acrosstheujiverse - Tumblr blog

acrosstheujiverse · 19 days ago

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smiling ear to ear like hoshi in these pictures（＾ν＾）♡

Around | L.Jh

Pairing: Dad Jihoon!l x reader

Genre: Parents Au!

Type: Fluff

Word Count: 2k

Preview: He just wants to be around his baby daughter.

Jihoon had just returned from the company studio, the sound of the front door clicking shut echoing softly in the quiet house. Work had dragged him out for only three hours, but even that short span had drained the last bit of his energy—thanks to the excitable rookie group he was co-producing with Seungcheol. As he stepped out of his shoes with a heavy sigh, he muttered under his breath, “Finally,” shoulders slumping with relief.

All he wanted now was to melt into the warmth of home—into your embrace and the soft coos of Jiyoo, the three-month-old bundle of joy who had turned his world upside down in the best way possible.

He still remembered when he told his friends that the two of you were expecting. The teasing was instant and merciless.

“It’ll be hilarious if it’s a girl,” Seungcheol had said, barely holding in his laughter. “Imagine Jihoon—tough, stone-faced Jihoon—wrapped around tiny fingers.”

Soonyoung, ever the dramatic one, had rolled onto the studio floor laughing, arms flailing. “He’s going down so bad! I’m telling you. It’s over for him!” he cried, pointing at Jihoon, who sat slouched in a studio chair, face buried in his hands.

Because the thing was—Jihoon already knew. You were having a girl.

When he confirmed it to them, they cracked. Full-blown chaos.

“I give it three months before he stops coming to the studio entirely,” Soonyoung predicted, eyes glinting with mischief.

Seungcheol nodded with conviction. “His e-commerce order history is going to be 90% plushies. Just wait.”

They weren’t entirely wrong.

He was already skipping lunch breaks just to see her gummy smile on video call. Already bookmarking the cutest pastel onesies. Already googling how to braid hair for beginners. Jihoon—the same Jihoon who once said he didn’t like distractions—was falling fast and hard for his daughter.

But as he entered the house, it was only silence that greeted him.

No soft humming from the kitchen, no gentle lullabies or rustling baby blankets. Just the hush of a home deep in rest. Jihoon’s steps slowed as he rounded the corner into the living room—and then his breath caught at the sight before him.

You were fast asleep on the couch, one arm curled under your head, your other hand resting gently over your belly. And on top of your chest, sprawled like he owned the world, was Dungi—his plump body rising and falling with your every breath, paws tucked under and tail lazily flicking now and then. His ears twitched at the sound of Jihoon’s arrival but he didn’t budge, too comfortable to care.

Just below, in her soft bouncer, was little Jiyoo—also asleep, her tiny fists balled up beside her cheeks, one foot sticking out from under her pastel blanket. Her lips moved now and then in what might’ve been a dream-fed pout, and the faintest snore escaped her delicate nose.

Jihoon blinked once, slowly.

This, he thought, is it.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare disturb the fragile beauty of this moment. Instead, he quietly pulled out his phone, crouched low, and angled the camera to capture it all—his two girls and their ridiculous, spoiled cat.

Click.

He stared at the photo for a second longer than necessary, already knowing it would become a favorite. Probably end up framed on his desk. Maybe even his phone lock screen.

Still crouched on the floor, he whispered under his breath with a grin, “Yeah, I’m doomed.”

Then, just for good measure, he took one more photo—this time zooming in slightly to catch the way Jiyoo’s little sock had half-fallen off, and how Dungi’s paw was gently pressed against your shoulder like he was claiming you.

Jihoon stood up quietly, then tiptoed into the kitchen. He’d make dinner later. For now, maybe just snacks for you, and prepare a bottle—because he had a feeling Jiyoo would be up soon, and when she was, so would the house.

Jihoon was in the kitchen, carefully preparing a warm bottle of milk for Jiyoo when a soft coo echoed through the quiet house. He paused, listening. A second later, the sound turned into a gentle cry, followed by your voice, groggy but soothing.

"I'm here, baby. Eomma’s here,” you whispered, your voice the softest lullaby.

Jihoon smiled to himself, his heart doing that quiet little flip it always did whenever he heard you talk to your daughter like that—with endless tenderness and love, even in the middle of exhaustion. He grabbed the bottle, along with a small plate of cut fruit and your favorite crackers, and made his way back to the living room.

You were now sitting upright on the couch, Jiyoo nestled in your arms, blinking up at you with sleepy eyes and tiny fists curled against your chest. You looked up when you heard Jihoon's steps and blinked in surprise.

“I thought you were going to stay at the studio until night,” you said, brushing your hand gently over Jiyoo’s tuft of soft hair.

Jihoon placed the snacks on the coffee table and handed you the bottle with a soft smile. “Nope,” he said, shaking his head as he sat beside you. “I missed you and Jiyoo.”

His voice was low, warm, laced with sincerity. He reached out and gently traced a finger along Jiyoo’s chubby cheek, smiling as she let out a tiny sigh and latched onto the bottle.

Just then, a quiet meow interrupted the moment—Dungi had awakened too. The cat stretched long and slow, then casually padded over before jumping onto Jihoon’s lap, circling once before settling down with a content purr.

Jihoon chuckled. “And you too, bud,” he murmured, scratching behind Dungi’s ear.

With one arm, he reached for the plate of fruit and held up a piece to your lips. “Eat a little,” he said gently.

You took the bite with a sleepy smile, chewing slowly. “I haven’t even fully woken up yet,” you mumbled, leaning your head against his shoulder with a soft chuckle.

Jihoon let out a low hum and shifted, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer into his side. You melted into the warmth, while Jiyoo continued feeding peacefully in your arms, and Dungi curled tighter into Jihoon’s lap, a lazy king on his throne.

“Seungcheol mentioned something today,” Jihoon said softly, a little laugh slipping out. “He was surprised I actually went to the company studio after so long.”

You chuckled, brushing your fingers gently across Jiyoo’s tiny shoulder as she continued to feed. “I told you,” you murmured. “He might not say much, but he hopes you’ll show up sometimes. He misses working with you in person.”

Jihoon let out a low groan, tilting his head back against the couch. “Ugh, too lazy,” he muttered, a half-smile on his lips.

You smiled knowingly. “He just wants your company, Jihoon.”

He turned to glance at you and then down at Jiyoo, a softness blooming in his eyes. “Yeah, well… there’s no you or Jiyoo there.”

You hummed, rocking Jiyoo slightly in your arms, her eyelids fluttering halfway between sleep and dream. “I know. You just want to be around her all the time, don’t you?”

Jihoon didn’t even try to hide it—he smirked, leaning closer to get a better look at his daughter’s face. “Yeah… I just want to be around you and her. It’s peaceful. Safe. Why would I trade this for Seungcheol-hyung and his constant nagging?”

As if on cue, Jiyoo stopped drinking, her tiny lips releasing the bottle with a soft pop. She blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, and then her eyes locked onto Jihoon. A gummy smile formed on her face, and she let out a soft coo—like she’d been waiting for him to speak all along.

Both your hearts melted in an instant.

Jihoon reached out instinctively. “I’ll watch her, baby. You go rest,” he offered, gently taking Jiyoo into his arms with the kind of practiced tenderness that only came with deep love.

You stood up slowly, stretching and tying your hair back into a loose bun, watching him with an amused smirk. He was already whispering to her, nose-to-nose, talking in a soft, playful voice like she was the only person who mattered in the world.

“You just want to be around her, right?” you teased, hands on your hips.

Jihoon looked up at you briefly and nodded with zero hesitation. “I love being around her,” he said simply, then looked back down at Jiyoo with a grin. “Don’t I, princess?”

Jiyoo gurgled in response, flailing one tiny fist and catching hold of his finger. Jihoon’s chest tightened at the touch.

From the hallway, you turned to glance back at them, warmth blooming in your chest at the sight of the man you loved completely enchanted by the daughter you made together.

You knew he was gone for her. And honestly, you didn’t mind—because you were too.

“She’s gonna cry—SHE’S GONNA CRY!”

Seungcheol’s voice cracked an octave higher as he awkwardly cradled Jiyoo in the crook of his arm. The three-month-old blinked up at him with a wobbly pout, her tiny fingers flailing. He looked absolutely terrified.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—oh no, don’t do the lip thing—Jihoon!” he half-whispered, half-yelled.

But Jihoon wasn’t even paying attention. Headphones on, locked into producer mode, he was laser-focused on Soonyoung, who stood in the booth, waiting for the cue.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol was bouncing, swaying, and humming a random melody in a panicked attempt to keep Jiyoo calm. His face was red. Sweat dotted his temples. The baby was slipping.

It was supposed to be a quick grocery run for you. Earlier, you hesitated at the door, bag in hand, guilt pressing lightly on your chest as you looked back toward Jihoon, who was prepping his home studio for a recording session.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” you asked, shifting your weight. “I can take her with me if it’s too much—”

Jihoon was already crossing the room with outstretched arms. “That’s fine, baby. I got her,” he said, lifting Jiyoo from your arms with ease. The second her eyes met her father’s, she let out an excited babble and kicked her legs, clearly thrilled by the transfer.

Jihoon grinned. “Drive safely, okay? Jiyoo and I will have fun with uncles.”

You smiled, still slightly unsure, but his confidence—and Jiyoo’s happy cooing—put you at ease. “Alright… call me if she gets fussy.”

And with that, you slipped out, unaware of the mild chaos that would soon unfold.

About fifteen minutes into vocal directing Soonyoung’s part, Jihoon was fully in producer mode—headphones on, eyes narrowed at the audio interface, deep in concentration.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol stood nearby with Jiyoo awkwardly cradled in his arms. She had been content for the first few minutes, but now her lower lip was beginning to tremble. Her eyes widened, face scrunching.

Soonyoung noticed it first. “Hyung, no, no, no! Don’t make her cry!”

“I’m not doing anything!” Seungcheol hissed, panic creeping into his voice as he gently bounced her. “I don’t know how to handle this… tiny thing!”

“She’s my daughter!” Jihoon cut in from the other side of the room, pulling off his headphones, offended as if Seungcheol had just insulted his whole bloodline. “Don’t call her a thing!”

This from the same Jihoon who was once rumored—falsely, according to him—to wear pink panties only. Yet somehow, this insult hit harder.

Soonyoung let out an exaggerated groan. “We have to retake that part now! I was doing so well until you started stressing the baby!”

Seungcheol bounced her again, frantic. “I told you this was a bad idea! We should be recording at the company studio, not here!”

But Jihoon immediately shook his head like a child refusing vegetables. “No. Nope. No way. I’m not leaving my daughter behind. You two can go if you want—but I won’t.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking every bit the overprotective father, biceps flexing beneath his loose t-shirt. Seungcheol groaned dramatically and turned slightly to avoid Jiyoo’s intense, about-to-cry gaze.

Soonyoung continued nagging from the booth, adjusting his mic, “Hyung, rock her, not freeze like a statue! She’s not a bomb!”

“Feels like one,” Seungcheol muttered under his breath.

Jihoon walked over, scooped Jiyoo effortlessly from Seungcheol’s arms, and held her to his chest. She immediately calmed, letting out a soft sigh as she buried her face into his shoulder.

Jihoon patted her back and smirked smugly. “See? She knows who her favorite is.”

Seungcheol slumped into a chair, hands dragging down his face. “Yeah, well… I just got out-parented by you in two seconds.”

“Damn right,” Jihoon said, placing a gentle kiss on top of Jiyoo’s head before nodding at Soonyoung. “Now, can we please finish your part before she needs a diaper change?”

Soonyoung snorted and slipped on his headphones. “Sure, but only if Seungcheol promises not to breathe in her direction this time.”

Jihoon chuckled quietly, rocking Jiyoo in his arms as the recording resumed. It wasn’t the most conventional setup—but somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The end.

#ITS SO ADORABLE I’M GONNA DIE—PEACEFULLY #densworld🌼#seventeen #one shots #svt #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #woozi #woozi fluff #jihoon #jihoon fluff

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acrosstheujiverse · 20 days ago

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I Like You So Much, You'll Know It

【📂】 summary: you used to think love had to be loud—full of sparks and spectacle. but now, in the quiet of your old school, you realize love was softer than that. love was junhui, waiting in the silence. 【🖇️】 pairing: patient!junhui x oblivious!reader. 【💿】 genre: slice-of-life; slow-burn romance; coming-of-age. 【🧺】 tags: high school reunion; unspoken love; memories; quiet devotion. 【📦】 w/c: 5.3k+

📬 — author’s note！this is inspired by the 2017 c-drama "a love so beautiful."

“everyone who watches the drama imagines themselves as jiang chen, when in reality, we’re all like wu bosong.”

dedicated to those who love quietly—for the ones who wait, give without asking, and still hold on to hope.

releasing this from the drafts (2021).

i like you so much, you'll know it (minghao's version)

« main masterlist | (SOON) »

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the old high school felt almost like a place you’d dreamed.

not because it had changed, but because you had.

the hallways were narrower, the doors lower, the colors faded slightly like old pages in the sun. the trees in the courtyard stood perfectly still, as though they had always been waiting.

somewhere near the gym, laughter spilled out from old friends catching up, voices full of stories stitched together with time.

but you weren’t drawn to the noise.

you were looking for someone.

not xu minghao—though there had been a time you believed your heart belonged to him.

minghao had always been easy to notice. not because he asked to be seen, but because he moved like someone who already belonged to the future.

he was calm, composed, bright in that quiet way stars are bright—you only notice them when you stop and look up.

he didn’t try to impress anyone. and so, of course, he did.

he was top of the class, played with grace on the court, served on the student council with a stillness that spoke louder than speeches.

you watched him the way you’d watch a reflection in water—carefully, afraid to disrupt it.

and maybe you thought if you looked long enough, he might look back.

but he didn’t.

the one who did—you barely noticed at first.

not until now.

because now, you were looking for wen junhui.

and he was there.

exactly where he’d always been.

under the tall tree near the court, where the sun filtered down in ribbons.

he sat as though he belonged to the light. still, but present.

he didn’t turn when you approached. somehow, you knew he didn��t need to.

“you’re still early,” you said, gently—your voice moving through the hush like the wind moves through curtains: soft, but not unseen.

he turned slowly.

smiled.

the same smile.

it felt like something small and familiar blooming in your chest.

“you’re still late,” he said, and the words held warmth. no edge, just memory.

you sat beside him. closer than before.

before, you might have left a space. but the years had softened the shape of that space, and now, it didn’t seem necessary.

the quiet between you wasn’t empty. it was full of things not yet spoken.

you watched the light move across the pavement, slow and golden.

“you waited,” you said—not because you wondered, but because you knew.

he didn’t answer right away. when he did, it was with the same steady gentleness that had always marked him.

“i didn’t know how not to.”

you couldn't help but smile, but it was a bittersweet smile, knowing you’d spent so long looking in the wrong direction.

chasing something beautiful, yes—but not what you needed.

minghao had been the idea of love.

junhui had been its practice.

“i used to think love had to be loud,” you said. “all-consuming. obvious. like a comet across the sky.”

“i’m not very loud,” he said, almost like he was apologizing for it.

“no,” you said. “but you were steady. you stayed. even when I didn’t see it.”

he didn’t flinch. didn’t protest. just let it be true.

“i liked you so much,” he said quietly, “i thought… maybe one day, you’d feel it.”

you turned to look at him—not just glance, but really see.

he didn’t turn right away, but you reached out anyway, and took his hand.

“i do,” you said. “i know now.”

he looked at your hand in his like it was something he didn’t expect to hold. and then he looked at you, and in that gaze there was something deeper than surprise. there was grace.

you were here.

you had turned around.

and somehow, that was enough.

“i’m sorry it took me this long,” you whispered.

“you’re here now,” he said. “that’s what matters.”

above you, the sky was turning soft and lavender, and the world felt as though it had exhaled. the kind of quiet that holds its breath not in fear, but in wonder.

you rested your head on his shoulder. he leaned into you without hesitation.

and just like that, the past didn’t feel wasted.

it felt like a long, winding path that had always led here—to this bench. to this evening. to the stillness wrapped around you like light through leaves. to the warmth of a hand that had always been waiting. and to the truth you said, finally and simply:

“junhui… i like you so much.”

and now, at last, he knew it.

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it didn’t happen all at once.

there was no thunderclap, no sudden blaze of knowing.

no lightning bolt of revelation, the kind that rewrites your story in a single instant. the world didn’t stop turning to bear witness.

it came slowly. quietly.

like a seed breaking open beneath the soil. like a star’s light, already shining long before you ever thought to look up.

you didn’t notice it at first. not because it wasn’t there—but because you weren’t ready to see it.

it began at the edge of things.

a soft ache, not quite pain.

a shift in the air.

not a burning, but a kind of warmth that unfolded in careful increments, like sunlight gathering on a windowsill.

unannounced.

unhurried.

unmistakable—once you turned your face toward it.

there were no grand declarations.

no cinematic turning point.

just the quiet accumulation of small, steady moments: the way he waited, the way he listened, the way he stayed.

it wasn’t loud. it wasn’t obvious.

and maybe that’s why it took you so long to notice.

because love didn’t come to you like a storm—it arrived like snow. soft. certain. each flake a whisper of something larger. and by the time you looked down, your hands were already full of it.

if you tried to trace it back—follow the thread through the laughter and the silence, through the missed chances and half-held breath—you’d always find yourself in the same place.

it began on the rooftop.

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you had said it in passing.

not as a demand, or a plea—just a thought you let drift into the air, soft around the edges.

half a complaint, half a wish.

“why doesn’t it ever snow here? i want to see everything turn white just once before the break.”

most of your friends laughed. not unkindly—just in that way people do when they think you’re only dreaming out loud, when they think nothing will come of it.

but junhui didn’t laugh.

he heard it differently.

like it mattered.

like a wish whispered into a well.

and maybe he didn’t know what to do with it yet—not exactly—but something in him folded the words carefully and tucked them away. like a note. like a promise.

it was three days before winter break.

outside the classroom windows, the sky had already turned that deep blue that slips in just after sunset—when the light is gone, but the dark hasn’t fully arrived.

night school had started. students sat restlessly at their desks, half-studying, half-drifting into the promise of freedom.

the teacher had stepped out for a moment, and the room buzzed with low conversation, like bees moving through the last minutes of the day.

then someone gasped.

it was a surprised sound. not loud, but full of something childlike. “wait—look outside!”

you turned, just in time to see a group of classmates rush toward the windows. the front row stood on tiptoes, palms pressed to glass.

“is that… snow?”

you blinked.

that couldn’t be right. the forecast had said nothing about snow.

you’d checked. twice.

you pushed your chair back and followed them, weaving your way through shoulders and coats and warm breath fogging the air. everyone was taller than you. the view was blocked. you couldn’t see.

“move,” you whispered. not angry—just wanting to see. “let me through.”

you made it to the window. rested your hands against the cold pane. and looked out.

and just like that—your heart caught in your chest. then fluttered.

white flakes drifted down beneath the courtyard lights. not heavy, but certain. snow.

it fell like a secret the sky had been holding onto. soft. light. timed perfectly, as if the world had been waiting for this moment and only now decided to begin.

you stood there, lips parted in quiet disbelief. it was snowing. really snowing. and for a moment, you felt like a child again—full of awe and impossible wishes.

you didn’t know you were smiling until someone beside you said,

“didn’t think we’d get any this year.”

but you didn’t answer. you were still staring.

and then—your gaze lifted.

the rooftop.

there was something about it. something in you stirred.

maybe curiosity.

but something whispered: go.

so you did.

you slipped quietly from the room—past the bathroom, toward the stairwell.

up there, the building was quieter. dim. lit only by emergency lights that painted everything in soft gray. your steps echoed on the tile. your breath came in clouds.

you weren’t expecting anything, not really.

maybe just a better view.

but the second you opened the rooftop door—

pshhhhht

you froze.

a burst of white shot through the air.

and across the rooftop—there was junhui.

running. laughing.

his buzzcut caught the rooftop light like it always did when he forgot his hat. his arms were full of movement. his sweater sleeves pushed to his elbows.

in both hands, he held cans of fake snow spray.

he ran from one end of the rooftop to the other, wide-armed, like a boy trying to make the sky believe in winter.

foam burst around him. it stuck to his sleeves, clung to his shoes, settled into the curve of his grin. his eyebrows were dusted with white. his head looked like someone had shaken powdered sugar over it.

he looked completely ridiculous. and completely joyful.

you didn’t say anything. you just watched.

watched this boy—who had always been nearby. quiet. steady. easy to overlook. until now.

your fingers curled gently around the doorframe.

your chest was warm and full and aching in a way you didn’t yet understand.

but you smiled.

softly. secretly.

you didn’t interrupt him. you let the silence bloom. let the rooftop fill with laughter and drifting foam. let the moment live.

when he finally slowed—breathless, flecked with white, grinning at no one in particular—you stepped back.

quietly. unseen.

you returned to the classroom, brushed your sleeves clean, sat down without saying a word.

you stifled your smile. but not completely.

and for the rest of the night, while classmates flicked through pages and the teacher talked over the hum of exhaustion, you kept looking at the window.

because it hadn’t really snowed that night.

you knew that.

but somehow—somehow, that didn’t make it any less magical.

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you’d fainted during p.e.

the gym had been too warm, the air thick with sweat and shouting. you hadn’t eaten much at lunch—just a piece of melon bread and half a juice box.

exams were coming. the kind of pressure that doesn’t scream, but wraps itself around your chest and quietly tightens.

you didn’t remember falling.

only the way your knees gave way, and the lights above seemed to blur and stretch—like looking at the sky through tears.

then nothing.

when you woke, it was in the nurse’s office.

the cot was stiff. the overhead lights hummed like insects.

everything smelled faintly of eucalyptus and bleach.

your limbs were heavy. your lips were dry.

the nurse handed you a paper cup of water and touched your wrist with cool fingers.

“no visitors. no distractions,” she said gently. “just rest. just breathe.”

so you lay there.

the ticking wall clock was too loud.

outside the thin glass windows, the world kept moving without you. footsteps echoed in the halls. somewhere, a ball bounced in the gym. a motorcycle passed by on the road beyond the school wall.

you felt a little bit forgotten. not in a tragic way. just in the small, tired way a person feels when the world keeps turning and they don’t quite know how to step back on.

until—tap. tap. tap.

you blinked.

the window had been cracked open for air. now it brought something else.

tap. tap.

again. more insistent.

you pushed yourself upright, your muscles slow to respond, and shuffled to the window.

peered out.

and there he was.

junhui.

awkwardly balanced on a dented metal bucket, half-hidden behind the hedges by the back wall. his vest was crooked. his buzzcut damp with sweat. cheeks pink from running or nerves—or both.

he was holding a sheet of notebook paper. on it, in thick black marker:

for your entertainment only — starring wen junhui

and underneath, in smaller print, careful and crooked:

(y/n): please laugh.

you didn’t know what to say.

he didn’t wait.

he raised a coin. his fingers fumbled a little. then—with obvious concentration—he pulled it from behind his ear. it nearly dropped, but he caught it just in time, lifting it toward the sunlight like it was something more than metal.

you giggled.

then came the flower. pulled from his sleeve. crumpled and slightly wilted from living in his jacket all afternoon. he twirled it between his fingers like it was enchanted, then bowed low, with all the exaggerated flair of a stage magician.

it was ridiculous.

clumsy. wonderful.

you laughed harder than you had in weeks.

the nurse glanced over from her desk, her mouth twitching toward a smile.

“you know… for someone who fainted, you sure are lively now. feeling better?” she asked.

you nodded.

“yeah… a bit.”

junhui offered one last bow from atop the bucket, then climbed down with care, tossing you a sheepish grin. he jogged away down the path—one hand waving, the other stuffed in his pocket like it was all perfectly normal.

you didn’t call after him.

you just watched. watched until he turned the corner and disappeared behind the building.

then you placed your hand against the window.

light. silent.

later, when you’d look back on that day, it wouldn’t be the fainting you remembered.

it would be this.

the bucket. the magic coin. the smile that asked for nothing except your laughter.

and somewhere between the nurse’s ticking clock and the glint of sunlight on junhui’s moist buzzcut—you felt something shift.

not just your body.

but your heart.

and maybe that had been the real trick all along.

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exam week.

your alarm didn’t go off—again.

you launched out of bed ten minutes before the bell, clothes half-on, brain still fogged from the night before. no time for breakfast. no breath to spare. you told yourself you were focused. but really, you just didn’t want to stop.

8:00 a.m. cramming in chemistry. reaction mechanisms blurring together, your eyes fluttering shut every few seconds like a warning you kept ignoring.

9:00 a.m. math. formulas circling like storms you couldn’t break through. you wrote and erased and wrote again, chasing answers that refused to settle.

10:00 a.m. english literature. hands trembling, highlighter smearing across lines of poetry that used to feel like old friends but now read like riddles.

by lunch, you were fraying.

you made your way to the vending machines—your last hope. you slid in four quarters and pressed the button.

nothing.

no snack.

just silence.

and the coins were gone.

you stared at the machine like it might change its mind.

it didn’t.

back to social studies at 11:15, where the teacher spoke of revolutions, but all you could hear was the quiet throb of your empty stomach and the distant roar of your own body asking you to stop.

12:00 p.m. a history test. the words on the page floated like fish beneath water—just out of reach. your pencil slipped twice. you erased until the paper bruised.

12:45 p.m. you stumbled out of the classroom like you’d been underwater. the test over. your energy gone. your thoughts knotted. your chest tight.

you made it halfway to the next class before your vision blurred.

no breakfast.

no water.

not enough sleep.

your body was done pretending.

1:00 p.m.

you slid into your seat in the self-study room, two minutes late. rows of desks under harsh fluorescent light. the room was split between silence and the frantic rustle of pages being turned too quickly.

you sat there—aching, on edge, jaw tight enough to crack. if someone tapped their pencil, you thought, you might actually scream.

you opened your notebook and started drawing nonsense in the margins—spirals, stars, anything to hold your hand steady.

and then—a soft touch on your shoulder.

you looked up.

a hand reached past you from behind.

in it: a mango juice box.

your favorite.

the straw had already been poked in, placed just right. there was no note. no announcement. just quiet knowing.

you turned.

junhui stood behind you.

calm and steady. that same gentle presence that didn’t ask for attention, but always noticed.

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

the smile he gave you—small, warm, real—was more comforting than any word.

it said: i see you. you looked like you needed this.

you took the juice box in both hands, exhaled softly through your nose, and let yourself lean into the sweetness. the mango scent filled your lungs. the straw touched your lips. you didn’t realize how hungry you were for kindness until you tasted it.

he nodded once. then turned. walked back to his desk like nothing had happened.

but something had.

something tiny—and yet vast.

he had offered you relief. not the dramatic kind. not the heroic kind. but the kind that says: you don’t have to keep doing this alone. and for a little while, that was enough. more than enough.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

it had started raining while you were in the library.

you’d been there for hours. tucked into your usual seat by the window, a half-finished stack of notes spread around you like a fortress.

outside, the sky shifted. first, a whisper of sound—just rain brushing glass. then, a steady rhythm. like the clouds had finally let go of everything they’d been holding.

you glanced up.

the courtyard shimmered. rain fell in clean silver lines, each drop catching the light like a bead of glass. water pooled in the bricks, danced across the rooftops.

a few students ran for cover under shared umbrellas, laughing—loud and bright against the gray.

you sighed and leaned deeper into your chair.

no umbrella.

you knew even before you checked. but still, you opened your bag. just in case. moved aside flashcards. an old granola bar you’d meant to throw out.

nothing.

you could wait. but you were already tired, and your stomach had begun to ache in that dull, low way that hunger does when it’s been ignored too long.

your hoodie wouldn’t help. not in this kind of rain.

you were still trying to talk yourself into moving when a quiet voice broke through the hush behind you.

“you don’t have one?”

you turned.

junhui stood a few feet away. his sweater was damp. raindrops clung to the sleeves. his buzzcut looked darker wet—pressed close to his skin—and his cheeks were pink from the cold. he wasn’t out of breath, but there was something like urgency in the way he looked at you.

you gave a small, embarrassed shrug.

“wasn’t expecting rain.”

he followed your gaze to the window.

“weather app said clear skies,” he said softly, almost like he was apologizing for the sky itself.

then—without waiting—he stepped forward and offered his umbrella.

no drama. no explanation. just a hand outstretched.

“here.”

you blinked.

“wait… what about you?”

there was a pause.

not long. just long enough for you to notice.

then he smiled.

“my mom’s picking me up in ten minutes.”

he said it like it was true. like it had always been true. like he’d already seen the car coming around the corner.

“seriously?”

he nodded.

“go on. you’ll catch a cold.”

you looked at him for a moment longer—eyes tracing the damp lines on his sweater, the way his shoes squeaked faintly when he shifted.

then you reached out.

your fingers brushed his, just for a second. the umbrella handle was warm. it held the memory of his grip.

you mumbled a thank you, soft as the rain, and stepped past him.

the umbrella opened with a click. a canopy between you and the storm.

you walked slowly, boots splashing lightly against the flooded sidewalk, the rhythmic patter above your head like a song you hadn’t known you missed.

by the front gate, you hesitated.

you weren’t sure why. something in you pulled.

you turned.

and there—junhui was not under the overhang. not getting into a car.

he was already halfway across the courtyard, his hoodie up, bag slung over one shoulder, walking fast through the storm.

no umbrella. no ride.

just him—drenched, purposeful, vanishing into the rain.

he hadn’t told the truth.

but he had been honest.

he didn’t want you to hesitate.

didn’t want you to be cold, or wet, or worried about him.

so he lied in the kindest way someone can lie. so you could go.

you stood there a moment longer.

the umbrella in your hand felt heavier now—not because of the rain, but because it meant something. because he meant something.

and maybe you didn’t know what to say yet.

but you’d remember this moment.

this boy.

this small, quiet act.

because sometimes, love doesn’t ask for anything in return. sometimes it just hands you an umbrella, smiles gently, and says, “go on.”

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

you lie in the dark. the ceiling glows faintly with borrowed light from the streetlamp outside. your mind hums—slow, full. you replay every kindness junhui ever showed you. the rooftop snow; the magic trick; the juice box; the umbrella.

each one plays back in quiet loops, like an old film reel—grainy around the edges but impossibly vivid where it matters.

maybe it started with the rooftop.

junhui laughing through the cold, arms full of canned snow, joy pouring out of him like light. it hadn’t been real snow, but it had felt real—truer, somehow, than the flakes you used to chase in your childhood dreams.

then the nurse’s office.

him on that ridiculous bucket, half-hidden, pulling coins and flowers from his sleeves like a boy trying too hard not to try too hard.

your heart had tripped then—clumsy as the magic trick.

the juice box came next.

mango. your favorite. offered in silence during exam week, no fuss, no ceremony. as if he'd reached into your thoughts and pulled out exactly what you needed.

and then… the umbrella.

the lie about his mom. it hadn’t been a lie to impress you. it had been a lie to protect you. a small, gentle untruth, offered not to win your affection but to shield you from discomfort. a kindness that asked for nothing in return.

and now, as you lie there in the quiet, you can finally say it: he’s always been there. always.

your thoughts drift to minghao.

the top student. the star.

quiet. composed. just out of reach.

you used to know everything about him—how he’d tuck his hair behind his ear when he was concentrating, how he’d glance away when your gaze lingered.

you’d fallen so easily. too easily.

and despite the notes you slipped into his locker, the deliberate smiles in crowded halls, the careful proximity during meetings—he never looked back. not once.

now, in the hush of this moment, you see it clearly.

you gave your heart to someone who never noticed. and missed the one who did.

junhui was never loud. never obvious.

but he was there—in the background, in the small spaces, in the in-between.

you didn’t realize it then. but he did all of it—for you.

not for praise. not for attention.

just to make you smile.

your pillow is warm beneath your cheek. your heart is full, but no longer aching. not sharp. not uncertain. just steady. sure.

this wasn’t a story of grand gestures.

no confessions shouted in the rain.

no fireworks.

just light.

quiet, unwavering light.

you turn your head toward the dark and whisper it into the stillness:

“it was always you, junhui.”

and as the words fall, so does the weight.

your breath softens. your thoughts settle.

in the silence, love doesn’t shout.

it glows.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the rooftop hadn’t changed.

neither had the sky, or the rusted railing, or the faded paint clinging to the walls like old chalk dust. it was quiet now. everyone else had gone back inside—the laughter of old classmates echoing down the stairwell.

but you stayed.

wen junhui sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms resting on his knees. he looked at ease—like sitting next to you didn’t make his heart race anymore. or maybe it still did. maybe he was just better at hiding it now.

you turned to him, voice soft. a little uncertain. “can i tell you something?”

junhui glanced over—surprised, but open. “of course.”

you took a breath.

“i used to think… i realized i liked you during college. or after. when i stopped chasing things that didn’t matter. but that’s not true.”

he blinked—curious, quiet.

you smiled. just a little. “i knew way before that. i just didn’t know i knew.”

he didn’t speak. he waited—like he always had.

so you kept going. “do you remember the snow?”

he nodded slowly.

“you were running around like a maniac, spraying that stuff everywhere.”

junhui looked over, startled. “wait—you were on the rooftop?”

you laughed softly. “yeah. i pushed through everyone at night school just to see it. then i thought—why not go up top? so i snuck up there. and honestly… i thought it was real snow.”

he laughed too—low and a little sheepish. “i just wanted to make you happy.”

you laughed harder. and he smiled like it was the only thing he’d needed all day.

“i thought it was stupid,” you admitted. “but i went home and couldn’t stop thinking about how happy you looked—just trying to make me happy.”

your voice lowered. “i should’ve known then.”

your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers twisting in your sweater. “and when i fainted during p.e.—you came to the nurse’s office, even when no one was allowed in.”

he let out a breath of a laugh. “through the window.”

“you stood on a bucket and did the worst magic trick i’ve ever seen,” you said, grinning. “i laughed so hard the nurse scolded me for being ‘too lively for someone who fainted.’”

junhui groaned, embarrassed. “i practiced that trick for hours. it was supposed to look cooler.”

“it didn’t,” you teased. then, softer: “but i loved it anyway.”

he blinked. just once. the word caught him off guard.

“then there was the juice box,” you went on. “mango. my favorite. i didn’t even tell you, but somehow… you knew.”

he said nothing, but his expression shifted—like he was holding his breath beneath the quiet.

“and the umbrella,” you added. “you gave it to me and said your mom was picking you up.”

“she wasn’t,” he admitted.

“i know. i saw you running home in the rain.”

you looked at him, steady now.

“that’s when i realized something.”

he leaned in slightly—not pushing, just listening.

“every time something small made me feel seen… it was you. every quiet comfort. every laugh when i didn’t want to smile. every unspoken effort. it was always you.”

the air between you didn’t move. not tense. not awkward. just full—like the moment knew it was important.

you reached out and took his hand. “i’m sorry i didn’t say anything back then,” you said. “but i’m saying it now.”

his voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “saying what?”

you squeezed his fingers. “that i like you. that i’ve always liked you—even before i had the words. and now that i do… i don’t want to waste any more time.”

junhui’s gaze dropped to your hands. then, slowly, he lifted them to his lips and kissed your knuckles—soft and reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

“i would’ve waited longer,” he whispered.

you leaned your head onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. “i’m glad you didn’t have to.”

and the rooftop stayed still—like it was holding its breath for you. like even the sky knew that something quiet and beautiful had just come full circle.

- fin.

cookie scene.

in the quiet of the bedroom, lit only by the warm, honeyed glow of a desk lamp, junhui stood before the mirror. his reflection shimmered faintly—not because the light flickered, but because something inside him did.

his tie hung loose around his neck, a soft symbol of the day unraveling. his sleeves were rolled with care, like he was preparing not for sleep, but for something ceremonial. around him, the room held its breath. flashcards were scattered and half-buried beneath a hoodie, a calendar leaned tiredly against the wall, and socks clung to corners like forgotten thoughts. everything was ordinary. everything was holy.

in one hand, a worn coin. in the other, a bent silk flower. he looked at himself—not vainly, not with judgment—but with the quiet scrutiny of someone hoping to find something true. something brave.

he flipped the coin. it spun, glinted, missed. landed with a soft metallic sigh on the carpet.

“no, no, no…” he murmured, as though saying it aloud might pull the moment back.

he bent down, picked it up again, stood straighter. breathed deeper.

another try. the flip worked this time. the shuffle did not. the cards scattered across the floor like startled birds—red and black wings, paper-thin, slipping from his fingers.

he ran a hand over his buzzcut, not in frustration exactly, but in that quiet way boys do when they are trying not to cry.

on the wall, a sticky note trembled faintly in the air: make them laugh. written in blue ink, underlined twice. above it, smaller, quieter: just be brave. once.

he sat on the edge of his bed. the flower drooped between his fingers, brushing against his wrist like it was trying to comfort him. he turned it over in his hand. there—a frayed petal near the tip. it made him think of you.

you, and your laugh—the real one, not the one you used when teachers told jokes, but the one that crinkled your nose just slightly and made your eyes shine like you’d remembered something beautiful.

he stood again.

slower now.

he wasn’t rushing toward perfection anymore. he was moving toward truth.

coin in one hand. flower in the other.

he took a breath, not sharp or rushed—but full, like someone breathing in the sky.

“you got this,” he whispered, and this time the words didn’t feel like armor. they felt like hope.

he flicked the coin. caught it, cleanly. held it near his ear like he was letting the mirror listen too.

the flower slipped from his hand. fell.

he looked down, and then—he smiled. a small, crooked thing. not defeat. something gentler. acceptance, maybe. grace.

he picked it up, brushed it off like it mattered. and said, to no one and to everything,

“they better laugh.”

he didn’t sleep much that night.

not from fear exactly—though fear was there, fluttering inside him like moths behind a curtain—but because something in him wouldn’t stop reaching for that moment. that exact, shining second when it all came together. when he’d get it right.

he didn’t know yet that the next day you’d faint in p.e., that your knees would buckle like a puppet’s, that the nurse would wave everyone away with clinical hands and closed doors.

he didn’t know he’d end up outside your window in the bushes, balancing on a dented metal bucket with a paper sign and shaking hands.

all he knew—right then, in that small, lamp-lit room—was that if the moment came, even the smallest one,

he was going to take it.

because sometimes love doesn’t arrive with trumpets.

sometimes, it shows up in a boy with a coin and a flower,

trying.

- fin.

121 notes · View notes

acrosstheujiverse · 20 days ago

Text

I Like You So Much, You'll Know It

【📂】 summary: after being rejected by xu minghao, you promise to show him how you feel—through daily chalkboard messages, small gestures, and persistent acts of love. but as silence grows heavy and minghao finally breaks through his walls, you both must confront what it means to be truly seen and accepted. what begins as one-sided devotion slowly unfolds into something real, fragile, and worth fighting for. 【🖇️】 pairing: aloof!minghao x happy-go-lucky!reader. 【💿】 genre: slice-of-life; slow-burn romance; angst; fluff. 【🧺】 tags: high school; unrequited feelings to mutual; some jealousy; emotional angst. 【📦】 w/c: 7.2k

📬 — author’s note！this is inspired by the 2017 c-drama, "a love so beautiful."

“我喜欢你”

“我不喜欢你”

“那... 那我在想想办法”

releasing this from the drafts (2021).

i like you so much, you'll know it (junhui's version) ✩

« main masterlist | (SOON) »

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

your first confession wasn't a thing of fairy tales. there were no fluttering hearts, no playful teasing to soften the edges, no sparkle of light to catch and hold. it was simple, bare, the kind of truth you keep folded deep inside until it grows too heavy to bear any longer.

that afternoon, the sun was dipping low, sending soft gold through the thinning leaves. a restless wind stirred, tugging at your sleeves and chasing spirals of yellow leaves across the ground. you’d just finished sweeping behind the old storage shed—the broom rough in your hands, the dust and crisp autumn air drying your palms.

your feet crunched softly on the scattered leaves as you walked toward the ginkgo tree by the courtyard gate—the one that, every year, seemed to glow with its own light in the fall. you stood there, hands wrapped around a thermos of tea long since gone lukewarm, feeling your fingers tremble, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the world.

then, a few minutes later, xu minghao appeared. he rounded the corner, sleeves rolled up, student council binder tucked beneath his arm. his hair was tousled by the wind, his steps slow and measured.

he didn’t notice you at first—not until you called his name.

“xu minghao.”

he paused mid-step and turned. his eyes met yours.

for a moment, the world held its breath. you were suddenly aware of everything—tight shoes pressing against your feet, the cold metal cap of the thermos against your palms, the dryness settling in your throat.

and then, you said it.

“i—i like you.”

the words trembled out of your mouth, neither whispered nor joked. real.

he blinked once.

his face didn’t change.

“i don’t like you.”

his voice was calm—no anger, no mockery—only certainty, like a statement of fact.

your breath caught. the lump in your throat grew thick.

silence stretched, unbearably long.

you forced a smile, too wide, too shaky—like it might hold together the breaking pieces inside.

“th—then,” you said, voice barely steady, “i’ll find another way.”

you didn’t wait for his answer. you turned walked away, fast enough that your eyes wouldn’t betray you.

he said nothing. did not call after you.

behind you, the ginkgo leaves fell in golden quiet.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

you carried chalk in your pocket. every morning before class, you slipped into the near-empty classroom and wrote—i love xu minghao—on the board. uneven letters, hearts over the i’s, his name enclosed in a big clumsy heart. sometimes you added a tiny doodle—a sun, a ribbon—just to make it yours.

after school, you left notes in his locker, small scraps of paper folded tight with words you barely dared to say out loud. when he passed by, you waved, heart thumping like a secret drum. every time you called his name, it was a whisper in your chest: maybe today.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the chalk screeched a little as you dragged it across the board, the line stuttering near the edge before you corrected it. dust floated down in pale clouds, catching the morning light that spilled through the windows. your fingers were already coated—white at the tips, palms smudged, sleeves dusted like frost.

you didn’t notice.

or maybe you did, but it didn’t matter.

you were focused. committed.

you stepped back to admire your handiwork, heart thudding just like it had the first time. the message took up nearly half the board now—too big, too bold, too messy. but that was part of it.

‘i love xu minghao.’

each letter was uneven, some taller than others, like they’d been rushed out of your chest. you’d dotted the i’s with clumsy little hearts, and drawn a larger one around his name. it wasn’t perfect, but it was sincere. it always was.

this was day twenty-three.

twenty-three days since you stood under the ginkgo tree and told him you liked him.

twenty-three days since he’d looked at you, expression unreadable, and said,

“i don’t like you.”

you remembered how your throat had closed up.

how your fingers tightened around the thermos you never ended up giving him.

how you’d managed to reply before walking away through the leaves, trying not to fall apart.

this was that “other way.”

you didn’t know what you were doing at first.

that first morning after, you just… picked up a piece of chalk before class.

you didn’t think. you just wrote the truth.

‘i love xu minghao.’

and then the next day.

and the next.

until it became a thing—your thing.

a small, stubborn promise to yourself that no one could erase.

you moved to your seat beside the board, brushing chalk dust from your uniform. minghao’s seat—the one next to yours—was still empty.

but not for long.

the door creaked open.

xu minghao stepped in, headphones hanging around his neck. his gaze flickered around the room like always, low and distant.

he didn’t look at the board.

didn’t look at you.

just walked past with his usual quiet, unreadable grace, and slumped into his seat like the morning didn’t mean anything at all.

and maybe to him, it didn’t. maybe it never would.

still, you smiled.

you turned toward him, chin resting in your palm.

“hi minghao,” you said, voice bright despite everything.

he hummed. barely.

“how was basketball practice?” you asked, leaning in a little. “sorry i couldn’t come yesterday—my grandparents made me help trim the ivy on the wall.”

“i didn’t ask you to come,” he mumbled, eyes already closed.

you pouted. “but i made you a sign. it said ‘go minghao! i love you!’ it had glitter.”

he didn’t answer. just let his head fall to the desk like he was tired of the world.

this was normal now. you talking. him not.

but you kept going. you had to.

because you’d promised yourself—back under that ginkgo tree—

that if he didn’t want to hear it once…

then you’d find another way to say it.

every day, until he finally did.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

night school held a different kind of silence—one that was not empty but hushed, as if the world itself were listening. classrooms glowed softly behind glass doors, faint voices drifting like whispers on the cold air, the scent of whiteboard markers mingling with the dust, a quiet kind of waiting.

your classroom was warm with the slow hum of radiator heat, alive with small sounds—the scratching of pencils, the soft click of mechanical lead, the low buzz of a phone set to vibrate, like a heartbeat barely heard.

outside, the sky had held its breath since sunset, a thick gray curtain stretched tight and still. and then, as if the world could no longer hold its secret, it shifted.

“...it’s snowing.”

the words slipped out barely spoken, carried on a breath of disbelief.

you looked up, confused.

chairs scraped quietly as your classmates gathered at the windows, their voices rising like a tide, light in their laughter and pointing fingers pressed to the glass.

you stood as well, short as you were, weaving gently through the crowd, brushing past elbows and winter sweaters, until finally you reached the window.

and there, drifting slow and silent, were the flakes—soft as feathers, glowing like ashes caught in a dream. the schoolyard began to silver beneath their hush; rooftops softened, the world wrapped in quiet grace.

you pressed your hands to the cold glass, breath fogging the pane, and for a moment, you smiled—full and wide and unguarded, as if the sky had crafted this small, secret gift just for you.

leaning closer, you watched the flakes land, one by one, melting into the glass, the world beyond blurred by your reflection—a ghost against the falling snow.

then, behind you, a movement. a stillness within the stillness.

you turned your head just slightly.

xu minghao.

he stood a few steps back from the window, apart from the crowd, watching—not with the usual slouch or distance, but quiet, alert, as if drawn out from some hidden place.

his hoodie lay loose, no headphones muffling the silence. his hair was a little tousled, his eyes calm and steady.

his gaze shifted between the falling snow and your face—the way your eyes shone with wonder, the tilt of your head, the fragile hope you carried so openly.

for once, he did not hide behind silence.

he stood fully present, as if the snowfall had pulled him upward from the place he kept himself folded away.

and in his expression, something softened—almost imperceptible, but there.

he spoke no words. made no sound.

but he stayed.

watched.

the snow.

and you.

the two of you suspended in a quiet moment, the world hushed around you like a whispered secret.

you turned back to the window, unaware that behind you, minghao’s gaze held fast.

not yet willing to let go.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

“did he say anything?” chan asked, chewing with his mouth half-full as the lunchroom buzzed around you.

the cafeteria was its usual chaos—plastic trays clattering, students shouting across tables, the smell of miso soup and fried cutlets filling the air. somewhere nearby, someone had already started a lunchtime playlist on their phone, tinny music barely competing with the noise.

you shook your head, picking at your rice. “nope. but he will soon. i can feel it.”

chan paused, a piece of rolled omelet halfway to his mouth. “(y/n),” he said carefully, not unkindly, “don’t you think he’s giving clear signals that he's not into you? he's known around the school for being indifferent and unapproachable except by his few close friends. why do you keep trying?”

you played with a piece of your lunch as you were faced with the usual questions people tended to ask you upon hearing about your daily confessions. you smiled, not sheepish—steadfast. “i keep trying because he’s my husband,” you said like it was fact. “he’ll come around.”

chan groaned and dropped his chopsticks. “you’re going to be the death of me.”

you grinned and reached across the table to steal a piece of his pork cutlet. he didn’t stop you. just shook his head.

then he paused, mid-sigh.

“…is that him?”

you turned instinctively.

xu minghao had just walked in, a tray balanced in one hand. his hoodie sleeves were pushed up today, his hair slightly damp from gym. and he was smiling—talking, actually talking, to someone at his side.

your heart sank.

li wei.

you knew that figure immediately—long black hair tucked behind one ear, her uniform always perfectly pressed, the familiar bounce in her step as she moved with precision, purpose.

your stomach twisted.

chan kept watching your face carefully.

they sat together at the far end of the room. not close enough to draw suspicion, but close enough to know they chose it. li wei said something, and minghao laughed—quiet, but real. he tilted his head toward her. her hand brushed his arm as she reached for her chopsticks.

you looked down at your tray, your appetite gone.

memories from years ago flashed in your head like old photos: the playground in elementary school. the other kids giggling behind their hands.

“minghao and li wei are like… perfect, right?”

“they even play piano together. it’s like a drama.”

the nickname stuck for a while—“the perfect couple.”

you remembered being the one on the edge of the swings, watching from afar. li wei had always been graceful, well-spoken, brilliant. people liked her.

but you remembered other things too.

like how li wei’s kindness was always too sharp at the edges.

how her compliments were dipped in something bitter.

how she once “accidentally” spilled juice on your sketchbook and smiled while apologizing.

how she called you “persistent” like it was a disease.

and now, in high school, she hadn’t changed.

class president. top of the year. praised by teachers. polite to your face. and cruel when no one was listening.

she talked to minghao often.

you noticed.

how she leaned in. how she laughed just a little too loudly. how she always stood between you and him in group discussions.

they looked good together. too good.

your chest ached.

but—the next day, you still came early to class.

still picked up the chalk.

still wrote his name in big, uneven letters.

the “i” dotted with a crooked heart.

chan snapped his fingers in front of your face. “hey. you alive?”

you blinked back to the present.

he raised an eyebrow. “‘i don’t like you,’ remember?”

the words echoed.

you remembered them. clearly.

the sting of that first rejection. his voice flat. his eyes unreadable.

“i don’t like you.”

but you had smiled through it then.

and now, sitting in the cafeteria, with jealousy prickling under your skin like static, you smiled again—smaller, but no less sure.

“i like him,” you said. “i’ll be staying.”

you turned back to your tray, picking up your chopsticks.

“i’ll find another way.”

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

that night, lying in bed with the ceiling fan humming softly, you traced your finger over the small heart doodled on the note you had left in minghao’s locker that morning. your chest felt heavy.

is this too much?

you wondered, the question twisting like a thorn. maybe the way you wrote his name over and over on the chalkboard, left notes, showed up everywhere—it wasn’t just hope. maybe it was obsession.

was it love if it hurt this much?

you shook your head, tears blurring your vision. no. you wouldn’t stop. but maybe... maybe you needed to learn when to hold on and when to let go. for both your sakes.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

you kept writing.

every morning before the school stirred to life, before the halls echoed with footsteps and voices, you slipped quietly into the classroom. the chalk was cold in your fingers, dust settling into your skin like a secret you couldn’t keep. it marked your hands, your sleeves—reminding you you were still here, still hoping.

some days, the words were large and bold: i love xu minghao. the letters wobbled, crowded, uneven—like your heart had shaped them instead of your hands.

other days, the message was smaller. softer. just his name, tucked away in a corner of the board, like a whispered spell. xu minghao.

sometimes you circled it with hearts, sometimes you didn’t. but every day you wrote something. a quiet promise to yourself that you hadn’t given up. not after his words. not after the snow fell and the world turned silver. not even after the sharp sting of the cafeteria, when your name burned in your chest like a paper flame.

you left little notes too—folded scraps of your handwriting, folded like secrets and tucked where he might find them. under textbooks, inside lockers. they weren’t poems, just small reminders:

“today’s sky was the color of your eyes.”

“good luck on your math quiz.”

“i saw a cat that looked like you—soft and mysterious.”

always signed with a doodle. one heart. sometimes two.

he never said a word. never erased a single line.

once, he found a mango juice waiting on his desk with a sticky note: “i remembered you liked this. also—please hydrate.”

he didn’t say anything, but he drank it all the same.

in the library, you claimed the seat beside him, even when he scowled or turned just a little away. you’d lean in close with your notebook, whisper something small—“you smell like eucalyptus again”—and he’d groan softly, but stay.

you started calling his name across the hallways. loud and fearless:

“xu minghao!”

sometimes he winced, once covered his ears, and once muttered, “you’re a menace.”

but then his eyes would catch yours. and just for a moment, there was something there—something quiet and unspoken.

not annoyance. not confusion.

something else. recognition, maybe.

like your voice had rooted itself somewhere deep in him. like it had taken hold.

and every time he whispered, “stop it,” his voice grew softer.

the tips of his ears blushed red.

like maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to understand—you weren’t going anywhere.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

“do you know what friday is?” you asked one afternoon, your voice almost a whisper, like the question was a secret drifting just between the two of you—light, but heavy beneath the surface.

“friday.” his pencil never paused. the soft scratch of graphite on paper was the only answer. his eyes stayed fixed on the lines he traced, carefully avoiding yours.

you laughed, a quiet sound, rolling your eyes. “no, silly. it’s our one-thousandth day anniversary.” your smile was small but steady, like you were naming a secret holiday that only the two of you understood.

he groaned, a low sound that trembled somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice clipped, like the words had been said a thousand times before. “for the millionth time, we are not dating.”

you nodded, not surprised. your gaze didn’t waver from his face. “but we could be.”

that was new. his pencil faltered. finally, he looked up—sharp eyes meeting yours with a coldness that took your breath away. “no. not ever. don’t you have someone else to stalk? why does it have to be me?”

his words slammed shut the space between you like a heavy door. you felt your face crumble for a moment, a quiet fracture of hope.

would this be the end? would you finally walk away?

your throat tightened. your heart trembled beneath your ribs like a bird caught in a storm. but your smile remained—fragile, brave, unyielding.

you stepped back, and with steady eyes you said, “i like you, minghao.” the words fell soft but true. “and i’ll keep telling you until you believe me.”

every message in chalk, every mango juice left beside his books, every stolen seat beside him in the library, every note slipped under his hand like a secret prayer, every whispered “good morning”—every time you said his name, it was a small offering, something sacred.

he held your gaze for a moment longer.

then he looked away.

not angry. not annoyed.

just quiet.

as if something inside him had shifted, but he didn’t know how to hold it yet.

he said nothing more.

he watched you leave, his mind a restless storm. what was wrong with you? why keep liking someone who pulled away? wasn’t it too much, all those little confessions?

he growled, frustrated and stubborn. no matter how many times you said it, he refused to believe.

but the next morning, when you wrote his name on the board—he glanced at it. just for a second.

and that was enough.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the big basketball game.

you’d been planning for it all week—counting down the days, repainting your glitter sign twice, even buying fresh batteries for the light-up letters that blinked “go minghao!” in bright yellow.

but it still wasn’t enough.

you wanted more.

more than just the crowd’s roar or classmates’ cheers. you wanted him to see you. beyond the chalkboards, the notes, the little gestures you left like breadcrumbs. you wanted your love to shout. to thunder. to be impossible to ignore.

so you begged the mascot—kwon soonyoung.

“just this once, soonyoung. please. let me be the mascot.”

he looked up from fluffing the tiger head, humming softly, his voice amused.

“(y/n), i’ve been the tiger mascot three years running. through rain, heat, and flu. this suit is part of me.”

you dropped to your knees, theatrics fully engaged. “soonyoung, i’m begging you.”

he laughed, delighted. “you’re wild.”

but you weren’t done.

you remembered soonyoung’s one true weakness—tamtam. that tiger character he loved so much it was wallpaper, keychains, patches, everything. he talked about tamtam so much you once heard him argue about which expression was the most “soulful.”

and lately? he was hunting for a rare plushie, complaining loudly, desperate.

“why did that plushie sell out in four seconds? who bought it?? i’d trade my dignity for that thing.”

little did he know—you had it. still boxed, perfect.

you leaned close, voice low and serious. “i’ll give you my tamtam plushie. the exclusive one. the one that sold out two weeks ago.”

he moved faster than you thought possible, grabbing your shoulders like a man reborn. “deal. deal! i’ll wait for that plushie friday, (y/n)!”

he laughed, tossing you the mascot head and running out, muttering something about destiny.

your wallet cried, but your heart didn’t.

because the show was on.

you danced and cheered and waved your blinking sign with wild abandon. every time minghao touched the ball, you screamed like your lungs were burning.

“go minghao!! you’re amazing!! marry me!!!”

when he scored, you jumped so high the tiger head almost flew off. the crowd roared. for a heartbeat, you swore he looked your way.

but then—the ball came flying toward the sidelines.

you didn’t see it coming.

smack.

then—darkness.

not loud. not chaotic. just a sudden slip into stillness, as though the world had been turned off for a moment.

when you woke, the lights above you buzzed faintly, cold and sterile. the nurse’s office was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescents and the soft crinkle of the ice pack someone had placed gently on your forehead.

your head pulsed with dull pain. the kind that made everything feel slow.

you turned your head, just enough to see it.

your sign.

it sat crumpled on a chair nearby, its stick snapped, cardboard bent in the middle like a broken wing. sequins clung in defiance to the curling edge. the lights—tiny yellow bulbs spelling out go minghao!—were still blinking, faint but determined.

you’d been counting down the days until you could hold it high, your love loud and blinking in warm yellow.

and now, it lay folded in on itself.

from the hallway, voices filtered through like echoes underwater.

his voice rose above them.

“dude, i still can’t believe you ran like that when you saw the mascot wasn’t soonyoung—your adrenaline went crazy.”

“yeah, man. and you never told us you were dating (y/n),” someone added with a laugh.

“because i’m not.”

a pause.

“they’re no one,” minghao said. the words flat. clean. like a table being wiped clear. “just someone that’s annoyed me for the past three years. they don’t stop. they won’t leave me alone.”

another voice—his friend, quieter now:

“still... they seem like they really—”

“i don’t care how they feel,” minghao cut in, his voice thinner now, like it was being pulled too tightly. “i just... wish they’d leave me alone.”

you didn’t move.

didn’t speak.

only pressed the ice pack harder against your temple—not to soothe the bruise on your head, but the one forming quietly in your chest. deeper. stranger.

tears spilled. not all at once. just a few. quiet and hot and certain.

through the half-open door, he looked in.

his eyes met yours.

and stopped.

he must have seen it—the tears, the way you weren’t looking at him but through him, past him, like something had already gone missing.

his mouth opened, as if to say something, but the moment passed.

he turned back into the hallway.

he didn’t say a word.

he just gathered his teammates, and walked away.

you looked again at the sign.

at the blinking lights, growing dim now. at the bright yellow words that had once been a promise, or a prayer.

you had always loved with your whole heart. no safety net. no second draft.

and now you were sitting in a quiet room with a broken sign, a tangle of tears on your cheeks, and a tiger costume folded neatly in the corner, as though none of it had ever meant anything at all.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the room is dim. the only light comes from your phone screen, casting a pale blue glow across the ceiling. you’re lying on your side, still wearing the tiger mascot shirt, the fabric wrinkled, the glitter from your broken sign clinging faintly to your skin like leftover stardust.

your hair’s a mess. your head still aches faintly from the impact. but it’s nothing compared to the weight in your chest.

on your desk, the ice pack from earlier sits half-melted. untouched.

your phone buzzes softly.

chan🍙: you okay? saw minghao leave alone. sorry i didn’t get to check on you.

you don’t answer.

your thumb hovers over the screen for a second before locking it again.

silence settles in thick.

outside, the world is quiet. no cars. no wind. even the fan above your bed feels like it’s spinning slower tonight.

you’re staring at the ceiling. but not really seeing it.

you hear it again—his voice in the hallway.

“i don’t care how they feel. i just wish they’d leave me alone.”

you squeeze your eyes shut.

but the words don’t leave.

they echo, low and dull, until they blur into everything else—the cheers from earlier, the sharp sound of the ball hitting your face, the nurse asking if you were okay. the way your broken sign lay crumpled on the chair like something abandoned.

you thought your love could break through anything.

but maybe it broke you instead.

you roll onto your back, pulling your blanket up over your chin. your fingers clutch at the fabric like it might hold you together.

you think about every day you woke up early. every time you stood in front of the chalkboard, heart racing. every little note, every mango juice, every whispered joke in the library. every smile he didn’t return.

you wanted him to know he was worth loving.

but you didn’t think about what it would cost to keep proving it.

you turn your head toward the desk.

the chalk is still there. sitting where you left it the night before, ready to go.

but something in you hesitates.

you sit up slowly, your limbs heavy. your heart heavier.

you walk to the desk. pick up the chalk.

then pause.

it’s cold in your hand.

you stare at it for a long moment, then open the drawer and place it gently inside.

close it.

click.

you rest your hand on the wood, breathing out.

“just one day,” you whisper to no one. “let’s see what silence feels like.”

you crawl back into bed, curl up small.

this time, you let the dark hold you.

not because you’re giving up.

but because you’re finally letting go. just a little.

enough to remember what it feels like… to stop chasing.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

the next morning, minghao walked the halls with a strange sense of imbalance, like the floor was slightly tilted beneath him and no one else seemed to notice. he had won the game yesterday—there should have been pride, some small current of satisfaction. but instead, everything felt dulled. the memory of the win was already slipping away, replaced by something quieter and harder to name. students moved out of his way like they always did. eyes lowered. backs turned. no one stopped to congratulate him, though he doubted he would have wanted them to. he wasn’t used to being approached, only watched from a safe distance.

there had only ever been one person who ignored that distance completely.

he didn’t mean to think about you. he tried not to. but your name lingered anyway, like a warm place on a cold bench. he remembered the way you looked yesterday—curled slightly on the nurse’s cot, face turned to the wall, tears slipping down your cheeks without apology. you hadn’t spoken. and he hadn’t known what to say. he told himself it wasn’t the first time he’d been cold to you. he’d snapped at you before. told you to leave him alone. and you never did. you always came back. but you’d never cried. and something about that changed things.

after he carried you to the nurse’s office, he had knelt down and picked up the glitter sign you made. the stick had snapped, the edges bent from impact. but the little lights still blinked across the glitter-covered cardboard: go minghao! he could still see where you’d repainted it, where the glue had dried a little unevenly. he could picture you standing in front of your mirror, holding it up with both hands and checking the light. he wasn’t sure if the sign had been a joke or not—your love always came wrapped in noise and glitter and absurdity—but he knew you had cared. that much was obvious now.

he checked his locker before class. no folded notes tucked into the vents, no stickers slapped over his textbooks, no star-shaped chalk smudges hidden where only he would notice. he closed the door and stood there for a moment, books in his arms, thinking about how quiet everything felt. he didn’t want to be late to class—not today. not the one you shared. not after yesterday.

he used to avoid walking in on time. he’d wait in the hallway until you were done writing. he didn’t like watching you do it—didn’t like how small it made him feel, seeing his name in chalk surrounded by stars and hearts and exclamation points. he always told himself it was embarrassing. childish. unnecessary. maybe he’d just been afraid.

but today he walked straight in.

his eyes flicked automatically to the chalkboard.

blank.

he stopped in the doorway. blinked. maybe you hadn’t gotten there yet. maybe you’d run out of chalk.

but no. the desk where you usually kept the box was closed. the board was clean. no crooked hearts. no initials. no glitter pen underlines. just green silence stretching across the wall.

your desk was empty, too.

he moved to his seat, sat down slowly, listening to the chatter around him. someone whispered your name. someone else asked if you were okay. even the teacher paused when they walked in, their gaze drifting toward the empty board with a flicker of confusion, like something had been taken down from a wall and they couldn’t quite remember what.

then you entered.

you walked in quietly, your shoulders pulled in, eyes focused on the floor. you didn’t look at him. didn’t smile. didn’t wave. you sat down at your desk and opened your notebook, pen already in hand.

and there was no chalk.

no message.

just a silence that settled like dust across the room.

he stared at you for a long time. his hands fidgeted against the desk, fingers tapping out patterns that meant nothing. his chest felt tight, like something was unspooling quietly inside him, knot by knot.

he had always told himself he didn’t need this. didn’t need you. you were loud and persistent and relentless in your affection. and yet—he had gotten used to being seen. used to your voice in the morning. used to being chosen, without having to ask for it.

and now that it was gone, he realized how much it had mattered.

he didn’t hear the lesson. he didn’t take notes. he only watched you—watched the way you didn’t look at him, the way you folded yourself smaller than usual. you had pulled away. and he hadn’t known how far the fall would feel until now.

the bell rang. chairs scraped. students moved. the room emptied around him like a tide retreating from shore.

he stood only when you did.

he followed you toward the door, hesitating for just a second before reaching out and catching your arm.

you stopped. barely. your eyes met his with a flat kind of calm.

“you didn’t write it today,” he said, as if that observation could fix the weight in his chest.

you pulled your arm back without effort. “why do you care?”

he blinked. opened his mouth. nothing came out.

you turned to go again, and this time he reached a little faster, fingers brushing your sleeve.

“why do you care, minghao?” your voice was sharper now, and for the first time, you didn’t sound soft. “why do you care what i write or say anymore? you made your feelings clear. i’m listening now. i’m leaving you alone. isn’t that what you wanted?”

he looked at you closely. and you weren’t angry. you weren’t even hurt anymore. you were done.

“why now?” you asked, voice quieter.

and then you turned, melted into the crowd of students in the hallway, your figure swallowed by backpacks and conversations and the rustle of movement.

minghao stood there, still holding the air where your arm had been, heart thudding against his ribs like it was trying to knock its way out.

he had won the game. scored the points. worn the jersey. but none of it mattered.

not now.

not when the chalkboard was blank.

not when he had finally learned what it meant to feel someone leave—and take the light with them.

୨:୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ · · ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨:୧

you rubbed your eyes as you stepped out of the bathroom, the fluorescent hallway lights too bright, your head too heavy. sleep hadn’t come easily—not for nights now. the silence of your room had turned traitorous, filled with too many half-formed memories and unshed sentences. even now, two days later, you still had moments—brief, startling moments—when your thoughts slipped sideways and you remembered everything too clearly. the gym. the sting of the ball. the sound of your name said like it didn’t matter. sometimes you didn’t even realize the tears had started until they were already halfway down your cheeks.

but it was friday. you held onto that. the weekend would come soon, and you could disappear into it, maybe catch your breath.

you were halfway up the stairwell, caught between floors, when your phone buzzed quietly in your pocket. you didn’t want to look. but you did. reflex, maybe.

a calendar reminder blinked back at you. ✨ happy 1000th confession day! ✨

you didn’t mean to cry. but your throat tightened, and your vision blurred almost immediately. one hand darted up to your cheek, catching the tear before it could fall far. you wiped it away with your sleeve and exhaled—long and slow. you were done crying over someone who had never asked for your heart to begin with. you told yourself that. told yourself chan was right to worry, but you were going to be fine. you were standing. you were going to class. you were moving forward.

you pushed the classroom door open.

and immediately, everything changed.

the usual hum of the room fell away, not with a crash but like the tide pulling back from the shore. quiet stretched through the space, and every head turned—not just to look at the door, but at you. you could feel it, the sudden gravity of their attention, and your steps faltered. you hadn’t expected this. you didn’t know what it meant.

you walked slowly to your desk, eyes fixed forward. didn’t glance at anyone. didn’t want to. but the air felt off—strange and heavy, like the quiet before lightning strikes. you kept your gaze down as you pulled out your books, but then you felt it: the unmistakable sensation of being watched. not just by one person. by all of them.

you blinked. sat up straighter. their eyes weren’t just on you—they were flickering back and forth between your desk… and the board.

and when you turned to look, you stopped breathing.

the chalkboard—blank just yesterday, painfully, emptily blank—had been filled. not with your handwriting, not with your usual scribbles or hearts or hopeful jokes. this was different. the strokes were heavier. uneven. a little smudged in places. and large. so much larger than your usual messages.

“i love xu (y/n).”

you blinked once. then again. as if maybe it would disappear. but the words stayed.

your breath caught, caught and stayed there, suspended in your chest like a fragile, living thing.

across the room, minghao sat at his desk, bent over his notebook. at first glance, he looked uninterested—doodling, maybe. detached. but then his eyes flicked up. and for one second—just one—he met your gaze.

it wasn’t smug. it wasn’t teasing. it was quiet. honest. a little scared.

and that made it worse.

your thoughts spun wildly. your mind tried to reason with itself. maybe it was a joke. maybe someone else had written it. maybe he didn’t mean it. maybe he meant it too much. and maybe—maybe—you were about to fall for him all over again.

the class began, but the board still glowed in your peripheral vision, white chalk singing louder than any words spoken. everything else blurred—the voices, the lecture, the shifting weight of chairs and notebooks. all you could think of was that one sentence. and the way he had looked at you.

when the bell rang, you didn’t wait. you stood and crossed the room in a single, clear motion. your hand reached out before you could talk yourself out of it and caught the sleeve of his hoodie.

“come with me,” you whispered.

he didn’t argue.

you pulled him into the hallway and around the corner, toward the quiet stairwell that always smelled faintly of dust and sunlight. the school world fell away, and it was just the two of you. again.

“what the heck was that?” you asked, breath catching slightly. you hadn’t meant for your voice to tremble. “are you trying to torture me? because if this is another game, minghao—”

“what game?” he asked, looking down at you with a strange kind of calm. “what are you talking about?”

“you don’t write things like that unless you mean them,” you said, lower now, pressing the words between your teeth. “you just… don’t. that’s a sin.”

he was quiet. for a second, you wondered if he would laugh. or deny it. or shrug it off like he always had. but then—he didn’t.

he looked down. and smiled. a small, tired thing. almost to himself.

“maybe i do mean it,” he said softly.

you froze.

“what?”

he glanced up again, this time holding your gaze like he finally had something worth not looking away from. “i said i mean it. don’t make me repeat it—do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?”

your heart felt like it tripped. stumbled over itself. your brain scrambled to keep up.

“you’re serious,” you said, the words thin and stunned.

he nodded, slower this time. “i’m sorry,” he added, and his voice softened in a way that felt new. “i was scared. scared of how much i’d lose. scared of what people would say. i thought that if i pushed you away, it would go away too.”

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. your throat had closed up again—but not from crying.

“but it didn’t,” he continued. “every time you wrote my name… every time you looked at me like that… it got harder to pretend.”

you looked at him, heart aching.

“please,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “don’t stop.”

there was a long pause. not empty—full. of the thousand little things you hadn’t known he was feeling. of all the confessions you had written in chalk that were finally answered in kind.

“i just wanted you to know,” you whispered back, “that you were worth it.”

and for the first time, he smiled the way people do when they let go of something heavy. it was quiet and real, like sunlight through curtains. he shook his head a little, incredulous.

“you’re something else,” he said.

you laughed, barely.

“so… does this mean i can keep writing on the board?”

he nodded. “every day. if it means you’ll keep being you.”

a bell rang in the distance. second period was about to start.

“we should go,” you said, glancing at the clock. “we’re gonna be late.”

you turned to leave, already preparing to run—

—but he caught your arm.

you looked back just in time to feel the gentle weight of his lips press softly, almost uncertainly, against yours. it was a light kiss. brief. barely a moment. but it stopped the entire world for just long enough.

your heart nearly burst from your chest when he pulled back, smirking a little now, his cheeks pink.

“happy 1000th,” he whispered.

your hands brushed as you both reached for the chalk, fingertips grazing for half a second longer than they needed to. the contact was small, almost nothing. and yet, it lingered—like the first breath after a long silence.

he hesitated, then spoke, voice quieter than usual, as if the words had waited a long time to be let out. “can i ask you something?”

you turned to him, pulse picking up without permission. “anything,” you said, not because you were brave, but because the moment asked for honesty.

“after practice…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck the way he did when unsure. “do you want to go get ice cream? with me. as friends. or… maybe something more.”

it wasn’t grand. it wasn’t rehearsed. but it was real.

and your heart bloomed with something bright and full and gently new. “i’d like that,” you whispered, the words slipping out like light through stained glass.

he grinned then—a shy, crooked grin that didn’t ask for anything, just offered itself. you smiled back, and the air between you felt warmer somehow, as though something invisible had shifted. a promise, not spoken but understood.

you both turned back to the board, still blank in places, but no longer empty. your name sat beside his in white chalk, and though the letters would be erased by the end of the day, their meaning would not. a quiet vow written in simple strokes. soft. unshakable.

beneath the desk, his hand found yours.

he didn’t squeeze right away. just held it, like a question.

and then you squeezed back—an answer.

for the first time in a thousand days, he believed it too.

then—shattering the moment like a pebble hurled into still water—a shout rang out through the hallway:

“I FINALLY GOT THE EXCLUSIVE TAMTAM PLUSHIE—MY COLLECTION’S COMPLETE!!”

somewhere just beyond the door, soonyoung’s voice echoed like a trumpet, followed by a horrified gasp from the teacher.

“KWON SOONYOUNG! you’re disrupting the entire third floor! my office. now.”

“aww, come on…”

the class burst into muffled laughter, shoulders shaking as everyone tried not to get caught smiling. you bit your lip, trying to stifle your own grin.

you glanced at minghao. his head was tilted slightly, lips twitching. he shook his head like someone reluctantly endeared.

you laughed silently, the moment brighter for its interruption. under the desk, his fingers gently curled around yours again.

and then the lesson began: the story of mengzi, whose mother moved their home three times so her son could grow in the right environment. a tale of persistence. of care. of doing the hard thing for the right reason.

you listened, and somewhere between the scratch of chalk and the rustle of pages, you realized something.

love, when real, was never about perfection. it was about showing up. honestly. with the willingness to stay, even when things got complicated. even when ice cream was still just a maybe.

in the weeks that followed, you still wrote on the board, but you also began drawing again. you laughed louder. forgave yourself more. you remembered that love could be gentle and loud—that it didn’t have to hurt to be real.

minghao stayed close, not constantly, but consistently.

- fin.

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