hwavenscloud

[hwavenscloud]

ah yes my heart can't take it too😭 im pretty sure in the next chap he will read (no promises tho) jk ><

A pinwheel, standing alone... (Part-2)

Pairing: Seonghwa x reader

Genre: angst, hurt

Words: 3k

Summary: It was the holiday season, which meant you returning back to your hometown, a place which wrapped you with warmth and familiarity. Yet, at the same time, a place you despised because of those bittersweet whispers of memories from every street corner for which you never got a closure. Why? Because he left without a word.

Mic testing, author speaking: it took a while, i know :(( i should have just written the whole thing and posted it at once instead of breaking it into chapters. it fueled my procrastination istg. anyways, next chap will prolly be the last one for this.

also a big thank you to everyone who showed love here. im crying T-T ily<3

The letter, it's stupid really. A single envelope carrying this much weight and yet it had been sitting on the desk for minutes or maybe hours, untouched but never ignored. It presence spread like thunderclouds looming ominously all over the room.

When he first set it down after conquering his thoughts, it had felt like a temporary decision–a way to remove it from his hands and create a distance between himself and the past written in ink across its surface. And yet, the longer it remained there, the harder it was to pretend it didn’t. so he finally decided to remove it from his plain sight and tucked it inside his hanging coat pocket.

But alas, in moments like these–things you deliberately try to ignore, gains your attention the most.

Everytime he moved around the room, everytime he poured himself a glass of water, every time he checked in his phone–it was there. its faint presence, begging for attention. A waiting thing. It wasn’t supposed to be his.

It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be his. And yet, here it was.

He exhales sharply, pushing a hand through his hair, frustration threading through his ribs. This isn’t what he expected when he returned—this slow, suffocating unraveling of memories he thought he had buried.

But maybe he hadn’t buried them at all. Maybe they had only been waiting.

His gaze hardens, a flicker of resolve sparking beneath the weight of hesitation.He steps forward. Pulls out the letter. Feels the worn edges beneath his fingertips, tracing the softened corners where time has pressed itself into the paper.

The name staring back at him is his own. Written in her handwriting.

He turns it over, testing the weight of it in his palm. Whatever is inside has been waiting, untouched, unread. Waiting for him.

His breath comes slower now, steadier, but no less heavy. He could open it. Right now. He could tear through the years separating him from whatever she had written, let the words unravel the silence between them. But his fingers tighten instead. Because somehow, he knows—

Once he reads it, something will change forever. Is he ready? No. He’s not. And maybe he never will be.

Just like that his night passes by having his whole system drowning I thoughts of “what if’s”–

What if the words are colder than he expects—sharper, more unforgiving?

What if she hated him?

What if she didn’t?

A slow, lingering dread curls in his chest at the thought.

Because if she still cares, if she still misses him then that means he left behind something worth holding on to.

And that—

That would be worse than her hate.

-------

As the next evening arrived, she found herself sitting in front of the mirror. It reflected someone familiar. Someone she recognizes, yet feels strangely distant from.

She hadn’t planned on going.

When the invitation first arrived, she dismissed it without much thought, barely glancing at the details before shoving it aside. The idea of revisiting old faces, resurfacing memories that had long since settled into the quiet corners of her mind—it felt unnecessary.

But after everything lately—after the chance encounter, after the unsettling realization that her letter was gone, after the weight of past emotions creeping back in—maybe distraction was what she needed.

And besides, he wouldn’t be there.

He was an idol now, his life far removed from these mundane gatherings. The likelihood of him showing up was slim, if not entirely impossible. That reasoning alone made the decision easier. So, she said yes.

Not because she wanted to relive the past but because she wanted to escape it.

She tilts her head slightly, adjusting the fabric of her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles as if doing so might settle the unease knotted in her chest. The colour suits her, the fabric resting against her skin like quiet reassurance.

She had told herself repeatedly, almost like a mantra that this reunion was nothing more than a gathering of old classmates. A night of fleeting nostalgia, of polite conversations, of stories about lives that had long since moved on.

Her fingers brush against the delicate chain of her necklace as she secures the clasp, the familiar coolness of metal pressing against her collarbone. These small, careful actions—ones she has done a thousand times before, usually carry no deeper meaning.

But tonight, they do.

Tonight, every movement feels like stepping back into a time she isn’t sure she wants to return to.

She exhales slowly, pulling herself away from the reflection before it can linger too long.

-------

The city looks different tonight. Or maybe, he’s just looking at it differently.

His black blazer sits sharply against his frame, familiar yet unfamiliar all at once. The scent of his cologne lingers in the fabric—a quiet constant, something that has carried through the years unchanged. But tonight, as he fastens the last button, it feels different.

Maybe it’s the memories. Maybe it’s the unresolved weight sitting too close to his ribs. Or maybe, it’s the presence of the envelope still tucked away inside his coat pocket.

He exhales, pressing his hands against the sink briefly, grounding himself. Then, without further hesitation, he grabs his coat—the same coat that carries her letter, unread, untouched, waiting–and steps out into the night.

As he drives through the place, the passing scenery feels like echoes—too familiar, like time hasn’t fully moved forward, like certain places still carry ghosts of conversations left behind.

He wonders if she feels it too. If the past is creeping into her thoughts the same way it’s creeping into his.

His fingers brush against the inside of his coat pocket, against the letter still sealed, still waiting.

The thought of opening it lingers again, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he exhales slowly, watching the distant glow of streetlights, wondering if tonight is just another night, just another event, just another passing moment.

The venue hums with conversation, laughter echoing through the air, glasses clinking as people exchange stories of where they’ve been, what they’ve done, how much time has slipped between them. Time has stretched over the years, but tonight—tonight, it feels like it has collapsed altogether, pulling everyone back into something both nostalgic and unfamiliar.

There’s something strange about reunions. Not because people change, but because the spaces between them—the years, the memories they didn’t share, the silent moments of growth and loss—don’t fit neatly into a casual conversation. And that is why she was standing near the edge of the room, fingers curled around the stem of her glass, watching from a distance as old classmates exchange talks, catching up like they hadn’t spent years apart.

She didn’t have the ability to just go and strike up a conversation with anyone.

Her fingers tighten around the glass as she considers approaching to a familiar figure she saw standing near her. What would she go and speak? A greeting? Too simple. A memory? Too risky. The weight of unspoken years makes everything feel forced before she even begins. Instead, she lets instinct guide her—small, hesitant steps until she’s within reach.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" Her voice is quieter than she intends, but the words are honest. The person turns, brows lifting slightly. "What is?" She gestures lightly toward the conversations unfolding around them. "How easily everyone picks up where they left off. Like time barely mattered." A pause. Then, a soft chuckle. "Yeah. But maybe that’s just how people survive reunions—pretending the years weren’t as long as they felt."

Something eases within her. Maybe connection isn’t about knowing exactly what to say—maybe it’s just about showing up, standing close enough that the past can reach forward without force.

She exhales quietly, sipping her drink, forcing herself to engage just enough to seem present, but not enough to feel invested.

And then—

A familiar voice from across the room pulls her attention back into focus.

"You and Seonghwa… You two were inseparable back then, weren’t you?"

The words come casually, offhandedly, part of a conversation she hadn’t realized she was part of.

The words cut through the air like static. A casual remark. A fleeting observation. But somehow, it feels heavier than it should. She falters for just a second. Not visibly—not enough for anyone else to notice—but enough for him to notice. She doesn’t react right away, doesn’t let the flicker of unease settle into her expression. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, offering a small, carefully measured smile.

"I guess we were."

She can feel his presence before she sees him, she can sense the stillness in the air, the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way the mention of his name lingers like a ghost between them.

When she finally meets his gaze, he is already looking at her.

And in that moment, she knows—

He doesn’t have an answer either.

The room doesn’t stop moving, the music doesn’t dim, the conversations don’t hush—but something within the space between them shifts, pressing down on the silence neither of them knows how to fill.

For a second—just a second—she wonders what he’s thinking. If he feels it too. The discomfort. The weight of the unspoken. The quiet acknowledgment that neither of them knows how to answer.

How were they supposed to respond? How do you explain a friendship that once felt endless, only to unravel into silence? How do you justify the way someone who was always there suddenly wasn’t?

She laughs, but it’s thin, forced, barely convincing. He offers a polite nod, murmuring something vague, something distant, something that isn’t real. The conversation moves on without them, the moment slipping away just as quickly as it came. But the weight of it remains. A quiet, unspoken thing sitting between them.

Soon after, she watches as he quietly excuses himself, slipping away towards the exit, towards the rooftop.

And suddenly, for the first time tonight—

She wonders if she should follow.

She sets her glass down.

The decision doesn’t feel deliberate. It doesn’t feel like something she weighed carefully, debated internally, analysed until it made sense. It just happens. One moment, she is standing among familiar faces, surrounded by conversation that should be easy, should be light. The next—

She is weaving through the crowd, moving toward the exit, barely aware of her own steps. Her pulse is steady, but her breathing feels shallow as she steps into the stairwell. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting. She doesn’t know if she’s ready. But she follows anyway.

The air is colder here. Sharper. It carries the weight of the city below, the hum of distant voices, the flickering glow of headlights threading through quiet streets. But none of it matters—not now, not in this moment.

She steps forward, her heels clicking softly against the concrete, but he doesn’t turn. Seonghwa stands near the railing, fingers loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit, gaze fixed on the skyline as if searching for answers in the blur of the darkness.

The silence between them stretches, unspoken but impossible to ignore. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s charged, thick with everything they haven’t said, everything they don’t know how to say.

She hesitates at the doorway, her fingers brushing against the cold metal frame. A brief, fleeting thought passes through her mind—should she even say anything?

But no. She has spent too long avoiding this, too long letting the weight of her own uncertainty hold her back. So, she steps forward. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is quiet—carefully measured.

"The letter."

At first, he doesn’t react. Not immediately. But then she sees it—the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette before relaxing again.

She knows he heard her. Still, he doesn’t turn. Instead, he exhales, watching his breath disappear into the night air, his voice equally quiet when she speaks again.

"You have it, don’t you?" Not an accusation. Not a challenge. Just a confirmation—one spoken as if she already knows the answer. She swallows, her pulse steady but her thoughts spiralling.

"I do."

The words settle between them, cold and unmoving. The confirmation is both relieving and unsettling, pressing against her ribs in a way she can’t quite name. Her fingers tighten slightly at her sides, frustration threading through the hesitation in her voice.

"Did you read it?" The pause that follows is longer this time. She watches as he finally shifts, turning slowly until his gaze meets hers. And in that moment, she sees it—the hesitation, the uncertainty, the quiet storm of unspoken emotions flickering just beneath his composed expression. He doesn’t look indifferent. He looks tired.

His voice is calm, steady, but there’s something else beneath it—something quieter, something heavier.

"I didn’t."

The answer lingers between them, pressing into the cold air like a question neither of them know how to answer. She doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Her breath wavers, but she steadies herself, refusing to let the uncertainty settle in.

"Why?" The word isn’t sharp—not quite—but there’s an edge to it, something threaded with frustration, with expectation, with the weight of everything she’s spent years ignoring.

Seonghwa watches her for a moment, unreadable. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts a hand, pressing it lightly against the inside of his coat pocket—a quiet acknowledgment that the letter is still there, still sealed, still untouched.

"Because I don’t know if I want to."

The answer is simple. And yet, somehow, it’s the most complicated thing he could have said. She exhales, her gaze flickering down to the worn pavement beneath them. Neither of them move. Neither of them say anything else.

For the first time in years, they are standing in the same place, breathing in the same air, with the same unresolved past sitting between them like an unopened door.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for now.

tags~ @deltamoon666

[hwavenscloud]

A pinwheel, standing alone... (Part-2)

Pairing: Seonghwa x reader

Genre: angst, hurt

Words: 2k-ish

Summary: It was the holiday season, which meant you returning back to your hometown, a place which wrapped you with warmth and familiarity. Yet, at the same time, a place you despised because of those bittersweet whispers of memories from every street corner for which you never got a closure. Why? Because he left without a word.

Mic testing, author speaking: it took a while, i know :(( i should have just written the whole thing and posted it at once instead of breaking it into chapters. it fueled my procrastination istg. anyways, next chap will prolly be the last one for this.

also a big thank you to everyone who showed love here. im crying T-T ily<3

previous chapter

The letter, it's stupid really. A single envelope carrying this much weight and yet it had been sitting on the desk for minutes or maybe hours, untouched but never ignored. It presence spread like thunderclouds looming ominously all over the room.

When he first set it down after conquering his thoughts, it had felt like a temporary decision–a way to remove it from his hands and create a distance between himself and the past written in ink across its surface. And yet, the longer it remained there, the harder it was to pretend it didn’t. so he finally decided to remove it from his plain sight and tucked it inside his hanging coat pocket.

But alas, in moments like these–things you deliberately try to ignore, gains your attention the most.

Everytime he moved around the room, everytime he poured himself a glass of water, every time he checked in his phone–it was there. its faint presence, begging for attention. A waiting thing. It wasn’t supposed to be his.

It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be his. And yet, here it was.

He exhales sharply, pushing a hand through his hair, frustration threading through his ribs. This isn’t what he expected when he returned—this slow, suffocating unraveling of memories he thought he had buried.

But maybe he hadn’t buried them at all. Maybe they had only been waiting.

His gaze hardens, a flicker of resolve sparking beneath the weight of hesitation.He steps forward. Pulls out the letter. Feels the worn edges beneath his fingertips, tracing the softened corners where time has pressed itself into the paper.

The name staring back at him is his own. Written in her handwriting.

He turns it over, testing the weight of it in his palm. Whatever is inside has been waiting, untouched, unread. Waiting for him.

His breath comes slower now, steadier, but no less heavy. He could open it. Right now. He could tear through the years separating him from whatever she had written, let the words unravel the silence between them. But his fingers tighten instead. Because somehow, he knows—

Once he reads it, something will change forever. Is he ready? No. He’s not. And maybe he never will be.

Just like that his night passes by having his whole system drowning I thoughts of “what if’s”–

What if the words are colder than he expects—sharper, more unforgiving?

What if she hated him?

What if she didn’t?

A slow, lingering dread curls in his chest at the thought.

Because if she still cares, if she still misses him then that means he left behind something worth holding on to.

And that—

That would be worse than her hate.

-------

As the next evening arrived, she found herself sitting in front of the mirror. It reflected someone familiar. Someone she recognizes, yet feels strangely distant from.

She hadn’t planned on going.

When the invitation first arrived, she dismissed it without much thought, barely glancing at the details before shoving it aside. The idea of revisiting old faces, resurfacing memories that had long since settled into the quiet corners of her mind—it felt unnecessary.

But after everything lately—after the chance encounter, after the unsettling realization that her letter was gone, after the weight of past emotions creeping back in—maybe distraction was what she needed.

And besides, he wouldn’t be there.

He was an idol now, his life far removed from these mundane gatherings. The likelihood of him showing up was slim, if not entirely impossible. That reasoning alone made the decision easier. So, she said yes.

Not because she wanted to relive the past but because she wanted to escape it.

She tilts her head slightly, adjusting the fabric of her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles as if doing so might settle the unease knotted in her chest. The colour suits her, the fabric resting against her skin like quiet reassurance.

She had told herself repeatedly, almost like a mantra that this reunion was nothing more than a gathering of old classmates. A night of fleeting nostalgia, of polite conversations, of stories about lives that had long since moved on.

Her fingers brush against the delicate chain of her necklace as she secures the clasp, the familiar coolness of metal pressing against her collarbone. These small, careful actions—ones she has done a thousand times before, usually carry no deeper meaning.

But tonight, they do.

Tonight, every movement feels like stepping back into a time she isn’t sure she wants to return to.

She exhales slowly, pulling herself away from the reflection before it can linger too long.

-------

The city looks different tonight. Or maybe, he’s just looking at it differently.

His black blazer sits sharply against his frame, familiar yet unfamiliar all at once. The scent of his cologne lingers in the fabric—a quiet constant, something that has carried through the years unchanged. But tonight, as he fastens the last button, it feels different.

Maybe it’s the memories. Maybe it’s the unresolved weight sitting too close to his ribs. Or maybe, it’s the presence of the envelope still tucked away inside his coat pocket.

He exhales, pressing his hands against the sink briefly, grounding himself. Then, without further hesitation, he grabs his coat—the same coat that carries her letter, unread, untouched, waiting–and steps out into the night.

As he drives through the place, the passing scenery feels like echoes—too familiar, like time hasn’t fully moved forward, like certain places still carry ghosts of conversations left behind.

He wonders if she feels it too. If the past is creeping into her thoughts the same way it’s creeping into his.

His fingers brush against the inside of his coat pocket, against the letter still sealed, still waiting.

The thought of opening it lingers again, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he exhales slowly, watching the distant glow of streetlights, wondering if tonight is just another night, just another event, just another passing moment.

-------

The venue hums with conversation, laughter echoing through the air, glasses clinking as people exchange stories of where they’ve been, what they’ve done, how much time has slipped between them. Time has stretched over the years, but tonight—tonight, it feels like it has collapsed altogether, pulling everyone back into something both nostalgic and unfamiliar.

There’s something strange about reunions. Not because people change, but because the spaces between them—the years, the memories they didn’t share, the silent moments of growth and loss—don’t fit neatly into a casual conversation. And that is why she was standing near the edge of the room, fingers curled around the stem of her glass, watching from a distance as old classmates exchange talks, catching up like they hadn’t spent years apart.

She didn’t have the ability to just go and strike up a conversation with anyone.

Her fingers tighten around the glass as she considers approaching to a familiar figure she saw standing near her. What would she go and speak? A greeting? Too simple. A memory? Too risky. The weight of unspoken years makes everything feel forced before she even begins. Instead, she lets instinct guide her—small, hesitant steps until she’s within reach.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" Her voice is quieter than she intends, but the words are honest. The person turns, brows lifting slightly. "What is?" She gestures lightly toward the conversations unfolding around them. "How easily everyone picks up where they left off. Like time barely mattered." A pause. Then, a soft chuckle. "Yeah. But maybe that’s just how people survive reunions—pretending the years weren’t as long as they felt."

Something eases within her. Maybe connection isn’t about knowing exactly what to say—maybe it’s just about showing up, standing close enough that the past can reach forward without force.

She exhales quietly, sipping her drink, forcing herself to engage just enough to seem present, but not enough to feel invested.

And then—

A familiar voice from across the room pulls her attention back into focus.

"You and Seonghwa… You two were inseparable back then, weren’t you?"

The words come casually, offhandedly, part of a conversation she hadn’t realized she was part of.

The words cut through the air like static. A casual remark. A fleeting observation. But somehow, it feels heavier than it should. She falters for just a second. Not visibly—not enough for anyone else to notice—but enough for him to notice. She doesn’t react right away, doesn’t let the flicker of unease settle into her expression. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, offering a small, carefully measured smile.

"I guess we were."

She can feel his presence before she sees him, she can sense the stillness in the air, the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way the mention of his name lingers like a ghost between them.

When she finally meets his gaze, he is already looking at her.

And in that moment, she knows—

He doesn’t have an answer either.

The room doesn’t stop moving, the music doesn’t dim, the conversations don’t hush—but something within the space between them shifts, pressing down on the silence neither of them knows how to fill.

For a second—just a second—she wonders what he’s thinking. If he feels it too. The discomfort. The weight of the unspoken. The quiet acknowledgment that neither of them knows how to answer.

How were they supposed to respond? How do you explain a friendship that once felt endless, only to unravel into silence? How do you justify the way someone who was always there suddenly wasn’t?

She laughs, but it’s thin, forced, barely convincing. He offers a polite nod, murmuring something vague, something distant, something that isn’t real. The conversation moves on without them, the moment slipping away just as quickly as it came. But the weight of it remains. A quiet, unspoken thing sitting between them.

Soon after, she watches as he quietly excuses himself, slipping away towards the exit, towards the rooftop.

And suddenly, for the first time tonight—

She wonders if she should follow.

She sets her glass down.

The decision doesn’t feel deliberate. It doesn’t feel like something she weighed carefully, debated internally, analysed until it made sense. It just happens. One moment, she is standing among familiar faces, surrounded by conversation that should be easy, should be light. The next—

She is weaving through the crowd, moving toward the exit, barely aware of her own steps. Her pulse is steady, but her breathing feels shallow as she steps into the stairwell. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting. She doesn’t know if she’s ready. But she follows anyway.

The air is colder here. Sharper. It carries the weight of the city below, the hum of distant voices, the flickering glow of headlights threading through quiet streets. But none of it matters—not now, not in this moment.

She steps forward, her heels clicking softly against the concrete, but he doesn’t turn. Seonghwa stands near the railing, fingers loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit, gaze fixed on the skyline as if searching for answers in the blur of the darkness.

The silence between them stretches, unspoken but impossible to ignore. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—it’s charged, thick with everything they haven’t said, everything they don’t know how to say.

She hesitates at the doorway, her fingers brushing against the cold metal frame. A brief, fleeting thought passes through her mind—should she even say anything?

But no. She has spent too long avoiding this, too long letting the weight of her own uncertainty hold her back. So, she steps forward. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is quiet—carefully measured.

"The letter."

At first, he doesn’t react. Not immediately. But then she sees it—the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette before relaxing again.

She knows he heard her. Still, he doesn’t turn. Instead, he exhales, watching his breath disappear into the night air, his voice equally quiet when she speaks again.

"You have it, don’t you?" Not an accusation. Not a challenge. Just a confirmation—one spoken as if she already knows the answer. She swallows, her pulse steady but her thoughts spiralling.

"I do."

The words settle between them, cold and unmoving. The confirmation is both relieving and unsettling, pressing against her ribs in a way she can’t quite name. Her fingers tighten slightly at her sides, frustration threading through the hesitation in her voice.

"Did you read it?" The pause that follows is longer this time. She watches as he finally shifts, turning slowly until his gaze meets hers. And in that moment, she sees it—the hesitation, the uncertainty, the quiet storm of unspoken emotions flickering just beneath his composed expression. He doesn’t look indifferent. He looks tired.

His voice is calm, steady, but there’s something else beneath it—something quieter, something heavier.

"I didn’t."

The answer lingers between them, pressing into the cold air like a question neither of them know how to answer. She doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Her breath wavers, but she steadies herself, refusing to let the uncertainty settle in.

"Why?" The word isn’t sharp—not quite—but there’s an edge to it, something threaded with frustration, with expectation, with the weight of everything she’s spent years ignoring.

Seonghwa watches her for a moment, unreadable. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts a hand, pressing it lightly against the inside of his coat pocket—a quiet acknowledgment that the letter is still there, still sealed, still untouched.

"Because I don’t know if I want to."

The answer is simple. And yet, somehow, it’s the most complicated thing he could have said. She exhales, her gaze flickering down to the worn pavement beneath them. Neither of them move. Neither of them say anything else.

For the first time in years, they are standing in the same place, breathing in the same air, with the same unresolved past sitting between them like an unopened door.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough for now.

tags~ @deltamoon666

[hwavenscloud]

A pinwheel, standing alone... (Part-1)

Pairing: Seonghwa x reader

Genre: angst, hurt

Words: 3k

Summary: It was the holiday season, which meant you returning back to your hometown, a place which wrapped you with warmth and familiarity. Yet, at the same time, a place you despised because of those bittersweet whispers of memories from every street corner for which you never got a closure. Why? Because he left without a word.

Mic testing, author speaking: so hey to whoever is viewing this<3 first off all it's my very first time writing a fic and it HAD to be angst. Also yes, sadly, I suck at choosing pictures for the intro.

This work is inspired by the song called 'pinwheel' by svt's vcu. (I am a huge carat btw)

Next chapter

It was the holiday season, yet the town felt lonelier than ever. The streets were dusted with a thin layer of snow, and the wind played its hollow tune, brushing through the alleys and abandoned corners. At the top of the hill, where time seemed to pause, the old pinwheel spun faintly in the breeze, almost as if it were searching for something or someone, to give it meaning. Its creaky rotations mirrored the ache in her chest, a void left unfilled.

She wrapped her scarf tighter as she made her way through the bustling streets towards the hill. The bright lights and cheerful chatter of holiday festivities were a stark contrast to the quiet storm brewing inside her. Across the streets were massive posters, their bold letters proclaiming the pride of the place, the one who had risen from this small town to dazzling heights. In the centre of it all was his face–the face of the boy who had once been her entire world.

Her eyes lingered on the name printed beneath the confident smile. Park Seonghwa, it read.

The very sight of it sent a churning turmoil deep through her, a storm she hadn't expected to feel after all these years. To everyone else, he was a star, the town's crowning glory. But to her, he was a question that had remained unanswered, a wound that time had not healed.

The snow crunched beneath her boots as she wandered past old haunts, her breath clouding in the icy air. She thought she'd moved on, but everything about this place, this time of year, had her confronting the wounds she thought had healed. And then there was him. The one who had promised they'd face the world together before vanishing to chase his dream. She didn't resent his ambition–how could she? But she resented the silence he left behind, the way he hadn't even looked back.

The pinwheel spun harder as a gust of wind rushed through. She glanced back up the hill, where it stood-lonely and restless. Much like her, it had endured the passage of time, clinging to memories of a connection that had been severed too soon.

As she stood there, frozen in thought, a commotion broke out at the bottom of the hill. Fans had gathered, screaming and cheering as Park Seonghwa tried to move discreetly, clearly not wanting to get noticed. Fangirls were in their typical behaviour—screaming, shouting. Don't get him wrong, his love for his fans has always been evident throughout his idol life. But right now, he just wanted a moment of peace, away from the noise.

Disguised beneath a cap and scarf, he manages to fleet away from the crowd. He sees the pinwheel on the hill and is struck by how little and how much has changed.

As Seonghwa quietly climbs the hill, the pinwheel spinning steadily in the wind draws him in like a memory that won't fade. He approaches it slowly, almost reverently, as if disturbing it would undo all that was left unsaid between them.

At the same time, she hears the fan commotion from the hilltop and instinctively steps back, heart thudding. She doesn't want to see him–not like this, not surrounded by the chaos that took him away in the first place.

She begins to descend the opposite side of the hill, her back to the path he's now taking up.

They miss each other by seconds.

Seonghwa reaches the top and stands by the pinwheel, letting the silence seep in. He gazes at the town below, unaware that her footprints are still fresh in the snow just meters away.

He exhaled a quiet sigh, a sigh of exhaustion or maybe a sigh of longing. For a brief moment, he closes his eyes, letting the past settle around him like snowflakes. His eyes landed on the pinwheel-old, weathered, but still turning. Still holding on.

"It's still here..." he murmured, almost to himself. A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. He stepped closer, brushing his gloved hand gently against the worn stem. The cold metal buzzed faintly with the spinning blades.

Memories hit him without warning–

———————————————

He had stood right here, suitcase heavy in his hand, heart heavier in his chest. Her house was a short walk away. A minute or two, maybe.

But he couldn't make himself go.

He told himself there would be time later. That she'd understand. That chasing this dream was everything they used to talk about.

But when the taxi arrived and he stepped in, he didn't text. He didn't call.

He just left.

Back then, it felt easier. Cleaner.

Now?

Now it felt like betrayal.

———————————————

He glanced around. Snow blanketed the hill in a quiet hush. For a moment, he felt like a boy again, chasing dreams with someone who believed in them as much as he did. Someone who had stood right here beside him once, eyes wide and full of fire.

He wondered if she still came here.

If she thought of him like he thought of her—when the cameras were gone, when the world quieted.

The pinwheel turned once more, a little faster this time, and a strange feeling stirred in him. Longing. Guilt. Regret.

He looked down the other side of the hill, unaware that just minutes earlier, she had stood exactly where he was standing now. Her footsteps in the snow were already starting to disappear.

———————————————

The evening went by and the night came colder than usual. The mushy snow started collecting against the windowpane as she silently rummaged thro­ugh an old tin box­–the one that held fragments of her memories which she thought won’t affect her like it did to her teenage self. Memories she’d thought she left behind. Memories of the chapter which closed abruptly.

Buried beneath those childish bits of paper and items of her past, she found an envelope. The envelope she could swear she would never forget. How could she? It held what her heart wanted her lips to speak back then. But lips? They sometimes betray their keeper–they spit sharp daggers when raging emotion are high, or stay shut when desperation begs for release.

With careful fingers she smoothened the folds and the wrinkled edges of the envelope. Her fingers glided over the inked words–Addressed to Park Seonghwa. Slowly unfolding the letter, she found herself slipping into the depths of the word she had written back then.

"You left without a goodbye, but I still waited for one. I don’t know if I hate you or if I just hate how much I miss you."

"We always talked about chasing dreams. You ran toward yours, but I was left standing alone."

"Did I ever cross your mind, even just once?"

“You’ll always remain faintly, here, in my heart.”

“Please, even if it takes a long time, turn around, and you’ll find me again.”

She lets out a quiet laugh–one that was empty and maybe a bit frustrated. Frustrated, after reading the last few lines. She remembers writing it in anger, in grief, in all the emotions that swallowed her whole the day he disappeared without a word. Yet, yet, in the end of the letter, she longed for him. She despised how at present too, she found herself trapped in the reflection of her past. As if the time had only moved, not her feelings. Her resentment always ended with her love for him. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him completely.

———————————————

Meanwhile, Seonghwa slumps on his bed. Though his body was heavy with fatigue and exhaustion, his mind was wandering with thoughts of guilt, regret and shame.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand–a sharp interruption to his spiralling mind. Thinking the notification would catalyse as a temporary refuge from his thoughts–he exhaled a sigh. He picks it up, eyes scanning the screen. To his dismay it’s just a message from his manager regarding his future schedules. He swipes it away. But instead of locking the screen, his thumb hesitates. It hovers over the messages app for a few seconds. His brain mulls over numerous thoughts. Finally, he decides to open it–he scrolls almost till the very end of the list.

Her name appear–with an unsent draft beneath. He clicks and scrolls through their last exchange, nothing grand–just them being silly over what to bring when they visit the pinwheel on the hill next Sunday. Sure, a faded memory, but never forgotten. Then his eyes landed to the unsent message in his drafts.

“I wanted to stay.”

"I wanted to tell you that before I left, but I was too much of a coward."

"You believed in me more than I believed in myself. I should've told you that."

“Because of this world, you and I drift apart.”

The words stare back at him, a confession frozen in time. He had typed them on the night he left, thumb trembling over the send button. But fear had stopped him.

Now, reading it, he feels the weight of what could have been done. What should have been done. He himself couldn’t justify what he did back then. All he had to toss the blame on was his ‘teenage emotions’. You see emotions are sometimes self-delusion. They serve a fantasy–an illusion, a false perception to how its holder is making a correct decision. It deludes its holder to make spontaneous choices ignoring the incoming second thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, the urge to send it—now, after all these years, surges through him.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he locks the screen, sets the phone on the nightstand and closes his eyes. The unsent words remain unsent.

And somewhere across town, she stares at her own phone, fingers brushing over an old, crumpled letter, unaware of the message that never reached her.

———————————————

Next day the morning is crisp, the remnants of last night’s snowfall glazing the rooftops and streets with a delicate frost. She steps out of her apartment, stuffing her hands deep into her coat pockets, exhaling into the chilled air.

She has things to do, places to be–all in all, she has to be occupied with something or the other at any cost as she thinks there’s no room for lingering thoughts—not today.

And yet, somehow, fate has other plans.

She reaches the small café in the corner of the street–her favourite one. The familiar cozy scent of freshly brewed coffee lingering in the air, reaches her nose–soothing her mind for a moment. Reaching the counter, she ordered her usual go to coffee. After paying and grabbing it from the slab, her mind oddly decides, instead of sitting and drinking in the café itself–why not have it while walking and enjoying the snow-covered views of the street.

Outside, the streets started bustling with people. She adjusts her scarf, mind elsewhere, barely focused. Then–

Impact.

She collides with someone, too preoccupied to see the coming. The force was enough to knock the purse off her arm. And there goes her lip balm rolling, keys landing near the stranger’s boots, receipt fluttering against the cement road, coffee splattering out of the cup and the–

An envelope.

Her envelope.

But she doesn’t notice it yet.

“I—sorry,” she mumbles, crouching quickly to grab her scattered items, fingers scrambling over the icy ground. The stranger kneels too, already reaching for her fallen things, handing them back without hesitation.

That’s when she hears his voice. “Its fine…”

And everything inside her stops. She knows that voice.Slowly—too slowly—she looks up.

And there he is.

Park Seonghwa.

Time rushes back in violently, knocking the air from her lungs. She doesn’t move. Everything inside her screams no, but she can’t move.

Can’t react fast enough.

Her fingers shake slightly as she grabs her things, stuffing them recklessly into her bag. She doesn’t dare meet his gaze, doesn’t dare acknowledge that after years—after everything—this moment is happening.

And then—

He picks up the last remaining item.

The envelope.

The letter she never realized she carried.

The letter she never meant to bring with her.

His name is inked across the front, bold and familiar.

His fingers hover over it, his brows furrowing, confusion flickering across his features.

She doesn’t see it.

She’s too frantic, too desperate to escape.

She grabs her things, whatever her hands can reach. Shoves them into her bag. Rises too quickly, mutters something incoherent–and walks away.

No—runs away.

Seonghwa stares at her back going away. His grip tightens around the letter she unknowingly left behind. He glances down at it again. By looking at the slightly crumpled edges he can figure out that its old but carefully folded. His name in her handwriting stares back at him.

A message addressed to him, but never meant for him to read. And now, he holds it in his hand. And she has no idea.

———————————————

Hours pass. The encounter with Seonghwa lingers in her mind, replaying over and over like an echo she can't silence. She tells herself it was nothing—a meaningless collision, a chance meeting with someone she once knew. Nothing more.

Yet, something feels off.

She sits at the edge of her bed, her bag beside her, mind drifting somewhere far away. Her hands move absently, digging through the contents—she’s not looking for anything in particular at first. It’s just a habit. Routine.

Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. Receipts.

She exhales slowly, fingers brushing against loose paper at the bottom. She pauses.

Her heart tightens slightly, though she isn’t sure why. Her search becomes deliberate now. Focused. She rummages through all the possible fabrics of pockets, every hidden fold, eyebrows knitting together as unease starts to tingle through her system. And realisation strikes her mind like thunderbolt.

The letter.

It isn’t here.

Her pulse skipping, then spiking.

Shit. No.

She scatters all the items out of her bag across the bed. For a person who hates unorganised things–it was the first time she ignored the mess forming around her. Well, ignore would be a wrong word to use, she never noticed the mess.

It was there this morning—she was sure of it. Maybe she hadn’t intentionally placed it in her bag, but it had been tucked away somewhere, buried beneath old receipts and forgotten things. So where did it go? Where was it now?

She tries to calm herself for a moment. Squeezing her eyes shut, trying to steady her thoughts. Think–she tells herself. She retraces her steps, recalls every moment since she left the house.

Had she taken it out somewhere?

Had she dropped it at home?

Had she—

Her stomach twists.

Had she lost it when she bumped into him?

The moment crashes back into her mind—sharp, sudden, like a slap against her thoughts. The collision. The rush. The desperate scramble to pick up her things. She had been barely thinking, barely aware. Had she even seen the envelope when she grabbed her belongings?

Her chest tightens painfully.

She thinks back—tries to remember everything she shoved into her bag, every item her hands touched as she scrambled to leave.

Had she picked up the letter? Or had she left it behind?

A cold realization grips her.

He had helped her pick up her things.

Had he seen it? Had he touched it? Had he kept it?

She presses a hand against her forehead, eyes squeezing shut as anxiety coils through her. If he had seen it—if he had taken it—that meant he had it now.

That meant he had read it.

Or was reading it.

She doesn’t know which is worse.

———————————————

The envelope rests before him on the table. A quiet and potentially harmless thing against the polished surface. The faint rhythm of tires screeching against the asphalt road and the muted buzz of the conversations outside goes unnoticed by him. He simply can’t drift his concentration away.

Not now.

Not when his name is staring back at him from the paper that was never meant to reach him in the first place. His fingers hover over the edges, tracing the worn creases, feeling the weight of years pressed into every faded fold. The ink has smudged slightly in places, the corners softened with time—proof that this letter has been carried, kept, touched more times than he can count. And yet, until this moment, it remained unread

He exhales, slow and uneven, as if the very act of breathing might shatter whatever fragile restraint still holds him back. He shouldn’t open it.

He knows he shouldn’t.

Whatever is inside was never meant for him now—only for the version of him that had walked away. The boy who had packed his dreams into a suitcase and left without looking back. But what if…

What if she had waited?

What if she had written something meant to be read then but still mattered now?

What if, in all the moments of silence between them, she had been waiting for this—waiting for him to finally understand what he had done?

His thumb presses against the seal, hesitation coiling tight in his chest. He lingers. Debates. The weight of unread words sits heavy between his ribs, heavier than the years that have passed since that night on the hill.

Did she resent him?

Did she miss him?

Did she hate him for disappearing?

Or—

Did she still…

His pulse pounds at the thought, fingers tightening slightly around the paper. He could leave it unopened. He could slip it into the depths of his coat pocket and carry it with him like another unspoken regret.

Or he could unfold it, let the past rush back in. Let her voice—her words—reach him in a way they never had before.

Outside, the city blurs into the quiet murmur of passing footsteps and distant car horns. Time stretches unbearably thin.

And then—

He presses his thumb against the seal once more.

Breathes.

And—

author speaking: so what do you think will happen? Will he read? Will he leave it aside?

Tags: @deltamoon666

[hwavenscloud]

A pinwheel, standing alone... (Masterlist)

Pairing: idol!Seonghwa x reader

Genre: angst, hurt

Summary: It was the holiday season, which meant you returning back to your hometown, a place which wrapped you with warmth and familiarity. Yet, at the same time, a place you despised because of those bittersweet whispers of memories from every street corner for which you never got a closure. Why? Because he left without a word.

Mic testing, author's speaking: This is my first fanfic hehe I'm sm excited to share it. This story is inspired by pinwheel by svt's vcu<3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 (coming soon)

.

Tags: @deltamoon666