbrella, as if he had known. As if he’d been waiting for you all along. He stepped forward quickly, lifting the umbrella to shield you from the drizzle. His silence wasn’t awkward. It was steady. Comforting. But something inside you snapped. “Do you enjoy it, huh?”
“What?” His brows furrowed in confusion.
“You like it, don’t you? Being perfect all the time. Topping every class. Getting praised by everyone while I get yelled at just for existing in the same room as you.” Your voice cracked, eyes stinging. “Is that why you’re even friends with me? To make yourself feel better? Is that it?”
“hey that's not…” he started, but you stepped back, shaking your head.
“Just leave me alone for once,” you whispered, voice breaking. You stepped out from under the umbrella, letting the rain soak through your clothes as you walked faster, tears mixing with the downpour.
“Please stop!” His voice rose behind you, desperate. He was scared you’d slip on the wet pavement, scared you’d keep running away from him forever.
“I said leave me—” You didn’t finish. Because his lips crashed onto yours. The umbrella clattered to the ground. His hand cupped your cheek, the other gripping your wrist as though you might vanish if he let go. His eyes were closed, lips trembling against yours with urgency and fear. Yours stayed open at first, wide with shock. Your knees wobbled, the rain streaming down your face as if begging you to shut your eyes, to just feel. And when you finally did, everything blurred—the sound of rain, the ache in your chest, the trembling of your heart.
When he pulled back, both of you were breathless, faces inches apart. He didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers curled tightly around yours, anchoring himself in the storm. You stared at him, chest heaving. Then you shoved at his chest with all your strength, making him stumble backward. “W-why’d you do that?!” Your voice cracked, tears spilling freely now. “That was my first kiss, you bastard!”
He froze, lips parted, raindrops sliding down his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He didn’t know how to explain it—how the words had failed him, how the feelings had taken control. “I—I don’t know,” he whispered finally, touching his fingers to his lips as though the kiss still lingered there. A shiver ran through him, sparking down his spine. He wasn’t lying when he admitted to himself, silently, that he wanted to do it again.
Once he saw those tears welling in your eyes, Riki’s first instinct was to rush over, to wipe them away with the sleeve of his hoodie like he always did whenever you cried. But this time… he froze. After what just happened—after that kiss—it felt wrong, almost too much. His chest tightened as he watched you turn away, your shoulders trembling, and walk back home without saying a single word. No glance back. No explanation. Just silence.
Your clothes clung to your skin, heavy with rainwater, but the storm outside wasn’t nearly as loud as the storm inside your chest. That kiss—his lips against yours—kept replaying over and over again in your mind. The way it came right after your outburst, tangled with anger, confusion, and longing… it left your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break your ribs. Even when you touched your lips with your finger, you swore you could still feel him there.
You carried it with you. Into the bathroom where the mirror only made the memory sharper. Into your room where even fresh pajamas couldn’t wash the feeling off. Into your bed where sleep refused to come because every time you closed your eyes, the scene played again. That moment, that kiss, that boy.
Days slipped by, each one heavier than the last. You couldn’t bring yourself to sit beside him in class, couldn’t bring yourself to laugh at his stupid doodles in your notebook anymore. You avoided his eyes, his presence, even his shadow. And Riki, the boy who never once failed to walk you home, never once left you behind, suddenly wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t call. He didn’t wait at the corner like he used to. It was like the kiss broke some invisible bridge between you, and neither of you knew how to fix it.
You feared it—feared this was it. That whatever the two of you had, whatever strange bond that made him sit with you through your storms, was gone for good. And that thought alone made your chest ache in ways you couldn’t put into words. At night, when your pillow grew damp beneath your cheek, you found yourself whispering into the dark, I just need him back. Even if it’s not as a friend. Even if it’s something more. Just… don’t let him disappear from my life.
Junhee and Minjae noticed, of course. They weren’t stupid. They exchanged looks every time you came in with puffy eyes or when Riki walked past with his head lowered, shoulders slumped. They tried everything to drag you back together. Junhee once “forgot” her homework just to rope Riki into helping you solve a question you pretended to struggle with—but the room only filled with awkward silence. He wouldn’t look at you, and you couldn’t breathe when he was too close. Their tricks fell flat, leaving them sighing in defeat as they watched two people too stubborn—and too scared—to speak.
Meanwhile, at the Nishimura household, Riki wasn’t much better. He lay sprawled on the couch, clutching a pillow like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“What’s up with him? He’s acting like a zombie,” Konon asked, raising an eyebrow as she kicked lightly at the couch. Mrs. Nishimura chuckled from the kitchen, arms crossed. “He’s just riding that teenage wave, dear. Remember when you moped around for weeks? Exactly like that.”
Konon rolled her eyes, leaning down to shake her brother’s arm. But the moment she saw his face—eyes swollen, lids red from lack of sleep—her teasing stalled. “Wait… what’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you—” she gasped, then smirked. “—broke up already?”
Riki groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. “Please, just leave me alone, dear sister,” he muttered in a tone so polite it almost sounded wrong. He shoved at her halfheartedly, but even his strength seemed drained.
“Ohhh, so it is a breakup,” she sang, backing away before his infamous temper snapped. Her giggles echoed down the hall while Riki curled deeper into the couch, face pressed into the pillow like it could swallow him whole. “Can’t a guy just have a little privacy?” he muttered to himself, voice muffled and cracked.
In the kitchen, Mr. Nishimura raised a brow at his wife. “Is it really a breakup?” His wife only shrugged, lips twitching into a small smile. “Who knows. But it sure looks like one.” Neither of them moved to comfort him. They poured tea, as though heartbreak was just another passing cold he’d grow out of.
And across town, you hid your own heartbreak in silence. Because you knew if your family found out—if your mother discovered that Riki of all people had kissed you—she’d lose her mind. She already hated that he was always around, always by your side. To admit you let him close enough to kiss you? That wouldn’t just be another fight. That would be a death sentence. So you held it all in, lying awake in your room, both of you trapped in the same ache, both too afraid to reach across the space the kiss had left between you.
“She’d probably not only disown you but his reputation in your mother’s eyes would get tainted,” you thought, almost laughing bitterly. Honestly, you would’ve done the same if the roles were reversed. You already knew how her dialogue would go, too—word for word. “We provided you a roof over your head and this is how you repay us? Betrayal?!” Blah blah. Cue dramatic hand gestures, guilt trips, and at least two days of the silent treatment.
But you didn’t get much time to dwell on the imaginary lecture, because Jiho leaned closer and whispered something that made your body stiffen. “W–what?”
“You look like you’ve been kissed,” he muttered, almost too casually, but his eyes were way too sharp. “Was it Riki, huh?”
Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. You forced out a laugh, shaking your head so fast it looked rehearsed. “Obviously not. We’re just friends.”
“Oh?” Jiho tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Cool. Just asking.” He returned to scrolling on his phone, but the glare he’d given you lingered in your head like a scar.
You avoided his gaze, sat at the dining table, and prayed—begged—that he wouldn’t bring it up at dinner. The clinking of plates was too loud, the silence too heavy.
Your dad was the first to notice. “Why are you so giddy?” he asked suddenly, squinting at you like you’d been caught sneaking snacks at midnight.
You almost choked on your rice. Three pairs of eyes—dad’s, mom’s, and Jiho’s—zeroed in on you.
“I—it’s nothing,” you stammered, shoving food into your mouth like it could save you. You kept your head down, finished quickly, and excused yourself before anyone could interrogate further.
The second you shut your bedroom door, you leaned against it, heart hammering. Calm down. Calm down. Instead, you grabbed your phone and did what you always did when reality got too loud—you went delusional online. You typed, “How do you know if you’re in love with someone?” into the search bar and waited.
The answers popped up in neat bullet points. You started scrolling.
When it feels like home with them. You thought about Riki—his annoying smirk, the way he’d toss you snacks without asking, the quiet way he’d listen when you rambled. He always felt… safe. Even when he was teasing, even when he was immature. He was steady. Home. One box ticked.
When you can just exist together without doing anything. Your mind flashed back to afternoons spent sprawled in his room—him bent over homework, you lying on his bed scrolling through your phone. No need for words, no need for effort. It just was. Normal, you told yourself. But is it?
When seeing them happy is a reward. You frowned. That one confused you. You were happy when Junhee or Minjae smiled, too. So what made Riki different? You bit your lip, scrolling further.
When you have someone already in your head while typing this question. Your stomach dropped. Okay, that was… kind of unfair. Obviously, you thought of him when searching this up. Who else would you be thinking about? You kept scrolling, but your breath hitched at the next one.
When you can’t stand the thought of them gone from your life. You froze. You could live without Riki, right? You had to. Life would go on. But the thought of him vanishing—never speaking again, no more teasing, no more warmth, no more safe silences—Your chest twisted, and you hated it. With Junhee or Minjae, you knew you’d be sad, but you’d move on. With Riki… the thought alone made your throat tighten like you were already grieving something you hadn’t even lost yet.
You hugged your knees to your chest, staring at the glowing screen. Maybe I do love him. And with that terrifying realization, one thing was clear—there was no going back to how things used to be.
⪩⪨
The two of them smear cream onto the half-baked cake like they know exactly what they’re doing, but to Riki it just looks like a disaster in the making. He squints, skeptical, shifting the bowl in his hands. “Are you guys sure this is… how it’s supposed to be made?” he asks, his voice quiet but full of doubt. His hand almost reaches out for a taste before Junhee smacks it away with the reflexes of someone who’s swatted him before.
“Just do as we say.” Junhee doesn’t even look at him as she commands it, already busy arranging strawberries like she’s on a cooking show. Minjae hums in agreement, too focused on folding another piece of paper. And just like that, Riki finds himself cornered—dominated in his own home by the two of them. It’s not like he could stop them anyway. He sighs as he watches them take over, shaking his head at the mess of cream and crumbs.
“Don’t shake your head, lil mistake. Go put the decorations on.” Junhee shoots him a glare sharp enough to shut him up, and Riki sighs again, resigned, moving to string up the letters on the wall. Beside them, Minjae carefully places an origami butterfly he had made—folds crisp, delicate wings catching the light. He really is annoyingly good at it.
“I just hope she likes this,” Riki mutters under his breath, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His chest feels heavier than it should, weighed down by the thought that maybe—just maybe—he trusted the wrong people with something this important.
Meanwhile, you’ve curled up in your room, sleep stealing you before you can fight it off. When you open your eyes, Riki is there, leaning over you, glowing faintly in the dim light. Your breath stutters. He looks too close, too warm, too real.
You gulp, frozen, until his lips brush yours. It’s soft—hesitant at first—but when you kiss him back, it deepens. Your lips move together like you’ve been waiting for this without knowing it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer—Until your knee knocks painfully into the edge of your table. You jolt awake, realizing you’d been twisted up in an awkward position the whole time. Just a dream. A dream about him.
You drag a hand down your face, cheeks burning even though no one’s here to see. And when your eyes flicker to the calendar on the wall, your stomach twists. It’s your birthday. Seventeen. The number looks big and small all at once. You wait for the smile to come but… it doesn’t. The thought of celebrating feels hollow. Still, you force a smile onto your face, the kind you’ve practiced too many times, and head downstairs. Maybe—just maybe—someone will say it. A simple happy birthday.
But your parents walk past you without even glancing your way, too wrapped up in themselves to notice. Your brother frowns at you, confused, like you’re acting strange for no reason. The forced smile cracks. “Do you… really not know that it’s my birthday?” you ask him quietly, your voice trembling despite how hard you try to keep it steady. You think about the cake you made for him three months ago, the balloons you blew, the way you remembered every small detail.
His brows knit together. “It’s your birthday?” The confusion on his face makes it clear—he has no idea. None at all. Something inside you deflates. You bite down hard, forcing out a shaky laugh. “Oh? Of course not. I was joking. It’s tomorrow.” And he believes it instantly. No questions. No second look. Your mother doesn’t even glance up, doesn’t even care to ask what you’re talking about.
The tears come before you can stop them. You wipe one away quickly, angry at yourself for letting it fall at all, and walk straight out the door. The air outside is sharp, cool, and it stings a little more than it should. Maybe no one else will remember. Maybe no one will care. You shove your hands into your pockets and head down the street, deciding that if no one else will make today feel like your birthday, then you’ll do it yourself. You’ll buy a small pastry, something sweet enough to trick your heart into thinking today matters.
But before you can even step inside the bakery, your phone buzzes in your pocket. “Hey…umm... Riki… he’s unconscious, just come here, please.” The panic in her voice sends your heart plummeting. Without a second thought, you’re out the door, phone clutched in your hand. The air still carries that damp sweetness after rain, brushing against your hair as you sprint down the street toward his house.
Unconscious? What happened? Your chest aches with worry as you push his front door open. It’s quiet—too quiet. His parents never come home on weekdays, so you don’t stop to question it. You head straight for his room, only to find it swallowed in darkness. Fumbling for the light switch, you hear the faint clatter of utensils somewhere inside. Relief sparks for a moment as you call out softly, “Junhee? Minjae?”
But before you can take another step, an arm slides around you, hand covering your mouth. You gasp, eyes widening, until you’re gently pulled down to the floor and pinned. When your gaze adjusts, you see him. “Riki?” Your voice trembles. “She said you were unconscious—”
Instead of answering, he just holds you tighter, burying his face against your shoulder as if he’s afraid to let go.
You squirm, cheeks heating. “Oh, please. Can you not? You already stole my first kiss.” The words slip out sharper than you intend, but your heart is hammering too fast to take them back. He lifts his head, eyes catching yours in the dark. “And? That was my first kiss too.” His voice is low, steady. “And I’d do it again. Every chance I get.”
You freeze, breath stuck in your throat. “Then… do it.” The challenge falls from your lips before you can stop it. And he does. His mouth presses against yours in an instant, warm and desperate, and the world tilts. You gasp into the kiss but your hands betray you, clutching his shirt as if you’d been waiting for this. Your lips move with his, and the ache of missing him pours into every stolen second. It doesn’t feel like payback. It feels like coming home.
“W-what—” Junhee’s voice cracked as she and Minjae flicked on the lights, both frozen in place. They were holding a cake, wide-eyed as they took in the sight of you and Riki kissing on the floor.
You caught them staring and instantly pushed Riki off, scrambling to your feet. “W-what’s all this?” you blurted, hoping your confusion would steer the attention away from what they’d just witnessed.
Junhee blinked, still processing. “Uh… your birthday, but—”
“Oh my god,” you cut in quickly, forcing a laugh as you gave her a sheepish smile. “You guys are way too good.” Your tone was light, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. Junhee looked like she wanted answers, but she let it go—for now.
“Happy birthday, birthday girl,” Minjae said, stepping forward. He held out a small box, awkward but genuine. Inside was a handwritten card, his neat but slightly shaky handwriting filling the page. It wasn’t expensive, but somehow, it felt warmer than any polished, pricey gift you’d ever gotten from your family. Junhee finally set the cake down with a sigh. “Happy birthday. But seriously—” her eyes cut toward Riki, “if I find out he hurts you, I won’t let him get away with it.”
“You sound like a jealous boyfriend,” Riki muttered, smirking as he wiped his lips.
“Shut up,” Junhee shot back, rolling her eyes. The two of them bickered, and you couldn’t stop laughing—even through the tears that were threatening to spill. Because in that moment, standing there with them, you realized: your friends felt more like family than your real family ever had.
You giggled as you blew out the candle. “My girl’s growing up so fast,” Junhee murmured, hugging you from the side. She didn’t need to say it out loud, but you knew she had figured out the truth about your messy home life. Junhee was smart that way.
⪩⪨
From that day on, something shifted in you. You studied harder, cut back on phone calls with Junhee, barely played around with Riki. It was like you had transformed, throwing yourself into finals with everything you had. And still—Riki surprised you. You thought he’d avoid the subject of that kiss, but instead, he asked you out on your birthday night. You said yes, even though fear gnawed at you—the fear of ruining the friendship you cherished so much.
At home, your parents seemed to notice your effort. They stopped criticizing as much. Your mom even started leaving sliced apples on your desk when you were in the shower. She didn’t say anything, but those small gestures spoke louder than her words ever had.
The dinner table was different too. No more constant comparisons. Instead, your mom brought up random moments—like how you’d won a gold medal in relay back in third grade. You didn’t really care anymore, but deep down, that younger version of you—the little girl who just wanted to be seen—was giggling and kicking her feet at finally hearing the words.
Still, the thought haunted you. If they could compliment me now, why couldn’t they do it back then? Why didn’t they tell that little girl she was enough? You remembered too well—the night your dad shoved your medal aside because it wasn’t academic. You’d cried into your pillow, believing you weren’t worthy of their pride. If you could, you’d hug that child so tightly, shielding her from the ache she was never supposed to bear.
One evening, it spilled over.
“Why are you doing this?” you asked at dinner, voice trembling. “Why now—when I’m finally trying to heal? Don’t do that to me. Just… don’t.”
Your mom blinked at you. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t praise me for my past,” you snapped, pushing your empty plate away. “Every time, Jiho was the one in the spotlight. I was five when it started, and nobody even noticed. Don’t you regret it? Don’t you feel anything about it?” The silence was unbearable. She had no answer, and that stung worse than anything. You shoved back your chair and stormed off to your room.
Your dad and mom exchanged helpless looks at the table, regret written all over their faces. But regret couldn’t rewrite the years you had craved their love. Regret wasn’t going to give you back the childhood you’d been denied.
⪩⪨
“Is this pretty?” you asked Junhee as the two of you waited outside the restaurant. You tugged slightly at the blue ruffle top and tugged at your baggy jeans—the outfit was her choice, after all.
Junhee just grinned, giving a quick nod. “Pretty as hell,” she muttered, and you laughed at her bluntness.
“Look,” you whispered, pointing subtly, “they’re here.” Riki and Minjae walked toward you both, and your stomach did a little flip. You glanced at Junhee, who looked completely unfazed. Somehow, she didn’t even seem the slightest bit nervous. “Why aren’t you nervous? I mean, I’m not the only one dating here, you know,” you murmured.
Junhee leaned closer, whispering in your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Actually… I’m just zoning out.”
You burst out laughing. “Geez, girl.”
By the time Riki and Minjae reached you, you couldn’t help but notice how normal and relaxed they both acted. The two of them had started dating not long ago—what began as a silly bet had somehow turned into actual love—and it showed in their easy, natural banter.
You had wanted to walk in with Riki, hand in hand, but the way Junhee gently grabbed your hand told you instantly: maybe a double date wasn’t such a great idea. “So, what are you ordering?” Junhee asked, nudging you as you scanned the menu. She sat beside you while Riki sat across, Minjae mirroring him. Both guys seemed focused on their menus, though Riki’s gaze occasionally flicked up, sneaking glances at you.
You could feel his eyes on you even as you checked your purse to see how much you could spend. “I guess… whatever you guys want is fine,” you finally said, trying to sound casual, though your heart was hammering.
Riki noticed you glance up and down the menu, the slight hesitation in your movements. He caught the way your fingers fiddled with the edge of your top before settling on a dish. “You sure? You’re looking like you’re about to solve a math problem instead of pick dinner,” he teased softly, leaning back in his chair.
“So, I’ll be having carbonara,” you finally say, passing your menu to Riki. You feel your hands fidget as you glance at your purse, already calculating if this was within budget.
Minjae follows with a grin, “Then I’ll have the steak.” He’s tight on money too, but today he wants to splurge just a little.
“I’ll have salmon and risotto,” Junhee announces casually, swiping her credit card like it’s nothing. She watched a K-drama last week with that exact meal and insisted it looked aesthetic enough to deserve ordering. You can’t help but roll your eyes a little, but also admire her confidence.
“I’ll take a seafood platter,” Riki says without hesitation, barely glancing at the menu. Your heart tugs a little—this was going to cost a fortune, wasn’t it? You start scanning your purse again, mentally figuring out if you could chip in.
The waiter scribbles down the orders. “Sure, will be in a minute,” he mutters.
Riki notices your nervous glances, your hands hovering over the menu as if you’re still calculating costs. He doesn’t say anything, but the faintest corner of his lips curl up. He’s got this covered, he thinks. He bought enough to cover yours too, not wanting you to stress.
When the food arrives, your carbonara looks… fine, but honestly, it doesn’t smell appealing. You stare at it, suddenly wishing you had picked the seafood platter instead.
Junhee, meanwhile, isn’t touching her food. “Let me take pictures first—this looks so aesthetic,” she says, snapping photos of everyone’s plates. Minjae and Riki exchange a look of mild irritation, clearly impatient but letting her have her moment.
“Are you done?” Riki asks quietly, voice low, eyes flicking between his plate and yours. His stomach growls slightly, though he masks it well. Minjae’s stomach audibly growls as well.
Junhee finally nods, engrossed in posting the photos online. Meanwhile, you stare down at your carbonara with a pout. The smell is too much. You just want something edible. Riki leans over, fork in hand. “Here,” he says softly, cutting a small portion of your pasta and twirling it for you. He brings it closer to your lips. You shake your head, recoiling from the smell.
He frowns, tilting his fork slightly to taste it himself. His eyes light up. “Hmm… not bad,” he mutters, swapping plates silently. He gives you his seafood platter and takes your carbonara. Your eyes widen. “You… you didn’t have to.” Riki shrugs casually, though his lips twitch upward in amusement. “I want you to enjoy your meal. Simple as that.” Your face brightens, cheeks flushing lightly at the small gesture. You dig into the seafood, instantly loving it.
Minjae, meanwhile, is struggling with the steak. “Which fork do I even—ugh, forget it,” he mutters, stabbing it with one he thinks is right. He bites down and his eyes widen. “Okay… wow. Yeah, this is worth it,” he says, a little too loudly, making Junhee roll her eyes.
You try peeling a shrimp from your platter but fumble awkwardly. Riki notices and silently slides your plate closer to him, deftly peeling the shrimp with careful fingers. You freeze, cheeks heating instantly. “You’re… you’re too good at this,” you whisper, trying not to sound flustered, though your voice betrays you.
Riki smirks lightly, handing you the shrimp once it’s peeled. “I like seeing you happy,” he says softly, almost under his breath. Junhee, still glued to her phone, nudges your arm lightly. “You’re turning into a tomato,” she whispers, grinning knowingly.
You bury your face slightly in your hands, heart racing, as Riki leans back, watching you with that faint, soft smile only you ever seem to notice. “He’s feeding you like you’re both married,” Junhee teases, eyes sparkling with amusement.
You freeze for a second as Riki gently brings a peeled shrimp to your lips. You gulp, heart fluttering, and open your mouth. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the restaurant doesn’t exist—you’re just two people caught in your own little world. Junhee and Minjae are talking somewhere off to the side, but you can’t even focus on what they’re saying.
He cracks open a crab leg for you with ease and hands your plate back, wiping his fingers on a tissue before picking up the carbonara. “You’re hopeless,” he mutters under his breath, watching you chew the shrimp he peeled.
Junhee and Minjae, distracted from their conversation, burst out laughing at the exchange. “Look at Riki though! He actually knows how to treat his girlfriend right,” Junhee points out. You and Riki share a soft laugh, glancing at each other. Meanwhile, Minjae fusses over his steak, theatrically cutting a piece and feeding Junhee.
“Here you go, my fussy princess,” Minjae says, grinning as Junhee playfully smacks him on the head. She fusses over him, adjusting his napkin like a tired mother, and all of you laugh, even as she looks completely confused by your amusement.
You dip another shrimp in the sauce and devour it, watching Riki slurp down the carbonara. You had judged his choice earlier, but honestly, seeing him enjoy it—and seeing him care enough to switch plates—makes you grateful beyond words. Some sauce smudges your lips, and Riki reaches over with a tissue, gently dabbing it away. Junhee and Minjae break into dramatic gasps, and you’re frozen, dumbfounded but secretly thrilled. You pick up a fork and feed him a piece of shrimp in return, laughing softly.
“Can you two not do that in PUBLIC?” Junhee gasps, a hand over her mouth. Minjae nods, as if he hasn’t just let Junhee feed him from her own fork.
“You should be the last person to point that out, Jun,” Riki teases, rolling his eyes but smiling softly at you.
Almost done with the meal, everyone’s satisfied but still craving something sweet. Junhee pipes up, “How about we share dessert? That way, we spend less.”
You glance at Riki. “Do you want dessert?” you ask quietly. He squeezes your hand across the table. “Yeah… let’s do it.” You smile back, a little heart swelling at the gesture.
“I’ll only share dessert with Junhee,” Minjae adds, winking. You pout playfully, but Riki gently intertwines his fingers with yours and whispers, “Okay, then we’ll share another dessert—just us.”
Soon the waiter brings the desserts: chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream for you and Riki, and strawberry shortcake for Junhee and Minjae. Your eyes widen at the chocolate cake, molten and soft, and the ice cream looks perfect. You go straight for the ice cream while Riki lunges for the lava cake, and your spoons clatter against each other. You giggle.
“Guess you’re stealing my part,” he says, eyes glinting with playful mischief as he watches you savor the ice cream. He scoops the gooey center and pretends to complain while feeding it to you. You devour it happily, cheeks flushed with delight.
Minjae plucks the strawberry off Junhee’s shortcake and pops it into her mouth before she can protest. “I thought you were gonna eat that!” she mutters, laughing. He bites his cake, leaning back in his chair, eyes wide. “Totally worth it,” he says, grinning. Junhee retaliates, playfully shoving a large piece of cake toward him. Minjae opens his mouth to catch it and almost chokes, causing you and Riki to burst out laughing.
“You already took my heart, now you’re trying to kill me?” he gasps dramatically, wiping cake crumbs from his lips.
“I didn’t know it would end like this, I swear,” she says, laughing as the four of you dissolve into happy chaos.
When the check comes, you reach for your wallet, but Riki shakes his head, pulling it from you. “How about you just treat me on future dates? For now, let me do this.” You can’t help but smile, heart swelling. He’s always been sweet, but moments like this make it impossible not to feel… full, in a way words can’t describe.
As you step out of the restaurant, you hug Junhee and Minjae goodbye, the air filled with that soft, unspoken warmth that comes with a perfect evening. Riki stays close, hands brushing yours occasionally, and for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at ease. Safe. Happy. And maybe, just maybe, exactly where you’re supposed to be.
You walk beside Riki, the evening calm and the streets quiet, lined with orange-glowing streetlights. The air smells faintly of rain that had passed earlier, carrying that clean, fresh scent you both liked. Normally, you’d be chatting, teasing him, but tonight, you’re unusually quiet, lost in your thoughts. The double date had been perfect, yet your mind keeps drifting to finals and the looming uncertainties of the future.
Riki seems to notice without saying anything. His hand brushes against yours, and before you can react, he gently intertwines his fingers with yours. The simple gesture alone makes your chest feel lighter, like he’s silently telling you he’s there.
Finally, you give in to the pull of your worries. “What if I don’t get into a good college? What if I end up… stuck, while everyone else moves forward?” Your voice is low, almost lost to the quiet night, but Riki tightens his grip just slightly, letting you know he’s listening. He glances at you, holding your hand firmly, observing you the way he always has since childhood—calm, patient, and unwavering.
You keep talking without thinking, words tumbling out. “My grades… they’re not as good as Junhee’s. And my parents… they’ll just compare me to you again. I don’t know if I can handle more of that.” Your voice cracks, trembling with vulnerability, and Riki stops walking immediately. His stillness makes you pause too, the weight of the night pressing down.
“You don’t have to be like me. Or Junhee. Or anyone,” he says, voice steady, calm, and entirely sincere. You know he means it because he always does, the certainty in him making your chest ache. He reaches out, tugging your sleeve lightly so you turn to face him. “You’ll get where you’re supposed to go. And if it’s not where you thought, I’ll still be there. Cheering for you.”
Something inside you loosens, and you hug him immediately, burying your face in his chest. You don’t cry—just hold him like you’ve wanted to do ever since dinner at the restaurant, silently leaning into him as though his presence alone could shield you from everything else. “You make it sound so easy,” you mutter, voice muffled against his shirt.
He smirks faintly. “That’s because you make everything too hard,” he teases softly, then his voice drops a notch, gentler now: “But I’d rather you rant to me a hundred times than keep it all inside.” His hand moves almost awkwardly, palm against your back, a subtle, practiced motion that reminds you of all the little ways he’s comforted you since childhood. Somehow, even now, it feels completely right. You hesitate for just a moment, but then hug him back, the quiet intimacy of the gesture grounding you both. It’s your first truly public, tender moment together, without teasing or banter.
He squeezes you lightly, firm and reassuring. “Besides… no college, no grades, no parents… none of that decides if you’re worth something.”
You look up at him, streetlight catching the side of his face, and it hits you—really hits you—how much he means it. How much he means to you.
The moment stretches between you, heavier than usual, wrapped in the quiet night, a soft foreshadowing that everything will change after finals—but for now, you’re here. Together. Safe. And somehow, that’s enough.
⪩⪨
After the final exams ended, you couldn’t help but stand outside the results board a few days later, heart hammering in your chest. The crowd around the board was bigger than expected, people jostling and whispering, and you immediately frowned—crowds had never been your thing. Still, curiosity got the better of you. Before you could inch closer to see your marks, a familiar voice called out. “Hey! Over here!”
You turned to see Riki waving, phone in hand. He sprinted toward you, breathless, a wide grin on his face, and without a second thought, wrapped you in a tight hug. The warmth of him enveloped you instantly. “Did you… top?” you asked quietly, almost forgetting your own results in the excitement of his presence.
“No… but,” he pulled back just enough to grin at you, eyes shining. “You passed with flying colors!”
You blinked, confused. “You’re serious?”
He held out his phone, showing the picture he had taken of the results board. Zooming in, you squinted at your own name, seeing the marks clearly. Your heart skipped—was that really you? Capable enough to pass with marks you had never imagined for yourself? “Your hard work paid off,” Riki murmured, pulling you into another hug. His grip was firm, protective, and you hugged back, smiling through the relief that this chapter of stress was finally closing.
Just then, Junhee’s teasing voice broke through. “What did you get, stupid?”
You pulled away and saw the two of them playfully fighting. You looked at Riki and couldn’t help but smile—he returned the grin effortlessly. At least their relationship was blossoming just like yours.
“I’m your boyfriend, stop calling me stupid,” Minjae muttered, a mock glare in his tone.
“You’ll always be my stupid,” Junhee shot back, before running off as Minjae chased her, giggling and scooping her up. You pulled out your phone, quickly snapping a picture to tease them later.
“They’re cute,” you murmured softly, still watching the chaos. Riki leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “And so are we,” he whispered.
“Oh, shut up. We’re the cool couple,” you replied, smirking. But his fingers found your sides, tickling you mercilessly. You glared, laughing, and he just gave you that cheeky grin—the one that made it impossible to stay mad.
⪩⪨
When his birthday came at the end of the year, you were already packing for college. Both of you had secured places in colleges in different cities, but you wanted to make sure his birthday was special. You stepped into his mostly empty old house, cake in hand, and called out. “Riki!”
He appeared at his bedroom door, eyes widening at the sheer size of the cake. “For whom?” he teased instantly.
“For my boyfriend, so don’t even dare eye it,” you replied with a laugh, setting the cake carefully on his empty desk.
“Oh? Then? You shouldn’t step into a strange guy’s room,” he countered, moving swiftly to playfully grip your waist and pin you to the bed.
You gasped at the sudden energy, eyes wide, cheeks flushing. “What? You should expect that, especially when you come into someone’s room without checking if it’s your boyfriend,” he said, but his lips were already brushing the corner of your mouth.
He whispered, “Look at me,” before pressing a proper kiss to your lips, deep and lingering. Your hands were free now as his hand roamed under your shirt, grazing the edge of your bra. You pushed him gently but firmly, voice trembling, “Not now! We said we’d wait.” He pouted, muttering, “I forgot. But sure.” Though you knew, even as he said it, he was reluctantly respecting the rule you’d set.
“Happy birthday, Riki! Happy turning 18. Now you’re dating a minor,” you teased, smirking despite your flushed cheeks. He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh right? A minor that’s gonna turn 18 in a month or so,” he muttered, but when you hugged him immediately afterward, all trace of his annoyance melted away.
“I’m just so happy we didn’t stop talking back then,” you whispered, pressing close.
“I know. I love you,” he replied softly, placing a kiss on your forehead before pulling you onto the bed with him, curling around you in a warm embrace. Cake could wait—this moment, this closeness, was more important.
“Please don’t fall in love with another guy over there,” Riki mutters softly, burying his face in your shoulder as he hugs you tight. His voice is light, joking, but the slight tremor in it betrays the insecurities he can’t quite hide. “I know I’m not great at reading minds, but I can read your heart just fine.”
You chuckle, cupping his face gently. “Of course I won’t, dummy. Even if someone gave me gold, I’d still pick my trash over everything.”
“Wait—are you calling me trash?” His pout is playful, but you can see the faint glimmer of worry in his eyes.
“Of course not,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re the diamond.”
He doesn’t let go. He just hugs you tighter, as if holding on would make the distance easier to bear. You return the embrace, feeling the same pang of longing yourself. “Don’t worry,” you murmur. “We’ll still meet during holidays.”
“As if that’s supposed to make me happy,” he mutters, tightening his hold. “I’m used to being by your side every day.” You hug him back just as tightly, heart aching in a mix of love and fear. Soon, the warmth and the exhaustion of the day carry you both into sleep.
“I love you,” he whispers sleepily, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. “I love you too,” you mumble, your words garbled in sleep. He smiles, even half-asleep, pulling you closer and letting your head rest on his chest.
The birthday cake still sits on his desk, untouched—a quiet reminder of celebrations waiting to happen, just like your life, ready to begin.
⪩⪨
The four of you hardly got time to talk these days, and when you did, it was chaotic—full of background noise, dropped calls, and everyone talking at once. But Riki? He called you every single morning and night. Sometimes he even begged to keep the video on while he fell asleep. He just wanted to see your face, to have you there even if you weren’t physically in the room. And secretly—you had no idea—he kept your photo frame on his bedside table, just to stare at when he couldn’t sleep.
“I don’t have charging, Riki,” you mumbled one night, almost apologetic, as he whined at you to stay on the call. You were sharing a room with a classmate who was already dead asleep, leaving you alone with him on the screen.
Hesitantly, you plugged in your power bank, and there he was—gripping his pillow to his chest, eyes soft and a little sleepy, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world. Watching him like that, it hit you how much he just… needed to see you, and how much you’d come to need him, too. He joked that it cured his insomnia, but honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.
You didn’t know if you liked having him more as your best friend or your boyfriend. And maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Because one thing was clear: Family isn’t about blood. It’s about who sticks around, who actually cares.
And for you, that was Riki, Junhee, and Minjae—your little chaotic, loving, ridiculous family. People you chose, people who chose you back, people who’d stay even when the rest of the world didn’t. They were your home, and no matter what, you’d carry them in your heart forever—even if the world forgot.
And in that moment, seeing Riki’s sleepy little smile through the screen, it felt like everything was going to be okay. After all this was the family that mattered.
Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.
word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)
pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader
featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit
genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST
warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)
disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.
notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!
The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.
Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."
Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.
Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.
“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.
“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”
“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”
“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”
“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”
The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”
Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.
She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?
By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.
Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.
His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.
You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.
There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.
And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.
Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.
Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.
You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.
You were supposed to be over this.
And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.
You slam your laptop shut.
If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.
But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.
You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.
The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.
That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.
The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.
From: You
Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece
Dear Ms. Yoon,
I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea.
I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.
Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out.
Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response.
Best regards,
Kang Y/N
Senior Journalist (Sports Division)
Manifesto Daily
+82 XX XXXX YYYY
Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.
You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night.
You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?
You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.
When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.
The reply comes faster than expected.
For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change.
He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece
Dear Ms. Kang,
Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements.
The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance.
Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly.
Best regards,
Yoon Ji-eun
Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon
+82 XX XXXX YYYY
“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?
He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t.
He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.
Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered.
You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth.
And he alone crushed it.
The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.
The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic.
You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.
When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”
You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”
He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”
The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.
You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.
The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.
The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.
Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.
When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.
It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.
And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back.
But more importantly, he was holding you back.
Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.
So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.
“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”
And hit send.
Just like that, another four years passed without him.
Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.
Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.
You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.
Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.
But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.
But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.
You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.
Worse than it should.
And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”
You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.
“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.
A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.
“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.
Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park
+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him
Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.
+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan!
What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!
+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character
Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-
+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!!
No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.
Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.
You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.
Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.
“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”
He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.
“Interesting research.”
Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.
“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.
Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.
“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”
You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.
“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.
And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”
“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”
“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”
You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns.
You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.
“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.
Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.
“Shit—!”
You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.
Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.
Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.
But the fall never comes.
Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.
You look up.
Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.
You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.
“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.
You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.
You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.
A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.
It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.
He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.
The rumours about his injury.
It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.
At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.
“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”
You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”
He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.
But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.
You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”
You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.
Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.
“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.
You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.
“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”
You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.
“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”
Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.
“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”
You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.
“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.
He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”
You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.
You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”
A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.
“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”
You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”
“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.
You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”
Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.
“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”
Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.
You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”
He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”
The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.
You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.
You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.
“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”
Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”
You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”
His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”
You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”
“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not really.”
The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.
You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”
You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.
At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”
“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”
A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.
“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”
That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.
You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”
The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.
Not reporter and subject.
Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.
He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”
“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”
He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”
“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”
He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”
“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.
Still so familiar. Still so far.
You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.
“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.
Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.
You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.
For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.
“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”
You glance up, meeting his eyes.
“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”
His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.
You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.
Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.
But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.
Feels like he's reaching out to you.
And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.
You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”
His eyes flick toward you, then away again.
“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.
You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.
But it’s too late for that now.
You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.
"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."
Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.
Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.
“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”
You nod once, curt. “Got it.”
And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.
You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.
Behind you, you hear nothing.
No apology. No explanation. No plea.
Just silence.
Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.
For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.
You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.
Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.
You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.
Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.
He told himself that this would be closure.
But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.
And you’re already gone.
You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface.
Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.
You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?
Wrong.
So incredibly, painfully wrong.
Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.
You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.
And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.
Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.
Well, not to you.
You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain.
Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.
That’s fair game.
No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight.
To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations.
You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.
He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.
So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.
Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.
Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him.
And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.
You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one:
You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.
You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.
Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.
But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.
So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.
Before you know it, you're signing it off.
And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.
Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.
It’s a story about how well you still know him.
And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.
You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.
The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.
And if he reads it—
Well.
Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE]
The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.
“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.
Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.
His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.
Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.
Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.
“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”
Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.
“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”
Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.
This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.
There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.
And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.
In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.
Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.
“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”
Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.
“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.
Oh.
That was going out today?
You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.
By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:
[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon
IS HE BACK FOR REAL??
The Ice Prince has feelings??
Thank you for this. I cried.
You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”
On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.
His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.
Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.
Tweets fly across your feed:
@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost
@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again
@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.
You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.
And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.
Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.
Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal.
Not really.
And yet—how could it not be?
You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.
You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.
You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.
Hey.
Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind.
Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice.
P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.
You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.
It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.
At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.
Just one final line, added like an afterthought:
You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.
You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.
You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.
Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.
You scoff.
[email protected]. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.
Bold choice, he says.
This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”
And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.
Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.
The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.
But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.
You don’t respond. Not yet.
But you don’t delete it either.
You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—
"I need a coffee break."
With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.
The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.
You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.
“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”
You freeze mid-step.
No way…
You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.
And there he is.
Park Sunghoon.
He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.
His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.
“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.
“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”
“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head.
“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”
He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”
You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”
It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”
The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?
You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”
He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”
You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”
“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”
“No.”
“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”
The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.
Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.
You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.
“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”
You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”
And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.
But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.
So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.
Not because you have nothing to say—
But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.
You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.
“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.
He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”
You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”
He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”
You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”
That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.
It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.
You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.
He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.
And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.
You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.
So you do.
From: You
Subject: Re: That Article
Hey.
Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.”
Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once.
Anyway. Thanks for the coffee.
– Y/N
P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY
Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.
He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.
It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.
His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.
But what he finds isn’t quite that.
His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.
Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY
He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.
He reads it again. Then again.
It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.
He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.
You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.
You don’t do anything without intention.
Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.
So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.
He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.
His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.
He snorts softly.
What counts as urgent, exactly?
Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?
His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.
He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.
But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.
So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.
It feels like the pause before a beginning.
And he waits.
Just like you did for him all those years ago.
The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.
Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.
You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.
When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.
“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.
He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.
Your heart twists painfully at the sight.
And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.
“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”
The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.
You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.
And you nod.
Because how could you say no?
“Of course,” you say.
He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.
Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.
Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.
You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.
You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.
Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.
The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.
You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.
Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.
Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.
You were confident this long-distance thing could work.
After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.
You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.
But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.
And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.
You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.
And for a while, you made it work.
You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.
You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.
You meant it.
You meant every word.
But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.
And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.
There wasn’t much left over.
Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.
You waited.
You waited longer than you should have.
And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.
Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.
But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.
And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.
Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?
You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.
Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.
You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.
But you know better.
And so would he.
The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.
You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.
You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.
But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.
Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.
The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.
You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.
You live.
You function.
You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.
But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.
Nothing.
And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.
You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.
Maybe you never were.
And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.
Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.
So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.
No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.
And for a while, you almost believe it.
Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.
Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.
But then you see it.
Unknown Number.
For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.
Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.
You unlock your phone.
And you read:
Hey. It’s me.
Not sure if this counts as urgent.
But... I saw something today that made me think of you.
Do you have time?
Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.
You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.
But they don’t.
It’s him. Sunghoon.
Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."
But because he thought of you.
And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.
You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.
No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.
You type:
You:
You should probably introduce yourself next time.
"It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text.
And depends.
Is it something worth hearing about?
You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.
Sunghoon:
I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy.
If you want.
There's also a favour I'd like to ask.
You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up.
A favour?
It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.
Still, a part of you hesitates.
Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.
You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.
You type:
You:
Where and what time?
The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.
Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.
Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.
But real. Present.
And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.
Sunghoon arrives at the café first.
It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.
He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.
He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you.
But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.
And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.
He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.
Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.
But you’re showing up.
And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.
The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.
Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.
You don’t see him at first.
Of course you don’t.
Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.
Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.
He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.
He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.
And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.
And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.
He doesn’t call out to you.
He just watches.
Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.
And God, you look—
You look pretty.
Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.
You look real.
Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.
You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.
You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—
Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.
Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.
Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.
He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.
And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.
Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.
And then—finally—your gaze catches his.
The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.
You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.
You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.
That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.
You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.
Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.
But tonight, he’s here.
By the window.
Plain as day.
And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it.
A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories.
A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.
Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.
He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.
You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.
He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.
When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.
You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.
Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.
“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.
You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.
And just like that, some of the tension splinters—
Not all of it.
Not enough to call this easy.
But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.
Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.
Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”
“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.
Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.
You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.
He doesn’t say anything right away.
Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin.
When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.
It’s a Popmart blind box.
The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.
You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.
He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.
“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.
He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”
You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”
“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.
You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.
“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.
Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.
“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”
The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.
The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.
For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.
And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.
You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.
“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.
He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”
“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.
“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.
He sees it.
Of course he does.
And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.
“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.
Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.
“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.
You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”
He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:
“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”
The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.
Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”
He pauses.
You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.
“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.
“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”
Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.
He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.
Something real.
Something worth holding onto.
And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.
Carefully.
Effortlessly.
Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It was worse than cruelty.
It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.
You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”
It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.
It’s why now?
It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?
Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.
“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”
You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.
“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”
You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.
Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.
Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.
But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.
You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.
Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.
But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.
You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.
Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.
You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.
"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."
You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.
But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.
“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”
You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.
You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.
But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.
"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"
Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.
"I’m sure," he says simply.
A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.
Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.
Trust in you.
Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.
Not the article. Not the media coverage.
This.
Reaching out to you.
Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.
And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.
And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.
It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.
You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.
"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.
"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."
Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.
"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.
You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.
You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.
You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.
There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.
So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.
"I’ll be in touch," you say.
And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.
You don’t look back.
But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.
You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm.
Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has.
"Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here.
He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all."
You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.”
That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight.
“Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed.
He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name.
You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting.
“You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you.
And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it.
He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?"
"Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?”
His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough.
Your stomach sinks.
You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please."
He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer."
For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?"
He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting.
But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.
“It’s in Spain.”
The words land heavy between you.
Spain.
Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.
The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.
If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.
Leaving.
Staying gone.
“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”
He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”
And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.
No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.
Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.
This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.
You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.
“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.
Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”
He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.
“A month.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.
"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
He doesn’t answer.
And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.
You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.
But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—
“How long would you be gone?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”
So not just gone.
Possibly gone for good.
Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.
"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.
"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."
His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."
You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.
"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.
"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"
He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”
His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.
"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."
You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.
"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.
And it is.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise.
But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind.
Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster?
The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about.
It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch.
Like you knew him.
And you do. Or at least you did.
Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him.
Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light.
The Popmart.
You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised.
Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something.
Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure.
And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss.
A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently.
You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because part of you still wants him to.
You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice.
You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again.
To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words.
He agreed with barely a pause.
Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.
So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him.
And there he is.
Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first.
Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work.
Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone.
And you remember: this is what he was born to do.
Even if it broke both of you along the way.
Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb.
It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from.
And now here you are again.
The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours.
You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps.
He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.
Click.
Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain.
You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs.
There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you.
And it almost knocks the breath out of you.
Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you.
You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should.
“Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something.
Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice.
“It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward.
You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take.
“Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you.
You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed.
“I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it.
You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud.
But he hears it.
And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.
He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory.
Then it happens.
It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you.
Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.
He’s hiding it.
But not well.
His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch.
You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders.
You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.”
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.”
It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces.
“Don’t do that.”
A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself.
It’s in his eyes too.
That flicker of guilt.
That stubborn need to pretend.
And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth.
It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body.
“It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying.
And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity.
The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared.
You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.”
“I just landed weird.”
“Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”
He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver.
And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth.
Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat.
Anger. That’s the first thing that hits.
Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give.
And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you.
But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier.
Worry.
Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time.
The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty.
And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence.
Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still.
And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.
You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat.
But you don’t raise your voice.
You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.”
His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it.
“Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.”
Still, he says nothing.
So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back.
“I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?”
He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter.
You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?”
A pause. A breath. A crack.
“Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?”
That lands.
Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you.
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.
It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share.
For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges.
He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you?
You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath.
And Sunghoon sees it.
Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely.
And something in him panics.
A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting.
He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose.
So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.
“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.”
He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on.
“During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.”
The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative.
Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind.
“Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.”
“I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.”
There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference.
“But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—”
He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side.
You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist.
Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface.
“Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling.
“That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme was discontinued after that.”
You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.
“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you.
He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.”
You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury.
“That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once.
He nods.
“Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew.
You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to.
But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back.
Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told.
“But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?”
Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.
“Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.”
You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.”
You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart.
He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst.
And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it.
“That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?”
Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—”
“No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.”
He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer.
You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?”
His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should.
“Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?”
He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years.
“No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us.
He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him.
“Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?”
His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore.
“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.”
You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself.
And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:
“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.”
Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady.
“When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.”
His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.”
The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest.
Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.”
You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel.
Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving.
This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back.
You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means.
Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”
His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.”
The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it.
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—”
“I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.”
You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?”
“I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.”
You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”
“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”
He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.
“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.”
Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you!”
The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges.
You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight.
Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in.
“I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.”
He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both.
Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay.
You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?”
He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough.
“Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.
For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter.
And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him.
You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you.
His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.”
Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left.
But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how.
Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.
He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.”
You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.”
His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.”
You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you.
“But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question.
Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.”
Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted.
He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say.
“And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.”
Your breath catches.
The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him.
“What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is.
He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.”
You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation.
“Sunghoon… I never—”
“I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.”
There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable.
Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is.
It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring.
“You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.”
He finally looks up.
And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts.
The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered.
You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone.
But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer.
“I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly.
His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out.
Then he nods. Once. Barely.
But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache.
You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint.
It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance.
It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach.
You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory.
Well… he used to.
Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.
It was you.
And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers.
Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running.
Not for the crowd. Not for the gold.
But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked.
Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning.
His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret.
You take a step forward. Then another.
Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves.
Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now.
“What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—”
You hug him.
There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it.
Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish.
"It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall."
And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open.
He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on.
Not tight. Not desperate.
But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve.
You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose.
"Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend."
He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on.
"I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you."
Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud.
But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees:
You mean the world to me, still.
He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years.
And for a moment, you let him. You both do.
Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here.
This quiet moment.
You remember this feeling.
The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe.
You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first.
It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud.
This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you.
And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you.
His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb.
But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words.
You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too.
The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you.
Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise.
It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it.
And you—all heart before reason.
You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt.
And still—that was the way you loved him.
Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for.
You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall.
And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up.
It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages.
You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions.
Him, answering in silence and distance.
Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.
And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.
Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.
Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.
You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between.
It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers.
This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret.
And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends…
You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit.
“Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods.
“He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me.
You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently.
You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his.
You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered.
Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him.
You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.
Real laughter.
Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.
“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!”
You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.”
“And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.”
“I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks.
You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch.
He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it.
You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?”
He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.”
“What did?” you ask, even though you already know.
“You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink.
You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena.
“Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.”
He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.”
You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.”
Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.”
You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm.
“Asshole,” you mumble through your grin.
And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old.
Either way, it’s something.
That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn.
You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore.
Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down.
You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout.
You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it:
“The injury relapses whenever I overexert.”
He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name.
He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing.
And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal.
Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.
You type something—delete it. Type again.
Hey. Are you really okay to skate?|
|
Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?|
|
Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.|
|
But none of them feel right.
Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore.
So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table.
And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned.
But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again.
And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE]
Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.
Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.
Until now.
This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.
Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.
Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.
Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.
Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.
For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.
The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway.
Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still.
Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something.
And today, he wanted you there.
You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway.
You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking.
And there he is.
Sunghoon.
Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close.
You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache.
Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal.
Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be.
And now, somehow, you're here again.
Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit.
Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know:
He sees you.
The same way he did four years ago.
When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt.
The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand.
But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away.
Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is.
His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run.
He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing.
Because he already did that.
He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller.
This isn’t about medals anymore.
This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after.
He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you.
Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.
You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace.
But you’re wrong.
Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing.
This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name.
He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn.
Closure.
Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again.
This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place.
It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish.
He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity.
And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends.
Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence.
He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.
And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.
It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was
And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.
He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.
But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.
So instead, he skates,
The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago.
But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him. Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it.
His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes.
Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is.
They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.
It’s artistry.
His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation.
And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.
He lands it perfectly.
Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.
Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock.
Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time.
But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened.
Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs.
The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence.
No dramatic bow. No fist in the air.
Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.
And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant.
But because brilliance demands reverence.
The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed.
Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.
The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor.
Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything.
And then you spot him.
Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone.
You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice.
Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer.
Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din.
“Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!”
The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once.
Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming.
You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—”
But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away.
He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all.
Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?”
You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.
Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.
And yet—somehow—exactly the same.
You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"
"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."
You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.
"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"
"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.
You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay."
And just like that, he’s gone.
Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished.
And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you.
But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.
But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up.
Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice.
But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked.
Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet.
And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start.
Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go.
He doesn’t blame you.
Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen.
And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve.
But then again—this.
This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place.
All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home.
He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.
And now here you are again.
You, still waiting.
Him, still too afraid to walk closer.
Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.
Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.
And as usual, the text he promised never really came.
At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena.
But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle
Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation.
And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited.
You waited like you always did.
And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts.
You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest.
You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do.
But you don’t.
Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to.
Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it.
Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.
But in person.
So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.
You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts.
Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere.
Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him.
Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers.
He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense.
Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement.
Then the coach walks away.
And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you.
You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.
“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.”
You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?”
His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words.
You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?”
Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…”
You narrow your eyes. “What now?”
He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?”
You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.”
His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.”
You watch him carefully now.
“I’m retiring.”
Your breath catches. “What? When?”
“Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”
You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—”
“I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.”
You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?”
He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.”
His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.”
Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.”
It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell.
You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?”
He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.”
“But—skating. It meant the world to you—”
Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is.
Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it.
“It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully.
And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback.
It was a love letter.
And a goodbye.
“Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”
And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief.
Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you?
Where is your ending?
Where is your closure?
The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest.
“In that case, what do you remember me by?”
Sunghoon freezes.
His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice.
“Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it.
You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited.
You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but.
“I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough.
“Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.”
You don’t wait for his reply.
You turn.
And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again.
Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered.
That evening, you write the article.
You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be.
Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter.
But none of that crosses your mind.
Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him.
You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity.
You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give.
And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too.
Not the public version. Not the headlines.
But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then.
It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.
It never was.
It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.
To end it your way.
To remember the love, not the loss.
So you click send.
And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.
To let him go.
Ms Yoon (PA):
Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself.
[Attachment: 1 File]
Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills.
The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon.
He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened.
His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe.
But whatever it is, he taps the file.
And begins to read.
FINAL DRAFT
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE]
The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
.
.
.
.
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In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.
As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.
His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.
Goodbye, Park Sunghoon,
And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.
Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.
Sunghoon:
Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.
The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud.
Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender.
An epiphany dressed in grace.
Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get.
His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything.
Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it.
That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway.
And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs.
Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling.
He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you.
A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.
Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together.
By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say.
You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise.
“Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?”
You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs.
He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it.
The limp. Subtle, but there.
“Did you run here? God—your injury—”
But you don’t get to finish.
Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it.
You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing.
“Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?”
But he doesn’t let go.
“Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words.
“Please…”
You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea.
Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him.
“I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.”
“Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?”
His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak.
“I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear.
And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise.
It was a goodbye to skating.
But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.
“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into.
But his grip only tightens.
“That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.”
“I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.”
You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.
“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.”
He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.”
“Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow.
“No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.”
You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you.
And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there.
You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence.
But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.”
And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.
“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.”
You freeze.
It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered.
“I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.”
He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet.
Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand.
“I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.”
Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that.
“I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.”
You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way.
“I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.”
Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking.
“I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.”
Your eyes sting.
He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest.
“I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.”
“I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.”
His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.
“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.”
He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse.
“You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.”
The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.
“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.”
“That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."
Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.
Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.
His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done.
And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it.
You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.
And that’s the problem.
Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words.
But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming.
And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run.
But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him?
You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out.
Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness?
You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time.
And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough?
So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival.
And then, softly, you speak.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.”
You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.”
You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you.
“I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please”
Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?”
“Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.”
And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief.
The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.
After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then.
And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia.
Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it.
“And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.”
You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on.
“This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words.
“I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.”
The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy.
Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all?
But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.
You feel chosen.
He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go.
But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.
He made sure to communicate that clearly to you.
And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up.
He’s right here.
Meeting you halfway.
The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there.
Now he has.
And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you.
You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came.
Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be.
But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable.
You still love him. You never stopped.
You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched.
“I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.”
He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again.
You should say something.
But you don’t.
You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right.
Sunghoon freezes. Completely still.
You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.
Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.”
His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could.
You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long.
“I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.”
His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move.
“I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.”
Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through.
“I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.”
His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”
You speak.
“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”
He listens.
And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades.
“And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.”
Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done.
“I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.”
When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands.
“I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is.
“I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.”
“And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”
God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with.
How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading.
And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.
You don’t say anything more.
And that’s when he moves.
Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once.
His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you.
He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence.
And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.”
The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless.
His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him.
He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands.
You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin.
And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”
As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves.
There’s no hesitation. No time wasted.
The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you.
It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch.
He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once.
And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go.
But he doesn’t.
He stays.
And so do you.
When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven.
You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips.
He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you.
Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you.
You’d been broken once. Both of you.
But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together.
You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back.
The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind?
But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you.
He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully.
“Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.”
His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips.
You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.
Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching.
But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise.
He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention.
“I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ”
You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.”
He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.”
You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty.
He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.”
And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run.
He’s leaving to give you room to choose.
The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.
Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.”
He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two.
And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft.
The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all.
Goodbye, Park Sunghoon,
And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.|
The words land like a quiet echo in his chest.
He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment.
And then—backspace.
Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long.
When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.
The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything.
But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real.
Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.
Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️
Yunah:
@/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off.
[Attached: 1 Link]
Moka:
The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!
Minju:
Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.
Yunah:
I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭
Minju:
I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.
Moka:
I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.
You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard.
Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft.
Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it.
The article is live.
You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end.
A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.
You:
[Attached: 1 Screenshot]
Was this your doing?
His reply is almost instant.
Sunghoon:
Good morning :)
Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.
You:
And by PR you mean... you?
Sunghoon:
😂
I meant every word.
It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world.
Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.
You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.
You:
No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄
Sunghoon:
Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷♂️
You:
Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…
He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.
Sunghoon:
Let me make it up to you for one-upping you.
Dinner tonight? My treat.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.
You:
I would not accept otherwise.
You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.
You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.
“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.
He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”
You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.
The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.
And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.
And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.
You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.
“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”
There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.
“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.
He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.
“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”
"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”
And that’s the difference. That’s everything.
This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.
His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.
You kiss him.
And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.
It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.
When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.
You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.
Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.
Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.
This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.
It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.
It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.
It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.
And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.
Skating. Himself. You.
Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.
And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.
Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.
You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.
And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.
Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.
Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.
And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.
But one thing is certain:
While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.
So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.
You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.
And that’s the way you’ll love him—
The way he loves you.
[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE]
The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement
By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily
In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.
Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.
However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.
Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.
In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”
Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.
Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.
In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.
As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.
And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.
hii! i love ur ni-ki fics and was wandering if u have any upcoming works soon? tysm 💖
hello <3 thank uu for the compliment 💗 I’ve sadly just been in a writing slump recently :(( life’s just been happening too intensely this month, hence the inactivity. but best believe there will be fics out when i feel better to write.
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hai!... your work are so damn cutee !! i don't know if you write with other member than ni-ki ... but if you do can you write one with sunoo ? like best friends to lover ? yk sunoo give off a lot bestie vibe ! >.< tysm !
hihiii :3 yes, i act write for all the members ! ty for the request, i've also been meaning to write for sunoo >< i'll be sure to write one once i'm free heheh.
I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out. My name is Rola, and I’m a mother of two from Gaza. Life used to be simple—filled with laughter, home-cooked meals, walks with my children, and ice cream on weekends. But since October, everything has changed.
We lost our home in a bombing. One moment, we were sipping coffee on the balcony… the next, the house shook, windows shattered, and our world collapsed. We had to flee with nothing—no clothes, no toys, no sense of safety.
My children still ask about their beds, their books, their quiet little room. I don’t have answers. All I can do is hold them and keep going.
We’re now raising funds to evacuate—or, if returning becomes possible, to rebuild. I just want to give my children a future that isn’t defined by fear and loss.
If you’re able to help—by donating or even just sharing our story—it would mean everything 💛. Your kindness can bring us one step closer to healing.
Thank you for listening. And if you'd prefer not to receive messages like this, just let me know and I won’t reach out again.
synopsis: in which you and riki reminisce about the way you first met.
pairing: non-idol! nishimura riki x reader
genre: meet cute, fluff, soft hours, established relationship.
author’s note: based off this anon’s request!
word count: 1.3k
reblogs ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ feedback >ᴗ<
“try this.”
you turn your head, gaze flicking to riki as he holds out two skewers of what looks like fish cakes. your fingers instantly drop your phone on the table as he approaches your window seat.
you’re both holed up at your local convenience store, surrounded by empty drink cartons and snack wrappers, evidence of your hunger after an all-day date that stretched from morning to now, well into the night.
you reach for the skewer without hesitation, eager to try something new. but in your haste, your elbow knocks your phone off the table. it hits the floor with a dull thud, startling you. riki instantly crouches down to retrieve it, swiftly placing it back on the table beside the mess of half-eaten containers.
“so clumsy,” he mumbles with a playful sigh, handing you your skewer.
you roll your eyes but say nothing, shrugging as you take a bite.
the savory taste of the fish cake melts on your tongue, and you hum quietly in satisfaction. riki chuckles as he takes his seat beside you, clearly amused by your reaction. a comfortable silence settles between you as you both eat, the quiet stretching on until your hunger fades and you're left feeling full and content.
almost finished, you reach for your phone out of habit. pausing abruptly when you find what you were looking at on your screen gone. confused, as a video shows up instead of the photo album you were scrolling through.
your brows knit together. ”'wait…” you murmur, trailing off.
your lips part slightly as recognition washes over you. it’s an old video, one you filmed months ago. your best guess is that it must’ve opened when the phone fell.
you nudge riki’s side, holding out the phone. “ki, look.”
he leans in, eyes narrowing slightly, confused—until he sees you on the screen, wearing that outfit he could recognize anywhere. the one from the very first time you met.
it all comes rushing back to him.
that day, you’d decided to visit the skate park on a whim. you’d only just started learning to skateboard but felt unusually confident and exhilarated from starting something new.
as you stepped into the park, you were greeted by the sound of wheels scraping concrete, the rhythmic clatter of boards hitting the pavement, and the low hum of conversations between the other skaters.
clutching your own board tighter, you found a small, secluded slope to start on. the nerves fluttered in your stomach as you placed the board down, carefully stepping on—left foot forward, right foot pushing to move.
you were shaky at first, but after a few tries, the motion started to feel natural. you glided down the gentle slope, pride blooming in your chest. it wasn’t much, but it definitely was a win in your books.
after some more practice, you grew bolder. your eyes drifted toward the center of the park—toward the steep slope that had intimidated you the moment you arrived.
you should’ve known better—with the little practice you had, you weren’t ready.
still, determination had won and had you placing your phone down to record, the red light blinking as you positioned yourself at the top of the slope. you take a deep breath, then push yourself off the material of your skate board.
upon manoeuvring on, it occurred to you how much you underestimated the incline. your board wobbled, and you nearly lost your balance in the first few seconds. a breathless laugh slipped from your lips, half panic, half thrill, as the steep drop sent a rush through you.
you were too focused on not falling to notice the boy skating behind you.
riki had seen you from the other end of the park. he’d been gliding through with effortless grace, more confident on the board than he was walking.
he noticed you the moment you stepped onto the slope. with your shaky form and the concentration on your face—it was hard not to watch.
but then, you started to wobble.
he quickens his pace at the sight.
as your balance faltered again, he skated up beside you, hand reaching out to your side without a second thought.
“woah,” he murmured, steadying you with a gentle grip, guiding you to the side so you wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.
you let him move you, grateful, still trying to catch your breath. “thanks,” you mumbled, offering the taller boy a small, grateful smile.
he only nodded, after he ensured you were fine he skated off again.
you waited a moment, heart still racing, before stubbornly heading back for another go. you weren’t leaving until you tried again.
you took off with more speed this time, but your balance gave out just as quickly. this time, there was no riki to catch you—you hit the ground with a thud.
riki saw it from the other side of the park and raced toward you yet again.
when he reached you, instead of looking frustrated or pouting, you were laughing.
flat on your back, breathless giggles, tears even welling in your eyes.
riki blinked in surprise before a soft laugh escaped him, your contagious laughter pulling his own from his chest.
“need some help?” he asked, grinning down at you.
you looked up at him sheepishly, lips pressed together, before extending your hand.
the video ends just before that moment—just before you got up and later walked over to him to say thank you. again.
it doesn’t capture the way your cheeks flushed when he caught you watching him skate, and offered, half-smiling, to teach you how to skate better. or how, just a few days later, you ran into him again at the park, only this time, he felt less a stranger.
you talked more that day. you learned his name during that second meet cute, and that he’d been skating for over a year, usually stopping by after his dance classes. despite the unusual way you two met, you two fell into an easy friendship. your eyes would often wander, quietly hoping he’d be at the park again—at the same time, in the same place, like before.
it took him a few more weeks, a handful of scattered conversations and small smiles, to finally gather the courage to ask you out.
happily surprised, you don’t hesitate for even a second to say yes, finding the boy who skates rather cute. the thought that he might feel the same about you made your heart flutter.
now, months later, the video plays again.
riki laughs at the sight of himself helping you up for the third time. “and that’s how i met your mother,” he jokes lightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
you laugh at his words, affectionately leaning your head against his shoulder.
“i’m actually so clumsy,” you say, shaking your head at yourself.
“not really,” he replies, smiling faintly, searching for the right words. “you’re just eager.”
you glance up at him, warmed by the fondness in his voice, even if he was teasing you.
“you should teach me your tricks again. i miss skating with you.”
riki nods, finishing off the last of his drink. “me too.”
before you can move, he’s already picking up the wrappers and containers with quiet care.
“just sit,” he says firmly, waving you off when you move to help.
he tosses everything away and returns, grabbing your hand with familiar ease.
“where are we going now?” you ask, a little breathless as he gently tugs you toward the exit of the convenience store, the cold night air greeting you.
“to our spot, of course,” he says with a playful grin. when you glance up at him, his eyes are lit up in a way that sends a gentle warmth through your chest. you bite the bottom of your lips trying to keep a smile from fully breaking across your face.
you follow riki without question, fingers laced delicately with his, your steps falling in line behind him.
synopsis: in which you and riki reminisce about the way you first met.
pairing: non-idol! nishimura riki x reader
genre: meet cute, fluff, soft hours, established relationship.
author’s note: based off this anon’s request!
word count: 1.3k
reblogs ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ feedback >ᴗ<
“try this.”
you turn your head, gaze flicking to riki as he holds out two skewers of what looks like fish cakes. your fingers instantly drop your phone on the table as he approaches your window seat.
you’re both holed up at your local convenience store, surrounded by empty drink cartons and snack wrappers, evidence of your hunger after an all-day date that stretched from morning to now, well into the night.
you reach for the skewer without hesitation, eager to try something new. but in your haste, your elbow knocks your phone off the table. it hits the floor with a dull thud, startling you. riki instantly crouches down to retrieve it, swiftly placing it back on the table beside the mess of half-eaten containers.
“so clumsy,” he mumbles with a playful sigh, handing you your skewer.
you roll your eyes but say nothing, shrugging as you take a bite.
the savory taste of the fish cake melts on your tongue, and you hum quietly in satisfaction. riki chuckles as he takes his seat beside you, clearly amused by your reaction. a comfortable silence settles between you as you both eat, the quiet stretching on until your hunger fades and you're left feeling full and content.
almost finished, you reach for your phone out of habit. pausing abruptly when you find what you were looking at on your screen gone. confused, as a video shows up instead of the photo album you were scrolling through.
your brows knit together. ”'wait…” you murmur, trailing off.
your lips part slightly as recognition washes over you. it’s an old video, one you filmed months ago. your best guess is that it must’ve opened when the phone fell.
you nudge riki’s side, holding out the phone. “ki, look.”
he leans in, eyes narrowing slightly, confused—until he sees you on the screen, wearing that outfit he could recognize anywhere. the one from the very first time you met.
it all comes rushing back to him.
that day, you’d decided to visit the skate park on a whim. you’d only just started learning to skateboard but felt unusually confident and exhilarated from starting something new.
as you stepped into the park, you were greeted by the sound of wheels scraping concrete, the rhythmic clatter of boards hitting the pavement, and the low hum of conversations between the other skaters.
clutching your own board tighter, you found a small, secluded slope to start on. the nerves fluttered in your stomach as you placed the board down, carefully stepping on—left foot forward, right foot pushing to move.
you were shaky at first, but after a few tries, the motion started to feel natural. you glided down the gentle slope, pride blooming in your chest. it wasn’t much, but it definitely was a win in your books.
after some more practice, you grew bolder. your eyes drifted toward the center of the park—toward the steep slope that had intimidated you the moment you arrived.
you should’ve known better—with the little practice you had, you weren’t ready.
still, determination had won and had you placing your phone down to record, the red light blinking as you positioned yourself at the top of the slope. you take a deep breath, then push yourself off the material of your skate board.
upon manoeuvring on, it occurred to you how much you underestimated the incline. your board wobbled, and you nearly lost your balance in the first few seconds. a breathless laugh slipped from your lips, half panic, half thrill, as the steep drop sent a rush through you.
you were too focused on not falling to notice the boy skating behind you.
riki had seen you from the other end of the park. he’d been gliding through with effortless grace, more confident on the board than he was walking.
he noticed you the moment you stepped onto the slope. with your shaky form and the concentration on your face—it was hard not to watch.
but then, you started to wobble.
he quickens his pace at the sight.
as your balance faltered again, he skated up beside you, hand reaching out to your side without a second thought.
“woah,” he murmured, steadying you with a gentle grip, guiding you to the side so you wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.
you let him move you, grateful, still trying to catch your breath. “thanks,” you mumbled, offering the taller boy a small, grateful smile.
he only nodded, after he ensured you were fine he skated off again.
you waited a moment, heart still racing, before stubbornly heading back for another go. you weren’t leaving until you tried again.
you took off with more speed this time, but your balance gave out just as quickly. this time, there was no riki to catch you—you hit the ground with a thud.
riki saw it from the other side of the park and raced toward you yet again.
when he reached you, instead of looking frustrated or pouting, you were laughing.
flat on your back, breathless giggles, tears even welling in your eyes.
riki blinked in surprise before a soft laugh escaped him, your contagious laughter pulling his own from his chest.
“need some help?” he asked, grinning down at you.
you looked up at him sheepishly, lips pressed together, before extending your hand.
the video ends just before that moment—just before you got up and later walked over to him to say thank you. again.
it doesn’t capture the way your cheeks flushed when he caught you watching him skate, and offered, half-smiling, to teach you how to skate better. or how, just a few days later, you ran into him again at the park, only this time, he felt less a stranger.
you talked more that day. you learned his name during that second meet cute, and that he’d been skating for over a year, usually stopping by after his dance classes. despite the unusual way you two met, you two fell into an easy friendship. your eyes would often wander, quietly hoping he’d be at the park again—at the same time, in the same place, like before.
it took him a few more weeks, a handful of scattered conversations and small smiles, to finally gather the courage to ask you out.
happily surprised, you don’t hesitate for even a second to say yes, finding the boy who skates rather cute. the thought that he might feel the same about you made your heart flutter.
now, months later, the video plays again.
riki laughs at the sight of himself helping you up for the third time. “and that’s how i met your mother,” he jokes lightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
you laugh at his words, affectionately leaning your head against his shoulder.
“i’m actually so clumsy,” you say, shaking your head at yourself.
“not really,” he replies, smiling faintly, searching for the right words. “you’re just eager.”
you glance up at him, warmed by the fondness in his voice, even if he was teasing you.
“you should teach me your tricks again. i miss skating with you.”
riki nods, finishing off the last of his drink. “me too.”
before you can move, he’s already picking up the wrappers and containers with quiet care.
“just sit,” he says firmly, waving you off when you move to help.
he tosses everything away and returns, grabbing your hand with familiar ease.
“where are we going now?” you ask, a little breathless as he gently tugs you toward the exit of the convenience store, the cold night air greeting you.
“to our spot, of course,” he says with a playful grin. when you glance up at him, his eyes are lit up in a way that sends a gentle warmth through your chest. you bite the bottom of your lips trying to keep a smile from fully breaking across your face.
you follow riki without question, fingers laced delicately with his, your steps falling in line behind him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
idk if u take fic recs but if so i have an idea i just saw this tiktok of a girl who like recorded when she and her boyfriend meet unintentionally and the video was her like falling when she was riding a skateboard and she started laughing tons and tons and her boyfriend to be came and was worried but started laughing when he saw her laughing and he like cutely helped her up and stuff…. ANYWAY lol i was wondering if u could do something like this with niki! sorry if this request wasn’t clear lol😭 love ya!🤍 (niki x fem reader)
hellooo !! i do take requests :’) andd i love this one 😋 u cooked so hard, will def be writing this asap. ill edit this post to let u kw when it’s posted 🤗
edit: it’s posted!! hope you don’t mind how i played around with the plot a bit hehehe <33