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hypotheticalkiss · 3 months ago

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CLOSE ENOUGH TO BURN | JK [00]

You always carried dreams too big for your small town on the east coast — a place caught between the sea and the mountains, between reality and something softer, more distant. And your dream was clear: to become an artist, someone who could inspire a generation, just like you had once been inspired. Your place was on stage, singing the songs you wrote in the stillness of sleepless nights, in the dark quiet of your room.

But you didn't expect that once you got there, once the lights found you, you'd meet someone who understoo — the fear, the hunger, the ache. You didn't expect your heart to race louder than the notes in your songs. And what do you do when a feeling threatens everything you've fought so hard to build?

⊹ ࣪ ˖ PAIRING: jungkook x (fem.) reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ TAGS: mature language and content, yearning & longing, miscommunication, ups and downs of idol life and fame, pining, it's gonna be a journey!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ GENRE: idol!jungkook & idol!reader, slow burn, friends to lovers, fluff, smut, slice of life, celeb au, angst

PLAYLIST I MOODBOAD

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A/N: hi, i'm julia and this is close enough to burn! i'm been thinking about writing this history for while now, since 2023, and finally i have the guts to actually write. and i wanted to do a summary of this story first, i love angst and stories with miscommunication that span through years, and i decided to do my own. and i wanted to develop human characters, who make mistakes and get things right, and fall in love and are afraid and worried. i really like this story and i hope you do too! expect a slow burn, idiots who are in love with each other but can't see it so clearly and the ups and downs of fame, and how much a dream can cost. i really like this history and i hope y'all like it too ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

PROLOGUE: First Notes

Gangneung, 2009

You wrote your first lyrics when you were thirteen, after spending days obsessed with a song you heard on the radio while your mom was driving you to school. “Don’t Know Why” was playing softly in the background on a quiet, uneventful morning when the second verse caught your attention — and that one line stayed with you all throughout the school day. Of course, you didn’t fully grasp the depth of its meaning back then, but you loved it so much that you wanted to create something just like it.

You started listening to Norah Jones every single day, and each day you tried to write something similar. But it always felt like something was missing — maybe a melody. So you devoted endless hours to learning the guitar. Your father, a longtime music enthusiast, had one at home, and one afternoon you managed to learn four chords. That alone was enough to light a spark in your eyes like never before.

You were beyond excited, and you dedicated every day after that moment to it — plucking the strings, trying to make sounds, or at least trying to. Every day, the moment you stepped into your house and felt the warm wooden floor beneath your feet, the first thing you did was run to your room, grab the guitar — now yours — and start playing. Your house wasn’t old or overly modern, just warm and cozy. The simplest room in the house was yours: light-colored walls, a low bed, and a large window overlooking the backyard and your dad’s pseudo-garden.

There was a study desk that held most of the mess — scattered books, crumpled or scribbled papers, and your beloved journal. The wall behind it was covered in posters, pictures of you, your friends, and your parents, and with all kinds of collages — your own little world.

Right next to it sat the guitar, once your father’s and now your favorite thing in the world. You spent countless afternoons with it, not worrying about anything except a chord, a progression, or maybe a melody. After listening to what was supposed to be the pleasant sound of strumming strings for so long, your dad decided it was time to teach you how to really play. Before long, you were in love.

Music was your passion, the guitar was your partner, and your lyrics were your love letters — or maybe something a little less dramatic than that. After all, there aren’t that many thrilling things for a thirteen-year-old to write about. But for you, there were. You wrote about everything: your cat, a chubby, lazy gray Scottish Fold with brown eyes named Tteok, one of your comfort foods.

You wrote about your school days, about the weird hairstyle that one girl in your class insisted on wearing, a song about your mom, or your dad, or sometimes both, and the life you lived in Gangneung — wrapped in a soft mist with the sound of waves in the background. Sometimes, it felt like your town existed outside of time, like nothing there needed to change too quickly.

And your parents loved your songs. Your mom would say you were incredibly creative and quick-witted. Slowly, they started to see that there was something more to this — maybe it wasn’t just a hobby or a phase. You and music had started to exist together, and neither of you seemed ready to let go.

It was an ordinary Saturday. You had finished all your tasks for the day and had gone to your best friend Jiwoo’s house. Her parents were in a chaos of fights that seemed to have no end, and you always kept her company so she could forget about an imminent separation. The two of you spent the afternoon watching Twilight, a shared obsession ever since you first saw the movie in theaters. Posters of some characters were already up on your walls, and you both sighed dramatically whenever you stared at them for too long.

You were lying on the living room floor, wrapped in a navy blue blanket, your feet cold despite the thick socks. It was December, and winter had already settled in — icy sea winds blew in from the east coast, and snow had started to fall. Your hands wrapped around a worn mug filled with ginger tea, the same one your mom always made — a little ritual you had at the start of every winter.

On Jiwoo’s old TV, a music program was playing — your latest obsession. You watched them every day, getting excited over the singers, who you soon learned were called idols, performing and singing. Sometimes, you just wanted to be like them — extraordinary. Watching those people sing and dance made your eyes light up, but deep down, you believed you’d never be like them. You didn’t think you had enough talent. Jiwoo even had a favorite group — 2PM — and she never stopped talking about them.

You liked some groups too. It was fascinating to watch those performances, to witness all that talent, and to imagine how hard it must have been for them to get there. But the song that caught your attention the most wasn’t from a group with flashy performances or complex choreography — it was from a woman.

She was allone on stage, wearing a white dress, she looked like she was floating through a mist. It was breathtaking. And then, she sang one of the saddest songs you had ever heard. Her voice was sweet, yet strong. You felt your eyes welling up with tears. You didn’t fully understand what she was singing about — you hadn’t gone through that experience yet — but somehow, it felt like you had.

You felt every word that woman sang, as if she was singing just for you. And something stirred in your heart — a feeling unlike anything you’d felt before. You wanted to be like her. You wanted to move people with nothing but lyrics, music, and your voice. You wanted them to feel with you what you were feeling with her. You wanted to be an artist.

“I want to be like her.” It came out like a whisper, a prayer, a promise — and a wish.

At fourteen, you started applying to every audition possible — almost every day, you recorded videos of yourself singing and playing instruments for any company that had open applications. Your mom and Jiwon helped you edit and send the recordings, and your dad even bought a camera just to film the videos. When the auditions were in person, your parents would drive you all the way to Seoul and wait outside with a corn dog and a smile.

You already played the guitar like a pro and took piano lessons three times a week. You also had singing lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the afternoon. Your vocal coach was a middle-aged woman named Mi-sook — she was extremely strict but had more faith in you than anyone else. She rarely gave compliments and always pushed you to your limits. She was an amazing teacher, and you were lucky to have her.

The studio where she gave lessons was small and sat above a ballet school that her sister owned. Lessons always took place by a long black grand piano, aged and worn; its ivory-white keys had turned yellow with time, but still, you had never heard a sound so beautiful.

You practiced pitch, projection, breathing, and diction. Sometimes, you left the class barely able to speak. Your throat would sting, your eyes would burn, and you’d feel a strange weight in your chest, like you were chasing something still out of reach. Mi-sook said it was normal — “your voice is a muscle, and every muscle hurts when it grows” — and you believed her. You never dared to complain, because even with all the strictness, there was a quiet care in her gestures. When she saw you were on the verge of emotional exhaustion, she would simply put on a song and let you sing freely. During those moments, she’d sit beside you, eyes closed, listening as if every note mattered.

Your schedule was intense. In the mornings; you went to school, in the afternoons; you had singing and piano lessons, and somehow, you still found time to help your parents at their grocery store, which served the whole neighborhood. You barely had time to see Jiwoo, and she loved to complain about how her best friend had abandoned her. She could be quite dramatic, but deep down, she understood what you were doing and supported you completely.

Sometimes, you’d stand at the cash register with your headphones still hanging around your neck and your school notebook stuffed with folded sheet music. The floor always smelled like bleach and spices, and the sound of plastic packages scanning mixed with your mother’s voice calling out for more change. It was a familiar kind of chaos — cozy and known — you knew every corner of that place, from the always-tilted shelf to the register that jammed when it got too hot.

Even when exhausted, there was something comforting about the store’s routine. It was the place that grounded you, even when your mind was off dreaming about being a famous singer on stage, performing for thousands. Your dad would give you a quick smile when you arrived and sometimes leave a peeled tangerine in a little container by the register. “So you won’t skip meals again,” he’d say, in that practical way of showing love.

Jiwoo sometimes came to keep you company, especially when her house turned into a war zone — her parents fought constantly. It was hard to go a full day without some kind of argument. You didn’t quite understand how a couple could be like that. Sure, your parents argued too, but they always worked it out. You tried to be there for her; it was clear how much the situation affected her.

“I think if there was a Guinness World Record for longest continuous argument, my parents would win it easily,” she said, leaning on the counter while opening a bag of seaweed snacks — her favorite.

You gave her a sad smile. That must’ve been a terrible way to live. “Are they arguing again?” you asked while sorting some money at the register.

She shrugged, chewing.

“They always find something. From where my dad left his shoes to some ridiculous thing my mom bought. I stopped trying to keep up.”

You closed the cash drawer and locked it, stuffing the money into an envelope to hand to your mom. Then you shut down the computer and looked at Jiwoo again.

“Do you want to sleep over and watch an episode of You're Beautiful?" You asked as you picked up the seaweed snack and popped a piece into your mouth.

“I’ll sleep over, but only if your mom makes sundubu!” Jiwoo replied with a mischievous grin. She leaned on the counter with her elbows and made an exaggerated pout. “But it has to be her special version — with the soft tofu, warm white rice, and the pickled radish banchans, you know I love.”

You laughed, taking the key from your pocket. “I’ll ask her now. But if she’s in a bad mood, that’s on you.”

“If she’s in a bad mood, I’ll do the dishes. And you give her a shoulder massage. It’ll work, trust me,” Jiwoo said, grabbing her backpack and following you out the door. “Today, we cry watching episode five. I feel it.”

It was early March. Winter was slowly leaving, the cold air still lingered in Gangneung, making a slow, unhurried farewell. The sky was pale blue and clear, and the wind from the sea carried that salty, damp smell that clung to your skin.

You could still see traces of snow everywhere — little remnants in the corners of streets and sidewalks, memories of the winter that was on its way out. It was a strange feeling, like time was moving too fast, and yet you didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

School had already started — high school now — and it was weird to think about that. Your mom kept saying how grown-up you looked, and it stirred something restless inside you. You wanted to grow up, wanted to make all your dreams come true, but at the same time, it left you paralyzed.

It wasn’t exactly fear, but a mix of everything that was coming. You weren’t afraid of growing up — maybe what scared you was losing control. You felt like you were about to step into something bigger than yourself, and somehow, that made you feel vulnerable.

You kept auditioning. You were getting positive feedback — people praised your voice and the fact that you could write songs and play instruments — but no approvals came. You started to think maybe this dream was too far-fetched, and sometimes, desperation would creep in, and you’d only be able to picture a future you couldn’t quite grasp. It felt like chasing a mirage, and the closer you walked, the farther it seemed.

Life went on as usual — school, music lessons, helping at the store, and in your free time, writing every song you could. The guitar was your escape valve, the piano keys, your sanctuary. It was in the silence of your room, late at night, when everyone else was asleep, that you could pour your feelings onto paper.

Until one day, when you received the news that would change your life forever.

It was a quiet afternoon in Gangneung. The wind still carried a chill, but the city was slowly saying goodbye to winter and welcoming the promise of warmer days. It was mid-March, and spring was beginning to show its colors.

You were sitting on the couch, Tteok in your lap, purring while you petted him. He had been extra clingy lately. You were working on a school project — one you had, unfortunately, left to the last minute. The phone rang, and your dad, who was in the kitchen, rushed to answer it, drying his hands on a dish towel. His voice rang loud, as usual, but something shifted in his tone when he responded.

“Yes, this is Mr. Lee… Ah, yes, she’s here.”

You looked up, confused. He covered the phone with his hand and spoke with a barely-contained smile.

“It’s for you. Is that company that tou auditioned for in February, remember?… Dalbit.”

Your heart jumped.

You stood up quickly, causing Tteok to complain about the sudden loss of attention and warmth. You whispered sorry and walked over to your dad, heart pounding in your chest.

“Hello…” Your voice came out small and unsure.

“Hi, how are you?! Y/N is this you?” asked a man on the other end. You recognized the voice but couldn’t remember who it was — nerves had taken over.

“Yes, it’s me. Good afternoon.”

“Y/N, I’m calling to let you know and congratulate you — you’ve been accepted. We want you as a trainee at our company.”

The world stopped for a second. Your eyes widened. Your dad stood in front of you, anxious. The words hadn’t quite sunk in yet — had you really heard that?

“You… are you sure?” you asked, not realizing your voice was already choked with emotion.

“Absolutely. We’ll also send an email with more details, but we wanted to call you personally. You really impressed us!”

The compliment brought tears to your eyes, and your dad broke into the biggest smile in the world. After the call ended, he pulled you into a tight hug, nearly lifting you off the ground, shouting with joy. The noise brought your mom to the kitchen doorway, still holding a towel and looking alarmed. But she didn’t even finish her sentence. She stopped in her tracks when she saw you — phone in hand, eyes brimming with tears — and your dad laughing with quiet tears streaming down his face too.

“I did it!” you said as they wrapped you up in a hug, protective and warm, like they were holding the whole world in their arms.

You called Jiwoo, and she ran to your house. When she saw you, she threw her arms around you, shouting with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m going to have a famous best friend!” She was dramatic, as always, but her eyes said it all: she was proud, happy, and already feeling the distance.

Some neighbors who heard the news stopped by the store to congratulate you. And your teacher Mi-sook left you a handwritten letter at the studio — a neatly folded piece of paper that read:

“Keep singing like your life depends on it." written in her elegant handwriting. It made you smile.

In the days that followed, you packed your suitcase carefully. A few clothes, a composition notebook — the place where all the compositions were written, you most precious possession, the guitar that now belonged to you, and a small box of keepsakes — a seashell from the beach, photos with Jiwoo and your parents, your childhood teddy bear, and your journal.

Your room slowly emptied out, but your mind didn’t.

The mood at home was a mix of joy and longing — both feelings quietly present in every shared moment between you and your parents. They were proud, but also scared about you being alone in a big city like Seoul. You tried to act confident, but deep down, fear had made its home in you too.

You thought about everything — what waited for you in Seoul, the people you wouldn’t see as often, the life you wanted now, and how your dream suddenly felt just a little bit closer. And on the nights when you couldn’t sleep, and anxiety overtook you, you found yourself asking: am I really good enough?

And then the day came. The car was full, but quiet. Your mom held your hand in the front seat. Your dad kept his eyes on the road. The radio played some song that ended up becoming the soundtrack of that moment. And you watched Gangneung fade into the background.

When the signs for “Seoul” started to appear, your heart pounded harder.

It was a huge city, full of tall buildings and fast steps, but also full of possibilities — your possibility's. You would be staying in a small apartment with other girls around your age. You were happy not to be entirely alone, but also nervous to meet new people.

The building was in a quiet neighborhood. Simple, but cozy. You went up to the floor they’d told you, hands sweating and heart racing. Your parents helped you with your bag, and one of the other trainees opened the door and pointed you to your room.

It was real — you were in Seoul. You were a trainee. Your dream had just begun.

— i hope you enjoy the prologue, if you wanna be add in the taglist just comment 👇🏻✨ and i wanna hear y'all thoughts 💭

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