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[jsvhan]

where we broke ⌗ hwang hyunjin

content: hyunjin x fem!reader, angst, break up

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It didn’t happen all at once.

That was the strangest part.

You couldn’t point to a single moment when things changed — no harsh words, no slammed doors, no lingering sting of an argument replaying in your head.

It was softer than that, quieter. The kind of shift you almost missed if you weren’t paying attention.

At first, you both still tried. Conversations stretched into the late hours the way they always had, laughter spilling out until your cheeks hurt. But then days got heavier, schedules piled up, and those conversations shortened.

“Call me when you get home, okay?” you said one night.

“I will.” he promised.

But he didn’t.

You didn’t remind him.

The next time you talked, you didn’t mention it. He didn’t either. It was easier that way.

Soon, the silence between texts lengthened. You used to share everything — a picture of your coffee, a funny street sign, the color of the sky during the sunset — now your phone stayed face-down more often than not. Notifications came less, and when they did, they were practical, thin things like: “Good night. Eat well. I’ll be busy tomorrow.”

You told yourself it was just life, just exhaustion, just the weight of being two people moving in opposite rhythms. But you felt it. The spaces growing wider. The pauses stretching longer.

One evening, you sat with your phone on your lap, staring at his name. You typed out: “I miss you. Do you miss me?”

Then erased it.

Typed again: “We haven’t talked in a while.”

Erased that, too.

Instead, you left the screen dark, folded your arms around yourself, and let the quiet fill the room.

It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even sadness yet. Just absence.

And absence could be louder than anything.

⌗

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Longer, maybe. Time blurred when there weren’t dates marked on the calendar anymore, no excited countdowns until your next weekend together.

So when you ran into him, it almost startled you.

It wasn’t a planned meeting — just a coincidence. A café you both used to like, the one tucked into a corner street where the music was always too soft and the barista always spelled your name wrong. You had gone there out of habit, craving something warm and familiar.

And there he was.

Hyunjin stood by the counter, hair tied back loosely, a paper cup balanced between his fingers. He looked up just as you did, eyes catching yours across the small space.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

“Hey,” you said. Your voice came out too soft, too polite, like speaking to an old classmate rather than the boy who once memorized the sound of your laugh.

“Hey,” he echoed. He smiled but it was thin, fleeting — more reflex than a feeling.

Neither of you moved closer.

“How have you been?” you asked, shifting your weight, hands curling in your sleeves.

“Busy,” he said. “And you?” he asked after a short pause.

“The same.”

That was it. No “I missed you”, no “let’s sit and catch up”, no reaching for each other out of instinct. The distance that had grown through screens and unanswered calls followed you there, sitting like a third person at the table between you.

When your drinks were ready, you stood near each other, close enough that once upon a time, he would’ve touched your hand, leaned into your shoulder. Now, there was just a polite nod, a small lift of his cup as though toasting something invisible.

Hyunjin cleared his throat. “Well… take care,” he said as he turned toward the door.

“You too,” you smiled.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the gray afternoon, leaving you with the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

You stayed inside after he left, even though your coffee had already cooled in your hands. Through the wide front window, you could see him walking down the street, his figure shrinking with every step. He didn’t look back. You weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

You sat down at an empty table, the same one you used to share, and set your cup down carefully, like placing something fragile. Around you, the café hummed with quiet life — spoons clinking against mugs, the soft hiss of milk frothing, someone laughing at a private joke. It should have felt normal, but all it did was remind you of what it used to be like here with him.

Back then, Hyunjin would fill every silence. He’d tilt his head, ask you something unexpected, or doodle little shapes on a napkin while you teased him about his terrible handwriting. The table never felt this empty, even when you were quiet together.

Now, you found yourself staring at the chair across from you, as if he might return. He didn’t.

Your phone buzzed once — a notification from a group chat, nothing important — and for some reason, it almost made your chest ache. Because you knew he wasn’t going to text you, not today, not tonight.

And you weren’t going to text him either.

Because what would you even say?

“I saw you. You looked good. I miss you.”

No. You swallowed those thoughts the way you always did, letting them settle somewhere heavy in your stomach.

When you finally stood up to leave, your cup was still half-full. You tossed it away and stepped outside. The air was cold, brushing your cheeks sharp as you pulled your jacket tighter. For a fleeting second, you imagined him waiting down the street, imagined that he’d turn, call your name, and everything would slip back into place.

⌗

After that café, the days stretched like empty corridors. You walked through them on autopilot, moving through routines he used to color with his presence. The grocery store trips, the library visits, even the little corner of your bed that used to hold his side — everything felt quieter, colder, as if life had been muted to match the space he left behind.

Sometimes, you found yourself reaching for your phone, almost typing his name. Almost sending a message. Almost breaking the fragile silence that had grown like ivy around your hearts. But each time, you stopped.

You remembered the small, dull habits: the way he hummed while brushing his teeth, the way he would steal bites of your snacks, the way he leaned over your shoulder when he wanted to read something you were typing. You could almost feel the warmth of it again, and it made your chest ache in a way words couldn’t touch.

You saw him in the corners of your life anyway. On the street, someone with the same careless walk. In a song on the radio, a voice that made you think, He would like this. In a text from a friend, a joke he would’ve laughed at. And every time, a quiet pang reminded you how far gone you both were from each other, even when you hadn’t officially said it.

At night, you’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, imagining the conversations that never happened. Imagining him looking at the same moon, thinking the same small thought of you, before letting it go. Sometimes you’d whisper his name softly, a single syllable swallowed by darkness, never expecting an answer.

When friends asked how you were doing, you smiled and said, “I’m fine.” You didn’t tell them about the gnawing emptiness, the way a name could make your heart beat faster and heavier at the same time. You didn’t tell them how you felt him slipping farther away in every passing hour.

And yet, every so often, a memory would rise unbidden: a laugh shared over nothing, the brush of fingers on a hand, a glance held too long. Those echoes were bittersweet, beautiful, and impossible to grasp. They reminded you of what you had, what you were losing, and how gently it was being taken from you — without a fight, without a word.

Sometimes you imagined a message from him. “Are you okay?”

Or maybe just his name lighting up your screen. That small, ordinary gesture would have been enough to change everything. But the messages never came. He never reached out. You never reached out either.

Because the silence had become a language of its own. And both of you were fluent.

Both of you knew.

Neither of you needed to say it.

And in that knowledge, the end had already begun.

⌗

It happened on a Sunday morning that felt like any other. The sky was pale gray, the kind of light that doesn’t promise warmth, just the weight of another day. You had planned to stay in bed, to let yourself sink into the soft comfort of blankets, but there was a message from him. Just a single line: “Can we meet?”

You didn’t hesitate. Not because you were ready or because you wanted this conversation, but because some part of you still ached to see him and hear his voice and to try, even once more, to make sense of everything.

When you arrived at the park you used to go to, he was already there. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, hands clasped between his knees, gaze fixed on the rippling water as though it held the answer. He didn’t look up when you approached.

“Hyunjin…” Your voice was soft. Gentle. Tentative. But it seemed to startle him, because his shoulders shifted, and finally, he met your eyes.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, not at first — it was familiar. You had been living in this silence for weeks, months, whatever it had become. But then it pressed down, heavy and unrelenting, filling the space between you with the unspoken words that had grown like weeds.

“I… I can’t do this anymore,” he said finally, voice low, almost swallowed by the cold morning air.

Your chest tightened. You blinked, trying to find something to hold onto in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… us,” he said, and the way he said it — gentle, careful, like he didn’t want to hurt you — cut deeper than any anger or yelling ever could. “I can’t keep pretending that everything is okay when it isn’t. When it’s… this.”

He gestured vaguely between you, between the space that had always been small once, now stretched impossibly wide. “We’ve… stopped. We talk less, we… don’t reach out, don’t laugh the same way. I don’t know how to fix it, and maybe… maybe we can’t.”

You felt your hands curl into fists at your sides. “You… you’re saying it’s over?”

“I think we both know it already,” he admitted, looking down at the fountain again, his voice soft, distant, like he was speaking to himself as much as to you. “I just… I wanted to say it. Out loud.”

The words landed like stones in your chest. You wanted to cry, to scream, to shake him and make him tell you it wasn’t true, that this was a mistake. But all you could do was nod, because deep down, you had known it too. You had felt it with every unanswered text, every missed call, every quiet evening spent wondering where he was.

“I… I don’t want to fight,” he said, almost apologetically. “I don’t want it to be messy. I… I just want you to remember us… how we were, without this bitterness.”

You swallowed hard, words failing you. Your throat was tight. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. You couldn’t let them fall in front of him. Not now. Not this way.

“I… I don’t know if I can,” you whispered finally. Your voice cracked, small and fragile. “I don’t know how to just… let go.”

Hyunjin’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he reached out. His hand hovered near yours, trembling slightly, before pulling back as though the act itself might shatter you both. “I know,” he said. “I know. And it kills me too. More than you’ll ever know. But… we’ve been drifting for so long, I can’t… I can’t keep holding on when my heart feels this… distant.”

He stood then, slowly, deliberately. You felt your stomach drop. He didn’t touch you, didn’t linger. And somehow, the absence of contact was the cruelest part.

“I’ll always… care about you,” he said. His voice was steady now, though the strain behind it was unmistakable. “I’ll remember us. The good parts. The moments that made everything worth it.”

Your chest tightened so sharply you thought it might break. You couldn’t speak. You just watched him take a step back, then another, until he was walking away down the path, his figure retreating into the pale light of morning.

You wanted to call him back. You wanted to run after him, to beg him to stay. But your legs wouldn’t move. Your voice wouldn’t come. You just stood there, heart raw, lungs tight, letting him leave. Letting him go.

The fountain rippled in the wind. A single leaf drifted across the water, spinning slowly before settling. You imagined it was you, floating quietly as the world carried him further and further away.

And when he disappeared from view entirely, your knees buckled slightly. You sank to the bench he had been sitting on, hands covering your face, and let yourself finally feel the grief you had been holding in all this time.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no screams, no slammed doors, no desperate pleas. Just the quiet, gut-wrenching ache of someone leaving who had once been everything, and the emptiness left behind.

You sat there for hours, letting the morning bleed into afternoon, until the sun hung low and the park emptied around you. You didn’t move. You didn’t text him. You didn’t call. You just sat, and let the silence settle around you like a shroud.

And in that silence, you understood: this was the end.

⌗

Time passed but it didn’t take anything with it.

The world carried on around you — buses came and went, people laughed in the restaurants, the seasons changed with indifferent rhythms. But you stayed in the same place, caught in the silence he had left you with.

You thought it would get easier. Everyone said it always did. That heartbreak softened, that wounds closed if you just gave them enough time. But days turned into weeks, weeks blurred into months, and the pain never disappeared.

It wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t the kind of pain that stole your breath in one violent moment. It was worse — it was steady, lingering. A constant heaviness that clung to your chest from the moment you woke up until the moment you tried — and often failed — to sleep.

You didn’t delete his number. You didn’t mute his contact. Instead, you stared at his name and on your screen sometimes, thumb hovering over the call button, your heart racing at the thought of hearing his voice again. But you never pressed it. You never sent the messages you typed out at two in the morning: “I miss you. Do you ever think about me? Was it really that easy to leave?”

The drafts piled up, unsent.

You carry him in everything. The scarf at the back of your closet that still smelled faintly like his cologne. The sketchbook you hadn’t opened since the last time he doodled in the corner of a page. The playlist you couldn’t bring yourself to delete, though you couldn’t listen to it either.

And every time you walked past the fountain in the park, the place where he had let you go with that soft, merciless voice, your chest seized like it was happening all over again. You’d sit there sometimes, on the same bench he had occupied, as if staying in that place might somehow rewind time. As if he might walk up again, apologize, undo everything.

But he never did.

And you hated yourself for waiting. For hoping. For being unable to move forward when he had walked away so cleanly, so quietly, as though loving you had been nothing more than a chapter he’d finished reading.

You told yourself you’d heal. That one morning, you’d wake up and his absence wouldn’t be the first thing you felt. But every morning proved you wrong. His ghost was everywhere, stitched into the smallest moments, refusing to let you breathe without him.

And deep down you knew: you might never really move on.

Because sometimes, the most devastating endings aren’t the ones marked by fire and anger — they’re the ones that leave you standing in silence, clutching the fragments of something that was once whole, with no way to put it back together.

You weren’t over him.

And you don’t know if you ever would be.

[jsvhan]

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where we broke ⌗ hwang hyunjin [angst]

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hi, she/her, ‘05 liner🫧 i love reading books and writing💕 english is not my first language so i might make mistakes!!

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